Tagged: language

Accumulation

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Fish eyed

stoic reflections.

A little wired

Little crazy.

Wilted ass flower,

Chatted furs

manage to misunderstand.

They drugged Jesus,

The Son

Nauseous with nothing to nibble,

Nothing

 

Far from original sin

Smoking on senile hand rolled slugs

Racing past 

Settling insectile faces

Behind sterile windshield

I need these antithetics

To get through the day

 

The list travels through L.A.

And Tokyo

Coilng around the world

Knotted ball of twine

Each thread the next scroll

Of my prescription

Of prick the fingers,

Make him bleed,

painkillers

 

They whisper it,

Hiding behind sweaty palms

As I stumble to the curb

“DRUG ADDICT”

“HAGGARD DRUNK”

“RAPIST OF THE SOUL”

the roach that go away

 

The sky is stained with exhaust

The strip with buds

Accomplices

In my land

Two layers closer to hell.

The Evolution of Language

Only I can see it. They’re like tumors. They bulge from the apex of the back of their head.
Here it remains dormant.

The eyes are relaxed, once shifty eyed, now slightly glazed. The pink candy bubblegum turns grey. The bubble grows, I can see the tumor perched on the back of her skull slowly deflate, slowly, it is consumed.

Elsewhere, I see it burst from his lips. Spewing like puss from a straining pimple.
“BITCH”
The letters wrap around the walls of the expanding bubble gum. The pink goo from her pursued lips is stained. A single drop of black dye
in a rainbow
makes grey.

It’s thick. It pops, oil dripping down her supple frame.
It’s acidic, the clothing burns away and she stands fragile, naked.

The tar streaks her skin.

As the syllable is finished, and the teeth and the tongue collide with the final “tch.”

The match dropped at her feet, she bursts into flame. She wails, running to the faces around her, but the men don’t know what it’s like to burn, and the women are silenced behind their candy bubble gum. Behind that dull demeanor, they pray for the health of their burning sister.

Her skin blisters, her body cries, pus dripping out of the swelling boils. They pass, avoid eye contact.

A modest pile of cigarette ash in the corner. It’s only a passing moment and she’s made again. She rises from the ashes, a new tumor on the back of her head, and bubble gum inflating from her chapped lips.