Séraphine, Vignette nº 7, Le Cercueil

I was on the phone talking to the museum. Ground-penetrating radar had found what looked like a coffin at the Lutetian layer, and they were in the process of digging down to it. I was telling Sylvain to use the new 4K video cameras to record every detail when the doorbell rang. I’d left the door ajar, knowing Madame Pinard, the concierge was bringing by an adjuster to inspect and cut a check for the repair of the leak in the ceiling that had washed away chunks of plaster, now laying on the hardwood floor in the bedroom, exposing the wooden rafters of the attic.

“May we come in Monsieur,” she shouted from down the hall in the foyer. “Yes, Madame, please come in,” I shouted back, with more exasperation in my voice than I wanted to express. “I am on the phone with the musee Madame, please show him to the bedroom.”

I saw Madame and the adjuster come in out of the corner of my eye and turned my head to see them as they walked the stairs to the bedrooms. The adjuster was not a man, but a woman, which was surprising in France. The first thing I noticed about her, was her wide round birthing hips, what the kids, called thick. She wore a long-sleeve white silk blouse, black pencil skirt, and the traditional, obligatory Parisian back seamed stockings. I didn’t make out her face but caught sight of her red hair tied in a tight bun on the back of her head, and the milky white skin of her neck.

“Damien, are you listening,” said Sylvain, the dig manager on the other end of the line. “Yes, I replied, “l was distracted by my landlady bringing an adjuster into the apartment. Yes, I’ll come down as soon as they leave.”

After a few minutes, Madame and the adjuster came back down. The adjuster walked into the foyer to wait. Madame came into the living room and said she’d have a crew out tomorrow to start repairs. As madame turned and walked down the hall, I got a better look at the adjuster. She was pure Celt, with red hair, white skin, dark brown doe eyes that looked black, high cheekbones, and the sharp straight nose of a Greek statute.

Besides her stunning beauty, I noticed her necklace, a traditional golden Celtic torc, which signified the wearer as a person of high rank. I’d never seen a person wearing one. I’d only seen one on a statue, The Dying Gaul in Le Louvres. How so very interesting I thought to myself.  

As she was talking to Madame and turning to leave, she made eye contact. She tilted in acknowledgment and goodbye. I nodded back and she was gone. I wished I could have gotten a chance to talk to her, maybe even ask her for an aperitif at the corner bistro. Oh well, c’est la vie.

-------

I went to the dig at the La Crypt at 12:30-ish talked to Sylvain for a bit and went down to the lower levels to see it for myself. The area was gridded out and several cameras on tripods were recording. The team was within centimeters front the top, and so put down their trowels and used a high-pressure water and suction hoses to remove the rest of the topsoil. The top came into view, the excess water was ****** away. Sponges were used to clear and clean away the mud.

The stone was obviously Lutetian limestone, finely sanded and polished. The lid was craved, which first glance, looked like Norse runes and one Celtic knot. “Take pics and send them to religious studies,” I said half to myself, half to Sylvain. How strange to have Norse and Celt iconography together I thought to myself.

It was late when I exited the metro station. The air was bitterly cold, my breath appearing and disappearing around me like a mystic cloud.

I was tired, exhausted from digging, and was seeing things in the corner of my eye that I chalked up to aberrations of a fatigued mind. That is until I walked past the Boise de Boulogne. In a dark recess, along the tree line, I saw what looked like a faintly glowing woman in a white dress. My first reaction was horror, remembering all the monster movies I’d seen as a child. Then quickly, my adult mind kicked in and rationalized it away as an artsy late night photography session, which is common around Paris. The sting of the cold refocused my attention and I hurriedly resumed my walk home.

I was tired, muddy, and had to take a shower before throwing myself into bed. I showered, dried off, and pulled back the new, thick duvet I’d bought for winter. The moon was full, beaming softly, barely illuminating the dark bedroom, as I cracked opened a window to let a small amount of fresh cold air into the humid stale room.

I slid under the duvet. I liked the cold, it reminded me of camping in the mountains with my old man and being snug in our down sleeping bags as we talked half the night away. I quickly fell asleep.

