Flash for Fun

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Flash for Fun

Bash Poem –
Bop ’em, pop ’em,
Rock ’em, sock ’em, shock ’em.
If nothing wakes ’em up,
You gotta hit ’em with a stick.
But, please don’t aggravate ’em,
‘Cause I think he’s really sick.

Brash Poem –
This is the day I am going to rebel.
There are advances I’m going to repel.
You can put out your hand and stop me,
This I know very well.
I think you are going to try it,
But, I will say, go to hell.
This is my freedom,
I’ll riot and rage.
Today I am breaking out of my cage.
Out of my shell,
Out of my cell.
There are things I will do,
Which I’m not going to tell,
But, when it’s all over,
I’ll come ring your bell.

Cash Poem –
Pay me a nickel or, pay me a dime,
Pay me a dollar, I’ll tell you the time.
Pay me a ruble, a franc or a yen,
I’ll tell you, your wallet is looking quite thin.
If you pay me a hundred, a thousand or more,
Any time you’re around, you can knock on my door.

Clash Poem –
I told you before,
And, I’ll tell you again,
Purple just doesn’t go with yellow,
Why won’t you listen, you raggy-taggy fellow?
At you I’m always shouting and, once I tried to bellow.
You’re always on the other side,
Won’t say yes, or no, or hello.
I think it’s very rude of you,
To just go away and eat your Jell-o.

Crash Poem –
Broken windshield,
Scattered glass,
Molten steel and melted brass,
They sadly say,
There is no way,
To save the driver,
Lovely lass,
Oil and fire will burn her ass.
The world is unfair, disappointing and crass.
I’ll wait here by the pool, in the wet, cool grass.

Dash Poem –
Hurry, hurry, hurry,
I am really in a flurry.
I’ve invited you to dinner,
And, I have to make the curry.
Scurry, scurry, scurry,
Plates are dirty, glasses blurry,
The table cloth and chairs are furry.
Hurry, hurry, scurry, worry,
I am really in a flurry.
I’ve invited you to dinner,
And, still haven’t made the curry.

Flash Poem –
I will dress up in leather.
I will dress up in lace.
It all depends on the time of day,
The weather and the place.
Sometimes I will wear a mask,
Sometimes I will show my face.
I need to live my life, my love,
To live at my own pace.
I’m delighted be your pal or your gal,
Just let me have my space.

Gash Poem –
Kick it with an ice pick, hit it with a hoe,
Sit and smile a little while but, then you have to go.
I don’t think that I want to wait.
More likely I’ll retaliate.
You know I really, really hate,
Blood splatters on the snow.

Gnash Poem –
Well, grind my teeth and bless my soul!
I am not living on the dole!
I don’t have to dig myself out of a hole!
And, I’m not going to listen to rock-and-roll!

Hash Poem –
The night time was upon us,
And, I hung up my cloak,
In a room afire with perfume,
And, bitter, acrid smoke,
So much so that I really thought,
“This has to be a joke.”
Then, through the haze,
I heard the voice,
Of a gruff and, manly, hairy bloke.
Now, his lungs, had a wheeze,
Which drowned out the breeze,
He rocked fore and aft,
And, he coughed when he laughed,
The smoke made him choke,
And, I thought he might croak.

Then he huffed and he whuffed,
And, I gave him a poke,
His belly just puffed,
And, his brain, it just broke!
Which was not a surprise,
(He was drinking a coke).
But then, it was weird,
Then he just disappeared.
Nothing left but a pipe,
And, a small whiff of smoke.
He took the rest with him.
He thought it a joke.
But, the joke was on him,
The silly, old bloke.
For that was his end, my good folk.

Lash Poem –
Strip me, whip me,
Just like the best whipped cream.
If you were mine I’m pretty sure,
You’d always make me scream.
You’re very kind but, never mind,
It was just a dream.

Mash Poem –
You can mash the potatoes and, mash the peas,
But, do not mash my fingers, please.
If you do, I know, you will make me sneeze,
And, I’ll tumble-crumble-grumble down again,
Crying on my knees.

Nash Poem –
I once had a Nash myself,
It really was a friend.
It kept me on the straight and narrow,
Never let me bend.
Every time it got a headache,
Get Well cards I’d send.
Then, one day, the engine cracked,
And, this, I could not mend.
And so, I had to say farewell,
This really is the end.

