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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
| I know you weren’t long for my world, but I’m long for this one… Bard eclectic, it’s so hard to know me. Where even the next line goes? Unknowable as it seems life breathes dreams, huffed out the window on streams flowing any way the wind blows. And under a tree, once we shared an apple. You chose to depart, where storms rolled. I no longer go, but to trees. Bard eclectic since you taught love. Where even the next time it flows? Seems unknowable where wind sends dreams, puffed down avenues, invisibly stream, flowing any way a jet stream goes. It took you from me, I consider with a chosen fruit of knowledge that spoils with solstice snows. When thaw, an eclectic one drenches in rain, sings refrains to the arriving willow swaying, songbirds having sung, flown. If tomorrow I die…you’ll know why; but, don’t let air flow fool you. I’m hardly different, as you’ll see. 6.13.25
as it seems the banner does not ripple, nor metal tether echo-clang, in duty-bound descension. “I was brave enough, passionate enough and got over the stupid.” from “Songs I Don’t Sing To You” because you don’t listen. Less yet, approach. |
| I’m sharing, unedited, fresh off the hot mess… Um These Skitterings, Mid-Summer Today the knife was dull, again. No blade could ply veins rich with iron — but where steel flows, it does not form. It seems wet as thick mercury that knows heat — yet, what lingers inside simmers in colors yet to bleed, should they hue the bright-lit, mead walls of anonymity. Something sharp does prick about, like a bored child with brittle knowledge of a dead, sere stick tempting my mold. I have been idle life long, past hearing horizon’s thunder call. I cannot forestall, nor tell what it has wrought — nor through these seasons what it should bring. I consider four walls from a sagged recliner, bending straight a pale form that does not witness the ceiling in ascent, as eyes fill from imagination-seizures’ mindless skittering. Leaves could fall tomorrow and I would not doubt to question this is Autumn, in equinox tumble of dislodged reverie. Time wheeling past, barely anchors dewed frost — can laugh, as age-bones could ache, without a meditate of curvatures narrowing knives’ vigilant gaze — graphite never flips to orange-rubber-rubble scene, dust a white, with red and blue angled lot, before… another thought cranial-crashes my windowless scene — and how long has it been, with…No! coffee cold? and breakfast…? I have been ‘low this roof thirty-three days continuous. When, what have I ate? What chores…fall was here, right? Or, does summer idle outdoors and not in distant memory? Where have I been that I have not yet seen a crab tree, fragrant pink inhaled, barely clinging as buttons upon a green cloak disguising a stunted, hunched man. Oh, breezes gently again serve natural reverie to ease, rise up, reheat mud cup, sip, consider sun-shunned hues barely dappling a pale paint and one lone pate, now engaging the wood arm, low. Lift my dead wood to gravitate with bird wonder of what blood spills, in sanguine splendor each day that a sunrise fails meet rumination tomorrow, every tomorrow. I’ve got time; let’s not waste. 6.12.25 37 lines of vers libre, punctuation in whatever morn. I don’t know what this is, and yet I know what it isn’t. What need to care? Why the bard speak? Again… She no longer witnesses. One month and two weeks to thirty. I can’t tell time anymore. It tells me.
You feelin’ me? Rhet… |
| If This Isn’t Love (it might harassment) Meeting your arresting look drills a steel lock — open eyes cannot conceal tidal oceans — but obey your lunar glow only — tugged across a traversable abyss to regale you — as all old stories refreshingly new. These deaf ears savor a harmonious songbird — your laugh and sigh soothe hummingbirds’ flutter. A smile leaps from a most studied canvas bright — and with lips’ pressed, might melt my own to butter. My soul soars, left to lap the sun, assuredly, as my blue could melt into your cotton pink core. With slender fingers’ clasp, this flesh gifted powers Herculean. Your easy grace cools, yet hums particles’ acceleration. I’m stood upright; only been a minute. How is it I know that you know, as an opening avails to steal you away to pose these thoughts — but freeze, each word locks out of my mouth before… thaw from a hip-brush-bump of encouragement, when I spout, “do you wanna go out?” Now that it’s written down, I won’t leave with a frown. 6.11.25 21 lines, revisions await Taking a cue from Lord Byron’s remarkably redundant ode to a beauty. You know the one. Anyway, not thinking I could do better. But, thinking someone special would prefer more than uncomfortable idle adoration, go a bit beyond looks. I can say, ‘I feel safe with you’ even after a ‘No Thanks’. Careful here not to isolate gender or any proclivity, reserved just for ‘my poem’. Get your own.
