SEASIDE DRIFTS FROM A PLODDED MIND

oh delicate harlot with pinned up hair,
     to stand back
gasping for wind, your parasol extended
       through tomorrow's weather
fanning your breasts with leaves
from banana

you make me think how humidity, too so!
or short hairs curled in a navel moist such
…gluey! how winter jeans on a summer bottom
                   the inner clench of your feminine
                   clasp

but delicate you, rainwashed to a sundress
     sultry airs across rubbery thighs
i sigh too sense, such wet thick summer bred legs
       makes me wish for wide sunsets and
                                             moondials
cigarettes on a ocean bluff,
                          a wooden chair
                 your hair blowing through a salty breeze

as the clock suspends to a big brown
                                             cloud

11:38 - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

267 APRICOT LANE

i built a fence in the living room, to keep the thoughts out
meanwhile someone is listening to me
but i'm uncertain if they have a mustache or a microscope
oh how wonderful to be a spring chicken in october unmarinaded and hopeful
although other times i think, butter my thighs and bake me deep, because this world is too cold for my chicken thighs
even in July, nothing says "I prefer cola" like nuking your skins in the garment garage.
yes, and i would agree, however sometimes I feel lonely and masturbate in the foyer
no shower to conclude my enjoyment, I often gnaw at my loins with the extended mouth of a pliable neighbor
this is more often todd Bloche than anyone else
come to think of it, it's never todd bloche, it's usually Katie Karth
the accountant from nebraska who flagrantly insists that wyomming is nothing but an imagined state
stemmed from the boredoms of breathing... or bad beef medallions
how hot dog of her to think in such ways, i think twice
i shall cable car her desires with a pinched fist to say "bone that, bone that wide and horrible, Apeface"
other times i condone abbreviations in dialogue
carrying on though my affairs like a succession of apostrophes
with no beat or reason for laws and suggestion.
i should note that my wife has advised me in a variety of ways
to pull down the fence and extinguish the fires
however I won't be liable for any invasions
this way someone will eventually extend a hand, a word, perhaps lunch
although i remain skeptical and will stick strictly to apostrophes in the meanwhile
oh how contorted to be a boiled chicken all rubber-well and easy
of all the ruminations of my chicken choice, boiled is the one money song for me
meanwhile the pills bottles remain full as i retire to the bathroom to east washcloths
hold my calls until i purchase a phone, my demographics are suddenly subject to change

10:41 - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

DISTANCE IS A RELATIVE STATE TO OBSERVATION (or every seat has an ass that can’t find it)

her hymns were bloated with boyschool admiration
distant affections underneath fire escape landings, school-
side, where bottlecaps and gum pock her haven of longing.
she writes poems on her palms and sings about desire
covetous, with hands clasped and clinched between thighs
the fancy of her wanton will, a boy in the tree with headphones
and dope, he writes songs about songs and wished nothing less
than the wantings of a girl too wanting of a boy who wishes to
find love under a sprawling oak canape, or a fire escape landing.

7:14 - 7 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

THE LOST TRIANGLES

it's been a long while since i have witnessed a happy game
of badminton being had. oh and what of nok hockey, thumbs
with no red sticks. corner shots and all sorts of multi-point rules
made from the innocent minds of 1979 and older? meanwhile, i
see basement children with hectic fingers making war on their
technicolor televisions, like the sun is no longer a means for
raising cheer or fingering the neighbor behind the tool shed. or
burning holes through fallen leaves with a shard of glass, or waking
up at the crack of dawn to watch missus cleavy pull up her shades
and pull down her white american panties to say good morning
beautiful and hopeful world. and now we see prepubescent boys
with urine fetishes and a sense of gratification all too deranged to
ever be met. there's no more lubridern containers and a glamour
magazine, slippy fingers patiently working to the gears of a happy
and healthy imagination. its all bald chasms devoid of charm, not
the striking contrast of hair piles pinned to the abdomen of wonder.
i think, gosh what has happened?, but i too also imagine, man if had
that shit when i was twelve, i'd have butterpumped myself into a tremor
of eternal glee.

