Inkwell Runneth Dry

A tornado haunts the wind stream

With a riveting polarity the torso is severed at the point of exemption.  In the midst of violent acrimony, the jagged lens of an anguished shadow reveres the shuttering flow of arithmetical limbs unadorned.  Upon a barren sunset, the tragic reminder of totalities betrayed, emanate, yet never emancipate, those demons harnessed to the tautest of sinew.

Razor blades showcasing their discontent to those of disconnected premises— preambles used to offer a free vial of gaslight to any outsider delicate enough to witness the upheaval anon and still remain focused as strongly as they are at the present moment. Oh, the afterbite!!!

Lifeblood changes when immersed in bubbling rivers of grief.

                 

             Diagnostic postscripts remain unresolved.  This dilemma is for no reason other than a sudden, yet momentary lack of ink.  Consignation must unfortunately be delayed until the morning after the morrow.  Such contrivances and misgivings occur whence the inkwell runs dry.

The Rambling Nature Of Love

Bear with me, this may take some time…

You’re the ache within my veins

Screaming for pain, that only your

Love can make, each stir creates a

Wake, an apology it forsakes, bringing forth, a

Forgiveness set to crush, all of everything

I’ve let melt into rust, a collapse unto dust,

allowed to rot upon, those vexing focal frowns,

that every malady swings upon, from that tallest vine to the smallest tract of ground in view.

It’s own beliefs, merits never known, knowledgeable only as the prismatic ghost, poking where the light won’t grow, lancing dreams in the mid of night, when the sounds that stir remind the sleeping beauty to stay dreaming deep, for if they awake then and there then the bed will be a bed, and the room will convert form CGI to plain poster board reality

Risen up as smoke, all because, in you

I can see clearly through, as clearly as clear can be, a soft, soft touch, a caress to a hug, super-special, secret softness that is most defined by a gentle sense of specially designed and blissfully evoked images of Gentility

Then what remains, reminds you of each the scattered symbols that drown in honey-filled containers meant for tea or cocoa, each, in their own way, reminders of what’s alive in me

It’s a grace that you create, a mask torn down,

Eroded from view, all because, all because of

You and all the you things you ever do, truly you and only you, unique as is the individual defined, the twist of rope the taut nature of the natural vine, whereas before, empty on the floor, now I Know, I truly feel I do, so assuredly so I feel I grasp the feel of what is known, that freshly painted bliss-filled container of swaddling flow…

But what I never could understand, is that the touch of another can be so greatly misunderstood, where it’s not understanding in one’s guess, it’s not distilled under duress or under the boundaries and refrains of isolated freedoms clasped in clef, treble-charged bass, swimming through the tonsils and the tones, making the pretty splashy splashes found in fanciful liquidity, in the ever fluid consistency of wave-bound bounty….(sometimes we drift to unknown waterways…sometimes we find Atlantis, unnerved yet amazed, and within we adventure much, to the point, that we then grow the gills that forever keep us free, yet only know permitted to exist awake beneath the water, here, in this mythical land, a place where kelp replaces sand, and fish reinvent the man….and then you>…)  REM…not the band…not the band…no countries free…no place to stand…no frequencies to ask upon, when

in the passion of the caress, we are found, yet the deep remnants it then sets, protects, protests, growls and grows, grooming forth the tiniest of tears, moistening the dryness within, casting all that was astray, burgeoning forth another day, leaving the past to be, not gone, as it’s good to be, but remembered is how we dream, how we grasp concepts that be still the vast, small, small sprinklings of the gold that drapes the flow of shade, the whim of words, the wisp of love, the feeling hat everything has been altered in an act, a scene that has yet to falter but still, in as much as could be expected to be understood, a conscience presents the mulch It’s marsh, the march of the conundrum from rock and hill to shelf, high up, way up high, and there you realize just how much has truly changed…

It’s impossible not to see, all the dreams you steal from sleep, birthed, awakened to me here, and although I can not properly dictate, the how’s and the why’s, I do know, that in you something beautiful awaits, something I never wish to become separated from. 