https://www.litcharts.com/poetry/lord-byron/she-walks-in-beauty It truly is a classic poem, more for the poem ease and grace that mirror subject.   T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| Blathering The Utterances What will restore, without an atom to spare? From where I come from I don’t talk like nobody in those parts where I swummed in a language-soup-murk in fields of lingual-ignorance, or steel-smelt contractions through aluminum sided, girder-ed stalls’ walled partitions, above machinations’ divisions and run past band-saws and spray-wood dust, badges of smear-faces, during perspired break, toothpick straw-suck-consider after that log tongue-rolled, bicusp’ settled a shard, aft’ forefinger-thumb clasp where I’m reverie frozen, see oil-dense, atmospheric offerings of syllable-dropping utterances, oft featured in paused, causitory, sentences fragmented, careful early never get meshed in bilingual fences ending in their exclamations, punctuated as clenched fists trembling, in those tones, where I eddied out, post-autumnal, and spun-rolled from an identifying mirror to pitch black sky canopy claiming a knowing, luminous one where my grievances aired, drifted like particles that couldn’t accelerate, but softly laid into a dry, brittle green, sun cream stained scene, a flesh meld of mornings yesteryear (I’m that old now?) where only the language of sea gulls remained and less populated. No eyes squint, no arms raised amid plaid and solid colors with a belt cinch in reunions not-to-be. I look to woods that seem unchanged Same questions echo in the dense, shadowed amphitheaters, with its hushed exhilaration but alone, with not a doe spied. No wood ticks since known further crawl a denim blue leg. No loose mongrels wander neighborhoods, yard to yard, looking for this friend. I’m disturbed by unsettling quiet, when I see a familiar face trapped in sun-glaze under glass, framed on a dim wall, amid overly ornate furnishings clashing with itself, with me, and beyond that spring strain mute-scream complaint that sent with two boots’ hello, two dull-thud notes, since removed dogged feet on that tile threshold restraint. Hello? She doesn’t live there anymore, but did a ghost of a boy roving about. Sweaty is determined, blond cowlick curl clamping a clueless, over-worked forehead, that two blue eyes did bug out. Hello. Which are you in her room, coax her out with slow, mono-syllable titherings? off the former curt tongue, or cry, hope some hair-sprayed, lemon-drop-breath whispered comfort remains In a dirt lot now, without a ball to throw about, sluice invisible moisture and photons sucking out every last stupid thought up musing for no one about. The grass is thick and green again. Maybe, I should take one more look around. I thought I heard something stir that didn’t come from tasked memory. Do dead people see me? 6.10.25 How many lines wuz…*collapse*…that? *arm raises from the dust, drops pencil* ~ 69 ~ Edit later, yup. Collection of what little auditory or visual memory with the embellished to accelerate recollection(s), heave away false…hewn to unite with what’s true, if I ever existed at all… physics people, existentialism… Save your linen of implying emojis with design for your own funerals. No other death left for me to attend. Really, they would have been accepted before a ghost. |
| How should I feel if people impugn integrity, embellish, lie, slander and libel? I’ve had these things to consider since my early tutelage as reporter. I know fear when I see it, and it applies gossip, back channels, and nameless taunts and boasts, shuns as would a grade school bully. Life is hypocritical, lies that it punishes bullies…yeah, if they’re schoolyard punks. Authority isn’t afraid of them, uses as example, but really does it to further empower itself. It is ruthless, causes “necessary casualties” in dominion. It is now pervasive in society. Just look at what our leadership has become. It invokes apathy to become complacent. It should bring about a rallying cry, for an unnecessary burden to be dealt with. It rules outside of democracy, applying itself through loopholes only it is allowed to command. I’m observing society, concerned with the mental health of a nation in denial. It’s dehumanizing and a falseness I see. No blaming should be on my end. I’m a journalist. This is my entry. Fear points fingers. I’m not in it for me. I care what’s left behind, not shortcutting life. A man has to live by a code. If that includes corruption and deceit, I’ll be behind the security tape. I’ve witnessed it in my face, bullied and threatened by authority on the take, 30-plus years ago. It’s the most pathetic and alarming thing I’ve witnessed. I should be four biographies deep before hitting this berg. Guess why I don’t report, even anonymously. If you hear dishonesty in here, do you have unchecked bias? Not to boast, I’ve witnessed boasting. It wants me to address it. If I do, I will not miss the mark ever again. I took down 12 people at the gym with two sentences the last time I was there. Whether boast or not, truth from even one person can silence. Line drawn. Set semantics aside and see issues for what they are. 5.6.25 Don’t blow smoke
