ASTROPROJECTILITY AND CUTLERY

I awoke from a dream at 7:19 AM. Ordinarily, I’d just be passing out, pills melting into my mouth.

I got sober two weeks ago, however. Ain’t it seem unseemly for me?

Indeed.

But back to the bed; I woke up and remembered the dream I had just had. I was in LA and NYC back and forth doing whatever it was, writing I presume, and I found myself driving through a neighborhood in what looked like Bel Air or Westwood in my stupid BMW.

Some asshole parked like shit and I left-side clipped his scotch colored lincoln.

Furious biblical anger.

I break into the first house I see, incidentally the same damn color as the car, Macallan 12 single malt to be exact.

I went in angry as a pit bull with untreated rabies; threw off my shirt and tried to find someone to blame with knuckles. Pitched my keys at a wall, screamed shit down the hall at two faces, walked downstairs to confront an older Asian (Cambodian or Vietnamese). Turns out they’re all Canadian and finally they ask me, “What’s wrong, bro?”

Dumbstruck. I thought this was earth.

“My car got scraped up. Fuck.

Uhm. Sorry or something.”

Now, here is the point of the story I’m relaying; I have of course remembered dreams, (very occasionally) but never bothered to speak them. This cold morning my mouth came out of sleep like a gaping tunnel producing a torrential downpour of words relating the dream, detail by detail by detail in exact exactitude to my Sophia. It was strange.

————

Last night on the roof there was a dark green late model van with dark tints with a dark-spirited looking man driving fast behind a cop with sirens. Clearly connected. I said, “He’s behind the trees.” I took a big swallow of my cigarette and watched for more action. None to be had. Now that I think about it, it makes me miss the fucking casinos. Action, I require action. At least if I don’t want to feel a corpse, cold as a fridge.

Crime interests me; not the punitive shit I’ve been dealt, my fucking red-headed lawyer fucking me at my arraignment on three and a half turn coated misdemeanors not objecting to raising the bail 249,000 dollars in cash from nothing but change. The arraignment took roughly 13 seconds and I was back in the bullpen with the rest of the boys. “Wow,” they all said, dumbfounded. Turns out my mother had the bitch raise bail to keep my ass from getting busted out by my succubus. I don’t know if any of that meets the definitive definition of irony but god damnit, it felt blasphemous. I was not amused.

I was in there during Christmas, New Years, Thanksgiving & the motherfucking playoffs the season my team finally was winning; thank god they didn’t win the bowl or I would have needed high dose lithium and ECT therapy. The guards wearing santa hats with my teams color configuration laughing and smiling and being pigs. Cunts.

The county jail; about as humorous as syphilitic insanity in my mother’s uterus.

Action, moves and scenes; at hollywood park I saw an Israeli and a skinny white man at the hold em’ table exchange a few words and the skinny was wearing a beanie that he removed which then revealed a swastika tattooed prison-style on his forehead. He leaped across the middle of the red velvet imitation with a razor blade at the Israeli and missed. No one got kicked out. They didn’t even revolve tables. This life feeds me impulses and urges that are hard to purge. I like that action, I like seeing that shit, ya know? The whole, ‘break your neck looking at car accidents’ thing they talk about. I try not to every single time but I always do – I still have yet to see a real juicy gruesome good one. I guess there is no prophylactic for degenerated behavior patterns – I called my neighbor’s woman guest a cunt when she entitled herself to humor by telling her friends and me that she smelled cigarettes and “wondered where that came from,” – “I smell cunt. I wonder who’s smelling like that.” Some poor bastard’s wife, too, hand her some humility and a tissue.

I lack the empathy, no, the decency to give two shits. I had diarrhea that day you fucking cunt. Don’t you dare attempt your pitiful wit on me or I will cunt you out. That’s how I stay out of the bullpen now.

Words.

Oh, and I dropped my decade of dropping myself in a poppy field two weeks ago.

Funny how irony works, if it does at all… cunt.

MOVEMENT

My life.

Magnetic metallurgy will pull you through my script like gale wind and tidal currents in my current titles, it’s not idolatry to believe that me could be making you flee; back and forth like an exorcism, indeed.

Well, let’s see.

Ten years and slot machine change without change and now I changed; sobered the fuck up somehow but I’d be illuminated greatly if I could see you face the things that have passed directly under my eyebrows without immediately stroking out.

Let’s not be melodramatic, Alex. This is illustrative of the illustration of integer’s of integrity and all the nights in the streets and all the other nights in the sheets, my nose burnt out like a bulb – unable to sleep. Feels like red roses that stick you every single fucking time you hold them, apparently someone higher up in the management decided I had the time. I deliberated and watched the clock but I always knew I’d be writing instead of inhaling lines.

Like the betrayal of a titan for flame, prometheus had the brass balls and look what happened to him, it’s kind of like the OJ trial plus the paradoxical reality of his ass pulling armed robbery after Cochran passed on blazing cameras in vegas, makes no sense, like eggs and licorice for breakfast.

Spoken. Licorice black as a Chevron ocean will twist your arm until you writhe and scream, the blood pulling and pooling in your mouth but you think you remain similar – there are no resemblances that I can tell but you feel free to imply whatever you like.

Pull you like whipped horses in a carriage.

Pull you apart – twin children concurrent of the divorce – their parents.

Pull you apart like Muhammed, think the Sunni & Shia gunmen.

Pull you apart like blood and your skin during a facelift on more twins.

This is loyalty to the cause I’ve endured. Ninety nine problems of my own and I own them all far, far too long, the lease with a fucked up rate that can’t be stalled like the car itself I’m driving which I hope crashes into all walls.

At least I did before I smelled this bourbon colored flower yesterday.

Like a Nazi scientist with a good heart; conflicted but about his business inserting typhus and syphilis to study the art of zombie making whilst drinking fine wine before the allies started invading, listening to Chopin or Brahms or even Beethoven with a family he loved once upon a time before he knew his heart to be as black as volcanic ash colored mud. He used one bullet from one gun; before he did it he inscribed the initials of the people he hurt on the bullet and now he’s floating somewhere between purgatory and hell.

Oh, well.

Roses are red and violets are blue, I guess.

At least that’s what they say… now, could you resign yourself to my fate?

The Days Pass Without Meaning Anything

Image

Without passion, dying in the dark like a wrinkled cactus,

nothing to pass the time with but good health,

ridden with all the dull things,

twinkling fucking stars and bleeding fucking bedsores –

and I get colder every day.

 

The spectacle that is my life that became your face and voice,

your most perfect invention, ruined sheets of linen,

living to ignore, slipping not into what has been

but into what will never be,

the sound of my mind inside my head like drowning in critical knives.

 

And I am colder every day that I wake,

each day like the last,

each minute a suicide,

each suicide a murder,

each murder a mirror and I am left alone with nothing.

 

My heart beats against itself like a madman, beating itself into submission,

for nothing,

my memories all blue nights,

pleasant tinged with smoke and dope,

and I grow colder as does the night grow darker.

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