Aerosol in the AM

precipitation
moist with beads
of dewdrop and
dragon's tongue.

Flesh peeled. skinned fine
smooth and worthy of a
private show.

Torture.
Standing still
Mouth, parched
yet hands bound
inches from the
liquid mask.

The scene is painted in that certain way
where everyone gets the jive
except for the one guy in the corner
yelling, "what's that mean"

Critics.
Torturous depreciative machines.
Always ink-blotting their way &
when they find it, they distort
the path with 3 x 5 lined cards,
each with individual messages scribbled upon,
With obscure notes such as "nancy" or "Jabba"
Critics
obviously looking to get lost
But where?
In what?

Then.  Well then. There are the chameleons.
Shifting lips, eyes, postures.  Tossing about
frost tipped and aerosoled roots.  To find that perfect match
of bicep bulge, eyelash ratio, pouty-ness of puffy lower lip, neck stretched, back arched.  Polarizing figurines of the self.

Mirrors
They get me every time.

Babel Flute

Arbor eat EM

As Phaeton turns off track

Boa’s squeeze

To heart in chest

When wheels spite trunked legs

Foliage falls

Cradled by air

Displeasure of countenance

Carried profusely in chained fury’s protraction

Whence the Jacobean walls erode in crumbled fear

In trance you sit,

With eyes affixed

Upon a frog exiting a foxhole free

In so doing-

Your thoughts foster new opinion

No longer relocating tangential

The haunted shawl does not flutter

In the gusty hallows of soured vanes

A scene vilified in your mental tales

Replaying Calypso’s failed attempt

No longer do you smell the burning tar

Repaved are your drives

And you’re now free to dream

So

Babel on

Cut short the curtsy

Scissor kick gently

The trim of frowns

You’ve be known to wear

Genesis

I.       NECROTIC AFTERBIRTH

Wounds first appear dry

Eventually they split and tear

Until it becomes who you are

In cogent clemency

Salt mines bitter wit

Derisive to the sum of wholes

Salutations stir in winding sheets

Upon the scapulars of whispered words

Tendrils dance in shadow, amongst vetch’s climb

II.     KERNICTERUS

         Misanthropic stew in rot

         Clothes the inner seal

         With an evince of reproach

         Coated generic stem to vine

         Epoxied days number near

         Reddish mount, clotting strain

         Calendar grimaces percent of claim

         Solidifying pessimistic droves of sludge

         Inevitability serrates the breeder’s guilt

III.    BELL’S PHENOMENON

         Dew thistles valley

         As moistened arrows split the spares

         Isolating tightly exposed clench

         Circumvolved oculus axis’ spin

         Gyration’s hypothetic pose

         Enabling fluid’s covetous sheath

IV.    HYPERMOBILITY SYNDROME

         Minor threat, severest to limb and bone

         Disjointed treachery sprains; birthed in lax

         Excruciating is the burning; mushrooming inside

V.      SHOW AND TELL OF TISSUES SCARRED

         Displeasure and violent throngs

         Push the impetus to nozzle high

         Urging reluctance ghost on promenade

         Piquant cells Identify anew

         Scored in searing plausible

         Violation of the indices

         Saline purge sweeps the sore

         Brackish scents begin to swirl

Igniting suppuration’s vulgar kiss

         A monitored fault line

         Corrodes receptivity

         And thus, a birth begins

         Numbness apothecary

         Slits a-stir in a briny blur

         Yet nothing is comparable to a drug inert

VI.    METAPLASIA IN JACITATION

         Phoenix imprints its trail with blood-burned flame

         Wounds shed marooned tide; cluster, frozen drips divide

         Lips yet pinched, its aim to cloud, falsetto under guise of pearl

         Altered patterns replace tendency

         Inflecting skewed canvas (prospecting of cavity)

         Deadened by, yet alive through

         A rearranged point of view; dangling; shredding skins that shed

         Delirium and Restlessness’ commingled commonalities

         Abnormally restructuring constituency

VII.   DIDACTICS OF CODA SECT

         Inception guarantees nothing

         Belly’s bloat cannot claim psychic craft

         It’s the emblem and insignia, X & Y elated in creative act

         It is what a parent needs to believe

         That said seed blooms to birth, is deemed hale  

         While pronunciation guides each word it learns to speak

        

         But, it is only through misfortune

         That the fallacy of blueprint skirts the mind

Expedited random twitch, in skull, to tips

Chirping signals loud and dry

But only one correct answer looms

Yet many choose the fault-line

As the easiest of immoral flagrancies

Walked away,

From the nesting sweet,

Abandoning,

Each and every dream,

Ignoring your role in all

Washed hands with tears still numb

Crumpled blueprint skims the can

Salt burns until endings deaden

To void with closed eye alone

Does not change the text

You are still the creator

And love is what your monster craves

For a father, the son still needs

Defective. Nil.

Abnormal. Nil

Alive. Still

Beautiful. Yes

Desires. Same

Pains. Too.

Blood still red. Like your own, is your own.

 I look forward to every Tuesday, as that's the day Open Link Night takes place over at D'verse.  This week Brian Miller is hosting the party this week, no doubt eager to get ready for a long, but inspiring night of poetry, pints and shots lining the bar.  


As for me, I like to offer something a bit different each week.  I guess you could say that, for the most part, I put down experimental pieces each week-all in the name of diversity of course.  This weeks no different.  As I spent some time the past few days trying to come up with a theme, neat game or some nifty wordplay I just wasn't feeling it. I was having a little bit of trouble finding an inspiration.  But, as seems to be the norm, when I wasn't expecting anything, an idea formed.                 

I was scanning through a Medical Dictionary, looking for inspiration and a few terms found did the trick.  This piece is intentionally choppy, disjointed and left broken.  My intent is to bring about several responses at once, discomfort, confusion, sadness, disgust and reflection.  

A Fact

A fact’s a fact, but there’s more than that,

It is not alive, yet sometimes made to be,

Always built with precision, certainty and certitude,

 It can be correlated, filtered or fleshed out,

Depending upon the contour its designers choose,

Advertised in various aggregations, collections and clusters,

Where the larger groups contain many analogues,

The more obscure hold very few,

One can arrange data by infinite design,

From the basic and primitive,

To those with high degrees of interconnectivity,

Conversely affinities, at times, can be seen,

 Promoting chaos and the absolution of scheme entirely,

Then there are those that ignore context,

Taking words from their proper home,

Tweak, tune, buff and hone,

Distorting tense and destroying meaning,

Offering up this amalgamation

The mind is tricked and duped, deceived and lied to,

 Coerced into accepting the authors’ contention,

 Unwittingly conspiring with a fallacious point of view,

But the fact of the matter cannot be skewed,

When held in the framework from where it grew