Coon cats are whispered snoring, into the capitalist abyss. listless, horrid, making humid gasps with tepid claws, cloaked in Darkness. Notched bones, stones skimmed in languid pools, cool with murk. Ambivalent, squalid, lack-luster prophecies of porridge, stored in caskets. Asked, petitioned, queried with preemptive spiderweb associations. Conclaves, covens, cabals, absinthe ridden withdrawals, hidden.
Unable to muster mastery of binoculars, i hold them wavy-gravy, willy-nilly, positioning posthumously, some meager attempt at monoculars. Myopic flies in my eyes, like sugar coated laser beams of bloodshot, bulging, swaying, a patchwork quilt of pirate sails, filled and flubbing, Trade Winds of nautical nausea. Jean Paul, first mate, shark bait, lost in translation, a damp and mottled cigarette bobs like a lazy lure as he speaks. Against a Wall. Who is not? Tongue-tied and graffitied, tattooed of nomenclature, amassed of puffer fish, confused, toxic, bulimic, suffering from Hoodoo of the Soul. A mole, neglected, once removed, returns, unscathed, harboring tales of El Dorado and the Hangings. Carved in stone caves, steeped in mud. A drip to drive you mad with wanton want. To drag back to your cave in pastel colors, Women, bare breasted, teats like Blimps, poised to sail to some Verdant, steamy Jungle. Appeased by scent, musky, musty, remnants of song to dance below your nostrils, and polka in your Brain. Untamed phosphorescence, swim in bacterial bays, bioluminescent, faux Carny-like and Cannibalistic, swarming in the wake of you, the ever present, effervescent, Thought of
Flue. A place smoke rises. Immaterial. The haze of a dream, pleasant smelling but ungraspable, wavering, waving good-bye,
Lost is the perpendicular, subversive want of Wonder. Thunder you can Sea. Touch with the long tall tails of morning, swaying in swamps, with the Cats. Baying in sylvan moonlight, intrepid eyes watch as harbingers of sound, spoken word dappled in periwinkle trust, parades flamboyantly, confidently, down horse cobbled streets. “Bring out your dead” a brass bell chimes, be All of us Dead, and Living. Soaked, poked in brine, keeping thyme with archaic beats of sorrow. Misplayed, repeated endlessly, a syncopated loop, swooped down like errant Vultures, tortured on the carrion of Hope. Living, sojourned falsely with sequined ambiance, the falsetto ravings of baritones in drag. Scared, Scarred beyond all reckoning, Dead Reckoning. Sounding. Whales head for obsidian depths in droves. Drones circling in mechanized imitation, immolation of extinct bees, nobel, honey-less, penny-less. Eating the Money of our Minds, crumpled notes of borrowed tender, green with nutritional surveillance. Grieved by bats, also gone, their leathery wings wearing coats of Despair. Shared. We share this, This, Dis ease of multicolored stones, bones of braille empathy, scream in silence. Unable we were, to grasp the sweaty matrix of Song. Dust-covered lattice of hands, standing in sand, quick sinking, Smiling. Wayward Truth beyond windward wisps of sorrow, Hope…
A panoramic view of Plain, grassy, swaying without coaxing. Billions of breath, interwoven, flaxen, bleached of memory, oblivious. Count….
How long before it’s gone?
This gazing, far off and distant-like, like a marlin on a manufactured line, just before the hook is set. Grazing…
Hazy, Apothecary of gnats, gaunt, taunt in the hum of iolite Nite. Neon, Bleeding, raped of thought, woven, washed out, without the allure of equality. Idolatry, Bestial and Warm, flowing like the sacrificial blood of Metal, clawed from crevices, still-born, in placental Magma. Sagas, elucidating hate, un-nurtured, turned sour by power, lust after adulterated stabbings of anonymity, unabated. Dominion over Winged Things. Alighting like Butterflies before the Fall. Stand tall Saul, thrown from your horse and blinded, rebuked by God, Lawd of Dominion. Beasts, the least of US, trussed by cords unseen, chords which might have played out, so differently.
In Light, in total Illumination, there is Nothing Discernible. What can you own, covet, want, but the destruction of your chains. Vain manacles forged of history, his story, that barely serves, instructs, self destructs, trickles down, diverting attention from the One River that might slake our Thirst. Many tributaries without need of Tribute, distributed evenly, unlocked, keyless, free lest we forsake our Love, kill Doves, fabricate the swords of insurrection, limp erections, oligarchical inventions. Disillusioned wards, of feudal lords, spouting futility, touting wars utility. Desperate, disparate, this Parrot squawks the same tune, monsoon, repeated, bleated, wing-clipped and cheated, A Siren Song of Separation, which can never
take us Home