Poem-A-Day: Day 292

Sonnet #57 (All Shook Up)

because it knows I have no time to search,
I, looking up if only for disdain
as ramblings of a madman, drunkard’s plea
in helping relieve bitter from the bland,
for better things, and better days ahead
manage to masquerade my humble life
seated high above on its devil perch,
and swamp the land in agony and dread,
but lose the edge while walking on the knife,
like looking keen ahead to help me drown
and end up in the same disaster spree.
Instead I drive the blissful from the brain.
     Somewhere distorted bottles lend a hand.
     The bottle’s tempting vision stares me down…

Poem-A-Day: Day 291

Sonnet #56 (Configuration of Thine Artful Waste)

Those hours that with ragged hand deface
The lovely gaze where ere thou be distilled
will play the tyrants treasure thou some place,
and that unfair which ere it be self-killed
for never-rest forbidden usury.
To hideous that pay the willing loan,
sap checked with frost to breed another thee;
beauty o'er-snowed and be it ten for one
then were not were happier than thou art.
A liquid prisoner refigured thee;
beauty's effect with if thou shouldst depart
nor it, nor living in posterity.
     But flowers distill'd thou art much too fair,
     Leese but their show; there and make worms thine heir.

An amalgamation of Shakespeare's Sonnets V and VI

Poem-A-Day: Day 290

Spilling Brain

Sometimes I feel there’s nothing left,
nothing left swimming in my brain,
my brain is an empty bowl filled with water,
with water sloshing around and spilling,
and spilling all over the floor,
the floor tells me stories that I remember,
I remember there’s always something more,
something more that manifests like words,
like words that happen to spill out my brain.

Poem-A-Day: Day 289

Oops

There is nothing worse
Than waking to find remorse
That you’ve shit yourself

Poem-A-Day: Day 288

Sonnet #55 (Missing Pieces)

…there
…will,
…where
…still
…the poor
…men
…explore,
…than
…those
…who
…chose
…adieu,
…not leaving,
…believing.

Poem-A-Day: Day 287

Understatements of Clockery

tick tick tick
the clock ticks strange sounds
ticking sounds that I’ve never heard
but they sound familiar
through the unfamiliar ticking
tick tick tick
and I can’t quite make it out
where I’ve heard it
what was the circumstance of the sound
and why it happened to be
tick tick tick
trying to find the sound
trying to pinpoint the exact location
the point of the maddening ticking
the passing of time
tick tick tick
I just can’t manage to understand
or comprehend the madness
the strange sound of ticking
that I have yet to hear fully
tick tick tick
tick tick
tick

Poem-A-Day: Day 286

Idea Bulb

Poem-A-Day: Day 285

Silt Country

passing silt through a river reminds me of god’s country.
it’s dirty, yet strangely clean
and entirely unappetizing.
the silt passes by without even noticing me.
it’s for the best,
because it will move on
and gather in congregations at the river mouth,
tributaries with mucky steeples
lapping praises at the ocean.
passing silt spilling exalted rapture,
and glorious nothings on the sandy beaches.
and I, in my stupefied glory, ponder the passing of silt.

Poem-A-Day: Day 284

Blustering

I cast inscrutable winks
at the societal fetch of the world,
like some twisted magi
festering under the humidity of his beard.
I am erect with pocketed hands,
walking as I cast a shadow
both long and phallic down the path,
and the horrible denizens and demons
avert their gaze skyward before I pass,
and when they catch the kiss of my backside
their whispers dance from wall to wall,
a squall of squalid words erected in my absence.
I am the god and demigod of their world,
and they both chide and absolve my presence,
because my word is lordly praise
despite its filthy entrapment.

Poem-A-Day: Day 283

Rocky Shores

The time and tide rolled and churned,
piling up rocks on the shore,
beating them and battering them,
smoothing them from their jagged past,
and leaving them as reminders
and the constantly reminded,
but they’re smooth to the touch,
and they mean well.

Poem-A-Day: Day 282

The Troubles with Cordless Technology

An abandoned mouse
Sits motionless on a desk
Looking for its chord

Poem-A-Day: Day 281

Some Novembers in Europe

There are vats of darkness
in the blood-stained muddy fields
trod with souls, with life,
shells and tracks of treads.
The ringing is astounding,
sounding more like muffled bursts
than shouts and ratatatats.
Smell the violence,
gunpowder and sulfur
mixed with blood and regret,
in vats of black bile,
some jelly-like consistency.
There’s snow covering the earth,
but the idea is laughable,
and hardly noticeable
buried under the glory
that has been shed
for those gleefully watching.

Poem-A-Day: Day 280

Sherlock Home

Cross-continental
The spirit flies like a bird
Looking for answers

Poem-A-Day: Day 279

I'm leaving to go camp tonight. This means no computer. So instead I'll put up poems to cover my absence.

