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Ocho de Verde

gagging reflexes possessed as the man i am eats those live cockroaches chitinous shells attached to their backs… dribbling from the chin… we eat our dumb, the silent majority paying homage to the flimflam man in His dreadful stays of thought, improvised on a whim to make the others squinch in their seats with disgust… a casual assuage most tormented… spinning retards into fits with a subtle sullen glamor from the hands of the fish, bleeding and wounded as the blood hits your lips, and the charity as you put your brother down so they would not have to live through the shame… these filthy things are not meant for sweeping gestures, like bugs under skin we crawl and cause itches, but there are no willing ones to scratch us all… although time might forgive us our sins and transgressions, there is no matter always the immediate while still living by no means easily, but most try to think a few steps ahead in the greater attrition rate of it all at once….that, we might wager, is the everything of existence douching us in the faces with an antique reverence for the aging crusty distractions… the dust and flour gently falling off the features as it cakes to all the little hairs along the lashes and brow ridge, the little caption reading above the head is a quotation of lyrics, and then the full throttle punch in the guts just under the ribcage… the heart and murk lies buried just as deep as the rest of the instincts, scraping the bottom of the barrel to dredge the best little bits up as the brains paint the ceiling, but is the exposure all lost to that final expulsion into the air… the fire that was singing and ringing between the ears just moments ago as the smoke rolls out above, and the body drops to the floor… eight green painted fingernails as the coroner zips the bag closed, the room is cold and the scars are permanent as lights are turned dark, and there is nothing left but thoughts to abide while the soul rests distant but still alight… was there ever really anything left?… or was it all just a series of facts?… the poetry translated through a tormented scripture… no, just the repressed buttons and switches and levers that resist the finger, we down play the mutant suffering motherfucker unaware… off-street it all adds up to the oddest lots you could ever care to throw in with, those distinct faces, resonant with a stroke of luck, the fateful fucked-up shindig we convince ourselves is a hell… do we deserve to feel this gastric suck, that enslaves the ego to supervise and undertake, the critical measure to break down and digest the deceptive replays of memory?… the storage space to think our own ways into existence from afar, the self shooting from the stars doesn’t have to be there, but the rest of it shall always remain there inside that planet over there… the burial backwards, the concept of old age at the present as the present happens to be middle age, and then looking back into a past of vague childhood woes… the youthful college daze before this working life, all the weirdness attached to new experiences as the memories steer toward the overactive center called home then, but even further still we traverse the hike into the winters and summers of budding self-discovery… where do we go that we never seek?…