Tag: wick

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.

Living Proof 1990/04

Living proofs that the woods give you just what you hear. Animals now tread on elephant ear straw matts. And walk out on fresh spongebath towels. A cowboy lassos a moving train one time more. And never again till destiny calls from afar in a prize of light. Electric candy lemon drop suckers out on the town. Closed doors that commercialize success. Elevator rides for a stuffed dress. Torn slights of hands on one way run-ins with lifetime hipsters. That have come and gone like modern speakers.

I knew a hack in school. A teacher who would get your license real cool. A man loses his job and beef-eaters pull some resource. To feed the chalker and get him out of there for being a mule. So don’t go and beseech her, you have the load of her course.

I have shown this light and you said a star in the sky has to be pelted with fright, fire, and daemoniacal man. Suspended some say. Well I save no Connecticut Yankee trying to bar reform of this stream of trout. It is the auld genius seek making out his walk of life. With his friend the stranger. His friend and wife. So give me a home where the buffalo room.

Pithy bread and board and a little choice in how I spend a day. My chosen day, my love still living, one who is stuck on saying things she has not come to terms with. A sense of self-denial she keeps before herself. Like a carrot on a stick, but enough of this or I am just a another prick.

Come to terms with your man of arms. A time the park rangers have to devote to the royal ass bees and there swarum. With a nice burden for a hive. Only just in want of floral nectar not to do anyone any real harm. It is a part of the old ladies graffiti walk and they scrawl standing by the back of a bus during a fire drill.

A burning mattress invokes some common bond to ripple across the breezeway of an urban neighborhood. I have never been here before says a trickster to some unassuming girl who just happened to wake up at the same hour that he did this morning. You are not alone she replies she replies and drops a smile. Trying to remember something she seemed to feel had been very important at one time recently or a moment ago. It rather matters that memories have grown confused without their proper practice. He said. Let’s go get some of these crazy zealots and their glut off of the want of our road. What do you say? Do you need me treating you like some botch ass while I go off on another foolhardy crusade. I don’t really think so my dear, not hardly, she just replies.

Tints of color reacting to the tune of a pat down like a number of hatches. Some young blood looks out his door seemingly. To hold something dear, in his cry, for gains trying of another yet further foreign shore. He decides instead to swim down a lake withholding his tomorrow’s to the running by of his closer lines. Lays on the sandy beach, a hippy, not to hear the cries of his own despotic rulings upon their insanity. At his ear he thinks he needs only his own blind lust. For running on the faux and all.

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.

Cross Correspondances

Looking on my baby this morning I am reminded of the time we have come through in reaching this day. I am reminded of those who have helped us with a smile and I am reminded of those who have lent a helping hand.

A gratitude journal. A writing partner. A constructive critic. A head above the waters mentor. A discerning eye. A sounding board for ideas. A fair witness. A practical enthusiasm. A diviners’ rod. A broken in pair of shoes. An attentive child.

Point of reference. The pleeched wall of an entertaining estate. Many emboldened Sunsets of the welltrodden floor. The Linden glam of trepidatious children making out skirts in the surrender of conceits unto the acquaint with the elder. Whiles and fret. In the decisions of necessary amends.

A garland by the spin. Eloquent hand me downs of the honor and the thumb. Green and hopeful of the bounty on the gate of the festal host at the evening’s door. With exhibits of extension. All repeating to each other the signs. A pressure spot. The arm and Armada. Brings high upon the swollen sea.

High and tight. Drawn cover of rubbing paper. The sand on the smooth talking tourney. A step out for the fillybuster. Can’t have to man window breaks in the glam watermelon sugar. Gumballs, edibles, and trout farms. Woody the woodpeck. Zippy, puppy, poppy, puppy, love.

The rye discerner and her swaddles of duck. A ferning gate by the riposte of a striding cart and setti on the washboard streaming thrawl. Got to get to the church on time. Somebody call a doctor. The limbic creation test splits the hide of the soft cream. Venus in wiles. Sporting a riffy for the bag.

The conjuration catapults a lacey conscience. There are the remove and the hand me down. Saltwater strag and the knotty pine is in the river bed. With all the confluence of little Bitty bleak water lulls of current and lapping tide.

To the quick with ye wallowing toads. Throat beck great leaps of the fatted calf. Run amuck you gals of the leathern boot. There are a bang and a bulk to the bulwarks now. These stevedore cutthroats have quit the ruckus all right. Sitting on cot and floor. With arms of Summer closing fast. The seaside shanty has glibbed it’s freshet and it’s languid pulse too.

With a righteous look ahead the exit sign leers frequent. The parade has not a rears to hidder it’s camp away. No this joke has too few faces to recognize appropriate changes. One between the other, as is, and should always be.

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.

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.

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