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Tag Archives: Recording

Life and Death Around Every Turn

Lineage adroitly determined by

Individualized synergistic

Frames. Fragments fan and then

Enter through


Acacia’s inflorescent

Necromancy. Scored through the

Dance of dreams, where


Darkened clusters do reveal, the

Effervescent toil heard,

A casted spell told in truth,

The warlock’s tress

Harnessed there, where


Austere vision’s beckon forth




Near and close, forming what’s forever known, as the

Deceitful lock unopposed


Enmity therein grows


Enigmatic prose,


Yearly, as


Tomorrow’s cyclones thrash

Underneath the fear exposed, eliciting

Reflections of shame and scorn,

Never ending….ah, tis’ the answer no one knows



Circuitous Disasters and other Wide-Ranging Fortuitous Ramblings


Circuitous disasters

Cicadas spinning strong

Songs of triumphant kings

Prevailing over beasts unfound


Catastrophic devastations

Birth from adders in a cobras bay

War-strung harmonies are all that play

Coveting the smoldering of a desisted day


The cloaks are grey

The smocks are red

The iron is steady

The flesh is dead


Fear, fear, fear, is in the backseat when you’re with me dear…hear, hear, hear me spell your name in a sleep so real


Presorted cards of calculated potential

Despite not knowing the square root of nothing-doing,

You still deliberate your tentative response, with a quick

Swig of whiskey and a book casing clothed in math


Insidious dimensions

Arithmetically aligned

To all and each of what shall we find

When perusing through the sanctions of your most precious plots in mind


Tortuous dominions

All brash and bark

Full-fledglings beneath you

Now as you hunt blindfolded

Along a path so dark


Risk me the riddle

Answer the shine

Blowtorch the vacuum

With a shot of the strange


Prolonging the loudspeaker, it’s several of hymns

Scratching the needle, not close to the ending note though, not near

Where the first of it’s five minutes begin


And a tornado far-flung it’s fantastic rope

Dangling clockwise in the conundrums revolutionary pit

Clocking out

Clicking in

Checking space

Twiddling thumbs


Then…that point when,

Time trials whisk away

Every temptation to spin dangerously near my eyes


Earth-quaking numb



Blonde, not blue, not black, not white, I quiver in the conversations that rely on observation, as I’ve only ever offered the world as seen through these wonderful, yet self-deceptive pair my sockets hide…


And the dreamer finds himself a’ wondering

‘How does an angler never catch a rock with such taut lines?’


And all is fine, all is fine

As the trumpets blare

Tunes told twice

To the skyline’s neon growth

To the theoretical ghost to which once spoke

Songs to the Forensic tech

Who happened to find the assignation to the crime

Was devised in an empty room that he alone should

Stumble upon, where it was his duty solitarily, to drum up

Some sort of answer to the blank resolve that he there would find


…and he would find it




Naivety in a World of Mass Communication


If my ears perk up,

And then tilt my head

To a side, will you find me

Odd, or understand

I’m just trying to get

A fix on you….


There is, so much to uncover foundationally that the basic workbook approach is so primitive in it’s elementary scope, that we’ll never broach the subject’s prospectus, not until the question’s clearly choked upon it’s own impatience and then to where….a


Fiery ball of electrified….erupts in furious witchcraft…

Entangling it’s very stock in the perishable yet dented cans of

Exclamatory zest,

Which, which of these,

Which of these words enchant you best?


Loyal to a fault

That’s been my everlasting decree, my shadow symphony, the broken back upon this skeletal frame I’m withering in,

And until I break these fortunate chains concealing me close,

I’ll never escape that which I’ve become to be, the visual representation submerged next to the Webster line, a living example of what is deemed, chiropractic porn for the unilateral mind approaching frenetic zeal, a mask for the offering, to he who hath no well to nourish


It was a seaside soiree with a salted breeze

All caps were locked, shifting with ease

Crossing afflicted

Tension stressed

Vertical forms of tides paint slowly

Still, the water rushes through a sweltered swoon, diabolically plotting the unleashing of its riptide flow


