Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.  
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.  
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.  
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my *****.  
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!

We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.  
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.  
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.

We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.  
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.  
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.  
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.

The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.  
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.  
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.

At the barren heart of midnight,
When the shadow shuts and opens
As the loud flames pulse and flutter,
I can hear a cistern leaking.

Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm,
Rough, unequal, half-melodious,
Like the measures aped from nature
In the infancy of music;

Like the buzzing of an insect,
Still, irrational, persistent . . .
I must listen, listen, listen
In a passion of attention;

Till it taps upon my heartstrings,
And my very life goes dripping,
Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping,
In the drip-drop of the cistern.

There once was a shadow who thought he was a man,
He made his empty bed in a shame of familiars,
For years if not an eternity he never did one single thing,
He contemplated creativity in all its smoke and mirrors,
His only credo was padding his unknowing, limp ego,
Got a gig, speaking before a throng of other shadows,
He rewrote the crook about his own insignificances, suddenly
Nothing's became every things, all was sorely well in the bleak
Under toes.  Shadowman had found his stage, had rearranged
Chaos and insignificance to the point of no enlightenments,
No regrets.  What a sage!
Shadowman aped, traced, spewed in studied literature,
Experienced, faith, trust, fidelity, danced numbers,
In a cellophane pack with all the added extras included,
Found that reflecting words only got in his narcissistic way,
Left the California sun for the New York lowlands
Of the east, that only shine after the hurricane's
Deluge.  Shadowman has reams of flesh plastered
On a mall of wallowing sites only Shadowmen frequent,
Modern is the moly man who makes his own myth.
Shadowman has traveled to the great southern climes
Where hotels of shade tell tales of locals and enlightenment is in a drug
Called something South American or other?  A drug so smug it is a plug
For his dun holy soul.  Shadowman is only a silhouette of himself.
He freely gives seminars to the lame, chained to themselves freely,
Where all the vain echoes are chambered, embodied, entombed.

You see me and I see you,
we want to believe our actions are true.
By true, our own, but neither is,
we're all an imitation of what we've seen.

As trivial as a yawn so contagious,
or a popped knuckle that makes your insides itch
with the desire to follow suit daunting,
until the release of air and distress.

And as complicated as genetic code-- offspring following--
so naturally unnoticed like metered swallowing;
but like the mother ducks, who allievate stresses
of waters strong, we learn to cope from elders.

Whether it be innate or not,
had we not aped we'd be naught.
Forever we will remain children
who want another's toy 'til it's dropped.

The fire began in the cobbler’s shop
In a terrace of shops that day,
And spread right through to the milliners
That was owned by Mrs. Gray,
It leapt up into the rooftop beams
And galloped along the street,
Burning a swathe through the fodder stores
And the blacksmith, Simon Fleet.

The smoke rose into an Autumn sky
And blackened the old clock tower,
It didn’t pause, it was far too dry
For even an Autumn shower,
And Simon said, as the embers fell
To the household servant, Gert,
‘The courtyard’s starting to look like hell,
Get out of that silken skirt.’

He hadn’t looked twice at Gert before
And she was so awful shy,
While he was never the greatest catch
With his horseshoe-looking eye,
But once he saw that the embers fell
He was more than kept alert,
He knew the fabric would burn like hell,
The silk in the servant’s skirt.

She’d bought the skirt, it was second-hand
From a Drapers along the street,
It felt so silky and smooth, she’d said
From her waist down to her feet,
She liked the line of the skirt, the lads
Would see her pass, and stare,
So like the ladies she aped, she swore
To wear no underwear.

So Gert had blushed as she heard the words
Of the Blacksmith, Simon Fleet,
She wasn’t going to show her legs
To Simon, out in the street,
The skirt went up with a sudden roar
And he heard her pitiful cries,
So trying his best to douse the flames
He wrapped canvas round her thighs.

The blaze was stopped by the corner shop
Where the fire engine stayed,
And kept from running its rampant course
Along the Grand Parade,
But Simon said it was Gertie’s legs
That had failed her, in her pride,
But caught his eye with a tender sigh
As they fed the fire inside.

Whenever they speak of the shopfront fire
It’s as if it paved the way,
The two have said, to the day they wed
And their happiness today,
For Gertie doesn’t have charming looks
And he’s ugly too, says Gert,
But Simon says it’s a treat, that heat,
Under a silken skirt.

