You know what neo-nazis love on a warm day? A clear ice tea.
Quaff, oh quaff
Lenore’s a bore
Eyes wide open yet shut and snore
Crusted lids do cap and carp
Disheveled lashes beat a corpse
And what we see is horse’s toil
Such foaming mouths and desperate foil
Wrapped and crinkled in tight vices
Tinny bells beckon for vices
The punished lot has matters to say
The poets’ lot is wordy cache
Expelled, exposed, imposed verbals
Text without icons and phoney jumbles
Think us better as others think same
All the actors singing same refrain
And me with padded fingers and pursed eyes
Open tight and winking lies
Curse the inspiration but mimic nonetheless
Want their industriousness
Complex and frustrations
Churn out one percent of a novel
Marvelous laze and chips on shoulders
A Brilliant Mind complements The Idiot
how you do, do what will do, do what you do
tire of questions jusht be jusht BE
stopness, quiet, hush sounds sucked from air
millions of molecules void of voice
parched throat wheezes dry coifs of wisps
aerate little lives, molecules O high
bluster bust bomb diggity implosives
suppressing fire out of hells breath after Falknerian riders
valkyries screech confusion from wide-mouths, cut lips splinter scene and the sound waves drone, ungulate gelatinous ripples
coloured words fluctuate then dance salsa tangos with paper machier bright chapeaus
glowing arms and hips twirl entwine into forked forms
shock and jagged edge they spark effortlessly
skitter and scamper, elongated heads angle skywards
diagonal matrimony, polygonal polygamy
yellow black stickmen-women leaving the hazard signs for dangerous curves
curvacious pearls dripping audacity
Symphonic allegros pert and pout from resent full
Sweet Betty pie girls sashaying side to side
Lovely, saintly, wickedly
Patty caked angel cakes dimpling sugary, honeyed, ample thighs and cheeks
Lumps mold and pressed, brown creme arched legs moving on the icing
Cupcakes without the tarts
Plates and dishes served to whomever
Sweets aroma fill lungs so wanting
Tongues do salivate for ladies in waiting
No longer staying so run like the ginger man
curtain of fire: rapid, continuous artillery or machine-gun fire on a designated line or area.
An odd imagery that caught me brain and vivid waving flames on lace went around. Curtain, like cellar door, is just something that sounds beautiful, if I didn’t know what a curtain was I think I would still like the sound of it, the “mellifluous milieu of sound waves” my inner pretentious self says. To make a nice thing tainted by war and vigorous violence and all that penisy gun shite. As a symbol or visual image it is pretty good; I imagine a light, white curtain engulfed in flames and torn in so many directions but never burnt completely, forever aflame in some back of a scene with emotions high, passion or anger, fear and madness.
First thought was a molestation scene, it’s often more horrible when you pan away and hear the sounds alone, sounds seem more troubling to me. I thought earlier about innocence, that a young soul would be worth more than one which has fused with the dull light, but that innocence is a dream of adults that have seen too much bad. We need the shiny, the cat meows, the baby giggles. The happy sounds remind of the good, not pure as the idea goes, the uplifting ladder in the land of snakes…
-that coil and foil the lot of spoiled
and sinners smoke before they burn
but turn so bright when begin to yearn
and all aflicker and bubble boil
when nights arise and cries travel through
the lighted lamps guide far and few
the flames grow strong
they ravage and burn
as sinners yearn and good may turn
Carolina sings the eine kleine for she has no nice piana
Dull set tones from gurgle mouth
She brushes and spits the orchestral bout
Her electro brush plays the vibrato
Pasty arias are areas for airs
Hot air cold front hurricane braziers
Man am I glad my mind can overpower my shallow eyes. Pretty milky woman but too too spoiled to be a love addition to basement dweller life space. Young thing full of hope and bs and I fell for the curves and beauty, made myself think proper relationship when faded with 2nd teenage phase.
Sweat drips down surround eye-scanning head, hot moistness clings for all to see. Melting sweet cone showcases anxiety, nervous perturbed vanilla soup. Now it’s the sick bug kind. Roll around in wetting bed with cold sweat billowing from throbbing head and if I should live before I’m dead let me control the glands instead. I am wet, the ungood kind, double plus bad. I walk to and fro in summer or in winter’s throes and bead in light and perspire heavy, in shorts in coat I soak it all, and drip drop damp for social ill. Are you okay is what I hear, man you’re sweating refrains my ears. Clammy hands are gone for these days but still I exude a watery phase. Like liquid cool the pores do seepeth, no reason ‘cept the overactive; nerves, hormones, fight or flight fancies and agitation from within.
