Retracing The Steps Once Taken

Lengthening the horizon, debris commences astronomically, like painted dodecahedrons magnetically induced through immediate moments of hypocritical delusions otherwise mentioned as lingering afterthoughts.

Solidification of the earth and sky, blending blue skies with the blackening flirtation smitten by the acupuncture points of the densest night. Pilfering septets from kings uncrowned. Dangling hippodromes, stretching as far as the dilated pupils can comprehend, vigilantly cling to the forgotten expressions, otherwise known as the finalization of the askance void.

Drinking from the enigmatic cup of lavender while paying closest attention to all the future steins congregating upon the smallest ledge of real estate; these soldiers are filled with the most brilliant confidence, the most exploratory brilliance of purpose even as their insides vibrantly coagulate their plasmatic contents—coloring the panorama with a unique combination of artistic flamboyancy.  Here revolve the vivid portraitures—reds, as they ascend most pleasantly from having merged and swirled so decadently with the deepest triangulations of what would otherwise be predestined to be known as plagiaristic murals of obsidian sunsets and decentralized feelings of overture; spinning, and spinning, the sensation of tingling numbness enters as would any self-respecting party crasher, even after being labeled as the man who self-loathing was first named after. Enter the roll call, the soft and ever-echoic resemblance of slow-motion verbal typography—the lasting impression, a salted wound hidden conveniently by the cloaked marauders first hailing from the frozen lands most north of where the contemporary maps fail to define. Had there ever before been a more contrived notion of perfect balance, then that pristine moment, the one located immediately before the compounding principles of exhaustion sound their toll unto the hallowed morn, light would know nothing of where the scars first appeared.  The days of the calendar streamline across the foreheads of the silent.  All thoughts careen.  All dreams and fluctuations multiply.  Every hereafter is after here, an alienated mutation, one where the tongue is far too ashamed to attempt any retracing of root causes, any semblance of recounting what perhaps transpired while the present shell we call our physical limitation lay dusted over by that most subliminal of curtain calls, is internally known only as an altered fragmentation of a fragment still-birthed once before.  We then conjugate our assumptions; each non-verbally aware of the others desires for gelid anonymity, all the while remaining reverently comatose, both in spirit and of stature. But still, we smile, for we continued to breath rhythmically.  Ignorant of the finite details and the navigational circumference connecting the exterior and interior, deeply from within a euphoric treasure trove of experience coddles us through devotional retrospection, fore the tender flesh is unable to object at the present podium when not prepared.  Therefore, only one true conclusion can be claimed:  Calamity, too, was once a blessed child, born as the sons and daughters both, of some other landscape upon some variant precipice of strophe.   

Over at D'Verse, Karin Gustafson(aka Manic Daily), is hosting this week's Poetics.  She opened up the floor for delving into the many meanings once can take into account when working with the word Trip.  I, of course, went with a more abstract prose style here, which is only one of the many, many avenues one could have taken.  Be sure to stop by the pub and see just how many different directions the poets of D'Verse venture down.

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…

Exhaustion as Navigator

Window cracked- 65,

     In what seems, like 30’s

The likely capped end-speed

Portent subdivisions, split,

by lines afar, glowing

pastels covet night, flickering

cast of moon’s radiant height—a quivering

amends the harbinger’s sight, clashing

with one’s wherewithal, as fate

relates akin—rapturing a lost fight’s sanctioned state—

unto the parallelisms, the shifting lines, the origami structures built within

Belladonna, blissfully close, eyes arrest, encaged

again, by the prematurely postured dream—

Relishing the happenstance of SRO’s unmitigated stance, especially since promotion’s long since been scrubbed and left to chance—

Of an ignorance indicting slow, the plausible power of the spreading word

         Angular brickwork, to which the conscience swerves, observing the bedrock that’s home to such machines abandoned—to rest, in limbo, beneath a starless sky—yet the signs and signals warn still—to which you question, not the thought, but the belief that they’re awake with you this stretch of night

Escape though you shall, untagged and free, breaking away from obstacles seen, unto an open space of asphalt’s generous creed—

drifting behind a steady coaster, oblivious to what time’s been spent— watching the horizon spread aglow—

 The lines flashing in fictitious streams, brokering this big city’s life, offering, but another grail you’ll never know, if this sleep continues glimpsing through it’s deadly flow

To which forcibly you pry ajar, the lids betraying you now…in the deadliest of subtle drips a-glance, accosting the reality forming it’s surreal syndromes allured, upon such corruptible states,

You are broken, you are weak…the knowledge is fierce…this straight-line will not stitch together seams, instead incomplete you’ll quickly see, as song’s blare quickly collapse, broaching caution’s warning once more—

As this slippage begins to fray apart, focus weaves and warbles timid slow, breaking into waves of rhythmic flow, careening lullabies the screaming child in you seeks, and through this and other forces unrecalled, fade you swim, out from and into such seas of unanswerable melodies

 A quick purge pronounces shock,

In quick flashes you are not convinced

This is not but a continuance of some

Severe reel of dream—playing, deadly games, the deadliest of larcenies…. where the mile markers indicate just how far you’ve travelled since, the last wince aware you were

And before the curtain calls again,

You know where this path must now go,

scanning the exits for

any inn with vacancy to spare, only

needing a door to lock, and a bed to

regenerate what’s been lost

is all you desire….exhaustion,

as navigator…there have been

worse guides