Robert E. Brown. The Tale of Two Dukes

The Dukes weren't exactly a fine couple and this they knew.
but, things went rather well as far as okay things do. Then one night, eight exactly, dinner was late and
burned charcoal dusty and the ropes binding their chests twisting tight
with courtesy snapped.

Bang.

Mariposa Duke all house dress stained and menstruation greasy threw the gravy out
the window chanting widow maker prayers of divine condemnation
while Claude staring at shit metaphor flushed the toilet three times in protest,
jelly belly murder mad,
screaming.
Unfortunately
all in all it didn't matter in the end.
And in the end
that ending was all that mattered.

Three years of violence later they divorced.
Him chewing bubble gum,

her chewing lead.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Greetings from Hell

Alone.
Bar stool king.
Proud whiskey shot shaking.
Holy horny hipster,
life stealer,
Fuckmonger,
gasping at a secret personal nihilist jihad.

Monstrosity.
A wordstuffed zealot hero cheat.
Proudly razing a shriveled skull consciousness and blank disinterest.
Always an offering at the table,
accepted and always inhaled,
soft and smooth like milk sheets
relaxed with a virgin maiden martyrs scent slowly held in with frigid
air pulsing lungs exhaled drunk and floating of the ground just a little,
Coughing loudly
and suddenly hard to swallow.

A moment of march hare clarity.
Raping angels,
terrorizing the ape gods,
fist fucking the resistance,
teeth gritting the allies,
embarrassed slightly,
and a pleasant shade of blue calm,
for just a moment,
and then
tainted again.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Late Night Moment with My Me

Here I am, desperate.
Sitting.
And here I ask, secluded,
“Who the fuck is knocking at my door?”
Silence is my answer.

And still,
Here I sit
Bewildered
with my dead muse sternly fused to my head.
conscious of my every thought.
Narcotic shackles of schizophrenic
consistency pierced through my lips,
weighing heavy on my every move.
Uncontrollable words poisoned and sweet
slobber down the links,
the droplets strengthen and ruin
the different pools each make.
A mirror image of my me.
In my belly squirm the worms of inconceivable
delights.
They duel sharp as stilettos
Angry- Ravenous- In a hole-
Never ending- An infectious abyss-
Just like my me.

And still
Here I sit
My cock curled up,
Meat for the beast.
I don’t move,
My feet rooted concrete into the ground
with a disconcerting ease.
My eyes serve my meals in a heated
religious fervor
I shutter with every bite.

On occasion
while choking on shadows and sweat
I want to conduct surgery,
amputate the baggage.
But with all the bloody slop and plop have and done
What would become of my me?

Nothing. Nothing? Nothing.

And still
Here I sit.
Comforted by the soothing easing torment my own
womb provides me.
With babbling giggling idiocy I skip rocks down
my dream day childhood sunny little wet wonder brook,
smiling
shinny and idyllic
as I tetter on the brink of black uncertainty.
What would become of my me?
Nothing.

And as I sit.
I burn blue in the snow
brightly
and I die with my muse fused sternly to my
head
dead
Just like my me.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. He's Clean

(robbing the doppleganger)

They say-
he's clean
just like mama
or maybe papa
depending on your tilting bent.
He's smooth.
I liked him cause
he slides
unfamiliar
righteously Blind
sick toothed
mouse Trapped.
His knuckles shine like chrome on a hot rod
just waiting to be shifted to another day,
a twisted point of view.
Like a fouled cat turned out on the street,
our boy learned to hate well.
After all, what did he have left?
A shining sense of tear and wear fashion.
A sonombulist's Reason.
The company of spent men and unfamiliar Cooze.
A curse giving us Something to strive for,
to die for
to wrap our Little girls in news paper and cry for.
Either way he's smooth.
Yeah he's the kind.
Bathed in his Porno satan giggle.
Attending his toilet bowl mass.
Breaching the anti-etiquette.
Sleep crusty hungry.
Dirty jeans and lactate.
Unaware of this theft,
and just part of the search for some kind of brutal salvation
that has always left me wondering.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. The Automatic Horror Show II.