Long Strung Poems
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Stuck in my bracelet,
Like strung up brains.
Eating my name in pieces, strips.
It’s been two days.
Everyone has eyes and cracking joints.
No buzz, or splintering.
Maybe just a little taste of transcension.
And me.
Sickness and burrowing.
Like the shadows do.
Tipping the burden onto my piercing brain.
Sickness is nothing like me.
My weird bracelet is like wires like me.
Rubbing my hands excitedly.
Moving my hands around as if a meteor is passing by and I could catch it…
Or even Saturn’s rings floating a couple miles north.
I could chop this bracelet off anytime.
If they gave us…
The pointy things we salivate over.
In the shower.
In the shower, it’s more brutal than ever.
Wear nothing except this…
Thing.
Sickness is nothing like me!
A little taste of transcension.
And the hasty results.
It’s been three days.
On a clock which transcends even me.
His gold teeth glistened in the sun
As ‘Long Ben Avery’ turned
To face his captives, head lowered,
Their providence to learn
For Avery was a pirate bold
Trained in the Kings’ Navy
Who, disillusioned with his lot,
Captained a mutiny
He seized ‘The Fancy’, in Cadiz
An act both rare, and bold
Then set out on the briny sea
In search of ships with gold
He plundered every vessel met
With not one man set free
And soon, his name spread fear and dread
Across the seven seas
For two years, not a ship was safe
As treasure he amassed,
But his biggest booty taken
Would prove to be his last
He sailed down to the Mandab Strait
And other ships did meet
Who chose him as their Admiral,
To raid the India Fleet
The ‘Mogul’s’ flagships, tried to flee
Chased by the pirate fleet
But a brutal, two hour battle,
Ended with their defeat
The pirates tortured those they caught
Without a thought, or care
As they searched on board for treasure
For each, to glean their share
The ‘Mogul’, proffered swift revenge
Hunting the pirates down,
Swearing each villain, had to hang
For crimes against his crown
The pirates scattered, far and wide
To skirt captivity
But most were caught, and hung with rope
Strung from the nearest tree
But Avery, was never found
Or his share of the hoard
It’s rumoured that his crew killed him,
And threw him overboard
No matter what became of him
Or what, was ‘Long Ben’s’ fate
No man’s ever bettered his feat
In history, to date.
MOONSHINE ELIXIR
My rose perfume scents the hospital room
where he returns for moonshine elixir.
My eyes, wide and afraid at the pale monster
who glows with pinkish cheeks as he drinks.
I scream, from inside my brain, as my mouth
softly moans, “no...no…”
My friend strung a cross - pressed it to my heart,
but he snickered, for i’m far too close to the dark.
He forced a nurse to remove it — she wore it
to ward off the evil, that terrified my bedside.
He told her, as he licked his lips, “Keep it on,
or i’ll send you next, to the funeral parlor.”
She pulls out a hammer and a stake, “That
would be a grave mistake, monster! Watch
your back. I know where you live. Do you
have time to move before the moon is through?”
He seethes, taking it out on me, raping me
of the rest of my lifeblood. He screams
at the top of his unholy breath…
The nurse’s hair caught in its vortex, the stench
of death she can’t escape. He vanishes
and fearfully he is able to find a new residence.
She must always watch her back, be careful
that no one unhinges the clasp at the back of her neck
...not even her husband.
Each night she hears a horrible howl, the wind blows the windows
and doors, a pale reminder of the evil that stirs...
12/21/2018
See my poem Victorian Virtue
A blind light crashes
through bar windows.
Since they began to talk
her breasts had moved
to a small apartment in his head.
The smoke from her cigarette
shaped words
into sensuous motes.
He imagines her lungs.
They are green-leaf not black.
Inside the bronchi and alveolar
sylph's teasingly beckon
out of a spongy foliage.
Votive clouds lather red lips.
Words flare dark clefts of desire.
Throats assume vapory feelers
inside a filtering breath.
He needs her addictively,
a blood craving
that seeks her as an inhalation.
There’s a strung-out intimacy
between them.
Eye’s smother, and blur
as they absorb each other.
Soon they will meet
upon an in-between world
where each visual breath
forms fumy erotic dreams.
A midday daze smolders
as they sightlessly
light another.
Minds,
Perception.
Ability
To associate
Ideas, or
Analyze.
Inept faculties.
His power is
Depleted by
Obsessions.
Sensationalism
destroys the ability to give
attention.
Deals with
feelings, high-strung
Causes a lack
of concentration.
Failed or inability to focus.
Attention spans short.
Practice makes perfect.
Obviously, he be
Perfectly obsessed with hate
with Obama, and winning.
