Meet Your Humanity Old Tramp
It was nighttime somewhere nameless in the crazy city. The ionic night clasping everyone with its darkness fermenting the sounds of “where am I?” … “is the night alone in being at home here?” … “where is the envious moon discrediting its dark side?” The solace augmenting the silence brought forth by all those humans sleeping in their beds and hammocks, sleeping in their dreams, sleeping.
Roaring through the windows the echoless snores, the spirit world freezing energies alive, a ghost, a spirit freak, a hand touches someone’s forehead, the electricity riveting with excitement, the spell spelling the touches of the night; not a hungry mentor to be seen, no genius grinding away at some higher formed expression, just the dirty lights, the whores, the bums, the drunks, the red roses which reflect only their lost glories, petals crying “you can’t give red roses anymore.”
Whims rushing to their destinies, enamored with their instinctual drives on high, from zero to sixty neurons nothing would sin faster; pavement called to action, “hear these steps, inform this person, yell out if you hear a body or a rubber drop.” People passing every studded wall without feeling Jack the Ripper. People passing with cousins knowledge in-between. Heard a brain wave bristle clean clawed in nouns mispronounced, touched a wig, a hairless man, and a saintly priest, and a walking donkey, all for once equaled through their pervert tenure.
Alongside the road, the whore, wickedest basket of treats, a promise tied to Hollywood ingrained, luring with her black hole the golden trinkets of fame and fortune. I once noted this is where the ladder ends, this is the last step in any living order, in synch with her the loop comes clean, every male passes through to her, and comes out just as clean of crabs and lice as once did Henry the VIII.
From another angle a charcoal skirt, the long boots, buoys swimming in between, dangling dangled an obtuse object primed for being and not wholly intended for the task. A bold headed, full faced black man stops, reviews the fancied fancy cytoplasm. His clean brown eyes unfettered by the light, his smile recognizable at a distance, the boots stop their senseless patrol, the roaming eyes cease and gauge the admiralty with antagonistic frailty. One might say they said, “I don’t know you.” … “I don’t recognize you.” … “We don’t know each other.” … “I am not here.” … “You are not here.” And once the truth is trounced enough times it ceases to get up.
Both, besieged by each other, first it seems breathing is the only guest but soon there is mumbling utterings on an inconsequential quest, then the gentle hands become rough, the spirited horses admit that they are in a race of mutual disagreement and with same accordance of intent. One grabs the penis hard and firm and forces him to walk in staidly form, the reigns still hard seven inches and half more, the force is felt and relinquished, the trotting hooves detained and forced to march again, coerced voices deepen stench, where pour forth the yellow men, anguished in relief of their precipitous charge, where blade of grass and dung heap end their successful bark.
It is a dark night, there are no witnesses, the entire night conspires to withdraw, but someone is bleeding, there must be someone to retort, cankerous sores, penance for the sore, the spirit evil has condoned, the nails shut closed to his heart, exchange the bowels, drain the gals, meet your humanity old tramp.
Roaring through the windows the echoless snores, the spirit world freezing energies alive, a ghost, a spirit freak, a hand touches someone’s forehead, the electricity riveting with excitement, the spell spelling the touches of the night; not a hungry mentor to be seen, no genius grinding away at some higher formed expression, just the dirty lights, the whores, the bums, the drunks, the red roses which reflect only their lost glories, petals crying “you can’t give red roses anymore.”
Whims rushing to their destinies, enamored with their instinctual drives on high, from zero to sixty neurons nothing would sin faster; pavement called to action, “hear these steps, inform this person, yell out if you hear a body or a rubber drop.” People passing every studded wall without feeling Jack the Ripper. People passing with cousins knowledge in-between. Heard a brain wave bristle clean clawed in nouns mispronounced, touched a wig, a hairless man, and a saintly priest, and a walking donkey, all for once equaled through their pervert tenure.
Alongside the road, the whore, wickedest basket of treats, a promise tied to Hollywood ingrained, luring with her black hole the golden trinkets of fame and fortune. I once noted this is where the ladder ends, this is the last step in any living order, in synch with her the loop comes clean, every male passes through to her, and comes out just as clean of crabs and lice as once did Henry the VIII.
From another angle a charcoal skirt, the long boots, buoys swimming in between, dangling dangled an obtuse object primed for being and not wholly intended for the task. A bold headed, full faced black man stops, reviews the fancied fancy cytoplasm. His clean brown eyes unfettered by the light, his smile recognizable at a distance, the boots stop their senseless patrol, the roaming eyes cease and gauge the admiralty with antagonistic frailty. One might say they said, “I don’t know you.” … “I don’t recognize you.” … “We don’t know each other.” … “I am not here.” … “You are not here.” And once the truth is trounced enough times it ceases to get up.
Both, besieged by each other, first it seems breathing is the only guest but soon there is mumbling utterings on an inconsequential quest, then the gentle hands become rough, the spirited horses admit that they are in a race of mutual disagreement and with same accordance of intent. One grabs the penis hard and firm and forces him to walk in staidly form, the reigns still hard seven inches and half more, the force is felt and relinquished, the trotting hooves detained and forced to march again, coerced voices deepen stench, where pour forth the yellow men, anguished in relief of their precipitous charge, where blade of grass and dung heap end their successful bark.
It is a dark night, there are no witnesses, the entire night conspires to withdraw, but someone is bleeding, there must be someone to retort, cankerous sores, penance for the sore, the spirit evil has condoned, the nails shut closed to his heart, exchange the bowels, drain the gals, meet your humanity old tramp.
posted by Ricardo Correa at
8/31/2006 05:44:00 PM
