DISCARNATE

DISCARNATE

What I wouldn't do
To be with you
If that were ever your desire
But You don't see me
When I am with you
Just on the far side of that fire

The room turns cold
When I come to behold
And the mystery remains
I can feel you shiver
And see your body quiver
And the thoughts that run through your brains

It is my bad luck
That I am moonstruck
Behind this veil that you don't see
My blood runs cold
And my body is old
It's not where I want me to be

Seems improbable for me
To be with you
Though I go where ever I please
If time were at my pleasure
Then you are the treasure
I would carry along with ease

So here I am right beside you
I can see you feel, but you don't see me as much
You know I am with you every step of the way
And feel your body without a touch

On a different plane is where I live
And where I miss you ever so much

M.N.R.
29 APRIL 2018

i still taste you on
the tip of my tongue,
sharp and silky and starry
even my neck remembers
your lazy lips and naughty violet imprint
i still see myself
fragile in your moonlit eyes
between soft blinks
and gentle crinkles

unwillingly slipping
into melting amnesias
and hazy evasion forces its way
down my throat
it dances fractals in my lungs
taunting me,
discarnate and disbodied
drifting ethereals turned ghostly fog
staining my crooked memories

They move as lace
through the discarnate night;
Soft, volitional footsteps along disturbing corridors,
with outstretched
scalpel-esque appendages,
******* five, adjacent, stimulating patterns-

getting deeper-

 
Deeper.


And flashing their leer
of quivering needles.
Lullabying odiums to Johnny-*****;
Drinking his breath in the night.

O, for an exposed ripe?
Seeing only a diced-fraction of hell?
Will you not rest in the light?
Or wisp away in the rigid winds of reality?

The dawn is riding forward-

As the last tree in the forest falls with a whisper.

A  brisk  gale  wind
     blows  thru  my
clanking  gears-
thunder  shears-
and  my  riven ­ ears
then  hear  nothing:
but  thru  clairaudience
I  will  ever  be ­ a
master  of  everything
that   ravishes  the
world  beneath  your
feet.

The  pompous  skies
dri­nk  up  the  seas,
to  drop  thus  upon
my  eyes  in  beads;
and ­ as  I  pen  my
muse's  advice,  the
ink  disappears  from
the  s­heets;  and  watcher
dieties-in  the  third  choir
of  the  celes­tial  hierarchy-
now  have  useless  wings.

Oh,  mold  my  verna­l
features  into  a  candle
effigy— watch  them  gleam—
then  gro­w  so  low  by  high
degrees; and  the  wax  melting  by
the  heat  of  flame  -to  once  again­
downturn  my  merry  cheeks.  So  if
you  please,  masquerade  a­s  a  blessed
princess  -before   I  am  consumed  completely-
and  I  will  play  both  parts  o­f  the  duelling
princes.  One  a  man, the other  a  machine.

Go,  rendezvous  with  my doyenne madness!

Indeed  the  tryst  could  cause  my  discarnate
ghost­  to  scarper.  I  will  wrap  a  cloak  around
my Joy  and  Sadn­ess   
—pleased that I  might hide  my  spare  character; or  at  least  proclaim  thee
dressed  a  bit  sharper.

How Does History Really Work?

