Vulgar Observations

Quilted armor grow to an inchworm's fantasy
Implementing barriers to protect from such sadistic rites of passage
As dies the informal recognition created by the now and then

Actions of this course, rituals of burial and savage villainy, sate only the most neglected of society and is nothing short of an indigestible thought to those schooled in even the most  minuscule of social graces

Yet, there are those amongst us those who look like carbonized versions of our own persons, that walk the same earth, only with a concealed, most demented agenda

Black Soul Afidavit

Death on the surface of a plague,
Spewing serum in rabid abdication,

A perjurers first instinct
To rot upon that vial,
Thunderously bellowing for absolutions he devoutly hates

Finding bonds with decrepit fellowships
A putty for a craftsman with distinctly darkened vines

Cradling close the dearly fallen,
An appetite whets upon in blackened anticipation

And as a feast of blood sates his wicked tongue
The beast acknowledges the impossibility of nourishment
As fatal pangs asphyxiate the morsels just devoured
The cravings emulsify within
Delineating the unrequited compensation
Delivered to those who discard the graces bestowed when choice was still free.

Heart Song's Devastation Device

Corridors of ancillary porticos and retractable switchblades, Macrocosmic sentry’s patrolling the scenery’s v-cut scape,

In their boots, the sole is clothed in lathered concrete—

Worn

Sworn

Torn

Devastate

It is but a foundational approach of beheading—An arsenals instrument, still clanging, even on into the post-mortem survey of disciplinarian design.  Shackles are chafing the inner thigh—its lines are brutal and corrupt, bankruptcy in a cauldron of maleficence, proposing nightly, during the encore, upon the stage crafted by a lightning strike—filibusters become the lucre, the damning suet of exsanguinated space

Damned.

Crumbs

Of

Neer-do-alls

Devastate

And then the heart sings, in putrid voices made from crocodile tears. They are all combusting at a euphoric pace, blinding the children and heiresses alike.  With dreams of tomorrow, they thank you for the kindness you share with them now. Their liner notes have since been blurred, recollection transformed into an absurd shade of paste-framed blonde. 

Devastate

Alleviate

Pulsate

Palpitate

Crush.

Swing.

Heart-aches

This sculpted axe swings it’s arms short to long. While the pastry chef expands his tonsils, still reddened by the convoluted inhalations that have merged too often with the birth canals of silent screaming.  Squelch. I love that word. It’s influx settles high. Into, and exchanged from without, the assistance of a predisposed effigy, some creature you wish you never had known, all this, during the moment of argh.  The agony of the ecstasy…the shifting sounds of sighing SHHHHHHHH’s!!! And listen, to the highways divided and the sky, as it sends forth its parade of effervescence, one, not yet diluted by life’s hologynic rapture—

Diodes

Implement

Salvation

To those

Of us,

Those among us,

That still cares….

I sing with a vociferous tongue.

My heartstrings are frayed

My range has betrayed my trust

Drawing mute, I reflect and clutch,

Unto a prismatic unveiling,

A claw used to scratch away the damnedest itch..

Simply put

Devastation,

Devastation to,

The most heart-curdling degree

Shared with the outstanding poets at D'verse for the incredibly potent evening of poetry that is Open Link Night.  Haven't had the time to properly spend swimming the seas of poetry lately. I've been in the middle of something and trying to figure things out for myself logistically in the meanwhile.  Writing alone has been much more sparse than I'd like.  I have done a fair share of writing lately, but still far too less than I'd like.  But again, it is something that I'm working on, trying to regain the groove of writing and reading the amazing poetry that is available across the world daily in the poetry blogging universe.  Hopefully things will trend back and soon for me.  However, until the end of the month at least, I doubt I'll get much time online, let alone the time to write and read, as I'll be taking a flight out west for that time and while I'll have my Ipad handy, it's the wifi only kind, so, I'm somewhat at the variable fate of wifi availability.  Anyhow, for those who follow regularly, thanks, I do appreciate it, and again, hopefully I'll get back into a regular routine sooner than later.  Until then, thanks for being there and bearing with me as I attempt to logistically sort things out.

Abstract Suspect

There’s a guttural feeling beneath the calumet

A grinding halt to the ritual

Smiles hasten into frowns

And I feel bad for the one that pushed the bell

There’s a howling suspicion in the wind

A fading superstition that lingers in

Laissez-faire or Bourgeoisie,

Accommodations of catastrophe

Serendipitous dilemmas and

Sanctions breaking down,

By the sharks of this town, inflicting…

Surface wounds and

Surfeit shells,

Discrepancies and songs,

Songs we’ve got to know, ills we’ve learned all too well

Syncopation, spin and spin

Whiskey, Rye, Tonic, Gin and Gin

Serengeti nights be told, of the hours spent in a Saharan cold—broken for feverish decals, labeled carelessly on the backs of rickshaws, spider-webs and dropouts from bartender schools that advertise in the back of free papers you find at late night taco shops or seedy, shady, drowsed out jazz clubs—

Never acknowledge those that deliver the news

Sometimes they’re the devil in the messenger’s shoes

And sometimes they’re simply the leftovers that the cat dragged out…that someone else has yet been buried in the correct position, currently vacant, way out in left field.

SIN

SKIN

SINking

In

Abstract

Suspect

Fragment From A Masquerade

Red ribbons clutter the scene,

From lanai to balcony

Yet still,

I can see,

Even though,

I choose not to believe

Kabuki flags defile dreams of old,

Through the seams they politely latch onto,

All things lost and never seen

Yet…

     A dream so cold,

     Needs only an ounce of fuel

     To direct the oars of a future worth possessing 

The Sinkholes Yet Succumbed

Hours spell the seconds

Past the minutes which we dwell

Footprint swallows footprint

Upon this path becoming, a brittle, shallow shell

Phonetic lacerations

Pronounce their truths in blood

A blistering apocalypse

Inscribed by quivered thumbs,

Leave us here abandoned,

Forcing forth the question,

“Just how far is it that we’ve come”

                  It’s quite natural, to fear the answers questions form,

Tomorrow’s but another speck, connecting what we want, to where we’ve just come from

                          

By sinkholes yet succumbed.

…Be still thy bitter tongue…

Blind Embers Of Motivation

(S)Categorically frenetic

     Suffocating on the brine

              Bloated by the expectations of lunacy

The moon, its vapors

Unveiling premonitions

Ravaging the waking hours

With the addictions set in dream

Clarity is boring,

Facetious knowledge thrusts forward

As if the audience is nothing but a mass of ignorance

Collected in awe of your deepest recollections

The truth of emeritus is the dagger of gold in search of silver

     Vanity, a distraction to unparalleled degree

              Ask and you’ll be known as he who is without

                       Stare in silence and the curiosity will devour                                       you from the inside out.

Striations aligned

Subluxation pared

We are there and here

We alone create our own definitions of fear