blunt etchings

nerve endings
pricked raw and silky,
they throb and flare
when recalled thoughts
get too close
to the core of assent
dart
faint
flee from that fervor

how does one blunt the etchings?
those wisped filaments of want and craze?
the thirst to avert
blend
morph
into an obelisk of phantom

rapture?
that reaches round and past
the fundamental urge to computate?

this data is flawed
or is it the receptacle?
the shrine of self
demands homage from
floating membranes of hunger
in order to fluctuate
with the echoes of passing
appetite

shadow moat

the solitary annexer hounds the commons
always on the selvage,
the shallow moat a resting place for the quasi warrior
who vigilantly tags errant trespassers

but apart for those dervished squirmishes
dictated by need and arrival,
those damned forged emotives
that are lush and always on point,
the burn of intimacy is red hot, acidic
....and shunned

the periphery is courted and guarded with a vengeance
do not cross that line....
you will be obliterated,
wiped from the the surface of the shadow's slate
never to savor umbrage again

Rosaceae stomp

the rose,
so red and hematic,
frozen in a stasis bespeaking an organ
trampled under paws of clay
and muck

the petals,
velvety and smeared with rancid dew,
oiled and stinking
of intent gone overdue
with consequence

the stem,
a long, thin
rapier of relief
with vicious thorns to prick the unaware,
left by those who don't give a clue
about lost adoration

the gift,
it's shallow and feckless stamp upon plated rainbows
abandoned as an over sight in a drive-by deluge
of signals that failed to include
the warp in trajectory

the bestower,
negligent, feral
naught but a fictitious mockery,
an idolizer of backwater by-ways
where guileless concubines vie for
stainless exaltation

the missive,
a word to the wary......
to invite disregard
by the enigmatic horticulturalist
is to leave your devotions
tender, ripe for economy

feasible crumbs

hideous, deformed
incapacitated
scarred
the sapid gargoyle awash in karmic rebounds
waits on hand and toe
for feasible crumbs dropped by unworthy foes,
their only claim to remembrance
a shout heard down tripish corridors of phlegm

what does this monster want?
out of life?
out of communion?
....out of paper

to lead the rummage
cross fields of sarcasm
the downed warriors stripped of acumen,
the armor rusted and mocked,
astringent and bitter animosity
dragged out to the sea of wit

to head the march
o'er meadows of floundering dross,
and heard above the flocks of imbecilic ruminators
bred for endurance, a repetitive lunacy
not felt or imagined
by their cliched sensibilities

to commandeer
the armies of unfeeling and self abstracted
carbon eaters
their digestive tracts lined with leftover drool
ripe with embryonic concepts,
their flight of preoccupied residue
slimy with extravagance

to cede....
emptiness
wraught with extinction
embraced by deities revolving round
the fenced-in solarium of pedestrian prate,
entrails of padded insight hither and where
to shine is to retreat....and to rule

fuga battalia

wandering the fugue
wrung out chimeras of battles,
arguments and bogus assessments abound

here a vitriolic sputter,
a rant on the inaneness of opinion

there a strutting of quirky ego
gone rancid with grief

and the always exceptional
boxed, caged, and inviolate hyena,
biting at it's own tail
to free itself from karma's orbit

over there passes a shining torch
twinkling in the quagmire's dusk,
don't touch it......
don't you dare get close
the burn is equivalent
to a supernova's implosion

fetid pups run amock
nipping and gnawing at curdled heels
just trying to give credence
to an inattentive guardian,
too intent on self digestion
to render civility

and those hounds of appetite are loose,
hide your sullied tidings....
if you don't want your belongings
unraveled and smeared across vale and tuck
run! run to the nearest exit

the advent of kala in all her splendor
strifing these murky halls,
on the look out for fallen psuedotants
chained to the temple of bleeding persona,
their wranglings and moans
compulsive fodder for the hungry harpy

over there, what the fuck is that?!
six legs, wings, a snout....

oops sorry, wrong window

la pirouette de la raison

strifing
cross fields of woe and excess,
the marauders aggressive
and oblivious to the inane,
they could care less
if you give them leave
or pass on by in your quest
for the ridiculous....
who are you to a being
intent on the absurd?

the lush lanes
ripe with skulls and shins piled low,
jump them if you are so inclined,
and who wouldn't be?
to bound the refuse left behind by fools....
their by the by, dusty, remote
and out of tune
did this person stray or stay the distance,
unconcerned about sanity's leveling?

packs of unitiates run rampant,
hither and withered souls,
no agenda or discipline,
the all-encompassing zap of the thrill
their only bliss

over yonder hill....
did you know there was a castle?
a place for respite or gluttony,
whichever you prefer
where the guardians are hatted,
holding wands of alabastered reason

all you need do is ask for directions
to the circus held daily
in the perpendicular courtyard,
the vampish bats hanging from torn reason,
those jerked straps of ground up
gyrating novices

the grand tilt

words
fly back and forth
can anyone catch them?
decipher them?
embrace them?
what means one thing to another
means volumes to the next
or nothing to a passer-by
will ever the twixt meet?
but you see, it's really just air
being pushed back and forth

come
come away with meaning
run
run far with intent
I won't catch you
I don't have a clue why we're all here

