murder. on a rooftop.

Some fly by the seat of their amps jagoff Beatles  cover band had just finished their faux rooftop set in a cursory attempted homicide of Norwegian Wood (it was no good), and were rolling their bussed in geriatric fanclub down the switchbacks of wheelchair ramps along with their stage.

No sooner had they jumpstarted a few hearts, incidentally, off a wall of mutilated sound, were they relocated to barstools in a dark and gutless lounge walking distance away, faux infighting, pitting their Lennon against their McCartney, in decidedly Canadian English to the tune of a couple rounds of Seagrams Sevens lowballs.

Up up and away on the roof where they left it, a blood soaked groupie lay down with ear to the cement for some train come listen frozen still posture, carelessly angled out across the parking space spraypainted parallel white lines.

He was young enough not to discern quality from the wall of mutilated sound washed away. He was old enough apparently to get himself thrill killed. Caught in the cymbals. The cross fissured fractures outlining his skull.

His pulse quickly tapered, his eyes they went dull. Blood pooled all about him. So long, Jethro Tull.

murder. in the park

The oil pure olive
swans there were seven
a mountain inverted
erased from the sky

an brownout electric
fashion show in the dark
the sound of high heels
a girl in the park

they might find her body
wrapped up in a vine
her starbucks
cold brown paper cuff
on the ground

the oil
pure olive
no breath and no
sound

the swans glide in sevens
across the old duck pond
beleagured the webbing
half mast with the flag

a shadowy figure
amorphous at best
inverts like a mountain
erased with the
sun

from the sky
having set
in the west

The year 2121

The days of laptops and tablets and cell phones subsided into a sea of fourth world residuals 3d printed out in the dark of light and night of day, via second hand servers globally attuned to pipeline transmissions.

Beneath it all was a bitcoin traffic jam the size of Luxembourg.

The royal family of Amazon decried the undercutting of their undercut. In senseless haste, they waged war on Penguin, which beat a retreat on a mechanical bird straight to Mars.

Cause despite all of modern devolution, everyone reluctantly confessed to their anonymous divinities… in this year of our (insert divinity preference here) 2120, penguins still cannot fly.

the (suddenly rhetorical) question

When she wanted somethin bad enough, she got sweet like high fructose corn syrup.

She would turn her head to an angle most becoming through his eyes of her figure, a calculation she fine tuned in response to the f-stop of his dilated pupils. Her lashes flicked like butterflies alighting.

The moment his attention shifted from the galaxy s, operation tweet unfollow, to her revival theatrics sillhouette girlfriend experience, she popped the suddenly rhetorical question…

“Do you think maybe you could help me out?”