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.


Caged Lion Quotes. QuotesGram

This thing of me,

Born in curiosity to uncover

The walls of possibility,

The passageways to evade

Calamity out of how I’m made

And what I might do

In this zoo of never quite

What is right

And where to fit in a place

That boxes me with demands

Of what to do with my hands,

With a mind that could never find

Why I was so designed.


Many, many years ago

In Central Park in Manhattan

Where was captured in small cages,

Creatures out of Africa,

Penguins, bears, and walruses,

Each equipped to engage in jungles

Open seas, free air, and mountain tops,

The wondrous varieties this world offers

Creatures made for escapades,

Not cages in a zoo.


I remember one small cage in a corner

Where I stopped to engage a shaggy lion

Who quietly looked back at me with eyes

Large and brown and so very sad

In memories of fields and streams,

And dreams

Of places I could never know,

In a mind that silently, wondered why.


These days today in my old age

In a world torn in fear and rage,

I pace inside my small cage

Back and forth in memories before my capture

Into meaningless, away

From those long-gone days of open skies.

Conflicting Capabilities

Coruscating conversations by cockeyed crocodiles can’t compete

In wiles and styles with cockatoos schmoozing on the views

Of boozing buccaneers in tears on what appears to be beauties

Casting aside their brassieres in complaints about those saints

Who try to purify their desires by tying wires around their erotic fires.


Animalcules are reticulated in design, constructed to persevere to zip

Far and near and in many ways their elemental compilations reveal

Disturbances in DNA that display inherent psychotic terminations due,

In part, from tendencies to drink too much coffee before noon, while tea,

Green or otherwise, disguises their intellectual exercises in grammatic simulation.

Professional monocellulars must compete with or without PhDs from universities

That install perversities of geriatric pseudo philosophies with puerile intent,

But, nevertheless there is little stress involved in preadolescent enterprise.


So there you have it, it is plain that, in the main, no one can sincerely complain

About the moans and shouts that explode when we reveal the mother lode

Of intensive explorations, which at end, results in ore that means no more to you and me

Than fire crackers snapping at the Moon, a spacial event, no doubt noted

In the records of attentive flying saucers that fuss on cosmic telephones.  

Instruments Of System

The stick, the rock, the planetary clock

That spins the universe around the planet,

These implements, and more are where

We control and are controlled by all.

We are provided initially with teeth and claws,

With finger tips and eyes to aid our limbs and jaws

To ingest and manipulate, comprehend and calculate

Our innards and our outers to sustain and multiply,

To engage in rage and joy,

Employ the gifts to live and die.


One must smile at wiles of thought

That both conceive and deceive

With metaphor and delusions

That clarify and spread confusions

But also transform fantasy into machinery

That become that rule of thumb

That builds the Jacob’s ladder

That lets us climb into the sky.


Notions Of Emotions

As trees need roots,

As leaves require twigs

As desire drives the fire

That might inspire the reach

For something else somewhere else

That might teach a responsive reality

To encompass how to deal with

How we feel in terms of possibility.


No doubt the human mind,

Configured in qualities to parse

Our tsunamic chaos of the senses

Into domesticated manipulatable

Acceptances that can no longer growl,

But whimper and obey, and lick our faces

To deceive that they cannot bite

While they smile in secret guile

Before they strike.


Good and bad, love and hate

Do not exist in this placated universe we assume

Creates enemies and friends that must be met

With intends of mind preset to meet presumed ends.

Herds of hopes, gangs of fears, struggle in our fantasies

Where which is which is convoluted to dismay

Our struggled fights of wrongs and rights

Of every night and day.


This now is the time and place

Where we must face searches of our galaxy and beyond

With all  of  instruments of cosmic perspicacity

No reveal of telltale signs of life,


Aside from our home planet Earth,

There seems to be a total dearth of other creatures

Where the wonders we can plunder with that vicious joy

That humans employ throughout the entire rampage of our history,

Do not exist.


No lions, bats, camels or bees to bring to their knees are anywhere

But here, and they soon will have been used up

As targets of our weaponry which leaves only ourselves in generous quantity

To torture, starve and flagellate, underpay to not afford our pocket phonery.

