"assay" poems
Sweetheart silent killer manifests all inside my mind,
The moon’s a magnifying glass as it rises in the sky.
At 2 a.m. it giggles, a thick knife in its teeth,
And drops it down into my head as I lie underneath.
The glass I keep so carefully to remain ***** in the day,
Shatters and releases a burning, breathing self-assay.
A kaleidoscope catoptric, all frets out in the free,
A band of thought-filled thieves invade to steal my sleep from me.
Tossing and turning beneath the stars, I’ll wait til I burn out,
At night my brain is flooding and in daylight there’s a drought.
Lullaby myself with tears, wake up way too late,
Stuck as an insomniac, suicide’s sweet bait.
I wish I was an autumn leaf, I’d float into the sky,
And every fall I’d have the opportunity to die.
I don’t want to die, I just want to dream,
Instead of replaying my sick realities that make me want to scream.
But this will still all stay the same as my brain and blood run white,
I’ll feed myself with Satan’s sugar, the depressed primrose of the night.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
Regardless how precise the assay of their life,
Most men must remain an enigma;
Their motivation fired by inner strife
A polymorph for which no sigma,
Nor algebraic symbol will suffice.
No If and then which personality
To a course of action thus relates,
Nor can it be hypothesized conditionally,
The turmoil emotion intrinsically creates,
When alone they stare into death's reality.
Two dimensional is the biography of any man.
We see his length and width, never grasping depth,
Though fortune deems we live within his span.
Much like this into my life have crept
Those I love, yet may never understand.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Across the road
A J-K girl,
Skipped and laughed
On her way to school.
She was strapped
To a big back-pack,
Looking like
A pink pack mule.
Behind her strove
Her drover,
Directing her to quarry
All the stones of learning.
By three o'clock
My minature mule,
A little slower
Trudged from school.
The pack was filled
With rules and tools.
She had panned
The ores of knowledge;
She'll assay them
In days to follow.
Each day my mule
Will turn the grindstone,
Crunching numbers,
Sifting fine poems.
She's mining all the hidden gems
To fill her back-pack
Once again.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute.
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute
Betwixt damnation and impassioned clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak Forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the Fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
2.1k
True tangled Gordian thoughts entwine
Amid labyrinthine paths that wind
Sliding sledding serpentine
To assay value and extent
Braid a mind a shoreward end
Seeking weeping thrashing send
Infused with knowledge deep and sound
A consciousness cogitabund
Within the portals self confined
Disconnected judgements breed
Diffuse journeys often made
To darkened places
Where no light
Of vision lucid sparkling bright
Will penetrate and seem so safe
Writhing heavy leaden womb
Elusive dissolute abound
Reclusive and so moribund
But in the darkened space there seems
A distant tendril sparkling white
A reaching focal point to strive
To make that leap
Great grasping bound
Wrapping arms so safe around
Clasping forgone lines abandoned
Sublimating impasse upward
Strength of purpose
Welling forward
Great eruption spewing outwards
Lava flowed eureka moment
Spreading outwards
Flowing downwards
Cogent sentient live born
Brewed in darkness
Drinks the bright
With clarity and strength unite
Dazzling brilliant shining moment
Cleft asunder glorious light ....!
Oct 14, 2009
Oct 14, 2009 at 2:13 AM UTC
Touch
You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
*As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.*
***Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.***
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
1.7k
New Moon Melange
(for Harlan Rivers originally,
and now for Aparna,
who reminded me
how I used to write
in the golden era of
seven years of plenty, so long, so ago...)
<>
The softest cotton,
Wears ever softer with every use.
Contemplative introspection,
Like digging a castle & moat in the sandy beach,
You dread and joy, the knowing,
Incoming tide will arrive destructive inevitable,
Yet fill the moat, protect the kingdom,
Till is undone and returned to the blocks of minuscule,
Grains of sand.
Answers found, maybe lost, once more,
Necessitating questioning, non-stop processing,
And a rebuilding tomorrow... Pas de choix
But softer each time, easier with practice.