I half awoke, sensing a presence. I opened my eyes and saw a woman, ****, standing at the end of my bed, enveloped in a faint blue luminescence. She looked at me with big doe eyes. I watched her watching me, trying to figure out if I was dreaming or not.

She crawled on to the bed. I couldn’t feel her as she made her up the bed. She straddled me. I saw glint around her neck and saw she was wearing a torc, and realized who she was.

Her face was centimeters from mine. Her eyes burned with ferocity, intensity, and anger. I looked back up at her, fear welling up inside of me. She looked down at me. Her penetrating eyes, looking into my soul. I could feel her in my head, my mind.

She felt my fear, and without a word, just the look in her eyes, reassured me, calmed me, and my body and mind relaxed as if a nurse had given me a shot of morphine.

She touched her lips to mine, and felt the heat of her beath, smelled her dewy scent. I didn’t move. I knew I was prey. I knew what she wanted, and let her take it.

She slid her tongue into my mouth, and I gently ****** on it. She ****** up my lower lip, biting it playfully. She tasted sweet, fresh, like spring water. I couldn’t get enough of her. I wanted more. I kissed her harder, deeper, and felt myself slide to the edge of sleep, no longer sure what was a dream, or what was real.

She pulled back the duvet, grabbed my ****, and stroked it till it was painfully hard. She kissed it, put it in her mouth, and ****** it. Her head bobbing up and down. She’d stop, bite the head, and use her teeth to scrape up and down the shaft till I winched and yelled out in pain.

I started to moan, my body tightening, and arched, thrusting deeper into her mouth, coming as she raked her nails hard down the side of my chest. To my surprise, she didn’t spit out but swallowed my ***, licking excess from around her lips.

--------

I opened my eyes and was blinded by sunlight streaming in through the open windows and curtains. What the ****, I thought to myself, I never sleep this late. It was always dark when I wake. And the birds, chirping in the trees outside my window, were loud, and grating on my nerves.  

I slowly got out of bed. My body ached, my lower lip hurt, and my **** was sore. I grabbed my **** and immediately released it in pain. It was raw as if I’d had ***. I was definitely confused. My eyes darted from side to side as I tried to make sense and remember last night. I left the dig, came home, showered, and went to bed.

I trudged to the kitchen and made coffee, all the while, racking my brain for some clue as to why I felt like ****. I poured a cup, leaned back on the counter, and sip the coffee. I shook my head, placing my hand on my hip, and felt a sharp burning. I looked down and saw blood on my hand and side. I went to the bathroom mirror and saw fingernail marks down both sides of my chest. I just stared.

I had no idea, no clues as to how these happened. I jumped into the shower and washed off, bandaged up the bleeding scratches with paper towels and tape, dressed, and went to the cafe at the corner.

Despite the cold, I sat on the terrace, ordered coffee, bread, butter, and jam. I looked at my phone. It was 8:08. I looked at my text messages and emails for some clue as to what happened last night.

Breakfast came, and I sipped the coffee, staring out into the street. The waiter walked past me. “Oui madame, what would you like this morning,” he said. “Cafe et croissant,” she said. The waiter turned and walked back inside. I turned my head to the side for a quick look and blinked twice. It was the redheaded adjuster from yesterday.

“Bonjour M. Delacroix,” she said. “Bonjour Madame,” I instinctively replied. There was an awkward pause.  “I am Brigitte, Brigitte Dieudonné,” she said softly.

We small talked over breakfast and when I tab came, paid, and said, “I headed to the office.” “It is the weekend monsieur. “Yes,” I replied, “I work at an archeological dig on Ile de la Cite. The crypte.” “I am headed that way myself, do you mind if I walk with you,” she asked.

We walked to the metro station, down the stairs, through the turnstile, and onto the quay. The train came, the doors hissed open, and we strode in. The train was full of Chinese tourists and it was standing room only. I grab a pole and Brigitte did the same as she squeezed up beside me.

The train jolted forward and Brigitte bumped into me. As the train smoothed out, she kept leaning into me. Her derriere in my crouch. I could feel her body through her coat. I was getting turned on. As the trained curved around a curve, it rocked back and forth. Her *** bumping and grinding against my now hard ****. Could she feel my hard-on through the coats? She half-turned her head a gave me a coquettish smile. She knew I thought to myself.

