Mickey Moodswing's: Seoul Jinx

A Trying Bastard’s Lament

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Sun, 16 Jun 2024 23:32:00 +0000

Somehow becoming diminished like a plump-bottom tree frog thrown high into the gilded purple sky.

Falling down, splattered like spinach, blotted by funk, the beholder pales in comparison to the eye.

Crying through this blessed life as it drags its curdled carcass sorely through soggy, city streets.

Kaleidoscope beat somehow broken, shorn from the sails, poopship party aboard, listing into the pride of the fleet.

Burnt like verdant copper slag, crawling like king snakes, slithering by children, whose maws gape with no wonder.

We’ve been worn down into flesh addicts, scrabbling across prairie moons, whilst time renders all asunder.

Posing in the arena, faking flaky fisticuffs, put ‘em up to the sprawl, aloft on shadowy boxcar dreams.

A flash in the pandemic pondering, downshifting to climb up and out of heresy, staring widely into the high beams.

An aged-old blend of bullets and beer power these dastardly illusions, turning grapes to raisins, all is crushed by the swollen sun.

Flogging donkeys down by the harbor, roping gangs of ass together, taking part in the braying from which I am ever trying to run.

Operation Ka-Naw-Ledge

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Sat, 24 Jun 2023 16:11:00 +0000

I know that it’s my semi-permanent barrier to emotional growth.

I know that it’s my ego shield, protecting my inner-child from oblivion.

I know that when it’s gone the trauma creeps into the frame.

I know that with it my mouth opens wide and obscenity splatters.

I know that with it, my wildness is preternatural, eyes glowing in the dark.

I know that my dire wolf howls when the brain bathes in the bubbles.

I know that I have had the best of times that I barely ever remember.

I know that my time skitters across the floor, my holy memories wane.

I know that the echoes of last night’s concert repeat in my head ad nauseum.

I know that it kills my soul that I know it grabbed my family by its lapels.

I know that in my photos I am emotionally absent, but surely stable. Wink-wink.

I know that my crying progeny chatter behind my back and hate me for it.

I know that music tickles me more deeply with it, my lovely, existential crutch.

I know that am surely convinced when those I love abandon it and walk in the light.

I know that without it my inner weaknesses are like a raw nerve exposed to the air.

I know that disease is a strong word, but it’s likely an apropos term.

I know that the bubbles break my DNA and crazily curtail corporeal longevity.

I know that I feel the field of vision narrowing. Is it honestly age, or merely the bubbles?

AMBient Fits

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Tue, 12 Jun 2018 14:48:00 +0000

Rolling like a billion bastard bards right down the line.

Tequila shivers. This Human-kind of…quivers.

Mashing my potatoes hard on the shady boulevard.

Ambitions dashed, live-leaking out of leather couches cast.

Dumbfounded like a doe in the Molly-wood deadlights.

Spending no time in this life to get my head right.

Shouldering worlds of worry on trembling shoulders.

Stagger Lee fills me with Led, then shrugs.

Queue the Mid-game marching band sound, dancing clowns drowning out screams of proles.

Heart yearns for uncontrolled Rome burns feeding cockroach dinner bowls.

Marley’s only solution is the dilution of this greying pollution.

The button push, football douche sugar-dom flurries.

Heart says yes, but brains and battle brawn in no worldly hurry.

The forlorn, worn warrior cashes out Strasbourg credit in the eye of the storm.

Pair of dice.

Gambling on global Grounation.

Dancing on Hawaiian glass.

Something to save?

Anything selfless, kind, and pure.

Where we were you when I walked in?

Where were we when I walked in?

Why did I walk in?

After the storm, maybe all that they’ll find will be the chalk outlines of love.

Swingin' Rambles

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Wed, 12 Apr 2017 20:08:00 +0000

Rusted, crusty, mossy, and blue

Hearing Waylon channel Shaver

Sweet, low-down freedom

Makes me want to come join you

Wanderlust got me itchin’

Dancing around on the farm

A canary in a coalmine

Carbon monoxide twitchin’

Shimmery shadows in my mind

See the way they play

Among the distant stars

Hoping they become aligned

Days dragging on the doldrums

Feeling Punxsutawney Phillip

Gathering foreign currency

Rubbing limes on my gums

Scurvy, shyster, bastard rats

Tumbling dice, fumbling stock

Empty shell, soup-kitchen dreams

Following far flung expats

Caverns of knowledge follow

Buried beyond golden sunsets

Color shifting spectrum horizon

Purest promises ring hollow

Heartless beast with empty head

Breaks the bars on cages

Before death comes raging

Shed these shoes of lead

Joy Strummer

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Thu, 07 Jul 2016 20:16:00 +0000

Mostly, I feel ashamed about being human. Burden to burden. The burning embers turn to cinders. Lost in love's wounds that never quite seem to leave my brain and drain into my heart. "Chug-a-lug, Donna."