5:50 - 5 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

AN OVERDUE REPLY TO SHARKY REGARDING ALL SORTS OF CONCERNS

Mister S.,

Think first of the Kroke parallelogram, which is all but a parallelogram, whereas most first look to a Belgium sort of curl which neatly wraps around karma and indecency almost simultaneously, hence your sudden disclosures around such topics as rolling eyes and compression. I often wonder about the displaced word which reads alone in white texts, nearly outdoing himself by the hands of well agreed sentences, such and forth, I gather the embers from your rolling flames that seem to absorb all of your humanly good fortunes (detract that statement if you are yours is lactating behind a tin shed or Wal-Mart). Can you look me in the eye and actually say with reservation that my shoes are made from yogurt cultures, or are just being contrary for the sake of Christianity? I'm inclined to wail nay at the counterintuitive gestures that seem so blatantly pour from your fingertips. Courtship, Mister S., is based on a simple foundation of being there when your partner is falling into the clouds without a wig or a parachute manual, not what you have based it on, which strictly dissolves by the handshake and caboose theory that all that which gives meaning, has left behind us and the future is merely a one-way ticket to a parallel state of accepted disjointedness, thus and such, I question your ability to string lights from the gables of your outrageous and conspiring chapel of lunacy and pander. I reject your self-admitted state of ostrogophic rampage, as a simple discourse built on humility. I would say knock it off, but I'm certain you'll continue down that path of indigent know-how, even considering what you already know or do not know, which can be described as Nombo Rictus. I say too, that all time has given us is more time, and that death is a simple chore for undoing the maze and hecticity of doing more chores. I'd offer you my manual, but again, I'm certain you'll find a way of dampening my culture with your catastrophic desires. Keep too in mind that the government has been feeding me doughnuts and rim cakes as a warning to steer clear of your imagery.

Call Jib and tell him that the gig is off. You and I have some working out to do. I dare not say another word for fear you may respond with unruliness or sudden outrages that bare not witness to good deeds or bad language.

it was weak recently, the unrelated world, we and you.
more you to be earnest, I'm too sick to seem honest or concerning. And deadly, or sincere
as I formally denounce the assembly of suicide instructors busily, which becomes difficult because anyone who rotates
one leg left, is suddenly tomorrow's news...hence the spider clamp on your visor and the cautious way I smile when your
practicing suicide arrangements with chewing gum and garden hoses.

is everybody for placement camp, in -?

? who formed the distortion wall (un?) - - - Capricorn? Jolese? Dave Winfield?

Sometimes dentistry is a civil means to get fat and lose of our point.
Other times I sit in my bed eating shoeshells and gathering my teeth, not because love is time, but
rather time is a bag of habitats and tombs splayed across the maps of Spanish prawns.
I think wash the floor I think ring the clamps....I say to anyone with ears, clamp the cloths and ring the sins.
Oh lobster oh lobster, where are your shins...oh moosecake oh sister for where is my mouth? meanwhile,
Americans are trading in their children for 18 wheelers and fast food coupons.
Sometimes I push cameras against the sky, not for proof, but for clarity and escape. I say shin the shark,
I think pin the wind...when mother was goosing eggs from the pastries, I said cream the tubes or shock the sugar.
But of course me, the soldier of silly situations, mocked by own admissions...hanged by my incurable flag...and that fruit
is neither a consolation or a doorbell to good health, I stand naked with mercury in my mouth clamoring for tuna.
I also have dreams about Ace Frehley picking my toenails with a gin key. And because you say Westchester had doctors,
I ape to the jury with a banana hat and too many injuries, at first delinquent to my confession, and then quiet by the
accusations of my bad taste.....Oh doctor with long fingers and tummy tuck coupons, come down from your ladder and scrape my bunions...come up from your tomb and wax my seashells...for my heart is but a rat stuffed with cake..
....for my mind is but a shark shanked from chum....and to think that wrist watches and time machines are being auctioned
off to hijackers and camel cars is a concern too crisp for naughty daughters...a clam too tight for mossy breakdowns…
so I ask you, Mister S., with your peach pits and laughter, I ask you with loud sounds ringing from my chins
 "who stole the golden mustache from downtown America?


