Friday, June 19, 2015

Mountebank Blues [reformed Tull]

          Monte,,,,, shit shit shit.

Mountebank Blues

Noisy bookshelves push patronage game.
Recycled numbers changing their name.
Pad in hand, the Blackbeard stands.
With great pretense.
Scaled metaphor, nonslip rungs to the promised land.

Bookshop proprietor, cool compendium
Labyrinth softener, sometime pond scum.
Blue sky this, value added gist that.
With quite small prints.
Bookish exterior grating over 'gnostic Rand.

Wouldn't show it.
Like a mountebank can.
Shouldn't crow it
With that mountebank span.
Couldn't know it.
Just a mountebank man.

Reduce stock, click, emptied bookshelves.
Adherents mocked into blaming themselves.
Takeout fantasia sing, on budget shoestring,
With measured waste,
Punched up vitae bag man in extended round.

Titled arrangements that jumble my wit
More topspin than I'd care to admit.
Hairbrained scheme, slim particle beam,
That distinctive taste,
Résumé grifter, three card Monte at Hare and Hound.... what the hell.

I wouldn't fake it,
Let the mountebank choose.
I shouldn't take it,
On the mountebank crews,
I couldn't shake it,
With the mountebank blues.



With the mountebank blues ♬ 








I can't get out!!

Friday, June 12, 2015

Sun-tanned Stranded Starfish in a Daze

While my employed life settled down to a daily grinding of  misallocated imponderables, I clung fast, I say. By totting and stacking long hoarded evacuation resources I decided to abandon ministerial sophistry and fling it astray if only in short term. Up the 'pool (!) it was to be as I pondered mizzen stays'ils set to the easterlies.

It was simply an indicator of the tightness of the bastille when I then must need endure the specter of pompous Learian rationale to arrange my earned furlough. Oh Mr. Lear, it is ever so. You haunt me, Edward. However, in a twist of the rational  in nigh a week's time I found myself performing a temporary elegy of sorts for the miscommunicatively [it is, I say, or should be...why are you smacking so loudly?] masked madness that descendeth back into its dark crevasse, nay 'pool in all consistency, awaiting some other traveler in some other sane struggle. And...

I'm going up the `pool from down the smoke below
to taste my mum's jam sarnies and see our Aunty Flo.
The candyfloss salesman watches ladies in the sand
down for a freaky weekend in the hope that they'll be meeting
Mister Universe.

Why had I never realized I was caught on a train sans handle charging towards an ending of despair? But...

There'll be bucket, spades and bingo, cockles, mussels, rainy days,
seaweed and sand castles, icy waves.
Deck chairs, rubber dinghies, old vests, braces dangling down,
sun-tanned stranded starfish in a daze.
Edward Bear, it is you that I see. A mere mistaken consonant between me and a rudimentary pilgrimage to the land of my awakening that are the isles.

I was but a starfish in the shallows swishing back to the open endless sea.

Time will pass.


Friday, March 20, 2015

Bell - in progress

Nothing could have presaged the inevitable, or at least the specific details thereof. While it was all easy to plot on the graph of hindsight and in a general sense it was close to obvious over time.

While all was quiet, my colleagues resisted the thoughts which accompany the tragic and appeared to be a little naked without them. These were the same rotting of the clothes of humanity they were missing and these I have seen so clearly before. Not implicating oneself becomes such an acute goal that the general nature of lessons to be learned only simmer in the subconscious like an acidic pool waiting to be disturbed.

New to me were only the actors appearing in the lack of passion play. My own ambitions had changed so drastically early on in life and I knew the stages of grief by rote. I simply remained in anger diffused by time, anger as a perpetual backdrop to all bureaucratic nonsense designed to make one's upward trajectory swift while plundering the human costs for effect. Like John Lennon sleeping at Yoko's hospital bedside, I now knew the liberating character of briskly challenging authority.  I feel around carefully for the unbreakable bars that imprison us in the dark. It is no good fighting every battle, or even unwinnable battles that appear important.

Sometimes the causes were unavoidable but often one could be knowledgeable through past personal experience to see the nastiness that either precipitated the event or lived alongside it lashing at an ever varying pace at those who did not fit standards of approbation.




Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Entry

I have found it wise to say little about myself in this blog. Rather I have hoped that the things I have seen and done would be fit compensation for my readers' attention. The scar on my left leg just below the knee is not all that important to anyone save me, and even for me was much ado in its creation with dimensioning returns in the form of entertainment or importance thereafter.


Many times I have likened my life to a complication in the perfect order of things and so regard my conception to most likely have been more the curious. Of this moment when motility met with oospore, I hardly know a thing. However, in the manner of what I have read, I believe a certain faction of citizenry attach weight to this commencement, with heavy feelings lasting for a length of time before the predictable diminishing loftiness of concern for said creation result thereafter, this despite a considerable affection for the hereafter.


I no longer consider myself puzzled by the nature of the things I see and do. Through blogging I have come to terms with the infinite. I stand before variety clothed only in pity for those who feel consternation over heterogeneity. I have acknowledged my own lowliness when confronting the unknown.


Four years of time after my supreme moment, I have my first memories. One is of my milk bottle which I traded for a model truck, an exchange that was forever thereafter lamented. Another is of an elderly German lady on an upper floor in our apartment building who could pass string through her neck with a quick snap. This was a fearful memory as I could never be comfortable again around this woman and her oddly wrinkled neck which I could only assume hid the incision that passed entirely through. I associated her with Grimm fairy tales which are also a major part of my early life.


I would gladly trade these memories for more comfortable ones that occur later like laying in the back of my parent's Volkswagen as we traveled in the night, or of eating buttered popcorn in the back of that selfsame car while watching Sound of Music between the heads of my parents upon a wide screen. The wisdom of Aesop could easily replace those fairy tales.


But of approximately four years and some months before I am oblivious. The moment is lost to me and the reason for its importance is equally lost. I report here only upon what I see and do while only speculating on the rest. Most importantly, you, dearest reader, do not have to live up to my hypothetical musings.