The Invasion

Love lost lacking.  Brutal contributions from the master of the filthy undercurrent—swords, bombs, bayonets, flexing madmen and bloodcurdling sounds of dysfunctional regret—

WTF—Belly-side under, still sore from the stumble up the porch—rippled are the emanations my blood made as it sashayed across the puddles in the front hall, knew I should’ve used the insurance money to pay for repairs, but you know, sometimes, just need what you need…WTF, (take a peek out the window)

Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left,

Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right,

Bright lights, not the inner city I’m used to…not anything like anything at all—well, it’s like something, just don’t know what that is, and really, haven’t seen this much commotion since the riots back in ’98, and that was all about some bad call in a game, but Marching feet moving in rhythm and cadence, seriously what the hell, who’s birthday is it anyway, (what is the occasion?)

Sounds above, sirens rise and fall, the streets all cluttered, (better stay indoors), so much metal, so much steel, (be damned if I’m going out there, I’m the kind of guy someone does something to, just to prove a point, nope, staying put)

Loudspeaker off and on, don’t recognize the voice, can’t make out the words, (better keep the drapes shut and the lights on dim. No! Make that OFF)

Cat knows about as much as I do.  It doesn’t seem as scared as I feel though…(have to keep composure, have to keep things together), phones all dead, television works but nothing seems to make any sense, invasion, unknown assailants, unknown, unknown, unknown, static…. television about as good off as it is on, perhaps under the present circumstances, better even (guess I’ll just wait this out, let the heroes do their thing, and I’ll live up to expectations just fine in here) 

Time, time, turning without a witness to bear…yet ceaselessly parading forth…

(Good thing this house is a piece of crap, they’ll probably think it’s condemned, hopefully that’s the case anyhow, as I really don’t feel like doing anything I’m not used to, this isn’t what I’m built for, this isn’t my mission anyhow, so I’ll just try to sleep this off, but doubt the sandman will come on this particular night?)

I know it’s not going to go away.  I’ve seen a lot of bullshit in my small sample set, but, this isn’t like anything I can think of, no comparisons at all, nothing even close, and anything that doesn’t end up with me dead is a good outcome, right? 

Luckily I have a lot of cereal and plenty of powdered milk, that should last a week or two and that much foresight, in itself, is beyond anything I’m used to)

Arbitrarily regimented and statistically irrelevant…in a case like this, is all anyone can honestly hope for…

P.S.  If the draft is sending chills throughout the floor, then, by all means…

Shut the God damned door…

The Damned Beggars In The Cold

Hither, dither, tither, fro

To, from, stern, aft, glimmer—glow

Worm, wiggle, writhe, fizzle, frazzle, frown and flow

Gather, grip, gasp, ingratiate, growl, scowl, scuttle and sew

Huddle, hurdler, cuddle, curdle, crackle, cackle and crow

Tipsy, teetotaler, tricky, tacky, terabyte, in spite of the stow

Baggage, boggle, bigot, burden, blast of butter, battery blown

Excess verbiage, nominatives under intense scrutiny, collaborate in a circular procession, each participle eagerly awaiting the punctuations incorrect stressor given a home

Slanted in bias, burgeoned, beckoning, blossoming, stratosphere, diameter crossing points of axis unseen, over-plotted, pollutants of the year, curdling inwards like the ravaging bug, the insect, the slug, the tremors of the soul, catching kitschy curmudgeon fever, like the protestation of an alleviation in disarray, sorrow for the sparrow clipped of wing wrung clandestinely clean, clinging to, ovarian theories overtly consumed by endeavor’s angular shaped cocoon-like debris.

Abrasive. Codes are difficult to cipher when patterns seem to exist symbolically, being becomes the cogent key that is swiped away from beneath the bed or hidden in plain sight, as does the seizures seized from gaping stares of those human zombies forever hovering in the red—the clamor, of a clandestine affair amidst tryst—and this is too, often too conveniently placed, underneath the welcome mat, where instead of finding your grand idea, a key from which to swallow and flee, there lay superlatives for observation.  And that is what you do, observe, then observe some more, observe until you are found, once again, with both flat feet on the tile floor, frozen in space and in someone’s perverse covenant with time—here, where, if having been locked out, arrested straight, out of and into a state of alternate being, than perhaps, the concept of the access will purge it’s promise upon someone, some one who, in someway, defines the definition of regenerative decay, a speck, dot, pixelated subjugate, a daughter of celibacy, a candid ripple in the wavelength, a freak storm over nowhere, nowhere at all—giving vitality to the invisible, those personas who’re somewhat akin, to all the eager admonishing razed upon the soot stained cheeks of the underprivileged capable of only stock replies—the type given by those who’ve never had things turn their way, those that find themselves stuck, in a miring magnate of magnanimous muck, in the middle of a processing plant, a marsh, a wasteland of existence, a sinkhole belching a verbose bellowing buckled over and then upon the expanding waistline of a gluttonous nation of indebtedness and adiposity.

