Category: Descry

UtChat

Children roaming streets playing with sticks and stones. The laughing old lady gathering her chips for another round of bridge before heading to table. The good life looked over by raging gyms and sandlot dollars. There must be a ride in a truck. The glossy yield must dramatically incalibrate. Must lick the palms of the icy eyes. Too many sharps and they are only to make us out for our skulls. The shaped anthema of the Mexican ranch.

To see the street for its dusty quarters. To come up with spiels in the dithyrambs. A stories glory horder. Lets go and take a quick equator trip on the liberty tide of open house service and see if we cannot make out the women and the cogent of the place like chiel sanctimones. The Billy frame and the psaltry bow of scythe at lee in the tinsel lair.

To be a good bit past the running ground of disporters. Caravaning on the Davie Jones typography strata and tableau show. A good high hog to bitty and camp out against the speech, quit and borne, right mariner of calmer seas.

So many black orders on the peace. Packs of people and dogs on the new morning wandering at pesky and yet profound galavants of the old school crowing. Fish, fucks, friends and difficulties remembering. How many daisy chains to go kicking down a little something getting home. Rehearsing my roll in a story. Not to always be taken for some jack fool but rather to go over the lands down way and dream of the high returning tide. Too much grass and the park reverts to the transient church serpents pride.

The vert is crow for fodder of cry. The shire and the foremost stumping of rye and foundling punk. Have you a moment for singular expedience. Or are you afraid of being put down. Some reason that shied away. Some bottom that turned away shunned by shame and future folly.

If it goes to show that we are Sun worshippers. Why stoop to make it rain. Just saying the local host of provenders must be supplicated rite lightly in the aspect of quintessential norms. Glad to see you good charler. Beneficent is the grange kind sisterhood brag. The bias is in redown. The judgment seat is out of candy. Collaring the doge leaves citizens at leave with the call to aptly turn over a new leaf. With the crazed blackeye of rubbish. Sad lot of the current meatpie.

Well to get over the fencepost. The splayed feet beneath the camper mountain. Only the damned need to know more. The fleet is out to pasture and the grand eloquence of the buttered bread condolences have eaten the flag to make potluck and pilfered treaty out to bustling gates. Railing and trouncing beasties for so much as a teaching of their own good appetites.

That a way the glad barons have graves to lay down in. To simply be alone and no longer try to estrange the bussing services from their bluebirds. It has to be going down for the frickin’ pale of it. False prophets for false fear. The burning down of the firewall. I knew the ground was there. It just wasn’t mine to burden it.

From Nothing, From Scratch 2002/08/19

From Nothing. From scratch. From a sacred principle unearthed. Seeking absolution. From riffraff. And inconsequence. A species from daybreak. A livable scheme against apathy. Reliant upon trust. Cohesive upon trade. Consistent and conjunct. Synod testing and the paranorm. A convenient discharge. From ranks of civil servitude. A class of rigamorale indenture. The whole behemoth of thought. A Godhead in transit. A movement of the too and fro. Arbitrator of magnanimous estate. All rapping away lethargy. All subject to rally and sport. The kind of daylong tyrad. That exhibits its teeth. A chalktalk board of figures. A corporeal scene over the mass. Looking for bread to eat. And longing to end the scharade. Et al finesse in a mark. To catch the pass and seem to the like. To be of a stamped reason and choice. Single in the choir. Mattered under guiding hand. To escape with one’s shirt. To make fast the cause. And awake under dawning light. Passive against the rancor. Looking through a starry glass. And winding toward a might. In strength and bound by peace. Arright close to spawn. Those rocking hodads. With apostolic bounty not forlorn. Insight as truck in lording eyes. The cure to muckluck travail. The day in its proud moments at sound. To piece together in point. Surrounding the bow fulcrum. And chattering by the stream. Will child Surrey the cup? Will limerick assure from the cost? Of pent wheat and rye? Of shallow pools and a brook. Looking toward never more. With this interest in the calm. Of shade laden Summer skies.

Open Contest 2000/02/05

Spit fire-open contest. And he in his attire has chosen to gather with the par event in horizon.

When will the Zepher attract its cohorts? How shall Ecumenicus return to the deft renown?

With a jiff of the trick. So up air hardy you’ll not rather have them sick.

Each with a one of his exhalations. Providing explanations. And the rippled speech of your common seer.