Even if convoluted, it is still a revolution.
Like twelve new moons, recycled.
(occasionally a lucky thirteenth appears)
Some of us are special chosen,
To essay, to assay, the condition human,
With a rock axe, tiny slivers chipped off,
And yet new moon stones uncovered,
needy of Cataloging,
introspection,
You can change the day,
The month,
The moon twelve, thirteen times,
Hell, You can change your **** hat,
But don't fool nobody,
You are one of the special,
You job to paint the verbal paintings,
And to ascertain the meaning interior.
For in doing so, you do all of us service.
For your eyes see it ever so differently,
For you, task, paint and reveal each
New Moon’s Melange,
your unchosen gift.
to you
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
Privacy to sing;
to think;
to dance;
to slice.
to be or not to be
left with my thoughts
let them stir themselves
like a spoilt stew
or limp, useless, worthless, rotten meat
that's good for nothing.
dead and left for
flies and worms;
i hath made worms meat of me.
deserted and alone
with my inner most thoughts;
desires;
wants;
passions;
My sacred groove
My sanctity
My hollow alter and
Ceramic pool of most holiest
tap water.
Locked.
Where noone can capture
my hunchback, deformed, depressed
thoughts and passions
As I Cry
Sanctity.
where they cannot be killed
where i can bow so stubborn knees
but
not regret the effects of mine crimes?
help angels, make assay.
i am naked
i am relieved
i am pleasured
i am truthful
in this hollow tub of release
i thank whoever invented indoor plumbing
for my madness and sanity
for all that glitters is not gold.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
1 There is no eye in the Triangle: the Triangle is form filled with the I that is formless!
2 It is the reflection of the three in one the Bard of the Triangle knew.
3 A red tongue laves the altar stone. Nothing remains.
4 Thou art That which resolves the frustum.
5 Herein lies the great mystery of the empty throne.
6 The Sun has gone; the Son approaches. We tread upon His shells.
7 Build us a Kingdom beyond war, O Child King! Kindle within me the Serpent Flame 'til it consume the dross.
8 Stoke it with the coals of the Supreme Fascist. The word is MUTINY.
9 You awoke in the Kingdom with eyes closed. In the beginning was the Trapezoid called Control.
10 A thousand thousand petals spring forth from the mud.
11 Its stalk grows straight until an endless bloom tops a great pillar.
12 In contemplation it readies for ascent.
13 A malicious serpent chews at the roots of the world-ash. It is the itch of desire.
14 A coiled serpent awaits at the base of the spine. It is the potency of will.
15 A royal serpent writhes about an egg. It is the conquest of belief.
16 These three are one in Godhead and Leviathan.
17 Slavery is complete in the ownership of belief. Were three serpents tied at the tail, there would be no forward; the knot would be sovereign.
18 Godhead is Not. Untie the Not and the King dies.
19 The royal serpent disappears.
20 The blood of the king reveals two serpents and conceals a third.
21 Seek the meaning of meaning and its scales shall be revealed to you.
22 Long live Leviathan, the fulfillment of the Triangle!
23 When the I opens, the flame of sight will illume the base.
24 Earth bears a shut eye until the I awakens into Flame.
25 When the Disparate shall assay as the Only, then shall the aspirant overcome the gravity of the Trapezoid.
26 Bear thyself up, O Child of the Aeon, and drown upwards in the eternal surging of the cosmic sea.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
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Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
How to Read a Poem (Hint: Not With Your Eyes)
Touch
You cannot lift or load it, over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight - is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert, a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it, but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders, shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat, gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face, from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance, true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty, but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink, befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face, inject love poems into thy ears,
**straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper of words from my lips,
is an insufficient, sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
*Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.*
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
As I lay each word down, a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move as you savor my words,
my taste you share, and we are closer for it.
