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,  
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 

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...)

EJR ©