Poladaris Nutatis: a brave new LANCET

Sigma Numb:
Three days before the coming of the second,
I frosted up the glass door bay with heavy chanting,
word-congealed air supply song ridden musk twinged hypo-atmospheres,
graceful pirouetting hula dancers in the cold of starlight
chips on the soldiers of fortuna maxima,
built like a modern day cinder brick I was.
My balls were of steel, my girders of cornmeal
sealed up in a box
last laser-tagged during the summer of recompense.
Cello salad for all.
Breezy smiles thrown down my windpipe.
Swaying cross as can be tantrum flinging blue harp overtonic gin-soakers
snake-eyes in the sand dunes can can I yes yes no wait for the morning
night moles day pole-dancers raspy toad swatchers watch wearing bo-wielders welders of all nature
handle on the pan can swing will dance by the pale yellow marmalade
the devil has meaning glass bottled model ships mottled green variegated lame brained plans of hoi-polloi.
Lady, I ain't no boy-toy by my plaything ain't the thing to sing odes about.
No innuendo please cheese all around. San-to the -gria

remember back when I didn't stutter...wholesomely

Sloshed, and a Mantilum

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snazzy like razors
tazed in the greyscalp
crazins in the wash
WATCH OUT!!

seriously, here's the mission

fresh baked boards
soiled, roiled, and trolling for chinups
capsules and shiftermen
wishing for lewd levers
quite quaking in boots
for someone's lank leather

i'm wondering if you're sound
or if you're up to the challenge
to put the bile back in bile-jak
pfft. life is wack

on second thought...
let's get a weekend pass to the dashboard dance
fanciful, like lead inner fillings: follow them
then freeze those inner feelings with all due east
because they won't last until tomorrow's harvest

wash me off, oh great sleeper
and change my bedpan, dear diary

prolix

Holy Mary, mother of god,
I sang a sad song down at the pub.
A wailing tune over by the schoolyard wall.
A caterwaul over by yonder.
A droning monotone in blue shades by the rainy tree,
a misty cry by the moors of merry olde scotland,
a grainy snort by the foothills of Antelope mountain,
a raspy plea by the salt marsh that dried up under the stark Mongolian sun,
a flighty breeze whisper by the seashore of Kent,
a rancid mouthwashy gargle by the creeks of sulphur down by Venus lake,
the razzy jazzed up flip of the tongue o'er by the grasslands with the prickly baobabs
a chancy racy number over by the soggy forests of Cherrapunji
a lip-synced pop song pulled out of a hat on a Brooklyn bound subway
an ear-piercing twang from the mouth organ on a tram bound for san fran
a handful of sonnets grotesquely blurted from my foamy mouth as the clouds surrounded me
hand over hand in sunlight.

Of Demons and Quasars

Living with demons in the wet steel cage,
sitting on the high plain with winds running wild,
tumbling over and under the mid-summer stars,
the semi-rust is getting to me.
Creeping under my fingernails when I claw at them.
My co-habitants are a hungry, angry lot,
blood fiends and animals of the deep,
blind pythons, and semi-sentient angler fish.
The scraping of their talons, the grinding of their teeth, their stares through me,
I hear cries of a battlefield far apart,
I start to relish the violence of my waking hours during my dreams,
I start to hurry over sunlight and cavort under the moon.
Polish sausages.
The frenzy of my reluctant company has seeped into my skin.
Smelling softly of fur and sea-salt,
I lose the keys to my attic.