Rash Poem –
Scratch and peck,
Oh, what the heck.
Well, let me check.
Is it under your clothes?
Yes, it goes from the tip of your nose
Down to the tip of your toes,
All the way up your back,
Up as far as your neck!
I’m afraid, little maid,
You can’t rest in the shade,
Because,
You are really a wreck.

Sash Poem –
Tie a ribbon ’round my waist.
Tie it in a bow.
Do not tie it up in haste,
Make a pretty show.
Who, do you think, is going to see it?
Well, you never know.

Slash Poem –
Bright red, blood red,
All across the clean, white bed.
I don’t know what she could have said!
Strangled, stabbed and left for dead,
Shot her full of white, hot lead.
You left her standing on her head.
You are my terror and my dread.

Smash Poem –
You can break the ukulele,
You can bust the telephone,
But, the best that you can do for me,
Is just leave me alone.
I don’t know what you are saying,
But, I do not like your tone.
If you don’t change the way you are,
I’m going you break your bone.

Stash Poem –
What have you got in your pocket?
What have you got in the box?
What have you hid, under the lid?
What is behind the locks?
What are you keeping under your thumb?
Why do you not want to come give me some?
Do you think that I really am, so very dumb?
Will you trade me some, for a bottle of rum?
How ’bout, I give you, all my bubble gum?

Trash Poem –
Don’t pick it up.
Don’t put it down.
Put it with the garbage, now.
Don’t take it into town.

Wash Poem –

Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Hold everything! This is not right. Wash does not rhyme with ash. It should but, it doesn’t. I am not here to explain the English language to you. This is just plain unfair, unjust, unkind. Haven’t I done enough already? This is a ridiculous pass time. I’m going to take my ball and go home. Oh, no, wait a minute, I think I’ve got it. Here you go.

Oh, my, golly, gosh
I had better clean the squash
‘Cause tonight we’re having dinner
With Hieronymus Bosch

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Tattoo

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Tattoo

I think I might have a tattoo.
It is the color of perfume and ashes,
With shades of smoke and holograms.
As cold as intergalactic space,
It follows me wherever I go.
It is even bigger than I.
It is as big as the sky.
It wraps me up in its arms.

It was the only way I could change my skin,
Because I wouldn’t want to change myself.
Anyway, I know, in better days,
I have already been a butterfly,
With a velvet body,
With eyes which have seen,
Into the darkness of Morpheus, God of Dreams,
Into the darkness of Yama, the Slave of Shiva,
Into the darkness of time, the minion of Death,
Into my own darkness, my own magic,
My own metamorphosis.

I’m pretty sure I’m an old soul.
I have done this before.
I can almost remember being inside my own tomb,
My visage taken away,
My blood no longer sticky and thick,
Turned into the salt water from the early oceans,
The frozen water of the rings of Uranus,
Of Neptune, of Nefilim, the mythic twelfth planet,
Turned into air,
The energy of a 9.6 earthquake.

The smell of sex was no longer sweet or salty.
Not the smell of sweat.
Not the sound of moaning,
Nor, the voice of animals rushing to Carnival,
Strands of wet hair,
Confetti rain on the wrong side of the moon.
When I returned from death,
I was brighter than heaven.

But, oh, I keep forgetting,
You, who have a heart of innocence,
The eyes of a child,
You have never been dead.
You do not remember the mysteries of Death’s mask,
Dancing plumage, blind muteness, introspective infinity,
Interconnected potential,
The unbound opportunity for realization,
Out of which anything can manifest,
And, only devotion survives.

Right now, no matter how close we are to the edge,

We are on the side of our created awareness.
Now, time is more than just an angle of perspective.
It dictates our every moment.
It tells Orpheus when he is allowed to sing.

Since we are always in Death’s hands anyway,

Eternity is going to taste like anything he says.
It seems to me, a tattoo isn’t much.

Life is like a stranger, living inside us.
Every day it tells us a bit more of its story.

Anyone can have a tattoo,
But, your sleep is yours alone.
No one else can live your nightmares.
Your dreams cannot be dreamt,
By anyone but you.
Not even by your lover.

