10 April 2012

Monkey Wrench

monkey_wrench
There are words in my head, lurking near the surface of my mind, like convicts awaiting parole – words no man will ever hear. There are colors hidden in the angles of my eyes no one shall ever know the names of. My words are sharpened like axes – my expressions are bent old shovels. I bear the marks of a thousand tiny cuts got in the market place of flesh; where no dilettante dare show face – for fear of getting hired.

We worked for cuts and grazes, bruises and contusions, splinters and electrocutions. The pay was good, but the hours were fuckin’ miserable. Come rain or shine we worked the rain and shine. We slipped on the slippery and rolled with the rollicking. There was double time on Sundays and time and a half for every other day where going home was off the cards. We monkeys were wrenched from home by the promise of riches and wild women. Some of us found the women, but the closest we ever got to riches was a pot to piss in. I knew men who were carved in stone; they say a rolling stone gathers no moss, but they don’t gather too much cash either. We were busy rising from destitution to poverty – that kinda work had no future, just the promise of some good times before you die.

All hands on deck – man the Capstan filters! I play this keyboard like Art Tatum and I got no fuckin’ fingers! - I lick these keys like they were made of toffee. This here machine is my shovel now and there’s no health and safety to protect my head from management's mind games. I got to tell you labour relations took a dip when I left the union. Now I gotta negotiate my hours with an insomniac and my wages with a madman “No cash flow – no dough, get back to work and remember I love you Johnny and I’m always right behind you” Seems that love conquers all, but poverty and toothache. You can’t quit poverty – poverty quits you, but you can always sell your teeth. No matter how hard life gets you have to live it, you can’t divorce it and call it bitch. You gotta cultivate your life no matter how much it stinks. I never worry too much for new stuff or pals. Things don’t change, we do. Whatever happens I’ll always have my thoughts, (unless I get Alzheimer’s) I’ve been places no man has been – no women either, not real ones. All hands on deck – man the Capstan filters! I wonder if I befriended that young lady – would she lick my keyboard? I get so tongue tied and a boy appreciates a little conversation now and then.
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2 comments:

  1. Bombastic literary accords bringing to the reader so close this world of the real men with real sweat and hard boots. I adore this writing. Your writing is entrance in which words are doors to rooms, a motion in which images are breathing hard and you can hear the pulse of it all

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  2. Hey Johnny B-Good... you may have caught the rollen off a writer sitten down at a rythem review... go go... just remember a gentleman monkey is a monkey that dosen't monkey with another monkey's monkey...

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