"Did you do that just because it was there, Fool?!"

                                                       ­            "No, Fool! I did it because I was there, too!"

How strangely coincidental,
it is, how nothing inspires you
with age,
that a shy, withered leaf parting sedentary waters,
is dewy-eyed dead yet unconsciously graceful;
such profanities of nature,
no longer expands your soul
like a burgeoning bubble which whisks you to write
carelessly-composed poetry over forgotten dinner plates....
it's a tragic symphony of desperate piano keys,
a blurring condition of blacks and whites,
age, and nothing but overused, age, is.
And so on lonely train journeys,
you craft a smattering of shorthand poems,
about how crackled, aged people on trains only have capacities
for whimsical jokes,
and nothing but dear,
dear whimsicality as life's
gilded philosophy,
when their bodies are no longer covered with
magic leaflets of hand-strung poetry,
for they are barren,
and if gods were gods of stanzaic hymns,
they'd open bloodless wombs of literary nymphs,
or so boldly believed,
the aged once-artist say.

don’t you spark
the fire and
abandon me,
you abstraction
of insolent
soliloquy of
elegance; all
of existence
craves a taste
of your savory,
effortless
whimsicality;

i’ll sail upon
a thundercloud,
braid the stars
into my hair
and remunerate
for my flawed,
scarred skin,
scathed soul,
with mellow
eyelashes like
rain; macrocosms
look vain,
through a
night-owl’s eyes;

trust my lies
when you fancy
truth, a vile elusive
absolute; trust
my eyes when
you fancy cold
decimation of
love and gold;

the morse code:
remains of your
melodramatic memory;
never look away
from me; i’ll fix
you like a broken
puppy toy, scuttle
across the bedroom
floor with agonizing
apathy, stay forever
and always with me
with your binary love,
you trivial, perfect machine.

Delicacies of darkness,
Intricacies of energy;
Witches of woe
Insinuating that nothing we pass is past,
As all beginnings were long since begun.

Protecting an abnormality,
That would rather be condemned,
By self-centered ambition of men.
An insanity that turns her right, round again.

Now if now only.
Living by wick and glee of natural ability.
You would come and dare,
Old sentimentality and whimsicality,
Rampart of myths and misconceptions.

To indulge in mischievous play
Under the indigo sky,
By the light of a spiral of far fire.
The journey starts by stealing hearts
If only now you would come I should be happy.

Cascade along the midnight street
Allow your feet to lead the way
Past shuttered shops and lowered blinds
And let your mind be led astray
Although some time meandering
And wandering bereft of cares
You find you've stopped and there you stand
Beneath a strand of marble stairs
 
You brush your hand along the rail
As you assail the stony flight
There, at the top a door of brass
And crystal glass reflects the night
A counter cut of fretted oak
Unique, bespoke and petrified
Encroaches on the lobby floor
With doorways on its either side
 
Within them dwells an ailing stage
All worn with age and polished black
And facing this are rows of seats
With velvet pleats and to the back
Resides a heavy curtained box
With silver locks and tapestry
Scenes of the earth and all above
Of love and whimsicality
 
Inside the hall, the lights are out
Yet all about an echo bounds
Of lost applause and orchestras
And raucous, energetic sounds
It's here and now, upon the boards
The darkness hoards a pool of light
Where mingling in motes of dust
And arm is ****** from out of site
 
A quiet amid the hush befalls
Along the stalls, a faceless glare
As set in shades of darkest dim
She glimmers like a solitaire
Her dance describes a careful tone
Each every bone at her command
Her feet tattoo a silent beat
The rhythm meets her open hand
 
Her features null and desolate
Her lips yet to convey a smile
She draws a story with her grace
With shapeless face and all the while
She skips across the empty floor
A dead score from an vacant pit
And through a haze of burning lime
From distant times her dance is lit
 
A swan song of a life cut short
A fable wrought in liquid gloom
Lamenting talent never proved
A bud removed before it's bloom
Its loss a crime against the world
A shadow hurled towards the sun
For such a life slip the hands
As dry sands through the fingers run
 
And now she stands at center stage
A gilded cage she'll never slip
A single tear is seen to leak
about her cheek, across her lip
She stoops a solitary bow
And dips her brow to those unseen
A cacophony of aphony
For her, the girl who's never been
 
A ghostly veil wavers free
As slowly she dissolves in light
Her sparkle spreads and dissipates
Evaporates from empty sight
She never takes a curtain call
No flowers fall about her toes
But still she dances for the dark
A tiny spark of spirit froze


**reposted because I'd forgotten all about it

Bearded, hairy, pimpled fairy,
repulsive, obnoxious, loud and anxious,
daring, daunting, sweating, crying,
lying and prying
to get the details out,
presumptious, precautious yet nosy,
bossy, knowing it all and showing it all.

