The Invasion

Love lost lacking.  Brutal contributions from the master of the filthy undercurrent—swords, bombs, bayonets, flexing madmen and bloodcurdling sounds of dysfunctional regret—

WTF—Belly-side under, still sore from the stumble up the porch—rippled are the emanations my blood made as it sashayed across the puddles in the front hall, knew I should’ve used the insurance money to pay for repairs, but you know, sometimes, just need what you need…WTF, (take a peek out the window)

Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left,

Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right,

Bright lights, not the inner city I’m used to…not anything like anything at all—well, it’s like something, just don’t know what that is, and really, haven’t seen this much commotion since the riots back in ’98, and that was all about some bad call in a game, but Marching feet moving in rhythm and cadence, seriously what the hell, who’s birthday is it anyway, (what is the occasion?)

Sounds above, sirens rise and fall, the streets all cluttered, (better stay indoors), so much metal, so much steel, (be damned if I’m going out there, I’m the kind of guy someone does something to, just to prove a point, nope, staying put)

Loudspeaker off and on, don’t recognize the voice, can’t make out the words, (better keep the drapes shut and the lights on dim. No! Make that OFF)

Cat knows about as much as I do.  It doesn’t seem as scared as I feel though…(have to keep composure, have to keep things together), phones all dead, television works but nothing seems to make any sense, invasion, unknown assailants, unknown, unknown, unknown, static…. television about as good off as it is on, perhaps under the present circumstances, better even (guess I’ll just wait this out, let the heroes do their thing, and I’ll live up to expectations just fine in here) 

Time, time, turning without a witness to bear…yet ceaselessly parading forth…

(Good thing this house is a piece of crap, they’ll probably think it’s condemned, hopefully that’s the case anyhow, as I really don’t feel like doing anything I’m not used to, this isn’t what I’m built for, this isn’t my mission anyhow, so I’ll just try to sleep this off, but doubt the sandman will come on this particular night?)

I know it’s not going to go away.  I’ve seen a lot of bullshit in my small sample set, but, this isn’t like anything I can think of, no comparisons at all, nothing even close, and anything that doesn’t end up with me dead is a good outcome, right? 

Luckily I have a lot of cereal and plenty of powdered milk, that should last a week or two and that much foresight, in itself, is beyond anything I’m used to)

Arbitrarily regimented and statistically irrelevant…in a case like this, is all anyone can honestly hope for…

P.S.  If the draft is sending chills throughout the floor, then, by all means…

Shut the God damned door…

Wicked Archetype Of The Apathetically Free

Abdominals inches from torn

Every swish of acid repositioned

Bury the leads of a thousand tempests

Breeding amidst the sunset of a phoenix in descent

Guttural individuation, primal, raw, unembellished, bare—

Cultural subterfuge, colander spaces submitting to hoar

Spreading vice-typecast as villainous hate mongers, pre-polarized with venomous stares…

Are the vile objects that surround your person, truly the vermin your eyes project them to be?

     Perhaps they truly are the enemy; quite possibly your instinct is correct, yet, one must be somewhat curious, to realize what ramifications lay in waiting, ready to pounce upon your horizons, the precious moment, their heirs prove your imagination false?

Scavenger of the people, envisioning bass tones created from an instrument entirely human in composition.

Delicate rapture, cast amongst a cabernet of excitement…I’m

Shocked to find, so many aligned to witness the end…

Every Exterior Has An Interior Too

Aba doobie doo-wop a bee-bop a leeway and a Mack truck driving through the Calamine drips that caress in a flood of pink, cooling the fleshy rose tachometers ever straining to rationalize the constant upticks that scintillatingly chime in perfect unison; all things considered, performing under great duress is truly an art form, one that isn’t nearly revered enough.

When the heart beats in corners, ninety-degrees, perpendicularly angling, with hands made from broken rods of doohickey’s with their fiberglass design—reels, reeling, silver-screened, cones indicating the accident that was—while irises radiate in bloom, shining through a darkness overly exposed, ether, ore, mining the ship, minding the tide, galleys, gullies, valleys, druthers and galoshes dripping with the wetness of a withering rill—all beneath a skyline brittle in an unfavorable decline of will.

Solvencies do not mean you have found the answers that you desire.

Trivial does not mean minor, minor does not mean minute, nor do the miniscule expressions that momentarily find themselves soothing sores through the salves sealing those infected open pores—all the while indicating something much larger than what this deception of the skin could ever possibly provoke within.

Radial tread upon a sports car’s frame, blood red coat to a leathered interior of yellow. (Without thinking the 5.0 knows instantly who to blame) Shining, glossy exteriors cover and hide, the rotting premises within the motor itself.  Here and there and everywhere, one can run as fast as they can, yet never find the ability to escape what is, and continues to, writhe inside.  A pretty design can only cover a corrupt floor plan for so long before the stairwells rust and the plumbing leaks.  To which, even still, we refrain from properly diagnosing the true meaning, instead, we use words like fixer-upper, as if that alone, eradicates the pressures and the problems that we must carry home.  And we do, exactly this, don’t we? 

