Home is ambivalent agony of always endingupalone,
lion's share of my life in such ambivaliving spent shunning,
shadowstriped w/solitude of tired tiger cadging a cage.
But tho' animal me had misgivings, it must have felt l/ home
if home is defined by how many times you return,
wherever you may roam. Show me t/ way to go home,
I'm tired & I wanna go to bed
alone in ambivalent agony.
My unheimlich forever home
is a permanent pearlescent adolescence.
Opaque to myself, a reflection only of t/ present,
l/ a fleshwound of mythic marble.
I read 'Borderline adolescent' is a tautology;
no wonder being needy gets so boring,
all apologies for vicious flatline circumfrumping
t/ monotonous circle from
overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens
to this Borderline 37olescent.
Assentaneous bittersweetness my last deserter.
Enough oddbouts of messy ire complex
to oversimplify infallibility as extension of aloofness,
telling a few home aloofs is rush of Unabomber smugness
at my own deviant basketmaking
a.k.a. poorman's genius. Cliched,
but an artist is a spiritual exile
a.k.a. richman's homelessness.
An omnicidal somebody w/ bespoke nuke
in a hollow copy of Walter Mitty's hollow 'Collected Poems'
- nothing them genius weenies duz really pleases us,
vice versa for earth gods amongst derfwads.
For what abode of hip food & humble ideas could rival
t/ visceral crystalclear unheimlich adolescent opacity
of eternal ambivaliving in t/ Righteous Paranoic Present?
All heres & all nows unified, underpinned &
undermined by t/ constantfeeling something unknown is very
So constant 1/2 t/ feeling is feeling verymuch at home w/ this.
'Swhy suicidalideation always seemed such a 1/2way house,
tho' noone can really live on t/ middle of a busy bridge.
But it surprises me how anyone can call anywhere home,
t/ universe being profoundly plummeting, pulverised fieryfroze matter,
just plummeting & scuffing & pulverising other fieryfroze matter,
conflagrating in a blacuum until all t/ homefires of Nature's Hbombs
leave us even colder, in caliginy worse than white torture of
pool skamkab a ni ronyag airogl ginrevoc repeer migr eht.
Our peeling Nikes peeking out of a panther pelt shroud,
peeled from a panther as big as t/ guntz. Homeless,
but as its hangdog furniture t/ future's my retainer
as I mature against my better judgement.
Roots always get t/ better.
So I am not t/ Dave that rode, suicyclist
(tho' he wasn't one who drove) into O, t/ porcelain
sunset of midnite. Cliched,
but life is just such a ride by t/ seat of our panthers.
Besides, Glaswegian Dave survived (until he died at
a grand middleage).
& Marge wears a string of moons & Homer's at home everywhere.
& I do have a home under t/ pathos of a British Moon,
dangling l/ Mussolini amidst baseballmitts of nimbostrata, dabbing
t/ Counciltip - ***** of all overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens
- w/ evocative rainpong, gentrifying petrichor.
& tho' most British disturbances are kept to t/ home,
what's more English than shelter? I have somewhere to go...
But I would fall into yr arms, Dark Cow,
like profoundly plummeting, pulverised fieryfroze matter
- go on, let my cuddle scuff you, wipe out yr comfortzone of tyrannosaurs.
One can stay at home too long, you know.
As far as concepts & their tails go,
I'm more of a feeder than a finisher,
so I'll fill my writingboots, biro my toes,
by feeding home's humble ideal:
home is where we're more furniture than feature,
& neither dimmed nor bright lites can be home's diminisher.
Hi [insert cat's name here], I'm home!