Walk around the block, cheat death with every step. Stairway to even the score. Stairway to nevermore. Never you mind that I am sky blind and forcibly taken with each new pair of eyes that I see. Pair of thighs wrapped in plastic. Pair of minds wrapped in magic; "Filigree apogee pedigree pillogee"...the bed breaks...

Heart throbs and broke dick destinies deserting me with each passing day. Shiver on the edge of the pool and rest in the broken glass. Crimson tendrils, rouge running, the King of Fools. King of Pain. Police sirens wail. Distant rumblings. Sheltered from the storms within. Eat the glass and let it sink to the bottom. Love swallowed with a bloody grin.

Yon and Blither

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Tue, 09 Sep 2014 22:55:00 +0000

-->

Looking for the person of my dreams has become nearly impossible, as it seems I have nearly ceased having dreams. The dreams I do have are empty and riddled with misappropriated fear of impending violence, and lack depth or colorful emotion. Clue me in, mind.

People, in general, like me well enough it seems, but I don’t know if I feel how it’s supposed to feel when they do. I feel like a collection of meta-data, robotic in my emotions unless the fuzzy feeling wind of intoxicants blows over my mind, as it is wont to do from time-to-time. The weird-ling man without a plan mopes about like a lost dog. Sniffing out something worth anything to his heart and soul, he usually comes up clutching tufts of his own hair.

I was once asked, exactly at the point the collection of my emotional connection to this person didn’t pan out, the fool’s gold, the fool circle, “Who hurt you?”
Shit. She got me. Snatched my tongue from my mouth and disconnected the delicate tendrils that were beginning to grow between it, and my heart, and her.

Thanks, I guess.

I didn’t have an answer. I had a notion. Was it something to do with childhood and broken beds, broken vows? Was my sensuality torn asunder by others’ demons clawing their way out to their own destruction? Could be. Who knows?

The New Style <---All Respect to the Beastie Boys

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Tue, 26 Aug 2014 23:13:00 +0000

-->

Learning to love yourself is hard shit when all you’ve ever felt, at best, was indifference for your corporeal and spiritual bodies. I have found that finding someone who gives a shit about you is almost useless if you don’t give a shit about yourself. I scripted my yesteryears like a psychic retelling of some shitty Lifetime movie made of plastic people that couldn’t even begin crack my emotional code. The shadows in the corners, stock characters really, blow in and out of the frame like so many shuffling ghosts. Elevation of debate, of unholy intellect, of tension became the name of the game to keep this kid from feeling his insides. The macrocosm replaced the microcosm. Inner space had been obliterated by outer space.

A quantum fear of feeling anything at all is now being squashed by the grand unified theory of love. And you know what? The shit hurts. The scars, simmering shimmery with itching madness, line the soul container, crisscrossing their painful patterns from beer to eternity. Crushing clutch. Engage transmission. Vent hostility. Smile. Pull the smile inside. Keep on grooving down the road. Leave the miles behind. Learn to live. Learn to give. The happiness is worth the hurting it may bring.

Debbie Downer

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Sat, 23 Aug 2014 14:16:00 +0000

Sometimes, I don’t give a shit anymore. Sometimes, I wouldn’t care if my guts hit the floor. Hey baby, wanna cyber? Lust is blood pumping through my brain supplying it with nutrients made of nothing. My mind is a field outside of the forces it influences. What hurts the most is when I convince myself that I don’t matter. Energized with lies, the disguise manufactured out of smiles and confident guile couldn’t help me hold up the gimmick in the light of day. Every day is Halloween and I always show up dressed as myself. Fucking fraudulent fallacies. I keep chewing the ice cubes and keep trying to keep cool, even though it all seems to be falling apart. Power to the people! Where are my people? “And where is my family? They've all gone away. Though it's I who have left them.”

Sure as shit, the sun rose up from behind the horizon again today.

