The Diaries of a Hitman

ok guys, here's a chunk of some poems I've been working with for awhile. I'll keep posting new ones every now and again.


The poet is he that hath thus: the nature and culpability of a peasant, attractive hands and a feminine mystique, his clothes shall be torn thus, impatient, like they too seek the sky; for he is the last shred of human dignity, and as such the highest, in which mightier words might not propound nor disgrace him of his pitiless candlelight; [I will fix thee, and find such a drape that those windows won’t seem so horrid this summer’s noon, (even though the birds on the bough are belching heat and excreting a slimy discharge);] tempted with the heavens, and even lingering in them as such or a short while, he will always be brought back to the hearth: suckling the language of remorse as it’s finest.

This gypsy strangler is a catalyst crawling up the church walls who keeps his lies on the prize to let stream his reincarnated dreams, (which are innumerable and illicit as stringy fingers)— and if you’ll hold my hand of course we can walk all after as in laughter, but what is it to say that volition is a superstition when the wet arrangements place the face of fear so quiet, so near, to test the tide and see if it’s really we who ride or just glide; like the glib delight of a forest sprite searching for sandstone all alone, all across the night. And even if the anxiety ridden Indian has the sexiest style this side of squaw creek, he’s still counting down the days until his smile will suffice: because those poor and rotten teeth wont wait for him to be a doctor or a dentist, just long enough for him to make it halfway home.
How do you see yourself saying to me that the only thing of suchness is subjectivity? Do not denigrate the perforated edge, or the alleged Zapatista constantly ensconced in steam, because we hate the people that pay us. And this prescription to polarity is as much an excuse to juice the jester of all his hard work as shirking his shift, since he’s got so much more to lift: and we’re never going to find any kind of discouragement in your broken bones littered all over our floor.

“This is an exposition of sexual energy
And it’s escalation to fruition,
The fantasies and the facets of its ascent,
And the earthquake that is silently lingering
In my loins, waiting like a lion.”

In this procession of poetry and possession, we have embarked beyond the bay as the laughing stock search for a more than heated fat of the lamb, (his fallow is fetid and diminished but getting better in this weather,) –us cutthroats are going broke because the sea doesn’t like our slice or own pilfering potential, but who’s to say what is worth the face value these days? And I don’t think I could impede upon the black steed’s Nietzschean breed by paying homage to Muhammad in this seminal surrender: we’re offering up Horace or the chorus to sell her the celluloid painting that’s just so particular about the oracular abominations of this admonition.

Remember apart my dreams, tear them to pieces on the even keel of an oven toasted butterfly; but bearing in mind all along that idea is only an echo towards differing jade rings ~ curling, burbling along bleary fingers, soaked in vermouth and promiscuity, like a mosquito that’s only uncertain it might not be able maintain the energy child who’s been cooking within her latent brain that’s already absorbed and porous to touch, but ready to penetrate or lose all its knowing; and the paraphernalia of childhood is like the circles on a wall of an ever so distorted that it seems semi-perturbed, or discarded. There was never a doubt in my mind that It didn’t need to be: because there are opposite sides on all fronts throughout this forward march.
The police are in my lungs, at my house and across the street, they are trying to take away that younger other who keeps coughing in aged years, who’s so juvenile that his identification greased into the wall of old Earl who works the night shift and doesn’t even see him, a glaring red herring sent straight from the future…black as the sinner torn but touched, never to be read again.
Every action between danger and don’t exercises it’s own initiative as an infinite remainder, because we were remembering déjà vu back to the days of undesignated and returned to the exit we just missed; forever and ever we are waiting to watch our minds all the way back to tomorrow in the art advent of all our aspects, commingling and interspersed amongst and amidst a midsection of maybe or hesitation, while a-waiting at the train station.
Mr. Black is a stinker banned because he’s always standing outside, asking for someone to buy him some smoke—that he might choke the mighty herd down into the ground; and I can’t tell him sorry for all the things I never said or couldn’t hear.

Euphoric and deprecating, that this same steel we once wore was of the same cause for faith as a militia; in our fascination at the masks of innovation we can no longer stare towards the ground, because there’s only one of us that’s going to make it out of this alive and He has no name, this truly survivor, because it will take all the courage in the world to reject this regency, but it smiles like a little child, our only and always. That which we work towards in and as the soul of every demonized believer ~ the one we would have faith in.