Long Devouring(a) Poems
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What better than a summer afternoon?
Where else, but on the trail to La Toscana?
Who is it mounts a mens that's not more sana,
devouring a voluptuous Verdi tune?
Which month might one elect, which isn't June?
I'll pass on Sassafrass and Lisdoonvarna,
to binge on bars, basilicas and Barna.
I like my treasures liberally-strewn.
You're cynical? Think pinnacles don't serve?
I can't agree. A twelvemonth of frustrations,
quotidian slap-downs and humiliations
are answered now. We've finally capped the curve.
The clouds will come again, of course, but verve
should also have its vestals. A libation!
envelope rhyme
Humpty Dumpty, brave fall guy
attended the King's Christmas ball.
He never guessed his downfall,
empty headed, brain gone awry.
Humpty Dumpty's sneaky try,
bucking the Queen's serving line,
“Expelled! out back, you shall dine!”
close by yon royal pig sty.
Humpty Dump, give us a clue,
"Why did you behave so rudely?"
Your etiquette, so crudely
like a simple, naïve ingenue.
Humpty Dumpty then stone-walled
devouring a dozen eggs
plus twenty-four chicken legs
Sprawled thither on stone wall, he stalled.
Thus, Humpty Dumpty got bumped,
a bold nudge from one palace horse:
"Noble king cannot endorse
a cannibal, so totally stumped.”
December 17, 2019
When devouring a hot chicken pie
An advertised flat caught my eye,
I would hazard a guess
Judging from its address
That the asking price wasn’t too high.
I collapsed in a state of deep gloom
When the landlord denied me that room,
He said “Nothing’s worse
Than a chap who writes verse!”
Within minutes I started to fume.
After snatching some six hours of sleep
I thought I should challenge that creep,
For with scant explanation
His discrimination
Might cause a young snowflake to weep.
I knew I should counter his crime
With an angry yet passionate rhyme,
He was powerful and scary
And so arbitrary,
And his property’s well past its prime.
My letter, dispatched the next day,
Employed words that I’d rather not say
(They are not in the bible),
Then he sued me for libel,
So his rent I’m not able to pay.
So the lesson is easy to see -
Do not venture to write poetry.
It could end in defeat
Then you’re stuck on the street,
Simply begging for coffee or tea.
When it rains it pours
Bad luck soars
You're falling apart
Behind closing doors
When the lights go out
You're consumed with doubt
Your losing your voice
But dying to shout
The domino effect
Your life is a wreck
One wrong move
And you sprained your neck
A stroke of bad luck
You're a sitting duck
You try breaking free
But your body is stuck
In sets of three
Inevitably
You aren't superstitious
But begin to believe
Will it relent
Your last penny spent
You bang on the walls
But can't make a dent
A thud on rock bottom
Devouring a crumb
The sound of silence
A high pitch drum
In the maelstrom…
Black inferno machines are one.
In the belly of the maelstrom, they rise,
And nothing is compromised
Black inferno machine
Shadows against the night,
Engines of hunger, devouring, a heavy sigh
An iron orchestra playing a requiem to the stars.
They are born from the marrow of oblivion,
Grinding gears forged, forgotten gods!
Sparks that kiss the void, and it grinds back!
Breathing fire through the hallow wind.
Whispers of rust and iron sang like prayers.
In languages of smoke, oil & rust
Their pistons pump a heartbeat of chaos,
Unseen, unfelt, but everywhere. At once!
Men in black cloaks,...suspicious eyes,
lords of crimes, and dire deeds....
of the broken god mended,
ride atop the blackened machines!
Each one is a cathedral of darkness, & dominion!
American Empirical madness never ends.
A labyrinth of wires, burning veins of desire—
Lurkers in the void, chasing echoes of eternity.
On roads paved with the bones of suns.
Haunting, they drift through the thick tar sky,
Tires crushing the silence, grinding ash.
Night bends beneath their weight.
Time is a brittle thing, shattered, erased.
A storm, painted in cracked coal and amber flame,
Pulse of the apocalypse wrapped in steel.
Wheels turn like the ticking of a dead man’s clock,
Hauling the endless dead behind them.
Only the blackened n ruined sun knows the truth,
Hidden deep in the furnace of creation.
Black Inferno Machines feast forever
Turning
Yearning
Burning…
You’ll hear an earth shattering crunch,
hesitation that is broken instantly.
Lick the eight ball and throw a punch.
