Grab a Cane by Tim Kaney (stream of consciousness)
Grab a cane, I praythee,
and walk with me
Through rusted gates,
Past midnight pillars,
'round cold, gray
Spires
And
Through misty mires.
This conjures memories,
Of a close friend,
And his blood red shag carpet,
Padding his cold
Basement.
When a thing has to end, it
Goes all too quickly.
And when it doesn’t
Seconds parallel aeons.
Time is always bountiful when going to school but
Very lacking when I feel like cogitating;
And is usually stretched upon a torture rack, ever
long and
Screaming, when it comes to work but
Is compressed to a hidden singularity when I try living
Having given it
My best,
My time should not spawn
A jest.
Friendships have been held
And trillions of words have been spelled
And millions of heartless carts have been collected
And thousands of miles have been protected
And hundreds of minds I have seen tainted
but just one car I have seen painted
By the likes of me
I dare not drink and
I dare not fail.
Most of all,
I dare not pimp myself out
For a bloody chain-link
And a rotten rat-tail.
Nor should I kill twelve
Organ-grinder monkeys
For the price of one
Just for the free sesame seed Bun.
A bull-moose I am:
Slow to start
And unstoppable
Thereafter
Swaying of sinuous shapes
Successfully seduce men such as me.
Laughing
And
Mocking
“Have me, you cannot,”
They snicker.
I am an earthworm, pinned open, and sectioned
Off by my sexual organs. My green and red fluids
leaking
Out-not living
Only. . .
Trapped
Laughing-
Do you hear?
Laughing-
Do you?
I hear-
Why can’t you?
Pull those spuds out-
Now can you?
Laughing-
I hear-
Can you?
Let us make haste, brave sir, in our journey.
We shall not need to feed on that Guernsey.
I see the cart pusher, tucked away in his parka,
Solemnly bringing in people’s convenience.
Nothing there,
Only gray and blue
Solitude.
My life,
I feel, could not
Be lived to the fullest
Unless I was a wolverine
Clawing
Lying in the soft snow,
Losing myself in the gray bow,
Listening to the hard cold
Delivering soft snow
Death has greeted me twelve
Months every week,
Not in the form of Mr. Grim himself,
But as a large, black banana,
Complete with gelatinous innards
And a gray fuzzy-hide;
Tempts me to
Succumb to its
Bittersweet
Gooey-ness
Father Time’s rapidity
Shall only change
With the
Situation on
Hand
Having given it
My best, my time should not spawn
A jest.
I am not unlike Poe,
Macabre in thinking
And
First rate in planning
I see myself as the cart pusher
Tucked ever so tightly into his parka
Solemnly bringing convenience for people,
Living in gray and blue
Solitude
I dream of saving Little China from
The Three Storms and LoPan
With the help of EggShan
And two other guys
I know this could not happen
There are no seven foot
Chinamen that I Know of;
No Three Storms
And my name is not
Kurt Russel
We have reached the bellows,
Ordained with skulls and bones,
Powering the infinite abyssal plane
Burning Eternally in earth’s belly
Powered by what, exactly?
Only Evil Knows!
In you go!
and walk with me
Through rusted gates,
Past midnight pillars,
'round cold, gray
Spires
And
Through misty mires.
This conjures memories,
Of a close friend,
And his blood red shag carpet,
Padding his cold
Basement.
When a thing has to end, it
Goes all too quickly.
And when it doesn’t
Seconds parallel aeons.
Time is always bountiful when going to school but
Very lacking when I feel like cogitating;
And is usually stretched upon a torture rack, ever
long and
Screaming, when it comes to work but
Is compressed to a hidden singularity when I try living
Having given it
My best,
My time should not spawn
A jest.
Friendships have been held
And trillions of words have been spelled
And millions of heartless carts have been collected
And thousands of miles have been protected
And hundreds of minds I have seen tainted
but just one car I have seen painted
By the likes of me
I dare not drink and
I dare not fail.
Most of all,
I dare not pimp myself out
For a bloody chain-link
And a rotten rat-tail.
Nor should I kill twelve
Organ-grinder monkeys
For the price of one
Just for the free sesame seed Bun.
A bull-moose I am:
Slow to start
And unstoppable
Thereafter
Swaying of sinuous shapes
Successfully seduce men such as me.
Laughing
And
Mocking
“Have me, you cannot,”
They snicker.
I am an earthworm, pinned open, and sectioned
Off by my sexual organs. My green and red fluids
leaking
Out-not living
Only. . .
Trapped
Laughing-
Do you hear?
Laughing-
Do you?
I hear-
Why can’t you?
Pull those spuds out-
Now can you?
Laughing-
I hear-
Can you?
Let us make haste, brave sir, in our journey.
We shall not need to feed on that Guernsey.
I see the cart pusher, tucked away in his parka,
Solemnly bringing in people’s convenience.
Nothing there,
Only gray and blue
Solitude.
My life,
I feel, could not
Be lived to the fullest
Unless I was a wolverine
Clawing
Lying in the soft snow,
Losing myself in the gray bow,
Listening to the hard cold
Delivering soft snow
Death has greeted me twelve
Months every week,
Not in the form of Mr. Grim himself,
But as a large, black banana,
Complete with gelatinous innards
And a gray fuzzy-hide;
Tempts me to
Succumb to its
Bittersweet
Gooey-ness
Father Time’s rapidity
Shall only change
With the
Situation on
Hand
Having given it
My best, my time should not spawn
A jest.
I am not unlike Poe,
Macabre in thinking
And
First rate in planning
I see myself as the cart pusher
Tucked ever so tightly into his parka
Solemnly bringing convenience for people,
Living in gray and blue
Solitude
I dream of saving Little China from
The Three Storms and LoPan
With the help of EggShan
And two other guys
I know this could not happen
There are no seven foot
Chinamen that I Know of;
No Three Storms
And my name is not
Kurt Russel
We have reached the bellows,
Ordained with skulls and bones,
Powering the infinite abyssal plane
Burning Eternally in earth’s belly
Powered by what, exactly?
Only Evil Knows!
In you go!
Copyright © 2012 Kaney Kreative
