The Long Wok….of a short peer

listen to ‘The Long Wok….of a Short Peer’ on Audioboo

Behold and Lo,

Main, streets strip silt

from foreign lips—refreshing

lost convenience

Snuggling gainst

the wall, where a

deep fried tomb

gathers hot

by approximation,

in combinatory zest

appeal—enough for

many, if shared by

all

Too soon did show

the face of greed’s

remorseful duty

Oil fires firm to

scaled temperament—coveting

clarity, curving

appetite

So many you say?

Lost long where to whom shall fodder find a friend…

And, why is that so?

Precisely because of plethora put plainly…plausible pleas persisting purposely under problematic plains of perplexity…

Surely not so simply—when can one honestly recall facility without a frown,

As to wipe clean the

sauciness of a greasy flagellation—teeming rather ominously gathering

in the sink below?

If not then why, if not why then what, if not what then how, questions

linger in strands so long, that the boiling can only appropriate a section of the man…

When the coma sparks

only pray you now, to know

nutrients seep slow

When the coma sparks

only pray you now, to know

nutrients seep slow

Nutrients seep slow

only pray you to know now

when the coma sparks

Nutrients seep slow

only pray you to know, now

when sparks, the coma

Sizzle…sizzle…sizzle…smell of soy

sizzling, fresh chicken amongst colorful wonderments of a natural field…yummm….Thanks, for having me

over

for

dinner…

Variance

Emmett Wheatfall is the host tonight at D'Verse for their weekly Meeting The Bar segment and prompt.  Tonight he has prompted us to pen a piece that uses Conflation.  Conflation is the merging of variant ideas into one; the result is a new entity unto itself.  Emmett offered the additional challenge of, while working with conflation, incorporating something of yourself into the piece, without using end rhyme.

It was a bit more challenging than I thought it would be.  Actually, no, it was pretty tough.  Here's my stab at it:


Variance

Variance, the virtuoso of the alternative footprint can

Summon quite the tiered arrangement of sound.

First comes the tear (composed mainly of a salinized secretion, yet in such instances, that is much more heavily weighted, than that of your garden-variety watery eyes) that seems to appear-like magic- out of thin air and all.

Next came the birth of the subtle sob, (a bubbled up-bubbled over-babbling of gibberish), a melodramatic merger of the fascinating relationship between what we feel and what we think others expect our reactions to be.  The sob truly has elements of fantasy built within—at this stage of evolution; the human mammal has certainly learned that an extra little something, when speaking about the tonality of their sob, can sway jurors, family and friends.  So in as such, the sob blurs the reality of the hardship and the performance offered on life’s stage.  The entire nature of sobbing is…almost comical.

The tertiary position consists of what most would consider weeping.   Weepers, while some people most assuredly can alter their mindset, get into character, and blather great cries, most, in such circumstances, are genuine in their wallowing.  Yet, some still find these individuals to be of the highest comedic pursuit.  I feel sad for these types.  Perhaps they’ve yet to experience the sadness that promotes such dynamic despair, or, well I’ll just say numbness is a possibility, but so is sadism, either way, pity seems like a good solvency.

Finally, the final tier, the last in order, the culmination of sequence, is the wishing wail.  Here the individual prays for such joyous occasions, they claw at the fabric of existence, hoping, pining for a moment so wonderful, that their floodgates can open and pour their happiness unto the entire world, indifferent to the actual politics of location or sum quantity of bystander.

Variance is the first jar upon the spice rack, yet in the case of “most of the time,” is typically the last to be chose.  Variety is the balancing beam on which we walk.  Sure we like familiarity, and often times, change fosters a grimace, upon our all too-often, already scowled countenances.  Yet, personally, I’d be at a loss for words, if palates of commonplace were all there was to work with.