Best Sequitur Poems
The Perfectionist is Listening
the rich are committing suicide
and taking us with them
the prosthetic limbed bastards
Fort Darwin tottering on fewer stilts
once the masters of the universe
presently picking through garbage
looking for an Icarus to pilot
some way back among the clouds
their telepathic goon squads
armed with the hard on of God
squat in the darkness of doorways
lightning strikes all around
even their machines were clairvoyant
several thousand watts went up my leg
shorting out the only attention span I own
left me perforated but not lacy
wearing all my masks all the time
fragments of self are selves
in a bulemic deconstruction
where form and content
mud wrestle incessantly for attention
on the crazy train to 3 color hell
the protagonists the antagonists
fornicators masturbators liquidators
pariahs and unlicensed poets
preaching hellstone and brimfire
apparently the ancient gods still rule
in their madhouse heaven
petulant and stupid gods
thought their figures included all the angles
sword point conversions gun point perversions
now their carcasses are steppingstones
what quirk of an infinite being
makes this burning plague village
of a planet so alone and necessary
of course none of this is protection
it's psywar out there kids
better find where they hid your dossier
mesmerized of the world unite
you have nothing to lose
but your failed methods of addressing reality
said his twisting tongue
struggling for ratings like any media
the soul cannot erase it can only go sightless
a phantom trapped in melancholy
when we were built to dance
with the twinkling stars
he finally learned to undestroy memory
being an ascended master of non sequitur
carried aloft in the arms of Mother Goose
his metabolic hurricane of why
an inferno of intrigue and superstition
our embryo-headed UFO ruling class
have me inside their fence of skulls
an investment in diagram futures
the idiots
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Beside Every Iridescent Node Grows
Beauty, Eyeing, Instigating, Nodding Gracefully.
Bounty Energizes Inundating Nascent Growth.
Brilliant Emerald Ignites Newborn Grains.
Bathers Each In Nuance Gather.
Beyond Eternity, Infinite Night Gropes.
Beside Emerging Isotopes Nonchalantly Grasping
Bottle-necked Entities In Nature’s Great
Beneficence Engages Ideology's Non-sequitur
Givers.
Bare endings. Idols Neglected Gape.
Basking Ecclesiastic Idiosyncrasies Nascent Glow.
Because Each Idol Names Great
Beauty. Effigies, Itinerant Namesakes, Grin.
Beside Each, I Narcissus' Grow.
being being being being being being being
First Published in Femmewise Cat
Puzzle Pieces
by Odin Roark
How troublesome the process
This jigsaw puzzlement of completion
That piece of apology
Impatiently gnawing at conscience
Never uttered
Forever evading the moment
The congratulatory gesture
Ever studied for the right angle
The approach that would empower
Not merely pander to an ego
The closure unattended
Acceptance of grieving’s unfamiliar form
The not-yet-ready release from
Mistake’s stubbornly suffocating choke
Even saying I love you
Remains held in abeyance
Fearful of misjudged reaction
Forcing rejection once again
Yet…
Patience remains as always
Our least respected
And most willing protector
Might forbearance have but one goal?
The simplest move of all
Acceptance of the game
Oh how we question
Engagement of challenge
The forever-perplexing summons
The curves
Angles
Miscalculated chances
When life’s countdown only asks
We respect commitment
Without need for interlocking
For conquest
Or gain
That winning is non sequitur
To mortality’s premise
That always-alive existence
Provides tireless refinement
For the countless puzzle pieces
Yet to ponder
Dictionary in hand Bobbies
manned state of the spy craft created
strategic peripheral outposts
a comma dated,
(sans syntax garnered monies) equated
justifiable to build galley ma free
Highland Manor wing - feted
via "FAKE" glitterati
creating surreptitious hated
surveillance monitor ring, which insulated
decked out starry eyed Starship
Enterprise surprise rated,
as an unbelievable well Spock kin
Duplicated Star Trek venerated
popular culture science fiction set piece,
where elderly residents waited
this other worldly architectural phenomenon
didst immediately outshine by alight
year among the original seven wonders
of the world prominant
as a buck toothed over bite
yet, didst camouflage top secret AngloSaxon
incognito missionaries delight
upholding correct language usage,
Thence trumpeting amidst
nonchalant onlookers as excite
mint hinted grammarians with listening devices
some flying unseen
as period size drones taking flight
other more sophisticated
electronic accouterments
dolled, gussied, issued with apostrophe
shaped flower buds scaling height
of cerulean sky, where blinding light
of a solar ellipsis, thus
arousing no discovered night
gallery suspicion during
feted occasion rife with polite
"FAKE" markedly questionable legatees quite
suitable asper The Art Of The Deal during
ribbon cutting ceremony,
and after words right
ting up citations slyly
slipped under windshield wipers
as the madding massed crowdsource,
would take dispersed out of sight
nonetheless echoes plenti chutzpah left
English figures of speech
uttering unstinting (quote unquote)
premature ejaculations,
eh so blandly trite
non-sequitur visited
by thee epic of Gilgamesh
for a dangling participle
during the split infinitive Sumer season
(exclamation point) no more to write!