Dancing for no apparent reason,
same for singing,
showering, caring and pairing.
Associations big or small,
drama at the mall,
glances, waves and smiles
helping others with piles
of work, with quirk.

Strong, fierce, succesful beings, kind
with deep eyes, steep noses, cheeks
and jaws, able to cut glass,
a freakishly tight, yet humbling behind
or ***.

Adventurous, spontanious, loving
and watching and staring and matching
catching every voxel, every pixel, every line
or dot
or just a couple or just one or not.

Full, sizeable or rather small, yet kissable lips
or standing tall, bizarre
symmetry, bigotry, whining and ambitiously
becoming a truer version of what you
think you are.

She abstracts me from thinking in correspondence.

The symbiosis between us is an ilk drawn by oblivion and distaste.
My intellectual property in fact has been decocted by the thud of her voice, uninfluenced of her literal aphorism.
Her whimsicality disproves my goal of escape disproportionately, leading to an incontestable emotion.

My useless trickery disintegrates and I succumb un-admittedly.

She is the symphony to any verbal effect, the rhyme to an attempted haiku.
She is the immaterial love that brings me disruption and unprepared musings.
…

How do I start this?
How do I express this to you?
Well, here's the thing.
I like you. It's simple at that.
Sometimes I'll joke around,
tie your shoelaces together, say mean things,
but deep down I really do love you.
And I want you to go and give your heart to her,
not to me.
Why?
Because she will be so much better for you.
She's sophisticated,
I am quite casual.
She's smart and cute,
I'm average and insane.
She's pretty and skinny,
I am fat and ugly.
She's the one that you stare at,
I'm just that thing, that accessory, an amusement for you to use.
Though some part of me wants her to break your heart and hand it back to you,
I don't think she will, not with the way she looks at you,
and the glimmer in you eyes as you look at her,
like shimmering like sun reflections on water.
Some other part urges me to lie to myself,
they won't be together long, they'll break up,
you can finally be noticed for once,
you'll be the heroine, be the shoulder he needs.
But that's the selfish part of me.
I realize, at least he'll be happy right?
It doesn't matter if I'm content
with sitting here in the corner,
alone and observant of the love that surrounds me,
while I stay here in my sullen pitiful sphere.
It doesn't matter.
It's the way your heart beats and the way your smile
inches across your face
instantly making it all the more beautiful,
that's what matters. You'll be happy,
with someone you deserve,
someone you need in your life,
a piece of perfection,
not a berserk,
ugly,
fangirly,
lovey-dovey
nerd/geek like me.
You two turtle doves are perfect for each other,
perfect looks,
perfect grades,
perfect everything.
A barbie doll to your ken.

So please,
walk to her now,
hand her your heart,
that full and crimson thing
that beats so fast next to her, and so slow next to me,
give that to her
while I'm not looking.
Give me some mercy.

Last of all,
good luck.
I hope she will care for your heart,
the way you might care for hers,
with adoration,
kisses,
caresses,
words whispered in whimsicality,
little pearls of treasures only found with two turtle doves.
Not that I would know. And I do hope I will know someday
what it feels like to be one of those turtle doves.

All Joe king aside

Humor iz vital stove topface
component to survive the cares
and concerns oven uncertain
culinary future, that presages

over heating of this planet
concomitant with extinction
per the human race. Many
gauges point toward an
irrevocable debacle where

the evolutionary timer seems
to tick, head, and (hmm…
more like barreling) toward
becoming a cooked goose.

