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Most poetry writing
Is like a nighttime ****,
Standing or sitting in the dark
Aiming as we let it flow.

We judge by the sweet sound
Of the deeper splash
When we’re on the target,
And hope our line stays true.

We squeeze most poems and ****** out
To get relief
From a nagging feeling
Deep inside.

The deviations of our stream
Spilled silent to the side
Oft require

And the outcome
With that faint stale smell
Is probably better flushed away
Than saved or shared or admired.
This thought occurred to me as I was preparing to go to bed......hope no-one is offended.
Poetry making should not be restrained by words.  
If a poem demands a soundmeaning that our language does not offer,
Creative license allows us to make newwords!    

Methinks this rule should also apply to prosetry.
Perpetual rhythms
Pleasure, pain
Emotions' tides
Wax, wane.
Put the point top of paper;
Ride new line down the hill.
Let totality end in a consonancaper --
Result be whatever it will!
Dark emerald
Twisting lines of my imaginings
Creep upward
O'er the cold hard walls.

Disintegrate the temples
Men wrought of continental stone
Mountain disassembled
And raised here
To form
Razed here
By the alchemy
Of green plants
And the elements
Of dark twisting lines
In my imaginings:
Even now
The dust begins to pile upon the ground
And the golden city fades
Beneath the growing green image.

Dark emerald
Twisting lines of my imaginings
Creep upward
O'er the cold hard walls.

Weave vine tendrils
Into the fabric
Of the stone,
Clamber over solemn tombs
What one life raised
Another will surpass,
Must first embrace its artifacts
And then exceed
And render into dust
The particles
Turn roundward.

Dark emerald
Twisting lines of my imaginings
Creep upward
O'er the cold hard walls.
Reintegrate the dust
To continental stone
In dark mantle
Mountain reassembled
And raised here
By alchemy
Of the earth
Turning in another million years
Beneath new life
Raised here.

Dark emerald
Twisting lines of my imaginings
Creep upward
O'er the cold hard walls.
Hear the story of our oil –
Hail to oil!
From the glory days of Drake well we recoil,
To see seabirds flap and shudder,
Dolphins, turtles flop and sputter
With collective dying groan.
Hear our population moan
When the gasoline price geysers to the sky.
Still we drive, drive, drive,
To keep consumer binge alive,
Amid a maritime disaster fast evolving from the spoil
Of the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the gushing and the oozing of the oil.

Smell the ancient dark crude oil
Stinking oil!
Engulf the products made refining from a boil:
Guzzle gasoline flambé,
Drive-through fast food every day,
Raise our carbonated toast to Arctic roast…
Then drill more oil!
GM corn and corn-fed beef --
Both born of oil,
The shaving cream I slather on my face is made from oil,
Toothpaste, vitamins and lipstick,
Tires, everlasting plastic,
Come from oil;
All American affliction
Petrolopium addiction –
Truth is stranger now than fiction
And it does not set us free;
We are prisoners of oil,
And as slaves to OPEC pricing we all toil,
For the tapping and the lapping
Of the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the drilling and the swilling of the oil.

Soak in news of spilling oil –
Offshore oil!
In grim images of damage that the television splays;
First blow-out slimed in sixty-nine at Santa Barbara Bay
Then ten years next blew Ixtoc
In the Gulf of Mexico,
Two-ninety day gush tick tock
Slick slopped thousand miles away
To Texas shores!
In Alaska’s Prince William Sound
Exxon Valdez ran aground in eighty-nine;
Full tanker load erupted,
Left the rocky coast corrupted –
Prudhoe crude!
Seals and otters stuck in goo
Seabirds suffered coatings too,
Cruising tourists supped in view
Of the oil, oil, oil,
Thickened slick encrusted oil
On the shore!
How it clings and clogs and covers;
All aquatic life it smothers
Marsh and beach are left in cataclysmic mire!
Still we “drill baby drill,”
All our gas tanks gotta fill,
We must shop, shop, shop,
Lest our wasteful lifestyle stop,
So we run, run, run,
Take our car vacation fun --
At the beach…
See the sheen -- how it shines!
Pretty rainbow-colored lines
From the oil!
We love our oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For economy cachinging in the oil!

Hear the praise of offshore oil,
Miles deep oil!
For the goal of independence on our oceans now we toil,
Till ungraceful conflagration
Twenty April rocked the nation
On the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig.
Eleven lives were lost in blast
As the deep crude spewed out fast,
Gushing Hell!
Couldn’t stop it with top ****,
Junk shot, golf *****, caps wouldn’t still
Gushing well,
And the spreading, spreading, spreading
In a steady surging crawl,
Gulf coast residents all dreading
That their livelihoods might stall,
Now the fish and shrimp are ill,
Tourist business will be nil,
And still oil spews…
We must thank God that there’s *****,
For there’s nothing but bad news
And the ooze, ooze, ooze
Oily ooze.
Who will pay, who will pay?
Who will make this go away?
Who’s to blame? Who’s to shame?
Many pointy fingers aim –
Lefty points to rich BP,
Righty points to rock Obama,
And there’s six sticks pointing back at you and me!
We will pay, pay, pay,
At the gas pumps we will pay,
So we can drive, drive, drive,
And keep America alive;
Despite the grim disaster that arises from the spill,
The way we live and spend won’t easily end;
So we’ll still say “drill baby drill,”
Each time our gas tanks get a fill,
And we will shop, shop, shop
To do our patriotic duty --
Spend our *****, *****, *****
For the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the gushing and the oozing of the oil!

Drafted 6/8/10, revised 6/14/10
Best read to the "tune" of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Bells"....with apologies to Poe for repurposing his meter scheme for a theme less cheerful!
Syringe aloft
Intone a twining tune to tempting ear.

By day
Hide incognito;
At night take flight,
Seek heat of vein to slake maternal craving.

Femme fatale
Fly ****** dance,
Alight let lance sip sanguine feast:
Soft kiss to ruddy cheek -- know taste of rouge.
Instill perchance live issuance
O harbinger of bad air,
Purveyor of fever,
Anathema of armies,
Ill missile of men made canals,
Evocation to slavery and *Silent Spring

Subtle touch to pulse of humanity:
Innocent tender to misery --
You mock our pride
In twining tune
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