.. atti?
Esco 3000
Surreality Tv.
After 9 pm,
even the sun becomes
a guiltless courtesan straddling
the phallic skyline.it's sultry ride
downward pulled by earth's
insatiable strain till vast
window shades of light collapses.
disappearing like an extinguished torch.
playing director-
I'll call action when the zebra
leaps from his skin
to the street
-and the script reads
[walk]
16 mm screen shots
climax over se7en sin
-amatic bullet holes.
shooting for fetish,
we've soured the voyeur;
9 mm's left
to get the perfect
shot.
its an ongoing rendezvous.
this sublime dip of lust
from the anthropologic well of night.
risky business actually,
as contact initiates from
'how much honey?' then
the fiery appetite rekindles itself
all over again.
I make a square
with two losers (L)
to view the world in live rumor;
this looking glass
has a dirty lens
and cracked carrying case.
tracing deer tracks down
Asylum Ave-
buying kisses
from crack acrobatics
-twirling along highway
balance beams;
the scene
-ery scribbled across city blocks
with white chalk
and fallen
lobby clocks.
it's this devious desire that
unmasks itself between the legs of dark alleyways
where new hunger always succumbs to an old emptiness.
a search for static
characters-
through the alleyways
in Mark Twain's
head;
I skip rope with telephone
brains-
sipping subtle conversations
in a third-person
nonexistence;
there are no more hero's,
but I found my wonder woman
-in the gutter
with a golden lasso
wrapped around her forearm:
a perfect heroin
to save the day.
'bring it on then' he thinks-
the flagrant disregard downcast
ritual.some rudimentary confirmation
that sleep is an unnecessary
indulgence bring it on,
the polished strut, the lewd
motion, and femme fatale vixens clutching
the smallest blossom of love they'll
ever know.
look at it this way.
round here, lust renders a man
no less unstable than the silence
that defines his agenda. some
women cater to such immediate
insatiable needs. empathy for a fee' if you please,
the price one pays for passing on casting judgment when
believing the nocturnal flash of a smooth
female thigh is where a man's hand
was born to belong.
roll that tape back!
[caution caution caution]
standing below the balcony
-to catch tear drops
on the lens
from broken heads;
lynched in his own
caution tape
-the last super hero
is forever
in the rear view
of replay.
they sell nooses
like bubble gum to toothless
children
-because depression
gets front page news,
along side
suicide
legends.
austere avenue, an aptly titled stride
of prideland where liquor tongue odes
sing a man's loneliness under a nameless harlot.
Tuning his lies and alibi to casually come undone
when the Mrs. inquires of his latenight rendezvous
now powder your
nose
before I capture your overdose
again;
close your eyes
and hold your throat:
dramatic effect
-it's almost the end.
finish snorting that outline
that dances circles
around your best friend,
and drown in the midnight
of starry eyed
sluts.
hours later, morning sets in.
a sun ray's spirit writing simmers
ghostly upon the abandoned corner
autographing austere avenue in
triangular angles of sapphire and gold.
I caught conneticut
live-
such hideous angles,
to accent
those cardboard cutouts
that covered the tenements
-with bloody sleeves
and candy coated fruit
that bloomed
from plastic trees;
a silicon dream sequence
splintered by
lithium lines
in organized paragraphs
-recited by so called artists
who chose to narrate their last
biographies live
on
-Surreality TV.
trouble is ripe in these prismatic signatures'
far too abtract for the eye to decipher.
Reply With Quote
