Excerpt from my book “Bike Chain Poetry”

“Easier, Maybe, Possibly”

Nonsensical nonsense so nonsense-able that we should feel foreboding.
Like he said, beware the jabberwock,
grumble twitching squeals of maniacal delight that we believe the idea
of the bandersnitch in its glorious frumiosity,
easily misunderstood, as all bandersnitches should,
in regards to their beside manners.
A kiss, maybe,
but the warbling bird had sung it so, before it fell down.
We rang the rosie too much,
the tune forgot its own meaning,
laying waste to those who never lit a fire.
And you, you, you
too close to the end but will always be the middle of
that semi-ancient, well semi-rhyme
that instills the first idea of betterness.
Could be worsness, but better still,
that all muggings take place in the alley and celebrated on the streets.
And I, in my infantismal, infantile wisdom,
brought fire-whips for the crackers, and crack to the pickers,
and lets not forget out beloved understanding that brought us all together.
Irony is wasted on those who don’t love,
or haven’t, but let’s have,
for one second,
the possibility that we simply exist because someone sees us.
And not just sees, but seizes the chance to take the varpal sword from a child,
too mature to slay the jabberwock.
Does it make unsense?
To relegate madness to only psychiatry?
I love madness in criminology,
screw philosophy and their vain attempts to be sane,
way too much logic to be logical,
amazed to be sane soothsayers, blind on the streets.
Normal is normal as normal to be more than a tale.
I’m the tale, end of which leads only to stories,
which run too high in the modern age unreality.

We love a good sob-story,
so we cried when the hat-trick failed
and paint ran from the flowers we created
in an attempt to control something,
when we can control anything if we understand completely,
why the caged jubjub bird sings.

we wish we thought of it first,
the reality in which we so live insanely.
I don’t like to wake up the same way twice,
but plan on dying in multiple ways,
all similarly the same,
reaching a result that clearly defines insanity as looking in the mirror daily.
Who doesn’t want to be buried with a mirror,
and a window.
Seems like an awful long time not to glance at ones changing self,
or selves,
hence the window, for the door always seemed too heavy in the lying position,
so we crawl out the window praying the neighbors don’t see our knickers.

Oh poor child,
I envision a generation unaware of the color of the sky.
Tis blue, my son,
tis blue like the blurred eyes, disjointed in the faint light
that always illuminates your face.
The only fruit you know comes in gunmetal gray,
and I can’t help but break when the white-rabbit fades.
We all died,
and in the insanity were replaced by monotony that,
reminds me how I should have committed suicide when I was 18.

Beheld, behold, Holden,
you too much like fitznitticky, fripper, whozamawhat,
maybe I’ll kill myself when I’m playing ding-dong ditch on deaths door,
fuck him over one last time.
But you are to be beheld, as the one who gives away my plan.
but you are too beautiful to blame the clouds on.
Shiny understanding that pure love never stays an execution.
To be better,
betterness means you must sacrifice.
I sacrifice.
Seems an oxymoronic statement, moment,
when my mouth should have stopped,
or maybe my pen.
A bullet would be a great solution,
but finite,
and well we all know ideas cannot be riddled with physicality.
But instead, must be murdered the same way all mass casualties are,
in statistics, in mind,
for we cannot fathom the thousands of dead bodies that walk by us daily.
Sickly sweet, more bitter when it is pointed out by children,
who don’t know how to walk until they are three,
why the trees look so sad,
and the cat disappears amongst its limbs,
fails to remind us how fleeting we are to the wind.

This be our rotten destiny.

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