A new poem

The Miserable Onslaught of the Vernacular

or

“Something to Chew On”

by David McFarlane

The glue of Nowhere in your pasture of milk,

and into the valley of stones, where a thrown away glimmer is:

the hiss of broken footsteps, having oak smoke brimming from the nose,

choking and then spitting from the lack thereof, of air,

and now stepping into the sea, wherein the sun will wake

the eyes from the slumber of vision, and bleach the horizon

whites of yolk, yellow of smoke,

in pidgin droppings, maligned by porous entities whose invasions of debris

are the food of thought.

Pig! pig! pose! in arrays of a nexus; swim with the plexus of ocean flexes,

The solar elixir of moon and waters, with river daughters brimming over

with odes to soil and soldiers of past manias...

The torrent is a turbulent tremor in the groundwork of glacial destructions,

where icy hinges are botched and numbered by innumerable sentinels of rock,

as the deep core of stink and heat is puckering up to ruckus! Ruckus!

Without a hope of articulates,

a scent of wanting,

or a gleeful cheer cheer cheer,

The onward march of idiocy is the king-shit of movement,

As movement is idiocy itself.

Crumble and joint cracking,

piss and jingle-wiggle,

The brook is cackle and jumble,

with slender flows of ice and tinkle twinkle,

as little notes of break-up want to sound out to no one.

Mobile onslaught of derivative toil is the new mechanics,

And without whimper or banter, the mobility will shun the possible.

infinite notions will depart and the everward stench of the imaginary

can reign in a glorious, effervescent panic of panoramic excess.

Bloating and stammering, the malignant tremulous will arise,

to the satiety of flesh, and beyond,

with a finality of devices conjured to inflict sombre sombreros

upon the weeping heads of the frail magicians of space:

Hocus, Mucous, Pocus:

“Pickled piss, and suckled mess,

a fractured bastion of miserable distress!”

“All muddy and all frail!,

all toil and all hail!,

all burden and all pale!,

all rotten and all stale!”

An Introduction to Couches

A: "What are you guys doing tonight?"

B: "Well, we were going to go and burn uncle Chester's fields"

A: "Why would you burn his fields?"

B: "He's growing cotton and trees in these fields. He intends to use them to build some elongated, padded sitting units which will introduce a new way of comporting ourselves in our dens, which will affect social interaction greatly"

A: "I see, and I agree! He must be stopped! But must we resort to burning the fields?"

B: "It's the only conceivable method to employ. What else would we do? Destroy his factories perhaps? Occupy them when production is intended to commence? He's already had to squash an attempted uprising 2 fortnights ago, when workers tried to establish this fancy new thing they are calling "rights". I would rather let his factories alone, and corrupt the source at its literal "root".

A: "Interesting. I would enjoy messing with Uncle Chester. He's trying to install a new furniture ideology into the minds of our nation. He's already invented the padded stool, the love-seat, and the horrendous end-table. What a fool. I was satisfied with a few items in my living quarters. The simple chair was a dandy, and god-damn he had to go and put padding on it! What a bastard!

B: "Yes, our efforts will stifle his mad-progress toward revolutionizing the means of sitting. We need to revert to the old methods, old tactics. Yet, we could employ alternate methods to sabatoge the scenario as it is intended to unfold. We could import some foreign bugs and have them eat-away at the fields, I am sure our friend in the shipping industries could manage to help us with this."

A: "It is probable. But we would need a creature strong enough to
adapt and subsequently corrupt the environment, all in a quick manner; we need strength, strong bugs!

B: "I agree. It would be perhaps far to complex to implement with haste. We should just burn the god-damn fields and be done with it.

A: "Certainly. When shall we commence, tonight as planned?"

B: "I would argue we should opperate by stealth, thus, my initial suggestion reeks of logic.

A: "Fo' shizzle. We are highly refined in our faculties of deduction, are we not?"

B: "We are indeed".

A: "Yes".

B: "Chester's Fields will burn, a billowing blaze for the simple man's soul!"

