Audit

You, my naked sister of the nine, you cross yourself as I grope for my camera. You strike a pose through the lens, and I think of home. The big old house where the weathered corners are coming off and the thicket hide a car carcase. I could stray for hours, between bird cherry and syringa. I’m drifting. You notice. I click away and you fall to pieces onto the bed. And your breasts heave to the rhythm of your cluster bomb panting. Later, we’ll have some coffee, get acquainted.

Wasteland

We are here. The great tempest has passed, the green has turned to sepia ash and the cattle are ribcage monuments in the burned pastures. Yet we are here.

Between rock and skyscraper skeleton a Geiger-waltz slowly abate. And the barren land will late forget man’s outrage. Neither will we forget, as we dot the wastes with our hollow eyed presence. How we huddle, how we weep. Dry sobs, a cry of those left to thirst.

No admittance, not for the likes of us. As we, the journeymen of genocide, diminish, the blind prophet proclaims the laws set to protect the divine sphincter and infernal void from us limbo scrappers. Eden finds us too tainted, spoiled meat left for sunny day flies. Gehenna considers us lukewarm and spews us out; telling us our abyss is man made.

Hear the summer night

Summer night’s veiling, shroud of stars.
Buzzing of crickets, gentle the warmth.

Hear! Those feet, all stomping for you!
Hear! That fiddle singing your praise!
Hear, O hear! Your lives’ trudging pace!
Hear! The sound of summer night’s blue!

Hear the creaking, a violin, its cry for times for which to long.
Hear the thump of feet about, a pulse for lover’s wedding dance.
Hear the fiddle’s olden tales, of forests deep and fields of song.

Memories, passions, bonds and ties,
Thickens the air, the senses enhance.
Two sets of feet and two sets of eyes,
There is the truth, there is your chance.

Hear! Those feet, all stomping for you!
Hear! That fiddle singing your praise!
Hear, O hear! Your lives’ trudging pace!
Hear! The sound of summer night’s blue!


-----------------------------------------

I wish you the grandest of fortunes, P & L.
Treasure one another, for you are truly special.

Contemporary times

The waxy sun sprouting redemption
to the sound of harp's melodies,
frenetically played by baby face cherubs
and the cornered legends with reindeer eyes
throw down their loincloths
and scorch in the killing light,
a van Gogh embodiment of a spatial fetish,
being licked by vile, blue, green and red supernovas,
and crumble to the wrenching terror
of experimenting saxophones,
to which Manneken peas blood on ravaged pavements,
scarred by stellar high heels and skulls
crushed by ex-convicts trying to strike it rich,
but falling themselves face down
in a tornado puked gutter, dreaming, dreaming
of the liberation of Mother Earth
through the use of indiscriminate nuclear energy,
paying no heed to the tear floods
of unjustly born Puerto Rican children,
who’ve been force fed tourist’s depraved urges,
who knows nothing but inhaling of glue,
killing for a percentage of the loaf dealt
by Occidental cynicism,
and the brazen sunsets over South American jungle,
where yellow belly bulldozers rock the creamy pants
of the comfortably tied down, pornographic
internet generation, brats
filling the Alsace-Lorraine trenches
with dead beat mucus,
spewed out in response to all
once held for true.

A murmur of protest

We can all see the jet liners as they pompously soar above. As their stream of self righteous consciousness pierce the lard blob clouds, we see them. We see them all and we crouch and huddle in their shade.

There’s a miniscule possibility they see us, or rather knows of us. Knows of us the way a tractor-soled boot knows about the bugs it will squash as it hits the ground. It knows of the sound emitting as we break.

And we see more, more than our veiled, off guard eyes can take, more than the shallow, thick-water, concrete shores of the waterfront reveal or is ready to discuss over a murky glass of wine. And even though it’s a cheap, white trash wine it would be too brash to say it’s tasteless.

What more do we see? Or well, when I say We, I’m actually taking too much credit. I don’t see that much. Actually I see fuck all. It’s them (the rest of We) doing the looking and viewing and seeing, and subsequently dying. For the blind are not in jeopardy, so sayeth the Lord. But I do neither his bidding nor theirs. I hide, here, by my desk, sometimes under it. I hide, with my rifle at hand.

Tuesday is tomorrow

We were sitting on a street café, one of those with all the proper features but all the wrong ambition. Time and again an espresso machine roared in the background, like a dying beast, bleeding black. The facts of life were summarized in cigarette smoke. We talked about why people so rarely turn around. You bought a glass of scotch, despite it being a week day. Then you said Tuesday afternoon light makes my skin look like fragile canvas. I remember laughing, then growing silent as my eyes caught a glimpse of someone to whom only his face remained. Too bad I thought, he used to have a name as well. Now no more than rough pastel lines. I used to know him. Till he changed. I can't recall your reason for being silent though.

