Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
RAJ NANDY Aug 2015
Dear Readers, President Theodore Roosevelt wanted
to save this marvelous Natural Wonder for posterity! So
the Grand Canyon National Park was set up in 1919. In
1979 it was declared as World Heritage Site! With the
portion “Sun rises and sets over the Grand Canyon”, -
I have concluded this poem. Kindly take your time to read,
no need to comment in a hurry please ! Thanks, -Raj

CONCLUDING THE GRAND CANYON
STORY IN VERSE – RAJ NANDY

INTRODUCTION
Literature about great natural features include
two personal types of writing;
Description of things observed, and impressions
of what is known and seen!
The story of the Grand Canyon takes us back
to the Pre-Cambrian Age,
When violent forces were unleashed from within
the Earth, during its formative stage;
When mighty forces of erosion began to sculpture
her undulating landscapes!
Therefore, I begin with a quote about Erosion,
From the great poet Alfred Lord Tennyson; -
“The hills are shadows and they flow,
From form to form, and nothing stands.
They pass like clouds, the solid lands.
Like clouds they shape themselves and go!”

TO RECAPITULATE PART ONE:
In Part One we have seen, how movement of
earth’s tectonic plates unleashed violent forces
from within!
It formed mountains and lakes, shaping our
landscapes, which now appear so peaceful,
grand, and serene!
Over millions of years the forces of erosion in
the form of wind, rain, sun and snow,
Sculptured earth’s evolving features creating
majestic, panoramic vistas as we know!
Geologists now opine, that the Grand Canyon
was carved out by the Colorado River, -
cutting through ‘layers of Geological time’!

THE COLORADO RIVER CARVED THE CANYON:
In the state of Colorado, from the high country,
Where snow and ice lasts well beyond the dawning
days of Spring;
There the majestic peaks of the Rockies form the
perennial fountain head from which springs, -
One of the great rivers of the world the Colorado;
Which travels 1400 miles through seven States
reaching the Californian Gulf west of Mexico!
Now during prehistoric days, the pristine Colorado
had flowed almost along the same path as today!
But after the magical rise of the Colorado Plateau
some five million years ago, (Refer Part One)
It had blocked the river’s path making it flow
south-east into the Gulf of Mexico!
Few Geologists now opine, that this diverted river
had formed the pre-historic Lake Bidahochi,
Which later drained out to form the Little Colorado
River, which today we get see!
But the cut-off western portion of the river (named
Hualapai Drainage) continued to eat away through
the Plateau’s southern portion,
Through a gradual process known as ’Headwater
Erosion’!
For the river flowing at a steeper gradient along
the ‘Grand Staircase’ of the Plateau, carried
stones, rocks and debris,
Which formed the cutting tools, deepening the
Canyon over countless centuries!
When the softer sedimentary layers of the Plateau
below the top rocky layers gave away, - it resulted
in several rock falls!
While flash floods and erosion continued to breach
the sides of the canyon walls!
Thus over millions of years the width of the Canyon
gradually increased;
While the gushing and untamed Colorado River
chiseled through the depths of those Cyclopean walls, -
running deep!
Now the ancient Lake Bidahochi which had breached its
banks, had captured our pristine Colorado;
And their combined power increased the volume of
water and river’s chiseling power, with its rapid flow!

ENDANGERED COLORADO RIVER :
It is unfortunate that today, the Colorado no longer
reach the mighty Pacific as in the olden days!
With the progress of civilization and the spawning
of big cities,
Like Denver, Las Vegas, Phoenix and Los Angeles;
And to cater for the agricultural farmlands and the
Industries,
Many dams got built to divert its water and to
generate electricity!
Thus over a century of overuse and abuse of this
precious natural resource,
Gradually choked up the great Colorado, as it
became a mere trickle at the end of its course!
Ecologists now debate, while USA has launched
‘Save the Colorado River Project’!
Let us now cheer up by getting back to our
Grand Canyon’s scenic beauty,
Before concluding this wondrous Canyon Story!

SUN RISES AND SETS OVER GRAND CANYON!
To see the sunrise from Mather, Yaki, or the
Hopi Point, - located on the Southern Rim,
Becomes a life time experience, better than any
surreal dream!
First a glimmer then a glow, when a faint blue-white
sheen begins to show!
As the sun gradually sprinkles its light, streaks of
crimson red spreads across the eastern sky!
Soon orange and yellow shafts of light, light up the
Canyon walls up high!
Squirrels scurry out of sight, and birds twitter in
the sky!
The Hummingbird hovers like a helicopter, and
Big Horn sheep are also seen;
The Hummingbird which can even fly backwards,
enlivens this early morning scene!
The sun now rising in its resplendent glory,
showers the canyon with its kaleidoscopic beams;
With streaks of yellow, gold and red, it chases out
lurking shadows from within!
Like a curtain lifting before their eyes, the tourists
view this panoramic sight!
As the Grand Canyon awakens to greet the day,
With cameras madly clicking away!
The great ancestors of the Hopi tribe, Hopi
meaning both peaceful and wise;
Had inhabited these areas some eight thousand
years hence!
Their scooped out granaries and tools found inside
Canyon walls, - have an ancient story to tell !
The Spaniards were the first Europeans to reach,
in search for gold which they never found!
But for the Hopis the Canyon remains, as their
sacred Holy ground!
When those Spaniards saw the Colorado way
down below, from the Canyon’s upper rim’s side;
They said that this thin blue streaked River, was
barely five feet wide! (In mid-16th century)
The average width of the Canyon is around 10 miles;
While the River at its narrowest point is 600 yards
wide!
The Condor the largest American bird, catching an
upward draft circles up high;
Like an uncrowned monarch he surveys his kingdom
below, nothing escapes his watchful eyes!
Temperature at the Canyon’s floor is 20 degrees
higher, when compared to its outer rim;
Supports an ecosystem of plants and animals,
With the river as chief nourisher of all things!
Evergreen pines and furs grow along the cooler
areas of the Canyon’s outer rim;
While cactus species are found on its arid floor,
Their exotic flowers bloom during Summer and Spring!
The Northern Rim a thousand feet higher, offers many
spectacular sites!
But the Southern Rim remains open throughout the
year, while the Northern closes during Winter time.
From the Hopi Point west of the Canyon, the visitors
enjoy the beauty of the silent, sinking sun;
When the sky gets diffused with vermillion red, as
darkening shadows engulf those Canyon walls!
The mighty Canyon with its Cyclopean walls,
perhaps the playground of the Titans from eons past;
Shaped by some mythical Vulcan, shall remain till
this World continues to last!

