#napowrimo2017
Dull Dionysiac, ex-Nihilist,
musing on my poorly-played roles now past,
my acts sincere and earnest—but half-assed,
I raved, an irrelevant dramatist.
Misguided former friends and I the cast;
We took our bow, Life stirred, woke up and hissed.
Such hallucinogenic scenes: not missed;
our play a farce, the curtain came down fast.
Recalling useless states I once achieved,
hampered by those intensities once known,
remembering what was beheld, believed,
the trip came to an end; I woke alone.
Frenzy is unsustainable. One learns
to be wary of realms where vision burns.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
Each day reminds me that I am depraved
fixated, titillated still with sin
and thinking I’m smart, I’ve ranted and raved
only to wake up again in this skin
wondering if I am actually saved.
Behold the deep cesspool I find within:
unhallowed Self, to whom I am enslaved,
doomed to start over every day. Begin
again Lord Christ, that sanctifying work
you promised to accomplish through your Word.
**** the vipers that in our garden lurk;
tell of your blood and all that it conferred.
Explain—as on the road to Emmaus;
or dull mortality may dismay us.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 3:35 PM UTC
You read the sign—
but you do not drive
like your kids live here:
in neighborhoods of family love.
Where children play
while you push the pedal.
Pump that bass…
narcissist fool.
Scowl like a ****
you noise polluter
(another twenty-something commuter)
flooring it
towards a club
towards a red light
in the dead night
of your dim bulb.
Save it
for your kid’s first car.
Get over yourself—
save yourself, get saved
and then:
live like your kids drive here!
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
Ocean waves have gently pulsed
in your ear, ever since
you walked out of the sea.
The moon, her shining face,
so far from home, holds your
hand and weeps in peace.
You prefer it that way,
standing alone, glad
the captain is going down
with his ship, in comfort.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC
Each person has their own lonewidth,
some precise as a laser linewidth.
The meaning of a “lonewidth”
is something I can not give forthwith,
because I am not a proper wordsmith,
but I am glad I could be a lonewidth
you.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 7:58 PM UTC
Jewish activists lay dining,
publicans with plebes aligned;
upon the Roman chaise reclining:
Israelites well-bred (and wined).
Jesus never did wax wroth
while brokering deals for global fail.
No martyr’s noble tablecloth
enfolded Christ, Omega male.
Messiah, Lord of marketing
was favorably credit-rated.
Power points to Christ as king;
One worthy to be worshiped/hated.
Beta beasts and Alpha tyrants
rich investments when installed
tabulate their dull aspirants
chewing cud and unappalled .
Many a sociopathic brute
has steered the bride (Christ’s clueless wife)
away from every attribute
pursuant to eternal life.
You ****** better not forget
when trees get watered at the root
and global profit rises yet
that Jesus wore a business suit.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
Relighting Presbyterian roots,
God’s forest-fire convolutes…
contentious times burn heterodox.
The catholic cuckoos make their round—
strange fire and popery abound;
Deus Ex Machina winds the clocks.
Let all attend the holy skirl,
an armored tartaned highland whirl
escaping from God’s music box:
a blare of sixteenth-century pipes.
unleashes types on antitypes.
Pure Calvinistic grace unlocks
the portal’s gate—and, opening wide,
the frightened worldlings peer inside
beholding heaven’s equinox.
We chasten the imploding West
for ****** Mary’s crimes confessed
(upon the Catholic queen a pox)
but praise the captain of the Kirk
for interplanetary work.
His enterprising doctrine rocks.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
Let me ask you this:
Got a yen for bad Haiku?
Well then... stick around.
How do I love thee?
Let me count the syllables
In my bad Haiku
Take the easy way:
call it poetry. End it
like a samurai
Haiku is a crone
dressed in ragged kimono
bolting down her rice
The useless Haiku:
silly Japanese verse form.
Formula for dull.
Haiku, like Manga,
destroys the attention span
making people dumb
Some still remember
propagandist Tokyo Rose.
(Write one about her !)
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 10:58 PM UTC
#*And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales:
and he received sight forthwith... [Acts 9:18*]
When judges decipher what lawyers speak,
offended defendants may leave confused.
Legalese labyrinths capture the weak;
Babylon's law makes for justice refused.
Enshrined at the ziggurat's doubtful peak
tyrannic gibberish mocks the accused.
He blinks at the courtroom, bewildered freak
as sentences are uttered unrecused.
