1417

How Human Nature dotes
On what it can’t detect.
The moment that a Plot is plumbed
Prospective is extinct—

Prospective is the friend
Reserved for us to know
When Constancy is clarified
Of Curiosity—

Of subjects that resist
Redoubtablest is this
Where go we—
Go we anywhere
Creation after this?

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
She is a Gypsy,—will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whispered close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
A very Gypsy is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Makeyour best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

Connecting,
tribes on the cusp--
the lost family...
merging thought patterns
of old & new paradigms
into a geometric shipibo song
singing in moonlit sky,
smoke gray mauve clouds
are painted into the frozen lake background.

We paint
a new paradise--
together
at the table
on a sacred indigo candlelit map map
for people to set sail
on their journey through the seas of skies of their minds
guiding familiar souls
to speak their treasure light again.

We are the Indigo Pilgrims,
soul brothers reunited
after the frozen season thaws,
pushing on toward the place
where mind-flowers commence their bloom
as herb and sage slowly burns throughout the day
as the smoke dotes across the landscape
like dancing hieroglyphic clouds.

Before you start reading this I feel I must tell you, this is long and very possibly, very very boring but, so very important to me and hopefully to my dedicated*


I sat back upon cracked heels
that represented, simply,
just a good place to sit
Somewhere close to the ground
where I could trail fingertips
in the dirt, drawing pictures
of deserted castles
and skeleton butterflies
with wings of fractutured glass
and fairies
with silken headdresses
of thorns
and Unicorns,
missing their horns
and other creatures
of similar ilk

Staring at the fence,
Fifty million years high
I sigh
because beyond the fence
in a babble of voices
they whisper of
Contentment
The underlying sentiment
of precocious antic dotes
spilling precious needs upon
any slight breeze
drifting like glowing dust motes
fills me with a resentment
that is voraciously ferocious
because they
spoke to each other
while all I had was dirt
beneath my fingernails
and partially deformed nightmares
that blew away
on the slightest exhale

As I cleaned the slate
with a flick of my wrist
Rain turned to mist
my dust board of memories
became a mud pile
I couldn't smile
I could hardly even frown
I was still as close as I could ever be
to the ground
I was now no longer kneeling
I was laying with one cheek
against my impression of Calliope,
who is carvorting silently
with rucked up skirts and lute in hand
but not longer in motion
just a muddied mess of dirt and tears
capturing all my naked fears
erased beneath a spirit
that hides in the dirt
on the other side of the fence

This is where he found me
All ragged and breathing stale air
All gasping for solace
trying to wrap myself in warmth
of the voices
from the other side of the fence
It was not blanket sized
more just a crocheted square
enough to cover my heart
which needed the warmth
I swear, I went cold so often
that the dirt that remained
under my fingernails
was the only thing
that kept my fingers warm

He crouched beside me
and said softly
What have we here?
Oh baby bird with broken wing
but whose song I did hear sing
Little Callista, mute from your screams
Broken from your nightmares
that started as dreams...
I saw you through the fence

As I stared into tapestry eyes
and followed the outstretched hand
that didn't try to touch me
sensing my fragility
He pointed to a pinprick space
devoid of concrete and mortar
Just inches from my dirtied face
in the Fifty million year high fence
he graced me with a weary look
I heard you ask once
while chasing skeleton butterflies
if they came from over fence...
Would you like a look?

He stood up over ten feet tall,
simply clasped his hand together
With eyebrow raised
and a twitch to lips
he invited me to stand
with a nod of his head
and a flick of eyes to the fence
I simply unwove all my dreams
and delicious unfantasies
stood, put a hand on his shoulder
a ***** foot in his palms
and he hoisted me

What I saw over the fence was
Magical, Mystical
a complete break to my reality

A simple garden of verdant green
the sublime shade of an unspoken tree
a single little girl
with ten thousand voices
spilling from her lips
from her I caught
just a small crocheted square
on the other side
but it still made no sense
what I saw,
hanging from the fence
until I looked back down
into taperstry eyes
that smiled
with a knowledge of Soloman
having pulled apart
and put back together
a struggling humanity
He simply grinned at me
and trumpeted
She is you, she writes Poetry
You are her and I, We, believe
in both of you.
As you can clearly see
there is nothing beyond the fence
that you cannot be

And he simply bent his knees
and lifted his hands
to the Sun
and toppled me over the fence
so I could, again
become one

When I behold a forest spread
With silken trees upon thy head,
And when I see that other dress
Of flowers set in comeliness;
When I behold another grace
In the ascent of curious lace,
Which like a pinnacle doth show
The top, and the top-gallant too.
Then, when I see thy tresses bound
Into an oval, square, or round,
And knit in knots far more than I
Can tell by tongue, or true-love tie;
Next, when those lawny films I see
Play with a wild civility,
And all those airy silks to flow,
Alluring me, and tempting so;
I must confess, mine eye and heart
Dotes less on Nature than on Art.

