I think I'll have to
absquatulate
From the scene
Of poetry's
Crime.
The worlds
Given me to much
Of that

Bobsy-die!

it's about learning that love doesn't come with an address
rather, a skeleton you hung in the subconscious element of your closet
i'm learning the grey area that resulted in the clash of our existences is something i don't fundamentally need
three days ago i realized its something i don't want
hey i'm still writing to you as if it were my career and i'm learning that
with you, i never had to taste the metallic tone of closure
i just, left. you didn't know
my last "i love you" would be the last and
instead of writing you novels and sobbing in between
every page, i stomped my feelings into bottles and lately i've been busy imagining the emotion that comes along with splitting a fine wine thats festered in my gut for quite some time
maybe i'll share it with my mirror,
sleeping on the floor is becoming much too frequent as is getting drunk off of emotion, only to
wish you were here

Love.
Of course, the great spirit said that word
when he set down the majesty of mountains
thus, spread curling softness through the seas,
sending little creatures wriggling, crawling, mewling, howling,
oh ye little fish and fowl, doodled up the dinosaurs,
a lumbering jurassic joke, then unleashed leviathan
from just a speck, and made some others walk *****.

Love.
That word we need to hear
and the word that hurts so much.
It comes crowned with garlands, glistening
with the dew of pleasure. And underneath, the horn thrusts up
Dionysius and Venus, processions of Priapus, frenzied satyriasis
blind Baccus, luscious Pan and Zeus.
Ah yes. The juice.

Love.
And who has not recklessly ignored this word
or squandered it on abandoned, neon nights
that paled before the coming of cold mornings,
and who has not held back this word
from loved ones,
cowards of commitment,
circumcelliate, averruncate and absquatulate?

Love.
That little, mighty word that dominates our lives.
But what can we require of life and how can we survive
indifference in the barren waste and stay alive outside
without its whisper, without its cry and shout? And how can we aspire
to ecstasy without the tumult and whirlwind of its desire,
without its warmth, without its fire? So, we must turn again
to love's softness and love's pain. Again. And yet again.

Love.
It's easy, really. So go on, say it.  
It's time. Why not?  It's for the mothers and the lovers,
the fathers, it's for all the children who blindly seek.
It's for the teenagers and trembling old and the outcast and the isolate.
Even the soldier with the gun. Especially. It's for everyone.
The grave is lonely, deep and cold. By giving love before it's too late
those soft wings of the dove of peace unfold.
Love is the playmate. Enjoy, reciprocate.
This is the message I communicate.

Absquatulate,
           flee to the unknown,
where I can be an organism
            of concinnity,
deipnosophist I will,
            dine with Plato on an herb
deracinate me,
             become a dance or song
with effable eternity
flatline...

to infinity,
or possibly....

continue to hunt and peck.

Firmament reflected in her eyes; leaves shading her face while some of the sunlight escapes through in-between; stealing a peck

Emitting a long-deep-audible breath like recapitulating the antiquity of her life’s melancholy

“I’m exhausted...” like the changing colour of autumn’s leaf.

Sitting in the quiet pulchritude,
In limerence, I am drenched,
Luculent from head to foot.
Watching people gallivanting -
Some agathist, impavid with life,
In eucatastrophe, they are.
The lollylags and misantrophic,
Dillydallying with humdudgeon.
The rugrats in constant bumfuzzle;
Stroking their rumpots are the drunk,

A man and a woman, and a bingle,
Then a belgard was exchanged.
No noise, just music in my ears;
No argle-bargle of the blatherskite;
No conniption from old hag.
No need to absquatulate,
Just enjoy the quiet festivities.

Tiny hairs on my arms stood on end,
As I felt the wind surround me.
What a beauty this place is,
The hoddy-noddies took for granted.
Melancholy, serenity, strangely nostalgic.
Pictures of the past and the future,
Disembogue, delivered from my head.
All this images ensorcell me, over and over,
With a final intake of breath and a shudder,
I took in the picture, forever encapsulated in my mind.

you were the lacunar bolt the part
of a life spent wishing on stars
if stars had ever granted anything but light

chatoyant the yellow pilot lamp
down the street trembles weakly
wanting to burn out it flickers like a sun
struggling long past its expiration date

I was an absquatulate scholar
of wrinkled bedsheets and the way
the light ineffable shone around us
as though we were the ******* center of it all

a slow-motion salvation is better
than instant gratification behind words
like I believe I can’t accept this
I will give you back

your left behind particulars: your lingerie
your photographs the calligraphy in your letters
the blanket I have slept under for three years
dreaming you might give me back the ring

I willfully saved for you in the abditory
between these walls I was building
for us broken promises refract sanguine light
and shape future homes into abandonment

Mine skeleton conveyed
Through the *****'s of death's cave;
No longer incarcerated
Free from being a worldly slave.

I hadst to absquatulate
As I needed to escape the afreet;
They reached out their talon's
Hooves wrapped around their feet.

An amphisbaena was awaiting me
To taketh a bite from mine soul;
Yet God was mine deliverer
He carried me to his abode.

