Her Thin Ankles Moved Farther Down

Across the street Comandante Alfonso is whipping his constructionistas into higher and higher levels of salted corn.  The new home is being built by some rich guy who owns a restaurant.  It’s starting to resemble Teotihuacan’s Temple of the Moon; the place of “Telephone That Melts”.  My ears are collapsing as I write this and every time a truck or fucking two-cycle Japanese motorcycle goes by I cover my ears with my hands even though I have cotton stuffed in each ear hole.  (Why don’t we call people “ear holes”?  Like, “that guy is a complete ear hole.”)

If you’re like me (you better not be), then you write something that just doesn’t work, but because you sort of like it, you cut it and drop it to the end of your opus: save it for a black day.  So I’m working on Turbo Dogs right now and I happen to go to the end of the manuscript and I find this suitable for framing  on Tin Hats:

“A few days ago I was unexpectedly stretched out on a sidewalk

I was on my way to somewhere I

​can’t recall

Then I fell and clicked through the air

My body turned on the outline of a man

Like one of those bickering clowns on a seesaw

Women poured wine into my mouth

​People fucked like garbage collectors having a good time

Everyone was dirty on the way down

​T​he white haze

​drifted over me

Then the girl massaged my temples

​On those two points built for ice picks​

She told me everything was fine

I knew nothing was


​She was a minute from my pockets

She leaned my shoulders against her hips

I could see her bruised face​ ​

and loose breasts

​Fires were burning just outside of town

I could see the barbed wire

Black smoke and the hum of a thousand people sucked into the flames of her face

​Another night for me to grow more despondent

​Her thin ankles moved farther down, the

red strings tied around each one

The telephone was melting

I could hear it

Rome fell and the monsters sat at the bottom of the sea biding their time

And the telephone kept melting

I could hear it

It was very quiet and the drops were like the unread pages of my ass ​​

Funny how the mind works, making little things into big ones, finding fault where there is only perfection.

I seem to be back in the city where the spiders hide in my shirt collar and the monkeys want out of the zoo.”

Maybe I have used some of this stuff, I can’t recall.  (Did I send it to K.?)  My ears are distracting me and it’s  a miracle that I’m writing at all, but Jan is waiting patiently for me to produce Turbo Dogs and I am also feeling the pressure from my publisher Juanito.  He keeps sending me nasty notes from the Hamptons, things about how he doesn’t like the people who bought Jacqueline Bouvier’s old childhood home and it seems that Juanito has fallen in love with Jan and if this was 1977, there might be soft serve, single malt scotch, and airplane rides all the way around.

Dictated to Tres while floating in a hot tub, Topanga Canyon, summer 1987, DM

I am posting this for the Convert.  He needs to imagine himself in Paris with some French girl who lives nearby with a 1940’s walk-up that the Nazis never discovered.





8 thoughts on “Her Thin Ankles Moved Farther Down

  1. I believe I’ve just been on a wild trip through your mind, Duke. Music is the perfect companion. I would love to see these scenes on a giant canvas – makes me sad Connemoira is not alive to paint them for me. She’s whispering that I should try but it’s so hot the canvas would melt – let’s all go back to ’77 and then slip over to Paris circa ’32 and end our magical mystery tour in that hot tub in Topanga Canyon. Think it’s still around?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yes, she is the one, not her friend. Her friend was the blonde, a bit theatrical for your tastes. She lived on Montparnasse and would take you down inside the catacombs to drink wine with the gypsies.

      Liked by 1 person

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