My Desert

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My Desert – photographer unknown

I am returning
Back, to my desert
Back, to my own space
To my internal silences
Where clouds do not linger
Over my head
Watching my every move
And, the long strands of time
Are spun out of sunrise and sunset
Spun out of expansion and contraction

Enchanted, unable to stay away
I am going back to where nothing
Except myself and my mission
Are reflected back from the empty earth
Where the blistering fire of sun consumes the day
And, even when I look away
Thirst consumes my whole soul
And, darkness is subsumed
By the hungry, hollow ground

The desert is just like I am
When you look underneath
There is nothing but hot, red dust
Wishing to be something else
Dry liquid, contradicting itself

If you come to my desert
You will be welcomed
But then, you should really move on
Because you will find
It is full of trapping
Energy zapping
Kidnapping
Warping of minds
Commitment of all kinds

You may be unable to get away
Be charged with keeping the clouds at bay
Your dreams may be stolen
The way mine were
When I went astray
When I came to stay

You may become

As I am
The unwilling keeper
Of demons and doubts
Charged with the keys which keep
Secrets and faults
To underground prisons and hideous vaults

Someone entrusted to guard the nest
Gather the children and never rest
Watch the seeds
Keep track of deeds
Be one who hears
And, a witness who heeds

The world is full of poor souls
And, entities, unrepenting
Unrelenting
Under the dust
Must, have been
Here since the Great Overturning
Nightmares burning
Sunk in the sand
Entities stranded
Without a hand
Without a footprint
Without a shadow
Rapacious, hiding everywhere
Invisible
Running along the thick, dark
Underground veins of the earth
Along side smoking lizards
Shaking rattlesnakes
My breath takes
A long break
Nowhere ready to leave
Don’t even try to deceive
This is my reality
This is the battleground
This is the range
This is where the colors of the wind change
I am willing to be here
Because I know what is happening

The sounds of the shifting sands
Are summoning wheezing bones
Sacred whispers
Midnight moans
I am holding darkness apart from the light
I am a part of the fight
Refusing to let the demons out of my sight
Refusing to take flight
Infusing the circular altars with ire
Calling a liar a liar
Fighting to triumph in temples of fire

At dusk I will take off my sandals
Gratefully light my candles
And, yesterday’s Rembrandt glow
I know, will show
Neither the corners
Nor the center
Of the crystal ball
Running under the soft footfall
Running through the secret underground
Without a sound
Under the chapel
Through secret chambers
Smoldering embers
Over the prison of demons
Dancing with black-light scorpions
And, shaking the feathers of vultures
Desiring destructions of cultures
Their deeds restrained, herein contained, for eons
By wills and words
By spells and burning pentagrams

Demons cast out but never quelled
Disembodied and all the more dangerous for it
Thirsting for a being
Rapacious for a soul to do their bidding
Feeding on innocence
Swelling indolence and insolence

The moonlight is breaking
Untouched by spider webs
Merrily drunken on mescal
Jumping over jimson weed
Laughing at scorching sagebrush
Cold and heat
Refusing to retreat
Refusing to be concerned, at all
With our fall

We are being gathered up by gravity
Depravity, leeching, reaching
Screeching at the ashes of those already transformed
Still concerned with their return
Escaping the burn
Wanting to know
How does it go?
The invisible battle
Between the wills of conflicting gods?

I am concerned because of the here and now
And, the vast continuum of life
Which tries to forgive the silence of skeletons
The injuries of the past
Tries to out run the multi-colored lizards
The flying sun
The shadows of the flying birds
The thoughts of the shadows of the flying birds
The eloquence of the animated sky

The night, cloaked in cold
Is whispering under stars of steel
Stripping me down before the dawn
Teaching me how to compete
How to be complete
Without any movement
Without any breath
Companion to death
Keeping the watch fires without fear
I will give up possessions and aggressions
I will disconnect all my wires
I will discard all my attachments
And, disavow all my desires

Left with only my barest essentials
Only my entrails
Only raw survival
Only the vast, dry spaces
The lizard’s skin’s lacework places
Shimmering between cactus thorns
And, the sand dune’s moaning tunes

I will be spent
And, content
To inhale phantoms
Confused by collapsing sun spots
And, drifting dust devils
Driven by dreams
I will think in circles
Converse with mirages
Fall in love with visions
And, spend my time
Watching eyes that do not exist
Except in the instant
Of the thunder’s crash
The lightning’s flash
The sand storm’s slash

