Helga, Olga, and A White Haired Mustang

Posted by Erik Moshe on Wednesday, July 11, 2012 Under: Poetry

"Helga, Olga, and a white haired mustang..."
Collaboration with TheProjector

22,000 Years…

was more than enough time for old age to set in. Grandpa’s menthol colored hands were a map to the vast soapy cardboard cities of imagination, administering scratches in my throat from the sheer laughter. The three wise men… no. He was a wise man, singular. In mystical folklore, there are also three wise old women. They cherish the moments in life with their tea leaf-yellow sea teeth and their diabetes recovery medical packages. The genuine kindness of a beady eye, digitized, captured in a moment of Germanic timelessness. But time lessens. Their lives are less than a quarter left now, but adventure still kicks like a burning baby within them.

A group of sauerkraut-stricken ladies stands by as a drive-by shooting of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly suddenly loses all meaning. The Dalai Llama passes by, the “Guide to Living” clutched in the hands of the three women. A collection of kids long gone to the motherland is cast by Olga with a look of disdain. The Swedish smile of Helga sheds light on the tears spent in hours of quiet bliss with her daughters, both living lives city dwellers dream of. The final pale look, a cancerous tumor, fought through with the strength of a mustang in paladin’s dress cloth, glowing white. The final chapters of the lives of three schoolgirls nears its end.

Moth ridden mockeries, frostbitten poverty. A staunch, scribbling Socrates does his homework on a tectonic palate. His teachers are his mother, his grandmother and his great grandmother. Three bodies of quartz and skin and marble. Reassurance and guidance is their village side novelty, allowing Venus fly traps to cure in the sun; extracting rustic Russian blood Sputnik from the land of barbed wire playgrounds. The ladies of Denmark meet with an Iberian historian to spark a frock of neo-ginger. Sodium count annotated on their blood pressure logs, they are guardian angels with bristly old features. Their elderly freckles bring them luck that long, drawn out fantasies long for.

Portobello space station comes into view. Hulking megaton brick house with panels from Dr. Xavier’s Cerebro complete the trek through stars propelled by the right aerosol liftants in their shoes. Up through the lobby they go, small purses in hand and perfume of past temptations lingering down the vertical corridor. They used to be the talk of the town, the life of the party, the fuel to men’s refineries that carried over for generations. Prolonged by the cryogenic diet. Now they are reconciled with everything good that can come out of a perfectly good hospital care system and a vial of self regenerating medicine. The refusal to play devious, the amusement of aged deviants. The ambience of Café Space where you can stop for insta-coffee with sugar-free sugar packets. “Hello ladies, can I place your orders?”-- “Hello young man. We would just like our fair share of mushrooms. Just a handful would be nice.” The three women nod amongst themselves.

The mushrooms provide some sense of relief…

The caravan of the traveling mask salesman - enigmatic in name, nature, origin. A cursed pox of ambition, driving force of restless grand children. Hold your breath as you take the first step into the rapier cityscapes lining the canyons where horse-drawn carriages carry no license plates.. A boy greets you at the door of the Epiphanies, the café next-door to the door in the mountain. "Welcome to the rest stop. Are you on a journey or is this afterlife transit?" The question on the mind of equatorial space New Guinea, a gas station for those in search. The journey, often leading to the forty-two disappointments of marked life's accomplishments, leading one to the answer of love-lust for inner desires of a barbaric nature to materialize. Impression on the mind is like a soft mattress.

A repairman helps continue the structure known as the Bubonic Plague long after the aftermath of Y2K, the description of the world illustrated by the burning of the Red Cross and the demise of the black draught pharmaceutical emblem. Man is wiped out in the ensuing bloodbath of IV Bags, ivy league hags and biodegradable wastes of precious time. Pandemic, endemic to Guantanamo Bay, resort for the sick, insane, and affluent, and the world finally sees the flaw in the human genome project. Years of studying years of studies all for the sake of developing the perfect fem-bot... gone to waste on the base known as Bliss.

Mechanical fungi and spawning fauna remerge to the breeding grounds.

Three old women will wait there, standing awkwardly with their shoulders hunched, and as the Kremlin looms in the distance, a fountain of senior citizenry will burst from the sidewalk riddled with pine cone eulogies.

In : Poetry 

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