I get sick of cliches, I get sick of  the tropes

I get sick of affected twits and how love had them on the ropes

If I let myself breathe the same air as everyone else I'm gonna choke

I can't help but breathe her in and feel I've gone beyond the scope

Of my, simple visions of destroyed inhibitions

and I, can't help but get nervous how she changes up my focus

Can I, convey this handedly while knowing understandably

That I'm leaning on a danger to a core that I've exposed

We've leaned down for contact, she pushed me I push back

The pressure on our hearts has potential for explosion

The languish I had locked inside interior erosion

Implodes, he dotes of notes he'd wrote to quote a query quietly

Distrusting of emotions, just a quiver can inspire me

Fearing no enemy, fearing no evil entity

Fearing only connection and if I'm wasting my energy

Love brought me happiness but it stirred up the cobwebs

Little demons laying dormant til I explored them in every form

in every figure in every norm til they've distorted my performance

But as pandora's box was 1st class special ordered to my doorstep

I dove in straight for signs of hope, a passing look could soon afford this.

She voices her fears, connections lost by the distance

I'll bridge the gap to defend her, no need she says with persistence

She's scared of monotony, she gets scared of the tropes

She gets sick of affected twits and how they leave her with no hope

If she's forced to breathe the same as before she's gonna choke

I leaned in for contact, I push her, she pushed back

We're two shades of the same Wavelength

Our angles just refract.

After the well-know,
charismatic,
extremely photogenic,
wonderfully articulate,
jeweller-turned-gardener,
your mother dotes on,
this cat is named.
 
He is none of the above
I should say
but I like him.
He reminds me of my late cat
Poppy, a more gauche pusscat
you’d be hard to find.
 
Poppy was a farm cat
of uncertain progeny.
Monty is certainly better bred
but (as we say in West Yorkshire)
‘daft as a brush’.
 
And now for the T.S.Eliot bit . . .
(in the style of
​Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats)
 
Curled up upon the green chair
With his head against his paws
You can see his body breathing
Up and down
 
He’s been busy all day long
Doing absolutely nothing
Save a bit of this a bit of that
And washing clean his paws.
 
Life’s so hard
For such a busy cat,
When you’re asleep in bed
He’s about and out
 
Networking the side streets
Monty likes to know the scene.
These cats could teach us all
A thing or two.
 
In the morning he may be dozy
But you should see him after dark
Sharp and bright and really
On his toes.

I have learnt for myself;
that no one really likes another
without something in it for themselves

This was not told to me
For a price, it was not obtained for free
The true intention of man is not as it seems
From a place of vantage, I stood to see

It seems reserved only for that person that
reflects what they dream of
or portrays their expectations thereof

Sometimes for the sake of true gratitude
or plainly for an outward show of servitude

Sometimes it is for your good books,
your good looks,
or how good your life looks

Who really likes a man that is obscure?
Who dotes on that woman with ugly manicure?

From dawn until dusk
To the sweat, dripping musk;
From attacks of musth
To that One Golden month.

Rising solid in the dawn--
As the bronzed Ego of Purpose--
Mustering self-esteem's brawn
Cools my trademark Nervose Verbose

But do appointments, notes,
Lectures, hecklers, and Beckers,
Distract the mind that dotes?
The Heart Desperate for Nectar?

Hah! such defensive thoughts....
Fallacies of Neuroses.
Just polishing my doubts,
Vainly "pleasing" my unease.

Monday's mundanity
Fails my lie of character--
Left with Insanity
Railing lines under pressure

And then, faces--balance blurs
Into downed neurons
Where not nobody cares to
"Think about the children!"

Dear Child,
I hold so frail in my arms,
I look down and wish to protect you from all that harms,

But I know as the years grow more,
It will be harder on your choices to implore,

Your first few years will be a pleasant walk,
Where I teach and you don’t talk,

But as years go by,
A mother can only wonder what’s ahead will lie,

Soon it will be that “I don’t understand you”,
Even though I was a teenager too,

It’ll be that I am uncool,
You avoid me in public, especially at your school,

You will refuse my tender love,
I’ll be told “mom seriously that’s enough.”

