High as a Kite. - Hello Poetry

Apr 2014

JLB

I find myself diving inside of you where the weird dream shamans draw sketches of naked humans.
And you’re a human, and we're both naked. You’re purple, you’re just the perfect shade. I place my flag inside, to abscond us away inside of a womb where our world will open to portals to all of our favorite places. A floating haven, of cashmere. Gestating where the climate is warm and damp, and coloring me dark with wine—sweet wine of lovers, penal, forgotten, and fermented anew in maternal rite, because…
This swarming melodic nectar that swims through my nostrils and rolls in my eyes cannot be drank casually. It’s the elixir of love. I love you,
And in you, I find that I love myself.

What’s more, the shamanists exclaim, “She wants to give you all of herself.” Yes, they’re right. Even what I do not love so much, I want you to have, if you’ll take it, because I have to live with it, and if you live with me, you’ll have to live with it too. And then, when you crack open your sternum to let the things in, the scribes of my life’s doing, of ancient passion proclaim! They burn their papyrus scrolls soaked in the blood that I drew from my veins to pass unto yours— and you swallow them whole like divine burritos. And then we are ready for the world to fall suddenly, if it felt so inclined. Now that our chests are pressed together, and our tongues are fused tight. We are the daughters of the prima mother. We are the goddesses of our dreams.

#love #dreams #lovers #renewal #sensuality #castle #maternal #matriarchy

May 2013

spysgrandson

in dreams they live

the trail up the mountain
is lined with serpents
hissing in strange beauty
they lunge but do not strike
not in dreams
I
w  a  l  k
p  a  s  t
t  h  e  m
I
avoid their fangs
for I do not trust
what the elders have said
“in dreams none die,
in dreams none die”
though lost loves and my dead father still
speak
in some language without the tongue
revealing answers to questions not yet asked
yet
I do not trust those ageless words
“in dreams none die”
though I know this is true
of snakes
of men
of fallen angels
whose wings were words
writ for eyes not yet closed
before dreams,
before the mountain
and the myth of blue sky

Dec 2012

Skeptic Tank

Sacred Science.

The world will be better after science proves god exists.

Oct 2012

spysgrandson

bad trip

dragons in my dreams
drag queens on my streets
where was I to hide?
falling
through toxic clouds
of atomic belched aphorisms
holding my nose ‘til my lungs
screamed primal screams
that nobody ever heard
with their ears stopped
like the rowers of Ulysses
while he listened to the
sirens
I heard them too, I heard them, I HEARD them
faintly,
like the whiffed spread of black buzzards’ wings before the ****
but the sirens have beards, those wily wenches
and smell of cat ****
naked enough to have me covet
what they are not
I want them, I need them
for I don’t know what bliss is
bliss, bliss, bliss
is that what I sought?
is that what sages taught?
when they had me kneel
and put a wreath upon my head
told me to chant, silently, inwardly
told me there was no shortage of truth
I heard them, cherished every word,
no matter how absurd
because I thought they could help me fly
but then I choked on the smoke
from their farted anointed flames
that filled the sky I was told was blue
it was not only me
to whom they lied
who would not fall prey to their fiery shafts?
but when I awoke, they were not there
and all that was left in the waking world
were the scabbed burns they left on my soul
the dying crownless queens
who roamed the oily streets
the stench in my flaring nostrils
and the bit in my teeth
no chariot to fly above those **** filled clouds
that would rain vain vapid truth on me
for the rest of my unholy days…
the rest of my unholy days

connecting with my psychedelic verse from the 1960s, but written tonight--my memory can only take me so far

Jul 2012

JLB

Notes

1) help endures even the worst pumpernickel shortbread *****, but understanding outweighs that of the pessimistic drug lords squatting in **** ridden sandlots.
2) compassion is for the virtuistic harlequins.
3) underestimating the estimatable is the idea, even under a load of unsettling emotions. just hoard them in your fannypack.

4)the *** next door may make your head spin, and the typewriter might make your nails crack. but, beyond all of that, there lies an undisclosed truth. one that neither the walls nor the space bar underneath your thumb will ever know:

I am here, and this is now.

Apr 2012

JLB

4/20/12

Hordes of mangled marionettes hoard so many histories of mystery,
That I beg in blank brandishing tongues, hounding the hordes most swiftly.
Because I am a puppet master pioneering such a broad pallet of poetic pleasure,
That surely the most silent shamans will sound their poignant sighs in solitude.

And we've accosted such armies--allied only to destruction,
Only to be found in fruitless dust.
Demons will someday antagonize them in blissful anarchy,
But for now we’ll pass an ancient altruistic remedy
And leisurely lull the pull of destruction.

