I can hear the Band of Gypsys  
When I find her sitar eyes
But I can guess what she sees
With her moist mouth jarring wide
******* clouds from the sky

Hoodoo Voodoo Medicine Girl
In a thunderstorm of dirt stained pearls
Tranquillity is everything
As we all float down to hear her sing
And she knows full well
That she can pollinate anything
Simply without the need to sting

The half mast will be put in place  
As your heart's pump gathers in pace

If you're anticipating to catch her near
Don't act surprised if you're left to persevere
When you finally catch a glimpse
Things won't quite be as they appear  
She'll be floating in the stratosphere
Soaring high with no fear
Cos if you did not know
The Hoodoo Voodoo Medicine Girl
Burns on the fuel of your fresh tears.

I ripped my love for you from my heart
With a hoodoo doll
I couldn’t take no more of this
Waiting for a fall
And so I let you go
And so I bid you farewell

You see I can’t trust you
Cause I can’t trust me
Not to fall in love with you
Completely
And so I cut you out of my heart
And set you to the side to view from afar

Now you’re safe and sound inside my guitar
So I can hear your love echo through the stars
And now I will be free
Now your love doesn’t live in me

I ripped my love for you from my heart
With a hoodoo doll
I couldn’t take no more of this
Waiting for a fall

The flames be flyin' hot tonight,
so the horns be heatin' up just right!

Skeep-deep-do-bop-bee-bop-do-skeetle-****-woo-woo, hell-bop-ba-ska-da fra-la-la-la-la-la-la-foo-foo, yous,
look-see-dee-wee-boys doin' da voodoo,
look-see-dee-wee-girls playin' wid hoodoo.

Cuz, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fat fact ma'am!
Yeah, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fat fact ma'am.

And I dun gives a ****
if there's no reason to the ****-plan.

If you come across the fancy bowler hat,
dun be afraid to start stuttering the big skat:

Batta-tat-tat looksee-da-flat-uncool-rat
givin' his square-eyed-glare to-the-****-cats     ~meow~
skee-shee-flyin'-the-sillee like a banshee,
singin' sillee-skee-shee-all-fancee-free -

and we putssss on the br(e)ak(e)s

just            
like                                                  thisssssss­s (!)


      and
                in  h    a         l               e ....


Go! Go!              GO!

Skeep-deep-do-bop -bee- bop-do-skeetle-****-woo-woo,
hell-bop ba-ska-da fra-la-la-la-la-la-la-foo-foo,
look-see-dee-wee-boys doin' da voodoo,
look-see-dee-wee-girls playin' wid-hoodoo.

Yeah, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fact ma'am!                       x2
Yeah, I'm a ****-man,  
it's a fact ma'am.

We crossed into Louisiana
Right about witching hour
The energy there
Invades the aura
Years of compacted sorrow
Combined with the
Old ways of root doctors
And esoteric power

You take the Hoodoo
To the crossroads

We're in the back roads
Of Monroe
They talk to you there
Ya know

I put my bare feet
To the swampy grasses
At the railroad tracks
Illuminated by the waxing moon

Hail Hecate!
We envoke thee
Commit this wax and ash
To the earth
Blessed be )0(

Caught the vampire's failing smile,
cracked by teeth & venom,
wind-walking among the trees,
talking to the vipers
& the rats & the bats & the
men of the old bonetown.

Mr Mann had the right idea,
burn your books & get the hell outta Dodge.
Do not pass go & do not stop,
do NOT make out in the back of a beat-up old auto
parked next to the hypermarket on Dawn & Vine.

Mr Mann up front,
peering through the cracks in the windscreen,
the cracks in reality.
He can see the vampire's slow smile,
the shadows passing across the face of the TV screen,
& hear the old ghost voices,
the old radio voices, the 1949 voices.

Blood on leather,
black roots rising,
saliva on after-effects & after-echoes,
the apocalypse riders chasing the moon up the old dark valley,
the moon chasing the apocalypse riders right back
down the old dark valley to whatever hell they came from.

The vampires! The vampires!
Children beat hasty retreats,
hide under the boxes back of the laundromat,
not daring to peek
as black boots crunch gravel.

Mr Mann has the right surmise,
get outta the books & into guns,
get into heavy metal & iron drag,
get into lead & something magickal,
long forgotten lore & hoodoo voodoo
from years & years ago.

The vampire's smile turns awful yellow,
fades as the stars wheel & that tired old sun begins its ascent,
fades as the dawn breaks over the desert winds & cacti
& the lovers wake in their motel room in the back of beyond
& fumble for their stakes & knives & garlic *****.

