Friday, July 27, 2012

Those Ghosts.

The cold things get to live longer
though they aren't breathing much.
It is as if you want your skeleton
to be gilded with simple glimmer
to brighten the end of sorrow.
Tell me I will die content.
And maybe we do have an essence.
Maybe we don't have to construct facsimiles
of our bodies in hopes
that we may get to see
the sun go down forever.
But oh just to know
that there is something more.
To see those ghosts wink a smile
and leave the room.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Blossom Grief with Imagined Piano.

What the fuck was it that made you this way?, slurs father as Blossom jams his spindles in the air all stupid in rhapsodical parody of a jamstacked to the max piano man real gone on crystal chandeliers and son of a bitch blues.  Blossom lets the unsure beat lure his charred mind through lines of bopping keys and renal failure chords.  He wears stupid stuff that seems like clothing and it is real baggy and charms the shit out of a dog.  The seams don't jive and weave correctly.  He never opens his eyes for he is always in the thick of a sticky imagination with his fingers flailing out before him, his face all screwed up.  His imaginary piano is gilded with rhinestone.

I could slap that face off of you so much!  So quick!  So stupid!, screams father as Blossom sashays around the backyard.  The backyard.  The place where they throw the trash.  The trash seethes wrong in the moonlight if father places it in the bin provided to them by the state.  This makes Blossom scream all night long.  So they must let the garbage blow all over the backyards face.  Father slumps in a lawn chair, his mouth ablur with booze of long gone Sundays still thick on his shirt.  There are palm trees on the shirt.  There is no reason for it all.  Blossom was given to this man as penance for sleeping with a cashier at Petsmart in Gary, IN.  It happened in the birdcages.  He woke up three years later with pink eye and a son named Blossom.  It was, tragically, the mid-90's.  In the throes of a vicious bender, he had named his son after a teen girl lost in the folds of a frumpy sweater on television.  The mother was no where to be seen; she was into dogfood in really weird ways.  Dog parks are not safe.  And the positive emotion movement was in full swing.  And all the children were swaddled in yes-men parenting.  And no one could let the ice cream fall from the lip of the insolent bitch sunk in Barney underwear.

Don't you feel the sneaky self esteem movement convincing you to never stay happy?!  Don't you feel this ever present lust of self preservation slowly squander you?  Don't you see these premium prices tremble as we pay for dump site paranoia personality histories?  I AM LOST ALL OVER YOU, BLOSSOM!  And father just lets a torrent of sickness and rage pour from him like the river that drowns the lovers seeking refuge in the state park.  Blossom does not hear a thing of it.  Blossom lets another fully developed icon of over consumption douche his brain into pristine condition.  He jams hard in his mind.  He gets lost among the lonely pieces of detritus as father sails gloriously into a blackout with urine soaking his zoobas.  They spin as marionettes in a snow globe filled with nothing but their wants of this all to stop; yet another set spun of the Grief Family genes.