And Waiting
REMINGTON GRAVES
An anomalous crew conspired curiously like the pearled iridescence of the leucistic monocled cobra under a showering full moon. The mutiny began like the faint hiss of the serpent assembling in symmetry with other culebras, and there, Mephistophidian in scaled oblivion, did congregate with its contriving cabal. The Me that I have always referred to as the Terribly Three, sat at a round black marble table, and whirred in tongues centered in the middle of six white walls. Cold and sterile, silent with peril—what expediency lied beyond the adamantine gates? What cubed and shifting labyrinthine lasciviousness must lock itself in rows in order for you to confess?
“Honey…?”
”What?”
”I was talking to you?”
”Did you not see me in thought?”
”I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“
”No, it’s quite all right. What is it?
”The waiter is waiting for you to tell him if more pepper on your salad is ok.”
”The waiter is waiting…and waiting…and…”
∞
The Beat On The Street
REMINGTON GRAVES
The humid hot breath of summer huffed and puffed at everybody’s strawed doorstep, and all the little piggies in my pit of a town, stayed put and posed prettily for phony photographs. All together now ( in Beatles choir voices). I usually stay indoors, and when I should the most, my rebellious nature kicks in and drives me to do the opposite of what the drones do and all that drivel. So, I jumped in my new car, of which I hardly ever drive anymore due to my new found affection for the motorcycle in my driveway and drove around to see what kind of drag I could get myself into.
He was a tall, slim Caucasian man wearing cheap, beaten white sneakers and his wife was still young and cute enough to catch a creep’s eye; two sons and a darling daughter—dirty-faced cherubs with fear and uncertainty in their face. Mom and dad argued back and forth while she swung that sweet ass in her tight denim jeans, and he tightened his fists, whiteknuckled and silently whining.
She was losing what little respect she had left for him and he knew it on a subconscious level. There was nothing left to do but make all their lives miserable, he figured. The children began to rub their eyes fighting hunger and tears.
I have never been a family man. I tried my hand at the game of life and it just simply did not take. Regrets? Sure, I’ve had a few—but then again, too few to mention.
”Hey, bud, you wanna get the fuck out the road?” I said glancing at his wife and smiling like a wolf.
”Eat shit, man,” he responded angrily and hesitant.
”Ok, you asked for it, you cunt,” I screamed while parking the car and jumping out determined.
He reeked of uncertainty and so I walked slowly up to him, fist announced a mile away. The dim chap took the bait and hit me hard with a leveling left and stars exploded somewhere between my ears. The asphalt starting cooking the right side of my face as he kicked me three times to the ribs. His wife screamed after him to stop. You know, I never did mind the taste of blood, I remember thinking. After a few more punches, the soon to be X became exhausted and stood up and said, “That’s—that’s…right, mother…fucker.”
As they walked away into the supermarket, I inched to my car and turned on the ignition. With satisfaction, I beheld her arm firmly grip around her husband’s waist proudly. He smiled a bouncing-buffoon-of-a smile and inhaled deeply the stagnant summer air as if it was a Hawaiian gust. His spawn cheered for their triumphant father.
Driving away, wiping the blood from my nose and putting my wayfarers on, I thought to myself, “He is going to pound that pussy like a venerated Viking…She will gaze into his eyes as sweat falls from his brow to wash her doubt away…and as her ample breast bounce in missionary mammary matrimony, the moaning will carry through the house like a loving lullaby as the kids slumber in peace knowing their parents love each other once again and all is right with the world.
So what if I’d didn’t work out for me? So what if I pretended to be a pitiful pugilist? And is it a crime to get off on a good beating from time to time?
The beat on the street…I heard it at birth…and all through my life…in every parking lot…where my mother was missing and my father couldn’t be found.
∞
The End Of All My Enemies
REMINGTON GRAVES
Brutal lyceum, unctuous are thy halls, where charlatans selfishly share the air with sullen song, Satyricon.
O Petronius, may the scarlet ribbons flow from your yawning wrists, pauciloquent and pallid, and with maroon clouds forming in the hot bath you sat in, a plaudit storm erupted on the other side of that wall.
The tempo interminably languid, and at times, de rigueur—bowed with fucked diffidence and florid felicity.
How nitid, and fitted, diluted, and resplendent; luciferous, like pines and mares, in winter foggy stares, behind the monolith that binds us.
With glean the dream did summon, a many face of mine on rusted swinging pikes, and I beheld the unholy beast that burdens.
And yet the field posses nothing more that natural chaos; austere the morning deer, and stern you lie in fear behind the fern where sheeple calm themselves from lions.
Futile to discern, anthropomorphic and forlorn, grey in sex and lupine jest, must the dust ask again and again?
The fear you ingest, ineffable at best, the way it lashes and besets…on all sides, with false pride, the golden age of youth: you know now,without a doubt…must say good bye.
Now swelter in my symmetry and try hard to think of me.
This day may very well be
the end of all my enemies.
∞
How Great Thou Art
REMINGTON GRAVES
The time was nigh for him to hum and twist about berserkly with a broom no longer, as his right hand spidered its way across the piano to the cold soda can, and with a firm grip, his thumb popped the top and sent a bite of cola and a hissing spray into the air. White and shiny shoed, greasy raven-black hair, and amerced by the longing fading verse of old age, his youth was now a jailhouse mock—plentiful pounded prince of a prurient age, once a teenage throb spiraling sultrily, squirming in his slacks, torso twirling and turning eyeballs into spinning google gum drops…
The recording studio was still …and knowing he was god.
Fading somnolently, he cleared his throat and said, “All right, man, let’s do this shit…from the top, Jack.”
”You sure it’s a good idea, King, to have this gal in here gaggin’ on your—“
”Don’t start busting balls again about all that business, son. You want another gold record, you gettin’ it. What’s the problem?”
”Ok, Tigerman…from the top…”
And with soft, slurping and shlacking sounds, Mr. Dynamite grabbed the chrome vintage microphone with a velvet touch, and said, “Keep the volume down, honey. Daddy’s gotta go to work…
”Oh Lord my God when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the worlds thy hands have made
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder
Thy power throughout the universe displayed
When Christ shall come…”
And the backup choir clung to celestial notes and held them afloat for Fire Eyes to part his lips, incendiary, with that unmistakable infernal sigh…
“With shout of acclamation
To take me home
What joy shall fill my heart
Then I shall bow in humble adoration
And there proclaim my God how great thou art
Then sings my soul my savior God to thee
How great thou art
How great thou art
Then sings my soul my savior God to thee
How great thou art how great thou art”
∞
An End To Old Debates
REMINGTON GRAVES
Happiness
is hell
and heaven is where you’d rather be
Truth
won’t tell
all the lies you sing to me
Confirmation
the train that left the station
but bludgeoned by your own brain, you claim acclaim in every destination
Death
did put an end to old debates
of whether it all meant a fucking thing
∞