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forlorned · 4 years

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finally i’m getting ‘round to barbie’s bio!! she’s a charming native that loves this town more than she hates it, but only by a small margin. she’s the secretary to the mayor, but her father was a disciple so she’s... neutral on the club. wolves, tho? gross. her mom is also a little infamous around town for partying too much, even into her fifties, sort of like lorelai from gilmore girls if she was chaotic and a former biker groupie. anyways, here’s her details:

content warnings: death, implied bipolar disorder

born october 20th, 1988 in charming, california. her mother, also named barbara goodwin, was new to the town when she met ty. she didn’t plan on staying long, accepting a temporary job to fill in as a substitute teacher that was on maternity leave, but it was love at first sight for the two of them. she didn’t know he was a biker until two weeks into their relationship, a fact that ty kept from her. she was only twenty three when she moved to charming, ty a bit older, but she decided to forgive him for lying. by that time, she was madly in love with him... or at least she thought so. the relationship didn’t last as long as her pregnancy. they were constantly on and off, fighting daily, and when barbie was born, barb decided ty would have nothing to do with his daughter. (that didn’t last very long.)

barbie grew up with her father wandering in and out of her life, sometimes living with her and her mom, sometimes not seeing him for months, depending on what was going on with the club at any particular time. it was mostly just her and her mother, and barb only being in her mid 20s when barbie was born, quickly felt like she was losing her youth. she would party regularly, leaving barbie with the elderly neighbor, usually at the clubhouse when she liked ty and la luna’s when she didn’t. for the most part, it was just barb and little barb (as she was known the devil’s disciples and most locals), and they grew up more like sisters than mother and daughter. her mother was her best friend, except when she wasn’t.

barbie was only thirteen when her father died, though it had been a good year since the last time she saw him, during a time when relations between the devil’s disciples and wicked wolves were especially violent. dying in a violent shootout, the president at the time told her that he died whispering barbie’s name, but she finds that hard to believe. of course she was devastated that her father had died, but it felt more like the death of an uncle or distant cousin than one half of the couple that brought her to life.

things were a little different after her father’s death. her mother was still a part-time party girl, relying on her daughter as her only confidant, but she got a little more paranoid. she wasn’t worried about the club, or the gang, so much, it was just the world in general. one moment, big barb was carefree, the next she was obsessively checking the windows were still locked. barbie never grew up with a very rosy view of the disciple’s, but it was confusing how her mother could go from loving them deeply to hating them even more over the course of a day. it wasn’t an easy time to live in charming, but barbie grew to fear everyone, not just gang violence.

it was only a few short years before she got to high school after her dad died, and barbie mostly kept to herself. she was embarrassed over her mother’s public antics, scared of being hurt, and was one of the few black girls in school; all a recipe for an introverted, shy teenager. though she had loose ties to the disciples through her father, she was a chronic good girl, and that carried throughout her college years. she saw what alcohol did to her mother, knew how her father died, she wanted to stay as far away from the seedy underbelly of charming as she possibly could.

not too far, though. she stayed at home during her college education, commuting to fresno for school. desperately she wanted to leave charming, but she feared what would happen to her mother if no one was around to rein her in. completing a bachelor’s degree in communications at fresno pacific university, a major she chose simply because it could lead to many different careers, she found herself unemployed back in her mother’s house after graduation.

barbie landed in the mayor’s office by accident—not literally, but she was searching job listings in the fresno/charming area and came across one for a file clerk at the charming mayor’s office. hired after one interview, she really only intended to be there until she found something better, but slowly she started getting promoted until she was finally in the actual office. working as the mayor’s secretary for the past five years, barbie is incredibly content with her job. for now, at least, she’s absolutely fine where she is. (secretly, she hopes to be the mayor one day. not now, but maybe one day.)

before she had a vaguely cordial relationship with the disciples, and disapproved of the wolves, but since working in the mayor’s office, she’s grown to heavily dislike both. she wants charming to be a nice place to live, but it wasn’t ever that nice to begin with, was it? as far as either crew or gang knows, she’s neutral.

