Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Yappi issues are not sport

So, dude, you egotistical genius of sport,
mmmnnn, yea you're fucked. You lied an
cheated to the little people that you hate,
and now you are a dead giant beached.

Gabby squealed... (yappi if you're indigenous).

There is nowhere to run and hide, the caverns
are empty and champagne is nowhere to be found.
Your fancy yacht has run aground. Dratzo, ratzo.

So, have you thought about living amongst the riff-raff?
We have ropes hanging from our windows, slanted in tandem.
Oh, don't you love a good noose... crazy goose. Soggy
bottom boys are sleepy in the galleys, Mayhem is mayday
with no man at the helm. What? you gonna cry now?
Sail on sailor... Celon is waiting for the Sri Lanka version.

That your mama should slap you coward of The Sport.
Be a good sport... no, be a good egg. Fragile. Question,
Challenge, and Wonder... the ropes are slanted outside my
vision, two in tandem... I could pull you down easily.

I'd rather smirk and watch... as you assess the window damage
you created. You know me... i'll not be a sore loser. Dude, my
yap will not cease. Your ropes are a long lost metaphor of
the sinking ship. Man overboard... mer-people gaze as the
innocent dance and sing, hitching a ride on the cloud passing by.

The meek will inherit the earth, the worms will dig deep
in their unearthly mirth. Life carries on for life's little sport.

Yappi's throw words like sand in the face of life's meaning...
a rope thrower ship that's a sinking disgrace. Dis-Cern,
yea it's bleeding all over the place. God-spark is Unity
all over your face. Like a good egg. Not easily erased.

I rest my yap issued case.



Thursday, September 7, 2017

A strong woman is not a wimpy man

...here comes Irma, hot off the press. packing a mean and mighty wind
185, can you give me a 185, yes, devastating and heading for the mainline,
like a hot load of junk.

she's a doozy before she ever got started, drying up the water supplies, and ply wood and things of the trade... for gruff men who know how to secure the
borders of this land ... Merica, sounds foreign and feminine, but whatever dude.

She's coming like the devastation that is the female ilk... and she's the enemy.
Isis, and hurricanes and wimpy men hurrihims... like andrew, and harvey. Member floyd? not manly enough. Not a mention.

Now Irene I remember,  as the tennis courts became my water front Venice
thanks to a river named Raritan. And Sandy, wow, what a blowout... the winds were as evil as a crazy bat blowing a cigar from hell. There was praying for the
sport of that one. The boardwalk was ruined... but hey, we still got Ice Capades in Jersey.

No, those were true rages and here she comes again. I am watching the warriors and the hype, and weary weather girl who has seen enough and will not comply. The men are bringing it home, like a sporting event. Water in bottles everywhere, but  not a drop to drink on grocery shelves for the riff raff. Moms are pissed. We see the manipulation. Not on our watch soldier... she would slap her own son
for such a perversion of justice. Yea, she would.

Irmageddon is coming all ye of little faith, God is pissed off again and having
another tantrum. Please ladies, stifle your giggles, it's not funny. No it's not.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Our children are watching, and it really isn't nice to try and fool Mother Nature. Fool. Take off your wimple... you look ridiculous poser man.


Wednesday, August 30, 2017

How you know when you're dying

There is a quiet realization that you have come for a purpose,
and missed the mark... so tragically that others have stolen
all your  dreams and have amassed a fortune in doing so.
christ
What can be worse than dying in shame. Jesus Christ...

I would never call your name in vain.

There is a constant rolling of pebbles in the ceiling, and buzzing
in the ears, pain in the middle of the back like a stabbing, brought
to a mild hurt by love hands caressing. Grateful but it grates on
a mind set to madness.  I will never fit in, in a world where might
is right and the victor wins at all cost cuz it's just sport. No retort.

Silence is a retreat to things that cannot be said, said the lamb gone
to slaughter. The greatest love is not a man to a women... it's a women to a...

you know... and if you don't

the world will not make sense to you anymore.