An ear splitting ruth less
buzzer will be an impossible
mission to clap quiet while
steam issues out the airwaves

from stymied paunchiest pilot
light buck kit brigade. If and/
or when such a fiery fate befalls
this arrogantly bombastic,

conceitedly egoistic, forlorn,
grievously hapless, irascibly
jangling, kookily middling
luddite, he hopes his demise

will be brutish, short and nasty
while surviving foreign legion
members of locked humanity
hob bull along the blitzed
boulevard of broken dreams.

Whatever provokes a maniacal
person to laugh as the world
turns tumultuously affecting
a surreal ambience akin to the
edge of night (especially with

dark shadows) may appear
wantonly vapid unspooling
threnodies sotto voce.
Rational quartermasters
promulgated outlandish no mans land.

Knowledge jackknifed ideal
humane gentility. Febrile earth
lings’ dragnet cleaved bona fide
actualization. What other option

available to tinker, tailor, soldier
spy except to chuckle at the folly
gingerly loosened upon the terra firmae?
Nothing short of an uproarious chortle

would be prescribed from doctor
demento to ameliorate the tightly
wound tension arising from local

or global aggression arising from
bullies calling their bluff fed goat
bluster, division by the zero
sum game of thrones. Thus,

this mechanically nonsensical,
pop sic cull *** purée to throw
fire retardant on the conflict frission
intonating loopy outré playfulness

with words hoop ping quadratic
equations totally add further
meaninglessness. Hence **** friend,
aye axe hew, how does humor get decided?

Laughter versus humor All Joe king aside.
Jest parody offers funny types of humor.
Seriously folks. What spurs this laughter?
Repression of natural mandated libidinal
kickstarter jammed in high gear feeds

e-z dropsy clodhoppers bursts of hyena
sounding eruptions! The cervical contractions
puffed up like jiffy pop laced pompadour,
increased with greater frequency and

intensity asthma due date approached
(which felt like violent shaking of the
biological ***** re: me), especially
prominent when “mother” gracefully
described Arabesque. She gravitated

to modus operandi sans professional
ballet dancer like a duck would drake
to water, and salve and duff heat whirled
pool ache kin to preparation H - soothing

the pain in the *** of hemorrhoids. Hours
elapsed with incessant stretching (while
in a standing pose) blithely drawing one leg
or the other up against those roseate ****** cheeks.

Even when quite progressed along
the family way with yours truly, thy
status while in utero where ******
stretched akin to a taut rubber band

near ready tubby (or knot tibia) snapped,
like ballet slippers suspending balanced
***** of toes pointed to maximum flexion,
or inflated balloon ready to pop beyond
capacity or, bulged in utero, she maintained

a fanatic, maniacal, and slavish veneration
asper the rigorous being a choreographed
top notch ballerina. This passion to bend
body electric defied laws of fig newton’s,

finagled parallel dimensions, and hugged
joie de vivre limbs maintaining nonchalant
passion recognized talent unbridled versatility
waiving youngest attaining burlesque,

Churrigueresque dramatic elegiac fluidity
transformed thine mama into a holographic,
kaleidoscopic, and opportunistic piquant
rondelet thru vitality, whimsicality, and zealotry.

Gracefulness hove spectators to behold defiance
asper flexibility of muscles in conjunction with
defiance of physics. Once immersed in a classical
routine, thee supple rubbery form assumed

by thine mother ******* focused klieg lights
upon wondrous kinetic magic. An audience
member vicariously experienced dalliance
of some mind-numbing narcotic minus
the addiction. Stupefaction trans fixed gaze

upon the dynamic parameters of space
and time to present an enchanting move
able feast replete with operatic poetry,
quixotic romanticism, and sculpturesque

statuesque totemic union verging on affects
cast by a singular whirling dervish. A
heightened indoctrination of jubilation
radiated from every cell of this artiste

in motion. Pirouettes cast grotesque dark
shadows and etched the faux edge of
night scenario with gigantesque ghoulish
phantasmagoric veterans of many tragic-

comic composers long since vetted into
the storied ballroom of fame. No surprise
then that when mine exit from the berth
canal of stage nom de plume Harriet Harris

witnessed by a full house, my denouement
propelled from the tender vittles tulip ruffled
private naughty bits induced balletic movements.
Meanwhile me mum (real name christened Chrys

Anne Thumb) busily intensely engrossed herself
(terrifically totally tubularly) within whose inter
twined arms and legs that emulated an analogy
to a pretzel held me snug as a bug in rug. A pause

(which many interpreted to initiate an applause)
sprung a contagion of hand clapping that drowned
out the impetus signifying the first breath of
this wordsmith. Only as the slap happy flesh

diminished did ardent hard fans of a triumphant
fancy feast and foot loose Gangnam style winged
goddess take stock of the starlit cradling a newborn.
Frightful faces and peculiar sounds appeared scary.