The enantiodromia of parallax founded as a predicated fulmination of retrograde incident precluding accidental consequent is a natural referent of a bypassed bridge that through tip-lipped coercion resorts to the nature countenance and visage of the holiest creator of our majestic universe bolted to the linearity of patterns of trigonometric spelunkers seeking a sub-Pythagorean orbit of granular generativity that becomes its own amplivagant vessel and simultaneously ampitheater that is a fission of magnetized smog mobilized in ulterior provenances of heightened parlance for impavid labtebricole secrets marauding with visagists that cloak the heavens in the elective cardiac synergy of a saturnine swindle wandering listlessly with jive-talking smooth-walking creatures of cerebral habit jaunty with legacy but bounded by the strict cloffins of the lambent source of journeymen into the sojourn neither of regaled destiny nor whispered prophecy but more on the lines of a conflated flux dispersal of entropies competing in space time to wander endlessly through the diaspora of the living hallowed graves of the Potemkin Village of the silentium of the protectorate behind McCauley Culkin’s agoraphobia. History rotates upon a transdimensional supercalendrical access point beyond which there is  nothing but terminus even in the absence of pointed aberration because the milk of even the lactose inferior mettle of scurrilous witwanton bludgergrumbles of the wednongues is a hallowed wassail only to the degree the counterfeit becomes moribund by the rickety cringes of logical deceit becoming tinsellated surfeit that the stars appetize for but because they are installed with a degree of reticent amnesia it grafts a gridlock of paralysis from which the hostage situation humanity has prevailed through despite velivolant winds to the contrary is capable of plumbing abyssopelagic transportation only in the moments when the material world and the numinous intersection of the seminal ingeminations of orderly demarches in the folksy remedies which bandy their temptations on the borrowed bibliopolists who in gingerly Canada Dry secrecy burrow the furrows of the sulcate grooves of waxen miracles in the glabrous limelight of the gallywow diversion that earns leverage over the meager rather than spars with the promethean pataphysics of a time that is becoming so prolific with fulgurant streaks disguised by smog that even  the most well-paid firefighters can never stop the rampant conflagrations from infiltrating cantabank muses upon alighted destinies. We are at a centripetal point in time among many others but because we witness the transdimensional bypass with such geopolitical clarity it becomes an obvious zugzwang for those who try chryselephantine gambits and gimcracks in the ginnels of backwater boondoggles to enforce the hibernaculum of blackguard engraved in the literate apostasy of man from the true origins of the dynamos that all decided together to ensure the vitality of the syndicated enterprise of the very transgressions and felonious against the “Space Cops” to the extent their overflush of ostentation in their gingerly mannerisms becomes itself the guarantor of an ascertained future clouded by murky residual charnels in the nemorivagant chase for the shining beacons of the brains that siphon unprecedented influence in order to cleanse lavaderos of the ***** grime of egestuous obolary poverty of the pastorauling and the aspen groves that lurk with pernicious impertinence above sandapiles of sadly deceased souls journeying towards neither an eternal conflagration nor a vacancy of substance but rather that substantial determination of magnanimity. The myths that perplex humanity were clothed as a parvenu IQ test for the people who sizzled with the saute of keen acumen foisted upon a thought loop of lunatic subversion of ultraviolet genius beyond the detection of the lens of prismatic fortunes gained by reversing photons in time to regionalize the spectral reality into the elaborate alveolate ploy by the elite to assume not by arrogation but rather by thaumaturgy that all witnesses become contributors in the modern age and therefore this funnels the continuum and spectrum of a radiological race girded by the futtocks of jetsetting analysis to bifurcate planes of trajectory that at first diverge widely because of raconteurs grafted with numinous fictions of the facade of man in a Potemkin Village like Manhattan which saw its population decline by nearly four-hundred thousand people in three months (All of the Boroughs) to invest in enclaves where their furtive fruition would be recognized. The very invention of time travel is an epigenetic alien configuration of races that outlived us and sought sidereal mysteries in boosterism that granted us parceled notaries that spell doom for democracy but bonanzas for the autarky found in inalienable rights such as the pursuit of happiness most importantly configured into the realms of persuasion to become a meddlesome hypestorm that few tempestuous mercurial sailors would dare to journey beyond because the early grave is reserved froward in the momentary amnesia of videos of accidental leaps that frogmarch us into a more clever ascertained future micromanaged by a collective syndicate of outfoxed limiculous creations drowning in cesspool swamps of money to bury the bridewells alive because essentially we are now entering the pivotal crux of  history when one man’s barnstorm becomes a collectivized enterprise to radically reform the conditional antiquity inherent to time and to gouge funding for armadas fought by warriors that lapse between milliseconds in order to deliver calculated payloads with extremely precise mathematical precision. When someone patented the Theory of Relativity he postulated that the condensation of matter is fungible and flexible plasticity rather than a benumbed sopiter race of grumbling groaks that become costermongers for comatose sleeping pills and mandatory heart monitoring. There are a few moments in history capable of jump starting the generator not of myth but the progeny of priggish mathematical facts lurid in their prurience of permanence to ensure that neither mythomane nor sophist can clamber into an artificial alcove of the celestial paint of enhanced perception predominating over a century obsessed with perceptual enhancements of prosthetic invention emigrating from distal orbits among the lunisolar accord as well as around the regional taxes of Saturn and its cove of troves of bohemian impertinence. Analyzing history in the alpenglow of the donnism of hedonistic impetuous importance is a yield and cloveryield to an optimism of guarded shibboleths easily duplicated by laboratory investigations into the microbiological elements of the functioning human society upon which percolations of reality drawing ever near the icebergs of certainty that the ship will eventually sink in Africa and that sad welter should appall us all but because one person who owns the master of destiny cognomen capable of surpassing the largesse of the frissons of glamour becomes the swift parvenu of an anointed bludgergrumble extorted by powerful puns in this society of fashionable violence to enforce codes of silence by tampering with individualism and individual flavorks that demassify to preselect by artificial implements that the predestination they heard was a warbled echo of a now extinct future aborted as the time line converged upon the antipodes of fission and friction to exert filagersion in geotaxis to ensure that the sworn blatteroons of bloviation endowed with such great fiduciary importance that when exact events are hallowed in history movie dialogue memorializes those moments at the very second they are observed without being an underminnow of lip syncing. Some primary examples of pataphysical conundrums exorcised from time is how the whiskey bar aloft in the heights of the stratosphere could find direct knowledge of the future live on camera in movies like Twister to memorialize the thaumaturgy of sartorial shoes mixed up in time and how in Lost’s final episode of the first season the entire cast was elated by their renewal of knowledge or the introduction of the inseminated creed of the mysterious bottle that was kicked and then dematerialized. Physics is a funny science but the belabored tropes of game theory existentially altered the trajectory of humanity from a docile ploy of slot machine slaves into a society that engraves its superstitions upon pervious minds to the salubrious decorum of a whittled henpeck of privilege that whatever is broadcast automatically becomes preeminent because it is so widely spread even among piebald audience of sebastomania and lunacy can be cordial with poorly kept secrets secreting the jaundice of self-reference and milking dead organs of surgical pride for the stomached emasculation of the humane virility undergirding civilization. Right now and starting in early September 2020 and much before that if you study the Earthquakes created near Hawthorne, Nevada the meterologist suddenly becomes the kingpin because his Big Lebowski antics are a sardonic rift on the rafts of publicity to reprove the agentic force of a discarnate inanimate evil of a being that lacks sensory capacity so thereby seeks to disincarcerate its own obligatory tether to the vacuum of warbled tilts of information to domineer with a degree of captaincy catapulted by the future dominion of historicity compounded by the dearth of energized rebuke flabbergasted venom of deceitful charlatans of yobbery complicant   on contraplex bromidrosis of ergasia flapdoons emigrate from the citadel of veridical truth.

