[mildewkellison]

In halls that feel haunted at night, sleep comes early in pink handcuffs sloshing around heavy lidded pathos.  Gulping down water filtered from steel wool and losing the footing of the fruithills that have become a swampland of houses and road and cut away history.  A new record is being written, one that will look back upon in shame and disgust and they’ll wonder, “my god what have we done?!”  Each clump of shit dropping dew in the cold oak morning, I can still smell them in comfort, but then I hear a car coming and am dispassionate about living and cry inside my mind about time.  No one’s around anymore, I left them away and I set the sleeping books alight only to have them slosh up like a waterlogged field of turf.  Gluggling and glooping, slopping and crisping in the overheated vehicle, shining black vinyl with ice cream stains and coffee rings.  A sticky sickness looking out the slightly dirty windshield at living creatures schmoozing by in their California delighted way.  Just so damn cool they are, and not a moment too soon to be too proud and they celebrity lives in each specking brain they shine from their eyes their insolent and haughty suavity.

San Francisco lights buzzing and neon so close up.  I saw barf in from of Naan n Curry a technicolor dreamslaw in the cold tones of the night surrounding.  Grays, blacks, purple blues and the outstanding ochres of cigarette butts and a safety orange puffy jacket plucking with dirty blackened hands,  Sticks are crude tools of the trade and a glass stem for five dollars wrapped in newspaper. The bodegas around the tenderest of knobs have Chore Boy by the register.  And possibly selling crack cocaine from the upper echelons.  I feel old, but not yet so.  Out of touch still, even more so.  Aged by fucks, death by the clumps, the group of Js a holy set of apostles in the gilded California culture.  I think of the Venn diagram of bros in one and hipsters in another, the connecting cunt shape is Internet Culture.  The bummy cools are on tracks still and academia is still entrapped in slack.  Lackluster motions and backwater notions, the politics of identity and the elevation of the individual to the highest of preciousness.  Don’t say anything on account of...

Don’t be anything without account of....

Don’t live anything on account of...

Hey, just relax man, it’s all good, it is what it is, and other phrases of negation.  They love their Playstation....

bleep, bleep, bloop, hitting buttons and using cheat codes with sunclassics on 

in the smoky room of the suburban collegiate.  Sick, bro.

Mega twang.     

[mildewkellison]

On a dead place lumped plaps 

slumped in the corner of the chicklet rooms of 

Europe in the 1990s, so much grey exploded from imploded youth who went and done got a papers and made a choice, choosed to booze and cruise 

and allot slots for tempted folk, suspenders slappin greeting guffaw 

at the local band with dollar sign sack.  Swift enchantment then again left slumpin’ stop going down there to that loaded road.  It just pulling the trigger

when once youd jerked off o n the feces in the sadsack morning cigarette and plots, wrestled out of your hands like a slippery fish first day of mongering

a lifetime to look forward to in complete open air market scents and sights and an infinite allowance of everything that is not golden and is not gilded either.  It once slooped and slopped out so easlity with the aid of mecidinces and tonics, jimmied up into bigrigs and shot off into spaceface.  A nod to the ol gang in faux poetic nights we were laided with tale aching for reaching to the clear cold nightsky.  I remember MacSkin told me he ate the psilocybin and waled through the oak woodlands in the night, listening to diamond dogs and having some kinds of epiphanies...  We all did likewise in other places and also the same place and other magics and no magic and dark magics and the loss of magic as inevitable talk of housing boom comes to full circle discussion once again.  So slendered and blindered without being able to drive at four in the morning and trying so hard to not try so hard and failing so easily and trying to be the stupid vessel and just what kind of hearted attempts are they? are these are you giving to the universe everything you possibly can until you are fried and crispy then soggy and slappy flabby slapped into bed and cloths and movement and makings of foods of whatwhoknows what its made from anymore and whats in it and why cant i shit normally and why does the kinfolk freak and rock and forth in the morning and lech at my love and made stressful the fucking goodgoddamned day...

