Long Atrophied Poems
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As par and parcel of being
alive wire impossible aye
to maintain totally tubularly
literarily celibate by and bye
with parochial restraint antiseptic dry
as dust poetic refrains
asper this healthy older guy
devoid of physical whim zee
unlike a inscrutable eunuch...so hi
there dear reader experienced
by this self contrived Zen
minded nonestablishmentarian outlier,
whose nonconformist yen
tries to steer clear of controversy,
heresy, prurient wen
unless one happened
to be eunuchized,
i.e. sexless as a cold oven,
but similar to generic men
this writerly hen
pecked husband dully
drumming, droning, and
dribbling as a lix spittle
aged chap housed within
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania bailiwick
though far less inclined
to whet ma lil atrophied dipstick
than some young buck
at the peak of his sexual prowess
every now and again viz,
aye feel a much slighter sensation
drubbing, crackling, and
buckling mine body electric
and attempt to record
re: font ten blue type
boldface and/or Italic
such infrequently occurring
fleeting Johnson magic
speculating why the
hoo ha regarding mystic
spell binding codas,
dogmas, and enigmas,
an integral component naturalistic
within the calculus of life,
when human species
(parenthetically), naturally, inherently,
and biologically opportunistic
akin to other organisms whose quixotic
antics allow NON GMO,
MSG, and gluten free,
and uncensored discussion
asper reproductive habits rhapsodic
with floral and/or faunal symphonic
emanations donning each their own
"NON FAKE" trumpeting
spectacular humbly modest
rubric, yet...universalistic
as being linkedin
within the cosmic whirled wide web.
Everything is nothing.
…
That’s a stupid way to begin a poem.
What does that even mean?
Everything is actually a whole lot.
My academics are not up to par.
My talking stage is a disaster.
My friendships are under maintained.
And my self worth has never been worse.
Is that everything?
No.
Yes.
Maybe
This feels wrong.
Writing this I mean.
There's no flowery metaphors.
Or complex language you have to google.
I’m watching this alabaster monolith succumb to attrition.
My agastopia has atrophied into revulsion.
I hew and hew and hew ad infinitum.
Until the simulacrum in the glass of car doors is unrecognizable.
Does this fit your standards?
No.
Yes.
Maybe
Helpful.
Tell me what you want.
And it’s yours.
To be captured, defined, and accepted.
To obtain perfection in a messy broken sense.
For my being to extend right up against the walls set around me.
No further than that.
To be viewed top down and admired.
To be better than I am.
You’re losing yourself.
I see it.
Stop romanticising your pain.
It’s ugly.
I know.
You will soar.
You will fall again.
You will break.
You will rebuild.
You will move.
You will station yourself.
Someday.
You will have everything.
Everything is nothing.
Exactly.
In pods, pale and emaciated-
muscles atrophied,
they sit behind thick goggles
deflecting stroboscopic lights;
huge headsets droning weird sounds.
Each human in a private pod
lost in grounded bliss:
every want and need, fulfilled
thru technological wonders;
instant information, entertainment.
Touch of a button simulation
to other places, via virtual reality.
No need to travel.
Invited humans to visit in 3-D;
necessities, via robotic drones.
In pods, ashen and gaunt,
they sit: empty, smiles,
traveling to unknown places;
eyes blinded from reality,
heading for grim, robotic essence.
A bleak view, future existence;
gray humans in gray sunless pods.
The world unto themselves;
life via at-whim commands.
More to say on the progression-
but I have too much to declare.
June 11, 2017
~5th Place~
Premiere Contest: The Bleaker The Better
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Judged: 06/25/2017
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
When thoughts become obsessive,
is my heart being made redundant,
laid off, cast off, sent astray
recycled pulse rates mere skip hire fodder,
atrophied organ sinking into deep morass,
panic stricken warning notice object,
abject part indigenous scarred,
or scared from sudden rupture,
once a golden seal enactment,
the intensity of love and verdant pathways,
but thoughts they zigzag devious,
without a leash, curb or rein,
they stray like homeless after dark drifters
whose piercing blue eyes scupper vagrant mist,
but oh those torrid thoughts,
of past romantic Himalayan peaks,
where nostalgic loitering a back to front yen,
currency of tantalising moment,
fluctuating in a reckless high stake instrument,
cliff top shudder inadvertent plunge,
yet each thought I used to frolic with,
in meadows of a mythic mystic mind,
we’re so glare blind and delusional,
dragging me on circuitous dandelion epiphanies,
symbolising gurgle stream limestone cave exit,
some dual world attachment barely visible,
detachment on aloof scorched red wood boundary,
thoughts are like those joined at hip beings,
feeding off the actual mesmerizing carousel,
of fleeting guests and life events,
or so it seemed, perhaps it’s just a thought,
of all those things that never settle in one spot
Discombobulation hammers (sic) kills, lacerates, peppers...
tuckered wayfarer
Blitzkrieg cacophony debilitates Earthling
spiritually, mentally, emotionally... castrates
analogous post traumatic stress disorder
status simulating shell shocked warrior
dizzily descending darkening dimension
aghast - weakly ejaculate wherefore art thou
Elysian Fields?
