Skip to main content

Joint Effort #2

Attempt 1:

Punished. Purified. Panther. Haunting. Re-embrace. Forgotten. Daffodils. Drinking. Terra cotta. Soaked. Tapioca.

Attempt 2:

Where are colorful sappy words…in a river of rotting flesh? Who is praying, lost, and uncertain – with circling greedy flies? Are sinful saints singing? We drop in the eve, on our knees, shoving fist full’s of moist earth into our ocular cavities. Such music, truth. Spoon fed scornful fantasies. Precious jewels, like rain drops, pure, collected in a lead can.

Attempt 3:

Amorous bodies dance with naked nymphs. Sultry kittens masked under moonlight beg for candy. Dish. Dish. Dish. Empty silver bowls, lonely under orange street lights. Masked little boys have frightened them away. I wash memories of their haunts. Drink some bleach to wash filthy innards. Follow darkness, until I don’t feel like it anymore. Blanket. Sleep.

By Panganga and Forest

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fall..

Smoking, I stand on my porch watching the wind thrash at a dying cotton wood. It's noble looking in its annual death, a skeleton of a life that once was – even so short. Endless oranges and reds are torn from it – igniting the gray sky in a flurry of death. No screams, no sorrow – just the emotionless wind that tosses my hair and sets free my dear motionless friend from life. A life revolving around growth and color – nothing more, how I wish a death was so tranquil, perhaps serene, just a common step, and yet in my mind it is not. The color of my life, or the grayness thereof, will fall just as these leaves but will I take it in such an orgasm of color? Will the winds of time and life be violent or calm – colors floating listlessly to the ground or ripped in anger from my dying limbs, to be blown about in chaos, confusion, to be forgotten in the haze of a wintry death? Snubbing the smoke, I climb down to the tree. Putting my face to the cold life-death skin – its rough, smells of

Of things, of nothing

I heard the call of distant disaster... The days have streamed by now as in a haze. Time has made it so. Shadows were the way once. By their height and their wanderings, people knew, they felt, the passing of days. It was not time once. Time never was but always is. Escape. Uproot. Words spoken long forgotten. How you wish you were there. The chime of the clock and the stabbing of the spear. The flow of water from all that we hold dear. Blasphemy. Death. Resurrection. And death again. Constantly consuming without regard. When we wonder upon the wasteless earth, the supple fruit of its beauty, all trodden under our own ambition. Thought. Idea. They make it so. We wonder without recognition of things holy. Cocks and tits. There is the rub. The wishes and the wells of humanity. Caught between the sweat and the moans of all glories and deceit. Wanting pleasure, a fleeting thing. One that slips between our fingers like memories. Sawdust. A cross cut down falls in the city, no one hears it.

Lessons

Amadeus's tears tremble down his cheeks. He is going to die. Only on the verge of death do we realize the riches of experience. The trite treasure of knowledge. No one wins. Everyone suffers. * * * He'd come for a score. Looking for pussy. Tall and beautiful, with his tight white skin and dark eyes. I'd watched him come in, confident, witty, and crass. The only awkward note was his Austrian accent. Amadeus was a friend of a friend. An exchange student, bleeding for excitement. Joseph sat across from me. Steady cracks of beer and the tinkering of ice, heated up conversation about home and politics. He was short and brown. Sturdy from his years of stacking seines and hauling salmon. The past few years of swimming through law text books gave Joseph glasses and deep sophist understanding of hypocrisy. "It's time we moved on. This gets us nowhere." Joseph tips his 7-up and vodka to his lips. I drown some more beer. Hazy convictions. Complicated tho