The Invasion

Love lost lacking.  Brutal contributions from the master of the filthy undercurrent—swords, bombs, bayonets, flexing madmen and bloodcurdling sounds of dysfunctional regret—

WTF—Belly-side under, still sore from the stumble up the porch—rippled are the emanations my blood made as it sashayed across the puddles in the front hall, knew I should’ve used the insurance money to pay for repairs, but you know, sometimes, just need what you need…WTF, (take a peek out the window)

Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left,

Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right,

Bright lights, not the inner city I’m used to…not anything like anything at all—well, it’s like something, just don’t know what that is, and really, haven’t seen this much commotion since the riots back in ’98, and that was all about some bad call in a game, but Marching feet moving in rhythm and cadence, seriously what the hell, who’s birthday is it anyway, (what is the occasion?)

Sounds above, sirens rise and fall, the streets all cluttered, (better stay indoors), so much metal, so much steel, (be damned if I’m going out there, I’m the kind of guy someone does something to, just to prove a point, nope, staying put)

Loudspeaker off and on, don’t recognize the voice, can’t make out the words, (better keep the drapes shut and the lights on dim. No! Make that OFF)

Cat knows about as much as I do.  It doesn’t seem as scared as I feel though…(have to keep composure, have to keep things together), phones all dead, television works but nothing seems to make any sense, invasion, unknown assailants, unknown, unknown, unknown, static…. television about as good off as it is on, perhaps under the present circumstances, better even (guess I’ll just wait this out, let the heroes do their thing, and I’ll live up to expectations just fine in here) 

Time, time, turning without a witness to bear…yet ceaselessly parading forth…

(Good thing this house is a piece of crap, they’ll probably think it’s condemned, hopefully that’s the case anyhow, as I really don’t feel like doing anything I’m not used to, this isn’t what I’m built for, this isn’t my mission anyhow, so I’ll just try to sleep this off, but doubt the sandman will come on this particular night?)

I know it’s not going to go away.  I’ve seen a lot of bullshit in my small sample set, but, this isn’t like anything I can think of, no comparisons at all, nothing even close, and anything that doesn’t end up with me dead is a good outcome, right? 

Luckily I have a lot of cereal and plenty of powdered milk, that should last a week or two and that much foresight, in itself, is beyond anything I’m used to)

Arbitrarily regimented and statistically irrelevant…in a case like this, is all anyone can honestly hope for…

P.S.  If the draft is sending chills throughout the floor, then, by all means…

Shut the God damned door…

The Needle Skips

The same dream, or should we call it a replica,

Burns the ethos of his sleep—Devouring the plagiaristic embers—of comfort, in which the happiness

Has stored, securely, as an incorruptible sheath

Layer upon layers, lies still somehow seep

Through each tier and over the previous, a parallel exists,

To the safe harbors, in which the fears find themselves squelched, amongst the flames that flee the fray

Columns merge with columns fallen,

Once majestic now dull and grey,

Blankets submerge the depths previously kept in submission,

Awakening the collateral—a damage resting silently in place

And to ad nausea, it folds again, and repeats into and upon,

Hovering and towering, enveloping a trance built in patience, embracing the key swallowed by the unconscious deep

Delving far past mortal telemetries,

Protracting what’s left of wisdom…we kneel

As our souls have silently found a place to weep

The Tangent Dream Of The New-Age Scorpion

I. TANGENCY

CON-descending Lullabies

PRO-tracts unto the counter measure of design

ANTI-trust collaborates itself apart—in a metric reclusion

IN-vested by doppelgangers, the ever hungry thirsts the truth

Where only OUT-bound principles coagulate in exaggeration

Proving that greed and supremacy are both equally capable to OVER-whelm, OVER-riding even the most pure of minds.

TRY TO FIND A HOME!!!

