the Clash forever

It was in the Fall; that’s about all I can remember. I was young and I was also compelled to punch Tennessee Abigail in the face. She showed me her cunt and said she wanted to fuck me. My mind panicked and I broke her nose. I was sixteen and two years into that life of score and run; but never running far enough from perps or skag.

You know those movies where Hollywood denies they exploit or glorify junkydom? They’re pretty accurate, but its far worse than they make you believe. No bleeding hearts please. I had choices, but I chose to accept the love with the destruction. I always had guardian angels, sometimes they were out to lunch dipping their toes in the Frankincense ashes at the nearby church’s wine cabinet.

Walking away from the bulging 200 plus pound bloody screaming mess, I felt bad for hurting her. Abigail continued to curse me out between twangs and gulps. An angry punk country song of sorts. I walked from the King Eddy to the Cecil hoping for some hope. I didn’t fear the cops, but I did fear Abigail’s Agatha Street pimp Big Chop coming after me for some down-home plastic surgery to my ribs.

Grasping for relief of the creeping fear, I thought about my history teacher, Mr. Hahn. He gave four honest to goodness shits about his students. I secretly enjoyed his middle of the road politics. I relished discussing the American ideal and arguing back and forth with the well to do kids in class whose moms drank in secret and their dads had a secretary to screw on Thursday evenings. It didn’t matter much though. I would yell out “the Clash forever.” Mr. Hahn would remind me that his class was strictly a Rolling Stones establishment.

I wasn’t the type of girl who thought about the accepted American ideal of what girls should be like in the 80’s. I guess I wasn’t any type at all. I arrived at the Cecil. Big Mac styrofoam boxes and empty apple juice bottles grew out of the tarmac instead of weeds. I felt sad. I thought Tennessee Abigail was my friend.

Spare Cock Amos didn’t have her drag on. We were going to go out. But I do remember her fingernails being exquisitely polished and groomed in seashell pink. Amos had a lot of hurt in her too. I told her about what I had done to Abigail. She asked why and I told her. Amos responded in a God dense given voice, “good for you.”

Dusk was gray golden and the neon flashed halfway on hooch shop fronts. I took Spare Cocks arm at her request. We waved at the half live carnage on the side walks on Los Angeles street. From one of the gutted out warehouses my mind convinced me Piaf’s ‘La foule’ was wafting out. I unclasped from Spare’s cautious restraint and twirled; neck stretched harvesting the notes in my ears like ripe peaches.

a grady read

my way…

it was in the Fall that’s about all i can remember i was young and i was also compelled to punch Tennessee Abigail in the face she showed me her cunt and said she wanted to fuck me my mind panicked and i broke her nose i was sixteen and two years into that life of score and run but never running far enough from perps or skag

you know those movies where Hollywood denies they exploit or glorify junkydom they’re pretty accurate but its far worse than they make you believe no bleeding hearts please i had choices but i chose to accept the love with the destruction i always had guardian angels, sometimes they were out to lunch dipping their toes in the Frankincense ashes at the nearby church’s wine cabinet

walking away from the bulging 200 plus pound bloody screaming mess i felt bad for hurting her Abigail continued to curse me out between twangs and gulps an angry punk country song of sorts i walked from the King Eddy to the Cecil hoping for some hope i didn’t fear the cops but i did fear Abigail’s Agatha Street pimp Big Chop coming after me for some down-home plastic surgery to my ribs

grasping for relief of the creeping fear i thought about my history teacher Mr. Hahn he gave four honest to goodness shits about his students i secretly enjoyed his middle of the road politics i relished discussing the American ideal and arguing back and forth with the well to do kids in class whose moms drank in secret and their dads had a secretary to screw on Thursday evenings it didn’t matter much though i would yell out “the Clash forever” Mr. Hahn would remind me that his class was strictly a Rolling Stones establishment

i wasn’t the type of girl who thought about the accepted American ideal of what girls should be like in the 80’s i guess i wasn’t any type at all i arrived at the Cecil Big Mac styrofoam boxes and empty apple juice bottles grew out of the tarmac instead of weeds i felt sad i thought Tennessee Abigail was my friend

Spare Cock Amos didn’t have her drag on we were going to go out but i do remember her fingernails being exquisitely polished and groomed in seashell pink Amos had a lot of hurt in her too i told her about what i had done to Abigail she asked why and i told her Amos responded in a God dense given voice “good for you”

dusk was gray golden and the neon flashed halfway on hooch shop fronts i took Spare Cocks arm at her request we waved at the half live carnage on the side walks on Los Angeles street from one of the gutted out warehouses my mind convinced me Piaf’s ‘La foule’ was wafting out i unclasped from Spare’s cautious restraint and twirled neck stretched harvesting the notes in my ears like ripe peaches

persuaded

the fusillade below my heart signaled a transformation that i hadn’t planned visions of blood fodder fingers crushing the innocence of flowers all for goodness sake further down the tunnels men bent in half praying to their shrink meanwhile ticker sounds of acreage burning does Herod have a bodyguard and the soup kitchen has run out of toe tags can we breath the breeze of ancient orange one last time before the refugees of peace become the next on your waiting list of morally inclined to do whatever to fit into the culture of the day

the four letter kit

mind your etiquette and dress you tarty mess alcoholic in wedding veil left to rot in obscurity behind SS Kress dumpster fiendish queen of violent dream three tours in the cardiac desert come home we’ve no passion for your kind that’s ok i take what i can get karma super bitch with pretty face we get what we deserve my mind is just a wasteland one step two step five step six look down at the sky while the air hits my feet swirling up blood drops on the cuff rational decisions are best served late into the night the bats are hiding near in the tall and ancient magnolia trees with falling fruits into the stream of all thought that crosses here insanity wears lace and stirs that flames of cold remorse of atomic fences way up on the hill hashtags for all reasons but what’s the use if we all like to market pain for glamour and enrichment and my teeth go down the drain

on Hill st.

she knocked over the bottles but made it up the drawer to the mirror on the shelf my tabby is alive

the helicopters rumble through the smoky skies the news vans are ready for the close up the tents the chalks the body bags three hours after the big bang

right behind the liquor bank debris in the alley empty Old English bottles and some candy wrappers big hot Cheetos Big Mac box

i saw some guy take a noisy shit on the corner of King street and wipe it off with the LA times i closed the gray gingham curtains

i’m never really sure when the psych meds will kick in but i don’t care as long as i can hear the Garcia’s next door just in case they get drived by since mother had a stroke and lost control over her boys

i do have all i need i don’t mind the four am sirens at five am i’m still not sleeping looking out my fire escape balcony the LA Rams play tomorrow and Dignity Health wants to cure my everything