"Evil Walks"
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The bells. . . . . the bells.
Bell-bottoms. Bell-breasts. A tongue that clicks against the teeth like a clapper, like grinning "Chicklets" in a romantic, exotic box like a candy-store of womanhood with sweet, airy bosoms-- and an ass "that won't quit". Sugar-white, "the darling of the lilies" which one would not have to stretch to say "tastes like ice cream".
But pity the tender girls, with a knuckle brushed tenderly across their cheek-- the darling of drunks and bums and thieves and prostitutes and homeless street people. They protect her innocence like a little candle of amnesty, reminding them of "the salad days", perky hopes, and their own dear, lost mothers so her face does not twist into a grimace of disappointment and pain that they know so well, casting a lingering expression with pathos. A woman is like a flower, and a man like a fox who creeps forward and plucks it in his jaws so he may admire its beauty back in his lair. If the two aren't aware of "the game", then the white, brunette rose may be very upset-- and he looks over his red, hairy shoulder and smiles admiringly at the dance of womanhood, like French fancy and a boudoir sitting room of powder and sweetness like the kiss of the stage-- before she goes out there in front of her students and charms them like an elfin faerie of enchantment with Gaelic whispers and nibbles of soft glances like a baby-sitter of European capitols and sunny lollipop skies.
A classroom where young hoods mount their feet up on the desk and flip switch-blades in the air before going off into X-rated reverie about the teacher as she hopefully recites a laundry list of items from the grocery store and they form a different picture around her young, perky accent and overall desirability in jeans and sweater with Christmas trees, hoppin' down the chimney like goblins. . . . . . "Mistress for Christmas": a holiday sleigh-ride by AC/DC, rubbin' their hands together with a blues voice foggin' the air as they reach out "to ring the bells".
I would knead her shoulders with her hair like wild spray of briar, a red sea breeze as free as fate as the dolphins skip through the ocean in an arc with their bottle-noses and the dancing starfish kiss in the electric ocean of bubbling sizzle, a pink neon script on the tile that reads "SEXY" like a butterscotch parlour of 1980's bubblegum pop in the aura of flutes and snare-drums and the band-leader, a cross between Dick Clark and Bon Jovi with a shaggy, teased-up mane like anthems and paddy-cake on the bleached underneath the juiced lights of stadiums and popcorn boxes like joy, rush, blood, pulse, heat, hands, affection like warm rubbing stones as smooth as the rocks in the Japanese garden under the Shogunate of Sony Electronics and how through the walls the city groans like a bird balancing on a pair of chopsticks and pecking down at rice.
Whatever comes up on the short-order of things like a fry-cook at Steak n' Shake flippin' meat with appealin' sizzle and the cool whiff of milkshake vapor like malted fantasy, a curio of "Thunder-Road" and laughin' holiday gin n' grape juice back at the ole' brick shithouse ranch. Make that place "The Algonquin Roundtable", food for thought that kicks "The Atlantic Yearly's" balls right off like that Venom front-man in the leather/switchblade/mohawk/bike-chain pit of 1986 frenzy where "Cabbage Patch dolls" are torn LIMB FROM LIMB.
. . . . . . "Pee-Wee" @ The Richmond Heights/Maplewood "Fuck-House". Where possums snarl with rictus grins and borderline south St. Louis Catholic vinegar like "Dogtown" summer sausage butchery and cracked, dented pavement of piss-water beer and broken toilets with hung-over drunks praying to the Virgin Mary to alleviate that black, sucking, nauseous STINK in their gut and fire on the tip of their shriveled rat-meat dick like St. Elmo's BLAZE. . . . .
Skipping about like
snaggle-toothed imps throwing boxes of Aldi's cornflakes at the elite in a
shower of "general store" stock commodities and "a middle finger" to dribbly
"derivatives" and the wobbly puke-train of thinking that got us into this
over-abstracted Madoff/Woody Allen-neurosis of a New York City mess, the stink
of Hebraic bankers nervously nibbling their nails for fear of pogroms and
torch-lit parades of wiped-out Agrarian rabble-rousers like the raised, splayed
fingers of "The Exalted Cyclops" with a black-toothed Scotch-Irish grimace of
kilted Masons and yowlin' wild-cats.
(-- Moses deliver us. . . . .)
Tell 'em we're "Bosnian".
