This canned purple promises
limitless energy, so quaff I must!
Ol’ must eye stammers
a little in his stocking feet
and goes thumping down the bloodstained rue,
with a tick tick here, a tic tic there.
Tic tacs, everywhere!
if not millions of crimson ghosts
peel their masks in confusion,
setting the stage for a paunch-bellied putsch
by pricks of every stripe.
Not to gripe, but you know,
griping is how I process.
Given the circumstances, I think
I can be forgiven for being full of gripes
as wine is full of gripes.
Grapes, I mean.
I meant grapes.
You could say that I’m calorically dense
and be correct, but also, maybe not.
If I had a nickel…
There’s something whispering in the trees tonight,
something vague and sinister
like an Apple ad.
Indecipherable, indescribable code
of words made of blue.
Here comes yet another New Year
clothed in silken pajamas
(That’s how they get ya)
But O! I am not yet afraid,
for as you know, I am too big to fail.
Or rather, I’m not small enough.
Looks like I’ve gotta
polish up the peculiarities.
Never you mind what I said,
I’m not saying it now.
Someday we’ll all be miracles, right?
As if that were a saving grace.
We race brazenly downhill
with paper mache saints
grasping at our heels
and it just feels so glorious!
To be out of reach like that,
one step ahead like that,
giving our living breath
to the earth like that.
Of all they said we’d grow out of,
it’s this I cherish most deeply.
Here’s to the chronically misguided,
who deploy their slapdash rhetoric
whenever the mood strikes twelve
and laugh themselves silly
at the prospect of being there for someone.
Sure, it’s a tough world out there,
but for that we must be soft and chewy,
because somebody’s gotta, yes? Amirite?
Narrow me down a bit.
My predilections are too diffuse, you could say.
I’d prefer not to bite the bullet, that’s too kinky,
but I’m always up for a good-old fashioned
make-out sesh. Just wait a minute,
for my wrists to eventually give
and all the baggage I’ve been hauling
for the last 34 years come tumbling after.
Bargain more proficiently why don’t you?
The King of Cups is at it again.
With an air of mockery, he cancels all debts,
both foreign and domestic. I must admit
the liberation is entrancing. Now
we’re dancing with ourselves
or in the dark just like the good book says
we shouldn’t. It all comes down to taste,
as with most things, and I’ve got
a tongue for spice.
Sure is nice to have some wiggle room at last.
The spirit’s like a Jell-O mold after all, ain’t it?
Look at’em all malding
like there’s no tomorrow.
Little do they know there is a tomorrow,
and it’s a moldy sponge
in the demiurge’s mouth.
Natural causes ready themselves
single-file in the void our lovemaking leaves.
Something of a creature of habit, are we?
Certain states are only preferable
if you’ve all but given up the ghost
of Christmas Future.
Can I get some linguistic finesse, please?
Dust to dust emerging variously
victoriously from the background noise.
For our purposes,
this delirium will do.
Ride me through the bright
wilderness of worldliness,
woo me with riddles and rough kisses.
Of all my hits and misses,
this one depletes me
most extravagantly. Not only that,
but my fingers feel more deeply
when they feel you.
No wonder quite like
the wonder of the body.
No poetry quite
like the poetry of need.
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.