How to hypnotise my own folly
and move beyond the next step.
Open up the lines and dont expect
too much from time.
Trampolines might keep you on
the way a traffic light dictates
and the wilful fallen echoes
ramble on – dividing the lines
and carving out a
backward sliding descent
into old age.
But on the other hand,
a miracle glow
can be pleaded to grow
and slope the way to a shape of youth
that lasts forever
in mysterious silence.
Suddenly an entrance,
Queen of Sheba on skis;
and sailing to the right,
boasting all kinds of sores,
a fleeting glimpse of a reason
clothed in flight, and ranging
from sad to succour
in the blink of a town
Signal of distress
branching along the wall top:
a man begins to shatter
and his only form remains:
the stamp of a martyr
solid as rock.
Im as vague as an ocelot
and twice as rare as never.
People put me in a rage
and I change it into a word cage.
– Twice two is nought
but seventh seven is heaven.
– Tracing the wheel lines,
we graced our presence with
Who is left to gather
at the reins of a slaughtered
triumph caused by the building
of an altar stacked with trinkets
and spoken in high relief ~ the way a
golden platter is laid for hens to peck
and turn the hall into a rainchamber,
checking out to be nothing more than
eyesore mean anti-matter, where
probes are laid in, and saddles packed
with chess-playing eardrum controllers . . ?
– Chisel a queue of blockheads
eager to deliver a new earpiece,
to calm an altered eloquence,
thereby achieving nothing.
Trampoline wax, the harbinger of many:
how do we get through this forest of wood
and still remain anxious for food?
The chips are down.
The billows of the room
lead me into a harmless state ~
when the response is so hushed
the delivery chamber
is left to its own devices.
Do I have a story to tell?
Harking back to those old things,
how they happened and where they fell
in the strivings of a mixed up life . . .
Theres sense within when it happens,
but in between, the tumble drum
puts the most obvious into shady causes ~
never knowing what you are really saying,
not even afterwards!
© 2003 Pete Gioconda & Black Cat Communications
All rights reserved