We exited La Cité metro station, on to Place Louis Lépine. Before I could say anything, she said she’d like to see the dig. “Sure,” I said, and we walked to the La Crypt. We walked down the stairs to glass doors and pass the touristy exhibits and displays, to the back, behind the green painted plywood wall. Sylvain and several grad students were standing over and around the coffin. Two of them were in the pit setting up a portable x-ray machine, one with a still camera, another with a video camcorder, and the rest looking down at their tablets.

Brigitte and I walked to the edge. The coffin’s lid had been clean. The runes and Celtic knot were clearly visible. “Danger, death, mother,” Brigitte said. Sylvain turned his head, and said, “she is right, danger, death, mother according to the religious studies guys.” “How do you know that,” I asked. “It’s in all the teenage vampire movies,” she replied grinning.

“The top one is an inverse Thurisaz, which is means danger. The second one is an inverse Algiz, which means death. The knot is Celtic for mother, and the dot in the heart means she had one daughter,” Brigitte said trailing off.

“It looks you’ve got it under control Sylvain. I have an appointment. Brigitte can I walk you back to la place,” I said.

We walked to la place and stopped at the metro entrance. “Can I have your number,” I asked? “Yes, you may, if you promise to call monsieur Delacroix,” she said smiling girlishly. She took my phone from my hand and typed in her number and dialed. Her phone rang. “I have your monsieur, Delacroix. A bientot,” she said. We did la bise and she was off.

Part 1:
Mami let me get with you, wanna share my bed with you,We can have *** in H.D. digital,
It ain't really difficult, let me see your ******* boo,
Dance for me baby, just move how the strippers do,
My private lil prom queen, doing all the wild things,
Never seen yourself giving head on the flat screen,
Instant celebrity, natural star to me,
Sit back and rewind the part when you was riding me,
Ran out of blank tapes, need another blank tape,
One more scene and we got ourselves a *** tape,
Your friends know I'm filming ya, they seen what I did to
ya, We can even use a camera phone like Vivaca...




Part 2:  We can play like actors, know you not a amateur. You can have the lead role, and I'll be the director. Setting up the camera, get into your character. Come up out that little dress, and let me climb on top of ya. Now baby let's just get involved, with the camera on. You see that red light, that means I've pressed record. Now mami look it's easy, go ahead, come on please me. Now we can put on repeat, and play it back on t.v.Let's make a *******, *** tape, show the world your head great. Show the world you good with it, back shots, hair pulling. Time for some action, Kimmy Kardashian
Lil camcorder that's pointed at your *** again

symphony arrangement for poetry - personae distinctions of hidden violins and woodwinds, somewhere along the way brass - leaving Cabaret Voltaire (Zurich), moving to the Beat Hotel (9 Rue Gît-le-Cœur, Paris), ending up on the Cowgate (Edinburgh).

