Clemency Of Prognificant Lytreses In Baste & Hurd Divination

Props should go out to the barrier reef and the back fence and the chasming of frozen quarter plash. From the high and mounted passes to arbolic imbridges, the frequent of pathos in the culture and mythic tantamount of available avenues for traverse and hop a long freight.

There is a space of exemplar consistency in the cornea of the animalir eye. The cascades, the fountains, the carousels, and the mansions in heaven. The meadows brooken tythed with sedgerose and lorilie holt. How courageous the manager of torper. His ancient and menial store. Always returning from near points nil. The mile mast, the monarch milk, and the doting modus of apparently tardy deli cleavers of a nosegay to the proper feat of probisquine receptivity.

What with no available equipped to make out glad. With a turn of the wheel there is simply the downed gait. Alrighty slant that meets with dymn in mentions passing. Quaint and contrapted the semifores of flyting triage in arbitrary lessons dusty stamp. As would come about in seeking out the penchant for no more reckless dismissiveness of the abrupt and calamitous.

If the crashing of the bill upon the emperor’s plate proves a jagged course of salted porpuquentity. As is it to assail your tastes with surfiet and to the point of blindness. Beyond sympathetic requittal. Assuage only in remorseful mulling of fruit upon the palates of head of stadium cheer squads.

Time befitting an old gray wanderer’s domain. The running passes of field and stream come to reckoning. A crackerjack sketchbook in the hand socks of the feigning auditor. A public Canty told yahoo Jimmy not to get stuck pulling sharkteeth out of the sand. That’s the way you will tout horses instead of laurels. And all will be good with thoroughbreds and doodaw

A slakers tin it make out good cup for a water fill in the spring thaw when the little wheat remain. And the year round grass peaks back through. There are bout hilly ho the prayer go out for temperance and miller’s crown. A bit of gumption yes, but the teat toll on witless cats atop drawn tourrilous poles.

Well it is of little interest but for its subterfuge. It’s grinny by the nape thick. Start, and start again. So for nimrod and runaway Jim the wild wins. And it’s nice to have baseplayers in the band. And for the blues to get an occasional banjo strum. Holy moly if only it made sense on multiple fronts all juggled about and periodically brought back to the merry need for acquaint.

Saws, and lineages. Cut and drawn. The blessed jig. What career of rampant tropicals to have the goose down by the backwater creek just watching an apple floating on the current of its stream. Slowly, much slower than falling. Lazy, in a lazy in the stream.

Verdun Alles

What could ever come between those in the middle. Likewise what slakes could be drawn to bounds comprized. How does the sockhop and the hoedown remit to these Koans. To merit an exceptional mean. To whisper of no illmet conquest or malaprop in regret or shallow qualm with societal norms.

The Moon it urges occasional Hel to belch from her grave. The washing of hands after succinct effort signs throes for a set of templates. Aegyptic pans knickerbocking trampoline camps in the midland of auguries with a long slow arcing panalopy. Lost in the culling truck of the disporters it spins adroit oft and again.

Meadowlands amidst. Several hobbing galavants exchanging Dada sticks to draw the rose line across the wind blown grasses. A graceful bluebird blushes. A fancy litter of stymied rag handlers acquiesce between raucous hoorahs and colloquial geste of hedges and cold bawd hours kept semphry fulla gnossis..

A geste for the roadside hoggies. That live forested in little quagmire boggies. How they draft and horse all the beef of folken manners of matters about the qual dodge. The gumption for practices in need of tempering. Like steel unborn. Somehow lost to the mucky slosh of hinterland gill and vine.

A drawn cord foundling in Hartwick. The penchant beyond the green. Bawdy equipped in the rambles and bugouts of bearded folks surmise. The onerous sanctimony of parallax unaccustomed. The rye, he insipidly tanks the ginny for her easy lambastes, her puddle Monti of fellian richmans’ pride.