Awes Tins Itty Bitty Ditty

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Thu, 26 Jun 2014 00:19:00 +0000

Break down the walls. Stretching out like dawn along the border. Yawning in disorder. The anarchy of my lust leaves me empty headed and I don’t care. Silver line designs on some future that doesn’t look bleak. Charlie scored the notches. Blues busted on my belt. Soul hungering, lumbering, through the goods; burrowing in the fleshy folds. Coiled grey matter bathed in splashing colors. Oh! The effluvium, the busted words my mind spake. Funeral sparklers, chewing on cheek, watching/feeling fine as the dark rises to meet the moon, caressed by the borrowed light like a lunar spooning. The muddy angels grab the gold and fan the flames, burning away the debris of me. Texas time flows out from the flatlands. The tears run out along the cracks and crevices. Drought stricken, block writers , knuckle biters inside the ragged red eyes that pierce the blues skies and then the clouds come again. A tumult. A tempest. A tortured man-child with second-sight...gather me the gear and wander off into the brush.

AnchoresTeem!

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Wed, 02 Apr 2014 22:34:00 +0000

I see my tenderness from afar like the swell that becomes a wave in the ocean.

I see my core as something to pick apart and eventually get bored of.

The lock-box, like Davy Jones' locker, appears to be only hackable with the demise of self.

Goddamn it, the horizon always beckons like Hank's places o'er the hill he's just got to see.

Can I not see? I'm a tear that streaks across the land like a river along Earth's face.

I am a fire burning in the sunken eyes of a haggard, high plains drifter.

My calls fade into the distance and diminish into dust.

Time is the champion. Time is King. Time is the thing.

Shit? Shinola?

Not walking anymore...now I'm floating in a shit gondola.

I Was Drunk At The Pulpit - Bonnie 'Prince' Billie

Melding Time

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Sun, 08 Sep 2013 22:26:00 +0000

I can stand on two legs, dammit. This world melts my heart and I howl at the moonlight. The Beast in me. The Beats in me. Ticky-tack, rat-a-tat. Eats at me. Swatting at flies. The roads are merging into one. Is it one? The one? The sun burns my world into a crisp like charred mesquite burns the meat. All the flavors sealed in. I'm holding it in. Bottled up like a beer bubbles into my mind. Where were you when I needed you? Let me touch your soul. I'll light you up like a Jack O' Lantern or a Yule tide tree in the crisp winter sky after Summer's tragic death. Tears flow where the river grows into roaring terminus. The mist spraying, dancing rainbows glimmer and fade. The catterwaul of the grackles streaking into the blue yonder snaps my head and leaves me busted, broken from the gravity of my bittersweet reverie.

Mormons and Muslims: The True Extent of My Quaking Apathy

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Wed, 07 Nov 2012 02:17:00 +0000

'Mormons and Muslims'

Board games for bored lames

"Quit, you're scaring away the dames"

It's all the same ship sinking, deck chairs all astir

Spur of the moment oblivion

Cult of self reigns through steam, just hot air blowing out between lips

Flippity-flapping, saying all the things you'd expect their owners to say

Bleating, bleating American heart beating to the march of its war drummers

In Gobbler's Knob, Phil Connors talkin' 'bout, "Well, what if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today."

Tastes Great/Less Filling arguments killing me softly from the inside

Gleaming guts glittering with the detritus of the factory machine munchies Gorged at 2AM truck-stops gliding on the factory suds

While the crowing, cawing rooster/crow chimeras blather

About beautiful atrocities

Screaming nothing in particular, really...

Cruster The Robot

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 04:21:00 +0000

Hollow shell games, the perfect people play outside the smoldering museums

Hallowed ground, dopes naming their possessions after working days of the week

Clock bell jargon, cuts the glass ceiling bringing stale air from human exhaust

Cluck-cluck, fowl faced frowning hurried pace headless moniker gimmick shtick

Satire slump, the sarcasm wails like catcalls beckon zombie whores from their dead

Satyr sheets, played out like a tragic deck, hands wringing whining minge mouth

Right is ripped, and torn asunder, the split divinity, the glitch in the program

Roaring light, pressed in glass, ironing out the irony, the map and the territory

Confused cockamamie, drown the heart, quench my soul, the thirst comes first

Clamoring crowd, pushes the urge to the edge, leaves psyche a creaky construct

Memory blocks, filling the void with useless information, no room left for pain

Monkeyshines, tricked into spilling secrets, down the drain, last words, dying dish

Veiled references, it touches the dawn, blinded by the reverence for empty meaning

Vast expanses, clutches the waste, a sea salt sacrament, rusts cheek bones, manic rouge

