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?

Broken Template Rendered Quarantine

As the quartz hourglass defines its prey, quarantine’s in masquerade—Dominoes of translucence follow, then fade,

Portraying the crux of the wherewithal, primordially available prior to the blisters ceded control upon the coarse estrangement built sequentially by the brazened blade—

Within, lives the corridor, a gentrified expression of what still stands, the erector set compounding ammunition detail amidst the sword-swallowers delineating the scales of would-have-been and shall-not-be. Diminutions seethe in fallacy.

Anguished portals to suspect realms hover in influential admonishment, paralyzing virtue through its severed layers of involvement—a condition piquing the curiosity of the cloaked abandoner—twisting in wrathful formations, writhing, incessantly ravaging the promise in which the sworn premise vowed to apprehend. A broken template of scarred vexations

Teardrops stain the mahogany—biting nail files, awakening the disenfranchisement of the communal strands—standards plummet when balance is plundered by the most unnecessary contamination—a scourge flourishing from beneath this existential tenderness.

   

The Secret Life of The Gomorrean Teenager

Over at D'Verse, Anna hosted Poetics last evening.  Unfortunately I couldn't make it to the party last night, but I couldn't miss out on such a worditious affair.  Stop on over, read the wonderful pieces linked up, and while you're there, join on in the fun.

Being a teenage boy,

is difficult in and of itself—

         Yet

being a bit on the

mawkish side, certainly

didn’t help matters much

         and so…enter

those cruel, terribly cruel

children, that would incessantly

stir upon his sentimentality, urging him,

into what they determined, all

by themselves that is, that

tears

were and still are, the mark of an effeminate

Ellen, and regardless of what could

be said, nothing would be convincing,

short of the quite exhaustive manage

a octuor, performed upon the forty-five

yardline, in front of a capacity crowd,

just moments before the homecoming

would commence —

With the ripeness of fireworks

still emancipating the testosteronic air-

waves of hungry adolescents, only

seeking for any sign, that

the apocalypse is assuredly

close at hand—

and even then, not everyone

would be convinced

                                    Coming from a very traditional Reich of a family, particularly among the male members of the lineage, any break

from how things are, have been, is inexcusable, motive or reasoning aside, for they simply don’t matter much, as in their eyes, all such derivations from tradition, are nothing more than that of a stain, one that will forever taint the forward progression of kindred history…yet

Something must be changed, an alteration of some sorts needed to occur, and despite being the latest descendant in a long and storied line of dicks, it just made sense to have a go at simply being rich

Not that this would help much, but it

was a beginning, and it was either that

or giving in to all the social perceptions

upon his person, regardless how incorrect

they were…

And so, the next day,

after the one that just concluded,

not including the weekend crammed in-between,

he walked to school, head held-up, and those steps,

concrete under feet, brimming

with newfound confidence and self-referential charm

And this time, he felt the gasp of power, pulsing, throbbing

through his engorged veins, straining but only momentarily,

and ass those old wooden doors were swinging wide, his nemesis no longer had control, and the widest grin, glowed an aura he’d never known, as each his rubbered sole, placed their footholds

up on into the warmth within

People would treat him differently now, this he knew and understood

better than anything he ever knew before…

Mawkish comes from the Norse

word Mathkr, which conveniently

translates to maggot in the

English tongue—

which, of course, his knowledge of such

trivia, probably does’nt entirely advance the

matters much; to which, perhaps, just probably,

perhaps, the cockiness exuding through him then

and there, was all a little bit premature 

An Otherwise Empty Parking Lot Outside An Institute of Higher Learning

Volatility unprovoked

First comes fire

Then there’s smoke

It’s in this hell that I awoke

Bludgeoned, tired

On aggression, I slowly choked

The cement, crimson soaked

Left with air as my sole desire

All regrets were then evoked

It was here I softly spoke

Yet each world only grew their rage higher

And they laughed…

As if this all was but a joke

The Bully

Diatribe forged
Forgotten in
Fundamental fashion

Knowledge learnt
best be disposed of
according to the warning
on the bottle it came in

Brickyard thumping
As the bully finds
conjugation reason enough
to berate you before his
congregation there

Sawdust tears stream
from beyond the blackish smog
turning on the brute
in a steal from you and give to me

But bloodied, broken and bruised
I can sit in this crimson pool
knowing that
you can't
know

I can smile those imperfect pearls
and watch as you strut the circle
Praying I stand back up
but I can smile still
in knowing
that you
will never
know

And when you flex your arms
Your body looks like a trident
yet you would never know
that Neptune
ruled the seas

and we're on land-
dry and barren
land

And I smile
For I understand

The body
typically
wears down
much quicker
than the mind

Rick Lime

Rick Lime was always somewhat thought of as a joke.  The children chide him of, the one free thing there is in life.  The thing you have before you speak, the name attached to your soul, the identity you’ve always known. 

School is a place for learning, and desire in Rick was always burning, yet his passion became stung, when his favorite teacher was hit by a truck and in her place came forth a brand new face. The substitute did not know the children’s names, so roll call he performed each day.  In symmetry he spoke the names, moving front to back, alphabetically imposed, there stood Rick, in the middle of the K’s and O’s as there were no children with names of M’s or N’s.

Johnson, “Here”, Porter, “Here”, Killian and Oliver likewise affirmed, and then came Rick’s fateful turn.  The teacher chuckled, as he spoke, the other kids had no clue, but politely laughed, seemingly on cue.  Limerick the teacher spoke, affirming to all, that this child was a joke.  Rick did not answer as he was steamed, that a teacher would take part in such a scheme.  He kept quiet until it was repeat, Lime…Rick, but fast enough to sound again like limerick.  After the children’s laughter subsided, the teacher’s did as well.  He looked around until little Ricky spoke up.  “ I am here, but a correction I must make.”  Ricky shaking, trembling fierce, as the teacher’s funny face disappeared.  “ While you are new and do not know, my name is Lime, like the citrus fruit, not Limb like a foot or hand, so I’m sure you can understand that the pun you’ve made, I don’t see as grand, to which I most persistently disagree, demanding a retraction by thee” Ricky quivered, as he waited for the teacher to finish up the cruelty of the pause.

Seconds felt like hours for this little boy, ending only when the substitute said, “I’m sorry, I had no intent to cause you shame, I did not mean to ridicule your name,” yet seconds later he spoke again. “  Lime, Richard is your name, but Richard is a grown up name and you dear child are but a boy, so, from this point forward you shall be referred to by me, Lime…”

Before the nick of name could depart his mouth, an eruption of jeers consumed them all, from the student in the way behind, to the classmates sitting first in line.  For much time this laughter did persist, with only the bell spoiling the classroom tryst. 

Single file flowed the pupils, where not a dry eye could be saved. Tears of laughter for all but one, whose eyes were damp from jokes a teacher spun.