The anguilliform couldst not grab at me
As they called out mine name;
"Brandon, cometh here they saidst"
As I saw the rising flame.

Though tis mine creator kept them back
As mine lifeform left the dust;
He sprinkled the aspergillum
As mine spirit was drenched in heaven's musk.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

How could you?
Why would you?
Leave me with no au revoir,
no warning ,
no sign.
Standing here a fool
thinking you were mine.
You moved on to him,
without telling me
Goodbye.

i am polarized,
help me unpolarize.

there's nothing at the center,
blame me as i'm the traitor.
at the two poles,
stood the two souls.
the tales of how they absquatulate,
fighting each other as sanity fades.

i wander,
ponder,
wonder,
i'm a goner.

help me unpolarize,
but don't sympathize.

two personas or two persons?
a and s sit next to each other, if you pay attention.
they're really different,
but please, don't be concerned.

they observe,
i'm unnerved.

so don't sympathize,
i'm tired of my lies.

the two souls control
the main control,
it becomes a ground zero,
the souls become foes.

i'm tired of my lies,
so should i close my eyes?

But what's the point?

Phospholipids, sucrose, phosphates
Biology feels like memorizing vocabulary.

Absquatulate, etymological, effluvium
English wants me to be a human glossary.

Axiom, cartesian, diophantine
Math is repeating the same problems in different ways.

Feudalism, hegemony, cartellino
History is staring at facts about dead people.

Humdrum, repetitiousness, homogeneity
Every second of monotony bores me.

Was it always like this?

Around high noon
today March 19th, 2021
***** impaction I did plaintively croon
until effect courtesy amitiza, which
prescription medication
(in short a laxative)
served as amazing grace saving boon.

Once activated - impossible mission
to suppress strong urge to excrete,
linkedin, kickstarted and coaxed
soon after swallowing medicament
'course yours truly needed to defecate
while taking shower and washing hair
which sudden incontinent spate
comprises anecdote, I poetically relate.

****** obstruction found me doubled over
with lower abdominal distress,
whereby comfort found
me unable to lie
down nor sit upright
(with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating
a bonus well nigh.

Methought generic garden variety fellow
invoking libretto ohm resistant understudy
waste not want not allowing, enabling
and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge
to bolster Uriah heap of balled up
and tuckered out five foot and ten inches
of lovely bones, thence mouthing retraction
of former thought to cease existing
though a non-bull lever in
power broker qua mankind
relief at long last provided
posterior answered prayer
yet, this scrivener scrutinizes his
recurring pain in *** mock jagged torture
and asks rhetorical
one word question "WHY"?

Methinks constipation doth spell
worse fate than hell,
which latter named state experienced
while Harris family lived
at 1148 Greentree Lane, thus warrants
the following "fake" farmer
almost a dozen years ago
to craft verses about Penn Valley dell.

Digression away from titled theme:
Circa: 23rd of Tevet, 5760
to 15th of Tevet, 5770
in accordance with Hebrew date
converted, asper Gregorian
Calendar courtesy of Google,
which place of residence i.e.
tract 1950's housing Penn
Valley, Pennsylvania, we
(myself, missus and deux daughters),
we overstayed our welcome
during that decade
abysmal cruel fate,
where surviving members
of spouse's birth family did execrate
and admirably, royally, supremely, et alia
succeeded beyond their wildest dreams
to invoke, foster, andcreate
perdition during first decade
of second millennium Anno Domini

They would not tolerate
my mental illness (schizoid
personality disorder
with ample helping of
high anxiety, and panic attacks),
**** sitter ring excruciating
difficulty maintaining employment
as reason to denigrate
pushing this struggling
young family to absquatulate,
especially as figurative toxic
barbs didst accelerate
soon after, we sit foot
upon cluttered premises, jam packed,
which haphazardly (helter
skelter like) didst accumulate
(steeped amidst, a hoarder's paradise),
elusively east of Eden
teasing chronic pennilessness.

Yours truly, humble fellow,
whose person others
found an easily convenient
scapegoat to humiliate
marrying into a blood
of bigoted, pigheaded,
and small minded obdurate
folks intolerant of every creed dance
except frum Israel, and/or an affiliate,
this un men sheen hubble,
and purported "moocher"
said accommodations never cared
to earn good graces
of MainLine rich Jewish culture,
this atheist among hoi polloi,
a roll (i.e. challah),
he could never assimilate.

how should i define?
define the idea of you?
my nerves are pranking me
to believe,
“it will be same as someone before you”
for once
i want to dream, i want to believe,
“your love will be grand as seas”
i leave this letter at your door
with a painting of you from my mind
you will never absquatulate me
your beaming smile will forever hide my crimes
the crime i define as- “loving a liar”
that unforgivable sin will bury in the past
and my idea of you will forever last

I fear I must absquatulate
Get the hell right out of here
Why must I substantiate
The basis of my fears
Can I not just up and leave
Am I not free to roam
To vanish into nothingness
Where I’ll be left alone
I cherish empty spaces
Where my echoes can be heard
Where I am at one at peace
With a single spoken word