April 20, 2007

the wallow met

the flow and ebb of apprehension
with dies that bleed into eternity
this is the pattern of life
give, take
want, wait
remember....too late
we are but vessels that empty into the river
that roaring creeklette that passes through in momentary lapses
tossed, then left to beach at odd conjunctions
floundering through the quicksand of concern

when the flow is strongest it channels us to a seeming design
but it can dry up in an instance, no residue of it's wash left to glimpse
but this too is in the diagram
to repeatedly rush forward
and snag on hidden agendas
which surface like leviathans intent on consummation
one moment we resonate with our character
the next there is no reflection to gage
it seems the blind rule in this arena
for those who take the time to muse
will always, always deceive

a cordless destiny

whyever would one sprint towards divinity?
dash ever onwards to the embrace of a probable madness?
were death a habit, stroking the ego
leaving it shaking and stunted
where then are the clues, how does one arrive in that shallow cleft?

oh don't you realize children?
it is but a shriveled wanderlust of perceptions run athirst
a little heeded germ tossed into the winds of time
that rarely encounters humus to root
and then to actually burst into deity?
you might as well expect conscious decision from a stone
but wait....doesn't the mantle itself exhibit compromise?
this fragmented search ever forward
up, out and within
and for what?
fate has no use for the frantic twistings of a phantom cord
lie easy....abandon that quarry....accept

roaring dogma

The hermit shines his chaotic beacon
Lending a path that would be viable even to the soul-blind
Though he himself is visionless to wonder
Having traveled these coincidental routes vanward

One can only awe with innocence you know
and these repetitious viaducts inure one to illusion
but if one barricades against provocation, it negates the deception

those truly chaste, those born a cleansed slate
will inevitably wage grievance through analysis
though decadence and decomp will surely thrill the way to dogma

the blitz of aeons can erode a crown
a crown born with impropriety, too lax to plait
and the dichomotous language of paradox
well, this leaves little room to scratch
the itch, absorbed as truth, lies and prowls....

crooked paths are infinitely more endearing
for round every bend, stupefaction roars
the possibility for scent, fate, and yes wreckage
is inherent at the junction of every gnarled crosshatch
and if the math is done correctly
the multiplicity of delusion is boundless


slash and rip, tear a'blunder
I hug your essence to me
your thrashing seems to soothe
your violent tremors, so luscious deep
but what is this?
I attack and you radiate benignness?
even god-for-fucking-bid......love?!
this is so wrong....
didn't you get the manual?
the one with instructions for victims?
that one, you know....
that outlines your required reactions?
where you're supposed to suffer
and wail at your misfortune?
why then do you rejoice?
this is so disturbing
let me try again....

nono, nono
don't you dare laugh at me!

there you are relishing
my contamination....
there is something fundamentally
wrong with this picture
hmmm, and I must admit
I seem to like that in a person
ok ok, I give in
let's play!

shallow fractures

the core, bejeweled and infinitely multi-faceted
should remember a time when pardon was unnecessary
saged hermits may have rant and waged useless circuits
but the outcome will always be the same
thought, when offered, is but a transient gift
and thus divinity....shallow

conundrums have been known to shine when lit from within
but their separate entireties seldom abut
it's the nature of the beast, to fracture and search
over cliffs that distend furrows carved by brutish whelps
but never let the feral steal ownership of clarity, power
their path to absolution lies in the violent contrivance
and yours......a balmed coercion

deeth's semaphore

a mood, rancid and foul
flecked with the
sickly-sweet scent of death
mortality oozes
into pores left open
to detract from pain,
pain that lingers
maligns, realigns
senses that are in stasis
due to an overload of life

those little nips and tears
in the fabric of spring's
tossed smorgasborg
are there to vent the light,
light necessary for expansion....

but sister is about again
she lurks and walzes
through the herded souls

go on with you now vixen
we gave at the office
thrice too many times
you've got your quota
leave off, take a holiday
linger elsewhere why don't ya
maybe on some road
where you can spin your cape
over shells and shards
of neglected rubble

they should have traffic lights
in the afterlife for the like of you,
ones that are always on red......