Twilight Idylls Posts

The grinding white noise
Was descrambled
And there came a sample
“He smells”
“She waddles”
“There’s a secret compartment
In his apartment
That holds his wife’s
Index finger in a jar”
“Have you seen the scar?”
The Gossip Getter
Began to infect his brain
He hid it under his belly
When he went on the train
And at work turned the dial again
Between his ears
There grew a globule
Containing the cruel voices
Dripping with grue
And foam his mouth
And The Gossip Getter
Hummed and heated
The spatter on the wall
Shot from his leaking nose
Asked him
What was the matter
It was all true

She stirs in love
With the beans
A hot sauce in between
Then she adds
A dash of sad
To shadow the toots
And scorched roots
Halfway through
If you fall over
It may be gas
Or a new lover
Who can really
Deduce

Chewing the gum
Rotating the cud
Shooting the shit
Nipping the bud
He never really
Understood
Flapping the jacks
Chasin the jakes
Jumping the cracks
Raising the stakes
He found the language
Stupido and fake
Preferring grunts
And gestures
He caused much displeasure
Wherever he did roam
Silly little gnome

The buoyant moon
Treetops
The kite’s twine
Has been snipped
And the moon’s face
Flipped
Spotlit
The tousled
Sea’s
Wine cork
The spoon of the
Night
Then lightning’s
Fork

Inebriated
The crickets are closer
The night heavy
With scent
Awash with wine
The monk
Insists
He is
A cricket’s
Aftershave

Laughter from somewhere
Across the darkened yard
Slightly cruel, gleeful
The flashlight beam catches the
Laugher, wide eyed open mouthed cackler
And the smell of leaves and dirt on his breath
He hasn’t settled yet, the beam bobs
And that now tragic laughter stops
Till an arm, a hand reaches across your sleeping form
And the laugh, a screech from your own dripping gob

Food chewed
And digesting
Drink quaffed
And through the plumbing
Then the
Nap of belching
Grunting
In the map
Of dreams
He turned over
Where he was
Deeper of a
Snorer
Breakfast appeared
Before awaking
It was nearer midnight
By the
Ticking
Many phony eggs were
Breaking
But a real nose was sniffing

Eyes closed
Nodding her head
Lost in the
Fuzzy synths
And incense
When the bass
Plunged deep
And the drums
Gained ground
On her heart
Beat
The lights slipping
Across her eyelids
She tried to make
Her move
Her one
Dance move
Which was
A serpentine
Sweep of
Arm
With a
Roll of hip

Two sprinkles hairy wart
Flesh of stag killed in sport
Dissolved in heavy brine
Will make limbs swoon
And the stricken recline
Where once frenzied with fever
Pallor will clear and
Gaze refine
Purple of imp’s bulbous nose
Pinch of tulip and primrose
Will have the morbidly dreaming repose
As if beneath a moon soft with gauze
Enwrapped the sleeper warms and lulls

Hair receding
Bulges bulging
Self-defeating
And indulging
But in his
Mind
He’s a butterfly
Decorating the sky
Back is aching
Eyes are squinting
Faces making
Life is tinting
But his
Spirit is
Flitting about
A perfumed fir
Is this Billy
In the mirror