literature

Stoneage Photographs

Deviation Actions

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Literature Text

Yet the pine trees were tall, and
glowing in the streetlights, at
night, and on both sides of the
road the porchlights were gleaming
through the thick oak trunks, and
the highway was somewhere there on the left, and he
walked, not knowing quite why he was even going to
Karl's house—he only knew it was better than
listening to his grandfather
vomit, and scream.
Podiatry of the Potus Glandus
stapled to my brain;
neon computers highlighting the
stale phony immolations, pogroms and
fascistic conflagrations of the whole Westward
Judeo-Christian diaspora (infection).

Blind to the cat's eye glories of
Hans Christian Andersen—
sending up Trumpf to glorify Hitlary.

Desperately civilized.

No need to say anything, just let the
cars drone past, let the
dogs bark, taxicabs revving into the
night. northwest, southeast...
northeast, southwest... digging the
natural Jim Crow vibration.
inhale a light,
sense thought, at last; exhale
oblivion, observation...
so I said "yeah... everything is O.K.—fuckin'-A right..."
I only have to walk ten more miles a
night to earn my paltry
paycheck;
bus stink in the air, and
old farts's
eggmcmuffins....
Just why does this damn town stink like shit?
sewage under the streets: filthy.

Syphilitic lepers
who think it's so great to be a
cop, a cockroach...

Somebody's asshole pawn.

He's coming,
and he's got a football helmet on,
and he's got a hunter's rifle in his hand, and
his name rhymes with "Punter"—
every second, waste your lives,
Hitler youth, sonic toothdrill—
vibrating into their skulls—
express motorways to the dull...
your houses stink,
your trailers stink,
your mobile homes stink...
Mellencamp, Springsteen...
Springcamp, Mellensteen...
Yvgwie Malmsteen, Stewart "Sting" Sumner-Summers...
your average consuming citizen's

Unconscious conscience.
they called him "No Can" O'Brien—
a pun, perhaps outdated...

Never believe what someone says whilst touching their temple.

"White man, Black woman"—
poltroons of Western Society:
inbred slaves, dogs of the ox;
cops, spendthrifts, beleaguered
housewives of the
horticulture variety,
wasting their lives in desperation;
planted, invisible—
held up by the stoplights, till
the yellow lights and
the red lights and
the green lights said
they could go. And they went, and
they didn't even know
where they were going, and
their minds were
bleached, and
their faces were
grey, and they had
no sun tan, because they
feared the sun, because they were
told that "Cancer" was the result of "exposure"...

He realized not just his street,
but the entire town,
stank of bacon and egg farts.

Lardy scrapings of the atrophied ventricles.

He pushed onward, pausing to stare at a
deflated blue Mickey Mouse balloon
lying sadly on the cold filthy stained pavement—
flattened, folded over—looking exactly like a small,
flaccid cock and balls.

There was some kind of newfangled gimmicky digital readout
blinking in front of the Napa Auto and Truck Parts
Depot: "Tools and Equipment..." it read... "Get the Good Stuff..."
whatever, manwhore, bitchboy...
A lonely computer glowed behind a
window in the
night.
Somebody who looked like a
limousine driver was
cruising the
night;
he had a blinker on...

Several people were gathered (outside,
in a churchyard, under a
neon white crucifix)—

But they were imaginary—

(Mrs. Mr. Croft crushed
Smurfberry Crunch with his/her greyish
dentures, swallowed, smeared (pointlessly)
ointment onto his/her purpleblack bruised
left eyelid, picked up the
newspaper, scanned, could not read, set it down,
then, from his/her
cracked window, saw the
church sign, the
gleaming electric cross,
walked out, and up to it, said
"God, please, Jesus Christ—let
Hunter Towerman go to jail,
to prison, and not me... Lord, let
Hunter Towerman, that sniveling punk,
go to juvenile hall"...
Mrs. Mr. Croft was afraid.

He/she walked around the church, trying
all the doors, but he realized the
doors were all locked.

He/she had no idea what depths and derangements awaited)

He crossed the street to
some place he'd never been before:
a barnlike building which looked like an
abandoned glass factory, with flickering
mercury copper sodium street lamps.
a pale horse sleeping standing up by an
ancient truck of rust.
3:30 in the morning,
after seeing the live blues at Karl's,
we forget about Dick Nixon, and
Cunt Clinton, as London burned,
and the tranny witch whores
writhed in terror and ecstasy,
flying on the dark side of the globe;
non-men, trans-men:
one ball, no balls, half a penis—
circumcized, castrated, degenerated.
"reinserted the phallic negro probe"...
a million onces neverknown.
trying to peer into the garage's mysteries,
shot down by a Christian Devil
Scorpio-Aquarius skritzkrieg,
shouting down my
Aries-Leo mysticisms.

Match-stick Senseis of pure hydroponic bliss,
juggernaut crushing cold meat trains of
robotic, rustic contagiousness.

Another sermon from Simple Simon the Canaanite.

We were taking photographs, but
lived in the stone age.
Sea creatures never dropped the blue bag
when the pictish afros flowed free, but
we were sold on platters of gold and
hierarchy, and stench, and the road was
torn up, and the cracked black parkinglot outside Karl's was an
empty silent quiet mystery, with the arc-lit pines behind the
chain-link fence, hobos with
beards off in the distance—refugees of the
"LOVE Generation", from back in the day when
silent grey shadows of 1955
TV blindness burned like
celluloid, and naked youth crashed the gates of hierarchy with
Wild West Indian arrows and blowdarts of shame and
shattered hypocrisy—But Reagan/McDonald siezed the
Ronald reigns, and bit by bit they shot off
John Lennon's juju fingers and
straightjacketed the obsidian moonglow mysteries into
shackles of pure paranoia, and
Western Pithecus turned right, and vansihed into his own anus.
Forgot himself.

Went ahead instead into the 1980s midnight, where
nasty neighbors eavesdropped,
and we spread out enormous newspapers...

Wasted no more time writing poetry...

Didn't capture the first thought
It's cold but I don't want this
claustrophobic jacket on
on the front porch
staring at the pine tree by the bulldozer
can't go as the crow flies
just counting time
don't even have to say anything
don't even have to be a poet.
no need to worry:
I can use my flashlight...
whiskey quells my nervousness.
dog barking.

Scorpion green night light,
goat skin gloves,
creepmobile...

Snakes and dogs all taught their lessons.

Walking left, walking right...
he stared his way past Napa
he stared his way past the streetlight
past the trees, into
the darkness of Mariposa street
He walked westward, southward, westward...
he felt that he was getting near and
then realized that he was nowhere near.

He heard a cricket, he heard a bat.
he sang a song, he watched the night.
he felt the night.

The depths of the North looked almost like the middle of town.
© 2017 - 2024 BluesMcCrow
Comments2
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AshleyLingy's avatar
Your writing here is reminiscent of Hunter S. Thompson. I really enjoyed this.