Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Vigil

deviant art by deligaris


Vigil

“Sounds like Faulkner, hits like Hayder, and stings like Spillane.”
--Bob Bledashh

“We leave death to the professionals.”--Tess Kincaid

1.
Midnight had passed hard, pissed out in pints of Dargan ale, over that wide silver trough, bolted low against the south wall of the men’s crapper, and the natiful stench of misplaced urine and broken lives rode deep like chiplink roots in his damp nostrils, as Bledashh sat stoic in the stersha shadows, just his muscled forearms held into the light, heavy lids held tight as dripping fandina leaves, endeavoring to ward off the many smoker’s hotole halos fluttering from wall to ceiling, passing hot in review, then piling up like layers of dun skytio above the yellow nicotene-stained glass shades that vibrated gently as the fat Bilino fan blades sliced the smoke cake into gray and white
phot-rings.

The glowering gumshoe chewed his auduci-stick, spiked with cinnamon and green couro sauce, between deep sips of Dagran, warily watching the wide front door at Fast Eddie’s, its three dirty slit windows reflecting the red sysio neon font blinking bloody on the bar’s barrel chest--waiting like a tomcat for three Normak thugs he had fingered righteously from those huge greasy mug books in a dark basement, coffee-stained and drenched bright with blue lasailli light; Stink, Bay, and Boner, soldiers three, assassins, rapists and drug dealers--and warm as it was in that steamy Louisiana nether-night, he felt hunter’s delight, acknowledging his cold steel burden, those twin Sterson .357’s, one tight under his left arm snuggled in a soft calfskin shoulder cradle, and the other cross draw on his right hip, their angry 4” barrels protruding pugnaciously from their concealed carries.

Just before the cuckoo over the long Budweiser mirror clucked two, the trio of hooded domyras burst through the entrance, sunglasses on, diamond studs and shiny astoe-rings on their black ears, bellowing fuck dis, fuck dat, dat nigger sure get got, and where’s da shorties; elbows thunking loudly onto the polished bar, fingerless leather gloves on their right hands reaching confidently for their Goerca pounders already sliding toward them, foamy heads overflowing with bright beer, dripping in squads down the icy sides of the chilled glasses.

“Good morning punk bitches,” Bledashh said evenly.

All three whirled around, dark lenses shading their eyes as they flipped down their hoodies and slapped the black leather grips of their tres Glocks.

“This stupid muthafucka by hisself--he one crazy cocksucker,”
spat Stink.’
Bay kicked over his tall stool.
Boner stood stone still.

“Did you talk to your mamas last night?” the tall detective droned without a hint of ireatio.

“Too damned busy fuckin your mama!” Bay growled.
“Bitch loves the licorice stick too,” Stink chirped in.
Boner reached for his Glock first, and they split apart like broken rose stems, heading to their knees, fingering their 9 mm heat. But in a blink the twins were out into the detective’s big white hands, both barrels spitting fire as vindictive bullets sought out bad flesh and bone. Five guns roared--glass was shattered everywhere, windows, mirrors, and mugs, sharp shards filling the air like razor corn flakes. The cocaine cowboys were shooting wild, putting lead into innocents and empty air, but Bledashh steadily aimed every sizzling missle mid-mass, heart, throat, and head shots. When the acrid pistol clouds cleared, and the gunfire scent saturated exposed skin, he was the man, the last man standing, and with his hot barrels smoking he could see that his dozen shots found ten pieces of punk to blast apart.

Three more rabid dogs put down. He dumped his brass into a small canvas bag, popped in a dozen fresh cartridges with his two speed loaders, holstered his own bad boys, and moving very quickly for a big man, in three strides he was out the back door, down the alley, with the sonorous howl of siren hounds baying close at his heels.

2.
Midnight had passed hard,
pissed out in pints of Dargan ale,
over that wide silver trough, bolted low
against the south wall of the men’s crapper,
and the natiful stench of misplaced urine
and broken lives rode deep
like chiplink roots in his damp nostrils,
as Bledashh sat stoic in the stersha shadows,
just his muscled forearms held into the light,
heavy lids held tight as dripping fandina leaves,
endeavoring to ward off
the many smoker’s hotole halos
fluttering from wall to ceiling,
passing hot in review, then piling up
like layers of dun skytio above
the yellow nicotene-stained glass shades
that vibrated gently as the fat Bilino fan blades
sliced the smoke cake
into gray and white phot-rings.

