Tallon Fassi

The smoke curled, a thousand cream serpent tongues.  

We spat words that had weight and

hypothetically tested pre-calculated fates.

I pressed my fingers over the keys,

Felt ill from the radiation disease, American ease.

 

My mother, whom I admire was disturbed.

“My father’s on his dead bed, Tal”

No curing herb?

 

Dying alone with no memories in his head,

I’d rather be dead.

When all the chips are on the table,

Life’s just a fable,

Don’t trust me just consult Able.

 

Winding back in, I loosen grin,

Arching my neck, its all an attempt

To keep on my porcelain mask.

  

The city dances in movable parts,

Alone against the world,

You put a puncture in my heart.

 

But Thank God people are cruel,

I caught some lessons being Love’s Fool.

Trying to make me look like a tool?

You know what, Fungu!

Feeling guilty is a principle sensation

Cupid should write You a serious citation.

My heart is burning, and You’re a

Three legged Dalmatian.

Don’t laugh this is a serious affirmation.    

 

We conducted uneducated debate,

Your time was precious,

‘Sorry! Master to make you wait.’

From now on I’ll masturbate.  

 

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The dirty faces… the dirty little face

of the tiny hand races of children

standing in the burnt out rubble

paint over the dark children’s trouble

and sip on that latte and read your Emile Bronte

and complain about the price of gas.

CNN paints what we see.

 Have you ever stared in the green eyes of a baby Iraqi?

Picked the shrapnel from the nursery and thought

what is the difference between that of your child’s dying screams

and as for me I can’t get clean?

I’m filthy with guilt equal to the blood split so

watch that Sweet Sixteen, buy right into the scene.

No one wants to watch pot belly children scream.

So ignore it, how historic, and let the government decide how to score it.

And if you don’t feel, and if you don’t care

take a look and the dirt and remember soon you’ll be there.

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Your ashes were all thats left

in a little clear vial that I kept by my bed.

So I went to Cupid’s Dicounts to pick up a love syringe.

Ecstatic to rot from within.

I mixed what was left of you in a thick paste

and heated you up until I could smell your old taste.

I tied off my arm with the oxygen tubes that were left over to help me surivie.

Subdued interjecting while I was injecting.

Blood pumped you from vain to vain.

I wanted to carry you in my heart but

blood has turned to venom black

like your lack of residual tack, so we part.

I sat on the floor and tried to embrace my oil.

I’m absolutely refined, no foil, no fine.

Provoking words and idle threats,

mock my intension’s with your content.

You have seen me rehab one too many times.

As I’m shaking I am not inclined

to prove myself through repeated rhyme.

Character building from lost trust.

What is love? What is lust?

Then in cliche style you applied your side smirk smile.

Erected a bill board, painted signs

(have your ex-girlfriend try to “friended” me one more time.)

So here! I like it on the floor, trampled over like some cheap score.

Talk your talk, throw your punch,

can’t kill a ghost, it’s just a hunch.

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Up until a few weeks ago I was working as a bartender in a club in Boston(“omg I want to do that.”  No no you don’t).  Due to events outside of yours truthly, Tallon Fassi, my club has been shut down for a little while.  So now instead of watching the elite of Boston pour their cash down the drain, I sit in the Hippie Hideaway.  Its not because I can’t find a group of people to get drunk with, its because I can’t find of group of interesting people to get high with.  I would rather spend a romantic night of Mary Jane induced jibber jabber, then taking putrid shots of crappy hard booze in some grinding jungle of dark liqurior soaked interaction.  No wonder we are all turning in to such social retards, going on E harmony a for a dates.  Sorry, there I go getting all ranty again. (Hubert pipe hit here) I just want to spend the short time I have in good company and good spirits.  Now, if going out to bars and having drinks is your thing, dank, go big or go home.  I just can’t find myself enjoying staggering down dime lit hallways feeling I just might puke before I make it to the Ladies Room (Which may or may not have happened to me once, or twice).  The point is, sitting at home on a friday night could be sold to you as a social taboo, but really AssClowns will be AssClowns, rest assured that they will still be stupid bartime antics when you emerge because into the world.  Right now I’m reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintence by Robert Pirsig.  Its so fiberous with thoughts, that I spend minutes just thinking about whole sentences, and how I could actual want to attempt to live my life by some of these ideas.  No, wait did I say Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintence, I meant Sweet 16, on MTV.  Thinking about that now it was a sentence from that show, thats right.  I think it went something like “Daddy give me a fucking Porsha I clearly don’t deserve or I’m going to cut your dick off with these fangs you let me grow.”  That was the line that I thought about for hours.  Then I thought if millions of years from now, another set of beings are learning about the decline of the social construct which was western culture, they would show that clip of some fake blonde,cheetos cheese puff tanning bed baked, kissy face pose in all her facebook pictures little 16 year old princess brat.  The professor will say(in whatever lanague/communication style they got going) “…and that is where western culture jumped the shark.”  I’ll hope to make it in the text books, in some small italised blue link, right after Sweet Sixteen and before the third world war.

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 Iserial has a stipulation.  Either you serve in the army for two years or you go to jail.  This I imagine puts a little fire and unification in the youth, a shared experience. That is why everyone is Isreal is bad ass and carries guns and bombs.  I too quest to unify our disjointed nation of zombie minded youth.  I want to be the Pie Piper of contextual national understanding.  In this vein I believe everyone as sure and taxes, death and jury duty should have to serve 2 year in some form of retail.  To understand the aray of people who leave their homes with the specfic task of ruining your day.  Not even the shoppers at my swanky retail store in Boston were specfically to blame, although many times I felt like I had mongolian mountain goats screaming in my head while a little asian women shook a size 0 in front of me with the hopes that I have it in an impossibly smaller size.  I’m talking about the management as well, the key holders, store directors.   They too can get you down.  Whenever I had a break from the drugges of “personal shopping” I would walk down to the parking garage and reflect of the consumer chaos of the day.  Between a C-class and a Escolade I would sit and burn down tremendously rolled joints.  Puffing away in the crator of luxiury.  I would have time to actually feel remorse for these people.  If the sucess of your day in any facet is reliant upon the aquirment of cashemere or silk, weep for yourself, if not, i will metiphorically weep for you.   Contrary to what the E channel tells, Glamour promised in “secret”, or the sales assoicate at the store exclaim as they tick off their commission sales in their head.  These things will not make you at peace.  They will however become the trashheap pile of sinking materialism.  Nothing will fill the void logic, understand and compassion could.  So next time you feel that impulse to consume, to gratify smoke a fucking joint and just think about this: If you took all the time you every spent talking shit or judging others for your own amusment, you could have had (depending on the person) multiple conversation with someone who could become a fundemental corner stone of your life, but if shit talking is what makes you pleased and elated don’t let me stand in your way, connections in life formed on shit talking must surely pay off if you spend so much time in their throws.

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