Seven billion might seem adequate to threaten and abuse but that news abounds

In limitations to scam or ram into pots and pans when all other foods have disappeared.


The sterilities of Mars or the very distant outer stars leaves nothing else to kill, so it seems,

In our worst dreams, to suppose that final guy will be left alone, as it goes,

To nibble in desperation on his own toes.

Poetic Personality

Like flying birds and setting Suns,

Like mustard on hot dogs, or hot cross buns

Varieties of poetries can inspire

Erotic fire or, simply stated,

A lightning thought to be equated

To an earthquake of the soul.

We each have thoughts that come to light

To piss and moan or simply fight

The horror and persistent fright or pure delight

To simply exist, to face another goddamned day.

We each must find some way to deal

With what we think may be real.


I do not rhyme to be intricate or fancy,

My words themselves make the sounds

Like coffee flavors influence from coffee grounds

Which can be chancy and strangely random

To connect my thoughts in dancing tandem,

Blossoming in gossamers of floating threads

To weave odd pleasures from threatened dreads.


I poetize, not to entertain, but to explain

To myself why I erupt in words to gain

The battles in my head, shake hands with myself

To agree to disperse my misery, or to mock

My own idiocies to bundle up the thoughts that shock.


These wordy flourishes nourishes the babbles inside my head

So phrases sprout without conscious design to align

Where and how and why to look, how to begin.

It looks out to find out what might be in.

The Publicly Obscene

The Publicly Obscene

The qualities of presidents in the current scene

Have decreased to such degree it’s difficult to be seen

How we’ll get by to live or fry or perhaps,

Something uncomfortably inbetween.

The general capacity for reliable veracity

Has reached the Frankenstein where artificial parts

Of communication’s arts have become so phony in deception

That nobody believes what’s now proclaimed

In general public perception.


To get by with the lie is standard commercial conception

To sell what’s made with accolades of flashy false perception

So economies can progress to success by profitable means

In normalities of confusions spinning the gears of social profusions

To guide the consumations of cockeyed intimations of illusions.


The odds of Gods extending prods to save us from insanity

Has vanished into the sky, so blue, with the inanity of humanity.

The galactic rescuers in flying saucer squads

Infest YouTube but nowhere else seem viable

That guarantee that, now, we are well set to be friable.


Water hardens, ice melts,

This does not

Explain rain,

Or how we obtain

Fish or dinosaurs,

Or why there may be those

Who simply enjoy

To wiggle their toes.


That there are

Connections to directions

Does not imply

A reason why there is

Or is not

A you or me

To possibly configurate,

Instigate or destroy,

Or not give a damn

That stuff happens

Here or not,

Or now.

Just ask

Any cow.


Some can moo

Some meow

And lots bark

Mornings and

In the dark.

Hinges squeak,

Clocks can tick

And people speak

With equal skill

To convey with no means

To spill any beans.


With rumble, bumble, crash, and bang

This planet rolls through yesterdays

Fabricating butterflies and hurricanes,

Aeroplanes, and people with no brains

To figure how and what to do

Beyond our friendly cows

That moo.

Futuristic Ob Soleets

Gallimp gallump the horses stride

Begging for someone to ride

But horses are antiquity,

Deported from the lionhearted.

Motors these days select electric motivations

In the wildest anticipations digital.

Rigid, all  but more stylish fascination now resides

More in those with pocketry

To play the games of rocketry

Where they sit on spires of fires

In strange illusions astronautic

Off to Musky dusty Mars,

Smoking illegal Cuban cigars,

Anticipating Earth’s demolition

By petroleum conflagration

Or, more spectacular atomic fission.

Cursory Rhyme

Sing a song of sixth sense

To measure out with pi

The circumstance of pure chance

To make this planet fry.

The bankers in their counting house

Believe it’s rather funny

That love and hate end in the fate

Of who takes all the money.

Themes for a twit, a halfwit

Who only knows to twitter

Suffused with greeds beyond all needs

Has made it all quite bitter.

The populace, as usual, is ignorant of those

Who twist and shred all that’s said

To destroy everything that grows

So where it ends, I suppose,

Not anybody knows.