A new poem, which I have a few others of which the like (sort of), and thus to be treated, there and then and thence, as it were as if were a work of the beginnings of a new manuscript. But how to recollect and recoil them all together? How to keep ever writing in these voices of soitude and insanity with their oddities of loquaciousness and neurology and neuroticism? Or perhaps the sanest of the bunch? Perhaps when, but oh the woe, oh the woe when the sanest of the bunch disintegrates first? But then there are other ways in which they recoil and untangle and cohere the superharmonics of the crystalline entities together all at once at the end after their fall completes. And yet. Here it is (oh you thought THAT was it did you? You were of course most sorely mistaken, as is your wont, as is the wont of most of the people most of the time. But i digress. And diverge. And recounting and repiling your sanity hiding in the closet I recover your pieces, and also, as it were, recommend this):


At all times remain alert
The driftwood of the days is piled by the carpenters shed
Although the disclaimers were valid,
None were said to apply in the case of killer bees
With the artistry of the spinflips
The masques of the Piskies went unnoticed
At all times remain alert
Do not allow either Piskies or killer bees to sneak up on you
The fire ants in their castle demonized the ranging of beings
And being all aflutter,
Took to infesting the Internets
The Nightmares take hold of your skull
Under the covers the fleas wait
Crack an egg on your head
Feel it running down your back
As the night fades in,
So does the trauma
At all times remain alert
As the fighter-bombers fly over your head,
So the barrels explode by your house
As the trauma sharpens,
So the pain in your stomach
As the concertina wire,
So the widening gap between young and old
As the tentacled horror,
So the pain of the sex crime victims
As the colonizers and imprisoners in Israel proceed like an anaconda
So the genocidal fascists in Syria
As the war crimes all over the world,
So the decline of the semi-free states,
No human living truly free
As the rise of the demagogues
So the gridlocks of parliaments
The wildebeests flee from the onrushing storm
All the amphibians die off
The tornado rips the trailer park as much as downtown
As the animals struggle up mountain peaks,
So the trees and grasses all do drown
As the money is flushed at the casino,
So your insurance denies payment
As the shadows infest your mind,
So the rot creeps up from your toes,
As unemployability rears its ugly head
So come the tragedies and regrets of earlier lives,
As the moon-mice set the people-traps,
So Demonoid waxes and wanes,
As the comet approaches,
So the sun expands to red giant,
As your reason defines and decompiles,
So your reason refines and defiles,
As your reason rises,
So your reason unravels and untangles,
As your reason untangles, so the superstrings decohere
As you disintegrate, you think:
	not as of which but of who, to meet your maker or not to be,
	the handgun in your hand, the handgun in my hand...
	all the sexual frustrations -- but see disclaimer... the
	totalled amount of ways and means amounts to not even a pile of
	dust, but as if the other, when your time arises, such as
	is the like of the creepy guy, or the rabidity of the
	christ-figure, much like when your mother told you but
	also not, in the demonization of the innocents, Demonoid
	wrought eternal... but as if the dreams of the Chaosticon;
	eternal; but fragmentary; piecemeal; but anatomical
	and atomical and axiomatical... and as of which but
	not of who; burn disclaimers; but otherwise and thus
	and so, all your axiomaticals and theorems are lost; but
	not of woe; oh of splendor, paranoid schizophrenia of
	course, and oh of splendor
	in the annals of the moon time, oh of the dance, of
	the tidals of the moon-ants, of the orgies of
	the moon-mice, oh of the solars of the storm, oh
	of the darkness of space, oh of the gibbering of
	the azathoth.
	in the brief silence of time, delete;
	in the brief silence of time, stir;
	in the brief silence of time, do not declare, but fall;
	the pages, the horror, the fallen
	the fallen.
	in it not as of Which but of Who, Not as if Other but of
	That, demonstrably deficient, but otherwise unwise and in
	time you all shall know, or perhaps shall know nothing, but
	as of which of the times did you know of your guilt, or
	did you ever? Were you ever of the uncaringness of children,
	or were you merely of a sniping mind? if ever of them
	there was a demon, it was you, and in the brief quiet of
	the minutiae of the interstellar spaces, you implode
	in the edges of the alleyways, or not of other but of thus,
	or although of thus only of some, but iniquity, inequity,
	unquietude, and excruciatingness, ever though of which the
	birds, but unqualified remands of the yeses, all under
	the grass of the park you defile, all under the burbling
	of the fountains you impair, all under the comparative quiet
	of the riot you exult; with the riot you exult; with
	the stream of the window smashing of the glasses of the
	alienation of the oligarchs, of the hangings of the communist
	party, of the firing squads of the west, of the
	kathryns and angies and maggies and angels; anjelica,
	the science of the times, the deletions of the elusions,
	of the elopements, of the quietude of the sage,
	of the building up of the moments, and of the --

Demonoid spake thus:
	echo, echo, echo, but do not demand, do not defile, speak
	never for others, only to yourselves, do not dream but be,
	do not do but do not, do not marry but fuck, do not
	say the words, oh but if you know of which ones,
	is she going to say the words, not as if which but
	if who, do not go gently, determine and refine,
	revolt and rejoice, recover and remain poor, ever
	into the night we dream, ever into the day we act,
	till the stones and till the soil, ever into magic
	we recount, ever into victory we turn, ever our buds
	turn into flowers and into petals on the ground, but
	ever uncertain, be no wise certain, but be quite sure,
	do not recant but ever uncoil; unfold and be god
The splitcase boy understood perfectly
Scattered to the winds were the wings of the multifaceted words


The Driftwood of Our Lives Washed Up on Some Foreign Shore only $2.99
samples here
sample of current project here
get it, you won’t regret it!
Please share and review
Coming soon:

Leave a comment or question in the box for me:

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s