Inane Warbling (A slow dance into Oblivion stops to smell the roses)

Well, I decided to clear my writing notebook up.  I left the full poems I haven't posted yet, but I have hundreds of fragments and bit lines and once In a while I'll combine them up in one monster post.  I'm sure many of you recall my having done this before.  But anyhow, this is not one poem, it's a lot of miniature lines, stanzas, thoughts, ideas, rhymes and random scribblings.  I did go through and try to create connections here and there, but didn't want to effect the "whatever" effect the pieces held.  So, it is long, but it's all little pieces, so feel free to read it all if you like, or read at your leisure if you prefer that.  Thanks again to everyone.  With so much negativity in this world, and for me personally, still trying to crawl myself out of this hole thrust upon me a few years back, you all make it all that much easier.  Thanks again.

Arms stretched forward

hinged just below

the vision’s height—

a hemline frantic and a barren stressor pained to please

Elbows point to points opposite

Locations left upon the other’s side—wide and widened, yet continuously widening the distance of the air…

Knuckles interlace as hands reverse, leaving palms hidden from the scent of vacancy’s unwashed thirst

There comes a point in time where every dagger stabs the man in possession of the hilt

The coma feeds the frenzy and the diet wins

Lost forever on a hog tailed echo of a spiral wing

Arched in hospital on vacation watching the ravened crazies shock the stalls with their balderdash-inspired ribaldry and a fourteen oz. bag of salt, spread and strewn across the black ice stash

And whispers form

Ale tongue diving deep into the waxen portrait of grey-faced felt, walling time, dividing in two, the supplicants from the shortened flood of formless fools

Calliope’s solemn dirge hums beside the whimpering well, where wishes are rued and are thusly un-enchanted by

A fortune telling machine

Built by turban steel

That ever seems to shackle

The cards that ever bend our gleams still

The fingers hurt,

The wrists ache

The knuckles stitch the pain on high, still in that capacity known as, and for, the hidden diameters that have since lost their frame of view…flush…flash…filch…bang…a rat-a-tat-tat-CraCK, to which The mounting tension’s sizzle slowly, slapping back

before the flood relinquishes it’s flowering attack

All the while, a puppy prances across these cobbled streets

It’s headed somewhere, but I don’t follow…

I did consider such a path though

Yet fainted fragrant rope burned cedar and therein lost I became, lost in plight, tremor-sparks flickered bout the base of skull, swell till the blank page fully animated some mysteriously ancient script to scroll

Shanty town seems much, much cleaner than it did that night I was pursued by the hackneyed cockerel singling with upturned shorts, heavily laden with guilty streams of splattered stray

I recall that butcher’s chop shop very well.  How clever-clean it was so well, shining, sparkling, cleaves and tines, puncturing the once pleasant crowd with hunger pains so deep to purge that it soon became the opposite of intended verse

Herenowthen, a chorus of happy-go-listlessly heavy lilting tunes of tumultuously damaging storms of strength unseen

and I wouldn’t have been the victim, if I hadn’t stood their laughing in glee at the comedic statement draped across the bloody smock the fat guy wore, besides his lockbox armory… all in all, legally paid for…

Feigned momentum tragically stirs the kettles

Crock…Sheppard’s crook bent unhooked, hanging,

Aslant off the bent foundation of toaster stands,

An oven once stood

As only the mourning knew

So, well

So, well

Never a bad time for tea…

Hands qwerty set and spread along

Verse is sharp, can be retooled into song

It’s about love

It’s about pain

It’s about pleasure

It’s about shame

It’s about greed

It’s about meandering…

Mind traverses the eagle’s lair

Hunting, pecking, orders that

Ever stir…yet…the second skimming

Seemed to skip the second-hand’s hourly groove

Vaulting refrains of haven’t-been(s)ipping brandy upon

The roofs where sooty

Ash infiltrates the crescent’s mask

Standing alone amongst the pigeon shit

Not knowing where to walk

Fearing I should fall, that’s when the magic

Began…steps opened up the night to all

Climbing straight under a midnight’s swell

Dancing cantilevers cock and crow

Fauntleroy is here

So is that sentinel James, every preaching his brand of crock-pot  philosophy, always with a wicked tint of hair, jealous, yet not really so, yet amazed as to how, one with words that are obviously curmudgeonly spoiled could cause so much strife amongst a supposedly happy, happy bunch

