Behold a most gracious host,
carmine and perse with an eburnean ringed hue,
yielding a formidable specter from a Waxing Gibbous.
In the umbra of an ominous shadow,
discerning a medley of nefarious burdens,
the flux of paranoia surging is boundless.
A burlap satchel clutched tight and hitched;
inside, a trephine, alms, scalpel, and an old umber stethoscope
accompanies a wayworn tosspot on this audacious saunter.
Ten toes claw the vitreous strand and jetsam near a firth
where squeak the cries of Junco, Osprey, and Skua fraught with mirth
in the sun's gloaming tincture of indigo, and bilious luster.
Dost not covet the charade of my transient liberty,
wherein a caddish guise feigns the propensity of a dotard
fraught with wayward bouts of coprophagy and garroted rape.
Fortnight, in the throe and rue of my brutal dolor,
the vapid torpor of my abject existence
morphed me to thole a choleric umbrage,
heeding the volition of my demons to leave my faculties agape?
The cresting salty crashes of the hematic-toned perigean tide
kissed the servile rainbow of tumbling polished sea glass.
How fortunate the timing to view such a heavenly lull?
The ochre whitlow of my decaying digits
make a laborious task to turn up my cravat and russet shawl collar,
limiting agile function to torment, plague or meddle!
I heard the caws from a murder of nineteen devilish crows
mocking the gallows's smother of my departing snicker,
to come hither, breaking free of my nightmare's architect.
Aptly, I rest many a wearied bone down
within the harbor of a dank mossy dingle,
wroth with emotion, despising an empathy shipwrecked.
Mine eyes drown in a copious gore of crimsoned cruors,
becoming lost in the brew of surf and coral,
whilst an arresting glare kindles the expanse from a Luciferian moon.
My disheveled locks lay and lean upon a batholith leeward,
quenching my barren lips with moonshine by an ewer
in the presence of a phantasm on the strand shaded puccoon.
I bid a jealous farewell in a somber gesture of brow and feral self.
Wherein does the weregild serve me mindful menace?
Wherein dost I abjure the rascal and nevermore suffer woe?
Bordering the strand, farm posts bear the burden of my weight;
feet shuffling, throat tender, these hands are scorched
upon the stinging pricks of the barb-wired hedgerow.
With a savvy wariness and an eerily daunting instinct,
I lose hold my newly procured Budapester shoes
pirated from the lifeless heels of an august costermonger!
Flashes of me hung constricting, cultivating my end attrition
in the gibbet with a barrage of fired sparklers,
that recalls the memory of my mate's torture, now stronger.
Disrobed and chained to iron ringlets fused to a crag,
he screamed for his kin who turned him in;
he unburdened his broken skull in a humbled bow.
Dentigerous hounds drew taut the ropes that bound his ankles,
lifting, stretching his skeleton lateral to the loam.
He wished, tearing at air, he now reached the day of Eschaton
………. not in the morrow!
Branding, burning, two days on a crude Judas cradle,
prior to his gauntly sallow frame being dragged to neap tide,
they keelhauled him four fathoms down, rode belayed on two rusty tholes.
My soul grieved, unhinged and shot into earthen clay;
I embraced in a free soliloquy and a ruing barter
with a throng of wishes soaring on the song of distant souls.
His fragmented corpse, ravaged, broken asunder in unkempt bedlam,
exists stained and caustic affixed to a broad puce vile rock.
Vultures feed there at the fringe of a seraphic moonbow.
In lieu of my heretic dogma to natural law,
recorded in the defunct masks of brats and bitches,
citizens plagued betwixt states of Cholera and hate contend to play hero.
An evident tone of a distant horse's canter
reverberates and startles a most guilty reproach,
suspending my facile tenure amid a truant absconding!
Chiming bangs of metal hames and whirling spurs
close in, sounding off in ascending levels of intonation,
a huntsman's ride on this dusty trail to an ambling.
The blunders of my past arrest and botched trip to gallows,
one that sent me to a rickety upright-jerker,
minds me thrice, since youth, this world's mad with bestial rage!
A sad reflection, the sight of my mom in chains,
takes me back to a miser's filthy life sustained.