Nevermore, said the raven. His blackness will not shut us up or out.

It will take a tough man to accept a mother's world.

Don't throw pearls to swine, war to the loving is still a crime.

Peace is never won. Lightheartedness is never wrong. Giggles.

I came, I saw, I lived and I loved. I die when i will not be understood.

There is no animosity deep in the wood. A Fairy tale... misunderstood.





Monday, August 28, 2017

KINDERGARTEN AT THE HINTERGARTEN

ALL CAPS?! MERCY ME... let's take this down a peg.
Cleansing breath ... like a yoga mantra for the young
and indoctrinated. A maat, a mat, like a door mat or a
church mouse... little, scared, and willing to snatch crumbs
for sport and sustenance. A small life... getting by. Waiting for
the sleep where there is permission to dream, as a renegade.

Here we are, needs an escape hatch for the truth is too great
a burden to bear, sayeth the march of a crazy hare. So a tea
party was in order, eh? lip service and a milk mustache, life is hard
 so get a helmut... so the germans would have you believe.

Why can I quote TV and ad jingles better than hissstory. Who's story?

I heard the news of horror, but child heart of mine saw the bovine
quietly walking through the floods to higher ground. So silent, so
beautiful. Is there really any words that can make a horror right?

A silent walk of intuition to seek higher ground from the rising danger of flood waters needs no words. A beautiful testament that a child's heart
can fully understand. I bow to the bovine, in the back garden. Keep
moving forward... or drown in the pasture.

A lesson to stake what could not be herd or cowed. Mu knows water.










Sunday, August 27, 2017

Crooked style

The columns were carved with straight lines, and after the Dorrit, hiccupp,
I mean Doric, there were some curvy wavy leaves on high. Groovy and outrageous were those architects, or archetypes. Chez chic, or guevara, or whatever. Valley of the jolly green... Dolly. Move on wheels.

There was a dragon in the belly of a giant whale, hiccup... in the clouds.

I saw it like the rainbows that offer high hope to the hopeless who will look up but pray down where the humans dwell. in the darkness of a wishing well.

The price is always right to the highest bidder, you know... the one with with biggest cajones. Go figure and hide in the hedges and whimp whisper to the bully... bombastic plastic of the age of the war machine, hiccupp, I mean the washing machine to whitewash a wormwood world. Cern, we're looking at you...lol. Go find god, there is an infinite iteration of his Almighty Intent... Hiccup.

I live here and i search for answers amongst the silent sadness,
painting the sky with imagination to pique intuition. All logic has been
put in its place. robots safe in tacky, i mean techkki schemes, hiccup... techno
streams. life is a knot frayed under seems. So I sew, saw, sow. See?

Wanderers don't seek a straight and narrow path... art is a slippery slope to climb or fall. go ask a artist. there are no straight answers.

 "I'm down with that, said a crooked smile... from a lonesome learning crocodile.

The crocus is a light bulb flower... aha in the spring is its light-hearted power.




  



Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Chirping of the Raptor

i walk alone in nature, amongst the sorry of the sad.

humans glorious and intimidated by the cowardly bad.

as the ignominious leader would say, "sad".

The raptor chirps a scurrilous tune, always at the behest
of a surreptitious gloom. (an awakened thought by a waif
of the moon). Stone cold buffoon. Monsoon... said the rune.

The raptor raps his song to weaken his prey.
Talons are not cute, time is in disarray,
though there is much to weep for, i hold sentimental
reasons to keep those thoughts at bay.

Screeching silently at raptors is my night of the day,

they sound so pathetic

the raptor,

and the rapture of them

blew me far and fast away.

Oh happy day.

 

Monday, July 17, 2017

Should have saw it coming,... i was meant to see

I came to see as as I saw it was coming,
the onslaught that was meant to see.
The ending of a saga that was meant't to be.

There is always a story to be unfurled, like a
flag that was meant't to be unfurled.
A rainbow of beauty yet to be uncurled.
I usher it in to a live un whirled... like
a blackbird striving to an unholy world.

