Silverfish and Sharp

The segmented chrome bodies of silverfish skating in long serpentine undulations across fetid bench top. Icy beer pulled from locomotive shaped icebox foams upon the stiff upper lip of the literate junkie. He traps them in a shoebox, screwing up typed sheets of his poetry for them to feed upon and closes the lid upon their steely gazes.

A shiny black automobile with gooseneck detectives inside glides past his apartment far below on the tarred nervure of street. They stare up and roll cigarettes as he pounds away at the stiff keys of his portable.

Sure, he can feel the heat closing in.

The insects in his stomach take flight on razor edged wings at the mere hum of dicks in back-alley cruisers. He feels pupae hatch within cerebrum knowing that his dealer is a huckster all too prepared to hoodwink him. But most of all he feels the incessant bites of blackened pinchers within his flesh as the junk falls from his mind like a dead songbird from a shit-stained golden perch.

The dropper rolls in spilt liquor upon the coffee table and the plunger is pushed steadily down.

He sees himself reflected within glass of hypodermic and then his true self as a red carnation of addiction blooming within the syringes body. He hears the blunt brachiosaurus plodding footsteps of the law climbing the termite ravished internal staircase of his apartment building.

The junk ejaculates into his veins as his every pore closes so that they may drink from within. His head lolls and a praying mantis clinging to the frayed electrical cord of the bare light bulb above stares down with bulbous eyes as it chews upon its partner. The record player skips over Mario Lanza in dry metallic clicks. Harsh knuckles molesting wood of front door.

Detectives on doorstep, dishes in the sink.

The hollow clink of the hypodermics cylindrical body hitting linoleum below and rolling under couch. Tourniquet slipping from arm to lie below as the husk of a serpent, again just a leather belt.

Thoughts still revolving around those silverfish that eat his words, those silent critics. Chasing each other’s tripod tails and grinning below silver plates of head armour. They fight and fuck in his closet and tumble in protoplasmic insectile copulations through his cutlery drawer. Cold pizza pie on grease stained cardboard and authoritative tone muffled by the front door as the dicks outside become impatient.

That miasma of emotion tunnelling as a habitual mole through the twisting subterranean woven world of his arteries. He has a map of the metro subway system surfacing as hammer hungry veins in the cleft of his arm as he pulls a lucky strike from crushed packet. German cockroaches scatter from below pizza slice as he pokes at it disgusted now not needing food for the hammer has a fire in the back of his throat that replaces his every need. His senses explode, osculating from him in long ribbons of orchestrated feeling. He can hear the murmur of those trench coat wearing woodlouse upon his welcome mat and smell their Old Spice aftershave. He can hear the moans of counterfeit pleasure from the whore next door and smell her sex as he is reminded of that time when he had walked in on his mother masturbating.

His father had caught a home run slug in the leather glove of his heart during the war three weeks earlier and the junkie, then just a kid, had ditched his afternoon at school. Running along the gravel road to a home static with suppressed emotion his dusty little shoes pounding the ground and his books swinging on the tether of belt that bound them. The autumn breeze warm against his sun dappled face and blowing dead leaves in small eddies along the roadside. His shoes had clapped across the midday porch and the double doors swung inward under grubby little palms. His pupils had become mouths vicariously devouring the scene before him.

His mother upon couch with her wedding dress hitched up upon her large thighs. A tattered brown photograph of his father in a military uniform gripped white-knuckled and the other hand kneading her exposed genitals. Her moaning severed, she had taken flight from the couch, a scowl cutting her forehead in two, her bare feet mauled the distance between them. His confused, awkward smile slapped from face by back of coital smelling hand. The excitement of feigning illness for an afternoon at home spilling from his face with the blood that seeped from swelling lip. His mother had dropped weakly to worn knees howling her grief as she rocked his head against her empty hot water bottle breasts. His blood had stained her wedding dress with scarlet blooms. She would hang herself in a fortnight. Swinging lazily in the cellar as the rope creaked sorrow.

His blood stains years later would be scrutinised by workers at the Chinese Laundromat as they argued what exactly the caked maroon streaks were upon yellowed mothball and marzipan smelling material. They grin over chemical vacuum steam as they agree that it is the blood of broken hymen from the night that was an epilogue to the dressmaker’s skilled hand.