Tackled touch, time seized by guards, the hen house foxed, the wasted weasel smiles

Tough as nails, shielded from the sun, by choice or denial, it puts the words into sin

Un Poco Avergonzado de Mi Sobriedad

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 11:28:00 +0000

I'm on hiatus from God's own golden concoction. In the garden, my tools lay impotent, rusty and worn from chipping away at the weeds, which, overgrowing their picket boundaries, have sullenly, yet surely, begun creeping their way out onto the sidewalk; never-minding the futility. The rabbits, nibbling to bloody stumps, their paws, peer expectantly from their warrens as the sun slices my eyes and pierces my brain, simulating the hangovers and dredging up the cracked tooth proclamations of health to the heathens populating moldy tables in taverns; hovering over dollar store candles on all of those untold days and nights of decidedly delicious debauchery. I am done digging the jaundice creep. I am done with feeling the vagus burn. I all too done with being caught awkward with the gravy stains on my Sunday best. Finding my way back to the spastic womb, the birthright quickening, the bully boom of her powder keg streets, casting sideways war torn glances at all of the people basking in the false morning calm as I quest for full fair and gainful employment and a breath of fresh air.

Sometimes, I miss my memories, most times not, but I am left with some scars, and the slippery unease of wondering exactly how the hell I arrived here in one piece, a dollar debt on my life, and so many souls in tow.

Shore Leafs

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 09:09:00 +0000

Caught walking rotten like a mid-summer zombie along beaches broken by factory splurge. Winter's bitter finger tickles my nostrils, shrinks scrotum hugging nutter butter, better be strolling along into the frigid sunset of the foggy bottom aquarium. Cross-eyed pirates and pitiless piranhas shake the snow globe, hazy mirages line the horizon...just bubbles in my beer song. Mood swings temper minds muddled by modern inconvenience into achieving the anti-nirvana; the last stage of de-evolution. Just whip it out on the town singin', "What's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?" The patron saint of taint warbles untruths like a junky spinning fables about their unapparent uncleanliness; just outside the doors of the methadone clinic. Subliminal messages coat my eyelids while my third eye cries out for a psychic squeegee. Cloning the thrones, changelings grip the situation, trading masks and potions for waning authenticity. I cry about these advents and for the exact nature of what confronts the seedlings that snuggle up, nestled in the beauty of their theta dreams.

G.E.R.D.

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 06:51:00 +0000

Grinding gristle between my wet whistle, die lying on a bed of thistle.

The stars shine like sparkling salt sprinkled in my straining azure eyes.

Burning brimstone foghorn, bellowing bowels, cramping surly style.

Droning buzz bursting background baby wailing bursting blues.

Wreckage wrought iron forge, grilled incessantly melting mind up in smoke.

Biting lips, the quim it quips, sinking ships, siren hither beckon oblivion.

Mushroom booming blasted caps grooming me to mustard crab busted guts.

Soft-boiled sand witch Eastern Shores gleaming peninsula message garbled.

A naked lunch, punching gullet, gleaming guts strewn about inside python glass.

Half-empty dreams, yawning, real stories of the high way control image.

Blurry edges, the gravity grows gravy train delusions of a weekend get-away.

Occupy mind beat streaming expletives beaming across time space barricades.

Turn-style hopper, copper offer to lay down our harms and hold onto humanity.

Magical moments cropping up out there on the pitching ship…

Well-worn and well wishing we all could weather the coming storm.

Barefoot and Naked

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 01:35:00 +0000

Now, I am a bureaucrat with a broken heart and a dream of a vacation cruise package in the Bahamas pinned up onto the particle board in my cubicle. I attempt to douse the flames and merely end up torturing the terrorist in my liver with coffee in the morning and spirits at night. The sky hazes over like a cataract in my eye and the planet speeds up, leaving me dizzy and drinking joyfully on the emptiness. The detritus of working life cakes up under the keys of my keyboard. I turn it upside down and shake it out, making a sad little pile of chin whiskers, baby dust bunnies, bits of granola, bits of skin, and bits of dried snot. I sweep it onto the ground and have to wait a working day for the Korean Custodial Technician to mop it up the next morning. Everything smells like mothballs here and nobody speaks English. The purgatory I vomit up from time-to-time, urges the surging chorus rising up within my mind and heart, only screaming that I must run.

Induced Labor

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 20:40:00 +0000

I joyfully drink the 2 parts heresy, to 1 parts good fortune with the composure of a masked villain having only the best of intentions. The blinding light, white heat of the sun binds me to the asphalt like a dinosaur tar pit swimming pool.