David Lewis Paget

.
There once was a shadow who thought he was a man,
He made his empty bed in a shame of familiars,
For years if not an eternity he never did one single thing,
He contemplated creativity in all its smoke and mirrors,
His only credo was padding his unknowing, limp ego,
Got a gig, speaking before a throng of other shadows,
He rewrote the crook about his own insignificances, suddenly
Nothing's became every things, all was sorely well in the bleak
Under toes.  Shadowman had found his stage, had rearranged
Chaos and insignificance to the point of no enlightenments,
No regrets.  What a sage!
Shadowman aped, traced, spewed in studied literature,
Experienced, faith, trust, fidelity, danced numbers,
In a cellophane pack with all the added extras included,
Found that reflecting words only got in his narcissistic way,
Left the California sun for the New York lowlands
Of the east, that only shine after the hurricane's
Deluge.  Shadowman has reams of flesh plastered
On a mall of wallowing sites only Shadowmen frequent,
Modern is the moly man who makes his own myth.
Shadowman has traveled to the great southern climes
Where hotels of shade tell tales of locals and enlightenment is in a drug
Called something South American or other?  A drug so smug it is a plug
For his dun holy soul.  Shadowman is only a silhouette of himself.
He freely gives seminars to the lame, chained to themselves freely,
Where all the vain echoes are chambered, embodied, entombed.

I invite you every-which-where, to hang with whoever, because, if "not-the-bother" came not-with, neither would have I. 

                                             [page 3] I invite you every-which-where,
                                              ­ to hang with whoever, because,
                                             if "not-the-bother" came, not-with,
                                               neither would-have-I.

I could show you that rock, I just found, and be sure you'd see the lion's-face in it, too, and if not, not so-say, as a saving throw (for my sanity). A welcomed throw, at that. But, merely, a prediction. An-[Dad just startled me, by design, kicking down my bedroom door. This wasn't left in as some song-for-sympathy, but a solid,  and tangible-manifesting of a shared assumption: that this planet won't pity us, even for an instant.]

Projected predictions probably-not-preferred. They aped me, in April, when I accidentally abandoned discretion, and made you [page 4] aware of my more-amorous intentions. [I made that too wordy, for my reached-for tone.] Regardless, I don't misread your messages, rather, I'm quite sure you've sent zero. Real appreciative of those rapid minutes, relived, wrapped-up in last April, that I got to hold you, and reel, and ring-in, your ear, right-next-to-it.

I know, it "isn't-like-that," But I hope it wasn't awkward. And that hug, that wasn't-awkward-hug, well, no, it wasn't weird for me, alsotooeither---it's always... just, a little-too-tough, to let go of you, leaving me. I can't even remember, the lie I allotted, to attempt an escape. From my outcry of "awkward hugs!" as I hid, you still made an anxiety, into an awesome-day. "Even-if," you wouldn't have-shown, [page 5] had today not been paid. And---wait, no, you know I don't mean-it-that-way. [I'm sorry. I think about you reading this, and my writing will ramble. Maybe, when re-written, post-forced-revision, and transcribed. Maybe I'll annex all these tiny annotations. Maybe I'll never regret the exhibition, if I never air-it-out.]
...

Harambe the inquisitive Self
Harambe the mangy dog
Harambe the broken Spirit
Harambe whose bones are my altar, scepter
Harambe who in his jailhouse did rock
Harambe whose name is communal labor
Harambe who stared into clear blank eyes and intuited the nature of the Soul
Harambe because Blake
Harambe because Hattie Carroll
Harambe because Truth in unintelligible letters, bleak
Harambe because ******* bullets pointed your way
Harambe because Et tu, Brute?

Harambe who constructed mental labyrinths out of paradise
Harambe who was half divine
Harambe who was half Man
Harambe who was full Anima Mundi
Harambe who was aped by the lollygagging necks and stiff roboticism of the masses
Harambe who was memed within an inch of his exhumed life
Harambe who was politicized
Harambe who was poeticized, needlessly

Harambe who stared down a Cincinnati sunrise just once upon arrival
Harambe who could not take it
Harambe who stayed inside all day
Harambe who was struck by the immensity of small broken objects (especially children)
Harambe who could not fathom my poetry, but wrote it all the same
Harambe who did not die in vain
Harambe whose voice will never taste his country
Harambe who no amount of ***** held out will return his stagnant soul to his body again

So I know it could be worse
My throat will be bleeding by next verse
I could hurt for a thousand years
Drowning myself in a ocean of tears

Slowly falling into a pitch black void
I could have left with you being mildly annoyed
Instead it was like my love was *****
The words don't come out so motions I aped

The sword that pierced my heart
Was a sword of lust

The sword that pierced my heart
Was a sword of lust

I reach into my skin
Pull out nothing and proceed to sin
I am nothing but flesh destruction
Nothing leaves without detection

A petty truth I leave unto you
Think with your head and before you do
Disregard that puny ***** you call your heart
It will destroy you, love will tear you apart

The sword that pierced my heart
Was a sword of lust

The sword that pierced my heart
Was a sword of lust

LUST!
LUST!
LUST!

Why Has Everyman Turned To Beards?

It’s weird,
This shift to beard controlled appearance.
A trend it seems, not only spreading,
But which has no end.
Scratching when it kisses,
Missing out on blisses, I assure you.
Shaping face, I must admit,
(but not to everyman’s face-benefit).

