shakin’ the cobwebs off

i’ve just got all these cobwebs and i’m shaking the nerves off my hands. trying to piece together some sort of jigsaw puzzle of words; all these windows leading into some kind of theoretical or modular nightmare. or not nightmare, more like a tangle of thread just zooming around and getting caught in the cacti.

this then that and that then this. and on and on and on. just plonking one word after another into place. smashing them in with a hammer if they don’t quite fit, only to find, at the end (lord will it comes soon!) that garden gnome’s left eyeball is floating upside down in the air, miles into space.

cream soup, or cream of the crop soup, or cream of the harvest moon soup. it’s all beautiful, whatever kind of soup it is. i’m craving a kind of soup that will steam out from that overheating belly, watch the tears fall and the drops of sweat scatter about the room with every wagging of the head. don’t fall asleep inside your soup! there’s not enough room for peas and carrots and leeks… and you.

even so, with all that, i can’t keep from obsessing over fantastickal things. the words written on the page that drill right into the middle of my brain, and of all things merlin, why does that have to crawl? feel the daze of sleeplessness spin the creatured turntable right-round, see its mesmered claws reaching out, sliding into focus and away, until that bubble-gaze just pops.

hot dog! i sit and watch (not now, earlier. or later) my fingers paralyzed, sitting, and where’s my brain at? maybe gone out for a coffee and a scone. the kind with a chunk or two of chocolate stuck in the middle (yeah, but how’d they get the square of chocolate inside of there, unmelted like? but hey, now i know it’s not a scone i’m thinking of at all, but that french pastry, withal that flaky and etc.) where’s the will to type or talk with those hollow, aching fingers?

jump in and type, fool, there’s no harm can come from it. no harm that’s worth speaking of anyhow.

(Orange Power by The Falcon Project)

duck… duck… duck… duck gooose!

jangle jangle jangle, man. watch those keyrows jangle. feel that outworn notion just slip into a pile of… fruitbars. i said, yes. yes. just keep on feeding those… ducks. watch their little feet curl up in joy… ha ha! fooled you little ducks… no bread for you.

so then the ducks just swim to the other side, where another one waits, expectantly, with a handful of brea–but oh! see how quick that one stuffs all the bread into its mandibles! hee hee! watch the little ducks cry their little duck tears, swimming round and round (fluffling their little duck feathers and just watch that water slide off there! neat!) and watching all the ones with hard eyes and mouthfuls of bread.

what am i saying? am i saying anything? oh, probably not.

words falling like ducks from the sky

i never thought to see the death-knell of this country; the long slow death-rattle and thatter-thump of crooked heels tatt-tattering the pavement, as that small heart bursts its outer confines and grieves out the ears and noses;

the cracking out of falsely servile poses.

by hook or by crook and all that is in between.

i have no words to speak but i must scream.

and watch the fail of heaven’s promised rain upon the parched and scattered earth, feel that seared and quaking ground heave up, expel the loathesome carabuncles from off its shore.

i thought to see a brief surcease from watching that slow decline and fall; but to see the ignomy of empire, in all its seediness, cloak itself about the thing to hide its shriveled loins. well. for some, at least, the last scales have fallen from the eyes, the fizzling smoke and mirrors fade away, to see, with bitter dread, the creaking machine that croaks and craves for blood to feed its frenzy.

perhaps the myth was ever thus, a broken claptrap horse dressed up in gaudy finery. but now, at least for me, the last threads of finery have fallen away. do i see it now for what it is? am i awake, at last, from my pale slumber, to see the clouds of nightmare brooding in the sky? or perhaps i only stir, fall deeper into sleep.

i have no heart to find the silver in this woe, paint it how you will. what hope, when all that falls is steaming blood and ash? and i partake, against my will or heart, in the slaughtering of thousands who have done me no wrong, but who i wrong, by simply being who and where i am.

the city on the hill has guttered out.