Rooms
by Odin Roark
How prescient that first room
The one where under the bed
Proved private the light
Where flashlight and toy soldier
Became all that was needed
Came
The room with desk
Where locked door
Gave entrance to video games
While parents assumed study
Came
SATs where drawn curtains
No boom box
Only silence
And the study focus
Made the room
Came
The dorm room
With beer-can-crushing-to-the-head roommate
Making for final exam hell
Where stolen passions
With sorority queen fantasy
Made eating
A non sequitur
Came
The office walls
The room for fortune
Made eventually corrupt
With drawn curtains
Came
Marriage’s bed-room
That place where all became prescient again
Where a child would validate a wife’s existence
While with loving acceptance
A husband’s duty would be carried out
Came…
Came…
The rooms never stop
Some their final architecture
That of nursing home green
Other’s of palm-frond-shack freedom
Still others…
Soho 3-story condo prison
Rooms
Always unknown
Until they’re not
Forever a four-wall measure
The capsule
The coffin
Chosen destiny
One way
Or another
( On the eternal non-sequitur of Prose Poetry )
The mess on the passenger side floor of my dodge van is prose... or poetry?
The battle rages!
Are we dialectical heirs, or hairs?
"The cross or the cross hairs". Carrol said that.
"He was awake a long time before he remembered his heart was broken". That's Hemingway.
"A rose by any other name". Shakespeare, of course.
A poetic work in the making... A poetic mess!
Of all, only the half-drunk bottle of Merlot taunts me to exhume it.
The rest are content to be casts off of a crippled civility,
becoming themselves reminders, of the broken heart that names them.
As for me, I smoke life-shortening cigarettes in the sun-damaged van,
drink blasts of black Merlot in the shadows hush, and somewhere,
in midst of these confusing conspiracies, value oscillates- a shame-faced moon wanes.
Some draw to the light. Others, the flame.
Last week marked the 3rd anniversary of the sale of the number one selling beer in
America to a foreign corporation. I thought it was a sad situation when it happened
and put my comments down in a poem at the time.
America’s lost a great Icon
We sold Busch, our own “king of Beers”
An American tradition been ended
That lasted for one fifty years
St. Louis is feeling love lost
The senior Busch spins in his grave
But the 52 billion they offered
Caused the Busch family owners to cave
Not sure how this will impact the beer taste
Not sure that we’ll notice the change
But Bud’s now a foreign domestic
A non-sequitur title quite strange
mdailey
Ignorant
I was
I like the way I spent hours drawing, lying on my belly lying on the carpet
Undisturbed, basking in the late afternoon rays of sun through the cheap blinds.
But I was so young then, maybe five or six
And I didn't care about the way I felt in idle times.
Ignorant
I am
I hate the way I move, the way I turn away from others
I hate the way I think!
My logic feels like a game of non sequitur, and no one is declared the winner!
Aimless and desperate and dispassionate and pressed for time
I'm a living paradox, in search of a paradise that doesn't exist.
I'll admit, I throw myself at unrealistic expectations, exquisitely absurd dreams.
