Militant metamorphosis

Missed

delight in eyes,
with hidden surprise

devouring the night.

disregarding first light.

engulfed by time,

feeling so sublime

writhing in passion.

dressed in heated fashion.

accumulating pleasure,

yet waiting for good measure

until at last...

 

sigh, the moment’s passed.

without a word or more

he’s gone out the door.

Jargon jaunting: part 10.2

again falleth the rain
Chaac with sliced vein
grey clouds doth reign
Ra prayer said in vain

cumin passing
through human lumen...
spice needs ice
to slice the entice

fully holy respect
for physical aspect

slight plight of pain
in day's warmth wane
thoughts drift out pane
off to Great Bear's wain

looming flash
and assuming booming crash...
await the fate
if bate or elevate

slowly unholy prospect
for lyrical dissect

Madame M.

Mother may I?

If I may, can I?

If I can, should I?

They shed blood for you,

their own and others’ will do.
Filling up your chalice with tears,
release from them their ravenous fears.

What else will you ask of them?

What else is there Madame M.?

Did you not dare surmise

of how your own name should rise?
A bouquet of incense set on high
for you, your hope and twisted lie.

What other tale shall I hymn

for your own ears, Madame M.?

Angelic wings took flight

to spread your mangled plight.
While wood was stained with red
were schemes storming in your head?

Here’s your crown of gold and gem.

Would there be anything else, Madame M.?

Any other day as meek you be?

Of your initial state, please remind me.
Your garden has grown to the contrary.
Mountain majesty replaced low prairie.

Higher in the tree the weaker the limb.

Oh do be careful up there Madame M.

Stale breeze

There is nothing for me to say
that hasn’t been said before

There is nothing left for me to do,
to reap or ignore

In all those days of all those weeks

of passing moons and turning seasons...

I left,

without ever knowing it

Lurking in the shade cast by numerous outstretched arms

there I remain, appearing from fallen debris...

that is me

And beyond the bard’s lyrics

where dreams fade and winds die,

I left my body there

gently levitating in the air

My feet ran off...

to some distant summit

and will not be seen again

‘Tis better that way, I always tend to linger

Those teachers will have their way with me

and I should see.  I could fly...

I would dance, had there been a pulse to cling to

I will mimic those winged footsteps

No matter the amount of shining coins
I heave out of my pockets...

the vessel has left the shore

‘Tis better that way, I always tend to linger anyway.

The minstrel

He may look as though he left his mother the other day
and hasn’t had many hours to sponge the world,

but the lad has too many unseen years
tied to his hands behind his back.

His youth bears scars that he wishes were realized,

as he realizes although they remain, they are healed.

He spouts out blanched, lightly seasoned rhythms

that are seemingly pleasing to his audience

and cohesive with his appearance.

The crone that lingers in his bowels, however, cries, “More!”

as she raps her staff on his tailbone...

he had swallowed her long ago while inhaling his first breath.

Her cruel inspiration spurs him on

in his hope of subduing the mired muse.

She’s entertained too many butterflies in his belly

and now he’s obsessed, longing for familiar, anxious excitement.

Jokingly he admits to all the crazed mental relapses,

excusing himself by asking, “Aren’t we all?”

He could hide it well enough, and he’ll try again

throwing his convulsions down the cistern

excavated in the hub of his existence.

Down there, in the quagmire...

where all his clandestine objects are heaved,

decomposition is absent.

Invitation after invitation has been mailed,

requesting the rotten presence,

for the bodies are piling up.

Perhaps decay doesn’t dwell there anymore...

no matter, he will choose cannibalism over exposure.

He hides his language in shouts and screams,

as it turns his stomach inside out to spill his guts.

His speech splatters against

the interior walls of his mental corridors...

graffiti on an overused canvas.

The stale horror of his circumstance

nearly chills his exposed chest

but moreover removes him from his

frail stronghold he conceals himself in.

Lighted twilights he drifts to.

He lingers in those times of barely seeing,

still seeing more than he does.

Those stretched auroras reassure him of exterior ecstasies,

places other than his internal gloom.

He paces slowly in those times, gently singing...

“No noose is tied in the rope.  There is hope.  There is hope.” 

 

 

 

Experimenting with forms

I was experimenting with some forms this morning in preparation for creating three dimensional works for an art exhibition next spring.  This certainly gives me some direction.

 

Aurora

Jargon jaunting: part 6 & 7/8ths

of thee magnanimous
even the pusillanimous

is the consolidation of blood relation

save damnation
of the sin of kin

raps apart
the traps of heart...

when son, sis, and mar
drift greatly afar

yet so it be
with seeds of the tree

opposable thumb
plus seeming not dumb
should venerate a separate outcome?

peace in life is accepting strife
and possibly knowing
where the winds are blowing

fluff may drift
bluff may shift...

yet twig, and limb, and branch
are the tree's sprig, and hymn, and tranche

Jargon jaunting: part 3.75%

a disposition dispensation...

caught being bought,
fought and now wrought...

clotting, nay rotting

once spotting dunce plotting
the judge regard high beauregard

hourly bowery spewing
   flowery wooing

conture demure...

alluring, procuring, obscuring

unassisted witches
and tightfisted bitches

breech the speech of the preach...er

spurring the slurring
slander brander

fulfill the downhill spill...

flood of blood on mud