Cockroaches take flight on shiny translucent wings as the front door splinters under shiny shoe and suits with cyclops revolver arms held aloft penetrate the dimly lit hallway. Lucifer match before drawn features lighting lucky strike as salmons in trench coats fill the room. Their fishy beaks clacking as they read him his rights and bulbous eyes on the sides of scaly heads scan the apartment from below homburg frowns. The snarl of handcuff upon wrist and the animal of addiction clawing with bloodied teeth and claws within as his face is divided by wide fist.

The flare behind his lids reminiscent of how a page of poetry earlier had caught fire as it curled onto candle from the paper wind bar of typing machine. The way it had flared under a hot spray of Johnny barleycorn dime-store scotch cast upon the flames in a futile attempt to quench them. The fire had spread as a quick infectious literary apocalypse and devoured his words just as he is hoping the silverfish will in their shoebox accommodation.

Fat bulls with sunken necks like male pigeons in full courting display shunt him from grimy apartment so that latent flatfoots may search for exhibit a, b and c. the silverfish tipped from their holiday suite and crushed underfoot, the typewriter dusted for prints to match with those upon a home-made special that had recently been fired.

The literate junky starved of both pen or sharp watching the striped curtain of peeling, black bars refuses his one phone call and curls up upon the grey mattress. Bedbugs skip over his skin as he contemplates the revolvers hollow pop as it tore open his brides forehead on their honeymoon two nights past.

Piranha Sunrise

It was our first date and I took you to a restaurant in Chinatown.

Call it self-sabotage because three women have left this very booth without paying and won’t answer my midnight telephone calls despite all three being on speed dial. It must be number display.

No, its not self-sabotage its stupidity which is different, besides this is the cheapest place I know even if you have to kick rats away from ankle nibbles under the fly shit speckled table.

I wanted you to know that I watched your muscular back as your lithe fingers pushed open the glass doors. Watched, from behind the veil of glassiness that I pull over my bloodshot, your heels clicking alley grit away from me as you left me sitting there. When I chased you, tripping over table leg and spilling miso soup across the floor the rise and fall of your calves was bliss. And when I unbuckled behind the dumpster whispering…

Suck my chubby baby…

It was because I wanted to be close to you and baby what’s closer than ten-thousand dead sperm being sucked down your throat making your unshaven Adams-apple bob delicately as ghosts, demons and emaciated canines skulked around us. Nothing says love more than a fistful of wig hair and ankle ridded slacks or a transvestite in combat boots trapped in the time lunacy of a black and white photograph in my empty wallet.

You have to understand that it was the real estate, not me, that neglected to tell you that the driveway had been pulled up so that you had to wear plastic bags on your feet to avoid concrete clay sticking to your souls. Thus it was their fault darling, not mine, that I stumbled and fell, splashing around in the mud as I tore away my clothing, becoming naked piecemeal as you howled hoarsely at the open dome of descending night that filled your mouth with rain water.

As you stumbled in plastic bag feet taking belts out of the Passion Pop bottle it was beautiful that you screamed at me that I was a broken pig in concrete shoes and kicked my ribs laughing, trying to find the one that that mad surgeon God stole from me for the kleptomaniac slut Eve.

And you pulled back my wet, muddy hair biting my tongue until it bled red down my chin and when we talked it was obscenities as you entered me from behind. I cried because all the beauty in the world could be found in the cleaver sheen silver brilliance of the knife that you held to my throat as you pounded away at my thighs. The delicateness of the grip upon its handle so that despite it dimpling my flesh it never cut.

When you came inside of me you called me Percy, which I didn’t understand until afterwards when you cried around mumbled words of mother fists and bathtub uncles, bankruptcy and a shallow grave, holding you close until tears became laughter as we hotwired the neighbours Valiant 327, the one with the cream dash and carmine upholstery. Fuzzy dice dancing to the tune of your cornering and as we sideswiped the Sunbird you told me that Percy was an abbreviation of perseverance. That my self abuse was an abbreviation of life. And that my life was an abbreviation of living.

