hellsforheroes

Knee-high mordecai, oldest man in the bible...

Translucent guppy

The glory of a fertile prairie meanders vast into cold holistic death, and I couldnt be more ambivalent. Life, a term so unfit for page, offers me a prison of my own creation, a mind of my own failing self absorbed genius, a genius so keen, so keen, keenillogic. The days seem like endlessness, the productivity of my action, futile. Weather floats like passing conversation, my waining patience destitute, like the angry outbursts of communism; I feel as though bargained upon stagnant factory imaginations, nuclear death but a hope, prison but a beholden dream, these words the only holy, passing time, floundered, pissed, stuck, muddy rut, animal farm, pig utopian cleansed. I seem to feel born to see my proverbial barn as always dirty, and the steaming infinite shit, fucking stinking cursed methane. These days, they are, shitty and unchanging. Dullness is rampantly active, definitively sexually active, crudely birthing a boy of the wasted sperm washed into a towel, and so forth onto the machine, cyclical electric magic of nothingness feeding imaginary action, hormonal cycle, sexually elevated cosmic fundamentalism, habit, instinctmy instincts are betraying me, I cant control my instincts. Or I might not be willing, to do anything more than sit here and wend the will-o-wisp ire, digitally burnt. I am to go forth today, somewhere better than yesterday, but there is no progress, as there is very little struggle, the world offers me very little tug, melancholy ticklish daydreams, tasting of parishioned pourage, I, unwilling to touch the hellish fire, unsaintly desirous for distant galaxies, melting by the heyday sun, the fate of celestial plenipotentiary gravitons matter, fused fire.
And so, something must humor me, whether it be the green leafs, subtly waiting to die, the sun, devoutly dragging the itinerant winds, or the moon, guitar picaresque lullaby baptizing the neon jellyfish, something must peak my fantasy. I can no longer slumber with sheepish clouds; the hope only leaves me frozen and breathless in upper air, I can no longer bed on the granite furtive stone; the pumice chafes my aging face. This world can do nothing for a man unwilling to drink from the well. I am unwilling to drink for fear of poison, and I am unwilling to drink for fear of nourishment. I am, barely willing to love.
Sickly and twisted, my love, a gift I am barely willing to give, a retro virus, a sexually transmitted disease of epiphany, a damp gluttonous waft. My love is available, as with all human being in need of somatic drug. I, a conjuror of somatic constituency, a conjuror of manifest beings, reality fried creation, these icons, women, sexually flit, begging of gherkin. Inhabitant they are, inhabitants, pseudo-conformist succubae, in my murky waters, my ego symbolizing my canoe, the eagle, lesser, grander, god-like, the loon red-eyed unholy, like a devil laughing at me from beneath the serendipitous quagmire of beer-can and log, pike and Pleistocene decadence, the loon like the devil adept only to idiosyncratic evolution, flightless and unable to walk, but only if birthing, if perpetuating faulty diadem. I wonder why, no dragon ever exposes itself, why no kraken ever lumbers, why no mythical beasts hold supremacy. I wonder the same of women.
Why is profound secrecy abundant, but so actless? Women beset by men, beauty a curse, intelligence secondary, acumen tertiary, brilliance forgotten, stunted, as no woman looking like Bukowski with such boils, and craters, whimsical enough to make the moon jealous, could thrive. It is ironic that Men are willing to let woman compete for sustenance, and woman are willing to let beauty, countersuit the drive, inherently coerced, and contrived, to gold dig devil foolish, women beautiful for men, and women stunted by beauty, smitten with ignorance. Such as irony flirts with the world, answering riddles, and striking stars in the hopeless eyes, such as irony sleeps, but to only humor me, helpless, but to humor me.
And make me blink, drunken choreography upon the refracted photonic haze of black virtue, nothing as hopeful as the drilling beat of wireless modicum, strapped liquor hallowed. The booze tingles my rotten gums. My brain swells in malnourished anemia. The scented floral molecules, castrate my mind. I begin to think, clearly, for the first time in so many years. Maybe if I am lucky this will be my last breathe, or possibly my epitaph, for which you miscreants can riffle unorthodox, my ashes shark fodder, the arrows petulant, and ocean forever. I am drinking to rainfall, for change, pennies worthless but to passing thought, collections of Nordic arrows flung at my desecrated corpse, my vessel, my de facto lottery coordinated genetic symbiot. I, the flotilla passing in the metaphorical gutter, redundant and trite, begin to think more than eschewed beta waves coagulating my spectral allegory. I begin to think within a pattern
The days follow the nights, I am to dream new hope daily, and watch it die thankfully, this is life, again that blasphemous word, a word as simple as time, as innocuous as cancer. I feel as though I am the only one medically willing to make crab cakes of science, Joshing to die of humor, the shear joy I see in every rainbow sailed mass extinction. I feel as though slaughtering a muse maybe the only thing worthy, destruction of temples, erasure of knowledge, to relearn the biblical calamities as comedy, and to re-educate the defiant with synchronous tenderness. The evolution of garbage continues to perpetuate, folly after holocaust, examination after desertion, war after sex, love after death, suicide after prayer. This world seems right to tumble blindly with its proverbial head up its asshole, the proverb rich and textured like a bloody stool. I am staking claim to this, as a last colony of saintly gold wealthy natives, mercantile silks, fine flavorful spices to make us all wealthy, healthy, and possibly wise. I claim this heaping moment, as a cognitive destiny, or rather, a glorious reoccuring pile of fishbowl limbo.


