Friday, April 26, 2013

Hades' Meadows

No such thing as afterlife
only that leprous odor of the afterdeath.

The two polar felons clash like the star detonating it one last time before the bang.
She takes advantage of his daze and short sightedness and throws him face first into the
body waste and the red earth.

The queen of Hades disrupts time with her catacomb eyes shifting her cold undecided hands and sends me to the house of torment for a spell. Hell for short and she tells me it’s for my own good.
Thrown in like a bare knuckle pugilist done for the night. Inside hell’s desiccated womb.
Hitting bottom face down, right there with the hot steamy shit. Her left heel pins my neck deep in the saucy dirt so’s I could not break free and she puts her hairy palms over my ears and listens to my calamities ~ and she sees what I mean.

Her eyes penetrate my soul stabbing the sky out of the blue,
shredding it to gray as they search for the virtue that I once wore.
And I look around once more. For old times sake.

Piles of flesh decomposing. Some whole others not but all of them moving or slithering; trying to get to the next carcass so they’d be up on things. A step up.
Overflowing rivers of blood refuse keep running and the stench of it all adheres like resin to my skin it seems. Pain and suffering echoes from all around.
Imps run and track the walls of the cavernous underworld with something that can only be described as an evil elegance. Clawing, digging into the rock. Breaking it off as they jump about. Taking care of malevolent things little evil fuckers gotta take care of.
Human sacrifices are burned alive but their skin never melts and they burn,
baby burn ~

Friday, April 19, 2013

Dirty Harry

So I drove to Westwood today to get some therapy done on my broken down wrist.
Second visit ~ 2nd time I almost got in a car accident.

Tires screeching under the Beast making a scene and I could feel about 20,000 eyeballs eyeballing me and some in the crowd roared and they whistled. Adrenaline sweating from my pale knuckles. Heart and ghost each ready w/a foot out the door.
You could smell the smoked rubber permeating the air.
She waves and mouths “Sorry”.
I mouth “Fuck off”.
Careless cunt!
I ought a kick you in your . . .

L.A. drivers  .  .  .  you kinda wanna smack em’ across the head with the large, flat palm of your hand ~

Clint Eastwood style.

Sept. 14, 2000 
Victor Millan