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| The Best Kind Of Green Amid cynicism and stoicism belies a child that once tore petals from tender flowers, met by deviation of random numerical methods that afford a dreamer but not an empty wallet. Dreaming is the process. Mother Nature does not play victim. A fat wad did smear fingertips yellow, sent back to the sun-streaked and dewed. The field either yellow or dying, clouds eternal crying, but not for a lad — nor a restless man, until breath exhumed, and new colors to dream upon, crunchy piles that fly skyward nestle with an 80-lb. plop — that, with a stick dragged through mud, down the road, his own snails trails were made until white clumps, layered lashes lay into the ashes of Autumn remains. Pockets emptied of irreplaceable gems of specked stone and amphibian captives released from stag-water glass vacation abodes, just temporary detention, to the murk, murkier, skies descending to twinkles, white glittering, where snug and safe, lie gently upon tar-layered black on Al-u-mini-um eaves, with packed leaves, spouting nothing all, as I do now, if I did it all. Never considered those verdant scenes, anything but the in-between, because… joy, love, dedications to gifted sleds and saucers spun down inclines, safe land and return of spry legs before shared, repeated again and again until too old and return to the only prison — saw it all in a mirror, protracted, always reflective, reflexes having since abandoned in solitude like a frog with no season, dry in jail, out a glass bay scene spies fading sunsets, brightest red or marooned clouds. as glasses be-dappled. A refrigerator barely hums when plates sudden clank and rattle, water tumble, and humbled to have not worked at it at all, until this last fall. Everything scatters on the ground, disappears. A mind can’t savor the past with whizzing whirligig words’ noises, mind-reeling, ear-smoked, and a rust body no longer healing beneath drape, on suspension in shed, where they creep in all insect matter seeking shelter amid two-by-four construct. And, of all the wonder, am I the only here…? who recalls?? when beloved dainty fellows hand-release by practiced stealth, amid the gangly lads begging, what about me, as I’ve oft considered??? How unfair, I never did see you there — you with me, noxious, but free. And in the culvert of life, along a quiet highway where born, spread me next spring, that I might cling to a lonely land that I did harvest with love. I never, ever wanted any other that did sleep in my heart, not with love, where each friend found comfort from eye’s fascination, now walled off by prison of prisms that once sought every unicorn thing and everything in between, including another’s love…and one very dearly needs me now — off my lift and into the air, one last time tumble, atrophying in humectant air, sun-drenched with the verdant scene now leaving all. I’m sorry I didn’t love you better, the best kind of green I hold eternally. 6.4-6.5.25 50 lines, vers libre and raw, before adding the following —
If Not For One More Season The best stuff is unexpected tears from witness of one’s own creation, by to our nature; after life knocked us off our game, finger-blamed and shamed, rather because of inhumanity, as everything about should be life-giving, life-affirming, instead of constituents that did ruin, lead all astray, might we not find our way back to that mother who dusts and removes rumpled articles, when not hand-washing while we slept above the soft floor boards beneath a complacent window, glass-filling calming fire lights eons old, strobing but still return to now — as my mind drifts back to catch that slow ride home, if not one last season. Be Prepared To Receive: I share, knowing they steal, think unworthy. What do I gain but knowledge that affirms, separated from others who’ve felt as strange, unaware estranged from loves who could say — keep standing where you are…not far now, love nearing? Be prepared to receive. Post Preparing — I have warmth where open arms once gave; now all cold of limb in the field, steadfast, no reason to gain but give — return is but a bonus. |
| Paul Rodgers. For example: A 1957 Coasters song, top 20 US in 1976, Top 10 Canada, probably why this 45 was in heavy rotation on our local station. It seemed an enigma in recollect, as it took a bit to recall this, and by whom. When realized with familiar lyrics that once inspired, mystery revealed the man behind it all. Solemnly, I recall the sonorous voice I oft attempted to mimic. Now realize Rodgers’ influences, as the following video intones my growing beliefs. Sans anything but narrator, video would be better served with soundbites or just abbreviation. Still does well to documentment a man who knew what he wanted and went about it the best possible way. To be enlightened so young, it is good… A poem in response to the Beatles’ “For No One” got me here. From the album Revolver with “Got To Get You Into My Life” came rumblings of the old song “Young Blood” with no luck even in Wikipedia link. I hung in to find his live performance a decade ago. Slower, but as solid as the original without a technical flaw in that familiar voice, he was nailing every note. I didn’t know this was the first band Led Zeppelin backed. Although, a no brainer after his first band Free blew up in the US with “Alright Now” which I’ve sung into oblivion. Congratulations, Paul Rodgers, for everything that made you and your bands Free and The Firm so memorable. 6.4.25 Inspired to rock on and finish my sound and writer’s studio, for no other reason than do what comes natural…with tiny labors of love…lyrics. ~ BK Compton Absence Of Wavelength/Life’s Little Interruptions/Antithetical Jottings Wikipedia page pending.  I just liked the alliteration.
