The drips are at it again.
Only moments ago,
a maniacal sun sneering,
you gulped the milk of your mistakes
not without hesitancy.
My two cents left a sour aftertaste.
Fret not, because from here,
it only escalates.
Disorganized particles reaffirm
my commitment to chance meandering.
This bulky blacklit swamp has no goal anyway.
Let’s go ahead and bray
at the half-baked dimestore militia
arousing suspicion in the corner.
Good things come to those
who bring the ruckus, after all.
Back the hell off,
oh salamander of spiritual dispensation.
The old pedagogical shriek strikes deep
and dumbfounds all who give it space.
I vow here and now
to erase the servile temperament
that so degrades and discourages
from active seeking of new avenues
for strength to express itself as such.
A bit much, don’t you think?
Only if by a bit much
we mean radical, extra, lit.
Excuse me for going all firebrand on you.
Maybe try unpuckering your arse.
Why can’t they just settle the hell down?
Lemme just say, that an awful lot
of accidents go on here, and…
Pardon, but I’m straining just a bit too much.
Pardon, but the light tastes peppery.
Behold! The Golden Age of Television
is resting thick fingers on the mantle.
We can probably de-commodify now.
For all the extras it will bring.
Been some time since I’ve committed
to some one or thing.
Why’d you have to go and get
all unprofessional like that?
In a confessional no less!
Stick to the usual bag o’tricks, you gleeful peeper.
We can’t all be commemorated.
Not that we’re looking into it,
but where have all the cowboys gone?
Seems like only yesterday…
You were putting on rubbers
behind the dusty partition
when the fame got to you,
stuffed your nostrils full of tissue,
and delivered a knockout blow
for good measure. We lost a grip
on our treasure after that, fell flat
when it came time to deliver
a knockout blow of our own.
I’m but a humble garage surfer today,
risk analyst tomorrow.
Time goes all in for a soaking.
The bag of loose ends, croaking
in the twilight. What might we learn
were we to scour its mythic bottom?
You’ll have to take it up with management.
As for the grievances streaming
through the exhibition, they’ll settle down
by the emergency exits, whimpering.
Your replacement hypothesis
just doesn’t hold up under scrutiny, champ.
I mean, the harder you clamp down…
Wait, what was my point again?
We’ve just barely touched grass here.
Seeing past the excesses, abscesses,
what have you, it all looks dimmer
than at first guaranteed.
Greed is what we aim for,
the most prominent of shortcomings.
All in all out castration!
Demand something less sinister, maybe.
I’ll meet you at the shore, or in dreams.
Wherever your luster drives you.
I’m not quite pickled enough
for the presidency.
Get my name out of your mouths, please.
Why is it I always wake up on my knees,
with the blazing scenery
not yet fleshed out?
I have an even better answer,
but it’s obvious your jelly ears
can’t handle it.
Moody is the monster
whose unwieldy balls are brains.
Its distress claims many,
who are also broken, used-up,
and alone. It grows
and grows fat in a climate
of vicious steaming angst.
And yet this selfsame climate
demands too much of this our monster,
moody with the weight
of its dangling brains.
See how sluggishly it moves?
How languorously it loafs
beneath the scarlet sun?
Poor old moody monster,
what a state you’re in!
What a mess you have become!
Lie still, you overabundant beast,
lie still, that you may finally taste
the sweetness of your dying breath.
Calling all chimeras.
All’s not well in the hills,
the forests, the streets.
The myriad fruits and meats
of our grander schemes
have spoiled in the heat of passion.
And I’m still not up on the latest fashion.
I’ve got ears where my eyes should be
and I sing through my fingers.
All day the thought lingers
in the lotus patch where
it drowses with distinction,
untroubled by its imminent extinction
or the ill-mannered winds
that will carry its corpse away.
The vanguard is coming
with their sinister scalpels
and devious designs, so what am I,
the perpetual gadfly, to do?
The only way out is through.
What matters is what
Time to get your wellness on,
whippersnapper. Do it dapper
or not at all.
Let us hasten the fall of man
with our moody calculations,
see where it gets us.
We can work out later
whether it’s where we want to be.
How shall you move
with your legs encased
in what ghoulish light
breaks the peace?
I can sense a limit
closing in, imposing itself,
distributing itself in equal parts
through the space a body occupies.
This limit is ungovernable,
yet seeks to govern, unquenchable,
yet seeks to quench.
Overrun it we must
with our own ungovernable spirit,
our own unquenchable drive.