Yours and theirs,

Grayne Mickels

5:31 - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

HOW TO SAY NOTHING AND MEAN IT

more crap from Rist Aroud, the unfounded hipshot philospher who refuses to leave me be.


spontaneous philosophy is a function of leniency (or fluidity)
                     because….
eyes do wander to escape the essence of what eyes deny...
         the paranormal
               the degenerate state of reflection and waters
 
         prophetic anomalies perplex endeavors of
free verse (and those lingusitics which bare no beginning, or end,)
                                    locked up in oceans and echoes hypnotic



                                      to distort implications
              or annihilate conception
close your eyes and ignore all choice, for
                      no door closed can open your
                                                            fall.

therefore, place no emphasis on the obvious, (or those things
which appear too deranged, like the
                                      dangerously obvious
                              or the dubious dog)

                                                  ~ Rist Aroud

13:29 - 9 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

WHO CLAWS AT MIND GHOSTS SEEMS A SICK MIME

and that werds sit between unwashed ears and therefore ungoverned
unlike all which leans against guarded liberties
washcloths, laws, men with pleats and british wigs
and behind me, a map to oblivion's door
with its codes and misled lines scrambled by wigs.

and to castrate these kempt jewels of the unelected..
the overly heard...the prestigious and
decidingly unerotic herald elite….
i think english magistrates, i think too of
tenth generation connecticut socials with their
unsexed sport jackets, ancient monies and pill-shocked hard-ons
and that i snip them with a borrowed and delinquent hand
from the frozen in time, Dada Inc. - because beauty begs a silent mind.

and like a thousand sprawling tentacles fixed with scissors
or a hectic babble of bumble bees, fronting for retribution
that i sketch or scratch to emboss, both
courteous myths on their troubles, or naughty born verse
in the trousers, blouses and kerchiefed mothers.
and because liberty is a chinese hat and my heart,
a delicate egg of noble custard, i shall shun all walls that lock me out
because joy is not spackled with black stars, and the sun
is not our immortal womb,
or the moon which never leaves my circular eyes.
a lamp to shine on the oceans of poems.

that i shall deny their laws and live as free, a skinny doughnut
a freckled loaf of epidermal rye
and unlike lectures and awful slideshows,
constant poetry, defined by the absence of law reality
is a matter which, as thoughtless as gravity,
bakes in the deep of nature's uterus.
not high art as marked by those who wish to authenticate

because death is a blind wind, and the equine which cuts
through wheats and estate, and through, the equine who
crisscrosses, fist cantering then pushing the approximate cause
exactly between fable and spider meats exhumed-

i'll make awful faces where time allows
i'll arouse my fingers with the supple bubbles...
bubbles from the sea, nipples from the sky
because the scenes from my rods and cones will swim
or dial your broken phone until the sun rears her horrid breasts
and the day ceases as a recurrent point for betterment-

i came here with a lenient head, all vacuous and
only to find splattered myths of jinx and ruse
laminated against virgin dreams
pressed beneath guidelines and past victors
and therefore, as a squid unlocked and loosely liberated
tentacles akimbo and wet, liquefied
like a collapsed jacket of skin…. looking for bones
bones that are gorgeous and clean

i think egyptian or simian bones…. washed against the shore
jellyfish-swathed biblical bones, waxed with jam
not your penny loafer uptown jam
but a real highl flea-market downtown jam
…..mason jarred with slipshod labels
the kind of jam that explodes
because every bit of seed is constant poetry

....the sickest and purest...the boom boomest
the bombastest and maddest
the shell-shocked verse which frees our lids
is a harpoon against our criminal oppressors

or this, again...this merely one more tirade
one more needles poem... against forces not there
like a prisoner of my own mind…like a poem clawed from
the idle state of illity