A parsley standard insconsed in the tremendous statliness of a hundred thoroughly antiquated things. Like people of a fretting inconsequence. All perturbation in their victimless scheming toward hanging red flags. How says the mensch for his term. By malaprop or euphemism? To beat the band or to gain something titular in response?

Do not bother to bring answer to this mystery. It is both mott and for nought. The mete tempts like blood. To carry on in argument or worse. There are the holy days and there are the holy fairs. The ability to adapt and to change has the ability to be steadfast and sound. The act proffers its time for a charge. And the yoke is fierce and broad. Sympathy for the reckless tonight. The spirit travels far.

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.

Scotch Guard

Tax collectors and church heads. Excide men and the Deacon blue’s. Longbow and vegetables. Apple pie and Shepard wit. The sacred and the profane in the countryside, on the wood and forested plane.

With lights peeped the zip monkey makes his career out in following and fooling the market. Every Christy singer lost to the auld countryside of the Lakewood fu. Pucks regard for the odd council of pits. These knee-jerk recondition. And the flex in their crosstown speak.

Moments upon the gait of storms everywhere sewer drains say yeah buddy. Thanks for the recap upon the host of iterations. They always sue such glad campers in the field of culumny.

Where Tonal prices are expressed in the finial stamping ground of another bumper crop. Sacred and Scottia. The glam hostilary of a farrier and his psychophant. Finally getting his flying papers from the hail of the very dragons’ breadth

Going up the country. Heading out on a field day in the stockwoods up home. The great chase. Running a ground seeking Foxes and their bushy tails. Like the hounds of a toothpick brine plucked set of shy oat captains and their great debate over rejuvenation of the Earthly resource.

Some buddies of the great escape just say why bother. If you go down in traffic and the lamb has no want of your harassment well then let the broad take home her turkey. The shot is shot and the power has been laid into the off position.

Grenwald gris. Specious ariotis. The wattess table tops a simony stir for mental health chariots. Kudos to the fellow macks. Truck full of hair combs for long and lanky gray land mares. A swell into the down goose. Sage quack maurades. The story books a quick setti on the minutes and a most capacious matter of moments takes to the low hung door.

Desire is the boot that reserves his quest for the sanity trip and that is all. It is the salt of the earth really. Any old guiding hand would tell you that is a facade and it doesn’t belong to you or your Jesus burden at all.

The bounding glen of quintessant whitetail dear. With pleasure palace graces foundling and without need to repress. There is an overwhelming storming upon the gait. The redowned breakwater shakes off the respite and gales forth to the nary be idle lands down the quiry shells and the smote fecisious.

Sending river pathways through weir up drafts and current swales and rolls. There is a diaspon leaving from the station. Sounding cleaves to the moon van sing. With tack and a charge it’s the left of the dial return to blighted traps.

Who stayed mad? Perhaps the unforgiven. Is there any honesty left to consensus values? Can’t break a neck for the law. Not in coming up short when the prayer of daily travels and travails is on the safe side of the road. Laud, laud. And Lord, Lord. And go.

New York Loud

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.

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.

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.

Rube Ware

Julian nightshade variety. Growing at the Gates of Janus. The tripartrite opening of the door from within to accept visitors by day and for longer sequesters into the lot of haitus and sabbatical and fortnight.

You know you attempt to pull a big gate. Someone is going to wind up kicking sand. From the lot on the block with the stripmall. Flying turkey trot. Rural in the rue of road. Damn if I will ask for the traffic kit. The long time king of keynote speakers. Diltz and Doyle. The almighty coil. Insy Theo the outsy. If you look again you will miss it. The demiurge is out front and racing the habit. Time to break with the tide. Let the beach take on the breadth of the the brunt of the cresting wave.

Coming up roses in the design of labyrinths. A curious salt upon the Earth. Loss. Of consciousness. Of peculiars. The gauge of fretting propers in the shoeing of horses. The cabal lay of street with outlyer mosses and stray counting grains fit for the dialectic of native and supplanted pidgeon.