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Patience is the greatest task each day that lays in wait of me. A visual depiction of an instance…no equal to my resolve, yet. ![Merit Badge in Poetry Award
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Congratulations on your 1st Place Win in June's First and Second Chance Poetry Contest with [Link to Book Entry #1090608]! Fabulous piece! Well done *^*Bigsmile*^**^*Heart*^* Tracey](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Poetry_Award-2076060_1.gif) Cross-Gate (having lifted) The tremors begin before I can feel it happen. Limbs stiffen as a familiar rumbling nears my core. Just another train lumbering through intersection, conical complaints higher, an invisible, dusty scene. Deep rooted, anxiety grips, tethered in heart, but won’t fly from a road that rocks and sways. Voiceless, they tear screaming holes in nature. No rumbling here, neither cutting words my way. Stoicism has two eyes for every mirror angled, where I am boxed in calm cabin, expressionless. Faceless, invisible forces provocation swirling, soundless twirling over head, circumspect seeming. Mindless rubble-flecks inspect unwashed windows. I’m to infer something from its lack of composition? when up comes the gate and the last unease, freeing, by absence, compelled by the heft, prying open a view of a long, laureled line — clouds ascending from the black, widening apron, when I shift and further leave behind anything, but nothing without quake on furthering exit. Two forces fulcrum at once; no maw did open, as neither serves the other but space that coincides. About itself, everywhere consumes but an object collecting speed, axled by muted energy with torque. Acquiring molecules less dense, nor demanding, a vague vehicle heaves paved tarmac, grounded. Stoicism is easier when you’re not trying, dead inside. I have no experience, just ignorant sensations tingling. 5.20.25 28 lines, free verse Furthered 6.3.25 lines above could juxtapose, last two arrive anywhere or leave all together but an after-after thought on something yet fully conceived. Still unfinished… lyrics to “Barely Breathing” hound since first moments of sentience arriving today. From performance on “…Talent (America’s Got)” the other night. Season opener? Seeking YouTube — Not Compelled, other title or title line idea forthcoming. More physics applications removing by quantum designs.
 To Be Lifted: Three white keys open a protracted scene, post infinity, loop, yet never tell a story but of a feeling that could give revelation…still, energy chained no longer pleads be allowed to chase birds in the garden, chin to paws and barely breathing. If I loved you more…what? What happened to the inquisitive, fuzzy head? Since the first head trauma un-recalled (misremembered), consider no further beating could get a nerve to leap where they once hit a ceiling; and longer after, no further can fall by reaction, nor ensuing calamity on the ground where it laid bleeding, reports of displeasure all around. The victim could not muster a shrug to appease any, or the righteous, knowing manipulators, outside a muffling vacuum, spied, eyes sent toward the next hydraulic-drained disaster, happening everywhere, all the time. None looking for the other, either, where the wreckage lay, a dump decay and marred metal rust decomposition. I’ll parse that later…inspiration for next ‘ooh, why’? poem. A poem about auto-correct and decapitalization? Another? I’m all fucked up and I’m barely breathing when I leap at percussion signal, with emergence of a rising feeling and I cave … heads … in … lay in the ether…so long since primordial ooze release … More notes, accentuate from that damn sonorous piano, replacing the percussion with a different beating. The song starts somewhere, unless an endless sound-bed for eternal mystery of a reality show no one tunes in to see, lacking a script, succinct words, conniving to appear real, rather than … just be. Nor, pitched, arced, since the need of privacy in desire of falseness in hiding … hiding? From what? Sooo…no. No script forthcoming but oblique, pointed poetry ripping a maw in some-thing to inspect a cavern in cage of fouled bone to witness how it could live? Fake love?? Patent awww, as re-arriving as my deliberate nails on your chalkboard…to see it feel…some-thing. It’s sentient. Now I am, too. But, bio block…line…what’s my line? Right. No viewers. Their loss. Mine? Make me own it, eight year old. And…it’s crying to Mommy…I can’t react, remember? Words — not the absence of wavelength that puts beating in pretty things once singing, all strangled in your garden, bleeding. The Labrador no longer hunts, should he sigh or pant where it once slobbered on your rugs. I could have ended it. Now, here it lies…until tomorrow, Cyrano…technically, also a liar, hence the drama…but caused in your theater. You coax it, blame it, I infer none of it. I write, not manipulate unless…post manipulated, played, slandered and libeled. |
