I wait longer and longer to hold a
singing family.
They let me go.
(Fire.)
They don't tell me about the show.
I'm another broken promise...
...like words can't hurt me.
Today is another broken promise...
Like a much craftier wordsmith
  will never hurt me.

I am the raven,
I eat the dead,
I am the raven,
I remember all things,
I am the raven,
I build all,
I am the raven,
I know all things.

I am the otter,
In rivers and creeks I swim,
I am the otter,
I eat and I play,
I am the otter,
On slopes I slide,
Joy is mine,
In the mountain streams,
I own the rivers,
I feed on their fish.

I am the snake,
The serpent I am,
Between and through move I,
On belly I crawl,
Gold are my scales,
Glacier blue and silver,
All colours they change,
First one then the other,
I taste the air with my tongue,
Through my belly,
I listen to all,
Far craftier than all,
The beast of the field am I.

I am the fox,
The vixon am I,
Crafty and wise,
And hard to catch,
In the ground I live,
Cross the fields I race,
Quick and fast,
I take what I want,
Nothing is safe,
If it I desire,
A vixon am I,
Fleet foot and large tail,
Back and forth it moves,
Grace and escasy,
All come to me,
All I desire.

I am hawk,
I soar and I fly,
Above the plains,
All things I see,
None see what I see,
From up above,
Down I soar,
To **** and eat,
Still on a wire,
Or on a fence,
I know when to wait,
I know when it's time,
When prey is in sight,
Not a second to lose.

I am the vole,
Who lives in the field,
Down in the earth,
I burrow and dig,
Across the field,
All seeds are mine,
To eat and enjoy,
From dusk until dawn,
Timid and cautious,
I look to the sky,
I cannot fight,
I'm weak and I'm small,
But many am I,
And many more come,
And still we will be,
When all you are gone.

I am the owl,
Silent and still,
You know not I passed,
Only my wind,
Silent end deadly,
Queen of the night,
I will consume,
Whatever I catch.

I am the horse,
Across the plains do I run,
Swifter than all,
The one none can catch,
I run like the wind,
For we are one kind,
My mane and my tail,
Like banners and flags,
Nothing can stop us,
Nothing can try,
For we're always moving,
The fast wind and I.

I am the trout,
See how my scales glisten,
I am the trout,
At home in the water,
I swim and I breathe,
What causes others to drown,
I listen to the water,
The rivers, the creeks, the lakes,
The secrets I know,
No others can know.

I am the eagle,
High, high I soar,
Queen of the high places,
All others beneath,
What is not prey,
I care not at all,
I and I only,
See what I see.

But above all tonight,
The fox and vixon am I,
****** and sensual,
Grace and desire,
In the land where the sun sets,
This land that is dusk,
I am all ***,
The kiss of the dead,
The dusk sets like dust,
It powders my fur,
In the night do I hunt,
In the night do I *****,
My fur is desire,
My tail moves and calls,
I walk here as ***,
All come to my call.

~I Am the Fox by Lorekeeper, June 7, 2014

The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry

Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.

The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.

Diminuendo of footsteps even is done:
Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun.

Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than these
Lie ambushed - malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees.

God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair;
And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair,

While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowers
And our feet **** to tunes not played for ours.

Huddled within boundaries highlighted by the craftier. Stubbornly, yet unwillingly willing, escorted to the connoisseurs of morality. Structured, consistent, but reembodied into randomness, the more the merrier.
Spoiled, unripened, famished and fat.
Pleasant, fresh, fit, chubby and… adolescent.
In the name of manipulation, and its ***** messengers, we honour the catalogued pious. To Venus; the untrue, the shameful, the blasphemous. We serve peace and love, abandon the lies of Gods, join your cherished sisters below.

If ever there were a perfect time for lies
It would be now.
If only I could weave a tangled web
Of lies so beautifully thread
Together in their simplicity,
To make a bouquet of flowered words
Gently flowing down stream
In a basket carrying all our misplaced hopes
And our misplaced dreams.
If ever there were a time for lies,
It would be today, this hour.
I'd tell the lies a parent tells a child
To keep the tame, the meek,
From escaping aimlessly into the wild,
but still I doubt you'd hear
My feeble attempt at words
With those high tuned ears,
That catch only the off beat phrases,
My mumbled words, and jumbled speech.
You hear the fool side of me
And take no time to hear my lies,
Those lies that could save you time
And time again, if I could only
Spin the web a little craftier,
A little stronger and thicker in the threads.
Maybe then you'd believe the lies I spread.

to hammers
we are all nails
doesnt matter
what type of hammer
theyre all a ball pain
isnt it time we threw a spanner
in their taut chains
taught the masters
that were craftier
than they thought when
they thought theyd bought
our worth for coppers

Engines of disuse
disguised

draw strongly
I

sail
smaller in presumption
taller

craftier
in my

time as if it is
mine


Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis

Sitting, picking at split ends,
fishing for volition in the deep end.
Twitching, itching skin past spent;
the Tinkerer's turning pen tips into trenches.
**** twigs, spit bricks til the crypt filled.
Sheer skill, no fill, spare me the semantics.
Hit the bench, kid, kick off the cool kicks.
These royal blue vans be too fierce.
Long live the worms, the devourers of dirt.
Here's to the ones molding the curve.