Oh well, you probably don’t care anyway?  Well…am I right or am I right?

A Guided Stroll

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You watch and determine day from night

You linger past the moonlight’s afterglow, well into the promenade looming behind a crested pounce of wave

Evenings are but intermediaries to you

And your centurion’s cage is, at most times, evenly divided into quadrangular partitions of sky

You watch A hour half past six or a

Five months from now—wherein, affixed the

Light stays as strikingly as ever remembered

Or if noncommittal, than your alternations harp accordingly—

To where a number of factors alit the present face, to which, of course, your eye catches each fractured toil and fragmented stint,

You are born

You are beneath

You are besides

And you’ve always been between

Yet it is here where you allow your form to follow form and not in that “some other time of year,” where flesh glistens by moonlight, dances it’s hypnotic tides across the serenity of it’s mystic shores

It isn’t always always fair, just, deserved, proper, adequate, moral, ethical or right. Yet you evaluate all things as if they are all cut from identical tapestries

It may not even be considered plausible to the well-magnified test of eye. You not only understand this, but appreciate it as well.    

You always seem to deliver us the current’s time of day

You notice and then proceed to oversee the fourteen lights and you remember that twelve of these originate a lake; one from a river and the other is a long and winding stream.  

You hear a swift sound.  It scurries quickly across the rocks

You hear the rasping quicken but do not inquire upon its source. 

You are not curious, for you are fully aware. 

You know it is but a sound.  You know rats abound this place, as they nest their families near the grates of drains.  You fear them not and understand them completely.

You declare that they’ve been unjustly defined. Your posture alleviates apprehension.  Your loving tone quells the fears that may have otherwise stirred within.  You indicate that while they are truly a rambunctious lot, it is only that they are consumed by restlessness and are but solely happy to be, invigorated by a life that does not ignite until only after darkness has fully blanketed the light of day.

You bend over slightly.

As you do, your robe sways softly in the salty air.

You reach down and return aligned.

You are smiling as you hold the smallest of them.

It fits within the palm of your hand.  It is malnourished.  You provide it the sustenance it needs.

You take hold of me.  Your grip is firm and strong.  It is comforting to hold.  You lead us down the break-wall, taking us to its very point. You see my reluctance and whisper to my soul, “follow me and you will not fall, for I love you as I love each and all.” 

You disappear, yet I still feel your hand in mine. As the surf tickles heel to toe, you’ve filled me with all I’ll ever need to know.

Later today, stop on over to D’Verse where the exploration into point of view continues with this week’s Meeting The Bar.

The Fraudulent Hero and The Relationship Between Happenstance and Happiness

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Prepackaged pocket wraiths

Born to haunt this evening….

Discarded unto disconcerting haunts,

Ratcheting a confession from some

Fraudulent honk…

Feeling disdain before purgation’s urge

And you then realize

You’re aware of your positioning point

Where here you rest, amongst the aisle

Of modulated remedies and vanities benign

A vocation is born when a villain is formed/one to rise against/one to clash bone to sword/all for journey’s sake/all for jaunts you feel impended to “must-make”/a valediction to, unwrapping our intrinsic resting state

Drams of forgiveness

Awaiting the hero’s

Return, who only ever

Flourishes when departing

Vision’s clear

He’s a heroic chap, one who takes nothing and gives

Much more back, but you see, he’s got a death wish,

So don’t give him more credit than he’s due, for he

Does it for his own desires, caring not for how his ends

Mesh with your wish for a savior.

And while he certainly cherishes hope, he buys no stock

In what it represents, for he’s smelled the scent far too many

Times to realize it was a figment of congestion there that he’d find. So if your mind sees him as this grand executioner of all that’s bad, so be it, so be it may, be the only prayer he’ll allow this day…. but in such an era of unyielding duress, you’ll take what you can, and that he’ll give, willingly, as he needs it too.

The shadow can be used for evil, yes it most devilishly can.  However, what is so often omitted from the lore one reads their children, strangely enough before they try to sleep at night is that the shadows renew at the dearth of day, yet rely upon the light, entirely.  So, when utilized for one’s might, it makes no difference if the user is wearing black or white, for the shadow cares not about wrong or right, he simply is what he is and how he gets what he wants, is of no burden or consequence paid.  It is true that a shade can never be your friend, but certainly it can be your arm of vengeance if so chosen to be.  And the hero, the hero’s hero, will so succinctly use it just the same, as any other object to cause fright, any item there to play, anything that will help him chase away the demons and the fear, giving back the prominence to a era desperate for the light…so what if it’s the near-absence of, that allows the day to triumph over night…