Saturday 30 August 2014

The Bread Also Rises

The D.J. On The Radio Is Chatter From A Marionette's KnotHole
With The Chronologic Of  Sweetened Tea And A Wallet's Leathery Despair,
A Glass Cougar In A Tree With The Signals Bristleing His Whiskers,
One Slip Of The Tongue Could Dissolve The Articulated Illusion,
His Broadcast Of PreOrdinance And Its SoundTrack To Better Living
Through A Guarded Royal Arch Leading To His BackYard Dynasty,
To Roosts Where His Dogs Sit To Keep The Grass From Getting Sun-Burnt,
His Sonic Stutter To Shelter The HomeLess Muse For Her Green Men,
A Performance In Monotone With Slight Accentuation On Trigger Words
Produceing Egg-Layers To Twitch Their Heads While He Roams Freely On The Wire...
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Seeking Landing Strips In The Vista Of AirWaves And Condensation...
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He Comes As The Spirit Of Sunday,
Cooling The Feral Brows Of Morning Sickness,
Easeing The Suffering Of Alcoholic Coal-Miners With His Waters,
He Has Risen From The Bread To Guide The Lost InTo Fields Of Heather,
Violet Vibrations From A Swaying-Bridgeing Trust Over The Friday BeFore,
To A Saturday Of His Hand Tilting The Creamer InTo Cups In Saucers,
With Button Eyes And Stuffing For Friends Gathered Near,
Easter... After Easter... After Yesterday Has Been Slowed Down,
His Muttered Addition In ReVerb To Be As God To Lactation And Imagination,
Just To Keep Peckers Loyal To His Tree.





Wednesday 20 August 2014

Boots Left Hanging

Dirty Black,
Road Like A Ribbon That Stretches For Miles,
Stealing Nautical Glory From Any Landed Shark,
With Its Fair Share Of Allure And Cripples,
Six Feet From The Gravel Or Its Gold,
Down To The Reservoir To Break It For A Ditch...
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Smokeing Smooth-Shogun Soul Spilling Out From A BullDozer's Blasted Guts,
Checkered Shirted Engineers Of The Endorphin Bum-Rush Pulling Its Levers...
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With Ghosts And Prostitutes Hooking Their Hitches Off The Level...
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White Collared,
ATypical UnTill Typically By The WaySide Evangelical And Tight,
Sniffing Out The Details... Droplets Of Blood On The Braille,
CrossRoads Dusty To Trust The Hanged Man's Tree With Scratched Initials,
Six Feet From The Grave Or Its God,
Up To The Bough To Make It For A Witch.






Sunday 10 August 2014

Jesters By The Clay

The More I See,
The Less I Believe...
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So Might I Stab My Green Thumbs InTo The Sky,
Bring Down The Wrinkled Reign,
The Blues And The Less Than UnKnown,
With Friends... Seekers... Of Trips Through Wooden Horses,
Then Catch The Fire... Be Spirited AWay By Totem Permutations,
A Pecking Order That Freezes In The Skipping Of Stones,
Splashing Down With Medallions InTo Open Snapping Jaws...
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The More It Eats,
The Less I Become...
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To Incubate WithIn That Lighthouse's Hollow Gut,
Heavy Is The Hand That Feeds The Flame,
Light Is The Head That Leads The Hand,
An Amuseing Absurdity In BeTwixt The Smoke And The Teeth,
Fogging Up The Parting Valley'd Sea,
With One Last Toke On The Bell's Yoke,
Wishing For The Queen Of Mermaids To Gasp Lovingly...
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And So I Leapt...
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Immortalized In Defeat,
With The Lessons Won.