Throt

Slow voice of generals command hard rubber boot heels coercing the young mans face into a new dissolve. Bodiless laughter from the edges of wet alleys impose their nameless authority. An unbelievable self walks down halls like raw nerve covering the walls with fluorescent opinion, plants hard seed in rain and laughs. Red surface broken glass dissolving debt and ask why no questions giving away a fortune in green snakes smoky women from the curtains. Broken dish dance scratched symbols in the arms of a man who sits at a fountain, edges ask for broken neon.

“I don’t believe in desperation, desperation is a lie, there are only degrees of want.”

The red cloud of protesting flesh chewed by the soft touch of a new age machinery. Mute blood in the lights of city, translucent gears grinding against softened bone. Soft footsteps tangled up in her hair as she drifts through a whisper of taxis. Soft commotions as electric lights vie for brain space and eyelashes shudder against the drift. Phosphorous and atomic bombs stretch across the windshield’s silent movie panorama. Priest on the corner shouting. This is New York, this is Los Angeles, this is an autopsy, these are clean white gloves. Quick paranoia drifts through the streets popping heads like light grenades. Madness brushes against madness behind clean windows.

“I light candles and put them on corners. Some get kicked over, but most people leave them alone.”

Sly face of authority a giant shell displacing heat, edges greased by oily stars that slide down the sides of buildings. Sit down and let the dead music of the city cycle through your brain sitting on the sidewalk smiling as you smoke on a cigarette knocking on the door of the empty room you have made for her in your heart. Confront with ironic knowing the ghost traffic shivering down the boulevard now noticeably losing inches by the second. Laughter of the empty heart blown down the sidewalk like dead leaves or collecting like optical parasites on a poster of Marilyn Monroe behind which the house sits empty of all dereliction. Delinquent bodies clog subways, buses, taxi cabs, arteries of the city littered with plastic limbs choking mannequin smile. Sleepy eyes of juggernaut squeeze out oily tears lubricating the troubled sleep of empire. The seed of a poison plant still resting down in her anatomy spreading black roots into the symptoms of her being as she cries in the broken arms of morning.

“My trouble is, I just can’t trust anybody.”

Terror in the intelligence of gears swept new faces of machinery pushing against the absence of morning and love. Pornographic armies appear over the skyline then devour their own memory that is like a wet plastic bag in the bed of a beat up truck. Slogans of mad world thrown across the walls kissed by white fire. Slow dance in the assassination of light.