when you read newspapers you realise that dinosaurs roam
the land, the fortress of printing press, unlike the printing press
(which was taken seriously from the word go!)
the internet has been largely squandered; you read these
things in newspapers, the evolutionary reaction - ensuring that
among these dinosaurs are also opinion pieces, dinosaurs write accounts of what's happening, batrachotoxin amphibians write
opinions: i.e. what isn't happening: opinions go forward unchecked
and undisputed, added that there are many potions in the cauldron
it's hard to pick one out and dig deeper until both parties are in no position to hold such and such opinion, given the missing
muscle of implementing change or the skeleton to keep
the status quo - but this is a slight deviation from what i
was intending to convey - the old guard of printing is worried
sick that it might be usurped in the long run - it prints damaging
reports about the existence of the internet, looking at it as not
a niche environment, which it technically is - but cats, ****, cats,
****, apparently we all log on to meow and moan -
as a tool of entertainment it's the least thrilling source of
the desired "entertainment", the unscripted nature of this niche environment is what's actually good about it, in that a single
person can become both writer, editor and publisher -
but indeed, the internet has been squandered,
although it improved from what used to be a wholly anonymous
environment peppered with dangers of random encounters -
the infamous chat rooms changed even more to infamous
phone-books: you heard it, stories of cyber bullying - the internet
has been squandered, by all means, trying to save it is a bit like
trying to save the world, or as one Tao principle suggested to me
early on forged in me: the best way you can aid the world
is to forget the world, and let the world forget you.
a film director would say, well, i'm stuck in the house,
i'm thinking of shooting a biopic of Lawrence of Arabia...
i see a desert, a man riding a camel through it...
but you have to then start muling over the facts: you'll have to get funding, get the casting right,  but no one likes shooting in
the desert, you have to get  the catering sorted, you start shooting,
but the camera track ruins the desert, so you have to move
to another part of the desert that's pristine with wind parallel
ridges in the sand, then the studio calls you and says you're
spending too much money, then peter o'toole stumbles
out from the trailer hungover almost everyday; sure, you need inspiration and ideas, but that's only 1% or the whole,
99% is working with people - as a director you're not actually
playing god, you're helping other people, De Niro preferred
mumbling something prior to a scene, but Seymour Hoffman
went into a scene like a crocodile quickly snapping
to the shout of cut! and the clapperboard.
i suppose poetry could be like that too,
99% being the audience and the necessary oration,
that would work - unless of course you'd do the same with
painting - but whereas with painting you're invited to critical
thinking, see an artist next to his painting elaborating on
the themes and use of colours? i don't want to assert common sense
wisdom from one profession and apply the same wisdom
                                      to another with a trans-occupational
relativism: that red           is relative to               crimson -
              but we'll have to do away with lighting,
              darkening and what not, so yes,
red is relative to crimson insofar as we forget lighting
and Edward Hopper. anyone can appreciate the
lazy approach, but i took to some mammoths without the help
of audio books, a reasoning man, not a mob gob emotive conjurer worth a tonne of heckles and haggles - but i guess the dream
through this gamble would be the monetary reward...
you know... after so many years writing for peanuts i have lost
all appetite for spending money beyond what i consider
to be a workable cure for insomnia - i don't have to buy music
any more since i can stream it, i have more privacy without
a mobile phone, all i have is this little brick wall that's stationary
in this virtual jungle on which i scribble - with the radius from
this point being anything ranging from 1 to 6 sensible miles,
beyond 6 and we're talking blisters on feet; can you imagine what
our predecessors could endure in terms of walking? they had hoofs
instead of feet, while we have skin as smooth as a baby's buttock
cheeks on the soles of our feet. the strangeness of modernity:
1. a man drives a car with with a bicycle on the roof, just so he can    
    peddle down a scenic route...
2. the volume of skimmed milk bottle is the same as full fat milk,
    but if you bought full fat milk and added water to it the volume
    would triple (via semi, so yes, triple)...
3. healthy diets - 350% increase in vegan population
   in Britain over the past 10 years - the protein problem
   (once it was the fat problem, low fat yoghurt came about,
    turned everything into a sugar problem), i.e. women aged
    between 19 & 24 requiring to hit the 58 gram daily
    recommendation of protein would have to eat:

everyday foods
chicken breast (251g = 276Kcal)
eggs x4 (460g = 658Kcal)
salmon fillet (291g = 533Kcal)                                 v.

clean-eating foods
quinoa (1,318g = 1,582Kcal)
chia seeds (371g = 1,818Kcal)
                              goji berries (405g = 1,504Kcal)
                              kimchi (3,222g = 863Kcal)
                              tofu (707g = 70Kcal)
                              ******* (384g = 632Kcal)
                              coconut yoghurt (3,422g = 6,844Kcal)
almond milk (14,500ml = 3,625Kcal)
avocado (2,900g = 4,843Kcal)

