Monday, October 31, 2011

Hellbred for Halloween

Midnight vanity

Pop-star repercussion
In this,
That latter place
The republication of

Thoughts converge
Convulsing apathetical
By riddles cawed in masks of straw
Violence in the vigilant
A village of weight
The Vigilante
Stuck sorting through each mask

Stars dim their twilight
Feigned superstitions
Unearthed inside
All days to follow
Pay the fare

For scorpions tears
Black-winged scales
Dragon's teeth,
Dissect & Stare
Blend, stir, chill, and serve
Sanguine seeker
Ashen, to the parched
         Where taste is beholden
         By thirst—“young kids, what they know”
“Every time some damned whack job writer talks about sexy vampires or cool demons, we get a cult of reenactments”

Sauntering throughout each chalk-lined imprint, the—
I guess, now, newly appointed, or acting, in the very least—
Sheriff can feel the breathing, singeing, of each hair upon his neck—
“Get back, that’s what the yellow line is for people, just get back, NOW, don’t want no more unnecessary tonight—it’s freakin’ Halloween people, go bob some darned apples or whatever you all do these days”

Vegetarian (of circumstantial foundations) vexed in frustration
For philosophy stands, tonight, in disregard
Hallowed day breeds hollowed eve
Parents clamoring for condemnable treats
Forgetting tricks comprise the second half
Senses flare
                  “I MADE A PROMISE”  “A MF’N promise”—
The tension tinges to a flair.  Shift’s been long extended now, “Don, I mean Sheriff, whatever happened didn’t happen here…been over the area twice now, somethin’ obviously happened, but this place is dry”

“SO WHAT YOU WANT ME TO TELL PETE’S WIFE AND KIDS- GO KNOCK ON HIS DOOR AND WAIT FOR HIS MISSES TO ANSWER, PROBABLY WITH THE KIDS BY HER LEGS, DRESSED UP & READY TO GO-HE SAID THEY WAS GOING TO BE THOSE DAMN LITTLE VARMINTS FROM THE GEICO COMMERCIAL- THE OLDEST ONE—(sniffles, wiping tears) he’s got the megaphone…Pete says he’s got the Command down pat…and I don’t have to tell you, miracle that kid’s even made it this long, with what he’s got and all…SO ROW, ROW, ROW…What the F’ Should I tell them, Trick or treat, WHAT THE F', YOU WANTA BE THE ONE”

None of the uniforms say a word.  Heads are hung, eyeing concrete over the extensively jagged pause, severed only when

Don turns back to them, streaming tears abandoning, “ You all go home, be with your families…"

Not knowing if they should listen to the Sheriff or the guilt, the officer's fidget amongst themselves, until

Don reprises the demand, "You all deaf now, just go…THAT”S AN ORDER”

Looking up the sky reveals a raven’s plummet
In-spiral spheres, the drizzling afterglow lost in cosmic drift. 

Pinprick tingles length of spine,
Down the legs and up the blades
Look around and realize: I stand amidst a cavalcade of temptation

The sheriff eyes the women marching the strip.  Are they working? Why the hell would anyone dress like that?  It gets you thinking, doesn’t it?
Alas, I am much too weak

Turning around, reopening the yellow gate, Sheriff Don stares into the side-view mirror, of his friends car, “Pete, damned you, of all people, you should’ve just gone home…" 

Poking about the gravel, looking for anything, anything at all, "Gonna hafta get this towed back to station…”   
That’s when he noticed…

He was showing, 
just a bit, but still,
 a tooth was escaping lip,
“kinda figured, anger does it to me every time…thank God it’s tonight”

"Wait all year for the one night,
The one damned night,
Get to be myself,
And I’ve been so darned good,
Damn, you Pete"

Sheriff Don called in the tow, waited for those scavengers to arrive, "Gonna cost a fortune...oh, yeah they love this... f'n overtime"

After all was silent once again,
He felt it,
That same feeling he first felt 200 years before,
Hunger, pure hunger

"Holiday my ass...
At this point, F' it,
Might as well,
Restart the fast
In the morn, after all 
it is M'F'N Halloween”
This Halloween themed piece is also being shared over at Jingle Poetry at the Gooseberry Gardens for their weekly Poetry Picnic.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Characterization Game

I spent some time last night trying to find a poem that is primarily dialogue driven.  Claudia hosted Poetics over at D'Verse last night and using dialogue was the name of the game. If you haven't done so already you should definitely be checking D'Verse out.