Its cold...my job is hum-drum...if only a little devil came my way....

This is an old piece written in a paragraph form, and since converted....I think it is strictly average with some decent imagery...tell me what you think...tell me anything...


Work bench

Summer rain salvation
just me and her
destiny swollen with reservation
for lodge like hotel
in my northern rustic dell
a delightful tiny watercourse running into the bigger and grand
the middle ocean
and its muttered
inky blinking sand

Just a simple little nod
from the communes of love
a look
and wink
a cursed pepper
to too devoted
a soul drink

Two people muddling amongst unsullied changes
and September bedroom heavy
quilts at night amidst the near freeze
the gales of calling pasts
and hauntings of future perils
the autumn winds hollering to be empty
the screeching silence of winter
the summer burn skirmishing the itinerant furthering sun
the bashful emperor in hiding

The tars of divination
the celibacy of emancipation
her clutches risking naked against the algid downy skin
blanket nether region blessings
sheet messings
giggle rapture shrills
curl toed replenishings
rain drops on the slightly unfastened window of summer blame
satisfaction

Green eyes to the windowed heavens
and just her tugging lips
to the warm revelry
the idolatry
of whatever peculiar gods bless the moment of inseparable memento
like the damsel nibbling the neck
like the darling of a just naked nape
a baby against the slant of evening half broken
her permutations devouring in the crimson of sun shaked lake
baked
river laid dusty
dusky musty spiritualism

Just the handhold of the moment
as fleeting
her as all but the impeccable lady
a carouser of deterioration
a ration shy of a committal fund
a lovely day but not the twilling of marital grand-ure

Just me
her
and washing rain
still cleaning the graces
still running the cold water of soiled servitude
with her writhing
her beckoning
her auburn tangled length rolling in her grape purple
tiger lily
eye paint
her colored reflection in her orbital
her orbital anglings
messing her salmon lips
her puckered feasting plumed mouth

The savage creatures feeding
in the long trees
the wooded canopy
and the monsters of reality
the rocks of nicked foot
bleeding
healing
rambling
wounded
the loves of time
the imperfection of her worship
feeling no pain
arching into warped calamity
righted like an orchestra
satin like a sunset tarn

Amidst green and grey
and oblivion
in my beat furthered malaise
passion with quiet
a rainy day of heat
a rainy day of silence
a tiptoeing
and her lasted cooing
just as the tide rises
it crests
and falls
her little dream box in a song of resolute sugar dew
nectar for the belly
of a angel

Just blankets and her rift
lustrous
like in the womb
of a forty five thousand foot sky high eternal jumbo jet
like quiescent tulips
on the bed of the great
Gabriel

We were a mummification of the water
the verdant lords shrubbery
the wagging of my pixie caught
and bundled
and me dreaming without eyelids
just a room
some simple pine
and a reservation
for a lifetime of summer rain salvation

Just
me
her
and an alter to whatever private incandescence the lilac fragrant pugilists see fit
in the musk killed damp piddling thoughts of rain
of refrain
in a day and a time when a speck of ash bonds with the thirst of a child devoid of time
my lifetime
just two ligules in a effortless semantic
haven
just two shines resting on an alter
of pine