This in just one time of one place and space and there are others just so slightly altered and those so greatly altered and not spoen of like some out of time faux-etics, blah bletch, there is no more images but the once recycled by the ones making them rebuilded in some other space place of space face and shapes laced with grace let displace the bleary painful breaks that weigh heafty fatty gloppy blinding and slay to chase a tinfoil dragon and then walk away weak still shitting in a home depot bucket in the dark with dogs and rats and rain in a hungry hollow, hungry and reading Hamsens Hunger and wanting to eat your arm and wanting to eat your blood when you are sickly in the sick town in a likely sick state all to earnest and not enough ability to rack ‘em up and break balls.  Chaos and darkness bring to light new forms, once said somewhere, and that is where I will go.        

[mildewkellison]

without stopping

Frothing at the bricks with horses giving me the dead Beverly Hills stare

the waiting room full of pouty puss-y lips and broken nose tips.

Next, they called, and I was revolted at the race against time 

to grope the gory glamour of gaiety in glossy grievance.  Golly, dad

can you teach me to fuck anything that moves?

ok son, be a scum and cum, cum, cum on all you can

and its yours

blow thew seed and spread decay through bad breath and turgid loaves of lies

all neatly packaged, the sausage meat of the millennium.

Bling, clink, crack, snackle, a sassty tasty treat to eat teets and breathe 

deep

deep

deeper into and onto and around and we need more comprehensive accounts

we need comprehensive documents 

we need computers we need compiler, compulsory and clammy

hands campy mans

bland 

and blamange and blame me for the taking of metaphorical hostages 

and moving them and shaking them and blaming women and men and myself

for my lack of emotional wealth

died with the teenage jovial take

the half moon eyes

the piss take

the pie bake

the fake stake

let it play long time

let it blow and deflate and become the business

sweat the business

and bequeath bestial bosoms to the aged chests of the mind 

in the developed mountains laid flat and fat

with houses carbohydrates and synthetic synapses 

giving off so much man made medicine 

and the cardboard facade of emotional quality.

Gleamin and steamin like shit in the sun.   

[mildewkellison]

what stench of ice cream scooped brains

Phew!  From the wayback dinosaur bedsheets

yellowed with kindness and frothing with anxiety

Dripping sweat sweetly 

waiting on the luncheon crowd

while the co-workers stood 

like Renaissance paintings 

and laughed the California 

sickly sick, bro

vocal fry of superiority

white, white baby

do-do-do-da-da-do-do

ka-stchh drum machine 

half shit pants fart of a being

I croaked in the swamp

Tule bop.

Kidz plop at the table o’clock i cut off the cock and wrapped it around

your neck like a scarf and you barfed in excitement and the trifling 

pig sniffling truffling ruffled into the legendary 

world after word you blanking plank of lowdown lost imagery showdown

red desert dessert 

glowing glorious jello and creams gleaming in the sheens 

of the great 1960s Western picnic

yellowed teeth like the bedsheets.

the dapperly dressed dinosaurs danced.

[mildewkellison]

Total clump falling back into the reality shadow, looking back, wondering about shit and a horse with the shining coat, it has been at least six years now in the thick of reality again banging heads with the sounds of the sharp trite on gurgling in the grass.  The time I did it off a phone in the park, kids at play.  You sonofabitch, stolen souls and ripe melons of garbage exploding with unused joy that was snatched up once in the grimy wading pool.  Time.  There is no recording there is no notches in Natches, there is only a batch of brains shaking in the California sunlight, while the valley subduction is the anorexic, life support victim that humanity spread cheeks like pornographic literature where table legs gave hard ons and the tablecloth prevented it.  Shaky knee drop, shaky ski slope, shaky memory slope, shaky groping for, what can I talk about?  what can I make a picture of? when did it become all about you? maybe when all that was being given away was just walked away and walked upon like a sleeping shit van winkle at the wheel.  Tired old man at 19, tired young man at 34, tired without injection, tired without exception.  Whose California is this?  Bye sleepy town without untread ground and a corny, modern and flat with ignorance for everything that has occurred in the plane of same belching boredom scumbags ten cents a piece, of shit.  

