Song, thaw me
Music, voluntarily gloom, I smoke
The turbid threads of lone
And let it stir the blood in me
Pills of ponder, the bottle
Of movement. Dance instilled
In my wooden neck. I am
Not astray in the moors
Of monotony. I am grass
Aged gold through days of speed
Blind sun stumbles, a ball
Shoved about in the faceless
Facets of the sky. The night
With its thousand vertices
Does not ***** me. What is this
This meagre crop, this
Dry highway of my skin. It gleams
Like a lake, and they mistake me
For a lover. Why do I tarry
So long before sleep?
Why does my heart
hurl itself about the room
I watch with a clutched chest
Fearing the fan would tear it down
And my mind with a thousand
Vertices makes constellations
Constellations too many
No room is left for the darkness
Noisy disquiet yawns in my bones
And they crack their necks
But God is dust on my shelves
And his angels are lit
In a paltry poignance
There is no lament or disection
Poetry is a slave to sorrow
And the sorrow is not mine.
This sorrow is borrowed, stollen
From a foothpath of grey
Ragged and tattered, used
Thrown. Stained with a love
That is not mine.

Song, thaw me on
The poem is so close
To completion... it is so close
To spreading its sensuous
Wings. It sounds
A perfect tint of green, the
Wind blows and almost,
Almost it

The poignance of a well lit room
overshadowed by impending doom
the effervescence loom
the smoke screen hues
lyrical debauchery of the cacophony of the bees
the monotony of human bee-ings
the trees sway unrest
the roots melt with soot
the oaks bent their heads
raise a white smoke flag in silent victory,
Where are we lifeless or livid again ?
Are we questioning dreams of ourselves?

These veins **** as a toad hops,
onto the gravel of a broken pavement
from a shallow pool of naked warmth,
somewhere deep hidden under these falls,
a white sleeve of corporate piety;
human mirth of bilious greenery,
crackling like bones,
the froth of jealousy pools
as teary eyes roll over
rapid.eye.movement sleep,
it lurks behind crimson bushes,
eyes glinting like headlights,
glitter fury.

You’re an abomination to every blood-poem
I’ve surmised so far, no matter how far.
Your eyes match the size and shade
of my backyard moon orchards.
A satiable reflection of what we used to be,
In a spectrum of green.
I cease to be.

Solace is the
worn-out blue shoes and
quiet poignance of last night's dream;
an old conversation putting on loop —
a forgotten cascade tape;
morning light flitting through faded curtains,
hand holding a cup of sour coffee,
freshly brewed from loneliness chanting
stay, stay with me


Despair, old friend
visits after a dinner of pasta
blue shoes hitting pavement
passing the lanes of green and grey,
strolling around the meadow where
Gentian flowers glisten in full bloom
clouds wailing, pelting tears on
chilled cheeks, purple fingers shaking —
go home, go home


Forlorn,
distant beckoning lights,
swaying lanterns overhead saying
come, come to us
white sand on a winter shore where
you wrote my name,
next to a set of baby prints
before the waves came
and lapped them away murmuring
no more, no more


Sojourn,
running barefoot
down empty streets, crescent moon chasing
my back, scattering thoughts on the way
pine trees bending, cobblestone grumbling
at the scarlet sky, dancing with
your ghost one last time, whispering
farewell, farewell

The wrinkled, old, decrepit Man of grey
Succumbs to death with graceful dignity,
In doing so, his senescent poignance
Reminds us all of our mortality.

In death he lives vicar’ously through us
And serves to show of our impending fray,
As we one day will live through those ‘neath us
Dead--As an old, decrepit Man of grey.

the popstar has his moment of success
and when it’s over, he doesn’t get it
he’s still the same musician
his latest tunes are as good as ever, maybe better
but for the audience, music is but one element
and not the most important
there’s the ambience of the era, the youth of the listener
the poignance, commotion and perfection of those years
that’s why the audience has a lifelong fondness for the performer
but little interest

The following crafted
approximately midway
into the administration
of forty fifth president,
whose crass, gutsy, lewd,
repulsive yawping finds
him squarely poised to
nab the nomination as
Republican front runner
come the 2024 election.

The overstuffed ego freezer
(yes him with the coiffed
windblown hair has been making,
sans daily) regular appearance
in the news oval
hate gambling arrogance
vis a vis spewing,
shouting, and scathing rabidly
foaming explosive handy
claptrap in ascendance,
asserting how incredibly
tremendous collusion between
CIA, FBI and media

(must warrants revocation,
hence heroic intervention,
and emergency das
Pence sing balance
of security fabled
clearances Aesop - Asap)
hounds engaged "brilliance"
in (community) chance
of making an very
usual fool of himself,
viz the "FAKE"

trumpeting dapper Don
expostulating the latest ploy,
raging against the machine
i.e. entire popular culture
will get their comeuppance
being so freely outspoken,
a disgraceful unconstitutional defiance
which oh press
sieve act of deviance
spluttered, thus an extreme

measure to clamp down
on all news outlets,
and immediate disappearance
all the while poor
Melania stoically, objectionably
and lamentably stands
right alongside him,
(nonetheless nonverbally
metaphorically exhibiting
vitriolic livid rage)

as he rancorously spouts
(ala VERY) convincing impression
of la va reenactment qua,
Krakatoa volcanic disturbance
lambasting utter disgraceful disservice
(foxy Dis Putin
commercial stations construe, conspire,
conjure egregious collusion
outlets asper dominance
a pugilistic ringside fan loathsomely

(re: scowling non verbally),
wherein pejorative spectators whether
(moral less minority, and/or
majority whips lashing) weather being
subsequently splashed by
LXXII spittle aged
perspiring ogre) with exuberance
(like some voodoo freelance
sing hexed indigo gurl goo goo doll,
a villainous venal mummified

rattle trap declaring forbiddance
from this moment forward grievance
fomented by via triple threat
to American democracy
sans, intransigence, insouciance, ignorance,
thus taking recourse upon the heads
of "stupid" journalists forcing hand
toward "losers" who spread lies,
hence president signs issuance
analogous to lance

sing (via strong trumpeting arm),
a yuge bigly boil saying believe me
(meaning him - ***** in chief)
asseverating the congressional,
global, and orbital
bulwark acting with noncompliance
necessitating entire military
industrial complex arsenal
heavily reinforced (at
the expense of every social,
governmental, environmental, etc cetera

to manage unruly populace
with mandatory diktat decreeing obeisance
with non dodging demagoguery
huff ford ding auto-da-fé fiat ordinance
this platform to guarantee overdominance,
when November 2020 election
for forty sixth president
takes place with poignance
when courtesy hindsight
transition to Biden administration
punctuated by insurrection.

When I witnessed capital one rebellion
slack jaw froze mine countenance
when eyes blinded with figurative
daggers asper mistakes in original draft,
hence...this flood proof, fire resistant,
and fever reducing error free version.

Yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing  
haint no crime -
at least not yet.

Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience itching

visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with pizazz, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingeniousness emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits

as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits

(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid ***** loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what ain't
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,

sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled and docked by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs

me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over active imagination whirs.

At least for now
Can claim a living
Earn my girlfriend’s hand
Forgiving
Me for daily
Disappointments
Knows my pointedness
Is poignance
Shrouded,
Hidden
Not for long
I soon reveal
To her
What’s wrong
As if she wasn’t
Here already
In my head
And heartbeats steady
When her voice
Dispels
And quells
All levels of
My inner hells
Then only
Inner peace
Resumes
Where formerly
It just entombs