And a feast of good feeling for all on this day, the pounding of moccansined feet across the Algonquin woods and tip of the martini around the 1920's table of said pow-wow, though just about every gathering "looks about da' same" with spilled wine and runny-nosed children and middle/highbrow "NPR music" playing in the background for "the flute-snoot" wuss within us all. Neigh, yes-- with the fount of "sophistication" flowing like a reedy stream somewhere like whey-faced ballerinas and CD-manufacturing out of downsized plants, brought to you with the sad splorch of mugglewump Bostonian "moderation" like Pavolv dogs kneeled over a plastic food dish.
The tolling of the bell from university spire-- the quick pulse of flitting sexual intrigue at the glance of someone attractive, but unrequited-- and "how worthless is a decent education" as the eyes of a mechanical owl screws around in its head from some 1920's Soviet film, signifying revolutionary overthrow yet how life is appallingly stuck in a rut like a smoking tire spitting mud as bootleggers in shirtsleeves push at the lunking hulk as the keystone cops close in. When in doubt, make a spring for the woods. . . . . like Algonquins.
Does thou test me. . . . . waiting to see how long it shall be until I "fire off another round"? Your applause, pleasure, and attention lifts me upon "a host of angels" and I perform in the name of the sultry rose, "The Bard of Richmond Heights" for perhaps a wedge of cheese and a flask of gin for "the penny press" or other such doggerel scratched out on the back of tombstones; that is, of our wasted and foregone society of decadence, rot, and BEETLES crawling over my icy shoe, like a stream-haired Silas Marner whose only warmth is the crypt of HELL with laughing, gibing demons and the vulture of the rent-collector pulling out his entrails through his pimpled arse-hole like "DREGS OF THE CITY, LAW OF THE WORLD" and the earth moist like pumpernickle bread with the moss of cobwebs and the broken twigs of the yardsman coming over here to knock me over the head with a shovel, believin' that I'm here to dig up Marilyn Monroe to play with. . . . . SO LOATHSOME, SO LOATHSOME!
And now we must strengthen the faltering point n' click finger of the wretch "to whom life is too loathsome to live", short on flirting pointlessly with bonneted girls from the side of coaches who will beat him about the face with a douche-bag, like the one he is. God bless Mammon; and douche-bags of the beast, for the harlot of hell has penetrated my soul. . . . . indeed, a captor of SIN. May the wrought-iron gates be a symbol of the absurdity of earth, sea, and star as I amble around the crypts with "a bone" in my hand, like the dying propulsive force of the Aeollion 4th root-race going down with the chaotic rumble of Atlantis into the ruin of Police Report antiquity, to be swept up "at your local magistrate's chambers" for harassment and stalking.
Long live Victoria!
And a Happy Delight to you, no doubt, 10,000 thanks. . . . . for you are the wise-ass I remember, the soul of curdled yogurt with a strawberry in there I find so addicting, like stomach cramps and colon-blow splatter, with a cute garnish of splurted acid to make pink lips pucker like kitties and flowers and little old "greeny delicious" wheeled through a nursing home with a puckered, mush-mouth and yellow loam eyes like the wolf, a rat gnawin' on her peg-leg with rotten incisors as beetles eat her rattled brains like a dried, gray cup o' soup with stolen pain medication snatched from her awkward, twitching claws caked with snot.
Yet Mr. Robinson Crusoe would "make the best of it" and come back to the world a titan. . . . . jungle's truth like a whaling harpoon, partying down at "Hash/House-54" and holy-ignorant of hip-hopity wart-hog fuck-mojo on my side of things like a scraped paw, or "Sonic the Jack-Off" in front of his monitor like a blue blur about ready to do a 16-bit Sega Genesis loop-de-fuck like cribbed, hot-wired 1991 technology like a smokin' James Belushi movie with "Bad to the Bone" figurin' in there somewhere like slide-shaft guitar and grimacin' sunglasses with a bottle in his hand like "mo-fo" Mike anglin' for yo' affection.
There was once this song on that album, "Appetite for Destruction" by G'n'R called "My Michelle" that got me thinkin' of you-- the intrigue of raised eyebrows at my crazy writerly ideas, the ability to spin a synonym on a SAT drill-- Axl Rose flailing around the stage with skinny elbows in a motorcycle hat with the clink of cymbals, the easy lean of leather jackets as the guitar players arched back with a Camel cigarette between their smirking lips-- right when you ran off "to light one" in the car like "Sweet Child o' Mine" but only the babysitter. . . . . the older girl" fourteen or fifteen years older. Maybe with a bit of "Patience" he'd sweep her off her damn sneakers some day because she's "One in a Million", whereas lookin' at her everyday was just a little slice o' "Paradise City" in the cold "November Rain". "Don't Cry" for me, because I'm just probably beating a "Dead Horse" into a "Coma" so "Live and Let Die" and don't let your husband or whatever be "Out ta Get me" and cave in my brains with a shovel. I'm sure to that chief of the house, my overtures are about as welcome as "CHINESE DEMOCRACY" so "Use Your Illusion" that you have the power to resist.
