Poem: Psychic

 

Psychic

 

song in a sigh, 

key in a crow’s foot,

dram on the tongue

when clues spike the nose.

a nuzzle of pleasure

skirting a nipple.

fingertips, a shivered nape, 

strumming across peaks of breath.

so many 

frolics and flocks of heart,

frivolous with the carnal, the vulgar, 

the mercurial.

 

haggles

under herringbone clouds 

and Gemini stars 

and all the other cog-pixies 

in this anti-clockwork, dream-bent 

constellation.

it's too much.  

gauntlets of impressions

from tearful to the brute.

who could assuage them all,

these mishmashes?

who could offer naked assurance?

so much desperate, raw sweat.  

what purpose this jungle of needs,  

this self-winding flypapery buzz  

of beggary?

so many sins--

and yet, really, nothing at all.

just illusions.  building blocks 

within towers of moebius-strip 

shame.

all i can do 

is sever the threads.

go blank, dispel 

the meddlesome 

back to their hydra-headed wanders--

back to that place 

where they circle to fret

and tear themselves to fritter, 

obsessed with songs in operas within 

dramas of petty crimes--

irretrievable.

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9/26 heavy revamp ... again ... 

9/26.. streamlined the nightmare 

9/26 nightmarish ... 

8/26 .. added a word... >> <<

10/26/25 .. awful poem, ... tried to fix

6/23/24 brutally chopped up and refigured

12/24/22 lots of mods ... sad... still not right

9/27 "such" replaces "their"

9/17 ... desperate continuous edits... 

9/16 ... more changes to this product of mania

9/16  ... changes continue to the original abomination ... 

9/16  major changes to original poem, tossing out whole sections ... gutting the rest ... absolutely awful poem to have posted ... might still be awful, can't really say, brain so muddled

Poem: Polar (triggering poem)

 

Polar

 

in a closet,

a place where the curled

reach up from a valley in a psalm,

 

hollow cloth hangs above,

those crucified angels of wool,

effigies of last defense.

 

no mediation for the curled,

here in anxiety’s womb,

this valley in a psalm,

 

so inky, this night,

where lack-of-movement

stalks movement,

where lack-of-movement prowls.

it alone stalks, until dawn,

when a thought might think

 the price of admission beyond the door

is the same as the door.

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10/14/24 ... mods

Depression isolates.  But isolated time can be time with the gods.

Poem: Winds To Ninety

 

Winds To Ninety

 

whips flog howls

sacrificed on a hectic altar,

which somersaults to guzzle swallows of invisible guts.

 

it's a vanishing magic of busted bursts;

a flip-flopping hurtle of a toad's wild ride, 

mocking moon, season and garden

with the abominable doppler 

of an irremediable moan.

 

gusty in the lush graveyard,

once a copse,

ghosts spray and bark,

no check on their unclothed rant,

the savage sacrilege of their cacophonic philippic.

enemy of the calm,

enemy of the conformed,

enemy of the praised, the rectified, the vogue,

the ghosts fleck, swipe, spasm, and slither,

torn from shrubs bent as humble as grass;

torn from trees petrified yet splintered

by the miserable illogical tears

of a stabbing, dying rain.

 

the windy wet curse

bites my face to inflict a lycanthrope lost:

fangs, muzzles, hackles,

stretching fake snarls into false hungers

to distort my once-human features,

now wicked before an arena of stormy gods,

cruel pantheons, lofty yet feral,

lunging on.

=======================

9/10 fixed typo  ("bursts" replaces "burst")

9/9 ... really hard poem to work... edited phrases hours after posting... still bad... 

Poem: Looking Back

 

Looking Back

 

the light

would’ve been dark in another place,

so many puny photons milling on the walls,

pawns bumping pawns,

a weightless glue of grey upon grey.

 

to zoom out, lens-style, 

reveals just another cell,

another slice of planet in a district on a continent.

further still, waits the slapdash solar system,

and beyond that 

a who-knows-whatness of dark matter and cosmos.

 

and the humans,

they serve as morsels

for the Gargantua that is this crazy comparmentalized game.

it all interconnects, somehow, if only in a poet's head,

this pandemonium of inputs and outputs

vomited from a broken moebius brain,

spokes within spokes of wheels within wheels

of unruly dendrite-choirs.

the poet, this i, this me,

i i i i

i 

 

have decided that this lonely universe

has taken far too long to craft its most absurd beings,

the ones which it should force to ponder

how vicious and magnificent

it really is,

and show them 

the way out.

======================================

 

9/26 "unruly" replaces "fractious"

9/5/25 lots of edits what a mess

10/3 lots of changes 

Poem: Post Crash

 

Post Crash

 

life’s this-and-that's

come to an end,

down into a final tunnel,

sunlight’s edge,

where a single precise chop

plunges fate’s cleaver.