  as healthy as stuffing turkeys for Thanksgiving, can you imagine
  drinking fourteen, fourteen litres of almond milk?! i don't even
  have to imagine drinking 700ml of whiskey to get the point
  and reach the threshold of the effectiveness of sleeping pills...
  no alcohol, no sleeping pills, better sit it out than take so near  
  ineffective buggers; although as a warning: you might end up
  sleeping for *12 hours - variations on the BMI and previous habits
  of drinking - socially? not so much, medically? primarily -
  not in favour of the anti-alcohol lobby being part of the "safety"  
  guidelines given to the public...
4. charities' costs eat up 78% of donations,
    another 21st century anomaly, effectively dismissed
    by the church's alms giving history depicted in Sistine opulence,
    so no wonder whether in cardinal robes or suited and booted for
    the near-invisible secular religiosity, such poverty of symbolism
    compared with the predecessors, at least back then you'd
    know who to send to the guillotine - and this is how Louis XIV
    treated his courtesans, he made a certain type of clothing
    mandatory, a Versailles school uniform as it were,
    most the the courtesans went bankrupt having to buy the
    clothes, some pieces would be equivalent of a sports car,
    they went bankrupt to remain in the club,
    so they borrowed monkey from Louis, and so Louis kept
    them in his pocket: poor rich people, or necessary
    leeches (as once used in medicine, Louis' absolutism
    being the sole malady, abuse of power necessitates
    paranoia); or to quote Lisolette about the royal *******
    'mouse droppings in pepper.' Philippe (Duc d'Orléans)
    was the transvestite who charged into battle
    and conquered the Dutch, much to his brother's
    shame at having only made conquests in the bed - well
money here, money there, shoving a piano into a concert hall accompanied by an orchestra, something Chopin would never
do not wishing to leave the comforts of salons - although
Metallica dared to.
                                                             ­           welcome to
the age of silica and chameleons (cha cha cha champ a camcorder anyone? well, imagine what scrutiny Narcissus would pay a photograph, imagine giving a photograph to Narcissus and
wonder would he change his behaviour), get fooled by
the adverts once, second time you'll eventually see needing to feed
a charity's bureaucracy rather than an African, hence the migrant
                                                                                                    crisis...
sometimes there are no surprises as to where certain things
originate, Marxism and England, zenith of the empire,
or as historians claim, the decadence of the Romans was their fascination with food prior to the end: ready-meals and
microwaves among cooking shows, currently the daily program
of channels, esp. that of 4 is culinary and horse racing,
all the interesting programs are broadcast when everyone
is about to fall asleep... Saville bankrupted the B.B.C.
posthumously: a game show, "jackpot" of one grand.
- advertisement didn't expect live T.V., the mute button,
the pause button and the fast forward button...
but in a 100 years time if not more they'll look back at us as
having finally exhausted Groundhog Day (starring Bill Murray) -
sure, the technological breakthroughs were great, magical,
but the content? 20th century most probably,
the ideal time of fluid and at ease plagiarism - obviously
exceptions were made, but this walking nightmare
of the exhausted second half of the 20th century caught up
in the 21st century - dialogue replaced by visuals,
clash of the titans (1981) v. clash of the titans (2010) -
the only good bit of the latter is the inclusion of Hades -
it's beautiful, i'm nostalgic to a history i was born in and
belonged to, i'm not a nostalgic Nietzsche or Hölderlin
bumming about singing praises of the Ancient Greeks -
you see, it's close-at-heart nostalgia because i belonged to it,
the infant of it - a peculiar circumstance to be in; or coming
to terms with the first signs of decay: cartoon network's
cow & chicken with i r baboon - have you seen the horrors
of modern cartoons compared with computer graphics?
readies them to  pick up gaming soon after,
given gaming graphics. in summary - some say sitting behind
a computer screen is a sign of a lack of self-assurance,
or confidence, self- anything you want to suffix with, well,
that could be true, but you have a photograph included,
and the days of the typewriter are over - but i could also say
the same about certain brands or shops, are they too lacking
self-confidence to stop their existence on  the high street?
the royal mail delivers junk, you might get 100 junk envelopes
and a christmas  card... o.k. make that 1000 to 10,000 envelopes
of junk and one letter directly addressing you that hasn't been
written using an analogue like

dear mr. / mrs. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

we would like to inform you that your insurance
claim has expired.            etc.

the infancy of this century is what's deceptive, the greatest
deception i can think of - the great health scares and subsequent
over-usage of antibiotics breeding super-bugs in hospitals
anything and everything under the sun - including
that damnable idea that the planet Mars employs people whom
it's attracting into its orbit - earthly geologists must be bewildered
that the only subject of learning from all of man's
capacity to send into space is geology: and on the return flight
home we realised that we'd only be bringing back some arenite
(sandstone); that quote about about painting being 50 years
ahead of writing, the same is true with science fiction and
actual science.

