Single file, like in the native's way to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace. The leftover and forward once again make sign to a favorite son. They pause and worship a clay idol, as much contrite as devoted. Forgive me friend their eyes say, "I was not there". Or, forget me friend, "There was more than I could handle". The idol responds to the deep wishes of their heart, projecting back upon the somber all that they desire. They will carry now a piece, each a piece of the pain and nurture a wound in proportion to what their projection's demand.
When once I approach a bridge I mount my fear by extending my hand, as I did with my father years ago. We approached a grated expanse and I implored he catch me should I fall. Safely then on the other side, he having held me the entire way, I knew I was forever indebted. I still don't like bridges and I don't like admitting that something scares me, but I hate that debt most of all.
To raise eyes, maiming ageless weight and expectation. It is the inevitable rebellion of appreciation. It is worth it... To curse the eye and to press the light. And when the wanton nothing bristles as boldness refuses the lash... Oppression?... He remains the liar we despise.
Resignation to a certain fact
It's intrepidity, is resignation to a certain fact. But it's haunting, too. A countenance negated, when for once a blank stare lives as the mind in that moment, with all blood let and costly service rendered. There is no roadmap for spells concluding enduring sagas, and the intrepid know that. I'll admire from afar and wonder on the strength of those survivors as they quarter amid the spent minefield. They might say there is no strength in tattered ends, all life is a process of will and action. They might say that standing still in the face of the unmitigated is an admission of human frailty. Respectively, I say: Let me admire. Let me reflect. Stillness is strength especially in the hour of the unmitigated.
I fought this poem the entire way and, as usual, the poem won:
The chirp of the flirty bird curls lightly on the flesh-- and they who hear absorb the vibrant end of the birdy's sonic thread. Apart from the howl and hoot, in a parcel of ample space, the sweet bird embraces a rhythmic tufted bop and binds the living race.
Please enjoy my humble attempt at verse:
When wilted, wills collide and flesh tones sound unceasingly in love's great unknown. Sinful suplex, where harm's slayed, caught enraptured with limp limbs splayed. Post riders and chariots of desire bed down. Ceasing shame prior to well-earned rest, wilted now only in name.
Embrace the body's natural longing for a happy norm. It's the way a step takes place, a collected pacing that is alluring and energized... And all resistance against the untimely death of a leisure lap. I've sworn an oath to uphold in subjective tones, but the worthy object is the daily one. It is the one that mends in cascades of introspection, and owes itself to itself as pride would without the taint of sin. The happy norm is the utopian sense of bounding unobstructed and it moves on and on in this sullen world.
Yes he saw him and knew his intentions. Yes, Yes, of course there is an anxious flush. Handsome faces force their way into memories with a blinding speed. Sweats breed themselves like fruit flies across the faint worry lines of his face. He steps on high achievement like a laden stone, pronouncing something unintelligible, like it's history's forgotten place mat. All these indiscretions and distractions that agitate him to no end. To no end. That's the puzzling part of it all. Sitting and hoping on some, while others he bare wrestles and bleeds dry. Is this a coherent picture of a man? Is this a man who prizes a coherent picture of himself? This man is my friend and these words are all the best I can do.
Truth, poor truth
There's no reward in the unadorned truth. It stuns the nerves, levels pillars, and suffers manipulations. Truth, poor truth. -the unfortunate recompense of the aesthete. -a bane to cozy pleasantries. Point your light plain truth, toward the fog of human folly. Be the agent of our salvation.
We'd get so high, project the foolish and let the vapors run us ragged. Our incantatory howling an extension of iridescent smoke plumes. Parched and pining, we'd sip sublimonade from circus spouts and own up to the awful, as our tempers would allow. The act of incinerating barriers lovers never broach is wild work. Those days are of a kind safer minds may never know.
I spent my life wishing when, that spell whistling at my heart. A tug, a tear, and all the frosty drag it holds. That bitter cold a balm that numbs, and reflecting that a feeling is more than some quiet alone. I accept that ever after is nevermore; these things ourselves tell us that then shed rhythmically asunder. Each beat is a probe. Our heart, it's faithful prole. And tomorrow, as well as all to follow, will the frigid beg for friction and I beg alike?
Let no being carry the unearned burden, rife with the compaction of endless wrongs. Hoisted on hollow and growing bones, forcing their shape into something hideous. This hellish load, wrought of all those wrongs.
I wrote this piece in the spirit of fun, however, the more I read it the more it rings true.
Crab!, Shakespeare, faceless man. He is not a hero, but an ideal. The reservoir of all our dreams. The dream of the pen wielder and key striker and notator and all others who observe and record.
Up from broken bearing does spring settled the wide-berth of deliberate mind. In swells, off course a song of sweat set sailing to this tiny track in time. So small are rivulets, the frayed ends frightened to resolve a salient form. Through life, a son erects a favored will representing all passion long since born.
Heartbeats and shadows patter, beating out the cadence of the ancient lover's cry. Tense is the refrain secret endearments claim, a melting of resolve does not such deceit absolve. Were all our failings so, better that we might perceive enchantments and phantoms. Oh! The tacit consent of sweet and innocent, erectors of sturdy lore set to avert the bore. And then when uncovered, pitiful in undulations, left to strip a quiet thrill. The last of those to feel may know of shadows real, such as is plain for lovers without name.
I’m on to you
You think it's the excess that sells, but it's that excess that tells. Nothing exceeds like pretension. It bleeds, like attention it needs an audience to please. That's a hell of a hullabaloo sweet terror, and you know I'm on to you.
Mirror woes, Mirror waves
I do not believe in the cheap trick and I would not say but that it needs to be said: far more unsettling than the predictable end is the reflection of us as we live.
The mirror woes and the mirror waves, present unsettled constitution in sedentary haze. Poor boy! Poor us for living. That he might know pain and pain alike, and that hate is forgiven. In every moment a reflection. In each a rattled nerve less sense, scant affection. Poor life! Without meaning nor worthy lament. Grant that we might blanche, not persist and persist; yet from birth defiling only innocence.
Mild mannered men
Few are the mild mannered men living lost among these seas. (the fruit of friction - being and observance) Wispy fellows, fearful of nights, and in ignorance expressing concern for their kind.
Restoration is coming
I was inspired while listening to Donald Trump insist upon the need to “restore” law and order. I hate to attribute too much inspiration to any one political blowhard, because the fact remains that the circumstances that created today’s demagogue existed yesterday and will, in all probability, exist tomorrow. So Donald, don’t let this go to your head.
The restoration in effect, of that ever-elusive state. Where restful nerves and leery eyes stick fast to hallowed ground. How the calamity came to be many manic minds never settled. It was, it is, may be unto forever, but no never mind. The restoration will spread like seeds along the distended bloat. And endure the sensation of prophecy fulfilled, mouth agape and hands stolen still.
We think about the poet and not the poem and we waste the beauty and the fit of the clothes, with the idea that the idea does not matter. I imagine such temperature controlled reading as the masses employ (to soothe themselves), as the reflection of time wasted and time relieving the great brain.