Tag: a quick minute

The rapping at the gait of ignomineous pawl

The wrapping at the gait of ignomineous pawl, well it seraphs a might bit the clough at times for me. You say ambidexterity is no dark clime down a backlit timely stairwell. What stalwart mason once brought to enduring chime of the few stories through their progress to destinations by the gangly unknown.

I see it not for its verity on the pain. More of a hustle. And a fire. And sometimes ascertaining rather than accompanying bitterness. To boot the rebel with helacipius idiom. Of philly blustering a la the meringhee. Tiddering, dolorously, hither and clem avast the great cantraip and list.

So mathers the filtrate its boo. There are still too many hideouts in the marsh. If the bivy is to be left without all of its acrimonius trappings out upon a ferry barge headlong for the nearest foreign shore.

Trip! The bang? Well, OH GHEE. I think jazz and stress and a lot of fleeeting rakers of the moon are equippage proof. Meaning, the accursed foibles of the smigeon in the mouth of the wee and flea bitten are simply unkempt. Their cleft within the guises of the sky are borne out of ebbulent duality.

Can you remember the days of old? There were no hinges to be blown on the old gaits of the cheering crewes. The street neats were all a bowery of banshees and their bums. There was no knowing the wigs from the scolio. It took too many wags and hacks and beefcake snowfalls for the blustery fugees to get back into the estate sale lottery box. Outrageous! Ostentatious too.

The abased and rounding down to house. As if a good jigger of a dance had Tembo and his satraps by the toes. That’s right a tiger and his symmetry. When Peabody buys the coal and all little Johhny’s jumpers are being most peculiar. Well then you already see that pension for what it is. And you let it be at times and at other times you give it a draw. Just like parlances and discourses. Only a little more settled. If to say at least in mind. And possibly spirit. Save it for the breeze.

Diets Of Sacristan, & Succor, & Seek

Do you think they will riot. Some great passionata. A capitulation upon calamitous exertions. Would that the succor of the seek be to mind tendering anything greener than an occasional hitching thumb.

You know that old mother nature don’t real mind comparisons. Not really. No in fact she likes them all covered over in their thatches. Hiddering up their camp like the weird flotsam and jetsam tumbling out from under the hot lid of a pot.

Yes, then there are grades, and hues, and scaled out wages of jubilant thrift. Ergonomic precouncil. The skittering Draco slumming it down pavements with breaches of his mission flying for the pole.

A spindler slicker on a rat back. Conditioned by epistles of extemporaneous gestalt.  Tenuous distractions in an early test of the litmus. Fixing on the high mast a bear of the Kodiak weight.  Newsome and branching out fleeting dam near a full tidal wash.

The animated dreams of antiquated charisma. It is no mere abased and contemporary state of inherent miasma.  The borne again citizenry don’t need to swear up and down the streets about nothing like righteousness.

Soon as your tee is to bat it is to begin the series of steps that will lead you to a full capitulation. Of your every last fear. The change will be tremendous. Mac! You will be among those standing in viable mean upon the very breaking of the circle of control. All them folk you know with a vested influence in the fate of some little bunny fu fu.

Cycle of life. Yippee, aye, aye. A gladden themed dei of the avuncular realm conditioned. Here by his gestalt the lad approaches a workbench and says a prayer for the light. A matter of werks and those things by craftsmen drawn.

I would say the commons are not the shanty full of dillies. Each waxing on the folly of chili pots brewing too long. Soused and taking to last call for the hounds and ruffians still outside in the door yard withe less zealous observers of the contested friet.

The Omnibus Augury

At a remove from a West facing wall. The notary opening up her longstockings and pilfering the gratzi welcome to bear it toward another in geste.

Stingy mitres. Cocksure kissing bangers looking out for the hoodoo. With a Chiristian Church of the America’s being consoled. A whole way of looking the other way inconsiderate at spotty cupid slights of hand.

Dimly lit and menial wit. Hard trade for the unrepentant dirge. His slack and lackluster taste for the gruel filled hunter’s bowl. A goof of the bottom feeder school. Apprehensive tailings of a bifrocated sort and pile

Hankering still for his suttee and assorted pets and potted plants. Our final contestant for the dog house boob. A besotten attorney, shoestring of much bung water. The rimey sludge pit sucker of shark tooth grind and pitted olive puice.

These grave to laud figures inhabit the close quarter of a single traveling zone. Rain and fog bequeath them the gnarled mien of a heretical judgment on their questionable fate. If these streets, these alignments of foot tracks and cart wheels, now set to spin down to the idle of jailtime and worse.

Like three bums and their mitt. Catching air and catching hel too. Thoughts of the goddess.  A dark muse this time, rye, macabre, gallows humoring. At its proof almost.