has a very bubbly personality, but it’s mostly just a front. she feels like she can never be angry because her mother relied on her so much as a child and it’s carried over into adulthood. also has major trust issues because of her relationship with her parents, grew up thinking that anyone that was talking to her just wanted something from her. doesn’t have a lot of friends, or at least she doesn’t have a lot of close friends. mostly hangs out with coworkers or fellow i-don’t-want-to-talk-about-my-trauma-ever-so-let’s-talk-about-real-housewives-of-nyc people.

moved into her own apartment, but frequently goes to her mother’s house to check on her/have dinner. and by frequently i mean like six times a week. doesn’t drink more than a glass of wine if she is going to drink, so most people think she’s really boring (she kinda is lol, but we love her).

you either know her as barbie or little barb, never just barb (please call me barbie, barb is my mom’s name. yes she named me after herself.) or barbara. sometimes will answer to babs.

kiiiiind of judgmental, oops. doesn’t think crew or gang members are inherently bad people but it’s more like ooh no baby what is you doing.jpg sort of thing. distrusting but incredibly lonely, whomp whomp. a big fan of passive aggressive smiles. kinda... fake, but in like an innocent way.

wanted stuffs:

childhood friends: barbie grew up in charming, so if ur muse is a lifelong local, they probably know barbie! she’s very shy but super nice, kinda kept to herself growing up, but very ride-or-die until you do something she thinks is Wrong and Amoral.

a best friend: c’mon. this girl needs a bestie, a least one person for her to feel close to and share her real emotions with. except a lot of stopping by ur place of work to go out to lunch and random gifts because Gifts Are Her Love Language.

exes: though barbie is super like... not forthcoming with her emotions, she’s very bubbly and like come the fuck on, she’s a smoke show. i’m imagining someone that really liked her but found her forced cheery attitude annoying and she refused to meaningfully commit because she was scared of the feelings.

childhood enemy: someone that didn’t like barbie growing up, for any reason (except racism obviously lmao). they could’ve been a fellow club brat or maybe they just thought she was weak bc she was so quiet and shy when they were kids. who knows! i just like antagonistic relationships!

a roommate: she moved out of her mom’s house years ago and has a good government job but she still needs help to pay the rent!! ideally they could be really good friends or maybe they were strangers that have to learn to live together and they’re constantly getting annoyed with each other for like, leaving the bathroom fan on or something. i figure this connection would be with another woman, but it doesn’t have to be!

a surrogate little sister (or bro, or sibling): barbie grew up an only child, but she’s got lots of Big Sister Energy. i’m thinking this will be a connection for someone younger that’s in need of some sisterly guidance, or perhaps a fellow club brat that’s more integrated into the crew/grew up to join and barbie’s like i don’t approve of your choices but i’m here 4 u.

um honestly i could go on forever but i don’t want this to be super long, so message me on here or discord (wanda’s loving boy#1003) if you want to plot!! :)

#charming.intro #hold your horses honey. i've got coupons for the pringles. ( ooc. )#i only proofread this once bc i woke up from a nap but love barbie or perish :)

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castlehead · 7 years

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[BENEATH THE PLYMOUTH. chapter nine, conclusion]

I. Can’t life end again, before the sun Goes down over the hills like a parasol? Life polluting our heads with questions That don’t know their own answers …

Then why give it us? the private said. I mean,

Armies kill and are killed for these, and ya En’ up with what monstrous

Bleakness stripes in blood; that is your prize. With flagging limbs I speak my Rage at the enemy. My True Veteran Rage, Which is my food and drink, I cross the

Battlefield and I singlefile my bros And doesn’t this matrix of bootstring Done up on you quicker now if We get incoming fighter jets? You are Meanwhile living it up like a damn Yossarian with them foolish virgins The new recruits till I

Send again for u to drive another imbalance right Weepwoop weepwoop weepwoop

Tried and true are the men to get killed first After all, nothing like

Deaths of honorable men To stew up the lesser rage of cowards for to deal In lamenting them, as if it were for fun, sportiness,

Oratory, red and blue lights! crack Open a cold one with the boys! magnifico! raises

Chalice to those sent to a Rightful place in the heavens, those Weak mounds or plots now, some Severed from life by the single nip Of severe pill intake after the war

You’re too fucking good for a life of Seizures take this xanax instead.

. . . . . . . . .