“I got nothing”.

Leaning against the wall and staring into the sky (or the ceiling) when in awkward (read most) social situations has worked thus far in keeping Morty Michigan from gaining the trust and admiration of his peer group. The slosh drizzle of cocktail hour and loud music covers up the growling groans of nervy stomach tussles. Finding himself dressing down to the level of an unfunny clown, quipping here and there in jokes clothed in desperation, and beating feat to be alone on dark city blocks, skirting bleeding light of the orange buzzing drone of the arc-sodium lamps, buzzing the fuzz on his situation, Mort wobbles like an electron.

Zigzagging through the invalids and sinner saints of the post-corporate apocalypse, with the pungent odor of piss and unclean flesh wafting on the cooling, Sonoran breeze, Mort is busy squandering the little good will he has left in tow on some quick handshakes with the sinister ministers of the street. A Hong Kong smorgi awaits his floating brain. A taste in the air flutters just a touch. The pigeons, tired from their stray French-fry finding missions and their flying-street-rat struts down the avenue, flutter above, complaining to each other quietly in their wretched palm tree apartments.

“Is any of this negotiable?”

Master of muppets in the next bar filled with stranger dangers stuck in obscene poses, bottles to the ground, and Morty is well aware psychic bump and grind of veiled glances and finger tips on elbows on the way to let loose the bladders of debauchery. Cursory retro music is blaring over the sound system. Mort ponders the musical properties of cocaine and queers in that damned decade, or any damned decade for that matter. Stroking the goat growing under his chin, his mind side-strokes through a sea of probable outcomes for lives such as these, there is a chance the focusing on the impossible outcomes would be more fruitful in evading the truths that become to be self-evident when one with such a novel mind goes further into the wormhole of self-introspection.

Mort pointing at his beer, the following is said with the most negligible of slurs and eyes gazing past the external, past the candy-like curves of a barmaid in her prime, and into the depth of those eyes, “Ma’am, could I have another.”

Morty can never get over the eyes. He finds himself trapped like a fly in the blissful realm of possibility and stormy images and emotions rushing about on synaptic highways through foothills and dreams all cleverly compiled by alien programmers that makes spirit flesh; beauty. We’ll fail to fully mention here how the circuits to Mort’s ears cause his brain to cheer when he hears a woman sing in these foul years of our yearning. Years spent intertwined in the illusion is taking its toll on this man.

Bar time breathes down your neck, raising the gooseflesh, despite the warm numbness embraced in the sacred den of the velvet gypsies. The organs wear down like pistons and paint until what you’re basically left with is a sputtering engine, some potato chip crumbs wedges into the cracks and crevices of the vinyl upholstery, a broken Creedence tape, and a worn spot where feet and elbows have long since dug grooves into the interior.

Hand pushes face away. Pride pushes faith away. Night pushes away the day. A trail of tears pushes the fun away. How long will he keep on pushing on this way?

“Mother, may I have another.”

Social Lubricant

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 23:43:00 +0000

I don't know if anyone else may have noticed that when one picks up a slug or snail and gets the snail sliding lube on their fingers that, even with soap and water, it takes consecutive washings to remove it from one's fingers. I say that we isolate the formula for the substance they use to slide along the ground and market it as a personal lubricant for sexual contact. The product brand name will be called, "Snail Trail."

Muddled

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 09:10:00 +0000

Beating, keeping time like a caveman, the funky drummer pounds deep down in the core of Mickey Moodswing’s ribcage. Guided by voices and the machine gun messages running through his mind, the exhilaration of the current storm front whips his adrenaline into a tizzy. The sheets of monsoon rain keep falling, filling the nooks and crannies of the small city vista with tepid mosquito breeding Jacuzzi resorts. This infraction on the part of nature simply cannot stand, man. The line, in Mickey’s vibrating mind has been drawn, and like shades keeping out the light, all other tasks and chores (we’ll lump personal hygiene into the list somewhere) are kept out there in the void outside the window frame.

Goddamned puddles are everywhere he looks as he runs full blast, tears of joy streaming, belying the fertile feelings of frustration simmering ‘neath the surface, jumping with all the dwindling strength he can muster, feet first, into a whopper of a puddle. Sporting a hot pink bicycle helmet and well-worn pair of Scotch-plaid galoshes and a hokey, brick colored cape with a gold (PK) messily embroidered into it, Moodswing quickly recovers and bolts through the driving rain with all of the determination of a bulimic girl ‘scarfing’ down pumpkin pie in another wacky act of futility. The next puddle leers at him with the dour look of a Soviet loan shark. The rain drops dance on its surface as the racing, raging storm drives Moodswing on into his puddle killing frenzy.

