'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
the frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the maxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
As in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack.
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"Has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

he snaps his barbed jaws made of thin sticks— you know
the kind that
SNAP and CRACK ominously underfoot when the woods have grown too
quiet, too calm, for all to be well
teeth gnashing— this the sound of dead leaves skittering against pavement and river rocks at dusk (that time when you need to settle down and get a fire started, but you’re not quite sure of where you are)
              homeless
wandering the woods in search for something he will never find
hysterical, eternally lost his

eyes

are the dim, barely there glow of camp fires that go out too early
fingers the cold that creeps around the base of your sleeping bag and along your neck
cheek bones the sun-bleached sides of mountains
his voice is the unrecognizable call from some animal you cannot identify in the depths of the woods, but not so deep that you cannot imagine it coming towards you. not so deep that the sound doesn’t make your hair stand on end.

his feet are bound with the ghost skins of snakes that lurk under rocks, darting out only when you have one foot precariously balanced on its side.

he travels — howling and yowling like some hell cat out of deep
mountain lore— starved, half crazed, ravenous
fever hot and parched
his mouth a voracious, vacuous, vorpal cave
that leads down into his river stomach— that part of the river you thought was deep, but revealed its true nature with the electric sting of broken legs after jumping.
his howl is the pounding of the wind at your tent
angry hands running broken glass claws against your skin as you walk against it.

he is jealous of those who wonder the wood for he has no true home.
his ribs the skeletons of eerie, too thick mountain laurel trees and the hollow shells of long fallen oaks.
the light of the moon burns his moth-wing skin on nights when the forest is full of her radiance. so he yowls, furious and powerless
rattling and shaking his bones — the dead arms of trees that stretch out over too steep mountains, acid burnt and raw

his name could have been pestilence to the christians
but only the Natives know his name and only whisper it lowly
and on nights when the wind is calm and he cannot hear their summons—
Windigo.

his only purpose is that he has none.
his motivation is endless hunger
that is older than the mountain itself-
or maybe it was born with the mountain…
he in his rabid madness has long forgotten the origin of his emptiness.
he is hungry, and you are in his wood.

Pertinaciously vituperative irrefragable determinism.  Inscrutable axis of spontaneities’ imaginative.  Perplexity’s prognosis to prospectus.  Elan vital’s preternatural perpetuity.  Cohesive coherency’s opaque opulence.  Space-time continuum’s natural induction expressed as identity.  Exponentially tangential imagination’s immaturity.  Entropy catalyst blonds.  Spaciotemporal telemetry tactician’s tellurian terrene.  Protractive analyses dimensional delineation.  Reflectively refractive positional empathy.  Prophylaxis protocol.  Objectified manifest's self inductive diminutive minutia iotas of interstitial edict.  Graspy greedy stingy frugal mingy minions.  Manumission’s indentured servant sail.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
    The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
    Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
    And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
    The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
    And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through
    The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
    He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
    Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
    He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

Christmas holidays
Joy, Laughter, Cheer
"Merry, Merry, Marigold," sang Mum
"Merry, Merry Mum," sang Marigold

Cheeks and nose tips
glowing bright pink
against frigid air.
Bodies at sharp upward angle
ski lift carrying them
Up Up Up

Tips slightly skyward
they slide smoothly from the lift
Marigold then Mum

Side by side
Each spies their downward course
With mighty heaves they push off

"Happy Christmas, Mum!"
"Happy Christmas Marigold"

Marigold's helmet
A disco ball
Glitter, sparkles, color
reflecting brilliant sunshine
A comet streaking downward
Screaming toward terminal velocity

Mum carves a serpentine path
A python's body in the new snow
Fresh
Natural
Tranquil

Somewhere near the top
Children hear a hideous snicker-snack
A pine bough vorpal sword
Finds its mark in someone's back

Somewhere on the mountain
Sun melted snow
And the carefree happy skier
had nowhere else to go

Her skiing day ended
Amid the trees and dirt
Her glistening glitter helmet
Crumpled
Filled with earth

Paralysis would be the happy ending,
but this is not that day
The little girl named Marigold
will never get back up to play

That's the tragic outcome
when trees meet vertebrae

Her friends gather together
Engineering an awesome little shrine
filled wth flowers, cats, and baseballs
and even a basketball-sized porcupine

Beneath a mighty pine tree
Friends embrace and say goodbye
Christmas holiday is a rotten time
For little kids to die.

'Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand
Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwocky, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with it's head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.

-Lewis Carroll

Long time ago, I thought about staying in
An era lost,
Dead and gone,
Despite all the saving and baptisms.

