Fireworks!
In such a razzle dazzle fireworks flash and bash in vibrancy,
In a spectral aura of contorted colours,
Stars sparkling, noisily highlighting the sky,
Release the Gods of chaos, as on the sparks they fly,
Amid a colour scheme supreme, a total fascination,
In an argument inopportune as fireworks hit home,
In a firework of a love-struck soul my body is vibrating,

Travel on a firework fly beyond the moon,
For on a pyrotechnic dream, embark beyond those stars,
Saw rowdy fireworks the day I met you,
Still seeing them now, those flashes,
For in my heart those fireworks are popping still,
Wish I could ride upon a rocket to be with you today,
Make the fireworks flash in procession,
Let the marching band play on!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.

My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.

A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.

A devilish ******* of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.

Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.

A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.

Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.

Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.

Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.

A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.

A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)

A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.

A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.

A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.

An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.

A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.

A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.

Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.

A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.

Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.

The match strikes
Scrape, crackle, hiss
Wisp of smoke
Waft of flameful bliss
So, too, you ignite me
With but a single kiss

check it out check it out
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's da state of this here disunion
this here bangalore torpedo seeks yer minefields
this here suffering hero
n
crows about         strafes
multitudes                 peripherally
****** blind prophets
exclaim
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's nothing but beginning
of  beginning & z end of approximation
time's sweet angry subluxation
universal caving in on U & U
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when was z last time U really loved
i mean really really really loved
ha i could only hold to z imagination
z skeleton z allegory z myth
'cause everything slides & falls
screams careens outta control
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she brought in rrrrevolution.evolution.now
is z caustic effervescence of her wit
eroding my sandy castle of deceit?
ha and repeat ha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
forgive-me-notes are written high
on z forehead of my despair
a cursive flowing interdiction
malediction cruxifiction err-u-diction
en-passant
in each pyrotechnic moment when we don't see I-to-I
on anything relevant to what we once hoped was us
but we continue dance dance dance
perseveration aberration indiscretion cha-cha-cha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she said *** is z engine of z world
like engine like world like ***
like like like
could say no more
oh it's tiresome to go on
describing that chimeric uniting
flesh-to-flesh-in-flesh eliding
we all are guilty of
do not end a line with a preposition such as
that or a proposition such as this:
given angle a prove that old triangle theorem
two simultaneous loves don't make a right
cherchez les angles les anglais la bon mot
ya know
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when i die please  bury me upside down
prone to z ground making dead love to earth ya kno
while the centuries lie down next to me
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic!
chic!

A huge crowd thronged the temple premises
Its vicinity, already bursting in color
With people in hundreds streaming in
The young and the old clad in festal attire
With fire in their hearts n' festive sheen in their eyes
Not driven by piety, mostly to enjoy the fanfare

Festoons decorated trees that lined the compound
Colorful lamps blinked everywhere
Sacred bells, chiming intermittent
At the auspicious hour, as devotional songs rent the air
The chief deity was brought out of the shrine
And was placed on the caparisoned elephant
Accompanied by pulsating percussion ensemble
The devotees cheered witnessing the majestic entourage
Within them the fervid spring of joy swelled
Colorful umbrellas were unfurled
Drawing synchronized patterns in the air

Under the glare and noise, the heat and sweat
Amid the tumultuous beat of trumpets
And the rhythmic sounding of cymbals
The crowd swayed in psychedelic lassitude

An army of hawkers had already set up shops
Each made it a time to earn some bucks
Selling knickknacks and goodies to tempt children
From ice creams to popcorn and colorful balloons
Children ran around licking cotton candies
Some enjoyed blowing up soap bubbles
And iridescent orbs landing softly on their hair and dress

With dusk fall, the ceremonious fire work began
The crowd stood aghast at the pyrotechnic display
Scintillating colors and confetti of sparks painted the sky
Shooting spears rose high and fluorescent rainbow colors
Came dancing down, fire wheels swiveled on the ground
Deadening roar of crackers and thunderous blast of *****
Tore the sky announcing the sleepy world;
‘It was once again festival time for the people to rejoice

AND IT'S JUST GONE MIDNIGHT ON THE FIRST DAY OF 2014.
She came in heralded by pyrotechnic display eau naturelle.
Thunderous applause from the sky herself.
Somewhat shocking
Kind of weird!
And the rain flowed as raging river.
Still the manufactured fireworks damage our heaven's blessed.

Happy New Year worldwide!
It actually presented real thunder and lightning! Rather bizarre!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

.                           revolution?!

   what revolution?!

i can't see a guillotine!