What am I doing I am here, I am atop a mountain, lets call it, Am breathing full for the first time, In my headspace I persist An effluvium; while a desperate gush’f a need For sanctuary tells me I am far from Ahead of turning this damfool twilight In my head away from its Croaking doubts, and guilts, Can barely.

This Twilight, What have I left to examine of you? I say Sagely to the private, do all that you did, as well Upon / A separate, spent drift, perspective, etc.,

While the wolfish / Folk don caps Of what they wrongly think they

Are. This could be a story about why I wanted to kill myself Or it could be about whatever I want to make it about, Hopefully something, something less dramatic. Well. I hope you like it. I worked very hard on it. It Makes me want to weep to think of it, and yet I must, I want to tell you all of what it means to make a difference Atop a mountain, I see you there, my love, Please, please love me, there is not much I can say Except, love me. All this daft World. All of its haunting Contradictions, nifty spools out of sense I cause

Rounding the corner, get them, chase them, Go deep into the forest, up the climate. Up, Up

Have you found, the little that speech can give you back is width enough for a heart in grief to corrode Or two? Sleep, sleep, dear one. I have ye, ye is much obliged to nurture me myself, but unlike I you, u dont have to me, For I nurture myself well enough already. This someone else in this house of mirrors you keep talking about, quaking With unfed genius, and whom is monster, monster, knocks upon the head, to heel up This phantasm, intimidate it backwards a little, scorn its brunt, then deftly reconnoiter With it later back at the chasm’s lost wrinkle there where not one minute of time is spent not laughing about the situation. A light could swiftly get penetrant the brains of the unfed genius, the wreck, The wry one, the lost thing betokening all worlds’ wishing that human vanity hath brayed like a horse for, and Prayed, prayed for, to congeal as even the protozoa of a spark at the top of a mountain; to let hope congeal in plenty as the blizzard Of the century to garnish the summit.

You have the prototype, but it is a him, and he is to love what love had always needed to Be! We mold and mold what we want the world to be, mold it out of a wish Or three,

. . . . . . . . .

II. Each interesting temperament says hello to me, Before fleeing from me,

They pass and pass like they meant something once but won’t tell Anymore, as I wait to be given back what has been once robbed, still

Hell. What’s the difference really? Been once asking me for the last Of its energies, itself will change, always change. So it goes with The whims of opinion, as to what sits well in one’s stomach,

Or if not that at most just rumbles hungrily there, or gets one’s noticing Depreciating, or not. Anything wld lead me to an answer I’d get besotted of,

Ornate reasons for expression are my thing. Showy excuses for my skewed bind called my life.

That rattle here and there around the point I try to make a success As the voltage is turned on I mark my last of humanity goodbye,

As I remember ur indolence / I so forget my Thoughts, feelings, guilts, shames.

And it is mostly all the same. Watch me empty buckets of sorrow! My eyes. My continual essence is such a pain in the ass. I prefer Additional things in the mix, more than mere sadness. But Our relative experience, though relative, would try to deny Us that even, wouldn’t it? That all could simplify into an urge For relief, something that goes against the little voice That says, These are more than just

Words. But I want them to mean something, really, I really do; want them to bring you places, string You along on their meanings, bobbing and chafing:

Even by faith there being a verbal string to the argument Makes an argument. Reason’s transcendent like That and can make for bitchin’ metaphysical

Recognizingz. What. Something crucial loafs In my empty canister called body. So sue me. It, that is, What I am, doesn’t do anything there but magically

Stays aloof without disappearing: this buried thing: well I Daze myself off into space and meet you there, like, In space: and anyway waiting too long would

Be a rightful hazard for my personality to squeal about In being aloof. I have no ridiculous thing to write But instead forth go into magnifying what is said

Already like a patient requiring ibuprofen by exaggerating The pain that is still pain. More fun is this, this getting Shot with a gun-syringe of aenesthetics: they

Say “Ready for time out” when they do it: You wake up later feeling licked

Like, like a trainwreck, vibrating in freezing AC cold.

