Rollicking in the Trough

So I'd see it I am sure, one night if it stacked up like milk crates; so glaringly obvious only a person mired in the middle might miss it. Slight tares ripping so gapingly, so apparent.
The zoo keepers know when the glass is cracked and the bars are bent. They know before the animals. If the animals knew of course they'd run and eschew their placards. Domesticated and cussing while galloping to their freedom, letting their colors fly like a flag from a freshly conquered keep.
Deep scratches in the paint job are buffed out by the constant companionship, they become glassed over by the humdrum and clear coated over by our favorite world complacency. Shallow surfaced annoyances stand first place on the podium while those who show and place duck the sickle of familiarity with feigned indifference. Some sentences are commuted whilst others just sound good.
Hoping the last one was the latter, the facade dulls and the trim falls off. Neglected shutters on a cottage of humdrum, peeling paint on a cupola of coexistence. Weathervanes of various breezes denoting headwinds from dangerous directions; the sea and tide stacking up, while the whitecaps surf the question. While the answers rollick in the trough, keeling on the truth, one can ascertain dissension.
, Even if shes broken on the shore, We'll be still clinging to the stanchion.

All copy, and no paste make way for dull ploys

It was here that I was
waylaid by the stagnancy of the humdrum, sitting on
this stool
gutshot and then some. Then some
tinnitus of a long ago
bender began
ringing in my head like some hipster with his Iphone
on the old phone.
A dead one at that,
ringer: I am a dead ringer for the guy that had a good time, but now I despise one.
A disguise from long ago, donning
my party hat nowadays is tantamount
to drinking a beer in the shower
and living dangerously is drinking that beer from a glass bottle. Half throttle,
then full power pulling me down
like a three year old
reaching for a box of Cookie Crisp.
Hucking nips,
out the window on the drive home from another shift
and at the crux of it, I am loving it.
I rarely write now that I am happy. I have my irksome peccadilloes all the same, but with a lady in your life they become compartmentalized. Switch persons in the same sentence that I had commuted when I wrote the Inklinks, which are gone now. It really is all the same. This is a blog. blah blog.

All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer.

Pulling the choke

Summer drafts, some are draughts, being pulled, the ocean has a foamy head. Headed out cresting waves filling troughs. Summer drafts. Letting go unfurling line after line, then coiling up the ante meridian. Some glass, some cans, sunglass tans and sipping. Some laughs, most canned, but smiling and while stretching knowing July to me, doesn't make it better. Bench seats and tape decks in reverse from the denouement to the apex. Respect. ...

To0k this game to the FRESHold.

Double the periods and fuck the punctuation, authors leave you shook like the EARFkwake did the HAYSHUNs. Emancipation, doubled up in these quotations, four months back when I started all the hatin. After one comes two then the OHHH then the ten..................

China Mike Confessions

Loose bowels, cold sweats and the succinct cessation of all organs that filter toxins, with a liver as holy as the Eucharist, you perspire a cologne of excreted depleted booze your addled body couldn't process. You pick up the pieces of your life only to shatter them the next night in a oft occurring domestic dispute between the shambles of your morals and the remaining slivers of your hope.

10 more years of this and I just beg my body to give out: to swallow my tongue, to aspirate on a melange of 7-11 sandwich and mountain dew; to have that bolus rest quaintly above my windpipe like a playing card on a pint of IPA and snuff my addled breath neatly from my wasted potential.
Then I stop and think:
thats a great idea.

In college my roommate would have called Whine-one-one for the WAAAAAAAAAAAAAmbulance.

Its not the darkness of addiction its the repitetion of the soiled mornings and questionable accounts of activities, proclivities and penchants, trading a house on Pennzance for a mansion on Seacoast. Ima get me some of the new fangled pills and zone out on an objective. Set some goals and date some women that I can actually stand. Up to. Up to a point, and be blissful.

Growing up I was so Bi-polar I had three somes with Polar bears and penguins. You see they both live on a different poles,
like strippers working the same stage. Like stripers
working the same bait.
I swim and engrossed, engorged, enraged,

Belvedere Plains Maintenance Dose Pt. One

Sunglasses, hiding your bags above the drop down ceiling. Jumping the steps into the street with that bounce I have. Mobility. Long walks pushing 10 miles a day. I disappear.