I'm a sucker for escapism
A lover of men and women
I'm kind and honest if I'm in the mood, haha.
I know.
I'm kind of ridiculous.
In all honesty.
I am a true contemporary
who knows how to acceptably
write a poem. First with a tangible
aroma of burnt toast, I will run on
my imaginary couplets like a stroke
victim of the modern prejudices.
(Strophe’s choice is put aside, and
Iamb not going to count my feet.)
Once cute, most common figures of speech have
worn out their fashion like poorly matched metaphors.
(Do not rhyme, remember, do not rhyme,
as you wax nostalgic for some childhood time… damn!)
Pent up pentameter oozes with therapeutic
confessionals that spring or dance or likewise
incongruently twist uncomfortably on the page,
while conjuring an image both shamefully personal
and embarrassingly boring from a tourist’s slide show
or the shoebox full of faded, classic Polaroids.
Sardonically satiristic, I’ll reach-around to reference
an obscurely erudite portrait of some saint, like
Christina The Astonishing’s flight into the rafters
of the church to avoid the stink of her own kind.
And at the end of a turbulent typhoon of irregular lines
washing deeply into the recesses of nowhere in particular,
I will, after too long a time, finally and hopefully declare:
une mule morte sur les clefs du piano.
Self satisfied, I’ll end my rant -- non sequitur but unchallenged…
or would you prefer a tantalizing inquiry of you, Dear Reader?
While out and about
an unexpected over bare ring bout
to defecate arose,
where sphincter asserted clout
and would excrete
despite without doubt...
if closing distance
(to reach rental abode)
beaten out by loosening sphincter muscle
transmitting excretory code
set sights on prowl for outlawed, secluded,
and wooded make shift commode
and essentially for naught negating
toddler toilet training, sans
getting potty trained undone
via my tushy ready to explode
and blast immense solid waste byproduct
(oh...close to the size of Rhode Island)
thus a marathon race against time
found immediate readiness to pull off roadside
to access make shift water closet
generating image firmly in pooping mode
grabbing hold of a tree trunk
(a mini rocky horror picture show, -
this analogy included for no particular reason
other than as a non-sequitur)
and also to convey, how I tried
to allay distractions
while painful contractions flowed
(perhaps approximating woman
on verge of giving birth)
but...no matter, aye could envision,
an ever increasing heavy m*****f****** load
hence approaching Highland Manor Apartments
this chap abandoned
prior simultaneous evacuation plan
starkly aware probability for secluded spot sunk
(nonetheless, thy darting darting
anguish, futile lizard like lookout,
a geico Gekko whose cheeks did blush
even for a measly Georgian bush
quickened nsync with rectal spasms
visual scouting industrialized
where backhoes didst crush
once a time sacred happy hunting grounds
of native Americans, now royally flush
with newly built vinyl city re: urban sprawl a gush,
where cookie cutter houses long since bringing hush
puppies muzzled, yet never the less and mush
a doo doo about nothing) except sprint
ting to the verizon with a void push
immortalizing indigenous tribes ghosts rush
peopling infrastructure affixing
urbanization with lamb basted,
and sigh lance warrior whoosh!
The Actors assemble on the stage
Where they’d been for years and for days,
And read their lines and read their lives
From the fragmented script of an unwritten play:
Says The Callow Young Man to the Ingenue, “My dear,
I’m frightfully sorry but would you care for more stew?”
While His Lordship harrumphs, “Where the devil's my beer?”
And The Maiden Aunt sighs, “That will never do,”
And The Countess says, “I prefer to not be specific.”
The Wealthy Young Widow announces to all,
“I’m so dreadfully bored, I’m off to see Venice,”
As The Lawyer makes a mysterious call,
And The Unwelcome Guest asks, “Anyone for tennis?”
And The Butler and The Cook do something illicit.
As The Boyfriend declares his undying love,
The Dowager says, “I do not talk of my youth,”
And The Girlfriend laments, “I can’t find my glove!”
And “It’s quite elementary," says The World-Famous Sleuth,
“The murder was committed by a one-legged midget.”
And so it goes, so it goes;
Glimpses of a plot flicker
In a non sequitur flow.
