Castrated and flipped

by the factories

who have it in mind to not spare us...

...why do they pause

and cruelly stare us

like red bulbs of raw meat?...

The star in my

1st head

streams a street

with no name...

Has all been constructed?...

I study in long hand...

I’ve been keyed in that

The Red Orangtan

has clearly spoken,

and so I enter unabashed...

We are so far marooned out at sea

and be a no light of limbo...

Akimbo we strut though!...

Though there’s nary a symbol...

Fleeting glance Larry

has stepped in to save it.

I wonder his intent, and attention

to denied libido...

His back arches crookedly

under the hot lamp

where we all strip, and pose nakedly

for the facsist flag jacket fuckers

of supremacy

to cause a ripple of a cosmic face-lift...

He was flipped for the factories, and slipped

a nuclear Mickey that dissolved

swift as acid

on a plastic placated smile...

“Clean your own dog dish out Corey, you fuck!...”

The lord of this manner is consorting

with a known felon over spilled ruins

of late night caustic hand tossed

cookie crumbs on the sacred tarry cloth...

A considerably gory detail,

but nothing has yet de-railed me too often

in this sectional sleek interior of mine mind

where the visual barriers are stripped,

and all is afforded the room to settle in dung dust...

Clean your kettle, and re-invent your

grismally gutted dreams

that long since have perished...

We see them screaming by

in the rear window of our ever spinning vortex,

you dig me?...

is this coming through the electrified fence of your

thought forest,

or are you lost like a lamb now forever buried by the barbed wires?...

Edit#2

01-23-20

Slack Salessie

If I died,

would you care?

would you notice?

would you think on our memories?

would you wish we had more time?

Would you even know?

Knowing people are embarrassed to be seen with me will be one of the worst feelings I’ll have during these nine months. It seems so unfair that people can go out and have all the sex they want, taking the risk of pregnancy every single time, but once someone gets unlucky, suddenly people don’t want to be associated with them. Alright, go on, keep pretending like pregnancy isn’t a possibility from that random guy you hooked up with after the bar last night. If it happens to you, you’ll be begging for forgiveness and support.

Pain is not a beautiful thing.

It is sobbing at two in the morning when all you want to do is sleep and hoping that no one can hear you.

It is choking on all the words that you cannot speak aloud.

Pain is ugly, and pain is deadly, but pain is raging to be shown.

Yet no one wants to see pain in its true form, for people crave beautiful things.

So instead pain is turned into art. Paint on canvas; ink across pages.

Others covet the talent needed to make these beautiful things, but not the pain necessary to create them.

So the pained continue to make beautiful things, hoping no one will see what they have really become.

A mess.

A monster.

I honestly didn’t set out to be a serial killer. It was all Mara’s fault because she kept taking serial lovers. And I loved her so much that I was unable to bear the thought that she was not mine. Every time I got the nerve to ask her to go out with me, she replied that she already had a boyfriend. Well, I’d fix that!

The first time, I watched the movement in the backseat of Mara’s car in disbelief. I crept even closer to make sure they were doing what I thought they were. I knew Don was taking advantage of her so I pulled up my mask, opened the door and yanked him out, shooting him in the head. Mara cowered in fear for at least an hour before she called the police while I watched from behind the old oak tree.

As soon as she got over Don, she took another lover, Dave. I watched as they lay on the beach in the moonlight, moaning and groaning and tossing and turning. Soon, I saw Dave sit up and go to his car to get birth control before he finished. But I finished him with a knife to the belly as I held my hand over his mouth. Mara didn’t hear a peep until she walked naked to the car to see what was taking him so long. I was already walking away when I heard her terrified screams.

Mara waited a while for the next beau. Since we were employed at the same place, I saw that flirtatious little minx sneak into the closet with her boss and knew what was going on. This time, I waited until Mr. Simon walked back to his office, tucking his shirt into his pants and slicking back his hair. I walked into his office telling him I needed to show him the latest financials, strangling him with my tie, until he was blue in the face. What a shame he had a heart attack, everyone said.