CONCLUDING THE GRAND CANYON STORY:
I conclude my Grand Canyon Story by quoting a
poem I had once read;
Written by an Anonymous author, whose name
I had failed to get!
“BUILT WITH PATIENCE OF ENDLESS TIME,
YEARS ERODE AND SHAPES DEFINE.
LAYERS YIELD THEIR COUNTLESS AGE,
EYES CAN SEE BUT CANNOT GAUGE!
STAND AGAPE WITH AWE INSPIRED,
IMAGE READS OF LIFE TRANSPIRED.
CLIFFS REACH OUT TO TOUCH THE SKY,
PATHS LEAD DOWN WHERE RIVER LYE.
COLORS, SHAPES AND SHADOWS MELD,
HERE, A PLACE FOREVER HELD.
WALK AWAY YET NEVER PART,
BODY LEAVES BUT NOT THE HEART!”
- Anonymous
……………………………………………………………
ALL COPYRIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR RAJ NANDY
OF NEW DELHI, E-MAIL: rajnandy21@yahoo.in
KINDLY READ PART ONE OF THIS STORY IF YOU HAD MISSED OUT!
THANKS, -Raj Nandy
In blood, a precious cake dancing
aflame in whirlpool of
cyclopean darkness.

The triggers of sanguinary
guns are tumbling down tears,
sorrow and grief in gush on
the cliff of darkness.

The moon,  a crimson cake of
venom toasting blind sun in
gory rays as stars twinkling
blood at dawn.

The orphan profusely wailing
for peace in her own bizarre
carnage in bazaar of iniquity
and rivers of blood.

Let the world stop this blood
Lest this blood stops the world!


©2018 KAYODE STEVE ADARAMOYE
Through the fields of stars and through the black forest,
And always West, trailing behind them a glowing disk,
With their frizzy coats and gnarling smiles; the heroes try to **** them with meteors.

Scattered shards of stone-fire bits, and the ashen paw prints evading it,

…and the horse shines upon Lykaon’s grave.

Howling are the wolves of Phanes, their number growling with the rains.
And matching windy howling screams, with hoots and hollers inbetween…
The great horns point at the wolven den, from which Fenrir’s gaze sees all man’s sin.

And the flames of Cerberus lick the hori-zon;

…as he descends into Hell’s cave,

And the Drakon hungry for lycanthropes, he hunts the plains of Hades;
But the cunning beasts avoid him while calling out to the moon, over their master’s grave.

Calling out over Lykaon’s grave,

Cyclopean-cotton collects, a smoking pillar covering guide. Obscuring the light and now they are vexed, as the Lykos struck down, they have died.

And their flesh is what the Drakon does crave, as they are devoured on the stones of Lykaon’s grave,

…at that place known as Lykaon’s grave,

Struck down with asters
and gobbled-up,
over Lykaon’s grave.
Wyrd-wolven stars at night

…over Lykaon’s grave,

A werewolf at,
The entrance,
To the cave,
And that King,

…who stands before Lykaon’s grave.
Caleb Jaren Feb 2010
Spearmint altoids and espresso
doubleshot headphones
hardly used Palm(seems not 1 for organization)
Empty jewel cases strewn over
the pine expanse3 monitors burn, an insistent
cyclopean glare w/the accompanying mice
notebooks' aged paper curled
'round circuit board controller cards
and holographic stickers open
hard drive aluminum platter white
cordless phone 2.4 GHz
floppy discs USB
milk glass opalescent bag
industrial lasagna fork canted sideways
tomes beckon
Cybershock
Snowcrash palpitations
PANIC! k_trap trap type 0x000000E flickers
attempting to dump 32 years
physical memory
Failed!
User I/O = NULL
On hitting the abyss, I stumble on gold
of inestimable diamond-emerald.

Tell them not, if at all you know the secret of my treasure in the treasure.

I know I have amazing fortune of
priceless cyclopean value to
mesmerize many generations into lulabies of the unknown.

I know only the deep calls to the deep!
Saul Makabim Jun 2012
Scarecrow shuffles
through cyclopean tunnels ceaselessly
searching for someone
to reap
His scythe a sharp scimitar
slices through the air
like a serpents tongue scenting
for the death pheromone
Slowly someone stumbles
in a drunken stupor
a listing ship
heading to its berth
Black Cat crosses your path
unnoticed in the ***** fog
Marked now
it is certain
Scarecrow will surely come for you
poor drunkard shall not see the morning.
Ted Scheck Apr 2014
Rivers dry up, except
The Mississippi.
If/When
That particular long and wide
And fat and deep
Body of Wa-Wa
Completely dries up,
The World, as SK
Was fond of saying of
Roland of  Gilead and the
Shadowed Spire,
"Has moved on."

Monstrous
Glaciers partied hard inda
MIDWEST!
For, like, endless freezing
Nights and equally
Chill-laxing daze,
Man! Man? Dude!
Dudes? Little dudes
With spears takin' on
The Mammoths! No
WAY!
Way.
They'll not outlive and
OutLAST US, My
Frozen Bros!

(But we had fire, the roasting
Kind and the hot burning
Coals within our spirit,
Fire to perpetuate our
Species through endlessly
Cold nights and days)

Whoo-Hooo!
Dude! You plowed
DEEP last night, Bro!
What's that stuff on yer
Brow. Sweat?
Hey is it me or is it
Hot in here?
Dudes? We're like
SMALLER

Irregardless, or
Re, the You SSS of
A has a large dent
In its midsection.
Because those partying
Glaciers were forced back
Into polar hiding, shedding
Great earthen chunks of their
Fatty selves, carving and
Slashing
The most fertile watershed
In the country.

Their ageless and
Timeless enemy, that
Bright Yellow Orb,
Opened its great
Cyclopean eye, and
Focused, yet again,
Blessed rays of light
Heat, and life.

The melting...
Water lying on the ground,
Unsure? How about we start a
Pool? I bet it'll pay
Off to flow on not-flat ground, the
Pool collapses and begins flowing
With purpose, streaming
Together as a larger
Body of water:
The Miss
'Sippi.

Any number of
Numberless great and lesser
Lakes up North
Decided to be hole-
Y. Gravity
Did the rest.
Serious Abandon Mar 2015
Serrated dawn
Carnivorous night
Who's teeth I fear
But do not flight

I welcome thee
Cyclopean spire
Carcosian sea
Hatur's eyless ire
Becomes me

With stars of ebon twilight
and Aeons countless
Nyarlothotep's sight
I make for the Mountains
of Madness
A tribute to the author who defined my highschool years
Daniel A Russ Jul 2010
Peering up from the precipice, a cyclops! – a
Many-fanged and mono-eyed beast,
Flesh a sickly sea-shell and putrid yellow as a
Series of pustules pulse rivulets of green-black blood,
Staining scarred surfaces and shadowing engorged strength.