Easy now for Mr Mann in the sun-kissed big blue.
Hunt it down in the tumbledowns & old desert towns.
Kick off the jams, break open the locks.
Hose it down with oil & strike a match.
Burn the reality right off that face
& that face right off reality

Splat on the sand. Grue on the sand. Black on the sand.
Mr Mann walking back to the autombile, back to happiness,
radio playing a little something from 92,
or was it 93, he really can't remember now.

Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.

"Trumpery."

Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?

[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]

trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\

Definition of trumpery

1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>

2
archaic : ****** finery

Origin of trumpery

Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive

First Known Use: 15th century

Examples of trumpery

<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>

Related to trumpery

Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or *******), claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, *******, senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle

Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus

Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum

Spirits, sages, mystics and wizards
shamans and charmers
voodoo, hoodoo...wanga and juju
and..
old old women- those teller of tales
weavers of dreams....casters of spells

Warnings of darkness and deepness
conjuring clues or readings
from spangled stars on black nights
Guidance on this spiritual journey... this mystical quest
Sunrise into sunset... dark into night

Answers to questions you never asked
Questions to answers
long buried in self shrouded past

There are those who would lead you
to dark alleys astray
Those who would steal your hearts diamonds,
your trust.. and betray

You hear whispers and rumors
strange tongues, and hushed voices... muffled sighs
You search for everything and nothing in the shadowy mist
What are true truths... what are lies?

Keep your eyes open..receive the whole
and know..
That real truth is sometimes
in the unexpected, the untold, the unwritten, the uncharted....

Like..
in the moment of exhale from one true kiss!

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THE EARLIE THE BETTER. CONTACT HIM TODAY DON'T WAIT TOMORROW.

We've written volumes
In blood and scars and ink
We've told a million stories
Thought a million things
We've lived some hundred lives
Laughed our faces pink
And we did all just because,
Mischievous little minx

Imagine if you'd never spoken
Never showed me who you are
Imagine if you'd been quiet
And never helped me with wolf lore
(I'm grateful, by the way)
Imagine if you hadn't stayed
Then imagine how you did
And then reach out to feel me
Because I'm not leaving
And neither are you
We've got humor and care
(And your pain-******* hoodoo)
So when we get old
We'll smile and think
And reread the volumes we wrote
In blood and scars and ink

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

There was a frog down in the swamp
Who'd leap a half a mile
I chased that sunday entrée
With all my skill and guile

But when I speared that monster bull
I had a weird hunch
Those bulging eyes were warning me
I sure would hate my lunch

It ain't always a gourmet cook
Who serves the very best
I fried those twitching muscles there
And ate each bite with zest

But a funny feeling took-a-holt
That made me want to jump
Soon I felt me start to crave
A cool place for my ****

I found myself a boggy bank
And did a healthy croak
I bent my legs and leaped a block
And thought my *%$#@X!!# back was broke

I learned my lesson messing with
That cussed hoodoo frog
I sit safe on my pillow now
And don't go near the bog

