[x]

Crown of Golden BrownIt was a cupped and caked coincidence
how she could captivate a heated room with her overflow;
her crisp lips' brimming capacity.
The last words to cross them,
a batter of over-whipped thoughts
that would tastelessly toughen if ever exposed to air -

but she'd spill ill measurements anyway
into silver hollows
sprayed with protection and flavor.

A greased burn,
floating in flute juice,
was the crumb in pink underpants.

.

Diner PinersUnkempt gents minding their own
and the scraggly hags that avoid them;
walls
more see-through than windows they occupy
are these newspapered ghosts with addendums.

Wiley beards and crooked brassieres
are met with smirking resolve
as origami halos from non-absorb napkins
form a moot youth that dissolves.

A perfect coffee
stains the yap
they'll never live long enough to brighten
while personification's memory
pays towards the tab;
a slow-moving bullet much like them.

Those Rabis & Witches
dress their last days
in mothy green tweeds and cat hair
in hopes of hands-free spiritual exchange
as much as they both hate to be there.

Things to Do While the Sky is BlueHope
is a kite sore
from stringy, clingy steering

High winds
rashing up the cheeks
knotting one hair to another

but we smile and run
smile and run...

Loose-shoe goose
with bugs in the grin

keep your eyes up
and the sky comes with you

Full circle
is a skinned knee
from stringy, singy flight

Barnacle Bills.

In a river of consequential roe
a twinkling wake
of what could have been
if only lapped and unlept for

Puddle Chiefs
& Splash Commanders,
pissed and slippy Sallow Mandors ~
The spawn of loaded brawn
and murmuring maid

Chummed-up wind
floats all downstream
Running the muck
ad'mired
It is in fin'nity
that scales are lost
and tails are tossed as heads

Carpe-diem
Carp of deeds
Barned n' Culled
your moated seed

Row the roe
and tow that boat
for life is but a stream

.

Those Open Casket AffairsPropped and cropped beyond warmth and lividity
looking as natural as possible

Easily achieved
if the goal is to represent death

and those passed away
look no other way

no matter what you do

It's this tradition of feigning life
that's wrong with the world
on both sides of mortality.

Redeemed ReposeBlue-eyed Cat with alley advantage
cowlicked damage
in the rain again
Slowing an already loose gait
still, the serrated fates come quick
His aloofness, wildly applied

The grown yearling
one forlorned
the dirty birth
and second-born

And those Hell Hot itches
stitch his world
All made of slipknot patterns
Being cleansed of them
is the sting of lyes
as scentless skin redeems him

The Agonal Atheist
Nighted Sun
Blackened Shine
and Bitten Tongue

Blonde Boy with boiler burns
to his chored organs
at war again
Masculinity's Mother lifts
and rounds his roughs
so his soul may sit more softly

The cripple

Patchy CatchHis cool approaches, light and tickle-floppy
were like a room full of crisp wet lettuce when I didn't want anything to eat
so I took my clothes off and rolled around in it instead- sweating onions.
Lazy.
Laying face up, I was blowing at the big veiny leaves I'd laid over my eyes
which I found could absorb fever!
Babbleage cabbage
... and it waved away all the thoughts that were not of him.
I saw things through shady emerald eyes as winds came to curl at my sides.

I started thinking about cheese sandwiches.
I wanted to be one.
Then I got up and wrote a poem about all the things I needed squeezed from my filthy pores.

I missed my

Super Novas.

That grill
frames a flammable breather
and all the bites that ignite it.

You heat the flow of brassy gas
while the abrading taste towards rusty rehash
remains.

Eyes,
the plastered glass
made up of insects
from sign-less intersections.

Windshield wipers squeal
on an antenna'ed frame of steel
as you high-wax all the white-resistant truths.

The once-in-awhile brake-check
detects a depth,
except...

all your oils leak
much the way
filters falter
upon exposure to watered down air.

A high mileage hindrance
upon blubber-rubber treads

You hydroplane
even at sleeper speeds

...a two-man job
of tension belts

while revvin

Canaries of CoalUndertaker

Your Scratch & Snatch Pursuit ~
The Skin-of-the-Teeth
you collect
be the Root of Victim's victim

an unwise slice of dice

a roll of buried bread

a Life

that resembles
unleavened
Progress and Product

lies in salted doughy knots
and here, you think you can rise them.

Kneading the Needy ~
Those who would sign over deeds
and these same widows wander
into processions not their own

Acid activations
upon bare bones, be a solvent
to cracked open flesh th

Earth's Rotation.

a low watt fire hazard
within thin, thin glass ...

she
is the last of the utility bulbs
pedestaled upside-down from a rusted, swinging socket

flickering when it rains
drying you into stains

still dutifully
outlining the edges of where you are
in cyclic revolution

you've come to a place where you now smile up at her
and your leaking roof

.

Burned AliveThere was a mechanical grace
to her un-oiled torso
a hitched clink of tick-tock saunter
that I could never take my eyes off of

She was smelling of what she'd last ignited
She had things in her hair that were supposed to be decorative hexes
Pro-ventative measure against the unseen rakes and hooks
of shit she couldn't duck low enough to avoid, ever

I watched her the way I would watch things catch fire
The romantic panic of a uncontrolled situation
Overkill involvement of the heart
I loved her
and she didn't ever get it.

There was a mechanical taste
to her words that absoluted
what meant more to her than anything
and I could

Burnt TwistsShe sighed. Kept staring.
- her breath smelling expensive like she'd been chewing on a jar of imported screams all day.

Her mind wandered into the kitchen without her, and regarded the porcelain stove, the candy dish and the ashtrays for no reason at all.

