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Sweeney's Pastoral

Sweeney’s Pastoral
Let’s finish. I will help you once, here in the cutting station. I will swab your eyes with Mandarin cotton and slather your bald head with drooling hexagons of Barbicide. Reaching in the jar next to those spider like angular instruments, I will unpeel your eyes from mine and the obscene ant colonies of black stubble will burn as a somnolent blue stares back and within this mirror outside of which you no longer appear, the two dark moons of your exact hunter’s snare should go cross-eyed and a flood of dirty water from the moth eaten janitor’s bucket slops the surface in raining dispersion while two disproportionately large and stubbly hands reach (one cracked in the sea of age, bone and spotted liverwurst, one burnt with the slowly harvested red ions of a child’s silent scream) rise one at a time and with the patience of hobby horses at a carnival ride, and your rude thumb riddled with strange nicotine patches begin darting wildly to gauge the approach fluttering as a man caught up with that one last thing in the week’s sleeping middle begins to lose breath, only in a special way, as though a single hair had risen somewhere it hadn’t before. You will still eat up gooey compliments up about your new baby blues as fortune cookie strips fall from your muskrat ears with the frantic ring of a dated cash register informed of it’s eventual fate in the blinding lamplit alley end of a noir cut-out book for children who are dropping the filaments of paper glass through to the chair you are bound in giggle. A dry itch of burning nosehairs somewhere distant bothers you and a shuffling rainbow morph of bodiless deja vu takes a mannequin shape in this always dimmer glass moon. Did that hurt? Consider:all this is gentler than, well, any normal experience as you’ve been here waiting in this spinning chair for someone to finish it in the cutting stations and drugged city nighttimes and all of autumn’s black delicatessens and the body of Halloween leaves belly up with their rice krispy nightmare chill. In this last nighttime I will read you this blinking red, white and blue bed-wetter though I suspect the colors are dimming a bit as we close, and as much as I love parting without goodbyes, willful amnesia will not be possible; we can share something one more time. I will unfurl, for you, before we begin a silk flag of cruel gnosis some desire but none really deserve or should want: because of me you will know your number, date, and time.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


it's creepy, horror-filled and very well put together.
But I would prefer some structure imposed on this; I know, I know, prose poetry, and all that, but you find that the imagery and evoked emotions can be heightened by separating this into smaller lines and disctinct stanzas.
Try it and you'll see what I mean.
Good stuff, keep writing.

Respectfully, Jim

"Laws and Rules don't kill freedom: narrow-minded intolerance does" - Race-9togo

Thanks Jim


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