VI. I, Ophelia
___________________

­{The Drowning}

It was her--
Flower Child.
Weeping Woman.
Crazed Ophelia--
who taught me that the
drowning is in the letting go
and not in the doing.

Ophelia did not flee to the riverside
with the intention of
drowning herself, no--
it was merely a promise of bouquets--
daisies, violet, rosemary,  rue--
of wild, velveteen petals nestled softly
against tear-stained cheekbones;
pine needles--
ticklish--
beneath raw feet
(do you recall how The Little Mermaid
danced upon knives
in the name of true love?);
and the train of her nightgown
a focal point for dewy leaves
and frayed bird feathers.

For it was flying she thought of
as she climbed the scarred willow
and cradled herself atop its highest bough,
severed blossoms in hand,
legs dangling precariously over
blustering currents.

But
when the bough
b r o k e ,
the cradle did   f
                              a
                               ­   l
                                      l,
and down came
mad girl
cradle and all.

But you must understand--
the dismemberment of the
willow's flailing limbs
was not her doing;
when the rapids dragged her down
to the belly of the murky river bed,
she merely gave no struggle
as death lapped at her ribs--
she merely submitted,
allowed the snivelling maw of the river
to swallow her whole.

Now,
I think it suiting
that I ponder the demise of the
Flower Child
(wilted in her ruin);
Weeping Woman
(tears reunited
with the eye of
the water lily);
Crazed Ophelia
(forgotten)
and all she has taught me
of drowning
as I let myself
fall asleep in the bathtub
at three o clock in the morning,
all the while a little drunk
and so very sad.
(You'd might have even thought
I wanted to drown myself. )
__________________
{Th­e Resurrection}

Doused in the pallid wash
of blue stage light,
and the clamour
of imaginary tides
growling in my ears,
I metamorphosize into
Hamlet's Ophelia
and all the other Ophelias
who came before me--
mad.
broken.
lost.
women.

Women who were never
capable of quieting
the sea trembling
in their veins;
the barbaric deluge festering
within their souls;
the siren songs
musing to the cavernous twists
of their hearts,
piercing through artery
with stalagmite precision.

These women succumbed,  
not to the water,
but to the burden of their own
desire.
love.
heartbreak.

None of them survived.

Except for me,
of course.

And, I must admit,
it took my
writing this poem
to finally understand
why that is--
why--
how--
I have managed
to stay alive,
despite dreaming of that
same siren song
that lured my foremothers
to their destructions.

See,
alone,
Ophelia could not weather  
the tempest seething over her.

But I different--
I am not alone.

Because I carry with me the spirits
of all the Ophelias
who came before me,
the fragments of their beings
melding together to create
a brilliant gossamer of hope.

And that is why,
together,
we can breathe underwater.
____________________
{­Blackout}

Ophelia Bows,
her performance immortalized
through the remembrance
of a standing ovation.

Chrysalis
Ever since I was young, I always loved that word
The way it rolls off the tongue, the way the letters are heard
Just give me a second, I want to say it again

"Chrysssaaaaalllliiissssss..."

And I kissed you, just us two in my room
Watching some show about nature that ended too soon
Yeah, I was distracted, but I learned something new
That butterflies
Can ascend as high as a plane
Still, they migrate to my stomach whenever I hear your name
I don't know what this is, guess I have to call it just friends
Even though I still love you, I can't lie or pretend
That my days aren't punctuated by our time together, I don't want it to end
Can't tell how long I've waited
For the moment you allow me to kiss you again

Chrysalis,
I'm growing more amused by the minute
Maybe I'm mistaking that for confused, I admit it
Before, you were just a fun thing to say
But now, I see you more as an icon for change
Cause my smile relies on how I woke up today
Which side doesn't matter when my bed is empty
While I stare at the space you left vacant
You know there's still plenty of room
On my couch if you wanted to take it
I stay up all night, day dreaming that you occupate it
I still know what I want, I just dont know what to do
I see, I'm not what you need, and that's not something new
So I'll spend my time spinning some kind of cocoon
Oh chrysalis, don't let this be my doom

But nature, you *****, you're ******* amazing
How capable a caterpillar is of just suddenly changing
Of growing wings that take them from the ground to the sky
And I've been inspired to live again, or to at least try
It's harder without you, but I'll be okay in the end
Whether things change, or we don't even stay friends
But my soul can't forget that sublime melody
Whenever you let your energy intertwine and coalesce with mine
And it hurt so **** much, thought you'd disappear in no time
That you would just hate me, but I'm still right here
Still crave to be near you, even if I'm not making you moan
You don't have to change my name to some dumb **** in your phone
But I know it's on me, the fact that I'm all alone
Because I am who I am, and you are who you are
And it is what it is, but I promise I'm never far
So you decide when I'm better, maybe it will be never
Which is my fault again, but I know I'm not the same
As I'm growing around this heart throbbing pain
The very essence of life is the fact that things change
Chemical compounds and how they rearrange
The earth and the moon, the sun and the stars
This whole ******* universe of ours

And I don't care what you say
People change every day, landmasses are moving
The moon is falling away
In the grand scheme of things, sure
I don't even mean a thing, but I still exist, I'm no chrysalis
But if I'm ever missed, then just maybe I can move something within you
Maybe one more day is worth muddling through
Because even if my soul does grow, metamorphosize
Girl, I can't shake these ******* butterflies, I miss you so much
I miss the quiet moments, conversations, the warmth of the rush
When I'd see you in the mornings, the first kiss and touch of the days
That hurt like a limb lost to rot and decay
Just ******* come whatever may, I don't know what more to say
Simply keep on moving, be it closer or away
I'll do my best and just call it fate
Hoping good things come
To those who wait

the words that once flowed off my tongue have all been dried,
leaving nothing but a cracked and barren wasteland,
desert termites squeeze themselves into places they’re not wanted,
the phantom figure of what was once alive cries for water in a broken voice that will never be heard,
even by the most intent of listeners.
the fruits of my labor are met with mud on my clothes and spit in my face.
at the night’s fall i bask in the eternal cold,
the air i abuse is extracted from my lungs with sleight of hand
and an unnervingly charming smile,
a cherry tree beckons me forward as it waves in the midnight wind,
the crickets fall silent and i am momentarily assuaged,
bathed in the yellow light of the moon.
time ebbs and time flows, bringing with her the judge, jury, and executioner.
like Saint Bartholomew, i am strewn up to be flayed,
from my pocket falls a needle and thread, a note from someone long ago left behind,
and a rotting apple core.
they belong to the Earth now,
and soon so will my precariously perched form,
my very essence pooling around the tree and staining the leaves pink.
at my decaying touch, maggots spawn.
as if trained, they surround my body,
a cocoon in which i metamorphosize into who i’ve always been.
in my chest, the vultures will nest,
feeling safer than i ever could have,
nothing left of the girl who once wove tales of grandeur and painted paradises in her mind,
but a torn canvas and an empty shell waiting for its puppeteer.

Christmas in Queenstown


I’ll be the emotional martyr so hopefully you can learn from my written mistakes,
and you can find love settle down and make a family before it’s too late,
before you’re just another lonely broken hearted hopeless romantic,
that feels the most lonely on holidays…

I feel the most lonely on holidays,
I mean I feel lonely almost every day,
but especially on holidays,
I feel the most lonely on holidays,

I know it might not seem it,
but honestly I am the sentimental type,
especially on holidays,
like Easter mornings or Christmas nights,
except this sentimental sense,
usually leads me to depression,
because I have no real family to be with,
I guess that’s why my obsession with acceptance has no direction,
and my ******* is only there for attention which creates tension,
which leads to extra ****** receptions by feminine tendons with no protection,
and the misconception that this is heaven leads to spiritual indigestion,
which progresses to regret when I try to repent then write these written confessions…