They offered me the chance to lead them, to teach them,
to… to be king.
But my place was here.
So I drank some juice,
Said some words and here I am.

Didn’t seem like it was over though.
I was hitchhiking down a long and lonesome road.
Suddenly,
The skies filled with brimstone and irony,
The ground grew silent and still,
Clocks ticking wound satirically,
The sea drained into nothingness
like some gaping mouth was drinking it,
Dead gods awoke,
and there shined a shiny demon,
In the middle of the road.

He said to me,
“Welcome Moon-and-Star,
Come to me through fire and war.
Come, Legion,
Come and look upon the heart.
Lay down your weapons
And pick up your pen,
It is not too late for my mercy.

Now write the best poem in the world,
or I'll swallow your soul...”

Well, my many faces,
We looked at each other,
And we all said,

Okay.

And we wrote the first thing that came to our heads,
Just so happened to be
The best poem in the world,
It was the best poem in the world.

It went a little like this:

In the beginning, there was one source of light.
It would die and come back every night,
As a woman showing off her thighs
Just a little bit at a time.

In the beginning,
everyone bowed their heads towards the light.
They would dance and eat their friends alive.
We were not happy then,
these were simpler times.

Now we are played,
we’re the moth we’re the flame.
We were aware of the danger,
we could not look away;
my eyes are open.

I forget though
that people are not good to each other,
One on one.
Marx be ******,
The sin is not the totality of certain systems.
Theology be ******,
The sin is not the killing of a god.
People are just not good to each other.

We are afraid
and
We think that hatred means strength.

And so what we need is less brilliance,
what we need is less instruction,
what we need are less poets,
what we need is more beer,
a typist,
more finches.

And now I’m hoping for a poem
That will come to me when I’m asleep.
Because I can’t lie
And so I can’t write.

Our eyes pierce you, demon,
And it occurred to me that we have spent
our whole life
Starting over.

Caught pining for the things that we could’ve been:
We could have been gold diggers
we could have been gunslingers
we could have been a little bigger
we could have been our own ringers
we could have been good writers
we could have been good writers
we could have been good writers

But what we are,
is the silence.
Share with me all your pain.

I won't
Share your love.
I need all your love
Or it’s all for not.

Look what I have found, look what I have found!

Look what I have found, look what I have found!
An artificial light, we come and gather around.
This is why we have lovers and why we have fighters.

This is why the arms race and particle colliders.
Mine is a humble flame, just a little white lighter
And it belongs to me.

And yet
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the slow movements
Of the hands of a clock.
There are people so tired,
So strafed,
So mutilated by love or
No love,
That buying a bargain can of tuna
In a supermarket
Is their greatest victory.

So save me, I can't be saved,
I won't be saved.
I'm a citizen's son,
I don't need no soul.
All the soldiers say,
"It'll be alright,
We may make it through the war
If we make it through the night."
All the people, they say,
"What a lovely day, yeah, we won the war.
May have lost a million men, but we've got a million more."
All the people, they think
That no recall or intervention can work in this place,
That There is no escape.

Look into my eyes and it's easy to see
one and one makes two, two and one makes three,
it was destiny.
Once every hundred thousand years or so
when the sun doth shine
and the moon doth glow and the grass doth grow.

We dance in the thunder
Of collapsing walls and twisting cages.
The great black bellowing,
“I'm a god.
How can you **** a god?
What a grand and intoxicating innocence.
I'm a god.
How can you **** a god?
Shame on you, sweet Legion.”

We screech into the obsidian sheets
that blanket the way-out,
“When the giants of heaven forsake the earth
I shall destroy you for all that you’re worth.
With the bolt of Zeus and our golden throats
I will destroy you and send you afloat.
Whether you pillage the earth or sea
I will destroy you this I guarantee!”

Needless to say,
The beast was stunned.
Whip-crack went his whippy tail,
And the beast was done.
He asked us,
Be you angels?
And we said nay,

We are but men,

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal voice went snicker-snack!
we left Hymn dead, and with His read-head
we went hiking on ahead.

And the peculiar thing is this, my friends:
The poem we wrote on that fateful night,
It didn't actually read anything like this poem!

And the past followed me anyway.
so sure, I could’ve stayed there,
Could’ve been king.
But in my own way,
I am king.