Fail to relate
to urgent issues;
Plagued with deficient,
recognition, and
unable to retain thoughts;
lacking perception.
Sensations that signal are faint to the
Disinterested.
Relations to recognition causing
A lack of Understanding.
As their memories are distraught.
But it’s not his fault.
I say the fault lies with
The alleged sane, who allow
the venue to continue in this vein.
While backlash from the
silent consent is
spreading this illness.
Like a mental
Small-Pox
It won’t stop;
If our attention,
is forced to see that
which we don’t care to see.
We must then think;
How to get away from that which
sucks up our attention and
diverts concentration of our minds.
We need be…
in full control of our own faculties
and experiences,
that which holds our attention –
Holds our destiny.
Re-creating new manifestations,
Of morals - love- and
resolving issues.
Those are the tools we must use,
to change this negative energy;
And assert the power
of our collective minds.
Because the present Oligarchy;
Lacks the ability to connect the dots.
If not; In the interim,
shall we hold our breath;
While our lives are neglected?
If there be no change to this status quo
There will continue to be important
task unfinished, and the chaos of
” No dots being connected”.
Night roses dipped in purkinje, tendencies of blue
lost inside this dream I urge the winds to carry me
onto the hammocks of the night where antic roses lie,
moonlit soaked and mulched aside a big blue moon ;
Festoons of flowers strung across the midnight sky
scented florette boutonnieres of Saints and Gods
Angel wraps and gauzy shawls caressing softly stars
lost in a shimmer high above the sea , I am nigh
In exploration I am closing in, onto sweet allay
loosening the strings of yearn for my turtle dove
here in home sweet heaven, timeless as a rune
soaked in purkinje, eternally making room.
Heart
To Heart :
Wish to hark
to harp of heart
once rang like siren
as strung by his debut.
But now it has turned silent.
Into my heart his glance to peep.
Bubbling blood flooded and I was moved.
He mesmerized : Seven heavens stepped in.
I was thrilled by his intelligent eyes.
Stirred by looks, whenever we met.
But no response, I am to sigh.
Waited for a miracle
to flash on me per chance,
but nothing happened !
My passion burst :
Unquenched thirst
never
soothed.
My chance to play, words written down
Here the page waits, beckoning me
I will breathe in, with hopeful lungs
Filling my heart, with new found joy
Words written down, beckoning me
Strung together, from where who knows
Rising on notes, yet to be sung
I hear whispers, calling to me
So I inhale, they fill me up
Beckoning me, with hopeful lungs
New worlds are formed, images flow
I watch amazed, they seem so real
A little piece, of inner me
Laid on a page, in inked candor
With new found joy, my chance to play
I am experimenting with Eileen's new form.
I have written it without rhyme. I hope I got
the flow right.
Form:
Tiptoe the finest, fine twine, needle-eyed thread
and a glitzy sequined clasp, tiny
tweezer-tie it finger-tip fast with a nuanced knot -
my, my, the pedantic perfection of the master jeweller.
I have the servile subtlety of thick thumbs,
all clumbsy carpals, my fudging finesse
better suited to a beanie'd stevedore, loud lugging
heavy-haired harbour rope to ship-secure
a brutish lump in the line.
Tongue tied up, spun on my own silver yarn
like a crystal jeweller, giddy with champagne giggles,
dizzy on a spinning chandelier high strung from the pressed ceiling.
Oh non, pas moi! Mine is more an oiled elegance,
heavy handed, ham-fisted like a scabby wharf rat,
chased and unchaste.
Dextrous in the strangest ways -
gutsy and glamourous,
ours is a nuanced life of grunting grime
with the briefest flashes of bedazzled dance.
DEAR STRAIT GIRL,
Please learn to keep
Your curiosity in check.
When you flip-flop,
It causes a wreck.
It's cool if you want
To be Bi.
It blows chunks when
You hang us out to dry.
Leave us alone, stay
In your strait world.
Don't come around here
Being an undercover girl.
Why does the strait girl?
Cross to the other side.
That day will come,
You will divide.
No big deal its
Just curiosity.
It looks more like
Hypocrisy.
She goes back to where ever
She came from.
Your messed-up for
Years to come.
You're cruising along, BANG,
Her feelings change.
The effect is the same as,
A double-barrel at close range.
It leaves a big
Black hole.
A million little pieces,
It kills the soul.
You ponder, where did
I go wrong?
She was never gay,
Just strung you along.
Emotions can be powerful,
A weapon of destruction.
Especially, when mixed with
The art of seduction.
It is not a phase,
Or a new toy.
The human heart is
Easy to destroy.
My sign does not
Read I recruit.
Look again, it reads
Forbidden fruit.
TURBO1904 ?