Incomplete Surrender

Sometimes odd reactions occur.

Most of the time I can tell the difference though,

Between the real and the brought upon.

However,

Occasionally

A blurring will occur

Transporting the flesh

To

Some mystically warped dream landscape

And despite the fantastical whimsies within,

The mind continues to play tricks upon

The warbling words playing soundtrack to the world

Once in a while the scenery is painted like nothing seen before.  Here, truth falls victim to perception.  The mind wants to feel and thusly feels.  The vividly sculpted canvasing created, spread naked, for the larger-than-life states of vibrancy deluged upon— the mixtures of grey clouds and colorful mountain ranges merge, forming some abstraction you need to touch. And touch you must.

One of the most common situations is composed, as a story would be by a competent fantasy illustrator.

The sword is firmly placed within my hands.  The blade gleams the heaven’s and the crested jewels upon the hilt glimmer when falsities near

Often we have sidekicks.  The mind typically steals these from real life of what was in view just the night before.  Tonight I am on a quest, searching for the persnickety populous; it’s cat-scratched fever, and hordes of grotesque curs—armadas of a drone that drowned to mewl. 

An unlikely cast of characters, each, accompanies me bearing individually meted responsibilities.  Tonight’s journey shows Salacious Crumb to be my man-at-arms.  He barely reaches the apex of my ankle, yet carries a full-sword the size of a mountain goat.  Babe follows closely behind, squealing the songs it knows and whines about the one’s it refuses to learn.  Yet it does it’s job fairly well, after-all, who wouldn’t get a kick out of singing pig, lost and looking for it’s way home, only to find a world without acreage to spare.  Yes, a very good jester indeed.  Then we have the Schmoos, a whole family of blobby beasts, they trail behind and hop about, making sure nobody sneaks up from behind. Finally, to round things out, there is my trusty steed, a dear, dear relative of Mr. Ed, who, to this day, when not out on adventure, shops himself a direct descendant, and thusly, fair or not, collects exorbitant stud fees, for all the 80’s steeplechase fanatics who always wished their nag would speak to them.

OH. PLEASE!!! JUST GET ON WITH THE THING.  worst seven-fifty ever spent...

“Where did that voice-over come from. and for that matter, how RUDE”

Too often than not, the stories fail to complete.

And, for some reason or another, something I can only pass off as a curse of modern medicine, they never continue on as we perhaps would like…

After the next pills take their place a newer cast bedazzles with their spell, and the cyclicality renews again.

Gaia Hypothesis

listen to ‘Gaia Hypothesis’ on Audioboo

A zephyr’s kiss, of gusts and gales,

slowly strips the suffocation

from a mid-march air

A cloistered cache, evinced

of polarizing vespers—found strung,

tied within a vanguards gate

Harbingers of a typecast trichotomy,

bred to enunciate meaning behind the

grammars, masticating upon wisdom eschewed

Angels laced in iron-wrought

spiral indecision, sidling tween

walls, vaults and seam

The cost an artist pays

endowing life unto each

his renderings

Lucid posterns—unhinged

by premeditative discrepancy—

release the encrusted panes

Onyx painted Oriels—jut in cantilever

supporting cornice and balcony

amassing all which jalousie would not let glow

II.

Where ravens spite elocution’s cause

smiting foundations teem in gaze, as

vociferates travail miasma’s stygian haze

Of beleaguered artisans—indentured

and accosted by, philosophies buried deep,

within the fissures of an unripe mind

Burnt by reactions—forepassed, bygone—

already in the apertures, ever-afflicted

by assiduous decline

Emotive assailants inaudibly defined,

by repeals bound asunder to both

infinite space and burrowed time

While piercing deep the flesh, simply to feel something,

newborn talons scar

what attrition’s left to be tamed—

And as the chasm sprawls, its untenable vortex

spreads wide and vast—until ouroboros forms first gasp;

 a beacon, indicating that soon, the future will become the past

Obscurious

Outsource your diatribe

For thirty cents an hour

Alleviate your condition(s)

With extended well-sprung

Pantomimic shows of her

Gratify your suspect

Coin-dance lair of tricky

Coddle the park bench

As the soft hands lay with me

Pour the milky function

Straight from it’s tap,

A bovine beauty known

Colloquially as “nominal bessy-jane”

Driven to succeed, despite your every attempt to fault your wrist—

Backgammon supersets of clustered polarity and inner-thought

Conformity, are but symptoms

Of a mantra…much larger than anything built by hand

Easy solvency

The easy out

Forget what it is, of which people talk about

Forge a path, all your own, from individualized stylistics and obsessive push

And if so, if be it strikes the kindling right

Your spark will be belittled from all those

Irreverent sheepling eyes—copy, ape

Polecat thief…(but) won’t make a difference, as to what those carbons think…cause when you strip away the dye and tasty tinge from flavored milk…its still milk….it still comes from cows…unless it doesn’t…

Strap the vine

Squeezing ink

Into cup…

Drink.  Drink. Slurp, sip…(and) there’s a

Little bit of red still lingering upon the right portion of the smile’s curve

“That’s ok, will taste better when the purity’s been earned”  and I think (outloud) “?”

Toss the leopard in her cage

Dig up the scaffolding beneath well-behaved cadavers sleeping, in suits, in suits so many could use to make a first impression, much more civic, much more human.  BURY THE DEAD AS THEY CAME TO BE,  Let the cloth alone, let it the F(#@ alone

…and the fragments of neuroses simmered.. still

I could feel the asthmatic truncated air.  Stale. Dimmed (and)…

Forcibly (entering

Calm)

“Boy I sure could need the calm of rest” some voice inside me dressed the space with, that middling, meddlesome, bead (lets) of sweet, sweet, sweat and decaying decanters of decadence…

Before the next elixir in geltab coats arrives to play,,,

Steering wheel

Abracadabra

Drive me

Drive creation forward

In some whacked out expletively laden flash-bomb emotive carcinogenic shell of amnesiatic afterthought in-glow

Hop open the trove unearthed… Bless the tomorrow UNREHEARSED

…and the ground, or floor, or whatever polity that you dear term— where soles lay to rest, when not under the weight of homosapienated duress— started feeling awfully tedious from the too, too frequent tapping, of toes…nervous, nervous, little toes.

In the kitchen nook…

Piggy-back pork-cut loins, lathered in balsamic vinegar, afloat in boiling 450 degrees or some temperature unbecoming to the flesh of swine.  Hunger pains, far too great…(starting to bawl) outloud.  The Carrots, co-companions of this soon-to-be-eaten, danced in an orange glaze, as would be done, by any number of underqualified synchronized swimmers, caught in some sort, of Halloween Fete-like celebratory soiree, where showing off is mandated…so I guess a dip in the lake of water dyed pumpkin, or vice versa (matters naught) would have had to do.

…and then, the pill’s orgasm clicked, as personified by that first warm sweat originating from the just under hairline mark and the ocular tendency of flashing those pearly blood-shot whites, unbroken yet.  But soon, very soon…the tributaries will expand/expunge…the light—slowly stretching light from distinction, slowly providing an opinion on their irritation’s cure…Sleep…well deserved.

I outsourced my diatribe

To some other me

My condition has not alleviated

But at present, I don’t care

For I feel nothing.

…doo doo doo deedle dee doo doo do.