candycox

Detonation -- Nine-thousand pounds of explosives -- Unreeling the cord.

A crazed mexican scrambling in the desert dust on all fours. Shots fired into the air.
Bottles of hot sauce.
Ay muthafuckin curamba!
Everything is empty and exploding at once, on fire.

Looking out from a furnace.
The grace of losing concern
the freedom of destruction.

Yeah...
It's all metaphorical and shit.

We dare to drink in the flames of desire.
Yet the man makes you clean up the soggy ember remnants.
As you lie in last night's damp firepit,
it's only your smudged face,
the coarse wet grit grinding in your teeth,
left to instruct you.

Every day is an empty question mark.

I sat on a fine burgundy leather couch.
The coffee table had an intricate pattern of swastikas set in tile.
I was offered a cup of coffee in a tiny cup.

The thickness of the glass ashtray distorted the images of the pornographic cartoon magazines underneath.
My eyes were steady on the building code addendum.
Sanskrit instructions on mountain traversal.


Nowadays I'm waking up on the beach.
My face is always sunburnt.
I drink beer while wading in the ocean.
I identify with the hermit crabs by the rock where I loiter.

My personal assistant left town, so it's back to the bus.
The freeway underpass is wrinkling my suits.
I've found a carwash where I can bathe.
I'm always sure to leave the valet a five dollar tip.