Cuneiform marks... codified patter—
who dares define such esoteric terms;
in Heaven's eyes does it even matter ?
While the sacrificial defendant squirms,
Justice, unblinded, lifts higher the sword
unscaled eyes beholding—her gaze restored.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
☭ ♡ ☭ ♡ ☭
You posed yourselves (in radical English)
with fellow-travelers on the barricades.
recalling bygone barrio fusillades
though you speak only red diaper Spanish…
Beholding the party cooperative
where ****** tourists are shown Cuban truth,
you cherished the lies of your leftist youth,
half-informed, predictably progressive.
Stuffed full of radicalized rice and beans,
flatulent, dreaming of ignoble Che
you charmed the sultry proletarian queens.
In your new Guayabera, bonafide,
you hailed the revolutionary day;
pale thorn in the suffering People’s side…
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
A DEDICATORY ODE in NINE STANZAS
Ἀπόλλων μουσηγέτης
Ye NaPoWriMoids, hear my prayer
let's mix our metaphors and dare
as fragrant smoke ascends the sky,
offend some readers by and by.
Apollo—grant me rocket fuel
to launch into your stratosphere.
Athena—by your wisdom, rule
and whisper in my waiting ear.
Receive this bright poetic spark
And let the Nine, as one, inspire
transform this puddle, stagnant, dark,
from sludge to pure Promethean fire.
Thou Father of Olympus, bless
our paltry April offering:
a dubious cybernetic mess
composed of poets' suffering.
I'll sing of waters fair (and foul),
uncork my potions for your ears
while Dionysus' Maenads howl
banishing winter's remnant fears.
A radiant poetic flush
beams forth from every laureled face.
The springs of Babel: let them gush
and bathe our souls in lyric grace.
A product line in low demand,
the blogosphere: our public forum;
quorum one man short of ******
where verses vie with vague decorum.
Consult your muse—then let it flow;
a rain of primaveral dreams
whose rivulets descend below
and swell the tributary streams
to flooding verses, transcendental
irrigating, bringing life
(though some are merely excremental.
Foaming sewage... ask my wife).
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Name that metaphor (half-assed boating)
Polish the brass on your life preserver
Wring out some meaning for dockside observer
Moorings are tenuous; life is floating.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 10:01 PM UTC
#Poetic Pyromania to prepare for NaPoWriMo 2017
Haunted by data, hounded by blog-bots, assailed by algorithms, poets have been reduced to human resources, fractionated, monetized and commodified like petrochemical residues of the antediluvian world. In keeping with that metaphor imposed upon us by ourselves, we await a mere spark to begin consuming our own fuel, flaming voraciously into poetic combustion. Through this incendiary process, we liberate the very energy that an unpoetic world seeks to label, quantify and merchandize. Flame, however, cannot be commodified—only intensified, suppressed, or extinguished. Elemental fire may be started by lightning, produced by physical friction, electro-chemical reaction, or started from a pre-existing blaze. Poetry is similar; whether sent from God as a bolt of epiphany, a spontaneous combustion, or as a transposed flame inspired by anterior works, April is our month for playing with metaphysical fire. It is thus that we, as elemental (or just mental ) poets, refuse, at all levels (lyrical, cultural, mercantile, geologic, celestial and infernal, etc.) to be co-opted, commodified, and/or in any way politically corrected.
We poetic oilmen and women are the active nihilists of a nihilistic era. We locate promising sites, then we draw up, from below the poetic bedrock, raw inspiration. NaPoWriMo allows us to drill deep into the sedimentary layers of poetry and tap into the deposits of lyrical fuel trapped within. Some gets pumped up, some comes gushing spontaneously to the surface in a crude form. It can then be refined to varying degrees of flammability and into differing types of fuel; think diesel versus jet fuel… one will take you further faster, but both are indeed fuel.
As oilmen and women, we pump our precious resource up in raw form from subterranean seas—the remains of lyric flora and fauna of a previous age buried under the silt of an inundation of data-driven global dullness. Through sheer creative will we set these deposits ablaze, to produce, out of the incoherent night that surrounds us, poetic illumination. In the light of our own flame, we cerebrate the utter uselessness of our artistic product—by continuing to create it, refine it, and then burn it up in a transcendent pyre of irrelevance. Thus, we wage uncompromising war against the powers and principalities of technoid global dominion. Our useless words, unread and unwanted, undermine the process of attempted global conquest by the unpoetic Enemy.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC