Poom Poom

billowy wisps of white shrubbery fluff
dancing water drops all in a cluster
floating overhead together, unflustered
wrapping into a funneled perfect circle
around the sun and reaching out far beyond
the sun ray’s daffodil tinted reach

Clouds of various shapes & sizes
I venture a guess there’s a scintillating beam
shining down upon a common dream
sparkling gold, a most righteous prize

A cirrus & a cirrocumulus
Cumulonimbus & an altostratus
can’t be contained by an apparatus
Lay back and enjoy a story told
from the lily whites in the sky
telling a story bold

2016: A Space Oddity [part 5]

[  .   .   . ]

I’m on this Ride because I got the ticket against my will. Not even sure I was ready for life, let alone storming off somewhere I know nothing of without a proper travel pamphlet. The Ride you can come & go on but can never leave.

zoom zoom zoom
Off towards where exactly?!

Where in holy hell am I headed? What fun is travel if you aren’t aware of the destination? What’s the point of shooting off like a fiend out of hell from point A to M and back to C?

The ticket in my hand. Arrival stamp is my place & time of birth, the only ink on the paper.
“Oh, very helpful,” I can’t help but think aloud. The only thing you can do in the specter factory.

Or is this the way there? Have I been in the factory all along or was that many stops ago?

The Ride shifts gears and accelerates causing me to bump into the faceless figure in front of me. It grunts and straightens itself out. Passengers come and go and I wonder if they know where they are going either & have doubts that they do. Those full of life don’t glide about as a colorless blob, avoiding eye contact, no expression if they do.

“A ride to Hell this must be,” I wonder. A queer rocket ship flying through the moon’s orbit, a spirit trapped amongst the the human world unable to make contact without petrifying others into throes of The Fear.

If such a Ride is inevitable, as it appears to be, then there should be no reason I shouldn’t get off at the next stop. You’d think the unknown would be better than the chaotic dull of machine-like drudgery. Though, it hasn’t fared me well in the past to wander about.

One stop I got off at led me into a dark forest with a heavy ambiance as if a predatory beast lurked about in the shadows, a trail of pebbles lead me back to the Main Station.

Another stop was an isolated planet that rained sharp diamond particles, each boom of thunder a volcano of blue lightening, all in zero gravity. I didn’t stay there long.

The last stop I got off at was a space very similar to the familiar reality I had grown to know… only the atmosphere was prone to spontaneous combustion. One moment you’re having small talk with a patron at the bar and next you’re watching their face melt and skin fry in a purple haze of crimson fire. The sight & the screams are enough to change your brain wiring forever. I haven’t been in a rush to get off since.

Though I do know, that merely staying put, latching on to the rail for dear life, would only facilitate my own demise.

I shudder at the thought. The sins of my life weigh down on my breast, causing contusions and uneven breath. Tremors begin & clammy skin. The dirty dozens tapdancing on my frontal lobe, a hell hound’s fur left behind itching the inside of my skull. What pain reliever or fever reducer can cure that?

The doctor’s candy?

One little pill to ease the Downright Wretchedness, one to up the Established Corrective Order, & another in an attempt to rid the Abject EdHorror. Should be doing wonders but it’s a wonder if they’re really doing anything at all. A question that is hard to determine given the radical outside forces at play.

The Ride decelerates, the brakes clicking clacking on the track, the astral projections outside the sliding door window drawing closer to a stop.

Will I get off this time
or keep wondering where I’ll end up?




The ebbs & flows of the prescribed mind
weave in & out of time, bathing graciously in the great divine
Where, oh where, am I this time?

I take all the blame, baby, I’m sorry

I underestimated the magnitude & depths

of the idolization you washed my hair with

I know you wish I could be

the one you see

Vision can’t be trusted ‘less the night is starry

Feelings, emotions, & hopes a’plenty

Drove me gaga but now I see

they’re only summits and the sea



photo credit

quiet quandary

This is a world in designer jeans designed to slow you down
There are no tools for the fix
only schools teaching men who aren’t fit to rule
smoking in the boys room, cussing for kicks
Give up if you must but know that all would be lost
and the beasts will grow to be your boss

Get yourself together
or leave it alone
Stretch out those joints
or just phone home
Get it together
or call your next of kin because your ass is gone

Try hard not to go coocoo
birds do fly & so do you

Case Study: A Near Sighted Clairvoyant

Here we find a metatypical Creature, with a shining aura that smells of sweet peaches, in very typical surroundings. A room with urine colored wallpaper with swamp water green striping. Soft rubber runs along the edges of a coffee table and empty tv stand, which are the only furniture in the room that is presumably the living area.

