Month: July 2015
More Gravel, Tailings 3-22-2015
I laughed at the pickled herring, but it was delicious.
I giggled over the caviar, found it scrumptious.
I’d like to beat the common sense right out of you.
You would, wouldn’t you.
Wouldn’t work.
I’m pixilated.
Beset and adopted by pixies.
Disciplined by faeries.
Who wouldn’t let me befriend the sharp rocks.
Oats and hay.
Vinegar swoons.
Huge, high piles of gravel, tailings from the mines.
Sit on top, once you have climbed.
Look about Jean blue gene.
Nice, huh?
Let’s bonk noggins.
Rub my ears.
Answer the phone.
Tell them I’m busy.
White new linen pillowcase.
Smells like plaster.
Put that in your typewriter and
I’ll whip you, I’ll whip you like a creamy court reporter,
I took it standing up.
So much sauce.
My Friend chuck,
He was such an asshole
Jumped in the lake and
Broke his neck.
Another Sphere 3-22-2015
Imagine child,
if you were King of the World. Whatever you said, went. Whatever you wanted, was done.
And all of a sudden, of many suddenesses,
but not The Sudden,
this one caught you up, you were fed up. You had had enough. Of the stupid, malicious, killing greed and pain for pain hurt and sick who wallow in the hurt and sick and yet act right and good.
Of those who believe that they must force divinity by use of the most vile profanity.
Blinded in deficiency of love or care.
Consciously or unconsciously choosing to be brutes, thinking or feeling they can fix things by breaking other things.
And those who stupidly strive to love and fix and care and bring joy and solace and peace to them and any, those broken and breakers, thus endangering us all, according to those who don’t.
And the dull and in the way. Why are they made?
Quarrelers, all parties,
Enemies in a never-ending war.
So We,
The Royal We,
you can think,
as King,
should Be rid of them.
And you send them, by Royal Decree
and Divine Regal Magic,
Each,
of those flawed, unworthy, and failed,
Who nightly horrify the Kingdom,
One by one.
As they happen to offend.
Or worse, in large groups,
As they conspire and eventually succeed to offend on a gross scale,
To another planet.
This will repair the kingdom. Make it glorious.
To another planet.
Be gone.
Not In My Kingdom!
Pretty much everyone
Gone.
Imagine, children.
So but to where?
So but here they all come.
To here. This planet.
This world. Your kingdom
Where you are another king.
Imagine, child.
Smithing, Smiting 3-22-15
I want to make swords.
Fine swords.
Damascus steel.
Folded over and over.
Layered and rippled with edge.
Light and elegant. Wieldworthy.
Wind of death.
Breeze of mortality.
Flame and smoke of just pages of history.
I need a good Summer .
Or an adequate Spring.
I need a Forge.
And someone to pump the bellows.
And an anvil.
And a hammer.
A good hammer.
A vat full of lamb fat
For quenching the white hot steel at certain times
In the process.
And a river nearby
To fish for lunch.
A clean one to drink from.
Because it takes a while.
The finishing.
Honing, polishing, sharpening,
fashioning, hilt and pommel,
Handle of bone sides and leather.
Scabbard and straps.
When I was done
I gave it to you.
Now you can cut their fucking heads off
Or throw it in the ocean.
Minot Manchester and Little Rock. 9-5-14
Heroic
This is Heroic in every sense of the word.
Tangent
Dance 3-8-15
Release me from the mundane
From the Profane.
Make me a hero
For being an ordinary asshole.
It is extraordinarily difficult
To wrestle the sway of the Divine
Whilst tap dancing cross the
Same Slippery river stones
Where my father fell.
And was lost.
Buffeted by Profane torrents of usual and sameness.
Choose what you want as a virtue:
Patience, anger, fortitude, ignorance.
Humor, honesty, loyalty.
Pride.
You can be stupid or not.
Not stupid, is nominally better
In the long run.
Forge ahead.
Call back.
Give me encouragement.
Do that thing you do with your spindly ankles.
That unbelievable gait.
A pirouette on each and every local fire hydrant,
If you must.
Break padlocks with your eyelashes,
You must.
You must.
You must develop the bust.
How can I think I am not perfectly fantastic
With antlers.
I know you want me, just exactly me,
With antlers.
A Research Department Letdown
Last night I highjacked the monkey truck.
It was full, full, I tell you, with Pomeranians!
I couldn’t have been more delighted.
Treats for everyone!
Let’s go walkies, I exclaimed!
Everyone on the airplane!
All of you!
Off we go!
Back to Pomerania.
Where you belong.
Too cute.
Way, way, too cute.
Excessively so.
Where are my Monkeys? My Orangutans?
balingwireandspit 