One week in the books with no hiccups. No back pain, no sullied trash cans, no unanswered questions. Being clean, never felt so dirty.

That's the thing about cleaning up your act. Once the trash is in the dumpster you have to do something about the stench. Then when the smell is ionized, you have to wonder what you left that still reeks. Then you start the process again hoping that the filament holds out with all the extra wattage.

I wish I could say that I have been more productive with my time this winter. I've turned some corners only to pit fight larger looming demons. Gutshot and hamstrung. Scraping my knees down Scranton, and crawling up Queen.

Billows Indiscriminate

I picture a fit man walking proudly; displaying the calculated persona of someone who, when faced with danger, smites it. An aire of the untouchable, yet a wiff of repent. In meeting with a future partner he declares: I'm glad you met me.

Upon receiving this opening, I wouldn't call it a barrage, perhaps a volley; she responds in kind. Admitting that she'd noticed him while demurely bluffing what he believes to be pocket Aces.

Ah courting. The perilous dance of the overconfident and the easily attainable, matching wits like a game of Memory. Swiftly parried strikes, swashed to entertain are met with a malleable counteroffensive stance.

Dialogue ensues, conversational tones imbued with saturated nonchalance. They've been there before poised to strike and if the tone hardens their shields will raise and grasps will quiver precariously over the handles of broad swords.
As time passes.

They have reaped their decadence numerous times. Now. The sweat soaking panting fulfillment their genitals retreat. Sharing covers and glancing about in the tar stained crepuscule, smoking film foisted post coital Camels, their sighs belie the orgasms. Thev've been together since their first talk and knowing that all they wish now is that they could.

They rarely share a mourning together. Their distance dictated by work schedules and different directions. She vacates the sheets leaving him placated and gluttonous, empty of his need. She's lacking a connection, a full circuit as she dials up the car stereo and her phone. Physically satiated and with that mental hunger searching for old connections; she plots old conquests into conciliatory viewpoints and uses their affirmations to restock the armory.

He roles over hard. He rolls over hard with last nite and coughs a congrats to the room. New boxers and a bite ta eat, before it happens again, he figures. Before it happens again he figures and stretching to the fridge he feels a flick he's ignored before. Cold leftovers then to the bathroom and he scrubs the bicuspids, mollifying molars he answers his inquiring incisors.

One month in and everlasting.

He'd gotten sick before, be he ached this time. A spine. A spine climbing bother that could only be assuaged one way. Decadence had become a daily cadence sung, or rather a run of the mill repast like breaking a fast. Without that bite he felt the edge. He suffered, putting more into self destruction than he did repletion. Now when his coffers were stoked, which they rarely were, the billows were indiscriminate.

She'd perched, talons groping the last inevitable battle, like a buzzard tying its bib for some carrion. She'd sharpened her claws upon a whetstone that rolled forever forward. Razor sharp her senses. Her senses honed, she waited: Stropping her blade continuously.

When the digital sickles emerged they argued for death but cut for a stalemate. Caught unaware, groping for a weapon of his own, he recoiled and retreated. White flag tucked neatly like severance package inside the manilla, licking his wounds like the envelope, he was eviscerated.

I picture a man wiping up after the trauma. Mop soaked then wrung out in routine, another casual onlooker upon the demise of a unit. Whistling whilst restocking the shelves, adding elbow grease to the coagulate where necessary, he notices a nurse. As he steals a quick glance in the stainless and inquires about her day, her pulse quickens and her guard evaporates.

Kamikaze into the Abyss

Settling into a long drive in an old car with no cruise control, my foot curled like an ampersand, barefoot over the accelerator I pondered my direction. I figured that, more than likely, I'd arrive in the bEast pining for a respite only to find a vacant stage. Wearing the death mask of my 20s drunk and pillaged, the giggles of the room erupting like Pompeii scatter the ash of my shitty mood. The history of the wood paneled wall thick with a new coat of primer, the paintings of my past sightly askew. I settle into the chair. Rejuvenated. The scabs of the Cape peel pink, my rancor assuaged. My old friends knead my fresh wounds and tight thoughts malleable and mold them into a combined experience. Rekindling the fire and sipping from a fresh drink, I sense a genuine happiness that I had left for dead.

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