The local villagers leer then sneer at the funny little man so intent on keeping nature from crowding out the concrete with these pooling abominations. His exploits are well known throughout the village and have become more of a nuisance or tiny headache than anything. Some citizens swear they can see puddles dancing in the maniacal gleam of his eyes. Most people just shrug their shoulders and mutter something like, “The only thing he is hurting is the helpless puddles.”

And who hasn’t been annoyed, or roused into a quiet rage, at one time or another, by the contents of a puddle slowly seeping into the seams on the side of their shoes? Sometimes there can be an outright sock soaking brought directly from the tyranny of puddles. The tell-tale squash-squeak-squash of a puddle victim creeping embarrassingly through a 7-Eleven convenience store, or a family friendly porn store never ceases to arouse contempt for the puddle in Moodswing’s piddling heart. So, in his own obsessive way, Mickey thinks he is saving the world, one menacing puddle at a time.

Even a stupor hero with a seemingly never ending supply of puddle fighting energy needs to take a break a refuel his engine. Mickey prefers Carne Asada burritos (plus sour cream, doused in salsa) from Alberto’s taco shop. After necking down his burrito like a pelican at the pier, Mickey takes off again towards the next available foe with guacamole/beef grease/sour cream stains coating the front of his black Dickie’s cargo shorts like some sort of culinary Pollack painting. With the rain forecast to last throughout the day and into the quickly approaching Pacific night, Moodswing has enough work in store to burn off the contents of the last thermo-nuclear burrito injection.

The puddles keep multiplying and Mickey keeps attempting to splash them into the edges of existence; however, in the full focus of his hocus pocus, Mickey fails to see the maroon ’78 Buick Le Sabre, with the huge dent in the driver’s side door turn the corner onto Emerald Blvd. Scott and the sub-human crew of ex-High School classmates are well into their second 40 oz. bottles of “Old English 800” and well basted by the roiling smoke of Camel Wides and California cannabis , the throbbing sounds of West Coast gangster rap tingling their minds with low-end bass grooves and sordid tales of savagery and criminal-minded exploits. The minion currently melting into the threadbare fabric of the front passenger seat spies through his drooping, bloodshot eyes our stupor hero clashing energetically with the puddles.

“Scott, puddle dork up on the right. Let’s get ‘im.”

Scotty boy replies, “Done…and done.”

Scott punches the gas pedal and the V-8 leaps into action and gains speed on Puddle Killer. Even with the fuzzy buzzing bees dancing around in his head his timing is perfect. Moodswing, caught in the throws of his passions, never notices the barreling Buick even as it hits the mother of all puddles in the gutter next to him. The two foot of easement happens to be the perfect distance for the torrential wave to crest and land on his face with great force. The echoing laughter rolls through the otherwise empty street and out stupor hero collapses onto the ground and sobs until there’s nothing left, but puddles of tears.

Flutterbies

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 04:08:00 +0000

The desert sun crept cleverly under Mal’s eyelids. In the distance, the Southern Pacific train wailed its wavering warning onto the dimpled canvas of her threadbare mind. Somewhere in another distance of an electric, nervous highway, down in the pit of her stomach, Mal felt the acid doomy, rumbling hunger of the night before jittering and clamoring its way into being. Grey-blue eyes open, shot with red, burnt by the bright junction of dusty blue skies, she rolls slowly onto to her side, palms down, hot gravelly grit digging into hands. Mallory slowly raises herself onto wobbly legs into a squatting position and gingerly surveys the desolation of her surroundings. The ocean of desert with its life teeming underground greets her mind and overtakes her with memories of being jostled, of being threatened, of being devilishly drunk with the power of her feminine wolf-mother passions in the midst of a leering crowd of man beasts.

The throbbing in her head is like a post-millennium cataclysm caused by the small pond-worth of Corralejo Anejo she guzzled to tamp down the tumult of two years’ love lost. Benny may as well have shot her in the heart with a six-gun and left her lying on the floor of the ‘Tap Room’ with an old 45 of ‘Ring of Fire’ blaring out above the cacophony of Tuesday night on the corner of bedlam and squalor. Shit. He said he didn’t want our child. He didn’t want the life she yearned for. Why doesn’t he want me the way I want him?

