by giadancer | Monday– 2nd August 2004 | bhakti, favorites, hope, love, musing
The tide has changed the color of my sleeves!
Are you familiar with merry-go-rounds? Neither am I.
Do you know why the earth moves beneath us??
It’s just that yesterday wasn’t my birthday.
Not that I would care; but things are different now.
The spaces are filled with a different kind of icing.
That sparkles and sweetens the spackling for sponges.
Sponges soaked many times over by learning, sex and woes,
And shriveled most recently, into disguise and forgetting,
Masses of calcified promise.
Wrung out into the immensity of universal pores,
Drained into every passing glance,
Sinking the curious many with wetness. Transcendent and fortifying.
But alas, the sponges live and spawn and giggle again,
Like unschooled fish, naughty caviar spread on aristocratic crouton rounds.
Feeling pregnant. Eating pepreroncinis by the jar. And grapefruit by the ladle!
What? In love, you say?
With who? With what and how?
You’re playing mind games with yourselves again, silly voyeurs.
Leave the sponge to her she-mania.
She’s not alone; you needn’t worry anymore.
Visits: 19
by giadancer | Saturday– 10th July 2004 | bemused, dreams, musing
A beautiful mother goblin
wants to eat my insides from without
to get within my cultured tongue.
Ever had that sensation,
of déjà vu, before recollection?
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Visits: 242
by giadancer | Sunday– 27th June 2004 | dreams, musing
Moats of grilled octopus and eel
fill my dreams.
Meat mattresses and Grecian stalks of radicchio (purples and teals)
foreshadow the paths I will take to streams.
I’m a lizard in this night reverie
and more and more in my days now every.
Prancing in and out of waterfalls
and basking in the mist of doing nothing
but acknowledging everything to me that calls.
Maybe a ten-toed sloth or quilless porcupine;
I see graceful pythons and perfect people divine.
Jesus was purple; or was he not?
I could be mistaken.
I was mistook for purple once too.
I may be olive, but never green.
I’m a kalamata
(pit).
Visits: 21
by giadancer | Thursday– 20th May 2004 | absurdist, love, musing
Tumultuous tar pits ease themselves
into the disguise formerly known as “your anus.”
Do not tempt me; I will go there.
You’re so old that you’ve still got
the hard taco on the outside.
Just wear your diaphragm and a helmet;
your prominent jugular won’t get in the way, I promise.
An Indian nugget has deposited itself
into my overnight bag.
This is the last thing I need,
another pesky Hindu barging
its way into my consciousness.
Popsicle dreams never disappoint me.
I am a muse in disguise.
A bed of nails will do me just fine;
ascension will be my ultimate tribute.
Human beings are such cowards!
You may scoff at me. You may.
But others will not.
The natural order will reveal itself-
as not existing.
Do not please me, I refuse to be pleased.
It is not within my scope to accept mercury.
The last time we do it
will be just as the first, a medieval paradise.
Give me nuts and seeds;
let my vegetation do its glory.
Rate of Change = Rate of Loving
Do you see this?
Do you see me?
Do you love me?
May 2004
Visits: 70
by giadancer | Wednesday– 5th May 2004 | bemused, musing
Images, dreams, wants, needs, wishes,
scents of coffee and apples and nuts.
Felines stacked on tops of lego lengths
of dully lacquered piano benches.
Nicks in my brain should have been filled in by peanut butter.
But instead, my heart was taken for granted;
and out I came, with a grapefruit under each arm,
wondering how I got into this castle
and why I would ever want to get out.
The cage door slammed shut
and I heard nothing after that.
I didn’t know what fighting meant.
The last drink gave me a virtue.
How I got there, anyone’s guess.
How long will I stay?
As long as I still want myself.
Visits: 21
by giadancer | Tuesday– 25th February 2003 | darkness, disenchantment, musing
The starkness of a chestnut glazed table
willing to stare back at me with a dare.
It challenges with a static potential,
that which only a table can muster.
I cannot be envious of that.
But I do envy that on it sits a brazil nut
contoured by shadow.
A brazil nut that
too may desire purpose.
If it could,
if it were not
just a legume.
I being more than a nut,
or at the very least
greater than or equal to,
do percolate with such desire.
But lying here, wrapped in chenille and scarves
find the realization of my purpose
much further off than the arm’s length
fulfillment of our artless brazil nut’s fate.
If I do extend my non-hungry palm
I will eat the nut, for the sake of Brazil.
I might.
But instead, as accustomed to,
I will not force purpose into my palm.
Thus, I continue to sit.
Encloaked less by blanket
than by denial.
Visits: 242
by giadancer | Saturday– 7th September 2002 | artist, darkness, musing, social, sonnet
Monday night, the demons again take holda’
The well-meaning shell of a disheartened guru might.
It only takes a first order, whiskey and soda,
Like every other unmeditated night.
Wiley gnomes emerge from his mind, unclothed;
Sardonic screeching alights their pathway
Littering the airway with candied souls betrothed.
To the solicitation of those wrath may
Eagerly consume caustic winged messengers
Whose only folly is their own blunt malady.
A waxing tendency to perch on impulse centers
Brazenly unravels idyllic spools of blasphemy.
Back to London, sweet soul. You’re poorly suited for possession.
Leave Jack to other would-be geniuses’ creative recession.
Visits: 8
by giadancer | Thursday– 6th June 2002 | jazz, language, musing, travel
Golden serpents reflect clouded aspirations
and dilute enlightenment into dust.
Unicorns on tap,
degenerate horns the same.
Duality collides in foam,
and crystal line faithfully follows.
Red, green, white, brown,
color without ground.
Gold label wishes spawn corporal delight.
I sip, I think.
Tequila drains and I sink
under watchful bartender’s watch;
he barters, I the martyr.
Empathetic refills offer buoyancy,
offer logistics to linguistics.
There, climbing golden towers appear
where snakes once sputtered,
powdering their scales, exfoliating our fear.
Delicious venom lacquers the runway,
eyeballs dash around.
Slithering tongues caress my shoulders;
nub of wing, stub of horn.
Gory gamblers
slap the dice down
for a joint in a snifter.
And for under-the-table tricks, little known
are the New Zealand drifters, the British bombers not quite,
our randy kicks ‘n’ their swingin’ misters,
all convened here in one Portuguese night.
How now, the Castilian escapists, the dance floor rapists,
and somehow, Gypsyified me.
Blarney revelers need not apply.
At the tip of essential Iberia.
June 2002
Visits: 201
by giadancer | Sunday– 14th April 2002 | disenchantment, language, musing
Reptilian curvatures sculpt the mindscape,
bare of marrow, meaty in flesh.
Such sinew carves bold imagery
into vacant neuronal pathways,
momentarily satiating sensory soothsayers.
But organic matter tends toward transformation,
inviting into cortical territory ever perched, the chisel-fingered demons,
persistently etching away
at latently enlightened tissue.
The spongy potential irreversibly hardens
into earthly delusion,
again denying conscious revolution.
Visits: 16