Fair?! Man, what do you mean fair?!

Today there was fighting at work. Or rather commotion. One of the blissfully, mentally unequipped had a fit. His own head was the main target. I can't help feeling slightly humble when such an event settles in my mind. He's a grown man. He's not even a child mentally. Life is not fair. But then again no one said it is, except for some religiously ignorant. But I say again, life is not fair.

This of course raises the further fact that man is a wretched being trying to look for meaning where there is none. Looking for God where there is only inequities and stardust. Living by philosophies is overrated though and so, I'm back at square one. Standing there, watching his rage filled eyes, feeling his spasmodic limbs in my hands as I try to hold him down. There were four of us holding him. Or was it five? And the rage, was it because he was not allowed to sleep in the afternoon? Or did he try to rebel? A desperate struggle against the body some fucked up deity supplied him? But no, he was probably just tired. Like the rest of us.

The Point

We were all cowboys. Ranching, rodeo riding, racing the wastes. Always on the move, always on the verge. Never more than a whim to motivate us. Wind blowing south, then that’s where the herd of cattle’s headed. Some of us lost what was dear, others lost so much more. But the skimming of vast planes never halted. We were on the move. We were on the beat. We were racing towards a sunset. Never mind which one. They all look alike. Breaking point is not when your steed lies broken at your feet. It’s not when you’ve forgotten the names of those lost. It’s not when you think it’s all over. Breaking point is that moment of surprise when you draw your last breath. Then you think: “Was it worth it?” Well, was it?

Parallel Lanes

Down, down, down the middle.
Lane white. Snowless winter black.
Hours of radio rot.
I'm zooming out, and then in,
into some other field of vision,
into some other sense of being.
Parallel lanes is where we ride.
There's a gospel sounding in the dark,
sounding between the pines and the furs.
My tongue is a dried up almanac page,
my eyes, a zodiac.
A speeding car passes.
As it flies by I notice a crow by the wheel.
It's got a crazed stare.

Something Lost

It was just a fleeting moment,
it always is.
I could trace the line of her lips back to where it all began.
"It's a rare gift." she said while wetting the stamps.
Perforated edges against pink.
She was depressed, I could tell.
It showed by the heavy beating of her heart.
There was a story being told by the necklace of congealed memories,
leaning heavy on her posture.
She sure was depressed.
I told her there is nothing as real as where the grasp fails.
She did not believe me.
Much later, as the lights of a commercial sign were humming our song,
I had regrets.

He's watching you

I was browsing around at deviant earlier and concluded that old people really are the shit. Or maybe not old people so much as wrinkly faces. Faces where time has etched itself into the skin and made it look like dried, cracked mud.



This old geezer for example. Sure, photoshop has done its buisness, but nonetheless. Those trenches really make you realize where your timepiece is at.

Somewhat like a rock. A stone skull having witnessed too many sorrows, too many heart crushing moments to remain fully human. Eyes unveiled to the wailing wind, crunched by the inhumane into diamonds, pried into that cliff face. But there's no pleading. There's no point to it. There's only that intense, aware, indifferent gaze telling you: You are nothing.


Depressing bastard, shut your trumpet!

First thing's first

Welcome to The Bongo!
This is where I, Marcel Bongo, henceforth shall puke out my thoughts and add some more mindless ranting to the pornographic mountain of idiocy that is the internet. Anyway, I thought I should celebrate my new blog with a poem I wrote earlier today. I call it Flower.


Flower, extracted out of blue. Blue corresponding to neon blue.
Neon blue night, just about black.
Just about black, just about midnight.
Black of a thousand uncut faces,
black of a thousand bars, of a thousand drinks,
of a thousand tremors and ruptures in the proverbial, piss stinking,
lollipop-faced, ass-legged black.
Flower, with a dick in her hand.


That's about it. It always strikes me though, something like a week or two after i write shit like this, how crappy it is. However, I've decided that post-editing sucks ass so written word stays, even if time makes me think twice.

Tonight I dreamed of living in The Sprawl. It was... nostalgic.It felt like home, yet I quite hate big cities and the urban extreme. There was a tint of yellow in the air as of smog, or maybe like an old movie with a gentle static shielding the eye from the bare, naked truth of the world. It was reminiscent of that vision of America that never was. Peculiar, since I've never set foot in the land of the free and the joyously ignorant. There was a saxophonic feel to the neon lit streets and people moved along the boulevards and the alleys in an orgasmic rythm. I stood in the middle. I didn't move. Crowds rushing by. My spot in limbo was an eye in the storm. That rattling, low frequency storm that rolls and curls up your sleeve, leaving you exposed to the void.