Hatred from A to F

Person A: "I don't hate subjects, I just hate subjectivity" (Buddhist-Stoic Hero)

Person B: "I don't hate objects, I just hate objectivity" (Nihilist-Existentialist Hero)

Person C: "I don't hate theories/concepts/ideas, I just hate metaphysics"
(Quasi-Scientific Hero)

Person D: "I don't hate food, I just hate eating" (Bulimic-Model Hero)

Person E: "I don't hate consumption, I just hate production"
(Lethargic, Obese-Welfare Hero)

Person F: "I don't hate production, I just hate consumption" (Miser-Capitalist Hero)

Boxxy Theory

Life is a series of boxxies (like a proxy, proxies...), a series of annoying phenomena that mutate whilst you scramble - like a bollocks - to try and reap the dignity you sowed into the vile earth, scampering like a pale-dog with ball-in-mouth, summoning masters with a meager yelp, hoping and scrimping and saving with a savage grin sometimes hoping on the lips, sometimes a ball of wax to call your own before some heated discussion melts your notions into unrecognizable muck, and you sing-a-song to yourself, your terrible self, "oh why me, why me", and the others only pass on, pass on, forget it all with a hair's length of effort, and you slap and bounce in the hole you dug until terrible squirming leaves you motionless, sequestered in your own filth, oblong in your squalor, obtuse in your thoughts which strike with acute pain, and your once nimble gestures collapse into a fury of childish-longings, with a weak groaning tempest in your heart, throngs abound in the skull but remain silent only to taunt you with unrequited hate. Thus, 'tis a blessing that a new, skinnier notion arrives, in the form of a girl lacking all lucidity and leaving you - once again - with nothing more than an obstinate soaking pool of uncertainty to swim in.

Battered

You just bash your own skull with strange mannerisms, and - from afar, you see yourself - numb and bleeding, yet you retain a distance - a necessity - you adapt to a "third-man view" of oneself in-order-to collapse back - finally! - into a "first hand-man", and then you whip yourself out of such stupor, you fall back again on ideas seldom seen but brought back into the light, yes, again, and you don't wait any longer for clocks to tick-tock to the dime and nickel of numbers and hands, you wait-not for hand-on-hand proper-time to get things done, you smash the stately temporal affinities and you jump up like a foaming-mouthed dog and scream like a bitch for all Christ's Sake, and you demand of all things - of all beings - that they cease to bumble and hamper the joyous struting of the strong bodied magnets (nesting, nesting [+/-]) . . . no!, the magnetic antagonisms will shatter the temporal, the tepid, and the temperate wankers. The boastful yet lazy souls will collapse into inertia-inducing pits and this will do no harm to those with tears and laughter, tears and laughter, for just a little bit of frailty cannot detract away from the immensity of a shining sun, nor can the squalor of piggity-poo-ha sequester the nimble into lousy lousy lousy days.

Sugar Scum Bastion (Fortitude, Fortification? I don't care...)

toffee taffy toffee
mouth and spitting tobacco-sugar
glucose
fructose
dextrose
artificial sugary treats with black tobacco
tar-mouth and
potty mouth and
cotton-mouth and
smoking mouth of tobacco and spitting black tar
and coal
and sugar - as well -
in the mouth
like a toffee-tobacco smoking hole of black sugary hell
and coal
and like a phallic toffee-crunch bar of
sugary-tobacco-phallic destiny
for a fractured temporality.

Think of it:

Like a cigarette, but a sugary-smoking tar-taffy.

Like a molten hot goo of sticky, black sugar-scum.
Like a motherfucking award-winning obesity-machine.

Diabetic and surgical removal of the self.
"Sugary Sweet Machines", even (see Jeff Mangum),
but more sinister as to the results and method and
what else...taffy...

Like a gum from hell, chewed back into itself
Like a mobius-strip of gum to chew and suck
back to primordial hell hell hello baby
bringin' back the goods from the Holiday in Jolly
"Folly for to..."

(More) Useless commontion (as per usual?)

I know it was wankery,
but I should be forgiven,
at least once. . . this time 'round. . .

No strategic citation,
or site,
or sediment to conjure up...
but...

sedimental (not sentimental) citation of excitement...

Excrement is an excited citation of previous
engagements with nourishment.

Nourished: nouns to nibble.

Nimble: thumbs & thimble...tumble in the
mud.

Muddy: Ruddy PEI potato-blood-soil, near beaches...

Sand: and you guessed it: Sandy beach-towelette (wet-nap time in
wet sand).

Glasses: sun glasses, strike the sand (you made your
sun glasses out of the sand, sand made your glass-eye,
your water-glass, your eye-glasses... [glass-eye eye-glasses?]

From here: hear on out, hear me, hear me out, out of it...

"She was right out of it" - Perhaps, but so was He.

Herald (Herold?) - Trumpets rusty and dusty.

Hear no trumpet, here no beaches, hear no heralds,
Here no glasses, no toasting to the event,
no events,
no muddy souls,
no nourishment (satisfaction is nil).

"Just move around, move around, move around...
I hope that you die in a decent pair of shoes, you got a lotta
long walkin' to do, where you're going to..."
[Song: Idiot Heart / Sunset Rubdown / Album: Dragonslayer (2009) /

2:05 AM - April 25 / 2009 / Chatham, NB / (((D))) / ?!8.