Speaking of Shoes

She wore brightly colored shoes
that I couldn’t help but notice.
I couldn’t help but stare at them,
watch them intently with every step
both she and I took.
I was about ten yards behind her
walking a similar pace.
It was difficult to manage
because my legs are significantly longer.
However,
I was assured that she wouldn’t notice me,
not even if she looked back,
because my eyes were so fixated on her shoes,
so drawn to the explosion of colors,
the kaleidoscope of colors emanating,
that she would think I was just looking at the ground.
I was so fixated
that I couldn’t help but notice,
I couldn’t help but realize she had stopped.
I just kept watching, wondering how the colors
kept creeping closer to my vision,
until I walked right into her.
She was hideous,
nothing compared to the beauty of her shoes,
and she tried to confront me.
I said nothing and kept walking,
staring down towards the ground
waiting for the next treasure,
but still thinking of those shoes.

Poem-A-Day: Day 278

Warmer than Winter

The winter of discontent
has been uncommonly hot this year,
so hot without the air condition,
or mental conditioning
to fully comprehend the situation.

I’ve tried piling ice up
in some strange attempt to recreate,
to mimic the act of winter,
or at least the feel of it,
but the ice melted before it stood a chance.

It seems the usual is unusual,
or the unusual just usually goes without notice,
the usual goes without question,
and then ice and winter takes over
sweeping the land in some twisted frigidity.

Poem-A-Day: Day 277

Breakable

Collapsible me
The picture of pristine health
Fragile skeleton

Poem-A-Day: Day 276

Looking Up and Down

The base of a challenging stairwell
stares blindly up
looking for stars,
but sees nothing more than peculiar turns,
floorboards are words spelled particularly similar,
but stepping partially out of bounds
before coming to a dead stop
against the corner of a brick wall
windowed slightly with small curves of glass,
and draped in blonde colored curtains
cutting the light from the stars outside,
as the specters straggle from the cul-de-sac
that seemingly starts at the top of the stairs
and stares down the world,
looking for strays.

Poem-A-Day: Day 275

Pack Animal

The turnstile clicks into position
halting backwards momentum.
The maneuvers are temporary though,
as backwards glances capture thousands
leaping over the turnstile in escape.
Salmon.
Nothing but salmon heading back
to some dismal breeding pit,
spawning irrationality and stupidity,
and being snatched by the claws,
ripped up through the black cloud skies.
Insects.
Nothing but insects ignoring the intercepts,
the beasts jumping forward,
forewarned that they have to pay to ride the game.
The suggestion is noted ,
and the beasts’ blind fury is not beleaguered.
Dogs.
The rabid dogs that run down life,
staring straight ahead,
cutting through the sludge-caked madness
with blaring red eyes, beating pulses,
struggling with little more than complete rage.
Humans.
The slovenly individualistic nightmare creature
stomping on the ground, the way, whatever.
It busily watches fore, back, and in circular swathes,
slashing and burning with chameleon eyes,
convinced that this is it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 274

Collective Fears

the soulless collective
that inhibit this modern world
march to the beat,
a pulse opposite to human nature,
goose-stepping collectively
to the sound of change clinking on glass tables,
praising the image of opulence,
golden idols bronzed and tan,
green with envy and vaulted ceilings,
exploding fountains of ignorance
marching to the punch of clocks,
the maintenance of making
while leaving the idea of humanity behind,
a horde of robots smiling in succession,
turning the collective heads
to look upon the filth of normalcy
where resistance is as futile as life,
the only way into the collective
is to give up, show up day in and out.
But when it comes down to the mindless,
the ghosts, souls of those lost
beasts mirroring humanity better than man,
those that stray from the pack,
avoiding the collective,
desperate shut-ins and shut-outs
looking for only one thing,
to not be afraid.
I am not afraid.

Poem-A-Day: Day 273

Air Dancer

Untrappable weed
Dancing spasmodic patterns
On the wind's warm breath

Poem-A-Day: Day 272

Playing Fiddle Blues

Time is the sanctimonious ass
that keeps pushing everything away,
plotting against every motion.
Time ticks down and forward,
plays the fiddle in seconds,
each pass of the hand
is a swipe of the strings that
plays tunes filled with remorse
second to none, or something less.
The remorse is nothing more
than the idea of passing
second judgment on every motion, a
fiddle singing a sad, sad song.
The song swiftly sailing the sea,
whaling thoughts, and spearing with
fiddle strings, fluttering through the sky.

Poem-A-Day: Day 271

Frumpkin Pie

I reside solely
In the last bewilderment
That keeps me alive

Poem-A-Day: Day 270

Lost Highways

Slap down more forgiving rhapsodies,
and forget about what just happened.
The world drove the field, and passed,
giving way to sounds abhorring to nature
topped easily by the iron clad whistles,
and the ghostly visage that lives in mirrors.
Bitter taps against glass foundries
make room for panic, because it looms,
demonic like the beast on Bald Mountain,
commanding the dead and wasted lives
that have similarly scoffed at the world.
Bring out the dead, bring them back,
and throw the bodies to the wind
to see if they sail more noble than grass
fresh cut, uplifted blades ready to cut,
but not before they are eaten, drowned,
and baked in no normal oven red hot wandering.
The cruise has happened once too many times,
and left the lurch of slowing down somewhere,
but not far behind the ever turning wheels.