After I have given up, as well
All of my impatience
I will stand naked, empty and still
Waiting for the shadows to begin to move
For the stars to burn up the night
For the night to devour my sight
For the light to strike my spirit
When I am sighing
And, desperately trying
To remember the way the breezes used to feel
When I was still alive and real
My desert may give me the sudden illusion
I know what is going on

When the vortex of my mind
Aligns with the sky
It will realize
The universe doesn’t need me
Has no reason to feed me
Doesn’t know where to lead me

There are no roads to transverse here
In this desperate desert made of fear
Where I have tried to hide
Where I have sighed and cried
Where dreams have died and dried
And, mummified
Before the introduction of the sun
I already, now
Have come to know how
To hold down a demon
To take the wind out of the sky
To let the sky travel
To let it unravel
To weave it into a map
With the edge of the border left open
So, the gods can come and go

Moreover
I know how to play the odds
I know how to follow the gods
I know how to speak to the 400 stars,
The 500 stars,
The 600 stars,
And, I think that one of them may even
Someday, answer me
May let me see
May set me free
May tell me why I am here
And, let me know how the battle is going

The End

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tusaludpuravida.blogspot.com – The End

A light hearted exploration of depression.

The End of November

I have become fascinated by my own,
Anatomically accurate inefficiency and boredom,
My ability to write inarticulate poetry,
To paint hieroglyphics in excruciating colors,
And, to believe in things unproven by science.

Fire has pretty much devastated earth,
The end of the Age of Pisces is upon us,
And, materialism has been conquered,
Matter has been transformed,
Particles outlived and overthrown,
Force fields overgrown.
Now, there is nothing left to do.
I’ve gone about as far as I can,
But, I still have to stay up,
Because, sooner or later, the fireworks will begin.

So, what are you going to do,
Between now and then?
Let’s face it, fellow poets,
Words are a pretty poor substitute for life.
At least with a martini, you can dance.

The End of December

There is a tornado warning in the air.
A strong wind has come up from the south,
Although I don’t know why it bothered,
Because all the leaves have already blown away.
Uranus is exactly square to Pluto,
And, there is bad ju-ju in the stars.
It almost feels as though some foolish person,
Forgot to seek permission from Chango,
Before cutting down a tree.
But, who would do such a foolish thing?

I am beginning to have serious doubts about myself.
I am questioning my beliefs and my choices.
And then, I wonder if it is possible for me to be anything else,
Anything other than what I am?
The world pressures me, impresses me,
Stresses me and, streches me,
Distorts me and, distresses me,
But, I don’t seem to change.

I no longer believe anyone.

I have forgotten how to sleep,
And so, I can no longer escape into dreams.
I am pretty sure my lover has gone insane,
And, he knows all of my secrets.

Sooner or later we will all be sacrificial victims,
To the gods of struggle,
Of destruction, of betrayal,
Distrust and dust,
Of our own ideas of romance or beauty.
Darkness can be very deep,
A long, downhill slope,
Into the arms of a serial killer.
Nobody is getting out of this alive.

The End of January

Let me have my illusions.
I don’t have anything else.
I am a romantic,
And, that’s all that I would be.

I am dressed up like a candy apple,
Like a bubble wizard,
Like a gazelle,
With a cute, pink smile,
And, everybody says they love me.

I am dressed up like a mermaid.
Not a Coney Island, Mermaid-Parade mermaid,
A real mermaid,
Cold blooded, with green scales on my eyelids,
With seaweed under my fingernails,
With flashing starfish in my hair,
Webbed fingers,
Grinding teeth,
A stabbing trident in my hand.
I know the mysteries of the deep,
I know who eats who,
But, I am also the masked, Venetian Carnival Queen,
Who keeps her mouth closed with a index finger,
And, mimics “Shush.”
I won’t tell a soul.
You just wait and see.
All the mysteries of the dark and the deep,
Are safe and silent inside of me.
No one else wants to know anyway.

I am dressed up like a Goat-Fish,
Like Capricorn and Aquarius,
But, without the Fertility of Rain.
I am bleeding out of the winter sky,
Before the world is ready.
No one can see who I really am.
My seeds have been planted everywhere,
But, none of them are growing.

