more obliquely inane stuff...

Just when you thought you'd seen the last of the drivel, I discovered that I've got a couple old notebooks of written verse, some of my favourite stuff, that isn't yet on the site, so I thought I'd address the situation... Please don't take any of it too seriously (obviously, I don't) and listen to it as much for its pure sound (it's meant to be read aloud) as for its meaning.

he came inside, turned the tv on to stay oblivious to what was going on
butt glued to the seat by the tackiness of his aftershave
he steels himself to poach another hapless bag of frito lays

like a seasoned pro, without a conscious thought
he flips to the show, another monday night to drop back and kick
he performs the ritual, because... well, what would the guys think?

like any other guy who feels out of sorts
he drowns his many sorrows in televised sports
unnaturally endowed women sell him what he doesn't need
they tantalise his senses and
expose him to their communicable virus of corporate greed

every drop of silicon they project raises his expectations
makes reality imperfect and blotchy,
under sickly light nourished only by the sun,
no thousand lights to eclipse the tenderness that's shown
during fleeting breaks in the local tv news
when reality occasionally intrudes.

my world it buzzes and it bumbles
warbles as it wobbles
and i follow it where it goes
sometimes it scoops me up before i finish
gone until who knows.

as she looked at the plate horror barely masked
i knew it was another date like that of late
so i didn't ask

instead i wondered, how did this happen to me
how could i have been so blind
her trap was sprung, now i can see

she does what she likes and she does it a lot
when something bothers her one to hide it she's not
and if you've any doubt she'll spell it out,
she's an obvious girl.

ambiguous would be an unlikely treat
i keep thinking i'll escape her clutches yet
lack of communication a breath of fresh aire
but she says that love is love
and then she says it again as if it wasn't clear
she doesn't leave much to interpretation
so i just use my imagination
to hold on to an obvious girl.

she does what she likes and she does it a lot
when she's all fired up, it gets pretty damn hot
i mean, if love is a game, she's got it figured out,
she plays for points, and scores with each shot,
it's that obvious, girl.

walking madness doesn't froth at the mouth
it holds sway from sea to sea.
great waves of passion bash its shores
pounding hope to pieces passionately.

rugged individuals have 4 wheel drive
they thrive in their jungles of steel,
but curbs are a might obstacle
for those who refuse to step up

question: how' do you hold onto a candle burning at both ends?
answer: carefully, and in the middle

loneliness is a warm sun in the face,
eyes closed, wind on the cheek, warm thoughts,
the grace of no one watching,
comfortable with every move

as the walk progresses, the cold seeps in
a soggy cereal day, no breakfast for champions
longing commands foresight and another grand design
crumbles into the mind of its maker.

slow streets, bass booming the fortunes of the foolish
as the wise heads shake and bow,
but a distant shadow smiles down
empty beauty, but a sight nonetheless
free to verse, but without will
rehearses another flop forthcoming.

out it spews an endless trickle,
fickle with the fortune of the few
the scourge of the many, not the brave

a new world orders from eddie bauer
as it collapses under the weight
of one too many polo ponies:
the quarter horse in the long run,
too scared to slow
too dumb to stop,
near the corner.

for wisdom without the wings of the wise,
the world is flat, with cutting edges.

while you are talking to me
i nod and listen over your shoulder
to the girl i'm watching
whose gaze glistens
maybe it's only my impression
focusing on her friend intently
here's someone i could adore
if she'd only let me.

in a fair fight who would win? the pen or the crayon...

dark with the light of contentment
all lies still
huddled together to watch the show.
with speech comes suspicion
and suspicious minds never know
what evil lurks just below the surface
down comforts doubters in their slumber,
oblivious to their surroundings.
isn't it better that way?

mind blows a fuse,
give it a pencil,
priceless garbage spews out.

turn out the lights and to speak it starts,
all waves and circles but not any doubts.
but what can we learn as we read what it writes
and right what it wrongs all around us.
so much to know, what there is to know,
it's all throughout.
it gallops along, kicking up dust,
a prairie of thoughts gone with a gust,
zephers of inspiriation...

intellectual intimacy procludes true love.

a master in the field of relativity might be a master or might not be,
depends on whom you're asking.

"i'm in a good place" he asserts... can a place be good? or are inanimate objects simply the hapless victims of human sentimentality. poor things.

people who are deep tend to be mired in their own thoughts.
seeking clarity, they cover forests of paper with incoherent
markings which simply spawn more mental traffic.

the world can move around us, and oddly enough, we can learn to ignore it completely.
what's the purpose of frustration? (if it needs a purpose.)
i think it's just there to piss us off.

profundity comes to those who talk a lot. oddly enough, they often miss it.
love comes to those who... don't give a shit.

rolling over, i roll behind
reaching for you, caress your mind
no simple word could mean as much
the soul gains strength from a simple touch

a contented sigh captures the moment
doubts in mind for a time lie dormant
it's simple things that break the silence
lost in sleep, life, not violence,
but violence comes in many forms
full of life and passionate storms

how can one know, i often wonder
as quietly in your arms i surrender
to my deeper need for you to touch
and remember that it won't hurt much

but you don't share the deceit
your open smile shines through
you really want to do what's right
and i know then i can't hold you too tight.

