Tuesday 26 November 2013

The Army Had A Bake Sale

The Military Sent Another Fine Girl Today,
Into The Library Like A Sacred Cow On A Pledge Drive,
To Stand Under Lamentations 2:14 And Roll Out The Green Carpet,
A Mile To The Farm To Bark For Bullets To Bend The Rules,
Hair Pulled Back In An Impressive Bun-Display Of Ritual CourtShip,
Her Blood Is Not Her Own... Her Femur Is In Service Of The Great Pecking Order Of Rank
And Discipline,
And Her OutFit... Immaculate!
...
Army Tank Battering Rams Fitted With Bouquets And Ribbons,
A Garden Of Delights Surround The Waltz Of Swirling White-Gloved Dressage,
Children Chase Each Other With Rainbow Lollypops And Neapolitan Sugar-Highs,
Trumpets, Saxophones, Trombones And Clarinets,
Coors And Labatt In Plastic Cups... Pudgy Fingers EveryWhere...
...
They Have Been In That Band For Years!
...
...
Lineing Up For The Kiss,
To Peel The Garter Off With Manic-Cured Teeth Bared,
The Cheap Aroma Of Deer-Hearted Cologne To Drink InTo Stupor,
For WeekEnds By The Crew-Cutting Clearness And Whistleing TeaPots,
Phone-Calls Like Hard-Ons Only Bring DisAppointment For The Registered And Gifted,
The Mass Communion Like A Strieber-Opposite But With Check-Ups InTact,
To Stare Up To The Cross For Commands From The Pentagon,
Sit In Polyester And Wait For Esther To Finish Eating Only The Lonely Babys,
While Dogs Whimper And Salivate In Their Pick-Up Heat...
...
Noon... Turning InTo Six-O-Clock Rationals...
...
...
Hikeing Up That Mud Drenched Hill,
For SandBag Bitches To Do Or Die,
Machine-Gun Mothers Shooting Tracers Across The Khaki Dusk...
...
She Is Only In It For The Trust-Find...
...
...
The Glory-Boy That She Maintains Beyond The Rubber Band And Pan-Cakes
Can Not Seem To Build HimSelf High Enough With Out The Tin-Spoon,
A Casual Look To Her Left Can Reveal His Potential Day Job,
A Desperate Look To The Magazine Rack Can Only Reveal Current Affairs,
A Quick Look To The Right...
...
...
Ha...Ha...Ha...Ha...Ha.
...
I Am Only InTo Girls That Wear Tight Jeans,
And Whom In Their Youth Once Peeked Beyond The Cookie Jar.








Sunday 24 November 2013

Waller Street Minute

Little White Courtesy Car,
Like Carry-On Luggage For The Muddled Class,
Middle Of Solveing The Riddle Of The Road,
Ridding The Ride Of UnDesireable Self-Knowledge,
It Breezes Through The InterSections Like A Fisher-Price Eraser,
Traverseing The Walking Head Easys And Talking Toed Sleuths,
Past The BubbleGum Dumb-Dumbs Sucking For Degree'd Gongles,
ReFlections In The Rear-View Showing Grey Skys And Paved ByGones,
Errors Like Spitting Images Double Their Pleasures,
Rubber Spun Daisy-Chains And Quiet UnComfortableness,
Thoughts Like Pregnancy Buoys And Cigars On The Greener Side Of The Pool,
Algaed Musk From The Open Window In The Attic To Blend With Napthalened Grace,
The Here And Now On Wings Of An Ivory Dove,
Dropping Its Figure's Branch,
For The Keys To The Mansion's ParkWay,
Clipping Their Rings OnTo Rabbit's Feet And Terry-Clothed BoyFriends,
For Those Shopping Bags Full Of Sunday Drives To Laugh,
They Could Keep Laughing,
Drive As They Laugh,
Laugh...
...
Till The LipStick Gets Pulled Out,
Ready To Pave For The Essence Of Fuel For Another Drive Around,
Ironing Out The Wrinkles From BirthDay Suits,
Pressing The Button To Air Out The Interior,
Adjusting The Mirror For HeadLights And Towering Trucks Up The Sleeve,
InTo That Tunnel For Peripheral Misery,
For Rainy Day Pole-Positions And Yoga Mathematics,
Reigning From Seat-Belted Bliss Like Gypsy Moth Olympians.