****...

hey! guys! there's no guillotine!

there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...

your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..

this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
  
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...

  the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...

i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...

         it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...

       one question does the job...
honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?

         honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...

Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
      i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...

done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
             too much of:
enjoying  a hell
of a good time...
    it's a simple economic logic
focus...

what you're selling?
i'm not buying.

it's that simple!

i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?

god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******* screws
into place...
    
         but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...

there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...

so...

         where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
                 what revolution?!

The world around me
Is set ablaze
So I learn
To control
the flames
that engulf me


Fire
is only
Scary
When you are not
the one who
lit the match


So I lit the match myself


-Pyrotechnic

The mosquitoes supped histamine limpets into our puckered flesh
dew gilted grass entombed our feet in dappled domes
refracting the overhead fireworks
smears of whirling color
accented by smoke mote ghosts

I forgot to wear my contacts
my near-sightedness
makes you giggle nervously -
a hard full body ****** of a laugh
it arches your spine
pulling our hand-holding into an expansion
only the lining betwixt finger inlets
galvanized our pulse

well, that and your voltaic laugh
its flourishing timbre
resonant
reverberant pyrotechnic
thickly glazing aural canal

lascivious tomes penned themselves
densely
upon neural plane
dendrites imprinting chemical insignia
moment captured in impressionistic blurs

is what is
and what is
here (also
here, which was
here too, meaning

back there), but forget that, just
stop and look up
here,
where it
                     is it

now push your hands through
(it’s okay, you can grab the can’t-be-grabbed
handful-of, it wants to be      
not-grabbed, that is
           good for it, feeling held
for a neverwhile)

         invisifinity still it’ll be

now then, couldn’t everything
in this it be
locked away in a museum, and thank god for
you
it ain’t?

there’s invisifinity music to be,
invisifinity words to be
            and paintings and shapes
            and unbeings to be

impossibilations and memories of
pyrotechnic fantasies and
consternating spirimotions also
vortexing interpersonal universals,
colored by
temperature changes and
the speed of revolution revolving
the galaxies
     around neutrinos, around
                    
an unlocatable photon

in
the middle of
this in the middle of
the universe in the middle of
these here universes unifying the invisifiniteness of

                    invisifinity here

kind of like
the first time you swam didn’t
in the ocean

hey homeless man, in those
beautiful rags like royal flames, come
to this here
don’t go to that there

and narrate your beautiful life to me
as I walk home on this warm winter day

I will place in your hands all my coins.
In your hands they will
jingle to
sparks like
neutrinos to you
starting a revolution.

Put past
The pretence of protection.
Propagandising
her preciousness
is prohibited -
proprietorial
preparation
for *******.
Parents paw
the pretty pretty
Pa approves the partner
partner plucks the petals,
proclaiming
‘She pleases me,
pleases me not’ -
matters not one jot.
Pet and preen
her perilous perfection
a prophylactic
precaution,
in place
of progression,
promotion,
professional appreciation.
Proud paternalistic patter
imprisons.
Presidents pronounce
on *****,
parroted by ******
and pissheads.
Petty, pathetic
and petrified
of power,
placing people
in parentheses
participating
in playground politics.

I’m sick
that this
paralysis
persists.
Past to present,
passed down
passed over
passed off
as perfectly
practical, natural,
a place for everyone
everyone
in place.
Please.

Parade our pride
in pyrotechnic protest
in partnership perpetual,
productive, progressive
people
as people
as people,

powerful
and equal.

On the lonely road to Chicago,
I reach towards my passenger seat,
Open my pack of squares, when suddenly
I realize that I may have misplaced something;
I can’t believe that I lost my lighter!

Minutes pass and I set the sedan to cruise,
Scavenging the car seat’s abyss with one
Eye on the road, the other with peregrine’s
Vision, gazing for the sight of the red flint.
Where in the hell is my lighter!?

Cig in hand, waiting patiently for puff one;
A sign appears: “next stop in forty-six miles”
The road, more desolate without my sly,
Pyrotechnic, sidekick; How could I lose it?
I would do anything to have my lighter!

Time perception; out of mind’s reach,
Twelve miles away, eight miles to withdraw,
The car’s engine at full go, the road dragging
Further than the Lake Michigan shoreline.
I can’t make it without my lighter!

I pull the car aside, open the convenience
Store door and walk to the clerk with
A hyena’s grin and ask for the red bic;
On the road again, and once again smoking.
Ecstasy! I glance in jubilation at the sight of my new lighter.

