*What A Horrifying Idea!!!*
Do You Really Think
Anything That's Absolutely
Guilty, Can Really Have:
* Any Pleasure *
At ALL?
That's Why I'm Stupid.
(And An EVEN Useless Stupid.)
"A Withered Waterlogged
Pot-Metal Infused Bent
Trunk On A Clod In A
Never Ending Flood."
But I'm:
1. >>> Not Guilty.
2. >>>> Defenseless Stupid.
&
3. >>>>> Out Of MY PLACE.
-Gray Squirrel
08-31-2026
So will Ben be back to lead his men?
Stacks of hacks chiding with their pen
Question all asking time & time again!
Key and Baz hiding in their ECB den
Riled echo chamber dialled up to ten
Let us know and if not now then when!
Fall of Bazball no longer a verdant glen
Now bogged down in a waterlogged fen
Astounds as Baz all about pounds or yen
Folks a coup by you know who should ken
Stokes came first not the egg but’s the hen
Spicier than wasabi with his kemosabe zen
ECB on their tod as it all crumbles yet again
So odd sod the fans & their God called Ben
If is the end than ECB to hell we send Amen
The grass is slick and cresting.
Between a thinned-out thicket,
a white light ogles through it.
A faceless sky is elevator gray,
nothing to measure, no steppingstones
for see-through lighthouses.
Here in the rootless byways
of shiftless realities,
treetops break the surface,
of leaden puddles,
frogs perch,
dripping waterlogged croaks.
There are no shores
for somnambulant seagulls.
I am too lightheaded,
miasmic margins
numb the humdrum.
Footsteps crunch upon clouds,
doubt tugs at
'out of depth' ankle bones.
grass slick slippery
garlanded with dew's glint beads
taunts weary sleepers
to reach out without thinking
beyond sinking stepping stones
dawn light ogles through
a grey, hopscotch-scattered sky
crunching clouds aside
to find a way through chaos
beyond sinking stepping stones
treetops break the skin
of bedraggled drowned-out mists
frogs croak waterlogged—
no shores for sleepwalking gulls
beyond sinking stepping stones
horizon dissolves
unhitched from any compass
worn edges are blurred—
direction is strewn with ash
beyond sinking stepping stones
echoes lose their source,
I am confused, miasmal
moored meanings unspooled—
I grab for something solid,
beyond sinking stepping stones
in off-ramp byways
of shiftless realities
I crawl through muddles
clambering to find a way
beyond sinking stepping stones
They congregate in a bog
vying to be the boss hog
all the teethy little fishes
Swimming in circles they go
Baldy, Waldo, and Bozo
When one of them dishes
they all start to nibble
Watch them hurry to the bog
mouths drooling with dribble.
Throw out the chum
and watch them bite
at each other's bum.
It's a hilarious sight.
Swimming in circles they go
Feeding time is status quo
Along the shore they creep,
waiting to dive into the deep.
It's a condition known as stasis
but has no factual basis.
There's no hurry to reel them in
once they've been hooked.
Their circus act can be booked.
Swimming in circles they go
Banjo, Bongo and Bo Bo
A school of big mouth bass
from waters of the lower class
floating around in the bog
getting themselves waterlogged.
Pouring rain,
wet, mud-soaked, damp, dank,
don’t maunder,
sunshine looms,
dousing grim, waterlogged landscape ,
oust drizzly weather
in waterlogged shoes
her little girl's crooked legs
wobbled through the rain
...the word sorry
is a piece of driftwood I keep chewing—
my mouth full of splinters,
empty of apologies
I'm still swallowing.
I love you
like a door I can’t close,
a bruise
I keep pressing just to see
if it still hurts.
If I’m being honest—
I practice leaving you every day,
hold my breath for a dress
rehearsal of living
without the rhythm of our shared air.
Every time I get almost good at it
I choke, crawl back to the phone,
I'm a house half-burned,
telling strangers
I’ve got good bones.
I promised us peace,
but these ceilings leak with memories
of infidelity and its wallowing
companion named grief,
the floorboards are waterlogged
with it. They keep whispering—
if I’m being honest,
I'm not interested in forgiveness—
neither giving nor getting it.
I just need a song that lets me sleep.
Something I can sing back to the You,
out of tune,
out of time.
