kagablog

The Rut.

Having been burned with the crucifix of hearts I left behind…the trail of loathers churned further my ashen instincts of a self-executer. The day began the mincing of anticipations…when all that which entailed a year at work would cease.
Worn-out workers were scheming for a rest in reposes of their own yearning. Dreams about excursion to far off friends…then, the clamor of the bilious guffaws in the mist of befriended colleagues. There was no going back on their vows for binges. Wheels were oiled in sheens of lusts gone wired… and when the coward’s love showed a bit after the applauses…
t’was like the mesmeric effect of a final act somewhere in the world. She wore black of a rapturous weaving motion, subtle fabric on the chin of my rowdy stomach, and the coward shriveled with agitated mirth of bones. A light glowing in his lungs, and that moon in her breast boiled his eyes for a death of a blissful kind.
He, after raucous farewells and winged-hugs for their souls…the twine love anomalies bungled into her hearse.
This vagabond she hitched found sleep an option, beckoning to lay for while in her tomb, on her sheets whitened perhaps for tears.

She left him for dreams…, storms in his belly calmed by sweeter water.
The kisses and his found color in grey mood. But, all had a price betokened their worth…he was awakened for yet another celebration later that eve. The shallow root of a desensitized hedonist agreed for him, and forth they traveled to his will’s end. Met with her blood and their autumn queens, a clan of known compatriots… in cold seclusions of a venue enhancing mysteries woven on each face. He was wrecked with graceful delights, child-like in his laughter and gestulation of fun. He cracked jokes over those implied upon him…the coward poetic in naïve romance of a company he never could afford. And night drew a knife… bladed moon hovering over rivers of tar at midnight.
He could not even climb into her high-raised automobile…they suggested he catch a ride from a lower wheeled other.
It is said that’s when a moaning wolf loomed from welters of his heart, he couldn’t tell birds from his lashes, eyes bubbled in rage intended for those he blamed.
How blame finds refuge in stupor of inebriation.
He was meant for this reckoning with his fate. Then, the poet was beat to shit.

Electric blood gushed from a split marked on the corner of his mouth. Tantric convulsions rose in him as the car’s door swayed ajar, taking hold of his fall…his colossal defeat slumped on cobbled paving. The woman’s vehicle shone headlights on his cowardice…weakly rising with mundane swings at his assailant. The sober brother of lover rains thick blows on his insults. Hooked fists jabbed on his rib-cage and phony struggle not steadied enough for impact. He swallows another backhand with black of blood dried by hot steam from his coaled skin.
‘I’ll kill you all…fucking freaks. You all are hitting me when drunk?’

‘You were not drunk when you insulted the blood who milked with me…she left the womb for me…you fucking downcast motherfucker. Loser…swine’
‘I’ll kill you…all, fuck you,’ the coward bellows as she stumbles over his crushed face. He reaches to reprimand her compassion, it hurts her…
‘Your fucking brother’s fucking me like this…you set him on me like a hound…fuck you wench.’
Brother hears further insults harangued at her, he charges to defend with death the revealed wounds traced on her brow.
She’s beckoning for an explanation… whilst
the coward howled in a method so beastly that neighbors were roused.
Blows unto his sagging head…the left shattering on stones, ring of swirling blood in cell debris. Helpless - now with a fear that was murder fuel…a fear for truth of his inanity. They pushed him on, sister still shielding his life with her breast. Ruined ear puffed in grape hue, disgusted eye ripened by blows that also choked his lung with asthmatic contractions. There he is, matter of insolent caste among the high-bloods who will never render to debasement. He recalls later that she towered over his bleeding face in copulative intent. She mounted this dying young and washed her tacit innards with semen infected with bile. He still cries murder at her…somehow, and incidentally that’s the story he passed out. Yes, he was…
Of martyrs and the dying young;
Callous wrecks on the dunes of dung…
Morgue-lips lisping in narratives betrayed,
And ogling the soul-manure decayed.

The cold garb sunders in these pails;
Eyes of moist utterances flayed with the un-gay…
Fluted ramblings quake innards, and
Streams of peril wade the wake he spent.
At this final seizure of thought, the petulant seer glances back upon his face parlor with juvenile confusion – intent on further mendacious reasons for exhibiting tendencies of self-excommunication from all that art him (be that in patricide – a perfidy towards his birth.)