Devouring a scared reflection for lunch,
got out and be who you’re meant to be.
You’ll hear an earth shattering crunch.
Shadows of doubt you must expunge.
Champions aren’t developed delicately,
lick the eight ball and throw a punch.
Letting go of the frailty of a runch,
hands will gather aggression idly.
You’ll hear an earth shattering crunch.
It begins with little more than a hunch,
don’t be too cautious or move hastily.
Lick the eight ball and throw a punch.
There is nothing seen as too much
to the brave who dream aggressively.
You’ll hear an earth shattering crunch,
lick the eight ball and throw a punch.
Photography
I used to have a dark room.
Trigonometry.
No reference, the word causes anxiety though.
Anthropology
I used to live for this subject, imagining myself in Egypt on a dig.
Art.
I dabble, four hundred paintings later, I have no idea what I am doing.
English.
Worst 7th grade teacher ever, but I like it in spite of that ridiculous time.
PreAlgebra
No memory of this whatsoever, and glad of it.
Homemaking.
The only parts I liked were the sewing and the eating after the cooking.
Reading.
I can sit in a treehouse all day long, devouring a stack of books happily while
Choking down my favorite sandwich – peanut butter, Miracle Whip and lettuce.
Poetry.
Love the cadence of it. Never have understood it. Apparently I do not have to.
“as we passed her she did wilt
which caused in us sense of guilt
since our stance perhaps did cause
to put her heart’s joy on pause
though we’re gentle, not hostile
we diminished her soul’s smile
since our aura as she viewed
scent of love did not exude”
Unseeking Seeker
Neon lights buzz to the hum of bustling cityscapes.
Yellow cabs blend into an intolerable requiem of honking horns,
whilst the sun beats down unbearably on names lost in the fold.
Julia feels the despondency start to gnaw into the membranes of her brain,
like termites devouring a rotting piece of pine.
Long before the dampness of decay settled into her marrow, she had aspirations—
but they have long since vanished, like a late spring snow.
Walking with her eyes glued to littered concrete,
she shuffles between the blur of muffled voices,
like a phantom hiding amongst the shadows.
Flashbacks render within the faces of the faceless.
The scent of gasoline and exhaust clings to the air
as a moonless expanse materializes.
Her soul is transported back, pleading for salvation in gasping whimpers.
A chance encounter—an accidental bump of his shoulder.
Phone shattered, she became the target of his wrath.
Vile words hurled, trajectory: her soul.
Physical manifestations of the emotional shrapnel take shape—
a blow to the face, lip splits, warm blood tickles down.
Passersby stare, then quickly scurry away,
too scared—or maybe selfish—to intervene.
Or could it be they've become too jaded?
Surely they meant no harm,
yet the scars of their unintentional apathy
are forever etched beneath Julia's skin.
Exclamation marks rile up and excite Mrs. Ex.
She teaches seventh grade English and always suspects….
We are overdoing it when we use even on.
So I throw them in my paragraphs to have some fun.
She says they should be rare and exclusive to execute.
Her ideas are not mine, they simply do not compute.
Loving these fine exclamation marks, I make with my pen,
But she grades my papers, so a huge pickle I am in.
She says, “Please use them sparingly! Better yet, not at all.”
But what if I see a gigantic man-eating woman sixty feet tall?
Or a monster devouring a grade school and a shopping mall?
Mrs. Ex stares at me, in a kind of weird wordless stall.
What if you only used this mark once a day? She suggests.
Her suggestion annoys me, my pa and all of our guests.
Of course, new exclamation marks are all over the things that I write.
Infuriating out of Mrs. Ex, who ran away from her job last Tuesday night.
A fresh, hefty heap I left in the box.
You scooped it away into that flushing abyss.
A crisp, satisfying sound echoed—
Music to my ears.
Phew. My poop was gone.
Are you a wizard?
Four long years passed.
Then, the human assumed the form of a serpent,
Devouring a long, green cucumber.
Slathering my poop all over it,
Licking away the giant, pungent stink
With a satisfied tongue.
And then, trying to seduce me
With a terrifying truth:
"Here’s Churu for you~"
"I’ve got another cucumber, you see.
And I made sure to spread the poop extra thick and salty this time."
"Eat up."
Ah, was I that hungry?
Did you pretend to throw away my poop all those years,
Just like a magician hiding a trick?
I passed out.
Overcome by your dark truth.
How on earth am I supposed to look you in the eye tomorrow?