Inertia The Rhinoceros (A Wyrding Juice Seance for my Luv)

Filed under:poetry — posted by Schizostroller on September 8, 2016 @ 8:00 am

I was a high plains drifter.
I who found her, Inertia,
the Rhinoceros
as I cuddled her in my dreams,
enjoying her great savannah,
the occasional Red Ox-size Pecker bird, nit picking and whispering in her ear.

And I fell in love with her.

She was Queen of the Questioning Whim Sea.
The Solar Is.
Otherwise known as the Quym See
Space Station Deep Space 9mm.
And I heard her call.
Whilst trading at the Stone of Gold.
One and jism dreams of genie
She was a Tease Maid of Gold.
And as with most Dr Rye know’s noses,
horns of plenty,
she was mostly Lake Placid.
But she was also quick to anger
with a murderous rage
and would become Queen Boo Jah Dick Aaarrggh,
Queen of the Eye See Nee,
Over seer of, I, the Knight of the Holy Muff
leading me to have to fight off the local Cor! Moron Ants.
But I don’t use any Mortal Kombat finishing moves.
Reluctant to cut their heads off.
I already have too many Leg Ends cumming for me.

Temporarily abandoning my major work
to the pseudo Dionysius autonomous Inter Zone,
the books are left to gril.
I became ‘that’s so itchy and scratchy muffin’.
In such times I, Yo! Jimbo!
had to teach the cowering locals
to paint the town Red.
Telling tall ship tales about who the Real enemy was
And how to defend themselves against it,
with the help of the 13 Roaming Ronin of the Circe Line.

But one question remained.
The song that remaindered the same.
Why The Blind Stagg?
I have no idea.
Married as I,
Pan Theon, the Horny Hunter, Dying Is He Us, Lunar tick, am
to Ariadne of the Quym Sea, Queen of the labyrinth,
Of the Pan Optic Con of the Parrot chasm.
A shibboleth at the Whisky a Go Go.
Being Ash Wednesday Trays-R-Us.
Cross (See you next Tyr Ant’s day) in a dress.
Welcoming people to the World of Work
at the World of Imperial Leather.
Pinhead cowards, jumping around, fleeing the House Of Pain.
The Pied Piper of Hamlyn at the Gates of Dusk Til Dawn,
poisoning the Knucker’s Well in Lymington.
Window lickers, cumming for the Big Mad Daddy.
I, the Woe Seer who ran DiN, both berserker and seydr,
all-father werewolf and ergi,
sitting here supping Elder Vodka,
now that I am cramped.
A slippery nipple
at Sam Faze La Haines.
Happy Birthday.
Big Youth, with Alistair Cowley scars.
It’s not how old’s your arse?
Not the cuckold brides nor the prop as a bar.
Skip to the Lou, my darling.

Oh, Thee See Us?
Jumping bulls at Knossos.
God damned transparent man!
She can see right through you.

Ghouls! Like a high voltage bullet.
Like persistent repetition of zombie phases.
Cumming for me.
Take good care of your self.
Know your history or you’ll be
Perseus instantly and repeatedly asking this old lycanthrope where I am coming from,
when I howl at the moon, as Narcissus fishes for it in the pond. The old fool.
Should have listened to Deadalus. Keep on going down.
Psycho Sexy. Not a lot of people go down stairs (so they say).
And then we will head North.

A voice amongst many that thinks it is the only one

Filed under:poetry — posted by Schizostroller on September 3, 2016 @ 4:01 pm

I have a voice. One of many.
But this one says of me that she has never heard anyone moan about people so much in her life.
I reply that I have never heard anyone moan so much about people moaning in my life.
When life is shit we moan.
We can moan about ourselves, things, events, or other people.
Moaning about other people moaning is what is left for those who haven’t been allowed to do any of the former.
Moaning is a lifesaver.
I think she is a hypocrite and a bigot.
She doesn’t understand the contradiction and thinks it is only ever all these other people moaning.
As such there is little I can do about her making me responsible for her misery.
I sit there and read Hegel.