| To Death Eternal With Love, my dearly beloved… Better to end it sweetly than belabor my love… clenched in firm grasp before I let you slip into the blue, washing cascade taking you through, as I refuse regret — lost another chance, at love return… where mud dries, life firming keeps you permanent and grounded, dreamless, without love-passion eternal… nor free for anything better one’s dull eyes might spy but end you and I before love’s return, my dour frown — where I leave you in permanence, no other choice found. Accept and push you down, with two hands, my love — I must drown under clear, soft of rippling and hovering ether — wavy memory, hoping not to see such despair, because… no design, but another misery — nor long left for we two that cherished a christening sun — burnt flesh fading, faith lingering in shade, as you shadow with nothing… so, end sweet, quick, love…no longer delaying, beneath icy surface we die before death with knowing an eminence of any deceit still showing, how.to.kill.love. Release that grasp son, gone now, time to let her slip. Sun falls quick to unsettlement, earth scorched, devouring what remains amid cinder in an accelerant container…full. 5.29.25 22 lines, free verse Went too long…can truncate to alleviate burdened verbiage…probably won’t (Eyore) There could be more verses, but had to end … Resubmerging — (Midnight In Harlem echoing with verses and chorus, as I wrote…pronouncing organ, especially, like Gospel.) |
| Pity Doesn’t Apply (Mortality) Half blind, half dead We walk through life holding on to innocence Deluded from mortality Helpless, abandoned like a child’s broken toy We want to cry out, Mother? Father? My true love?? Wonder, Do we truly exist? Frozen in unshakeable nightmare scene One frame projected Why grieve after innocence lost, accept Dead all these years If you feel a sensation, absorb it, hold on Savor the days remaining https://www.thehaughtyculturist.com/films/dont-look-now-1973-themes-analysis-exp... Reviewer wrong. He wanted to die from guilt, be wrongfully persecuted by something morally reprehensible, justify error life. 5.6.25 I could feel true death inch closer and not give a fuck. I’m here. My time is now, and every single moment I still draw breath. Exhale whatever toxin that doesn’t apply, I nurture myself. Life’s pity doesn’t apply. You need it? Take it for yourself. (Something confrontational redacted to spare them) Beady You could see sawdust puff from his ears, when my mitre saw cut between his beedy eyes’ glare. I had something more blunt in mind, but stuffing requires larger orifices. Cut first, measure twice afterward…then, the hammer. I think Apple auto-correct is attempting to redact words by ignorantly not suggesting them, or underlining correct words as if they don’t apply or exist.  EVERYBODY, OFF THE INTERNET NOW! SAVE YOURSELVES! Dystopia is…already a reality. Tunes into the Bully Puppet show watching for latest in Nazi News. Calling it something different doesn’t make it different Bliss = Ignorance / Ignorance = Sex in the woods at night with a crazed killer on the loose Really, apply what you want. The I Told You So letterhead writing pad is purchased and ready for additional witticism, envelope and bottle to stuff in with gasoline and a little rag. SAVE YOURSELF! *throat hoarse* None of this means anything, until they come to clear out casualties and read my final warnings. They’ll probably comment on my grammar.     T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| I cannot say nothing, nor anything. Let’s give more words proper burial beneath the unmarked As yet, squinting Some Poet With His Words: I took 2 big handfuls of life, spat on each — then threw to ground to boot-stomp-snuff out. What does it mean? Shrug. These thoughts of words that rumble in and out I decide to not ignore, write down, but not follow further to flesh out because the composition no more needs to stand before what’s loosely termed audience because there is no true interaction among writers when a soul that could share empathy for others has yet been visualized, material, with regard for contributions, once called content, as it is just a pile of this now, which I could stand over to direct watch a decay, death feign melding with her, insoluble postulates pooling with its own filth ignorance in dirt. It’s proof — of lies lacking/truth existence in the charade forced to live, to comply, or be out here inside viewing a filmy mirror of myself in missed givings. Not going near why did you have me mom? as the unplanned glue that kept a 45-year union together. Inconceivable amid the ill-conceived — this once happy idiot — before met by the gift of little brother. Am I a lone survivor, hobo, with a corner chair reclining in temperant housing? Shrug. Is that what I was trying to convey cryptically? Sorry. All out of shrugs. Have to bird tail these things now, give each estate a note before finding a shovel. 5.2.25 Waking from a loosely-termed 10-hour nap, rumpled and winkled. Yup, gag on it Apple. My glasses are missing, BTDubs and without…wrote without. We got her all dressed up in this ML, before saying some words before lowering in this hole, lacking editor mortician. This not contempt, nor death, since neither can exist in perpetuity. Ask a lawyer. Consult the interjecting, brainwashed AI. It was unable to attend services, too busy answering but not learning. I know eye rolls of cowardice. Share a thought with ‘class’? Loud enough so we can all learn. Where’s wisdom but taste-testing its lolly-pops, as gums rot teeth into their own decay. What could be more blissfully stupid? Plenty. Rhetorical. One-word debates aside, delusion and deluders among ignorance wax on until passersby, hesitation, then continue like old hens, as intended be. ‘It is what it is’ and nowhere near c’est la