and how i love to keep company with an aggravated war

poetry..meh and pah! no more poetry no more lies

6:49 - 10 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

THE UNREMITTING SOUNDS OF EMPTY ECHOES

as one engages in the lamping drills or silent highs of linguistic apathy, both served and deserved,
one too could (without werds) shout "clean the meat pin my awful Judas, for death is a bludgeon of white"
one too divides oneself with fright and certainty, because animals are haunted by only animals, and
all that which is sacred is merely a ruse, a vest even, like the many religions that shiver beneath sheets.
consider klatimen carver, the ancient purveyor of minimal engagement, who suffered by the sword of his
unspoken werds. and i suggest such considering with devoid and avoidance of my own premonitions
which illustrate a silent and approximate sound of clouds surrounding a song not there. like stormy thunders
falling through ozones of human unkindness, because linguistic apathy sheds its reluctance like a tree shakes
leaves on a still summer dew. therefore free will has many faces and facets and because those silver lights on the
ocean's skin are the werds of distant strangers. those who wish to be heard but never seen. not a monk for poetry
or a young  man sleeping because the day is too long, but because oceans are big and men are too frail to horde
their concerns. of course other difficulties have come to light, like the arching echoes of those who had died because
love was too rare to be trapped. or the orbs of energy that continue to shine because death comes without a sound.
when you say that all things true are created to die,  i ask of you, then who shall be there to bury the future, when the
present is riddled by laws of destruction? and by this i mean the slow growth of underground storms that have yet to be,
or the spinning equations of unknown maths or scientific extractions pulled from remote galaxies, places where mortals
share brains in the pleasant atmospheres and where language has been reduced to apostrophes and periods, nothing
more and always less. specific or benign. unkind or exotic. not politics or diplomacy, for those are hurdles placed by precision
by both proposers and those who refused to weigh down their opposition. things happen because they can and they will,
and therefore all shall continue to occur in cycles, until werds learn their meanings and people stop yawning. for now
and until things undo and implode by their own ill forces, death remains a warm bed of rest. and deep inside each of us,
behind love and the many joys afforded, all of us, even the suns and moons, are awaiting death with open hearts.
as our savior, death's hands have been swatted by the distractions of noises..the sonic booms of aerial laughters and
bomb which fall like love and time, and when all eyes being closed, we quietly beg for death's sword to be buried deep into
the language of our turmoils. even the joyful wealthies with their empty sacks of possessions call upon death with silent gestures.
ask any man in a private moment, unbiased by his loved ones presence, ask him what he needs more than any other possibility,
and no doubt his reply will be death. it may not be spoken with clarity, but behind every anomaly or expected disaster, is the
silence of prayers for the end. and because werds mean nothing and the wind is forever, it's my theory and understanding
that hurricanes are the vestiges of unfulfilled questions that answers could never diploma.

-Rist Aroud

11:59 - 8 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

MR. RIST AROUD

Because we all battle-axe against this existence
I often ponder the reverse, or an image all too
different to have a reverse. A vision of nothing
pushing quietly through death and religion
                        because love is too big to enjoy.

                                            - Rist Aroud

10:47 - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

TIME EATS TIME

whereas the fish who cuts through sheets of water
yet hears no whistle, is never concerned for time
extraneous to the state of my hectic demise
as i wedge through winds to get nearer to death.

8:22 - 6 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

POETRY IS A CIRCLE OF KICKING BOOTS

because this world is an absurd cocoon
                  wrapped by gravity and war
is no reason to ignore your werds
    as the hatchets there are
for hacking at the skins of this fucked up,
   opaque, and increasingly deranged, cocoon
                                      of bombs and law.

8:10 - 10 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

BOX (repost from 2006)

I walked through you
and I was a room
with no way windows
and every direction
was reflected across
Eternity.

When I called your
name I heard empty echoes,
like hair falling through
clouds. Like echoes
falling through echoes

I opened a door
and walked out of you.
I saw my wife crying
And the aroma of flowers
was the Sun's farewell
And you were a wooden box
simple with
copper trimming.