How tall stands this mountain. Raining in the day with the shadows of the mount leering heavenward top heavy and above. Are the pilgrims here to progress from their mission into further reaches of the chain. The lackaday need to find transport to the next station.

Who cares. Whatever. Nothing meant to do harm with the community of nature. An outrage need to consider from above. And so as to focus the narrative also take into acquaint that which lays below. To make good on a round in the overall and outstretched arms of the conceived.

This is a righteous call but also a rumor to discretion. The platitudes of the extant are not to be disturbed nor shaken from their bejeweled dream of morning. The rube is the guise of frequency we pour forth blood. In the Eucharist. In the slaughterhouse. In the thumb picked thorn.

Be wary and be careful. For you tythe the baying of the dogs with your par courses. You let the cat out to wander and you walk the block its round.

Creeper (The Sympathetic Vine)

Second par second. Minitum upon minitum. Approbation and cluttered frequencies. There are secret shady spaces and there are bright sunshine wakes. The tide is rising up and the moon is milling song. Mano y matate in a corn grind pone. Poetry of the muses on a midnight ride. Our cool chill subterfuge making out to surprises of a whole lot that is great.

It’s the creeping, crawling ivy and the spook is a haul. Far wight shores hanging lives on judgment with stories of veritable service of the apropos. An ode to Western returns in kinds of creole batches of something succored and sweet. The Morgan and chase. The wild hounds maurade of formative legions. Hounds of the mowing greens.

It amounts to as much when a woman is a wife. It sits by the accustomed elder cross-legged on the floor getting cut to dready counts. Up on the cork there is a pin-up gal strumming ukuleles to the tune of a resort into the backwater town. Country rambles ending up in grace at the popstand for corn cake and maternal pouch.

Euphoria and a triptych. Time slips away to b movies on the inside. The down low continuum of placid tambour. With the daily trials under the test winds keeping down the heat. Of cats, of races, of days.

The well turning in the ground looking up from a wild oats grasp on divinity and saying glad univer. This is a theory. This drive, it is augured by dreams. It assays the pan a cross with the dirges of the sympathetic vine.

There are those in prayer whom laud the fatal seraph. With its pronounced feats of atrophy. Willing the fly on the wall to do just that. Fly! A relegate of nations making out the next balm on burden beats.

Have they any other means to judge than the splittying of hide? This truly I do not know. For the bane of atrocities is that you don’t ride out with the consumers on an old blue laws Sunday blues song. You show some reserve. Well don’t you? I mean no matter how lazy one gets it still comes down to what is a stinking mess.

Conceivably all one would have to do would be to clean it up and be done with the charade of ill met and inconsistent fuss budgers whom are out there riding on a day like this. A day otherwise given to rest, and really if you could only remember, a day for returning to the earth with your labors, your inclinations, and your caring for the scene, and for the given environment.

What comes and goes need not go so quick. The vine has sympathy for you. Please show some of that hard earned resiprosperous action back to that same vine. It represents Mother Nature and if we need to be reminded of it then yes that girl and her creeper have a spooky good old way about them.

To shake up the heady locks. To tickle a bee. To go so far as to make the planets whirr. To razz the bronx betties with some of this American country’s best homegrown cheer. And don’t be afraid! At least not for long.

Sure go ahead and play out the trick but remember to have a few good laughs when you do. Show each other some of that same endowed kindness that hopefully once she showed to you. And God bless ya for at least trying don’t you know.

Encouraging The Entity

A brogue and a jig. A rogue and his havoc. A public outcry at Sheriff John Brown having had put good olde Satan in the stocks and not given us any rotting fruits and vegetables to throe by. Oak at the neighbors tripping bright up the hill.

Meanwhile there is a rising on the othern sidhe. Anamaskers on armchairs. Ringtail clows making off for sad eyed coffee hostesses to make flurid flakes of snow in going the bye and bye.