We’ll disagree about boys,
Because you love him,
And I have no choice,

I’ll warn of things,
And you’ll just say “Whatever.”
As with every year my heart stings,
Because you think you’re more clever,

Dear child so small so frail,
Trust your mother and the boats she has set sail,
Trust your mother, whom upon you dotes,
She’s your mother, who to you her life devotes,

As time flies by,
So short as momentary as a sigh,
I watch her learn, I watch her grow,
As all who walk by in her soul do sow,

Will I ever be able to always protect my child?
Keep her sweet, young and undefiled,
I know her passion not mild,
Her streaks like mine is so to live wild,

But a good heart in her I did implore,
This young girl a mother does so adore,

A mother only wishes she could be there every step of the way,
And help a daughter understand,
She knows the exact games life tends to play.

Red twitching eyes
Gotta cancel the rest of the day, sleep sleep
Need all the dream clouds and relax time
I can muster.

All my lady friends, they say
Don't live off of tomorrows
And I remember The Betrayer and his promises of tomorrows
I did, I knew you and kissed you for a fleeting moment
Tore your apartment down, us together
An ending into a beginning
Watch you drive away, as you looked after me.

Choosing your life over a life of us together
I dance and did the same
But I can't and won't fight for you anymore.

You say you are around
You say I am so sorry
Never mean to abandon, disappoint
But robotic answers, I don't mess with them.

I want a man who holds my face in his palms
Not just temporarily
But dotes on me like a dove
Admires and encourages my brilliance
Twirls me like a little doll
Fights for and with me like a warrior
Stands next to me and my levitating wings.

I guess, yeah
I really hoped it would be you
But you gotta press some buttons
You are around, around, around
As the women around me
Our nostrils flare and we consume lattes
Setting the world on fire.

If I could hashtag how over it I am
Turn it into a jest, I can't stick up for you anymore
But I finger painted in so many--remember whens

But I just think of long platinum blonde hair
Of the black box Alabama theatre
As people would look at me and say
This one, she's gotta go
She's meant for more.

Black haired and eyelined
Searching, searching for a partner
I seem to always fall into the wrong ones
A Bonnie & Clyde bob, a strawberry blonde mane
Natural, dark for Eleanor
Long lioness hair.
And thats why it hurts so bad, I tell all my friends
I hoped you and mathematics might be different
But I don't hold onto tomorrow.

My Grandmother's spirit sprinkling
Bravery and beauty within me
Staring at her face as if it is my face
Would she curtsey to the woman I am now?

I don't know what I believe in
But I wanna make a million pieces of art--
Asking questions
And I do, I hope the hero that is meant to stand next to me
Just  will
But I, I live in the moment.

The distances between

You and I,

my love,

are essential.



And I am truly sorry,

for all the days,

when I never told you,

how much I love you.



How much I love,

the way you hair falls on your face.



The way the sun plays with your eyes.



The way your lips

curl into that smile,

when you say my name.



And this very distance,

makes us love each other,

so much more.



The rush of anticipation,

of meeting each other,

someday,

somehow,

fuels our fire.



Makes us live,

and give meaning to the word

the universe calls

“Hope”



I admire your beauty,

just like the world

dotes on the beauty

of the moon.



See that, my darling?

The distance ,

is the

Beauty.



People may call me a poet.

But I just merely

observe,

what the universe has written;

You.

Amidst fire, flies cosmic sparks
A sight at which my spirit harks
Through fire cosmic power sung
Articulated on scintillating tongue
The guardian of the divine flame
Who awakens spirits, sleeping, lame
With molten lance, searing spirit
A snake through spine, feeling vivid
The ghostly self is slain

Amidst molten skies, go thunder bolts
On their sound my spirit dotes
The thunderous applause of lightning
Has potency is such it's frightening
A bolt of melody struck my head
When all the sorry world dropped dead
Awakening the tune inside
The salve to my spirit supplied
After it had bled

One ruby Sun my gorgeous idol
Nourishing the flowers bridal
Feeding flowers, tending seed
Giving care in hour of need
Giver of life, I honour you
You are a sacred spirit true
The most majestic of all fires
Worthy to be sung on lyres
For your touch I grew

Aye, chihuahua, canis familiaris,
land piranha nipping at Aztec heels.
 
Aye chihuahua!
 
Heart of a Techichi warrior
becoming yipping snarling *****,
eyes pulsating, patellas luxating
at the stench of **** erectus
US-es post-alus carrier-alopulus
approaching, adorned in
sky colors crowned in ivory pith.
 
