Such Stuff as Dreams...

Who was that black whistle for?
My neck has not stuck up from fear in Quite a while.
We count out friends.
Tabs paid.
Quite a while…
We waited in the lobby for names to be Called.
Nothing.
Not nobody wasn’t called.
Black tambourine.

-All Souls Day, 1972, Des Places, Macabre, Canary Islands.

Feel

I’ve thought about a lot of things.
That Indian ochre paints the horizon
And that dead cat hollered for a while before giving up.
It seems like life was a silly attempt.
We’re always trying to make something out of nothing,
You know.
I was almost totally, nearly, completely burnt out.
Yellow gazing.
Jaundice.
A really swell way to pass along the time,
Thinking about things all the while
Until that day my mind stopped hollering and I’d become mere maggot sport,
Buried out in the backyard in a bag.

- Correspondence of the patron, Hebert Alemus Jones, to B. D. Starling circa 1849, Peru, Indiana.

If things are forgotten,
It is as if they never existed.

Work and toil,
But keep eyes on your spoil.
All we want is to lay fine pipes in the Kitchens of Queens.

-bd starling

Does all my life settle down,
The trip has subsided and
Mine eyes,
You shit cad…
I was smacked out of my mind
Prior to this moment.
It’s funny.
I’m a shitty guy. Get out.
Leguish. Leftish.
Both tits.
Act as if the time is for us.
Hearts and minds.
Shitty bitches.
Smiles are lies for cheap, white folks.
Later.
Privilege.
Harbor.
Loved you once.
G’night….

You once asked me,
“How many people?”
“What?”
“… Have you been with?”
Well the answer is simple,
I just can’t recall.

………

What is women?
I am pig.
To them,
See bladder.
Splashing bled.
Your truth serum.
And she seemed so nice-ish.
Maybe I should just cut that shit off
And burrow in a shallow gravel.

The Ghey, the Hlight. Polish princess.
Truthiness.

Buenas, be us.

Good. Luck. To. Youz.

-simply Bones, simple Bones.

One day I will die
And crumble to dust.
No one to whisper my name,
Recall the things I did.
There won’t be a memory.
It will be quiet blades of grass,
Lulling the wind to sleep.
And how nice the silence will be…
The eternal abyss.
And so why should there be a care?
We are just space dust,
Lowly particles.
Live to die,
It is your birthright.

B D Starling. Kisses from below.

A prescribed type of motion
In this ocean
Of feelings seems bizarre.
Winning doesn’t feel as good,
Unless you’ve lost more.
So don’t be a sucker.
Don’t cry at night.
This is a long, hard
Ruthless fight.
:life

Holy Bones summoning the spirits of implicit attraction and success. Bitch.

If we hated ourselves more
We probably would have died a long time ago…
Too bad there is a thing called self pity