End this, huntsman in mine eyes forlorn …… never to be upstaged!
My resin-greased necktie composed of fetid hemp rope,
bore the load of jolting deadweight, one furlong through pasture,
adorned with sparse bramble, bucolic beasts, and two avid vultures.
Three figures of crazed stoicism wielding tools for the tillage,
low in rank like their guest to be,
stood imposing in a vesture of ordure, pitiful in stature.
Thrown in a heap of flies, swath and pig feces,
my left ear severed expelling Mazarine colored blood,
with a frayed lariat used to enthrall the squalid hellions.
Was it for the madness my heart reached out
onto the strand with toes clutching at sea glass
that relished the freedom of a Dark-eyed Junco's minions?
Propped and posed erect in a hollowed post,
I'm fed honey and milk with my limbs exposed,
whilst insects graze inside my anus.
Slip surely and thirsty; shed the illusion of life's rapport,
dressing down the native's loathsome frowns,
whereupon, with my own scalpel, I'm rendered toeless.
Almost one day passed in the dizzy hissing shell of my head.
A voice creeping, soothing pain whilst I tread in absentia;
the imp punctures my fleshy canvas, tapping thick blood from all bruises.
This torture, unnatural, undeserving of such the wrath,
dreaming, spinning as the fiends prepare my bath
in a copper apple kettle pot possessing many uses!
My mottled mask pressed into bent blades of grass,
nails ripping muddied dirt as devils favor their cuts of meat,
showing no pity in chaos to a groveling main course!
Savages of Hell, Alas!
Amateur cuts to my joints with knives and chipped cleavers,
searing slices and torn tendons from bones………..
for the weak, there's the wicked that never fairs remorse!
This Bridge that we stand upon,
Broken in half,
Was not burned,
But torn down to your volition.
You spoke cold words,
In the warmest of places,
Then let them linger.
When all I tried to do,
Was blow them into the wind.
Yet, there they stayed,
Colliding with the warm weather,
Until a vortex was created between us.
A tornado so large,
That we both set down our lighters,
And watched it rip open this bridge,
Until the gap between us was irreparable.
This Bridge that we stand upon,
Broken in half,
Was not burned,
But torn down to your volition.
You know, Magic
That feeling you feel when you feel like a part of everything that's going on
Where the mood of the evening becomes you
And you smile and act but you're no longer acting of your own volition
You're going in tune with what's going on around you
And it feels so right
Like lucid dream flight
But by the end of the night
And you're left alone in your bed
With these thoughts in your head
Wishing that you could be part of a moment without an end
I returned to my childhood bench
and tickled the keys
hoping one would open something;
anything but you again.
Maybe a family memory
or a chord of a song that was once in my repertoire
- anything but you.
I got high off oil paints
as I ran my brush against the canvas
hoping my high school level art skills could show me something more
than a beach or some trees or a city street.
I was hoping I could find you
- I mean, anything but you.
I took shot after shot trying to clear you from my mind
but that damn 8 ball never goes into the pocket like I say it will.
Shot after shot, 5 ball in the corner
8 ball in the side,
but I missed the 8 entirely:
my loss, not your win.
In reality, I don’t know if you won,
but I have definitely lost
because I can’t even watch the opening title of the Notebook without crying,
wondering why we couldn’t have had a montage of romantic moments before the bitter end.
I wish I could blame dementia for your forgetfulness,
wish that I could say you were fighting to keep my memory
like I was fighting for you.
But you forgot on your own volition,
you don’t sit and wallow
or get high just to see my face
or take shots to numb the pain.
It’s been one year, four months, one week, and five days since our last conversation,
not that I’m counting or anything.
