Intuitive Improvisation

 Intuitive Improvisation

To type a sobering recollection of these prior nights subtle agents of memory would be a puzzling blackout of confusions. Filled with forgotten conversations taped on stat icy recorders, & Amass with empty bottles of liquor lifted through broken pockets, & A litter of strange letters that have little meaning to none but those enamored by these secret affairs of violence..... Raiding the medicine cabinets of those questionable merchants & guzzling gourds of gremlin wine! Oh how we'd ride off on vacant drives.Deranged by the grizzly tail of this tapering night. For these obsessions were a marriage of monstrosities! Aged as the folklore of a dream catcher caught in the shadow of a reoccurring flood of nightmares.As pools of virgin blood shiver in opal shades, & amidst these sullen tombs of junk naive travelers tread. For they were none but small time tourists dangling for a holiday in that full time trade. Pale in the line of a blue shot,& He was a veteran of that hustle you never turn back from. Sizzling in the spoon of a junkies superstitions. So as he handed me a crinkled hundred dollar bill he began to mutter like some ancient sage beholding opioid oracles, “Never blow a line with a singledollar bill” he ominously foreshadowed, “Or all that lies in toe is the bottom of a bottle of blues”...... Idle occupations!? We're the philosophers purging pantheons of paradigms on the disembodied couches of psychologists, & I raise my glass like the echo of a fallen hero heard throughout the mighty halls of Valhalla! What arrows of discord slay these sensibilities like the profane promises of wicked women. Rock bottom is that cheap solace of a bathroom floor floating with empty beer cans... That stolen stone! & She pounces like Lucifer's left hand cat. Purring ecstatically as she lies atop ole ruins rock.Her bright rosy cheeks ripe with the sun, Soft pink lips... A plucked rose bud. Young but witty to the ways of the world, smoking the earth in gardens of sunrise. Foraging for a pinch of coffee grinds to fill this spoon, a handful of half bit benzos to put back, & the loose lyrics of a horoscope to inspire... Revolt!..It's a flat of frivolities! Reeling shadowy films through a pocketed projector, but on that aged window sill I still can imagine that golden spider weaving silvery webs through the pale horns of the moon. Although the bite of intrigue betrays these senses that wander. For devotion is a childish dower of broken I dos, Pallid as that tragic figure once engraved in imaginings of alabaster..... Lament! Oh, how you stalk those languid hours in which candles dream. Stroking these familiar hands through a strangers hair, unconscious as the beckoning bark of this Pavlovian bell... & these chemical coats were reptilian... Lying dormant in the dusk of an eclipsing nature. As circles of judges stretch out in an embrace in these chaste gowns of purple, As father had always been an empty chair at the dining room table, but perhaps only the finger of lady justice could tip these damned scales! For not a gypsy could sow the hem of an unclaimed fortune... Blind spotted as to if these forked paths could lead to a ripening cocoon of hope or dangle in the noose of a tightening rope?! Oh house of pain... This asylum of memories is a ward reserved for the insane! But wise words insist it's merely a charade... a game, & Intangible are the vibrations in whence you empathize like the mirage of lineages woven by the nostalgia of widowed lips, but where lies the history amongst these mock streets... Those ghetto slums?! For this nation is but an infant swaddled in the arms of a premature passing of centuries, but aloof on a lone window pane I wildly muse of the romantic architecture adorning the majestic cities of cultures fallen... & that babe has been cast into a sea of doubts! Stripped bare as the jaded mystique of a promiscuous dancer, curious as to where they roam when the bars are no longer a light with the faint sound of trailing music & the cheerful laughter of boisterous crowds?! For when these cremations char this humorous husk, in the pit of a pagan pyre a cloudless portrait of azure shall glare by the light of a luminous pupil.....Pale in the hue of this dim constellation..