Thence spurred via submit able exertion climaxing
with a riveting acrobatic contortion (essentially
forcing this now grown baby boomer former chap -
lain cocooned for nine months within the womb),

thyself made headway into an alien world, whereat
this full term new born did provide his own wailing
lyrics (even at that tender infant hood, an iconoclastic
antiestablishmentarian). This now grown baby boomer

chap lain cocooned for nine months within the womb,
who sought nothing more nor less than that which
necessitates being swaddled, pampered, mollycoddled,
cuddled, bundled, and held close to the *****. As

grown middle-aged madman (albeit married to
X-Files rabid fan) still craves, desires, and gloms
toward picturesque pairs of pendulous pliant plump prized
politically incorrect breastworks.

Every dream held dear by man resides in the library near the river.

Brick on brick the tower rises; stoically majestic as it’s great stone parapets greet the silver-blue clouds on high.

Under its bold, weather-beaten folds lie books, shelf-over-shelf  
- each housing a single human dream.

Dreams of success, gratitude, solace, whimsicality; carefully sorted between the pages of every book.

Outside, the river holds fast; it’s current strong and swift beside the great library.

Bright blue and yellow flecks glisten in its silver waters, as it reflects the fruitful warm sun above.

Go ahead Mr. Vale, find your dreams Mr. Vale, go into the tower Mr. Vale, this is your dream Mr. Vale.

You can’t find the door Mr. Vale? There is no door Mr. Vale. You can’t get in Mr. Vale.

What’s that on your hands Mr. Vale? Make haste Mr. Vale! Wash your hands in the river’s waters.

Do you feel it Mr. Vale? Everything slowly slipping away, do you feel as if you’ve lost something Mr. Vale?

You should. You should know that the river has no water, it flows time, slowly slipping away.

The door Mr. Vale. You cannot open it, it isn’t that easy.

Sink Mr. Vale. sink into the deep and churning waters in the river of time. Soon this dream will be over and you will
discover the truth. The only way to chase your dreams is to wake up.

I think that I shall never see
A sight as strange as a flying pig .

A winged pig that snout is sky-wised pushed
Against the earth’ fantastic slopping roundness

A winged pig who may fly all day,
And lifts whimsicality toward higher climes;

A pig that flutters in the icy air
A flap of wings and oinking there ;

Upon whose flight our imagination ascend
Our imitations in inward horizon up-sweeps logic .

Fall guys like me write poems,
But only metaphors like flying pigs

Can rise in ink stained skies and barnstorm
the very gates of eternity with winged couplets.

The dance is beautiful
The rhythm of the universe pulses throughout
Intertwined with the sun and the moon and the stars
It is slow and elegant, without measure but limitless
The growth lives in a place intangible to the physical realities’
One in which dreams go to bathe in lush admiration and the whimsicality of existence
The  growth can be dangerous but worth the bloom
The slow movement like a ballerina with a lover
It is us, both existing and not
Dependent and singular
But it is the growth that we all depend
For the flower is beautiful.

Brain, Give Me The Answers

Does this sound too much like prayer?
A little red-faced,
Weakness in my psyche.
Embarrassed ‘cause it’s not like me,
One feels the hypocrite:
I, who stake
My life on ‘God, who makes not one mistake’,
And here I sit,
Baby-ish,
Asking to change destiny –
At least push it my way.
Shame, shame on me!

I’ve got to wait –
Just like all others.
Meditate,
Reject my druthers,
Concentrate.
(I’m poor at that).
Be grateful for the goods I’ve got
(and that includes MyQ
and its capacities))

Nonetheless, addressing you,
Dear self so true,
We have a pact
(And that’s a fact)
So if you will cooperate,
I’ll wait
Until who knows, the whimsicality of fate
Is ripe: propitious, and/or generous  
And brain-wise,
Advantageous.

