Hair tangled in a matted and filthy mess with hands dirty,stinking and sticky from the contents of the daily rounds trash can/dumster trip the old bum, worn and confused wandered east up a hill until he found the blanket he had stashed in the weeds the night before. Wrapped tightly and secretly inside the covering he found the magazine with pictures he desired then seated himself upon a rock and began unzipping his pissed and shit on time and again trousers unveiling a boiled prick with balls festering with scrotum acne. Thats what happens when you don't wash your ass.
As night fell upon the surroundings he thought about the daily stash of bread, stale pastries and hopefully unspoiled chocolate milk in the dumster behind Safeway on coast hyway. Spinning/broken/wasted and trashed with diarea dripping down legs the unfortunate time when he drank a half gallon of his beloved C-Milk without smelling the contents of the jug or at least looking closly at the slimy substance that had oozed down the side. The old bum claimed to have been at Woodstock yet common sense tells the usual soul he was lying or perhaps delusional from the Chocolate milk experiences of his wasted youth. The closest thing he claimed for a friend fell off the side of a canyon cliff early one morning before the day broke during a true life, animated, Technicolor Jesus experience several thousand years ago or so it seems as he related that sad and twisted fall from an otherwise uneventfull day on the rocks above the great and contaminated with shit and piss Pacific.
As he begins another day the proverbial same old shit on the same old shoes seems to have been fashioned with the old bum specificly in mind. Lucky day! A pair of panties discarded on the side of coast hyway becomes a special treat for the nose and eyes! He looks at the underwear while smiling a psychotic grin then smells the crotch for a hint of what was recently tucked tight within the fine cotton cloth. He shoves his treasure deep within the pocket of his shit and pissed in time and again trousers grinning like a schoolboy with a hot date lined up later in the weeds. True to his nature he decides not to bath and becomes increasingly familier with the stench of rotting flesh and caked shit centered around his asshole. The center of his universe.
The gray overcast day held thick air of ocean stench with only a trace of the health and healing benefit the once blue pacific waters once offered. As the sea vomited it's foamy contaminated filth after the latest rainfall the old bum walked alone in the sand searching back/forth, back forth for whatever excesses the ghosts offered with their usual unwelcome reply to his unwelcome and sinister grin developed out of years of personal psychosis and a deep rooted hatred for the pleasures his life observed. He yacked at the gulls as they flew overhead awaiting a toss out of what never his dirty hands held tight. He searched for a rock to throw at the devils own brand of torment and was certain they were calling his name in some strange unknown way. Yak/Yak/Yak/Yak! As he neared Santa Monica pier that day in Feburary during the darkest day of the month he felt the fear beginning and building once again inside him. That common acculation of bad memories gone wild and knocked out of wack like a half dead rat in a weakened trap after it squeeks free and crawls along it's way back to the hole. An outcast accepted by the others like Lon Chaney Jr. in "One Million B.C. The elder statesman of insanity in all his stinking and sticky glory!
His favorite found shirt he contines to wear as I type these simple words of mutated praise for one of Lucifers favorite sons. An exaggerated cartoon image of a flop eared hound holding one nostral tight with the tip of a paw while sucking deep a long drawn line of cocaine and captioned "Drug Sniffin' Dawg". The ripped, torn and stained cotton T has been on the old bums back since the day after last Christmas when he found it on a bench in Venice. His last vagina was the old whore Virginia who knew him before he decomposed and so offered her graceful spread in return of a memory of a time when her pubic hair remained in tact and in full glorious bloom under the bloomers of her past. The acculated patch of dark brown hell grew outward from the insanity of his gaze.
Schlum stretched to the max he pushed deep the old whores cavity until the call of the wild goose reached it's inevitable conclusion.