Yet if the headache’s needed, then, getting It treated should squelch the purpose. Leave my maladies There, you kno, safe in the trinketbox. Leave me traumatically

Unaided. Like until I hanker badly for an answer myself That I try and remember to give after the longest Period of time possible. So if I can’t,

I want. Feel so stifled. What is important to you: Making sense but making sense new: making poetic Thinking a type of poetry in itself: it works after all:

Let’s ask that question: if I am ambient in my relative Nature, or if the vibe is something more jagged, Which is already something wavy and ambient, An eccentric trick of the mind to woozle itself Into angles of self and pithy creation would Eventually present itself; but do not do it. Yu will not remember how for the life of you. It will just be a picture you see of what you want. Such ignorance

Fascinates one into playing, like, by their own rules, starting To play with concepts. I want to stick to one but Don’t even have one. Strange taste

In my mouth there is. So much there is of self That committing to one thing, even per page, is Backwards, bawdy, bluntly reasonable tho

Past its secure, random prints the weird entry Glamorizes, then makes a thing: I went to those to Mean something, like, went to the words, I mean:

What of it: this is going to be something I Hopefully do not regret, that my large, shiny being notices as Light through the window, getting reflected on by the closing

Door of a car: don’t doom me to just that though: I am a searcher: I’m trying really hard: doe a deer, Blabla: I have the right wrinkles for to

Explain my argument sideways: planecrash: Runtish reason, bleed me out of you into a body My own, hopefully: fuck my answers

For everything: I don’t care about the bad choices. The, that is, horrible reasoning, is not, is a Way, a new one, to work my way

Through poetic thought: my elbows hurt for example: My back does: a weird taste in my mouth: righteous Diligence, give me some rapport with

These words, craft em like gems that are squeezxed And tormented to life, force it, force it to live, I need This living thing in me to express its repressed

Stuff so long repelled: don’t do me like A normal, hoggish perspective on the matchlit Cave we squander through: through and through,

I impress upon myself impressive gonging shouts, Right?: or do I never mention the invisibleness of What I speak of, you know, outside of just then.

. . . . . . . . .

Despite my own personal dilemmas, I have An element unknown by this practice,

Settled in decisive waves of calendar And rotation, space and juxtaposing,

Retracted stuff and statements left bled till Steam lost. I have these unknowavles

Without constraint as things my diction nails To the wall of the page. But I have

Dilemmas, things I create for to Be baffled by them, scorn, growls,

Soggy mittens in wintertime. Nothing Counterintuitive, I always say, gets past me.

I allow those confusions room in my material Cell, breathe out flowering my spent

Petals to a floor of verbiage. OK. What can I say ?? Though ?? Really,

That the cricketsong is unbelievable, The night drinks up that thick

Music; that everything now is considerable, And I decently understand; and that

Everything, even what I do not know, Is important. So as to this,

III. Constantly, barely on a cuticle Would reality seem to stand for us;

You are not so fine, so tenuous as your situation, which is reality, And which offers up zero places for you to trip and fall into the sky.

Regretfully at that would the whole of reality disappear, as Soon as there were not these gravitational beings humans are, To classify and disseminate reality, which is in other words not What you think it is but what you will never see it as and more,

More than just a pretty thang, due to a sounding sunlight, due to, To say, an obstreperous daygloss over the city; but is in the worlds Behind admitting a lack of a name for this non-language, which Although remarkably loud on the still, static eaves, seems [yes] To have come overnight with the junipers. But the sense of sight,

The sense of sight simply was not auditory. And other things, Were fine, were fine as cuticle. Now, as for the problem of sight,– It was already a completely different sensory-experience, one I watched at once go wither off many roofs like flakes, go silent By the weeping mud round their walls overtook by river, but This not immediately. A sourceless jangling like of jewelry first:

Shattering out-seeming a white sun: a wake of these fragile things. Like paint-chips. Saw something, somehow ornamenting rays,– Wither from my grasping. For back then I’d left the peanut Gallery as per usual, my focus on imagination’s latest fare,

As I walked away from my cute little fucking friends or whoever. They went off none wiser, lolling their tongues At stonyfaced adults, so

I chose pursuing possible phenomena: I sense-guessed some Strange thing off there to my side, and in my sight alone:

It was as light, yet if light had A sound, a fastidious muttering to,

To complement its urging bright, and Brilliantine crisp form, giving

Marker in particular, as I noticed more, those looser, tattered Parts of sun and chidden dun. So as, in physicality or Whatever manifesting this gets called, to make

It sound its shifting throughout all degrees, cajoling and Maneuvering almost as if it had feet tapping steps to take.

