Thru the wires & along waves of air comes this: a hate-filled love story… “Something lurks in air without remedy, wing, nor foot traffic. Somebody has the knowledge denied mystics & monks, sitting, staring, picking up the pace. We’ve built roads for that…”
Love Turns Hateful: A free e-book by Richard Thripp. 6*9, 96 pages. Download the PDF version (~500KB), or read on…
MY IDLE LOVER, unemployable due to spinal cord injury, unreliable due to drug addiction, unabashed from former stint as street-walking prostitute. Her milk flowed with great ease like at the dairy. She could fill small buckets, but now her small-bucket-filling days are done as she’s in the hospital for accidental surgery.
“I’m full of hateful intent. I’m now denying Israel’s right to exist & belittling the worth of World War I!”
“How dare you concern yourself with such things better let to the media & military!” She said militarily.
“I’ll say what I want. Who are you to boss me around, what with your trim, woman’s body & hair all about your shoulders the way it hangs?”
“My grandfather nearly participated in W.W.1 & Israel is okay as far as I’m concerned!”
“Too bad for you!” I said hurtfully, when suddenly she began to bawl rythmically. “Bawl all you want. You’re merely paying with a credit card from hell!”
”What’s that mean?” Sobbily she queerified.
“It means that no matter the cost to my personal or perpetual safety issues I will prove my point on #1. Israel & #2. The global war of 1918.”
Well, that was all she needed to bear. She jumped on me like Lloyd George, knocking out my u-boats & tricking my dignitaries. Within weeks she would attack my finances: her & the baby, from which I would not soon recover.
“I’ve lapsed upon the comfort of your languid love, one time too often, more so is to pity the climate. I see you now from what we’ve begun: a blackened love affair far afield with smoldering embers of broiled meat unattended too long,” I told her without interruption as she was drowsy.
“Although drowsing, I understood each poetical & beautiful word my witty lover. Our dreams, our quivering bodies & inflammations tell the tale of our lovers’ love,” she spake wide-eyed & conscious.
“Yes, dear one, it’s your wide-eyed consciousness that guides our derelict ship to calm harbor.”
“Of course — the rapids represent lonely endeavour, the hasp & lock of desire…”
“Let us go from here yonderward afore the hour fades.”
“Touch my brisket clever one, feel the handles abounding my girth.”
…And Spanish people have lots of girlfriends. Who remembers the difference, these days, twixt Andy Devine & Gabby Hayes? Marta Kristen & Bernard Getz? People accidently killed in 1973?
Once I gets to prison things’ll be different. I’ll sail thru the front doors determined & demanding. Guards will be fumb ducked in what is their confused state as I organize things to my liking. Not since Al Capone or Frank Sinatra or with any sawn-off runt has such fear been spread amongst real men. “I don’t want my love held captive baby or my toilet seats stainless steel.”
How dare you photograph me in the nude! For God’s
sake put some clothes on! Because being awake is
just part of not going to sleep.
King George said bemusedly to his name-sake
George of Washington, just to piss him off:
“You’re no longer a colony — you’re a nation!”
Washy, who was home-spun & half deaf, & who angered
crazily, became chinned in his pissed-offedness.
“Urination?! I’ll kill you for that!”
”Jesus died for my pins…Pins? Why’d he go do a fool thing
like that?” {St. Denis, protect me from headaches & rage.}
Love limps, hoses, splits, rounding shit-houses, road courts, beneath luxurious folds of under-bellies, atop Old Smokey — hate-filled & frilly — shunning lanterns, bespeaking itself, pre-dating China, limbering solid-muscle showings, willingly weak, wilful & hickory’d, abounding, budding, promulgating, washing red & burrowing cracks…it’s a flowering betrayal in my love garden, my jardin amor, with the Knossian & Kiowa, amongst the stamens & pistils, flow-flower of the back-stab. Flat traps flush with surface tension are to be avoided amongst the Creeks & Algonquins…because: Acne is like anything: a box of paper clips, Oprah’s yacht, toe nail fungus.
The amputees were restless … CONTINUE READING