“He fucking promised me!”

Mal screams this to nobody in particular at the dead end of the dirt road she blindly ventured down the night before in the drunken stupor of her harrowing sorrow. The thorny mesquite shivers in the wind. The potential offspring of its seed pods litter the ground and crunch under her feet as she heads back towards Speedway Boulevard. The cicadas begin to whir and stir in their lustful buzzing song as the oven begins to slowly climb to its preheat temperature designed to bake brains like fried eggs in drug fear propaganda commercials the electric babysitter bled into her mind as a young girl. She sobs loudly, disturbing the lizards and cactus wrens only ever so slightly. They have their own physical survival to attend to. An unending, wailing symphony of pleas clatters through her head...

"What am I going to do?

"Why doesn’t he love me?"

"How did I get here?"

"What am I going to do?!”

Her purse is missing, but thankfully her cell phone is wedged in her pocket, nestled between her throbbing, fatigued thighs and the dingy denim. Mal slowly rocks the phone up and out of her pocket, raising it up to eye level. The sun is furious now, so she shades the screen with her hand, and strains to see the time (9:23) and her heart hurts more than ever as she discovers that there are no missed calls. Ben didn’t call. Ben doesn’t care.

A Pocky Lips

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Sat, 21 May 2011 23:15:00 +0000

I think maybe everyone with a glimmer in their eye should make an end-of-the world music mix as a soundtrack for the next time child minds misguided by anachronistic misinformation get their belief soup amplified by the misguided media, megaphone apparatus.

Perhaps, the mix would be a soundtrack for the feelings of sorrow when we see the evolution of consciousness being shunted into back alley abortions of logic and common sense. Perhaps, a music mix of this nature would court the dread with humor, love, and intelligence, thereby bringing us to focus and spend our energy on actual problems. A wise man told me once, "The solution to pollution is dilution."

The particular particulates the original string of words addressed were probably physical in nature, but in the technological stage of economic and cerebral development the human species is currently in, outdated memes seem to be more dangerous and distracting than ever. Perhaps, I joyfully see a silver lining in the fact that most of us have the wherewithal and the temerity to cautiously approach these freaky sidetracks with a sideways gaze and some hearty belly laughs that will echo down the canyons and null out the noise of the babbling brook.

AwKwA Man

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 04:26:00 +0000

Frighteningly photogenic, in the dirt, under fingernails, wrinkled, up-skirt, clean shaven, sheep shorn, clap trap, howlin’ wolf mystery blues…screamin’ J truck stop anthem, somethin’ ‘bout , “I was born without you, baby but my feelings were a little bit too strong” and all along I have been pretending that the flowing sounds of the Seoul whooshing-pollution, vortex traffic is really the tidal purificación San Diego ocean beaches, water, wave-pounding shoreline ever stretching out to the ends of my mirth. What lies beyond the blunder dome?

Every dog needs a home-brew tincture remedy distilled from the ingredients of its roots and subsequent globe sodding, maneuvers itself into position, squats in the city plazas, shitty squares, broken cornerstones, token beliefs running liquid.

Wicked bullet finds its mark.

Rube, the patsy, just bluff tough enough in tooth-worn confidence game spouting carnie barker, binding to bilious foam insulation, mad dog, too dark park, clouded 20/20 vision, oh so nearly impossible to see right through these foul fears of our fnords.

Go scraping crystal canyons in awkward silence for the glittering gold, foolishly fumbling with the keys to find the field; perfected embrace. Electron circles nucleus. Be bolder. Spurred into action by the photo fading, the paint chipping, offspring eclipse, the cowboy wells up, digging no further than his backyard barbeque, punching his stomach, govereeting up his droogs, and sexting his attorney.

The sordid, sun-burned past is permanently seared into his memory and fossilized there; taking karma payments in perpetuity.

Pirate name?

Red-Blood ‘The Weary’.

Ship name?

The Fall of Rome.

Lesson learned?

Not a chance.

A Tainted Saint

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 04:48:00 +0000

A tainted saint with the heart of troubadour and the smoldering mind of an alchemist, ever so certain that each of the words freely flowing from his calloused fingertips, tempered and crafted by the fertile wilderness encroaching on his love blind mind, are custom works of gold gilded, magnificent art.

Crossing the comfortable confines of his study, littered with books, balance sheets, ale bottles, ashes, and the echoes of the mad cap laughter he always imagined coming from a jury of his peers, he contrives to convince himself that he won’t cry a roiling river over these broken jukebox, jug band blues he seems to have slunk into.