 

all at once 

everything is embarrassed

and not fitting in,

weak as a whimper,

unable to travel or excel,

lonely in this forced self-

judgmental place,

where patience

dribbles pride into a bedpan.

 

it is now you

who speaks to ancestors,

you who conjures visions:

chimeras of carnal beasts

sinful of primal parts.

nothing else to do.

 

it is you who watches

the outside world blur

into tricks of charades,

puppets who would puppeteer,

yanking in a mutual harness so vast

no one commandeers it.

 

it is you

who no longer cares

about knots in the guts of social distress. 

you who now feverish

makes love to a touchless spirit,

seeking more than anything

only her name.

 

nothing else to do.

and when the serene stills the circus,

there's no reward.

no god comes out to play.  no cheers.

the world breeds on,

ruddy from laughter,

sobbing in anguish,

and everyone fails

to scrounge up some puny epitaph

for your fading name. 

 

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6/24/24...

9/8  "her" replaces "their" ... wanted a female goddess theme, personal preference

9/2 ... "dribbles" replaces "whittles"  "parts" replaces "part" ... other stuff

Regarding the Poems

 The poems are a lot of work and mainly a curse.  Who are they helping?  Maybe some god that laughs at us stupid, puny humans from afar.

Most of us obsessed with writing poems are back-up prophets, even less heard than frontline prophets.

At best, it is beautiful therapy, such as a dandelion, lovely yet ignored, just a weed, blooming in a crack in a world of well-paved minds.

Poem: Humid Day

 

Humid Day

 

air crowds us hapless animals,

vast puffy abdomen

of spongy muscle.

 

can’t breathe,

such wet, bluff heat

height of hulking graves,

 

oppressive

tepid slimy merger

of water and ground.

can’t move,

stuck in stride,

enough to stop mice,

 

and the feet of birds,

in this quicklime of oxygen,

caught.

are we not half-strangled

from a slick cellophane 

of soggy atmosphere?

 

the roses in the garden 

just bloated redcoats

bled, bled, bled

to die in motionless war.

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4/19/26 zillions of eds 

9/14/25 .. changed last line

6/24/24...

9/4  "to die" ...

Poems: Ordinary Dungeon

 

Ordinary Dungeon

 

angry in the hideout,

wrestling protocols,

i suffer for my failure.

why defuse this faith,

contrary to vision though it is?

 

to debunk fear

and rationalize escape,

these hooks of heretical logic

drag my heart punctured deeper,

 

till truth asserts its terrible price.

and excuses whip from my broken mouth,

faster than the prattle

of inexcusable commercials.

 

we toadeat the curse.

god exists, hallelujah.

god stings, barks, and segregates.

god outfoxes with ecclesiastic sanctions.

 

i try, try, try

 

to improvise a lack of manners.

but the leap for deviance always feels so fake,

and i fall back,

 

into this ordinary dungeon,

knowing i can tantrum only so far,

within my authorized time.

================================

7/19/25 ... 

6/24/24...

9/9  "while" replaces "and" (clarity issue)

Poem: Dead Grass Before Spring

 

Dead Grass Before Spring

 

do not confuse them with minnows

rioting from an earthen shark.

they are not disheveled wicker,

or shards from a tan season of dynasty.

 

consider them needles

that sewed themselves into their own quilt;

and yet now the slumbering green juju

awakens

 

to poke millions of centipedes through their cross-stich,

so they dissolve into what they truly are:

pawls of a clock guzzled down,

easy as a darkening dearth of wine.

when the last threads of snow flee their maze.

they have no more prisoners, no escape,

only to wait, blind beyond hurt,

for the skewer of a dandelion.

================================

10/28/25 ... took out a word

12/11/23   four mods ... 

Poem: Beautiful Questions

 

 

Beautiful Questions

shy as a gleam, 

few notice the latitudes of lips

which only pretend to hide.

 

peek-a-boos of prairie flowers

on a field of a cheekbone.

nuances of mooncraft  

in a sunny glance.  a blithe sigh. 

could it be 

the facade of social wax,

so dull and fake, 

must somewhat bear  

the soulful caress of heat? 

a swish of invisible touch 

from some inner emotional 

impresario?  

 

quiver of chin.  swoon of scent. 

a brow elated by a span 

of slightest arch--

not so long-lost,  

subtle on such looms,

never too small to cherish,

we speak.

==========================

9/26 condense and flow eds

7/26 ... major redo

9/15/25... may the gods have mercy on this poem's soul

8/20...

8/18/24... 

6/24/24...

10/1 ... significant changes to two stanzas

Another day passes by.  Yee-haw ... 

8/28  "volatile, helpless fingertips" replaces longer clunky line

8/21 ... Major changes a few hours after posting ... more changes later in the day