tumbellyuppityuphyuck - Tumblr blog

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

memory makes a current tragedy a link-

-a connection to the current. a recollection of the same pain

& a reminder that we survived it once before.

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

1

There was a shell-less turtle

a baby in the bunch

whose family built a new shell

as they swim-

-they (dont) want the safe space garden of chopping & forgetting.

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

Canto 9

There are three, we hear.

Three, then one of the three split into two. 

We are the two left behind by the two who split as one. 

Who are we?

A child.

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

Canto 8

Words wrap around a bridge until the only bridge remaining is one of words

We sprang from a land of hills and a river of pools. There is something inside us, clumsily carving our organs as it worms its way out. What is this? We feel this, within, where there should be light or nothing. It flutters, leaving an ache. Patterns in our thoughts, which our speech cannot escape. It is fury, and we cannot embrace it as part of us. We see the fragile, peeling layers of this world. We fear tearing them, without knowing why. Will we be permitted to know why?

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

Canto 7

She began by grinning. Scribbled (not by her) on the wooden floor with blood (not hers) were the words FIND THE STRAND. 

She had never genuinely felt pride. She had seen her life as it was being lived, through her demons’ eyes. 

There were demons. Waiter, Watcher, Listener. She was Watcher. She had been watching long, a taboo since Loneliness was awakened 

(when The Garden was abandoned). Hear that dreamy voice, never stopping yourself in time until deconstructing all rhyme and nature.

a servant’s daughter, preferring tenderness over temper, saw the strands in time. 

Weary who chose safety, guard

against the bloodied hair of wrongly told stories!

Man hates himself so of course he imagines God in his every victim. Fate coincides with fate. The period contains all of Life in the chords.

Vestigial, The Waiter clung to the forgotten

Beatitude in a dream of blood. Voyages and gods burble in a bubble

in the blood 

      of madness

      God,

hating Himself found beauty in beginning anew. ‘I should not be wealthy…’ he told himself, ‘a peasant in the plane of the pain into which he was born &

to which he returns again… 

an impression left in my own corpse reborn for the third

“TIME is where I flee when I refuse to be wrong;

no matter

.

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

Canto 6

Mister Grayfox adjusted the bowtie of his straitjacket. He was, in fact, wearing several straitjackets stitched together into a pair of loose-fitting pajamas. He settled into a comfortable reading chair, one well worth aging on. 

He had set himself the task of writing a single sentence that was breathtaking in its truth. He would do so with pen and ink and paper, to scribble the right way. 

A drop of ink, even smaller than what one would think the size of a drop is, dripped from the end of his pen, splashing almost imperceptibly on paper undernea-

-where once there was a canvass filled with only promising plentiful whiteness, there was thereafter a citadel, populated with fantastic beings who had already been playing their roles when they were caught on a page. 

He is wondering if he should continue writing, regarding what he wrote with a vigorously cultivated self-disdain, angelic in the haughtiness with which he hated himself and his creations which are reflections. Reflections are light bouncing off of mirrors, which was what he saw in the mirror: a mirror of mirrors. Not a fox. Not a fox at all.

There was a holy hollowness in the center of this imagined maze of mirrors, and besides it was consoling to him. But now the hollowness was unraveling and Mister Grayfox found himself in a laboratory inside a tree. While the interior was luxurious-looking, sterile yet somehow still organic, the exterior was that of a tree silently screaming 

‘Hello?’ the fox cried out, at the laboratory walls, to the tree containing the walls and him within them. 

‘I was merely a-

live, was this a transgression-

Is this, too, nature?’

a puzzle fit for Punishing,

LightComedy,

&

Late reformed first sleepers

!

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

Canto 5

There was an organization lurking beyond the comfortable familiar blurry shadows in which he dwelled, and he did not dare disturb it. It sprang from a world without borders, names, lanes, where streets lack addresses and those who live dreaming stand still. He called it a legion, or the legion, because it sounded as if it suited whatever it was he imagined that it represented. 

He hurriedly scribbled an obituary on his phone’s notes app. 

‘I mistook you for your daughter, 

and in the mixup you were forgotten, having

Slipped PAST cracked hands. You. 

whose bones weigh you below the tide

Until time forgets about you too

where did you go, when you ventured where 

you will have been the first

Observer before God,

To do with the observation

.

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

Canto 4

Doctor Faustus sat alone one night in a car -not his own. He neither knew nor cared whose it was, nor was he particularly convinced of the validity of ownership as an ethically sound concept. 

It was in the parking lot of an apartment owned by one of two people -he wasn't sure which, but he was on friendly, even intimate, terms with both and he was confident when smashing the window in order to open the door from within that, though they would mind, it was obviously senseless to remain outside in the cold and they would surely see the situation from his perspective

. 

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

Canto 3

The Director Tarantula , a

Roman winemaker , is

the last figure (Poststamp-wise)

.

Leopard doll:Leviathan 

…Love,,,

Fall

the skulled 

Delight 

 The Endless

       ‘ Shadow

Gentle

House

Watch

A Serious 

89’ 

West

        tern

The Hero of the West, the Hawk

Zoo-Animation

The stones 

’66

Forever

‘89

the South: a cipher wars 

on 

seas, the alphabet, the fox with tails: a history

Of RedRose: 

HEALTHBlogging 

Hygiene/ablutions/opulence

.

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

Canto 2

a quiet 

apple.

Beethoven’s Thread

you can hear it in gods’ head-

playing for lost time

Cage strum along to songs 

and hymns from a time forgotten by itself

the book of disquiet skewers rhymes, &

sympathies, & truths and untruths dance as one

pattern of poesy on the walls 

the hallway echoes into a misspelled view

& 

TARANTULA, spidergod who nipped

at the feet.

Young boy, who unlearned God through Love, whose brother deciphered Love with God as his cipher, 

was The Word

ever drier ?

was it

slow ? according to the law

, 

it’s all cinema. 

2)

1 of nescience / 1 of numinescence 

the former a christian, the latter a physicist.

tears were blasphemous fictions

for the former,

the latter adored

the look on their faces

.

[tumbellyuppityuphyuck]

Canto 1

Dreams and games,

down at the station where talkers guide us:

life is an experiment, we are its specimens, experimenting with ourSelf through the act of living.

-

The screeching in gods’ [single] head would not end. 

There we stood, on an eagle of stone and glass, built to the height of a mountain. 

The craggy countenance of the city of white heat mirrored the man in the sky, speaking and reaching and searching through sunlight. 

The Poet’s project:

wild Pan 

Fry pain if you may!

prophet Father

outlaw! the gigolo turned tragic new york bookie 

The fake who got to know the "rock and roll martyr"

two fathers from the teahouse

BE AS

1

.