The furniture of living is such a drag on us all: put up a poster and show how much our love hates, us in ignorance about the traded shares of creditory tabulations of this and that though, if, but and darling saintly being at the BYO bank on Floor Street, y’all sport nice now freinds, fellow Americans of the apple-pie idea – yeah – blow globally, us who R, Americanism incarnate, diddle liddle ole moi, fwendz of fab labels: grow up !

(:-#<

why so glum? Come, let herr bother-boot get blue ‘n ranty y’all – yeah?

~

only joshing RF.

Thanks for letting us dump in your residence.
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A cheesy overlay of kookily married honey y’all, wiping the floor with rival cunning lobs of stuff that’s gonna shut ‘em up. A love smiling isms in the pockety marked poetic bollix of no hard-slog, droned on L. able fwendz, their end at hand: liddle ole chop and hello, get lost. goodbye darling sap, you’re binned off mug winner of a load of old guff the actoary boring man tole us. Effed into being pissed, we sat on our fanny faffing about with what keys to a universal waking from the tossing of sleep, we become when

air bled from a skin raiment – to feel
a deep shadow risen, deep in time present
future and done: whole handsome fat purse

and gardening hat, the hippie’ realisation
of an odds-on being, so-brief-a-chance, the job

self wandering free of customary callings,
proscribed, as ever – posts upon a wall better done,

planting matriarchal goddesses we weren’t fond of – old predatory creditors at crunch, strolling in the park,

knocking us about. We thought we’d give them six,
flick and whirl Americanisms, our dear ole us, mommie

git-eyed a goddesses in gender-fraud, the men in drag,
blerts in skirts dithering – who twirled and minced

about our realm; gorgeous their ordinariness, outrageously
times our feet, threading the whisk to a pop ‘n rock

shore: gently murmering entity of sounding sense
cries no more for trenchant learning, skirling fingers

at our toes, teasing ones knowing our lables – clarity

bold beyond dread,
folding in softly, where we seek the sea-bed,
terror-code of yellow and red slipping

dog round the at the foot of what fence
sat upon darling foxing luvvie of ornery blogs

sweetie pie and ditto mister Wolffe, darling mist
who gathers about in a cloak of grey fur,

while heralding birds not yet astir: seals in daylight
the air, making manifest there where

“I had a dream about the war”

is all we have to live for, and be heard, once
by very few – who know what roused in darkness and shadow

from the deep twisting damask and a twining of limbs,
what gaze o’er the shoulders to where our heart is

swimming through to a clear ring, called over us that
sing at sea: leading to where you began, ringing in

big-bangs beginning of the return, through which along
night to the lighter passage of awarness, washed us

anonymous, soul-bit of we all flitting wave – carpet-bomber of old and young, slumbered war-surplus raids

on wrong when the exterminator calls surely all days
numbering now, that walk out of what’s ruined, lives

show an emotion amd said:

hello, wow wow – and then departing plucked a bow
and lyre both, with the hand of three notes, discordant

curling up of anger and emnity into flight, crying for life
Montjoie St Denis, Alala, Kikiki kakaka and Allah Akbar

sin é abú

“I think there’s been a gas explosion”

..in our dreams, where dough is just all those American
flicks of us, and dear old Mom, she had a good run,

before we began to harden and splinter,
mister Mater: unwieldy pretender of our human race, one

tattoo is all we want – on our neck, a web, swallow hands
luv and hate tatted on our face – english L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E
bovver gobs speaking

beautifully Rebecca. Great blog, really luvved it, 100/10. This is big stuff.

Thank you very very much for dreaming on love, honeyed texts, must-be A’s forever, L. able – yeah – for love?
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(Nod to Robert Heinlein,who made that word and all its multi layered meaning. Heinlein who honored his sci-fi compadre, Theodore Sturgeon, saying he’d “brought love into science fiction.” And both of them groked the necessity for noncomformity–societal, familial, sexual, & a few etceteras.)

I’ll go for homeopathics, “grok,” love, & small presses who grok their missions on the yellow brick road. No false wizards. Survivors. And healthy humans, some of whom are gifted writers, (& who know to reach for the Apis mellifica, & some mud, if the bee stings.)

margo
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