Poem-A-Day: Day 269

Strapping

Never young before
The calls of funeral pyres
And the deadmen songs

Poem-A-Day: Day 268

Remembrance of Feet

Cobblestone feet ramble on
disjointed down the road,
both long as it is wide.
The sound of passing tires
irk tired eyes open to the blindness
and pity surrounding terraformations
blissfully writing on the ground.
It doesn’t seem possible,
but the complications spelled perfectly
along the side of a passing bus
allowed such a moment to occur.
All these things seem dreamlike,
but there’s no actual evidence of sleep
aside from the passing clouds within grasp.

“Don’t give up,” I hear.
“Don’t give up.”

I’m not aware of the sounds,
or where they’ve managed to come from,
I’m only aware that something has happened,
something that is unrecognizable to faith
in man, god, beast, or child.
I give my praise to the sword,
or the pen’s closest facsimile.
I laugh about how close a pen is
to my penis, except for size and weight mostly.
Regardless, I remember the fact that I shouldn’t,
at least not give up.
If I could only remember
what I actually gave up in the first place,
but all I remember is my feet walking slowly.

Poem-A-Day: Day 267

People Talk

Stranger days have passed
Somewhere near condescension
And I rose above

Poem-A-Day: Day 266

Harlotry and Dancing

Barefoot dancing and harlotry
down where the eyes have it,
and the naysayers tell it like it was.

I saw the beast row doing a conga
and the rats had gone, flinching at movements
that were more orchestral than anything.

The coffee was warm, substandard, delicious,
and cakes were nothing more than clouds;
dreams of purple and red twists.

Chirps were masked by champagne corks
popping and locking on wooden tiles
spread haphazardly in gravel and sand.

I saw the human race, nobody ended up in first,
thirty billion laughable last place finishes,
and I got a high five out of it.

But the harlotry was fantastic,
down where the river meets the grass,
and the water is warm enough for feet.

Poem-A-Day: Day 265

Sonnet #54 (Rusty Cage)


taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets II, V, VI, and LXV

Poem-A-Day: Day 264

Could Have Been Worse

It was the apocalypse…

like sharing a hat with a stranger
or having to use an outhouse.

The rain came in waves of fire;
bodies everywhere
looking like hunks of old coal
pushed to the edges of the grill.

There were no horsemen,
no pale horses,
only the sound of sorrow on the air,
blood screaming to the skies,
and innocence betrayed
by the sense of humanity
and its ability to reason with itself
towards destruction.

The sobbing is silent
under the cacophony of death
that drains down the sewers;
scarlet and placid…

like some twisted vigil for murderers
or the theft of a tip jar.

It could have been worse.

Poem-A-Day: Day 263

What I Look Like In the Morning

Her skin looked tan
next to the white of her panties.
I sat unnoticed while she slept
and looked upon her curvature
sunken in an old mattress.
She had the covers down near her feet
because it was a terribly hot night,
and her bare back faced me.
It was a painted mountain
rising from the desert of my yellow sheets.
The mountain heaved every now and again,
but always settled,
always with a small sigh;
a gasp of warm, sweaty air.
The supple rump wrapped in cotton
appeared as an out-of-place avalanche;
a wave of snow crashing down
somewhere in the middle of the mountain,
before giving way to a slow descending slant.
I’ve never seen a mountain so smooth,
so slowly moving without disturbing anything.
And while I sat and watched the slow movements
of time passing,
of nature being created
and recreated before my eyes,
I daydreamed about how I would remember
this one moment wrapped in nothing more
than a pair of cheap cotton underwear
and a glimpse of blankets resting at the feet.
I imagine it will be quiet.
And when the mountain stirs to waking
I’ll be treated with the sweet glimpse of breasts,
and a smile that mirrors tired eyes barely open.
I will remember it over a cup of coffee
slowly sipped,
while she remembers what I look like
in the morning.

Poem-A-Day: Day 262

Pawn Shopping

I’ve saved a lot of things,
but mostly the castaways.
I look to give residence to the unwanted
because we share a common bond.
We, the destitute and hated
gather, and explore our rapture.
We find togetherness
in the strangeness of having been lost
and somehow found,
if nothing more for the purpose
of never having been lost in the first place.
We’re somewhere in unison,
sharing coffee over music and more coffee.
The strange fact is,
that our salvation seemed connected;
hundreds of arms reaching down,
plucking up the odds and ends,
but mostly the odds.
There is no feeling sorry
for the lost and the damned,
because we are a collective force
making life out of the hatred of others.