I remember your breathtaking portrait.
Your eyes were horizon-blue, awake and ignited in love with a modern man.
In a modern era a love so hot you’re prepared to grieve it 
for the rest of your life
Just to dance in its fire until it fades.
You burst forth and lit the fuse,
Loving hot and working feverishly to emerge and
Forge futures for your daughter and I.
But her father burnt out young,
And his ashes lured her into a shivering, toxic sleep.
In that future she also loved a man she would widow young.

She has felt the cold fire of snow on her face
Passed or thrown out onto the ground
But I can’t tell you if she ever felt that love again.
I won’t tell you about all the cats and dogs she slept with
Or how she threw me and threw at me and all through me
To the sheriffs in a wild state.
Then, with you, she lost love in the last person who loved her.
Her voice cracked and shaded when you couldn’t remember her name.
She drowned both of our spirits and we slept poor, wet, drunk.
These decades have tired her body
And I refused to allow its cold hollow eyes near mine.

Asleep, I consumed myself with the loves of men and the grief for each love.
I ate and breathed men and fever-dreamed through relationships.
I aimed poisoned golden robes at lovers thrown with a motor’s velocity
And then ran loud red lights smoldering through hot teared eyes
With the unsober intention to silence us both in the burning frost of February.
Hate veiled all reason and hystericized my being and thirsted for more:
More prohibited liquor than I could ever nurse it with
More pills than the pock-nosed doctor would give when he
Sliced open the belly of a howling wild animal mother me.
Many more.

And when I died I awoke in ice and raged my way to the surface of the Styx.
It was there I emerged warm and wet next to a modern man who reminds me of you.
I fell and I rose through our molten love and forged myself within it.
We, in a worn and unwealthy future still love and work for our unborn daughters
As hotly in dynamic color as you did in crisp black and white.

Through him and through you I can love her again.
And when our daughter bursts through, undrugged and undoctored,
She will incite her own century’s hot voltaic Spring,
In a pyrotechnic era of alive and alert daughters,
Gaining ground and dimension and speed,
Because she will know our love.
I wish you could see the horizon in your daughter’s eyes
When she sees our yet unconceived apple of discord.
I hope the warmth will awaken her, and she will emerge and forge herself
And know again the good rage of a fiery and awake love
Worth grieving.

They were like gun shots but softer,
They were like firecrackers
                                              without the crack or fire,
There were so many I could not count them all,
                     then they were stopped in their fall.

The cars driving fast by the house,
were louder than before, a woosh, with a splash,
there was rumbling in the distance and a flash,
those meteorologists were right,
sixty percent chance this night,
                               of showers.

It is good to be part of the majority
for a change of weather,
how strange,
                      my dog is now glued to me,
I take no solace in her endearment see,
even in the midst of the slight downpour with
pyrotechnic effects,
                                  she wants me to take her
out the door to do her *business, but not alone.

They had waited on blankets, in cars,
to view the Chrysanthemum stars.
Instead of a pyrotechnic display,
The authorities sent them away.
A brief blast of frightening power
consumed at once many a flower.
It appears a computer malfunction
was the cause of the mini eruption.
The engineered boom had gone bust.
Makes you wonder- now who can you trust?


In the desert that night 'neath the stars
Jupiter, Venus and Mars
put on their free, nightly, display.
People on blankets, in cars
very seldom look up to the stars.
There a bowlful of wonder and light
goes sight unseen most every night.
The gift of a child's sense of wonder
goes unwrapped by these mortals down under.

“Catherine Coulter and J.T. Ellison’s explosive Brit
in the FBI thriller The Sixth Day is now in paperback!”

One wouldn’t like to see an exploding Brit
Who would ruin one’s tweed country suit
Splattering English gore all over it –
That exploding galloping major brute!

But

Before the man went CRACK!
How did they ever fit
That pyrotechnic Brit
into a paperback?

love is pyrotechnic
melded into silence
after the 'Big Bang'

the "abstract" fun of drinking wine
from a bottle on the day
you find out your mother is a pain-killer
******...
a: near-death experience of...
flashing... memory cinema...
   of every single time you experienced
love at first sight...
and you know the cast.... by names...
the "abstract" fun of drinking wine
from a bottle on the day you
decided: drinking is becoming boring...
literally: you have drinken so much that...
what the drunk you said of sober
you: said of sober per se...
now the sober you is saying of the drinking
you that the drunk: of you...
  the moral hangover is a *****...
i don't want to feel sorry for...
   something that's not akin to drink-driving...
but i am...
but i am... drinking some wine from
a bottle...
after all... that tally-game of:
             100cl of whiskey...
                divided by 3: divided by ||
                                                             ||
                                                             ||
                                                             ||
  and sometimes over-stepping the division...
all wonky...  
                               ||||||||/|||...

