like convicted cowards behind retinal bars
dreaming is becoming sodomy of the duped
mangled tubes of empty K-Y on motel nightstands
dreaming is becoming stolen Bibles of Gideons or New World Order
in fetal curled asylums of the same hotel rooms
nicotine tingeing of cigarette butts on tub-skirts
and crayons of makeup for failing marriages
no one fucks Lady Scaramouche anymore
watching bareback canoness being buried beside hookers
both spread eagle on parallel armed crosses
virgins buried abreast cadavers of strippers
refracted in colossal Prismatica left immaterial
like watching fragments of pay-per-view
in sodded humdrum under cosmic spotlight of stars
watching purgatoried hitchikers under raven wing of night time
pecking buxom worm from fast food trays
incubated heat lamp dynamo winking one eye down
the brainsick madman behind the counter
diffusing twisted ends of a pencil thin mustache
in a perma-grin love affair with teeny-bopper cashiers
watching thunderous guitars blur into talismanic wands of MTV
voodooistic reverbs and shaman riffs on Headbangers Ball
Cable God and his minions of puppeteering on strings
sublimating from frizzy faces of four feet speakers
from one eyed shrews of blue-toothed CD players
in sermons of Saint Anger from a carpet pulpit
watching Air Jordans hotfooted and wagging tongues
legends climbing into constellations of market share
where planetariums pay homage to existence
their pudgy circles orbiting godliness
in rings of of cosmic diamonds and rave
watching pitchers hit homeruns cuz the chicks dig the long ball
and tearing out ACLs with plastic sporks
of having overdosed them to bone brittle
flipping a hundred channels of narcoleptic stare
every fifteen minutes of meaningful drama poorly interupted
by twelve dancing rabbits with toilet paper
laughter-loving children who once were irresistable forces
now mummifying into immovable objects
giving birth to billions of remote controls for vision sake
growing old with eyes like cantaloupes and no brain behind them
watching waves run like wet dogs along beaches
their salty tails wagging into pools of skin-breakers
their starving hound nostrils in clumping sand and Cheetos
beside venerable white-haired lady and her Universal Lie
in a metal detector for reposing retirement
this human hope of prolonging man’s irrevocable torment
engaging with autistic dimensia of lover-hood
proposing to prophesied wives in Japanese Shangri-la
looking up like wanting coy from a pond of austere knees
shooting heart up through phiz of broken glass
and left wheezing in rejection on her lap
watching facades slip into alterior conscience
traveling into caves of ancient beastial divination
scrolling pages of holistic medicine or retardation
with shaking fingers and pang of hallucinogenic hangover
waiting for someone to answer in a room of deaf
awaiting slip of blade from gospel torreador
staring back with autistic eyes and imbroglio
weeping at the solace of their passing
furrowing into rabbit holes after that skinny bitch
her shrooms and mescaline breath always unattainable
lolling in spent lover sheets in sweating withdrawal
finding comforts in alleyways with someone else's daughter
in illusionary prom dresses and skinned up knees
like plastic dolls atop a wedding cake
why is Barbie killing the American woman?
making her up in two story and pink Corvette
and sending her off to vowing church with Ken
BIO:
Cochise is a poetry and prose writer from Charlotte, NC [Ric Flair country] who is currently attending the University of North Carolina. He used to live in Florida, where prose and poetry writers talk about geckos and smoke good weed. He hates posers and is a real sucker for brunettes. He is also the walking reincarnation of Aldous Huxley in this editor's opinion, so give him some mescaline and a notebook and watch that motherfucker fly!
Go here, motherfucker, and read some more of his work. And we might let the gimp out of the basement for some sunshine and water: myspace.com/silentgunslinger