Friday 22 November 2013

Horse For Letters

MatchBox Dalai Lama,
Mephistopheles Hammock High,
Settleing InTo The Dunes With The Sting Of A Pebble Under Heel,
LampShade Above Heaven's Appeal,
Citrusy Bright Rip Splitting The Bottom Lip,
To Lick It Would Be Worse Than Marriage,
MisCarriage To The Jutting Chin Of Replication,
Safety In Slumbers... Strength In Numbness,
Recording Loops Of Echoing Boot-Clicks From HallWays Dark And Long...
...
The Heavyness ReTurns To The Belly,
While The Legs Expect A Lightness Of Late,
Falling Like Pennys From UnKnown Clouds,
As If  Flag-Pole Cinderellas Have Liberated The Wheel Of Fortune From The Neanderthal Dominion,
Aerosol Solar Winds To Keep BeeHives In Shape,
Candle-Jumping From One Romance To The Next,
Jonesing With The Used-Car Sales Pitch And BackWash BabyFace Chub,
Rubbing Palms Against The Searing Hot Dash...
...
Divine In Divide...
...
Deep-Eyed And Anchored...
...
Smooth Sailing Accepting The Skipping Stoned Throw,
Confessions... Concessions... Confections... Concussions...
...
...
Like Playing Horse For Letters In The Key,
Shooting From Where The Bounceing Ball Gets Caught,
They Take That Shot...
...
And All Are Named "John",
While Playing Scrabble For Better Letters...
...
Perspirations... Preparations... Palpitations... Pin Cushions.





Tuesday 19 November 2013

The Chaplain Floats Above The Canarys

With A WeedLess Lotto Bucket For BackYard Home-Schoolings,
The Hands From Under The Liveing Room Floor Push Up,
They Press Against The Feet Of Passing Relativeity,
Their Nicotine-Sepia'd Finger Nails Scratching As They Clasp Like Crab Fiddleings,
As The Drawing Of Another Number Can Be Heard Announced,
Coal Dust And Cutty Sark To Lie About Blood And Its Origins,
Those Hands Built The Lie From The Shoe Box Up,
With A BeFitting Hope That Man Be Of Certain DownFall From The Soap Boxed Lessons,
Leisure Be The Enemy To Such The Seam Of SilverBacks And The Swiss-Family ProtoTypes,
Dreaming Is Only Dreaming If There Is A Body To Come Home To...
...
...
Other Fingers Reach InTo The ChildHood Barrel Roll,
Hooking InTo Plastic To Pull Up The Family Tree's Roots,
Each Of Those Links Claiming Rights Over My Body's Forgotten Birth,
StairCases Hidden From Christian Neighbors With ArachnePhobia...
...
Animals Dressed In Stolen Humanity...
...
They Raise Their Arms And Balance UpOn The Balls Of Their ForePaws,
Stretching Their Ticket-Teeth For Plankton In The Rattleing Of BreakFast Plates,
Captureing The Need For Assertive Heights Of  Co-Existance Above The Seated,
Patting Backs... Gripping Shoulders... Pulling At The Rubber Where Life Lives Not,
Knowing That Life Lives Not To Give To That Vulture'd MountainSide,
Nor To A Beggar's Bend At The End Of A Drifting Sleep Down Any River,
Pyres For The Swan Songs Of Liers Loveing The Burning Of Effigys To Cleanse
Coal From The Skin... The Ship Out From The Bottle...
...
One By One They Look At EachOther... As If Pauseing In The Excavation...
...
...
They Know Of Being The One... As Well As Being The Hole...
...
That It Feeds ItSelf To Be.







Saturday 16 November 2013

The Grass Grows Legs

Let Us Scrape The Essence Of Deviation Off From A Citadel's Hanging Garden,
These Days Are Far From What Professionals Promised Us Through Phonics,
Abbreviations For The Lazy Handed Contractions On Blue-Lines Divideing Bottoms From Tops,
The Kissing Booth With Its Chalk Dust And Monitored Definitions Of Attention To DeRail
Detail From Two Track Minds Set On The BeTwixt Class Swig Reviveing Uppers From Downers,
The Missing Tooth With Its Locked Trust And Administered Ammunitions Of Detention To Avail,
Retail Froth Through Black Boards Wet Off The Better-Half's Seated Swing
Numbing Paupers And Prom-Crowners,
When All Is Far From Breath And Saxophones To Slow Dance
Amidst The Pink Bubble Lights And Baby-Blue Chaperoned Cheer,
Putting Out In The Sack For Black Wool And Golden Fleece,
Trials And Tribulations For Approval Rateings By The Apple's Sheen,
If It Was A MotorBoat Monday The Instructions To Race Would ReMain ReVised
For Viceroys And Country Mice,
The Streets Would All Be Flooded...
...
Lizards Would Rule From Former Avian Glory,
There Would Be Rabbits On Crosses For Lack Of Turtle Necks,
Brown-Sleeved And Slightly Scuffed To Allow For The Noticeable DisPlay
Of Patches On The Elbows,
Smelling Of Christmas AfterShaves And Cautious Dips InTo The PunchBowl,
EggNogging With Corsaged Roads To Course Loads Down The Toboggan'd Slope,
Boggleing The UnderGraduate Who Ends The Semester Pounding On The Bean-Counter For
Repriveal...
...
Tents Up On A Loose Green Club Yard,
Rentals, Dentals, And Mentals...
...
...
AnyWay They Cut It... The Grass Grows Legs.






Saturday 9 November 2013

The Crack In Her Smile Is That Of A Mirrored ReFlection Thin And Smooth

Killing Seasons Of Memorys,
They SomeTimes Drag The Mind To Snap,
RubberGloved UpOn The Hands Of Fate,
Not Faith... No... You Fools... Blind Faith Can Not Lace Thy Ribs' Cage
From The Weaveing Seekings Of Fate,
Destiny SomeTimes Turns Her Cheek To Allow For Darkness To Loom,
To Let The Wandering Be ShapeLess In Their Vigilance,
In Caverns Beyond Their Wispy Fold...
...
Likened To The Tautness OverHead,
The Sky Could Crack To Reveal Another Hungry Passage For A Twitchy Strummer,
Kicking Over That Chariot InTo A Fitting Doom,
Where No Month Be Of Its Own Creation's Sake,
There Be Some Who Still Wool Their Eyes...
...
...
For The Soft Shelter By Giants,
And Pan-Handled Lullabys...
...
Reeds By The Mud Whistleing For The Wind,
As If The Winters Could Carry A Tune... Past Fury...
...
...
Flowing To The Skin,
And Then Back To The Grape Vine,
Devoted To The Devoured,
As If Flesh Could Grow On Trees.









Sunday 3 November 2013

Cassandra Be A Mother To Spiders

The World In A Migraine Of Cassandra,
TeleVision NetherWomb For Basins Of Milkyness... Spooning Nihil,
Static And Sex To Fuzz Out The Sharp Tang Of Gnawing Floral Scents,
Lightened As Could Be While Hooked InTo The Lithe Poise For Solitude To
Brighten Ready Under,
Mouthing Emptyness To Swallow The Heavens...
...
Vermilion And Saffron... Mercury Or Mercy...
...
Never To Land In The Swirling UnHeard,
To Lay Trapeze WithIn Sticky Weaver Threadings,
BlindFolding The Edges Of The Pedaling Foot,
There It Be... Pushing UpOn The Ethers...
...
Pulling DownIn The Embers...
...
...
The Womb Is A Grin,
Reading To Its UnBorn,
In ReCreation's Grasp To DisTill For Amphorae...
...
To Drink InTo Treacle,
Treating The Eye's Tooth...
...
...
For It Hungers For Planets,
Not ForGiveness.