Thursday, December 18, 2014

A Story of Awkward Loneliness

As they gathered on the outside
She stood plainly in their sights
Directly beneath a spotlight,
A street light, extended above her on a post
In the middle of the room
And under foot the grey and cracking stone of a sidewalk
That followed her where ever she went
Like a storm cloud set aside only for her
The people did not notice her
Or so it seemed to an untrained eye
They stole glances from their peripheral
At the corner of their eye
As it darted back and forth
As they conversed with old friends, and new ones
Chit chatting away with little of the lady on their minds
With little of her sidewalk or her light,
Or the little black heels she wore under foot
Or the sequin cocktail dress she wore, 
All sparkling blue under the waning light
As they gathered about her
But were not about her
They kissed one another under mistletoe
Mistletoe's strewn in tinsel
As the holiday lights grew like snakes around the trees
As their breath was apparent before their faces
And she,
She in a dress with exposed knees
Shaking violently in the breezing freeze
To the people she would have called
Had they not retired to the inside
Leaving her and her personal light post,
Leaving her alone on her sidewalk.
And so it went on for a few more hours or so
The awkward lady in her awkward black shoes
Wishing away that the people might care
Hoping that someone might journey a stare
Or grow curious what was behind her made up smile
For she had kept her teeth just barely visible
Just barely visible escaping behind her lipstick spread lips
The blush on her face cracking on her skin
The mascara runny and graying where tears began spreading
That golden brown hair draped lovingly over ears
That were beat red and freezing in that unforgivable cold
She the lady in the awkward black heels
The blue sparkling cocktail dress,
Under the flickering of a high up light
Through the windows and the silky curtains she watched them
Through the glass and through the cloth she could see
Through the barrier and through the comfort she pondered
Outside the hall with but herself and her sidewalk
Her perpetual hell like a perpetual cloud
Cold and freezing, hardly feeling anything
But the harshness of absence
The absence of acknowledgment that she shouldn't have come at all
Her hands over one another 
Fingers interlaced
And grey streams of mascara running down her canvas,
Down her painfully woeful face
When once she was young and full of brightness
She grew older and dingy grey
And the people all around her danced in the summer light
As winter had come and gone 
Several times
and severely too fast.
The heel had shattered on her black left shoe
and the black right one was wearing away
Though she hadn't moved at all
There was a boy
No more than fourteen
Who ventured on over
and stood beneath her light
And he squinted through it,
Maybe perceiving the ghostly image
But she didn't think it so
But then he grabbed her wrist
A gently immediate sort of grip
And he pulled her forward
As she was removed from the light her heel stuck back on
The wearing of her clothes diminished
And she aged in reverse
The mascara rushing back up to its darkened place around her eyes
And she no longer shivered.
The rest of the people went in rewind
Moving ten times to fast
Till the snow was falling again
And they were safely and preciously inside
But she did not care,
She was young again
And he was the same
He'd always been there wanting to dance
He just never knew her name.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

What I Heard

I once knew a man
Who wanted to have the world
He strode forth atop his shoes
-with feet comfortable inserted
It was a mask he wore
That's what caught my eye
There were eyes where they should be
And a mouth as it should have been
The nose was a bulge of tissue
-but just as they should see
In all matters before the naked eyes
He was as was needed
But that was the trick
That was what the clown 
What he wanted them to tick about
To ponder on
There was of course no make-up
-but there mine as well have been
This man was normal as normal as normal can be
A relative term if stated myself
But he is what he was and he is as he's not
Punching in and punching that
That which had to be
And upon his wounded and battered knees
-only worn from waking
He bent and squatted
Cracking a joint in place
Re-positioning slightly into socket
And a twenty in his pocket
That is even useless in the soda machine
He talked to me but once
Before he exited the stage
And he said this,
"Go and be fruitful,
Go and multiply
Screw them all mercilessly
And get screwed in return
Bare idiots upon the land
Raise them with your careless hands
Let them decide the fate of the masses
When they were late for all of midsummers classes
Hark! Unto them,
Upon their little shoulders
Little toy soldiers
That they cannot share with anyone"
Then that was all,
-except what he muttered under his breath
as he passed me at the door,
Not sure what it all meant
Not sure at all
After all, 
I'm just a clock on the wall.

The Criminality of Nonsense

It was atomically consussive
Obnoxiously suggestive
Cast Iron Gates sprouting up like spear heads
Nothing to do but fear and loathing in your heads
Desperately attacking the nexus
Developing a skin rash sitting next to us
Laying out the brick work
For a show about shit work
Calling all cars and ambulances
A police bulletin that sings christmas lullabies
And a degenarate inn keeper and his wife
Who only know how to fuck and spread strife
Debilatating stomach cramps
Cancerous infections on the roof of your mouth
Spreading like fire on toilet paper
Consuming the gasoline soaked masses
Teleporting the oritory to the outer rims
Deciding to leave the way open for more time
Casting the roles in reverse
The dick head on her lady purse
Pastors slicing open festering wounds
And filling it with nano bots
That spread filth with their disease ridden programmings
To the top of the hill
To the bottom of the bottle of pills
Where only orange transparency rests
Till we all face uncertain deaths