The Actors then pause,
And then they come to a stop;
They seem to stop for applause
But they’re just out of lines.
So they stop where they are and just wait;
Wait for The Writer to show up and create.
(while trapped in Pottstown
Memorial Hospital parking lot).
My humble apology to those,
who posted uber up lyft ting messages
to this Macbook Pro Facebook keeper,
without said scrivener swiftly
tailoring timely acknowledgement
from one harried styled leaper,
thus feel free to take
leguminous litigious licorice flavor
flav can deed extra-legal
imprisonment against my liberty,
(though catty, I am pusillanimous,
sans feline nine lives cheaper
by the dozen), plus verbally ejaculating
out gee golly jeeper,
or more pointedly
calling me a mother f****** bleeper,
for seeming to appear unresponsive
as a stale petrified marshmallow peeper,
and yes quite understandable
bitcoin torrents of rage runs deeper
than a blockchain though close call,
yet just lemme explain,
how during my most recent sleeper
state, a clear as bell curve
living dream nearly
saddened Matthew Scott Harris as,
cuz he got subject to grim news, viz
inducing him (yours truly) to become
deceased within a split second,
upon dropping to sleep
while all around, an
inconsolable weeper
wept sorrowful seas,
more so those family,
and facebook friends
many fine companions
linkedin thru Internet
invaluable cherished persons as keeper,
but believe this secular humanist,
he, who (honest to dog)
unexpectedly subsequently got engrossed
with the grim reaper,
discussing local, current (national), global,
and cosmic events, superficial,
and/or somewhat deeper
(topics oh...and as a non sequitur
d'ya know the name of original
Glen Elm occupants are named Leiper),
anyway Xmas universally
renowned throughout space
yes, jolly saint nick with his farout trappings
topped off with electronic digital beeper,
yepper siree he gets touted,
lauded, and celebrated be
leave ving with whatever
dogmatic faith hen knee
dear rabbit reddit reader doth embrace,
or perhaps being atheist like me,
(albeit I most likely appear
as somewhat highlee
beatle browed from across the universe),
nonetheless, whether er rather,
when still alive this chap aimed to - dee
light, enlighten, and playfully
frighten alien nations
(even those pizza peace loving
inhabitants resembling free
ranging gregarious teenage
ninja mutant turtles)
coming out their shells with glee.
Got Any Ideas For A Poem?
Ha! That catch phrase
(kid ding lee writ)
hoop fully goat yar attention
truth be told, (no...no...
no...not by me
boat some tee else of course)
mine min (yute) yen
for light banter i.e. badinage,
(this horny toad juiced ribbing...
frog git about it), yea,
I know that punning
while keying (NOT SAFE),
sometimes dill lutes
ma serious pickling attempt ren
doors an unsuspecting reader
(bajillion times out of zero) pen
ultimately probably discourages,
an increased virtual fanbase,
rectified by the following asinine
non-sequitur (a come men
dib bull double
entendre) totally tubularly
barbed with Freudian
slip age, that ken
figuratively grab immediate
interest of hen
pecked recipients (with pock marks
to prove such assertion)
might strongly concur even
without being aware how
psychoanalysis willy thrust
significance of phallus
in everyday affairs,
particularly how peppy
(even after applying
WD-40) can rust
and/or atrophy as if cell bait,
hence thee dick cree,
that intercourse a must
(as told by this husband
in a sexless marriage
as a result, I might
join a convent) as a lust
result, either that or
go set me a
watch woman as mistress
tubby integrated within
my private life
even if one
needs tubby bussed
from the outer limits of the
sterling twilight
zona pellucida ideally,
where love of c**t tree and
priapism maketh sea men go bust!
The missive sealed and now en route
will never settle their dispute;
to others it may seem minute,
it leaves us cold and destitute.
As they congeal in dark collusion,
others flee in stark confusion,
like poppies hide behind delusion,
the mystics kneel in tense seclusion.
The forests know they will endure,
the mountains, also, rest assured,
the waters of the Earth run pure,
Mankind is the non sequitur.
©Danielle White
the non sequitur
essentially when we defer
to what came before
which we regarded as a bit of a bore.