Friday, December 9, 2011

Expectations

Blood run down centuries finally found in today's young men is damned.
DNA floods and wants its' family tree to grow, its' seeds purposefully sown,
given to live in the streams it's delivered, flowing as a continual river.

Ancestors of whores were sold by their fathers to the best buyers.
A hymen was a tested seal of freshness; were it absent the deal's undone,
the daughter a wastrel and no gained son.
No man, not one wanted to waste his funds on a spoiled product.
Now a man whoremongers daughters who're NBO no longer.
An easy lay is the highest romantic aspiration in the western nations.
Winning with twins at an inn is a double score.
Who dares ask for more?
Mo' lasses laid, legs splayed forthwith with width for their only lover,
ready to become mothers as owed in old betrothal's convenient nuptial covenant rituals,
than modern legions of lady collegians who are so wet for debt they race against regret
to win their bellies from would-be infant company.

Every date is a gamble at the slots, a lottery ticket bought.
Try before you buy is the marketing strategy hopefully succeeding in bringing breeding to vacant wombs.
Soon some rooms are rented but they're not protected nor parented as no contract backed the temporary merger.
Dowries are still paid but they've been made larger and post-matrimonial.
How could a girl, long-forgot maiden-knot broken with a vow unspoken,
now bring more than disloyal strife to the role of wife?
Self-control shunned, naught but openness known,
what fool anticipates temperance to be learned at home?
A collector may as well feel elated picking up a coin long circulated though the mint's printing condition can't be returned.
Word has spread so buyers dread signing the dotted line below which fine print reads:
a woman's needs limit your property to the half she charitably leaves
and any son he sires will become a stranger only touched by income.

In ancient times this desert clime was a merry marital riverbed.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Forget Tomorrow

Thank your lucky stars.
Your generation has it better than ours.
We had to hang out in bars:
in the mists of smoke,
with regular customers as coworkers
(on the labor of numb)
and beers as friends.

Nowadays speak easys have given way
to still-picture forums
for a new round of youth
whose hope too was stolen.

Find peers to cheer you, where and while you can.
Such are the lots of the common man.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Before the Shadow

After a 2011 Tartus Port poured into my goblet I drank deep as Tartarus.
Dread rolled past my tongue, causing my lungs to shiver as from a winter breeze or the teasing touch of fingertips cold as bone.
I swallowed lamentation, silently gagging on the smell of iron, smoke, and charred meat.
The festive feast on our long table is festooned with the silence of men who left too immediately for an awareness of their departure to appear.
Intelligent gossip slides from derisive lips and hides its' hushed meaning in the seams of this eternal campaign season.
The words are smeared with din and quite like smokeless fire unraveling the matter it travels through.
I can not make out the words but I recognize the tone ringing through me in a shudder-inducing cacophony: contempt.
Waves rise in invisible tides through us.
They share the flavor of the wine we're served, recognizable from its' aftertaste of massacre.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Runt of the Litter

A wittle fluffy puppy
homeless shelterless alone.
Any attention paid
is a thrown bone.

A passing lady,
groceries in hand,
coos at the corgi
and he misunderstands.

Tongue outstretched,
he brings a can
to play fetch
with a turned back.

He chases, he follows.
As she ignores him,
he whimpers his sorrow.
She closes her door.

Dirt from outdoors
matts his fur.
She won't welcome
a stray claimed by none.

Friday, October 7, 2011

After

Have a care:
I can't stand to stare in your glare.
The bloom of light bleeds white through all shapes 'til I'm sightless on scapeless space.
I close my eyes and the lids are too thin to keep these particular waves from getting in.

Now hidden in the dark, my mind's dimmed.
Memories display replayed simulacra of the bright recesses which blessed me with receiving a viewing.
I couldn't keep witnessing yet I'll keep believing.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Unveiled

My heart is worn
with love's flow.
Here it was,
there it goes.

To feel eros in error is worse than dumb silence or numb blankness.
We toil and leisure in gloom when the clouds hang thick and no pinprick
of that celestial giant can be seen.
Were the cost to keep her eternal winter,
nocturne never quite turning to day,
I would walk that way with a smile.

To learn the belief -mutual adoration- on which your joy was built,
was false, by the discovery of a dagger's chill hilt, and know:
long ago she chose another (if ever she selected ye) so the pleasure
you felt was a phantom, a false reality's illusion,
is to find each glimmer of joy thereafter suspect.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Keeping Company

While Autumn air pinched us with frost,
I told my cousin of my girlfriend.
She was a different breed:
one on whom I could depend.
She had the love I need.

Where leaves descend to die,
my cousin and I,
shared in tales of women,
with beer-wet lips.

I said how she was loyal.
He said how his was faithful and each of us thought in silence.
Those moments, for which I'm grateful,
crystallize as powdery dew on bark's dark side,
in a mind grey with age.

My girl was too shy to display her love publicly.
It was something too personal to bare before any witness but me.
Less joy I had known, less warmth I could conceive, 'fore her's was shown.
Hands worn from a day's chopping, muscles torn, she massaged the weariness away.
My body barely settled in its' chair before a hot meal was laid there at our table.