I confess,
I am a mess,
but also blessed,
so what the heck,

here I sit,
it’s Christmas eve,
I’m in Queenstown,
feeling like a king,

or at least was,
at one point in the evening,
before I met that *****,
and we made lust without any reasoning,

tis the seasoning,
this is the thieving,
of all progress from healing,
when I throw it all away for some ****** feelings,

no ****** healing,

feeding,
egos with libidos,
achieving,
nothing nada zero,

see I was on Church St.,
in Queenstown how ironic,
there is no salvation on this Church,
only drunken fools that seem demonic,
and ignorance,
that spreads like it’s bubonic,

no plague though,
just shaky legged hoes,

** ** **,
merry Christmas,
let’s go go go,
on and sin no forgiveness,

she seemed so ****,
with that short cut shirt,
her belly button showing off,
flat stomach what a flirt,

I swooped in quick,
took her under my arm,
the winter wind was blowing,
it was cold I kept her warm,

took her to my car,
drove her to my place,
laid her down on my bed,
kissed her on her face,

taste,
like sugar and spice,
but this girl was all naughty,
nothing nice,
hair silver,
skin white,
she was as blond as they get,
and I’m totally into that type,

and what’d you expect,
from a girl from Finland,
white as a white Christmas,
but no Santa in this wonderland,

I wonder when,
I’ll find a way to escape these cliches,
when will I finally find a place,
where I can settle down and stay?

Anyways,

I poured some olive oil on her smooth stomach,
I rubbed her body eagerly,
she removed all her clothes,
fully exposed I was enjoying the scenery,

wanted to stay there,
to stretch out the moment,
but she was in a hurry,
so I undressed as well and got on it,

I gave her exactly what she wanted,
a ready ******* and a bit of attention,
we made a sacred act and should’ve bonded,
but like I said before my obsession with acceptance has no direction,
and my ******* is only there for attention which creates tension,
which leads to extra ****** receptions by feminine tendons with no protection,
and the misconception that this is heaven leads to spiritual indigestion,
which progresses to regret when I try to repent then write these written confessions…

I went in,
and once spent then,
I asked her one question,
“Please stay and show me at least a little affection.”,

see what is *** when,
it’s absent of expression,
and it’s just fornication and abjection,
and what should feel like acceptance simply feels like rejection,
and you’re laying there naked in all your imperfections,
feeling like a felon who’s deadliest weapon is inattention,
it’s assault but it’s not either of your faults because you’re both lethal weapons,
phantom figments of each other’s imaginations our oppressions building momentum,

until we both can’t take it any more and she just wants to leave after the deeds been done,
and we’re still laying on the bed but it feels like the floor oh well I guess tis the season then,

still I must ask even though I already know the answer,
I ask her to stay and she’s already getting up to leave,
so the asking turns into a plea because this feels like thievery in the first degree,
“please don’t leave not tonight for the love of God it’s Christmas eve!”,

and I told you before,

I feel the most lonely on holidays,
I mean I feel lonely almost every day,
but especially on holidays,
I feel the most lonely on holidays,

I know it might not seem it,
but honestly I am the sentimental type,
especially on holidays,
like Easter mornings or Christmas nights,
except this sentimental sense,
usually leads me to depression,
because I have no real family to be with,
I guess that’s why my obsession with acceptance has no direction,
and my ******* is only there for attention which creates tension,
which leads to extra ****** receptions by feminine tendons with no protection,
and the misconception that this is heaven leads to spiritual indigestion,
which progresses to regret when I try to repent then write these written confessions,

so that these confessions will hopefully metamorphosize into lessons,
that others can learn from to prevent getting burned from other’s complexions of aggressions,
and escape from being the possession of their own misdirected intentions,
because cure is not as good as prevention and deflection is always better than correction,

hence when we are together it seems like destruction but when we’re apart it’s perfection,
because together we’ve all been through enough to fill an anthology of apologies no exceptions,
still I love all of these as in all of us because I find this mess so beautiful upon further reflection,
as all us broken hearted hopeless lovers just become footnotes in The Book of Love’s addendum…

And since we’re at the addendum,
I guess this is thee end then,
in other words,
this is Thee Ending.

