Inane Warbling (A slow dance into Oblivion stops to smell the roses)

Well, I decided to clear my writing notebook up.  I left the full poems I haven't posted yet, but I have hundreds of fragments and bit lines and once In a while I'll combine them up in one monster post.  I'm sure many of you recall my having done this before.  But anyhow, this is not one poem, it's a lot of miniature lines, stanzas, thoughts, ideas, rhymes and random scribblings.  I did go through and try to create connections here and there, but didn't want to effect the "whatever" effect the pieces held.  So, it is long, but it's all little pieces, so feel free to read it all if you like, or read at your leisure if you prefer that.  Thanks again to everyone.  With so much negativity in this world, and for me personally, still trying to crawl myself out of this hole thrust upon me a few years back, you all make it all that much easier.  Thanks again.

Arms stretched forward

hinged just below

the vision’s height—

a hemline frantic and a barren stressor pained to please

Elbows point to points opposite

Locations left upon the other’s side—wide and widened, yet continuously widening the distance of the air…

Knuckles interlace as hands reverse, leaving palms hidden from the scent of vacancy’s unwashed thirst

There comes a point in time where every dagger stabs the man in possession of the hilt

The coma feeds the frenzy and the diet wins

Lost forever on a hog tailed echo of a spiral wing

Arched in hospital on vacation watching the ravened crazies shock the stalls with their balderdash-inspired ribaldry and a fourteen oz. bag of salt, spread and strewn across the black ice stash

And whispers form

Ale tongue diving deep into the waxen portrait of grey-faced felt, walling time, dividing in two, the supplicants from the shortened flood of formless fools

Calliope’s solemn dirge hums beside the whimpering well, where wishes are rued and are thusly un-enchanted by

A fortune telling machine

Built by turban steel

That ever seems to shackle

The cards that ever bend our gleams still

The fingers hurt,

The wrists ache

The knuckles stitch the pain on high, still in that capacity known as, and for, the hidden diameters that have since lost their frame of view…flush…flash…filch…bang…a rat-a-tat-tat-CraCK, to which The mounting tension’s sizzle slowly, slapping back

before the flood relinquishes it’s flowering attack

All the while, a puppy prances across these cobbled streets

It’s headed somewhere, but I don’t follow…

I did consider such a path though

Yet fainted fragrant rope burned cedar and therein lost I became, lost in plight, tremor-sparks flickered bout the base of skull, swell till the blank page fully animated some mysteriously ancient script to scroll

Shanty town seems much, much cleaner than it did that night I was pursued by the hackneyed cockerel singling with upturned shorts, heavily laden with guilty streams of splattered stray

I recall that butcher’s chop shop very well.  How clever-clean it was so well, shining, sparkling, cleaves and tines, puncturing the once pleasant crowd with hunger pains so deep to purge that it soon became the opposite of intended verse

Herenowthen, a chorus of happy-go-listlessly heavy lilting tunes of tumultuously damaging storms of strength unseen

and I wouldn’t have been the victim, if I hadn’t stood their laughing in glee at the comedic statement draped across the bloody smock the fat guy wore, besides his lockbox armory… all in all, legally paid for…

Feigned momentum tragically stirs the kettles

Crock…Sheppard’s crook bent unhooked, hanging,

Aslant off the bent foundation of toaster stands,

An oven once stood

As only the mourning knew

So, well

So, well

Never a bad time for tea…

Hands qwerty set and spread along

Verse is sharp, can be retooled into song

It’s about love

It’s about pain

It’s about pleasure

It’s about shame

It’s about greed

It’s about meandering…

Mind traverses the eagle’s lair

Hunting, pecking, orders that

Ever stir…yet…the second skimming

Seemed to skip the second-hand’s hourly groove

Vaulting refrains of haven’t-been(s)ipping brandy upon

The roofs where sooty

Ash infiltrates the crescent’s mask

Standing alone amongst the pigeon shit

Not knowing where to walk

Fearing I should fall, that’s when the magic

Began…steps opened up the night to all

Climbing straight under a midnight’s swell

Dancing cantilevers cock and crow

Fauntleroy is here

So is that sentinel James, every preaching his brand of crock-pot  philosophy, always with a wicked tint of hair, jealous, yet not really so, yet amazed as to how, one with words that are obviously curmudgeonly spoiled could cause so much strife amongst a supposedly happy, happy bunch

