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Below are the 18 most recent journal entries recorded in
ghost_of_leone's LiveJournal:
| Wednesday, October 6th, 2004 | |
| 12:09 pm | Turtle Neck Demons lurk behind him like the shadow of Rasputin. Turtle Neck. Sitting in a tiny deli he straightens the sleaves of his turtleneck. Pistol tucked between his worn corduroy pants and his turtleneck. The barflies ooh and ahh when they see the pretty face of Turtle Neck. Turtle Neck ain't no mama's boy ain't no papa's boy ain't no lollipop suckin' tootsie rollin' boy ain't no fruit juice boy ain't no wheat bread boy ain't no gummy worm slurpin' sugar coated boy A sun sets and weeps as the demons take the streets rip the streets away right away from Turtle Neck. |
| Thursday, September 30th, 2004 | |
| 9:09 pm | Industrial Bone Drum Solo Wiring the wrong limb ribcage creaks open like a car hood under neon lights and power lines. Electro current running through a stem cell popping like a cereal crisp in AC/DC milk. Metallic eyelids clamping copper pupils down like weak dogs against the assembly line of hate. Synapse flash flood buffet: Worker strike. Death Strike of D.C. Comics fame. Silver shaving. Back shaving, back from the junkyard, and into your living room, Comsumer. |
| Thursday, September 23rd, 2004 | |
| 11:44 am | Porky Pine in Purgah Torey Browning syringe tips like the plated back of the stegosaurus line the strict spine of the porcupine. And G O D comes out from hiding, takes in what he has made, the hippo and the crocodile, money clips and cupcakes. Burning beacons of hell-fire red like heated human flesh surmise the cries of the porcupine's eyes. And a small B O Y sits outside, with grass stains on his jeans, bought for him by an aunt who lives right down the street. Some will dance, some will die, some will merely breathe as the porcupine renounces everything living thing but S A T A N. |
| Wednesday, September 22nd, 2004 | |
| 12:43 pm | Toby and Jacque Jacque was born with curly hair. Jacque was born with perfect teeth. Jacque was born with feathered wings and flew around the nursery. He never did much beside flying, but his smile exerted such charm that his mother would smile and say, “You are my favorite son.” Toby was born with greasy hair. Toby was born with an overbite. Toby was born with no skin tone and napped around the nursery. He watched Jacque do his flying and gave his mother’s skirt a tug saying as Jacque’s speed increased, “I hope Jacque doesn’t get hurt.” Jacque smacked against a high-rise when he was only twenty-three and Toby sat with an umbrella pale and still, watching the sky. |
| Monday, September 20th, 2004 | |
| 6:45 pm | Pubescent Space Voyage 2004 In space no one can hear you scream except for the man standing behind you combing his mustache with a comet tail. In space everything dies faster except for me, who won’t age until the Sun burns out like an old man’s libido. In space eons from now I will still be able to count my pubes on one hand while collecting baseball cards with the other. In space there are rules of physics broken every second as planets spin out of control as if drunk on wine coolers at their nephew’s twelfth birthday party. In space you can make a new you that doesn’t strike out with every young lady and run like a young lady to the bathroom when he has to pee. |
| Thursday, September 2nd, 2004 | |
| 9:16 am | Something Political There's a sorrow in my face, it might be pure disgrace, there's a sorrow in my face about something political. There's a sadness in my eyes, it might be no surprise, there's a sadness in my eyes due to something political. There's a sickness in my gut, it might be nothing but a terrible sickness in my gut caused by something political. A little birdy said, between chews of stale white bread, a little birdy said it tasted like something political. The birdy then threw up, into a plastic cup, threw up into a cup and washed his mouth with something political. And that little birdy died, because I might have lied about the bread being bread when it was something political. |
| Wednesday, September 1st, 2004 | |
| 12:43 pm | One More Tally For Brando There's a body, home to thirteen bullet holes, face-first outside the cantina. A crowd surrounding named him Corpse and asked him to do tricks. Brando dropped the pistol to the sand, all red like a carnival, and rubbed his stomach while cameras spasmed at his public appearance. Corpse was dragged away to a good home beneath a bridge, in a canyon somewhere where he'd be forgotten like Corman's "The Terror" with a young Nicholson. And the entertainment magazines would salivate as the headlines rolled in like legless yes-men: Hair l e s s . F a t of neck. And b i g g e r than never. Somewhere Brando laughed like clams neglected as Hollywood ate a lamb. |
| Monday, August 30th, 2004 | |
| 1:11 pm | Violinists and Voyeurs There were tracks in the mud leading to a warm place beneath the forest's skirt. In the warm place I tasted crushed pineapple, papaya, a hint of banana tampax. The rain crashed down like Rasputin's broken body and it stung every pore. Tongue held out for porridge, I lapped like NASCAR pricks on a straight libidinous track. Paws pet the leaves covering the sycamore vulva as zephyr voyeurs pose as violinists. And I whisper, "Take me now, O lovely thing I feel now in every dry-heaving crevasse." There's no answer, but I do hear my own panting, loud enough for the both of us. Beast-like, I follow the tracks back to my own bed where I ignore the stains and sleep. |
