May 22, 2020Satie, I summon thee, thy ivory keys…
Miller, must thou metamorphocysts cower in this modern age, grand sir?
Chanting now, Oh Chandler!
Art thee shamefully tender, Artaud?
Venus approaches, emerging slowly on the bay, Bataille…
and I remain ambitiously anonymous with hardly a desire to stay.
The requisite ballet of bruised arms, tattered rips in the chord—voices on the brink of vomitus as rapid volume—the lure—the sirens—seethes you under, pulling and foaming at the sea, beating against the sides of your ship, faintly uttering nihility and passing it on for pretentious poetry. What reality did make the seasons tarnish as they turned, toiling the soft spoken lilies of the field? Here, yet again, the Black Spring.
Invisible tentacles shifting in the night…Lovecraft, carrying a cracked highball to the spotted window on the other sight of midnight, unconsciously praying to be preyed, his leather soled shoes kicking dead flies to the left side of the room, landing near a couple broken matches that never made their way to a cigarette that shared another flame.
Let us forget for a night the trite twat of Mark and drift asleep
atop a raft and daft the yeast infection that coughs like Ka
Chin up, Chinaski, understated overrated and under appreciated heavy weight elated key punching pugilist
pistol whipped terrorist a dream named Nadja, you fowl surrealist reaching the end of the fright, Celine…
And that detuned piano had to ask, with sullen Bacall-near tuning of a futures past, of brunettes as First Ladies sitting in the back seat of a premonition birthed by black suicide doors—the fashion whores, the cunt ensemble of royal blood and designer olive-green daffodiled wall paper which served as backdrop for placid Doberman and slack Great Danes.
Now, finally, I am here naked before you, out of a hot shower with an ever growing belly and skinny legs apretzeled in beautiful cubist incongruent stomach-ached existential grandiose and gurgling, slightly choking at the big bite of what it means again to write.
∞