when i was eight

my mother and i
left my ****** father
after our bar play date
and here i am now

reliving their mistakes.
i wonder if they felt the same way?

i had a boy
who i had dreamt about,
who melted away my fears
and showed me how to be devout,
but i left him,
my willing victim,
for a man who breathed my name
and believed me to be the same age
as his brother,

his juvenile brother;
and he thought it was quite alright
to sneak a peek upside
my pleated skirt

with his camcorder
and sell what he had found to his friends.
boy, that's tough.
what i once thought was love
became a funhouse maze of
broken trust and confusion
mixed in with potent smoke

and i at seventeen became the underage joke
that he sat and laughed at
while i grasped at the ledge,
tried to pull myself up,
and the boy i had loved
heard about my new crowd
and left off to college without a single sound.

he wouldn't have me
and neither would the man
who choked me out with his blood stained hand.
now i lie in his bed and cry
for i have lost everything i had
all because a blue eyed boy
promised me everything he had

and i believed him.

Ann Marie Soulier (ne´e Hyland) passed away peacefully at her home in Wolcott on Saturday, Nov. 28th, surrounded by loving members of her family. She was 86. The second daughter of the late Frank and Delena Hyland, and sister of the late James and William Hyland, Ann is survived by her two sisters, Elizabeth Parenti and Mary Dudzinski, as well as her brother-in-law, Harry Dudzinski, and sisters-in-law, Gloria and Evelyn Hyland, all of Bristol. She also leaves behind her beloved children: Marie Barrett and her husband, Mike, James Soulier and his wife, Beth, Elizabeth Thisdale and her husband, Joe, Carol Roy and her husband, Doug, Leona Chamberlain and her husband, Dave, and Mario Vitale. Ann was affectionately known as "Nanny" to her 14 grandchildren: Paul, Avery, Shane, Kylie, Matthew, Bobby, Cory, Christopher, Marty, Todd, Michael, Tyler, Michelle, and Jimmy; and to her beloved 14 great-grandchildren: She also has many surviving cousins, nieces, nephews, in-laws and friends whom she loved dearly. The family would like to extend their gratitude to her special caregivers, Alicia and Eliana, who made a difference in the quality of her life and became like family members to her. Ann had an impactful presence. She loved Jesus, family vacations at Hampton Beach and Black Point, coffee, music, painting, doll-collecting, and her best friend of over 80 years, Nancy (Nan). She retired in 1999 from Superior Electric, where she was a cherished coworker for nearly 30 years. As mechanically adept as she was in the workplace, Ann was equally adept in making her house a home. She ran a tight ship during those years doubling as a homemaker, where she kept her loved ones well-fed, raising them to be resilient and to always have a sense of humor and a love of family. She believed in prayer and loved her son Mario's poetry. She also loved videography and was known to document family events using a camcorder starting in the 1980s. Always with a keen eye to see one step ahead, she kept copies of these moments on VHS for all of her loved ones to watch in the years to come. She will be sorely missed here on earth as she joins her parents, her brothers, and her grandson, Shane, in heaven. Friends and family are invited to attend a Mass of Christian Burial for Ann on Thursday, Dec. 3, 2020, at 10 a.m. directly at St. Matthew's Church in Forestville. Burial will immediately follow at St. Joseph Cemetery in Plainville. There will be no calling hours. The family also plans on having a celebration of life ceremony for Ann sometime in the summer of 2021. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations can be made in Ann's honor to the Wolcott Volunteer Ambulance Association, 48 Todd Road, Wolcott, CT 06716. To leave an online message of condolence, share a memory or a photo, visit Ann's memorial
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he watches as his life set ablaze
with morphine and fireworks
29 candles and a red tent
that was an accident

he spoke with bated breath but now
with vigor and bravery
freedom and fear
and it's not your fault

he walked as his legs protested
with medicine and cigarettes
a camcorder and a cane
they maybe one of the lucky ones

