Scarface Dilemmas for a Righteous Life

Posted by Erik Moshe on Friday, March 1, 2013 Under: Poetry

The rise and fall of a drug pin is a matter of counting the amount of tungsten on the needle tip. Once the instrument of destruction is on it’s way down, only Newton’s third law stands in the way of certain shotgun pebble smear back blown off the balcony. The watery horticulture on a concrete slab is the perfect resting place for these Puerto Rican demons and their Neo-Cuban tattooed suppositories, clipping newspaper clippings to add to this collage of territorial disputes. Angels on shoulders with knives connive with devils with cocaine striped night gowns, nightingale sistren Sistine, painting the ceiling boards with more than just Brazilian blood. Legitimate business opportunities speed balled out the window. Skull shard flies, the bionic luggage of a super assassin whose appearance never convinced you he was capable enough of a man to execute at arm’s length, pressing buttons, only the wrong ones when the moment of judgment proved the life of a criminal who was born to be what he was made tragedy that much more bitter Szechuan. Pat your wine glasses affectionately, sons and daughters of death tenable tenants. Pay the bills, yolk the system for what it’s worth, take a woman out to a club in Los Angeles with every intention of parking your convertible in the rain, have her spread eagle as Cape Canaveral images display on the giant movie screen, guide her around like the Titanic’s nose, give her a nudge, watch the climax of her climax and sprawl for the good moments which may catch up to you like spontaneous back pains.

And on the last day when Marjorie has second thoughts during first base interactions, she doesn’t utilize the special affairs office of her third eye to see clearly, that this man isn’t the right fit for a middle class American familia. She knows, she tries, he wins, he proposes, she cooperates - like a First Lady of the White House held captive by both mad spirited husband, the lust for co-opted power. The eventuality of the United Nations uniting genders and she’d hold the rights of ownership to the plantation, the mansion, the servants, the checkbook, the mausoleum credit cards hauled from a fortified platinum grave. If you’ve been to Monaco, you’d understand why Monte Carlo is seen as a location where the phrase ‘Is this it?’ is repeated more often than church memes. When organs tend to wane, when the waxy face in the Miami sun becomes corpse-like with Bellatrickster finality. The bells, the trinkets, the cabals, the beggar in landlord’s clothing asking not for forgiveness, but for the right to breathe in the next episode.

Night watchers are below average quality. Bandits raid the castle grounds, taking no hostages. This is an ethnic cleansing operation in the arena of gangsterism. One that was born from Canarsie subway doldrum. The darker areas in Prague where clubs are infiltrated by a breed contaminated with malice. Smiles from the Dharma psychoanalysts as Siddhartha Guthama’s body is fished out of the same lake of hate where he originally placed his bait. If you choose to chase the shadows, so be it. It’s been recommended to grow a rose garden for the caskets lowered by the mob’s muscle tissue. Cheshire cats may as well laugh at you. Your luxurious bathhouse is pentagonal.

In : Poetry 

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