Blarch, blech, wretch in the autumn side of the creek walking to find the back in time sights, and when then the poetry teacher of the community college said I was trying to be poetic.  I swam on the team and rode the Disneyland tram and then saw the Yosemite Disneyland dancing diet coke clusterfuck when

when

when 

there then when earlier i left a message and was all sick and drunk and sending stupid emails to stupid people and crazed waltzing splashing horseshit suburbanite cool guys flailing with a fuck.  Stealing stolen stole mink skink standing snatch on two legs wobble back home wholesome one.  Blow someone with blue suede shoes.  Golden tooth smile and bear paw smack.  Sweet Bonnie Brown came from vale with fruits.  Scoop scoop scoop and the school hoop will not allow for extra hope, just taking the time until there will be something......  maybe, but yeas probably not.  SHerrrrrf heest, crussstt, cree, then cool digital airhorns... for them kids..

[mildewkellison]

All those fucked dark alleyways piled high with trash and wetness, old food and paper.  Those dark, blankwalled corners and endless nights in nowhere, shuttered days in one room.  Pacing and pacing sick and tired, unable to sleep.  Shaking, aching, breaking and broken, shut down and blown out.  Once wired and sleepy, unable to sit still, but blast after blast after shattering blast to the knees to the head to the heart to the brain to the soul to the guts.  Roll 

roll

roll

drool

roll

Relegated to wood planks and suburbanights.  Relegated to restart and running, eclipse blocking, shading the eyes from blinding, blech, retch

dont want to run down that road again, anymore.  The dead run is dead.  

fucking goddamn you, goddamn you all, 

privileged go between somewhere safe, sad sack shit van plucked just for what.  Again sad sack again, blaming, enraged for nothing

walking walking walking walking walking walking

hush now though, your shaking man.  Phew, sheesh, hopefully I can still get back to the Sierra.  Lest it be developed by now.  

[mildewkellison]

pacman fever

I am not one to spout my political beliefs as I am usually resigned to explain my disdain for our two party system that keeps our people divided and at in constant cold civil war.  But things have escalated these last four years with the presidency of one Donald Trump.  This person is a wretched and self interested sack of leather-ed flesh.  There has been one issue after another as he slowly dismantles our current democracy in place of some kind of authoritarianism that threatens to dowse the barely flickering flame of our freedoms and liberties.  Although I do believe our systems our broken, it is for the reasons of self interest, corporate interference, and a lack of knowledge and basic understanding of what it means to be human and what is means to be American.  We are in a scary, depressing, and all around wrought with shit times.  “May you live in interesting times” is a fucking joke.  These are bullshit times covered in a thin gold leaf.  The Neo-Gilded Age lives on.  Gentrification, globalization, homogenization.  The new trinity of America.  One could of course go the route my monologue stated to go and begin to blame one person of one “political party”, it is the whole package.  The pitting of left and right, the constant crack cocaine processes of decision:  choices cooked down to “base” and much to strong for consumption.  Selections from “The Music Man” play.  Maestro’ed along, face in phone, masturbating furiously over the likes on your social media as the sources of oxygen burn to the ground; the military prepares operations.   

[mildewkellison]

Hack away loafchild.  Crap away sweating guy in suit and white hair.  Jostling pants and combing hair back with hand, a sigh of relief as intestine gives way.  A sad quiet dump in the building full of files, cabinets, and electronics.  Sleepy generic view in soft light, low, poorly.  High shadows and sterile smells while lights of nondescript vehicles curve along wall.  Pastoral and abstract scenes line light up along the way.  garbage filling space filling space outside pushed like object into fat.  The atmosphere is thick with the caloric deposits of human consumption and waste.  many clumps around, many time piles around, many nothing.   

