The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks
And far beyond the discords of the wind.
A bronze rain from the sun descending marks
The death of summer, which that time endures
Like one who scrawls a listless testament
Of golden quirks and Paphian caricatures,
Bequeathing your white feathers to the moon
And giving your bland motions to the air.
Behold, already on the long parades
The crows anoint the statues with their dirt.
And the soul, O ganders, being lonely, flies
Beyond your chilly chariots, to the skies.
The web is like a tinderbox,
It only takes a spark,
A comment, an opinion,
An off the cuff remark.
Someone makes a statement,
Another takes offence,
Neither side is backing down,
Let battle now commence!
Reason is abandoned,
Abusive mud is hurled,
Torrents of expletives,
Flames engulf the world.
From warriors unseen,
Packets filled with poison,
Polluting every screen.
Spectators gather round the spat,
And watch as war is fought,
But eventually they drift away,
'Cos frankly ...life's too short.
Poets make lousy friends because eventually they’ll skewer you with their poison pen; their insulting writ of relentless invective and opprobrious apoplectic venom. The naked foist of un-allayed aggression as art-form whereby the vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife and digs in like a dagger. The very nature of chumminess turns adversarial. Like acid in the eyes the sneering contemptible retch could cobble out words with a disgustingly exquisite though execrable precision. A quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence so committed to unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face, a shocking starkness of incivility justified by a requisite expedience hastened by the anxious need to blow one off forthwith. He was a veritable torrent of abject invectives.
Religious in essence
Yet so secular
And so widely applyable
Viable and undeniably
Hard at both ends
A forged utterance
It holds a myriad multitude
Of Rude in its
Four little letters.
Oh, it can be used
With other invectives
Paired off with
But in truth
It stands tall
A giant hammer
It does not force
The Moralists tell us that Loving is Sinning,
And always are prating about and about it,
But as Love of Existence itself’s the beginning,
Say, what would Existence itself be without it?
They argue the point with much furious Invective,
Though perhaps ’twere no difficult task to confute it;
But if Venus and Hymen should once prove defective,
Pray who would there be to defend or dispute it?
You finally downed the drink,
The glass filled with
Jack Daniels apologies
That I had been
Holding out for
Along with the
Full realization of
How you hurt me so
How my sweet tea lips
And lemonade naivety
Did not quite understand
How to handle each step
Closer and closer to the door
How my quotidian tea,
Was spiked with
Harsh, bitter whisky
Since the night you left
To parallel your invective words
You still do not understand
That when the trees
Murmured a sweet song
To the ears of the world
I would instinctively
Shimmy out of my dress
In search of love
Thinking the leaves
Only for me
I have since learned that I cannot
Handle the whisky
As it tastes too much
Like your kisses
And I am trying
To train my mind
To not intuitively
Feel foolish at the
Sight of sweet tea
Which leaves me
Somewhere in the middle;
And not quite there
Struggling at the bar
For a drink
That tastes right
Has become my
New nightly routine
But at least
We're all chipped, I see
they're staring vacantly
and me at them.
We have become the screwed up,chewed up,plugged in,zoned out men and then when we think the art of conversation is lost
because the chips set in our heads cost so much more than the words which wore our tongues to shreds,
the Feds come in with the 'empty please and delete permanently bin'
but we've been there before and so have hid our words in codes in coats that we once wore.
Fuck the Law.
Don't be pinned against the rack,scan the words you own into attack mode,load your speech,fill with invective,most effective against those who stare so vacantly,that man who's sitting next to me,it's easy see
if we're all chipped,stripped of humanity,fuck 'em be who you want to be,no one cares,as if the whole world wears a chip upon its shoulder.
I'm to old a man to give a damn.
I could toss my cares over a rainbow
Let it hang there a while and dry out its sorry behind
As I squeeze some slices of brackish time to research the deliberate contours of your patience
Swerving its way past concealed match sticks
Bend at the so definite behest of none.
Huge baskets of winding fun
Sketchy image pencilled in, for now
Details come later in -------- a terminal
Charcoal drawings offer the sweet sound of breaking cumulus and sudden wax of orange
come to life on a sullen bed of love apples
shapes are p-p-p-pulled to painstaking proportion
deep lines stippled drastic
dragged along on unwieldy wagon strokes
Art never really tastes ink but celebrates ephemerae
yet trapping half understood and beautiful pictures
beneath mocking glass panels
smudged with such deep knowinggggg
You can do something to stop this damn blood impasse
beset more so with counterfeit decline
blind bull rage too ready and bloodthirsty acts bay
half crippled and on its knees, how your land cries
see the (over)spill of rightly invective remain unresolved
See the deprivation at the lake
all gall thirsty, yet none to drink
just a hapless event smarting
On a downward cyclic turn
no more will sing voices when old gripes unheard
scream in the long, red lines bulleted across that holy floor
albeit the wicked general holds the trussed up cards
he won’t bother scraping the dried salt of kin later
it grows ever more in sad mounds on the little green book
awaiting missing miracle
inflections of a restless mind
within the bosom creep
retorts from peerless craft forge
entangled moans in briars and sundry
resort to savour within disyllabic silence
Can you but count the ways in which these coins of seeking do tinkle across
an afflicted floor of red lines to an exculpated heart, un(cor)rected ?
Unprocessed miracles are items of constant bewonderment in duress living