The Factotum Desert
By jonLyndon
The thin steam, cold, bullet-winds, charcoal madness
chewed
me up, sucked me down
the factotum desert bit my skin
a hinterland
vampire, this deep singed wasteland
following the feral dogs into
the black woods
following the diamond dogs into the factory's veins,
the filth's vines, stumbling drunk down the sink-hole gutters
my
gut a gust of bourbon vomit in the voodoo slum
tired, close my eyes,
slip into moist virgin's egocentricity
a mad-gold mine, velvet and
vinyl
I can't go back, now
I've already lost my way
gone
too far, crossed the one hundredth bridge
(are there so many bridges
to that cement island?
"More" I heard; "a lot more").
Somewhere along the way God exploded into illegal things
before
me; most complex: the death present, the death future;
in the end,
however, it's always the death past
what worries worms into our graveyard
drinks...
above the boiling dark factory spits the crow angels
their obsidian feathers wet black smoke ripping apart
the frozen
sky; they spiral in vertigo hurricanes
spinning, spewing, spluttering.
Black blood pours
across the bent roofscapes, thick-sticking to
the aerials
and the broken red-brick chimneys; cats run along
the uneven edges to catch sparrow-moths and shadows;
there are
even the cheshires, there and not there.
The train was empty. I rode it for maybe a thousand years,
no one to talk to, until one day I saw the face of my scarred
self
staring back at me, from the painted-over-black windows...
I suppose
I still had noting to say, from either side, so I gave
myself a
book. "The Crow Garden". As I opened the first page
the train finally
came to rest at a station: Station Now.
So I got off. When
the train pulled away, I realised I forgot
the damned book. I was
back out in the thin-cold, mad
charcoal-steam of the Factotum Desert,
carrying my bones,
my flesh, my shoes, my sins, my slaughters, my
laughters...
so many things, but none of which I thought could help
me.
Sometimes there is just nowhere to go but you find a way
and you go there, anyway... I suppose, at the end of my
life's
journey I might begin to understand all the questions
left unanswered.
Perhaps I'll find another copy of that lost book?
My
head is heavy; I believe it is going to rain.
Awards
Comments on "The Factotum Desert"
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On Monday, November 26, 2012, Oliver Twisted
(53) wrote:
"Somewhere along the way God exploded into illegal things" I get the sense that God is the tycoon in this very Gothic looking city. I like your T.S. Eliot concepts of time. And as the reader I felt a longing for a treasure item and an inward introspective look at the psyche with symbols depicted on cave walls.
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A former member wrote:
Wow....just effin' superb piece. I'm getting lost in this the more I read it. There is an apocalyptic end-of-the-world feel to many of your works but this is one that leaves me speechless & scrambling to keep up. A journey of words I have taken on several occasions.
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A former member wrote:
"stumbling drunk down the sink-hole gutters/my gut a gust of bourbon vomit in the voodoo slum"..."slip into moist virgin's egocentricity/a mad gold mine, velvet and vinyl"...loved the section where "carrying my bones, my flesh, my shoes, my sins, my slaughters, my laughters..."...what can I say...this is a masterpiece in word.
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On Wednesday, July 20, 2011, jonLyndon
(113) wrote:
many thanks... this is one of my personal faves. cheers.
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On Sunday, January 9, 2011, purr_verse
(1052) wrote:
OMG I LOVE IT. What a magnificently written piece. This "Somewhere along the way God exploded into illegal things" is awesome, and it's far from alone. This is brilliantly crafted, clever, witty, engaging, original and if I don't have a bookmark spare, I'm deleting stuff until I do. The soft, understated conclusion is all the more powerful for its restraint; outstanding, you, all of it.