Thee Ending.


∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

I’m wasted on
Mistrusted remedies misplaced among a messy world
Amidst the misappropriated masterpieces
Lost within our land
We were made for mighty minds
Need to metamorphosize
Find time
Stop the blind fantasizing
Come to die
Otherwise,
We future butterflies
Are consequently caterpillars
Falling from the trees
Can’t fly yet
Although we deny it
We are earthbound
Unfound but by the resounding sound of the hounds of time
And they will find us as we hide beneath our fear
Of death
Or we could face it
Face them, face death
This breath could be the last of the old way
The old order
At the border and the shore
Of life we know
Lets set sail
And stop pretending

I know it’s coming
There’s a mending

A trusted remedy
I beg you please
Don’t expect it from me

But if there’s a spirit in your flesh
Take the road and let it groan
For your home
Then listen

See there’s a meaning to the madness
It distracts us
From the atlas
In our souls
Neatly folded
Put on hold
The search for gold
Till we have time
Maybe till we’re older
Baby maybe till we’re bolder
Stay awake and let’s be soldiers
Storm the gates although they smolder
Though they’re heavier than boulders
Time to take back
What was stolen
Before time

Growing pains…not the ones that hurt because you grew 3 cm tall and everyone at thanksgiving noticed. No, the ones that hurt because your nephew is 17 now and “the system” no longer see him as a kid but as a ****, a beast old enough to take bullets from the back but can’t envision him as the next Obama or the next Mansa Musa. Can’t seem to accept my blackness, **** they barely accept the jews. Growing pains…not the ones that got my hips spreading and my ******* developing. No, the ones that allow you to be thankful somehow, that your daddy was a rolling stone and taught you the ways of the play book, so you could be ready to read through any ******* men feed you. Like, “I know you scared but don’t be baby cause I got something to ease you.” Ruining your fairytale of loyalty, fidelity and men. Growing up to only find out you have daddy issues.
Growing pains, when you realize your narrow-minded perspective as a child gave you false hope as an adult. Thinking I wanted to be like my parents when I grow up. I just had an epiphany, I’m just like them, and that’s what ****** up. Living to metamorphosize into a greater being not just to break this generational curse but to live up to my expectations rather than finding out what’s worse.
Growing pains, digging up the emotional trauma. Discovering my triggers and healing from the past that no longer serves me. Having to navigate my own way to the destination. So, you birthed me, gave me beatings, personally prepped my platter of mental disarray. But I don’t blame you, mama. I forgive you…because you only taught me what you knew. And you taught me what not to be and from that I only grew like a mushroom that flourishes even through **** and still possess a magical hue.
Growing pains, realizing the elephant in the room was louder than any silence I have ever heard. For years, accepting everyone’s lies that turned into words that turned into truth that turned into hurt. Shaping me, molding me like clay, into a prisoner of their society. A prisoner who had to break free. A prisoner held captive for wanting to be an individual. What some would consider a pariah but really just a lost soul looking for a reason to breathe. Making use of this breathing container encapsulating the forsaken child within. Hidden in brown skin. Waiting to feel the liberation.
Never thought a therapist would be an essential part of my living. Never thought in a stranger I would ever find healing. Never expected my mental to be depressed or my feelings to be addressed, I’m just holding on to what’s left like a hoarder I’m obsessed but living that life I won’t progress so here it is…. I…. confess.

I'm a hack of all trades.
Fondler of the sacred.
Like a roach,
Who turned into a human.
Metamorphosize that Kaf:
I'l have you spinning in your grave.
While darkness ***** on the sun.
Oh Clouds!
Clouds of blue, Clouds of grey!
Mark the evening sky,
With Buddah's laughter
Nature's secret,
What it has to teach:
There is no universal mind.
It's laughable and cyclical.
No wonder the smile...
Simulacra overload.
My mind is a toad

In this back pocket of the Universe I call my Body and Mind
wages a constant struggle for Self.

