old old old

I’m waring my vision specks today… strange trophies and semioticks are
rising out of my depths: too bad my literal shoes are fraying at the ends,
and plus all covered in mud
and I knew I was in trouble: I just keep hoping that mud will fall off on
its own, will disintegrate and vanish into such teeny partickles that they
won’t trouble me ever not ever again. mind just barrelling tangentionally
what are these conversations I dream of having in the land of nod and which,
confuse, make me believe for brief moments that they are real when I am awake?
almost so much that I almost speak of them as though they really were…
(ho ho, and I remember the funny jogging woman with the funny purple hat)
and what’s this weird pink laser we keep talking about? Vast Active Living
Intelligence System, indeed. who knows if time is just a fiction or an illusion
and whatnotwhatnot. who is the living incarnation? and what does it matter
really? how much does the mind create? and how much is already there? should
I be heeding all of these creeping signs and omens or, like a fool on the
hill, dance oblivion at the precipedge. this needling terroror (dog), which
seems to be driving me over the edge, onto knifey rocks and pools of purling
poyzon, is actually hanging on tight, to keep me fast and sage. He is the
terroror to keep and pull me back into the smokey plainlands. (why do silly
people have to hurt one another so? when only every everyone wants just the
only all and same thing: to be loved and to love. to come home to that, is
hard. I hide in my room. “what’s new with you,” she says and he just sits
mournful and I say, “not much,” but I think “AIIIIiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeee!”
and flee to me room, where I collapse for an eternal moment onto dream. too
bad I drift off hearing voices in the stairwell… and to wake after is to
feel shocked and to shout and to find myself standing awake…) what if I
don’t want to go there, dog? what then! What if I like my edge-dance? what
if I like this grail dance? what if I like whhrrrrrling in bright and dangerous
circles? I see all these shadows. I see them. I love him with a treacly love;
I love him with turtles and thingbobbies and tornadoes. methinks I need a
new symbolself.

i spect that grinning like

i spect that grinning like a mad doubloon,is not the way
to attract (detractxctdetract) ttention to myself

scrapple that dapply horse, the one we’re hiding inside of
spinning down to the joneslocker
cavewallhiders (behindwhich) ya, they’ve heard that horsestory before
looked that ‘horse in mowf, trundled it down to sea and bread
sinkysinky, we are so horsysinky

biggbiggfish swim slow bye
water is a generous element
(i bear that burden on my shoulder, whiskywhisky, sploshsplosh)
(spilling wattry everwhere)
(dripdrop clipclop goes that statue horse)

I and he and her and it are all eating mugins and baffels
slipppppppy goes that coruscating rill of butter
my back is curved from leaning to long over her
peering down at her neck, watching hairs go quivry
my breath is soloud in her ears that evvvrywine just standsonend

whisperrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr: “hi”
but it’s not so loud as my breathing and she doesn’t hear

and the greengrocer stands on his stool, points loud:
“you, freebooter, wanderer! rootless one, tentborn!
“cancel yer ‘scription, you’re not wanted here!”

all the tears go sloopy, what’s the point at bottom o’ sea
and alicewise, the sea’s our own doing
drowning at the bottom of these drooling eye sockets

it’s a good thing our trorse has a periscope
otherwise, we’d be blind forever

old old old

ingenuine, that’s what she likes to think about, when everything’s just graced with cholera, spizznose and variegated metal tins. be whole when the spartanman comes around to collect his dustpans, don’t forget to whisper everything you can into his ear… partake of silence, with a slice of lemon twisted. hurvy gurdy, m’lord. hurvy gurdy. spin this thwickle around your finger, twice, just twirl it. make it tight around your fingerjoints and watch that finger turn purple. watch it sparkly as that thwickle untwines and point your sparkly finger at the heavens, see it flash in incandescence. carve a hunk out of the star-road. greeving for what’s lost, ya. greeve yer sleeves with dust of hoyneydew. just parcel it all about the town, just parcel it. crawling down the gutter and watching the warblers twitch and purl in the gutterpunks’ maleficents. forego, you, the weakest of crocodile tears which twitch and punch your eyes out of plates. let those crocotears dry away, just vaporate. peace, you carolers.