Reaffirmed grip on haft,
I plunge the sticked-spike a shade-shy of horizontal,
Missing the mark obvious but finding purchase,
Shattering clavicle and spraying sinew in a perverse sort
Of macabre rainbow arc, yet met with instant,
Abject terror: spear now not merely stuck but gripped
By mine beholden nemesis, and he shifts, twists the
Leverage and I, trained in the art of never-surrender-never,
Have not his primitive power to resist and thus fall,
Giving way to laws of momentum – and the world shudders.

Eyes-wide as fist-eclipses-sun, a quick scramble,
Desperate-probing-reflexive grab for the half-arm length stabber,
Unsheathe, roll, aim and ******:
A scoring glance, slicing more pox and pus than
Bone or gristle, but desired effect achieved:
Nemesis rails, howling, orb clenched and pointing skyward,
Arms guarding reflexive at bloodied torso, leaving precious,
Glorious goal unguarded:
A backwards roll, leaning into the earth like Atlas,
I push, spring, and the world gleams in high-contrast
Blood-red and silvered-steel-sword as I’m propelled skyward –
Blade-and-hand acting in concert, a conductor in a symphony
Of prospective gore seeking to punish the cyclopean’s dissonance,
I plunge deep, scoring a bassonic rumble from
His jugular and cacophonic crackings as his cerebral
Column gives way to the superior song.

His shuttered eye now open as he slumps, falling to the
Ground ilke a dead god, it develops a strange sort of calm,
As if he’s hearing his own song of slaying – but that
Sizzling, that pig-eating-slop sound, that wasn’t my song –
That must be his, and awareness dawns as adrenal sets –
Blinded by blood and battle, I’d neglected to heed
The refuse of the beast’s bilious eruptions,
Blown back from the force of my blade, and now, immersed
By the nauseating, liquid-green mass, I am devoured from
Without.

I lay now, eyes alternating skies, and weep that I
Am sapped entirely of strength enough for noble suicide:
I shall die here, propped astern like a failed Atlas, a
Boneless, gibbering mash of grit, guts, and warm, soupy glory,
muted and deafened to the howlsong from above of vultures.
Bob Sterry Aug 2014
In the dark
Driving
Glance up to see
In the mirror
A following bulk
With a single head light
Its cyclopean beam
Is tracking me
Driving alone
On this dark route
And I shiver
In my seat
Sensing a monocular malevolence
Behind
Almost animal
A robo-creature
Stalking me in my tin box
For miles the lone yellow shaft
And its anonymous source
Sweep an unnamed fear into me
And when the road widens
And it passes me
I am genuinely surprised to see
That its driver has a head.
People..! Get your headlights fixed!
Kush Jun 2017
"That is not dead which can eternal lie,
and with strange aeons even death may die."*
-Abdul Alhazred

Piercing light digs itself into my eyes
A spread of bird calls funnel past open windows
I lift my throbbing head off the splayed pages
It seems that morning breeze has been perusing my book
The Necronomicon

With groggy effort, I go about my daily routine
Brushing leads to breakfast which leads to brooding
Today is Saturday and I am beyond unimpressed
Not many activities catch my eye like they used to
I think I’ll go for a swim

Thankfully, the empty lap pool provides a haven
Loneliness was never an outstanding issue among our family
That pervasive sense of dull dread invades my heart, yet
There is a thin verisimilitude between loneliness and contentment
I muse upon the power of individuality while submerging

Half-past 11, I notice some peculiar glow spreading in the lanes
Emerald ooze steadily overtakes a pair of arms and legs
It is not long before this strange goo overtakes my skull as well
Instantaneously, terror plunges deep into my amygdala
I assume sounds of thrashing water and stifled screams

How does my body drift deeper than physically possible?
When does my mind disconnect from our tangible world?
Just why are suction-cupped serpents binding me?
Questions spill over the brim and are not met with any answers
Nonetheless, I embrace impending death

Visions assault a cloud of sensory panic
The chlorine chaos takes on saltier flavoring
I see images of cyclopean kingdoms draped in sea growth
Stupendous beings lumber with apocryphal disregard
To these incomprehensible entities, I am dust

They relinquish me back to my microscopic world
I do not know why the cosmic horrors revealed themselves
All I am aware of is that this was a mere glimpse at true evil
One born millennia before the most ancient of stars
One that will persist millennia after such bodies have extinguished
I sink back into the water, exhausted

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."
*
-H.P. Lovecraft
Matt Nov 2021
Crows caw
And the women chatter
While trees saw
A thousand matters
And a cats claw
And the wind carries
Whispers old and new
While, there, married
The fools who haven’t a clue
The voices within
Die in ignorance
Surface sighted men
Are idiots to patience
A thousand voices quieted
To the world rested in palms
As no appetites are wetted
We’ve forgotten old psalms
Gone is what matters
Supple sustenance for soul
Replaced by glass shattered
Yet the heart still grows
Nay it starves
For sustenance denied
Chosen laws’ Harvard
And empty A.I.
A thousand voices quieted
Craving cars within
Superficially saturated
Inside your Gods’ light dims
And restless is Morpheus
Emptied is Khemenu’s basin
Writing to your inner Boethius
And the day is out
I’ve been here since night
Watching the thoughtless come about
Enter prison, now returned in sight
Back are the chattering women
Gone is the silent respite
Abandoned is Gods Heaven
Be it not for the last flicker of light
But the Old Ones have spoken
Hymns of liberation
Visions be woven
Songs of man’s abomination
Dance and joy
Lust and pride
Forget the inner boy
Behind left a sight wide
Traded for shallow waters
Cyclopean cities of nigh
Tapped by the unbothered
Phantom of the dead city R’lyeh
Your newfound liberation is devolution
Freedom is your cage
For thoughts ceased their convolution
Once again bound by animal rage
Inward no
Outward tempts
Surface grows
Depth nonexistent
Pretentious know it alls
Who know nothing
In their selfish muse they fall
Without an original thought of something
And the wild kingdom
Expands its reign
Filled by blind fandom
And Zealous feign
The Old One herds it’s sheep
Eyes turned off
Their minds gone to sleep
While the unwilling scoff
They count their days
But the unicorn finds arrogance
For to the cattle they’ll fall prey
For they’ve abandoned their righteous penance
Forget the last as you commit the next
Crime, how soon until the ultimate crime
Hope not for the fallen, for let’s
Wash clean our soul in brine
But prey not fall to the Beast
Of the sea
Ready for your soul feast
To devour your faith and dreams
But still His word you pervert
And winged demon still steals
As His will you subvert
Your life turned into its meal
For they’ve abandoned their gift
Of independence
The point has been missed
And we are all so dependent
God is in the TV
Question and answers that are hard to solve
Oh Darling, please believe me
The darkest hour is right before the dawn
Yourself forgotten
A thousand faces in your mirror
Each day a new allotment
Not your voice, but theirs you hear
Valorless galore
Against the Krakens tide
Because their thoughts matter more
Your true self hides
The bird has rid its wings
A bird it is no more
And forgotten how to sing
A bird it is no more
Lions Pride becomes Hordes Chant
They’ve died and returned a Lich
Not a King, just a scamp
Just another stitch
There, there lies bones apart
Empty within
How can your revolution start
When with yourself you can’t begin
Turn back time
Reach into before
Bathe with the swine
Across a barren shore
Take your hatred out of me
I don’t have to listen
Campaign speech of liberty
Theatre masks gone missing
Love and joy
War and peace
Meat and soy
Sinner and the priest
You are everything
And I am one
Your hate deliberating
Murdered is the one
I am the animal
Who will not be himself
Thought unfathomable
Unrealized hell
Demons whisper in your ear
And I start to hear them
Your will a fulfilled fear
From you, Baal stems
Pride and humility
A spectrums range
Greed and charity
Perspectives change
Across the water
Unfairness praised
Unjust no bother
Open eyes hazed
What’s it then if I find my demise
A number for their ends
Begone to those who dare question
Just a means to their end
danielle Feb 2018
His love for her's like the touch of Midas
Feelings that really made her feel golden
He gave her what she wanted, what he has
Only to prove his love to the maiden

