Monday, March 7, 2011

Pearly Whites Make an Appearance Like an Oil Slick.

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.

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