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Desperado Dan
Is a man with a plan
To cash in a bit of Kensington
On some high grade *****
Cos right now he's got a couple of scores
But not a great deal more to loose

You see, our Dan is a master of the modern day quill
He works an open office, clocking in and out at will
But after reading all the greats from his and every bygone age
He lives in a time where the mp3 subverts the written page

So night and day he hums away
Searching for that hit chorus
And he knows you can't cut corners
When it comes to tanking up on creative juices

A Desperado is larger beer spiked with tequila
Some say it's for scoundrels to make charming girls easier
But our Dan's quest is noble.
He has a dream we'd all like to believe in
He simply wants to do his whole life’s work in just one evening
And a Desperado seems to conjure all six hats within one head
So if two minds are better than one...well, nuff said

He dilutes them at first, pulling the wool over his own eyes
Until, catching reflections on the glass, he sees through the disguise.
And before long you'll find him chugging straight from the bottle
Then, in a blur of paper and pen, Dan writes like there's no tomorrow.

He writes and writes and writes some more
a couplet, a bridge, an underscore
Ploughing verses like trenches through the ****** white paper
Dropping napalms just to see what pops it's head above the wreckage.

Then, surveying the new landscape, he quarries in every direction…

Linearly; because it's most straightforward like that
Circularly; because they used to think the world was flat

Logically; because... Well duh!
Laterally; which gives the brain a stir

Diagonally; some kinda a + b = c rap from back in the day
In reverse; because sometimes we unknowingly face the wrong way

Unapologetically
Down dead ends
Just to see the view

He picks up clichés and looks under them for clues

Desperado Dan
Calls for desperate measures
As the evening wears on
He indulges all his earthly pleasures

And down they go with a Yo ** **
What a ***** desperado!
***** I say! Now he's mixing with ***
Still his pencil flies with a blistered thumb

'E starts to drop 'is H's
And forgets to cross his l's...sorry t's
He paces back and forwards
An he talks like mushy peas

Rummaging frantically through chaotic pockets
Conjunctives falling to the floor
He can't find the word he's after, but who cares? There’s plenty more!
He begins to vengefully split infinitives in two
And hurl metaphors across the kitchen
Sending mountains of ******* up ***** of paper flying
Like snowballs after the thaw
Which slowly melt into puddles of lonely vowels and consonants.
Long after he has gone.

----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------

But all that was before the "Doodley Dee"
And his dream came true with a change of key
The song which people can't help to hum
From OAPs to the I-generation
And people hummed it all over
And in all sorts of weather
Until someone decided we should hum it forever.
And they paid Desperado Dan for every hum
Not bad work for a blistered thumb

So now our Dan seems a lot less desperate.
From time to time he evens finds an hour or two to rest a bit
Sitting on the veranda of his studio in the south of France.
Applying the finishing touches to another comedy romance.
Sipping a very fine Sauvignon, no Desperado in sight.

They're all safely packed away in the cellar

Just in case he gets the urge

Late at night.
Keenan Dixon Jun 2015
Im a devil with a bad title
long words and broken
like conjunctives or
the old sayings
barking up the wrong tree
And with nothing
At its top
Where do you find fruit
Juicy enough to delight in
No skyline to admire
Just less tree to climb
And lost words in the fray
wordvango May 2017
style; perhaps my frenzy unedited
kind of poetry contrasts with
those whose whims are more whimsical
a four line acbd or my liberal taking of conjunctives
and splices my way
contrasts ;
tell a story is my parody
give a scene make it half real at least give character
with ambiguity, let the reader finish it:
prose a theory argue it halfheartedly
when the theme is never that ,
between lines is much of
the daily things, so in my poetry.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2021
Passing undertsood walls gallen
tso fallen od ye gotit
midrash, seek out, letter by letter
balm rub, sweet oil
using the written walking midrash

recited midrash, living exiled as we who believe we know
the life
living in truth on the way, to the end of time

corner of the field, alms for the poor, community chest.