Aspects of me such as Shadow and Ego
strive for my mental electoral college votes
to preside as a sort of Pope of Cognition,
but they can only win
if I don't fight them;

if you can best your Shadow aspects and Ego beasts,
they will respect you,
and when your Shadow and Ego respect you,
You metamorphosize into Yougod;
people will sing your praise
and you will want them to stop
for they are the same thing in potentia
and they only distract themselves with their reverence
instead of actualizing their own potential
and becoming Godselves, themselves.

I used to spend hours looking down
At the thousands of small critters
I used to look at the caterpillars
Checkered, bristle-covered enveloped bodies
As they roamed the soil for growth

A breeze, a storm
Enough to flood the land
The caterpillars gasped for air
Lost, alone.

But the sun struggled through
The storms calmed
And the caterpillars emerged from the water
Ready to fly,
Ready to metamorphosize.

Now I look up, up to the sky
and I finally see
Momentary beauty, splendid nonetheless:
Purple wings glistening through the wind.

That’s what I aspire to be.

just
as I reach out
for the glimmering light
it slips, in-
between nooks and cranny's
in every crevice
a ***** in my armor
Humpty Dumpty could relate,
fissures in my soul
just...CrACKing open,
releasing the past,
through painful rifts
seeping into veiny rivers,

until I am consumed-
by the beauty
of my own death
an rebirth
I burst,
from my chrysalis

stuck eternal
forever it seems
I will
continue to metamorphosize

an such are the pains of growing.

Ma Cherie© 2017

Metamorphosize my inner eye, dimension shift, new paradigm. Distant lands, travelling through time -  seeking the secrets I may never find.

On the edge of the universe, I feel at home.


Ancient wisdoms of past existences echo throughout the galaxy just as stars twinkle.

It’s all so overwhelming…

At the galaxies end I am in searching for the context of life, and what it all really means.   Suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of ignorance seeps over me.

My journey is far from finished.

Holding on to you is like walking on broken glass with shoes in the hand.

I can save myself but the gashes on my thigh drain the longing soberly.

That evening you embarrassed my potency to write, by finding the sentences forcibly rhythmic and the feelings so unapologetically naked, that you felt disgusted.

I thought my humour could hypnotize you, but every time you laugh, only I get more hypnotized.

Sometimes I feel like drawing you next to my body and dancing away the distance within, but then my waist is wide and ******* unattractive.

Whiskey doesn't captivate me for long.i want to drink from my eyes.

Its surprising how I can never stir your emotions with the magic of my long eyelashes and red lipstick; how those kisses only held meaning for me.

You make me feel like a mother whose womb dried before her seedling could metamorphosize; or an alzheimer's struck old priest who doesn't remember his religion.

I dont remember when I felt like going to the church last . silence seems claustrophobic now.

As a child, I wondered if ****** ever waited for marriage proposals; waiting for your reciprocation is quite similar.

If I confess this to you, instead of vomiting on a piece of paper which begs for breath, you might feel intimidated or appalling first. And nothing after it.

The only time I have been careful in life, was while adding sugar and oil to the dessert I cooked for you.

The fragrance of your shirt is the only smell I find in my rose-garden. My consciousness is losing momentum.
I have realised how goodbyes taste. They taste like blood.

Sometimes when you hold my wrist, it feels you passionately want to press my veins to an extent that the pulse would stop.

Tonight I am removing the hopes you dressed me with. For they have rusted and shrunk due to repetitive washing.