And all I can think of, all I can do is but recall the drunk kid at the corner stool,

“nah, nah, nah…she’s uglier in person, believe that, believe that…they say the screen adds ten pounds, I say they cover a lot of unfriendliness up as well…fifty inches of

Grotesque perhaps” to which he realized, amazingly so, as tipped as he was, he knew, he knew the line he just crossed, “but every creature is beautiful in their own way…”

Soft-serve of un-dairy dream

Chocolate flavored icing built upon the

Cone’s waffling, as sprinkles rainbows assort

The slopes of the triples scoop…how many licks

Does it take?

To…

Falling. Falling….

I am in some other soul

Not like that, no, I’m truly inside, within

The flesh is altered but the mines finely foundered find of mind, will never know as well as what it could have known so well to one day be,

a

Beautiful dreamer on a paranoid charade

Armed with a zephyr’s gust and a keepsake left in trust

He barked about

Faith-and time

In a

Tone and accent

We all too well have often heard no matter which side the arch we were born to climb

I falter as I stage the concourse

To repeat the sorry, tragically inspired ending again,

Just as, might I remind you, at the point the

Story ambled north

Vixen, fox

Livid, hate

Staccato groove

And troikas stare

Gestalt

Underpinning

Meets the world

Under the Waldorf’s

Historic glare

Mind-winding

Side sloping

Slithering incarnation

Of some Judas fiend

Sells the father for a

Promise and a noted

Safe passage that only

Leads to gnarled root

Falling, falling, falling

And the noise begins

Bloodhound gang and streets

Align, one cloud offers the cover

Of a roof, burning, lit, and the other

Chirping about came by the song sung by, some conceited skirt

Lost, alone, cold to a cold filtered stare

Silent, apprehensive, despite the meshing, a

Blender of two songs that are alone yet

Together they refuse to face the wayward sky, I

Meant them to be like that, or, perhaps it was the air, where uneasiness

Was, exactly that which what the cloud dweller wanted from me in the first place, in which case,

It was pure genius,

pure brilliance,

even if the bulbs not too bright

And I remain as me, as I stand,

And he is I, and

together are gonna fry

Tormented talisman

Upon a sentry’s sky-line left

Vacant by the snobbish songs

Of spoofs unreeled, remembering only

How zombie’s can be tamed if you stick them fat

Behind the couch, as a game of video steers the wheel

Awake…

Forget the verse

So I forge the words into a note

That reads

A little like…. shorthand legalese

Inane.

Grammatically putrid

Swords of succubae

Teeth of Tetley

Tea—zing

Not the hair, not the heir

But the lemon lingered

Pass the steeping stone

To the apocalyptic knife used as spoon, ever stirring, stirring, and stirring through,

The garlic-filled breadth of air

Row, row, row your boat

Rub a dub-dub, four blokes in a club

Sangria-blood red sunset at the crack of dawn

Never get that image out from in

And I don’t know whether that thought consists a sin

Sword swallowing gambler

Poor-poor soul

Challenged ethically to pay off a debt once forgotten yet not to be absolved, as it was a debt accrued, nevertheless

It was a foolish tilt,

Truly shameful, but it was done at such a time,

That I had completely blocked out from that particular BLOC of time

Made to claim, the winner of the contest played, at this time’s dancing crown,

Corroded entries into a tableaux stoned, silent shifting naught-naught with

Mimicry and

Apes and

Chimps and zzzz’s to slide-rule us aweigh, unto, until we

Awakened it to scream

Glimmering, yet gagging still, and its geopathic shockwaves surged

completely through and through…until, I knew, I was in

in so,

in so, so

 deep