She is fed on belly rubs and Kirkland’s
grain free turkey and pea stew
in the red can, served in a faux
Wedgwood bowl which she gently
mauls in her tiny maw with the
crooked right canine.
 
Queen Sharma is a diminutive avenger  
who brooks no men, except Daddy,
yet dotes in squealing delight
at the touch of women and children.
 
Her territory, a peed-on scent trail,
extends from Guinevere to Lancelot
to Tristram to Merlin to the end
of Camelot Lanes, Streets and Places.
Neither hated squirrels, rabbits
and other canine species are allowed.
 
She can neither jump on the sofa
nor forge mighty streams.
What she lacks in peripheral vision
she makes up for in astute echolocation
and good stiff sniffs of her nose.
 
Yet she has a deep dark secret
that stains her royal dreams.
The scruff under her neck to the chest
in the russet form and color of a fox,
which she struts with a rooster’s pride,
is the product of her Chi-Chi mater
cohabitating with a spritz of Pomerania,
making her neither chihuahua nor pomeranian,
but yes, an adorable pomchi!
 
Yet that neither bothers her nor me
as she paws at the bed covers draping the
leader of this pack, burrowing under to
be close to my side, and dream dog dreams
of walks and car rides and never leaving me.
of walks and car rides and never leaving me.

Dear Child,
I hold so frail in my arms,
I look down and wish to protect you from all that harms,

But I know as the years grow more,
It will be harder on your choices to implore,

Your first few years will be a pleasant walk,
Where I teach and you don’t talk,

But as years go by,
A mother can only wonder what’s ahead will lie,

Soon it will be that “I don’t understand you”,
Even though I was a teenager too,

It’ll be that I am uncool,
You avoid me in public, especially at your school,

You will refuse my tender love,
I’ll be told “mom seriously that’s enough.”

We’ll disagree about boys,
Because you love him,
And I have no choice,

I’ll warn of things,
And you’ll just say “Whatever.”
As with every year my heart stings,
Because you think you’re more clever,

Dear child so small so frail,
Trust your mother and the boats she has set sail,
Trust your mother, whom upon you dotes,
She’s your mother, who to you her life devotes,

As time flies by,
So short as momentary as a sigh,
I watch her learn, I watch her grow,
As all who walk by in her soul do sow,

Will I ever be able to always protect my child?
Keep her sweet, young and undefiled,
I know her passion not mild,
Her streaks like mine is so to live wild,

But a good heart in her I did implore,
This young girl a mother does so adore,

A mother only wishes she could be there every step of the way,
And help a daughter understand,
She knows the exact games life tends to play.

Lying in the mothers lap
After a fun day
Sleep like a lullaby
Soothes the little infant

Fatigued, tanned bodies
Lie on the pavement
Sleep gives solace to them
Magical,  sweet sleep

Sleep tender sleep
You ease the pain
Calm the nerves
And appease tired souls

Like a loving mother
Who dotes all her kids
You bring tranquil peace
To thief, saint, beggar and  king

Sleep take me on a dream
To a world without walls
Where there is only joy and peace
And one does not belittle another

©copyright skm

THE SUPREME SURREALIST

****** has had
too much.

He has passed
his Art Diploma.

He is very drunk
and happy.

His paintings sell
quite well.

He meets a nice
Jewish girl

gets her in
the family way

does the right thing
by her.

He has 7 children
over seven years.

Dotes on his two
sets of twins.

He is happy.

Changed his style
the one Surrealist everybody

knows
he is interested in History.

Devours books.

The Second World War
doesn't happen.

It's an "...a what if. . ."

People thought it was
all going to blow up back then.

How the history books
got it wrong.

"How many shall pass on and how many shall come to be.."

A ****** now will sell
for quite a bit

at the time of his death
oh...a million or more.

He and Dali
the two most recognisable

moustaches
in the world.

He is a big
Alan Ginsberg fan.

****** dead in '68
there isn't a dry eye in the house

It is the day of Atonement.

His son says
Kaddish.

"No more to say and nothing to weep for!"

The virus news carries me from room to room.
A Verdi aria breaks the solemn
chant of the rising death tolls in my brain
as Italians sing to the sick below,
voice to voice forming a single line of hope,
that filters down to the lonely windows,
my electric screen, all the world’s tablets.  
The music spreads over the mournful lulls,
penetrates through the hemagglutinin,
nucleoproteins singed by joyous noise.
The alarms of Corollas join the chorus,
even the rain ululates with applause.
The gift of every note dotes on the glass.
The ventilated sick duet with their eyes,
pale hands conducting the voices above.
The voices background the daily briefing,
the drone of Trump, and the doctors after him.
I switch to another song, more mellow-
Sitting on the Dock of the Bay, something
in the same tempo, in unison, that allows
my small cautious soul to match their big notes.

