The Existence of Boredom


Boardering heavily on ambigluity,
the nose dive shakes the roostles
to the trump
and magnifies an otherwise
Mild Disaster:
Daedalus aboat the firmament,
heaving holy starfish
for me and you.
Oh bleggid stench!
When did we cavorse
on the tree-lined perch
of our creip-paper cradle?
When did we starch our shirts
with the symbols of our desires?
When did we thing about
the existence of boredom?



Slanztic Troovammickle of a Frumbesslen Numbophrenic

art and poetry from previous uncarnations

by Luther Limbolust



Eyeball Exit


Storm crept on sticky fingers,
crouched on twitching buns.
Mole’s monster sucked hair from scalp
and fed off toward hairline.
Down and out—
eyeball exit, glittering getaway.
And pretend, to ward off horror,
balled itself and bombed.
Horizons behind,
will weeds water back home,
treading accomplishment.
The spread:
the show and tell:
the weak grin tells all.
What smells in the morning
that horngod didn’t send me?
Whatever gave me the impression
that waking in the morning
is different from waking in
the bowels of machine
still jogs hesitation toward
gifts from mother,
pills from father,
and leather laughter from some
unexorcised home in brain.
The grass bends when the toe hits;
the toe bends when the grass hits.
The smell of unprepared weather
dangles by bits of last worn diddle
flung in hast to ward
the ward the fates’
stamped out Stumped-No-More
and left steaming tendrils of
landed beauty by the shack
in the dirty rain.
People still wander
where people still lead them.
Unharnessed by strain
fling happens freely
to victims and their victims.
Victor Vroombellerator
stands grinning weakly
handing out leaflets by the laundry
and nasty hasty fingers
stick to them
as they trudge by squeaking
and moaning:






Physics Problem

I spend
creating systems of deceit
with which I extract order
from the bowels of everyday.
I want to love them so they will love me back.
I want to hate them so I can get them back
for not loving me back.
I want to die from wanting to hate.
I want the pity afforded the dying.
So I love them so they will love me back.

A cycle is circular.
It doesn’t have a beginning or an end,
but it has a definite order,
and every node along the way is a beginning,
and an end.
Nothing will alter an object from its course
or change its speed but the influence of some
outside force.
That favor-turned-monster called time
provides us with moments
heaped upon moments
of just that kind of stimulation.
But give me vacuum;
festering sameness;
and implanted selfhood
so old and known it's not meant
to be thought of, o God of Mutantry.
Make me mine.  This my prayer.
Grow tired of changing me.





Bog Visit


The hush nobody knew
visited the sad marsh whenever it could.
Soggy sticks pierced it to the loin.
The groaning timber
peeled flesh from leather,
workingmen stood hat in hand,
willingly anticipating the approaching din,
while at my back
someone entered a joke
that thudded on fat mud.
The clown stilled,
the air currents thronged more audibly
than a roomful of laughs,
and barking creatures
made themselves heard
from a distance
to the crawling muscles of the ear.
Something creaked inside,
and I spilled my guts
into the green sea
where they bobbed impatiently
in patterns that I knew at once
to be other than the ordinary constellation.




Gray Lady


On horses, on horses, on horses, on horses—
where's the Messiah you kept talking about?
Straddling thoughts that fly at tongue's clap?
or sunning aglawesome
amongst the shift of faces and colors
atop derelict high nooks
and hanging shelves
ringing Ilavaet—
drinking Ilavaet—

Peer into big brick schoolhouse
turned depths of secret
veiled fast from plumbing grasp
of thumbing mind—
clinging to memory's rasping passages—
a wheelchair poised forever
welcomes me for its gentle lady,
whose treasure I come to share
gaze and wonder with.
Photographs pale—
these sing what I can't say,
play when I can't think,
laugh at what I dare not try,
and land me flat on my pain
at the feet of the smiling crippled lady.
And where she got that smile
and that soft backward beauty
I won't guess.
Only sadness could expand
in the direction she wants me to travel
with a heart of light and polish.

They keep her there you know.
They keep her in Ilavaet
with her photo albums
that woo magic from sleeping lives.
They've trapped her
in those raucous empty rooms—
her and her pink and gray and olive
Her and her far-gone horses—
gone horses, gone horses, gone horses—

—blinks away unbidden,
and I flog rapture dry
to blood my lust,
somewhere, over the—
over the—
over the—
You know it’s a filthy rotten shame
the way we allow our timepieces
to sit on our—
on our—
on our—
on our—







In Dolor Lune


Hot death sallies forth
with heaven's sot,
their blessed sinner,
in dolor lune:
if a ruined logo still
hopes alone, roves anew,
best pursue the sot's
rent-pocketed unruly stool,
lest doom gloom the hue of bother:
often, bone best dons
several bold tones
atop both known and boasted waters.







As I piss on Santa Cruz
from an authoritative corner--
Luther here--
this IS the place where I DO exist,
this IS the place where I DO exist,
this IS--
          --just evaporating honestly on a
sewery street corner where the busses eject
their civil complaints,
and some guy cries,
"Come on, Dingaling," and I look--
what’s in it for me?
          what do you mean, "get into it?"
          you ARE into it--
So let me have my little paranoias
to myself for a while, Dear hearts!
Let me enjoy being submersed in my own
          Steaming Shitbath,
at which only I, in the
store of the world's memory
of dreams left in the mouth
from the night before,
could ever be forced to stand
to quench a thirst.