Here, now, my cheeks writhe in pleasure pain, for it’s frame now stretches as never had it seen, upwards to the eyes, my frown is now denied, all because, all because, from you, something surreal, something like a dream, something like nothing else, something I cannot do justice to, a heaven intrinsic with each thought, a haze I hadn’t earned, yet alive it blurs, a burning dagger made of wood, that is flailed about and about you flail until the hilt is ash and your hand is burnt…from the pain it all comes crumbling, feta cheese to it’s salad wondering where eccentricities turn up the heat upon the cold and deveined still lifeless breathing of a gill unchanged…where clichéd wisdom permeates the air we breathe, the recreations of a long limbered legality…here, then here, and now, we find the sow that stuffs it’s snout into the trough of life, pulling up muck that it has the uncanny knack to come up from and snort a smile all it’s own, a home, a delicious treasure there within, a page, a sensation. Yet swine are swine and they’ve been said to eat the dead…

All the world’s a stage, but a stage I’ve never played, not a single time, not a one, where a character with such depth was born, despite care + actor = character, where a dandling locale bends upon, the curtsy to the crowd, a sad, sad sappiness thus it creates, a happy moment whose beginning never ends, whose contagions spread without a defensive system in place to plot revenge, to build upon what’s earth to toil, what minds be clicked and how quickly we must jump and then tell me about the dictation…TELL ME ABOUT THE DICTATION THEN….those voiced over blurbs that speak for us, to some universal premium channel viewed from the aliens out in space…( Aliens in transit, a deviated course, where the habits of alien viewers are more closely examined)

Here every breath becomes a clairvoyant smile, every nosebleed a monologue, something stirred without the verb, something language must observe, relating still, for this has to be that feeling other’s had cited years before, when they spoke of love and the deepest sense of devotion there twinkled, gleaming from the misshapen corners of the eyes

     For this, and all that offers the antithesis of clarity, which strangely, somehow breeds an understanding that is seen as such is known, the fragrant chambers calmed to glow, each ember rising to the stack, out the brick into the darkened firmament of the sky, out towards the moon, all the while the daybreak cries, the rooster crows, unknowing that a few hours from that point, he will be killed for his crown, not for food, but so some suburban house-dad can attempt to heal his wounded knee…

This trip is blissful.  This journey is keen.  This raptured melody has become the whole hem to seam.  The how that you wait upon, the shunning of the golden sun, and the clouds that blockade your tan today… (How) *(Where)

You and everything you do, just in being who and what you are in possession of, to me, each and all of these, things and more, things I do adore, those which I cannot ignore, for if the levees break, the song will shake, the foundations that reckon whim, will become, painted much more abstractly than any seaside lilt played upon and by some sot that retains the hard-boiled aspects ration of a devil in disguise, commingling with the detective that drinks every drop remaining into the cask is emptied and the wood is dry…like a neon painted western moonlit sky

It deepens each day, it is s a fashion freshly explored, all the tears are not of pain, but with ecstasy comes the calming sense of shame, the quell upon the ridge of temple, the disassembled furniture bought to place beside the fire, so you and your kind can cuddle and spoon, all the while the smoke rises high, high, higher…creating signals some other watcher will undoubtedly try to decipher, when no message was cleverly constructed, as you were just a man in love, who happened to stoke the logs within the flames, ignorant of what messages you might betray, yet you keep doing it, you keep doing it…oblivious you are to all who cling to your smoke, not concerning your mettle with the reality of the walking stick, that, when you run free within my veins, a drug like no other ever limps as it hasn’t truly had the needfulness to…

Each touch is a symptom of the cause, every drift is both a wisdom and its applause… for you, however, it is alive in everything that you do, invoking proof through distinction, reveling in those waking moments, those groggy briefs set assail during dawn’s initial voyage, where in me, this becomes, like it also does for each and everyone of you, something that must be repeated, something that one must relate to…fore the person you so easily destroyed, has been replaced by every shadow you’ve so swiftly learned to rationally abhor… the man is no longer able to break bread with prophets, yet now he is able to escape, dancing tango with the guardians and the saints…he is now able to enjoy, now able to absorb, all the signs, each direction and all its points in between…

Each domain there is to find, a victim so happily interred, in this plush rhythmic patterning of the divine, a space that’s not yours, not mine, but ours, ours alone to grow, ours alone to know, different from that time, different from that clock that plays a new hand each and every day.