There is a generation
Not the one with angelheaded hipsters
That were laid infamously famous
But truly a generation that is its own
Cold, calculating, as they, we, must
Be now that there is everything
There is everything here but right now
As we are surrounded by the everything that
Makes up our filled lives, we concentrate on
So we, they, them, I all must be cold, calculating
Networking, meeting, greeting, cheering,
Pleading for work in the everything that is
And as I look out, through the window
Into our generation, my generation
There is a warmness
A kindness once
unfamiliar to coldness and calculating
Where despite distance, time, values, reasons
Bonds are made
Is it this cold networking, greeting, meeting that
Allows for the kindness that kindles the fire
That keeps our cheeks warm and glowing
A soft pink in the dead of night
As we stand by kegs, cups, tables, cops, cars, bars,
By girls vomiting on their own volition or not
By boys raising hell as their families admonish but
Their cultures praise
We, Them, I, They, Us, can not know
What we, them, I, They Us are doing
Just as others didn’t know what they
Were doing, and meaning and becoming maryters for
On a clear fall day, when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky
Yet turbulence filled the air, the nation and the world.
They, We, I, Us, Them, do not even
Consider their meaning as they ponder
Fake lives on interposed mediums
Or if they are Jackies,
Or Marilyns or
Or if laying down somewhere
just as warm as it is cold
As they touch souls with others
Means anything more than nothing
If they can hold on as they try to let go
When an entire world begs them not to
But the teenage desire to rebel is strong
And the pull of the vast of emotions is stronger
And as we seem to be losing
The fire never dims, and the warm pink glow never flickers
Off our cheeks
And the mix of cold calculations and
Combine, like a nights plans
In a gin bucket
And the thought of importance, rarely is thought
Of aside from the few
Maybe a Marine, but mostly
Those who wish to cure things, change other things
Create things, build things, code things
Things Things Things Things.
For a future of nothing and everything
Everything and nothing
Every single madness is in my soul,
and fires like t'ose of a tempestuous sea-
are but raging within me;
scratching and tearing
t'is faith of mine so badly
Behind t'ese livid; and torpid
Dull afternoon airs.
Ah, stupid reasons, please go away-
and stun thy own flimsy day
But leave every one of thy bright promise
Oh, just here-yet eternally-
everything t'at is as superb
as t'is often-hated hysterical world.
But only th' ones with humbleness!
And before thou retreat-imbue my soul
with silky greatness once more;
As I shalt salute thy carelessness
No matter what shalt happen
But steal not my love out of me;
let him stay like t'at and sleep by me
Until our tales come and greet
And I; dare to spread my sore heart lazily
Under yon distant umbrella
of our oblivious heavens.
I hath the volition to touch th' stars,
And perhaps dream, dream highly
all over again
Of regaining thy love,
and rolling suspiciously
about and into thy waiting arms,
under our liberated celestial blankets
of clouds and its surfaceless haze.
Which might now and then smirk at us;
But before our ignorance rigidly
retreat away; and vanish pallidly into
its own threads
of prim; but unforgivable vanity.
Ah! I shalt but forever dream again
of all yon awesomeness,
and insist on devouring th' tasteful
Ye' immortal madness of thy princedom.
I imagine thy touches-and t'ose feverish scents
of thy fingers, and lavish hands
Free of boredom, but tainted with wisdom
And being sunk deeply in thy justice
Which insofar as it hath been enabled-
been hovering deafeningly in and about me.
Ah! I shalt be th' first one, and maiden
Who maketh thy irresoluteness decisive,
and turneth thy doubtful precisions
once more submissive!
I shalt become thy torch, and lips,
and guiding star!
I shalt bear thy orgasm,
and be thy own earthly phantom;
Be with me shalt be thy candlelight;
which is as strong as envious daylight
and by whom I shalt remove thy fright
As far as my dreams go with th' night
And visit and fend for thee
In thy portrait
and thy invigorating dreams.
I shalt be thy surprise;
and be a companion to thy delight
As how I shalt seek
and glory in thy pleasure;
Be lost in thy pride
and feel merciful to be thy treasure
I shalt deprave thy greed of its life
and make to thy grave,
one most beloved, and conspicuous wife.
Ah, thou art too striking!
Thy stunning voice fills me with madness-
and shakes my spines from head to toe,
But kills my sorrow and burns my sadness,
cleanses up my sins and blesses me anew.
Thou befriendeth my pride;
and my atrocious passion;
thou listeneth to my heart
and rinseth tears off its horizon.
Ah! So no wonder now
My madness loses its pride-
Overriding pride, t'at at times
becomes pregnant with such arrogance
So t'at despised it is, even by divine spies
sent down to t'is earth by majestic Lord.
