Thursday, March 17, 2011

Trout Silk Replica.

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.


  1. wicked blog dude, I like. there's a lot of inspiration on the gritty, rainy streets of dunedin. by the way are you going to feastock today?, i'm looking around for a ticket