January 2005 / Volume VI / Issue I
Ray Cuernava

Requiem for the Dearly Departed

the whores on champagne avenue cursed at me as i glanced from side
to side. going to the store. buy some cigs. rent me a tux with red
writing and neon nerves. better pick up a six pack and wonder
through the nightingale briar patch cathedral printed next to my
rambling forgotten sense. because i got one hell to live and play
in. a hell to a thief that caught me against a fence watching
corporate bullshit and trimmings of that feeling when i want to
curl up with the telephone and wish i was on the beach. and talk to
you. and die. and live. in a moment of fucked up glee. tired of the
fakeside show that plays out for the rest of my life. laughing at
how nothing makes sense. but isnt that the nature of the universe.
im tired of masks. peal the layers, consequential lies, and tell me
the truth about the infatuated moment when i was born to hate the
reservation. and love the last exit to brooklyn. drunken tears. a
generation of rotten saints. a generation of burning mountains.
gypsy transvestites sucking cock on the steppe. in thongs. little
ass hairs poking out from their thighs, smoking blunts laced with
codeine. Billy walked over to the juke box and put a quarter into
the slot. "i put a spell on you, because your mine" "you better
watch out, i aint lyin" " i dont want none of your foolin around" "
whooooa" talk to me of religious revelations into the minds of
ghetto addicts. union chiefs drinking beer out of kegs. foolin
around. socking it to nineteen fifty syndrome billy wilder montage
death at the hands of bandits. as billy posed in a greek form, like
venus de milo of the bar. a whiskey dionysus. with broken wrists.
walking slowly along the parkay floor. watching a midget in a red
suit. live and die in la. rolling down rodeo. hair blowing in the
wind. a kee lo under the seat. eating the pussy of poetry. cuming
on my mouth. keep driving. dont pull over.
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