But I'm still haunted by the hex
That ****** old frog applied
And I'm still getting Blue Cross
For a tender underside

~~~=<♡>=~~~

How can you
describe pale blue
if you've never seen the skies?
Don't define LOVE
Lord, above!
Unless you have the eyes!

Is it a hex? Or perhaps ***
that drives us to the brink?
A little thing that makes us sing?
Is it all hearts in pink?

Voodoo hoodoo
what do you do
when you're not that strong?
You may say
it's springing May
and STILL have it WRONG!

Birds on a perch?
A Google search?
Is that how you define?
A little bee?
How can you see?
Where do you draw the line?

Is it a smell?
How can you tell
if someone has the itch?
Look in the eyes.
They can't disguise
They will always snitch!

So what's amour?
What's in store?
Is it a certain glow?
Don't ask me!
Can't you see?

I DON'T EVEN KNOW!


SoulSurvivor
6/15/2015

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Left with no clues
Broken down into two
But who knew
What's into you
Unless relived what's untrue

Trying to move too
In search of new views
To detach feeling need some new tools
From remote access of Bluetooth

Feelings stuck as glue do
What's this Hoodoo-Voodoo
I don't know you
Or your crew
Who are you??
Fly away back to
Wherever you choose to

Need no helping hand to go through
Just an alter-ego to grow through
Don't let your eyes fool you
The end is near aren't you spooked too??
In search of ubuntu...

Nyctophilia

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

My words come out all slurred, blurred, and censored. My heart has a faulty bad juju sensor. My nerves are practicing voodoo, got me all wrapped up in hoodoo. Always asking 'how do you do?' As if you'd ask me too. My world is red, my world is blue. My vision is all kinds of skewed. Skewer me, skewer you. Skewered life 'cause it leaves us *******. Who needs to hear another boohoo? I'll kiss my own **** boo boos. Satan's calling me like 'yoohoo' I'll ignore him like you do me, all passionless and angry. I'm a dead fish in a dead sea just practicing my moaning, for when I'm see-through and lonely. Haunting the world as it's revolving, and it's kind of revolting- knowing life goes on, as you're decomposing. I'm shedding, I'm molting; these feelings of chicken skin and insects. It was really salmonella and pests, and I guess, what the point I'm really trying to get to is nothing, oh and *******.

It’s the sound of peeling wallpaper,
Damp seeping in from the frost bitten windows.
Daytime traffic on Christmas eve,
And misted breath between pages of Pound,
Eliot and Rimbaud.

It’s the sound of mouldy drapes,
Clutched to the rail that clings to the rust.
The hiss and crackle of today,
And the wave of the colonial - of Guthrie,
Williams and Seeger.

It’s the sound of a Tangier typewriter,
Clacking to the chimes of a generation.
The scrawl of freedom
And the echoes of our fathers – of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs.

It’s the sound of the swamp,
A hoodoo beat winding through the ruins.
From bayous to boroughs,
Following the march of Washington,
Franklin and Jefferson.

It’s the anthem of a teenage disease,
The force of the Devil’s crossroads.
The returning of a light, obscured
In the ruins of time.
It’s the song of the tambourine,
And the lasting footsteps of a song and dance man.

Music gives my eyes a tunnel and my mind the universe. This much I know and recite in verse- or, prose, well. However I may carry my words, they will do all frequencies a severe injustice. That is why I feel no need to describe the ether and the fluids that compose a tune. They simply are, anyone can perceive and dissect for themselves. The words, they serve to underline the story that an ear might not obtain from music. I aim to achieve a functional, symbiotic, conversational existence with these two chaps. One day, it’ll be great fun and my mind will sideflip its merry way through scrolls of papyrus and the speeches of lutes. Until then, it’s apparent and essential, necessary, to be trudging my forlorn way through the badlands of my cranium. Who knows? I may occasionally find myself an ardent hoodoo to comport my thoughts on. I will live for that and die for tomorrow. By increments, of course. I must believe that we’re not all imbeciles, here.

Hoodoo, Voodoo
Anything that you do
Think of what it will do
To your friends

Buildings, Guildlings
Masonic or class rings
Remember what the choice brings
When you choose

It's not so simple just to disconnect yourself
It's not about the way that you ***** yourself
There are so many things that go beyond your eyes
And the many things that remain are just disguised

I watched Dad lift
the stunted tree from a highway table,
ceramic *** hot as a skillet in his palms.
Its roots pressed tight
against their shallow prison,
a life made small,
taught to accept it.

He drove through the Mojave
with the bonsai on his lap,
branches trembling
as if already afraid of him.
I whispered secrets to its needles,
pressed my lips to its tiny crown
the way you kiss a sleeping baby.

In the cabin,
rain thickened the air with cedar and promise.
I circled stones around the tree
like friends around a birthday cake
and waited for it to laugh.

When its *** shattered,
he said nothing.
I held its dangling roots in my hands,
mud soaking through my shoes,
syrup cracking on my cheeks.

We buried him-
a little boy, I said,
at the lake’s edge
beside his mother
whose twisted trunk leaned toward water.
Dad said magic would save him,
hoodoo magic,
forest magic,
the kind that never answers back.

On the drive home
I counted hoodoos in silence
and watched the empty bucket
roll on the back seat
like a heart without a cage.

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With the loss of his two greatest rebel heroes,
the evil Absolute enlists the enigmatic Winter
Blonde to find a champion to replace Captain
Confederacy, l'il Dixie & White Lightnin'...

With the aid of her faithful slave Mamma
Jamma, Winter Blonde raises the spirit
of L'il Dixie using the slave's mysterious
art of ancient African Hoodoo!  

Brought to Eerie afterlife, the disembodied
ghost hovers above them, Dixie's spirit flickering
in the shadow of the large fireplace's flames...

At the astonishing sight, Winter Blonde faints,
leaving Jamma alone with the ghost... the spirit
growing stronger as the old slave continues her
jumbled chant of magical African incantations...

Until at last, Mamma Jamma is able to direct
the wild spirit into the suit of 16th century
steel armor standing in the parlor, bringing
the shining metal figure to horrific undead life...
medieval weapons & all!!!