The Bones of A Water-Logged Persistence (Swimmer's Lilt)

A hospitable transmutation—

         Converting nature to nature and form to form

A morpheme unexpected

Provides an individuality all it’s own

Where in duodenum, a plurality’s construed

While in jejunum, emptiness is found after death,

The ileum is the tertiary of the small

It connects to the Cecum, a pouch, uniting the small to large

Phenotypic variation is essential

when evolving from shallow to deep

Genetic pools that drown us under—

A quick flushing finds a tide reigning upon sensation

If not for the (sick) gills mutation’s provided

I’d have floated jetsam like the rest—unable to

Find stowage in some (ill-tempered) future’s ark

         Yet I can swim, and I’m free to swim

Even in these predatory seas,

         I still have a chance, I still have chance, water-wings and all

An extremely late entry to this week Open Link Night over at D'Verse.

My niece brought home a nasty cold from day care a few weeks ago, and I had thought I escaped it's wrath, but last Wednesday I awoke feeling quite miserable, which of course I poo-pooed aside, as a case of getting out of bed on the wrong side.  Well, as the day progressed, so did the bug.  Needless to say I got some medicine and for the most part hadn't really left the house too much since then.  Outside of a couple visits to the store for necessities and a foolish jaunt to the movies on Sunday when I was feeling better, (relapse anyone?), pretty much been a sleep fest with a side of chicken soup.  Well, feeling much better now, but not going to make the same mistake twice, going to keep laying low for the next couple of days until I'm confident this bug is gone for good, which I'm able to do.  Funny thing, it's the first case of unemployment actually allotting me anything of benefit:)  

So, anyhow, haven't been writing really much of late.  But I happened to find the framework of the piece I'm posting right now, which I tweaked a little bit right now, as I didn't want to miss out on OLN and the great company of the D'Verse poets.  So, hopefully I'll be up to speed come tomorrow for tomorrow's event.  I am hopeful that'll be the case, as, (knock on wood), -actually knocking-I am actually feeling much better.  Anyhow.  Quit reading this and head on over to D'verse for the last few hours of Open Link Night. Cheers.

The Atrophied Sinew (Wrestling Known Demons)

listen to ‘The Atrophied Sinew (Wrestling Known Demons)’ on Audioboo

The weight of your sins

Depress deep upon

The spine—forever

Herniating the

Conversations

Ever to remain

Unaligned

The balance of forgiveness

entrenches within—the winding

scars that become the emphatic

provocation—of disturbances wrestling

strong inside—entombed, ensnarled amongst

the covetous coil incubating persistently—still

burdening the landscape with each forlorn promise

ever told—and while the delusion of honor still remains—

the reality permeates this seducing dream—never permitting

acknowledgements their chance to speak—blindly working towards

some unattainable dream, while the Iscariot inside arrests and writhes

Shards of a diluted elegy, broker

silently prides ascent,

from whence, out

of the bubbling hate—

an ill-crossed path, once diluted

by perfumeries and colored specks, now

fostering forward the injective course,

where disillusionment haunts the presence

of this intrinsic bliss-filled knot—and in so,

blindsided it becomes, unwittingly tainting the

vitriol surrounding the stained-glass chambers

of the post-apocalyptic promulgation of a soul—

dispossessed, frayed and suddenly overwhelmed by the

sensations of a once prominent, yet now redacted and hollow

version of what we used to caress so close….

Dark prognostications send antagonistic reminders,

of how the pretty ignorance will shrivel, as does the petal,

withering atop the potting soil, fragrant to a degree, yet

decaying consistently

Atone we must

but even then,

there is a point

where even

confessionals

themselves

break down and

cry for the charcoal

shaded soul, destined,

only to oblige the gravitational

flagrancies of directionality, forever

encouraged to jaunt forward, only to never

truly be awakened from the sleep perdition keeps,

inching unnoticeably toward the ensnaring captivity

that binds one to the annexes of paralysis, that torturous road

that corrals the far beyond repaired, to the pitiless posture found

in the beds of stone—the writhing signature distinct to southern sleep

Depression gnaws at the atrophied sinew—

for what has occurred, may be covered thick and dense

yet never is the collateral fully removed—always remaining, tainting every pleasant memory, enhancing those nightmares to which are tightly clutched…for the remnants, the residuals of a once sinful self, ever has a way of reinventing the torture we inflict upon ourselves

Once again, Tuesday is upon us, and Poets everywhere know exactly what that means…time to head on over to the Pub…OLN opens at 3pm. The D'Verse doors stay open all night, for your poetic fare.  Please tip the staff with a poem of your own.