he swam with a set intention
saltwater burning
putting up a fight
he's never felt so alive
for once he'll finish something
it was a happy one

and there's no tragedy in that

that bankroll of notes changing
train pistons into traffic cones
and brief loves into marriages
with the motherly continues, but
ended up, just being, a roll of toilet paper
that could buy you **** for ink
or ink for a bestseller that ended up a door stump for a housed breeze.
but she loved it, she took the story of pristine eden
and her the satan like a camcorder with selfies
readied into recycling a pretty face
that everyone wanted to fudge into snorkel in a sea of gag white;
so i took to the monk ape for inspiration for levitation
and i rooted into a child being the: bullied anorexic lexicon,
the all rounded a*
tenner for a teenager housebound into being schooled
for a grey of officiated scrubbing of papers into
business.
i loved it, i had my midlife crisis without a harley
and i faked myself as a dodo fearing man’s fear of death
more than the unexpected extinction of my fellow species,
which i took to be fearless.
so once i experienced caesar’s love of spontaneity and death,
the last two things i feared were homelessness
and a prolonged state of dying utilising morphine
from april till june,
that’s why i never changed surgery,
never wanted to check the cholesterol or blood pressure
acting like a virus i asked to attack my heart
with marginalised debriefings - if i prayed
for the herz blitzkrieg right i also got a heartbeat prior.

to live
in order to never
have a "moment"
of entitlement encapsulated
with photographs
where the narcissism
is multiplied
for the camcorder of
recognising eventual
histories of inevitableness,
stressed, in a single man's fame;
i swear we should stop
using the words 'celebrity culture'
and call it for what it's worth:
an imploded zoology.

The shot glass speaks arrows
arrows to tear a man down
at the worst of all times
he viewed life
not through the camcorder imagery of most
but through specific harsh globes of flesh
the eyeballs which couldn't betray him
even when life seemed to come
in violent fragmented flashes
reminding him of all that was false,
they had said it was a weekend
dedicated to a
"ruin your life sort of drunk"
he couldn't tell them
of a life already in shambles
nor of the tribulations
of developing a craft
which seems in its death throes
work seemed silly
the very idea of a boss
or a station
ultimately sickening
but still he trudged on
knowing that he was chasing
much bigger fish,
much bigger fish indeed

The feeling of emptiness in a neighborhood I used to visit, and seeing your house, where we used to lay, and an empty backyard.
I felt myself fall in and out of love all overagain.
I still feel very small and I meant it when i said the memories meant everything to me.
And I go into the woods and the silence drowns out everything
the tree branches take over the skies creating the negative spaces I wish I could fit into.
the world sits still. But my heart is racing.
everything is dark and the little lights flicker
images projected on the sides of houses
and the memories blend together.
apologizes written on sidewalks and short films on a camcorder.
I want this feeling to be transformed into something
It is a feeling I can't explain
a feeling i almost can't feel
hands tighten on the steering wheel
and I'm suddenly in the city
where everything is fast and I am still.
nothing here belongs to you.
and I don't remember anything
the noise engulfs everything.
shadows of the people, and the streetlights
and their bodies close together.
I feel far from everything,
And I wonder if you meant it when you said
nobody would ever love me.
I wrote our names in a bathroom stall in Portland
so somewhere we could seem permanent
and I tell myself you're just a girl I used to know-
but I don't know if I ever knew you at all.
I look for you in everyone.
I can't find you.
I still feel very small.

You fall apart,
pick up the pieces
make a new picture
and fall apart.

You
fall apart
pick up the pieces,
break open wide like
your inside's on the outside,
but
you haven't died
so you start to
fall apart again.

I call it the falling apart and not dying game,
I play it on my internal camcorder
rewind,
they call it a psychological disorder in order to satisfy the clinical mind.
They don't realise that I don't always find all the pieces that fell but
I don't tell them that.

Some lexicon you got there, kid, some funny picks you choose from the lot you were taught, some things you spit that I look for and just aren’t there

Why do you need poetry and bloviation to tell your story? What aviation, fight or flight does that give you, burrowing your meaning in storms of complexity

Does it do you no work to simplify

See a problem, rectify it

Why do you look at a shoelace and untie it

Unlace the strands of humanities patterns like the peel of an orange

The earth is one big orange

And we flatten it like a piece of paper

Superheros were given capes so that in flat spaces, they fly

Why do you try to weigh yourself down with salty slabs of thoughts you cry?

