In the Bleak of an Eye

 

 

A borer
A hole borer
In a bit of a twist
Lacquered up
Tuckered out
Sunday ways to six.
A blight of shaves
The metal shaves
Gum the works.
Auger build up
Smoke and silt
A little borer
Bored to bits.

*files revisited

 

sun driven motorized gizmos in nature

In response to Magpie Tales

Simon says...

He had clinical onomatopoeia but Simon didn't think it was a thing

he clumps on the road and squeaks on the step and whooshes when he swings

he whispers in the dark, while he gurgles in the bath and then rustles with his towel

putt putt behind the mower, dreaming that he's flying and is who-ing like an owl.

Soon they came in a big white truck with every good intention

they took his temperature, fed him pills, and not to mention

threw Simon in a rubber room and tied him up and played Shubert through the speakers

doctors stretched him on a couch and asked him questions as he sipped on stuff from beakers.

And all the while he forced a smile on his creaking lips

he recounted happy days happy times and seldom dismal dips

his playmates were accountable, his mother was his rock

good ol' dad tossed the ball, his puppy pulled the sock.

Physicians took his blood, while dentists cleaned his teeth

he took a step without a clunk, they presented him a wreath!

Now Simon goes on quietly without a whir or click

to look at him he looks all right, you'd never guess he's sick

But in his head inside that skull amid the dark grey matter

he beeps and clucks and bops and slaps just like that old Mad Hatter.
　

Here's to the talking mouth, obviously, and the nondescript noise of epic elocution. The blathering drivel eclipses all but the most intrinsic of motor acuity. You'll meander through the motions, taking in the ambiance of the permanent collection, swaying to the hamster sounds, mush mouth, incoherent ramblings of an alien voice, somehow understandable while at the same time incoherent. What it sprouts from parched lips glistens with truth, but the logic is irrefutable due to ambiguity. It's tough to argue from the tip of your tongue. An echoing answer mingles around the edges in a more feminine tone, sweet talk mixed with innuendo but it passes over the senses like a red balloon over a field of poppies, imagery unbound, titillating perception, diluting propositions that teeter on the edge of reason. Still the mouth drones on repeating soliloquys and Technicolor how-to lists that confound, yet satisfy. Along the fringe, framing the pretense, she answers glibly with a recipe of reciprocation and then mixes it verbally, continues on task while you wander open to impression, maudlin to modernism, immune to cubism, numb to steam punk. Lips and vocal chords hidden like wires in conduits gather sentiments in monotone drifts high in camouflaged rafters, until the coagulant spiels burst with the vehemence of storm clouds over the plains. You'll get it then, obviously.

photo credit from Here.

intimate journey

Halfwit in old shoes

seen the wicked ways of this world

from the soles up

trod on his slice of life

the odd worm and errant flea

who refused to budge

from a delectable bite

of frosted leaf

softened by tooth

and mandible

He likened his life

to that of an ant

steadfast and replete

with purpose

he ventures forth anon

smiling like a shaman

or a dolt

on quests untold

unfolding before his great white shoes

collecting dust like clues for the clueless

in flight

archival tape

features various pronunciations of

squee, and eep!

as told by the children

of those who've flown

into the wind with

black devils.

Odd tales, older than your father,

regaled with a drink

of rats on the wing

give chase to squeamish

thoughts

and squirming bums,

where the windows pause for shadows

and light has no taste

for monsters.

deep

Come out of your tunnel, and taste the rain. These bleak, gastric undulations that pull you in, that you wander through unimpeded yet ducking – they keep you humble like an earthworm, like a troll hovering for a handout. Riches are not forthcoming, nothing will come your way but the pennies falling through cracks. Come out, let your back even out, crack those vertebrae, let the sun cauterize your rancid wounds, finger the dew that dribbles off the edge of a leaf. Every bend brings a weary new sameness. Every muted gray, feathered tendril of marauding root, crumb of obstreperous soil brings around a circular tangle of not again here we go and nothing ventured nothing gained. Hear the rain, climb up, and out, drown in the hard wet drops that want only to bash in your brains, tunnel into the lines of your diminishing face, puddle in your eyes. Taste it, and let the rain shape your dreams, then put your foot to the test, follow the rain running rivulets in the dirt and revel in the mud, it colors your world and rainbows shift in the folds of conquest.