A paranoid, neurotic little glasses man with the Jewfro combover spectacle speculating about trouble and trifles and the need for home idle. Soak my sheets it’s fine with me, coarse and melt in front of friends I feel ashamed and childish then. The little man says tut tut mon frere, I didn’t know he was French. You fret and dread of this faux pas but one day you shall thank me. This overacting worry and impulse will surely name its purpose. Bananas.
I curse myself that curses back and leaves me squalor in literary obfuscation. These times when all is topsy turmoil and my interest and attention wane so lowly, lowball stall and confused eye strains. Reading becomes somewhat a chore and sentences blend and disappear into the meandering fantasy thoughts and inner plays of mine mind. So lost and trapped in memories and mental imaginings that take me so very far away from the here and now and the bookie wook love.
I place myself in this realm because I am obsessed with obsessing and ruminating musings. Analytics that lead me astray and proffer nothing more than slight awakenings and scud missile understanding that flounders and misses targets in disarray. Yet I hold on, hold on to hope of epiphanies that do not darken or stab the heart. Maybe one day the gentle understanding that I have inside my head will unleash upon the world and my family, peers and friends.
Still this affliction, affected or infected, makes me vile and angry as a roid raged southern dandy, may the old gods come in handy as I invoke the God of Brandy. Dionysius bacchus that ass up. Sexy vixens they do trollop, upon my head inside the brain, concentration the speeding train. Thoughts sporadical and clueless, Cher the dull brain with the Net. Hang it all I feel like giving up but I flounder on and stuff myself inside my present book. Hard eyeing little words that mock me oh so fierce. Shall I go back to focus and meditation to release me from this grip?
The spacey unfocused Lenny that cannot stay with one task. How I hate his ugly mug and stance and recoil at his advance. It’s on me now but just a phase; learning’s hard my fate embrace. If I could spend an hour just straight reading and consuming, and not be lifted away on the back of forever daydreaming.
I’m a dreamer Tommy. Creativity my desire; playthings playmates, itch of the bitch and flick of the wrist on pads and keyboards not pages and pens. Enthralled by merry mods and games, flashy pictorials turn me from the written word that feeds my brain and humbles me so. Humble to write a blog, humble to assume neutral and impartial, humble to think you sitting there with coffee taking in the eyeful. These words doth reach the populace but not with inspiration but methinks with random procrastination. I should write of other such things besides the inner demons and lack of productive, besides the alcoholic frenzy and the polyphonic spree, and nonesuch rants about the state for nothing turns like pedantry. And not a lick that turns for good for people sick of empty brood, the kind that stokes but no fire and talks some shit about striking empire. But this is no resistance, no Star Wars deliverance where rebels win with persistence and little furries that’s not adult content.
The battlefront is fraught with mines that disseminate the lies that bind. But people want to party and forget and the aftermath is oh shit. For tiresome is that grind to fight the greedy and the blind that are given keys and stock options, let to run amok and then, given free pass no jail sentence. If this was GTA I’d snipe em quick and run away to Tahiti or some place, where coconuts are plentiful and sweet and I have time to read in peace.
Yeah, Saddlebag Sally tuckin puckin in
Stuffed in herself a big turducken
Beaks blow out scruffy janitor toughness
Vibrating gigolo please pack roughness
Call the roughnecks, starship prospects
Super troopers hiring rejects
And make the top grade
First class renegades chug the Kool-aid
Lower the pay grade
Corrupt street parade, Paris parade
Lamborghini sexarosa on the street race
Purty pursed pink resting in a pleasing smile, a cursive on the face. The font of amore, of youth, stilling life still my heart still picture. Flash flash capture the visage, can’t get enough, it tempers my dreams and memories. Lingering tails of red satin dress flowing gently across the mahogany floor, warmth in air sweeping along currents and folds of soft silky spectre. The Face, haunting taunting wanting evermore. Burn into my eyes this saintly sweet blossom blindingly bright against the dark dour environ of my prison.
Walls aplenty, stuck staccato concrete gray slabs pushing against tightends and linebackers encasing iron masked man in tomb swelled with regretful arias. Torture in here and torture out there, pain and sacrifice everywhere. See the face, lovely be, reach out hands to cup that cheek calling out to me. Fair fair the heroine maiden presently occupied languidly, throbbing veins on gentry, pull her so close to me. Sense scents and magnolias wafting from the bodice and chest, the elegant neck perfuming my smoker’s nostrils curing me of moody gloom. Smooth skin buttermilk wraps blush at my touch, my hands burst with excitement at fondling the tempter.
