Sugar nightmares haunt children
Nancy harlequins cane them

Oh, child of mine
your life you did,
away,
sign.

Force fed familiarity with already branded emotions,
irregular realities and clouded surreal formalities,
so very many humans’ form dichotomies
out of our shared mute gray;
spinning constant self-important prose.
So very many humans share so much,
so little,
not often
doing little to soften
all of their emotional blows
trying hard to strike enigmatic pose.

Oh, child of mine
the heart of utilitarian method
has receded in incredulous fashion
followed by authoritarian apologies;
the majority is not icecream people
spreading simple good thought,
but generations fraught
with trivial conformist ideologies.
We are all hiding our seams
with creative masks
and self created tasks.

Oh, child of mine
your prescription reality is revealing itself as Atlantis,
sinking and shuddering into Quaaludes
with frightening psychotic interludes.
Emotions paint
stained lurid faces,
dancing with
ludes effecting movement,
nudes of swaying and repose.
You arose deeming so much rightfully yours
waltzing through seemingly already opened doors.

Holy curb their anti-Christ
Consider your aging soul

Oh, child of mine
Belief of awareness in action
understand the probability of dissatisfaction,
Stop!
treating the moment as a bleak bridge to the next inaction.
Eventually ponderous thoughts form
resembling an orrery,
an incessantly philippic story
orchestrates your oleaginous personality.

Oh, child of mine
Youth flees and your mind
takes once again to the seas,
a vexing penumbra of perception.
Bathos permeates the fathoms of an obstreperous life
and if you still care,
lament that this meaningless congeries
of moments
inspires only delusion,
no disillusionment.
Eventually a lilting threnody
leading 'tween burning pews of proposed serenity
and the following bumping callithump
will firmly stamp you into black infinity.

Oh, child of mine
You've used the switch
too much
too often
coupled with lofty scoffing
giving the innocent up as offering
to the
mechanical engine
             of organic creation.

Rails mime safety of man,

                   and rules comfort you.

     Authority stiffens your belief,

out of this support comes power,

and now above us so many tower.

There is no juice in your meat
No sweet to your thin
No beat in your heart
No wheel on your cart
Little love for your mind
And these missives I have signed
With relish and gusto
Religious ink writing - Irreligious rite inking
Pages full of pelliculous thinking
My pages, filled with the ridiculous
These are my letters to you
Filled with more letters
Held up to the light to cast shadows
And can be seen right through
Guessing thoughts of green giddy meadows,
Of guarded gaffling men,
Of tygers and lyrical zen
My hand had paused and drawn a blank
And you saw that too
When you held up my letters to the light
You read from the cover
Just by my tone
I knew of your other lover
And how I'm made to suffer
How I'm faced with a Hobson's choice
How you've covered up and drowned out my voice
With the moans of your new paramour
With the valiant slew of groans striking to the core
How you've used a hold on my heart
As your bully pulpit
To propound how I need to be fully sculpted
Not the man I am,
I persist,
and I abide,
Not for your amusement and no longer by your side
I feel as if my heart, the conductor, is ablaze with St. Elmo's fire
At my back, a church choir
My funeral,
no,
the inhumation of our consociation.
A pit replete to swell,
on to hell.

I will feed you falsehood, calling it callous desire - you seed me with false gods and blame me for a child I did not sire.

There are witches in your words, and they are burning down my holy places.

I look out across our boundless lake and sit upon a throne built from bones of the long since rotted carcass of my mistake.

I'm known for navel-gazing my way to elation,
and am living in a country caught within
the grips of frenzied matriculation.

My insidiously
malapert generation,
my incessantly
malcontent gene-nation.

This is a Garden of Eden,
Where is our guard of Eden?
carefully removing
all who are not heathen.

Plucking the clouded excess from an already crowded bed of hegemony, as a gardener would and so should.

It is a mirage, a far off oasis of Arcadia and
I say this all unconcernedly, a basis for this absurdity.

I have stolen my ego from god,
I will carry this yoke readily,
and I shall take up my axe doling out mechanically.

Am I alive?

If you look at this life as whole;
even though you cannot, -BZZZkkkSSt-


Deaf ears and ignorant words flowing from the gleefully jabbering jaw.
A rowdy room with a fat white man pointing to a smiling childs doom.
Pontificating lifestyle changes to a ***** indulgence and swift isolation all with -Click-Click-Click-

The following is a message from you.

To wake up, I need a form in which to pour myself, no longer can I burst forth with such wild abandon of originality; I need the common moniker of dependency and consistency. We humans do not shed our metaphorical skins in cyclical existence, but don them slowly as an arthritic old man covers his aging body after a bath, covering up our old worn through thoughts.

Do you hear me?*

What goes in an outward direction of an existing gravity well and does not have enough force to exit said gravity well will reach peak velocity before finally losing momentum.
-BZkkZZKSSTkT-

This world saddens me,
I wish to take a trip, away.

The cold causes me to shiver,
creeping deathly wet it spreads as if an over flowing river.

I'm begging you please,
don't leave me in these dark empty seas.

I see no love left in me and there is no decision to make,
no drink to sate my thirst,
no self left to forsake.

Dreams of working with little objects,
but my fingers are grotesquely fat,
bloated with self worth.
Such frustration,
as the small metal ambiguity falls,
again
between my clutches to clang helplessly on the whitewash table below.
                                            A growing discomfort that is oddly angled and
it’s hard to look away lest someone end up mangled.
Filled with the certainty of a dying man,
I race against the biological clock.
These clichés are sticking to me and
your black thoughts are wicking,
can't you see?
This task is meaningless,
teeming in seemingly endless trysts of error and visitation.

Your mask is bleeding from this,

streaming and adorned in nameless anger,

your own manifested creation.  

So I stare with unyielding disquiet at your unhindered disdain,
and make elastic confessions of comparable pain.