Terraforming

Part I.

On days bearing the consistencies eminently so sound as they do this sector of time’s stage, the coat of the gray squirrel, bushy tail and all, blends unperceptively into the shaded horizon that is quite often found upon such fall forays.  In regards to resonation, a prism cannot encounter beams colorful enough to de-cloud these evocations from the being hidden deeply beneath my shell.  To me, during such instances, I find a keen relation, a kinship to, those men and women, who bear the countenances of the faceless victims, that comprise many of the characters within Foucault’s masterful tome.

 Part II.

In regards to the bellicose and vain, I fray the skirt that bears appellation to this couture’s claim.  Vagrancies of exposition, trifle through, traipsing cross the valance of charm in space, as encountered chancily, when spoken through those lost rhythms, in circumference, of a singular destiny spun, by the marsupial nightshade weeping saltine solvencies, over bended page, cross-haired and fileted, by the dampening fleece, crooked both in depth and scheme, whereas such tonalities bellow beneath the wherewithal spun fibrously, masking, completely the couplets coined, compellingly fleeing the soundscape rendered by a dissatisfactory spectacle hindered by slumbering parameters.  

Part III.

Within diameter’s foraging lines of spatiality, brays, both beckoned and intravenously embossed by superficial undertows, form in fragility, through the colloquial jaunts, too often spent in the prominence teemed through the professing vocalizations emitted, by those aligned through a spiritual subservience, uninhibitedly impelling canvasses their usual spread, flared out as deceptive turns were rife to stir.  It is not fairness that guides the devious, in search, always seeking, to barter their tomorrows, by exchanging hungers with the pauper’s guild. And therein lays the covenant created, where a hunger steeped in tangibility is traded for a hunger for the power.  The feast presented to these malnourished indigents, was rightfully deemed by he that sought ultimate power, for he that provides sustenance to the underfed, forever more, shall be deemed righteous in such people’s eyes.  This spectacular arraignment, in and of itself, promulgates the effectiveness of strategic posturing.

Part IV.

Herein, are but cacophonies, wastelands of effigies, asymmetric to the plotter’s quilts that coquettishly commingle adjacently, to the barren nook predicating the sprawl of vales. Over-extension, brings about the perceived timelessness of equation, a hallucinatory combination, an elixir bred to inspire, upon brindled spits, the stirring favor, that through it’s entrancing sensuality of scent are effectively useful ploys, time and time to come; easy are the hungered, blameless are such whose flesh falls in pronation’s guile, for to such martyrdom, is as has been, since the birthed touch of desperation. The conflagrations found carry greatness in their appeals, where, through timid reciprocity, our forbearers insinuated different meanings for journeys of identical design, and each within such foundries would behave, undoubtedly finding their beings swayed by one’s sense of justification deemed appropriately.  Distracted then become, the voracious sprawls of signatory resignation, the first formation of the grand design, that, now, herein, such minutiae, is revelatory in what truth is finally availed.  The separatists and their voiceless apparitions, ooze forth a morose temper.  Although they choose not to speak prominently before the court of decisive gains, they are evolutionarily superior to most creatures to grace this frosted earth.  Undercut by the arrogance of this burgeoned being, they make promises to nature herself, where their every forward movement, will be implemented for, aside from sustaining their own needs, the purpose counteracting all efforts motioning by these architects.   They are not a people who typically join in any side where revolution is the likelihood of outcomes, yet these so called creators, speak of promises and prosperities to come, are not speaking to their underlying plan.  The hungered and misrepresented only see routes to fulfillment and ask not the needed questions, they care not from where these beings originated, and as to why, out of all the lands, they chose our dwelling space for this promised cradle of theirs.  Underneath the political, is a devious deception here at play, and if not for these wood-folk, would be conducted without opposition.  What appears too fortunate, unfortunately is often quite it’s opposite.  What detriments seem relegated to subtlety alone, are often the monsters we choose not to face, yet imminently will be guided by.  They choose to ravage our mother, extract her nutrients for their own behalf.  Certainly they will blanket this world with their veils of prosperity, creating a time unlike any other experienced before, especially for these folk that become the spine of their infantry toward any who dare question the rationale provided to.  Any question of uprising, and stir of those that demand truthful understanding, are squelched before alterations could deter the plans they have set forth. 

Part V.

This is the monster, the beast unspoken, they that appear of no lands known, and bear tremendous gifts, with but a sparing repayment owed.  It is these that travel from system to system, terraforming habitats to their own necessities, sucking clean what makes this world our own.  The further along the balance blossoms toward, the gifts dwindle, and when their true appearances are finally shown, upending will then, be impossible to guard against. 

Shared with Open Link Night at D'Verse, where every Tuesday the pub opens up at 3pm and all poets are invited to link up any type of poem to share with the world.  And for those who might not be in the sharing mood, well, that is also perfectly acceptable, simply hop on in, pull up a chair and get your fill on some of the best poetry on the web.