What? What’s that you say? It is all to casual for cosmic flagrancy. One foot falls in front of the other while two mules walk side by side. The muddy lane and it’s gauges. The busy bee ditch side walkers collecting orange spice teabags thoroughly through and through.

Becalmed concommitants acing test zone flight patterns. Butter chops exhumed from frightening resonance of coffer keeping saints. All bejeweled in horseflies and hash. A friendly condition of relative neighbors sans the locked doors and fences.

Don’t give it another chance. Move it or lose it. Proverbial gusto of marching infantry taking on the big swell. A respite of peaches making good on the potluck and the copse. Stipulations of daily ark into the freedoms of the genuine libertad.

Until broken bags of tea swizzle in the conventional atmospheres of protean swimmers. Glad armed in the pathos of footfallen and clandestined swings.

Letters to the editor radically explaining her variagated points of view. The garnered resorts of floral gaity. Long drawn shadowing fates in need of the freewill of exercise. Without license or excide. A chowder power of bean men.

Counting up the umpteenth gaggle of freshwater fish to swim the stream and bid to relax in the idylls of pulling current and lapping pool succor of roe.

It is a long road to the union hall. The coop is chicken full of brainstorming and seclusion. The Sun is setting on the back fence. And the light is on at the front door like a pitched skirt has drawn us to cover and hedge our bets on the given.

Warm and arid days in a tide of hedonist weathers. Now surfeit. A larder of consistently speculative measures. Lazy and Susan coming ’round to wrest the cannonball.

Roping in the delerium with a step of lifting the gaity gate. We high aloft the blooming avid and stratii. With dual enthusiasm and finesse for packing in with the rat.

A year by year route. To given states of perfidity. That an assembly has its liability for the cost of trying to engender the joy of its propitiating powers. Within cognizance to trepidations make allay the hitherto and unknown here abouts.

A running darkness taken to the ground and emboldened by the grave. A church ⛪️ Street set of pewters and tin for pie. This accumin of the savory. This native instinct to go about the passways of darkness.

Given to the endgame like night. The dawning and the daybreak at a copesetic remove. A gooden for having taken the ride. Now tucked into bed and goodbye.

Before I Write

Before I write of second sight or about a sixth sense gained from painting a wooden fence.

I shall sing a song heavenward. It will be long but not absurd. It’s not wrong and yet it’s every word. Is virile and strong, hawklike a bird.

Be there time to concur hereabouts. On matters that are just and for now. If seldom without understanding this will leave you wondering how.

The lonesome cowboy at finding a broken childs’ toy would not just kick it into gear. No he would desire to better his situation. Ya dig, like knowing the real Pink and Floyd.

I used to cuss and really fuss in what I chose to write. Now I would that what I laid down was peaceful, and topical, and bright.

More of my second sight and early sixth sense. Climb a fence, meet a dog. Get mauled, for blood on a towel. Stitches on a jaw, a cheekbone, over my eye, and behind my ear. 47 to 63 stitches in all.

Should I write like a fight? Always running away until I fast. And come into your musing arms to last. To address what are grave derigors of anger and might.

It is there I go and curse with a mourning words thirst. It is not to grab up handfuls of Sun in the club and bring error to some flipped out edge. Going down for the worse.

She’s a girl and you are a boy. But do not let your acceptable love forever cloy. Those amorphous regions of loss and argument and a high helot for a roy.

When the belated want of our speaking tries us with garrots and gins as such our lot. Like tigers in the spotlight their logic has a goose to whisk us out of shape into some twisted helix got. The nether light burns bright at this conflux of our utter midnight.

Carolina sounds like ‘Oh Sweet Lord’ when the bird flies and gives rebirth to her lost chord.

Quick heartbeats connect lines of blood. Holes in the knees of my blue jeans and some mud. What will I have to do around the next corner when I catch up to my buds.