They lay on the vast expanse of grass aye
Talking 'bout melodies they've listened to
Time never mattered, for them it's a lie
They ne'er chased their moments—they don't have to

Though years of their lives had already passed
They still found on each other's arms their home
He remained to be her love, her Midas
He remained with her even after gloam

Cyclopean stars, European skies
Serves as their children with love in their eyes
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
it's rare, very rare that i have dream,
but sometimes it does happen,
a dolphin's nose-dive into the literal,
into the unknown, into the peaceful,
i never try to dream, but sometimes
punching a beehive reflects reality.

the content?
a cliche dream, very much a circumstance
of teenage despair,
hapless teens surrounded by the horror,
not out of vanity i will claim
the words: i am the horror.
a group of them, to my count
they number spelling out the word
S-A-N-I-T-Y (six then)
with the letters etched onto their foreheads,
i find one of the teens banging his
head on a metal door chanting some
obscure variation of a Buddhist mantra,
i am but a thick smog
   and a certainty of dasein -
a dasein of lost care and a gravity of
feeling entertained pulverising the vision...
it's a question of photon energy
in total darkness... a foxtrot sense of
spontaneity: out of nothing, out of sleep:
dreams... and given the adventure into
harnessed natural energy,
how they captured the wind with don Quixote
among cyclopean giants and wind-farms:
surely a day will come when
lightning will be harnessed, some future
Prometheus will bring down once more,
for too long lightning was ignored as engaging
our elemental techno, shrouded by a god -
what titan if not an Ōrāmetheus (oora'h me-theology /
imploring a hostile universe to think like a god:
the definition of being titan,
caged in the reality of Titus Andronicus) -
then how to harness lightning:
    the greatest favour for mankind,
   upon the altar of what's offered by either
world-by-chance or a gambling-deity;
petulence? that too; after all the world was created
out of petulence... given so many exact figurines
in mathematics, akin to the perpetual spiral of π,
all constants in science came from a petulant
argument for anything at all... a slight deviation
of the pristine Brahman's nonchalance
                 in what rhetoric could be overheard
prior to the rhetoric actual.
   then onto the reality check... can you really
read a newspaper these days seriously and not after
a whiskey-sharpshooter?
  can you live on these isles and not pretend to be
Philip Augustus playing off Scotland, Wales, England
and Ireland against each other like Henry II
John and Richard I?
                you probably can't...
                             you're either going to
gain some sense via Longshanks or the Confessor
into the dynamism... and if only Elizabeth was young
i'd say what Ali G said: bright-knockout-pokers
and edible ******* to boot...
                     but granny ****? n'ah mate, ****
that ****... i'm waiting on Charlie Chappers
              like a weasel, I R.
    but you can't read newspapers sober these days,
or what's called the 'the old get richer and the young get
poorer', the housing market... twentysomethings are
growing angry... a retired banker's daughter
is in puffy-fit frenzy of: ooh! grr!
   send in Mary 'blazin' Poppins!
                                     but it's always good to borrow
from genius... an exquisite part from *girls aloud

song the show -
            should'a known, should'a cared
should'a hung around the kitchen in my underwear
                                                                  acting like a lady
you should'a made me, oh
should'a jumped a little higher
should'a fluttered my mascara like a butterfly
instead of being lazy, that would have saved me
,
and that's hardly a blue oyster gay bar sorta tune...
gay bars are weird, you end up walking in there
   and snogging some Brazilian, high on the atmosphere
    and *****; and yes,
  pop has that infectious tendency for creating
universal appeal... pop is ******* when all
other genres are *** (no one admits to it, or finds himself
boasting about it)... and find me a poncy geek
greedy with salivating overly toward tendencies of listening
to prog rock within a mile-radius from when you hear
the prelude and the postlude... because that isn't
exactly as chorus.
      in china three generations live under one roof...
in western society - should'a thrown less
                                                 teenage tantrums
...
     well, isn't it humbling to actually have parents?
        cool kid, dar she blows! plonk...
timber!  if the Jews said in Poland prior to 1939
    your streets, our tenements...
   a lot of Arabs are saying of London: your streets,
our tenements
... but then it could also be the nuo-rich
Russians too...                and boy... look how
the far right arose in the 20th century... here we go again.
meekkeen Mar 2015
I tried to act confidently,
but it came up like a faux bouquet,
presented steadily with bowtie fixed,
yet shoving,
“here!”
“take them- what are you waiting for?”
And no reply.
(And no reply).
And-
Why is it so difficult to be myself?
Do I not love myself?
Is this some sort of congenital disease-
some inertly cyclopean phenomenon-
where I am victim to my own constant surveillance?
Hyper vigilance- or vanity?
Which is worse?
Would that I could break all of the mirrors hanging on all of the walls-
all of the windows with all of their reflecting-
Would that I could kiss myself, feel myself, touch myself, know myself,
then maybe I could know you how to love me.
How to love me?
With that inquiry left unsatisfied,
am I left flitting from void to void?
Though in some spaces I stare into the Quantum Sea and say,
It is but the stuff of me!
And,
I shall never die!
But that is not the same-
it is not the same
to know thyself in a flower
as to know thy hand-
one is weightless,
the other is responsible.

