Horns Blast Down the Walls

I slithered to this swivel chair by means forgotten—
the one with the flattened padding, fatigued
like a smooshed Atlas, muscles turned to jam under the
near-constant weight of my ass and my troubles—its
patterned pleather armrests, cracked and peeling in broad
strips, like elastic, translucent skin, dead shedding
from too long spent in the sun—eroded by years of my sharp
cogitating elbows, that nursed my bulging brow more often
than not, during mystical solstices of intuition and
nameless mundane mornings, when the remnant booze
steamed out of my pores through sweat-stiff denim,
as I would attempt a ritual self-resurrection, praying to a
miracle carafe of black coffee and one too many cigarettes—
the casters at its five-pronged base, like a star, still wound with
fur from at least three housedogs, old-age dead a while ago—
yet I have had a constant companion in the inanimate, as I sit
and sit, and still time creeps away in lurching tectonic slips—
my brain gone water-mad from too long spent staring into
life’s funhouse mirrors, lost in hallucinogenic nostalgias,
and my heart is parched and porous from this unending
drought, where the only nourishment is the white-hot
bead of the eternal star above and the dust of undertowing dunes
that shift beneath all things I have shaped, swallowing whole
the hollow pumice casts of every gemmed soul who’s drifted
through me, like an instantaneous disintegrate, cascading
down the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, leaving desiccated soup bones
of my many-peopled life—the buildings, art, gardens, stories, and
music now a skeleton village of ghastly reminiscence, frozen
in the instant I lost my population—so I kick their skulls down
its narrow streets of harsh abandon, poking my head
into the open-air houses and greeting the stillborn
figures of my friends, left standing upright, stuffed
and mounted by the divine taxidermist—and of course
I slump into a chair that’s just about ready to gasp its last and
give up the ghost, and I wonder if that might not also be
the most humane tack to set for my own internal fission—
to fling myself into the out-back dumpster and sledge
down the ruins of this decaying urb, clearing ground for
a new developer who’ll lift up some high-rise apartments—
this seat and I (and the universe) think it probably for the best

Some stream-of-consciousness trash for you. I was apparently too lazy to punctuate.

13 thoughts on “Horns Blast Down the Walls”

  1. as a believer in no punctuation during poems (it helps the flow) i encourage this.
    also, it seems black coffee and cigarettes are a type of immortal fuel. sadly, for me, i can’t smoke anymore. :/ “down the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, leaving desiccated soup bones
    of my many-peopled life”
    stuck out because i have hiked up that mountain, & the funny thing is that the white ash sinking & whatever else those materials are i peered down into the depths of does look like a soup of bones, but i’m aware you were speaking of another image.
    don’t mind my babbling, i’ve had apple wine. (possibly a lot.)

    Liked by 3 people

    1. I second all these praises! Also, in the classical antiquity , people wrote in Script continua (no space, no punctuation, no case), so who knows, maybe we will again. In the past, oratory was important and the lack of punctuation gave skilled orators the freedom to interpret the text. Perhaps with the increasing importance of clips, recordings and videos, we will one day discard punctuation again.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. Thank you, Brian! As always, you have something incredibly wise and appropriate to say. I do appreciate it. My mind has been running in some interesting ways (due to stress) lately, and this seems to be the only way ideas want to come out onto paper. I’ve never liked being dogged down by writing in one particular style, so I’m sure I’ll switch back and forth eventually, as I always do.

        Liked by 1 person

    2. That’s wonderful. It makes me happy that the image is somehow real in a sense. Apple wine or not, I like it. And yes, I’ve been just kind of letting my hand and my mind go as I produce page after page of block text. I separate it out into somewhat sensible lines and add some dashes here and there afterward. I’m glad for the encouragement, Sam. Thank you. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

    1. I love it, Christine. Maybe one day I can begin to paint in pastels? I lost a follower today—not sure who. Probably due to the darkness in my recent work, I’m guessing. “Press on, regardless,” as my wonderfully eccentric great-uncle used to say.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Ah, Jasper… You should already know that I’m a huge fan of your own work (which I’m happy to see more of lately). I will be gracious, take the compliment, and thank you truly, sir! 🙂


  2. Your mind sifts through sublime rifts of riveting life lost in kiss through rivulets of genius swift and generous tempestuously weaving blissful wisps of words burdened by hurt but n’er remiss of all that fate has since befallen which I shall not dare to e’er forget.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Max, I would never expect such a reply from anyone else. It’s beautiful (and appreciated). I think you’ve proven—through your comment—the methods in which your own mind moves. I’m thankful to know someone with thoughts such as yours.


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