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?

Broken Template Rendered Quarantine

As the quartz hourglass defines its prey, quarantine’s in masquerade—Dominoes of translucence follow, then fade,

Portraying the crux of the wherewithal, primordially available prior to the blisters ceded control upon the coarse estrangement built sequentially by the brazened blade—

Within, lives the corridor, a gentrified expression of what still stands, the erector set compounding ammunition detail amidst the sword-swallowers delineating the scales of would-have-been and shall-not-be. Diminutions seethe in fallacy.

Anguished portals to suspect realms hover in influential admonishment, paralyzing virtue through its severed layers of involvement—a condition piquing the curiosity of the cloaked abandoner—twisting in wrathful formations, writhing, incessantly ravaging the promise in which the sworn premise vowed to apprehend. A broken template of scarred vexations

Teardrops stain the mahogany—biting nail files, awakening the disenfranchisement of the communal strands—standards plummet when balance is plundered by the most unnecessary contamination—a scourge flourishing from beneath this existential tenderness.

   

Retracing The Steps Once Taken

Lengthening the horizon, debris commences astronomically, like painted dodecahedrons magnetically induced through immediate moments of hypocritical delusions otherwise mentioned as lingering afterthoughts.

Solidification of the earth and sky, blending blue skies with the blackening flirtation smitten by the acupuncture points of the densest night. Pilfering septets from kings uncrowned. Dangling hippodromes, stretching as far as the dilated pupils can comprehend, vigilantly cling to the forgotten expressions, otherwise known as the finalization of the askance void.

Drinking from the enigmatic cup of lavender while paying closest attention to all the future steins congregating upon the smallest ledge of real estate; these soldiers are filled with the most brilliant confidence, the most exploratory brilliance of purpose even as their insides vibrantly coagulate their plasmatic contents—coloring the panorama with a unique combination of artistic flamboyancy.  Here revolve the vivid portraitures—reds, as they ascend most pleasantly from having merged and swirled so decadently with the deepest triangulations of what would otherwise be predestined to be known as plagiaristic murals of obsidian sunsets and decentralized feelings of overture; spinning, and spinning, the sensation of tingling numbness enters as would any self-respecting party crasher, even after being labeled as the man who self-loathing was first named after. Enter the roll call, the soft and ever-echoic resemblance of slow-motion verbal typography—the lasting impression, a salted wound hidden conveniently by the cloaked marauders first hailing from the frozen lands most north of where the contemporary maps fail to define. Had there ever before been a more contrived notion of perfect balance, then that pristine moment, the one located immediately before the compounding principles of exhaustion sound their toll unto the hallowed morn, light would know nothing of where the scars first appeared.  The days of the calendar streamline across the foreheads of the silent.  All thoughts careen.  All dreams and fluctuations multiply.  Every hereafter is after here, an alienated mutation, one where the tongue is far too ashamed to attempt any retracing of root causes, any semblance of recounting what perhaps transpired while the present shell we call our physical limitation lay dusted over by that most subliminal of curtain calls, is internally known only as an altered fragmentation of a fragment still-birthed once before.  We then conjugate our assumptions; each non-verbally aware of the others desires for gelid anonymity, all the while remaining reverently comatose, both in spirit and of stature. But still, we smile, for we continued to breath rhythmically.  Ignorant of the finite details and the navigational circumference connecting the exterior and interior, deeply from within a euphoric treasure trove of experience coddles us through devotional retrospection, fore the tender flesh is unable to object at the present podium when not prepared.  Therefore, only one true conclusion can be claimed:  Calamity, too, was once a blessed child, born as the sons and daughters both, of some other landscape upon some variant precipice of strophe.   

Over at D'Verse, Karin Gustafson(aka Manic Daily), is hosting this week's Poetics.  She opened up the floor for delving into the many meanings once can take into account when working with the word Trip.  I, of course, went with a more abstract prose style here, which is only one of the many, many avenues one could have taken.  Be sure to stop by the pub and see just how many different directions the poets of D'Verse venture down.

Found From Within The Talon's Side

A flagrant volition—a violation, an action and a scowl—determined aggravation from the tongue of pawn—intrigued by the rapturous ideology presented in the late—by an allegorical phantasm of chance, an echoic beauty—one whom not even time could prevent the inviting allegation to conceive it’s concocted arrhythmia to the weather-worn hopes of one as he—

 Held in awe, by a desperate princess, bearing fruitful presents and an unholy proclamation of some love-stricken scheme that preyed endearingly, to every impossible shard of dream ever awoken from—

Encased was a promise, a scented sentence if detected, for this vow, was considerable in all it stood for to the two at hand, yet dynamically catastrophic by those in opposition.  This love, between two such as these, was in fact, in direct disobedience of the caste each were forced to lead their lives upon.

Sufferance would indeed be remarked. Damnation would, in all effect, be set in spades, even as twin bounties corrugate between the sky and all the Heavens it protects, and the reams of suet still freshly stifled, as the heart’s contents remained—where still set the bone, strangling upon the saltiest of teardrops ever wrung.

Vitality was denied through end of breath. Parturient strands unabashed by the chaotic consequence at bay—unintended for, yet persisting nonetheless, were its strides—a collateral

Striation, bound by sinew’s string, looping through the bitter entanglements of the amnesia stricken torso to which the factions fortuitously release, divide—segregating lower lip, pierced by steel and ember and the upper manifestations—the mutations estranged by first sin’s blaspheming kiss.

Protracted involvement. Sacrilege upon the altar of the

Withered. Flesh of songbird, broken wing—yet clung it had, dearly, paying ultimate price to perform it’s duty, clinging tightly with pride, onto the message placed within its’ talon’s

Side.

Tuesday is once again upon us, and that, of course, brings about the greatest night of poetry around.  Open Link Night is a world-wide phenomenon, where lover's of poetry get to read, listen to, write and share poetry of all type.  Make sure you stop by D'Verse starting today at 3pm.  Cheers!