I fear the mirrors.
I want to fluctuate invisible.
Dawn King Jan 2015
Close your eyes, free your mind
Let it wander, back in time
You had a vision of how things might be
You lost your soul sight, and couldn't see

Lets take a walk, relax, unwind
A stellar journey, we must take
Orpheus tells of a wonderful place
Through his pain and love and loss
He left Lyra his harp for Jupiter to toss

When traveling outbound
Toward this constellation and
The measure of light increases
From brilliant to blazing
With no variation
Vega is the destination

It’s out at the far corner of Vega
These are the lands where they are found
Where your lost hope is eternally bound
Your hope is in boxes
Made of incandescent ore
That dangle from glass flowers
Of eighty-five feet or more

In order to reach them
You must hitch a ride
On the wings of the
Cyclopean dragonfly

When your hope boxes
Have been recognized
Dive straight to them without hesitation
Rip them open with firm designation
Pour all the contents back into your heart
Let it course through your blood and every cell
Your soul no longer an empty shell
For the severely hopeless with irreversible soul blindness.
Vinnie Brown Mar 2014
My voice got lost
In the echoes of your betrayals
Or were they mine?
Somewhere along the lines we committed crimes
Now you're just showing off love
I guess I was teasing first
Connect us and were a terrifying cyclopean dread
Powerful enough to tear the world asunder
Tear us a part and we'll always search for each other
Soul mates it is what we are
In the echoes of their betrayals
I do not have a voice
If all you hear is silence
Then know that I am still searching for you dear
The pantheons demand the poets limn vision
‘Motionless inside dreaming still shores,
—I sleep lucid, prismic eternally awake.
In the absence of beta waves, alpha
—echoes unfold stretching into theta dives’.

Galactic chrysanthemums implode tearing—
liquid waves into writhing silver storms.
A thousand moons of mercury evaporate, reappear
and explode into black diamonds spray-painting
—cyclopean skies.

A supernatural alchemy beseeches, whispering inside
—my bloods dying, resurrected—breathing magic
that sips from rich ****** rivers; rushing through
distant canons of twisting blood vessels;
whereupon a billion red cells form aromatic pools—
igniting into an endless sea of bellowing fires.

‘Orphic, I am enchanted tasting a sorcerous nature,
angels conjuring eyes—burn mortal tinted memory shores,
bestowing ashes of what was, what is—the ‘I’ exhumed,
—raptly in deaths breath to unseen wisdom’.

Dust devils transform into ether crystal blown screens—
—bending, jostling, wrapping around nameless fluid planets,
luring my eye forth into dimensions lost, pulsing—
—only in sirens earendel song.

In black diamond stars, ‘spirits dream in frenetic pulses,
the cosmic lotus-eaters waiting in sky pearls—
—purveyors of ethereal dreaming, poets weaving
eternity before mortal life.


© ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens)
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2020
come night i can allow myself to breathe,
perhaps more - think again...
a few sips of homemade wine
and a cigarette - endlessly peering at
an eucalyptus tree at the end of the garden...
forcing myself to imagine
the face of my grandfather still able
to contort itself into ****** expressions
and enigmas... idiosyncrasies...
perhaps chancing upon the wind
to move the flimsy branches at the ends
of the corpulent crown of
this tree -
   if merely the letter Y was a meditation
of the tongue of a serpent -
or perhaps how i have two eyes
yet compound myself to: strictly cyclopean
endeavours...
soothing demand for the sound
of the sea on the shoreline -
although... i... mountains... alone...
or the endless promise of not impacting
with a good morning or a hello
when walking the fields in my vicinity...
premonition:
i "knew" he was dying...
mistress agonia... and it's not like
in his last months he ever wanted
to climb out of bed...
he already exhausted his memory cinema...
the chance crossword puzzle...
on my walks two days in consequence:
crouching on a footpath
a metre away from a blinded rabbit...
then the toothache...
a premonition of pain to come
to excavate the heart into a shroud
of mourning...
    but how unified these sequences
of events allow themselves to be...
the archaic semblance of "coincidences"...
relearning it wasn't my fault since:
the whole point of the telephone
is that it can be used by both parties:
it's not a one way street...
otherwise: yes... this meditation on
the eucalyptus tree at the end of the garden...
wishing for brush-strokes of the wind
to agitate this... foreign entity:
how much more i would have allowed
myself to a tease of pine...
evergreen from the flip-side of the earth:
twenty five pence in two coins
on my bed...
i have to allow a variation of serenity
to come back:
i cannot be this dreadfully angry mr. ****-pants:
after all: **** before the shovel...
and no: if i could possibly cling to
a revelation that i can write prose:
i'd need to focus on a sense of the linear:
and continuity -
preserving the claustrophobia of
paragraphs: i exhausted the need for dialogue
when i was young enough to still
play with plastic figurines of spiderman
and batman...
so... no dialogues for me...
otherwise: what? beautifully prosaic?
well... by all standards of speech:
impromptus and mumbling...
sure... coherency of the matters at hand...
but i leave with another comfort:
a latin man: the vulgate hier und jeztz -
because otherwise a choking veneer of
grecian superiority will not allow me
to "get things done":
to spew and stew in what's readily
available...
                       not that i was dealt the wrong
hand: i'll still have to gamble with
myself:
a waiting game with mother
and father and grandfather to come...
and then: hello solo!
not in some mythological alternative universe:
which a span of 20 odd years will
probably do to me having written these,
here, now, words...
or i might be lucky...
i will have enjoyed drinking too much...
and that's ******* dandy by anyone's
standards...
as julius caesar already said:
death... sure... but quickly...
or at least with a hard-on of shock!
n'est ce-pas?
which puts suicide a tier below ******...
since: you are premeditating the end...
ergo? no shock...
at least when you're murdered
you are in shock... you're not thinking
of it... but no i see...
death being robbed of its "plans"
with you already thinking about it...
so no shock... no thrill...
unless of course: you have been...
festering with the wounds for years
and what that has allowed is...
a crescendo eventuality...
a culminating point of exit...
                     well: funny how i am mortal
and nothing should be alien
to me regarding such topics...
unlikely, however much it desirable
to be made necessary... this return to all
things governed by the day
and all of its intricacies of mundane -
what colour should the blinds be
for the bedroom
to compensate the insinuations of shade(s)
of the wallpaper...
the formality of language in general...
how society works...
what is a coin in one hand
when i hold a rock in the other?
social constructs and what?
some transcendent values when you're
not jacked-up to a psychedelic trips
whereby: de facto... a mushroom fries your
sponge of a brain?
never knew that deep-fried sponge
could be eased as newly found "crispy"
when all this "****" requires
moving and selling...
hell: towing a shadow for a handshake...
easing my eyes on the moon
come the hallow crescent...
            at night when i sit in the garden
and look at my hands with
chiromancy ghouls and spooks...
     bones are deader: yet the teeth more alive...
aramaic is not armenian...
some gift of the gob from the "fella"
up above...
           voices that make it a crisp tartan,
& biscuit... bellowing with their chorus
like a cutting into silence
with a dozen ******* bagpipes...
bellowing choir...
singing like they are cows
readied for the slaughterhouse...
hear now...
          it has become so apparent:
i write words my words will never utter...
not in conversation:
and i do not believe in turning
my speech into a scripted insolence pre,
that would implode on me
like i'd be regurgitating: a slacking
of the already prized asset of suspense:
a motivation to further - "thinking":
more like brooding / brewing the grinding
of meat...
what of the ******* raw hinde
from the hinterlands of a "revision"
of the ottoman empire...
             brown-beat duck quack hello
new psychopathy or...
a tired re-reading of a tristan tzara...
for dodo and dada and fidgety dough...
immaculate fingernails...
mind you: a period where i was stupid enough
to visit a brothel and **** myself
a robot of i: workable in disguise:
because... whittle wichard wouldn't work
best on a date since:
precursors of too much investment...
so...
female barbers... prior to the ceremony
how she would recognise my voice...
persist in paying hardly the compliment
about how much hair was on my cranium...
and once she finished she would
******* my entire head with
her two hands...
given that i had long hair for a while...
going to a female barber...
or going to a *******: this can really
be contested as to: what's better?
maybe i should have gone to the brothel
and asked for my ***** to be trimmed...
extension anti "gratis"...
other details of... "*******":
            i live a while... but death still
manages to smooch out of me...
a wonton... A...
                        yes... clearly genius prichard
and assembly forrest...
it's not life, this box of chocolates...
it's a broth of dumplings...
same ****, different cover...
sarcasm, rules!
- and there's lee evans... which / who is funny...
i can't buy into smart-funny...
i've been trying to buy into ethno-comedy
strip-back: let's endure the sleazing
baroque of stereotypical white cuckoldry
and the odd ***** mongol...
all that cosmopolitan draft of "nuanced"...