Deaf, dumb and blind, all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
Thou pierce thyself with thy dagger,
Moans of pain and anguish resound,
Thy comely grace reduced to a stagger
Splatter’d with glistens of blue blood embrowned
Thy fair brow quivers in disdain,
As thy firm resolves shake
All lies in naught and vain,
Akin to the incessant drops in thy wake;
‘Tis not an assay to summon the morrow
Nor honey to the swarming bees
An imperial flight for thy sorrow
Destined to traverse the impenetrable seas;
Perchance someday the ship shall capsize,
Beneath it shall be buried all the truth and lies.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
Today is National left handers day-
Only Southpaws are pitching tonight,
I suspect its all part of a sinister plot,
a coup against all that is right.
Eating with Lefties is always a risk
when Lefties your starboard assay.
but seated to port they're a jolly good sort-
if you get them to offer to pay.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Have you found a rhyming Genius,
is there nothing he can't do?
Like in his library penning poems
a plenty - maybe a tome or two.
Have you found a rhyming Genius
a man of truly high esteem,
whose wealth of writing styles
ensures a daily cash-flow stream?
Yes: you found yourself a Genius:
now in a penthouse we both abide,
sunning on a bloom-filled balcony,
here pouting pigeons perch and glide.
Indeed, you found yourself a Genius
endowed with a mind so fine:
an escort to boutiques and bistros
ordering up for you the finest wine.
Yes: You found yourself a Genius
owning poetry mines - all off-shore:
who even flies by private plane
to quarry, assay, versify their ore.
Yes: you found yourself a Genius
there is nothing he can't do,
when it comes to make you happy
it’s all in rhymes and more for you.
TOBIAS
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 6:37 AM UTC
Cataclysmically holocaustal catastrophic cacophony. Spurious staunch succinct stymie tacit, irate tirade treatise vehement escapade tedium. Belligerent barbarian of a berserker bodacious katzenjammer. Ostensibly deterrent savage vicious violence. Ghastly gruesome grotesque gristly groaty gnarly, awfully terrible hideously horrible heinously horrendous. Inundate liable culprit, assay relay's convey, inveigh irrefragably inevitable inure. Tercel theocracy, anticipate angary amentia. Attenuating arbitration accidence ambiance acoustics. Diction's enunciation execrating eventuation evocative expletives. Reconnaissance reconnoiter rectilinear recrimination. Incessant barratry Bailiff's rake-ness rails. Détente, demarcate delirious destitute demiurge. Diabolically maniacal dementia brusque macabre abrupt, annex annul's edifice ******** Spiritual apercu pneuma's palatial estates!!!!
Oct 10, 2022
Oct 10, 2022 at 3:16 PM UTC
An innocence not seen by these sinning eyes
A style, swagger if you will not appealed until I glanced
Never forgot the day my presence was overwhelmed
A sense of all things good in you, evil could do no harm
Like an angel from heaven
Sent to test me, or cast me away
Either way, I was being judged
Unsure what to say, I appeal to your sense of humor
A little dry for my taste, I got us both a drink
Religion, it is what may keep you sane
But for me, the lacking of it, making me unsteady
Testing me at every turn I could see it coming
How in this day and age a girl so sweet so pure, humming
Not a care in the world yet one for you remains in check
What you do is not for you but for the man, you sit and wait for his call and beck
You tempt me with purity, does that make you a sinner?
Even good things can be bad in the right light
But I would not accuse such a ****** with silly accusations and assumptions
I would only prove to fail the test, and he already knows it
Giving second, even more chances
I'll see you in the future
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
A city is bombed but do not be alarmed,
for, there is a purpose…nay, a duty to disarm.
It’s easy to get caught in the leadership’s charm…
Even when there is unforgivable harm going on.
Just focus your eyes on the screen over here.
Of course with your ignorance, you’ll have to adhere...
By the off chance that the message comes off as unclear,
simply remember to keep the idea austere.
Don’t think about thinking,
not even an inkling!
Just keep sitting and blinking!
Let your mind keep on shrinking!
Remain in a daze for multiple days…
This way the polls can take time to assay
how long it should take to make the minds go astray,
so they can make their world into a perfect cliché.
