At four and five and six o' clock
As sand-clouds delve down & swarm among us, below hot fresh footprints on the road to Damascus, fresh off delivering proverbs gallant, the whores clatter, peasants move from stand to stand, priests grimace & mumble, tits give milk & the smell of shit
A gin at five, a gin at six
If each burning bridge - moving through hostile crowds - laying hands where hands shouldn't linger - even the thought of it which was like you too
If each castle of reaching, swollen, discreet cum and silent pleasures
Unnoticed his lips
And oftentimes a veritable flow around her words as she whispers, forming mini-whirlpools that suck in the ear, spinning round and round unacceptable gait, thrown from Xanax & whisky
stately dance of the hounds
2. Oftentimes think big & sundry to highways, long trips spirit hounded out by Limbaugh incantation - dreamy New Jersey & Pennsylvania leaves
meanwhile world gets paid in the city doing what is done in city of long life & hellfire, launch & explosion, catapult, rocketbeam, moongolf, rainbow & shimmering 'the fly-boats magisterial success traipsing river of stories...'
Long before (but not too much) hallowed eve of sequestered violence of opiates
He walks alongside, always along and never in, never in enough even if he's in, gasping not swimming, falls onto the floor to prove it's his - imaginable place - unreal to fantasy eyes - world absorbed, the arrow points, the curtain rises -
It was a Molière play of two sisters, in the beginning two sisters who loved each other or must've, who touched each other maudlin-merrily, love strong but not fated, not star-crossed, soon after, with parading idiots, on the damp streets, scheming to fuck pack of Austrian boys -
Lurching for breath. (Want of cheaper feels) Where is the city of dance -
Or so incredulous sweet, so we're told, orphan-seeming, too-real, speaky, feely
'Rain to come under my umbrella, rain demonstrably rain, the rain of dick & jane...'
She was not a carer much, but if once she did then (in an infantile way) for that very particular something her eyes would widen with determination, the wonder of a desire to possess something (that something), moving then suddenly like some unintelligent thing, a fish jumping at the bait -
Peeping from around corners, hidden but cigarette-puff seen, shopping bag juts out from behind stonewall
gaping hardon clasps in thicket and blights
O merriest of times pissing & finding new places to piss
tremendously
do you hear me now in leery sunshine,
Slender sticky face cluttered with movements, searching but not pointedly, holding one's breath in pleasure, talking to who, talking to me, tell me about yourself, you're too shy, we're too shy, for this what we're doing
this very pressure under whom
Holy ghost here the devil turns 40 we're growing old, we're growing old
uncaring cocks, sucked undeterminedly
miscellaneous ocean
Ms Cleo's got a pack of cards and john's a case of pure folly
& the Tunisian seer, fluent in Italian, in raptures for his balding lover, econ professor & extreme-left politician, who conducts the séance over cell phone, at discounted rates
3. I lived in ghosttown & sucked on slurpees long enough, inhaled weed smoke for weeks until breath was no more, felt lumbering cock 'that will not quit' between sheets, except w/ downers, unfortunate, stuck in pastville whoseitsface at the bakery calling my name, I don't care to have memory anymore but do in spite of myself. These days are numbered (or so I pray). Pray, pray, pray to the god of my body to stop sending me drug headaches
The empty church on a hill, w/ wide walmart parking lot, gutter faces who must've lived, the old & half-dead, struggle everywhere in most rigid contortions,twitching hands pluck cokes from vending machines at gas stations, guy w/ a ponytail, credit or debit, life lived miraculously in every place
I have lived in deadcity for a whole life and in past lives, too, which I know having consulted the experts, enthroned at a santo domingo court of 1660s of Captain Morgans commercial telling me of the uselessness of history, my interchangable body (a skin others have & will wear). My suit, my sweaters, my old soccer jerseys, semen-stained room, barely breathable air -
I might have lived forever & didn't know it, in ancient Greece eating cold meats under a tree.In all of eternity I've never worked a day & paid no taxes & belonged to no state, only speaking the lingua franca of every period
In medieval France I lived in Menton & was afraid of the sea, coughing into tubercular handkerchief. Filled w/ dragons or demons or worse, which sank down to hell, was pure filth, there was no 'oceanic' feeling in those days Walking along the shingles must've been a monk in a black robe copying manuscripts I didn't understand,
lived too long and grew bored w/ it but was sick & quarantined & they had me pegged for an early death but only I knew of my rebirth, to live again & again, each time half-willing & lazy and have looked to the future and seen it too, & don't feel surprised
4. Who doesn't feel vunerable to cancers - at the very least - a bamboozled life - proliferating anarchist jobs in Spain herald end of world.
who's feeling along for the Notre Dame, looking for a girl standing on a stone,in the rain
who thinks about Brooklyn, Bed Stuy, Bushwick, Brighton Beach,
Understandable steel, thinking of you. Living through gold and silver-plated fantasy, to believe in the most material things. Holly green-grove & executive paint, tree-lined three-story -
Mealy-mouthed at the moon. Chatting ladies stroller-pushing, one a young beauty (snatched into ravenous certain jaws of someone else's life, must be imagined). Lovely girls playing house observe the sabbath. Men wholesomely stress & prognostically deliberate determinedly inquiring smugness of certitude. City bus packed full of kids -
Harshly sweet & terrifying w/ presence, stark tall: I wonder, wonder, wonder. I respect you. There is no doctrine in me. Faith is far. Nobody loves me, everybody hates me. Canst make feely. W/ cigarette plonked down from face, full of smokelines that don't come round, sparks that flutter, feelings dissolved in fog & spittle, such that no one has ever been entitled to an opinion(w/ a few noted exceptions)...
Leaving be & thunder tunes, the rain yelps sharp & boys will be boys & Thank God it's Monday & grab my sweater, it's Indian summer! Leave me swing low work hard cherish & prosper.
A once-punk girl w/ internet presence has a million secrets or more, none of which are displayed online, stuck in Roseville, MI or thereabouts looking for new spaces, nighthalls, neon poof hair. I'm living a nightmare I had already(maybe a week ago)...on the couch where everyone's chain-smoking watching the couple come and go who've apparently taken special k and stumble from room to room, looking for each other desperately...once-punk girl enters and exits...
The sun's too beat and mesmerize
The earth carolling howl , Splendid the fantastic
5. So it's too much, and right you were, right in fortune, left the moon on its cylinder & the kids went to sleep, an unchopin nocture rued the hollow air, she grit her teeth
'Sundown summer...sunup's ecstacy-pile...'
emergent markets:training bras, expletives erased:yummy moonlit angsty pour: whiskey at 3, whiskey at 4 -
Hurried throats jostle for a citadel in which to commit unspeakable venial delicious flagrant downpourish, black trees and darkness coast, up the hill, overlooking autumn-adolescent town
'Hot & horny' chicks, boys of flattering shapes, 'college', springtime night flaked-out mushroom-haunt
Lingering drum beats & steady head-pulsation - imagined Peruvian skin -
Dream of Lucy, fair Lucy, Lucy bright, steadiest hairs, drinking wonder, Lucy lord of free
Morning, afternoon, sundance, heehaw
Pleasure for victims & right are the spoils (please spare the spoiled of 3rd base born &c.,while she shuffles in traffic, plunders salvation army, loses virginity...Don't make me beg for you Lucy...I wanna be your exception
Wearing best livery
She takes him to a Roman aqueduct, they walk along a Roman road, he eats a peach, he feels her thigh, she smokes a cig, they share a joint, he calls her boy, she calls him girl,
like ancient gumshoe narrative recuperated, humdrums paralyzed - deep-throated acquaintances squawk in back alleys...
As the world turns & mensches become kings, I sit (humbug) reflected in lamplight...afternoon longing w/ non-characters
As the town moves, turning autumn again and again
Get no closer to pretty baby zoom song
'Don't fuck with me - I don't love you - Don't talk to me - Don't look at me - Don't - fantasy Samsung-mazda conglomerate dreams, the running of the bulls & crushing mysteriously packets of flesh: shinier & shinier, let us pray. Raised fists to the wind in triumphant yawp & veritable heart-attacks, big eyes, blue skies.
Lee Brooks is a writer living in Brooklyn, NY. He can be reached at leegbrooks@gmail.com.