smart-comedy is no comedy...
the dumber, the better...
i'm still giggling about jokes being made
concerning scenarios:
if i had a wife... thank **** i'm not
invested in the logic of darwin...
i'm not here for the genes...
i'm here to close up the "shop":
******* with a few good patent envious
metaphor of memories and the world
can have its ******* hullabaloo...

existentialism and darwinism are
not coincidentally mutual ****-buddies...
one's autistic the other is...
pressing matters for
man as metaphor of ape, lion... parasites...
a ******* "reinvention"
of the chimera...

keeping score my ***:
i'm keeping all the details of indigestions,
a tally of the whole brood...
toothaches and acne sours
for the pleasure of my culmination
asteroid factoid of constipation:
i hope i die a constipated loner...
hell i hope i die towing:
******* turned out to be...
given the still intact "excess" of skin...
the one pleasure in life i would
never find... demeaning or... unreliable...
well thank **** and god to boot
that i wasn't circumcised...
hallelujah! i'm redemption
and the talkative golgotha prize of:
tongue turned into a geometry
of an upside down imploded DELTA...
hirsch: del - y-oh...

y-*******-om-ing...
                          why?!
odes to peter the lad... or why somehow:
demoting an angel to the status of
saint doesn't sit well in my belly...

precious greco-hebrew new: "testimony"?
it was a greco-hebrew adventure...
no?
here the ****** details of:
unobstructed darkening...
take your cleansed morals and transcended
a priori valued diddly-squat:
this supposedly "former" filth...
borrowing from the thespian autocracy
an ear lent: a shadow brokered...
just pretend...

there are no visages that concern themselves
with directly spoken at or to...
or by...
just this murk of by "proxy"...
an "de facto": nuance after nuance
after... a fermentation of an apple is vinegar
and sweet... then all that ******* rot
that's associates with: cleaving off
of sinew working toward the tendons
an the marble architecture of bones...

yes, yes, very nice... thank, you!
Cosmic Snail Oct 2018
Noon. The desertsun is sitting at the summit of the sky,
glaring at the endless sands that span in front her firey eye
and there´s not a single cloud around her that she must condone,
just a squad of squawking storks is floating neath her golden throne.
Like a boat that´s built of birds, in search for cypresscrowns to land
which resemble scattered islands in this silent sea of sand.

At a waterhole´s a warthog, noticed by the nearest croc,
drinking calmly from the pond, but suddenly: A state of shock.
Fleeing flocks of rhimgazelles. A turtle imitates a rock.
And the victims bleeding nose is caught inside a lethal lock.
Groups of kudus, gnus, baboons who ring their roaring warning bells
and the arid air is full of fear and dust and death and yells.

In the distance sits and listens watchfully a fennec fox,
sheltered by a fence of thorns, upon a pile of desert rocks.
Covered under cactusshades decays a lonely nomads bone,
where the lazy lizards lie in cool and cosy homes of stone;
and the sun, relaxed as ever, crawls along her wonted trail,
like a glowing, cyclopean, billion-year-old cosmic snail.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2020
.to never waste a good prose-esque (prosaic?) impromptu on a stuttering for rhyme: all in all - to never waste a good impromptu on a constipation of rhyme - knock-knock... no one's there... comes the cascade, that the impromptu has a mind of its own - that it has stolen my fingers and my hands... i'd sooner choke on a rhyme than "think" it might ease the digestive process of reading - such that the eyes see first - which implies the tongue does not necessarily have to elevate itself beyond its genesis status of an oyster in the shell of a skull - plenty of riches surround it - all these pearls tightly clenched into a grin... that i would never waste a good enough impromptu on a constipation of rhyme...