I stepped on someone's gum
Now I'm part of a nation
I slipped on a paving slab
Now I'm part of another nation
Not that it’s up to my liking
To change nations every day
But I can't argue if there are
So many nations that I don't have time to learn
Which one I'm a part of
At every moment of the day
Whose territories I appear on
And disappear without a care
I don't mean to disturb all that
Importance of power, those dour faces
That we are doomed to notice everyday
I don't mind if anyone is converted
To their familiar religions with those
Cruel gods created by state-minded prophets
In my view all this tormenting world
Was invented on purpose to spoil life
To intimidate us for no other reason
Than power of the immortal troublemakers
Evolution is impossible
Consolations are rubbish
This species is hopeless
Not the first, not the last to become extinct
I’m already gone fishing forever
Once I saw my eternal love’s face in the sky
I wish to become a weed
Growing on by a waterlogged stream.
Sun is seen a flaming ball in the sky,
Darting down pointed spears of smarting beams.
Horrid heat waves, from the smoked earth, rise high.
For drops of water, the thirsty earth screams.
The waterlogged piece of land has gone dry.
The soil is arid and left cracked and parched.
Drying crops have made farmers sadly sigh.
The once lush green meadows are lying scorched.
Sun's heat, like a spiteful scorpion’s sting,
Burns, damaging the flesh and the bared skin.
The fiery tongues of humid summer fling,
Licking up the last residue of green.
The dry leaves under the feet whine and moan
Etna seethes, birds and beasts, for water groan!
Brackish lichen forms a raft upon the pond,
a low haze floats like a moored airship.
Small frogs chirrup sotto-voce
as if they were
dreaming sparrows.
Water birds dabble in their sleep.
Soon the sun
will dash across a drop of dew
bursting dams of light.
A fisherman in his truck
drinks his coffee,
rubs his eyes and smacks his lips.
He grabs rod and tackle,
hopes fat fish are lazily
rising.
Feathers shake off waterlogged shadows,
wings slap the groggy face of the pond,
ripples splash up
to rinse the air.
Coots and Plover call
until the water
awakes.
As I drink from that strange fountain.
I’m going to give you a single clue.
And tell you where the treasure lies.
The whole treasure,
Could take hours to explain through the sparkles.
I have nothing except my mind which is like a microscope.
The sky is bugging me and made of dots.
Rotting logs shaped oddly.
I think the water around here is weird.
Unwieldy, wild, and howling.
The fireflies make sense.
Floating is a cop out.
It’s more like…
Water but also not.
Fluidity which is part of my steps.
I don’t have feet, just Them.
As I splash water everywhere.
The fountain turned off,
But I am the fountain, and I am the one.
Let me hand over the clue.
Paper which is,
Waterlogged.
As I spit out the water from that strange fountain.
I realize I might have a problem after all.
They turned off the fountain.
I’ll take a nap first.
Then try to figure out how to get my legs to work again.
Stray cats slipped under a waterlogged night
only to drift back bedraggled,
as if today still pulled at their tails
Old Charley Winslow died
before the deluge,
before the river threw itself
over the dike.
Laid out for burial
he was seen to float out of a lower window.
Lots are gone,
welcome mats and watering cans,
sheds and shingles,
plastic peddle carts,
potted plants, stretchy pants, and porta-potties.
Many never made it back,
though some may turn up tomorrow
to be salvaged and put away
for a rainy day.
at the doctor's
There are days when I feel bereft of the people I knew
are all dead and no one is coming to take their place
there is a sense that I'm a waterlogged tree floating
in a sullied inland lake where bathing is prohibited
my nights are full of ghosts from the past visiting
when not awakened by nerve pains traveling up and
down my legs and the burning sensation telling of
the eternal flames of hell
I'm sitting at the diabetic doctor's office complaining
about the depression of pain I suffer at night
the man has an ascetic face, a real doctor, not a product
of a mother's wish to have a son with the title DR
You are keeping your sugar level well-balanced
which is good, your weight is right! (at this point
I pull my stomach in
As for your discomfort, you have to see this as a part
of your illness, I think he calls my pain DISCOMFORT!
He prescribes prescription for Insulin pens and tells
me my blood pressure is perfect, with that he sends
me away with a friendly slap on my sagging shoulder
waterlogged blue toes
sinking feet down into mud
river rising red
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