Mine skeletal atrophied, diseased, gnarled...
once muscular flesh now awful blight
trumpets, dons, bespeaks... existence
regarding barren toothless anchorite
desolate physical environment
offlimit superfund site
mirrors equivalent condemned
toxic physical body quite
piteous, hideous, atrocious...,
this human bag of lovely bones
can barely, limply, scratchily... write
forbidding natural geography might
best demarcate courtesy skull
and crossbones bleached white
optimally reflecting feasting
carrion did delight
post mortem cannibalized habeas corpus
can never know where Edenic Garden
bloomed ah... magnificent sight,
nor reckon eyes me
how poetry doth not excite
forever striking living daylight
emancipating soul joining spiritus mundi
relieving tortured corporeal skiff good night
amidst abandoned, desecrated,
gutted... wasteland rendered might
of mankind quest to tame and temper
breathless fecundity kickstarting
rejuvenation linked to potent Gaia despite
havoc wrought regenerative force
repurposes deadened muscle and cellulite
unbeknownst decomposed organisms
comprise yours truly, nor what bright
transformation new life subsequently results
will kindle, snapchat, tender... excite.
(alternately titled:
this stoned temple pilot ready for Styx)
I hate tubby a nuisance
boot ma checking account...
suffered a major hit strafed
with a shock king
(difficult to absorb) 'bout
mid morning today August fourteenth,
tooth how sand eighteen
and got rushed with clout
to the nearest emergency triage facility,
the doctors (all
named Piggy Penny Banks)
shook their head with doubt
prognosis for recovery requires more'n
just a dime a dozen,
(or quarter back) appeal,
hence my plea for posting,
this helter skelter heroic measure
summarily and in fact
donate myself (earning Purple Heart
as a non veteran)
bone a (er) fide done deal
yea, aye even forgo thine
cock a doodle doo lil pecker,
which minimally doth
newt rue, stir, nor ring
atrophied house broken
barely visible prick tis docile, and
(like a game cock)
willy nilly able
at a moe mince notice
dir wreck lee (stand stiff)
head over heal
no...no..no, though
strut that eye feel rendered poverty stricken,
a sudden dark mood
finds me less eager tubby alive
asper thine primary (albeit only)
checking account poorly
weathered a kamikaze nose dive
with the plight of pennilessness
unexpectedly looming...
(parental advisory) breaking news at five,
when motley crews auto be buzzing
like a b52 sized bee hive
ah...mine posthumous fame,
and fortune posse sub bully
as palliative relieving
grave gallows humor
small consolation, whereat
I cannot fathom to facebook,
snapchat, nor do the shutterfly jive!
It’s all falling on me
And it’s all falling on you
It’s clear as crystal to see
There’s not much that we will do
The responsibility
The onus, the burden of proof
In the court of stability,
The dragon is on the loose
The bridge is falling on me
The tower is falling on you
In the dungeons of senility,
Your heroism isn’t of use
The fork-tongued demon will speak
Possessed by illegitimate truth
The culture gives it mystique
A bill of goods sold to the youth
Condemnation won’t free
Any from the chains of abuse
The blind beggar still won’t see
The deformed cripple still won’t move
And if by some decree,
They let the stilled waters loose,
There’ll be no safe harbor to be
And no hopeful port to move to
The boughs stripped from every tree
The feathers plucked from each goose
And in hapless humility,
We’ll concede there’s no solution to choose
If you have outworn your one dream
If you’ve outlasted your only use
If your soul’s muscle is atrophied
If your heart’s detective hasn’t a clue
Then this is where we let off some steam
From the locomotive to the caboose
And as we slide down into ravines,
Let the next ones hear the good news
Chinks of light filter
thru pitchblack emotional prison
vestigial shadow figure hunkers,
an atrophied, mortified, petrified old man
implacable self destructive nemesis
birthed in league pitiful human shambles,
his abysmally forlorn existence
scotched, sabotaged, severely short changed
agonizing depression tortures psyche
family abandoned nsync,
entrenched self cannibalization
devastating vicious feedback loop
exhaustedly drained kith and kin
unconditional, unbridled, unalloyed... love,
no longer spouts, issues, gushes... profusely
familial fountainhead ceased functioning
dry as lovely bones
analogous to fossilized remains
once robust sibling affections,
in toto once dogged sisterly doting
twisted beyond recognition
ditto daughterly acclamation,
adoration, affection, appreciation...
on par with courtly
majestic Fontainebleau
once regaling Francis I (16th century king),
nothing but absolute zero bondage
shackled to solitary confinement
imprisoned impenetrable fortress invisible,
yet...ineradicable as
strongest Earthly material
isolation wrought since...
yours truly begat life in utero
punctuated when obstetrician
pronounced "it's a boy!"
Unbeknownst to very
short lived carefree being
neurological, mental, libidinal... flaws
would spell disaster
spanning scores of years
majority of existence (mine)
participation buzzfeeding livingsocial
shuttered within inaccessible dungeon
surrounded by deepest known moat,
within which flourished fearsome beasts
turned rogue, and conspired
assassination (not yet successful),
whereby one poker face
(born that way)
wretched soul condemned
to psychological abomination
forbidden to terminate
said despicable mortality,
thus suffers life sentence of
yawping, writhing, unnerving... tumult.
In pods, pale and emaciated-
muscles atrophied,
their eyes behind thick goggles
deflecting stroboscopic lights-
they sit for hours with empty smiles.
Each human in a private pod
lost in grounded bliss:
every want and need, fulfilled
by technological AI wonders;
instant information and amusement.
Touch of a button simulation
to other places via virtual reality-
the world unto themselves;
lives filled with at-whim commands;
their necessities- delivered by drones.
A bleak view- future existence;
lone humans in gray sunless pods.
Traveling to unknown places-
eyes blinded from reality
heading for grim, robotic essence.