The Cabbage Patch




words and photo by: Telegraphy

As I step into this boundary town with a half minded trowel in hand, I glanced over above the loonycidal patrons of the sidewalk only to find the man eating fowl mouthed lady perched in her light pole mounted flower pot.

The gargoyles up-top the buildings laugh at me all the while praising me.

If you come across the lost mystical crack-head, give it a kiss for good luck because only in this forgotten popular town the carnivals only come for their entertainment.

Keep your eyes open, for the debauchery is hidden in plain sight.

Diner waitresses spooning out copses amounts of back alley wisdom to inexperienced boys, grow older and life beaten by the costumer.

There's a raven in the top floor window stairing down at me conspiring with it's mistress to trade my world views with a freshly caught wined up mouse.

Careful of the driver-less Hi-Lo; shooting in and out of doorways only to be banquet on by a feasting army of cabbages.

It isn't cabbages, it's a patch. It's not a patch. No; it's a cabbage patch.

A noise coming from the bush is of a unsatisfied porcupine wearing a coat of used syringes, gnawing on the glass slippers of a frustrated cow.

The suits walking down the sidewalk in pairs speak of high society tong undeciphered by middle class karaoke in the bars

Hey man can I bum a smoke? Naw man I don't choke.

The twisted chicken headed girls in their nigh gowns walk into the Cabin Bar on the skulls of old boyfriends, desperate for un-true love.

What goes on in there, stays in the social air.

As I traveled down the main drag, figures debut their casual mannered masks like a Madonna in her prime stardom, only to revel their misanthropy.

Whats going on? The light poles are bending down toward me like a judge about to throw the book at me.

Trapped and tangled with power lines, they have me in their light of forbidden knowledge.

The June bugs attracted to the knowledge migrate though my skin, puking wisdom and prophecy from The Wise Men of Zion.

A porcelain turkey plucks an eye ball out like a Nazi death-camp doctor.

Is this a wet-dream of dry-dreams? Waking up in the morning dew,crooked in the bushes drenched in the back-washed alcohol of the city workers from the night before. I realize that it was. A dream it was not but maybe the morning glory seeds.

Houses in this town, apartments, duplexes, flats all have someone skewing someone silhouetting on the second floor shade.

It isn't just a cabbage, it's a !@#$!@# Cabbage Patch.

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