Following the white rabbit in his waistcoat
Listening to the tick tock of his pocket watch
Let's fall down the rabbit hole nestled at the trunk of the tree

And where you land is a room
An entire world hidden behind a door and all you need is the key
A nibble from a cake that makes you grow
And with a sip of a drink, you shrink
Insert the key and twist the ****
Opens the door to a world beyond imagination

There's a cat that grins
And with a smile, he disappears
Have a cup of tea and a biscuit with the Hare, the Hatter, and the Dormouse
Paint white roses red with the Red Queen
Beware of her freakishly large head
Slay the Jabberwocky with the Vorpal Sword
And restore the White Queen to her throne
I'm sure the ****** Big Head wouldn't like that
"Off with her head," she would say
Listen to the bicker of the twins, Tweedledee and Tweedledum
The Red Queen calls them her fat boys
Partake in the musings of Absolem
The hookah-smoking caterpillar who transforms into a beautiful blue butterfly

Let us escape to Wonderland
It is far more appealing than the real world

As the night falls dark, my heart beats hard,
for without you, love,
the demons are free to feast upon me

Come you and your sword,
come you and your strength,
come you and shield me,
from demons around and demons about,
from demons that feast upon me

As the sun sank deep,
and the stars shone bright,
the moon became sinister
and the demons were let out the night before

Came you with your vorpal sword,
loved me and kept all harm away,
the sun came back, the stars smiled,
the moon grew gentle,
and the demons turned angels

But tonight, my love, the demons are free to feast upon me.
Come you and take me away, I cry...
Come you, and bring the sun again.
Come you, and shoo the demons away.
Come you and kiss these tears dry.
Come you, oh. Come you, again.

He fell away with his uffish head all full
and he bought what we couldn’t buy him and
he didn’t buy what we swallowed whole
or at least he sold it back or gave it away
for vorpal heresies & novel fascinations

And just like we taught him to ride the red
a few swipes away from bankruptcy and desolation
but welcome and chortled to fail if that’s
easier for now than climbing the Tumtum tree
or trying to make it in this world
well fed - given all to eat and truly loved

It’s curious how the rain gyred down today
and stopped and came again and stopped
because the cadence of his windshield wipers
seemed to coincide with the crankier parts:
only working when there’s nothing left to wipe

We don’t even give two ***** if a Jubjub bird
falls dead and he whiffles away, sword
between his legs (though that is dangerous)
and the beast escapes. He can eat the **** bird
for all we care, but for sustenance, not triumph

But our son is still lost; he’s frabjously
writhing in the tulgey fiber of disappointment
unable to slay even the puniest of borogoves
His melancholy surpasses all comprehension
and he isn’t coming home any time soon

He’s not galumphing back.

What use is a mimsy rhyme to the famished?
How often are we warned, beamishly chastised
of the brillig peril of worrying ourselves
with feeding the slithy soul
when the body burbles, always demands to eat first
and is satisfied by no less
than the frumious flesh of the fatted calf?

Little girl follow
Lively dreams curiouser
We ask for your time


Living in a world much different
Than our dear confused and lost Alice—
No mushrooms or cake to save me are sent;
No caterpillar to lend me nonsense advice;
Humpty is not here to decipher my scene
And the Jabberwocky would swallow me thrice;
Whole, with no vorpal sword incessantly keen—
But in Alice’s Looking-Glass, she is but a pawn
Though she soon finds herself as a queen;
One who had once tumbled, greatly fall’n
Lost amongst incandescent characters.
We wonder, what from what idea had this story spawned?
Compiled insecurities and labyrinth like factors?
Alice wanders blindly in our minds relentlessly.

I must get down town
Get my teeth sharpened
To give a nastier bite
Yes a bite to remember
That my victims will not
Oh ! how nice to bite
An evil dream come true
My claws to be done too
Making a loud clash of course
If not , I'll be empty of my music

I have to keep an eye out
For him with the Vorpal sword
I believe , he's my mortal foe
Resting by the Tum Tum Tree
Awaiting to cut me down

I Jaberwocky , with eyes aflame
Like to whiffle along
Through the beautiful Tulgey wood
Bubbling in tune as I happily go
Sensing danger near at hand
Swish , swish , swish went his sword
Sway , sway , sway went my body

But the devil, he ****** well is
Dug , dug , dug, deep inside of me
My green blood Spraying all around
He galloped of without a horse
With my head  held high aloft
But, so much little did he know
That, when night should verily fall
Cronjyceuse will set me right as might.

Perhaps I shouldn't mock your previous sentiments,
But Lord Bitterness has requested it be so,
And I am but a jester on strings for my Lords & Ladies.

If I cut them with vorpal shears I might be free.
More likely I'll just collapsed, a pile of cut parts.
Better I sing and dance while tugging here and there.

I'll eventually pull them all deep inside me.