Well, I just knew that Mara would go out with me now because she certainly wouldn’t care if I got murdered in the throes of passion with her!

“I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth,” she said. “Didn’t I make myself clear the first time you asked?”

Well, what could I do? I took my razor knife and slit her throat. Never let it be said that I didn’t believe in equal rights!

Deathly by BCCJ

There in the corner stands death, a preppy fellow at that,

Just happy being death, kinda fucking jaunty

And he is really the only one at the gathering that I didn’t want to strangle so I walked

Trying to reach the corner, that intersection where walls meet

but either my legs were failing me or I had underestimated the distance.

He had a match in his hand, picking its teeth with the raw conclusion

Wine so thick, a viscosity akin to oil, yet Reach him I could not—

The vino in a cup without a saucer. From where do you come sir?

But no noise.

Then I must be asleep

Stopping at the bathroom which fortunately was gender fluid

I had a find a place a place to find a cup: to look of him.

The glossy second three was the best

In a wardrobe or closet

But it’s the best when one

Can here the snorting life in and around you.

One, two, three, four, quick check, then come the frenzy

For which my Dolce Gabbana keeners would not make the cut.

Oh, the man. I screamed silently and happily walked toward him a more

“I long recognized the ghoul. It was I And Hope is written across the side, in a faded Gothic script.”

And Death cannot abide Hope.

So, we belly crawl toward the man who won’t be

The juxtaposition of walls that won’t come

And the trail of lovers behind my lurching

And it seems another common

Another lovely day

Spend not your days in cool retreat my love

But ride the bitch hard,

Put veins in her eyes

You were a born the right color.

out of that cup read it aloud at breakfast, long ago.

What kind of beings are they then, who finally must be scared away by poison?

Otherwise would they stay here? Would they keep chewing so foolishly on their own frustration? The hard present moment must be pulled out of them, like a set of false teeth. Then they mumble. Then they go on mumbling. . .

O falling star, once seen into from a bridge—: Not to forget you. To endure.

It’s getting too dangerous

living the way that you do...

The cards are piled against you,

and there’s figures in the dark

that would like

nothing better then

to have their way

with an arrogant young chippy...

Maybe you could give ’em some lip,

and wriggle under the blade

just in time to make it home for

Jeopardy...

Maybe not...

Wonder what the head-lines will say

when the truth comes out,

and turns the night into day...

You were always a brave kid,

though the things that you did

don’t amount to fuck all

when the chill makes his call,

and the killer in red comes alive

in your head...

Tell me how does it feel

when the water dries up,

and your last bag is flushed

when you’d poured your last dime?...

Now you wear a black hood,

and the con turns it’s head

like a snake in the dark

that you know will embark

on your ripe supple flesh...

...Yes, it’s time to invest

in a new pair of shoes...

watch the sand running thin.

01-06-20

Slack i Selassie

Love is intensest

Swung from a tree

Baroque branches

Knotted darkly

Know no language

Other than hospitality

…each of us

Strung so….

Precariously by the

Vagrant ankles

Over the flames that lick,

And lap from

The Magician’s over-turned

Cap 

That lies below our flailing bodies…

 At the Time we knew not,

And we are not fully educated

On the Prism’s scope as yet…

…Do we know the dope,

Or are we artless in our sequential 

Descent?...

 As the clock stands still we may repent

Or sally forth, and I chose the latter…

…Climb along the un-marked hillside  

Where the Moon darest not to fall!

 We are all of us so marred by the clutter

Of our lives

When we live and choose to wander outside,

And then catch a glance at reflections in

The spreading pools

That form without our wonderings.

Kindling that we are...

fodder for the occasional 

upshot star 

that sparkles out

from this consumptive fire

...we fall short of the well

in which we'd better see

whatever Self might be left

...As a root or grafting ball

riding out the 

pendulum 

of fate in a

constant gamble

with death.

© 01.01.2020

Bunny & Mavia Villaire