And all I can think of, all I can do is but recall the drunk kid at the corner stool,

“nah, nah, nah…she’s uglier in person, believe that, believe that…they say the screen adds ten pounds, I say they cover a lot of unfriendliness up as well…fifty inches of

Grotesque perhaps” to which he realized, amazingly so, as tipped as he was, he knew, he knew the line he just crossed, “but every creature is beautiful in their own way…”

Soft-serve of un-dairy dream

Chocolate flavored icing built upon the

Cone’s waffling, as sprinkles rainbows assort

The slopes of the triples scoop…how many licks

Does it take?

To…

Falling. Falling….

I am in some other soul

Not like that, no, I’m truly inside, within

The flesh is altered but the mines finely foundered find of mind, will never know as well as what it could have known so well to one day be,

a

Beautiful dreamer on a paranoid charade

Armed with a zephyr’s gust and a keepsake left in trust

He barked about

Faith-and time

In a

Tone and accent

We all too well have often heard no matter which side the arch we were born to climb

I falter as I stage the concourse

To repeat the sorry, tragically inspired ending again,

Just as, might I remind you, at the point the

Story ambled north

Vixen, fox

Livid, hate

Staccato groove

And troikas stare

Gestalt

Underpinning

Meets the world

Under the Waldorf’s

Historic glare

Mind-winding

Side sloping

Slithering incarnation

Of some Judas fiend

Sells the father for a

Promise and a noted

Safe passage that only

Leads to gnarled root

Falling, falling, falling

And the noise begins

Bloodhound gang and streets

Align, one cloud offers the cover

Of a roof, burning, lit, and the other

Chirping about came by the song sung by, some conceited skirt

Lost, alone, cold to a cold filtered stare

Silent, apprehensive, despite the meshing, a

Blender of two songs that are alone yet

Together they refuse to face the wayward sky, I

Meant them to be like that, or, perhaps it was the air, where uneasiness

Was, exactly that which what the cloud dweller wanted from me in the first place, in which case,

It was pure genius,

pure brilliance,

even if the bulbs not too bright

And I remain as me, as I stand,

And he is I, and

together are gonna fry

Tormented talisman

Upon a sentry’s sky-line left

Vacant by the snobbish songs

Of spoofs unreeled, remembering only

How zombie’s can be tamed if you stick them fat

Behind the couch, as a game of video steers the wheel

Awake…

Forget the verse

So I forge the words into a note

That reads

A little like…. shorthand legalese

Inane.

Grammatically putrid

Swords of succubae

Teeth of Tetley

Tea—zing

Not the hair, not the heir

But the lemon lingered

Pass the steeping stone

To the apocalyptic knife used as spoon, ever stirring, stirring, and stirring through,

The garlic-filled breadth of air

Row, row, row your boat

Rub a dub-dub, four blokes in a club

Sangria-blood red sunset at the crack of dawn

Never get that image out from in

And I don’t know whether that thought consists a sin

Sword swallowing gambler

Poor-poor soul

Challenged ethically to pay off a debt once forgotten yet not to be absolved, as it was a debt accrued, nevertheless

