Wistful Short One

Sing me songs of vitriol all laced in melodies of love,
shame my wisdom gained by years of pain,
tell me that sentience comes from somewhere up above.

Mock my broken harpsichord that I played with as a child,
tone deaf ears on loosed strung strings twanged hard
milk savagely the loneliness we all feel as calling from the wild.

Forever more the notes will keep as a heap rotting in my memories,
the smell of favored sympathy and dulled attention,
what once was beautiful to the ears of youth is deadened by perfection.

In the Mood

Wonderful sexy writing from DanaR – check her out!

https://wp.me/p9WfPW-cW

Empathy

Blended souls.

Witticism fades on dribble soaked lips
caught halfway between quip and piss poor joke,
snagged in realization that the statement is not desired.
Flagrant display following an ineffectual attempt
to display the degree of empathy passed across,
mirror the affection and nurturing that is so foreign.
Scrub out those Golems whispering in thunderous tones
where they sit perched atop your clay built heart
you’ve deluded yourself into believing beats so strongly.
Open yourself to a differing of feelings,
a roughshod pillaging of your isolated innocence
protecting you as thistles would from the harm beyond.

Inspired author, Olde Punk doing his thing with Sudden Denouement

https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/2019/05/17/unfurl/

A personal inspiration/muse of mine is Old Punk with RamJet Poetry and an editor at Sudden Denouement. His work is often raw as hell with a clear demand for the words to be spewed, there’s emotion behind them. I’d encourage you to check his work out and give him some richly deserved love.

Alice’s Aural Fixation

Bang down the gauntlet

and fuck up the noise.

Realize the petulant cumwads

can’t find what life says are joys.

They’ll ratchet their wisdom

down your throat in a second,

betray all that you find worthy,

if you succomb and say fuck it.

Don’t drink from their frothy lips

filled with ignorant lies.

Tell them to get bent and rot

choke on their prevarications and die.

Stroll on through the incessant chatter

of normalized shit and conversational patter,

you’ll burn in bright hues that are special

though you be considered mad as The Hatter.

Squandered Clout

Black smoke picture from Unsplash
Black Smoke from Unsplash

Hat trick pony across the line,
shepherded wisdom you felt was fine.
Triumph and fall away
don’t presume your sacrilegious idolatry on me.
Priming pumps at the Chaos Madcap
shoplifting tears having a panic attack.
Raze the Earth come all blue
destination choke back for our school.
Anti-hero rapture chord in flight
pulled on so loosely
now cinched up tight.
Bargaining with soul to sell
minister no more hearts and regrets in hell.
Hardcore stomps and tromps on you
confinement time in a human zoo.
We’ve got no more noise but slaves to quell
freedom squandered,
no one spent it well.

Nude Dancing and a Picnic

-in response to “Mandy Shupe” from Flash Fiction.

I feel rather than see the presence of another one, no two humans as they enter my shaded glen of woodworked perfection. One of them is liquored to the gills and the smell of morning whisky stains against my paneling not unlike the lacquer of years past when first I was blessed in methanol fumes. It is the bigger of the two, the other is waif-like and barely disturbs the air around her in the passing. The smaller flits across the greenery pooled around me as though she were afraid that lighting too long in any one spot would leave an indelible and unforgivable impression.

I have heard the clangs of bells all morning, their reverberations, their metallic dance of proud beasts struck with reverence. It must be a Sunday and soon all will be making their way to my embrace to share the welcome capturing of wood on ass and food in gut. Before the end of today I will grow mountains of items hot and cold to be plucked at by the scuttling people who traipse around my body in their semi-drunken wobble of tipsy delight, a special salsa to a beat that only they can hear.

Now, now it is too early for people to be joining me and I wonder at the carefree interlopers to my beachside glen….thunk.

Melted and reformed glass slams down on me, fizzy bubbles escape to run down the side and douse my groin in a champagne vignette of merriment.

The small one places a foot on my leg and presses itself up, and up again so that their feet stand stably on my strapped belly. Firm and confident, they still feel loose and comfortable, butterfly toes and bumblebee bellies hold more weight.

