Poetry #too.

 when asked how he smelt...

There was a man from Tashkent....

Today I sit here writing
poetry and such
I always start off with something good
but it never ends up as much

My rhyme scheme is all mangled
My syllables don't line up
I cannot seem to be able to follow the well known a/b/a/b scheme nor keep within reasonable line lenghts
And I can't think of a rhyme for "up"

In fact, I probably could have
thought of a rhyme for "up"
But nay, I was too lazy,
To rhyme a word with "up"

What, you say I'm pulling this poem
Right here right out of my ass?
I'm certainly not improvising it,
whyeverso do you ask?

a lot of them could be great song lyrics!

Sometimes when I am riding in a van
I look at the window and I think it's raining
But then I realize it's just squished bugs

Jim Garten wrote: Monday - A day heavy with dread, and A week ahead, grey with portents. Sun can shine unheeded, but rain always noted. Mind unfettered, But with depression bloated.

Nice!

Yesterday was grey
I decided it was fantastic and gay!
So goes the epic Marcella
Raising his crowned horn
With the double-breasted crest of
gold

Maise.

I left the field crawling with mice
Green vermin choking on rice
God I hate Mondays

Silence, solitude and sequencing

II

These dogs are of a furios character
seemingly growling
even when they're actually laughing
within their eyes you see yourself
blurry
but clearly dissociated.
You get frightened, you understand finally
what is wrong about your will;
these dogs tend not to kill,
just to care
and to make yourself
an illuminated entity; a lucky one; a
vibrant string
collapsing into dazzling censure
Gives you what no one can; makes you
fall in love, like a blossomed vigor; wants
out of you the unwanted: charisma
and power are fake attributes, you'll
never be astute, dear child, you'll be
the dog's raw lunch.

Cerberus, fetch!

Thursday comes as the best day
To go to themall and to stand by the
falling cascade, down there, by the demisol
Artificial air, overflown breeze
plus the hum of people
being silent in its stillness.
But that's an image.
Where's reality? And how will you adapt?

I'm here, my darling
I'm comfy
I'm happy
I'm satisfied
I want you
I even dream of you;
I have it all
I desire all
I'm the one
I'm the only one
I'm the last one
I don't want any of this
    nor do
I need
          any of this
    given the truth
I respect.

What's the purpose of this?
What stays and what goes? Well
I'm the one staying
And you're the one going,
old friend, the last
Of them all, who vanquished.

I stay as to reach Nirvana's dead point,
where whispers are of infatuos caliber
also of the melodic tone. In a twist beat.

It's the entire sky that upsets me,
cloudless; brightful; looks so meschine
and full of himself; people seem to like
a white ray coming from
the unexpected and unexplainable place
of wonders and calamities.
Judge that while taking time to
experience everything and
anything.

One day, of the future time,
Yggdrasill shall collapse and
thus shall come the world's dead end
Ragnarok.

One peasant down the corner of the street
mentions both the end and infinite
rumbling
doomsday, respectively
bloomsday.
And I, the stupid, see quintessence in
that, as in all that
isn't and
won't.

Down the darkness
comes the light God didn't make.
The one of pretty much
all fears,
condensed however
in hopes of some sort.
The imaginative ones
                         at least.

In the sad flicker
I close my eyes;
it isn't working; him
stands still there.

Silence, solitude and sequencing

I

As you open the book, light gets revealed under the
most fake
impression that you can actually see it
there goes
the outdoor contact and the vital knowledge
from which,
in sleep,
you live to tell the story. One decreptive and
sometimes in colors that don't fit with what
you're wearing
and sometimes one that resembles a future
long passed and a wish
long killed. Desperate soldiers immortalize the
frame and clear out any suspicions, to come
in advantage. You can't read the signs
therefore
you ask someone else to give you the grave
detail. Nobody? Where is that joy of telling
your clueless thought? Go, and with that, don't
go. Comfort is a waste, the rich taste is a
benefic slough. Die and close
win
and stop wanting humanity's close
pestilential hope. Piano strings pinched, pitched,
patched. The more you know
the better you realize.

With big letters, lies written
"Drescalusa, Menecaduca, Isar"
By the melted face man.
The author hums the indescribable.

Stop at the flashlight signal and go hysterical
over the cause of waiting
doom's syllabified connection.
Up front, the rusty train;
down below, Eleusys.
God, the fearsome flaw, broke the spell
of can-made Babel-isle, making thralls
curios and imposing new definitions and
interpretations of the word, so simple,
can
each day
by each person
in a way just for that person
meant to be. Obliged, I can't communicate with
my girl, close spouse, future victim, about the
faceless demon that appears on the bedroom walls
saying
ka-boo.
I fear you, but not like that.
Let's watch it. Then we'll see what's to be done.

Enthusiastic.

The world is made out of fixed ideas and
improvised emotion, reaching a sensible
chord only when taken too seriously by
the persons without anything to complain
about. With a short, simple poem
you get what you want or do even more. Thus
in my celebrated poem I say
I don't live among humans
at which
comes a voice, a response saying offuscated
Don't be silly, you do live among humans
at which
I defend my idea
what idea, my belief! saying
No, I don't
at which, once more
Yes, you do!
at which
No, I don't!!
the poem struck gold being only considered
too frightening for the common taste.
Not everybody gets the miraculous gift of
comprehension. Not everybody loves another
of his own, like asked.

Open door
Enter room
Close curtains
Lie down
Stop breathing
You're safe.

I just know something wrong's going to happen,
but I get asked to keep my voice down,
in face
I get rudely advised to shut my mouth
and to drive safely
across the bridge whose end melts the
horizon. The thing I fear is that
somebody, anybody
will be there, living its life in a normal way,
at the bridge's end, up in that desert-town-
strangled-paw.
That can only, and for surely, mean that
I have to socialize and to accept that one
waiting entity. Bright clear...

The marche funebre tone is universal.

Staying
I develope qualities; so a dog shows up
and clearly says, moving lips, articularing sound:
hi, got bone?
AH!