It was a foolish tilt,

Truly shameful, but it was done at such a time,

That I had completely blocked out from that particular BLOC of time

Made to claim, the winner of the contest played, at this time’s dancing crown,

Corroded entries into a tableaux stoned, silent shifting naught-naught with

Mimicry and

Apes and

Chimps and zzzz’s to slide-rule us aweigh, unto, until we

Awakened it to scream

Glimmering, yet gagging still, and its geopathic shockwaves surged

completely through and through…until, I knew, I was in

in so,

in so, so

 deep

The Rambling Nature Of Love

Bear with me, this may take some time…

You’re the ache within my veins

Screaming for pain, that only your

Love can make, each stir creates a

Wake, an apology it forsakes, bringing forth, a

Forgiveness set to crush, all of everything

I’ve let melt into rust, a collapse unto dust,

allowed to rot upon, those vexing focal frowns,

that every malady swings upon, from that tallest vine to the smallest tract of ground in view.

It’s own beliefs, merits never known, knowledgeable only as the prismatic ghost, poking where the light won’t grow, lancing dreams in the mid of night, when the sounds that stir remind the sleeping beauty to stay dreaming deep, for if they awake then and there then the bed will be a bed, and the room will convert form CGI to plain poster board reality

Risen up as smoke, all because, in you

I can see clearly through, as clearly as clear can be, a soft, soft touch, a caress to a hug, super-special, secret softness that is most defined by a gentle sense of specially designed and blissfully evoked images of Gentility

Then what remains, reminds you of each the scattered symbols that drown in honey-filled containers meant for tea or cocoa, each, in their own way, reminders of what’s alive in me

It’s a grace that you create, a mask torn down,

Eroded from view, all because, all because of

You and all the you things you ever do, truly you and only you, unique as is the individual defined, the twist of rope the taut nature of the natural vine, whereas before, empty on the floor, now I Know, I truly feel I do, so assuredly so I feel I grasp the feel of what is known, that freshly painted bliss-filled container of swaddling flow…

But what I never could understand, is that the touch of another can be so greatly misunderstood, where it’s not understanding in one’s guess, it’s not distilled under duress or under the boundaries and refrains of isolated freedoms clasped in clef, treble-charged bass, swimming through the tonsils and the tones, making the pretty splashy splashes found in fanciful liquidity, in the ever fluid consistency of wave-bound bounty….(sometimes we drift to unknown waterways…sometimes we find Atlantis, unnerved yet amazed, and within we adventure much, to the point, that we then grow the gills that forever keep us free, yet only know permitted to exist awake beneath the water, here, in this mythical land, a place where kelp replaces sand, and fish reinvent the man….and then you>…)  REM…not the band…not the band…no countries free…no place to stand…no frequencies to ask upon, when

in the passion of the caress, we are found, yet the deep remnants it then sets, protects, protests, growls and grows, grooming forth the tiniest of tears, moistening the dryness within, casting all that was astray, burgeoning forth another day, leaving the past to be, not gone, as it’s good to be, but remembered is how we dream, how we grasp concepts that be still the vast, small, small sprinklings of the gold that drapes the flow of shade, the whim of words, the wisp of love, the feeling hat everything has been altered in an act, a scene that has yet to falter but still, in as much as could be expected to be understood, a conscience presents the mulch It’s marsh, the march of the conundrum from rock and hill to shelf, high up, way up high, and there you realize just how much has truly changed…

It’s impossible not to see, all the dreams you steal from sleep, birthed, awakened to me here, and although I can not properly dictate, the how’s and the why’s, I do know, that in you something beautiful awaits, something I never wish to become separated from. 

Here, now, my cheeks writhe in pleasure pain, for it’s frame now stretches as never had it seen, upwards to the eyes, my frown is now denied, all because, all because, from you, something surreal, something like a dream, something like nothing else, something I cannot do justice to, a heaven intrinsic with each thought, a haze I hadn’t earned, yet alive it blurs, a burning dagger made of wood, that is flailed about and about you flail until the hilt is ash and your hand is burnt…from the pain it all comes crumbling, feta cheese to it’s salad wondering where eccentricities turn up the heat upon the cold and deveined still lifeless breathing of a gill unchanged…where clichéd wisdom permeates the air we breathe, the recreations of a long limbered legality…here, then here, and now, we find the sow that stuffs it’s snout into the trough of life, pulling up muck that it has the uncanny knack to come up from and snort a smile all it’s own, a home, a delicious treasure there within, a page, a sensation. Yet swine are swine and they’ve been said to eat the dead…