What a delight within me it is to see thee-
and watch another brimful
of thy laughter-ah; thou art as captivating
as a little red-cheeked boy
Who sanguinely greeted me
Down th' farms
With a flow of madly auburn hair,
and smiles as agreeable
as t'at morn's bashful sunny air.
Ah, thou, who art even more adorable
than t'is lurid poem of mine;
stained with th' red colour-as it is,
of my own madness-and a tenacious judgment
of my senses,
T'ese merry dreams of thee are but too vicious
As they make me sweet-unbearably sweet,
in th' entire course
Of yon upcoming flirtatious night;
and tease me most whenst I'm awake
with loving chills so painstakingly crafted
about my face.
O, my lover!
My equanimious, long-sought, and
Thy naive, but sweet-spirited soul,
is as cheerful and frank;
but troublesome and scanty still
And within one terrific; yet ubiquitous
blink of th' hungered eye
Thou shalt sweep and slay away again;
my rigid; whilst disconcerted, charms.
And so how is at heart I am dreamily-
ye' desperately dedicated to thee;
Though far I am from thee-
as how thou defiantly-from me;
And so never may we sing-or argue in unison;
To utter neither choruses; nor grouped ballads
Dreams are but our sole tower and maze;
And morns all over th' earth, our single haste.
And such! Such a gaze of thine
Is addictive to me like white whine
For 'tis forever my melancholy tyranny;
In my selfish world-full of picturesque indignation
And its dearest remorse
and tranquil superfluity.
Birds t'at never fly;
And lilies t'at might not die-
ah, so after all cautious,
but in every way immortal-like thee;
Snoring and aging in thy deathless foreverness;
In which there art profoundly thou and I-
And I with my repentant dead soul
Unfreed yet of its cherry-like buds
Reeking of fascinated; yet disheartened
Longings; and horrors t'at
Unrevealed love canst soullessly take
Out its mortal mouth and sunless tongue-
From which my dissatisfied spirit
ain't bound ever to jump and awake.
Ah, but after all-all t'is suffering
and disruptive madness,
My corrupted freedom all along
shalt find justice
And whole confidentiality
In thy soul;
So t'at let me feel lethargic on thy shoulder
And rest my dishevelled mind for a while.
Perhaps, thou could let me sing t'at silent song
Whilst our dear God fixes everything
t'at hath gone wrong;
and imaginations and joy
t'at have been thrown away
shalt find every single way back of theirs
Into th' secure cage of love, within our souls.
Ah, and betwixt thy indolence
Shalt I laugh again;
For th' at length victories and images
and pictures I am thankful of;
for they were formed so adequately
by thy stupendous name.
Ah, and immortality-yes, so which
shalt always be thy name;
With such frame and glory
trapped so idly within whose frame-
Like an odd; but fruitful summer game;
Within which I shalt ever thrive,
and civilly flourish;
Just like in thy love I shalt grow and live
And to our very last breath, rejoice.
Nightmares haunt my ever waking.
Never giving. Always taking.
Always giving without volition,
or is it a seer’s gift with condition?
Both contend. Neither understood.
Whether ‘tis those to bleed
or others bled?
In consciousness I presume Logic’s domain,
But in dreams I occupy and Escher’s fantasy.
One way out is another door in.
Oh how this dream ceases an end!
Awakening is not an escape, but a taunting of the perishing day.
Divinely I dream
Benignly I live
Sublimely I gleam
Shyly I give
My heart on a platter
Begging to flatter
A people to whom
I do not matter
The weather in the Northern hemisphere is too cold for thee
Here in the Southern hemisphere we have a warmer degree
Twill not be traveling to climes where there is snow and sleet
Thy shall be staying where the prevailing conditions are sweet
Up in the North regions they sing those somber refrains
About chilly weather which is windy in vein
Down in the South the sun streams all day long
That is why we sing the happiest songs
The climate here suits us rather well
As this verse doth so eloquently tell
So with that said we must hasten outside
To take in the Southern sun's pride
We'll be thinking of our cousins and friends in Northern lands
Who will be sitting by fires warming their frozen hands
They'll be wishing they were in a climate of sunny disposition
Instead of being stuck in winter's volition