"lickings" poems
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.
spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.
[skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]
thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.
this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.
dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
[streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.
poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.
cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
"And the older I get, the more I'm sure
That more by itself never was a cure
Some days I've got nothing to show for except
Walking the dog and walking the floor"
Mary Chapin Carpenter
<><><>
*it's been twenty years plus
who can remember exact,
the last time I had a full-time four-legged
companion to share my bed, greet my head with
wagging tail, and joy incessantly, overflowing and drowning me
with face lickings and hugs of a topsy turvy twisty body,
and smiles and curdling yowls of deep throated
cries of obvious joy and the
first thing I'll do when the nectar of next
life's staging begins to commence will be me to get
such a dog as heretofore I remember as an unadulterated purest joy,
I'll still walk the floor,
long walks, yup, outdoors, early morn,
and late afternoon day settling setting endings,
dog and me, freshly bathed, settling in to watch
some British crime and ****** mysteries sleuthed and
solved by folks I'll never meet, but whose company enjoyed
over the distance of an atlantic sea and about seven feet,
and maybe dog curls up next to me, by my pillowed
head, or between my happy to snuggle legs,
don't matter much, dog & me,
will discuss an alternating
rotation satisfying our
mutuality,
and even when I still walk the floor, which be a task for evermore,
he can walk beside me if he chooses, cause choice is
what's it all about*
with a true companion
nml
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC
everything in the physical world ages.
this is the oil of the essence of the physical,
we are born, created, exist, cease and desist
and always,
the essentials exit
stage left
and yet, the met-aphysical has,
no markers visible to the keen eye,
no surface tension to it, neither does time rough hew its edges,
or pebble age it to silken smooth water borne baby skin consistency
with uncountable tongue lickings,
and lay two stones
side by side upon the beach,
fellow travelers,
arrivistes from differing paths
so lets us count.
have we ever met?
no, we have not.
will we ever meet?
perhaps, but no one counts the random< unimaginable<accidental,
for man's plans are more destined to awry then be planned away.
but how long have we known each other?
since the sun rose this morning
and every morning before that
when it rained,
and the drops rode down the window pane, and
two drops became one,
thus, since
a million millenniums before time was recognized as measurable
when the flower blossoms in the garden,
am I not the descendant of the first bee,
and will not our progeny,
ever propagate?
so I have known you for all time
have honored you for all time
and will do so again,
when I metaphysical choose to,
in a manner unknown and yet to be
chosen
perhaps when the earth circumnavigates a distance of 365
days and nights,
or perhaps, when the need is keen and well felt,
a poem in a breeze, very well hid,
shall caress a cheek, and
that will be an honor arrived,
when next the "time" counted by heartbeats
says
due.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
the island’s delineating shape is not its realized limitations,
nor a redoubtable defense
against the elements or invaders of the mind
the skin of the land welcomes tides and waves
as gentil lickings,
a seductress’s first caressing volley enticing, firing
but calming
even when the crashing contemptible violent contretemps come,
the winter’s stormy wrath or hurricane tongue lashings of the fall,
partially forgiven for its forced renewal,
but only,
but only so much
the island - my home,
is not a prison but a happy imposition,
its restrictions make inward looking, mirroring, front facing,
a truthfulness demanding,
our self-exploratory word surgeries are precious, precision treks,
required to survive, then revive, declaim,
then exclaim
we are island folk and though our island's firmament defined,
it's poetry
is ever unlimited
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
Nothing better than I chance to show you how I’ve froze over hell givin’ Beelzebub a chill,
Your fables hold little weight when you try to justify their existence as long as I continue dissect your deities,
Not that I am entitled but I can careless about how you explain yourself without the brain,
I’ve been broken and forced to put the pieces back together because I’m not ready to embrace the oblivion without a say,
Without of a chance to reciprocate what you didn’t do for me,
I’m telling you to **** yourself till I fill in your grave,
Get ready son for your vacant destiny,
I’m done with the mental constraints of your needs,
I’m fed up with taking a beating for the ignorance that breeds,
Your about to bounce a check that will leave you dangled at the neck,
Not a threat but I didn’t oppress the armed of ancestral resistance,
That desk can’t keep you from the reach of those who believe in unconditional independence,
And you know why you walk a thin line,
It isn’t because of those nickels and dimes you earn overtime,
It isn’t because you drive home to a white picketed life full of lies,
It’s because you know if one of us grabs a mic we might turn to the tide, the next chapter of this species existence,
Making you extinct,
You think daddy’s inheritance will let you pass any Bill,
But it only takes one to change the tone,
One to alter the course of ****** fostered governance,
Not suggesting a Reich’s renovation,
Or an imperialist’s intervention,
But an interruption to this Nation’s corruption,
**** your principals, **** what your father’s told you,
It’s our turn to mend this debilitated democracy,
To end this domesticated atrocity,
So sorry not trying to foment insurrection,
Just asking the children to picket your legislative lickings,
The documents you pen in order to silence dissidence,
But I’m not going to fear old men with millions,
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
the memory of one
citrus summer eve
is now petrified wood buried
deep, deeper, deeply
in a hollow neither of us have seen
or touched
there is ash where the fire's lickings have tossed a thousand shadows
and our story is piled a mile high
like a tower of dark secrets
deeply rooted
equipped with claws and a rifle
reality and fiction embedded in the soles
of one another's weary
traveler feet
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
Happiness reminds me of a sandcastle
It can be corrodred by the lickings waves
Or taken all at once by the tide of life
But we'll come back and rebulid
It might be larger or smaller
We might destory it on own accord
Happiness is becoming a metaphor
I'm content to watch on the ocean floor
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC