The Way She Sees
REMINGTON GRAVES
All hail the poet laureate lascivious no longer, laughing through his treacherous tears, raising his cowardly countenance to the heavens feigning a cinematic fortitude as heavy ivory keys stomp then sprinkle lightly from the hands of Satie. Amber, orange, brown, grey, and a watercolor smudge of said hues stroke violently across the path atop the backs of dying leaves whilst he rides his bicycle slowly from side to side, hands in his jacket pockets. Cosmosis The Cunt…O Frail Emperor…Lastius The Phirst…Exodeus…Leopold Doom…a rose by all these other names…with thorns that cut deep and pedals that caress with chaos, leaving a trail of bodies behind…bloomed too soon, Son Of The Morning…and then she asked me would I yes to say fuck yes my mountain goat and first I put my arms around her yes and drew her down to me so she could feel my cock and its perfume yes and her heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will fuck yes…and the traffic in the miles away provide the blanketing lie of silence, and his neck locking with tension for four minutes and thirty-three seconds, the phallus with its duplicity and divine ambivalence nestled between two warm pedaling skinny legs spent a lifetime hidden in pants, “Six Gnossienne No. 3 how did thou remember me if I had yet to be vomited forth from my mother’s hungering gash”? He whispers as tiny piano notes quiet and calm suddenly and violently jolt from the predatory jaws of the heavy keys from The Velvet Gentleman…and the glowing pearl playing the coquette behind the cold night clouds as the trail leads on shines her light upon old thoughts of neverwas…yes, she would exit the hot shower room with swirls of seducing steam behind her, yes, I did reach out to touch her dripping, wet body…nay, not with my small hand, but with the imagination the way a young boy imagines—the way, the only way he dares to dream—unseen…
It is the beginning of November—no, the end. I believe it’s a holiday today. The drones have left me empty streets to gobble down their dead birds and stuff themselves with all sorts of salty and fatty delights. I should be thankful for this gift.
I smile.
Through the dying greenery alongside the bike path, I smile. For I am also turning gray no longer green, and as I get older every holiday, nature with her violent brush…does stroke across this batter body…the way she sees fit…the way she sees art.
I laugh.
∞
The Dark Talons Of Two Worlds
REMINGTON GRAVES
The fire roared furtively and then sighed, feeding the men a hellish heat as they trembled in their soaking slumber sweat amid thick and tattered blankets—dusty, bloody fingernails digging into hard soil, aching toes twisted and lashing, throated gurgles and gnawing of tongues—silent begging muted screams. Tangled soaring trees insidiously standing afar and reaching for the black heavens, pointing to vanishing blinking stars, enciphering the lush language of listening, with wolves soft approaching pats upon the twigs and wintry pebbles. And there was waves of sludging sirens delivered by oscillating drones driven by devils, angered by angels, washing upon the shore of the cauterizing core from which they slept. But the pyre raged on and wailed and rumbled, snapped and popped…the lupine lopes approached in slopes…low, and slow in pulse.
And from the distant eyes of a silent predator pretending to be prey, could be seen the icy breath from writhing men, meeting the wolves and ascending gently and fading—ghosts—fighting to live…
Fighting to die.
Torn by the cold, dark talons of two worlds. The one you are certain of, the other, the one that awaits.
∞
Grace
“What’ll it be, friend?”
”Three fingers of Fiddich—straight.”
”Sure thing, stranger. Say, you ain’t from around here are you?” he said proudly pouring after reaching from the plenitude of liters and pints.
”No,” he replied rapidly.
”You know, pal, I got a couple of girls just down the road who got hips, slips and fingertips to make you yearn and burn”
”Not interested.”
”Okay, well, how about some laughers, poppers, squinters, squatters, bennies, zingers, frackers, jiggers—“
“Listen, barkeep, I simply want to sit here quietly and sip these spirits, if you don’t mind,” he moaned slowly as the gray in his hair shimmered in the mirror and his dove pendant gleamed behind the bartender. Ostensibly Oxforded and buttoned-up benign, he feigned forbearance and benevolence.
“Sure thing…,” he said catching the bird of prey on his chest, “I just know what it’s like. I used to be a man of the cloth once upon a lifetime ago. One can never truly become what the good book wants us to be, you know? Shit, I don’t think I ever met a person who didn’t fall short of the grace of—well, I’m preaching to the choir now, I reckon.”
“Please, please don’t kill us. We can double what he’s paying you, I’ll triple it. C’mon, just look at my kids, will ya?! They’re crying for god’s sake. Hurt us all you want, but leave our kids alone. They had nothing to do with this. Look at ‘em, please! They’re little angels—they never hurt anybody. Have a heart, we beg you. Just let them go. No! No! No!”
With a consuming and cogent cock of the wrist, he cradled the empty glass and catalyzed the eyes of the cute cunt at the end of the bar to sidewind her beautiful curves towards him sultry then sanguine.
”Buy me a drink, Preacher?
“Sure thing…” he said fishing for her name.
”Grace.”
∞
Notable Quotes
STEVEN STAPLETON
“I’ve been doing it for 22 years now, or whatever,” Stapleton reflects, “and no amount of adulation would change the music. It’s never worried me. I’m really happy in my life, I’ve got my goats, my lovely family, I’ve got everything that anybody could really want and I’ve also got my music. I’m a happy person. I make the music that I want to hear and that nobody else is making, a music that’s never really existed before.”
In The Nirvana Of This Nothingness
REMINGTON GRAVES
I think of past lovers.
I think of present lovers.
Old lovers still present.
Invisible ribbons of perfume caress my face as I speed in my motorcycle under the shadows of falling leaves—and there you are, in the lavender, in the orange blossoms, against the rose and the vanilla, with your toes in the cool creek, amongst the sunflowers, in the green fighting the fall.
Past lovers whimper in pain.
Present lovers blow kisses with all the warmth they can muster.
Forgotten lovers lay in bed half asleep reaching for my body.
The silence that is late night traffic crashes in waves against my spider infested apartment walls—they spin dead roaches, cradle still flies, broken leaves tremble amid the tangle, and here I am…aching back against the wall—typing these words, hoping they reach you…
In the past.
In the present.
In the nirvana of this nothingness.
∞