Mummy Breath from the Crypts of L.A.

Lost insurrection
Brave the inspection
Lock tight fit
Sealed fist grip
One on another, we aren’t brothers.

but— we’re one of us— separate and dependent.
crippled cash cows clogging up the freeways
in herds: nose to butt.

Cretin levels are critical
In the Moguls Only Club
Dining certain, swallowing sure
Finding meaning between the cushions of
Their seats.

Drape dust settles
Over those drunken antiques
Light bounces in crystal drops
And catches their faces in moments of weak Expression

Like an ancient flip-book of boredom.

we’re settling.
we’re sediment,
drifting through gaseous space
gathering at the feet of leaden gods and lesser celebrities,
exhaling mummy breath into our still-born, who…
even though they’re petrified…
eat triple their weight in resources.

Tyrannical streets flower horrible red in colonies of little back stabbing towns- the best source of Tombstones. Small minded wars leaving traces Of their cultural stench across the land like a garbage glacier. Stream of fear: Impressions: the flowering sky.

every man must take precautions
or drink his sanity by the cap full.

dead cliché
take a phony
give him a pony
send him on his way

Stone church’s blackened façade
Silhouetted against the sunset

Moon orifice
Shining shrapnel
Sunshine shrivel
Down Santa Monica Boulevard
To the Brown Misted exit
Between the bodies and crumbling bridge abutments.

Remember Mrs. Jones and Whispering Leaves drive?

Trans Am sex kitten with cha-ching! ghosts in her eyes doling out one painful dead-meat orgasm after another.

Earthquake proof parking decks.
Swollen tires drive by
Sunglassed slave holders
Their pockets and zippers abulge

There is nothing left to fear.
Only the shadow of a phantom
Blooming in the depleted soil
Of mind.

a situation of careless burden:
pieces of eight:
groundling cry:
noodling sigh of an earthbound heart.

Faceless, Down on the Pavement, photo manipulation, 2019 copyright GPD