The Tangent Dream Of The New-Age Scorpion

I. TANGENCY

CON-descending Lullabies

PRO-tracts unto the counter measure of design

ANTI-trust collaborates itself apart—in a metric reclusion

IN-vested by doppelgangers, the ever hungry thirsts the truth

Where only OUT-bound principles coagulate in exaggeration

Proving that greed and supremacy are both equally capable to OVER-whelm, OVER-riding even the most pure of minds.

TRY TO FIND A HOME!!!

Sycophantic and alone

Chrysanthemums atop invisible bone

II. SMITTEN LIENS

She’s got me all tied up

She’s got me whole

She’s got me to the point

That no one else will do…

To where no one else could ever know

The consistency of deviltry entangled deep inside

She’s got me tied up in a mercury apron

Magnetically pronged by unquenchable tines

There’s a weather shift. It’s shaving back the sirens,

Casting disgrace upon the prophets lost

In that (some) other place, where (some) different crimes,

Caustically taint what grows on sinewy vines…casually commingling beneath this vagrant moon

She’s drawn me in, like a candle does the wind

She’s dragged me through, both the mire and the blame

Whittling away the hours and the cold of afternoon, crafting an otherworldly scene…where a sense of withdrawn eyes remains—housed in sham—caressed by the lonely shroud that is a mind detained

With intense feelings—harbored thoughts grow uncovered—

Reflections unravel into mindsets we oft deem forever lost—

Entrapped, encrusted, upon a web of fluctuating light—transforming shadows into abandoned works of art, ever dangling from gaudy structures that bleed divine—

Now knotted, twisting awry, now dwindling…the snaps that turn askew—leaving me unknowing, what next my heart should do—warping all the wisdom, engraving each a hue that’s yet accrued…where each variance of color can only be found within her…in those kaleidoscopic eyes of paintings unexplored.

III.  FLOODED GATES OF CORAL

Nasty skein—wooden cage—comfort blanket, doused in saline—and the board retracts, as the crowd looks on, waiting for the final hook, (one) for the last breath to breathe upon

IV. FUTURE IN DECLINE

Amidst a future in faltered frame

Amidst a frantic amalgam of extraneous design—

Bearing fruits for the witch and warlock—itching, pining, for more and more

Waving their wands, sprouting smoke, contorting piranha

Whereas the amberjack calmly swim beside the sharks

In synchronized waters—blue yet black not quite red…as often the case can become—when observance becomes analysis before the sinking mixture delves through pore

And what time may soon one day become—the theories of the skeptics may also arise—giving back, only the finality of applause

V.  NOVELTY OF THE WHITEST FLAG

Disreputable, white flag unclean—Dingy little mutt, sniffing out where the waves drew back from

Unwavering, courage placates the deepest dream—A comatose refugee breathes new life—anaesthetizing the air that dwells deep within

Worlds… adrift in slumber—are fleeting now—away…departing from…unbecoming shades of green…residues that shan’t move…while yet the consumption continues—as is true in most realms dreamers often go— leaving only substandard effectiveness and varicosity of growth

VI.  BASTARDIZATION OF TASTE 

Ignorance. It commands the faith of soldiers—polarized by the egotist’s unconscious scream—the orders engineer amnesty for the swollen templates fed to swine—this is the sketch that is left outdoors at night.  This is the torn-out page, from those books our children color from.

It is much easier to commandeer a jackal at dawn, when stardust has yet repealed the lid of eye. It is much harder to stave off the apocalypse, if the flesh remains a proper distance from well done.  Soured certainly…yet edible to none

VII. CONCLUSION (IF SO TERMED)

Spearheading the charge is the overarching romantic. Ignorant of the indemnity that tyranny speaks and spreads about.

Equally blinded are the swarms of anarchy that seem so fittingly applied to an individualistic state where pegs appear disjointed and mangled alone—it is in these moments, within such proclamations of spirit, that wholeness is bludgeoned by exhausting treasons—fears cast about internally—so easily slung about in epochs such as ours—

What a pity, truly…

To daydream of the sky,

While holed up deep inside

Remains entombed the light…where to go, what to do…

…?