eh... drinking beer from a bottle...
no head... beer... glass... afro... head...
beer... glass... afro... head: albino afro...
better than bleached afro... head...

  a totally different experience when drinking...
wine from a bottle...
but... it's not a red... and it's not a white...
it's a rouge... a... rho-z\y...
  ****... it's a... rosé...
                                 4am and sitting up so late...
that was... fun... when...
i still had... all the love for writing in me...

but the funz not there...
anymore...
    porphyria... no syphilis...
                paraphernalia: chiromancer...
necromancer... and that lost one...
pyrotechnic... fire-reader...
   or no other alternative...
the electrician...
                      chequers with fuses...
in the plugs... sir...
   before one... throws away...
                      a perfectly good appliance...

there were two variations of a sentence...
but then... the sentence became too long...
the original...
   the "abtract" fun of drinking wine from a bottle...
vs.
the abstract "fun" of drinking wine from a bottle...
and: drinking wine...
  also... drinking wine...
                   from a bottle...
not smoking a cigarette for a whole
day... i say... cigarettes go best with wine!
drinking wine from a bottle...
a welcome break from drinking that sort
of knock-out bourbon...
invested in purpose: wait and hour...

oh the heavy "stuff" doesn't kick in...
so early on... it's no fun...
not enough... sugar...
             it's no fun... clearly none...
    s. beckett's watt contra... anything by dr. seuss...
anyday... that sparring...
        i'll bet on that... too!
rhyme rhyme rhyme: confined to rhyme?
   rhyme is best guised by an importune surrender
of chance...
a champagne: a discovery of champagne...
not that... repeated...
hammering of a horse's head against
a wall because: it has a grain of sand
lodged in it...
      a rhyme by no surrender...
by chance... a rhyme by no caging...
   this pretty pretty pretty sore-spot
of.... buttering the exit... for a thorny sort...
sort of "soul"...
   the joy of drinking wine from
a bottle... the need for a glass...
    when drinking beer... for the head: froth...
crown... head: afro: froth... head...
all the joys of drinking wine from
a bottle.

If you don't search for treasure
Treasure will  find you
You can't solve a mystery
When you don't have a clue
Busy bees working
Are good at what they do
Pyrotechnic people
Who share the same view
Soak yourself in epsom salt
And read the front page
Someone died from lyme disease
Born to get paid
Telepath cryptic messages to the tube
Presidential candidates become unglued

Poems are like puzzles:
A painstakingly placed picture,
Plucked from the peripheries,
Of percipient perspective.

Penetrating the personal,
The pen puts pain to pass,
Pouring perceptions in to paper,
In the process perfecting the practice.

Some poems pray for peace,
Some paint a piece of people's lives,
Photographically rendering the ineffable,
Imparting philosophies.

The poet is a piper piping pleasantries;
Poems pretty as phosphorous,
In a pyrotechnic parade,
Putting fire in our pupils.

Perhaps the "P" is hard to parse,
And I perceive this problem.
Perhaps my pursuit of the perfect poem,
Must not be prolonged or proceed.

But I'm a phonetic philanderer,
Pushing on like a prodigious pioneer,
Playing for pleasure with puns,
Posing metaphors, putting words in place,
Searching for planetary purpose,
Peering past the past and present,
In to possibilities of peace and plenitude.

But perhaps now the peak has passed and
The pliant "P" is pushed to its limits,
The words are all plucked, parched
And the poem is plenary.

A coal – pitch black –
in a room completely dark
No trace of flame,
not even a spark.

Is that a breeze from the distance?
No, it’s more – someone breathing.
He’ll refuse to give up
On that coal – still believing

And hoping that there’s life
buried in that coal’s heart.
He keeps blowing, holding on,
“Maybe something will start.”

“It’s all over,” says another,
“Despair in its death,”
But look closely - red pulsing –
In rhythm with the breath!

Life stirring within,
From what seemed only ash.
And then that faint glow
Pushes back with a flash!

Multicolored bright flicker
Arises in flame,
Each moment unique –
A pyrotechnic game!

Vital warmth, playful light,
Flickering butterfly.
Such a delicate danger,
Can give hope or terrify,

But where did it come from?
All that beautiful power?
Different shapes and contortions,
This hot, consuming flower?