There is a difference that punctuates the frame, a happiness without shame, a mass without shape yet structured as developed as it may one day soon become… it is a light to drown out the dim, a fracture set before it spreads, a voice, a voice alive, a voice within, a rattled waver cauterized by the din that is no longer mine alone…. for my heart you now wholly own, and it will be, from this day forever forth, that I am in your grasp, in your palm each of these precious hours alone, completely alone, without disclaimer or clot, a bond not able to be bought, a risk as dangerous as it’s safe, an alteration to the setting, to the space of time, believing your knuckles will never curl, knowing faithfully that a fist you will not create, for I’m in your trust, I’m here with you…I’m here with you know, I’m here…

On the other end of the world there is this character, one that has never changed, the same alignments ever known, still show, still appear, no matter the light, no matter the angle…and yet, it improvises in every single way, where all one needs to do is watch here and now, as whenever you come into view, you always are, alive internal, inside me there, this place I’ve known so well, this space I, er..he, has learned so well, the spell and sound playable here and there in this and then, ten thousand thoughts per each twenty breaths, breathes, exhaled out….about the time it takes, for a new second to reenter the sanctity of the house…

While discombobulated and corruptibly askew, you, sprinkle light the way you do, unto a darkened stage and the blankest page, where force you do, the enemy to fall in ruin, for a villain without ability to hurt, is but an extra in denial, and this is no villain worthy of revocation…for evil, in this party dress, has lost it’s will, ceded control of every scared second of every hour, resulting in the truism shared, where the preacher bleated to his congregation, that the enemy is running away tail scared between the legs, and our light rises somehow in the rigors of it’s wake…

The reclamation may take time, but without the villain’s stranglehold of power, the outcome is but a formality, a formality, a formality…of time.

And, I return to the place I first began this vision quest…

You’re the blush upon my pale

Skin, my veil, what’s always been

Worn, that’s alive, yet hidden well

Behind the scenes, awake yet never

Lucid enough to tell, ever dreaming,

Enrapt only from your spell, now I

See, I can tell, the world I’ve missed,

The feelings I’ve let leave

Away, so close, ever close, yet just

Inches from far, just inches from far, all this

And more, is what’s recast, retooled, retaught, the

Reawakening your enchantment has brought back

Whereas hollowness lives pronounced, it felt as

If it was all there ever could be, yet, what a disorienting

Hammer, when it is found, it is when found, the love that smashes your desolation to the scattered facets beneath your ground

Solace is bitter, yet this is sweet.  Mourning is cathartic, yet

So is love.  Therein exist armadas.  Herein live life’s fleets, junkets of commingling restrictions that never knew an obstacle it could make more obscure. Withered grows the panacea of pain, yes withered grows the panacea of pain, observed that’s too often worn. It grows worried, withered and frayed. But we’re not concerned with pain…the withered growth of panaceas pained…  Yet, here and now, the passage continues, for within you, I’ve been found.

And the dream, the journey, the trek and trail…each and all gives way to the realities found within the missions that fate has provided each of us, the huts, the houses, the closets, the castles, the cottages, the riverbeds, the shanty’s the shacks, the silos… here and now….

So you did bear with me…?

     I told you it would take some time…

Are you more confused than you were when we started, before I uttered that first bear…

RAMBLE RAMBLE RAMBLE in the pleasure of the presence of what good love can do…

The roadmap of...

Had sometime just now to sit down and do a stream of consciousness piece, which happens to be the Meeting The Bar prompt over at D'Verse, where the talented Victoria is hosting the pub.

computer pages, where preambles are not made solely for constitutionals they are ever lingering around the black harvest of this fruitless vine and then another connection will form, and the repercussions of tomato insects will burrow through the veritable vegetation and it’s unenviable momentary state of squish

TacohotsalsabeansriceBurritoFlowerJointpainCanOfsoupFireFlamesRedOrangeYellowBrownEarthDirtSoilStainWashBleachCleanDirtyShowerSoapShampooBlindnessReddeningTearsSaltOceanWaterFishLifeBeneath the wavesTidalDriftsLost boatsNever foundNever in one pieceBuoys underSubmergedSubmarineswithSubstituteTeachersparingApplesintociders, corebasicrudimentary, principles not principals, no friends inChalkboards, blackboards, draw,eraser smoke fills the lungs, white, chalk, dust EPA, memorandum, write, wipe, cleanScraping noise, irritating to the ear yet something undermines the mind as the miserable little children throw barbs and airplanes from their soiled seats of wood, connected like they’ll walk away desks of education, little brats that berate because they’ve been told their entire life that they are upper crust, elite, bread winners for society, they are the future, and everyone owes them something, we are their walking boards their mats upon the muddy road, or perhaps they act in such despicable mannerisms because they overcompensate for the feelings of what happens when they go home, they either believe the berating’s they receive are but normal transparency or they are just vicious little kids, learning the power of hate, so they then transfer that information to those who want no part of the matter, and these are the teachers, these are the masters of the educational wars, these are those with most influence these are those who teach you hate from an early age

