Fresh cut pine pops, burning in an antique 1940s stove with brand new stove pipe. Resting on the floor of the longed for addition to my fathers house i used to listen to my mother and father speak of as i sat on the carpet playing with Lincoln logs. These hands made come true thirty years later. Cracked, cramped and bleeding. I did it.
A cemented hell scrubbed and swept beyond clean hourly as an unshaven, unclean animal paces up and down lookin for dirt. The search for solace solely on the inside when placed in solitary sensory deprivation. Like the princess and the pea, searchingly you feel the discomfort of the smallest. Until you can coddle the pain into a shiny patina of pearly comfort. Either eat away or be eaten. Ten years of pain turned into a unique emotion, somewhere between philosopher and masochist.
You want what you can't get when it comes to the opposite sex and wish to jus sit surrounded by nothing but music after eighty hours a paycheck. The cutting up of venison today crawling with maggot. Yet smelling good and packaged to eat. As long as you cut around the bad parts its all good. The amount spent on meat puts a smile on the face of he who doesn't have to pay it. Another week.
Her dangerous teeth smiling at me behind braces. Tight cowgirl Wranglers supporting a thought more dangerous than crack or whiskey. Comrades forgive me my natural specie tendency to pass on genes in the vortex of a failing bourgeois society. Crimes against peoples revolution in the form of pretty haired innocence. Violent in her virginity. A face reminiscent of a past cellmate and her older sisters decline of my date request. Twenty years spent.
Words randomly splashed on a page as red bull courses through veins coated with coffee. Every fellow captive released and recaptured in tiny paragraphs each week in the local paper. From Kashas slashed wrists yesterday to Troys hanging death months ago. We repeat deaths and tragedies like favorite songs on skipped CDs.
You have to see and make peace with the ugly end before you can have a pretty beginning. And when you hold everything so deep down inside its dangerous when you rub the genie loose. Booze and crystal. Back and forth the army rides. To hell and back. The lower class song of suicide and homicide.
Rich people with fat fingers on the pause button of contradiction. Disappearing a son who holds righteous anger at a shady injustice system into a cell of destruction teaching defeatism. Returning home as an exampled time bomb. Destroying those half remembered and starring fifteen minutes of fame on the ten o clock news. Perpetuating the illusion; crime doesn't pay and pigs and white people are the solution.
Text message just received with braces and an emotion long since buried. Since she resembles my first girlfriend. Would be the worst to experience downfall from a forgotten emotion. The ambrosia of my voice tickling senses like facial expressions of Charles Manson. Its only those that fully finish a revolution that can be all forgiven. The beforehand builders buried skinless in shallow graves smelling of pig skin.
You've got this single moment to do with as you choose it. Spend it in jest if you're not afraid to lose it.
But those afraid of the big death embrace the little one. Whatever rules or laws precede it. Because, what's more, the destruction of a single entity or a species?