January 21, 2015

a masquerade ball is coming soon...




1868 illustration of Alfred Beach's concept for pneumatic subway, artist unknown

a masquerade ball is coming soon

do I break take 
or steal my soul 
by piece silver and china 
from feast table...

I say fuck it 
pluck it unseen 
beneath smile legerdemain 
a slight pause then sprain 
strain myself revealing 
the stain of what I want 
to be seen versus felt, tasted 
or smelled as real

is there meaning inside of words 
that the herds have not heard 
humanity brims with progress 
slams glam and slap-sticks mankind 
knees for please cycles 
sycophant and hierophant 
off in the wings 

we or you the public 
must be intoxicated 
slated for renewal 
and contractual employee-ship 
which means to say 
please get paid 
doing something 
that pleases
you or someone else
dream state solid state technology
is how you sleep with nothing being everything 

lest you already rest your whole hole 
fragile glass tubes are saved now 
for pneumatic transport 
body delivery and message systems
today's souls are waiting 
to be filled with white noise 
with what matters of others 
that only resides alive inside them 
when acknowledged as real
yet hidden from view...

the horses are drawn and carriage-d/ 
and it is still snowing when out we set 
past midnight with lamps a-blaze/
January can be cruel though not 
in an unexpected way 
I was ready for Brigid's tits 
to be my mouthful
of reconstituted soul

yes, I bristle at the wearing
of too many layers of clothes 
warming myself with thoughts 
late May and asses in play 
though soon as most days  
near noon caffeine on wane 
I clean up from soot and fantasy 
wander in any direction I can 
for any drink of any undefinable 
that begs me to remain
seat, to be seeded 
and seedy
needy sometimes too

hope is an old clause 
in our exhale patterns 
our rule of laws 
some of us take vitamins 
and keep physically fit 
while others are satisfied 
with subscription lotteries 
to spirit futures 
and adjudication by divine halls 

some others still play 
the alleyways and underbellies 
for keepsakes and noses 
I paint my eyelids 
horses of a different colors 
I find when sleeping 
the eyes can lie
and be lied too 
much more sincerely 
than any other sense 
of who or why 
I am 
here with another poem 
to burn my hands 
a wet clay warm with

EJR ©

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