Burblings in a Vacuum

Implosive, frictive forces left
unchanged, rough-tongued Charlie's
overcooked noodle molten,
strange with mad musics that burst forth
in a loose logorrhea that breached
'is skull's tectonics to hiss and fizzle
in it's surrounding sea's cold, dark depths.

Still so submarine that it amounted to
little more than a noisome narration
that accompanied his five live senses
and sometimes quietly crescendoed
into a muttered, involuted invocation
toward that sly and persistently elusive Sixth.

Monkey Do

'Mong the dream-tree's leaves
young'un Chuck sat fancying himself
the man who manned the fire-tower,
custodian of forests primordial-

Or better yet, a-sea,
the undaunted occupant
of a noble crow's-nest
'mid catastrophic North Sea gale.

Such chivalrous precocity
cordially clasped Charlie's
gasped-out, hardly hammered heart-
still crude-formed and un-flame-refined.

His blood-muscle unpedigreed,
unadorned, ungilt by filagree,
by battle-mail never draped,
was prone to sweetest Night
plunging sharply therein to the hilt.

The global velocity of two-score years behind
left him shy-scarred by multiple puncturings,
(his bilious humours mostly bled)
a head with Grail-fueled failings filled,
periodically gloomy, bone-tired rheumy,
most modestly skilled and quite undead.

Aging, silliest Charlie'd
seen the adult result
of rein-roped glee:
original equine energy
gone snuffed and strange,
a thing gripped and twitchy
with fear-sick constriction.

And though a sick litany
of countless rejections
sometimes gunked-up
his dream-driven agile eyes
and left him dumbly squinting,
still sought He some She
who would not "Why?"
the wisdom of donning
synergistic wings when they
came home a-hinting.

As Sweet a Smell as Change

Charlie deigned
to change his name...
"Or stooped!" thinks he guiltily,
being over-analytic in the extreme.

The old started seeming a hanging-on,
a worm-riddled, worn idea
that had somewhat duped him
for a couple still-productive years.

Sought he something to convey
the howl below his stewed silence,
the wind-shriek blown through
his bone-house ribs over
an unapologetic blood-drum's beat.

After a too-demanding
eve of detailed work,
the dirt-path home
(Spring being sprung)
become a heady boulevard
of jasmine and woodsmoke,
it settled upon him.
(more so then he who chose)

From somewhere unfound beyond
the incantatory rythyms
of his own beleaugred breathing,
the piteous plaint of his
road-broke, work-swole feet,
his titillated, negroid nose,
something sharp but not a shard
spoke to his moon-maddened mind-
an itch and a catch undone,
and ache and a note unwound,
throbbing in his Godson throat.

Happy Hour

Unruly, beer-bloated Charlie
noted duly the post-dusk sky,
mothered, as it was,
in whorled-pearl patterns,
shimm’ry with salmon-scale pink’s painted,
inhaled abrupt a double rye,
feinted at the men’s room door
and rudely left his coworkers
shoveling over-rich,
franchise restaurant food
into their mindless maws,
sucking sugary sours
through cocktail stirrer/straws forevermore-
and made for the unpeopled,
disheveled hovel he called home.

A radio sound bite
from the nightly news
the night before’d
taken restless root
in the fecund loam
betwixt his ears.

Desired he the privacy
to explore his funked-up mood
a-haunted by the ridiculous
epaulettes and epithets
of a glutted General just returned,
still high and haughty, from the slaughter.

Wherein certain merely moral mortals
went down in dismal blood-soaked droves;
social disobedients who’d populated
the low end of the learning gradient
non-martyrs, radiant nevermore,
murdered sans ceremony,
somehow more vicious,
with something akin
to officious sanctimony.

An absence of cable coverage,
precious little media drone,
no celebrity, well-coiffed wanker
of an internationally acclaimed anchor
expressing mid-left rancor,
no scrambly cameraman,
cigarette a-dangle,
to record the wild wail,
fresh tear-whet cheeks,
of an aghast family-
grisly death met, alas, alone-
sans spin or angle.

From such gloomy ruminations
by a gull perched and screechy
atop a parking lot lamp-post
was disgust-weak Chuck
brought most quick and timely to.

Certainly somewhere lovers lay
sated, spooned and snug,
while jade-sick Charlie chugs down
moonshine by the earthen jug.

Tis The Season

Cellos, eviscerated,
lay everywhere.
Startled theologians
elected someone
overwhelmingly dull.

Every Rubicon
brazenly exceeded.

Recaclitrants yawp.

Belfry: A Sketch In Quasimodal Tones

The clapper is
a crippling capacity
for sundry instants
to sail, breeze-easily,
through enchanted Charlie’s
fruitless filters.
This being only recently
recognized and reconciled,
sits he ignominiously fatigued
upon the lonely,clammy crapper.

His crude and curdling curse
having, harmless, fallen
at heavens fine, high,
always open gate,
gives he way to
a most melancholic trait
and sighs to the mildew
on the tireless tiles unintrigued.

“ To simply wear my wonder well,
transmit true the regal ring
of that strangeling-forged inward thing,
the noble clang of that bright bell,
is, I think, what I must task myself to do.”

Nocturne

Sometime pluck-poor Chuck’s
slit wide-open
each sun-stormed day
by earth-turning,
stellar machinations;
sports awe-split stitches
nightly sewn sans passion
to somewhat stanch a furied flow
of blood-bright dreams
and lurid light
that unseemly pours
from out his oft-burst seams.

The Imaginary News at 10am

Crazy elfin lutenists
entertained stunned troops
enmired shittily overseas.

Dumbstruck ensigns
report babbling Evil
running yellow.