I've been gifted with the curse to wield a black skin
In a society where dreams metamorphosize to nightmares
Boarding a taxi of unfulfilled dreams
Dancing around the edge of a razer blade

Misery and pain kiss my dreams
As they all queue to take turns on me like humans on ATM
Hope disappears like **** in a fan firm
And my head is stuck between the pace of my legs

Achievementphobia strikes like cholera
And anguish jets on souls like ebola
With millions of dead dreams and thousands hospitalized

Today I will pack my Shattered dream
And move on with the littlest crumbs of hope in me
To journey through valleys, mountains and ocean
That I may find a place for my dream somewhere
.
©️Drunk_poet

if i am again reduced to a bad memory,
i might assume that role.
when i am history and i am the writer's enemy,
i might leave those letters frozen cold.
because if that is what i am in your mind,
that might be all i'll ever be.

what do you care if i metamorphosize?
why do i care what you think of me?
i am just a bad memory
and the only pieces of me you hold
are nothing but my history.

there is nothing i can do to change that.
no part of it i can erase.
but if i am someone's bad memory,
why should that stop me from becoming
another's beloved at this present moment?

im not forty-five just yet~

the picnic table to celebrate this
occasion was likely constructed
in the 1960's just as the illusion
of security began to unravel

it will have marks cut into it from
a paring knife some kid snuck out
of his mother's napsack to

scratch in a few here-and-there notches,
juvenile swirlies and crisscross patterns
expressing out with what little language
he could muster at the time

and —of course— some initials

two letters representing a presence
which will later metamorphosize this
simple gathering point into somebody's
threshold between the sky and the grave—

a horizon cruel, unyielding and
dead straight

i wonder how many have sat there, pondering
the timelines carved into this rest area where
forty-five years of inertia will be spent in a
long venting breath

the picnic basket will be packed light when my
day comes, observing in the company of old and
weathered timbers, feeling the etchmarks with
worn fingertips for a name i never was...


"forty-five"
© 2009 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

It’s August here in New Zealand which means it is the middle of Winter. It rains almost every day here during winter.
Firewood piled outside the door is getting low so I earmarked two hours to barrow split wood from an auxiliary pile, stacked against the rear wall of the house, to the depleted pile, under cover of weather, at the house frontage.

The wood had been there for many months so it was full of spiders. Big spiders with brown chevrons on the back of their abdomen, Wolf spiders the locals call them, they can give you a nasty bite but they have insufficient venom to harm humanity. These spiders inhabit the underside of the split wood, they build silky white webs that resemble pouches. The webs catch inquisitive insects that search for food in the woodpile. The insects become entangled in the webs and the spiders pounce upon them and eat them. I saw plenty of evidence today of both the big spiders and what remains of their insect meals. Shells of the scarabs epidermis actually, all of the soft innards ****** out by the hungry spiders.

Also in the woodpile were several female Beech wasps, brightly colored little Hymenoptera with yellow and black banded stripes, with fearsome, sharp stingers protruding from the very end of the abdomen.  These wasps were not sheltering in the woodpile from the falling rain, they were hunting for the big Wolf spiders. Arachnids ten times their size and equally as combative as the hunting wasps.

Undeterred by size and ferocity the wasps attack the huge spiders without hesitation, Make no mistake, war is waged here for should the spider lance the wasp with its fangs the wasp will die an agonizing death, but if the wasp manages to deftly spear the spider with its stinger, a powerful venom will be injected into the spider immediately paralyzing it…..but the venom doesn’t actually **** the spider, it immobilizes it. The female wasp then penetrates the bulging abdomen of the Arachnid with her ovipositor and lays all of her eggs inside the paralyzed creature. Once egg laying is completed the female wasp disengages herself from the spider and flies away to die.

Almost immediately the wasp eggs hatch inside and the little white larvae begin to consume the living internals of the spider. They continue to eat the fresh edibles until they metamorphosize into young adult wasps which chew their way out of the, now dead, husk of spider and fly away to seek a mate which in turn, once fertilized, will ultimately hunt yet another unfortunate spider to host the fearsome hatchlings of her own busy brood.

As I stacked the wood in the front alcove I paused for a few moments to ponder the miracle of life and death enacted, unsuspectedly, in the battleground of my back woodpile….and marveled at the absolute drama of it all.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
20 August 2023

Tell me, butterfly,
Where did you begin?
Do you remember your roots before you blossomed?

Tell me, butterfly,
When did you decide?
How did you know that it was time?

