writing

mushroom millefori

sterile/white mall circus setting
couches slacking tensions
rising w lesley
tall blonde guy @ batcave club
young horse trapeze artist who gets his face smashed,
masked, so can't tell how badly he's injured
the older version of him
the mystery of why, and the flirtations with these 2 other guys
ending with nude shower and the showing of pictures;
they are all of places we've been
the sandy cave of the stories origin
a million other places we've been
or heard of
H2O pounding down
wake myself up
how does it end?

a dirty book is rarely dusty

looking down into the shallow tropical blue, blue water
pale lifeless drift floating youth bodies
watery grave

boy vs machine monster

mushroom millefori

“...hovering.....”

In hovering pursuit
My fortress permeable
Words stalk me again

Where’s my restraining order?

Slippery
Relentless
I want to deny, black out these thoughts
slip away, consume, shop drink this life away
Shut my mind to waste time
But…

Entrenched in Fiction.
Pacing in place. I need escape!
I’m racing. Racing!!! away...
My diction is blurred
My vision is slurred-
perusing fornication,
boozing fortification,
refusing motivation,
I'm through…

And writing steals me
Chasing me throughout the crumbling night.
Pushing past kicking fish and barricaded fears.

Grenade

I stash a grenade in this person’s mouth
duct tape over
Kiss ‘em hard.

And let go.

Kicking Fish 3.3.06

We entered the fish market.
On the ice sits a scale-less monster from the deep sea of primordial species. I want that fish.
“It doesn’t look fresh,” says my aunt.
We venture further inside, when the thrashing catches my eye.
The fish I wanted is still alive!
I can’t look away,
the fish hacked in half at the waist
the two feet of flesh Kicking

and helpless.
“We’ll take two inches,” says my aunt.
The market’s executioner grabs the head but can’t handle the bucking. He takes a breath, holds the other side and cleaves another piece of waist.
“Why don’t you kill it instead of letting it suffer?” asks my aunt.
“The customers assume it’s not fresh and won’t buy it.”
Space.
Home, we put the fish on a plate.
The flesh is too fierce.
The cells are still kicking.

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