Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Thursday, June 17, 2010

st. lucipher scenes thru eyes of a county transplant.

1.
the hooker outside my window sez it's a slow day,
the cash is slow, more precisely, she says.
i say 'yeah, i'm broke too,'
not catching onto her line of business
till after i say my response.
in this hood
i imagine the folks must either embrace me
or want to gut me,
i see both in their eyes
however those are just stupid projections
they honestly want neither
just to survive or somethin'
as the sweat is starting to bleed
i mean bead
off my back.

the record player plays demonic
i think its an early punk lp on the wrong speed
so i change it to jazz as the sweat almost turns real.

i look at the prostitute
now from out my window
she recognizes me
i imagine she waves.

i think back to college;
what a holden caufeldian crock-o-shit
what a clusterfuck.

i ponder love too
and in that order
as the hooker gets solicitors
what dark underbelly universes
or easy cash awaits here
i am curious and slightly jeolous.

i just after all want to bike to the punk show and be frank o'hara of the st. louis quasi-gutter letting my non-loves knowingly wait for me outside.

2.
it was a gas station day,
cam and i'd tricked ourselves into thinking cheapass tallboys wd quench us from the heat.
the internet in his house finally kicked back on so now cam is upstairs watching semi-vulgarities on youtube and i'm left where we both were, on the porch, scribing this nonsense.
i liked my friends,
as usual,
and wished for lovers
to sit on the stoop with me
till after dawn broke
which was of course
a ridicolous proposition.
i was high and longing for such
wondering in the midst
where loving prankesterism and my anarchy sat
in the middle of the day
drinking more
for all the classic reasons.

3.
i hold my insecurities like a notebook and dangle them in front of strangers,
outside
is a molten flame ball
it has all just started.
my friend will come over with veggies for the stir fry
i will wonder how many times i can fall in and out of love
during dinner.

trucks and semis inexplicably down narrow city streets
roar like huge birds with broken wings

we will all be consumed in the ashes
at the edge of the burning earth.

the night is the night
a burning rage of synchopation in the tense near riot
of the quasi ghetto
where for now
my head will rest
burning with sirens
too late boom bap
and yearning non-meaning,
close for a few of us
these things were dictated by my near brokedown pen
wondering
how the fuck
seperate realities
intertwine like this or that.

i see a graffiti writer on my street
a flitting bird
gone off to the carnage of barely distinguishable fame
with a white mop marker in his hands
the rest of us left to worry bout his placement and the legibility of his tag
as well as our own damn heads
in this weirdo architectural wilderness.

meanwhile
noone hears my poetry tonight (thankgod)
i go to bed
six beers deep
schizophrenia and mild bloodlust
almost cured till morning
jesuschristwhatthefucksuperstar

4.
the world is drunk off its ass
and how?
and how again?
is it like with thin cusp of ectasis
a godhead on a breezetip
or nuclear rage
and a holocaust of cockroaches.
i dunno.
it all whirls into one scent at the beggining middle and end of the world/day.
i am waiting for paintings to be hung like jewels on the wall of this hood that is starting to smell like quicktrip wrappers and cheap dusty tattoos.
i dont know who wins and cant pick the losers
just who leaves their marks.
let the walls ache and bleed dust all they want, i'll be there
waiting
with a tattoo of my own
an imagined lover on the inside of my ear
and a pot of veggie stirfry.
5.
the sky is the bones of a bleached bluebird
flying with the weight of astute observation in the wreckage of modern smogsaster amerikkka.
we wrestle to the ground the thing feeling and know not what to do with it in the wallosing of my lazy we embrace folds of skin, the jittering corpses of this place st. lucipher.
i, writing lovletter on the backside of yr death certificate,
damn it felt so good to be breathing and cynical
feeling the vibes of motorcar palpitation
driving stakes thru the heart of vampire city,
er, trying.
the erstwhile fiends of lust for life.
damn.
christsakes,
overstand,
over stand?
nobody to dance with
just jigging bonestance
no rhythm to jig
just supernatural buzz
no persistent love
just squeak of a condom
no bold line
just spastic contour
whilst i
stand in traffic
wade thru it
stand in traffic
stand in
traffic
stand in
over
stand
over
stand-
over-over-stand
overstand
stand
over
stand
OVER.

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