All the world’s a stage, but a stage I’ve never played, not a single time, not a one, where a character with such depth was born, despite care + actor = character, where a dandling locale bends upon, the curtsy to the crowd, a sad, sad sappiness thus it creates, a happy moment whose beginning never ends, whose contagions spread without a defensive system in place to plot revenge, to build upon what’s earth to toil, what minds be clicked and how quickly we must jump and then tell me about the dictation…TELL ME ABOUT THE DICTATION THEN….those voiced over blurbs that speak for us, to some universal premium channel viewed from the aliens out in space…( Aliens in transit, a deviated course, where the habits of alien viewers are more closely examined)

Here every breath becomes a clairvoyant smile, every nosebleed a monologue, something stirred without the verb, something language must observe, relating still, for this has to be that feeling other’s had cited years before, when they spoke of love and the deepest sense of devotion there twinkled, gleaming from the misshapen corners of the eyes

     For this, and all that offers the antithesis of clarity, which strangely, somehow breeds an understanding that is seen as such is known, the fragrant chambers calmed to glow, each ember rising to the stack, out the brick into the darkened firmament of the sky, out towards the moon, all the while the daybreak cries, the rooster crows, unknowing that a few hours from that point, he will be killed for his crown, not for food, but so some suburban house-dad can attempt to heal his wounded knee…

This trip is blissful.  This journey is keen.  This raptured melody has become the whole hem to seam.  The how that you wait upon, the shunning of the golden sun, and the clouds that blockade your tan today… (How) *(Where)

You and everything you do, just in being who and what you are in possession of, to me, each and all of these, things and more, things I do adore, those which I cannot ignore, for if the levees break, the song will shake, the foundations that reckon whim, will become, painted much more abstractly than any seaside lilt played upon and by some sot that retains the hard-boiled aspects ration of a devil in disguise, commingling with the detective that drinks every drop remaining into the cask is emptied and the wood is dry…like a neon painted western moonlit sky

It deepens each day, it is s a fashion freshly explored, all the tears are not of pain, but with ecstasy comes the calming sense of shame, the quell upon the ridge of temple, the disassembled furniture bought to place beside the fire, so you and your kind can cuddle and spoon, all the while the smoke rises high, high, higher…creating signals some other watcher will undoubtedly try to decipher, when no message was cleverly constructed, as you were just a man in love, who happened to stoke the logs within the flames, ignorant of what messages you might betray, yet you keep doing it, you keep doing it…oblivious you are to all who cling to your smoke, not concerning your mettle with the reality of the walking stick, that, when you run free within my veins, a drug like no other ever limps as it hasn’t truly had the needfulness to…

Each touch is a symptom of the cause, every drift is both a wisdom and its applause… for you, however, it is alive in everything that you do, invoking proof through distinction, reveling in those waking moments, those groggy briefs set assail during dawn’s initial voyage, where in me, this becomes, like it also does for each and everyone of you, something that must be repeated, something that one must relate to…fore the person you so easily destroyed, has been replaced by every shadow you’ve so swiftly learned to rationally abhor… the man is no longer able to break bread with prophets, yet now he is able to escape, dancing tango with the guardians and the saints…he is now able to enjoy, now able to absorb, all the signs, each direction and all its points in between…

Each domain there is to find, a victim so happily interred, in this plush rhythmic patterning of the divine, a space that’s not yours, not mine, but ours, ours alone to grow, ours alone to know, different from that time, different from that clock that plays a new hand each and every day.