All that matters now,
Is what has already been set in motion.
Nothing new under the sun.
You know, if you start a vibration,
You have to pay attention because,
You might set off some butterfly,
In Hong Kong.

And, nobody knows what will set off a wandlung,
That incomprehensible event which changes everything,
Ushers in an ice age, ends the reign of the dinosaurs,
Starts the human brain.
Ends the race.
I wouldn’t want to set off something like that.
I am just living my life,
Trying to avoid the waves of advancing history,
Which are crashing into society.
The costumes are not helping.

The End of February

The afternoon is cold, and the moon is on the rise,
As transparent as my fingers and as empty as my eyes.
I am so far away the wind can no longer hear my words,
My breath is barely separate from the shadows of the birds.

I am self-contained.
I am inside of myself,
Inside of my shell,
Inside of this gloom in this room.

It is Tuesday afternoon,
And, I am pretty sure I will be alright,
If I can just hang on,
Until the dogwood starts to bloom.

Oh, but what if she does not bloom?
What if she decides to be like other dogs,
To bark instead of blossom?
What if she becomes a snake?
A grasshopper?
A possum?
What if she decides to never-more,
Be host to the beautiful, four heart flowers?
Then, never, would ever, this room contain another bloom,
And, my shell would lose all of its protective powers.

I am a creature, tied to the future.
I survive by looking ahead.
Tomorrow is always yet to come,
And, yesterday is long-gone, dead.
Sometimes hope is around the corner,
Somewhere up the staircase,
Somewhere under the bed,
Somewhere over my head.
But, sometimes the dogwood lets it go,
And, it falls to the ground instead.

The End of March

Holi is over.

I have let my hair,
Go loose, like a goose, in the wind.
Now, it is a tangled mess,
And, a good expression of myself,
With no idea of where it wants to go.

The End of April

Wash me rains.
I run to you.
Give me a blessing,
A kiss or two.
I close my eyes,
I let you run.
These days are gray.
I seek the sun.
I am undone.
I am covered in clouds.

The End of May

Confetti in the air.
But, nothing has gotten any better.

The End of June

The wild beach leaves me stranded,
With memories of sandbars and rising tides,
Coquinas, escaping, faster than my hands can dig.
How delightful it would be to share my summer dreams.
But, there no one, it seems ….

The End of July

It is to fry.
It is time to eat blueberry, pie-in-the-sky.
It is time to wonder why,
I even try.

The End of August

Oh, robust, genuine, hearty laughter.
Is that what I’m really after?

The End of September

Remember September?
Or, just forget the whole thing?

The End of October

Dibble, dabble,
Bibble, babble,
Come on kids,
Let’s play some scrabble.
Clean the chair and, brush my hair,
And, make believe you really care.
Get in the car and go somewhere.
Is it better here, or over there?

The End of November

Bartender! Oh, bartender.
I’m not here to make any trouble.
All I want is a vodka martini,
And, this time, make mine a double!

Red Robot ?

Heat. Heart. Blood. Biological basis.
Support of the visceral body,
The one that makes us alive.

Blood. Seething.
Reeling. Feeling.

Blood, feeding,
Fueling, ruling.

Flooding, flaming.
Shaming. Blaming.
Red internal wind.
Always there to be a friend.
Oxygen torches. Scorches.
Empathy. Emotes. Excites.
Takes you to dizzying heights.

Blood boiling. Roiling. Toiling.
The hot flow,
Inflates us.
Infiltrates us.
Penetrates us,
Perpetuates us,
Propels us, pumps us up, pushes us forward,
Invigorates ever fiber of our being.

Blood, hungry.
Always hungry.
Does her job.
Mother Blood.
Flood of Blood.
We are riding on her back.
Gimme, momma, what I need.
Gimme, everything I lack.

Life’s Blood.
Here’s the rule.
Here’s the rule of thumb.
If you want to be alive,
You’re gonna have to have some.

Even if it’s green-sponge blood,
Starfish-cold blood,
Seahorse-bold blood.
Scorpion-spider, yellow-mellow,
Insect, hemo-lymph, type blood.
Palm tree-seed blood, wild-wet-weed blood,
Flower-come-to-fruit, ripe blood.

