Marked up from the not-so-sale price

[blp]

arked, broken shell, behooy bellhop. Go
fan out from this forgotten backdrop of backcloth of
Hell. Hang yourself
up and get out of the hot pursuit .
Fame, glory, gory glory, god head hotstuff
Yea, what are these, these gew-gaws beside the
daily spittoon trawl from home to workplace
all needs forthwith met except
those you’re a big enough boy to
meet yourself
(Hi, neighbour! and
(sotto voce)
**** you)
So,
Out he goes, shirt-tails flapping from cheap suit, feeling out the territory
like a blind person touching a face.
What’s this? What’s this? Abscesses? Warts? Pimples, drool and mucal
slobber. Oh Jesus! Spare me the further displeasure of
finding anything out without full possession of my senses.
I’ve had enough, I tell you, this perpetual killing of my
feline self, purring puttering out like the flame of a gas heater. Get me
anywhere but here. I need a holiday, you get me? This place is
mad. I am.
I don’t mean in a good way. I’m folding up on myself
chewing my own mouth off. I have nearly reached my limit.

Yes, meet yourself; it’s not so bad; or isit? Ha. Heavy headed, even hatless you are
a horrible conniving selfish thoughtless inconsiderate narcissist, especially, all your
passive aggressive attempts to bring beauty into the world. Yah boo. Bollocks. What a truly disingenuous middle class tit you are too. You never have and never will, wonka, workaday,
werll met by moonlight, child murderer by remote, off with head, hangdog look, whole hog road building
drudge, dependent, dimwit. You hate yourself you say? Let me assure you
you have reason. **** head. Creep. Cretin. And you, Get you, dreaming of the ecotopia
skyrails, songlines, bio-fuels, ethnic beads and copper stars hanging
anaesthetically in rag-rolled cafés manned by blank-faced east Euro immigrants
serving pungent coffee to flaccid, sad-eyed aging hippies in shapeless trousers. Welcome to the bean feast. Prepare to be flatulent and stew in it. While elsewhere

Riptide devolve discover dork moon madder deter corpus venereal sandwich monster
chew up its holster, cap it up and define all terror terribilis bumfluff feather duster score.

Renounce, decry, disgusted, co-op with nosegay and fine tuna, set off
for the famished lands and there, imbibe cocktails with a frisson of fatuity, collusion,
and expsnively broadened perspectives.
Hi, Mom. I’m learning so much about the natives. Things you wouldn’t believe. A toxic
cloud royles over, the cold encroaching and even as it does,
ice cracks
and ancient gases lift themselves like risen vengeful corpses.

Sorry, I drifted off. Hi. Hello. Hi. Hello. Hi. Me. It’s me. Don’t you
recognise me? It’s me. I don’t
recognise you either, I’m sorry,
I must have mistaken you for
someone nicer. Feh. These grinning ghouls.
They’re everywhere. shape-changing penny-whistle apoplectic hysterics. Freaks in
non-freak form from time to time. Agh. I got it. I did a thing and et it; left it there. Marjoram, Millicent, Marjory, May.
Awake ye. Ris up and go
. There
Take upon thyself the mantle of
we know not what. A fig. A chewtoy for a
canine. Small, fluffy, pug-nosed, cute as can be. And let it scarf you up,
squeaking in lieu of
meatier prey. Ah wench. Eminent beauty of thine oracular eyes,
great balls of gleaming futurity. And we shall be

all all all that we dream of
however incoherently.

These visions, like religious fancies, made flesh
become the cut-up, reeking, fiend nightmares of Promethean disappointment.
Grinning death, the rancid flesh falling in glutinous greenish chunks,
unbearably there, alive. I had enough of it. Let’s go. There must be
somewhere nicer. Let’s jump in this here advert. The folk song soundtrack soothes me agues
like the cartoon people, clean euro capital, kids with beards.

Get on the train. The clouds, the floral patterns in the air, the perfume,
gag-inducing, sad, ugly, putrid in its way. Oh yes. Fargot me nat. Deter. Deny. Desuetude. I’m dumber than I look you na. So sayeth all the pretty kids, pleading,
yes! I admit it! I was boolied at scul. Please, just, please please please
don’t hate me ‘cos I’m bookish.

[PrinceMyshkin]

This is somewhere a long way to the north south etcetera of brilliant! I couldn't make out all the allusions but that didn't seem to matter as the energy of it just bowled me along!

Typo at "expsnively"

[Riesa]

holy hell. I couldn't breathe, I am pretty sure everything is in that, plus some. I need my sunglasses and a pacemaker, heart-stopping runaway-train ride, Sport. This poem scares me, like I'm being yelled at for something I didn't do by the neighbor kid's certifiable Grandpop. Thrilling.

[blp]

Thanks both! Lovely reactions. I don't think there are a lot of direct allusions to anything. It's all just pretty much how it spilled out. Yelled at by the certifiable Grandpop. Yes, good.

[jon1jt]

Okay I read the whole thing. And speaking of bookish, halfway down there's an incoherence that comes and goes, becoming more present than not, and by the end drowning out any semblance, which may be the point, or there is no point. I just think you got some tightly packed lines, a couple shooting straight across the length of the page, which I really like and all, but it all morphs into ranting. I think there's more to it. I probably should read it again. There's energy here, powerful stuff. If only you cleaned up some space, opened up the too-punchy lines some. I might be tempted to call it a modern day Howl. Anyway, it's different I'll give you that.

[blp]

Thanks for reading it all, jon. I'm for the energy first and only at the moment. That's all I know for now.

[jon1jt]

Thanks for reading it all, jon. I'm for the energy first and only at the moment. That's all I know for now.

Following your own current, I couldn't agree more with you. I read it again. You laid down some really incredible lines here---truly poetical, and I encourage others to read these I discovered and the poem, I think you'll agree. Yeah, there's energy here, lots.



Spare me the further displeasure of
finding anything out without full possession of my senses


Out he goes, shirt-tails flapping from cheap suit,feeling out the territory like a blind person touching a face


Take upon thyself the mantle of
we know not what. A fig. A chewtoy for a
canine.


The clouds, the floral patterns in the air, the perfume,
gag-inducing, sad, ugly, putrid in its way.


And this one that comes right at the beginning over your head like an anvil.


Go fan out from this forgotten backdrop of backcloth of Hell.

[Riesa]

I might be tempted to call it a modern day Howl.

I had the exact same thought.

[TheFifthElement]

Yea-ha!!!

[blp]

Yea-ha!!!

*laughing*

Thanks, 5th, and thanks, jon, for going back and pulling out the lines that do it for you. Much obliged. Howl? Well, I've always liked it and I have been going back to Ginsberg's buddy Burroughs lately.

[Silas Thorne]

Meaty. Need to swim a few more days in that one. When I get to the bank again, will tell you what I think. So far, I think its a lightning bolt, bowl me over whirling kind of feeling. Powerful stuff. :)