vie. “As Public As A Frog” (owned, it’s just accounts from a genealogist) A book my grandfather, I was told, reviled, and wrote one of his own that was burned post mortem in a fire (w things died) by my Catholic Aunt Mary, making my dad upset. I never learned of its contents. Grandpa is urban legend, and I’m cut from a cloth that skips a generation. It’s my nightmare too, lived. Yet, sweetly I slumber with the best visions that cure the addled head. Signed, Cereal Killer Back to the word store for Alphabets Tonight! Murder of the English language. We bring you shocking details… What? Of a world gone mad? Who refuses your pity and will make sure you know it, manipulative…?? Mmph, mmph… {In other news today… *lurks* Not cute anymore… Disclaimer— the sentiments above were acted out *bows* knowingly Defense team happy to witness for the prosecution, once Barney gets that bullet out of his pocket. Did your mother dress you? More lines rumbling, who knows? *shrug* Now, where are those glasses. |
| Purge-a-tory (or any other title) experienced in silent repose, when her sound suddenly surfaces from muffled indignation… Divinity arrives in the shapes crystallizing poetry makes — a frozen, fleeting glimpse captured in a tear-well agitate, releasing her to never behold until that love is shared.  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
![Merit Badge in Prince Purple Rain
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Thanks for your entry in The Prince Writing Contest. We enjoyed reading it. Always: Megan](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Prince_Purple_Rain-2085649_10.gif) Fret Fret and survive, a Sign Of The Times Long after 1999, and I know times had changed. But, still wanted to be your lover… I wrote you to life, stylized, lyricized, how you’d Strut like Sheena In those days of Raspberry Berets Like a Little Red Corvette, but meaner You made me delirious, belt it out, Let’s Go Crazy, before I began to fret When all I dreamed, wasn’t yet that you say, “romanticized” like lies. Never wanted to steal you from another Wasn’t going to be a part-time lover Deep down, our liquid cooled. Kept drowning in color of the skies Decisions made, tears we cried In purple rain, a voice pours out like smoke in helpless refrain — Velvet vocals yet reverb, wail When Doves Cry, and my words for you never found the right note. Away, pulled up collar, rage could only hear me holler. So, when I got into Beverley Hills I knew it was gonna be alright. Took flight, after the seized pick from that six-string fret, froze. Seized by my own denial, held that note, held it, held that note that screams You know, nothing is dreams? A tablature spoke just the same. Everything played like your name. I loved you more than any other, when that rain returned again. Still, holding that note, holding, hoping it would bring you home. Held long, but no love revival. A wonder, enduring survival. Ticking, time broke a heart clock’s works, red stained, thick, with my wry smirks. You know the kind, and the chords — well, they just would echo, echo. Purple bled until the final pick returned. Brown on black, movement nears about my grave. Your face appears. Regret with fret, it held me down Lost you, who I was, wearing a frown Unfeeling, sucker punched by life Never could Darling Niki be my wife. 56 line, rhyme-some free verse 4.30.25 Not going for rhyme at first, decided to give this quick, lopsided something a lyrical quality, as yet refined, which I could take further. A little double play on fret, yet not fully realized. Same girl, different approach, same story. Overplayed, romanticized https://www.guitarplayer.com/players/tom-petty-and-others-tell-the-story-behind-... Great story about above performance and an unsolved mystery. Dearly beloved We are gathered here today To get through this thing called "life" Electric word, life It means forever and that's a mighty long time But I'm here to tell you there's something else The afterworld A world of never ending happiness You can always see the sun, day or night Let's go crazy (woo) Let's go crazy Let's go crazy Let's go crazy If you don't like The world you're living in Take a look around At least you got friends You see I called my old lady For a friendly word She picked up the phone Dropped it on the floor Ah, ah is all I heard Are we gonna let the elevator bring us down? Oh no, lets go Let's go crazy Let's get nuts Let's look for the purple banana Until they put us in the truck, let's go Oh yeah, yeah ,yeah Yeah, yeah, yeah, there it is Yeah, yeah, no, no (oh yeah) All excited (all excited) Don't know why (I don't know why) Maybe it's 'cause We're all gonna die When we do What's it all for? (What's it all for?) Better live now Before the Grim Reaper comes knocking on your door Tell me, are we gonna let the elevator bring us down? Oh no, let's go Let's go crazy (let's go crazy) Let's get nuts (let's get nuts) Let's look for the purple banana Until they put us in the truck, let's go C'mon, baby Let's get nuts Yeah Oh (Crazy) Are we gonna let the elevator bring us down? Oh no, let's go Let's go crazy (let's go crazy) Let's get nuts (let's get nuts) Let's look for the purple banana (let's look) Until they put us in the truck, let's go ('til they put us in the truck) Let's go Dr. Everything'll be alright Make everything go wrong Oh Yeah yeah, let's go RIP, my inspiration |
