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The Rusty Wake Of Good Ol' James
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toolerawk
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The Rusty Wake Of Good Ol' James

The pine box glows like fireflies on a dead beach, sleep for the sleepless and suits to boot. What's his name, James? Well, James done took it upon himself to up and roast away the last bits of something you can look in the eyes and act like you know. Fireflies and starchy suits. Starchy suits and "hey, how the fuck you been? we'll have to do this again." Well, James made fools of us all. The breathless and lightless one is all tucks and tails, strutting about in that there pine box finer than the finest mouth breather. It's moments like this, in between bites of cold chicken marsala and the deadman's deli tray, where you present your gaping maw like an unfed street cat and murmur something all manners of profound like "by god, I seated myself in this 20 by 20 foot Toledo. All greys, graves, and dillusion." About two hours into widows, fake fuckin' tears, and neices that ain't been seated, James has taken it upon himself to pull a bloated unnatural laugh out of his chest, rose-bourne and rested. "Sweet ol' aunt Felicia, how oh so very nice to see ya. Did you hear about James? He's right over there, sleeping and he won't wake up. I ain't never seen cheeks so rosey in all my days of beating hearts, slim paychecks, and pollution." About three hours in the cannibals have started to make friends with skins, sweet sweat like marmalade, licking their chops like the very three-piece beasts they are. It's beginning to smell like death in this elevator music chamber, but I sure as fuck don't blame James. Around four hours in the cannibals start picking off the kids, starting with smallest and working their way up to unsure trembling girls in virgin white dresses suggesting a figure newly found, boys with baseball dreams and drunken father nightmares. Good ol' James won't wake at the wake and the unfed cannibals are starting to shake and sweet ol' aunt Felicia's spirit is starting to break, so here's to the future - a handful of fine-bellied cannibals taking turns pushing the dirt around on good ol' James.


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01-09-2009 09:23 AM
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flowergirl11
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RE: The Rusty Wake Of Good Ol' James

toolerawk Wrote:

     The pine box glows like fireflies on a dead beach, sleep for the sleepless and suits to boot. What's his name, James? Well, James done took it upon himself to up and roast away the last bits of something you can look in the eyes and act like you know. Fireflies and starchy suits. Starchy suits and "hey, how the fuck you been? we'll have to do this again." Well, James made fools of us all. The breathless and lightless one is all tucks and tails, strutting about in that there pine box finer than the finest mouth breather. It's moments like this, in between bites of cold chicken marsala and the deadman's deli tray, where you present your gaping maw like an unfed street cat and murmur something all manners of profound like "by god, I seated myself in this 20 by 20 foot Toledo. All greys, graves, and dillusion." About two hours into widows, fake fuckin' tears, and neices that ain't been seated, James has taken it upon himself to pull a bloated unnatural laugh out of his chest, rose-bourne and rested. "Sweet ol' aunt Felicia, how oh so very nice to see ya. Did you hear about James? He's right over there, sleeping and he won't wake up. I ain't never seen cheeks so rosey in all my days of beating hearts, slim paychecks, and pollution." About three hours in the cannibals have started to make friends with skins, sweet sweat like marmalade, licking their chops like the very three-piece beasts they are. It's beginning to smell like death in this elevator music chamber, but I sure as fuck don't blame James. Around four hours in the cannibals start picking off the kids, starting with smallest and working their way up to unsure trembling girls in virgin white dresses suggesting a figure newly found, boys with baseball dreams and drunken father nightmares. Good ol' James won't wake at the wake and the unfed cannibals are starting to shake and sweet ol' aunt Felicia's spirit is starting to break, so here's to the future - a handful of fine-bellied cannibals taking turns pushing the dirt around on good ol' James.


hmmm...interesting read. lots of imagery...very surreal. it seems to be talking about a funeral and all the fakers that come out though they really dont care...and are there basically for show. and in that, the whole message about the passing of sweet ol aunt felicia is lost! how is james being pushed under as well?


or it could be interpretted about new talent and a next generation taking over  the old one?

are those interpretations too far fetched?

This post was last modified: 01-10-2009 10:53 AM by flowergirl11.

01-10-2009 10:44 AM
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toolerawk
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RE: The Rusty Wake Of Good Ol' James

Interpret it however you wish my dear.


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01-10-2009 04:48 PM
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