NEXT EXIT BABYLON
They raised their cups
Splashed their wine
It ran with blood
through vein and vine
Where Satyrs' hoofs
Pawed with fight
Tunics fell
Laurels twine
Lips were bit
Breasts were held
Brands, hot, brought
The coals of Hell
Seared the flesh
With Saturn's breath
Number-Lot
To buy and sell
On tables, neat
Both man and Beast
Blessed their bread
Cursed their meat
Great hills of brick
They pulled the dead
Like babes, reborn
Out crawled the sick
The dogs wore crowns
Of broken bone
Like sacred cows
Left free to roam
They raised their snouts
Bared their teeth
Barked and growled
And joined the feast
Drop the mike, the pigs are here
They are singing their snouts off in holiday cheer!
We ran to the window and saw the happy three
They were deep in their cups, singing loudly in glee
Drop the mike, they have ruined all other songs
They are always right, they are never wrong!
We had to laugh at the exuberance of our younger child
Until this second he had been quiet and mild
The fresh woft of roast ham
Although they will accept lamb
A beep of the air fryer
Their bellies full of desire
They would destroy this juicy meat
And see it as a sweet treat
Flowing throughout the house
The scent of freshly roasted honey hit their wet snouts
The excitement palpable, barks and shouts
The tension rises as it cools
Tails wag as they work out how to manipulate those fools
Eyes staring, not leaving their prize
The whimpers and the cries
All 3 ready to pounce
In their eyes no doubt
3 sets of eyes gazing into each moist slice
Only ham will suffice
All laid down, paws stretched
Drool flowing waiting for the slice of perfect
Their eyes never leaving me
Begging and pleading
Tongue licking their lips
As more drool drips
Finally their slice arrives at their mouth
2 seconds before it’s gone
Yes, the beetle room!
Their codes exist in DNA.
Can’t be erased.
Invisible like the highway yonder.
Wistful.
Like a beetle with eyes and the eyes are so scary.
But the beetle is scary in itself.
So they don’t gaze in his angry eyes.
And the eyes are so scary.
That they are.
Yes, there is a bottle room in the store.
The beetle room would be crazy if we had one.
If a beetle room existed…
Would it be a construct flying though space?
And maybe it’s just one little guy.
A single beetle who glances around.
Lonely.
Glazed over beetle-type eyes.
Sees a million patterns of me.
But neither of us are kind.
Unkind.
Don’t know the truth about the beetle eyes, and snouts.
Can’t be erased.
Especially not something small who lives in an alternate world.
I would call it The Beetle Room.
He would land on my hand.
Alternate dimensions.
Are not kind to either of us.
More than a soft toy,
she kept these Puffies
for years; she kept
them free and safe.
I left, right..left..right,
out of her everyday -
her sis marched right
out of her life, but
her Puffies so proud
on a shelf; its shelf life,
who knows, but they’ve spent
nearly half a century with her.
Wallace Berry Cream Puffs
stayed in the palm
of her sister’s hand,
never looking forward
or back, never going far.
This soft toy enjoyed
the chatter, laughter, love
of her new owner.
Reminders of a faraway home,
a forever after,
the sweet kiss of a 5 year old.
She held her Puffies tight; tighter
the memories of so long ago.
It all matters - not the toy,
yes the toy, yes the girl.
The small basset hounds,
coffee brown floppy ears,
cream bodies (like wool),
and ample pink snouts.
The sailor in me knew
these two would
be well-cared for. This child
held her responsibility
in high-regard.
There’d be other collectibles,
but sis never neglects
the treasures of the past.
I prefer the dentists ~ they interpret silence through big open mouths
mimed the ventriloquist during a prostate exam ~ curled up in doubts
imagining his puppets snickering ~ from the gloves inside their snouts
at last the doctor spoke ~ this one feels mostly shaggy or thereabouts
Midnight,
Hoots and despondent howls
From crevasses of puking earth prompt weakness at slumber
Webs!
They encircle the pin-line threads of silence, viciously muted,
Drawing porous patterns of maladroitness
Dawn,
Loose drops of old water, cusp-sized, blend with the rays of the
Rising sun, smelting our principles.
Images,
Lachrymose consternations congeal the blood in our brows,
Stifling the grace of blinking lashes
And we lose patience.
There’s a new-nurtured ruggedness
Which opens the snouts while we yawn.
In the distance,
Moonlight, sapped, means nothing with her downward gaze.
But the sound of maudlin drums hastens closer and nearer.
anticipated Albany albatrosses
buried bumpy bugs beyond the bay
creepy curious cats dug them up
dinner for dogs they said in disgust
even the dogs turned up their snouts at the bugs
frenzied finicky felines are crazy they barked
giant crows arrived and devoured the gruesome bugs
helping themselves to six or eight at a time
I am glad these raptors showed up said the dogs
jealousy in no way entering their heads
kilt-wearing albatrosses happened along
lingering close to where their bug stash used to be
mad now, they marched menacing around the meadow
no need to be upset, the bugs escaped, lied the dogs
opportunity to be peacemakers always taken by pups
pacifists and problem solvers
quails and quackers put their six cents in
raising the ire of the miffed albatrosses
sixteen sparrows sauntered in to stir things up too
they had heard there was a show-down
ugly words were tweeted and chirped
verbs and vowels best not repeated here
wrens and warblers were shooed off by the fray
‘xact ‘xchange never ‘xamined or journaled
you are lucky you escaped this melee
zealous birds can become dangerously ugly.
