immoral senescence:

there is no swill to chase ‘way the images in my head.

i remember the future.

dead horse

yes.. i think i lost it somewhere near Dead Horse Point in Utah; at about an equal point i began listening to myself. i’ll have you know that i’m already inside my head, so it’s not really an argument of narcissism so much as an unforeseen spike in mental illness. it happened in three flashing waves— not much unlike a punch from both the east and the west, then east again. what was one to do? highway 191 was hacking at my hive.

i stopped shortly thereafter, with those bees of no afterlife stinging my scalp and hat, to ramble the barbed fence-line and use the viscous winds of june twenty-second for my convalescence. i prayed. i became a beggar. this boiling trough was a novel differentia for me. it was troublesome enough to sever my palms from cumulus ropes, but digging in the sand is messy, and it ain’t too sagacious. history will find me catching most breath, and hulling my carnal train back to a soft gait. a quick snap back to consciousness proved awry, as i soon unearthed that my brainbox was not to be trusted any longer. that’s fine. cherry merry. i’ll rely upon scenery and communication to gather myself and itself in preparation for waylay position. exotic peaches ostensibly and unjustly ripe. dismal tones and trekking consonants. ah, the american southwest. 

i sift through the integral bottles. los lunas. i seemed to have driven a thousand miles in my desperate rumination. i spoke: ‘saxophone fluffy navel.’ i wondered how long i had been drinking. ‘where’s otis?’ the second attempt is always shimmering silver. ‘upstairs’ she replies, ignoring my primordial laryngeal creak, grandly. i could only hope that she didn’t hear it.

there inkled, just before i left the comfort of companionship, that all sundries were off course; perhaps not entirely, but my sail surely had a slit through which wind could pass undisturbed, unharmed. i almost envied my own vicious conundrums. i s’posed that it’s all a game. then the sky turned to a single blue blanket where the plains grew flattest. one would surmise the sultry temperature. my windows disappeared timidly into locked doorways leading to a hellish state i couldn’t fathom greeting. i pined for the pines, for water and a spirit of flight.. a pulchritudinous breeze. it was most certainly too sticky for smokes, but i couldn’t resist.. paupers are machines of action; ‘sides, these palms don’t grasp their reverential seasons. so, sorrow, so long.

i awoke again beneath the lost midnight in Sallisaw, i exit interstate 40 to refuel and augment my acuminous awareness. please see cashier. this is it— the end— pecuniary vessel drained. i was forced to said it aloud: ‘i am not going to make it home.’ dead in oklahoma once more. no friends within a thousand miles.. no family closer than six-hundred. if only it were the other way around.. 

you all compromise my structure. 

i should be laughing at you

i am stuck in this piebald film; the jazz is naked, the exposure is nought. i walk on pedals, blooms assuage characters. ‘who is that peachy pinnacle?!’ i point and yelp. the birds are attentive to their responsive shadows (it is here that i picture, or realize, the vanity).  ’so where’s the wintry gaffer? the godfather!’ i pursue as guffaws ensue. i suppose that this is why i am the pauper. then i think to myself how i’ve never felt so well to see the sun go(ne). i count leaves— the lonely seas of green. i begin removing each black and sodden filter- respectful barnacles to my shoes- as the rain leaks in from above and below (that means i am sitting on trenchant stairs, for those who are autistic). by broken, i do not mean bifurcated— my virtual pecuniary remnants have become traitors to their trades; they’ve skipped town in some natal stage and will perpetually brush off letters to progenitors.

i drag my last smoke down my somatic gulley, galley, gullet, and stick it to the bottom of my shoe with prude rain.

‘why are you sitting so far away?’ she japes. furtive glance.. don’t forget to check her breasts.. ‘my attempts of initiation were pierced by frigid precipices, frozen shoulders, the ice of which has been sharpened by famished rain. i’m social.. i’d deplore a feline byname.’ the left elbow of her ruby slugs peaks as she walks across the porch to greet. my name’s emily. why are you here?’ she doesn’t understand. just.. humor yourself.. and her.. grip your eremitic neck. ‘have any beer left?’ i know this wasn’t what she’s asking.. keep it radiant.. ‘certainly.’ as she reaches, my erstwhile lucid bosh about her palate’s blanket was an understatement. it is symmetrical. symmetry is synonymous with pulchritude. i also surmise her sleeping around. 

i finish a whole can producing these facts. perhaps the birds and i share an affinity after all (for those who are autistic, it means that i now admit smugness). ‘i’m off to tiddle.. stay..’ while thrusting my finger at the (cushion, which is al) stairs. as i close the door to the inside, i see her walk from the gone field. fluorescent upstairs, where i sense the dancing of snares. i pick my target: pale olfactory images of white fire.. ‘do you smoke?’ she smiles and hands me the pack and a mirror, which appears to be falling apart in innocent flakes. ‘in a minute.. i’m going off for a smoke.’ she takes the reflection away, the enrapture stays at bay.

postscript: research the above lexicon all you want, but the allegory will never be clear. 

-jon-austin tharpe

it’s as exotic as you think you can be, but it doesn’t change what we already see.

plurality

once was i familiar with those ledges and speaking stairs.. even the loose hinges before that closed door just lackadaisically swung there. but now i know the potion- mud and piss-covered boots- as an erstwhile symphony beckons, caressingly, for its founder of solitude. i hear that the whispers and chatter don’t seem to stray from my brim, but rather pick at all my organs.. fashioning laughter by your whims. have i become a fool? the glistening water in the dark? an old corroded battery still trying to do its work? i tell it like it’s certain, yet pine is all i do.. i find that you’re a refugee— i’m the splinter in your boot.

Anonymous asked: did you know that it would show up for all to see?

no.. no.. but i do love you too.

melliferous-deactivated20110203 asked: did you know that i love you?

i suppose that i have the knowledge now.

i am a liar

there was a time when resistance was futile; now futility is irresistible. 

dearest sloth who just snorted a gag,

fuck sideways my intellect for a second. i’m going to take all those goddamned nails off the stairs (do you see them there?), use my sawzall to make thin slits beneath the stair boards, and pray to etherea that when you walk up or down said sabotaged flight, you fall through and sever both ankles, you giraffe. you heavy, heaving, long-tailed hippopotamus.

(can i citizenly arrest someone leaping from one heel to one toe on each step of our apartment staircase all day and night?).

lovely as ever, 

jon-austin

before i depart: this screen is killing all of you.

red hands, canyon fever

the phonebook is empty of persons to call (not that they’d be awoken by now, anyways-ruminate that fork), and only do i pine for simplicity; the clashing, the clanging, the chatter. alas, yet, i shall dine in my own amidst the fools of this morn gutted hollow.