The cigarette fell in butt over ember galaxy cosmos undulations as my hand snaked into your concrete crotch and the steering wheel spun wildly, ignoring your calluses to sail us in the stalled eternity of three seconds into the head-on collision. We climbed from the Valiant glass cut, broken and laughing under the horsepower brays of exhaling radiator steam, twisted bonnet, gasoline ejaculations and a number plate that landed in a rose bush.

The spray of blood on opposing shattered windscreen leaking into the cracks forming an aureole of sensual pink around the erect nipple of death poised above silent tram tracks.

The hand-cupped gaping mouths of a thousand lepers as emergency services opera sang another tragedy in tenor moved like hungry goldfish as I cleaned glass shards and blood from your face with your sweat wet muscle shirt using strategic expertise so that the stains would look designer. Adrenalin pumped and pumped firing through our system piston-like, widening our eyes and hardening our cocks until the only release was howling ejaculations in inner-city parklands. And I just needed you to know that it was beautiful baby. True romance.

El

Valhalla beyond the white bullocks of cloud driven by a malicious Mercury, beyond the bruise of cosmos, a serine and silent place like the film over corpses eye, where leeches of impossible disused dealings suckle inside of themselves in undulated lashings searching for the dogma within…

Where delineated dagos on the lavatory walls of the world hang in perverse religious copulations…

Where zealots of agents not yet manufactured grovel in radioactive sand amongst diesel acrid generator motors, hash filled condoms and bloody kotex, rusted pinball machines and crumbling corroded ships of the desert in an endless white bone snarl…

Where contraband of El Alamein smuggle Nazi doctors in gold leaf sarcophaguses over the shifting dunes, mouths stuffed with crude mummified penis gags…

Where a continual surgery of paranormal antennas inside the crunching jaws of blue cheese smelling carnivorous plants grow from the black swamp of a tin can perched on a blueprint for an East London windowsill…

Where healers of the disembodied spirit marooned on inner city roundabouts scratching head lice throw bone knuckles at scrapers with banshee shrieks of tribal war cries and wade out into golden tidal flats naked and starving…

Where coroners of violations condemned by insipid psychotic Shogi instrumentalists sipping hot Sake scoffing at bound medical examiners move game pieces synthesized from tongues, livers, eyeballs and testicles…

Where waiters of fractional death warrants taken down in schizophrenic stenography, charging sacred dismemberments of the thunderbird crisscross the earth hidden behind crooked crucifixes on Mount Purgatory, shuffling through tenement hallways and salvation army choir practices with birdlike precision followed by the shadow of the Great Winged One…

Where enumerators of organic constabulary chemical phenomenon, overturn coffee mugs and analyze donut sugar with sick, twisted snickers, poking in wastepaper baskets and prod with a long, bony finger void of nail at floating turds in downtown precinct lavatories, scribbling notes in a Mobius Strip of short and long hand and howl in the lights of flashing cruisers….

Where auctioneers of intense nightmares and yearnings etch serial numbers to be verified on the probed cells of horse toxemia, foal placentas falling from the heights, long back legs matted with maroon caked blood as they kick out widely, the hammer descending with a deep hollow SOLD reverberation and The Buyer with the internal birthmark is forever beaten for naked artifacts of the Old Testament…

Where juicers of a backbreaking substance trapped in semitransparent natural resin of ambitions watch with slow animal eyes every aspiration slip through fingers as each hangover is sold to the next intoxication in a whirlwind of slur and blur, as they shave the face so deep as to notch the jawbone with grooves of every sin to every loved one…

Where priests with shit stinking cocks and purple assed mandrills bound by heavy chains hiding in the shadows under the alter pull back the trigger in unison shattering teeth and popping sockets as through the back of wispy haired Brill cream stinking head a Pandoras Box of terror is unleashed upon the grey lit cosmos swarming and reddening skin with ceaseless brain dead insect bites which hum the lips of lepers with an identical tune…

Where ringing through the macrocosm the uninterrupted melody radiates, as I lay me down to sleep pray the lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake pray the Manufacturer my soul to duplicate...