"OH! LOOK!"
Her mind came hauling ass back to the tube and she swooned in giddy silence. Her eyes flashed with white hot delight as she watched her favorite commercial begin; it only came on the during the little clown show.

"Introducing the new and improved 2009 Tomorrow Machine!", bellowed an anxiety-ridden fat man on the light blue screen.
He danced a little because there was nothi

Keep Your Hands Where I Can Hear ThemHow Dare We

Ink in the sink of realized mistakes
Stains from veins snapped hard
due to bursts of a worstead quill

I am what I will
and clogging my own drain
lets the filth run amok.

News From Emerald City

Blasting Plaster undetonated
curing in cavities under an undone rainbow
while
Stalactite teefy Sharks slobber in pain.

Spun-sick simplicity
flatness of an unfinished earth
UnFixed and
Upholstered

Root-word minerals stunted by a touch
and whittled by the little
Laps of Leisure
The green tree products
Weeping Will O' Natures.

Sweeping News from the Emerald City ~
red and runny marginal beginnings.
Salivating radio gods
walled in and
furniturized

In the path of strong but small progress
and down stage of a wet page
The rain runs rings around the mouth

FacetsI met a man
who had no clothes
He was in the business
of making
buttons.

With my fishing string
and silver ring
He met me
when I needed
nothing.

A bullet-holed square
made of wood
made with care
arrived in the mail
today.

I met a man
who had no clothes
He was in the business
of making
the connection.

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Slide RulesPride in the Karmatic Calculus
assemble a tightly wound clock
as sleeping negatives are brought to the table

Shifting measures detain the weighted outcomes
announced by the tutored wise
prefaced with blown and smokey absolutions

Authoritative authors ~
those Elderberry beetles
broken open from the dry dusts of a wait

Taps of the tarsi keep rhythm
but lose spring
while mobility is the whipping boy

Balance BubblesMarla, who was a rather awkward clothes hanger of a woman to begin with, stood quite unsteadily in the bathroom
collecting the 17 white wash clothes for laundry day into the gap of her buttoned and sagging shin-length cardigan sweater -
a faded blue hand-knitted gem she'd found at a flea market for fifty cents some twenty years ago.
She wore this only on days she felt the world might end and it served her well as long as it wasn't about keeping warm.

Her posture at this point was that of a broken-back crone with her shoulders lurched forward,
knees bent excessively and her torso, curled in an almost perfect C-shape.
Her hair, the roped

The Kitchen Key If someone broke into their home and stole their oven
along with every dish in their cabinets, neither one of them would notice for weeks.

They ate quite often, but cooking, when it happened, usually involved the roof, or her experimental set of glass beakers.

The pair had better things to do then die from scheduled domestic cancers.
Kedron was out on one of his supper time head-soaking walks about the neighborhood.
Marla was home and had just finished coming out of a thirty-second trance... her sixtieth one of the day, in fact.

Her deal? Well, that self-cloning sun-smooched drop of water threatening to pull itself
off

Adam's AppleSnakes in trees
uncoiled
yanked free

in hand-held baskets
we go

Marys

Such creamy whitenesses
are the palms of the weak
with only enough strength to clap to a hymn
reining them back
into theirs lap
and waiting

Eve; The day or period of time immediately before an event or occasion
I don't think I'll call her Eve...
I think I'll call her Thursday
1 2 3 4 5

Snow around the toes
until a man heads south
and noisy ninjas know -
let bells be the mouth

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Moral Maps Street View

by *TheMadMulatto, Dec 1, 2012, 7:42:24 AM
Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Letters

Marla Immaculata
______________________________

From washed driver's hands
that are kept where a Dispatcher can hear them...

dirty deeds
and the resurrecting grace
of disgraceful things
we just accept
as they are held under a soulful light.

Because lucrative loins are an in-extractable force of nature

and despite ourselves
BEING ourselves

we are all hoping to aid our
disheveled fellow man
our bulging feathered glands
our useless wives
our sexless lives...

to help
more than we hinder.

"NO YOU'RE NOT!"
-says a Seasoned Public Servant from a blind alley

"We meant well..."
-says a Politicial Campaign Manager waving an OB kit

We attain Excellence
in doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.

It is for this reason,
no one's calling in

The Karma Police.

.

Moral Maps Street Viewby *TheMadMulatto

Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Letters

Inspired from a conversation with the Husband.

His Piece
___________
'They Know Not What They Do' ~

[link]

*FollowinTheBlackBird Dec 6, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Thoughtful and well written, the kind of writing that makes one think, reflecting one one's own life.

*TheMadMulatto Dec 10, 2012

I'm DAMN glad of that!!
As artists and writers, it's all we can hope for.

Thank you, babe.

*FollowinTheBlackBird Dec 10, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

You are, as always, most welcome.

~All-My-Darkness Dec 5, 2012

I laughed again reading this tonight.

Esp. the OB kit.

Needs and addendoum by me for my single skills.

*TheMadMulatto Dec 10, 2012

Makes me more sad to imagine Moral Oral waving a white box slow-motion style in the distance
with a tempered grin of "well, we tried"... see you next year.

Trying is what got us all THIS far.
Knowing we won't die from it
and it all has merit
is what keeps us in the game.

~All-My-Darkness Dec 10, 2012

And we have many years to go.

*RichardLeach Dec 2, 2012 Professional Traditional Artist

Good stuff, Michelle.

*TheMadMulatto Dec 2, 2012

Thanks, Tink.
It's still a struggle to more light-heartedly, but it's getting there.

*LancelotPrice Dec 1, 2012

No one said it would be easy or that the path would be clear. Except for the self-deluded.

*TheMadMulatto Dec 2, 2012

True.
When I wash MY hands,
I can only wash away the resulting dirt,
never, ever how it got there.

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Moral Maps Street View

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