A shuffle above and some shimmying results in linen dropping loose and falling down across my arms, a double whump as harder hoof pieces trip off a shoulder to settle thump thump into the grass pond. I can sense the delight mounting as several more pieces come unraveled from around the tiny beast zip, zoots, zot and finish raining down around us.

Atop my chest now the hooves begin to tap out a rhythmic pattern, like the wasps who dance to each other instead of speaking. The toes slide, tap…tap, slide…slide tap and the body begins to whirlwind around itself faster compelled by something far beyond my understanding.

 The human beast wears nothing but their skin. Just skin and sunlight and the dancing partner of shadowed leaves racing to keep the pace. Skin changes colors and arrangement, from light pink at the points of her hillside chest to cream spotted with kisses from the sun in freckled patterns haloed in healthy Earth toned brown silhouetted by the great azure ocean above.

I am enthralled. It does not hurt, I have never been a dancefloor before now. Though once a man did tie a throat rope up to the thicker of branches overhead and do a soundless jig in mid-air, his shadowy feet casting wildly about until they moved no more.

Today I am something new.

The champagne runs between fingers and the larger beast laughs, guffaws, others are stopping to stare. I don’t mind them. They can’t yet see but come next Sunday there will be new secrets painted across me, applied one freedom filled dirty footstep at a time.

Tide of Chimps

Welcomes indeed to the rising sun,

an eyepatch fucker blessed to rain heat

a tidal wave of heartless blistered air

nuclear semi-shock of exhalted explosion.

Soaked in sweat, dribbling water,

remembering whethering worse weather

and praying for that bastard to set

while pondering the insanity of sweaters.

Living like a hillbilly hodgepodge

happily met with tight stagnant air

stuck in the sky crossed room,

we are feeling less like “human”

much more like baboon.

Errr….and then words….

Composite a spectrum,

Diagnosis alternative nostrum,

Qualifier doctrine placenta,

I’d call it a kid if only it were one.

So, birthplace be lobed,

Rounded and gray matter globed,

Because words man,

Them is the things that I once loved.

Greased Shadows

Shadow child on a wire.

It’s like a greased shadow that always flits away at the moment of its realization. From the opposite side of the equation it must be infuriating to exist as a singular potential point of reality. To be there, not there, pulled away at the last second like a word that gets lost on the way out from lips.

I’ve let myself destroy so much of myself with this obsessive tracking and back tracking to find a semblance of reality, to make a change now seems not futile but like capitulating. Facts are facts though, and today I find myself more miserable for the fears and fascination that I ruminate on sober or half cooked hazes.

For all my certainty that I can find a conclusion that somehow rectifies the damage that I must have caused and that I’ve jailed myself inside mentally and emotionally no for more than a year I’m no closer to finding peace than ever in this fucking quest to verify my own sanity or its absence.

It’s not the drugs (though they sure as hell didn’t help), its not the crushed moments of happiness so consistently fucked up by my that wildly erratic streak of madness that would bring about a beast of a person rather than the genuine me. It’s an absence of understanding and a goddamn mental block that seems to sit heavier than lead across the pathways upstairs that say, “do something different and get something sustainably different. Make a fucking choice, you’re miserable, choose joy instead and go back to devil may care appreciation for the individual seconds. Intensity used to be something you looked forward to without fear, stop jumping at phones and the thunderous chance to strangle what could just as easily be a figment of your imagination. Go be wild and spontaneous and crazily thrilled to be alive, goddamn it, just fucking decide that happiness is as infectious as this venom you’ve been spewing to the detriment and disgust of anyone within spitting distance. Go get back in the manner of loving and spread some joy, learn something, make a change, and even if it’s as a fuck you to the unseen initially it’s still a choice you can make.”

I’m so sick of being sick in the head like this man. Fucking hell I’d like to see something amazing mundane and start appreciating the hell out of it….like that damn “American Beauty” scene with the plastic bag.

I’ll get there I suppose…I even start college in January and have a new list of goals for the first time in I don’t know how many years. Momentum, have to get it building up to break this bloody inertia.

Vented.