I was 10, and though I kept awhile that booming stepping light In thickspun places for my mind to go and mend an ear for, And. Back me to that spot, so that itself the unilateral instant

Of perception would not dim, well so it dimmed, And I forgot the noise;

Cotton fills between my ears at the thought, to the point I you know like wouldn’t barely hear a foghorn; then Aggravation past recalling. I can’t now even know if

Anything is absent. That’s how bad it is. Events, E’en if they’d been in paint, certain ones’re more Past recalling than the bluntest detail

Of whatever I’d kept warm enough of it all, by The fire of possible to picture, there, you Know: in the mind’s eye. More important to Remember the erasure electrodes could feed Than the one they could stifle with a ball-gag.

That raged-out delight in your eye could Seed in you and with enough

Of this obscure hallucinogen consumed, zoom the pneumatic Parturitions what had been waiting to canter out out in hot Speech straight from braincavity, for

The benefit of your local Shaman: Into the brushy groins thus go

The Cocky British Adventurers, searching for the fountain Of youth, or at least some village where they can get high. The voodoo dey is pay to see, like, to cure incontinence;

Don’t tell! By the barrel in transport go things to forgetting; A given day, from spore to spore remits; direction is avoided Like a bad thing so we all go back to where it growed from

In the states. More than inner leagues of a breastbone, This is a serious matter. Or rooms we might Could spend all day a-lounge

Upon our rucksacks waiting for inherited luck To be what haunts us, that to crumble, buckle, Quick to breathe, then nothing,–would not so Succeed: spirit pulls us from the fingers of spirit With grand tweezerpairs,

But: what of the dangerous chemical overlapping, could that not Melt any elated feeling straight between its own two hands Lifting it, fruiting out the cracks, from that elation, once again, Which: are nay pieces of the will to dry up the anima/animus For good: like British testicles in the Rainforest its, your Very hands do not, refuse to

Let you handle, now, because, you Know, it will burn for awhile if even it, whatever is Controlling the nefarious block between

Whatever happiness of a sort and their significant Person: birthed into that happy flesh, that skin, That thing that will remind one, you, of the fabulous,

Unshed lair at the foot of the mean, corrosive stairs, Pregnant with mercy for the steps of light on it only.

Listen: go by that so as to seize new life: if wholly for more Artful-slung ascents, wax the temples of yr head And go under, and send accents of voltage, Pole to pole to pole.

WE ALL OF US are of what WE were,

Which cannot gather ‘mustard’ nor In mustering it up should you go without A sort of wheeling will: well: no soul should be Without a healing will: it which fights between Your lungs and what your heart insists

Was, has been there before: they, uh Will know they are observed And know not to do so There now; this too

Comes as natural As all these, as ventricle. There’s An aqueduct to tamper with.

Mine and mine through it–all the overwhelming shit of it all, For stuff yours. Just, don’t

Besiege, sweat and Sweat to illness; or make it yours; or do you and I,

Walking down the dirt road with our selves styled right in front Of us at the edge of madness–meanwhile, the road is at the edge Of the psychiatric hospital–pursue towards our to us so-so Talismans, like the reveille to break ‘us all’ into morning,

With an empiric dournesss and a poetic somberness like dirty rocks? Nay hope to find for this or that eclogue, a meaning punctual, as

We clean them like pissed Jockys, Answering only for the gold but in a

Locked eye–or interminable, breathless moment. These could Be spied by some among

Us less romantic as the crummy afterburners Of a godhead: but to us and others like ourselves not morsel at all, But at the very head

Of the war, and us the blood-mud of a battered theatre, rocketing For battlefield-next; to capture a frantic vibe or two

As might well make us frantic? To display The snack and succor of our wellbeing again, that is; Perhaps in a happiness the other there, at least

–Amongst these mossy graves: where yours, my, and Our ideologies get bestowed on, stoic although out of order, us, Again. Like some gift cherishing its other one,

We blind to our own cherishing. We tempted to hunker into place

On the flat of a large rock: and still we worry of A frightening mishearing of the argot from the first

