The Attic, 1990


He advises, “Maybe a Celtic knot design,” but a tattoo symbolizing eternity makes little sense when you’re on a battlefield. The Devil in his jeans, an invitation to a Mardi Gras remembrance. Is this a sitting or a lark? Only the scrotum knows. Radio Clairol, robes of yesteryear, every Day of the Dead, tumbleweed lawn department, the satin sheen of dust, yellowed window shades and a black and white TV. Eight-cylinder wheels, red leather interior, and a trunk filled with tall boys. Voltaire on the terrace, Tony Greene under glass. The taxidermy of chemistry lasts a lifetime, but bad food is bad food. The politics of flannel shirts, chains of lace, and lighting so dark it can swallow you whole. Opioids, Swans, Tralala, bathtubs of comedowns, showers of hot wax. Hangover pallor and the stubble of slurred words. Between tangerine sunsets and acid dawns, ocean water percolates in his pores as he burns scalps for a living.

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