The dirger, misunderstood gets no quivel. The tears that issues forth salient and salty from the eyes of the maiden fall without consolation. The profligacy in the paunchy one would remit crows slovenly. And our little bookworm considers burning down the back forty like a vested ruse puckered at tacits and the impudence of gorillas slapping down their bananas for sufficiency.

Talk, there is some. Bad sauce, unrequited love, sour punch, hard knocks, and even close calls with the grave. Like a minute or two of the long, flat,, line,,,

Hum? What! What happened there? It was the notary who made the claim. I heard it takes something like an exorcist to get a body back from the grave. Yeah the devil doesn’t want to give you back! Well she said. I had been up the coast with my uncle Charlie. He showed me to his very own cask of rum. Something you have that much of can’t be poison!? Why? Oh you didn’t know. Not much no. Seems very traumatic to me. Going into the grave like that. People would think you went there to rob it. No! I want a buzz, a dream, an adventure in a night cap.

The omnibus stopped and the drive spoke with somebody. Unknown to the passengers in the pokey a gate had been opened and the bus was driven inside.

Morning Hangs Over 2015/04/05

This morning. Tending to things early. With the remnant. Of the night previous. In your down cantank. Rousing you surly.

Is it any call to agress. In moments few and jaded. Like a flown coop clawin’. Sacked and raided.

Mock agonist bely. The drawing light consumes. Now embarrassed in the guise. Of a temporary righteousness. The call to privation under such orders. Whelms against the figure.

And post tensing shyly decides upon it. Best kept silent when wanting. Only to lay a bit longer beside. The prospect and the urge to. Make one’s mindfulness alight. Upon sorrows quickly passed over. Why then could the music sound a cry. Drumming, summing, and stirring. The next chapbook and galley swag endevor.

Change Of Fortune

A poet who doesn’t know it. Or rather as rye as he is it’s in the mark he tows. An Erie lake flag coming down to the riverside to reside, to dwell, to make good on a few moments without hell.

Don’t languish. Look yon and grasp mindfully the vibrancy of the air. Reach out in clemency of spirits and draft the mindful throes of your own expediant nature. The kid fears and the quick. The spacia in the stir. The nebula of glad and gossamer rainbow strands.

Within moments the availing stream has taken up the tangible and set it sailing upon the current of the waters. Brought it broad down the pathos of weir and flag. Jam and strag.

After having made the full round are you anyone who frequents the meditative state. Do you pray or contemplate the word. Does your fresh opining thought come upon the crossbone fetch of ariosa and the tempers of the clave bone? How much of a bully pulpit would it take the tea totaler to count up imperial tea. Is there a new market or a rehash of pensive collars. The works and the grand scheme of things.

I have to move on with it. I have withstood this mount until I feel like a stump. A chump on a stump playing his fiddlesticks and thrumming it out on the ole viol. Oh but for charm of sagacity. The Agatha of virtue. The benefits of the enchained daisy. A sea set of sidereal ranges. Glad strata in bump de bumpidy thumb print thump.

Where ever could be the other side of the world. Can we accept that it is away. That it feels in its own synergy. That the kitchen sink spins round one way or another but the earth is country and sea. And her inhabitants are glad of the mannered crewe. Again the crowe and his elephantine friend the fly boy has done a bang up job of propelling his rappaport with the birds into a stargyle of like satrapy. Of penchants and beneficent unto the causes of others.

Within the memory of comparing styles and suits and phials of the knowledible and loving spheres. There are souls and spirits and entities. How then are the rests we should take to be given back to the faith. Be given back to earth. Through learning and instinct I would think is the answerable acolyte of the given gnosis.

The Ommm and others the mantras, of a moray rambling the mundi mind. Now settling into things thoughtless and almost renunciative. Letting go of things and ideas and predilections of auld gammons. The heydays of youthful practicality. Of resource and enginuity.

Having made the full round of glam afternoons. Taken to glide and tamed by repose. A dualistic might of poles and Shiva stick supernals. The auld shanty in the wooden hill. A wheelhouse sequestered in the deep trappings of a rare season with the acquainted Earth.

Given to sharing of aptitudes for relative nature’s. The likelihood of seeing through hoaxes by the lands down set. A citizen like quandary of strides and reassurances amongst people’s of a no unsimilar tide. The day in it’s crisscross continuity. The night in it’s crawl through milky starlight and kept lamps. The diurnal cycle coming round with the ribboned and golden arms and sleeves.

A system of caparisons girdironing upon the thoroughfare in up and down and roundabout drives of the up-and-coming and the long ago. No ghosts. Just spirits and thoughts of a delightful memory. In the arcs and palls of wind some and gracious soul. The last bound before footfall returns once again. As if to assuage and to reinforce.

Embracing with smiles and sparkly eyes. Good for the hours to serve. Against the travail and monotony of lost bounty on simple wit. A retinue of sandbox travelers. Early upon the morning in the guided and hand to hand practices of freedoms. Left by the gate and slowed down. A time to quit it. Made for passing light. And to rebound.