'by hampstead heath'
    the teleprompter, might have said
and thus began:
    by hampstead heath no sign of tomorrow...

but truth be told: that only sounds
all buttery and pretty and daffodil *******
a hyacinth sort of pwetty...

i've seen further afield and turned my gaze
away from the scarred sky
of the gargantuan lung that heaves
as much life to live
as much as it tramples said life
to a mush of murk, soot,
                               and phlegm...

enough to take my shadow my dog
on a leash of thought
    and these legs as aporte
   up noak hill toward and through
ingrebourne way: a horizon of hiding,
teasing, tilting and foraging buttons
   of focus for the eyes...
    a canvas such that is -
a most organic england...
     where ghosts of a people have
been frolicking to the demands
of pagan nudes and smoking barks
of acorn and of oak...
     an angevin england a tudor england...
before: how ready or not the world
might have been for the later guise -
the umpire and his tourists...
before... now... an inorganic england
with its imported mosques
in the urban shrill of scratching metal
and gluttonous concrete bulge and crackle...

- it's truly amazing not knowing:
why to begin, what to begin for (which
is nothing more than a fiddling of
the first why prompt) -
                                with what to begin,
perhaps even: to what end?
**** and **** again: another why...
but as ever:
there's always this persisting how...

to reiterate: why? why?! to whine!
or at least... to pretend to not be in a whining
concert(o)...
as such: this is apparently me...
not wining and dining but...
                     no... there's a simpler why:

why no. 1: because i was never much of
a d. h. lawrence fan (by omission)
        and now it is a fine hazy morning
and i've just read some of his... rhymed whining...

why no. 2a: it's morning, and i'm thankful
that it's not the afternoon,
    and that's a why no. 2b mind you:
probably never again... nibbling on the night,
past midnight, drinking feverishly,
convincing myself of "genius":
  as any drunk who has caught less
    a flu more a bravado cough ends up doing...
which is to say:
a cocktail of bravado                &
                    gusto...
perhaps some other time...
   when unnecessary laughter out of
blue-moon imminence is that last absolutely
necessary - stomach in stitches sort of shenanigans..

- and that's probably enough
of the why's: plural, question -
if (a) is the indefinite article...
and (the) is the definite article (v'eh point...
rather... no θank you very much)
then... possess me! O unnecessary
pedantry - raise me to a vapid polemic:
throw me a peacock of verbiage!
     - then the (s) is both a plural article
and a ('s) - apostrophe -
                 a possessive article:
                      an article of possession...

- which brings me to how...
              i suppose with language, on a spare...
i see no wrong with whining
   like so... if one can also be whimsical about
it...
  pretend one has an accent of ascent
befitting one to use such pronoun 3rd person
(i am a multitude of schizoid remains
safely mitigated in vitro)...
an accent less orientated in and around
essex or the extension of east london...
north-east loon & don...

and how else? 26 apparently necessary
tools - from which Na
                                       is a prefix for
   na-            +           -me
                  sodium / natrium /
                                     codex graeca -
    say... the alpha, beta croaking phallus junction
of p.o.w. machismo...
what war? oh... just a made up
war of words... props and grandists...
                          eat an E drop an I...
                  how... mein gott... the infinity
of hows and howls...
yet still finding only one suitably inoffensive
universal why...
as if a why isn't already too late
and is hardly justified...

as a student of kant might have put it:
oddly enough everything that's how is
a priori...
while the why is a posteriori...
             - do we need to muddle the words
further with that quadratic rubric of shorthand
i.e. synthetic a priori vs. analytic a priori etc.?
i've heard it somewhere...
mind you...
     having recently been injected with
a bug, a sickness for walking...
                        an incessant need as it were...
however much i fashion myself
with enough slow-burning grub...
at the zenith of 3 hours...
the blood sugar level drops to the point
where i can taste acidic metal in the air
and i start to chew: either my tongue,
my teeth together...
              a dignified discovery of
nostalgia in the form of maynards
                                   bassetts
wine gums...
the chemical strawberry in that instance...
far superior to the real thing...
however i look at it...
it would be wrong to eat a strawberry
in winter... the analytical bonkers route of
imported from spain: a watery mush of
punched-up rouge...
   but this... synthetic taste of strawberry...
it's hardly...
                but it's its own variation
of: at best imitated - but at least not the worst
of an over-ripe original...

    - as such, the day can begin with its
slouching - its miraculously stitched together
humbling - that i can find a momentary
repose - exceeding expectations i'll demand
of myself later - or rather later forget -
bride of amnesia - memories for rent:
a hybrid of a cameo role
      and an out-of-proportion cyclopean
subjectivity that tease from
the omni- litany a needle eye's coercion
of concentrated blind spots.
Best nondescript literate jinxed
humble dug good feller ya e'er seen
amenable, a non biased opinion -
of course I mean mine mein
yours truly gets no lucky strike breaks
particularly never ending

surprising automotive repairs,
thus in sore need of green
i.e. legal tender concerning Hyundai Sonata
two thousand and nine
admirable craftsmanship e'en
though urgent message freon

me and the missus, we
lack adequate funds
until early December
tooth house zen nineteen
when soonest social
security disability payment reason

without rhyme arose cause faulty gene
neurological schizoid personality disorder
honest to dog - affliction since...
in utero growing as little bean
not shy to pull out all stops,
and comb clean

albeit sharing genetic personal flaws
affecting psychological skein
imposing lifetime emotional hardship
invariably causing financial frostbite,
ye might not readily glean
faux Shakespeare's Banquo

(now my bank woe)
to give checking account gangrene,
whereby amputation left absolute zero
cents and sensibility,
but accursed Halloween
nightmare every four times fifteen

orbitz round the nearest star,
no matter applying ample sunscreen
me got smarts attested as seen
evident crafting poems keen
with sophistication, yet oft times lean
if - said phrase Sheryl Sandberg popularized

nsync, she dismisses Facebook cyclopean
tentacles squeeze out private data
muckraking monstrous machine
minting dime a dozen billionaires
anointing Silicon Valley
realm housing queen
and self anointed king Mark Zuckerberg

twenty first century Midas,
no need to hex spleen
his unabashed heartfelt virtue, he doth preen
ah... pipe dream to rub figurative shoulders
never in bajillion years,
and no chance empyrean
afterlife will eradicate hellish scene.
during and after a moderate snowfall
today January 19th, 2024,
within Southeastern Pennsylvania
and elsewhere across the Eastern Seaboard,
whereby blanket of whiteness
muffles sounds of civilization.

I hate a spoiler alert
regarding weather forecasters prediction,
especially when meteorologist
wannabe spouse doth blurt
out impending blizzard
which never materializes,
thus no need for yours truly to exert
himself shoveling and yet denying same
to frolic and gamely flirt
with Khione, the Greek goddess of snow,
daughter of Boreas, god of the North Wind
and Winter, and sister of Zethes and Calais.

I feel humbled and enamored
when Mother Nature
singly and/or nsync with old man winter
looses propensity to bestow majestic scene,
when expanse of pure white
individual ice crystals
that grow while suspended
in the atmosphere—

usually within clouds—
and then fall, accumulating
on the ground,
where they render further magic
changes landscape into blanket
of pure ****** whiteness;
I fondly think back
remembering '96 storm of the century.