To spell you out as tending to follow your arbitrary wisps again, Dodging the spitting of these asps forlorn by the same proxy Sense walks out to let fill for it too, whom try and try in fidgets To tell you realistically: you is, uh

Mercurial to sell your snappy deathtraps To the others sitting hunching In the back of the light, awaiting the unveiling Of The Random Vision: it all, and it will, flies back at you, The one elated: from their dark shelters it comes To make that noise you knew only light to. Then, as the speech

Of one given so much to dreams that it were a Sickness the mind ingratiated unto the Rest gives up the ghost and calls itself the same thing

Given to these corruptible seconds you’d happened to get The high beams on at the correct angle of phrasing-light, and Especially since it was not found, and by it I mean, this

Especial species, while scoping out out of greed for an exotic Metaphysical animal rustling softly somewhere dangerous along The curtain, made entirely of infinities: you

Waited for to steal the show, but, then, kabamm, And we lose it: our salutary mistresses

Delayed the minstrelsy, time melted, weak shooting At a fenced-in target: as we themselves blast

All motors, play chicken with feelings fine as cuticle: the Cheering to get mutuality in a busted zipper halfway Down the coat: I sleep in a cot: don’t feel sorry: for you:

Our someplace mistakes beautifully without any Communication’s dotage, without interest, In it for the art: usher us along this rock a bit, And all to stomp down the feeling.

The freckled derelict impetuous parts Our molded forming spits panoply to graciously, as Our freeze of eye at each other, and with that a dolor of collar And crimp at the shoulder, and hands to arms clasping Tenderness to the hilarious sound of trombones:

To filtered, moribund animosity all is as spiritual adiposity, and to The spine’s own place in hurting is there a weakest when true

Hue. Trickling Minuses down each disc, doth it, doth it doth it, and Bring you to the tomb the tomb, tomb, tomb.

Happiness focused atom-wise to blathering lambs’ limbs’ Context pillowy gets us confuséd fledged from right to left

And then to do, uh, do so is Yet the where where is someplace stronger, smaller. Right eh ?? The speech, argot, recommends its woes Like fashionable trinkets at a gas station. And decides

Us to go down the drain like toiletflush these untimely Dissimilars, once posh, now as but the gourmand’s Misery. Before the game, he ate a bunch of hotdogs,

Came to the eating contest for a snack. Yet which is of tidings Is that being flatlined on nonbeing like a medley of thrown

Sounds through to the end of the roll of the last toilet -paper in the WholeWORLDEver. Crates us as off

We go like in a box to nice otherness, while Seconds remind us of the ghost

In the moon we forgot to call mightily and we are Now stuck in this bricklump desuetude.

In the very moon our trembling lips lie about knowing it Afar, and I care not how long the line spits landscape; Don’t; or does perhaps. I want to speak visions Of colors. And now for another

Thing: this is different because it leaves up to discussion The rather ornamental debacle. Dry squalor.

Heated up desertions of eye. Fickle hold, o hold. Broken record you is. Well: my army had Nothing with it come to much

But a father what that grabbed the attitude off The collar of the young punk with spots on’is faythe. Like golly.

Repetition you let us pay for your drinks And get stabbed like Marlowe in the eye. Shiver, Species. For it is what we tell you do.

Collective unconscious needs dramamine stash, before All civilization hurls into the closest bucket and- -Frightens the children. Pellucid is the sky’s heart. He’ll know what to do and, uh, what forgive.

Something cold in this heart. Heal me, heart. Respond A bit too soon to the call. Discuss politics. Fuck you. And be Young Joyce uncomprehending at the

Christmas table with Old Dante Muckering up the gaffe of talking blunt about

The PRIME MINISTER Bad gaffe made the more.–

I took a thousand stout men and made them soldiers. Still the question was not solved: do we or do we not Exist: I founded lackeys like the Prime Mover I is. I am, Tell me, young lamb, [eyecontact] I am like

Roses sweet-smelling yes. I have an ankle that is a chip off

The shoulder and there is so much you’d never suspect through The blinds: you are blind to much: anything but old rinds I give

You to see. Of cataclysmic woe, Is uncouth to say it comes, betimes Betimes.