I'm still bedazzled by the verbiage
so eloquent
so heart-felt
so full of rotting shit

arrows of reason gone off the mark
was your goal to ensnare me?
I watch the mental barrage
confused
distracted
open hearted
....destroyed
this bull's eye is painted blue....
for resignation

and the purpose of those words?
did I even rub near?
or was I too busy chasing after
flowery and nether
phrases of profundity,
too close to the universe's rim
to notice I had left behind
no markers for retreat?

the faire has come to town
and befuddlement sets in
when the jugglers do their grand tilts
but please,
don't bother your little head over spilt intent

why don't i feel anything?
is this numbness?
or is this just the lot of those
washed up on the shores
of holocastic fits of awareness?

the folly and the ectasy

have you ever taken a trip into madness?
oh, I don't mean go mad on your own steam,
slipping into that place,
that comfortable place that harbors no good will

no, I mean a trip, a real jog across dimensions,
one where the button on your jacket
gets caught on the coat tails
of a frequent traveler

a trip so surreal, so absurd, so sublime....
can I say that? without appearing trite?
hmmm, I guess so
since I'm a drifter too

this destination seems almost familiar
the vista
the visions
the voices
even the circular landing patterns,
that perpendicular swing of fractured emotions,
so familiar.....

is this destination a vacation spot for many?
it almost seems....like home
the folly and the ectasy,
the truant mind-voyager's terminal....
yep....right at home

the dance of the effigy

flailing,
the wicker-visaged scarecrow
is once again used as a bon voyage
for emotions gone cascading towards extinction

it's hollow veins and dry shell course
with parallel memories that never made sense

it doesn't speak nor give any indication
that it is even viable....
but look closely,
closer
close as you dare

that's not dew on it's straw cheeks,
that my friends is moisture
condensed from a heart
battle-wrung with the
vigorous denials of life,
the whys and wherefors
simply dust in it's mouth

the drizzle, so necessary for speach
never makes it home
before the dessication hits

no words can be spoken
for the arid atmosphere
is not conducive to affection

feel sorrow for this flapping effigy,
it is misunderstood and ignored
by those beings made of earthly flesh

but you know......
this lonely beacon
would petition for feelings too
if all weren't so greedy with their hearth
and foes

onus operandi

oh that old demon regret
what's the old saying?
hindsight is 50/50?

shoulda
woulda
did I?

yea....you did
get over it
you're gonna have a lot of such episodes
in this fun place called life
you can't live in the past
that bye is gone

and why did you?
the 20 million dollar question....
because at the time
it seemed like the right thing to do?
hmmm?

were you questioning yourself at the time?
no, you probably weren't
so why now?

guilt?
guilty?
guillotined?

human conscious
a bruised ego that needs to be stroked
or the devil's handiwork?
idle minds and all that....
another one of those platitudes

zwaard

flashing foible of blood and flame
leashing reason
imbuing the wielder with unmeasurable dao
to engage, retaliate
and furnish answers
swung and hung to intellect's hilt

the flash of insight
as it descends to decision
wracked with morality's edge
......a two-headed split
one to passion
the other falls 'long violence
ripe with jehad

the phallic swallowing
of power coroneted
with will and mercy,
virility, heresay
religion, state
and faith

it's tang strong and rarefied
edged with the sun's corona
and spleen's animus
the ricasso mark
a ten petaled manipura
assimilating the prey's birr......
in the sweetest of passion's
euphorias

orbis singulus

aberrant particles static bound with introspection's
deep well of soul wrenching compromise,
the exclusive tread the most desired of options,
though for some a burden of abysmally monumental proportions

quarantined by choice, the retreat into wilderness
welcomed...sought...embraced
outre perceptions battered by quixotic auras
bent on breaching mile-high columned shrieks
of agonizing rarity....
those misguided baffoons of society's twisted hauntings,
pleating at some unknown junction,
their influx warped, battered,
rubbing impregnable, dangerous,
elliptical seams

oh, to be abandoned....
with ever-receding assumptions
washing out to far-flung black holes,
hanging amongst insignificant husks of scoured refuse

weid

frilled leather wafting on heated breeze
the voir floats
flirts
strikes
with no cumpuncture
for reeling ardor

oh that little girl
such a vicious vixen
so affectionate to those of like ilk
it takes a master of spite
to master the sprite

pacing her dominion, scrying facets
obsessed over spilt gratification
she is a feverish counterpoint
to vision gone rampant

take aim and cast the dragonette's gasp,
lie low, hold back
to reap and seed the destruction
of her gilded talons dipped in fiery bliss
....such a loving monster