Author: Jason

Angels last Memoirs: Last Train to Nowhere

Here we lie in broken dreams, the crosses of our times, our lives, recent memories to future lives, we could not know, the simple poisons cruising through our veins. Angels covered in diamonds flying close to the sun, their eyes blinded by heresy, one night of sin, captured in silent jubilation by the universe singing in joyous songs. The fall leaves covered the ground, like golden snow flakes, baked by the glowing golden orb, silenting the spirits, dream in brillant colors, titan fellows dancing in the brillance of the stars, a golden era, titans falling into madness, crying, reaching out, finding the scraps of broken lives. The fates, olden, dying, crying there in the midnight darkness, their lives disappearing into the madness, swept into the sea of life, mindless wonders in endless possibilities. We were young, dumb, flying high above the scene, our closed hard against the scene, our arms reaching out for godless whores in satin sheets. Grok! Naked bodies intertwined in forbidden love, that last blast of passion killing their lives. In dreams, we confessed our loves, our hates, our lives, our minds joined as one, soul treks through better lands, from the bitter waters, sweet dreams, clouded eyes, distant lies, still burned into the brain, hatred, fires burn. Golden fields, copulation, in that serene moment, just before light, broken dawn, refrain, music in the ears, bringing...

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Caturday in the Park – A cat’s life

A CAT’S DAY IN A HUMAN WORLD: JULY 12TH, 2017 – Butte, Montana USA – Kitty wants a drink! Introduction: many years ago, I met a cat named Bob Williams, he was a nice cat and had learned to talk by watching old sitcoms from the 1980s. True story! Don’t believe me, just ask him, he’ll tell you! He travels the world, scaring the world one minute at a time. These are his diary entries, stolen by Hank the Cross Eyed Bulldog and handed to me, your friendly blogger, Jason the Near sighted pigeon!! Please enjoy but don’t tell Bob where you got his diary from!!! Your friend and fellow world traveller – Jason So the other day I went down to the local watering hole and sat at my usual spot at the bar and order my usual, a whiskey and diet Coke(gots to watch my figure!) And the bartender was like, “oh no cat! We aint be serving you any more! You’re a mean drunk!! Gets outta here before I call da pound!!” The hell, I hissed, pounding my paw on the bar, gimme my god damn drink before I rip your spleen outta your butt hole!! “Get outta here you flea bag! You already been drinking!!! Last time ya got drunk, you pissed all over the bar, told a cop you’d hump his horse for a...

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An Angel Born Upon Butterfly Wings: A Poem

Into the night, our blustery lives, single moments caught in time, a whisper in the storm, barely heard above the roar. Till we seen the sun, a loaded gun, a bottle of rum, memories drifting into the mind, mined, pathetically, into the universe we spun, our hands held tight against the wheel, we tried to shield ourselves against the raging storm, madness reeling, realized, philosophy, the eagerness of honeyed lies, sweet word plagerized, lost my mind too many damn times, lost count back many miles, fly, into the light, but darkness holds me tight. Lies, said, tried, on wings, delicately ripped from steely hips, angel eyes, demon lips, here doth rage the dying of the light, cream flowing from deep inside, rage, does the bitterly, fly, the butterfly does! Here lies passion, buried with that love, lies cold in hallow ground, pagan wishes sodomized by tribal disease, our butterfly does not fly, for it cannot, against the howling winds, that raging storm, held back by our torn and weary coats. Who sees the blossoms on the tree? Who hears the whispers of a true love? Who does sing, that, a courting song upon a midnight sigh? Do you not hear? Dare thee see upon an angel’s face, pressed her lips, that region that bears the luscious fruit of Mother Earth? Oh how I fear I shant be worth that...

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Smokin’ Joe: A Miner’s Tale

Smokin’ Joe is what they called him back then, tall, hard lined jaw, been down so long in that god damn mine he had forgotten that there was even a sun shining or a pale moon hovering overhead. When he did leave the womb of Mother Earth, he’d spend his dough at the bars, the local whore houses then back down into the mines. His back would ache, his arms taunt with strength, breaking the rock for the Company man. He was born in the summer of 1939, down in the Patch, where the poorest of the poor lived in shanties built of thrownout boards and card board boxes, pot belly stove made from old oil cans keeping the freezing cold of the mountain winters at bay. His father, a religious man by up bringing, and a drinking fighting man by trade was killed in a bar fight over a five dollar poker game Uptown when Joe was only two. By 8, he was working the mines, to help the family eat. By 12, he had quit school, having enough learning to be what he was, and by 15, he was foreman, looking like he was 32. On a clear cold day, 1961, Joe went down into the mine, another day of toils for sins, he worked, his body a hard machine, breaking the rock, till the day he...

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Some punk kid – FICTION

Johnny Walters was shot dead at a local club over $100. Johnny wasn’t my good friend. I had dated his oldest sister for a bit back in 1989. He was some “punk kid” running the street back then. His mom, single working mom, tried to get him back on the straight and narrow a few times but always failed. He started out as a lowly foot solider in some local gang but soon found himself moving up the scene’s ladder because of his connections in the local clubs. “Fifty” became the “Go to” fellow for all the locals including some high power in the movie and entertainment industry. If you needed anything, he was the man to go to. As his power grew, so did his enemy list and he became the target of not only the law enforcement but other gangs as well. In a three year time period, he had 17 attempts on his life including the last one which was successful. It all began on a Saturday two weeks before, Johnny had made a run for an old friend from Mexico up into California, some routine stuff, quick day trip, fast cash. He had wanted to go clean, he had a girl friend who was pregnant and they had a nice life, the house and picket fence. But Johnny was always a player. Johnny was in...

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