he coughs,

the smoke curls up and he throws the spit into the fire with a hiss and some apparition appears, some crone, Rose shuffling out of the dark, you again Rose, he says, where have we come to now, with your blind old father, whose turn is it today to offer a little hospitality to the wandering Jew. are we to be lamed wufniks again, again, not knowing, doomed to eternal ignorance of our true purpose,

let it rain, Rose, let it rain the fires of hell on them this time, there will be no mercy here,

until one day it rains, my sweet maryjane,

Driver..

The soft hum of the motor soothed Steve’s burgeoning anxiety, even though he knew the danger in what he was about to do. Tanya lay asleep in the passenger seat, her soft breath upsetting the delicate strands of hair that lay across her placid brow, and her calm seemed ironic due to tonight’s extraordinary circumstances.

Stopped at a red light Steve took time to take Tanya in. Never had he been so lucky in his life. An average Joe, he had never slept with, let alone dated anyone half as gorgeous as Tanya. How he managed to keep her around he had yet to figure out. He was a simple guy, and she was not his normal type. Designer jeans framed her long legs, and her manicured hands splayed in his lap. She was a high society girl and he was a nobody from Queens. What made their relationship even more interesting was that she was paid. Not in the rich daddy sense, but in the rich family sense. She never worked, her parents didn’t work, and their parents didn’t work. She never had to work for a dime, but her heart was as pure as gold.

rose’s name

No one cares about my name though. They care about letting me know how filthy I am. They care about me moving or they’ll call the cops. They must not catch my homelessness. Hurry children. Cross the street to avoid the old, burly woman.

But this thin, shaking man seems to share my sadness – the droop forward in his shoulders, the listless way he wraps his bleeding hand into a small torn piece of velvet.

Maybe he’s like me. Maybe he’ll want to know my name?

the burly woman

flicker, the burly woman, young now, not so burly, hair in a red scarf, pushing a shopping cart past the refrigerated meats, the juices, the milks and yogurts and on past the cheeses, teasing the toddler beside her, mindful of the infant in the seat of the cart. flicker, a shopping cart her decorated house on wheels, (she lives on the porch, under the backsteps… her portable hell, no children, no pets, no car, no partner, a snarl for the motorist yelling at her CRAZY OLD BITCH newspapers, clothes, wads of rags, flags stickers found objects, nameless things (she knows their names) attached to cart

dropping in the street like children lost again she must pick them back up she must she must SHUT THE FUCK UP she yells at the brittle horns, angry cars blaring noise, NOISE

flicker, flicker, flicker, flicker my name is rose, she thinks MY NAME IS ROSE

It’s about time..

“Finally!” she said to the driver as she climbed her slender frame into the massive vehicle. “I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to do this by myself,” she muttered as she removed white plugs from ears hidden behind long bleached locks. “Do you know what could have happened to me out here?” she continued in her drawl.

“Look, baby I got busy,” the driver said, a glint of anger in eyes that were squinted tightly and bordered by a furrowed brow. “I had some things to take care of. Do you have what we need?”

“Of course I do,” she said, pulling from her couture handbag ten packs of c-notes tightly wrapped together in one big bundle. “I got it right here,” she chuckled, and then leaned over and kissed him on the lips. “No need to worry, you know I always do what I say I am going to do.”

Through the corner of his eye he could see her cross lean long legs and his body ached longingly. He was no longer upset at her histrionics. The sight of her smooth skin forced him to battle instinct, and he kept his hand firmly gripped around the steering wheel. Her heady musk permeated his van and made him lightheaded. He stared at her as she lay her curls on the head rest while glancing out of the window. She hummed a soft tune that battled the music spitting out of his vans speakers and everything was good. But only for this moment.

by cruxandflux

waiting

Cut to the exterior where a woman in a parka is leaning against the huge wooden doors papered over with gig flyers. Plugged into an ipod she is singing softly and waiting, nonstop checking the time on her watch in an exaggerated way so that passersby, and there are plenty in this rundown area home to artisans, cafes, small businesses, will realise she has a reason for being outside the deserted building. Eventually a white van pulls up. She nods, halfsmiles at the driver.

the other

“I never thought of doing that.” The hobo spun around. The husky voice came from the shadows in the corner. “There’s a fireplace over here but I didn’t know if I could trust the chimney.”

The hobo grunted, weighed the threat and turned back to the fire. In the dark corner a pile of heavy velvet window drapes moved. From where she had been sleeping beneath them a woman, dark and burly, evidently homeless and possibly crazy and thick with desire for light and fire, eyed the stranger.

hobo,

The shadow raises his gloved hand and smashes the window, breaks in through the back, the club is empty, old disused, dusty, broken glass litters the floor and here and there are dark bloodlike stains, he shivers, gathers together some broken bits of furniture, tears an tatty old poster off the wall, ‘Tonight Live at the Orchid Room’ for kindling and lights a fire in the middle of the dance floor, he is shaking with cold and hunger,

shooo shoo :baba doo bah ~

they setup things
all quick-sharp as they have done so many times before
smoke-lined eyes with a don’t care twinkle
                                                                          care too much too much

and later, while the cognac warms in the cutglass~  her shoulders naked
                                                                                          dropstrap honeytrap ~

they smoulder us quietly
emberglow us with note-lust          gloaming mistrust
and lovemaking careens through us all like a spider breeze drifting;

the bar is full, the music plays and the boozing and schmoozing displays chill thrill us all

                                                         with a flourish
                                                          the alchemist
takes the deck from beneath his hat
                                                     who wants a trick?

Lost Idols

in the glass, the sea

slime at high tide, black bollards bob

a flash of thigh, his tongue follows

glints of honey, faint echoes

pass, fade, silence

between beats, caught in faith

fingering strings,  notes drop ripples of

past fondling, broken, beads bouncing

A dust pan Rose, the priest is lost in spirals