"lumpkin" poems
this is the news: a strange to do with all strange. some other kiwi in the hissing bliss of a fine day.
the spoils of bounty are ludicrous in disarray. a jumble of lumpkin, festooned in prayer-wheels and Tibet.
a fountain of open hands.
on the brink... on the terrace of counterfeit pantomimes
a man of days
darning socks and ultraviolet, with quasars for aspic.
a drunk pirouette -
bereft.
love is the one jungle you know when you're lost, and the last thing that made sense. All day.
the spoils of bounty are numinous, always. a trundle of frump-kin, immune to what feels like a guess.
" i refuse to sell my daddy's ranch! "
if you blink... i might tell you where you lost your mind.
an ace of spades
a Goldilocks and ultra violence, with ****** for aspirin.
a defunct smidgen
of less.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
The Bally Lumpkin,
laying prostrate to the light.
Living in the Tao,
no need for wrong or right.
Yet untamed by convention,
subtle wisdoms still hold sway.
Love expressed through action,
mother’s milk, father’s play.
Rhythms of the cosmos,
from day to night to day.
This is the way of the Tao,
this is the life of the Bally Lumpkin.
He knows not the reasons,
he cares not the why,
the wind blows all the same.
Living in the moment,
not wondering when he’ll die,
nor how he’ll come to fame.
Intuition now guides his hand,
unfettered by yoke of reason.
But soon the yin gives way to yang,
a cosmic course of seasons.
The yin the yang in harmony,
one gives and takes forever.
This is the way of the Tao,
this is the life of the Bally Lumpkin.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC