Poetry #too.

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.

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

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.

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!

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

a lot of them could be great song lyrics!

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?

There was a man from Tashkent....

 when asked how he smelt...

Hey, this one is by my bestfriend Tyler,