Tuesday, May 28, 2013

The Damned Beggars In The Cold

Hither, dither, tither, fro
To, from, stern, aft, glimmer—glow
Worm, wiggle, writhe, fizzle, frazzle, frown and flow
Gather, grip, gasp, ingratiate, growl, scowl, scuttle and sew
Huddle, hurdler, cuddle, curdle, crackle, cackle and crow
Tipsy, teetotaler, tricky, tacky, terabyte, in spite of the stow
Baggage, boggle, bigot, burden, blast of butter, battery blown

Excess verbiage, nominatives under intense scrutiny, collaborate in a circular procession, each participle eagerly awaiting the punctuations incorrect stressor given a home

Slanted in bias, burgeoned, beckoning, blossoming, stratosphere, diameter crossing points of axis unseen, over-plotted, pollutants of the year, curdling inwards like the ravaging bug, the insect, the slug, the tremors of the soul, catching kitschy curmudgeon fever, like the protestation of an alleviation in disarray, sorrow for the sparrow clipped of wing wrung clandestinely clean, clinging to, ovarian theories overtly consumed by endeavor’s angular shaped cocoon-like debris.

Abrasive. Codes are difficult to cipher when patterns seem to exist symbolically, being becomes the cogent key that is swiped away from beneath the bed or hidden in plain sight, as does the seizures seized from gaping stares of those human zombies forever hovering in the red—the clamor, of a clandestine affair amidst tryst—and this is too, often too conveniently placed, underneath the welcome mat, where instead of finding your grand idea, a key from which to swallow and flee, there lay superlatives for observation.  And that is what you do, observe, then observe some more, observe until you are found, once again, with both flat feet on the tile floor, frozen in space and in someone’s perverse covenant with time—here, where, if having been locked out, arrested straight, out of and into a state of alternate being, than perhaps, the concept of the access will purge it’s promise upon someone, some one who, in someway, defines the definition of regenerative decay, a speck, dot, pixelated subjugate, a daughter of celibacy, a candid ripple in the wavelength, a freak storm over nowhere, nowhere at all—giving vitality to the invisible, those personas who’re somewhat akin, to all the eager admonishing razed upon the soot stained cheeks of the underprivileged capable of only stock replies—the type given by those who’ve never had things turn their way, those that find themselves stuck, in a miring magnate of magnanimous muck, in the middle of a processing plant, a marsh, a wasteland of existence, a sinkhole belching a verbose bellowing buckled over and then upon the expanding waistline of a gluttonous nation of indebtedness and adiposity.

What follows is often an infringement of some sort.  Patents blatantly placed upon intellectual property— protean, vigor, voluminous vanishing points, hollow, like the thesis based, in part, on the bland redundancy of an ignorant smudge, too easily erased, too easily wiped away forever without a trace of it’s postulation—the very same reasons as to why it was ignored, overlooked in favor for, a brand-new pet rock for cousin Roy. 

Posture is granted. The seeds have been sown. Violent trestles toss about, in the ballasts of a broken fist, where balance becomes but another prop, to the tawdry supply, set up and staged by, a backstage broker who renders hell upon the peons he feels he feeds all too well. A blood feud begins with the pennies in the filthy fountain—fuel for the animalistic fellows furrowed in lines a-stream this cobbled cove—a furlough became a game, a torrid cruelty where only the miser is left unashamed.

“Ain’t misbehaving, if the conductor says ok”
 Is acceptable, so says the beggar’s son.

 “Ain’t misportraying if the backstory so old ‘tis’ like the story’s ain’t never been done’,”

and broken down, gladly dreaming of the wasteful sot, delivering the curb some hand-me-downs”. 

“Ain’t a crime to accepting what’s been thrown,” It’s just what it is, as is. And it Ain’t indecent to feast upon scraps, if our last meal is dated unknown—

Fatuous verse.  Infatuation can occur; in the same manner intoxication can render oneself unstable.  By the toxicity in the streams of essay, the words bleed terrific, like the dream fading as the currents blur away the pains we’ve since adjusted to their modes.

I am just another eye. Or so it appears and so it seems, in seam, I stitch together, the adages and false contrition’s never said.  I’m simply one who talks out loud, whether alone or simply one faceless grin amongst a healthy crowd. In another time, in a separate space, I like to think, that my verse alone would be understood and could make a difference in some other nation, in some other land.

 Upon the patchwork of this earthbound soul, smiles are that rarity unapologetic to the many left to launder in the cold—in the grand scheme of impression, the stitch that ties us through, is having the recognition we’re so owed, after all…after all…aren’t we due something better, than to simply be known alone, as the damned beggars in the cold?

Friday, May 24, 2013

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

Thursday, May 23, 2013

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.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

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—

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

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. 

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—
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 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.

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

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.

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


     A dream so cold,
     Needs only an ounce of fuel
     To direct the oars of a future worth possessing