Accidents and Anecdotes

[0=2]

"In essence of the more impoverish nature
from which we dangle tongues hot with succession
and twenty two caliburs of excess, we find
hopes dashed as candle wax
upon growing pains and glass.

So, as situation speaks solemn into the ears
of an aristocrat with closed throat and more
whim than air, the lungs of our despair, the grapes
and the wrath, and the burning sensation tickling
the morning news, all fade into one thousand murmurs

and your pulse."

Upon entering the slow churn of an axelled automobile the hum of one thousand jailbird choked tears could not help but strangle the senses, as well as any idea of the place that choked anything less than a last half
breath

ing on the railing as though entering a steel paradise she moved her fingers as she'd move her lips to refrain from asking why she'd acted twenty two and aging since she was fourteen, and how she'd come to see jailbirds talons as the only fading memorance of a father fraud God she'd ever had
warm and silent in her

death, upon the rocks of a distant and ancient church made as Bel Lugosies tomb and tale she'd notice how the bell
it's slow toll
it's rocking motion gently reminding her of a whisper given at bedside, she kneeled there to wish her only daughter solace from a monster wrapped in the closest closets of her silent heart.

Like the staircase, like her mother, she moaned and released
death kneeling bedside, this time
a blackenned angel in the sky.


She had been a child finding the wrinkles of her grandmothers hand remiscent of a seashore's bite and soft sand, the callous created soft cracks of patch where
a smooth cottonsilk could be found
if pressed for, if really pressed.

"What is it?" She admired as she watched her arms catch the color of an old window-stain.
"It's an angel." Her Grandmother pursed her lips and pressed her hands and kneeled.
"What's an angel?"

"A sign of redemption." And that's all she wrote.


Feeling cheated.

He raises a cigarette to his lips, might as well have been a hookers hips, and drew deep that bleached smell of shaved rat that allowed him to feel fresh in the morning, despite the sway of stagnation, a hollow empty
that allows followed before and after
the napalm.

Drenched in acid, he was scribbling now as frantically as he could, trying to express his intangible anxiety as it woke, that morning, next to his bed, with his half empty pack of cigarettes, his half lucid prostitute, and his half full heart. Maybe the circulation, the suffocation, the intoxicated rant of bullet ballad and brittle bone finally pierced his skull,
though hardly leaving a mess like his comrades,
sulking and stupid on the jungle floor. Their smell
sulking and stagnant
stupid crutched and ****ed
in the jungle air

with the napalm dancing in funnels
reverberating from helicopter blades
hanging, stagnant, 20 feet
from the fleas and anthills
"of war"

"Of war." He spoke slowly and swallowed with a whiskey cough, he had drank too many that day, that night, that year.
"Of war." He spoke again, reaffirming, allowing his inflect to infect
more than the reality of his words, slipping
"It's not a game." He spoke, smiling.
"It's not a card game, it's not a sleight of hand, it's not some cheap trick or telegram they fed you till you feed it to yourself. There is the tangible dirge of alcohol and power drunk madness that runs through those jungles with you, next to you
pulling your trigger and kissing you softly, when you sleep, when you press your fingers through your eyelids
and sleep..." His heart

Was alive. Wired, his skin stood on end as a smooth hand found it's way down his treasure trail
to tease his thighs and tickle his half pants short with
slow
corroding
moans.

"Honey I, I" And she silenced his lips and bit down. It was America, he was young, and she was tall and golden in a pale light seldom gifted to those who do not attend such nigthside tramples
of lingering love and
hanging cieling fans
just...

...hanging,
like helicopter blades, round and round, the blades breaking silence, allowing voices to rest into pillows and nets of tesla tangled hair,
allowing screams to settle into landmines and dirtnaps.

He kissed her, slowly, in their kitchen,
it was small, but they were trying

"Hypocrite" hot off his lips, hesitant, distant, lost
in some sandtrap, lush
some slow clap crushed
by helicopter blades and sirens.

Rain fell,
smoke rose.

And the plume of a mushroom cloud could be called the only sinister speck of imperfection
left upon the horizon.


(An attempt at distorting continuum using poetic and narrative devices.)

[JoeLopp]

I really like it, 0=2. You should submit it to a poetry journal/contest