New York Loud

I

Have you heard that band. The one in the city. New york. On the big island of Manhatten. A village priestess laid ’em on me last night. LOUD Mother Nature kind of musings. Meant to keep the good people in the happy hop town keen on kind and affiable shape. A prelude to the gatefold manifestation that is the rest of America.

Like a ‘How To’. Get out on the morning and do what your intentions say you are up to. No slippery backdoor. No J stride graveyard stints. Just the cross and the quarter. Amongst friends. Among acquaintances and love intetests.

Yeah big and balsy. Amped up on hop and fine food. Given to the glass shared of minute aspect diners. The anointed in the Cherries Jubilee. A Circus of August air breathers in the glad compromise of lovers and their features. The whosits and dunits. Born class of Ikabod.

Rucksack gin and boggled luck of the fuddyduster. There are passes through the mountains in the heights. Throwing down in the glazed sea of juxtaposition. With each cut against the blade of the tourniquet. Stop it. Staunch it. And rite the bones of the masses. The clear auspice. The penchant moli bird. A grots and barley charm.

II

Track by track. The pots must be allowed to occasionally top out. A squelching, squeeling, run of the riffs. Instrument after instrument join the figure of the band. The mounting loop and the pull from the nearby box of sand. Kind gardener making out Praise to the seasonal and the sustained.

Imagine just beating the tone out on the pots. For wine, rainwater, grains, the corn. Hot potted clay. What maybe can become? Down beneath the soil. Riverside. Slow settled dawn. Where the roses grow wild with the mystery. Secretly, much more quietly. Now not so loud. Ironic, oxymoronic, metaphorically speaking on it impartially and with similes for tidings.

Whose looks limit langour. What range of effects does the baying of the hounds camp for. What turn again ghost stands aback. By standard; gaiting, and gauging the steps, it takes to blow with the big speaks. Tweet, tweet. Flowing out ribund, and garroulus. You all seeking crowd easing sympathies with the sweaty ball. Summer dressed lax in cover.

Sounding off to the light of stars. Dewey break of dawn. Arrival of song with the color and the light. The comings and goings of the burden of daily labor. Throughout the field and the generations. Into the vert and the tree cover of timber. The square page. Abdegnation of rodents surprisingly giving good tell. The scritch scratch sticks of the call to pause. And in moments sure a final rising clarion call. Sounding, outlasting and tempered with care.

Catapoltergeisundheit

Sandwichitalahachicago fish

Bethlehemmingweighstationary store

Oakienokayman Island

Neighborhoodlumberry bottle of wine

Vaudvillanelle

Sarogerolandrea

Franklindalilamahaliajohnsondresdinnerplatapussilogism on the Argyle socks of a retired Khrisna monk

Escapturisimoot of many hooples

Sympatheatrekeepurpulpiteaming with joy

The emblemissionareasonabulb went out

Joe Hillbilliegoateeming with effort

Windemondieteacher’s quiz

Balastrolabicustardistance from point A to point B

Secondiversalty doge of the Earth

Reconservicinity of the river stars

Canti Moralise

I tell you. It took me 1000 trial runs to come up with a genuine pop song. Not that this needed to be genre specific by the way. But as it turned out the song ‘It’s A Good Thing’ in the strophie style is genre specific. That genre is the old French Provincal style of the Canti Moralise.

A strophie is a system of passes. Like over, across, and athwart the manner of a subjective term. The affirmation of the 3 passes in this Provincally drawn condition I have l laid out with 3 quatrains(4 lines) rhyming them as I will. Also at times using a repeat of 3 lines Leveeing the weight with a 4th line acting as a cadence, unrhymed, and usually borrowing from the auld tradition like the words “In the morning” or “This old way”.

The quatrains in that they may be arranged with this repetitions and a cadence, as well as in couplets, extended with a backbeat, and further by unrhyming the 1st and 3rd lines. This perfectly comes into line with taking up the couplet again now though in the Homeric style. The modality of Church music meets with this cmmprehension at its 1st prerogative.

A respect for the theory of a set aspect in keeping clear of the clutter of assuming in one’s possessions that we are more than simply ourselves has need counter with the same sentiment but at this it is in regards to the spirit.

Not that we would indulge the daemon with largesse or dream of too much of a good thing.

Unreasonable as it may seem the quandary of difficult experience has to rest on the aptitude of its sufferers. These to make good on the endevour. Asking for reserve in any more want of the presses as a makeshift horde of contentments.

To give time to the remove of those obstacles to the succinct matter of viably giving expression to the quality of movement upon earth of those good natured beings accepting of consensus values in the revolutions of persons, thoughts, and matters. Simply in the sample song of that which can be seen as united and worthy of moments held aver.

By the sea. By the mass. By the representative host. By the considerate child.