The place is unnaturally quiet. No music, no lights, no beer, only tap water, musty air and sneaky sunshine slithering through small windows with dingy blinds. There are scratch marks on the oak floorboards, right between the seems of the wood panels, as if the boards have been lifted before.

This Creature seems to possess a special gift [A “Shining” for the laymen] of spontaneous peculiar prediction. Capable of seeing what is measured as 24 hours ahead into the future at a time. Images of car crashes, gunshot wounds, a group of rowdy bastards with iron knuckles, explosions, Fear; all from a first person point of view. Tremble, this Creature does at such ghastly sights! Rightfully so.

However, what this poor Creature fails to realize is that while it may be possible to predict the future in a general sense, it’s not a precise science. It cannot be guaranteed that the perspective you see is even yours. Fate decides which path we choose. Whether we choose the corridor with cotton candy or go down the one with a piano hanging above on a wire.

How much would this knowledge ease the furrowed brows and tightly hunched up shoulders of the Creature? Would it inspire It to open the door?

If for no reason other than to break the damned ungodly quiet that’s enveloped the place, as if we’re actually in space. [And at this point, it’s hard to argue that we aren’t!] The hellish inception of the deep down Icky that may erupt at any moment.

The Creature is hard to make out in the near dark and floating dust.

File Under: “Electric Madness”

Take Me Away!

Screen Shot 2016-06-24 at 1.39.56 PM

So much time spent frantically running like an ant from a cackling sadist with a lit cigarette can leave you feeling a bit sluggish. Not tired. An actual slug with no brain, sliding about on mucus with no destination, other than perhaps finding loose table salt in a ditch.

No More No More

Get out of that world.

Build a spacecraft if necessary. A funky mothership connection to the far beyond, boldly traveling to places far beyond the human reach. Pure unsullied space where insults and shaming can not be heard. Unforgiving but not a relentless torment. Where the tick of the clock has no bearing, not a time zone in sight. Make a creme brulee in zero gravity and watch that sucker billow into unrecognizable shapes.

Such drastic measures shouldn’t be necessary but alas, here we are.

If a spacecraft is above your means, find an alternate form of extrasolar travel. Perhaps pop the doctor’s candy in your mouth and will your body into sprouting wings. Pray for a pious archangel to come give you a lift.

No matter the method…
It’s time to go.

It’s odd, I’ve made no claims til now… but lack of an affirmative declaration is the onset of the undoing.

All I can say is

No More No More

Case Study: A Perfect Gentleman

a fav from earlier this year. could become a series.

A Jaded Psycodelicide

Certain creatures require a certain caliber of habitat
with a temperament to match their ideal temperature.

Here we find a typical Creature
as typical as one can be
blood-pulsing oxygen-converting mind-synapses a’snappin.

Never you mind the four-inch razorsharp talons jutting from The Creature’s fingertips
manufactured as some Divine Being intended.
The talons help to scratch its desiccated skin
relieving itches between the gaps of stalactite-like rides running along its spine like flying buttresses crafted from shameless material.

Oh yes.
I can assure you.

No need to avert your eyes, though
it would be understand if you did, truth be told.
No need to cross to the other side of the walkway.
Nor run away as The Creature approaches & greets you in an unsteady voice

“Excuse me, sir and/or madam, I believe…”

You took flight on sight!

It was simply attempting to return a handkerchief that had flown…

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The lights go out

a scent of fumes

a sense of doom

creeping into your lonely cold

sucking your own body luminescence

is it a dream? is this the real deal?

or is it just another sucker in…

an acidic nueme singing

a tale of a man you ain’t

driving you crazy, certifiably mad

on & on & on & on & on & on

unaccompanied solitary neutron

just another crazy doodad

feasting upon a blood meal

…the specter factory

oh please. this feeling

makes you want to crawl back in the womb

quickly quickly arriba andele arriba zoom

a radiance drought.

The W0W

How are you?
I’m fine, yes it’s true
as 1+1 is Two

like the moon to our Mother
lightening to a rod
caught in an addiction that’s left me so awed
can’t call it a dependency, that fiction’s too perplexing for now
I can only really call it

I don’t really have
words for you
I, myself, am not fully together
the moon, you see, controls the motion
of the weather that blows this way
The only way to go…
you could call it whoa but

like the moon to our Mother
a wolf to the Lune
caught in this addiction and my mind’s stuck on swoon
not trying to complain, please understand that now
I can’t call it the unexpected, it’s too perplexing, no time for second guessing, it’s a twisted complexion and I can only really call it

Home Work

Now we weave a plight of controversial qualm to quench the insatiable amateurishness that flows through the webs & woes of the easily entertained and morally famished.

Scapegoats, savages, beasts of bourbon & the days of wine and neurosis. Plot means nothing in the face of fellated hubris.

Spare no expense! The Deadline approachth