If truth be told,
It must be hell to keep a chin/cheek fold all squeaky smooth.
But who in heavens want to hold, take hold
                                                           of bristles,
Or see badly shaped and prickly thistles?
Men have aped since lunar’s start.
Everyone knows that!
Fashion is contagious as the rabies from a bat.

Long, short, food-y flecked, unchecked,
Yet there is self-absorption’s admiration.
Let us hope the puppy generation
Growing up will razor up,
Shave every self-helped hair
Formed there (or anywhere.)
It grows unlimitedly wild.

Undefiled, I plead,
Wield the blade
And beauteously shear with care.
Brave new men, you are not cavemen!
Shave men!
One more time and once again -
Just shave!

Why Has Everyman Turned To Beards? 3.27.2020 Our Times, Our Culture II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Arlene Nover Corwin

By dream or dance I’m released
from a curse of hating self
dysmorphia lurking in the mind
escaped in sleep or by jig

either is a welcome break
there is no judgment that I face
from the self with decree
that shame is due in figure’s wake

in one world I’m beyond
the mortal coil of waking life
with the angles all too cruel
aped in mirrors I despise

the illusion denies my age
suspended in amber vision
denying what came before
perception’s verdict oh so kind

the other realm is movement’s grace
belying size or corporal space
when the joy envelops me
stepping light with music’s tune

motion blinds the critical
only seeing spin and pass
across the body, turn of foot
exquisite distraction I adore

one or the other is what I seek
relief from voices that only jeer
mocking form, derisive vents
numbing by the volume spent

these I’ll put behind me when
I sleep or dance at last blind
to the taunts I can’t abide
by dream or dance I’m released.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171111.

As golden as gold
Stolen from death is
As long the fate to
Come to be to take.

Livin the dream just
To dream bout life
Irony of destiny had
Be fated perhaps.

Gift of a living heart
With hope in trust
To able giving back
Least to a chance.

Have a compromise
And voice to a cry
Havin done our best
In right to be said.

We will if so we shall
The lord really god
If true as the heaven
Where find our rest.

With days and nights
Comes as without
We do as all be given
To bring nor take.

Empty of hands but
Thou be as might
A few more to have
A soul to dressed.

Of body what pride
In the very divine
Knew as told a well
Free life is death.

But only free is love
And faith if trust
Must be so decided
By as to be it has.

As mistake to done
By as only if shall
Ever be understand
Once flaw of less.

Once learned to cry
As the world thy
Sorrow be our share
Of our happiness.

As soul been robbed
As there is to time
To tell was me to say
Yet kept to myself.

Instead treasure box
And a way to find
A reason of betrayel
To love mores yet.

And after all kept by
my roads a child
Had to walk a danger
Of paths few dared.

The tales be to delight
A soul darkest night
The songs to drunken
From enough a mad.

The laughter and while
To appreciate doubt
For i lived a life so well
As gods call heatens.

And fairytale all the far
From their will might
To ever believe nor can
Hope an coincidence.

Save with all little to die
While aped or clown
After a some or against
mamona a dull pain.

Suffered day and night
Lack of awes asigh
Miracles to once again
raised from deaths.

As thief of a days time
I lived paved in drunk
With golds reason had
To live moretheless.

Death what most alive
I kept watered in lie
To die instead and tell
Themselves instead.

How many had of now
To have passing god
On fields of be a winter
Strangest dear friend.

Year i ran out of wine
As soul of taste not
Picked garden of grape
A least a joy of a day.

As enemies told love
As unknown as far
Had learned to manage
With a childs a glad.

As the wisdom to find
Rather havin not
To be than all to gain
Yet none to have.

Glad of be hard to hide
Life of dear to god
Still wont hear athank
For a sin yet no less.

Heart thought rich once
As well fed i starved
A sorrow of loneliness
Without care in sense.

Since forgiving long time
Passed to care to mind
Yet if in need of bein said
Of brother the brother.

As all said: to call to care.

Face from an age consumed by the past
echoed in dreams that taunt here and now
recalling the tension that ushered the end
to the missed friendship no longer alive

again I am visited by the chill haunt
walker of dreams aped in my mind
reminding me of the painful discord
creating a gulf with no end in sight

during the dreaming I saw how it is
nectar of kindness offered to all
except to this one, the witness had naught
instead a cold chill was sent to my heart

I persisted to get a few words
in past night trances they vanished with none
I was rewarded, a small victory
though it was empty, void of much love

there are some pictures that mark fellowship
more clear than old memories, faded by years
fodder for visions in still of the night
all I have left, now that they’re gone

I’ve fallen so far from past harmonies
when friendship had blossomed decades ago
now I have dreams that recall the one
the star of the three, far from my side.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171128.