The Good…
REMINGTON GRAVES
Strident screeching, slowly sinking—the cold slap of metal against grinding metal, feet adjusting in their stance, sound of crunching sand below them; blur of steps beneath: one,two, three, twelve…
It used to take me an hour, sometimes two to find a perfect spot…to carve out the carnage, to release the rancid resentments and derailing depression, and sweating and gasping, alone, the sound of red bricks that pit and patted underneath glowing hot-green gummy skateboard wheels—I was a fearless little fucker, stamina-sustaining-serpent extraordinaire.
And now at the fungal age of forty-one, I mount my black steed and tie the skate to the sissy bar and ride there. Ennio Morricone enters with menacing mallets and bending saws, and his music fills sticker-laden helmet on my hot voyage to wherever, with the cycle engine for the backbeat.
To you, whilst whistling whimsically on your cellphones and posting and posing for a world not real, the glowing screen is as it good as it gets.
To me, this is the Old West.
∞
Impregnated
REMINGTON GRAVES
pulsing cocoon
shelter my moaning typewriter
in fetal reverie it shifts within
bleeding through
ears come on the birth pangs
wings on fingertips unfold slowly fanning slightly panning
sound pounding
whir comfortingly nightmarish toil on relentless limbs
pages white with virginity become my ardent concubines
the gathering an anticipation
caressing one another
the method–a demon flower arrayed
choked by vines enervated whilst numb
swinging as he rides a panting beast besides the whore half beaten
the place–a desolate onslaught of rooms vacant and without windows
missing doors
lack of ceiling
shards of glass gleaming
cement floors
the beginning of an unholy trinity the two missing siblings and the mother of my cries
i become the irony in the future flux
the quiet holding of the breath
anonymity leaving lip smudges on a drinking glass
encouraging the naked neck
begging for a snap
cold enough to crack
you will be the heir
my prodigal son
murderer of thought
savior of a few
and
forgotten
with
fervency
∞
Forbidden Fruit
REMINGTON GRAVES
Three ghastly and grunting goons glided towards him giving him the googly eyes that promised pain and punishment. The leader of the punks pensive and poignant then shifting to pugilistic putrid ploys, whispered an archaic word into the dank distance between them.
He could almost hear his own heartbeat through the burning in his ears as the monstrous mits of the other two men pressed down on his shifting shoulders, one at each side. The leader twisted on his mustache as the lights above shined on his balding widows peak.
“They created that crime, man. They did!”
”What the hell you talking about, Bub? Don’t try and sweet talk to me now, you’re a goddamn degenerate.”
”They set me up-I swear. For television ratings, man. Honest. I was done with all that. Years and years and I hadn’t even thought about doing it. For the love of all that’s good fellas, you gotta believe me!”
”Grab him, Terry, and make sure he don’t scream—this ain’t gonna feel nothing nice.”
In the warden’s office Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida blared through cheap stereo speakers as the warden himself rubbed on his crotch while staring at a clothes catalogue for young girls, shifting in his cheap office chair.
With blood pouring from his mouth and nose, he kept saying, “ I swear….I swear…they placed it there…I was done with all of that…you gotta believe me…”
As they emptied his pockets and took off his shoes one of them finally asked, “So, what he do, Sonny? Must of been pretty nuts for you to ice the guy.”
”He ate an apple.”
”That’s it?!”
”You godless turd…that’s God’s forbidden fruit. I don’t care if them t.v. folk set him up or not. He walked into that park and saw that apple sitting on that bench and he took a bite. See, that’s why you heathen atheists are without morals. You fuckers are lucky there’s god-fearing people like us still left in the world. Now, dump the body in the laundry room and don’t forget to get my smokes from Grumpy on the way back to the lunchroom.”
”I never cared for apples man, have you?”
”Shit, I don’t know if I ever had one—last they were around, we were all kids. Kind of tasty-looking though in some of them old magazines they didn’t find during the Old Sweep.”
∞
Polo
REMINGTON GRAVES
A designer heel hanging from a woman’s toe, her leg out the window of a Ferrari Testarossa, sunbeams piercing through cool fog which hangs amid gnarled leafy limbs of Oak giants standing watch, horses neighing in the distance, and a man dressed to gun down Gatsby. An elite clubhouse beyond city limits. Men who belong, understand tradition, excellence, passion, a disdain for the tastelessness. Masculinity in the morass of artemisia and camomile, its initial burst of lushful green freshness with basil and thyme, cumin’s spicy bite and clever coriander cloves. At the beating heart is the strong conifer woods, parading with notes of patchouli, veviter and oak moss. The base consists of thyme, tobacco and the finest leather, which produces a titillating and delightful trail of intensity.
Polo is one of two initial fragrances by Ralph Lauren and was produces perfectly by Carlos Benaim in the year of 1978.
Hail Carlos Benaim!
∞
Right Before I Hit The Earth Like Lightning
REMINGTON GRAVES
The slithering and sordid screech had evoked a sweet surrender to the senses as I plummeted through a clustered expanse—a burning, cutting arrow had broken through and punctured my aching chest. Thin scarlet streams spewed forth from the splintered gash, cradled by my trembling hands, disappearing like spiraling ribbons into the vast blue sky above. Cloud after breaking cloud, I sped and crashed through, lancing cirrus after cirrustratus, cumulonimbus violently coughing as we came in contact. My bare feet feathered almost breaking ankles and contrasting the soft blue hues.
The arrow would stay. There was no need to force the inevitable. And as I began to choke on my blood, a beautiful and faint arrogance tingled through, beginning in the back of my neck and forcing my eyes to fluttering white. The grunting pains became a soft singing not unlike the sound of slow bending saws in a large hall.
My body, though quickly expiring as it fell fiercely, began to vibrate with a furtive fever. My loins a roaring lion, my hands letting go of the small stave, and fingers crawled like frenzied spiders across dip and crevice, stroking madly, digging, scratching, bloody clawing.
And somewhere between a puffy pretty cloud, I shot my own arrow, poisoned with powerful people never to be. Like webs writhing and disappearing towards the sun.
Right before I hit the earth like lightning.
∞