What follows is often an infringement of some sort.  Patents blatantly placed upon intellectual property— protean, vigor, voluminous vanishing points, hollow, like the thesis based, in part, on the bland redundancy of an ignorant smudge, too easily erased, too easily wiped away forever without a trace of it’s postulation—the very same reasons as to why it was ignored, overlooked in favor for, a brand-new pet rock for cousin Roy. 

Posture is granted. The seeds have been sown. Violent trestles toss about, in the ballasts of a broken fist, where balance becomes but another prop, to the tawdry supply, set up and staged by, a backstage broker who renders hell upon the peons he feels he feeds all too well. A blood feud begins with the pennies in the filthy fountain—fuel for the animalistic fellows furrowed in lines a-stream this cobbled cove—a furlough became a game, a torrid cruelty where only the miser is left unashamed.

“Ain’t misbehaving, if the conductor says ok”

 Is acceptable, so says the beggar’s son.

 “Ain’t misportraying if the backstory so old ‘tis’ like the story’s ain’t never been done’,”

and broken down, gladly dreaming of the wasteful sot, delivering the curb some hand-me-downs”. 

“Ain’t a crime to accepting what’s been thrown,” It’s just what it is, as is. And it Ain’t indecent to feast upon scraps, if our last meal is dated unknown—

Fatuous verse.  Infatuation can occur; in the same manner intoxication can render oneself unstable.  By the toxicity in the streams of essay, the words bleed terrific, like the dream fading as the currents blur away the pains we’ve since adjusted to their modes.

I am just another eye. Or so it appears and so it seems, in seam, I stitch together, the adages and false contrition’s never said.  I’m simply one who talks out loud, whether alone or simply one faceless grin amongst a healthy crowd. In another time, in a separate space, I like to think, that my verse alone would be understood and could make a difference in some other nation, in some other land.

 Upon the patchwork of this earthbound soul, smiles are that rarity unapologetic to the many left to launder in the cold—in the grand scheme of impression, the stitch that ties us through, is having the recognition we’re so owed, after all…after all…aren’t we due something better, than to simply be known alone, as the damned beggars in the cold?

Interloper

Interloper,

O’ what have thee made of me?

Beautifully tragic

And devilishly clean

Sticklers for perfection,

Conjugating all perils to pillars tall

The sacred space of air

Bears witness, as time is amputated by the wind

Stale diamond flecks of salivation

Seeping stealthily from the creviced cheek

of all who dares to enter

Turn round; Gather ye horses

Do not look back; hurry fast

For like barnacles attracted to the external frame

Interlopers, once adhered to rules as well—

Never leaving without inducing the most severe measurements of strain.

An In-exact Rendition of Analgesics Induced By Ill-Conceived Variations of What Once Was So Fondly Known as Histrionics

Vexing winter, culpable, equally

In each her ghastly appellations,

Pronounceable or not—

To annunciate, if but for a solitary syllabic

Representation, regardless of key, you are to

Feel, what flames writhe through her internally—

Slack-jawed, amazed, yet mainly from fear, each

Observation allowed, becomes a memory ruefully

Spent, in depreciative dissolve and disillusionment—

To witness is to feel, the snarling hooks paring clean

The canvas from its frame…watching as the paint, is apportioned randomly—stylistically similar, yet confusion, also has made and continuously makes such claims consistently…

In a manner of speaking, a cloud exhausts the oxygen, as the last breaths befriend an approaching maiden sent from afar, where her beauty alters, in waves, toggling between, asymmetric recollections, abused by a deepening lust, ignorant of just how representative grow the scars…

Hallucinatory amplification contorts the demonic vice grip that strangulation bestows upon the parted cleft of lost worlds reunited in forced mergers and therein reuniting the fallen with the spawn of Adam…

And in those first few unmeasured moments, to where the end began a sequence—one that illustrated the birth of abhorrence, and just how quickly a kingdom of infernality, could be created in such a place, as the most unbecoming of southern stalls.

Shivering…yet cold is not understood…

Enflamed and razed, but the coals are like rocks placed beneath a rill so quaint…

The shapes and forms would’ve continued their skew upon perception, if not for the blissful accompaniments, of which the heavens shawled down to comfort thee,

Guarded, even the worst of us garner the sympathy from family, even those we’ve shunned aside, turning our backs upon…for no father wishes, nor can bear to watch such depths of pain and suffering blanketed unkindly over the eternality of kin…

Such incoherent byproducts of this unsettled estate, a placement or tomb of state, which is that thing, so far removed from the vocabularies of what most, hopefully, can truthfully comprehend…

And when the worms covet what remains, you’d have been long since removed, and we will have then, long since parted ways…

Floating ethereally above, the vision grows smaller, losing its impactful proximity with each fluttering ascent of your downy-feathered heroines and apathetically devouring elves…

Yet still, you are encouraged to keep watching…for it is known, that only sentiments of unconcerned psychologies will confront you therein…as angels escort you to that place above, way beyond and far away from the defilements that ever so persistently remain determined to singe and sear any and all incoherent melody relegated to distaste, pain and all things wished invisibly felt…

And then…the shame of what once was, becomes again…a relic, a history untethered…bound no more, by the shell that for so long had bore your name…