Dead Beat
-Last week of October-
Sittin’ on a leaning bench against a left tilting post-hunter S.
top sun photovoltaic green solar cell lamp on Cons-egress,
Aah-Ben-new, ferblocks arso sowth of the
Stay-it Cap-pee-tall Bill-ding sits an old man
who thinks he is still younger than thirty.
The old man is wearing steely gray strands
of hair-over blue collared work shirt,
jeans drywell worn out bottom topped-out
in dirt-slick Red-Wing non-union work boots.
Overall a pretty good look foray-bum
without a smoke to hiss name.
He has long pointy Allen Ginsberg hands
that nervously and continuously turn
the Ann also Rand pages of a dark
cheap blue fie-dolla-journal with lines,
onlines, of scragglie-scrawlie scribble-script
from an ex-tree’-super-duper fine punt-bald-pount pæn.
One limp-wristed Ginsberg hand is currently holding
this self-same pæn, while the other, somewhat dainty hand,
with overly long yellowed nails,
thumbs thru the tepid tissues of ledger leaf
as the jaundiced handowner looks up with his
2% milk-fat lipid pale blue eyes
as the fingers continuing to stroll
unconsciously down the imaginary jelly-roll lane
of the collective racial mass memory storage retaining area.
“Hey brother,”
The old man rumbles out raspilly over fibrous strands
of nicotine-filigreed mucus, to a young pauser passing too slowly by.
“Spare a square?”
Young hand reaches into the over-priced light blue
cool Arrow shirt pocket and pulls out a nearly empty
pack of yellow injuns, that he hands to the old man.
“These do?”
“Sure man, thanks., ’preciate it.”
A Ginsburg hand fondles the small white phallic symbol
rolling it back and forth between two fingers
feeling the tobacco crumple under the pressure
then tamp it several times
before bringing it to the thin old man lips
that are waiting to milk it;
like venom is milked
from poisonous snakes.
As the open flame ignites the tip:
he sucks hard and extracts the combustible offering.
The old man draws deep
the nick-‘O’-teen laced smoke
with a sigh, a sound that seems to echo
out of some ancient cadaverous abyss.
Straightly, Cool Arrow asks,
“What’s in the book?”
“This man? Just a little belles-lettres on beat.”
“Really? You a writer?’
“Sorta. I was almost famous once.
Got my brain bashed by a bottle of wine,
that Neal Cassady hit me with.”
“Wow, what happened?”
“Got five stitches man.”
“No, I mean, why did he do it.”
“Oh, I said that some stuff he wanted me to read,
by his boyfriend Kerouac’s sucked!”
“Man,” spurts Cool Arrow,
“You must be ancient,
that was like fifty years ago?”
Youth! bringing on the feeling of sudden tiredness.
The old man’s head nods in a non-committed
committal way of a beadle.
His attention turns back to his
well worn dark blue fie-dolla journal.
Cool Arrow, unaware of being dismissed,
wonders off in a Ritalin deficiency haze
thinking of strong coffee,
long nylon’d legs,
painted pouty lips,
and augmented udders.
He is a child of this new age:
artificial doesn’t bother him.
He was suckled on it.
-One week latter Cool Arrow, reading the daily rag-
“Unknown man remains hanging from tree on walking trail between
town-lake and the “Austin-American-Statesman” building for three days.
Witnesses said they thought it was a Halloween prank.
Several people thought it was the most life-like display
they had ever seen and sure to win first place.
“Yes,” said one elderly woman,
“Even down to that God-awful smell. V-e-r-y Authentic.”
The only possession found was a small dark blue journal book.
The writing in which was mostly unintelligible and gave no clue
as to the man’s identity. Anyone who might know the identity
of this individual is asked to please contact the city police.”
Cool Arrow thought, “Wow, I wonder if he started feeling bad about dissing Kerouac?”
–Erthona
©2007-2015
OK, that wasn't exactly about suicide. It had a suicide i it, but it was not talking about suicide, so here's one that is for sure.
My Sewercide
In the John,
three sheets to the wind
head in the bowl
drowning.
Not that you care.
–Erthona
©2015
I got crimson in there. (edit, tectak)
