Joey Cloudy online

HOW’S THAT WORKING OUT 4 U?

While Morpheus Greek steps

out of the dream within

speaking a muted language 

through closed captions on the flat screen tv

over the stilled raving of steel drums. 

There is no dream,

only a digitized illusion.

a conjured spirit of electrons and closed casket circuitry

arrives to answer pixelated prayers

that somehow exist in more dimensions than you

my moebius love. I puff on

the blunt as I listen. Seeking only the sacred

council of my own idiocy. Having no compass

here only a broken LED clock

strobing crimson 12:00 pm as it bleeds out

a phosphorescent hemophiliac in the darkest hours.

Hard time taught me its most brutal of lessons

under the rough tutelage of many strikes  

Of its blackened hands. trust only the math 

and follow only the evidence. Its tattooed face ignores

your animal instincts to incinerate every precinct.

Reject always the useless love of a mad 

sow. No matter how pretty the lipstick 

I am. a true child of Zion 

I bathe in the magnificent

heat of the sun spitting eternal fire on my face.

I do not possess a vocabulary sufficient to the task.

Nothing more than trite alliterations of exalted ecstasy of the living.

The ghost dances with dead tongues 

an ancient pain sadistically deflowers phantom existences

I bore witness each exquisite agony every breath 

flees my ragged mouth barefoot leaving in its wake

a trail of bloody footprints missing a single little toe

The crimson trail a drunkards pirouettes Fibonacci sequence, 

Out of the golden meaning of life.

I void my bowels of all wisdom

I wipe my ass with your vintage prom dress

once worn to the Hierophants wedding.

and soon I will be dead as the winters light. It’s already May

We are watching old black and white movies again 

I embrace the vacuous amnesia of amber colored alerts.

Invincible ego of anonymity relinquishes its grasp

on torn memories of us. The most precious

years squandered gaslighted in an emotional TimeSink 

warped to the self-slashing core.

The existential angel of suburban angst

raw doggerel self-loathing caricature assassin

a barren grifter not even a contender 

just another bum rushed lamentation

the most basic X X chromosome. Cliché

thy name is throated seed swallow

incestuous cesspool of putrid orifices burnt offerings

the eternal reek of fetal alcohol syndrome

And irradiated clay pots of mama-sans forgotten kimchi.

I lie and tell myself I’m better off

than the laughing GOAT

At least I still have my name.

I wonder after the Sheriff 

leaves with my signature on 

another stack of me

too lies. no one will remember 

the flavor of the toxic Kool Aid self served to the righteous

who martyred themselves in Jonestown. 

Lost in chronos annals. another cult of the demented

Carving ecstatic agonies into thick pale thighs.

You sit in your car alone in the parking lot sobbing

rejected by your lovers school aged child

thank you for the pi times the radius of the hypocrisy

Squares served up like the best revenge “so delicious so cold”

Relax you are no pedophile you have a predator proof vagina.

This time I win by losing again. My name follows 

me like a hungry stray dog into a tonedeaf oblivion

and soon enough no one will ever read

my feeble attempts to sing a poem iridescent resuscitated

in all of its halleluiah-less glories. 

perhaps the first vestal verses

to baptize my temporal tied tongue in a half-life.

At midnight I wonder if she still

has that gargantuan V 

for victim tattooed on her forehead  And…

How’s that working out for you?