last of the degenerates

Throb. His jaw aches. The tooth – lower eleven, molar – threatens to shear off with every jarring step. Has been this way since Pablo left the flat, in fact. From the moment he obliterated the denier illusion on a slice so sweet it felt like a kiss. Pablo scratches his nose. Tugs on one

gangsters, recapping

Blame it on Tillie. The Pep Boys. A refugee from Asbury Park. Retired. Residing in the armpit of a tattooed driver in Santa Rosa. Or Dr. Josef Mengele. On vacation by the sea. I have not written a word while under the influence of lysergic acid diethylamide for quite some time. Since I was, twice,

fucking with the impenetrable

Like Vachel Lindsay – bowler hat traveling under ice – she approaches me on the stair. A complexion, too short in the kiln, the consistency of curdled cement: Django’s second guitar, left out in the rain. Two full strides to each one step. Fingers jabbing, red meat darting between bee-stung lips, to seek – pluck

prism of cruelty

The madwoman’s face reminds one more than a little of Antonin Artaud. Under a dyed black beehive. After the teeth came out. The Theatre of Cruelty has not been kind. Various assaults griddled one upon another like raw emotions uncongenially served. She has this habit of proferring her middle finger. On which is perched a

pablo, king of the juice

Sunday is the cleanest timefor slipping throughpicking at stitches, the damplaundry of mourning sheetsan afternoon drizzleHigh Tea and one last tipple. Sunday does the dirty. That first timeI was passing glassone eye openon a poorly fitted blind,called on twice to step outdoorsusher in an ambulancetwo undertakersNoah’s boys            measuring the stairs. All the bullfighters are pissedgoredwe never

part 11: the odds on evens, the juice

Overtaken by a weakness to bludgeon the house senseless with a royal flush of dubs, the stairwell echoes with the whisper of melodica. A scale of notes. Piping. From 10PM through 5, the disinfected steps slump wetly. A stomach emptied. Hosed down cobalt blue, tubercular rails faintly trembling. A distempered cough nudging metallic wrappers. A

part 10: exorcismus

The afternoon sky in my window darkens every day about four. The crows invite me to reconsider the uneven ground of our back lot. Undulating as over relics. Two or three are already out there having dined early. Or breakfasted late. Get out of Dodge, Pablo. Before they slip the cuffs on again. But I

part 9: scorpio rising

She rises late from bed, lidded irises chased by shadow. It is a little after 5PM. You listen to hot needles rain down on her skin. From your stool in the kitchen. The sound of water hissing. Gurgling. A spider walks over the simple meal you prepared for her while she was sleeping. You lift

part 8: spike

Saturday. You revisit “Cain’s Book“. Trocchi was in his mid-thirties, you have read, at the time of its completion. A relatively young man, still. Schooled in philosophy and the etiquette of parochial alliance. One has the sense his embracing the spike, the spoon – its attendant reliance on facilitators – was just as rooted in

part 7: sunday morning

It is Sunday morning. Again. What begins, innocuously enough, with coffee and cigarettes has me waving in coordinates less than one hour late later. Cell phone in hand. Leaning out over the geraniums on our balcony. Irene, Irene. Turbulent of eye. Cruelly inflicting Category 3 damage in the Caribbean where she first dabbled in tearing

part 6: dead beat defendant

EXTRACT: STATEMENT FOR THE DEFENCES38 (1) [FUC EWE 28 − 1]The submission ought not to be regarded, by any means, as an admission of guilt. Neither is it an unburdening of mitigating circumstances.My client contends that the preceding and following stand solely as a document. I would emphasize his determination, then, that it not be

part 5: interruptus

I press my nose into her belly and open my mouth. My nostrils filled with long dark hairs. Scented by musk. Damp not with arousal, but confinement. Her pants. Her jeans. Toil and walking.I open my eyes and look up at her, over her pubis. Her head lolls faraway atop a pale mountain, the graceful

part 4: a knife, a fork, a spoon

I fall out of bed on the flat of both feet and weave to the bathroom. The Shaving Mirror. One glance is sufficient to identify a welter of mistimed feints. A jumble of standing counts lurking just beneath the tissue thin skin. My eyes are ringed blue and black. The hair is an affront. I

part 3: pencil as scalpel

You’re going to regret this.What ?You’re going to regret this. I’m going to make you cry again.What ?Shut your fucking mouth, you prick.Two hours a week.Shut your fucking mouth. Your clothes have not been machine washed in close to five weeks. You rinse your underpants in the shower, you scrub and scrub, and hot water

part 2: a knife and a fork

At which point does mere bickering simmer into something more heated? At which point do raised voices – agitated, rattling tea-cups – boil over into something actionable?He said things. She said things.He did not want her to leave with their baby.He did not pause to consult a barometer, let alone measure degree. She is present

part 1: out of a mouth, a dark crocus spills

Previously: The consensus – propagated, largely, by a small tribe of transplanted New Yorkers: Myers, up to his elbows in mimeographed scribblings, the purpled stain of off-set litho; Hell, not Rimbaud, to Miller’s Verlaine – was that the contagion spread exponentially from an infected locus on the Bowery. Between 1974 and 6. The Gorbals and