Unfortunately the only dialogue driven pieces I found were pieces of screenwriting, which, without context made no sense to display.  I know I've written some, and probably have at least one here in the archives, but I couldn't find one, and just didn't feel like writing, still don't actually.  Don't worry shouldn't last long, it happens.  But luckily I have at least a couple weeks worth of unpublished pieces, in case the drought gets that bad.  

But anyhow, I found this older poem and thought it would be interesting to post.  It's pretty straight forward.  A witch casts a curse on a library and each year new characters from literature come to life.  I wish I had posted it, then I could sue ABC for the premise behind their new show Once Upon A Time, but oh well-lol

It actually took me a while to figure out who each character was, eventually I got 3 of them and had to cheat and google to find the other 3, afterwards I realized I only used two authors, so I'll leave that here as a clue.  But all this just goes to show that memory is a fickle friend indeed.  Anyhow see if you can figure each character out, kind of a fun piece for a frigid Sunday here in WNY.

A witch placed a hex upon an old abandoned library.
From the stacks came the strangeness…

For fictitious characters, life was served
Resurrected from their place in time
Awakening in the modern day
To live and breathe, in the air that’s yours and mine

Each year a chapter unlocks
At the sound of the midnight clock
Unleashing another set of characters free
Alive, allowed to roam the pages of reality

M.O.A.I. was the first,
Appearing just after the tricking curse,
Still searching, ignorant of scenery’s change
Looking behind the dusty shelves
At a scrap of paper hands clung onto
Rewording in different tongues
Interpreting all as signs
To point him in the direction of what’s his to come

Arrogant Spaniard, braggart too
Boasting of the army he sports within his genes
DADAism, as fate would play
Would be the first book he happed see
Instantly falling in love with the acronym
Never aware of the words behind each of them

A Shrew to tame
Brought forth a member of
The musically disguised
All for love, he pines on for
Yet love evades,
Never giving him the one he desires so,
But a widow would come his way,
If on the page he could’ve stayed

A miserable batch of men these three
Each alive yet know not how to breathe
They pay attention alone to what
Sits atop their brewing top
Ignorant of the other two
Concentrating, but not on what they should do

The second year sparked anew
Birthing free the following trio

So dirty this wife would be
She wore a cleanly term upon her own
Slut today she could be deemed
Although, anymore, who knows exactly what that means
Five times tied and free again
To strut her dress about the microfiche
Pretending to listen to what she can only partially hear
Coy, but only enough to not be left cold in the s(t)acks

A prisoner, one of two,
Strong in both valor and might
Has fallen harshly with the bug of love
Now swooped away to lost and found
Before the tournament for his Emily can go down

Before the pyre could be set ablaze
She was whisked away to the catalogue of cards
If only her wisdom did she shine on he
The perfect cock she’d not mourn at all
Instead she’d stay the favorite in his eyes
Cock-a-doodle-do’s would fill the barn they stay
Yet now, here, a woman she becomes,
Plumed so pretty, she catches the eyes of all the men in this fun

And so, for each and every year, a new character arises
From that wicked witch’s spell.  From what chapter, from what verse, from what author’s story book, is not known, nor rehearsed, but without a shadow of a doubt, as each year passes more leak out, into a world they known nothing about.

God only knows what will occur
If the government closes more
Libraries, or God forbid, they choose to burn our words 

Saturday, October 29, 2011


Of scripture's

Love is in God
God is in love
Is in God’s love
Is in love’s God
Is four. Is you
Is for love
Is four. Is God
Is for Loving Love
Is for Loving God
Is for loving you.
Is for loving You in God
Is for loving God in you.