His girl was his lap-warmer.
He would fall on his couch from a salesman's day of walking.
Then his boots were gone and her arms encircled his shoulders.
She'd hear his jokes and they'd share a laugh.
He loved to light candles and join her bubble bath.

The wind pressed us, trying to enter our thoughts.
We enjoyed recalled feelings for a while more.
Finally we rejoined everyone.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

The Imbalance of Power

Efficiency is an enemy of redundancy which's why there's a discrepancy between superior and popular decisions. For every rethought belief which can correct errors requires idle time. If it's made up, why change your mind?

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Ambassador

The men I was sent to, who I'm to pretend I'm a friend to, Arcadians, have become genuinely beloved.
My smile cuts further inward than my split face to a lightless place tears are spilled.
I pat Ambassador Ilthua on the back and nod as he leaves, rod in hand.
He believes a treaty will be signed between his kind and mine for fewer trade and travel restrictions.
Truly, the army is already on its' way.
I swallow and hear the stomp of rows of sandled feet clomping down the street.
300,000 footmen march through the Temal Straights with archers, riders, and chariots besides.
They will accept no surrender. They will see no Arcadian survives.
After lunch I am to be attending a meeting of dignitaries discussing nothing in particular.
I've forgotten my stomach.
In a bejeweled hall I am the only flesh and blood man living and standing surrounded by specters.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Reliably Arable

August's auspices foretold a fell field.
Yet young husbands must hoe and hope for good yield,
though the frost has cost much and market prices bust.
Nothing grows in the stubborn soil.
It looks good to sow but is a swindle.
He'd thrown his savings into the dirt and nothing raised from the fallow earth.
Naught was given for working, for buying, nor as a gift.
His spirits would follow them were wheat shares to lift.
What's saved from last year would now be sold at a loss.
There's no time to spare as his wife grows ill.
She eats too little and the babe sups too much.
As a child, the farmer dreamed of sweet vittles, bunches of carrots spilling out
basket tops, potato spuds stopped at the horizon, onions as big as a man's head.
A chill wind spins dust.
The fresh farmer coughs.
The season of innocence was rent by parenthood.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Cobbler

Hacked together from spoilt meats,
lively as boiled peeps,
this beast never wakes and never sleeps.

It slakes its' thirst, if thirst it has,
on the worst, only the bad.
Swindlers, killers, rapers -all thieves.
It sees its' victims guilt.
Their souls come free with ease.

None know blood was spilt.
After murders -no, executions
I clean the waste profucious.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Inaction's an Option

I wish they were
ever.

Cycling,
piped water,
volts via wires,
veins of blood,
the very galaxy, vacuum-sealed,
motion/information within a thing
not escaping.

Were a worm to turn its' silk to shield its' flesh while it changed its' ilk and afterwards, a moth emerged, with silent strokes of delicate wings it flew 'til its' white spans were tore by a boy who happened by, so crippled, feeling flying as a pain, the ripped fool felt it should have left its' shell a man, it would harmonize.

Though (a flow / a force) trans the thing, the thing does not trans.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Butthurt over Viral Buzzwords

Whelps quelch out sins: "u mad bro"s and "epic win"s.
I really hope you don't do this.
If you don't speak like my peers, you don't know shit about english.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Self-Destruction as a Defense Mechanism

A pink hunk of coil-tailed ham waddles in its' pen to a patch of mud.
It flips, flops down, rubs the brown muck about its' body and chortles contentedly.
Why not stand above this stinking pit, marred with fleas and rotting shit?
Why not trot on past the watered hole, why lay in it to have a roll?

So long as the hogs trod the Earth these pigs live in dirt.
Why work to ascend in the press of the pen though thou wert wort?
A sow may stand now above the topsoil but her sweetness will be drained from her mashed remains.

Each heaving, heavy-breathing boar-spawn is squeezed out with feces, carries excrement as it lives, and decomposes when its' cells succumb to the fecundity of hungry fungi, bacteria, molds, and other agents ever-present.
Why then not embrace the waste?

Swine line up to dine on their dying, leftover edibles from man's tables, and beat goats famed omnivorousness by choosing to eat that at which a settled doe won't bleat.
Rather than endure the bestial stress of this savage contest let's look to the swine frolicking in filth.
See their smiles, hear their laughter, ignore the smell.
If a body is like a shell for a soul, a cup for a liquid, a part for the whole, an OS for a computer, then it can become a cell for an ingrate.
Then let madness: relishing the horrific, be these piggies defense.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Haunted

Chords resonate then calm.
Stimulus stops yet the mind still hears.
Quiet can't snuff a psalm.
Music turns a mind: it steers.