As The Flash Deceives the Eye to Feel

listen to ‘As The Flash Deceives the Eye to Feel’ on Audioboo

Muzzle, nuzzling moist, emitting light

Unto a flashpoint, a halo torn, ripped

Away from whence were born.  Siren’s

Flare, deafening stare, a shadow cries

From deep nowhere, eclipsing pathos

Upon steins well poured, as the sated

Lay bloat till morn. Grazed, snipped—tongue

tipped, teeth gripped, glazed eyes, rolled back in.

Ordeals only remain when remembered as real, and all

The mares at night, forever shall, ride away as

Dawn ascends upon, this, a pasture of the flesh.

Rainfall scatters as dense brush peaks, turning silent

As blind thoughts reap, tricking, tracking, the mind to

Play, with those fears you’ve saved away, for times

When only self-loathing will do, the trick to reinforce

How much you hate what lives in you.

Repaint the partitions.  Anoint the buried wood.  Remove the

Stains and all else that never should, live another hour that

Instills the reinforcing of any remaining shards of pain.

Of Porcelain and Snow

of bark,

a daggered dress

remains

teacup stains of pearl,

of shard,

a charcoal tint

blessing

marbled stones in gaze

of flame,

a wick—blustered

root—wrenched

tress—stamped to palm 

of clay  

a ruffled wing

plucking

sky-dress tattered pink

of puddle—

rubbered soles

skitter

citrine rippling wake

 Over at D'Verse they're hosting their FormForAll and this week the prompt deals with the connection between classical Chinese and Japanese poetry.  Blue Flute guest posted a tremendous write-up and asked us to compose a piece using tangible imagery.  I did my best here, and not entirely sure how this piece came to be, as  I started writing about fluffy yellow rabbits, easter-eggs and green straw and then somehow this disturbing piece of the uncaring/unseeing eyes of society, ignorant to those desperately in need of help.  Quite frankly, not sure if I should be concerned or not.   

Also, side-note here, I think I fixed the word-verification thing that I guess somehow appeared at my site.  So, if someone could just drop a yes or no in with their comment, if, in-fact, it has been pulled.  Thanks   

THErapist

lush upholstery—

silver coin buttoned trim,

A violent submersion—

evoking shadow’s sight

stucco-spattered ceiling white—

diffusions scabrous tainting’s scrawled

retro accents paneled walls

daggering deep the squelched shield

behind a glassy pane, a clockwork’s revealed

praying for the cuckoo’s song

sixty minutes long—

paid to see …

What kind of bad or crazy I must be…

          

She was a Society Girl

Sweater full of moistened canvas

Stuccoed despite apparent light bulb’s shine

Glowing still from embers hauled

Despite the light of Cupid’s torch, elated mirth soon doth falls 

In glass, trat she fears

Glossy straits comp laced with tears

As clocks conceal adjunct routes

To resurrection cove, she dreams about

Lounged back, cleft to tears

 Rejuvenated ampersands still in dread

O’er withered debate she so oft fed

While extensions shudder in their wait

 Bleeding time, rending haste

 For tides to turn the badgers heel

Into slippers forged in nostalgic reel

Strictly speaking to the lace concocts,

Sextants distance shall grow lost

In games, even purloiners grow weary from     

Where once recipes fresh and sweet

A maiden grows old and bleak

Without suitors to call or prey

She’s left faceless and afraid

As memories choose to fade

For Which I Bleed

Several hours have since past

Since I last counted the days

Since you left my side

Broken, like a crippled child

Alone, a brand new world revealed,

From the womb they get thrust right in

Taught forever about wrong and right

Then they get diagnosed, something is not alright,

 The Parents are by the child, at its side,

As they bury conviction, suppress emotions,

Weeks may pass, months perhaps,

Where their inner anger clouds decision,

Constructing rationale for irrational thought,

And just about this time, these ideas start making sense,

To have no choice, no other option

To feel a sense of failure,

For first the self, and then the child,

Soon it travels to all extensions in your life,

Finally that feeling of failure turns to blame,

It’s everybody else’s fault to which everything falls apart

But the infant does not know, cannot understand,

And derision it is deadly to the touch, deadlier without,

To the child tears and sobs become the sounds and sights of life,

At least to the one they know, they life they will soon recognize,

Themselves as the center, the cause,

Just looking for a reason to be wrong,

But that comfort never comes,

First comes reflection, then a connection, finally an acceptance,

At this point rehabilitation is years long and rivers wide,

For all the misunderstanding they’ve since mastered,

And from each tear they’ve ever crafted,

But these ones are still able for rescue,

Then there are the others,

Those who’ve lost all comfort from a tear,

They’ve since moved to closets in the dark,

Removing so much of what is real,

They create a detached composite, a comfort zone,

All this pain easily evaded, if the parent chose to do what mattered most,

Instead of allowing fear to dictate what matters to them most,

If they only did their job, at least if they tried to,

The outcome much different perhaps, the child’s life changed a fact

The child’s life changed, a fact

In situations like this, for example,

I shed my coat and extend an arm,

Where the simplest of embraces to the most desolate of faces,

May extinguish the residue from a life of harm,

These all and many more, are but a few of the reasons, for which I bleed