THE URBAN SURREALIST

The shut up should stay in and the inn should shut up.  I was a mussel in a shell.  Caught up in a net of an inept fisherman, so easily tangled that his feat fell off.  How awkward and worded.  An attic full of dreams is not what it seems. It's a gateway to the lower dens, where the lights are glittering and darkness never falls. Just a trip on stairs, taken unawares. That is the downfall, the step off the right direction. The surrealist is a realist. Not an ally with a list. I can no longer carry the weight of meaning, so I let it go. Going, going, never gone.

I Like Girls

This is a great show. Watch this.

  

CRITICAL CROW CORNER

What some of you may not understand, or remember (I was featured briefly last year and have been in seclusion, working) is that I am A POET.  While it is true I was featured as an astute observer of the local urban environment - it is not my first love. In fact, I despise the current urban scene.  This used to be a decent neighborhood, littered with oily fast-food wrappers and spilled malt liquor. Now it's a bleak landscape of salted caramel and the occasional pomme frite.   I would die happily never having to lick up another inch of IPA. What is it with you people? Have you not the decency to indulge in repugnant snacks?
No matter... I am above these small and highly disturbing details of urban lack-of-blight. I am better than that. I have important WORK to complete. In hindsight, things were much easier when the morning worm was floating in a discarded meth batch. Oh boy, we were flying in those days. But I digress...  Yes, I am ascending, not like the lark. In fact, small birds are not on my radar. I have no time for them and their incessant chattering.  My time is better spent in pursuit of the MUSE! I am close to pecking new ground in my pursuit of the perfect poem. Soon it will be complete and the chattering will cease. The #4 bus will screech to a halt, the pale and skinny two-legged hoards put down their pints, the dogs discard their cardigans and every squirrel miss its branch when I unveil the as-yet-untitled masterstroke of genius! Nothing will ever be the same again. I must go now, I have left my almost-completed manuscript in the upper branches, where I will peruse, ponder and persist!

THE URBAN SURREALIST 2013

A revolution. One morning stretched to noon and back, like the cat. I saw the coming of the coffee cups, black with promise. I heard the starting of the car, the kicking of the feet, the pushing of the pedal on the season cycle; around the sun we go with not a break. And now the half-circle cup sits quietly, less disturbed. Domain recovered its shocking.

Now comes the cold, the snap. The knitting sits atop and wraps around. The cat is undecided at the doorstop, one way adventure, wrong way warming. All outside or in, all dead or buried until Spring. What is new about the date when we've met before? I see you are changed, it must be the hat. I can change with the weather, but I'd rather do it alone. 

What is new but the old one again. And again, it stays the same. I'll call it by another name, the thirteenth Earl. The one was enough, but that isn't how it works. So the best is set to come, but has it yet? I'll be under the blanket, revolving. Or in the bath, dissolving.