You can't spell poverty without poetry...
Beautiful broken arches paper thin soles
Of my feet aching with every step
The world sucks, sucks me down with gravity
To the grave, gravity pulls down down
Over and over again the message repeats:
Will you take the challenge, the hollow challenge
Posed by talking ashtrays and open noses
Posing, losing tossing away the entire mess
Of a life most wasted, wasted living?
Do you have a living room?
A rhetorical question most well rounded,
Massive open lungs sucking air
Sucking hard, the mud and the stench
Covered by sweet blue ooze.
Dare we consider it, the future the past
At last we fast, nay eating another way to suck.
Broken broken, aching soles: feet in a nother dimension.
Slow moving, witless yet with just the right amount of fat.
Seven different nutrients all with deadly intent, still making
Meaning, greening, keening like a hawk on the roof the tiny
Birds are my food, with which to feed my brood.
One can be certified insane, but never certified cured.
Inured to the moment, pressing on to belong, for a song the odd intent.
Motion, lotion, consume the potion: inside an ocean of lament.
Where is the dignity? Where is the trust?
We see ineptitude and consume it with lust-- superior feelings,
Feeling superior like the giant lake: so much fresh water!
And so deep! Filled with wrecks and the corpses therein.
The Rex of Lakes, so potent are we! Moving like ligers on trampolines.
The mind numbing boredom of it all, an awl for the ears, keeping them open,
Painfully conceiving with every detected vibration some new strange being.
The ontology of monotony, providing nothing but a bolus of empty solace,
Solace! The cup of bleck, dark schmeck the dreck is endless. Feckless.
Recklessly he plods ahead, instead. Gravity sucks, does it suck to be dead?
It may suck less, yes: I'd guess, but why leap that chasm? some stupid last spasm
It never occurs.
A drifting off, more like. I held my mother's dying hand.
She lay so quiet, but whispering with each breath "I'm here".
Here, so dear, so near and still so far far away please fly.
I know you had to die, but now?
It was such a stupid time.
To think, that
they'd never leave.
The mourning dove each morning mourns,
Sorrows borne anew with every passing day
The paper thin soles, pain in stepping,
My instep instead intends to reach, to overarch,
But the balls! The Heels! The painful aching hurt,
It really sucks, this gravity. The force, not the weight of words.
Not the fetid lump of thought flow trapped in icy letters, characters all.
Strings of them, involved in feats of deliberate magnitude!
I helped move the lifeless body to the stretcher, with it's clever cover.
A vessel emptied, a life lived. But to the full? I can hope only that life
Lasts after life, my father's wife deserves this.
What a stupid time.
Without a plan! Roamed the earth, sought refuge, refuge from that storm
To Which each and every one is subjected! Idiocy! Rather so.
Why would that one wave from the curb, from the curb on a street in a dream?
Waving and smiling, silently like that, dumb yet brilliant, my brave teacher.
Strange choice: it's said that all in a dream is from within you.
Of course it is, how could it be otherwise?
Playing a role, to control, the fear within. The storm without, raging.
Clattering against the side of the house,
Nuts loosed from the trees.
Walnuts, chestnuts: horse chestnuts these, simmering sounds, slamming hard like bullets
Into the whitewashed stone.
What a storm!
Trees uprooted. Made the news.
So much suffering.
Sells good soap, good news. Strage soap: Dove. Take the challenge.
See if film, that sinking stinking wretched type of film will apply,
Then dissolve. Soap scum, they call it. Soapy scum, tainted with lye.
With lies, swift abandon.
She lay there,
The vessel, so light! She'd finally lost all that weight.
stupid time. All the time is stupid time: you know that I know it,
And you know that you live it, we live it all the time.
The moment unfolds before our eyes.
What is it?
Connections are attempted then fail, the holy grail, we've now set sail again.
To distant shores, where snores abound. We've run aground, but the silly soldiers wait with spears.
Too many times I've ignored this way, these crimes of passion.
Too many times the lines are jagged, blurred. In a word: broken.
Unspoken and unfettered the fleeting thoughts will wander where they will.
I will, when I will it, it will become as one with the son in the Sun of summertime we manage peace.
Yet a piece of it remains, right here: in this son of one who was a son of one who...
Endless on and on. Stupendously stupid on and on.