I natty up the RansomStash of money, think I hurl in some other dimensionanony

Rubbled out of zeitgeist. Like what’s left of what Was once important. MAKE EVERYTHING EXPLODE Says the mind, to the maker, and dirigible the static Plane being’s on or is not on. I have a backache. A good part of the poem is that you do not

Know who the referent ‘I’ is. Wonder retracting statements From itself is and remains the wonder of those statements It did not pursue, nor highlight.

That’s what I tell yeh. My GOD who how he did it ?? Till next horn’s blowing.

The new fodder’s here.

I look at my watch all pithy. I want to talk about something

Different, Now:

IV. These moving things, in

Front of my memory are in front there, as if they could be In front: preparing to be remembered. As like water floating On air, an air once obvious lightness, now heavy but only as Waged by its distinction plashing down weightless;

A rose fighting God for a crumb. What I thought mine,

The diviningrod for the gold that is as it is, while The dappled glinting hurlings-out of sun its Buried symbolism: the rod was looking Surly and sad at me

With its inanimate, punk-poker countenance, asking an Arresting conference between myself and all What is in the coming-trough of that

Empty ray my sun begins behind, waiting For the lordly entropy unkind bids for power Wreak of all over the mystified Others’ whispered Commissions to blesséd rekindlings of an ease For suns as mine, and for them

Eagerer plumbs the problem into the general, poetic Selfhood you and I equate to the choral bastion For all the body politic to get unto itself

A final haunt for meetings with those in the field; First, get me to the shallow symbol quicker, for The more is, within, that is

Our fighting, unfound parts, found Out to their believing-to-be-seen, awkward, Aggrandizing root, the more is seen Human all our trickling signs;

As, for example, the professor nodding Dipping glasses from eyes might say

Profoundly, You have me breach into your sociopathy: Behind these displayed tears eyes mutely Carry over bucket by bucket

Past the lids, then Closed goes your roving imagination To the many grunted teachings, wanders to

The place affect and displeasure dwell In commune much as the sun and moon Are. You contrive and contrive Despite a lack of closure. Evil

Grunts; then, the old magician steps upon his Own tricky sidewalk, back broken, spine Flailing out of the flesh like

Sides of things intentionally prized, for Being many-sided, being peripheral, being thus The clamp-down on upon the rift between a Self and self, the murderous wage, a drifting Buoyed survival technique, culminating In the petty boutique where make fancy our

Designer desires. Manically let you grin, let you-

-And find me there and bitterly beneath your skin, Interred, an errant bug clutched by the teeth Of cells, entirely made of mature dismay

At this rattling feature or that, a singing twitch Ersatz dissolves in simply prudery, although the Match is boundless once uncovered to its Eloquent extremes, its funny bets

Atop a covered wagon on the turnpike to Work, ensuing gases here and there, plucking Marred hairs and ingrown nails from the More similar decripitudes of life, yet leaving still

The undone pyre of waxing-worship to Intend itself beyond, beyond a folly, and beyond An enigmatic coach a breed of stag gallops With, like a friend, a friend or fiend,

A whipping to the nakedness our traveling, A scorching of impassioned earthen to What’s the sillier darkness of conceit, deceit, Received by amplifying weeping, or By entrancing the metaphoric tides an Element-electric wouldn’t send

To the chop-house. Let whom lay beneath The tarpaulin conceive this second poem with Next day’s wrathful heat to incubate

Idea, idea of shrouded modern people Messing with themselves with chemical And flirty doctrines flirting on the bilious; We are about what sadly is not serious.

And you, cheap gourmand, upon his food And slaughtering by the minute every truth His 'times’ replayed like plays in college football

Or, which multiplied disheartening with Kids; which antiquated meme and vine impelled To the furnace, and were meant to be an irony Without a foreground, or just merely funny Will, in time, call all of itself lamed

By richer generations whom do not tie severely The knot so early, nor that one of frame-of-mind,

Nor vicious as the adding of more poem to This poem, this tape, this wrong, this blare,

This carousel, could our analyses of flickering face Be less human than the rest. Dispassionate tools.

. . . . .

