Sunday, March 13, 2011

the Fool



Fuller Brush and Skunk headed hipster cleaning floors with a broom and a mop, waxing vestabules shining like pools mirrored and magnified in Saint John Somewhere, America.


Like a killer on death row, he wasn't saved by Mercy or Divine Intervention @ El Diablo Cafe, rubber-kneed, wacko, bozo, dusted and flee covered lover of miasma of de joie red silk hose, skanky hose, and g-strings, like aged nose gay vaporizing at your feet and in front of your face.


When we wrote the script, while we were puffing that night, did Peg Leg plan to scuttle
the Titanic, set it ablaze in fantasy only to resurrect it in cut-ups, like Burroughs throwing
slices of typewritten yellow paper into the air to find a light at the end of a sentence, freely
grooving on another dark boy in Algiers, tempting spheric waves in Yaga and Rum Storms?


Smoke Rings yawning wider and wider, go round and round, rolling up to Elysian Fields. You told me you loved me and then you fucked that fucking Goat Boy with his thin and dirty dung waxed fluorescent hair .


Penciling a poem, that no one will read~ the Fool.

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