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Mar. 23, 2007 Bee Sting Bee stung lips but the real thing they were. She wore a boy’s haircut but was a knockout all the same and she drove the men and women wild, but she was straight all the way. Nowadays she was with child, nine months, and it looked like it could happen any minute. She sat in the sunlight. In the old days she used to wear big boots and still dance under strobe lights on second floor clubs where the walls pounded for the music, the bass, and only a few were chosen the rest hopeful dreadful followers just fending off suicidal ideation strange desires to cut or burn. To cut or burn. A cut and burn world that was, where she came from, but she walked through it untouched, with the bee stung lips and too much jam. Only a few had the jam, like Bee Sting, and she could work it any way she wanted, but was responsible even and always in such a time of reckless abandon. Well not always, but she made it out and they say that is what counts for much anyhow. Bee Sting. She sat there, years later, with the morning sun, and nine months along. Brown eyes, big brown eyes, or deer eyes as some people called them, jeans, clean jeans, Vans, wearing Vans in the spring, some off color interpretation of green or brown shade. When she stands her arms are long, and her fingers are long and creative, like they say a piano player’s would be, or someone like that. She has almost a crew cut the hair is so short, and there is a bit of the dreamy self behind the eyes still, a bit, but its going, and its been going for a while, and she knows it, but she’ll try and not let the world take it all. Some of the dream, somehow, she must keep for herself. Holy Ghost Holy Ghost Whispering songs In the child’s ear All along... Holy Ghost What terror it is To arrive a stranger In a world defunct... Holy Ghost You’d better have more Songs up your sleeve Than some slightly Audible whisper In nights long Ago... Trucks Roll Hicks with no teeth and it was a rough place grizzly face type of corner. Trucks went there, and the trucks had steps, and inside that station they said what they said. One there, was talking about hitchhikers and said that he saw some women a while back, and they looked good, but that he’d not ever pick then up, because they could be killers, or robbers. The rain got ready to rain there, and it was an unkind place, not meant for regular people that had become unwittingly soft from the world of interaction with other soft people. There was a way, and the way was a different way. The trucks gave birth to the travelers there, and not the other way around. That was where there was a high hill, and there was nothing else in sight, but it was also a bit of an illusion that the visitors there were so tough. They were and they weren’t. They would help, as they have a reputation for help. The pavement absorbs the tires turning, all the tires turning. There is no real trouble, until there is real trouble. Pull into there. Pull out of there. Vibes and strange normal world it is. Cabs. Big cabs. Not many teeth. Maybe teeth are over rated. Maybe they pull them out on their own sometimes. Don’t pick up hitchhikers. Don’t pick up the killers. Everybody smokes. Absolutely everybody. The smoke goes through the no teeth. Smoke doesn’t care. Trucks don’t care. Its time to book. Robbers will have to wait, for some other ride, for some other way, for someone with teeth and no nicotine and a car and less cautious about murder and mayhem by the places of rural tough rolling tires rain with mean wind cold chilled bones of discontent under denim and oil and that. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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