embrace the night

In the office where the window is an afterthought, clothed in black shutting out the eve, hangs my painting of Oliver Dorman, eccentric. The office is stark, equipped only with a maple desk and chair. A bookshelf stands in the corner where a sliver of light from the open door leaks in. Upon this desk is a blank sheet of paper, and a pen that is all but empty of ink. It matters not. Oliver Dorman winces in his portrait, not fond of sitting the prerequisite length of time. He scrunches up his nose and pouts, but the artist paints over this grim affair with brush, gives his model an air of contempt and a glass for contemplation. If ever the door slams, the front door to this abode, the pen moves about; it is inching closer to the edge, off the page, nearer to the brink, ready to take the plunge. The worn wooden planks, scuffed below the four legged butt holder, lie cold over stretched beams and hard packed clay. Quiet they have lain for hours, even days, frigid and replete with tedium, anxious to receive any clue, a sign from above. Just a draft gives rise to a thought, places its icy finger on the page and lifts a corner, forging an intimate turn of phrase, and forgetting like a candle does, its flame dancing on a breeze that snuffs it and travels on. What little light remains evaporates, taking Oliver Dorman with it into the night, and blackness creeps in, filling at last the creaky floorboards, stopping them like glue and only the rafters speak now, in low tones bidding another day farewell; goodnight.

faith of evolution

A  progression of fools

from beginning to fall

rising to perfection, cream of the crop,

finally came into their own

set the rest standing on heads

crowns planted firmly in the sand

looking out from within

between scrub and leaf

a deluge of color into

the widest expanse of space -

stars, the heavens, knowledge

found in no stack of books.

They walk on legs

gilded in gait

skipping the pretense

losing sleep for a chance at greatness

then stare through blinking fits

organizing thoughts into

architectural achievement

and numbers, letters, birds and bees,

release, dearth, lust and exhibition.

At length they'll form a latticework

of bodies to step on,

climbing hand over foot

upwards, artistically,

breaking ecclesiastic doors into shards

of timber, salving slivers of distrust,

the one eye and feral breast,

to lay a framework upon the floor

stretching like the limbs of an Einstein tree

into unnamed domains of fractal dissonance.

No poetic manual, no force of eros

in the curve of mechanization,

will crop the frivolous digits

from their dance, and exposition.

Standing naked under the gaze

of puffing monkeys, monocled -

haloed by emissions -

they dissolve in a slurry of myth

contained under a glass

dissected

cataloged

diagrammed and set upon a pole

pinned like a moth

into the obscurity of presentation

and glam

until the nectar erupts

and the circle breaks

upon the stone, and wheel, and manacle.

A feral bat hovers in-

trinsic with elaborate fuctions,

hence the color coded doo-

hickeys and feathered

glass spines screaming

expletives like didode e-

mitting colorfast

BURSTS! Marble crates

of plain brown wrappers

sent to wealthy ingenues

cure all, give rise to

sons of featherless mother

effervescing flipping

flying in the haze, rup-

tured ether, either/neither

that nor the other thing

wherein space infringes

giveth rise to bat-

master Spleen, inherent

feral bat in a cardboard

box, swelled with pre-

cipitatis slime mold

creation of hoary voice

moulders: Indeed!

running away

Pounding the cement the persistent throb of my toe, rubbing in yesteryear's sneakers, gives way as the mile, then the miles go by. Roger Miller strums and croons idiotically then Eddie swings his ax, a riff and a beat drown away civilization's notes, the internal combustion engines that I run beside. Thrumming rubber rubs out birdsong and the winds that push branches aside, that whisper over shingles, in and out open porches, percussing unashamedly with storm doors and loose shutters. The cliche dog barks in a rude city where pockets of green cost more than the winter sun can give, it pierces the void, reigning under cotton candy skies. How difficult can it be to channel the jaguar, to hallucinate away the street lamps and naked limbs, hanging heavy with fruit only for a time, waiting the ravenous flocks to alight and greedily feed, to picture the plain sky blotted out by lush jungles, the pavement by fern and decay? Only pitfalls remain to the frozen footfall, freezing under December's dying season, threading a course over curb, crack and stoplight. Why does one climb a mountain, or run to winter's end? Because it's there.

try this on for size

notsomuch

microsnoz components piss me off
they're too small, they never piece together
right
the instructions are in English
olde
and the diagram
when folded in three
then spread wide like a flapping accordion
depicts the grand history of Peter D. Smeek
door knob salesman
.
plastic nozzles
the small round ones with teeth
get stuck in unfortunate places
in cracks
in hoses and tubercles
and nooks and crannies
they make noises
confounded blurts and hiccups
when the winds blow up along
the floorboards
.
these components
stamped
made in China
manufactured and sold to the highest bidder
they come with a guarantee
and a solid state home engineer
well oiled
coiffed to perfection
it sits on a spring ready to tidy up
.
the user fee is enormous
.
everyone ought to have one of these
microsnoz components
they fuel the planet
with round incompetence
and everyone agrees
what the world needs
.
is more of that

titanic lethargy

it means that the howling is unending
the plaintive rush of icy air
a flow of tentative fingers filling our pockets
wrapping tendrils of muted light over pursed lips.
Now it bulges, grows completely filling every space
even the obscure creases where we hid secrets,
but they're safe,
blemished, warped with age and depraved silence.
Chromium steel, tinged with radiant orange
builds from pitted woes, awed by a new sun.
The old lies rust in effigy while ancient laws reborn
defy gravity
hurl concentrically amid wagon wheel spokes
and burrow into the fruited lives of our elders.
Bestill, only the dust lives forever
even it swirls on an axis
of an others design.