The Thirst

listen to ‘The Thirst (Parts I-III)’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘The Thirst (Parts IV and V)’ on Audioboo

I.

I’d drink you as you are

         Nonpareil

All tastes, contoured evermore

                  Paragon

The slightest kiss, my very dream

         Intricate aromas begin

                  Captured through the natural snifters of aromatic skin

Delicate, fragile, suited small

         Interlaced, bijou designs—

 Attracted to and likely equaling—effects

Of a hypnotic kind—as

evinced by Mesmer’s magnetism 

         Rectangular, imprisoned baguette gem

Dry as seen cut—past the diamond’s point of polishing

         Long and narrow dreams commenced

As you supply the nourishment

         And I

Stand offering all I have—

Are the showy-cheap, these baubles kept

         Like those amassed, within a jester’s bag—

II.

Brittle mornings, barren crisp

         Flavored first as delicate

                  Just a time before,

I stand, crumbling, like the friable

         So easily reduced

To an ethereal powdered state—

         Infirmed, weak, slight and shivering

Dainty, frail, splintered some

         A dalliance—toyed to be

Humorous— to all but me, degenerating

         Here, in this soft and worn

Eroded form—built to rust as beads fall

         Oxidized and perishable

Though light can ripple cross my pane

         Causing both shadows and rainbows alike

It’s all a mirage and nothing more,

A place where reflections face their death,

It’s just me standing there, in a version you’ve never met

It’s not glass that you’ll then see

         It’s me, stripped bare—vitreous and shattering

III.

Ceramic hearts often break

With dirges and the sounds they make

Footprints testing fate

Sprinting across a lake

Crackling deep below

The surface though shows

A slight ripple here and there

But eyes formed by a porcelain mold

Nary espy the fracture’s folds

Yes. The luster can be bright

And sighs may point to tallowed signs

Fat and rich, solid lines creped amidst

These pseudo tiles that are seemingly smooth,

Yet below the façade it then appears—that this

Shiny surface here, all the while seen as crystal clear,

also holds those facets to which believers fear—

the kind creation paled and dulled—that enameled shell

with brightness still, yet here and now, the chips do not make

the picture whole-complete

IV.

Water’s floe ferments

In glasses deep we drink away

Those faulty memories debased and gray

There shall come a point, soon I do think,

Where the drought will paint these goblets a wretched dry—

Leaving their bellies parched and dead

A fiasco stands alone

Where, if lucky, a caster may,

Sprinkle respites to the day

Ponies, Magnums, Pilsners—dark

Beakers, phials, tubes—testing ‘til there grows a spark

Flagons, Flasks, tumblers, Noggins, steins

Vessels a-beached upon arid lands

With structures where but dead soldiers stand

Demijohns and Decanters, Ewers, carafes

So much room inside, a disparaging remembrance

Of where we are and in what we lack

And so, our prayers are sent up high

Wishing our cups would fill soon and nigh

With the darkness already breaching the day

We need not drop the blinds or fold the drapes

But simply bow our head and hope our dreams ascend

Chalices and grails

Kneel for wine

Cruets and Ampullas

Holding fast for the altar still

Awaiting an alembic purity

To bestow us a gift; yes we understand we ask too much

And now, in such dire straits of barren thirst, I do believe

This time, we shall make our promises work… I do so pray

Please…please afford us this one last chance

…and although it shan’t be myself… at least offer alms

upon those that have given thanks in prayer…please…please

do not make them suffer for the cruelty that the others wear…

V.

Years past and centuries too

Cups have been overfed

And yet…for granted

Man has taken

All that the

Lord has

Given

A last splash of wet

Whets the sandy shores

A final drop of rain

Blesses the burning pavement’s coals

And the earthenware’s crushed

The adobe walls have collapsed

Argil, baked—sundried clay

In ruins again

Perhaps one day

Our potsherds will

Be found

If only our ancestors

Learn to pray…

Perhaps then

The children shall

Play in the moisture

Of the day

And perhaps

The crystals

will shine

Again