Goat Doubl Germley


Writes me letters, does he.
Forbidden remarks,
hidden far from the laughing brain,
the sudden furtile futive
honest eyebrows
balled in heaven by the bells
of floodsy fortune,
inserted intact and inextorquably woven
into nether-weather leather
a face; thumb-studded botherboard
and the dumb dumped freely
from mewed tongue.
Then the tentacles
of the grope abroad
were sundered
and the pieces
snatched up by dogs.
Then when the weary mothers
had rushed the kids off to school
and drove home panting
because something has zappened
to make her realize
it ticks away
it ticks away
and it's so small it's got to become
But the thumb quakes,
and the moon rolls minds
between its fleshy gate;
victomous stakes madly celebrate
what the doldungs spread to the waste,
where shrivels the poverty
of potioned change.
Stirred by visitors
to the lonely rack,
for bottled aboard can neither
stir willingly my muscles
nor energy my mind.
But whatever you meant when you said
what you said,
and whenever you said that you meant
what  you meant,
Dead girls don't politic in person
and loving it sits on the fan.






Last night the earth
loomed green and blue
over lunar horizon.
If I could go back there--
if I could see what I saw again--
Somewhere east of sitting pretty,
somewhere west of maimed,
somewhere lonely people go
to stick their fingers in their brains,
some boggy notion experimentally
traveled to, then flung about by--
somewhere smart people don’t go--
is a well-worn seat
stained with sweat,
overturned and abandoned,
crying, "Waste and mercy!  Waste and mercy!"
for its missing occupant
whose scornful laughter only haunts
that place of misery where
the dying play, and play, and play...





The Fargon


Mirror, mora on the horabund
(time hold still a moment
while I refix our
Cataleptic Creator's
fuzzy cheeks twixt doldrummed palms)
semen as in seminary,
heaven as in
"Haven’t you met
high as in why's last nevergenic question?"
Oh, high not.
Oh, fly, but only if you want.
I kill flies.
Kill and eat.
Smash swallow smash swallow.
Had enough?
Rubber ducky dessert.
Here, whore, ride the pale stallion,
it's yours. For dress, or redress,
or Temptation
of the sort that only the best
effluvial flummery affords.
And you can have my
seven pairs of socks.
What do you think of someone
lost in the image they
create of themselves?
How long is a poem that flows to the sea?
Have you fought off the fargon yet?

Bargain for the jargon that
whimpers at your heels at the
snap of your rigid thumb.
Why do thumbs appear
to trouble a useful page?
Do questions intimidate you?
Is there meaning as in meanie?
Is there flight as in fight?
Do questions infuriate you ?
Does poetry rhyme?
Does time stop?
Do questions?
Do questions?
Do questions?
Do questions?
I here it coming--
Come to me my seven fallow babies,
cuddle up and come unglued,
every cloud must have
a secret pining--
secret whining panel to slip through.
But fargon don't knee jewels
in the splinter
of the faith from its
Armageddic re-creation
of a heathen springtime
under Eden's do.
Speaking of doo-doo,
let's not talk about it.
Hashing it out has its time and its place.
Fargon, fargon, fargon,
ditched me on a warrior's plain
devoid of battle--
just as well,
my weapon's got stuck somehow,
half-in, half-out the bathtub drain.
Skin so fully, Limbolust,
alter ray outpain,
seventy thousand times seventy thousand
warrior's tricks trickle ticklishly
through my squeamish brain.
Smothering, surrounding,
OH stop it!
Drop it.

Sop it up with half a roll of Charmin'
miniature perfumed
excuses for a civilization
that typically reserves fleshy fingers
for the farther removed occasion.
I didn't mean it that way,
hold on, I’ll get it right--
Halfway down a street I’m about
to describe you’ll see a face
that reminds you of someone
you never wanted to
share the graces of the fates'
mad sense of humor with again.
Is it eye?
Is it nose?
Is it brain?
Is it some leggy damsel
with a cleft satchel
clutched perilously,
quivering, shivering,
waiting for God-knows-which
filching semi-dazzled hero
to stumble desperately her way?
Have you got the fargon yet?
Have you got it in your palm?

The Qualm, the Qualm--
ingesting mistakes is the
gastric necessity
that comes along with the passage of time,
the selling of time:
grief's gray carbuncle
(Knew Awe, Knew Awe,)
Heavenspent gag
stumbles deathlessly on
to wingheel the claim of one
Combovolent Ministrator,
purveyor of nickel-and-dime
that assures at least the man with the pad
of one thing;
but has he seen the fargon yet?
Has he glimpsed yon skulking
leer about the spindle-spouting
Name that catches
better specimens as they
doze amiably in the rain?
How long is a poem
that flows from a pen
that falls from the sky
that lands in the dirt
that lives on the ground
that swims in the earth's sad
musty-colored, rag-bothered
eyes swollen shut by sights Outpain,
and the fargon waits patiently
for the favor to subside,
giving wide berth the notion
that someone--
is it moon?
is it lion?
is it bye-bye?
Savors the smallest grain of
pastchen leering marvel-eyed
semi-lewd endeavor on its side.





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