Auctioneer Sneers Across the Crowd.

The hope is that you'll be sold and we can all move on from this ordeal. Towards something worth it. Towards something else entirely. Like wine pouring form into a vine. The steak forgetting the steer. The stake laughing at the tree. The castle weeping for the quarry. The soil forgiving the corpse. The idea giving way to the unimaginable. Left alone, these are the things of dreams and longing and feelings unrequited; peeling away to reveal some of those lost in the woods. Tears streaming down their faces, hiccuping in the ash of the autumn, carving a pumpkin with a knife like a prayer. The salt flow washing the dirt from their cheeks as a slap would; that hope that you will be sold. I don't know what you became when you slipped on that suit coat and sold that used car. You are a retired boozehound with nothing left. You are a man with hulking masculinity all shriveled and useless. You lull and sway and mince words to the surprise of the support group you attend. You try to remember the raw materials that you are composed of. You try to remember what you were, what formulated your current self. You want to forgive those that came together to make you what you are: a retired boozehound with hopes of selling yourself.

Nihilism...Fuck Me.

Do not fear, my ever-effluent embodiment of ethos, that which burns is only your body. For it is of flame. You are creased across the middle like a doll all stupefied in the woods when the headlights alight upon its forehead. Looking up from the carcass steaming in the emptiness of a cricket orchestra; dim save a single bulb casting daunting shadows from a porch aslant three acres far. Southwestern desolate states of crossing the lines and edging ever closer to the heaps of lumber to be burned by the ill at ease. You are an exhaustion. You burn up bright, a ball of tinsel dancing in the eyes of a toddler already middle aged and crying in a cubicle. The coming on of a belief structure is a phenomena akin to the tripping of a steel trap. Those teeth just get in there and an amputation is required to free oneself from the idea. The burning point is too up there to let one walk out the door without a detrimental sacrifice. You are just too pervasive. You are a mental itch so delicate and unseen as to envelop every unconscious effort and estimate each divisive action in advance. The building blocks that seem to resemble free will, when built up, suddenly loom as fate does. You create that feeling of endless possibility while curtailing a revolution. The eyes of the blue, blue fox, caught in the springs chest heaving and life all aspun and stopped up; a secret terror is unveiling its invention. At least it's an ethos.

The Future Enabled. The Past Possibly.

The future is a mess we all know how to clean up. If the past is a mess, it was meant to be. Pouring into the riptide the enabler feels this epitaph sink into his bones ticking and swaying.

Don't leave my emptiness unfilled. Don't unlose this loss. Don't decant this morose and pitching love. Do not tear up this feeling. For his zealous actions there were passwords scrambled into cryptic enigmas swaying lovely drunk on mescaline across the streaming catwalk of the internet. The digital mistresses all called him at the same time demanding a broken family, a wife left behind. The subject line kept blinking all acursed with a cursor; driving him up the wall as if the highway went straight to that waxen moon like bone dramatic in the brilliantly empty night sky. He doesn't have anything. A plastic card dripping numbers and security codes and years of direct deposit all credit checked and loosed upon a serious wrinkle in his forehead. Wimpering fine, ribs tuned like mandolin strings, he enjoys long walks on the beach until the surf laps upon his singing toes to woo him into the rocks beyond. He stirs awake to crash amidst the commiserating outcroppings of stone, sent there by the arms of the ocean. The riptide and the empty heart lost within one another's eyes; an astronaut harvests useless rocks on the other side of the moon where the enabler can not see why the tide keeps its time with this body relenting across the sky on a diet that leaves its body waxing and waning unhealthy and bright. It's all an illusion, the crescent, the full, the past, the future, the loss, the gain. They're all just some sensation merged at the edge of some pointless shootout set off by some misunderstanding told in the script, illuminated by fertile verse and cunning insight. Let me look upon my life with keen understanding, thinks the enabler as his body crumples upon the desolate makings of the shore to the cheering of the vast body of water surrounding every piece of land we have ever walked upon.

His Loss, Your Loss.

It was a notion within his mind to be better that slipped silently by like the leaves fallen into the dead black creek. They'd quit the sky and wind and bothersome quarrels of flight and pennance terraced and dim across a milky sky like China smoldering across the way in its dim period. Muted tone. Duty born a loose leaf promise torn up in a heated moment while the brittle heaps raked up naked against the fence sum up an entire year burning. Delicate and cautionless, he entered the furthest banks with a mindless stare doing up his face like some sort of thick make up. He was hell bent and straightened up so taut as to afflict a note. Twinkling and gleaming like a broke music box in the castaway's palm. The water teems with carnivore melodies; lapping against, slathering, foaming against the rocks like teeth and spittle and careless banter emerging to the aghast crowd screaming out across the millions of miles of problems and love letters lest they be burnt and cast up into the sky with the coming of winter. Our loss is their loss, our broken heart bleeds out blood that came from another, the river leaves here and looses itself into everywhere else. The ashes of one's past breathes out over the vast plain of everything else and he feels like someone else took for granted what had been given to him. Together we'll look up one last time to see the last shooting star out there on the horizon eke out it's last brightness and we'll make our last wish in our heads like something cast in pink glitter and blowing in the bruised twilight of a dying day.

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.

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.

Leviathon Cut Up

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.