There is a difference that punctuates the frame, a happiness without shame, a mass without shape yet structured as developed as it may one day soon become… it is a light to drown out the dim, a fracture set before it spreads, a voice, a voice alive, a voice within, a rattled waver cauterized by the din that is no longer mine alone…. for my heart you now wholly own, and it will be, from this day forever forth, that I am in your grasp, in your palm each of these precious hours alone, completely alone, without disclaimer or clot, a bond not able to be bought, a risk as dangerous as it’s safe, an alteration to the setting, to the space of time, believing your knuckles will never curl, knowing faithfully that a fist you will not create, for I’m in your trust, I’m here with you…I’m here with you know, I’m here…

On the other end of the world there is this character, one that has never changed, the same alignments ever known, still show, still appear, no matter the light, no matter the angle…and yet, it improvises in every single way, where all one needs to do is watch here and now, as whenever you come into view, you always are, alive internal, inside me there, this place I’ve known so well, this space I, er..he, has learned so well, the spell and sound playable here and there in this and then, ten thousand thoughts per each twenty breaths, breathes, exhaled out….about the time it takes, for a new second to reenter the sanctity of the house…

While discombobulated and corruptibly askew, you, sprinkle light the way you do, unto a darkened stage and the blankest page, where force you do, the enemy to fall in ruin, for a villain without ability to hurt, is but an extra in denial, and this is no villain worthy of revocation…for evil, in this party dress, has lost it’s will, ceded control of every scared second of every hour, resulting in the truism shared, where the preacher bleated to his congregation, that the enemy is running away tail scared between the legs, and our light rises somehow in the rigors of it’s wake…

The reclamation may take time, but without the villain’s stranglehold of power, the outcome is but a formality, a formality, a formality…of time.

And, I return to the place I first began this vision quest…

You’re the blush upon my pale

Skin, my veil, what’s always been

Worn, that’s alive, yet hidden well

Behind the scenes, awake yet never

Lucid enough to tell, ever dreaming,

Enrapt only from your spell, now I

See, I can tell, the world I’ve missed,

The feelings I’ve let leave

Away, so close, ever close, yet just

Inches from far, just inches from far, all this

And more, is what’s recast, retooled, retaught, the

Reawakening your enchantment has brought back

Whereas hollowness lives pronounced, it felt as

If it was all there ever could be, yet, what a disorienting

Hammer, when it is found, it is when found, the love that smashes your desolation to the scattered facets beneath your ground

Solace is bitter, yet this is sweet.  Mourning is cathartic, yet

So is love.  Therein exist armadas.  Herein live life’s fleets, junkets of commingling restrictions that never knew an obstacle it could make more obscure. Withered grows the panacea of pain, yes withered grows the panacea of pain, observed that’s too often worn. It grows worried, withered and frayed. But we’re not concerned with pain…the withered growth of panaceas pained…  Yet, here and now, the passage continues, for within you, I’ve been found.

And the dream, the journey, the trek and trail…each and all gives way to the realities found within the missions that fate has provided each of us, the huts, the houses, the closets, the castles, the cottages, the riverbeds, the shanty’s the shacks, the silos… here and now….

So you did bear with me…?

     I told you it would take some time…

Are you more confused than you were when we started, before I uttered that first bear…

RAMBLE RAMBLE RAMBLE in the pleasure of the presence of what good love can do…

Untitled Stream of Consciousness poem

A roan shelter

Shields the soul

From your dark

Tapestries

Unknown valances

Conceal you from

The wisdom of an

 Outside world

The place, which your faith has abandoned,

Boards a people no different than yourself,

Yet, their opinions, spark the opposite beliefs,

When it comes time for decision

Altered flesh—a window seared—

Ragged from the flagrancies observed—

Flavor your vagrancies, with a scorching scent

Exhumed is the cancerous wind—

Where strange diction looms and a spewing of the noxious fumes

That eventually, even the most resisting, will one day grow immune to it's many "charms."

Thought I'd go ahead and do some stream of consciousness poetry before getting to bed.