Deep inside that dark coal,
It was there all along,
Just waiting to be freed,
To sing its light-song.

Tell me
Do you think of me ?
Do you smile at the thought of me thinking of you ?
Because I do
I....
I Think of you
If I could I would stay 365 day multiplied by 2
With you
Tell me
As if the lightness I feel when I’m with you burst into some low pyrotechnic device  
Fireworks
Fireworks
I feel the energy you bring to your own existence
It is strong but with a little chaos
You’re unique but very regular
Something about you gently colors the spots of greatness on earth
My earth
Tell me
What are you thinking?
Is it me
Is it something that has nothing to do with the fact that i think of you as a constant reminder of hope
Of life
Of awe
Of love
Tell me
What are you thinking?
Actions speak louder then word people say
It’s true you showed me that I have no place here with you
But taught me
I will always have a place here
I will always feel as great as i felt with you
I will always be alive
I will always have love
There is someone out there like you but wants me
Don’t tell me
I know
It is over

I was never a structural engineer, but I could pass for a knock off pyrotechnic.

I can tell you that

Even people that have never smoked can burn holes in your home.  

Their arrival,
is a patiently waiting for sale sign.  

Call me if you’re interested.

Their absence is heavier than the dust has been settled for years.

Its hard to remember
that you are made of that same ash.

Not like the kind in your mothers backyard, you’re the type to burn a bridge and run.

If you ever step foot in this town again
I will know.

I have been a skyscraper.

My entire life.
Taller than the other suburban girls.

Can you see me ablaze
from halfway across the world
hands releasing what they never used to hold.

A fire has never melted steel faster.

Who was I when you loved me?

She is molten in your neighbors driveway.

My elevator has been playing that song for
months.

Waiting.
walk in.
Press three.
Door close.

As you rose higher I began to fall.

Begging for your love was easier
Than begging for you to get out of my head

like that song.

So I’ll let you stay.

Walk into the lobby
and be greeted with a smile.

eastern standard time Autumn Equinox arrives

That seasonal occasion twill arise
when darkness and light doth bring
equilibrium between night and day
raking leaves will constitute exercise
espied and witnessed by observant earthling
namely me who subsequently bellows hooray
jumping for joy childlike behavior I improvise
reliving boyhood mirth itching and inching
playfully scattering laborious effort lay
ying down burying self amidst tree humus - prize
zing spontaneity willingly orchestrating
shedding inapropos edict qua grown man at play.

A meadow for Autumn begins,
when eve doth fall upon summers’
and long ago mine childhood's end,
a hint of splendor bequeathed arose
upon firmament as changed scenery
(third equinox act since new year) bellows
basses loaded and blasted in sync
with pyrotechnic pizzazz,
while electric light orchestras suites scored for cellos
thus quiet riot of multitudinous notes swirl
from each bronzed leaf like fellows
dancing elliptically forsooth greeting mother earth
with char: rills brawn son utter hellos.

How peachy keen and grand to be seated
at plum lined tree center stage
to behold the colorful
capering downward spiraling threnody
quintessential silent rage
chapter three if nature alluded to
as a tome poem – and now the first page
known to humans since…way before indigenous tribes
occupied North America such as the Osage
and/or other natives, whose keen scents foretold
the onset from flora and fauna sings they did gauge.

Now regimentation of existence commandeered
by strict adherence affianced to the clock,
where misery loves company
lest an employee arrive one second late –
her/his pay will go hickory dock,
which sequestration to twenty first century life
analogous to men undergoing emasculation,
whereby he may as well be ******
without thick horn, where business
deals concluded as overhead a flock

of seagulls migrate to southern climes,
which with global warming seems ad hoc
yet the multitudinous animals and plants
genetically under rubric of life lock
which mucking around viz industrialization
humankind doth make a mock
‘ere re: and drive many miniscule species
to take safety and shelter under a rock
totally oblivious, those bipedal hominids haphazardly
scurry to work in order to purchase schlock.

Thus pre dormant season of the witch,
where one must be vigilant and tread
like angels heeding curtain call
draw wing summer to a close
with **** the torpedoes salvo,
the cacophony kaleidoscope of color
viz hitted courtesy sixty plus shades of red -
rose iz madder than horde of Bulls at Pamplona
forecast thee onset of cooler temperatures
with Falun Gong foliage natural compost

shelter burrowing creatures, who stash goodies
at a later time to be fed
thus each of us need be vigilant
with no misstep to tread
upon feet lightly negotiating
whereat dwells busy itty-bitty bodies
well nigh invisible to the naked eye,
yet if ground swell of organisms espied
one would behold microscopic
whirled wide webbed world.