They were flying to a blacked sky, an ego
worthy of an ancient sky. Who am i to cry?

I AM for better or worse, of this ungodly curse.
There are those who cry in an uncertain sky,
better to bless this poetic curse and let it die.

We came to make better an unholy cry,
can a light-worker let go of this pathetic scry?

I'd rather not go there in this unholy sky.

I would rather give up... you win when I die.

Love you... for what it is worth.

I remember that an arch angel
always seeks mirth.

Sent me back when I didn't want to go,
but here is what I want you to know...

Love wins, clueless wonder.
ego claims and throws love asunder.

It's what I think when the crows fly to thunder.

Reinvent, and enjoy the new plunder.

A fragile wonder is a woman asunder.

A thank you in a world gone a blunder.

Renewal is waiting upon the shore,
there is no belief in finding the door,

said the raven who spoke to me.
Your belief is nevermore for your whole
world to see.
I acquiesce and i am free.

Pardon me.








Thursday, March 9, 2017

The Kindness of a Coney

He came to our world, fluff of a bun
blue and white and dwarf so we were told.
A child of the gray, Nature's misfit
born of a lineage we didn't understand.

A bun in demand, no easter white with the
passive red eyes, our bun won our hearts
in his whorl of grey disguise. He opened our eyes.

A passion for touch in his new bunny found,
and his fertility thrust to his newness profound.
He captured our hearts and proffered his soul
to our way of life that no mortal could mould.

A kind yet feisty bunny we welcomed to our fold.

A true and kindred spirit whose name can't be sold.

He taught us the meaning of unconditional love, that
enjoys in pleasures that dare to be bold and out of the
mold of human decay. That's not the bunny way.

He lived to endure us in our human schemes and never
set judgement to our human memes, but taught to joy
in the simplest of means, like blueberries in the morning
and lettuces at noon, a carrot at dinner and some
 cookies between... amidst the necessary hay with fresh
water at the beginning of the day.

No matter our course and however it was coarse, he was
our navigator for better or worse. We prevailed through a
kind Coney's sail. He could never be unkind but he wasn't
ever blind to our Love, cataracts don't detract from love.

Love is blind. It is not unkind.

Laid to a peaceful and beautiful rest, I think our beloved
Coney knew best. The sun shines bright from the dark of the
night and we're here to share whatever we can spare, it's the art of
dare to a kindness that's in the air... the water, the earth, the fire...
the spirit that we share. A coney taught unconditional love,
and died in loving grace of his lair. His mom, just had to share.

Monday, February 27, 2017

I pine for the opine

Now where is that past in jest?
Axed the split mind of a mental
neuron's behest. Corpus callosum?

The fine devide, the brain-child
of a clever disguise or languissement?

I was told there is great power in pinecones,
so i learned to opine from a cone in a grapevine.

Apropo to stomps some grape, in sport
it's just agape... the highest sort of love
man to god and god to man. I'm agape.

I feel a mental rape. Where's my rapier?

I want to whine, i'll take more wine so
that i may indulge to opine my opinion...

who's voice is just a minion. How cute and clever.

Whatever.

I miss what i lost through the fault of my own
where divisions were carved on an ancient stone.
The blood long dried and the aurochs are gone.

If I knew old opinions would last, I would opine
to an unknown upper class, and be a silent lass.

Silently i suffer to silence the sword, I give my word
it is not small task to quiet the cast of opine.

Does dead words like trees leave a shadow behind?

or a memory of a fleeting linger, a scent of pine.

O pine of mine... the last cast of the trigger finger.






Monday, February 13, 2017

The Event... wah happened?

With all the tawdry bullship that ever came to mount,
for all the lonely weirdos upon a wishing fount,
a penny for your thoughts and a dollar for your soul...
hells's bells have found you out as the story stork unfolds,
or unfurls... hey, who would throw swine at pearls?

The snake is herding up the sheep, he sends his venom
while you sleep and by the dawn's most early hour
you forget your dreams to a poisonous tower... of lies.