Something, yes those types of things you never forget, they simple blossom into a festering wound that simply eats a little more of your soul into until you are one big powder keg with a lit fuse ever following you along until one day, one day whenever, now, later, now and later, juicy hard on teeth but then zen, nothing left, but that fuzzy place between air and earth and walking quickly we see the stars that could have been taking a tour, like those Christmas tales, where one person realizes how different things would be without his or her ever coming to be in the first place and by knowing how miserable others would be, you understand that your misery is reasonable, might as well be a martyr for the rest of civilization and all the great people you help spawn, just because you are able to withstand the brutality place upon you but inconsiderate and self-scared little children in grown up shoes, walking a sidewalk meant to still be grassy fields, where a house was would have been a little lake for grazing cattle to feed upon, enjoying the nice sunny sky and the whispering of the breeze….it’s still here, but it no longer whispers, yet yells and screams all damn night, and in the dreams of thought, I often pray I’d see only light, but awake to realize another day and another night is yet to come, on the docket, all lined up for whatever is tossed at you, then, perhaps you relish in this thought, perhaps one day you’ll own that deflector shield and watch the tables turn and the fortunes realign and understand the pane of glass that ever seems cracked but never breaks completely not until someone shoves their entirety at forces too fast to imagine breaking into little shards scattering all over the carpet, laying there in wait for unsuspecting naked feet to step on them, only knowing what has happened until they are at that point where a bloody mass now stillborns itself out from under souls of toes, trapped in a glass house with only bricks to throw and then and then and then and then we can hope these thens then come to become other then not other thans buytradesellstopshortcutloss losewin tie even fly away to the Shangri-la of tomorrow’s light and understand, when one dreams, often times the meaning is not understood until some other  morning’s light.

The 325 Rules you thought you never knew you didn't need to ever know

The first rule inherent to a properly working windmill

Two rules inherent to organizing chop-sticks

Three rules inherent to gardening scarabs from underneath molehills

Four rules inherent to disguising your dog as a tadpole on the thirty-second hour of the thirty-second day

Five rules inherent to indefensible paranoia

Seven rules inherent to those seeking a higher

Eight rules inherent to Stab-In-The-Back Wisdom

Nine rules inherent to Shark-Tank Sympathy

Ten rules inherent to remaining invisible while caught in a deluge of acid rain

Eleven rules inherent to universal clarity

Twelve rules inherent to bleeding fire from the coldest heart

Thirteen rules inherent to becoming a hitman in an organization so infamous that card sharks commiserate with clerics, pedophiles with politicians and where administrators of higher education facilitate just as much energy, on what’s possibly included in the ice cream truck salesman’s secret recipe for fudge freezy#3, as they do when one of their most promising pupils declares openly on her facebook account that she’s decided to drop out of school due to the fact that her twelve year old neighbor just made a billion dollars selling cigarette butts on e-bay.

Fourteen rules inherent to making contact with whomever answers the call

Fifteen rules inherent to watching the men who stare at goats without asking yourself what’s the point

Sixteen rules inherent to apologizing to the fine actors within the previously written rule while holding a wearing a piñata suit in the backyard of a rather large Christmas celebration composed of an uncountable number of Chihuahuan children.

Seventeen rules inherent to breaking up with your pet rock

Eighteen rules inherent to seeing phenomenon in every and all circumstances related to telekinetic memory loss and big stuffed yellow birds won fairly at the not-so-local amusement park

Nineteen rules inherent to disassembling an already disassembled automaton that got overheated during an unwinnable debate with a forklift over the value of accepting a million crates of oil in lieu of the million dollars that could be had by winning the then current lottery jackpot

Twenty rules inherent to standard deviation when the squares just cannot, under any circumstances, find it in them to be mean

Twenty-one rules inherent to eating three Quadruple cheeseburgers with bacon stuffed buns, without ever having to move your lips

Twenty-two rules inherent to becoming a bookie that specializes in giving odds on the National Paint Drying League championships

 Twenty-three rules inherent to losing one’s mind and then finding it, only to lose it once more

Twenty-four rules inherent to documenting the fallacies of gossips years after the rumors had been forgotten

Twenty-five rules inherent to thinking up some really stupid ideas, making rules out of them and getting people to read them