The glowering gumshoe chewed his auduci-stick,
spiked with cinnamon and green couro sauce,
between deep sips of Dagran,
warily watching the wide front door at Fast Eddie’s,
its three dirty slit windows reflecting
the red sysio neon font blinking
bloody on the bar’s barrel chest--
waiting like a tomcat for three Normak thugs
he had fingered righteously
from those huge greasy mug books
in a dark basement, coffee-stained
and drenched bright with blue lasailli light;
Stink, Bay, and Boner, soldiers three,
assassins, rapists and drug dealers--
and warm as it was
in that steamy Louisiana nether-night,
he felt hunter’s delight, acknowledging
his cold steel burden,
those twin Sterson .357’s,
one tight under his left arm
snuggled in a soft calfskin shoulder cradle,
and the other cross draw on his right hip,
their angry 4” barrels protruding pugnaciously
from their concealed carries.

Just before the cuckoo over
the long Budweiser mirror
clucked two, the trio of hooded domyras
burst through the entrance, sunglasses on,
diamond studs and shiny astoe-rings
on their black ears, bellowing fuck dis, fuck dat,
dat nigger sure get got, and where’s da shorties;
elbows thunking loudly onto the polished bar,
fingerless leather gloves on their right hands
reaching confidently for their Goerca pounders
already sliding toward them,
foamy heads overflowing with bright beer,
dripping in squads down the icy sides
of the chilled glasses.

“Good morning punk bitches,” Bledashh said evenly.

All three whirled around, dark lenses shading their eyes
as they flipped down their hoodies and slapped
the black leather grips of their tres Glocks.

“This stupid muthafucka by hisself--
he one crazy cocksucker,”
spat Stink.’
Bay kicked over his tall stool.
Boner stood stone still.

“Did you talk to your mamas last night?”
the tall detective droned
without a hint of ireatio.

“Too damned busy fuckin your mama!”
Bay growled.
“Bitch loves the licorice stick too,”
Stink chirped in.
Boner reached for his Glock first,
and they split apart like broken rose stems,
heading to their knees,
fingering their 9 mm heat.
But in a blink the twins were out
into the detective’s big white hands,
both barrels spitting fire
as vindictive bullets sought out
bad flesh and bone.
Five guns roared--glass was shattered
everywhere, windows, mirrors, and mugs,
sharp shards filling the air like razor corn flakes.

The cocaine cowboys were shooting wild,
putting lead into innocents and empty air,
but Bledashh steadily aimed every sizzling missle
mid-mass, heart, throat, and head shots.
When the acrid pistol clouds cleared,
and the gunfire scent saturated exposed skin,
he was the man, the last man standing,
and with his hot barrels smoking
he could see that his dozen shots found
ten pieces of punk to blast apart.

Three more rabid dogs put down.
He dumped his brass into a small canvas bag,
popped in a dozen fresh cartridges
with his two speed loaders,
holstered his own bad boys,
and moving very quickly for a big man,
in three strides he was out the back door,
down the alley,
with the sonorous howl of siren hounds
baying close at his heels.

Glenn Buttkus January 2011

Posted as #19 over on Magpie Tales 47
Listed as #20 over at dVerse Poets--Open Link Night 23



Would you like to hear the Author read this poem to you?

18 comments:

Jannie Funster said...

Jesus, Man, you're on an awesome roll!!

Enjoying your day?

xoxo

kathew said...

man o man- great write- fun reading!

Tess Kincaid said...

Wow, what a wild and wonderful ride! This one's of epic proportions!

ds said...

Wow. Great stuff in here. I was riveted. Hope there will be more of this!

Glenn Buttkus said...

Actually, this is Part 3 of the Bob Bledashh
poems. The other two were in Victorian
times though. Glad you dug it/

Doctor FTSE said...

Wow, Glenn! You're up there with Thomas Pynchon!

Mary said...

Wow - just wow (jaw hangs slack)

Jingle said...

creative and playful,

Welcome and have fun!

A++

Jingle said...

Greetings, Happy Tuesday! Blessings…

Friendship Awards, Enjoy!
Thanks for the support, You Rock!
xxx

lynnaima said...

I hope you turn it into a book. Happy potluck!
http://lynnaima.wordpress.com/

Jingle said...

Greetings…

Please help visit a few poets 2 wish them happy birthdays, Thanks!

Your contribution to our community is highly valued!
Keep up the excellence!
Cheers!

Brian Miller said...

holy crap man...reminiscent of The Gunslinger...intense and vivid..great capture of the characters as well...you def do not disappoint...

Claudia said...

goodness..great write glenn - and love Tess' quote..

Anthony Desmond said...

first time coming over to your neck of the woods... must say, I loved what I read... wild & adventurous indeed, but still kept a grand flow. very nice

~L said...

NOW!! For someone with some major A.D.D - you know it's good when I could read all that and stay intrigued the whole time:) great post! talent i say:)

zongrik said...

wow, that's some right, i mean write

Natasha Head said...

Well...well, I think I may be hooked. Love the image you paint in the first line, and it just gets better from there. Dear...I think I'm toast! Fantastic writing!

Bar None Publishing Group said...

An incredible read that attacks the senses!