What is it about the look in that eye the cooks you so hot you break like clay in kiln your eyes see a film in everything

It’s all a deep surround sound movie

And to you, it’s so rewarding to blink in your real-time recording

Camcorder on board with the lines you drew dragging your sneakers in the dirt

It’s random like that but it’s raw and dries like glue- clear, but smells like something manmade and stuck together

And there’s noise around you, however, whatever overstimulation annoys you, you are not alone

People will notice you and say,

Who’s this?

in scotland they endear with the word
doll,
in northern england they endear
with the word pet...
    in southern england they stick
a cucumber up their ***** and call
them celtic fairies doing spring-clean...
and can't i really say the word niger,
which is a country?
           nigh-jer?
                              that extra g does
nothing for me, hardly any giggles
or ferocious reminder of past history,
****, i might speak the tongue,
but my ethnic make-up is hardly
with the historical tattoos...
  so i can't name a country by its name?
camcorder ****, i.e. cameroon?
                if this language is going to
lick the ***** of the people that put
a straitjacket on it, i won't!
      thank **** i retained my native tongue,
because, as it stands, i'm this close | |
in finding expressing this language:
completely unbearable!
i didn't sign up to live in a lunatic
asylum of political correctivity,
  which is the automated
                         version of correctness;
and once the fairest of all tongues,
                      now, the most limping.

your papa's got a a camcorder and wants to save some memories but nothing's going on.

the neighbors took the good cartoons from blockbuster so you grab a stick instead.

under this infinite sky you recite the lies from the next grade up. at least jenny speaks to jesus but you still don't like to be alone with the burden of her damage.

a squirrel just tried to talk to you and you pretend to understand. will the day ever come when you finally get what everyone pretends to know?

this is that moment you second guess the hole you'd dig to china.

and now your neck itches.

******, ******
Just orders, protect borders
Justice and order, Fixers and sorters
Guts on a camcorder
**** out if you can afford her
**** hotels for the soldiers
Taped and stored in federal folders
Holes in daughters
Blood and *** drips as you hold her
Got questions, torture and water boarders
Doers, leaders, fuhrers
Child soldier bullets go pitter patter, splatter    
Colonial slavers are the industry pavers
Acceptable loss, lawyers and waivers
Watch or ignore it with entertainers
Silver screen lives and liars
Fired and dead reporters
****** in the mortar
So **** your leaders
Or live in hell forever

Alarms off, barn chicken soundin warns sun risin
Warm in the kitchen, finger lickin greazy livin
Mournin in mornin, four am mind *******
Just in reporter on a camcorder record ya
Was untoward asking opinion on ya lord
Funny looking color like a funyun my answerin
whiny vision velour clothing,  demon spawn
When gone might pawn golf sets off lawns
In the end money tight even lint gone
Opinion bent left plant facin a light dawn
No prawns starving its lent living in a tent
Woes found working paying rent with money lent
Toes cold staying in boots, boldly saying let go
Cow bell ringing meat packaging on the blow
Flow swells bringing dead whales in undertow
Wont tell no snitches no tales how trust grow
Bows n ties oft means lives built on lies, so
Below tries most the honest living and dies
Boo hoo momma cries over a racist, my my
Here lies a body of a sexist marxist, no longer exist
Goodbyes in winds are ******, believed in lists
Why try when points missed, wished but unblessed
Covid coughs bless you, hands rinsed lead laced water
Void laughs in stints empty cans scraped and placed wherever
Devoid of soap stinky citys unclean even when precipitated
Dubois protests violently retchs wholehearted tenths participated
Soy and leeks replacing meat costs a whole check to be sated
Boys an chicks dancing feet lost to most fact is their elated
Whiskey sticky drink at meet an greets an bar posts

I cocked tiny blow-out ports over the screams of a ham hoarder & a
pretty sham boarder gorging on a lamb quarter that weighed a gram
shorter than 721 miles of video tape from my glamorous camcorder