THE SCENT OF DEAD ROSES

i killed a poetic boy yesterday. the old ladies in the

shadows swore at him when he was walking home proud as

hell with a new pocketknife.  they told him we die

next week so laugh like you got limes for balls.  he

called them drippy old vultures in his native tongue.

they didn’t understand him and went on laughing and

spitting oily juice into to brass spittoons. he made

his eyes evil and stuck his tongue out at them,

so i killed him.  i have a deal with the old ladies. they

get tired of little knife thieves.  glaring the way

they do. this boy was eating a fat tomato in the sun.

his buddy walked up to him.  pants falling down,  snot running

down his nose. this boy told his buddy to fuck off and find his

own tomato.  so i killed him.  i pushed him into the

river.  he made alot of noise drowning.  now i follow

his buddy who wants tomatoes all day long.  i have so

many numbers on my back i can’t even lift my shadow

off the dirt.  he woke up this morning and spent alot of time

on his shoes.  i waited in the dust beneath the lamp-table.

and felt sick and burnt the whole time.  the boy’s dad works all

day.  he bought a good lamp.  i hate electricity. i have my ways though.

i love this market. the vendors are so poor, i can hide

in the edges of their skirts.  i suck flies into my shadow

to get a lift when i get sun sick. nothing escapes these old ladies.

they dress in black and fan themselves in the shadows

of the cathedral.  i never touch them.  i stay there

for awhile and then some boy comes by and i get him

into trouble. people think they know bright.  chrome

or sunlight on silver.  the wife washes the old man’s

water-glass and it glistens in the nine-am light like

heaven opening up in a drop of water. this town has

fell asleep in the stairwell.

the lover was supposed to see

three pigeons in a fight.  he would have thrown his

roses into the fray.  the ugly one was supposed to

pick up one petal.  he would have followed it with his

eyes.  it would have fallen into the river.  the lover was

to begin a life of misery and woe and bad poetry.

instead, the pigeons had more than enough bread.  he

kept walking and ran into the love of his life five

minutes later in the square.  i’ve seen this before.

when i fucked up in 1973.

now the only way i can ruin this town is to kill this

boy who likes tomatoes.  his cheeks are so fat.  he is

so unkempt.  no threat to anyone.  now he will aspire

to get his wife fuzzy slippers because he is like paul

with no mick.  he will drink fizz and be amicable the

rest of his life and no-one will appreciate what a

competent douche-bag he really is.  so i gotta kill

him.  he is bad with traffic but he walks too slow.

with dirty ice-cream smeared on his fat lips.  i hate

this kid.  raul was actually fun to follow around.

i have 27 numbers on my back.  you think you know what

a boss is.  it is black between a raven’s feathers.

my master is blacker.  and i live in fear of his

voice.  i met the shadow of a wraith one time.  he

tried to explain how scary wraiths are.  then he tried

to eat me, but the old ladies helped me, and i got

away.  i dont even know my boss.  i just know when i

get lazy i hear him screaming from the bottom of the

well.

pablo is sipping an orange soda.  he is a sweet kid.

i hate him.  he is dumber than bubblegum and i cant

distract him.  he was staring into the gutter and

singing this stupid song…

yeah yeah pablo, singin in the sun..

i dont care dont care. dont care about anyone…

spitting orange-soda on the ants. i did the trick

where i turn into bread.  the blackbirds swooped down

next to him, and made alot of noise trying to eat me

up, but he didnt care.  he must have been sad.  he

poured the rest of his soda into the gutter.

i spent the rest of the afternoon crossing the street

beneath cats, trying to catch cars.  the water-truck

driver is so fat.  there are always flies buzzing

around in his cab.  i did the trick that makes me fat

and black, i buzzed… bzzt.  he swatted at me and

that was the end of pablo.

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