Somewhere, sometime?, in the past few days I found myself maudlin up to the point of an irreversible trend toward the point of no return. Indeed, at one juncture I did find myself turned aside momentarily, askew to the perpendicular, but my wit took me into its corner and whispered these things in a thick vapor of salt upon my reluctant senses: don't neglect your present course, you must ride it to the end without reservation. Do not be swayed by the sights and sounds to your left, or tastes and textures to your right. A soft belly cannot reason, a feckless mind will not rebel. Grab hold of this flaming torrent and paddle through to the climax, where all will be gained. There is a calm to be met in the flux of an inherent universe, a place one can delve into benign avenues and be seen as all-everything but above it all, a space so low that looking up is akin to flowing into and around, or so high that seeing is an exercise of diffuse light. Interpretation is the key, and spinning gains disciples of truths and the lies they'll swear allegiance on. The turn of a poetic phrase strikes a fetid pose, wherein dark and light mix in a slurry of pent up aggression, spilling out in a gaping froth of cacophonous ire to flood and overwhelm your contrived masses until they succumb to the unholy tide and swirl in the ceaseless eddies of a contorted soul.

bluezy, My Baby's got a Shirt...

see I'm feelin' up the highway
yeah I'm gonna get it on
oh I'm inchin' up my own way
what a crime spree what a bomb
and she's goin' out of her way
to evade and too aplomb
but I'm gonna have it my way
snapping fingers rubbing palms
oh my baby's got a shirt
an' she's gonna put it on
if I don't preempt the outcome
if I don't show her how strong
oh my baby's got a shirt
an' she's gonna put it on
yeah my baby done got a shirt
an' she gonna put it on

what light in yonder window breaks
Juliet and she's the moon
pressed up against the window
lookin' like she's gonna swoon
the flesh is ripe the night is deep
this moment's come too soon
yeah my baby's got a shirt
an' she gonna put it on
if I don't get it together
if I can't lower the boom
oh my baby's got a shirt
an' she's gonna put it on
yeah my baby done got a shirt
an' she is gonna put it on

presence

Dear Occupant,
or
To Whom it May Concern:

We regret to inform you of the optimal decline
of your everloving aurora of invisibility,
it has come to our attention
and we pass along to you
the aforementioned inclination
a dilemma
hyphenated parenthetical
of utmost importance
inasmuch to say
simply and without delay
regret or spasm...
your warranty is up,
nuts are loose
toes are juiced
ears screwed on too tight
and various accoutrements of convenience
just
not
right.
Please post yourself directly
for realignment and etcetera,
signing on the dotted line
of course
and leaving amount disclosed
blank, incomplete, alphabetically transposed
for further introspection by inspectors,
namely numbers 9
& 5
who lack names origins and platelets
much as you do, you metalized hack,
respond without comment, in person
or as you please, come as you are
bring a date, but RSVP
and BYOB or smattering of grease
in a vacuum packed bag,
you never can tell,
pie plates are all the rage
and whipped cream...
but that's extra.

silentsoliloquy

grotesque they bob up and down on poppy stems, the tiny garden of human heads shrunken and wise rocking in the wind, retiring behind apogean petals with the waking of the moon. Their obscene grins belie a muted death, cavernous sockets look down, dragged by gravity to a dew clean perspective of river polished stones, dredged and spread convoluted like a jeweled, multifaceted bed. They curtsy nod and bump asking in their own selfless way, can we take solace in a plethora of pebbles? and answer in the only possible way, with a question, what else is there?

sequential

Organized chaos in the blink of an eye
came fast and left
easy as cake – piece of pie
we tried but came up blank
sitting on a raveled unrug
plied with candy and cigarettes
preening beavers in a hedgerow of planaria.
Yesterday won't do, tomorrow is too soon
Monday moons of marbles and Cheeseday reeks of teeth
the days of the week should be chocolate
or rhyme with steak
and the months should melt like cool jazz
over a pan fried steak
accoutremental
experidental
potato

