Internal Questioning

A very intellectual man became imprisoned for thirty-five years. His cell was impossible to escape. It was here that he realized, that the root of any truly great conversation must begin from within.  If this truly were the case though, I wonder, upon release, what his future conversations would sound like.  Would he find himself enthralled by the voices and opinions of others?  Or would he find an utter boredom and simply disengage, returning to his familiar back and forth.

Castration of the Metaphor

Trans-bionic-epithelial,

Scarring the asthenosphere

With rigid transmittances of verse

Overplayed, like dead tin slithering about

A plate tectonically abused metallurgy

By the barley dried abut the faucet

Prairie dancing dew slips the downward tract

In balanced beat—

Upon the heads of the now nutrient depleted

Penitent children of whom the porcelain queen

Left aside the causeway,

Freshly pressed yet left for dead,

Without sufficient explanation,

Regarding the gravity of err they bled.

Myopic dystopia of a collared fringe,

Frayed through the repetitious rasp of indigence,

Askance, the salimeter sniffs for beheld tears

Barred to breathe reparation’s tactility,

A position ever urged,

By the being’s self-perceived reputational frailty

Enervated by the numbing insentience

The anesthetized shell of corrupted assurance

Yields its agony from residual tokens

Ceded when dissociation subjugated the hopeful voice

The sanguineness

And the slowly played snooker shot

Unavailingly introducing, in the most bashful of regards,

Frenetic castration to the world of aspiration and song

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

As I step upon the Checkerboard

I. Acacia

Invariably-with precision of motive- I venture,

Undoubtedly, athanasia exists-

My perpetuity of indulgence-

Peering, and with each trespass—

Vision forgets all semblance of time, proffering ethereality

In syllabic serenade, a soiree of combinatory collectiveness enhances:

Those aqueous aphorisms of belief,

A childlike joviality invoked anew,

Through a singularity of symbiotic parallax—

Albeit syncopated— Cosmic alliances skirt past the doubting fields—

Dancing, freely—

To metronomic missteps of expressiveness—

Assiduously seizing each- as if, through perceived telemetry alone—

The spices intrinsic to vitality, transfer apperceived

In as such, your world—

Intersects with mine.

II.  Ashlar

Every cast of smoke, perspicaciously detailed

All sparks from stone—flint or scythe-

Ignites a widening of eyes—

Stock Gnosticism skewed—

As the perplexities of an individualistic mindset—

Appear in twin—

Where Dogmatic phylum’s mirrored in.

III. Blazing Star

Like whirlpools of vapor, swirling

A maelstrom of pedagogue, ellipses cosmic void,

Shrapnel steals the heavens, along catenary lines—

Disintegrating the abscess of doubt—with conviction.

Didactics change.

IV. GAOTU

Conflagrations echo, rousing infundibulum’s dormancy

Vesuvian terror illumes—fusee, Congreve- striking match.  Inciter of—

Pompeian strategy.  Expatriated-the troubadours of consistency—

Ashen in their faithlessness, volcanically scrawl mementos for failure’s future-formed duplicitous indoctrinations—

All as- architectonical gyrations thrust dimensions forth—

In exaggerated artistry—a formula forgotten, renewed.

V. Trestle Board

Eternal chords, sung,

To the tune of gemstone—

Divined by elven mystics,

Mimetic verve trysting with preconception’s curse

In masonic fervor—

Construct, in diagram—

Equations for methodology—

Interlocked.  Patterned weave

Interpretational anonymity—

Birthed to live free.

VI. The Brides Chair

Eureka. 

Three. Four. Five.

Extrapolation Nine. Sixteen. Twenty-Five.

You use what you’ve been blessed

A mind. So beautiful, that a word,

Would suppress- the perfection of angularity

That your verse-in write (sic), inherently bridges heart to hypothalamus to cerebrum to cerebellum to synapse.

 Brian's hosting Open Link Night over at D'Verse.  Doors open up at 3pm.  Stop on in for some poetic perusal and while entrenched in the festivity, submit one of your own.  Cheers!!!