bumbleburrs

two beers. too much.
two too many times too much.

ni`ogidn, a pallbearer in the front of the parade.
as a dirge is played, wailing and trumpeting truimphant ruby adorned elephant riders sound as joyous thunder caucophonating.
the body of our beloved is put from shore in a viking ship of dedicated conflagration sent towards existential reclaimation.

betrayed persuasion,
intersecting navigational systems,
supervising constrictive learning demystisims,
all with the approval and revulsion of a world up above us; somehow another thief enters.

amidst the center of the fog, the foul glowing frog grows.
it ruminates indoors with flagons of grog, all it does is clog the floor.

it spits upon the mustard murdered in the kitchen.
it tracks the blood spilled by the witness.
it leaves mud in piles, it's called a 'storehouse'.
it feasts upon carelessly felled swarms of butterflies and stacks of garbage.

it enters the room without a sound waiting for the perfect instance to begin falling into.
it's within you.
and it is you.
and you have once too many times wished you could define it as just the whining of a fly's wings.
it's just a bit too sharp.

ending the first and moving on to the second course, of course.
i once owned a horse that won trophys whose name was, 'Find Your Own Corpse!'
He slept indoors until i was warned that he had started to atrophy and that at all costs i must open every single closed door, especially those leading out to the porch!

i used to snore.
sometimes i still wake myself from stepping right off the pavement.
excrement encrusted crosswalks creating little less than safety, maybe i should fly.

as you notice the buzzing in your ears and see the shadow in the light of something darting expertly between the bulbs, it hits you, there is a bee inside your mind.
the only way for the sting to feel any better is to allow yourself to be stung twice.

searching for splatter supplies you stumble upon a brand new contraption never seen or studied before.
not bothering to look twice, the aparatus is in your dominant hand.
you are heading for the slaughter grounds.

the buzzing pierces your ears once again, agitating old wounds.
soon the trap will be set upon your stupid, aggresive brethren until all is pleasant.

'until it isn't, once again,' i assume, presuming to know the truth.

it all falls apart much too soon. here comes the moon and in those lunar eyes i see nine thousand buzzing lies as the yellow-jacket glides into its doom.
KABOOM!

the frog whips its tounge from within its lips for a quick bite as the winged demon aerily strides a bit too close to the firy light, its wings and tippy-toes singed.

perhaps think of it as sin dying of fright.
but perhaps don't.

perhaps your pa hadn't shoved you under the water.
was it really what he was after, that which happened as the world blurred above the surface?

was it more than we imagine?
oh, whatever was our imagination ever good for?
or whatever.

several repeating patterns.
self destruction imminent if continued at this rate.
too much too much upon the plate, it lies in wait.

wondering why it dies makes no sense.
it's only pretense is to put on gloves and handle with caution.
the fireplace is torn down and auctioned off.
the pastoral lithographs are still hanging above the mantle.
no sign of interest or else we would have been out of this person's presence before they had started to yell about the sale in the middle of our rose garden.
those blossoms were twenty years old, at the youngest!

sometime this august there will be a day to set things right, i hope tonight will make up for my past mistakes.

i should have put on the breakdown melody, but it wasn't sitting right next to me.
luckily i found you instead.