potato

butter

peas

god undertoe

From the dark, outside in a car, snuggled in layer upon layer like an infinite scene between mind numbing reflections, I see her immortal face. She is at once naked in repose while standoffish and cornered like a froufrou poodle bag hung from a hook on delicate chains. Now her impossible motility, unlikely as pendulous giraffes dowsing in a broken stream, bombarded by boulders and the remnant footsteps of flimsy bygone behemoths, have me thirsting for knowledge not available in any story book of leaping hounds or grandly feathered divas. Abstract fleurs melting, rising out of artificial holes governed by lieutenants bearing their badge on wheels, are displayed like archaic skeleton keys that rise in bespeckled currents shod in pink party dresses until they hang in stasis like poems constructed by Robert Indiana in a Vonnegut guild parlayed with gold parquet. Now from within out she lays harbor to a flat surface heeding no warning as she has over many midnights now, playing her games, her dance upon the chessboard as a porcelain pawn waving and pivoting away the shadows. Her erstwhile god, in a pallid room, taps a timepiece and weighs his options, a heavy eye upon the tripping beauty who applied for the position.

Her winsome visage and form grace his studio on clapboard easels while his conclusions are as labored as the palpitation of recalcitrant snails ridden in mobius figure eights by scantily clad waifs doubling as dim muses hanging beneath clever word balloons. An icon in dark glasses, he wears a skinny black tie and draws his lightning power from pointillism and the ordinary tin can; the god fingers his chest, a flesh weave of cardigan and taupe. His student, she, is statuesque and worthy of apprenticeship. He might command a genius to sculpt her in marble then remove the artist's hands for touching unattainable beauty. She is voluptuous, lithe, winged and envisioned as a ferocious goddess with the head of an angel and the body of a chicken. The smoldering Rorschach spheres will cast its vote while blue twin bitches wearing the fur of turquoise ovids look on with distaste. So does a former mermaid in a triangle bikini and pie cut Afro acquiesce, believing that somewhere her novice leads a wanderful of sheep around a pole and will likely be doing so long after the colored pins drop from her map of Nirvana and points without.

The moon is rusting and held in the sky by twine, lecherous mutations abscond with earthly nonpareils, men kneel to buxom maidens or flail at their snubs, dropping from unforgiving heights, falling upon their swords, delving between the jaws of crocodiles when the guilt of grief dissolves their bodies into the crust of loveless airborne dust.

Behold the being that I will create by dabbing my nib into the well, at my leisure. I will forge this document melding sunfire on my naked breast, sending legions, sacking cities, and engraving upon her grimace the web of godhood. Swifts will deliver at her doorstep a procession, warped in satin, enthrone her like a madonna in a great birds nest, on a gathering post as handmaids, stuffed heads and the shrieking Lucretia worship her willingly. The trinkets of refuted candidates parade in shadow boxes upon my wall.

Patterned lemur of zigzags gathers its leaf, lays the frond beside awesome murals and carved pebbles from the nude green starlets. Inside this Dome of Radiation all see the architecture within one another and their spirits soar with the white doves as cloudburst memos rain down begging for the lord's willful ignorance. Her eyes become a mosaic watching disguised concubines led over trails of flame lined with the lustful emanation of Tiki stones. The fuscous god, i, looms afloat and sees through wafting shades of purple, his pencil headdress courting circular steps, loading a pixelated image of the successor.

No more is she a gewgaw on a checkered board, but bejeweled unto the shade of a beached monument, inked upon pages of myriad tomes. Legions will name particles and planets for her sons, shift their postures in deference, defeat untold foes with weapons of inferiority. Mighty men digest ocean worms and stare into the fiery eyes of demon kings in her name, as her god before her lays beneath her stiletto foot, beguiled then betrayed by the oils he splashed onto the white canvas, soiled by his vision.

#4; of the hellspawn of Pestilence.

Dangled and fell
out from Chaotic Wellsprings
like a disproportionate funnel
the maladroit colossus
spurred by X
raged in Pestilence.
~
Marsha incognito
for she fled the kingdom in fear
ere the birth of Torquemala
son of a wickedly dispatched Pasty,
nearly tread upon by the creature
a malapropism of enormous breadth
vile rotting and well-favoured,
tho only such as refuse may be described.
He premeditated a close to the reign of X
that vile persona non grata
whose usurpfulness would come to an end.
~
X in a tizzy
adorned with many a tassel
and carried by a host of the foremost
of Pestilence
had bested Miffla, sullen wife
of Amoritorius
and she beget him, X,
a vile witch
loathsome yet winsome
in the art of deceit;
she who would inherit
and ply her wares to the
mired plethora of Pestilence.
~
Now daughter of X
unnamed at birth
and veiled in a drapery cumbersome
to shroud the guilt of her progenitor,
She clutched the strings of the behemoth
that which crawled
from the frothing depth of Demise,
It what had no name
like the witch who then summoned
to ravage in disarray and matted blood fur
her hated father's Pestilent kingdom.