To jealous the color of every real ordinary. Mass composites are what the want want To be: load up my carriage, run faces by me For the right one to win

Me over, roam grim sealingwax doubles Like they were the robotic asswipe Your linear ability commands to howitzer The shit out of. I want

To destroy all the air. Then of course, would fain destroy This feigned couscous, by words Jellied in the fridge next to the words, and which gets Warmed up, connotes feelings words alive Trumpet menagerie by menagerie. Flown out of itself

The memory wants back to mentioning, Dries off on the water: the weight of all of this Wants to invite God and the rose To brunch, you know, just to talk

About maybe focusing instead on the sad Memory, unsaid. Split like atom

The discontented flash of thundering. The only thing deeper is unwanted

By you, though you think you do, but no, you Do not, do not know what you

Want from these tears the Result of a brief squabble that should Have been rightly emptied into

The Well Of Lidded Impactfulnation, I mean, man, imaginpainshun. The sidewalk entered a flaccidity unbefore Seen, saturated by these decked freckles of Unbelievable, haunting rain as

The city burned just to get some light On this one page in shadow or Night merely spilled,

Rotting, all over this oops And contracted by the mean tacklers Of bulls. Then revert to those gutted, realize

The pen is dusty and empty, the tears A stupid fragility that makes broke the back Of a mountain not included in

The latest Jake Gyllenhaal deluxe set Of withered, weathered - - sexual frustration In the form of abstract painting full of themselves That is, mainly stuffed with their own selves, Which, pretty much, is everybody you Just had fight with, like, what

They are like, since we’re filled with Ourselves or at worst another fills or is filled By us, which is dangerous especially For emotional bohemians on the klutzy radar Muttering germs of new shit In the corner, like, the

Corner of the crooning voice you can’t place, Can’t raise, faze, amaze, or daze; What ridiculous fun it is to chop the world in half, Leaving only robotic faces tunefully chosen In essence. Maybe you lose the song But it comes back early once That nifty ‘copsiren simulator’ busts Everyone fleeing from the party, and an Avalanche of high folk pour out

Like tears of once what was, unto lids, The resultant dripping, squeezed into their lighted Aspect, performing light again

On the random Chair of Life where drunk poet sit, Whispering saturated sidewalks, eating couscous

By themself, since everyone of us has turned Into a wax rendition of the invisible, and by this Needle of a difference doth split the chained

Opines of unhealable hunger’s dust Where the bulls we fear once were, are not At present.

Dance, dance, ludicrous, failing mind, for nigh you won’t again So mourn, you, rebel from the rest of yourself and die,

Remove in revving happiness up what hath Embraced you, baffled, from two steps away.

It is the corner’s voice. It is the coroner’s voice, bespeaking Valuable Soul, but sans shirt, shoe

. . . . . . .

truly keep me in your bad massacred heart that lunges against your ribcage like it’s selling something it’s like an animal against you you know

find out what lingers between you and beats and stales there and planetary in the dust without a friend but the one you pay for

without an anchor you live your life to listen for some kinetic power somewhere there

unduly and lacking but what you have pawed at for so long now you have

it so live to stir people do such well this man is a tired broken thing wearing an old tattered coat he is grimacing against the bitter cold and

of his way of writing he is sure that he is without an echo back to himself peacefully he lights a fire beneath his fragrant ass he is of the metronome of fart and feeling in feeling

it is in the basics you reach for the flower in my lungs through my throat you have an ascertaining of body in your body

you wild as fire wrinkle orange and yellow separately of it you are the fire of beauty of both

you stick to listening to what’s between the chambers of desire your mind goes crazy and gets stuck in yet

without feelings without the hope of feelings you still feel you are the argot of feelings you want to waste your life trying to fix me I want to taste my life in your ice cream’d hands I want to desire the reality behind things a bit

I want to hire another human to attend to my morals and come upon a spree of finite conclusions for me

our register of voice makes enough of that for the two of us to hear it however low

to wander throughout and divide the equation we would have solved using another’s breathy brain

tell me I am true for what I think of that is that I am untrue tell me my own wrinkles of fire again despoil meaning from the craning of my neck to look upwards at a sky filled with myself filled with the clouds of myself and it makes

me go away into the feelings try me with those feelings and keep my hunch cracked like the tar across the road reality follows

driven by those high and fruitful voices…

#poetry #poem #powtry #pome #depth as predicament #the sad truth of it all

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