On your chest, a brass plaque
and my misspelled name

      andrew boreum
         1974 - 2008

9:29 - 7 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

KING CARL THE FALLEN AND HIS LOVE FOR BOYS

for Sharky

How squid ink of you to note such reflections on the state of refuge and abandonment. I hardly recall such meanderings as a justification for beach balls in light of holy ferns or even the diabolic positionings of Chinese shrubbery (which you failed to elect as something I should consider, if not mandate). Care we not for structure or the hypothetics of premonition? I once evoked a set of rubber coin solutions when the notion of replacing arcades with small ponds was pondered and further pontificated upon by the elitist movement known to few kosher luminaries as the Haylog Ministry of Fornicating Abrahams. Not that this should persuade you in any way. I simply aim to eradicate potential movements towards war without first laying down sound, and some fortunately unsound, contingencies. Have I accustomed your fettered acquaintance to the seemingly paranormal, but wholly erotic bodess, Lamoya Papayo? I think she stands as a point of joy, if not something of a fennel seed in the realm of genital disillusionment. and that even myself, a once proud prince of linguistic mutiny, was part a time, when her navel was more than the governing body of my lopsided and malnourished libido. Ah, such times that bring forth delicate smiles and belly bumps. Such splendid delinquency that unfurled from my fine silk trousers purchased on a rare excursion to Rio, when Rio was the be all and end all to erotic fluency. But how squid ink of you to parlay your heart not like a new verse on a closed poem, but like a leviathan pushing his enormous hands down the collective trouser front of ardent nihilists. I counterbalance my ego in ways that aim to reduce redundancy, and it seems to me that you have but all acknowledged my efforts. What is it that you wish of me? Is it that you seek to overrule my goodness by staking unwarranted claims upon my self-appointed monarchy? I recall offering you two ponies and a clean bed for your simple services, which could be summarized in four words 'stroke that pony happy". And now you aim those limp spears in my direction, as some sort of point for debate, even takeover? Perhaps you have forgotten who it is I am. Perhaps you have double-scotched your ego into perforated bits of mental anguish, and that which was once a solid state of obedience, is now obliterated by the tiny holes which no longer seem to stitch what was once entirely hospitable and emotionally Russian. I urge for your immediate retreat, and that you leave behind my mottos and words of encouragement that have bettered you these past eleven years, as Pony Master General. and that I stand here, the able to your caned hooves, thinking how squid ink of you to shun my good nature. That you have led me down such lanes of treachery, with your blatant mockery as my back turns to face this evolving revolution. That as I holler my victorious discourse to the needy and fallen, as bequeathed even my more own standards of generosity, a heartened reflection of past glories, glories that which shall return upon our squally heads of dogma and police. Oh my foolish Batha, shepherd to my stables, clandestine to my abnormal sexuality, arbitrator to my double-talk and meandering beliefs. That I stand here nude as a whiffle ball bat, a grown boy crowned in beans, even a boy that once jumped joyous along the boardwalks of New Jersey's shore, seersuckered like a peppermint cinched buffoon. Oh Batha, my brother, my sister, my blue-eyed baton twirling pony boy, show me your guilt by way of a gentle tongue lashing, and perhaps I may upturn my sentencing. Show me your graciousness as I pecker your belly with peppers and jams. Show me love and I shall set you free of my sickness and decree my good fortunes as those of your own. Show me pennywhistle and jovial pinkies. Show me monkey glove and bananas. Show me that pulsing Chewbacca in the lap of your trousers. Show me everything we once did behind the tool shed, when as boys you called upon Jesus for my sainthood. Save me from these delusions of castles and ponies. For I have nothing without you.

Carl

12:50 - 10 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

PRETTY NUISANCE

 
( I )
 there's a calm delicacy certain to her sadness,
and to observe her expanding ideas... thru solitudes and
            endless longings, unfolding broken flowers in a patch
of colours, dreaming pink storms of falling begonias,
                as my broken clouds stumble across canvas

              and that smashing sunlight with a batting eye
is more than squinting by candle light, where
    shaping her private city; tiny shards of dancing flames
                swaying to the will of unlocked dreams.

smashing the sunlight is for everyone, she moans
         ….. even the stars? i reply with taunt
 and as I turn down the lamp to urge her to sleep
          she reminds me to blow out the moon

( II )
          i've not decorated these eyes with gasoline and
wooden stick matches, only to watch her mind implode.

            i've decorated these eyes to annihilate her moon

( III )
      in spaces too empty to climb, she sees me in a dream
she notes the end in my step stool eyes
like minds expanding into spiraling nothingness
                she falls into the sky like a weightless ghost

( IV )

            there's no sound to describe her stare

( V )

                  whereas time has lapsed through wood,
and fires and water have traded skins
            not watching the moon yawn, or stars fading into morning
                 outside roses collapse with inaudible snaps
                            i hear them, as
morning falls back through our evening

                  dews undone and birds ashatter

i poke at her pretty, face making certain of her death, grateful
              for coffee and the channel 2 news.

11:43 - 10 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

COURTSHIP PENDING

Dear Foillice,

As a prerequisite to thunder, I shave the vitamins from my urine, before emptying the nutrients into a thimble of rain...this way when the lightning strikes, I can remain cool, urgent and inexplicably tolerant.

I wonder if you do the same.

Exclusively,

Carl Boron

7:36 - 6 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment