The Past is Shingled

by | Nov 12, 2022 | Stop Making Sense 2 - Day 2


Fused with a flat mental sky she charred hours with used, dead matches. All timid squalor, fussy haggling between impulse and intrusive clarity, wine doused her back into slatted mumble of day that drained her down the sink of another benign sunrise. A splinter throbbed, stabbed her through movement and calendars. Actions petrified.


The railing, littered with gripped stench of frenzied maybes, the erratic pulse of discolored being. A space blanked in on itself said, ‘oust’ ‘dishevel the river’ ‘paralyzed by desire’ until Lorazapem; blue code of the pharmaceutical kind, turned sideways and upside down from a German documentary into a Disney cartoon.


• Ramped down into a dumpster of the past. Take a hefty inhale. Smell the filth of fingered histories. How much childhood can be buried? See-saw stomping over wrath and decay, whole family portraits propped up in kitty litter, remnants of food in Styrofoam, clothes, toasters, printers, sad decorations, and brutalized dolls.
• The rancid plagues of family albums that reek out of tired closets and cupboards. There’s a beauty. A girl, maybe ten-years-old, slung as far away from Dad in the photo, as he presses his body against her, laughing at her airborne angst.
• Memorial of the burned body. So much easier to roll and cigarette.


Woods, woods, woods.
Parking garage?
Wood-burning stove.
Eyes yellow as a fulfilled liver.
Basemented terror reeks of a whole genre.
That’s when somebody else rocks in.

Otherwise, it’s a goddamn curve I can’t see ahead.

Or check out the archives

Pin It on Pinterest