Thursday, March 17, 2011
He is torn up like a matchbook dropping from a hookers wrinkled hand; into the gutter with the tears and the lovely rain, he looks out of a tired gaze of cut rate prices and recieves a slight mention in an abstract magazine. No amount of sympathy or regret can rebuild his image of himself. As he walks upon sunstroked bricks and listens to the crickets, all distraught and ephemeral, he leaks information on the internet like oil into the sea. Status update: I am losing a battle with stickers glittering on my trapper keeper like needles in a voodoo doll. He is tired and balding, bearded and of a gray mind. He enjoys losing his tax forms in the ocean and often dives in after them. His slow right hand trembles with pain that masquerades as anticipation. Shaky, shaky, loose change jangling, make up streaks and drawn-on eyebrows, banal reminders of melodrama played out in high school musicals, resurgence of terror within nightmares, penpal mishap involving cross continental betrayal: all his memories are tangled up within the hairs clogging his shower drain. All swirling and male-patterned, his behavior spins further into control. He grips the steering wheel with a blind passion that whitens his knuckles; his fingers resemble shocked grandmothers keeling over walkers out of breath. The clenched fist is a pity party drifting in and out of consciousness as the life support machinery hums a joyous song of stolen breaths. He leaps from a diving board and a public service announcement flashes across the screen as the camera pans out to reveal the empty pool.
Monday, March 7, 2011
It's as if something inside himself reflected upon what he was and deemed him unworthy for the ball tonight. Like men dancing with mannequins. Like mewling cats in the alleyway. Desperate and no where to be seen: a mellow descent into a numb tank of water warmed with slow growth. A confetti of newspaper clippings loosening over clouds atint with green and drifts of something off in the distance. He sits in the wilds of the horse latitudes straining to catch a glimpse of that elusive debutante we call the tradewinds. Slaughter the remaining lingering doubts. What we have here is a lessening of conviction. He fences in the cattle while they slit their throats moaning rapturously. A hankering for something savory causes him to kneel in the glittery sand. His nose is bleeding wooden blocks that line up threatening on the horizon. His eyes reel in each ill gotten gain of his past like dead fish. Every one whispers a fortune in his ear; the information organizes itself into a foreshadowing of things to come. The fortuitous gala set to capture the forthcoming evening shall end in disaster. And yet, he feels a flutter in his gut like the tremble of the shutter. An F-stop tangles with an aperture in an alleyway knife fight. Something like an image is fleshed out after all the blood is spilt and he looses himself in the orchestral music of cathedraled halls; doing pirrouettes on cocaine like a top. The portrait arrives in the mail with a signature in blood.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
A dramatic outing with the sea turns gray and taciturn. The sky overhead is a low ceilinged red burning center. Crouching like a dental implant within the mouth of a careless mentor, Sea Boy slowly emerges from the depths with a body like a bottle of spirits. Ten long days underneath the surface and he was seen off the coast of Gibraltor dreaming of a lifeless doll. The sun kept it's wager and the water lapses when money's spent and the kernel's popped and the debtor tripped the wire. The explosive detonates in slow motion as the helicopter sways gently with a frame rate capturing the debris and body parts. Sea Boy rises upon the swell underneath with a bonfire for a heart and a fur coat for a ribcage. Flawlessly toned and manipulative, his deft style with water sends him skimming through the bay to clip an ocean liner. None finer, a notion drifts through his gait as he stumbles up the wharf in a barrage of grapefruits, geriatricidal mumblings, gooey choices, and moving images sprung from the mouths of gear heavy teamsters. He joins a union, gets a loving wife, and tells off his brother. Though a domestic partnership has drawn his left hand, the one that makes all of the problems, taut, he feels the absence of the sea. He stares out over the bay as ships lose themselves amongst the waves. The tears are too akin to the sky as it reflects upon what he's lost. He will not be pulled away from shore so quick as to be fateful. He'll hunker down and grind the foreman for a wage increase. He'll make changes to his ledger in hopes of lessening the ire of the ball and chain. He'll deem the existence he lives through worthy while auditioning for a drama that used to be his life. Sea Boy loves to keep his heart wrapped up like just like that.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Goddamn this world is just too sticky for the tamed little chunk of flesh that sizzles across a neon dancefloor with a crooked grin. Green shades, breath like a punch to the inner ear, dripping ego, loose tongue; he has all of them intact and feels like a million bucks after a defunct transaction. He kills time like a professional. He isn't street legal. He loves to jossle your boot straps while wiggling. His raw pink, clammy hand makes an appearance on your inner thigh while a nutty suntan creeps out his lapel. There is a high possiblity his hair stylist dabbles in snake charming. Or just reckless abandon. Just...nothingness. Just peeling out, firm, bulging into a big time loss at the gambling ring. His lips curl into a hangmans noose and the gallows within him creak with the weight of your soul. He is an executioner of sorts, if you call swinging out over a series of pointless life lessons an execution. His executive branch sways in the wind, breaks, and the state bird falls from it's branch. The governor's heart has failed. Thanks be to the slightly deranged hipster swaying with his affluent knowledge; the closed circuit television glowing within his love life switched off a long time ago. He's punching a time card in darkness like a toll booth murder left unsolved. As you are slowly stitched to his heart, a hangover descends upon you like a black cloud. There was, at some point, no need for a stylish deceit; this time has passed.