Carry it gingerly to the backyard,
it is a nursling yet ancient,
as stiff as chard gristle, as soft as lead,
as hard as a gallstone.
Open your hand.
see how it glows coal black.
This is your inner work,
this amorphous bone eating fire,
it smolders now in your hand.
Somewhere in the night
it grew stubby moth wings,
spans singed by the suns shadow.
Carry it now to the respiring air,
see how it breathes;
its elongated lung heaving
inside a flickering sac
of nebulous conception.
Hold the hand
with its seared burden palm upward,
whisper to the raptors of wind and sky,
let ravening talons tear it apart,
the hand also
let it be torn to the glistening cartilage
until there is nothing but ash.
When these metaphors fly away
as the baleful caws of crows,
when wraithy harbingers
cool into waymarks
a poem shorn of your gravity
will come to you.
Now growl or grin, grind even ash
into newborn light.
Less any objection with the missus,
versus never experiencing living alone
well...yes during that rough patch,
(sans during early adolescence),
I existed in a bone
huff fied impenetrable cocoon,
and just maybe before
yours truly dies, a clone
can be created from
stem cells of this doggone
melon collie, whimpering
beastie boy finally revelling,
where destiny does enthrone
me rendering unfettered
with round the cluck nymph fone
mani yolk hen pecking, nagging,
and leaching... from blood sucking
vampire spouse foregone
as a "bad" dream worse
than getting Rhode
Island sized gallstone
removed subsequently
saving said as gemstone
whiling away hours, days, weeks...
chiseling away at my gravestone,
no matter yours truly will get cremated
ashes scattered, liberated, and dispersed
finally exempt from grindstone,
where thee spirit
of Math Hew Homophone
Scott Harris appeased
as powdery gray flecks
similar to limestone,
that swirl reintegrating with Earth,
this quirky I poetically intone,
and soundlessly utter from jawbone,
perhaps communicating more
clearly by knucklebone.
Grinding stone,
Mortar stone,
Remaining of Stone Age,
Gallstone,
Kidney stone,
Paining of IT age!
Phasing between the
dick-numbing taste of
reality and a silly,
iron-wrought daydream
about **** stars smothered
in applesauce.
It takes a reliable method
to tame your oranges, and to
tuck them between your
nodes, plugging their meaty
sockets with bundles of
succulent nerve has,
mellow brass like pus.
Crops yield the children of
the sun. Solar dick stuck in
the dirt ad spewing a
sunny seedy spray. Deflower so
some flowers can grow.
Plain dirt with a little bit of
grass. Alright.
I fell into a boat on a safari
cruise in Disney World from
my latest goiter-explosion
vacation, my eyelids coated
in crushed gallstone
powder.
My eyebrows
were wintry with the crusts of
cold mashed potatoes. I
wiped them, and they
flaked.
I then stopped to watch a
man swallow a sword. He
chose the claymore, and his
throat split open. The
crowd was aghast.
Shortly afterwards, his
assistant came forth and
declared the audience
'trolled.'
The smoke machines
reminded me of the sweet
swampy stench mists of my
friends toilet.
It was right in front of his
grandfathers bedroom door.
I swallow my secrets,
sharp little shards of the bizarre
that would gossip of my weaknesses
if allowed to converse
with the light.
One by one,
they scratch along
a cervical bridge
between my heart and mind
before being accumulated
in a churning pit
of reason and conscience
that constantly folds self into self
and manipulates the flavors
of my life.
I never intended to invite you
into my sacred archipelagos,
I meant to sample the sweetness
of your flattery,
the ambrosia of the forbidden
and metabolize your motives later
but you defy my volcano
and oxidize in my stomach
an embryonic gallstone
feeding on the amniotic bile
that disintegrates
my most caustic emotions.
You could extinguish my hunger;
the lightless, empty craving
for content-edness
and alleviate the peptic erosion
of my islands
by accepting their idiosyncrasies.
But I fear you will overfill me,
nauseate me with your revolutionary rites
and that I will regurgitate
the occult within.
Yet, I can't suppress the craving
for more crumbs of your affection.
Somtimes in the night alone
I get up to visit your throne
On bended knees for children
The outcast travelling far
From the rest of heaven
Sometimes to beg for a star
Nights can be dark when clouds
Like pallbearers and shrouds
Suds the heart desert clean
From scuds and frantic dreams
O that star would then be seen
Guiding me from the silent screams
Sometimes at nights I rise to fall
Where the multitude stood enthralled
By human suffering on a cross
And in the dust of pain
Finds nothing to solace loss
Unlike Elijah, I bring no rain
Instead I wait in the still
For your voice to stir my will
In the soft rustle of wind
Where the eagle soars
From the rock's hard skin
Moses struckt it, O it pours
Flint and gallstone for some
Give me Job's patient wisdom
Give me, give me water, give
Me to make me live, O rock
Of my salvation, give and forgive
Me for hating the clock
The journey to you is so far
But the clock bleeds the scar
And ticks my life away
Night is a lonely time to wait
On silence when you pray
I need a star to guide my faith.