January 12, 2016

a velvet wish poppet: an intra-rhetorical-ancillary in need of...

a velvet wish poppet: an intra-rhetorical-ancillary 
in need of (priced at what, in me, never dies)

persona, poem is sometimes called
says my mania is often broken flywheel gear-less whir
asks me, do you know how deep pooled 
your, (I don't give a fuck) is...?

tells me that the stage hands know 
I am a walking pirate electric stumble 
I bumble mumbles to myself about being 
treasured and buried 
wary and weary 
of decking the halls 
with anything but 
my seasonal bouts of pissed 
and vine garish ritual linger(s)...

the bow tie carpet plank bellow ball 
part of me is dying,  
a teased numb frozen 
awed in escapades 
of a future, when, in a place 
I am a thing, more than a person...

this vignette is 
surrogate to death 
a formal leeward 
ill fit suit, for journey-ing 
any what and any how, 
especially when means 
are not yet paid 
what silhouettes, fate can cast 
shadow and surprise 
perched pentacost pagliacci 
trying the eyes 
in gold and regret... 


poem says, this part is for what pleasures me, chased...

Edward, evening bites for keeps
has sharp diamond claws 
steals the rawest pieces 
of your exhales 
you will feel each one  
each torn from you 
huddled, hurriedly 
walking home 
conscious moment stolen...

each could have been 
the offspring of your every-almost-ever-was...
things that're mostly heard hosting 
death, a whispered bunch of bristled knives...

Winter thrives 
tombstone-ing much less 
foolhardy and lust filled types 
than I, I have galleons 
of apathy, I tell poem 
with barrels of agony 
to ride with a pen, drunk 
and pondering, the embrace 
of this supposed death 
when exposed, one
could reckon, eventually 
you might think only, of sleeping 
in an amniotic oasis  
a morning-some portal 
suffice enough for your giving in...

to hoarfrost crawling 
away from, what 
you'll ever be 
a part of, in the name of, 
memory only...

bone fatigue 
from mortality 
soul says poem 
is always listening 
while I am caught up, on
cemetery stardust gather 
paraded again and again 
and again(s), you  get the picture(s)...

Winter is
a desert of bell curve assassins 
theft-lights woven into long night(s)  
thrift-strippers, whipping exposed
skin, lathing spirit, beautifully 
and imperceptibly thin...

wood folks and farmers 
end up seeing you 
eventually, maybe 
when a Spring Sun 
does indeed arrive 
most humans 
stay inside 
to survive ringing in, 
when Winter is... 


this town must be dry 
I mutter to yourself 
I am too willing to blind myself 
to all but the attainment 
of every whim and fancy


poem says, the following is in one-act-choice-a-thon-vision
(fantasy elemental perusing of scent full plume bottomed girl)

I see a red light 
in the nearing distance 
it has been so cold 
I, a lone traveler 
gone back home 
after rummaging 
delusion and shining it 
for chance etiquette gone awry 
I am a spy an opportunity 
go a-knocking kind of guy....
but not on this night 
for Winter had indeed 
took to prize apprised tonight  
behind warm glass 
along, in every town, 
river and depot 
I ventured to 
hopeful for a score...

but thee desolation
and scouring eddies 

(billow echo chamber heart song part)
and scouring eddies 

were to be 
me only companions 
until I was upon
this country lane 
that had shown 
very few houses, 
with many miles
of mostly fields,  
fences and forests,  

I had gathered courage 
to wonder and wander closer 
ambling in a sped fast 
up the steps, at last, pace
and with a knock 
I waited, trembling, until then 
when the door did open...

I entered, chamber-ed ripe 
glad to be inside
silently rippled 
and riddled 
with anticipation

I was greeted by beckon 
and was sound-of-my-soul-eating it whole 
singing it, holding it in, satin sated, once cold
I was the now, a fire in the hole 
a forge bellied and a-wading, slow 
mime to gesticulations 
of dream, sleep, death and feast...


seed to petal, we pass down legends 
and lore as required reaching 
our divinities, murmur tendril ferocities 
birth songs of desire are 
what we always imagine being 
worth waiting for...the rests, between, 
coated in pollen, know...

cycle surrender conductor, orchestral smells
algorithmically pressing paused please(s), stay(s) 
here(s), now(s), staved bouquets and playing nicely(s)...

each measure onward tells you, 
humans have stories too as well 
listen to how the music in their souls 
seeks homes, sells ways 
they move, here and there 
and back to where 
cage meets wing
square and a stick 
with a string, you held time too
while we watched the Sun 
play cat's cradle for rain... 


(everything in between was
what I was meant to see, 
it became the poem, the rest 
became what haunts my good sense...)



  1. This is me, just a bitin' my tongue. I'm sure you've changed your mind by now about granting me permission to say anything. So I'm under control. Bouncing in my seat, but quietly(ish). Bahhhhh, I love this poem!

    Yes. I am manic. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

    1. You have as many personas as I have, by all means say what ye will...and thank you for doing so...

    2. What ever do you mean, my friend? I've only seen the one of you. --- No variations of name/blog, at least. If you have others, I need to know about them. Give it all up, and I'll eat it through a cesspool-s(e)ized straw.

      The more me's there are, the less me's there are. If I muddle it all up for others, in so doing, I do it for myself. And that, sweet pea, I desperately need.

    3. Plus, it makes it look like you have a lot of commenters. I dare say, you surely have a number of silent readers. But I've never been known for keeping tape on my mouth.

      That's a lie. In my early twenties. In second grade. There were times when I worked very hard to stay silent. Those were probably the only times I was "liked" by "those" people. All my blabbermouth days/years have drawn in a different sort of crowd. But then the hands are too many and I have no choice but to retreat, or be sanded, and quick, by the brandy and flan.

      That's the way to go, I think. Being "quicksanded" in flan. Mmmm. Plus, it's all squishy delicious in texturation. Text your ration. Texting is the devil. It makes my fingers hurt. And fingers are little gods if you use them right. Type, write, er. But not one ridiculously small letter-button (baton?) at a time. Do you twirl? I did, once upon a time. Just for fun.

    4. while but one theatrical visage for me outwardly, there are many faces of my eve staying reprieved between womb and scant, inside the foundry me, where poem goes to seed my almost(s) with a, (it counted this time)...and truth be told, I feel as if the comments, are really a chorus, becoming one commenter anyways...though that could be my propensity for pattern-zing irony as a dramatic and comedic fulcrum...til again...

  2. You want me to really do this one? You know how over the top I can go.

    top or yo-yo?

    jacks and rubber balls.