| 12:26 am | A Letter to M. Moore, Regarding His Hat There's a barn on fire somewhere in the South and a man is crying harder than his daughter. A bird rolled its egg over the edge of the nest without a second thought. It's called murder. There's a factory asleep in a tiny little town, was it Bedford Falls or some other lump of dung? A skinny man ate mucas for brunch just to fill his slightly tanned stomach, concave like your d r e a m s And you insist that when I run for home, run for something I can't digest with milk, with something almond-based, my tummy just might vote, just might make that o n e mistake, monsieur. |
| Saturday, July 17th, 2004 | |
| 12:45 pm | Butter Baby I aborted the Butter Baby just like Gramps said every real man should do before August hits. Now there's a white whale in the toilet bowl, grinning like a cat about to pounce on eternity, with his claws o u t s t r e t c h e d. I aborted the Butter Baby and now I have an empty coffin in my tummy like the roar of a lethargic butthole. And a week from now, when the roosters wake me from Ahab's moaning slumber, I will brush my teeth and peel the plastic, yellowed evil from my gums. And sing... no, sing. |
| Wednesday, April 28th, 2004 | |
| 9:46 pm | The Dazzling Kill Man You stormed out of Wisconsin with a demon in you head with the IQ of a haircut and a hunger for the dead and they caught you after midnight with a shovel and a pick digging up Aunt Rhonda's arm and just asking for a lick. You came into this town like a tick biting a shin and when you open your mouth the scream of geese begins, or is that all your victims with their empty, opened throats with eyes laying next to them like twenty/twenty floats? You marched into my heart like a centipede in heat with a cleaver in your fist and a mouth dripping with meat and if you look closely behind my broken brain you can see the veins spell "I love you, Dazzling Kill Man." |
| Saturday, April 17th, 2004 | |
| 4:54 pm | Like Sporks Handed to the Masses Fruit vitamins for vitamins and blood thick as molassess, the seer gave me a dollar like sporks handed to the masses. He looked like an old man but said he was twenty-three the baldness of his eyelids resounding like a naked tree. A chorus of blue butterflies perched above the darkest branch and said between opium puffs that the whole world was their ranch. And Hark! The angels seem to lay in blonde caskets of beer and hay and O, the trumpets ne'er seemed so drunk and ugly, and -- |
| Friday, April 16th, 2004 | |
| 12:02 am | Rhapsody for Ohio: The Midwest Tastes Like Compassion(for Phil G.) I knew a man who could eat a whole mango in under twenty-seven minutes. He wasn't American, but I liked him. He said he wanted to visit Ohio before he died. I killed him with a jackhammer and went to Ohio for him. Three years later, five miles from Dayton, my wife had a beautiful little girl. I ate her with a side of potato skins, and let me tell you, the Midwest tastes like compassion, but Ohio sure doesn't. |
| Tuesday, April 13th, 2004 | |
| 3:18 pm | Dixieland Whispers I drove out to Tennessee without a driver’s license and without a friend to feed me onion rings. As I drove I saw a car flip over so I pulled over to see if the driver was alright. Upon my arrival, the driver fixed his hair with his saliva and wiped the blood from his throat. He looked into my eyes, through my eyes, and spoke words that exited fiercely through my prostate after tickling my every misconception of what music and sex and food should mean to a man without a driver’s license in the great state of Tennessee. Swan soft and of ballerina grace, the words: I am in pain. Not because I have empty dreams. Not because I have achieved nothing. But because my automobile flipped, and now I am bleeding to death. I smiled and understood, finally. We live and die in Tennessee and we carry the thin air with us where ever we may go, at sixty-five miles an hour. |
| Monday, March 29th, 2004 | |
| 9:17 am | The Girl With A Goat Farm There's a girl I know who loves her goats but not as much as she loves me. But she feeds those goats so very well that they would not agree. They'd claim they were her only love, as would her four leisurely cats, and even the squirrels in the walls of her room, and the swift vacationing bats. They all claim she loves them most and brag to all their friends, But I know I am the one who may boast and not be lying in the end. |
| Sunday, March 28th, 2004 | |
| 11:55 am | The Year of the Cat Savage nights, Savage mornings, And savage afternoons. A fierce old man with an ache in his heart scared away the shrill typhoon. And an elderly cat with a bent backbone danced like he'd never danced before, and a spinal colmun snapped like a thought in a head and the bent cat hit the floor. And the fierce old man found the cat yesterday and buried it in his beard, and said before he sank into a melancholy suit, "This will be one savage year." |
| Saturday, March 27th, 2004 | |
| 10:42 am | A Trilogy of Sanskrit Pleas at Friendly's (for E.L.R.) 1. Twelve Words Bow To Pain The yellow cat plunges ten feet into the ocean of my anatomy. 2. All Is Fair In Pie And War Thirty-two foreign soldiers ate my uncle's cherry pie and never said please or thank you, sir. 3. When All One Has To Barter... He payed the pigeon twenty yen for a taste of his jam. Strawberry jam. Winter, out of season, so the pigeon removed his eyepatch and sucked the man's soul into his socket so he'd be payed market value. |
| Friday, March 26th, 2004 | |
| 7:05 pm | From Dinosaurs to Deities At the dawn of time the stegasauri roamed like scarabs on the flesh of the Sun. Beneath the mud in a cave of ivory the poets tore the skin from the cows. In a skyscraper cannibals order new shiny pens to fill out their tax forms. In eighty-seven years the Moon will grunt and fall asleep on top of the earth. And a man with a long, long beard will watch and perhaps say, ah. |