InkTober #3: Roasted (October 3rd)

My capacity for drawing, or painting is limited, my art form is written word, so I figured why let that stop me in participating in this creative endeavor.  The follow series is following the prompts for each day of October that other artists are doing.

Roasted

See him king of fools
sitting in his inflamed chair.

As hands of fire reach up for heir
of the trash heap that is today.

In ridicule and jestered haste
the people point, cracking smiles

and in the hands of the king of fools
a red canister of petrol.

Combustion at any point,
he goes on laughing, for of course

he is a he.  And his followers speak in tongues
and throw their money in the pit

and seven heads grin back at them
but their rose colored glasses

see seven halos resting above.  So
king of fools shimmies can in fists

so that splashes awash the masses
and those in balls and chains who did not

participate are all splattered just the same.
Jokes on them and less on him for why should progress

matter, if the world ends tomorrow and there is
but a warm spot for us, to create

smores round the worlds
embers.

Inktober #2: Tranquil (October 2nd)

My capacity for drawing, or painting is limited, my art form is written word, so I figured why let that stop me in participating in this creative endeavor.  The follow series is following the prompts for each day of October that other artists are doing.

Tranquil
Crowded room of background noise
Background noise in a crowded room
Room for no one to respond
Responses limited to the mind
Mindful of sinful resonance
Resonating amongst the sinful minded
Minding their own business
Businesses comprised of ownership
Ships that pass through nights
Nights of loss and regret
Regretful etchings on walls
Walls of brick of sweat and pain
Painful bricks of sweat beading on walls
Walls beaten with fists as red as sunset
Sunsetting to the bleeding of fists
Fist raised to sky in reaction shot
Shot for reaction but left to die by the side
Siding with the shooter as presidents shout
Shout till red in the face and sunset ashamed
Ashamed of comparisons to lustrous beauty
For beauty lusted for luster is lost to the fostered people
People lost in the guise of paintings
Painted out of spite but never in need of it
It needn't be a pause of reflection
Reflections seldom pause because of time
Time never pauses for the seldom reflected
Reflection that's overworked in a mind that ticks
Ticks and tocks like the clock
Clock tower housing bells
Bell tower housing clock
Clock tolling bells
Bells tolling for the man in the crowded room
Room crowded with background noise
Noise that hides his pause for a breath
Breaths that seem to exists out of context
Context hidden in the noise pollution
Pollution hiding the context of a breath
A breath, a moment, in background noise.

InkTober #1: Poisonous (October 1st)

My capacity for drawing, or painting is limited, my art form is written word, so I figured why let that stop me in participating in this creative endeavor.  The follow series is following the prompts for each day of October that other artists are doing.

Poisonous

venom,
constricting a piece of my dream scape
as an epiphany of damage
metaphorically draining
life out of memory.

venom,
cruises through rivers in my arms
extending out of fingertips
raging on keys
creating a clickity clack of spite
in written word.

venom,
a due diligence stifled for need
of revenge,
but failing to smother everything
because corroded blood
is still blood
pure residuals exist.

venom,
leaking out of pours as
sun pummels it out
leaking on earth, which absorbs
it then through photosynthesis
giving air to breathe.

venom,
another name for regret
in manifestations of monsters
but not truly, not really, not absolutely
for venom is a natural
reaction to

heartbreak.

Cataclysm

Collision orchestrated by a band of thieves who
    wanted nothing more than to win the hand
     of a headstrong maiden.
In the brunt of the wreckage they witnessed
     a mutilated truth that related to obscure
       truth.
It was, pure, it was, simple, but it was not
     easily digested and so they choked violently
        on their purposeful ignorance.
And as they died, these goons, took down a
     nation of blatant racist grandfathers, as
       tho foundation of their boys club shook
          and crumbled.
The maiden too, sweet, and brutal, died in
    this context, though she was innocent of
        of their crimes, she did share their
           foot spaces.

Heavy - a poem

go ahead
           plant your garden in the back of a theater
           a place where performances,
                                                         are pelted by tomatoes
                                                         and seeds seep,
                                                                     deeply into
                                                                     the divides
                                                         of the floorboards
                                                         as cracks began to form
             where potatoes, with their heavy skins house
             small boulders of starch
contrast.

A Trio of Warnings - Prose Poems

Ignorance

A solicioutess microscopic morsel began to eat at her audience for no other reason than to rectify the spatial deformity between it and its world.  As in darkness the being has but to eat the last of the world and then it enters the vacuum of space.  In the back of their minds they developed a certain attitude about the darkness they were living in.  There was nothing.

Arrogance

Too many kindergartners named the source as a white supremacist with skin as red as bloodied snow, the children demonstrated in the streets, picketed non-violence against the savagery of murderous Santa clauses who did not know how to eat the fables told them by jezebels that sang with food down their throats.

Pestilence

A bird flutters as it slinks overhead slithering as it warbles and waddles along icy patches.  Divided by atmosphere secure in its lack of oxygen spaces where men died to intercept and kill it.  Some succeeded most did not, for the fowl are more agile than the foul stenches of steam that escape from the rectum of cavities burrowed in earth’s crust.  Kidding themselves that the odor of their boisterous arrogance would attract with audacity the beguiling beautify that bewildered them eons.  Even those God’s envied the feathered, casting them down to create a kind with arms of flesh, and hair scattered in patterns upon their lumps.

Planet Earth - a poem

There is a version of a song that when sung out loud

gave the men an instant gratification.  They looked

abound, seeing their whole world brightened

by the song from lips of angel.  Decided to create

a utopia reminiscent of the tune heard from around

the world.   In the place of the stars they placed

light bulbs, yellow and whorish, blurred amongst

the black of night, and in that garish sense they

spurned the advances of color determining a tainted

white of urine to illuminate what beauty they

surmised they felt.  As the darkness cascaded

from the beauty of that heavenly song the men

took to cutting down trees, erecting drywall

with shoddy plaster not caring that each swing

of hammer swung, left holes behind them, dented

in nails before them, and allowed no scenery to hang

thereupon.  These men with white robes, and serene

suits belted orange faced to the masses of people

gathered to live in this perfect world, and after

slaughtering a virginal girl decided red would

be the color to paint their halls.   The angels kept on singing

up until guillotine came down upon neck, abandoned

that world but the men still tried to sing it, what they stole,

they pretended to repeat it, but they could only scream

it.