Mar 2012

JLB

Drifters

I've been bumming rides on Earth’s enigmatic forces
With hungry fingers,
Grasping for the wind outside of car windows,
And Escaping the laws of gravity
For brief moments
Whenever the pressure becomes displaced
Just enough for my hand to float
Purposelessly…

I don’t need the hand of a craftsman,
Or a banker.
Hammering nails,
Writing big checks.
I’ll float on the wind like a gull.
Eating crumbs,
******* on strangers.

Maybe I’ll even be lucky enough for you come float with me,
Drifter I may be,
But drifters only really drift in search of company.

Mar 2012

JLB

Personal Rapture

Droplets of powder gathered on the counter
As I drilled holes in the linoleum to let the light in
Excuse the complacency and the drunken composure
But I'm eating my heart, and I'm taking you with me

Down the long fiery hallway at twilight
I will scream your fantasies softly to our moon
And your will to return will befall under its beams

Our private little world coming to an end,
Apocalyptic and honest,
Again to sleep.

Feb 2012

JLB

A List of Thanks

First,
Thank you for this poetry, precious intellect.
For employing each muse, under no objection--
Working hard so that the words in my head can sing their celebrations
As if without effort,
And take their leave in abstract
Unity.

Second,
Thank you for my pain, you lying *******.
Every time I fall under the spell of night silence,
Unencumbered by those solemn realities,
Somehow, still, I long to be bound in the ribbons of mental garrulousness.
Because ****,
It'd sure be hard to write without any words--
Without the consequences of this troubled mind.
So, it looks like you’ve found a convincing way to pitch the worth of suffering.
And Darlin’, I suppose that
I'll be the buyer of your generic brand of heartache--
Never cared for that top-shelf quick n’ done despair anyway.
I must just have a pallet for lingering bitterness.

Third,
Thank you for this herb, mother nature.
For the improvisational song that it sings in my veins,
Tuning out prosaicism’s drone.
For the rocking motion of my psyche
That starts when the rapid and the slow converge,
And the configuration of the fourth dimension warbles me to sleep
In a chorus of veins—
Conveying each of life’s cadences,
All in vain
Of what I myself
Ordain.

Jan 2012

JLB

Dignity?

Like mourning bells ringing,
I woke to hear trumpets playing taps,
Next to a funeral casket.
I observed quietly,
With some foreign melodies filling the void between my temples.
Showing disregard out of mere respect,
Really.

Not for myself,
Certainly.

For I was as dead as the corpse I was grieving.
Falling into my fog again, screaming the names of ex-lovers

Over and over and over.

Needing infatuation
On uneven planes of judgment,
As if I were seeking insight from an invalid.

But there was a time when I lacked even more
Than at that loathsomely lonesome moment.

And it went slithering on inside of the void
Like some ******* disease that was ripping the holy living **** out of my heart.

Seeing the casket lower
Under a cascade of flowers,
My temples went silent,

The melodies burned away like thousands of distant cinders,
And their voices occupied the void, as if my mind was their soapbox.

Jan 2012

JLB

Working Class.

The foundry is wet and frothy with felons like you.
They all say you’re not a bad guy, but your breath reeks of Grey Goose,
Your eyes are wild, and your morals are loose,
But I also hear that you have enough heart to share between two.
It wasn’t hard to tell the meager malignant magicians from the brutally bruised and the blue.
You always told me that was true.
Yet, I feel melancholy now that I’ve spoken with this lowly American middle class few.
I pray their sweat will count for something worth more than the products they produce.
Their dime will only go as far as a brick and a bottle of juice,
What will come of such men, I haven’t a clue.

Jan 2012

JLB

Anarchial Rant

Let me tell you something:

I have more to feel, and to express, and to share
Than these social peripheries will hold,
Let alone could let disperse amidst the insipid fog of this air.
See, it’s you who’ve all caught me in this ******* snare.
Thus, let it be known, to those who are so bold
So as to assess me falsely,
That there is far more to see
Than the sheer surface of me.
There is more passion
And far more complexity,
Than many care to realize.
And if you disagree,
Then let the forbidden sirens sing a cacophonous reprise
For my fellow misfits who follow their hearts, and their will to be free.
Our passions will surge like psychedelic smoke as we rise.
**** all the rest and their soul’s reciprocity.
It will be their demise.

Dec 2011

JLB

Plea to Icarus

I flew with you when you left ground, abandoning my soul and
fragments of my sanity.
You make me want to soar, you do.
Arms spread like Easter Wings, flying best in vanity.
Your will to be a stoic God burns true.
On these clouds you perch, preaching your calamity,
Yet, I bid you fall
                                   collide
                                               recall
                                                               reside
with me,
on the ground once more.
To be merely a man, in spite of sought after sanctity.