Donald Trump boasts about
A landslide victory in the recent election.
Trump and reality seem to be
Experiencing a disconnection.

Roughly 80,000 votes
Out of millions and millions cast
Determined the winner in the race,
And yet Trump keeps holding fast

To strange and absurd delusions of grandeur
And to a fancy on which he dotes
Regarding his "triumph" over Clinton
And the total number of winning votes.

Even though she received MORE
Than two point five million votes than he,
Eighty thousand in THREE swing states
Won him the presidency.

Eighty thousand. I repeat:
Eighty thousand. That's the size
Of a small Californian town.
That's all it took to win the prize.

As usual, Trump loves to ride
The glory train of Bombast and Bluster,
Refusing to acknowledge that
His victory is really lackluster.

- by Bob B (12-13-16)

sought in concept form
she of attention darting
someone often dotes

do not chase me with garland
of apologies strung from sheds
of regret.

i love flowers.
in fields
and their dotes
ink linked so
they exist forever.

such passing events worthy
pursuit set me abundant
in decorant

At this moment in time
I am 28 years old.

I feel wild and young
And other times my face feels so weary.

I escaped for a little while
Back to Alabama
Sometimes going and licking your wounds
Is the best thing you can do.

He read into the lyrics
I laid down all the signs
It reminds me of how the past talked to me
And I just wonder
And whimper
When will someone fiercely pick me.

I feel envy
Over the women that seem to have found
Their men
How he dotes on them
He does not stray
Or so they say
And I hope not,
I want to believe that too.

I've been wading in the mulch, the swamp
I practiced speeches outloud
Trying to formulate how to try and
Keep myself from getting
Wounded, awkward.

Do you remember the night we
Drank tequila shots
I danced towards and away from you
Dancing became something we would often do
My favorite night was the night I caught you looking
Right at me across the room
But you wanted me to seem like your hot *****
When it was convenient for you.

I'll never forget
The way you looked
With the lights all hitting you
And the fact you chalked it all up to dust
I know break ups, they happen
But I thought for a moment
You were never gonna go.

We stopped growing together
You became immersed in your fear
We were either going to progress to the next level
As I sat across from you
Leaning in to try and make you feel
So comfortable
Not knowing in mere days
You'd change your mind.

And thats whats got me confused
Thats whats got me not wanting to try
That what makes me know
When you think on me
You feel shame.

I guess I sort of hoped
That we would move and dance
Alongside each other
There was something about you
That made me too,
Not want to let go.

Maybe it was our artistry
Maybe it was how we would meanly flirt
Though when I pushed back
You didn't catch it
You didn't want it
Because it made you internalize yourself.

A choir of angels sing
Yet again
Here is another
Unavailable man.

And I think well
It'll be a fun summer
But I fear the attachment
I know wells inside of my body
My mind.

I remember the moments
Where I held onto my guns
Singing and swinging
I want someone who wants all of me
A drug to you
And your existence
It is better if we behave
In nothing but silence.

I think about the months
That will inevitably pass by
I hope to work out and wade through my mulch
My swamp
Find inner peace, joy,
***, love.

Knowing I've got plans
I've got me
And the ability to no longer
Allow anyone access
To my own self worth.

THE SUPREME SURREALIST

****** has had
too much.

He has passed
his Art Diploma.

He is very drunk
and happy.

His paintings sell
quite well.

He meets a nice
Jewish girl

gets her in
the family way

does the right thing
by her.

He has 7 children
over seven years.

Dotes on his two
sets of twins.

He is happy.

Changed his style
the one Surrealist everybody

knows
he is interested in History.

Devours books.

The Second World War
doesn't happen.

It's an "...a what if. . ."

People thought it was
all going to blow up back then.

How the history books
got it wrong.

"How many shall pass on and how many shall come to be.."

A ****** now will sell
for quite a bit

at the time of his death
oh...a million or more.

He and Dali
the two most recognisable

moustaches
in the world.

He is a big
Alan Ginsberg fan.

****** dead in '68
there isn't a dry eye in the house

It is the day of Atonement.

His son says
Kaddish.

"No more to say and nothing to weep for!"