International Writers Magazine:
Where is the organ
of memory, the soul, the urgent reminiscence of sex, of a feeling of can't
wait lust for her? Real desires long lost jetisoned ever since he fell
to the trick, the hype, became vaporized and consumed within a life incinerated
from birth to tomb with mortages, VCR's, PTA's, HMO's, IRA's and other
cheap trinkets like cars, condos and celluloid images of a Betty Crocker
wife he never touches. A loveless woman who had a velcro zipper
inserted between her lips moments after the wedding vows were murmured
within a life distorted all by anal Mad Monk Maniacal Madison Ave.
Spin Doctors, run amok.
Heart break pass,
broken dreams and nightmare screams, visions of some corporate monkey
drilling deep into your soul with carbide eyeballs, iguana yellow
bullets, lifeless orbs of no relief. Pinball eyes that after
twenty-five years on the job got him a paper card with ink scribbles
of his own blood tatooed on it, a gold watch, a fat belly, a shredded
heart and a flacid cock he ain't used since he can remember.
Blazed and burning, retro rockets of babble-speak by crazed IBM Cyborgs
with two-hundred dollar a day cerebral nose candy habits. Writing, saying
anything to keep the machine grooving, the buzz spinning, to stay away
from homes of daughters and sons traumatized and anesthetized 24/7 from
the visual and viceral drugs he creates for MTV, XBOX and SEGA billionaires.
Pimps pushing addicts, virtual reality junkies, moving jiving images
that his corporate thug bosses demand as they slap a 9-millimeter pay
check to a burnt out brain of a hopeless life formulated by the sins that
he has created for his corporate masters.
The spooks are waking. Ad Agency Execs with cholesterol counts plugging
their black hearts disguised as user freiendly heart attacks and early
burials along the silicone graveyard of ram, rem and chips and bytes and
software nobody needs, or wants or will ever need. Except to pull themselves
out of the crypt as they wake one day after suddenly finding themselves
entombed within one.
Trapped and tragic, tricked out in a plexiglass coffin stalled out on
a daily cemetery called the New Jersey Turnpike. Where corporate puppy
mills churn out lobotomized, victimized, McDonaldized and Down Sized cubicle
human beings more stillborn than alive. Robots possessing forgotten dreams
and passions and desires destroyed by the greatest mass brain washing
campaign ever orchestrated by a gulag of sinister Fortune Five Hundred
A human Ponzi Scheme loading the pulsating tube with visceral images of
impossible goals. Disc thin bulimic children walking on stilts. Amazons
on bamboo legs touting false wants. Pamela Lee, Paris and Brittany
and MK and fluff and bleached blond bimbos hyping the American Dream and
lies to lost generations of MP-3 Player kids who think its way cool, caring
for little, being little, wanting little except emulating soulless touts
on their lover, their TV.
Crave it, lust for it, retail junk pushers, whoring The American Dream.
Where a Lexus will answer your prayers and Gucci Studs are to die for
and a new hard drive, instead of the old stand bye, a hard on with a women
you simply adore. A girl with skin and bone and blood, an air breather
that touches back, not like some cheap cylindrical love machine you have
your ass planted in day to night cause your to damn tired to remember
how good it felt when you made love to a women instead of some pile of
nuts and bolts with a steering wheel.
Wearing thin, are ya my man? Desperate plights trapped in nightmares of
vague memories of images nobody can any longer understand, wants nor needs. Where
lust for gleaming chrome and eleven thugs on Sunday afternoon under The
Super Dome, where violence, reel to reel turf to ice, too Sly killing
yellow gimps and Arnold is bullet proof and Bruce and Vin OFF them all
and "POP POP POP" there goes another Browning 9-millimeter hale
of truth.. While mommies at detok getting her nails done while little
Billy, with his friend Don is off to school, backpack, skateboard, cell
phone toting daddies 44 Magnum, Smith & Wesson Cyclone.
357, AK-47, 38 Saturday Night Special Canon bloating out an executioners
song, a fire storm of video glee, to many Gangster Wanabees. Twenty dead
children at the local highschool, blood swabbed on the "Golden Rule",
swat and cops and parents tears, neglect and kids with very real fears,
a child's heart forgotten, disappears. Who will stop the violence flood,
"Chill Man, it's all good" after all we paid for it with our
What a we gonna do man? Maybe step back, reevaluate, recalibrate, reload
and relax and rejuvenate. Maybe unplug the Zombie MAchine, rip the umbilical
cord from the Mother Ship, napalm the Micro-wave, line up the media pimps
and their vicious Cable Gangs slithering their venom into our eye sockets
and shoot I'm up, take I'm down, cut their throats, drink their blood,
perhaps making Lincoln smile from the Capitol Steps as we recapture love
and the urge and care and anger and above all our companionship.