Larks & Fits

A vitreous demeanor—
Demonstratively clear,
Passion of a cider mill—
Flowing forth, beneath/around, a sip from carousal’s cup
Adroitly passive, with each subsequent turn—
About, upon, whirl then turn towards, a hardscrabble carousel on an unrequited tea-cup grid

Ascending scales of rose:
Conjugating hybrid (in) tensions
Disseminating salient intentions

Discouraged, dissuaded days
Rupture complicity unto craven shears

Just to pose, a certain patter,
Varicosity in disjointed petulance,
Mingle amongst the fragrance
Hindering redolence, served by larks and fits

The idyllic complexion of Veracity,
Cozened by truncation, short-snippet,
In times of frozen aperture
Descending scope of roves  
Fly swat willow; abruptly brewed
Bimanous, despite (in) flexion
Paramour in inflection

Encouraged by persuaded nights,
Floriated chastity, up to intrepid sheers

Juxtaposed with portent smidgens
Excogitative, quadrated intemperance
Luxate, adrift from collectiveness
Facilitating Hyposmia through larks & fits

The flawed distortion of artifice
Unfeigned by sapience,
In times of brittle aperture

Within, atop, a fecund carousel
Invigorated spritely with each whirl
Exuding astern, carousal’s cup
Prurience extracted
Illustratively chimerical—
An expurgation of deportment

Friday, October 28, 2011


I wrote a few Halloween inspired pieces today. There's this one, the one I'll post on Monday and not sure if I'll post the third one yet or not.

Pitiful Drucilla in her tattered silk
The paste has yet to dry
As crimson blushes tongue

You’re voluptuous
Sensual lines curve
Shadow tightly against

Catharsis flecks dust
From the skylines trace

Denouement’s never dreamt
Of visions so free in their finality

So fragile, senses blur first
So eager, to be plucked
Out of a lineup
Or a dumpster…
                           …If this corpse has been,
 forever stained by
                           The sin in you.

Thursday, October 27, 2011


Emmett Wheatfall is the host tonight at D'Verse for their weekly Meeting The Bar segment and prompt.  Tonight he has prompted us to pen a piece that uses Conflation.  Conflation is the merging of variant ideas into one; the result is a new entity unto itself.  Emmett offered the additional challenge of, while working with conflation, incorporating something of yourself into the piece, without using end rhyme.

It was a bit more challenging than I thought it would be.  Actually, no, it was pretty tough.  Here's my stab at it:


Variance, the virtuoso of the alternative footprint can
Summon quite the tiered arrangement of sound.

First comes the tear (composed mainly of a salinized secretion, yet in such instances, that is much more heavily weighted, than that of your garden-variety watery eyes) that seems to appear-like magic- out of thin air and all.

Next came the birth of the subtle sob, (a bubbled up-bubbled over-babbling of gibberish), a melodramatic merger of the fascinating relationship between what we feel and what we think others expect our reactions to be.  The sob truly has elements of fantasy built within—at this stage of evolution; the human mammal has certainly learned that an extra little something, when speaking about the tonality of their sob, can sway jurors, family and friends.  So in as such, the sob blurs the reality of the hardship and the performance offered on life’s stage.  The entire nature of sobbing is…almost comical.

The tertiary position consists of what most would consider weeping.   Weepers, while some people most assuredly can alter their mindset, get into character, and blather great cries, most, in such circumstances, are genuine in their wallowing.  Yet, some still find these individuals to be of the highest comedic pursuit.  I feel sad for these types.  Perhaps they’ve yet to experience the sadness that promotes such dynamic despair, or, well I’ll just say numbness is a possibility, but so is sadism, either way, pity seems like a good solvency.

Finally, the final tier, the last in order, the culmination of sequence, is the wishing wail.  Here the individual prays for such joyous occasions, they claw at the fabric of existence, hoping, pining for a moment so wonderful, that their floodgates can open and pour their happiness unto the entire world, indifferent to the actual politics of location or sum quantity of bystander.

Variance is the first jar upon the spice rack, yet in the case of “most of the time,” is typically the last to be chose.  Variety is the balancing beam on which we walk.  Sure we like familiarity, and often times, change fosters a grimace, upon our all too-often, already scowled countenances.  Yet, personally, I’d be at a loss for words, if palates of commonplace were all there was to work with.