Brain, Give Me The Answers 8.24.2017
Pure Nakedness; I Is Always You Is We; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin

In-laws outlaw's crooks not a one of us straight.
We are the ties that bind that's how we all relate.
Do you really need me to demonstrate.
All of our own problems we tend to create.
It's pretty  much our ******* fate. Quietly we contemplate
things that are unchecked and hard for us to regulate.
In our own wake
we leave everything on completely devastate.  
As our situations we continue to simply complicate.
Always the chaos it does tend to elevate
It's  getting harder and harder for me to concentrate
At least it has been as of ******* late  Isn't addiction just ******* great. Please go on and tell me I'm dying to know just how I rate.
Here is my attempt at trying to educate
all my life I did self medicate
so these feelings I could eradicate. If there are any murders you can bet I did so  meditate.
Before I ended up going ahead with the plan to premeditate.
Maybe this is something for you that I can illustrate.
The meeting of the voices in my head I facilitate.
Their murderous ideas I exonerate. That usually  sparks a huge debate. Sometimes like  ticking time bombs these voices prepare to detonate
we do not have enough religion to promote love we have just enough to hold on to hate.
The darkness inside of me I try to illuminate.
I hate to hurry up just so that I can wait.
My ego maybe I should deflate. There are things that to me they  simply irritate.
I dislike being in a state of aggravate my most cherished memories I somehow desecrate.
Myself to a cause I can't seem to dedicate
I probably have too much on my plate
more drama I do not to generate.  Ideas from the days that have already passed I reinstate.
A **** up indeed I am to this very date.

I am trying to be all I can be, all I can be is just simply me. A person so blinded by the light that they just can not see.
All my live long days I have longed to just be free.
I know that the coming of tomorrow holds no guarantee.
I bid a fond farewell to thee.
As to God in heaven I make an urgent plea
while in prayer on bended knee.
I'm getting rather tired of this fractured sense of reality.
I am inclined to violently throw a ******* from this balcony
Is it not just an absolute travesty
that I can so **** tragically
yet quite ******* callously
so *******  casually
create a **** causilty.
Isn't that a hell of a brutality. Principals before personalities
**** all the legalities.
Don't you know that these so called abnormalities
are just  formalities.
You know technicalities
some of the more traditional hospitalities
lay in wait that the eventualities
will soon give way to the  whimsicality  
of such immoralities.

In other words there are many secrets and bodies hidden in the cracks of my very moral  code. Harley crunching gravel on this old dirt road
it's time for me to lock and ******* load
ready I am to ******* explode
my story has already been pretty much been told
like laundry I know when I need to fold.
All that glitters is definitely not ******* gold.
Out of all the questions you've asked me guess how many lies I have sold. When God made me he broke the mold.
the power I have invested in myself I now behold
if we never slow the **** down then perhaps we won't ever ******* grow old.
My ride or die has already died as he rode.
I am not one easily controlled.
I am not at all  outspoken not even close to being bold
but the older I grow I am that much more corrupt I am in fact cold.
I'm off my rocker I'm in fact throwed reaping whatever I have sowed
Only ******* taking what I am actually owed.

Thick clouds I blow just because I tend to smoke pretty strong
Just like you I'm looking for the place I am meant to belong.
I am trying to keep moving right along
but at this impasse I've stood way too long
up all night staring into the Nothing while I am hitting the ****
Whoever I used to be she's already long gone
I'm animated like a cartoon I am ******* drawn
Brains over ******* brawn
I never go down before at least thr break of dawn
I'm so **** high I think I just saw a leprechaun
Would that not be some kind of supernatural phenomenon

I have to admit that I shive a ghit nor do I ******* give a ******* ****
Not in the least little ******* bit
Whatever I have going on I am trying to rise above it
Here in this **** parking lot I ******* sit
Wouldn't you ******* know I am **** sure lit
I doubt that i will ever really ******* quit
I am not a hypocrite
Nor am I counterfeit
I won't tell you not to do as I do while I am taking a hit.
Why is it this life that seems to be only fit.