So this is it amigo, women and baby cakes. Cut yourself some slack, forget
you bought the hucksters pitch, open their coffin lid, allow the light
to expose their sins, begin to become human again. Hell thats alright,
you never saw it coming, but now that you know it has, erase the hype,
fuck your wife and kiss your kids, pet the dog and fluff the cat, set
a bottle of wine out to decant, kill the neon, light a candle and make
a meal and take some time and maybe we all can once again learn how to
Sounds like a plan to me.
It is dark inside, within a single cube of
liquid living onyx, in there. Deeper still, look through the eyes into
the depth, further, through the maddening mud of primial ooze, past the
wall of rem, into the veil of secrets. There, into the center cut, this
place that is a hypnotic tunnel of twisted shapes, into a coal matrix
of uninmaginable terror, joy, pathos and final, as the black chemeleon
of odd mazes and forms and faces. It is..."The Mind."
It is dark inside. Pad in hand she listens, terrified, exuberant and confused.
Sure of her own genius, yet lost, no road maps here. No easy journey reaching
into the core shadows and tring to grab onto an enigma, clutching the
air, so lost of something that can neither be touched, seen, not loved.
Unless a mad women, who knows tears of blood, grief, sorrow, her sisters
and brothers, which within her turmoil, she sees, feels that she might
comprehend. For help, or hell and damination awaits her charges, which
twitch through crazed and wild eyes in her direction for a simply glimpse
of hope for her to just stop it. Make the black carrousel of thought stop.
Please they beg of her, and she does, sometimes, and her heart implodes
when she fails.
IT is dark inside, there, so very dark, the wraiths at times are in control.
The inmates holding the keys to the asylum. Until who, until she, sitting
across the table from them in her city penthouse cell, tapping a stiletto
heel, and talks. A fearless goddess of unanswerable answers, she
peers through the orbs of a seer. Or is she a charlatan peering into the
world of pitch, of tar and flames and insanity, where open mind surgery
with out a cut, a stitch, bloodless, is enacted from her cerebellum and
creative mind and bravado, mixed within a whirlwind power and terror trip.
Unless she fails, then there is blood everywhere, mostly from the tip
of a flamming hand gun barrel and a self inflicted gunshot.
It is dark inside. Why? Why must the artist be held for ransom? There
creativity a spear driven between there frontal lobes? You want this passion,
this sin, pay for it with every waking moment of your life. You need to
place images on white parchment? Do it with your blood. You actually care
and feel in a dehumanized planet? Then let passion tear and rip your nerves
and heart from your cadaver within its careless way and then we will see who
holds what cards. For the women that fixes me, calms insanity is an illusion
and I have to believe she is what she promises. We, them, us. We
must trust that we can make it late at night when every demon in hells
prison breaks Hades apart and B and E's through our window panes holding
razors to our brains, the ones she promised that she could fix.
It is dark inside, as I weild a knife she promised me was not there...Well
it is and I believed, and my god, this women, this black technician actually
choose two repair us, both of me. Lies whispered that she could reconstruct
the dam and be there, as we create and roam within the unknown waters
of our art, talent and dreams, fantasies and our feral driven passions
that we do love.
It is dark inside. What gall, what eminence, what ego. Thank god for her
bravery to think she can see us, the scrolls on the wall are evident as
she delves into and assimilates out madness of the crayola world of the
artist she call friends, patients and lovers. Brass Balls Baby Banging.
I know she sees, she has to hear, someone must cry for us, weep and take
the time to peel away the onion skin of agony that engulf us that make
us pretty. I am fragile. I am broken. I am human. And I am alive.
It is dark inside, her words as flames help me see, to be sane that way.
For this I empty the chambers of my thirty-eight and laugh at those copper
smiles leering back at me. I return to poems, paint and spirits and tender
thoughts of love. My mind again. How fickle. How beautiful. How she holds
it so tenderly within her swaddled wings, a white swan resting, for we
drain her of her power. Do you feel her feathers? Her down? How she protects
us. How for a moment, even I, even you, feels safe, and more, as the gold
watch second hand moves as a pendelum now, "Sleep the metronome whispers,
sleep my child, rest, laze in and within the protection of my power and
when you wake in the morning you will be fine."
© J Brooke August 2007
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