Write words, curse and chase the hearse
Swerve, first, into oncoming traffic
And see which way my head goes when it hits the pavement.
Maybe that's why I got a bike instead of car,
Har-de-har-har.
I'm ****** up but lately it's just the chemicals in my head,
Not really any fresh ****.
I don't know if that's refreshing, or just ******* deafening,
But I'm really doing better than ever before,
Yet some things never change and I still feel like a *****.
Nevermore, the show must go on,
So how about a pyrotechnic display.
We'll just call it an accident when my career burns to the ground.
But *******, it's really hard to focus lately and not sure I even want to.
Do I want you?
Do I want to...
Hide away in some getaway and get on the way to a family and show and tell what knowledge fell into my lap,
maybe even a goat or two and a world of ******* beauty.
Or maybe I'll stay left askew, questioning you and tearing everything you love asunder, drowning it under entitlement and **** fits and another hit - literal and figurative.
But that really doesn't feel like me, so this isn't really a coin flip, a dichotomy or anything but a fantasy.
Though that's all words ever really are; from being hit with a car to smoking joints under sparkling stars.
Whether figurative or literal, they only exist in your head.
So take them to bed, wake up and seek something physical and animal,
While you're at it smoke a bowl or two,
We'll cut and rip and slaughter, too,
Only in the games we bother to,
Then go and make some art and *****,
Learn to pick apart our problems, too
And in the end, open hearts;
through, through.

Forest, I lay me down to rest
upon bed of moss.

Eternal sleep immediately overtakes me
lichen kenning myself
as Rip Van Winkle
except being repurposed
as  oldest living species.

With an estimated age of 8,600 years,
Rhizocarpon geographicum,
also referred to as the Map lichen,
is the planet's oldest lichen.

Said complex life forms
witness symbiotic partnership
of two separate organisms,
a fungus and an alga
to equinoctial metaphor
at which the sun crosses
the celestial equator,
when day and night  
approximately equal length
(about September 22 and March 20).

When evening doth fall
'pon summers’ end,
a hint of splendor
bequeathed arose
firmament changed scenery
(this soon third equinox act
since new year) bellows
basses loaded and blasted
in sync with
pyrotechnic pizzazz,
while electric light orchestras
suites scored for cellos,
thus quiet riot madrigal
of multitudinous notes swirl
from bronzed leaf like fellows
dancing elliptically forsooth
greeting mother earth
with characteristic rills
brawny sons and daughters
harvest September hellos
before dawn's early light mellows.

Against backdrop sensational war
doth mother nature wage,
how peachy keen,
and grand to be seated
at plum lined
tree center stage
to behold colorful
capering downward
spiraling threnody
quintessential silent rage
chapter three  
nature alluded to
a tome poem,
and first page
known to humans since…
way before indigenous tribes
occupied North America
such as Osage
and/or other natives,
whose keen scents foretold
the onset from flora and
fauna sings they did gauge.

Now the regimentation
of existence commandeered
by strict adherence
affianced to the clock
lest an employee arrive one second late –
her/his pay will go hickory dock
which sequestration
to the twenty first century life
analogous to men
undergoing emasculation,
whereby he may as well be a ******
without thick horn, where business
deals concluded as overhead
a flock of seagulls
migrate to southern climes,
which with global warming seems ad hoc
yet the multitudinous animals and plants
genetically under rubric of lifelock,
which mucking around viz industrialization
humankind doth make a mock
‘ere re: and drive many miniscule species
to take safety and shelter under a rock
totally oblivious,
those bipedal hominids haphazardly
scurry to work in order
to purchase schlock
courtesy crypto currency
redeemable at social media platforms
especially one named TikTok.

Thus this pre dormant season,
where one must be vigilant and tread
like angels heeding curtain call
draw wing summer to a close
with **** the torpedoes salvo,
the cacophony kaleidoscope of color
per fifty plus shades of red
forecast thee onset
of cooler temperatures
with falun gong foliage natural compost
shelter burrowing creatures,
who stash goodies
at a later time to be fed
thus each of us need be vigilant
with no misstep to tread
upon feet lightly negotiating
whereat dwells busy itty-bitty bodies
well nigh invisible to the naked eye,
yet if ground swell of organisms
once would behold
a micro/macroscopic
whirled wide web.