| Q: How do you make a phone call ? A: Tickle its digits until it rings? ======================== The following is R-rated. Cover your ears, kids… Question: “How many F words does it take to make an R-rated movie? Let’s ask a wise Owl.” *Owl with a Tootsie Pop answers* “Let’s find out…fuck, fuck, Fuh…Hmm? Edit one of those out and it’s PG13? So, two.” *Owl looks at Tootsie Pop* Sweet Luscious, I could lick you all day. But, I want your chocolate center now.” *Krrr-rack!* *Owl confused* “What? Why’s that R-rated?” 4.24.25 I noodle with stuff like this, but don’t post it any more ** Image ID #2339230 Unavailable ** |
| Wait. If you have no earthly idea…where’d you say you’re from? |
| Good Night Chair Molecular time-space personification in hypothesizing theorem Between 7:48 and 10:21 P.M. time in this space ceased to exist — though… momentary recollections of two times, when four paws and eight pounds of furry black catapulted upon the blue cotton covered legs, whisker-rubbed the rubber-bracketed, red tablet edge — and twice more, energy thrusts launched the blurry rocket into tan fiber spaces, as shadows’ mystery kept creeping… and long since the sun lent light through wide, clear pane before mental awareness did re-arrive consciousness displayed as 60 watts overhead, still burning strong. Working with assembled alphabet into descriptive words in dim void, just right…displacement commences. In sanctuary, ADHD freedom, ping-pong memory with white returnings. And as yet, all To Dos remain. In her repose came remarks I still note, about sighing… that I stop noticing, once meld — in this, somehow? Past three, one to two hours more eked, I lift, cleanse, resubmit to a vacuous King-sized bed adopted by them. So content, their eyes don’t shimmer in tonight’s gallery to see gray, one-dimensional depository between one, two and three…placed just so. I find void space in our unusual atomic-bonding — a tangling furry-flesh-cotton-amid-cotton structure upon Sealy. I lie across the division lump, angle right calf-foot over bed side, pillow gathered under neck beneath what’s starless… and — not disturb slumber-some amid accepting friends. I’ll figure out breaks, punctuation, theorem expressed in concisest terms, somehow, re-engineering my poetry with the artful science of editing. Who said the two couldn’t co-exist? Haters?? And you just believed them?? — some anon sitcom, as yet recalled (our third medium component added to brain-oven-meld. T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| What makes a poem romantic? Having experienced heartbreak. With experience to have loved and lost, a romantic poem can be realized. It’s not lip service she needs. It’s not promises he’ll make. It’s nothing deliberate but a willingness. Messages from destined hearts deliver when eyes first meet, described by the brain to lungs that quick seize. If you know the liberation in a moment serendipity makes, all is possible with time apart and a clutched pen bleeding, ’til again… Can you really cheat a reader in that construct, pouring all vision of romantic desire to finally embrace the hand that receives yours eternal? A broken heart is mended every day, for the writer that can conceive. It’s not for the light-hearted or sport to loosely play with another, unless you’re into that kind of thing.  What makes a poem romantic? Me. (never mince words)   ~  /  Something will make your heart grow three sizes one day.  Hold onto love’s memory as long as possible, as romance can be fleeting. Take it from a dreamer dwelling into latest hours, harnessing words of love captured, letting them free again. Love is not possession. Romance is obsession. And what do I know of romance? Not a thing. Let it be mysterious. A good romantic poem is oddly delusional, yet easily conceivable to a convincible reader. 4.20.25 Not originally intended as poem… Don’t listen to this writer. Listen to the palpitations thundering in your chest. But to be sure, consult Robert Palmer’s doctor… We still haven’t learned what makes a poem romantic? You may never, without information from that red organ in your chest. Can I go now? I’m sick of myself. Yuck! Romance is a good tux for the appropriate soirée and season. Or, dazzling, flowing evening gown, with someone to check that clutch. |
| Cold Open: Nearly every time. Writing can be like a conversation with myself, and prompts learning new things (google, research) about what caused me to initiate. I find a tenuous grasp/orientation of something becomes more informed the further I go. A notion for something to write is only the impetus. With an open mind, hyper-focused, everything transcends, hopefully beautiful, while educating me. In regards to "Note: View this Note" Do I sometimes wind up writing something different than what I planned? 4/10/25 Everyone claims it’s a mystery, muses, a symptom of a malfunctioning mind. It’s simply a process of discovery. You have your own ‘choose your adventure’ when you write, preconceived or not. You can lock in and ignore or oblivious should a mind question concept, flaws in the fabric, or strategy to forced outcome and more. I have to consider what doesn’t add up, sometimes find errors due to ignorantly informed preconceptions. I allow myself room for error and correction, answer only to myself in these matters. I’m open to debate, yet the only thing that approaches are other’s subjective opinions. I consider facts/what’s true, or predominating circumstantial information. I’m bloviating now. Fact. Just checked myself and hid mind-directives to steer away from the original topic. |
