Bullet

Date with Dylan

It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Creating)

I am a product of my own hubris and a glitch in God’s programming. You can thank Kyle (Horrorble Writer) and Ricardo Guzman Jr for this, as they have so generously dubbed me the Kinky Poet, amongst other illustrious titles like the voodoo doll of eroticism and the Nesting Doll of Romanticism. Happy little results from treating notes like my own personal thought bubble (it is), except for now the other voices are actual people.

Previous works pervade my fingers, tiny ghosts talking gibberish to the pen I used to write what you’re about to read, and the results speak for themselves. Influenced by previous works like Black Mass and Indian Summer, this baby is like the sock on the doorknob of my thoughts and you’re sure as hell gonna get a full frontal— legs spread wide open— show of stream-of-consciousness filthy and concocted from poorly researched recipes I had cooked up in the cold Canadian forests, high, drunk, and wishing. Anchored to reality by Bob Dylan’s One Too Many Mornings on loop ad infinitum.

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My Date With Dylan

Playful rhymes sit on the ear to chime and find meaning where cries rise into nine and dries, the cracked riverbed, her cheek stained by it, tears on my fingers, still the rag is wrung and moans crucial exposition and narrative thighs clamp, stifling the pumping and thumping tongue-on-cheek aside, the kind of B-plot that makes her beg for more of the sexually charged stores selling spoons so she can get their first and spite the chaste, and the card throwing gambit for rook and roll and fly by nests lovers roil in naked. How can they take it? They’re old twenty years on and their exhibitionism is hateful now. The tasteless taste not for they smoke too much, minds stuck on the next suck and seeing that red cherry glow hot and dry and best indulged face down in the snow, but you’re just a giant in a small igloo with walls covered by a flowers bloom of skull fragments and blood, what critics have titled O’Keefe’s Time of The Month. Being around any artist too long makes you suicidal. My wife is a midge who makes her money on monastic horseshoe throwing. She’s a nun but doesn’t make a habit of it, nor makes wicks or spits in cans unless they’re Campbell’s, chewing on ideas from the tin she bought on a reservation, trying to cure the starvation for fulfillment a doctor had diagnosed as terminal. Bedridden and drinking my soup mind. Outside on the street corner I see them and I’ll destroy myself before I let them hide in those receptacles at the nursing home. Final rites are a slippery slope the pope skates down like ice and he’s a Stanley cup champion, his only team is America’s God.

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Afterword

Did you see? Did you see? I don’t think this would have been written without a healthy dose of Dylan-posting. Like Shit-posting but you don’t know what is being said the longer it goes on. A veritable monster in the closet of ideas I’ve conjured. Take that Stefan Baciu! I still had another monster left before the new year broke down my door Jack Torrance style. My notepad is a gateway for the Goetia paired best with red candles and coffee to appease the more beastial ones. Trust, they know what Cocaine is but prefer sweet sweet Arabica juice. Now! Back to work I go.

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Photo by Larry Clark.