There was certainly enough sense to know that whatever you wanted to call our upwardly-mobile school district of office towers, beseeching foreign cuisine, and the golden yuppie handshake, that surely it was as bogus as the smug, bourgeois lies and arms-extended office shirt exhortations of blatting marble-fountained assholes down at the local Galleria mall like the peach Schnapps of lenience with runny, red noses and a flip of the tie to local cops. Yes, floozies and gym-bait with the alligator look of condo black-strep dresses and wine glass-throwing break-ups as the low humidity of interpersonal thunderstorms hung over the steering wheel "like Medusa's crotch".
Clayton, Missouri-- USA.
I'd rather busk for change over the city line in a blackened chimney ruin of puke-caked trench-coats and mouse shit. You'll like it here-- fly to heaven. We can put on a Gypsy act and peddle vacuum cleaners door-to-door that don't work. You'll be my prize assistant, before I leave you with a checkbook of torn-up paper. . . . . full of pornographic love poetry as I skip off to other alumni who half-remember me like "The Scarlet Pimpernel", if not a half-Jewish bullshit artist. I've laid my cards on the table. . . . . . what's your mother's maiden name and your social security number? (Trust, but verify ;) P.S. I will expressly warn you "not to fall for that one".
My poor old mother had gotten cheated many'a'time by her jolly overconfidence in her ability "to read people", when ultimately she and her silly coffee klatch of goosy meditation partners ended up old, fat, and unwanted like a yarn-ball of cats, and just about as cross-eyed and decadent there on the forest-flowing couch eating wrapped chocolate while knocking each other's knee over "Jimmy Smits" on "NYPD Blue". . . . . and in most of these cases, "the bad guy" got away.
There they'd be, like silly geese who would typically take two or three steps up "a dark alley", be terrified by what was lurking in there, and then run back to their gaggle and go laughing down the street. Dark, pathetic things would happen-- they'd hold their hand up to their cheek and tell the story with wide eyes, but then they'd go back to their candy-ass habits. The lesson "didn't punch through", or at least they were not enlightened for long because they'd fall for the same old things without looking at the warning signs or being "a good judge of character" as they clung to each other for personal support.
The young and foolish are vulnerable, one upward thrust toward transcendence blazing in the night when life nearly 100% of the time is mud, piss, and smoke. . . . . if not a cold, foggy hill in the morning and the resourcefulness which he can think "to scrape up", which isn't much out there amongst the grass and pebbles and creek water. For want of an annuity or a pretty girl who would listen "and understand perfectly", one's hunched shoulders, aching knees, and suppressing a ripple of gas. That was life with its sweet, majestic pathos. . . . . a constant refrain of "coulda been's" and "shoulda been's" when he was never thrown in with adults "he could quite respect". . . . . only that they told him "he was an inferior" as he sit there amongst his gibing, laughing Sesame Street-like peers and became increasingly "pompous" as his means of escape there on "Devil's Island". . . . . when the helicopters had dipped their retreat with a commodious nod and left him on his own "to stew". Eeeeagghhhhh. . . . .
One ploy, is "to give before you take". . . . . in order "to soften the suckers up" and gain their trust like SSgt Barry Sadler handing out candy to children in the war-torn jungles of Vietnam. Yes, verily "roping them in" to the white Western capitalist Imperium through "an addiction to sugar", like the CIA operatives looking the other way as gangsters ran "dope dens"-- caring only for "population swaths" and "rough market share" rather than the rough human toll or horror of gorping, "jonseing orifices" when you pull the camera back "far enough" beyond rock n' roll shamanistic subjectivism, which as a permanent career move-- is about as everlasting and legitimate as the Brooklyn boy who collects "Bazooka Joke" comics and speaks in Salinger-isms like a bobbing, mugglewump "lemon-mouth" of life's open sewers.
Trouble is ahead in this land when you're no longer aloud to plainly assert that "2 + 2 = 4" and some lobby or sniping interest group will shush you down in the name of profitable, politically-correct (-- expedient) harmony of self-satisfied apish puffery.
Makes you wanna "drop some acid". . . . .
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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
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(Rheeee of Crickets)
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("I heard that, Missy!")
© 2010 by Insufferable Industries
Drop "The Bard" a line at
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