hors d'oeuvres anyone?

(back to weird)

The sweetness of the season is the sweat. The beatniks bees're buzzing 'round the bush, the curdled applesauce is crueller for the kids, the rounded raisinfaced ex-magician returning for a greasy rumble, the rain/mud and stains of blood, the woken man hissing at a baby pram, it's well-deep and shallow shivers, leech lips and swollen livers.

It comes and I run, this wet-electric flash of light, a brilliant tunnel-staircase so Byzantine, an archetype, a twisted complex, like age-old best friends who never met; it drives the flesh home to the roosting spot, this twisted knot, binaural and seismic, a transparent secret guarded by a highly-emotional robot.

Golden honey combs her fair, a scalp refreshed with scent of pear; roses red adorn her hair, flower patterns everywhere. And laughter is light upon the air, her eyes? half-closed, but I just stare.

Helmet for bikes, pads for knees, guard your mouth and asking please, spit off a bridge and shake a hand; in between become a man. Pay your debts, monsieur (leave this earth with no regrets), puff at a cigarette, and build a shelf for your old cassettes.

Dry your hair and coat your face, touch your toes and bust the race. Please! Less chatter! More pelvic thrust; lean on a leg and kiss the dust; swivel your navel in a 45-arc, pick a spot to call your mark, lift one foot, keep your balance, do one-armed pushups like old Jack Palance.

It’s telescope and slippery rope, sight destroyed by lack of traction, boulder pushing dissatisfaction, in hell, oh well - maximize capital, plan for the worst, trust your rustproof instruments – a well-built dam will rarely burst. Climb your mind; inside is both slime and grime and pristine cleanly shine, all things great and grey inside you, the universe is there too - you are human, and you are you. You are a crowd, a crew, you contain the multitudes.