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so dearest,
Is time on the
Highway
Blurring black tar
With white lines,
Eyes melding
With lids,
Trying to cling to
The quest,
A song of the rubber
On miles
Keeping beat with
Sirius xm,
A memory of your golden
earring
burning a hole in
My chest ,
Overpassing rest stops
Petrol stations
Cows in the fields,
Such lonely looking
trees bare,
A message in the air,
The sun on the horizon,
Just driving
To you,
there.
Dry
.
It
is
true,
you are
totally right.
I'm as dry as
a desert, I'm a dead
empty land. I used to be
a  jungle  when  the  clouds
where by my side, and now that
they are gone, my trees, my dreams
they dried and died. Because of this,
nothing grows inside of me, there is
only silence and despair. I can't feel
what  I  write,  I  barely  feel alive
I want to feel human again
Oh god, I really miss
the rain
Es frustrante tener  las palabras pero no el tiempo y luego tener el tiempo y no recordar las palabras
Feel I do
Feel like a serial killer at times
Fingers of mine tensing
Carotid arteries of an analogy
Squeezing warmth out of dead bodies
Of psalms into
Saying a prayer
Even though I'm agnostic
In case
And drastically overstating my case
Tasking a metaphor to
Gasping last breath blue
On the edge of a cliff
Just push over
The blood of the simile
Dripping
The flesh
rotting dead on a rock
The dangling dread
circles above
Overhead like
Vultures
I do
I am scant a savant and know it
I do I am just a wannabe poet
A shrew a devotee of
Poe and others
I wish for their talent
And notoriety
At a loss for words
Occasionally I just
Go ahead
And make them up
Dream up a verb
Ending in q
or a noun with no subject
I do
And shame is a good
Descriptive word
Adjective or adverb
I think I am sane
As I digress nightly
into a colored light fest
Of  was crayoned
flesh
On the canvas
her
Then a wind blew from northern
To here up a skirt
And the silk stockings
Hued like mist tween the mountains
Over thigh through a valley to
here adrift woman scented
Smoky rushing through vein
As fire arush  through blushing
tip onto the pyre
lit anew
That brief heaven glimpse upon a promise grew
A future
I am here now
As I tilted and
Honored
My grandiose
Windmill
My darling
The child cut up paper into feathers
A headdress
Another into feathers for a turkey
And the Indian child told the truth
Wept
And his tears were taken like the waters from his ancestors farms
To feather a white nest of
Lies and harm
Today the harm has
Been shrouded like the sun
Behind darknesses
And the native wanders
Alone
And truth cannot stop
The black cloud lies
From darkening
A legacy
Or the forests dying
On horizons
Of tall white
Concrete
Fallacies
Or the proud indigenous
Bearers
Passing into
Dream
Like shadows
In the trees

splattered in wet ink
sealed with a passionate kiss
deep connections link

Does anyone send postal mail anymore?
.
The hypotenuse stretched
as far as the eye could see,
across a vast lateral plain
an horizon mathematically perfect.
And yet …
In the main square of the hypotenuse
the town crier bellowed out tidings.
The Triangle Triumvirate was unstable,
the discovery, nay re-discovery,
of the Mystery, the most horrific of Mysteries,
the Mystery of the missing
Fourth-Side.

Dweeb was a box standard barbarian.
Quick to anger, slow of wit.
Like last night at dinner.
He had Three potatoes, his sister had Four.
He shouted and thumped the table,
his angry voice expunging his ire.
Then his sister had explained,
to calm and reassure him.
Three was more than Four
because it had Five letters in it.
And Five is more than Four.
He thought about his axe,
then about his abacus,
and then he ate his spuds.

The Fourth-Side drifted in spacial isolation.
Of course now it wasn't a Side.
Being attached to nothing, it was just a line,
but it had some tricks.
It could coil and curl itself
to form rude words in joined up writing.
It floated on reminiscing,
about the **** angles it had made
with all its previous adjacent lovers.
The memory caused spasms
and it formed into a rude word
that should never ever be written down.

Teena, Dweeb's sister, vomited.
She had kissed a puppy,
and was being sick in the morning,
was she pregnant?
But, it was never a puppy, always a stork.
He mum had told her, warned her
'never kiss an errant stalk'.
Her mum died of the pox, whatever that is.
Something clicked in her head.
Oh! Stork and stalk!
Well they do sound the same,
especially in a harsh barbarian accent.
But the puppy had sneezed
as she had kissed it goodnight.
She thought about her axe.
And then she threw up again.


Equations to be solved #7
Vlad the Impaler was a Barbarian
+
Vlad the Impaler was a Libra
=
Dracula was a Librarian?



Right Angle was worried.
Duly so.
If the Fourth-Side Mystery was solved
he'd have three other Right Angles to deal with,
instead of a sixty and a thirty.
The Triangle Triumvirate would cease.
An intense Quadrilateral Mexican stand-off
would ruffle his perfect two-seventy external.
He had to divert attention away,
far, far away, from the Fourth-Side.
By Jove he had it! Bingo!
Let them try to solve
the Mystery of
The Back-Side.

Dweeb loved winding up his sister.
So he hid her puppy in a box.
But now he was worried.
Was the puppy still alive?
Or dead? Or both?
This may sound like a ****** stupid question
but where did that last thought come from?
Yes!
Yes what?
Yes, it was a ****** stupid question!

Teena though it very strange.
When she rang the dinner Triangle
the cat sat on the mat,
Salivating!
Curiouser and curiouser.
Conditioned response or learnt behaviour?
Teena dismissed the thought line,
she didn't ask ****** stupid questions.

It had no idea
about its status as a Mystery.
The Fourth-Side has issues.
Complicated issues.
It had somehow conspired
to tie itself in a knot.
And spacial isolation had become crowded.
Missing links everywhere, the sofa of time,
excommunicated integers, 1970's wallpaper,
it all floated about in spacial isolation.
Above all Fourth-Side was intensely agitated.
Couldn't anyone quieten that yapping puppy?




© Pagan Paul (06/11/18)
.
My psychedelic washing machine mind on spin cycle!

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/29495/strange-world/
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