Where are your friends?
Where is that light?
Friends are treacherous things, they lie.
Surprise you when you least expect it!
I'm engaged! I'm enraged! Turn the page, this stupid arrgh.
Arrgh! How stupid, lost for words?
They float, like fetid turds in bluest goo.
Was it her perfume? No, it was dinners doom, bought from food trucks,
Meters deep. To sleep, perchance to scream!
My wife hates it when I do that.
No solace there, hah. The cupboards bare. The mouse's lair,
Crumbs in piles abandoned.
For the cat's away, but even still the poison did its trick!
He embedded himself instead in the radiator, there to stink: that empty vessel.
Fucker. What a dick, to stink up the place like that. What the hell? Really.
You eat my food, you drink the morning dew and then leave a fucking putrid corpse you sack of shit!
Now, *that* sucks.
What a pain,
My paper soles. Paper thin, with dried leaf veins. So you say it, so it is.
Wish it were otherwise, that it were no so:
So sewing into one's final shroud, oneself.
Stitching quickly. No real reason.
I hate this season with it's wicked rain,
Cold like a bitch? No, I'm just bitching. Stupid saying, stupid times. Bitches are hot, like glowing irons.
Irons, glowing: now isn't that ironic?
Supersonic, superhypertronic stereophonic hijinks. With an ancient Bogen way.
Not the 42 Bogon, but the one with the golden hue. So true! My ancient box, glowing tubes.
Those things are silly, stupid things again. So much in here!
Like a shitty attic, full of just crap, really.
Stupid crap. What the hell?
What's that smell?
Oh yeah: that fucking mouse, jeez.
Rain is sorrow, rain is the tears of the departed: it's a saying among the indians of the southwest.
They're the best, those ones: bright jewelry, so pure like morning sun over the mountains. Beauty all around.
Walking in beauty, erasing the dew, that simpering slippery sorrow of bygone souls.
I slipped on a toad, once. In the grass, slick with morning dew. Delivering papers.
I stepped down, hard, to toss the paper in its plastic sack,
Over the backyard fence.
That's when I stepped on the toad, and slipped. Caught my balance, but...
It was awful! Oh it crunched and yuck, eck: yeesh, etc..
Now that sucked. Especially for the toad.
"Thanks for that, you huge bastard!"
"I had a day planned, and everything"
My... wow. Goodness.
Is there any left? I mean, to call it mine?
What a load, it pulls me down. Pressing on my paper soles, my bones,
In a sack. Relax, it's only a toad.
Now I've done it,
Slipped the track, lost the trail. Fail. No holy grail here, dear. My mom again?
I have no friends, like Deputy Dan.
Firesign Theatre, I was a fan. Now there's a bunch of bawdy bards!
Repackaged now, momentum lost, tossed to the wind. "A murmur in the heart of Philadelphia"
Their words, not mine: the only good ones on this page I think.
You're all over the place, a disgrace. Without a trace I wander, tasteless, mindless. Soul-less?
Goodness gracious, not at all like that. Please, why for? Wherefore? no more.
Rotten to the core.
Hah, a label I will wear, you make it: I will wear it.
"Hello, my name is..."
Who gives a fuck? You have been forced to wear that label, I know it.
Like everyone else here at this fucking seminar.
"Hello, your name is..." some stupid dickhead forced to wear a fucking nametag, you dumbshit.
"But there was a door prize!"
Is that what it's come to?
You emblazon yourself with your huge stupid nametag,
Practically forcing me to read it?
You are a fascist,
And that's all there is to it.
Put that on your stupid nametag,
Better yet, let me put it there: I will carve it in with a knife!
Hold still you bastard!
Ok: that wasn't fair.
Ok: there was a door prize. We all wanted it.
A dark paneled oaken door, with burnished brass accoutrements!
Who wouldn't want such a door?
What wonders must lay behind it.
I saw that door in a dream, I wanted it: I must have it.
In the dream it was a double door.
Stately, oaken, sturdy yet swinging open to reveal...
What do you mean "just clouds"?
Clouds are vapor, water vapor. Icy, and superior, just like the aforementioned lake.
Feel them, can't you? Before the plague, you could see them from a plane, close up.
A dog barked. I heard it.
Time to let him in.