Mutation

Adoration is the way of human inclusion;

Propensity to follow,

Mediation is our light to just delusion;

To keep us all as hollow,

Reiteration is the turning of a spiral;

Intrinsic, naturally flows,

Calculation is how we know our condition’s viral

Catatonic our marching grows;

Adaptation by the numbers, destitution,

Metallic changes in the turmoil;

Evolution by us mumbles restoration,

Like the slow-burn of kitchen-foil:

We light the matches for future torches,

And hope that heat from us does not scorches.

Folk Toys

Explosions erupt my eye’s illusions—

A reenactment faces false stupors;

Faring music distant, betwixt commotion,

Swooned by Calamity’s folk-y torpor;

Marooned from life’s screaming mortality;

The Sky reeled out-way, slightly, utter so;

Placed beyond Complexity’s eternal vitality,

In the Bull Roar and Straw-horn’s privy note;

Foreign roots defame the native tongues,

With scents from olden fires cooking,

Here stood Tradition’s Pillar ever long,

Retracing what Youth finds too forgetting;

Soon the days of old again pass and fade,

And leave within us all the Folk-toys of Age.

The Wayward Drifter

Light purged the sorrowed highway, longing;

High-back indecent, crescent-shape waning,

Sweet nectar poured-fresh, tarnished elixir,

To Men and Gods bow not, Wayward Drifter.

Remorse has set the tempo’s guiding note,

Reprise for the Castles’ drying mote;

Burn slow on the windy Candle’s ember:

All hail the leaving o’ the Wayward Drifter.

Scraggly, reckless, longing, ever-stained;

Retrospectively to Now depraved,

There’s nothing more for nothing gained,

Like the coyote; scavenger of Day.

It is ever night in the Garden of Stone,

Irrefutable accounts chill the Bone,

And on them disgraced by Weather,

He walks undaunted, paths of no others’.

There’s a Ghost ship upon dark water waiting,

With a lone crew ghastly and fading,

Riggins, rudders; flags mangled thither:

Beware the tidings of The Wayward Drifter…

And when afloat on the ocean’s current,

No trustworthiness share’s him in torment;

Awhile in a daze and lurid stupor,

Driftwood transient from upstream wayward.

A Day At The Circus

Oh! What a glorious day at the circus!

Stupendous, Grand, Enchanting, Brilliant!

Oh, the Acts and the Elephants near us,

Trapeze, in the Topaz, and Militant;

I say, and the fire-eaters and the freaks,

In this carnival, so stripped for tickets,

And tips, what ornate displays of Neat;

The jugglers, and the dragon-mouthed midgets,

I saw the Acrobats and the trained monkeys;

Oh! What an illusion so devoid o’ certainty,

And the candle-whip, and tight-rope walkers;

The Clown, in the end, was the Ring-Master!

T’was awesome and incredibly intrinsic,

The appeased sight of this catty linguistic;

From behind this cage, the whip and the Stool,

“Get the lion’s chain ready, you Fool!”

I still have my performance left to do,

I still have my performance left to do…

A Tell From The Floor

There is no more the day myself has felt
Any less trodden, than by but one foot,
Or the other, that upon visage, treads myself—
Having ne’er footed; just stepping afoot.

In discourse with many a speechless sole
(And on this plank they do so surely know),
As the Jester, King and Serf share a soul;
Myself mottled by weighted rugs and Sew’.

However, not uncommon, but undesirable;
Me, the shelf, henceforth that life should sit,
And growing infinitely measurable,
But in the courtship which I may never fit;

A chipper note does clip, trip, and stomp,
And made gaudy by orchestras of brooms,
Spiff-swiff-sweep, occasional drops-and-tromps,
Wherein, a fresh mop sops the wear o’ doom.