deepundergroundpoetry.com
Rough Medley: First Hints from the Vapours (FILLER)
After the Black Serpent: Tales of the Abyssinian Dragon
The structures are linear and solid,
They have been aligned secure.
Yet how hasty have our walks become,
Without the acknowledgment of those encountered upon.
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The Madman doth standeth as Shakespearean Actor
Upon the crushing evening subway commute...
He grabbeth at the hand-loops from the ceiling and doth proclaim:
“As long as we still grunt towards each other,
These formulas may remain in place forever!”
------------------------------------------------------
When I was trapped in the corners of proving
The soul being forced to fit through...
I briefly sent signals across the dance floor,
Supernoval flashes across the spans of dark-spaced galaxies...
There is a certain playfulness which must be attended to,
An unleashing from the concern of eyes...
We used to spend our day hours upon those slumbery corridors,
Now with the hauling of things outside of us
Can we present the clearer picture of fitting through it...
---------------------------------------------
Our diluvial portions present themselves!
The digits are embraced softly!
The passage openings ruffled up!
Sandy flame of re-envelopment...
A three-day goes by,
But the tides will always be brought back to balance...
--------------------------------
My sight has become a search-engine...
My joint lets out Reggae Music when lit up...
The structures are linear and solid,
They have been aligned secure.
Yet how hasty have our walks become,
Without the acknowledgment of those encountered upon.
----------------------------------------------
The Madman doth standeth as Shakespearean Actor
Upon the crushing evening subway commute...
He grabbeth at the hand-loops from the ceiling and doth proclaim:
“As long as we still grunt towards each other,
These formulas may remain in place forever!”
------------------------------------------------------
When I was trapped in the corners of proving
The soul being forced to fit through...
I briefly sent signals across the dance floor,
Supernoval flashes across the spans of dark-spaced galaxies...
There is a certain playfulness which must be attended to,
An unleashing from the concern of eyes...
We used to spend our day hours upon those slumbery corridors,
Now with the hauling of things outside of us
Can we present the clearer picture of fitting through it...
---------------------------------------------
Our diluvial portions present themselves!
The digits are embraced softly!
The passage openings ruffled up!
Sandy flame of re-envelopment...
A three-day goes by,
But the tides will always be brought back to balance...
--------------------------------
My sight has become a search-engine...
My joint lets out Reggae Music when lit up...
Published 8th Apr 2015
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8th Apr 2015 7:48am
Just a short detour off the path here...
These are just a few musings from last week, not from eras past. I had visited with friend and partook of his high-end Chinese knock-off vaporiser for most of the evening, the first I have ever partaken of such technology, then we went off into the bar night with many a beer where at one point upon the dance floor I took it upon myself to pull from the wall the armless female store mannequin in fishnet punk garb for a dance, it went down okay with the other dance patrons, even with a little twerking of sorts... but when I layed her onto the floor to perform Red Cross industry-certified CPR and proper mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the staff had to intervene and take her away... and the evening was thus turned out the doorways and into the street night of fitting through much municipal pipe, bike-rack, railing and fence encountered upon... And lastly into the crash mattress of sleep, these lines were composed in large awkward handwrite...
Nothing crazy special; but apart from a 7 page Bukowski type poem, a poem about the Chartreuse beverage and a few funny random sentences, this has been all that I have written poetically for the year so far!!! I am thinking of taking up the smoke again and being a part-time pot head over the course of the summer, nothing too rash for my vintage, maybe just an easy-going 10-15 grams or so per month...
Problem is I will probably start leaving weird comments on people's poems and posting more things like the above piece at four in the morning...
Haven't quite decided yet. What say ye, humble parliament of observant souls? Yea/Pour or/ou Nay/Contre? A raise of hands...
These are just a few musings from last week, not from eras past. I had visited with friend and partook of his high-end Chinese knock-off vaporiser for most of the evening, the first I have ever partaken of such technology, then we went off into the bar night with many a beer where at one point upon the dance floor I took it upon myself to pull from the wall the armless female store mannequin in fishnet punk garb for a dance, it went down okay with the other dance patrons, even with a little twerking of sorts... but when I layed her onto the floor to perform Red Cross industry-certified CPR and proper mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the staff had to intervene and take her away... and the evening was thus turned out the doorways and into the street night of fitting through much municipal pipe, bike-rack, railing and fence encountered upon... And lastly into the crash mattress of sleep, these lines were composed in large awkward handwrite...
Nothing crazy special; but apart from a 7 page Bukowski type poem, a poem about the Chartreuse beverage and a few funny random sentences, this has been all that I have written poetically for the year so far!!! I am thinking of taking up the smoke again and being a part-time pot head over the course of the summer, nothing too rash for my vintage, maybe just an easy-going 10-15 grams or so per month...
Problem is I will probably start leaving weird comments on people's poems and posting more things like the above piece at four in the morning...
Haven't quite decided yet. What say ye, humble parliament of observant souls? Yea/Pour or/ou Nay/Contre? A raise of hands...
8th Apr 2015 5:06pm
I find that smoking green stuff helps lubricate the heaving paranoia until it flows through the bewilderment of poetic soul, confronting the machine, and eating chocolate in the silence of morning words.
9th Apr 2015 6:34pm