Tell me, butterfly,
Did you know what you’d become?
That you would make pinpricks of trees that once dwarved you?

And if you didn’t, butterfly,
Then how were you brave?
As you shed skin for wings, comfort for change?

Tell, me, butterfly,
How did it feel to break free?
To see familiar sunlight illuminate your foreign figure?

Tell me, butterfly,
How long did it take to soar?
To flutter your wings like pages in a book?

Tell me, butterfly,
isn’t it daunting?
To transcend? Make reality bend?
To live a life where your beginning means an end?

Tell me, butterfly,
When will I metamorphosize?

It's crazy how much we change
In days, weeks, months
And years building on years
I look back on who I was
The ways I used to feel
Preserved in all my poetry
And it's just not me anymore

It isn't a bad thing—
It's growth
I used to feel as if I couldn't speak
As if I were mute, invisible and unseen
Now my words fill silence
My presence isn't a black hole
And it makes me feel better when I'm sad
When I'm losing hope I look back
At who I used to be when it was bad
And how I've changed

It gives me hope within my chrysalis
That I can still metamorphosize

So all I ask, would be
inviting, offering, and ushering me to
top secret cygnet committee
to give this average sized
chapped sticky man
spinning the david bowie playlist
as a somber dee jay
an eel lick trick kool aid battery acid test
dancing in the street
even if that requires me to get undressed
dancing with the big boys

my helping hands of average size
worthy to sink initial
public offering funds
and don me with bullet proof vest
building a soulful bond –
glue tin free - day in day out
tis the emotional state
of ma deux grown darling daughters
choosing to take flight
leaving this dada glum many days
assigned chauffeur de jure father

where cradle of democracy
i.e. phila., penna skyline due west
opposing to dwell in the city,
I am just dead against it
does pursue assigned tasks with aplomb
twittering, springing
and googling hypnotically
like a dead man walking
appealing banana rhea public like zest.

Yours truly loner moxie he got
who enjoys tasty kumquat
teasing as fragrant decadent debaser
who (years ago) experienced
social anxiety with abdominal knot
barking, dancing, and foaming
at the mouth diamond dogs
twiddle ling green thumbs

oof a harris tweed
interesting when deep sleep
stirs question did you ever have a dream
butta, non raincoat wearing scott
drying out the muddy
and watery ***** song
lives in or on xyz lane
allowing avid bowie fanatics

to do anything you say
where construction
shoddy as dung key kong
stepping gingerly
around the pile of dodo
whereby foundation starting to rot
positioning myself just so,
that ye don’t bring me down
I turnip ma head of lettuce n eyed

rotten green tomatoes
while yam able to trot
don’t let me down & down
now this cracked egg noggin
thoroughly mixed up
warning ye against the temptation,
to jump into a chocolate vat
hence don’t look down
in mind and even out loud,
ja utter more'n !@#$ what!

Postscript: how didst aye fair
keeping thine bow tied
heart in suspense asking - don’t sit down
asia faux pas king lear
hoping for his divine arrival
with movie time drive in saturday
whom might live far or near
breathing sigh of relief
at appreciable distance
‘tween dum dum boys

even though seasoned heartland I see
tackling threading n camel
thru needle than writing
bajillion line poem
evinces davy jones locker
sealed with a prayer
honoring the solemn funeral
whereat everyone says hi
doth exist whether heterosexual
or supremely "queer"

everything’s all right
such immense gulf
entombs plenty of fish
flailing with death
as all dog bombs the moon
and carcasses of those in rear
envying that titanic ghost
of david bowie to fall in love with me
guard, yukon beak comb
good friends n share

until time lapse on terrestrial sphere
finds metamorphosize unbeknownst
to bobbing buoys
and gabbling gulls tear
ring thru the vast tarn shroud
amidst wreckage where
manifest destiny
swallows up the man who fell to earth
amidst tha sea of humanity
tulle thee last civilization year
will forever disappear.

this psalm burr endeavor from:
modest nonpareil wordsmith