Friday, March 22, 2013
It’s got me spooked off my heels.
It’s the goose bumps on my cheeks. On my arms.
The blood tingles. The pin pricks jumping under my skin.
The feeling someone’s there but no one is.
Like right now there’s a tingle on my neck or is it a loose thread off my t-shirt?
A swipe at my sense of center keeps me discomposed.
This empty house. A negative stir. Desperation to kill for.
I stutter when I type or is it the caffeine in my eyes?
On my tongue.
Someone let a bug in the house!
Gotta kill the devil. The white devil. Ho! How’d that slip out?
Maybe not a devil say the neighbors across the stairs but a lonesome imp I agree.
A playful son of a bitch running around in my home laying down a bogus shadow.
(Don’t get angry with me ~ I write what it is.)
This is what I felt when I hit the first key and when this . . . thing was slapping me insane.
Now . . . dissipation. It’s gone . . . and the air feels like it was never there. Again, an empty house but it feels different this time. More at ease. Maybe it was just a running phase.
Great timing too ‘cause my woman just got home.
Posted by milan_millan at 10:58 PM
Big full moon rising supersonic fast leaving your desiccated stomach hung low on the ground in the middle of the little big custard horn.
Rising t’rrifically drunk w/the Mexican chivas revolutionaries and their shiny well-groomed satellites skimming a desperate whistle for the quick payola and a Castro cigar.
going full outta sight to fill up a hollow scoop in near space where I can be alone for a while. Where I can hover in pagan magnitude inside a yellow t-cup w/a fastened vibration and a Tommy Lee drum solo.
Orbiting hawkeye of the goddess Diamonijk in synchronous line w/the #2 pencil axis made of wrinkled faux teak. In line w/the bent nickels n dirty dimes scratching the Cadillac paint off an elated 90° compass wink.
Directing the cosmonauts w/an abandoned horizon on their melodramatic way out
their sobering and lonesome hatches.
Giving them sample size freebies of Kazakh vodka so they’ll have fresh stories to rehash
Black market cigarettes.
Orbiting within spitting range of the rose garden neighborettes tanning naked for the ca$hola and the petrified llamas imitating the Peruvian spit.
Hawkeye on the Gemini custard like I know nemesis does to me.
Hawkeye oxygen frozen to the marvelous stare
and the art form T . . .
Posted by milan_millan at 1:35 PM
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
The gaseous rush.
The rotten, sulfurous-egg pucker burner.
The secret farts left hanging behind in camouflage pockets like potent mines laying in wait to swallow up some poor unfortunate tit as he walks by with his beat on and inhales them and forces his throat to gag.
My dad was one of these sick fuckers that would silently lay fart mines in supermarket aisles, especially the freezer section, (so they’ll keep)
Whoever sniffed it probably deserved it.
And that’s that.
You know, I’ve always questioned the logic behind that statement but,
what the fuck. I thought the shit was funny anyhow. Simple minded and funny.
Watching people’s faces pucker up n frown and go whooo! as they smelt the exhausted bacteria in the egg.
That’s that he said.
Posted by milan_millan at 11:31 PM
Saturday, March 9, 2013
So a few months back in the middle of summertime I was low on puff so I called up Jose in Rosecrans to score some of that sweet bud he was holding on the side.
No problem bro he says.
Come on down.
Slowly coming down many stories off my forgetful high ~ glassing my head on straight I grabbed my keys and some cash and drove the Beast w/ass fire speed down the 405. Beast is the scratched up, blue on blue '72 Nova – lookin’ cool though.
Blasting the Doors ~ Strange Days . . .
Bunch of wavering fuckheads out on the road tonight not willing to get committed to the punch of the cock. Barbed wire freeway signs ~ impossible graffiti overpass ~ this yellow street light barely survives but I’m already gone in my Chevy.
LAX planes fly overhead coming back hoping to see it as they left it. Casino on the roof top calling it overtime ~ homeless and dignity break open the wine.
Drug deal going down at 7:00 p.m. right after little league. Seventy miles an hour. Coming up quick on his pad.
So I get there and I slowly and inconspicuously roll up one house past his. I shut the Beast down and I go inside looking over my shoulder on the way in. He’s bench pressing weights right in the middle of his living room; finishing up a set he was, one sofa, one tv, and one incline bench press machine.
How ya livin' baby?, he says to me.
"Cool man, cool."
You got here fast, here . . . have a hit. ~ and he hands me a glass pipe.
Posted by milan_millan at 2:47 AM
Friday, March 1, 2013
So I was watching tv and Mike Tyson was sitting in front of a panel of distinguished shitheads pleading his case that he was not a disturbed ear biting bulldog like we all knew he was. Keeping his fingers x-ed that they'd reinstate his supplicant ass. Ali was there, trembling that shake that’s trapped him so well.
Float like a butterfly ~ Sting like a bee
The prettiest black man in his hey day ~
kicked everybody's ass except for a handful and ugly Spinks in ‘78.
There’s that famous picture of him standing over Sonny Liston bitching him down; but now-a-days the tremors got him paying his dues for being the greatest.
Magic was there too showing his support for that lisping piece of shit.
And the Peppers sang ~
does anybody want some Magic Johnson?
And then . . . just my dumb-fucking luck,
Tyson speaks ~
with that little annoying screwed up voice he has
Look, I fucked up.
I . . . I know I fucked up . . .
. . . I mean . . .
and he went on with that miniscule pussy willow voice of his
and the Nevada Athletic Commission went nuts for it and opened up their arms 4 to 1
and said welcome home son but don’t make us look bad
and he got reinstated
and they were all happy except for me and the 1.
We were ready for the straight-jackets.
Posted by milan_millan at 7:32 PM