A Symphony of discarnate howls and devilish laughter
Drowning out the insufferable silence that is omnipresent
The goosebumps seemingly blissful
For it shows we still feel the chill

The drowning sounds slowly fade
Until the beating of our hearts is all that remains
Pupils dilate as we realize we are abandoned
By even the thumping that kept away the insufferable silence

(Without a Ghost of a Chance)

Glimpsed as aberrations of our imagination,
Which quickly disappear upon close examination,
These past, present denizens of the afterlife,
Are now dead ringers condemned to eternal strife!

Some are meek apparitions of lesser standing,
Who, when randomly met upon a stair landing,
Are no more than pale visions of a phantom state.
Ill-starred victims, sentenced to a haunting fate!

Often preceded by musty miasmic vapours,
Wellspring of grief to the living with their capers,
These grotesque caricatures of once living form,
Continually cause chaos!  Refusing to conform!

These discarnate spectres, with ghoulish impudence,
Frequently display transparent signs of decadence,
But when spooked, the poltergeist or doppelganger,
Discharges destructive and high spirited clangour!

They, having expressed their wraithful spite,
Flee to nether regions in full fugacious flight.
Doomed to haunt those they eternally deplore.
Their eerie ectoplasmic state is for evermore!

These ephemeral visions, we so seldom welcome.
Are often too real to dismiss as pure 'bunkum!'
For these incarnate spirits, we know as Ghosts,
Are seldom well-received by their haunted hosts!

Rhymer. September 29th, 2020.

we are fading
further
soon we won’t exist at all
except as a discarnate energy
a lost record of
emotional detritus
drifting
until being ****** up
by some other being who recycles us
into something useful
perhaps
an other love

The taxis bring them home quietly,
chasing the last daylight towards
the ring road as if it had no business
hanging around here after ten o’clock.

They have caroused safely in the sun
all day, in theme park public houses
where the music is never too loud
and the drinks are always temperate.

In boarded and bewildered hostelries
as the moon rises there is still a clinking
of glass and after midnight, I am told,
discarnate laughter raises spirits till dawn.


Tony Noon