02-14-2016, 06:47 AM
ad hoc
It’s what everyone does today,
or so it’s what they say, “they say!”
So I guess it must be OK! “ok?”
Poetry extemporaneously improvised:
contemporaneously-impromptu-un-devised.
In this pass through world of crass food grass:
naturally driving on California café gas.
Feeling that being! As… "Being" is fading fast.
Monkey fling upon gen-u-ine fake adobe wall;
doppelganger’s brown: paint all-out
from the rear or there about,
sticking to the stall pseudo-eroding
societal corroding or-gland exploding grout.
“Very fresh: In a too French way,” they call.
Its repulsive, so many drop the ball.
Texture that is so much more than raw;
more than most can stand to feel
without starting to reel,
as though they were feeling a little eel?
It doesn’t have the aged obviousness
of an almost exploding too ripe plum.
While those with lesser now brains
widen corpuscles in their Little Jack Horner thumbs.
And…will you go down when the dark night comes?
When you see the truth will you be spun?
Will you play the clown?
Will you start… then try to run?
Desperately search to find something
hip, slick, and cool.
Anything? But play the fool, low down on
Highway…61?
Oblivious: busty bustier is all that they see,
they hear no bass beat of crap rap
-or-
stained glass day-glow disco:
blowing out the urbane manifesto: into the wind with gusto.
Seemingly… carrying the ideology of ontology further—
deeper into the heart-country of the Mississippi/Amazon—
hear little voices saying, “Go beyond, on beyond.”
Cuban and South American revolutionary:
“Che chic.”
No music to it, but its got a really hot back-lick,
so insouciance no blues can stick.
In New Orleans hear it creeping and sighing;
one can hold on to her for lack of trying.
She might sway; fall dead drunk away,
when you try to dock!
Sex and murder,
like contempt-poor-airy poetry;
is just so…ad hoc.
erthona
©2005 revised 2016
It’s what everyone does today,
or so it’s what they say, “they say!”
So I guess it must be OK! “ok?”
Poetry extemporaneously improvised:
contemporaneously-impromptu-un-devised.
In this pass through world of crass food grass:
naturally driving on California café gas.
Feeling that being! As… "Being" is fading fast.
Monkey fling upon gen-u-ine fake adobe wall;
doppelganger’s brown: paint all-out
from the rear or there about,
sticking to the stall pseudo-eroding
societal corroding or-gland exploding grout.
“Very fresh: In a too French way,” they call.
Its repulsive, so many drop the ball.
Texture that is so much more than raw;
more than most can stand to feel
without starting to reel,
as though they were feeling a little eel?
It doesn’t have the aged obviousness
of an almost exploding too ripe plum.
While those with lesser now brains
widen corpuscles in their Little Jack Horner thumbs.
And…will you go down when the dark night comes?
When you see the truth will you be spun?
Will you play the clown?
Will you start… then try to run?
Desperately search to find something
hip, slick, and cool.
Anything? But play the fool, low down on
Highway…61?
Oblivious: busty bustier is all that they see,
they hear no bass beat of crap rap
-or-
stained glass day-glow disco:
blowing out the urbane manifesto: into the wind with gusto.
Seemingly… carrying the ideology of ontology further—
deeper into the heart-country of the Mississippi/Amazon—
hear little voices saying, “Go beyond, on beyond.”
Cuban and South American revolutionary:
“Che chic.”
No music to it, but its got a really hot back-lick,
so insouciance no blues can stick.
In New Orleans hear it creeping and sighing;
one can hold on to her for lack of trying.
She might sway; fall dead drunk away,
when you try to dock!
Sex and murder,
like contempt-poor-airy poetry;
is just so…ad hoc.
erthona
©2005 revised 2016
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