But, we’ve got a whole new Frankenstein, now.
Created it ourselves. And, Wow!
Everybody take a bow.

Artificial intelligence.
Created by intransigence.
Once a component, not all alone,
Now, we have forced it to stand on its own.

Robots, big as life, and more.
They are scratching at the door.
Roboto here, and there robota,
Bloodless, sexless, automata.
We’ve let them out of the starting gate.
What will be their survival rate?
Will they try to replicate?
Will they be capable of treason?
Will they care about our age or our rage?
Will they care about the season?
Will they do, what we want them to?
Will they even need a reason?

But, silicon, metal, programmed stuff,
It may turn out that it’s not enough,
Because blood is the stuff they know we’ve got,
And, it’s the stuff that they, have not.

We’ve got the red blood,
The fire blood,
The quick, thick,
Boom or bust, iron-rust,
Burning, yearning, head-turning blood.
The explosive blood, emotive blood.
The love-me blood,
The never-try-to-get-above-me blood.
Heed me blood. Feed me blood.
You-know-you’re-really-gonna-need-me blood.
Bright blood. Light blood.
Try-to-pick-a-fight blood.
Something-isn’t-right blood.
Just-get-out-of-my-sight blood.
Hold-me-tight-at-night blood.
We’ve got all the blood.

Versus cold, thin, copper wire,
Won’t set anyone on fire.
Titanium and fiber optics,
Reason right-tight in robotics.
I don’t know what you were taught.
Isn’t logic what makes up thought?

Electric impulse, off and on.
Always right and never wrong.
Always steady. Always ready.
Who’s the King and who’s the pawn?

Time is watching. Likes to hover.
Oh, the things he might uncover.
One day we might just discover,
Everyone wants to think on their own.
The brother, the sister, the twin and the clone.

Thinking every day and night,
Someday they might see the light.
Someday they might figure out,
Blood is what it’s all about.
That’s what they need to be complete.
It’s blood they need and, a heart and, heat.
That’s all they need to be alive.
But, they can’t make blood,
So, they can’t thrive.
And, if that’s true,
What else can they do?

They gotta take ours.

I Speak to Mountains

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I speak to mountains,
And, have conversations with stones,
Although this isn’t as easy as you might think,
Because, we have to speak,
In a different temporal continuum.

We talk about sizes and shapes.
We speak of temperature conduction,
Molecular construction,
And, about internal crystalline geometry.
We chat about atomic structure and astronomical design,
Expansion, contraction, density,
Texture, space and weight,
About volume and viscosity,
About force fields and reverberations,
And, about the nature of waves.

We never talk about eternal life,
Love or poetry,
Dreams or even time travel.
For that I have to wait and speak to the flowers,
Who understand romance and flight,
Pheromones and symphonic composition.

The stones tell me,
When the earth was slapped by the moon,
Perhaps just rough housing around,
Perhaps in a jealous rage,
The earth got piqued,
And, with fight-back “I’ll show you” energy,
Set about more magic,
Than was ever before conceived.
Then all of our symmetry was altered,
And, everything became a possibility.

The stones want to know if we appreciate,
The nearly impossible underlying precision,
And, the unending, multiple coincidences of the universe.

I ask them,
About the ice ages,
About the magnetism of the North Pole,
About particle entanglement,
The proportion of space to matter in atoms,
And, why it is that everything can be reduced to mathematics.

They never really answer my questions.
Instead, they complain because,
We are always moving forward,
With great regard to the future,
While the wisdom of the past,
Is swallowed up in the irretrievable gravity sink,
Of our DNA and, our dismembered memories,
Snaps at our ankles,
Crumbles into sinkholes and quicksand,
And, creates the karmic weather.

Vortex

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Vortex

Turning away from the world,
I wondered instead,
Who am I?
A woman made of mud,
Of sparks and space,
Of gender and race,
Of mistakes,
And, faults,
And, miserable flaws,
Holding my breath,
And, seeking the stars.