Yeah, yeah, what’s the state of things Reverend? The little ones grew into selfish little shits parading their ignorance and arrogance in fanciful displays of ultra 4K delusions. Traps of apathy, egotism symbiosis and communication redux, mimic meme generation mimetically homogenized; milk bland vanilla kids propping themselves with media marketing uniforms. Essence of self splashed on young bodies, selfie onslaught mob parade individuality.
But the good. youthful exuberance, protests and kickstarters for positive purposes. Poverty weakens, rules strengthen in a two step one step square dance but only half of us participate. Will the newer generations finally get political? Vote dammit! Third parties, independents, make your voice more than a tweet among the cacophony. ALter the system to new imaginings that won’t get us stuck in red tape and centuries old laws. Nitpick the small details and boring procedures and rulings, they’re the crux, the ventricles of a starving heart. Kill legislation, bombard the offices, make old men quiver with the righteous anger of just cause just because.
Consuming consumers plagued by advertisers stamping their logos and mottos on every facet. Product placement for the purview, shop til you drop but the young wanna cop, why pay the self-important suit for distribution. Everyone struttin’, talk about being boss, wanna be boss, live boss. Every one so important, listen to me, I own you, getting paper like we major. Shallow idols teaching how to swim. Race each other and step on each other, that’s the programming block, Individualism, Ayn Rand exceptionalism with the necessary pulled strings. Connections be the thing, the social network pulls all in, always watching, we all advertise ourselves, a living resume on each site. Link it, Facebook it, turn into a demographic for mass cash transactions.
Maybe money used good, maybe good greed, maybe new creed. Coexist message and maybe religious hate faded, some still brainwashed but the others outpace it. No tainted youth military, false martyrs steady, conservative Christians on the way down, last hurrah and infantile screams at loss of power.
These rosy cheeked apple heads bobbing to and fro in the limelight glowed sea. Alabaster miscreants connecting skulls and meshing the mangling dew drops of youth. Mischievous marvellous tykes seeing future hijinks scramble with push me pull me gimme gimme. Sweets for the sweet. Candy daydreams melt like honeydew melon in the red hot sun. Sticky magma sucrose hardening upon the fleshy grey asphalt of Snake Way, scenting the air of Hades with the forlorn wishes of crushed pebbles under kneel and toe.
Spiked edges rough laid in the spine of the bony gargantuan, glistening white calcified remains remain intact in serpentine swirls curving lusciously round the bend, porcupine defence puffs up, shooting pain spurs outward. Steely white missiles spray arrays around town. Lightpoles smash and dash with the electric blue fizzle of busta bust energy flows.
Darkness there. Dark town alight with fright as rowdy pouty emo hooligans take to the streets to disembowel the night train and aggro spray paint shuttling cars. Wry smiles on painted faces beneath the lopsided tangle of angled black hair. Droopy eyes and grimaces dance with the temptation of the moonlight, swaying back and forth as the waves of oblivion. Sky rimmed with dusky purple streaks besetting anxiety-ridden clouds making makeshift oxy proxy. Terror of downtrodden kids buzzing timidly and ferociously like hard-shelled beetles scarab scavenging the remnants of the aged city.
Bleak black and brown rubble oafishly standing out against the backdrop of sienna mills and tangerine dreams. Glossy shaped almandine burrowed deep within the crust of rich browned earth. Wild pernicious plant life twiddling and tweedling up higher and higher into the clouds awaiting the plumber’s climb. Happy clouds sigh and release gushing waters to drench and nourish clamouring vines; opulent green lushery expanding into a cornucopia of foliage dotting the lost highway. Exit left.
Tunnel vision right through hollow point structures echoing screeches and wails from the future wreck reverberating backwards through time. Supersonic waves caress locomotive votive given freely to the mass. Time honoured papal legacy weighing on the beadle needle, vigorous vicar takes his time and collections. Alms for the poor dwindle to arms outreached for sustenance, arms race amid the suits claiming peace and religion. Jesus or a gun.
Hypocrites and shady deals and deeds mix hands among the principal prime movers and shakers pushing tin for profit amalgamation. Expansion contraction, debt dues on heads and relief given for nefarious agreements and usurious excesses; commingling cash co-operation on the table, industry and finance the new cold war, new weapons of mass destruction willed to the teeth biting flesh of another brother from another mother. Bloody wounds linger on battered and bruised empires gone soft. We are lesion. Hear how the mighty have fallen, shattered ground as they collapse.