Saturday, November 29, 2014

Another Opening Version of The Misfits


I wouldn’t be honest if I said the big hulking mess of flesh next to me doesn’t smell to high heaven.  His names Ward, about six years ago he had the misfortune of being in a house fire, burns to ninety percent of his body, but he still has his eye sight so that’s a blessing.    The other guy on my right is Moriarty, don’t know if that’s his real name, he doesn’t talk much.   He’s scrawny, and even though he’s wearing a pitch black pea coat he still looks like he weighs the same amount as an anorexic swimsuit model.   There’s one distinguishing mark on him and thats the none to subtle scarring along the length of his throat.   Maybe he learned to shut up because someone made it a personal trait of his, maybe I should learn by example and get this over with.
The three of us are what you might call a motley crew.   We’re the lost and the damned, the misplaced orphans of a criminal empire who no longer had need for us.  When you’re worthless to the lowlifes we worked for, then you’re expendable.   So its either your dead, burned, cut or broken, or all of the above.   I point my arm forward and the blade that’s there where my hand used to be points directly at the son of a bitch we’re here for.  He’s scared, as he should be.  If I had to face a trio of misfits as ugly as us I’d probably be pissing myself by now.   I checked his leg though, no darkened stains on his pants, I’d say he’s holding up pretty well.
“Let’s get this over with.”  Ward says, he has a raspy way of talking, and his sentiments reflect my own, but there’s something entertaining with toying with someone who has it coming.  Not that we’re heroes, but we are taking out underworld trash.  Like Mr. Quaking in My Boots here.
“I’m sorry.”  The frightened little so and so says, and I’m sure he is.   “I can get the money back to Mr. Valkov, I can.”   He thinks we work for the mother of all mafia kingpins, the mad russian called Dmitri Valkov.  In a way we all did at one time or another.  But not anymore, now its been our goal to disrupt the party, cut down his organization and free this city of the stranglehold he has on it.
“We don’t want the money.”  I tell him, but it’d be nice.   “You spent a lot of time managing the personal finances of that bastard, and we want the records you’ve no doubt kept.”   He pauses a moment and stops quaking, thinking he’s safe if he does what I ask.  Then he says something that I didn’t expect.
“Go fuck yourselves.”  
I have to hand it to him he’s ballsy, apparently he’s been skimming off a profit for himself on the side, and he thought we were here to “deal” with him, but now that he knows were not he’s grown a backbone, his loyalty to his employer is concrete.    Also, he doesn’t consider us a threat.
I’m about to move in on him myself, my blades haven’t done their work in a few days, but Moriarty draws and fires before i’ve taken one step.  The man is pissing himself now, you can see it pooling on the floor as he lays there grimmacing through the bullet that pained through his kneecap.
When he wants to Moriarty can speak volumes.
“I won’t hurt him.”  Ward tells us.   He hangs back why we move forward.  Its typical of the big red giant to not want to get involved more than he has to.   After all if memory serves he wasn’t directly harmed in his predicament, only discarded.
The man has a gun barrel pressed against his other knee and Moriarty presses it in hard, while I tap the tip of my blade on his open palm so that he’s got the hallways carpet underneath.  “The books.”  I apply a little pressure.  “The books.”  I say again with another ounce of pressure, I’ve broken skin.
If he wasn’t annoying me with his silence I’d admire the prick, but as it is I don’t have time to waste with the slow approach.  The blood pools around my blade as I poke through to the carpet.  Moriarty pulls his trigger.   “Do you want your limbs or not?  Because I’m okay with you having nothing but a pelvis and torso.”
“He’ll kill me.”
He isn’t wrong.
“Can you protect me?”  He asks, there’s a deep seeded fear in his eyes.  He has immediate pain, or imminent death to choose from.
I lie.  Moriarty shoots a glance at me, but I don’t look back.  I do my best look of sympathy and reassurance.   I do my best to look heroic while my blade stings at his opened hand.   I lie again then remove the blade.
Ward is directly behind me, I can feel his lumbering presence like an elephant, I’m amazed he can even fit inside the building.  He’s not happy with my negotiating tatcics.   Thinks that being honest makes up for killing lots and lots of people.  As if one moral attribute makes up for a platitude of immoral ones.  Who am I to say otherwise.
“Under my desk.   There’s a flap of loose carpet.   The safe combination is 18-24-2.”  There’s no time for more promises, before Ward pushes passed me and slams his foot on the poor saps throat.  You can hear the bones shatter, and see the breath leave him.  The pain is momentary, then he’s still.
“Better this way.”  Ward says, he lifts up the poor sod and carries him to the nearby bedroom.  The body draped over his burned shoulder.    He may not feel physical pain, but the big guys got a soft spot for victims of circumstance.   It was a means to an end I suppose but if we hand’t gotten him to fess up the location and combination we would have tortured him.  And though he had he still would have been tortured and then murdered.   I guess you could say Ward is complacent with our actions, but I think he’s more clean up than anything.  Some of these people used to be his friends, he was the closest to Dmitri - between the three of us.  He’ll judge me for this, but I can’t do the same to him.  
Not sure what Moriarty thinks, he’s already out of the hall and back with the ledger book before I’m standing at the bedroom door watching Ward tuck the corpse of some crooked accountant into his comforter like he was his own child.    The guys a conundrum.