Sycophantic and alone

Chrysanthemums atop invisible bone

II. SMITTEN LIENS

She’s got me all tied up

She’s got me whole

She’s got me to the point

That no one else will do…

To where no one else could ever know

The consistency of deviltry entangled deep inside

She’s got me tied up in a mercury apron

Magnetically pronged by unquenchable tines

There’s a weather shift. It’s shaving back the sirens,

Casting disgrace upon the prophets lost

In that (some) other place, where (some) different crimes,

Caustically taint what grows on sinewy vines…casually commingling beneath this vagrant moon

She’s drawn me in, like a candle does the wind

She’s dragged me through, both the mire and the blame

Whittling away the hours and the cold of afternoon, crafting an otherworldly scene…where a sense of withdrawn eyes remains—housed in sham—caressed by the lonely shroud that is a mind detained

With intense feelings—harbored thoughts grow uncovered—

Reflections unravel into mindsets we oft deem forever lost—

Entrapped, encrusted, upon a web of fluctuating light—transforming shadows into abandoned works of art, ever dangling from gaudy structures that bleed divine—

Now knotted, twisting awry, now dwindling…the snaps that turn askew—leaving me unknowing, what next my heart should do—warping all the wisdom, engraving each a hue that’s yet accrued…where each variance of color can only be found within her…in those kaleidoscopic eyes of paintings unexplored.

III.  FLOODED GATES OF CORAL

Nasty skein—wooden cage—comfort blanket, doused in saline—and the board retracts, as the crowd looks on, waiting for the final hook, (one) for the last breath to breathe upon

IV. FUTURE IN DECLINE

Amidst a future in faltered frame

Amidst a frantic amalgam of extraneous design—

Bearing fruits for the witch and warlock—itching, pining, for more and more

Waving their wands, sprouting smoke, contorting piranha

Whereas the amberjack calmly swim beside the sharks

In synchronized waters—blue yet black not quite red…as often the case can become—when observance becomes analysis before the sinking mixture delves through pore

And what time may soon one day become—the theories of the skeptics may also arise—giving back, only the finality of applause

V.  NOVELTY OF THE WHITEST FLAG

Disreputable, white flag unclean—Dingy little mutt, sniffing out where the waves drew back from

Unwavering, courage placates the deepest dream—A comatose refugee breathes new life—anaesthetizing the air that dwells deep within

Worlds… adrift in slumber—are fleeting now—away…departing from…unbecoming shades of green…residues that shan’t move…while yet the consumption continues—as is true in most realms dreamers often go— leaving only substandard effectiveness and varicosity of growth

VI.  BASTARDIZATION OF TASTE 

Ignorance. It commands the faith of soldiers—polarized by the egotist’s unconscious scream—the orders engineer amnesty for the swollen templates fed to swine—this is the sketch that is left outdoors at night.  This is the torn-out page, from those books our children color from.

It is much easier to commandeer a jackal at dawn, when stardust has yet repealed the lid of eye. It is much harder to stave off the apocalypse, if the flesh remains a proper distance from well done.  Soured certainly…yet edible to none

VII. CONCLUSION (IF SO TERMED)

Spearheading the charge is the overarching romantic. Ignorant of the indemnity that tyranny speaks and spreads about.

Equally blinded are the swarms of anarchy that seem so fittingly applied to an individualistic state where pegs appear disjointed and mangled alone—it is in these moments, within such proclamations of spirit, that wholeness is bludgeoned by exhausting treasons—fears cast about internally—so easily slung about in epochs such as ours—

What a pity, truly…

To daydream of the sky,

While holed up deep inside

Remains entombed the light…where to go, what to do…

…?

Unplugged

Machinations embody the presence of the modern air—

Yet, take away impulse

And they all just fill space with their cold grey stares

Between blood and flesh exists a soul

One to which only one can truly control

And despite the distractions that comprise the voids

It breathes, it feels, it lives

Although forgotten,

Amongst this flood of technological divide

Constructing patterns that adhere to path

Cannot find deliverance through wires alone

One must bite beneath the waves of efficiency

Unplug to find the gifts granted

When mankind first began

Sometimes one must return to nature in order to build upon what is already there…

Written and shared for tonights Poetics which I'm hosting over at D'Verse.  Were unplugging for the weekend, come join us with your poetry…promise we won't byte...