| Chose your own relation adventure: Self-editing the informing chromosomes leant by them in a redacted, daily life of repeated recompose. Redaction, editing me from myself Would require a rewrite, enmbellishment, A life not lived, but from experience. Reduce personal pronouns to rubble In the town called yslf and fake it Until you don’t recognize the author. Reduction result could catapult, But likely indignantly insult me. Yslf couldn’t flourish without me. Whitewash a wan face, aged, recalling Nothing noteworthy, knowledge gained In a recreation-ist image worthy Of another’s homage to self-deceit. We trade our mirrors that deflect, reflect Into clear pools of time, whitewashed. The silt of soul, not so far below as we reach, scoop the unrecognizable image floating. Alone, we walk this journey — aimless — as yslf doesn’t incorporate with me. Looking on at the former, not reinvented, Not used for spare parts without catalyst, Disparaged, stolen, paved over in yslf. Only the mechanic knows which vehicle true. He only maintains the two, less narrative. He’ll continue polishing the windows But none can get a vision passing through yslf. Inhabitants are far and between, not so near To know the former as spirited, impassioned soul, But lobotomized, unsanctioned, on life parole. Roaming the villages of yslf, only me knows. Bright lights, broad avenues, all leading nowhere, As yslf is a never ending journey back to the start. Only the mechanic understands the navigational, Having tested this vehicle himself. Wheel-locked, Parked in yslf, a memory glimpsed jump starts me. And I begin by writing a litany of odes to myself. I’m what’s important, not what others may think. 4.5.25 Concert in yslf, raising awareness for lost souls to reclaim (placeholder)… The introduction as summary is all one needs to read to know, apart from the absurdity that forces (placeholder) underneath. There is no ground. ‘Pencil pushers’ I wouldn’t have guessed when I selected yslf’s ceremonial band song. Video even in darkness. R.I.P. to that band. Stay tuned. Predicting the future of yslf: どうもありがと Mr. Roboto どうもありがと Mr. Roboto また会う日まで どうもありがと Mr. Roboto 秘密を知りたい Influence forces the town underneath from fire-breathing creatures ‘10 stories’ high. Whether or not it translates, me doesn’t care. I’m always in rewrite. So were the barn walls of yslf. |
| Allegorical (placeholder) fantasy, a creative exercise in indulgence, once more Hit it boys!. Stage Direction: Everyone in their places, were reading to roll. Narrator: 2006 — an empty stage sets our scene. Our witless writer is cued to walk in… Direction: Action! In that comfortable chair with drink, put on that music you like and write with Chekhov’s gun in your lap. Type words on all the world’s screens. A scene protracts — a sullied oracle wrestles with gray mystery, lingers in doubt — expansion into black, a coded void of silence. Adjust the nuisance, wobbly backrest, unquenched, Rhythms create a boundary in space, thirst. Going back in, the second scene arrives with a writer unholstered. There is a clueless, murderous lot, I gander? Ignorant gossip embellishes amongst them, defaming him — as toilet stall slander scrawls a journey, endless. Wheels catch carpet, can’t roll or lean in. Empty tumbler, favorites fading into unknown songs spinning. In this saddle, every word and unspoken thing frozen sets. Truth, or fiction? I get a whiff of it again, unending — serialized and practiced from those cornflakes slamming a paywall dispenser. Signs point him, ambling hombre, into a horizon-spectrum, spreading. This play — not well-constructed craft, failing. Frankly, non-sense. There never is a second act of our own choosing — just charade for interlopers intermingling, time depending. A crafted, glorious scene, hyperbolic, awaits each dreamer. This man is gun, mis-typed, ill-conceived, and crumpled, clicked and heaved into a corner bin. Make sure to eat those cookies. Do writers ever think about that? Words disposal is as easy as typing lies into truth — cause, Bang! Finger-pistols aim at the inner Chekhov. ——————————————————— Epilogue: All other writers have handed in their papers. He looks up, watches exodus departure, one by one. The entire room depixelates him from characters in blank scene. Never more un-real in the legacy of this white sea, me. 4.5.25 / 4.9.25 58 lines to here, free verse . Peruse further at your own risk. (mind still needs purge, produces further on below…) ——————————————————- I never said I was a good writer — you did, before unpinning that pride from my lapel. Dust indent-ion tweaks (still) the tinkered verses, rearranging. —————————————————— Who’s writing this life story? Me? Me, right? No? What’s narr-a-tive? Is there a question and answer, or…?? *reads litigant-provoking bathroom stalls.* —————————————————— Can’t read handwriting or intentions, ever-flowing in collaborated vortex full of witless fury provoked, as witnessed in grade two. When world, hear this voice (as intended)? *with tablet key, on pixel board he holds, but it won’t motivate a character to move. Not like you. Serious…any questions? Can anyone see me?? T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ It will go public. |
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