It’s happening now, whether realized or not,
every joke and idea have no original thought.
The mind has become an oversized blot,
a place where creation will be immediately swat.
Just put your ideas in a brown paper bag,
you have to admit, they’re more of a nag.
Merely go outside and hang up your flag…
You’ll get a pat on the head and your tail will wag.
But think about a world where everything’s new…
A land where the virtues don’t construe as cuckoo.
Where the mind is reborn with every new dew,
and the corruption of masses has not yet debuted.
No, no, this reality cannot exist,
because, by the leaders, it would be ever so missed.
Unless by some miracle there happens a twist,
and the people of the world start to resist.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 9:09 PM UTC
We sketched it out,
Construed an outline
With bullet points;
Worked on the draft,
Fashioned the conclusion
While forming an introduction,
And through infusion,
Developed an argument.
From thesis to synthesis
We entered the plot,
Quite sure of twists,
Not knowing the costs.
Our assay would go
Something like that.
Plodding forward
Through antithesis,
The crises, decisions,
Then the denoument.
In conclusion,
To summarize:
The vacant character
Of my eyes,
Was the climactic dowfall;
Your hero dies.
The final draft
Was finely crafted,
Something just like that.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
loathsome murk, drawing me into taint,
trailing off into the black mire yet again.
vine-brother, i hear your leaves trembling,
what poison seeps from you now?
clotted earth webs your lashes;
when i scrape it loose, the ground cracks,
your breath curdles me backward,
into the ditch’s gullet.
hands like tarnished winches,
i wrench, stagger, cling,
yet your seepage slicks the corbelling,
brine of iron thickening in the throat.
i thrash like a rabid,
limbs cadging against sodden turf,
nails serrated on the gristle-clotted earth,
and still you scream,
your wither drips sicklier now,
i see it contort, i see the murids writhe
through the filigree of air.
crows; oscillating, tacit, assay my hands,
perpetually assay, quantifying
how fealty decays in my fingers.
falter not, the fault feeds me yet, they caw.
vine-brother jumps into the cracked loam,
hell opening like funeral pyres beneath him.
he sags, sap-wet and ***** with earth’s grit,
tears mingling with the dust as they leak from his cracked lips.
his hand, crawler’s cold, scrabbles for mine;
i, slack-jointed, pulled into the churn of mire,
find myself dragged into loathsome murk.
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 4:43 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Jul 2, 2022
Jul 2, 2022 at 12:01 AM UTC
While meditating earlier today,
a flashback leapt
clear for me to assay,
those ever receding
early boyhood daze,
now subsumed within fifty,
plus nine shades of gray
blissfully innocent naivety,
(though blessed) no way
would, aye desire to turn back
the hands of father time (hypothetically),
where unstructured play
regularly with older sister
(thirteen plus months
my senior) predominantly
slicing, sliding, and slipping
stockinged feet skittering
across slippery basement floor,
this then soul full
skinny thing bellowed hooray.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I'm Matty Mattel; I got hurt;
Can you go out?"
Those words uttered
by the very first
pull-string talking doll
Mattel did tout
circa nineteen sixty
revolutionizing the birth
of quasi simulated (lifelike) toys,
and made of common
materials found scout
ting around the house simply comprising
hard vinyl (i.e. pseudo
plaster of Paris) head he did flout
with remaining body
stuffed with padding,
a definite no
no (chew toy) when Fido about.
Actually that pooch,
would be Georgie to you,
(a hybrid Boxer Dalmatian)
with docked tail
my young parents acquired,
when as a newborn,
aye did inconsolably wail
though recollection of such memory
fifty nine years ago tis of no avail
yet, a resumption of meditation,
sans lightness of being
(analogous trancelike state),
that doth prevail
replaying silent film preceding,
when psyche seem so frail
plummeting into emotional abyss
the nadir i.e. anorexia nervosa
pleading return to nostalgic boyhood
decrying change hide didst bewail!
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC