Babble 32
burnt echoes fluttering in head skull like slow motion dimes dropping in water gooped slobbery echo eating minds made luminous upon requests comes slivers of charred hopelessness if only for a second in the time limit of life’s circular saws plugged porked plucked around rhythms so delicately as if known more then cat perched on computer billed fuk the bank, as feck said.. “checks in the mail”
over frosted illusions bickering about host skins eight legged creature fly cruise missile ship sunk made sniper told know so henry morgan if two men living in car joy ride hole empty trunk Pringles upside down now whiskey bubbled wart on uh oh society eats medicine media pulped fiendish almost neurotic scrambles around pushing record
cause said go if do it now seems eroded & merely splintered in sky wiggle rain tuff dread led fool like mommies nachos toasted over sand filled marshmallow juiced giggle woops slipped like fresh eggs rotten inside all of it’s lingering screaming of persecution pulvizers
what’s a message from a burning bum losing all reality around is only miniature purple people men making castles from paper planes that when litten turn to duds smokeless nostrils howl from under occasions like this
piss nozzled flower red fiendish lost won pink black hide in chips of vaga bonds memory cant stop voiced motions long for who was once burnt ruffled echo bounce all empty inside cause of something dreamt or real
bullets bleed like frightened squirrels racing across busy streets
octopuses wiggle around neck under sea toasted fisherman on boat in ocean waved rain only laughter cause of poles bending hooked head of octopus man floating under sea worlds if not for bullet to head shine wouldn’t think much cause worm hooked salmon eggs loose on radio loud guitar turns twisted around to greet the day
squirming cells pump blood until heart finally stops brain mush if then a caught rabbit can no longer bounce when slow heavy sounds echo all vicious down town people like robots with human teeth smiling through books of dusted bowls
ice melting soft skin touch good bad scream outside in the dark when full moon tells one to walk dogs if cancer lumps could be reality of targeted men
murder me feel me kill me fuk me sink with me die with me nobody help me
bongloadial snoznoids gleaming like gutter rats in lightning skied woke me up relish sticked cough puke me morning away after you sink fuk kill murder die help with nobody my apology non float butter exploding pop corned third remnant nonsense life wrapped death tune water slide plane flight
Sunami fall
this dream erupts
over million dollar
malibu beach houses
the ocean rumbles
breaths in, breathes out,
fluctuates its under water
grounds, huffing, fiending,
like an enormous coke hit
black tidal waves
forming over centuries
bent on full self-destruction
surfers wait patiently on shore
waxing their boards
people in the million dollar homes
continue to cook dinners
continue to watch TV
continue to swim in them $ bill minds
the wind is silent
almost calm
the sun is out
sunami builds its anger
deep under the ocean
venting all its rage
wanting to come up
then it happens
mother natures wrath at its finest
a 300-foot wave roars closer to shore
& California is left half dead
nothing left but ozzy
& Johnny Carson
clinging bloodily
to a board
out in the sea
screaming at each other
with salt filled mouths
just rubble & timber
left over
from the black sunami wave
without privacy
Son confronts mother after getting home from work
“stay out of my place when im at work”
“what are u talking about?” mother says, half asleep on couch, 5 cats around her..
“u were in my place with the dog,
my cats food plate was licked clean, I pay rent, now stay out of my business”
“I simply went over there to bring a guest for your tortured locked up cat.”
“he is not tortured, and he is not locked up, I saved him from the electric chair at the pound, he is my cat, my indoor cat, that has nothing to do with u or the dog. I’ll change the fuking locks again if I have to” son says.
“what’s wrong with u anyway? I saw all these empty pill bottles on the floor and candy wrappers and dirty clothes all over, an un made bed, full ashtrays and empty whiskey bottles, and what about that bong that was spilled all over the bloody carpet? why are u such a slob?” mum says
“u stay the fuk out’a my place old lady, got it? that’s why u fuks charge me rent, it’s my place, u have no right to snoop around..dammit, u piss me off so bad” son says..
“and what were all those brief cases and binders with disgusting writings and strange poems in them doing sprawled out all over the floor?”
“I told u I am a writer, and u have no right to go through my stuff when I am at work, I told u to grant me my privacy or I will snap again, do u want me to snap again! Mother! Do u!”
“I just think it's kinda weird, u have no friends, no girlfriends, nobody ever calls for u, we never see u unless, well, when u steal our food or use the shower.”
“stay the fuk out of my life, I pay rent, I told u im on medication and that it runs in the genes, in this crazy life u brought me into, its genetic, just like dads side of the family is all drunks, and your side of the family is all crazy.. u can’t blame me, now stay out of my busniess.!once and for all!”
“your just a loser, who blames everybody else but himself..” the mother tells him
son is about to explode..
“I’m gonna tell u this one last time, stay the fuk out of my place when I am working, u have never had to work for a living! U don’t get it!” sun
“ive worked all my life cleaning up after u!” mum
“u crazy bitch! Fuk u!”
father wakes up with all the yelling
comes out of deep slumber looking like the crazy drunken scientist he is..
doesn’t even no what the fight was about
& yells…
“I want u out of this dam house in a week! U got that boy!”
