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Last Turn Of The Midnight Carousel Released

  • Writer: Matthew Abuelo
    Matthew Abuelo
  • May 28, 2018
  • 2 min read

The Last Turn of the Midnight Carousel is my first book in 6 years and has taken several twists and turns over the course of writing it. Much like the News Factory which focused on friends and the now extinct spirit of New York city, before it became a Disney World shit hole, when it was still dirty and not so family friendly, this book had started off as an ode to all the lost people places and things which I’ve grown to miss more and more these days. But certain events forced me to change the subject of my work. Over the time that I started this collection till now I’ve had to deal with the death of loved ones some whose mental state I watched deteriorate slowly over the years. In one case I found out about the last act of desperation by a friend, three years after the fact. The of news of her passing sent me reeling for a while until I was able to regain my footing. There are several pieces among these pages that are dedicated to her including one of the short pieces of fiction. Then came the disaster of the 2016 election which I’m still trying to come to terms with. The only positive thing I can say about the post-election days is that I was knocked out on heavy drugs due to an operation during the swearing in of the orange low level landlord pimp who thinks of himself as a don. Everyday now, we are watching one piece after another of the advancements of our society are being flung into the abyss of provincialism and normally rational people are reacting like dumb beasts in a china factory. I understand the desire to destroy a system of economic inequality and backwards religiosity, I feel that way most of the time but to hand the shit house over to neo-fascists and turning our country into a full blown kakocracy which is where we are right now and destroying real people’s lives as well as life on this planet, to me is an act of a lunatic’s parade. These horrors of our time are also stamped on the pages of this work as well. All of this plus more can be found in The Last Turn of the Midnight Carousel which is now available to buy.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1632100355/ref=sr_1_1…


 
 
 

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© 2023 by Saman

Guilt

 

Why do we race for the scrap heaps of all forgotten things?

Is it to watch the plumes of smoke

Bellowing from a future

Which is not a future but wasted hours waiting

For men and women to finally stand

But who never stood for anything at all?

Do you understand?

And what are the solutions

When the young become as brutal as New York City landlords

Turning our buildings into shooting galleries

For out of towners who walk pretty

In their cock sure skin

With its perfect glow

And whose gravity broadens the shoulders of

Those who live with bent backs

From the labor of becoming exhibits

For those who will never stay

but will always be

Just visiting.

As one mayor put it

“New York is open for business”.

The brutality Mr. Algren is that only the truly wealthy

Can own a judge

And getting off on a misdemeanor is afforded only to

Those who can pay the price of admission of staying out of the tombs.

 

 

2

 

Are we (the new Indians)

To be buried under the ruins

That were our rooms

Or the bathroom that sat at the end of the hall?

 

Oh New York

With your buildings as clean as ancient Rome

Would you have the waters of the Hudson River

Wash us away into the oceans

And our breath bleached from your air?

And what are air rights other than

A rich man’s attempt to claim the horizon as his own?

Are we to wash up on the shores of Plumb Island

With all the news papers

Used syringes and Coney Island white fish?

Even the taxi driver who passes through the nights

On streets that are nowhere avenues to him

Will never call the great pinball machine of Time Square home.

His place is across the George Washington Bridge where he disappears

Into the view across the Hudson.

Someone saw to that along time ago

In some backroom deal.

 

You can’t love a city

Unless you love its ghosts

Who will always haunt the SRO of the heart.

They are all there here:

The subway suicide diver

Whose last act of desperation delayed the 1 train for 6 hours.

The squeegee man

who will forever clean passing windshields at new intersections with old and soiled water

The shut in

who lost her mind only to be locked up in Saint Lukes

The street artist who found his lot among other street artists in Washington Square Park

Before freezing to death in the jaws winter.

Or all of the iron workers whose words will never make it into the history

As dirty faced testimonies of those buried under the concrete

Of a story white washed.

Richard who wound up on the streets after being evicted from the apartment he was born in

 for being a hoarder

Only to be let back in a few months later

Then dying in the hospital two weeks later.

There is the cop who was shot in the head up in the Bronx

And the punk still looking for a place to play

Now that CBGB is gone

 

A question to the city from a letter

Are you really a dying arcade?

 

ta Jonse. Proudly created with Wix.com

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