Thursday, January 3, 2013

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

3 comments:

  1. dud, love it....i have a bunch of these fragments that i need to do something with...ones i dont use often get lost in the notebook on the shelf...some really great lines in this....shorthand legalese...haha..the scent of vacancy’s unwashed thirst ...

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  2. Some very cool stuff here, Fred!

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  3. That was quite the clearance at your see, all over the place pretty much, but all were grand here in your land. Took a long while to get through, but well worth the view.

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