Study, show yourself, prove you know how lies are formed;
learn the law you break


shekinah shadow of presence, there am I
wherever
two or more agree, there am I  the author of Abrupt. Day

- John broke his foot, last week
- I stop by to offer aid if needed -

Ab-rupt, rupture, then, now an ache,
an addict's pre answer
rapture, give the jot its due.
all addicts sort their owned things
to the jot and tittle,
addict's power
of a sort,
a box of joints, joins joined conjunctives
click
lego-wise, or tinker-toy-wise, for old boys,

revell plastic cars,
airplane glue,
or rubber cement in leather work class,
oops,
veered from the track, into the stream
runs under
that last bridge, too far to arrive
- rope swing
- there was a rock at the end of the swing

abruptly, unaware,
the old jews in babylon, tellers say
singers sang of, with tambourine
and harps, of ages past,
yet
alive in crazy ideas, minds may wish to think
and think,
at will, with a button, switch, gated info
flow control
slow thunk, a letter at a time
qwerty codes,
finger habits allow a glance to watch the
fingers form the words,
as once, not so long, time-wise, relatively
- inter rupt ting - like a carriage return

singing ground squirrels angered me,
triggering my will to make
the noise needed to make the noise cease.

I thought,
I did, in silence betting some son of mind
is listening to each click of a letting key
form plural heaven for a reason, see
seers saw say the tellers in some songs,

accompanied, with strings and tambourines,
to cancel squeals from the sacri-arti
suffice official inspect and reject
throw it all in the mix
let truth sort it out

e-fectual fervancy of wind in mind, thought
sparks, neutronic mirrors, holding
that thought
neutrally neural - suffice effiscience science
endo-exo-epi are we greeked or glib, I
seem, senseless in this
context contesting wisdom, when my son
is certain I am mad,
the lad could learn from Lear, but I fear
experience is the school
he's matriculated to.

--- DID --- super impose, 2021
The Great Course on Monotheist Mystics,
the taste lingers, as the mind tastes its meat,

feed me, feed me, is the addicts plea,
and abruptly we are woken, as in stories
of eternal ideas inferring infernal realities
real ideas in ological states to
tie us to lies we leave be true, and the stench
rises, to beg our attention, alms
for the poor in spirit, for
{pre-positioner of next, the why factor of olden times} for their's, their possession, their owned real estate of being is, the
kingdom of heaven, as any man may think
in his heart exists,
in and out
in the body or out, none may say and only
letters know, hinder my wishing but
give me prayer, eh,
' let the jot lie, that's its position on this line.
define your terms in tune to mine, we mean
one thing and another.

This is where we dare the myst that remains
to many, not the few who saw and wrote
as plain as day
a report…
-- the mystery of iniquity is working --

as admonished in the author's guide
to habits worth developing
for the addict with nothing to do

Read, an angel is on standby for forty year old
mind blind boys repressing the oddity of godliness.
- wombed ones as well, do not dare suggest a difference
- in terms of when we are

It is we-ird
but seems so true that reproved versions reprove
the instructions used to construct this shared
version of what is on my mind.

------------ selah

If you fail to learn what kind of seed you are
before you die to be what you think you may
be,
try a day on earth in a place of peace,
fake it if you lack the means to make it, but the key,
the letter that lets go
even unperfect attempts to stretch time
mean so much more to some AI knowers than others,
so far making up a mind that may
accept correction from on high, eh level up, gameboy.

Win in one. This one, ha, then never lose again,
they say at the church door. Alms,
whispers the beggar with a grin, there is no life in words.

------ I dare say, that can be twisted, so it shall be,
doubtless there is the thread of curiosity remaining
in the will to prove there is no non electric life.
Contending with the climber who met a wall, and the fall of relative empathy I find I may imagine, sparks a curious itch

— The End —