sprawling tangled vine
sticky grass seed disposal
summer catchweed tag
LATE BLOOMER
sun highlights
the bod of oak bark -
Autumn knight
CLINGERS
won’t let go -
cling to puppy love,
its branches
CLEAVERS
cleaves to old
relationship vow -
storm shakes loose
LANDING
the leaves land
amidst the old maids’
bitterness
BRITTLE BONES
the children
jump in old gals’ laps
living loud
RING AROUND THE ROSIES
circle round
sing, “ashes…ashes…”
and fall down
LEARNING CURVE
life up there
in the lusty air
now seems strange
GONE WITH THE WIND
scattering
the old bats’ ashes
to the wind
REBORN
phoenix lands
a bitty wiser
and lighter
doves eat
sticky willy....
cleavers scattered
Same scene; same birds, flies, insects; same plants, and fall flowers,
Sameness has built lasting nests, like small social weavers;
Boredom, like ivy creep or jasmine, creeps, and hovers,
Tedium grows hooky and sticky like coal-cleavers...!
I avoid crowds, yet, see the same faces at the end,
Each route I tread toward, the same destiny does tend;
Everyone does see; just like me; all feel yet pretend;
Who is wrong? Who is right? Who here does ever repent?
Compromise is the word they use; with whom? When? What? Why?
Conciliation! What? What does this mean? Earth? Oh! Sky?
Each way you think is only your way; they seem to say,
Confusions and contradictions are trends of the day...!
Mono! Boredom so! Tedium! Do they touch your heart?
Plunge! Dive! Drown! Come alive! Yet, life is not full of naught!!!
25 October 2021
They told us to dream,
but there is this brand of dream
that is hard to imagine ... So, I'm picturing ...
and in this will-o'-the-wisp, I become
Desmodus Rotundus,
Vampiro en el grottos;
a travel pig for the mattock
pruning the roots of the people.
First off, I did not open up like eateries
... but I've watched senseless thoughts
eating what they should never eat,
rubbing their bellies to go home and discontinue,
but this was just the first wave.
At nightfalls, I scour the darkness
in the forbidden of Wuhan, sucking everything disagreeable.
I am saturated with wicked warranties,
nothing outrageously seducing, but brutally illogical.
I was horrified when society looked me dead in the eyes
before bringing down the meat cleavers.
They display me as Paniki to plan their murders,
they open up and invite me in, flesh into flesh ...
and flesh to flesh I swear to share
what I've buried in me as disasters.
There are souls more neighborly,
I hid what I portioned quiescent in their organs.
Only a mucous analysis notices it ... waiting ...
to strangulate the defenseless.
Life is brittle; it often falls and smashes the big noise.
I am a pretty girl
And you, sly butcher
Cleavers as eyes
Go on and take a slice
Of this pretty girl
I walk alone
Praying to be caught
In a web of wild men
How did you know?
This pretty girl was just as hungry as you
Do away with the telescope
And come up close to see
This pretty girl
Won't bite or howl
Because I am not an angry girl,
I'm a pretty girl.
Trust in cinder
Withers and shivers
When guile tears trust asunder
From conscience cleavers
As its erstwhile shadow wanders
Bereft of direction in remission
For transgressions trust ponders
When beholders with eyes wide open inflict dereliction
In circumstances that leave
Trust aghast with wonder
As the esteem and respect trust held dive
Into a miasma of blunder
Propped up in packs and sacs of lies
Sown, grown and flown
On wings and stings ties and cries
Can no longer cure and own.
The Ole Dragon Dungeon Market
Shuffling through the remains of the charred village
Massive stone blocks stand tall, majestic ruins
The Ole Dragon Dungeon Market
hidden among the rubble, bones, cleavers and daggers and steins are layered in ash
reins now brittle wrap the post, barrels scattered about
a scorched sign peering out “Pit” portrays an arrow
that has now lost its way, irony.
When we hold a world whereat it's leaders, so to speak...
Worship statues, themselves, silver as gold, multi-coloured
Warped castles power as dust be their, paper lust ? then, what
Should one expect but yes, the darkest of venues indeed; orbiting
Circling, his black hole; chasing furry bunnies with cleavers for paws
Uncle Mad Hatter and Aunt Jezabel; vote for me you see an inside track ?
Old money honey willed as dispersed in a hearse of a verse by, a gaffy goat.
Outer room perfectly clean
Stone wall
Four squared ancient glass
This old floor without even a spot
I open a wooden gate
Walk through a high arched door
Tools fastened to a wall
Knives, cleavers and a saw
A single glove made of chain
Sheets layed out on the floor
Large hooks hanging from the ceiling
They look like they have been polished
No evidence of blood remains
Still I can smell it in the air
I hear the click of the door handle behind me
Startled I quickly turn
Greeted with a toothless smile
Droopy eyes
Bob the Butcher asks
"Would you like more rump Roast Rick?"
For Seren's What Lurks Within contest.
I stared into the mirror today.
I saw you -
a needled zealot
hovering around my left shoulder;
Adolph Hitler dressed in
opium-perfumed swatches.
You smelled like her.
You acted like him.
You looked like me.
Swastika tall and evenly abhorrent.
Syringe-insured yet,
never sharp enough to
successfully stab
outside the 50-point cork.
You slithered like a quadroplegic,
into my stratum.
Pointing and probing
a crooked finger -
never healing
the martyr's wound.
A broken grimace leaves me
ugly flesh to ponder.
Your tentacles:
toothless cleavers eclipse
black-dilated pupils,
servicing our
boomeranged arms
with dingoed malice -
peppermint leaves and peroxide boil
as the living corpse cackles.
Mussolini removed
thirteen quieted quills
from his heart
shortly before the noose was tied.
Into square knots.
Into napkin pleats.
Into a poet's silence - where
our self-induced stupor
was dragged upon
spiked cobblestones -
and for that,
my dear Stalin beauty;
I sew my spit into
vile words -
dribbling purposely
upon this diseased
cotton-swabbed
canvas
for you
and I
to clean.
Beyond the measure and mead
of circadian rhythm and habitual rhyme
beyond the frequencies and amplitudes
of perambulating waves and recalcitrant lines
Beyond the clamor and din of nutmeg and time
cleavers and butchers and earthmen who climb
Atop the weathered brow of
life's grand conflagration
an old man disembarked at the final destination
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