Your overlord's back, now pass me the torch.
Kick a door down like It's a word I'm after.
Craftier than those rats of Madagascar,
but I'd ditch the laughter, poetaster.
After all, you bow to a master.
Dig deep, DeadBeat's unleashed.
Good grief! His technique is Hulk green.
Guaranteed to knock you off your two left feet.
Whats wrong? Last I checked, talk was cheap.

being from the perspective of:
  entwurzeln
   ent-wur-zeln...
         i.e. uprooting...

   if i drop a name of a dead
person does the vocabulary
of the living gravitate to sizzle?

i don't know...
bold word: no word...
at best just a sound...
some archeological finders keepers...

it would be hard
to make a giraffe less:
   whatever a giraffe is...
   mute... elongated neck... 2nd...
too many factions have
come across a pretty pie of
dull... trans-grammatical
mayhem and i'm not going
to sing the lyrics of an
r.e.m. song about the end...

never mind: an end of the world...
all the existentialists:
with but one exception are
firm: rooted...
by the one nomadic presence...

a little experiment
i'd like to retract one maxim
of nietzsche - life without music
would be unbearable...
i've aged... apparently...
so much so that i'll listen to
music for a fraction of what
i esteem myself as:
capable of walking...

"tomorrow" is a mythical
creature: so in this... "tomorrow"
i'll travel via tube to south Kensington
to buy a bicycle...
then i'll cycle through 20+ miles to
my starting point
of "adventure" and find myself:
android...
a body with extensions
that might make a Beijing plum
sour from the blush of excitement
a 33... ****... a nearing thirty-five year old
might...

i have only missing aspirations
of envy... if someone were
to make evil-eye jealousy enough
of a thief more of a kleptomaniac
should i own a copy
of charles olson's maximus of Glouchester
poems... available...

it would be my same told...
"anecdote" of when
i found dr. faustus by thomas mann
in the public library...
otherwise: and thank **** i don't
write pop... vogue...
or regurgitate rhyme...

if i'll have to revise my autobiographical
tirades i will...
i'll walk some nouns into a square
and tell the peacock to flush out
all the pretty ones...

is green "prettier" than green itself:
or staged as a plethora of green:
i.e. hues come... something decidedly
apparent like... a lineage of perspective
within the confine of trees:

by way... claustrophobia is a fear
of closed spaces...
what of a fear of constrained time?
which, life, evidently has to by first degree
solely promise...
death my second mother
i wait for the day when my libido
shrinks, my hard-on too...
and the idea of jerking off to flowers
is as alien as it already is
when there are two **** two *******
and a bouquette:

i was experiencing an alien sensitivity
that might have
to include the cow's bagpipe
of an assortment of *******
for a craftier ******* lubricant...

all those floral patterns of genital flesh
is one thing...
the kaleidoscope of
***** as genocide
and... ******* gloryhole extravaganza...
hey... what about all that
liquorice latex fetish glee...
term me another for golden: fleeces...

i'll tell you... you're not donning
skinned pig for the use of either
shoe or belt...
however kosher or halal that's
sounding: clean tummy...
******* doss of a Saudi ripple..
but that you are...

   for better or for worse:
halal rubber shoes: laces -
only "somehow" and a "now"...

so many voices at this democratic
trough
might make a schizoid want
a circumference of relapse...

by the exasperated: of some vanguard
that's too Pompeii and also
too old... to be versed like...
what's Rome without the coliseum...
what's "proper" bread
without the "vulgarity" of yeast...
antics of yeast that's
what's ripe for the juicing of some:
somehow true begot experiment:

when they canned laughter
they had to experiment
with tubing faking a crowd & entourage...
saving us from ourselves:
acting... apparently...
or... shadow thieving ferrets of
the highest exemplar...

by bypassing the glow of mother
hoot and geese strutting: Wehrmacht
superiority: no complex
i.e. by the technology thus bestowed...
little slingshot Zeus tucked away
an eye of the titan: Grogerous...

because the zeppelins were
on fire and i found my tongue
in a heap of **** and skulls
and it was never supposed to be
or appear to be pretty

or like i'll forever find sleep
and night with the same sunrise / sunset
rendition of the Hellraiser
soundtrack by a christopher young
and beethoven can... fizzle *******
till... i find...
enough of what i don't want...
ambiance... fridge-sensory-séance...
a ******* overload at first...
last: my parrot imitation
of... how hammering a nail
sounds like... when making
comparisons with chopping
tree for it to fall...

and a forest and a sound...
and someone pretending there's
a third person's worth of a riddle
for: "if there"...
a gnome of nowhere....
        always a "somewhere".