Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Pit bulls and pinheads, bullfrogs and spiny fins,
brothers and sisters.
Well. Well. Fuck the punctuation. That bucket sunk in the ground. Fishing for tadpoles, where a more emphatic pause jostles to be received.
Rejoice. The abject demolition of the lung, the pin pulled on a nebulizer.
Better just to dance after the bandages come off than raggedly recite a weather forecast in reverse.
1976. #7. A dragon. The fire snake asleep at the hearth.
The summer has not delivered. The promise of a mistrial. The master wind blows ill, a lot of hot air in the bullhorn.
A Honda backfiring at the traffic stop.
I have not taken up a cigarette in more than sixteen weeks. What is the point ? Better to give up finally than give in to last requests.
We are smoked. The bacon fat curls the edges of a knocked off Qur'an. A prop. A counterfeit. 114 units of varying lengths, distressed like orphaned pigs' tails.
I have not done much writing. I walked a good deal. Then I came down with a virus. A cold. Man flu, a nurse uncharitably quipped. They were all out of nuns. The best of them got eaten up by airstrikes. Dispensing alms to unbelievers, hogtied under hospital beds.
The faint rash of a sun tan came to nothing in the end.
I have grown tired of confederate effigies I strive to sculpt by rote. I have grown secular as a dung beetle.
A schizophrenic tried to put me straight and failed to proscribe my meandering. My gums continue to bleed in the bathroom sink of a morning. The teeth themselves remain mostly intact.
Aside from this, I am quite well, thank you.
Posted by ib at 10:42 AM