[mildewkellison]

but this is what we do

we sit in the room

buzzin fly

and we say we are living but check it out just sitting in the room

garage, make colors, back to room

eyes shut and there really isnt sleeping just sitting in the room

big guy had it all figured out then he got the 1990s reality check 

there was so many commercial breaks

just wanna sit in the room

dont want to see the machines gleaming under the Sierra

the dirt piles among the oaks crammed together like a city of trees 

within a suburb of disease

[mildewkellison]

Turf, turf, tuuuurrrrrfffff, straight turf.  Straight sadsack all day I cant believe its already May.  The abridged version is loaded and loaded in the suburban room, with the dust mites on their tablets taking video for their social media.  Jump on the screen and run up the phone bill, the date plan is poor, and images disappeared with the needle.  A flight of fancy was all it was, and blah and the narrative broke down, the narrative broke down, down, the narration voice was soothing and the narrative broke down.  The Smellison go round broke down.  The empty light was full of shit and the contrived images have been soaked up by documents and bygone lackluster moments that are so fucking faded grey that there is no bother in even bothering to bother with them anymore.  Its just me and you kid.  Its just me and the blues, me and the virus, and me and the beef, me and the bee, the meats and me...  at least there is no comparing people to substances and there is no substance to compare with people.  They are on hugs, they are eating hugs and giving hugs and selling hugs, while all the drugs sit in the cabinet.  Ne’er do wells be damned, ham it up kid.  Laugh it up, laughed it up yup when i thought kerouac was kool, but he was just a flaming homophobe in disguise of lumberjack man.  Pancake batter images.  Lumbersaur, lumbering oaf fucked his toe while being jack ginsberg while shooting burroughs ashes into his dick.  Oh so cool ,bruh, lets go on tiktok and make a cool video.  Lets take pictures of ourselves all day and lets be about us with actually being about anything real, lest we not be the center of it all, Humanism gone awry.  Moss gone mad, and parasites with sports cars.

[mildewkellison]

As i watched the rest fall into worlds of trolls

of watching, deeply seething concern concentrated

of waiting and hoping while the clock flashes 12:00

sneaking and worrying about everything but yourself

busy crying and dying in the midst of chillcentric disneyland of USA

i got selfish and selfless in the shabby attempt for balance

I had finally escaped the opium den

the trap hose

even the doctors office and woke up facing the mountains once again

in the writhing thriving suburban mess that was conceived right under my nose

there it was in all its thrashing gnashing glory day and night as I myself worried and wondered

the idea was essential and the conveyance was essential and the knowing that there was never to be an idea to convey all the known and unknown in a single moment or some kind of singular image or wording clump.  fucked it all up trying too hard to be existential.  Lost the plot trying to squeeze sunglasses from shit.

Sunclassic.

Gleaming in the trite phrase the gullible salesman gulped and gathered his goods for the next home to visit.  There wasnt a single item in that box he was going to sell and the fuck knew it.  He only wanted to ask questions of the homeowner and try to guess what kind of person they were.  He was always right and he knew he was the next prophet to be non estimated and to be written on the holy walls of the infinite internet by the millions of mulling masses in their chemical nests and groovy gulch glum groupfuck glee

on their faces

on their knees

in the outmost reaches of every state 

America is watery.

[mildewkellison]

hack kellison

At it again tossing the shit hat into the ring trying to box out of the cardboard cutout that already has dotted line perforations but still cant bust through

getting spammed and jammed and fogged and bogged.

not sure if the saw is hacking away the shit or brain

quark soul still in the soundless night 

light pollution bright ass reaming the edge of the sliver of tule swamp

bones of bears and elk deep under the agriculture

the loam, the silt, the dusty ass mouth of the cancerous human

excuses excuses

[mildewkellison]

another digression

a million stomach aches

a million times the same words over and over and over 

piling on top of each other like a bad orgy

fake orgasms and questionable intents abound

as i struggle to escape.  Its damned near impossible

constantly waking up at the witching hour.

 its not far behind

but as the edge of the valley fills up

writhing vehicles in the snaking intestines of the CA roadways

one person riding the ass of another who has many car lengths in front of them not exceeding the speed limit or purposefully riding just below as to 

send that ass rider into a pure ecstatic rage filled with all the hate of the day

the inability to speak up at work

powerless to your family and a joke in the universe

behind that wheel is where only the cowardly berate and become brave

the precursor to the keyboard warrior, the troll, hiding behind the screen

but in the vehicle, because it is there in the plain sad light of day,

once one is called out, oh fuck, best ye be prepared to either step up 

or

be butt fucked, once again.

cowering quickly away as the seething face threatens your faux bravery

run home 

hide

this is the war of suburban California

where SadSack-ramento is number five, top five in worst drivers in this american landscape.