RECORD: WHITE RABBIT
FROGMAN: washington AIRPLANE (fly you fools)

Muorftantipheus, Frogmen: wield it like a CHORD,
                                                  and raise your hands
                                                  in triumphant ACCORD!

Tackman: You're note
                 going to find the name
                 on that wrote,
                 sun.
                 It's small enough to be a stagger.

Ingktrofsplector: Yes, well
                                  some words
                                  have yet to do their deed

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The VORPAL VOICE went snicker-snack!
He left HYMN dead, and with HIS Read Head
He went frall-um-sting back.
-- Lewis C. Karroll

Tric.

Tric.

Tric.

ING!

that's what i'll frame you!

REFORM: WRITE FOR MIND

Indeed, father! The Jabberwock is nigh!  
I’ll go with my vorpal sword,
his head will be no more
and slay him down, will I!

I’ll meet him in the tugley wood
by the Bandersnatch domain.
I’ll wait for him on the edge,
for his head, I’ll come to claim.

I have slain the Jabberwock,
his body will decay!
Let’s all meet by the Tumtum tree
and rejoice this frabjous day!

The slithy toves and mome raths
all now well understood. ’
Twas brillig, it was Indeed,
for it ended as it should.

A world of emanating noise
Filling my mind with static,
The voices are in and out
Their sounds more that sporadic.

Living in a world of noise
Shouting through my soul
Living in a world of toys
Screaming away what’s whole

Falling faster, call the pastor
He's a *******, don't extract her
Sharing dreams, now cross the fracture
Changing fonts to write new chapters

Drowning in laughter
What's the matter
Can't you see the one you're after
Hypocritic, I'm a cynic
Watching you reach for quite a minute
Can you save her, can you savor
All the moments you've enslaved her
Now you're burning, conscious hurting
See yourself as undeserving
What you're learning
Stomach is churning
Freedom means you're by yourself

Inky depth, in the darkness of my mind
Lobotomize my tongue, let me drool it out like wine
A verbal vorpal blade, that seeks to make you mine
You're bleeding out emotions, so we're only wasting time
Tragedy has left you broken into pieces undefined,

Faceless emotions, and flimsy love potions
You can swim across the oceans if you follow in their motions
Late night with the lotion, Spirit bomb explosion
Water makes erosion, I'm burning out my Trojan

What disavows, the astral ulterior vorpal hole I'm going into
Works of the jester that deny the memories I'm sworn to allow?

In the recesses of nothing ness, You and I know what work there is world very well to to encroach of the states of victory and power

Metal dance a music of reality events of a mind wish there are greater gardens than a fight looming to to preserve the sinister teleportations...

Age and design plant repetition before your mind is overwhelmed

1420 1980 2023 5281... the years that deny our significance must be more demanding than the century afore!

Aloft people who freedom speaks of and freely accepts...
Months of original denials yet hope the markers of year make the feelings freely kept...

Remain- years, months the strikes of your inner souls very being
Stand and own the semblance and respected condition from which
None could be lesser than the , of you, it is less

Whips, practice, resilient first best for every individual everywhere
Fusion is pretty well yes, but the apocalypse of reason might be the difference sunk and fraught with poverty's time..

So help now, and forgive any past of sinner, for now is the golden hold of the grasp of empathetic vices that vow sovereignty to the queen.

OH FRABJOUS DAY!

“Well well!”
chortled the Jabberwock
rising to greet me

“If it isn’t Donall
of the Dempseys
to be sure to be sure!”

I beamed
at the Irishism and
gave him a great big hug

he took an enormous
fob watch out of
his waistcoat pocket

“Is that the time?”
smirked the Jabberwock
“We haven’t met since…”

“…I967!” I answered
“From ’67 to now
that makes you 67!”

“Were you scared
of me way back then”
snickered the Jabberwock

“Naw…I knew you were
just a load of nonsense
fun with sounds and words!”

he put down
his vorpal knife and fork
said he had to fly

another reader
had opened the book
and he had to jump

into his Tenniel
illustration
and play his part

“But dear boy…dear boy
how wonderful it was
to see you after all this time!”

he smiled
over his shoulder
"Oh and tell Alice...

I was asking for her!"
and he was gone
flying off into my imagination

It only takes a bit of weight
To make a thread snap.
I only need a bit more
Before I break,
And bleed onto the floor.
The vorpal blade lies dormant,
Hidden under a nightstand,
Unwanted for months.
Soon, it will be saved by a hand,
And then its restrictions smash,
Letting its vampiric urges
Run wild, draining my veins.
It is the light that the darkness purges.