A gossamer hung on the graveyard's gate.
A spider clung to steel, consuming its meal.
It had no need to know dinner was served late,
Nor sensed ghostly keels the summer winds conceal.
The owls flew on, unperturbed by midnight's scare,
That made dead men howl silently in each grave,
Fresh ghosts were blown toward the gate in despair,
The gate creaked loud at each brush of ghostly wave.
Grief-stricken men earlier brought a fresh stiff,
Whose spirit roams about as if still alive.
His shroud still sweetly scented for winds to sniff.
Where otherwise smells of decayed corpses thrive.
Rotten bones left near the godforsaken gate,
Lay scattered by the snouts of some groaning pigs,
As scavenging and ruin became their fate.
While restless souls lay buried beneath their digs.
We sleep on each other,
lick on each other,
run around and nip on each other,
we are wholly 'each other,'
personalities
hid
in the ruff and fur around our necks
and the snaggle of our teeth.
We wag in unison
heart-timers synchronized.
When out in the big smell
we seek every scent
that sprout's
from the muddy baths and the great
wafting sky-waves that call to our blood
to come join,
come lope and snuffle.
The trails of other's drives us crazy,
we roll in bundles of ecstasy,
squat, squirt and snap at the thick odiferous airs
then inhale the news from every rump
we greet.
Under our skittering paws
leaf and grass, spatter and scatter
as we charge into each other.
What are these leaves of grass?
Each one could be a page
in poem of sniff and scratch.
The wind threads through our snouts
and we shake our heads
until our brains rattle in wonder.
Old Walt Whitman forgets to mention us,
but deep within his far pacing musings
we are there like an itch.
When he pauses his pen to nap and dream
our breathy huff huffiness
tickles his toes.
Wind lashed fronds whip a neck twisting air.
Florida bleeds green.
A large woman in a rainbow muumuu,
a toy poodle pushed tightly into her folds
wades into the storm determined
to bring a hurricane to heel.
The land has now flooded high enough
to expose alligator snouts.
The Cajun navy hoists its Jolly Roger,
golf carts are boarded,
elderly men in white and tartan shorts
are reluctantly rescued.
A badly shaken sunset dives for cover.
Along an invisible shoreline Tiki lights
twinkle on.
Bing informative
the SCHWA sound
become the topic of the day
Dipithong, Dipithong
ooh, ooh wee!
Schwa:schwa!
the Schwa sound
the schwa sound is destroying me.
T notch filters.
Try to spook the others
they used unsafe tactics
that caused people
to boo and jeer.
The Schaw sound
shall maketh him
smarter
then he will never be in need
of these types of Chanagans.
Speakest Lammbeeria the Whorish Harlot of Dikkinism
Larghissimo!!!!!
that he shall streess in labor and shall be
poorest in Dipipothong. His streesses shall cause him the error
such oppurtunies shall allow others to have me as I am a whore.
Than pregant I shall say to him.
You'didist and now you must largemente with money. If this is real and I have no secrets. Denounce me that we have prominated on the shores of the Creeks and the ponds have feed us with fishes.
Drought the earthen shell fish-pow'da-pow-da, pow--dah !!!!!
grind the snouts to pow-dah!!!
Spoke the whorish harlot!!!!
Expelled from paradise, directed down to hell
Whose court is talking about justice here?
Yours are the apples, and your garden blooms so well
Pick any fruit, and treat the snake, my dear
The cruel punishment will never put them right,
Your congregation of the disingenuous slaves
The triumph of the law will not be glorified
By their rants expanded through the airwaves
If it's the other way around, what about
The high intention of a servant to command
Slaves become masters, so you see their snouts
Stick everywhere, your privacy is scanned
Sisyphus pushes up again his cobblestone
Choirs sing the psalms into the painted sky
Whilst in his tiny room the last bookworm
Hears the voices of those who refused to die.
News flash
Huge bash
Big fight
Last night
Clyde's Bar
Bizarre
War zone
Chairs thrown
Snouts poked
Gals choked
Eyes blacked
Ribs cracked
Hair snatched
Backs scratched
Throats slashed
Heads bashed
Tossed stools
Blood pools
Ears chewed
Tossed food
Knees kicked
Knives pricked
Low blows
Stomped toes
Dames sprawled
Cops called
Clyde's closed
Foreclosed
Possibilities, like children, navigate the classable realms,
settling upon the measurable.
Amorous piglets, their peachy snouts delve,
rooting through the trash heap of desire.
"In a time beyond now," wheatenly speaks the tale-spinner,
plucking a clover, pale and crowned with stardust,
among the untamed grains sown in the depth of breath.
She informs a story of the jewel hung in ghastly night,
makes dark fright beauteous and her old face new.
I crave an eye bathed in Bengal's blaze,
eternity riding a celestial pyre,
Cetus dancing on an ocean canvas,
whose seas flow no fresher than the confessions' wicked drippings.
These realms are places of wonder,
where pigments of reality and fantasy blend,
and I am compelled to dwell within my cresset,
explorer of the shining glimmers.
Sipping the subtle freshness,
a learner from the lessons of Experience,
I gaze through colored glass,
where each tint reveals and re-veils truth like a story.
I wait to touch of hem of a thunderbird,
whose wings span the horizon,
whose voice shakes the earth and sky,
whose feathers spark the fire of inspiration.
And I believe I will, someday, when I soar beyond the dawn.
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