Yea but... but what?

Heads with brains are scratching where, beliefs rule hearts made unaware
that all is well at the wishing well, but they lie in secret for insider intel.

It's just a program. Waiting for a channel change, you cannot do it for
it hasn't a name that knows yours. Unless you charge your mission to the stars.
It's just a money game. No one is laughing (hardy har har)

So the "event" has come and then it's gone, there was no fanfare or even a song.
Made up from rights that came out wrong, who could blame one for holding
fast to a memory of a fleeting past of happiness? Was it really just discontented winter's sappiness?

 A sticky situation at best, a trick of traders from the fall of jest.

When all is said and all is done, when numbers and science add to a
spooky one and righteous religions have sprung out their faith to a race
to save the human face... Face it. Summer is coming to those whose plan, is
the winning over of the curious man or ma'am. Woo-man or She-devil is battling with axes while working hard and paying taxes. To Whom? Is it the man in the moon peddling gloom and doom?

The game or "event" is over, and guess as
you might... no one has won. Wasn't that fun?

If you dangle a carrot to a downcast donkey will it continue to follow?

It's a plausible plausibility that this "one" will never swallow.

Carrion.







Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Liar, lyer... pants on fire.

Oh I know the liars in their jest,
are tidily doing what they know best.

Some are skilled and smooth as silk,
stoking the auger of the other's ilk
while boring the cavern's of ancient ties
and secretly stowing the past with lies.

The All Knowing spies.

And then there are the blatant ones
who promise their lies with skull and bones.
Arrrgh, the jaunty pirate lives and speaks
in the tongues of what his mate hand seeks.

Let sleeping dogs lie... we can shear them

as we're in cahoots with their spies. Later Vader.

The tale goes on for many years as the kids
lie bleating year after year. A pack of lies is
the belief that is dear to the goat of the past
and all of his seers... tiny little puppets
who don't mean a thing, just sad little egos
who forgot how to sing... lyers are leading.

Somewhere out in a white streamer sky,
a lyre is waiting for clouds to roll by.
The fire is burning, and chaos is churning
but the meek are waiting for the perfect sigh.

It's the cusp of burning pants that needs to burn dry.

Is it a lyre or harp that meek angels will play?
(or a tiny voice that will sing this away).


Friday, January 20, 2017

One last trumpet blast

Oh, the angels of heaven will have their way
to encourage yet, another uninspiring day.
We have a new chieftain, must to a many dismay.

I watched and i saw the new sworn king, who was
brought to the servants as the news-worn changeling.

He was true to his word to the broken dishearted,
no kinds words for those of the dearly departed.
A give back to those who believed in him, a song
of the patriot that lives within, "I know the evil ones
and they are not your kin. I'm here to lead you out
of their sin." A final trumpet blast, to a cheap and
tawdry past.

Well, if the seventh seal is broken and what comes next, is
there a new found chapter in a broken old text... who is the dragon
to be chained at the ocean? and where are the children who
rise out of devotion? Revelry is the revealer of mockery.

I want to be fair and i want to be kind...
it's all a fine matter to time out of mind.

So the first time I heard of a president, was when
I was five, in a schoolyard, with crying mothers
lamenting a loss... what is a president I asked, (at a loss)?

"He is like the king of our country," a kind mom sobbed.
I was in the midst of a brutalized mob. At home it was worse,
for no dinner was served, there was TV coverage of a veil of tears,
from a child's salute to the hearse of flagged coffin... more fears. Ohhh,
a president was
not some local resident.

Maybe after all these years, with ginned up hopes and veils of fears...
a president will take over the reins and with his rhetoric of patriot
claims, will set new records with his gains...
a young heart will be watching, to see if this king remains.

Or if the seventh seal prophecy reclaims... a dragon at the bottom of the sea,
bounded in chains... New uncertainty is a light unrestrained... (said the lamprey).

Hope is a dream of our Unity. We shall see.
Hope for the best for humane sanity.