Retrospection pains us.

Those old posts… oof. Yet, I still stand by (most of) the poems. New content unlikely but possible.

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Return of the Ghoulish Grammar

Tender Mutton

Reminiscent; great ancestor,
hear our offering:
the softened fall of snow — shattered glass
the crackle of the cabin-pit
the sloshing elephant heart
al dente, for one.

 

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Tuesday is still a day of the week

Putin struck down Babel

The parapets went crashing, crashing,
down as the children played about
and up the road just looking smug
was Mr. Putin puffed and stout,
fluffing up sprouts, huffing up sprats
as fall they did from up the hill where floors
(like stories!) crumpled up and up the chimney’s
crumbling ashes flew away as age struck down:
beards alight with pendant blazing pasted over
blankness seeds; ties and rulers put to order
Escher-based geographies; sticks and stones
hey,
they really broke no bones—
but the concrete would protest.

Now sure, the learning still was there,
sticking through the sandbox dunes
but the matter was just this—
dispersed
and borders opened for the sandbox to expand
a beautiful if shallow spiral outwards, outwards,
and swept under. Some bits stick out
for others yet to cry
“Maniac!”
“We could have yet—!”
“been a contender”

They say the trees are lovely still,
the wood grows over ruined grounds (old wood, rotting, not to last
but of course we term these “classics,
pungent and traditional” in earshot or, with progress ever-hailed,
droneshot) where knowledge lays to rest
tucking in naiveté as big spoon will to little, death
buy a pamphlet? The prose wins praise from critics
and sincerely! — even we acknowledge — for our marketing
is pride massaging Mephistopheles. Subversive elements
are cute, after all they think they matter. (And they do,
don’t get this wrong, we love them, but they
have no generational talent, ahah.)

The tower by itself was lonesome, just a one
buffeting zeroes, but it stayed from isolation
when the lights around shone dim, and it killed
when it was crumbled all that had its air
and roots
and little elsewise. Not poetic, no,
but blunt enough to smack awake yet stay
(the killing blow) still friends.
A G, a symphony in G,
a thousand by thousand “geez” we say
GNU Emanon

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Early! For a given time zone, at least. Weekly written word.

Ode to it all

Oh what shall minds new
discover in the ashes of old times,
our times?

A heaping sod of bollocks, probably. (Or was it a sodding heap? Probably.)
And good!

Stupidity lets rising tides select where drifts
go pear-shaped, pear-shaped
and where they let us on,
let us in on the secrets we all know
but think too much, and too much of, to let
go and leave it in.

Oh, we know a pleat from a bleat
and we can dance the hemp fandango,
but who’s to volunteer and do it smiling for the rest? Stupidity
can be the mask of bravery, old Uncle False (False) Bravado
taking licks so we stay dry rather than get that way;
of course it takes wisdom to be stupid rather than a moron.
I don’t have it,
but I’ve taken it on loan,
for a second.
Two.
Three of course, of course, as a matter of course, of course.
Four never — four is death, the super-sized, the scything
not the teensy one, the scathing, that could be borne.

So let my voiceless songs be woven in the finer details,
and thanks to the fearful moronic wise ones grinning
to cover-as-if-puns-translated groaning.
Maybe the historic painting will be pretty
and somewhat less crimson than the last.

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Another poem for ghoulish challenge

Pudding

Wobble, wobble, blades like stubble
careening down the hall.
And the whiskey gone!

 

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Challenge of the Grammarians

Sci-Fan rubble, toil, and stubble

I crawled the tunnel dank and dreary
stumbled up a shaft most weary
coughing smoke, the grit, the shit,
and landed on a plane most strange—

The hut a top, a chibi rocket
flying out the demon’s taint,
bedeviled grimace catching photos
on the satellite for souls;

Death was there I guess.


 

The delightful prompt.

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Contest entry, number (Arabic digits here)

Regret felt upon a transaction, conveyed by capital meat-bag

Blunderbuss, rifling through your lawn
happily while, all the, you blubber

Converting bio-mechanically one into the next,
feature of torso to a facial
disruption letting nature show, SHOW
felicity aside a truer facet, whimper-snapping
so’s a fickle nature sway.

 

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Weekly writing exercise

Paperbacked

We were not meant to be
together
and
these lines were meant
to serve,
my purpose was not Romanticist
but farcical yet now
there they stand
“We were not meant to be”
so trite and now it saddens, legitimately so
for memory—of and being—failing
while young!
I; am old
that can be said
but really I am youth incarnate still
still
the genes wear me well, and closely
so to say as I should all-remembrance
all-encumber is a fault

(I) do not wish to be faulty –
Synapses
a book across the table.
Slow… to get across, would
be
tra-

gic.

 
Basically I am a pleb.
Yet still I write!
([{Please support my Patreon k thx bye}])

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