All in the angles,

Into the noose

Of hyper structure

Barricading the prophet,

To avoid the influx of pressure


Dignity comes in myriad tones

From the boisterous cackle

To the whispered groan

And yet,

Broken tooth blood clots and all

I feel as if I’m a millionaire who’s been stolen

And now’s been found…. eager to say cheese, without a second thought what that picture might be worth


Yellow Cab Cutie


Pike me up, toll road’s down,

Free to handle, each strain of

Gravel to skip up and hit the carriage underneath

Clean so close to this broken stretch of ground does mean

Invisible and aligned


All and both the turns, a foundational approach

For the indecisive set, a line, a hoax, a holler and a mixed bag of magnitude…a combinatory…..stretch of paint….that only illustrates….the dimensions…of what is determined to be……. wretchedness


Never been careful to what the trap door lies, even after knowing the blueprint, even after hearing the hollow boot to slat, I forget and flip about in seconds flat….too much drinking on the job is never advisable…yet so many people choose to go against the grain…


Forget-me-not, soon will rise the morning sun, and quickly I relive the last eight that I’ve spent…I don’t work the nine to five, nor the two to ten, I’ve been called a vampire, yeah, a vampire… as the past twenty, it’s only the graveyard that I’ve sensed


Lowly peon, scrounging sap, broken loner, a perfect patsy for those who don’t want to work, yet the dispatcher often claims, I can’t be on the job, lest overtime I will demand


How they know me so little


Jersey hack, wild ride, Pay my fare and confess your sins

And when tomorrow’s born,

You’ll feel the cost yet know you’re home

Despite forgetting how and who got you there…


Such the life, such is the life….for a livery man and his getting older every day loving bride….in yellow, gussed up in yellow paint and wheels that ride

Inextricable Mutation


Indentured voices formed

at the brink of dawn

intimidates the offering

of escape


A vigilant fluctuation of pre-cognition—adopted

by an ever-willing victim—trusting

in whatever alterations

are procured, while resting

in ambivalence


embryonic states, contoured,

not from celestial dream, instead

it is the writhing palms

of humanity

that issue such decrees



Tis’ a soiree for the dead

A psalm for the living


Lethargic kisses from a dancer with a broken paw


A clerical error made in favor for


Satiation’s imbalance

reprocessed, collated and destroyed as such


Fawning beneath the sweltering midday moon

wholesome thoughts, forgive naught those dreadful acts

refugee, in a world of eschewing mobility

canticles, vespers and storied lines…. teasing the temptation inside…. to deny, belie, defy

it’s as all things can be

humanity, extorted over betraying principalities

mortality, remanded to believe

that time

will solve

your most tender

of maladies


Brook…running north

Valley cinching tight

Time, Ticking Away

Time, time, got the time, tick, tick, ticking in my head, time, time, time, time after time, tick, tick, ticking in my head

Slowly shows the daylight slows, a light that bends yet not defend the inversion of the balance spent, hours spending speed

The speed and dearth or times rehearsed, echo the clock’s hand freshly stopped as the fingers pushes down, issuing the rate upon the watch. Upon the wrath’s watch…go…

There are sixty in an hour; thirty in a half, sixty in a minute and so it goes… empties the hourglass

Sand shifts like dunes dismay, subtly drifting because of winds displayed…blowing about like paper on a freeway during rush hour land… scenes, news to windshield, rain to screen, dampening the ink yet dry, undoing a portion of its pen unto the glassy countenance your wipers deny, scrawling the side, transference across one’s lens until time depend upon it once again

Time, Time, Got the time ticking…time, time, got the time, tick, tick, ticking in my head, got the time, tick, tick, ticking in my head.

Chronos led the titans unto tartarus, trapped without a sundial, locked away in what we trust, without a shadow to span past the numerals at which time, personified, was but a fractal of the all-knowing, eye to spy, sight to see, time to tell, the wicked and the cruel, and each its spell, to the spot where time could begin or end, where time could play, defend, to which the hours grow quite dim, to the lengths the fool will squarely follow him, time to feel, time to flee, end or pretend, tenor or alto sax, a six-string to which we crash….WAKE UP…TIME TO DIE….

