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?

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