Thursday, November 2, 2017

Crash and Burn

Words are cloying.
Night is wrought
With indecision.
Who am I tonight?

Lucubrating intent
Odds swim in reverse
Cortical homunculus
Revisiting.

Indigenous needs
Perpetrating my flow
Hijacking the night
To bid its own due

To the right, then left
Beneath feet that resist
A bolt to soft corduroy
And a blue beauty nearby

The cast, in order
Of appearance, slave
The day and all her muses
Promised much to many

Intent, this is no
Shotgun wedding.
Jumping guns to get to
A golden finish.

This is hype on hype
Magnitude personified
So many secrets told
In plain sight.

Why not wither instead
On a vine grown, un-clipped
Unhindered, wild as will
Built on the purity of its very being?

Swapped instead for
Obscurity
Riddling the self
For a moment

To stretch and
Combine confusion
With tampered songs
Of how the heart cried softly

Profoundly aware of
The arms of denial.
So profuse in the employ
Of its own restraint.

Vindicated, perhaps
Blue Ribbon evidence
To laud the mind of its own
Admittance.

To what end is this
Voraciousness plummeting?
For soon, all trajectories shift
To crash and burn energies

Their conquests, revealed.

We hope, how we hope
To have lived enough
To die right; in relaxed repose
Hungry for more.

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

‘Blue Girl’

Plucked as she rests
On a lap that has waited.
Patience can sour
If wasted on useless palms
Resting idle

The strum of a soliloquy
Will not conduct itself
Finger glide gently
Over and on top of-
The intimidation of tuning.

Ink to swill the sound shared
A beckoning, long overdue
Fuck torpid stasis
And utilize redundancy
If that is what it takes

These lessons need banging
Hard and on drums, hidden
A dare to cognition
A fluctuation into movement
To steer the hand into song.

The ticket written, sent
And now read and acted upon
A tearing of throats and
peppered goats;
“Haha, She can sing”

And she will, she WILL
And the mornings will pass
As the canyon closes
New skills to meet old faces
As  Pink Floyd plays on.