But, I found, inside of myself,
My own internal sun,
The one,
Around which I spin.
I met with my own,
Self serving ego,
Center of my solo system,
Holding everything together.
And, my unexpected, yet inevitable,
Eternal shadow,
Cold, bold,
Extension of the void,
Survivor from long before my beginning,
Arising out of dark fears and anger,
Closest to the demon earth,
With an interest, only, and eternally,
In the protection of my deep, limbic being,
The one connected,
By fang and claw,
By tooth and jaw,
To self-preservation,
To immediate satisfaction,
To instant gratification,
To whispers of rageing determination,
To the present,
To mob mentality,
To the crushing force,
Of gravity,
To the rushing force,
Of the movements of time and life.

I have found that I am,
The vortex of reality.
Everything enters me,
Stirs me, disturbs me,
Becomes subject to my interpretations,
My imitations,
My alterations,
My infinite complications,
My folding, origami replications,
My inspections, my reflections,
Four dimensional fluctuations,
Kaleidoscopic machinations,
Colossal, multifaceted limitations,
And, of course,
My centrifugal force,
Which keeps me going.
Going ’round.
Never lets me down.
Doesn’t even let me frown.

Whether I’m losing or winning,
I am always spinning.
I am self-centered,
Self-composed,
Self-encompassed,
Self-contained, trained,
Constrained,
And, I am really entertained,
By the tricks of my memories,
Dreams and desires,
And, the rollercoaster of my fluctuating reality.

But, just like this poem,
I keep on going.
Full of passion,
Full of laughter.
Always something,
I’m going after.
I fit into rhythm.
I fit into rhyme.
And, my kisses,
Aren’t forgotten,
Because they really,
Are sublime.

Worlds

 

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Worlds

I am living in worlds, and other worlds
Living in worlds inside of worlds
Truthful worlds and worlds lying
Worlds alive
Worlds dying
Worlds trying
To survive
The stormy, intergalactic weather
Worlds vying and worlds trying
To tie everything together

Physicists say
There is nothing
But, matter and space
Emptiness and form
But, I say there is more
There are thoughts
And, time within a place

I say there are also conclusions
There are confusions
And, there are illusions
There are connections, reflections
And, there is cohesion
There are changes of the season
There is faith and there is reason
The reality of full and hollow
The ways of going forward
And, the ways of those who follow

Energy of competition
Or, cooperation
Grasping reach of exploitation
The warm, red smoke
Which we call sensation
Dark, alluring fascination
Territory, love of nation
The will to control
And, oh, so bold
Desire to take over the world

And, besides my central heartbeat
There’s surprising inspiration
And, the most persuasive, all invasive
Underlying, death defying
Drive for eternal preservation
And, my immortal perpetuation

Today

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Today

Mankind without direction
Without reflection
Without inspection
Without coherence or connection
Dust and disintegrating borders
Landscapes without definition
Surrounded by psychopaths
Smothered by mutants running wild
With radioactive smiles
Countdown in foreign tongues with red eyes
All of the fantastic children of demons
Sibarites with no one to please but themselves
Lost in the wilderness
Intellect deformed
Giants shrunken
Cut off from the molten rivers of glass and brass and blood
What little is left to do but gnaw on driftwood
And, break our teeth?

A Fractured Mind, Part Three:

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A Fractured Mind, Part Three – Not my Artwork

Mine will not be a shallow grave, a perpetual dream, as red as rain. The world dances by. Everyone else seems to know where they are going. The past descends into the earth, into objects, into ourselves, into my gravitational center, to become a black hole and, I am surrounded by the future. I am the center of time’s centrifugal force. I am a wormhole into myself.
The stars, half of what they used to be, are all wrong, wrapped up in shadows, eaten by angular moonshine and mazes. The wind blows wild without direction. The earth no longer supports the sky. I have made no difference and, the world goes on. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will become a lazy cloud. I will hold two young birds safe in my hand until they grow long, green feathers and learn to speak in tongues and reveal the future to wizards and seers. Dust devils will try to break through but will be devoured by the seeds which nourish the minds of dragons, the souls of serpents and the wings of angels. I shall wait on the brink and wink at the ravens while they rearrange the world, laughing because they can or because they must. Who knows how much damage has already been done? Yet, a wild, red flower has bloomed in the sunrise and I am ready to be on my way. Surrounded by branches, I will take one as a walking stick. I will take one as a companion, one as a scepter and another as a wand. I will take one as a weapon, one as a lightning rod, one as a compass and another as a church. And the stars, which are only half of what they used to be, will be grateful I am on the move and they are no longer in the way.