Is he serious, or what? what kinda blogging is this?

This could not be more trite

This could not be more banal

This could not be more lively

This could not be more important

This could not be more serious

This could not be more deadly

This could not be much more of anything.

 

D

ownstairs heavy tables hold heavy bread and heavy hearts wring tears from the sackcloth all the while heavy stones in a heavy milt keep heavy rains from falling onto your precious book heavy with words heavy with horror heavy with lashings heavy with glory heavy with the downward glance of an angel who has without ceremony been nailed to the heavy wall until today when the weight finally overwhelms our missing roof and buries us among the crockery unearthed a thousand years ago and buried again to be dug up by dogs with blood and spit drooling from their heavy heads.

 

This could not be more true

This could not be more unhappy

This could not be more repulsive

This could not be more comedic

This could not be more joyful

This could not be more mysterious

This could not be more wonderous

 

G

one are the street clowns painted white with red lips and pale eyes who used to beg for attention and money from the sticky street where fire hydrants burst and become Florentine fountains in spite of the black-toothed priest who claims hallucinations are only for the pious and piety can be bought from vending machines with lead slugs, where are they? where did they go? who brings the smoky urns if all the little boys are busy sodomizing the house cat and screaming at the top of their lungs and faces dirty look through you with eyes that have set on horizons a million years from here.

 

This could not be more incomplete

This could not be more forgiven

This could not be more molten

This could not be more frozen

This could not be more ridiculous

This could not be more solemn

This could not be more brazen

 

A

dobe archway cracked peeling from thousands of passages dusty sandal tracks and little bags with figs and prickly milk cut from desert branches where there is only sun the moon having surrendered the sky eons ago and not grieving at all for any loss real or imagined and carts upturned at the side of  broken roads spilling dust into the dust and searches for wind — none coming — abandoned huts with bone litter in yards without trees or children ragged wolves cant howl — no moon — no voice no rest no place to hide nothing to hide from. It starts over, somehow.

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Explore posts in the same categories: Thoughts & Musings

One Comment on “Is he serious, or what? what kinda blogging is this?”

  1. Tom Shudders Says:

    Whoa Edgar Alan Whoa!Quoath the craven Shudders more.


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