gibbet disco

the soul noose grows braited and taught,
a shroud-lain pretension that was wound with the sun
it prowled in when your attention was on survival

some people know how to play that game,
yes they do....
distract you with weaves and angelic catechisms,
then writhe in and wrap themselves around your essentia,
tighter than the buttresses rammed up against a walled jewel

why do some feel so compelled to harness and trap,
engage and transact the devoutly unblemished?
do the brooders shine with a special beacon of naiveté?
a radical spectrum of fractured narcissism?

or do those preyers long for satisfaction silked and delished,
the feasting off the clumsy thrashings of a novice pundit?
who's only recourse is to dive off the edge of balance,
the right-laid braid snapping, severing, braying
all recognition of delight

yea.....
some people know how to play this game

an absence of view

white......
the blistering absence
of life
or anything resembling
a wholesale buffet of joy,
the sounds permeating
this void of
confounded energies
rip back and yonder
cross shallow streams
of numbness,
the horizon blurred,
wavy and dusted
with vapored
and shimmering mirages
of machinations
rife with the echoed thunder
built upon scrapped
and abandoned
arterial cobblestones

the paths lead
up and beneath
the towering
snow capped blunders
of wars fought
and lives lost
upon the arced rainbows
of opinionated
mounts....

did you ever wonder
why those valiant shells
ran to their fates?

whole heartedly embraced
their warped and dented
destinies?

succumbed and relished
the cataclysmic
defaulted entry
into the wasted vista?

why for the sheer,
luminous glee of it....
why else would you skate across ice?

eolian daydreams

daggered spires
tallied up,
lunging for blue,
vying to grasp
wonder and desolation,
the alleys between rife with hunters
hooded and choked,
weaving their way
through striated flues
to golden ledges flattered
with easy access to pools
awash in blustering vortexes
of energy and the elemental void
that are compelled
to wander echoing avenues
crowded with sun-glinted peaks
of sand-blasted hope
oh sorry....
no one told you?
none here for the wary

don't bother looking
for rouged promise,
it is like the wizened vegetation,
stunted and brown,
ethereal
invisible to the thirsting eye,
its manna
ice cold from the sun's blast,
sandy, vacant,
aloof with shadows
strident and shocking
in their greys

run through these
crowded channels
coursing with the anonymous,
run as fast as you can,
for if you get caught unawares,
the cessation of buoyancy is certain

utopia does not reside here,
it never has...
whoever told you this
was a flimflam savant,
one of those quixotic travelers
on the delusional road to
reality

boffo cookout

one step....
that is all that is required
to meander the itinerary.
will it be
forward or back?
look askance at the horizon,
is the view adequate?

the retrospect,
a once longed for dispatch
down lanes of slick and thrill,
is now just a weedy dirt track
to a bubbling well of hollow
collisions

the grass clotted path ahead?
overgrown and heavy
with pliant proximated vistas
and covenants made in a fugue

to cleave to a mirage,
with such a ludicrous tone
of quagmirish vibrations,
is to strut in place,
bending a rut in your ellipse

and why bother the routed natives
with requests
for direction and affidavit?
when we will all one day vie
for that longed for
annihilation of circuit?

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