Limited Linguistics

Word complex

 

A word or few can hold within its qualms

Entire universes of mysteries and miseries

From that initial jog into view down to

That final extirpation out of entropy’s final thrust.

Lives, of course are more than words, contain

Wonder and pain, love and disgust in configurations

Well beyond the noun or adjective or even verb.

One must contain a throat to scream, a mind

To dream, that sense immense cannot condense

Existence into the formalities of utterable sound

Or even scribbles symbolizing oddly the lightning of life,

That flash of clash that streaks through every now

May echo in linguistic thunder to trace the wonder

Of reality but there is no way that actuality can be trapped

Into the tangles out of the consonants and vowels enwrapped.

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Hans Syz

lightning fist

 

Hans Syz says of the fizz

That froths what is

The feel of real that conceals

The qualities of realities

In formalities that stammer

Out of grammar, out of

Speculations on relations

Of forms, of norms that hammer

Through our eyes , our ears

That what appears is merely

Transience, a sparkle and a flash

Of intimations that constrain

The possibilities within, our brain

To hobble over rubbles of crumbled

Compilations of directions,

Connections into mysteries

Of what it is to be or not.

To grab a bolt of lightning

By its tail does not regale

A fist in delightful comprehension.

It merely focuses a mind

On terminal attention.

 

 

Chasing Carroll

looking

 

There’s no source of grins where nobody wins

In the doubtful search for a snark.

For if nothing there moves or even begins.

It leaves no footprint or mark.

It’s never a lark where lurks a snark for the lurk, with a jerk,

Can drive one berserk like a Turk with a dirk

Whose work as a clerk might wildly scrape at your shins.

It’s better to fetter a digital go getter in a turtle neck sweater

With theoretical dreams of dark matter and precisions of cockeyed decisions

Than fool with a tool made with teeth of a ghoul

With a chase through the park after the snark while you bark to frustrate wild visions.

 

 

 

 

Looking Around, Looking Straight

 

galaxy

 

The curve that swerves in five dimensions

Swinging through the static branes contains,

Perhaps, the possibilities of means to steal

Secrets of the hidden energies that spin galaxies,

Inflate the universe balloon to scatter stars like frightened mice.

What we see, we feel, we taste , barely hints of what is spaced

What light cannot reveal, propensities of immensities of the real

Wherein the hallways of the mind can open doors to eternity,

Unlock the blocks that lurk in clouds of multitudes of confusion.

Signs of sines, cosines of numeric hints glint of alien integrations

To pry apart the why of invisibilities and hopefully halloo across infinity

To listeners in the dark.

 

Mechanics Of Finalities

roller coaster

 

To urinate and defecate and expirate and yawn

May complete initial feats where internalities are born,

But residues remain in sectors of the brain

That desolate the soul to foul essentialities to drain

All internal plumbing – perhaps I should explain.

 

Physiology in biology commands convertive structure

Utilizing energies to squeeze stabilities to rupture.

Thus input foods, sensations  and random informations

Are plumbed with thumbs and eyes for surprise and confirmations

To reify or deny supposed approximations,

Milking energies and synergies from dynamic contemplations.

 

The sum of this is some of that of viral spiral chiral most desiral stuff

For which we each have the itch for more and more and never quite enough.

Life goes seeking, peeking, peaking from Antarctica to Peking,

Destroying and creating, in novel tease or imitations wreaking

Frightful and delightful extraordinary changes

Sending fairy tales out to the stars and squashing mountain ranges.

Being only human in a modest kind of state

My species bunch  seems mentally out to lunch – there is little I can relate.

We’re on a wacky roller coaster all set for a Solar roaster

With little help from a Paternoster

But we are on our way

To an adventure in dismay.

The Narrow Now

The flag

 

We are the hole through which pours the whole,

The leak where future flows into our past to cast

Dynamics into frozen memories, petrified,

Fossilized to be disguised as actuality.

Bouquets do not decay but stay fresh and bright,

Preserved, in shadow recall,  to glisten in the night.

Lightning flashes of delight crystalize as spectre jewels

Held in treasure, as, in equal measure, screaming pain

Remains to be lived again, again, and again in an inflamed brain.

Colors collide in shaded shapes while fantasy japes reason.

The dead consume buttered bread while we, alive, instead,

Grieve and presume the tomb holds magics of infinities

And nothing  rational  or pragmatic can appear in the vicinity.

No doubt we each fabricate our dreams to weave upon the loom of time,

Each one a special fate, a tapestry of flood and fire that, at end,

Becomes our flag to wave a moment in eternity and then

As a ragged patch of hope, is torn away to float off into

The many somewheres under the stars.

 

 

Probe

landscape

 

Filigreed with insanity, necromancy and random careless chance,

The jewelries  of understandings sparkle into  particles out of eternity.

Motes of possibility flash in sunlights of surprise and starlights of consternation,

While protozoan creativity can, in simultaneity, divide and multiply.

Chaos lives in joyous laughter to waltz across the miseries of failure

Into small leaps of success. This life, this life, this life.

I will leave it as I entered it , naked to its mysteries and magnificence.

And horrors that we fashion it  as it, in turn, fashions us

And likewise  remain unknowable to each other.

It has taught me love most marvelous and fright and most terrible disgust.

I have no regrets to have lived and can only find

Acceptance that, I must, inevitably die.

Vinegar

spoonful

 

Despair comes easily these day of long nights where the dream baubles

Hide behind closet doors or sit and grumble in the kitchen drain.

The ceiling flashes in the headlights of passing traffic that scours away

Memories of what was and never flowered into could have beens.

It’s been a long life but the past tumbles out as easily as yesterday

And the long dead still whisper loudly. They are welcome to my midnight shadows.

In the full glare of each passing day the third dimension flattens realities.

I can no longer take seriously  the farce of crowds of political bumblers

Who try to deny their origins out of childish comic strips,

Shoving one hand down their pants in pretense  of Napoleon,

Mouthing those same noises from my vocal kitchen drain

With something less intellect and lacking intelligibility.

No doubt endless editions of smartphones with or without

Notches or earphone plugs can excite the current insectile brains

To mysterious joys or furies but arthropod intelligence

Remains beyond my devotions to Freud where a bug is, simply, a bug.