It’s about a park ranger

The ranger sits there falling thinking he should put his cards on the table
He waits for the right moment to lie down, he needs to lie down
He makes air out of the water even though he wanted to drown
He breathes in sadly making His chest shudder and swell
He sits lonely thinking Why he resigned himself to this deadly hell
And the snakes begin sliding towards him and falling from the roof
And the wasps, frogs and locusts slip through the cracks in the floorboards and windows
He’s suffocating as the frogs climb over his legs and arms

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Agua Luca (Fin)

Juan asked Albert what he was doing there, the ghost grinned slyly. Juan gathered what strength he could and stood up, the world waved around him but the apparition didn’t falter, Juan took the box away from Albert and it burnt his hands, he tried to open the box but it was to hot, he pushed it back towards Albert but Albert only stared at Juan.

The box hit the ground and Gold, silver and precious stones were pouring out of it, first in increments, then, in a constant outpour it slowly filled up the cell and Juan couldn’t move from where he stood. Albert just fixed his eyes on Juan’s and Juan was held in this gaze as the treasure started encroaching his chest. The treasure soon drowned Juan and he died the horrific death of being smothered by cold hard metal.

Agua Luca (continued)

He didn’t want to cook tonight though, so he thought he might make his way down to the Joint. They (Juan and his two friends) called it the Joint because if they were all there at once, at least one of them was likely to get thrown in the drunk tank.

Juan never felt like cooking and was always at the Joint, he doesn’t see his two friends often anymore. It suited him, because he had nothing to say.

When he arrived at the Joint it was 6:30 the only person there was the chef, she asked Juan how he was going and Juan assured her he was fine and asked if he could come in, she said yes. The owner arrived fifteen minutes later saw Juan and asked him if he brought anything for Mina to cook. Juan told him that his catch was pathetic and he spent most of the day shooing seagulls. Juan failed to tell him that he had woken up far past dawn and had only spent two hours on the boat. The owner shrugged and asked if Juan would like some dinner. Juan said not yet and asked for a pint of their cheapest beer.

Benjamin soon arrived, this shocked Juan slightly, he was expecting to have another lonely night in the tavern. Benjamin was hungry so they both ordered the Chefs Caldereta because it was always delicious and the least expensive on the menu.

Benjamin had news, but waited, Juan wasn’t sure why, perhaps he wanted to have one last normal dinner. Benjamin told Juan that their mutual friend Albert had died diving out in the rocky outcrops of their lake.

This confused Juan, Albert was the best swimmer in the village and usually fished out there with his nets because he was the only one who was consistent enough to be able to dive in every time he got his nets tangled. He always had the most interesting catches.

Apparently, Albert had received judgement from the lord early, and drowned experiencing an aneurysm.

Juan and Benjamin spent the entire night drinking for another and both ended up in the drink tank. The cop told them to sleep it off and as Juan phased in and out of his drunken slumber he thought he saw Albert standing in the cell with him dripping seawater all over the floor, Albert was holding a smouldering box with red hot embers sizzling where it touched Alberts wet hands. He had thrusted it out as far as he could and Juan asked him what the box was, but Albert just stared grimly.

Agua Luca (introduction)

“Move! …I said move!” the seagulls paid no notice of the captain. Pfft a captain. Juan Ignom laughed at the title! He just didn’t want these damn birds shitting on his fucking boat. He’s no fucking captain, he’s just a man who owns a boat, it’s pitiful. A little boat on a little lake, he just made enough for dinner.

Roping and waiting and lapping it up

Meagerly building an empire of my very own.

Ode to the true days

Where you could take what wasn’t yours and let your seeds grow.

Ode to the rope that binds me.

Why haven’t you moved me?

Im waiting to be shoved off my throne into the dirt and have my stomach ripped open and have my organs stretched over continents.

Why haven’t you displaced me so you can burn my fields and impale our collective hearts on a stake burnt out, perpetually ash.

I will just lap my kingdom up like a cat with milk, I will over indulge and be sick and wither and yelp like a dog thats been hit fatally by a moving vehicle.

The hook

The hook, the hook.
let it slice and cut and bleed you out.
Everybody is screaming for the hook to enter and rip.
To scream is to bleed and you will.
We all will.
Deep, dark, live, snark.
Sad, open, fairy tales seeding love into your dull life.
lovely height lets you see more of your strife.
Easy, closed, turn around and walk back over those nails you put in those floorboards that you put on the carpet so you would tread carefully.

Link to photo

The egg was laid in space.

The egg was resolute and wanted to be broken, to spill out its life essence but everybody knew the big egg wasn’t ready.
The big egg was full of life and it wanted to crack and spill and sizzle all over the universe.

People didn’t trust the big egg from space and they locked it up.
Locked it up with life and love and everything else mysterious and burly.
But the egg did not retreat into sadness, it didn’t give up and it gave the world a yelling.
It shook and shouted and pleaded with strength and gave it’s prison a what for.
“What for this and that?”
It shouted it knew all the answers but no one would listen and life would go on.
While the egg sat and festered and rotted from the inside out and eventually the shell began to weaken and the egg started to seep.
It seeped out a stench worse than your nightmares.
The smell was fetid and had a foreboding that could only strike remembrance in the battles of old.
Of trench warfare, where dysentery was not as common as death but it was close.
And men, rather than running to relieve themselves in an obscure crater that an artillery barrage had landscaped would relieve themselves on their iron dinner plates.
And men would cry and lose their minds and die of chemical gas and bullets shrieking through the bones and organs.
And the egg would seep this stench for a millennium and then a millennium more because the egg was forgotten.
And only a large puddle of stench and gusto would reside in it’s place till eventually, the roof split open and the sun would dry it up.
and all we have left is crackled rotten proteins that seemed to mock what could have been.

From a firestorm came the monkey

Artwork by Michael Baarts on http://www.artofkundalini.com

From a firestorm came the monkey.
With its tail flicking embers of its burnt-out womb into your eyes.
It reaches behind its buttocks and prepares itself to throw its feces at you.
It smacks you on the chest as hard as a solid gold brick.
you pick it up and covet the shit and put it in a shrine so the world can see.
They will either realize or not, it matters wholly to you.
You preach sermons about the monkey and will cast out family for not believing with you,
for you.
And you bend to its divine will and suckle at its teat because you are devoted.
Forever you are devoted.

Playing

Grinning with satisfaction

The easel is empty, holding up air

Growling with ambition.

The palletes paint has dried.

Its up on the wall you see, your fondness of life.

Up there with the joys of laughter and moments of serenity.

It sticks out because it’s the last thing you painted and you used bold colours, bolder than the rest at least.