April 13: Mountains of Pills, A Tiny Lime, Summoning Dead Kids, etc.

Mountains of madness could not combat this:

Piles of pills pumped with much better wills,

Enough to trigger massive psychosis

Or to make sure an amped pill-taker chills.


Orange-ish brown bottles define my fate now,

Picked up with groceries, even by mail—

Clueless pharmacists pause to tell me how

To drink some water or simply inhale.


Pills like the rain make me sing in my dreams,

Not that they make the dreams any better—

They come down in torrents to muffle screams,

But they’ll not make me a pill regretter.


Collected mountains, crafted for the mind.

What have you got? Next I’m trying this kind!


Secret small lime, what’s on your agenda?

You hang out with flowers, stretched in sunlight.

Low-cal drinks might muddle you with Splenda,

But you’re in the shadows, planning a fight.


One thing is certain, you’re handsome and green,

Hanging there, innocent, clandestine juice:

You are the cutest lime I’ve ever seen;

I would use you for a full facial sluice.


I think you fight evil, blossoms and all;

Whatever else would a tiny lime do?

You will save the world from climatic fall

And spritz gin and tonic to get us through.


Lime on a lime tree, now, in early spring:

Round, ripe, and green, you can mean everything.


The lawn party faced frightful conditions.

Attendees all knew the details went wrong.

I erred to observe ghostly traditions.


Few of us came; we had bad positions,

Awkward conversation to get along.

The lawn party faced frightful conditions,


More so because of my strange ambitions,

Summon a spirit by playing a song—

I erred to observe ghostly traditions—


But if she would lose death’s inhibitions,

Come out to play like she might still belong…

The lawn party faced frightful conditions.


A dead child inspires prohibitions

At least with those whom I partied among:

I erred to observe ghostly traditions.


The guests were sacrificed—old religions—

My child returned to me, a demon throng.

The lawn party faced frightful conditions;

I erred to observe ghostly traditions.


People tend to get all wonky and freeze

When leaders mention WMDs.

They don’t seem to think of television

As the paramount tool of division.

They focus on whichever hell they please.


Chemicals, bio-agents—on the breeze—

Airwaves invisible—infinite sleaze—

Not all TV is worth our derision

(People tend to get all wonky).


We all fear the great mass-killing disease.

Perhaps like Black Death, it’s carried by fleas.

Each of us has to make a decision

About which weapon has most precision:

The one in your house or one overseas.

People tend to get all wonky!


Climbing up the wall: my trip I’ll complete!

There’s no way I fall, not with my webbed feet.

I’m escaping all, to a reserved seat—

Yes, I got a call, the big monster meet.


It’s a meet and greet, on the ripped flip-side;

The company’s neat, come from far and wide.

With hors d’oeuvres to eat, without human hide—

What types of good meat I need to elide.


I left; people cried; I did not believe.

Those who here abide offer no reprieve.

When a monster sighed, they gave much to grieve,

So now I’ve good-byed, too ready to leave.


Climbing up the wall: I will reach the top.

I say fuck you all, a force you can’t stop.


Tell me have you ever fallen askew?

It’s not a terrible tumble to do.

Shapes rearrange, flip, jump, and go awry:

You couldn’t tame them, and you shouldn’t try.

Shapes will avenge and come calling for you.


What kind of nonsense is this that I spew?

To endorse illness, to flee from who’s who?

Who wouldn’t see straight? There’s no reason why!

Tell me have you…?


Excess of straightness is boredom to rue.

Hold narrow vision until you turn blue.

Everyone wants to be a normal guy

Except most people, so that’s a damned lie.

Folks without boundaries are folks who flew.

Tell me have you?


Reading’s a villain, or so say the red—

Paper or pixels, wouldn’t be caught dead

Perusing opinion or worse—a fact—

A guy I like could be caught in the act—

So much unpleasantness could fill my head!


What about smart things our great leader said?

That’s what TV’s for, what Fox reported!

What? You saw Fox once, and you nearly yacked?

Reading’s a villain?


Reading got popular; bad dreams got fed;

Peasants and such became discontented.

The wronged had bloody vengeance to exact—

But some others left a peerage intact.

Either way, reading’s bad for the well-bred.

Reading’s a villain!


A space that will be, in futurity,

Dazzling, drinking—but delicately:

It can’t become too brash or too noisy;

Better, indeed, to maintain at empty.


Silent and soft, let it fill up with ghosts,

Whose manners pass expectations of hosts

And who spread cheer when they raise merry toasts

To those not dining, of whom they make boasts.


In such company we enter the past—

Though it was the future one moment last—

Now we’re together where nothing is fast,

Shimmering slowly with some Jazz Age cast.


As space that will be, as it was—in use;

Made to imbibe and unbalance, seduce.

Talking to you is way more interesting than talking to myself. What do you think?

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