i felt like dung there was no honor in it
woosy like stepping off a roller coaster
numb defeat, acting my age, rage has no place
the idea of you supports me like a harness
my mind, most valued possession, at your disposal

frustrated appeals to oblivion
caution standing rigid against the winds of change
bringing with it another sleepless night
spent wondering if i've done the right thing
and i know how you hate it that words carry weight
but a touch can coax a mountain to move to the right
when there's nothing left to make it

she placed her trust in me and i squashed it
like putty to slurp up the comics and make them my own.
what was i thining, which i do on occasion,
to postpone the mindless rush of another night at home

you can only be upstanding if you're level headed
and i've got a hell of a slant.
even the groundhogs make me feel small,
vulnerable to stupid acts and my own compelling biology.

if i needed another way to find myself
amongst the gray matter and the drool
i'd need all the help i could get,
hey, cults are cool

like a lemming convention at the public pool
learn to swim in droves
hey, cults are cool

leave the thought, the sense, the culpability
instead, enjoy the joy of boundless stupidity
learn to break every kind of rule,
embrace the face,
yeah, cults are cool

it's a dogs' world
tongues hanging out
ears in the breeze,
our collar's too tight
and we all have fleas.

pound for pound, it's truly absurd,
the old guy in the monochrome - he's a lie,
not the word.

happens when you take yourself seriously
you try to make yourself whimsical and mysterious,
round tires on square axels,
grind down gravel roads of despair
whoever said life ends like a fairy's tale.

a detective watches the goings on with interest
a woman distressed, his favourite game
a gum wrapper, a match book, the tools of his trade
its the dellusions of grandeur which don't seem to fade

rain soaked pavement, the grease in his hair
black street light leaning, covert useless preening, deceptively simple seeming.
don't get cute, it suits you like a lead-lined tux and cement cummerbund

world reknowned, disintegrating, can't identify what he's been dating.

tell me a song, whorey glory filled
set to impale ya,
resplendent in
indigenous regailia

compensation for pretentions overlooked at the finest wineries...

clear my palet, make my bed,
give me something to stick in my head

the day just ended is a day long forgotten,
forgotten lettuce in the fridge
soon turns rotten unless someone cares,
spoiled ego hath that head.

hub of the hoover vacuum
tourist mecca,
cosmetic surgery for the squeemish
at the expense of all that's built
on time tried and true

cartoon lifestyle, paper bullets
rare earth in baggies,
soul sold by the pound

dinousaur prints
tread lightly on me
in the shadow of giants
i'm likely to be
squinting at the sun,
gaping at the flame
electrons pulsing their way
through convoluted paths in my brain.

the paraphrenalia of creativity was strewn across the room.
like an anti-nativity scene heralding the gloom - that was my inspiration.

the hiram l. weinstein memorial funk contingent with the revolutionary horn junta featuring the subterranean pan-galactic conspiratory rhythm movement (with chad)

i found an unexpected thing
underneath the door
something completely different
don't remember seeing it before

as clear as a cloud shrouded mountain
as fingered as a thumb
its presence made me tremble
i nearly swallowed my gum!

words themselves can hardly describe
the wonder that i found inside
my wildest screams and dreams come true
when i found that little picture
   that forced me
   after all this time
   to remember those
   lovely memories
of you

...some might think she shatters the myths of womanhood
from my experience, she terrorises the neighborhood
with her less than devious tricks
and sticks in the spokes of my style
that's what makes her smile

she's obvious girl

ambiguous would be understated treat,
lack of communication like a funky dance beat
but i know what she thinks before she even says
love is a many splendored thing
not an all-figured-out, confirmed and ordained,
dyed in the wool full bore

obvious girl

intense feeling about not feeling intensely

worlds apart, but in your pocket
closer together's not on the docket
funny how what's write is usually wrong...

work me to the bone,
you can beat my spirit in to dumb submission
i don't care
the hollow filled with sound drowned out
but the spririt cries out for action
and for time, tell me, can you, what am i?

i was weaker then, some even said
i was a fool
i needed help finding a reason for existence
amongst the lint and the drool
i wanted a place where i could be
myself, forget myself, and start again

headin' home on heaven's highway
it's the only way to fly
the traffic runs real smooth
somebody's always got to die

life liberty and the pursuit of security
end on friday afternoon,
another week of love found and lost
is finally down the tubes

now lucky stiffs can kick back
and level out the booze
and they can count on getting their fill
from the local evening news

sound bites and charleston chews
no longer rule the day
but subtle reminders of them
colour everything we say...

stop turn around
catch the bigger picture
before it takes you by surprise and
envelops you de riguer
leaving just a verbal nugget in the sunday times.

the portrait of stupidity sits primly beside me whereever i go.
like a ball and chain it takes your place
what a relief to be free of the master race
all the best in the world, so what have you replaced

what's the word, how can you know?
its what you want to hear as you sway
back and forth in a mystical way
that tells you so.

that's the story, all the allusions you've made
high and mighty, into the grave
the world goes on as you rave and deprave