Sideways, forwards back and down…twisting, turning, right side up and upside down

Strings of strings that time forgot, in a landlocked ledger found at the edge of a stadium parking lot, where times, tomorrow’s headlines are alive today, commingling with the past’s history refereed to as yesterday

Conviction of distinction, draught to drag the lock, procuring silt and sand from the bottom of the clock, where the sides and tips react, contract, push and stride, each hand’s a budging the hour closer to the inscription staved, sordid like a camera there, stealing image to polaroid’s frame, dividing a future frozen by a tomorrow’s moment ne’er to crave

Time, time, got the time, tick, tick, ticking in my head…. time after time, time and money, money and time, turn the dial, make it chime, ring the bell, ring it slow, twist the transistor and make it go, make a smile show, change, change, got the change, tick, tick, tickling in the pocket as the sense of directions smoothens low, paving the way to one’s red painted drawing the charcoal made, forever altering the art in which we may behave, in which we believe

Tick, tick, tick…. time on a wire…tick, tock, tick, tock, turning around the arms of the grandfather, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo and family’s turn on kin, society finds one’s sins, shun and deny, it’s in the odds we cry, never choosing to made as fools, all because of the discomfort caused by the curse of the scare of the eyes of time…blind justice calendars the page, alleviating nothing, no, time it cannot save

Tick…tock…. tick…. tock…. tick…ticking…Time, ticking, Time, time
Stands still, leaving the future
Forever in a shroud of doubt…time itself cannot command the affection we swallow here in this land…time stand still, as it would, there were a rush, if telling time was never understood

And the good times are killing me…the good times are killing me and love’s got me doing, love’s got me doing time and you, had, the time of your life…ageism in a stand on biography, bigotry and bigamy in a land of confusion set still against time standing still, time, time, got the time, tick, tick, ticking in my head…if
Of course, we understood, the meanings of the words instead where this time, this time, will be the last time, the last time and all time, every time, is nothing, but a good time. How can we resist…ain’t looking for nothing…and it don’t get better than

The first time’s working, slaving, everyday, moving to the next time, to the last time, to the closing of the bell, ringing, tolling, away we spell, the hours numb, the hours sink, into a clock up on the brink, of a fully flooded sinking ship…where time…don’t mean a thing…don’t mean a thing…but it’s that thing, precisely that separates the slicker from the skin…. porridge on a rainy day…inflated to the womb It may…forever returning to the moment we had the time, the time, tick, tick, ticking in my head…tick, tick, ticking in my head

Well, after watching my football team suffer a horrendous loss this afternoon, I had to write of course. But, you know, when my moods get stirred up like this, I find I either go in one of two directions with my writing, typically I wind up writing violent, disjointed and abstractly, but then, like today, I take an idea and I pervert it to the point of farce. While on the surface this may read coherently, if you listen to my rambling wreck of a reading here, you’ll see what I mean. I mean nothing by farce, farce is great, there’s a style to it, well, for the really good ones anyhow, which I have no preconceptions to such claims, certainly not when simply stream of consciousness writing and not plotting things out. But, for those that do listen to the reading, if you think you’re hearing a bunch of 80’s-90’s bits of songs in here, you would be correct. To give proper credit, well, credit I can remember anyhow, and all apologies to those bands that I forget who wrote the song, but Got The Time by Anthrax is the main verse sung in here, Rush- Time Stands Still, Some INXS song, Time after Time from Cindi Lauper and I think there’s a Smith’s or Cure piece in here, but not quite sure.

Anyhow, Mary over at D’Verse, ran the Poetics Prompt last night and offered up a really nice write up about stages of time in one’s life, and lots of excellent poets linked up their work as they always do. I wrote a piece and linked it up, on my other site, but the theme stuck with me, not sure if there’s any tie in with watching a poorly executed football game or not, but needless to say, I went with it again and thought I’d post it up here for anyone who wanted to read/listen to it. And, as is the case with most times, while the disappointment is certainly still there, I find myself grounded and let the poetry soothe me as it typically has that tendency to do. Thanks