This I say has entendre closer to sense than any ultimatum my dear.

Cloud Clarity

A clarity of space. Some hilarity in the race. A gander at the stock of our neighbors. A daily listing to chores through many labors. To reeve forth the unguent. To reap broad stars of lusty pent. A divine conflagration of peoples. Over broad passes and many steeples. The makeshift predilection of towers. From loose shrifts, the humble bowers.

Cavalcading like streetfell hippies. A curry of fell dashes from a sky paints paths trippy. Het diagramatical lour embellishing sheens of the topical spheres. Tectonic arch craftsman at the gears. With thunderbolt and looming shrouds. The way they stack up they’re as alive as the clouds

Join The Movement 1996/05/06

The time has come when I should join the movement. Thinking though my get up and go must have got up and went. Yet where? If I should care. Can this movement be?

If not standing beneath the gallows of a hangmans’ tree. Or as clouds high, born of tempest storming aloft the sea. I am here thinking. That it is a long road to instincting. If I have got to make this movement a part of me.

Warding off strife. Throughout my life. To live, love, and take a wife. With what else being rife. I want it shone. The way these thoughts into dreams are grown. Till our memories are honed. That each of us stands. With open hands. A member in the heart of gold band.

This movement, is it a tribe? Jah people, a revolutionary jibe. At the resting, souls of our earthly harmony. Telling what’s up. To each of us. You and me.

Change comes and we are on our own. Again protecting hearts from loath at what’s still ode. We’ve got to rise up singing. Having been brought low.

Focus By Consensus

What we are certain of will change. What knowledge lays before us we will remember. What we can describe through speech we are familiar with in thought. In that we see we know. In one sense are two things. Dignity is the consensus of mind. An entertainment is a linking of cant universals.

The pledge of the hypocrite is the camping of the crow. One’s rider should not expire at the cost of one’s stupidity. A league in throes has not the sense of self will to lead it. The anchor of the anger is the quire of the ire is the auld mad. Spiritual supposition is an enigma without redown.

There is a need for heroic measures in the spiritual recompense.

‘Sage’ The Horse(cantus abilus) Fall 1996

My sage has spoken to me of dreams in my head. That will come to life if my body can just grow old and not dead. My own love, in the Summer, a laud. No work to do, not a lien to place on Hod.

Oh great Sage of the Midwestern states. Come seek with souls to hymn and enunciate.

My great horse is named ol’ Sage. He eats locusts on a plate with mayonnaise.

Oh great Sage of my ocean. You are a great and good river flowing. All of your name I will soon need knowing. When I gain the key to your foreboding. And your grand waters make us out for growing.

I wish in any age to tread your waters. To await the day and return of your daughters. ‘Tis no shame to pay for a passage across with barter. So I took my lass to the riverside and there a movie I shot of her. I don’t possess your soul though I may be a martyr.

A real big river is on my mind. Rainfall is a very good sign. Way up North along the pines. Lazy in a stream with a boat’s incline. A levee on a way with sleeps to cull in winning wine.

Iconoclastic Fete Stances 1996/08

On Autumn nights when the rye in the fields has been harvested and put into bundles. Merrily and with stealth comes the cather of hay into the rye. To garner away the faith of accumulated  clave ceps of purpura from off the stalks. The bundled stalks of rye.

Politicians would argue to keep the clave crow on the rye and let the seekers have their fill from the milled grain and suspiration throughout the year slowly drawn along. But the cather could refuse and go out to pick a many lot in order to brig back the letryses of the garland with him to make out well in doling the larder of his accomplices. The gud stamp of the dance set.

Occasionally when propositioned by gypsies’ and their ghost and when they had enough some was given away. At the want of the best specimen for ingestion. Simply they are were boding of the thrown chances in a lucred plight. The having of dances in the arms of iconoclastic fete stances.

The politicians realizing the light coming long before dawn. Stalwart in doubt as to the wind weaving of survival in their grain stores and stirs. Wondering without refrain and often shunned. From the interior country where the travelers were known for coming out with the laughingstock of the rogue and rambling, the revelers and a rake.

The fact that gypsies had their own sundries of a tailor and wine to speak of the vintner of bleaky sun aum mantra chant nourishment. Taken heartfelt to dreaming child gait and sweet reminiscences. With strange calender romances they would thus have their dances in private on mountain sides beneath the moon.