A gorgeous note long ago left is reread, as the engraved name on a tombstone where pollen has blown and vines have grown, so its' missed musical syllable may sound afresh if only mentally, in memory.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Relief

Sunlight washes the shoals seeping heat into my soles which bound above shells'n shale.
Beach-breath tousles straws stuck in sunk star-emblazoned plastic cups.
Laughter lifts from lungs to face, escaping into the ether, waving into space.
Monochrome bikinis scarcely contain tanned and oiled swells, jostling for freedom throughout a game of volleyball.
Jokes, sketches, numbers, poetry, and initials graffiti the single bathroom stall.
I rush to mightily hose down the toilet with kidney-filtered Sprite.
A weight leaves me.
Everything's right.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Release

A slab of slate cleft from the cliff's face fell and grabbed his arm.
His beard itches, sweat stings his eyes with salt, and sandy air dries his throat.
Traffic to the trapped arm slows. It tingles as the supply of blood stops.
With a terrific thrashing he attempts to wrench his elbow out from under the rock.
His planned trip's travel has been road blocked.
With what little strands of moisture his saliva glands spare he prepares to wet his throat and call for help.
He swallows.
He yells and the voice echoes, taking on the tone of stone, then he wallows in this failure.
Wind blows pebbles loose off the horizontal menhir.
He imagines his fingers aren't trapped as they were and tugs on his arm.
Bare skin tears, wears from scraping, bleeds, splats the tan humanweight with thumbs-width circles of red, paling in the sun.
He rests.
He unzips his jacket, unclothing as much as possible.
He tests for feeling and finds he can't sense the invisible hand he hopes is underneath the landslide.
Something hopping amongst the poppies perks his ears.
Someone else!
Hurting his thirsty throat, he roars,
"over here!" and
"I'm stuck!"
He's caught up in hollering. It takes awhile for him to calm down, his smile to fade, and the indifference of the desert's sounds to soothe him.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Bright Sky Blues

Seasonal woe is a foe that comes and goes.
Perennial lament is a resident.
Grief is sent away so cheer may stay here.
Troubles pass and joy lasts.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Immoge

Shades slide over the east plain's green grassy valley.
Clouds cast dark patches over the gold-rimmed hills.
Soft dawn dew distills the sun's strong rays.
Wind scrapes the shoots of grass, bending them to its' will, beheading them.
Loose grain shifts through cracks in the cupping wind, falling, planting.

Eyes storm with tears.
Lids, brows, cheeks, and mouth crease in a vain attempt to shut out the pain.
Her body quakes.

Ash ascends in the vapory shimmer of smoke.
Unsatisfiable hunger h/eats a dress darkening with ember infections.
A ribbon wilts and a tiara melts in the glowing warmth.
The ribbon reads: honorary mention.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Makes Sense

Cherry-topped pink strawberry ice cream is a moment's cause to smirk.
Again the sun sags over her shoulder, behind, as is her work.
Sprinkles dapple the ample sample of whipped cream cresting her desert like the flirt-enhancing freckles on her apple-shaped face.
Once more the door opens, ringing like a church, a bell telling all's well like a wall sentry, yapping a calm proximity alarm with its' clapper.
The waiter offers a refill too late to get a good tip.
Time senselessly slips away.
Many thumb-typed correspondences carry on while the warm turns cream less dense:
glaciers melt into a milky pond.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

A Mule

A shiny new car encourages a thrall.
Credit bubbles pop; troubles stop his smiles.
The dusty used car's returned.
His daily commute shoots directly into the city center's main vein.
Public buses transport this metropolitan citizen to the last bastion of commerce in a storm: civic service.
Reforms, curses on prosperity spoke by suit&tie wearing wizards, transform billions of debt-units into trillions, workers into criminals and beggars, the starving into the dead.
In his head, the costly ride lost to wage freezes was an escape from daily mediocrity.
Free from the media's opiate glamor, eyes open, he'd see: without the liberty to hold the reins of his property, the most luxurious sports car is an injurious slave ship.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Asynchronous Clock

Steam pulses through an iron train.
Hisses and sighs set a refrain.
A lady covers her face in scorn.
Ex-miners panhandle to cover lost bets.
Bandannas haven't been enough to filter the air lately.
Pollution wounds dainty lungs like her's.
Coal coasts like pollen and deposits there.
Oil drips from the hydraulics as blood from a cut.
The conductor screams; he has lost his wits.
He saw a fright but won't say what.
Invisible horrors come from the abyss, jutting.
Dr.Jones prescribes the conductor rest with a wet washcloth.
Ladies-in-waiting titter in their posh clothes.
Who'd expect to see such a spectacle?
Two ticket-counters carry the mumbling man to bed.
It's probably opium what turned his face so red.
Ahead the rails were shelled.
The wheels rebel.
The train derails, spills, wavers, piles.
Survivors tremble immediately after.
Much later gentlemen pale and the dainty ladies-who-wait faint at the remembrance.
Sometimes, a man foresees his future.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Inert

Pink pearls are pulled on far shores next to shining sand-embedded shells.
Tides tug and rub with sand.
Bubbles popping on waves' lips shift through wet sediment.
Patterns are multitudinous and complex beyond recognition.
Patterns're firm as cement.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Cintare

Lights display in the night's skies.
Orbs overhead form mysteries from the gilt-framed fragments bedded in mass conscience.
Military? Alien? Wind causes clouds to stray but the luminaries never sway; they stay
in formation.
For many evenings after it had begun the portent of unknown import hung in the thin cold home of dark matter.
Then they were gone.