Noah's Displaced Home For Abusive Boys and Girls

There is a voyager

And he’s but one of many

Taking leave

To the planet Noah

Two by two

Four by four

Sixteen by sixteen

Deep

Wide

Width

Height

Hypotenuse of constrictor coils

 Heat’s arousal; a spark to life-

 A warmth Un-foiled in the kindliest of fashions

Sifting through those early sands

In a time before the eggshells ran

 Man had a theory all his own

Created, was a world

In which (he) or (she) breathes a lungful heavenly…

Only to feel nothing, as the onyx fills the frame,

And the last of the bronchi, dye yet a deeper shade of gray

 Ages it seems now,

 Ages long ago,

When the rivers were rivers

And not reminders and slivers

Of a world…

                  Where even the reapers fear to play

Have we evolved to such a place?

                                    Do we still try to take his place?

Have we not learned well enough?

        

With all the falters and flaws and

                  The guffaws and scars and

                           The withered replications

                                    Of thought on what ought be done

When a second split would stake the view

 Easily showing what hacks oft never know

         That behind the clever and the strong

Usually it all simply

         Turns out

                  Oh, so very wrong

And after all,

What’s so difficult in

Simply living and loving

The way we were made to do?

Insomnia Game: A Free-write

A chirping of companions
wrestled with onion-
        as blaming the onions
when ducts swell
   the dam will break
                              eventually

A vision through pure stained
glass, breakable to those that
smashing attracts-
       No cheer
       No sign of anything
       Just a vision
of a girl
with a broom
on her porch (I assume)
sweeping
the particles of past-lived pollinations away

A roll-
about the tarmac
Dreams to take off
A one way ticket
some nights do pray
yet
there is
fortunately
always a delay

Ice-dancers on wings so strong
Twirling, twirling,
Plie and gone

Defrosting
Loud engine roars
Passenger light still lit
Yet dim it shall well prior to dawn

Announcements
Commotion's ado
So much nervous energy cluttering this swelled room

And the feeling of isolation
The tempestuousness of sin
somehow tingles fascist rhythms
across the neck
Settling close to sternum's cleft
Voicing it's displeasure in your ceding sensation

Yet, you ignore
Pressing window cloth so well to vice
Holding pretend as long as you can try
But the cafeteria lighting soon returns

But the aisles are too mis-shapen to venture through

Catapults and venerable denizens denote the trail
Geraniums and argyle lost things caress the trees gowned bare

And you stand there
Alone (yet this is nothing new)
Pacing (without revelation)
And you see
The ocean come to life
It's topography crippling tidal face
Broken accents spell it's name
o'er megaphonic striations made in glut,,, Deep now, into part 3, coming down again

A calm
A peaceful staple underdeveloped
The flyers are everywhere
A tea party shall unite
all dissenters on this night….(Why are you there?)

Yes, why?

And you feel a gentle stream
Begrudge a crease across the space so oft denied
A smile
A genuine smile
burgeoning from
A place, where you
Realize…that you've accomplished what was set to do

Fallen deeply
Into slumbers rift in hues
of amethysts-garnets-

and you wonder if the photograph will depict correctly
The image plastered-strewn across your identity

Or if, it too resides solely in dream

Habitattered

She earned a few bad habits along the line,

Like the gentle gnawing

Upon the rims of glasses

Chipping enamel base inches deep

Often occasionally breaks off a piece

Placing teeth on ice.

Farmed out the favorite scene

Broke jaw from emulating her scream

Battle.

Sometimes I like to write as if I was a telegraph operator during times of peril.  Typically it’s a war-time recreation.  Dash.  Dash.  Dash.  And so forth…Would be fun.   Kind of like speaking.  In tongues..  A variance in interpretation…  Yet really only one connection…One line of thought…one message…Process or Ignore.

How often are the children instructed to brutalize their neighbors?

Are parents teaching little man and darling girl, about the benefits gained from bullying all those little poindexters, Urkels and Earls?

Is society to blame?

Oh, who gives a damn about freedom of speech anyway-not when censorship contains so much promise?

-Tell that to the parent of a victim, innocent bearing but one crime- birth in the wrong school district- Touché

Yeah, I think it would cool, returning to some postcard scene.  Flyboy’s beware I’ve played Last Starfighter tens of times before!

Back in the day.  I’d find people and tell them how their legacies panned out.  I’d locate all those misfits and those ahead of their times, those living in duress- and explain all the monumental changes that exist in the modern age.  I’d find Rosy and tell her she’d fit in great today.  I’d grab a coke and tell the soda jerk- that the formula changes, then changes back, then changes again, then changes again- but not quite where it originally was, then changes back to the failed formula, only to revert it’s taste once more, but offering a bit of a different packaging and placing classic underneath it’s logo. 

I’d love to go to Vegas.  When it was all sand.  I’d grab a few and blow them to the wind.