A shining achievement to a slowly dying and re birthing town in some haze of globalized, gentrified, genericized, clump of shit land at the junction of two rivers.

Just like any other town in America.

I dont know really

The agoraphobia is overwhelming anyway and the small iotas of existence now

spent outside the small halls and walls of by being are filled with nothing to entice or enthrall.  

underwhelmed in paradise

spoiled by beauty and choice

good for you sad sack

dont forget to bring your sad sack of shit for lunch

auto didactic didnt work, so 

throw away paper learning through government tits

long long long

i cant recall much more.  

[mildewkellison]

#95678

Dont drive next to someone with the window down

speed past 

dont drive behind someone for too long 

they may mistake you for a stalker or a serial rapist so 

allow them to drive erratically away from you as you pull into your suburban driveway and saunter inside your generic home.

the fear in comfortable realms

the overwhelming anger and thrilling lack of care from the fellow human

garbage all along the feet of the trees, they cant kick that shit away

cats mauled by rubber in the black again road 

the crumbling infrastructure of Northern california

the falling vibrations

lowing to levels of quiet ignorance.  where the sounds of televisions, laugh tracks, can only be heard

and the soft swiping of the cell phone finger.

the once rural delights of back porch calm

and country rooftop coffee with old chums

never again to see the light of day

only the sallow faces of over medicated outcasts of the disparate city by the bay

soon to be a shell, the foothills bleed

they are caked with construction materials 

and they cant kick that shit away.

[mildewkellison]

Like fucking Gallagher stuck in the 60s

I try to find a corner without piss

without a McMansion piled high on a greasy hill

where once there was just some fir and oak 

now its your gilded gated homes blasting AC and chlorophyll from that fucking lawn 

that goddamned forever expanse of horseshit years trimmed like porno beaver  

reeking like the aftermath.

Piles and piles like a ten year beehive 

the cars cram and jostle fucking 

lurching and honking

stupid sunglasses smile yammering on your telephone, until the cloged intestine, lead filled veins of the roads come swift into view 

your surprised foot slamming into the back of the next vehicle

i cant fucking breathe 

my brain feels like its being eaten out by ants

by termites

by a suburban drone of power lines feet high crackling

and making my bones ache 

the mind is melted,

has been since the t shirt shrunk

wrapped around the warped wood of the floor of my skull 

i just let the dust gather and the time lapse play.

[mildewkellison]

At the bandstand

its gone all rectilinear those organic shapes have disappeared

exponential population the neo gold rush

the whole of the coastal towns rushing here for cuteness

hats a flying being held on by one hand

the dust is immeasurable

as the valley sinks and the bay teeters on brink of liquefaction 

theyve all come a crowding the edge of the hills 

all huddled together the edge most folks holding their bodies comically 

inward

dresses and clothes handing into the sagging land 

an ocean of ag

and the whole of the once peaceful gold country top to bottom is swarming with city dwellers 

in need of some quaint country livin

they brought their sacks of money

and leave it so there isnt a speck of open land 

the ancient oaks suffocated between tracts of bullshit

home after home after home after home after home

all the way up the hill

the mcmansions decorating the ridges like tooth caps 

hiding the decay

a swarm of cars at every hour now

not a peaceful gleam in sight

sitting in the smog bathtub

the once too proud coastal folk 

who deemed this region 

cow town

come in droves they are all ‘49ers 

jokes who have struck it rich and dont know what to do with it

flailing around chests puffed and autos revved

i am left to cower in the dark of my mothers home.

Welcome to Gold Country.  

[mildewkellison]

intentionally bad

unintentionally sad

cynosure debris

minutiae infinite.