flashes of metal, again and again, arterial spray, vivid and robust across everything

crimson jets, mist and plumes, hot and fresh from the teat

as these things go

over and again, in brutal machine like efficiency that blade kept raining down

longing for the days of the air hammer and rustic thump hiss thud of the good old days

of walking over the old rusted bridge, falling through the glass storm door and down the stairs, the staples that looked like zippers on the place where legs used to be

where legs used to be

danse macabre or the old five knuckle shuffle, whatever gets those toes a tappin

where fucking legs used to be

what type of sick mind fuck is going on here, where did the rules and regulations and mandatory drug screenings and universal healthcare and didn’t there used to be a planned parenthood here

i remember getting condoms out of the candy jar, feeling both grown up and like a kid doing something bad

shame scarves for the glandito bandito

not sure of anything except the blade is still going and this uneven ground is making me nervous and I cannot see anything but the guy in front of me and we need to keep moving

slow and steady wins the race

on your mark, get set, now stop for a moment, runners hold position, think back to when you were a child, you watched the flames and saw the firemen, every person watching was sad, how did you feel as the fire ate everything

go then, find that moment and hold tight

on a girder eighty stories up eating lunch from a metal box laced with lead and arsenic and happy to be alive

just so goddamned happy to be alive

sarcasm is the tool of a weak mind but I believe that was said in sarcastic reply to some one who never quite got a grasp on sarcasm

if life is just a retelling of old Greek tragedies when does the orgy start and how many olives can you shove into your ass

asking for a friend

all of that and still certain sites will not remain unseen, I’m unclean in an ocular sense, on saline scents, one hundred and eighteen dollars and thirty seven cents

the staples looked like a brass railroad tracks and curved down around where the knee used to be, like zippers wherever legs used to be as if she left them on the couch without securing the fastener

the knife the stump the rain the arterial spray gone like the last warm wind of summer and the chilly kiss of autumn rolls her way merrily through the air

all gone on a wave of uncertain certainty in a vast ocean of forgotten scenes


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