At that time January 1996
me and the missus while timesharing
at Shawnee on the Delaware
ardently, diligently, and persistently strived, yet
unsuccessfully conceived Blizzard Baby.

Now wife far beyond procreative age,
(though nevertheless I wistfully envisage
begetting another progeny -
simultaneously stretching credulity
to breaking point)
all things considered
exhaustion would peter out
after capitulation of divining rod
announced, *******, and issued forth little squirt
necessitating lifetime to recoup energy.

Bound within figurative four walls
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania domicile
courtesy appreciable snowfall,
I direct energy crafting poem.

Yours truly will actually
refrain comestibles despite feeling hungry -
(plus he will be undergoing a colonoscopy
five days hence and abstain eating fiber
unless inclement weather determines otherwise)
lest metabolism to digest food
decreases potential alertness,
and full belly finds me
able, eager, ready and willing
to lie supine, study
the backs of my eyes and digest.

"Mother Nature" commences
to baptize spilling
purity from sheltering overcast sky
bajillion year celestial tureen
while refulgent weak solar beams
desperately massage tender shoots
thawing frozen earth,
where frigid cold icy sheen
hermetically sealed, asper
horizontal frozen walled in pond,
Thoreau and thru,

when skaters waltzed
stealing lovers kisses unseen
soon thaw melts pools
of frozen precipitation
all a buzz with feeding
Gabriel donning primped
orange coiffure trumpeting
"NON FAKE" arrival herculean
kickstarting powers unleashed
since time immemorial worship,
and/or sacrifices made

to deities of webbed skein
viz, animal and/or plant
wide world rejoicing when
harvest yielded cornucopia
primitive, yet over keen
superstitious shutterfly scattered
bands of hominids plentitude
linkedin to sugar daddy's
favorite colored jelly bean
benediction, and veneration rituals
also included pagan dispensing

prayers believing
obeisance necessitated cyclopean
appeasement lest death
and destruction would rain
purple pearl drop monsoon,
traced to angry spirits
subsequently drowning
helpless prehistoric hygiene
cleansed **** sapiens
ancestors possessing gene

and chromosomes latent
within dormant flora lean
fauna coming alive
with the scent of fragrant bouquet
while the hills burst
with creativity healthy panacean
liberating tentative "cabin fever"
wrought by polar
vortex, the spell of warm weather,
a respite sunscreen

applied to ward off deadly
ultraviolet solar radiations
something in magnitude
bajillion extinctions obscene
spate of lost species
as seasons greetings witness hot
untenable global warming
affecting every calm serene
nook and cranny incumbent
to relish approximately

twelve weeks of cold temperatures
while sipping my ovaltine
reminiscing about Lake Wobegon days
recollected from fictitious boyhood,
when snowfall covered roofs
tops inconveniencing Rudolph,
and his deer friends a teen
nee tiny bit, and school cancellation
necessitated state requirement
resulting summer vacation
shelving reading Pygmalion
for Shaw!
Unseen enemy invades my body
with platoon of green berets air
rating, and enfilading immune system viz
Hib bully knock and sock kin me
courtesy roebuck seers sucker punches
mightier than stormy daniels wallop
from an indomitable
haversack being carrying
courtesy giant bully bear,
whereby cyclopean ogre

freighted hallucinatory dreams
popped up, dunkin noggin - donut ask
clouding ordinarily outlook clear
via this germane, foo fighting earthlinked,
googly eyed live prodigy
also smart **** derriere
(ha – at least sense of humor still intact),
when rest only respite against e’er
gang num of good n plenti
supreme warriors decimating

heralding, lobbing, pulsating fanfare
for this common man
ordinarily robust healthy Donald,
with Machiavellian bravado –
leaving said prince charged with impedance
unable to muster commando egg flu Jung
undermining capacity to brandish
barren grinchlike ******* prestige
self anointed reputation as grandpoobear
smacking dagnabbit fearlessness

sync king, limning, and feigning
to be among magnificent seven
donning follicles slicked
in imitation of greaser
coiffed swept back blond hair,
where (if one could zoom
and magnify manifold)
tom tom club melee
evincing, hammering and
juxtaposing sterling rods

bamboozling schlepper
with molecular size bots
trumpeting atomic bombs
leveling MineCraft concentration
with piercing arrow marks
intrepid invisible microscopic organisms,
attack in Cingular
hardened gear entity,
aggregate, blasting billingsgate, congregate,
gravitate as best buy,

capital one egghead, albeit flimsy
groupon heir inherited
courtesy Don Ask Jeeves throne –
as one BuzzFeed linkedin
uber twittering shutterfly on my Bing
viz, said lothario tumblr hotmail
happened tubby barren some fancy feast,
where gimlet eyes cling aspirin, Bufferin
with super acting non-glue tin,
NOR NON GMO guaranteeing LifeLock

on par with pinteresting illuminaire
hand crafted glittering gold earring
overlaid with anti-semitic,  
egotistic, and misogynistic veneer
invaders re: Avast itsy bitsy potpourri
of foreigners re: survivors
without remorse to fling
helter skelter infectious germs
flittering to and fro hither and yon
within mine corporeal

cerebral domed gummed hell
hounded integral kickstarter
i.e. complex edifice pell mell
twittering, SnapChatting, Ringling Brother  
Barnum, Banks, Bailey & Bittle
inherited deadly killjoy Bluetooth to quell
defensive IdentityGuard
courtesy from mothers -
little helpers – satisfaction generating
excellent skill casting a spell

binding heavenly gilt free,
progressively deteriorating conditions,
where William Tell
Overture played over,
and over incessantly within –
no let up waking in cold blood, sweat
and tears unwelcome viz zit
by archers in dark hoodies
wielding bowed slings and arrows well
aimed at apple of heart,

ratcheting up a notch,
this feeling feathery tarred,
and essentially un well,
where microbial infrastructure
bound me with fluted
strep throat drumming,
thus disallowing me
to imitate rebel yell.
Evan Stephens Dec 2020
O cyclopean sun,
mounting and diving
the broad chamber,
blue over blind,
yellow rhyme,
lambent cirrus-stained eye...
I walk your heart.
Onoma Feb 7
Robert Lowell,

in: Pulitzer's Toy Store--

twice the recipient.

of cyclopean bifocals--

funny glasses,

if ever there were.

matched with eyes that

were framed.

uncannily non make believe.

Moby **** leaving the oily

crease marks of his forehead--

thereon.

— The End —