Now standing, overlooking the unkempt foyer, half-sagging into a sort of standing fetal position that only people with broken hearts can ever seem to maintain, tears streaming, as he uses the railing of the dais to hold himself half-steady. Doused by the fire, dripping with the flames of passion, the liquid fire that began as a spark in his battered heart, and fueled by the lonesome ache in his belly, rolls down to where his gnarled hands meet the railing, and pools like some oddly radiant candle wax. The spiritual conflagration is only partially quenched by his solitude and the deeply held, unbending faith that somehow this tender situation will see certain resolution before the darkness stubs out the flame for good.

The deluded long con, the self-induced penitentiary, the razor chicken wire, bird cage, sing-song repository he built out of scrap metal resentments only compliments the rusty anchor of not being willing to provide what she wants and needs, constantly rattles, clank, boom, and steam in the valley of the skull. Side-stepping, for fleeting moments of mind-time, vacation days, the ape shit, 3 ring, circus sideshow that he’s become numb to living in has become the official rational past time. Diamond days sparkling such as these always leave him with the fast-forward, magnetic recollection of getting plowed into by a truck on Fillmore and Oak, as the smoke billows from his ears and the lime light dims in his eyes; terribly alone, old as brontosaurus bones, and ruefully confused.

Still standing stuck (what the fuck?) like briar fox to tar baby, Le Brea pitfall, mighty mucky adventures in a drunken poet’s daydream, trying to chew his way through the ties that bind, his muddled mind bending spoons, like some vaudevillian, bespectacled, musical magician named Charlatan Charlie. He becomes, that is, he so often becomes too tightly tangled up into his aquamarine emotions, all the while being dragged head long into the Mercurial, azure storm of hers, with rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air. Fantastically, the white flag is still there.

Furtively, he questions himself, “Will I ever get my shit together?”

He tilts his head to one side and gently shakes it with a slight pursing of the lips into a self-deprecating sneer, with painful wince accompaniment, to complete the harmony of the Discordian choir chanting and clawing at his senses in a whole-hearted attempt to fatefully get him to admit that he fancies himself a coward that doesn’t have what it takes to grow wings and fly furiously towards the goal, which only grows bigger as one approaches it.

What’s the story, morning glory?

Is he a fatalist finalist in the gritty triathlon called life?

“Dunno.”

“Wot!?"

“Nevermind.”

Tethered, feathered, and fluttering, the dust roils, twisting devilishly, from underneath the furiously beating wings of this common earthling. The talons gripping the seams, tearing at the woven fabric of his torturous rationalizations. Startled, and in a pause of panic, he jolts back into his study and splits the whiskey down the middle with a hot knife, muttering to himself about daydreams and heartaches. The writer’s blocking, crimson tendrils tickling temporal lobes, compresses time, blank stares and fatal dares in the reading room, stroking his graying beard. Patsy’s gone, took a walk. She saw the light. The family strengthened by the sacred right, where we belong; no promises or demands.

Love, this battlefield, seems barren.

Regroup.

Rally the troops.

Brashly send them to storm the enemy bunker.

Belay the order.

Drop your weapon.

Melt into your cot.

Gnaw on the idea.

Then sleep on it.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Any questions?

Leonard Cohen - Last Year's Man

Wots, Uh The Deal?

noreply@blogger.com (Mickey Moodswing) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 05:54:00 +0000

What’s the reason for?

Have a seat. Closes door. Lead shoes. Argyle socks. Feet flat on floor.

The ideas come and go streaming through the air like the handsome filigree of breezes blowing.

Invisible.

The hand is rushing to the comfort of wringing, clinking, clanging; always needing, ever growing.

The nerves, they tingle. On tides of emotion they mingle. The flushing face belies the coy dog’s kiss.

Clueing in.

She shivers, ashen, cinders fluttering down, bespectacled fear, sort of never even considered this.

Pen is leaking. We’re not speaking. Intonations. Incantations. Tele-graphic mind wavers. Take note.

Key in lock.

Crossing the chasm, wielding the sword, feeling for change, purges urges. Minds on words we wrote.

Détente. Tongue to socket. A missing tooth exploring nerves, not fully prepared for the ecstatic sparks.

Fading chains.

The stream dreams between the brains bountiful harvest fertilized by bloody wounds from earlier larks.

Press the flesh, printing press heating words into howling friction, treasure trove, orchestral maneuvers.

Wishful thinking.

Wot?