“don’t worry bout a thing old timer, I am so fukin gone from this bullshit! This fukin bullshit!” son yells, trying to walk away to pack his bags..
father grabs son’s arm…. And yells
“u have always been a worthless regret!”
son has always wanted to punch father in face
son punches father in face
the old mans body fly’s back onto kitchen floor
knocked out cold
“happy now mother! Happy now !” I yell..
packing my things
with no destination or cash
dribble
avalanches horde through the wailing fan belts bursting upwards so light shimmies around contorted & globed all up state like no mas cable meow he don’t ride- for chase was inherent like gold diggers at dusk, sweating out fish hooks in chambers made of moon rocks. drunk drunk, isn’t it just a regular state of mind…
drinkie
this
is
my
first
drink
of
the
day
today
the
cat
is meowing
garage doors
are opening
& closing
this
will
not
be
my
last
drink
of
the
day
today
a zillion faces in the mirror
there were 14 images of faces planted on olive walls, reeking of geriatric stench, including the formally lost chicken soup floating around the morning toilet. Sleep was no longer an issue considering it was a distant dream to remember my eyes un blurred. I may have got a few hours in. only the cat knows, who has become obsessed with the creature that lives in the air conditioner. Each of those 14 faces had a different expression connecting to a response with a mouth that echoed next to my tossing, my turning, my gaping illusion that I existed still. the faces began pediatric moans when my eyes fluttered shut from exhausted frustration with all the lights from work clinging to my throbbing headache. It was time to up the doses. It was time to eat a few more of the horse pills and see what would become of me.
there were 13 images of faces planted on violet walls. I struggled to remember who I was, what I was, if I was, where the years had disappeared to, what was next. then I went blank, numb, forgot what I could so that stomach would move up and down, like some continuing nightmare Ferris wheel that never stops, of course you see other people getting on and off as they please, but not you, you are stuck going round and round like a dunce in a corner spinning on his final soul heel.
there were 12 images of faces plastered on cream-colored walls, the expressions continuously changing from distorted frowns of pleasure, to exclamation pupils in side pain. why would they point, laugh, ridicule me, betray me? because they are human beings each planted on top their own agenda mended lives, constantly building, judging, going for the gold on top the invisible mountain of rules. without love. if only when I shut my eyes, I could feel the nothingness of a darkened deep sleep, like a dangling hook below sea level. insomnia.
there were 11 images of faces that planted themselves like seeds on ginger flavored walls. coughing and yelling, spitting and pulling on anything they could with those expressions they always had to change. With each disappearance came the wheel, which spun, quicker and more frantic. With each shit the baby took, there was another diaper to be placed over the screaming bickering elders speeding around in their pre conditioned engine driven carts.
there were 10 faces with images of anguish painted on light blue walls. Each clustered with needle marks threw string and teeth aches for fast sew me ups that would have eaten my stomach lining if I hadn’t got up to give up all that I knew was irrelevant now, like the sleeping children, the passed out grandmothers, and grandfathers, clinging to clocks that go “DING DONG” in the middle of the night’s frozen rain dribbling air.
there were 9 images of faces dangling in boredom sifted green slime cracking walls. planting rain in the sky for weeks over a degrading town of flatlands and joyful people in expensive cars blabbering away on little brain cancer carrying cell phones about their pathetic phucking lives.
number 8 goes pop, number 7 goes bang, number 6 goes splat, number 5 screams with no one to hear.
there were four images within faces on top gray chiseled walls. jackhammers pounding into bone fragments made of swimming yolks. Barrel chested bohemians skidding through toppled intersections to make it on time to useless meetings to learn about how the world is suppose to function normally. the stench filled with anger about ridiculous principles taught by failed executives in matching ties and socks, with g strung barb wired underwear digging into their never ending anal mouths. If I could only sleep, I think the expressions in these serpent-tailed voices would gravitate towards at least a minuscule fraction of peace between white walls.
sick in unexplainable ways.
there were three images among faces around burnt brown lung colored howls. on the yellow walls. Pediatrics swinging on swing sets over geriatric ups in dosages. each face a memory never forgotten . the itchy bedbugs digging their greedy claws into shallow scalps. 3 days without booze replaced by contortions of hopeful narcotic buildings crumbling down like Italian earthquakes. you flush it all away with only more coming up from the pit of rotten stomach. The rust is fools gold.
number 2 sings about number 99 who is talking about number 62 when number 73 leaves on bargain flight number 36 after painting the wall of terminology over a dripping watery red and then there is left only one staring at you, pointing at you, screaming, laughing and whispering to you and only you.
there was one image of a face left planted inside a mirror with speckles of every imaginable color from each expression that ate away a lexis in my head after a voice left me counting 10 fingers, ten toes, 6 may have gone splat, but I cant find them. I looked at the wall and heard 14 different cries with laughter. they were gone for now. i had hoped. It wasn’t recognizable, the last face, because it was planted with the zillionth.
