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
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
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...
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...
conscious moment stolen...
each could have been
the offspring of your every-almost-ever-was...
the offspring of your every-almost-ever-was...
things that're mostly heard hosting
death, a whispered bunch of bristled knives...
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
with barrels of agony
to ride with a pen, drunk
and pondering, the embrace
of this supposed death
when exposed, one
when exposed, one
could reckon, eventually
you might think only, of sleeping
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
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
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)...
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...
and imperceptibly thin...
wood folks and farmers
end up seeing you
eventually, maybe
when a Spring Sun
when a Spring Sun
does indeed arrive
most humans
stay inside
to survive ringing in,
when Winter is...
when Winter is...
------------------------
this town must be dry
I mutter to yourself
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
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,
very few houses,
with many miles
of mostly fields,
fences and forests,
beforehand...
beforehand...
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
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
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...)
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...)
EJR ©
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!
ReplyDeleteYes. I am manic. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
You have as many personas as I have, by all means say what ye will...and thank you for doing so...
DeleteWhat 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.
DeleteThe 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.
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.
DeleteThat'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.
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...
DeleteYou want me to really do this one? You know how over the top I can go.
ReplyDeletetop or yo-yo?
jacks and rubber balls.
slinkies!