2024.10.30_KITTYWOOF_ PIGEONRAT

If it waddles like a duck, ruffles inta an airy feather, smiles wide for a bill,

If it honks loud as an overhead flyer, choose'n ta dart about da place,

Then ya, looks like you might be deal'n with a really colourful quacker.

But have you seen dat trim duck's godlessly-made counterpart?

Who could know what sorta lineage dat birdshit muddled from.

Why, dat walk'n allofeed believes it’s a reason'n-a'feel'n soulful animal,

Really, it’s a mangy sewer pigeon of heavenly gildy-girth descension.

And it stinks as it waddles, beak'n for old men’s seedy breadcrumbs,

I'z don’t think it's ever washed its git’l feathers, and it certainly can’t fly.

It’s as dumb as da road it foots, crumb’n up soppy-wet off cold brick,

And it roams with a pack of sweaty mangy rats, each a slick old finger.

I'z suppose, at least a honky Prince attempts a ruffled-collar mate'n dance,

But an idiot sewer pigeon with a rat pack will stink-up all Kittywoof Kingdom,

Plus, a Pigeonrat can’t dance, only slather for dry coin seeds sprinkl’n down. 

And, as just another dumb a'roam'n a'Pumkinhead,

I’d ruffle a fancy duck any day and watch it flap,

But a sweaty Pigeonrat is da stickiest toucher.

You've all heard dat say'n:

"A feather can brush off easy,

But git'l slime lingers forever."

2024.10.29_CREEPS N'PEEPS_ I'Z MIGHT JUST OCCULT!

Before da winter freeze, 

A guard'n of harvest is set, 

So poachers don’t steal a future.

But all must face unconscious fears first,

So dos stories do not linger as long curse.

Fables are felt unlived in shared imagination,

In dos darkest nights awake, mind a’dream'n,

Unravel'n in networks need'n an airy breath'n,

So dat a Pumkinhead can root in fresher airy dirt.

And so, tread light, cause:

“Creepers and peepers,

I'z has been so haunted, 

By shadows in wetfields,

And Ima very unminded,

That I'z might just occult!”

2024.10.27_SYSTOS-CELA_ A HUMAN VISION

I had a vision last night that I must share with you.

I knew it was a dream, distant, not of my lived experience, 

But becoming known through my memories as experience.

I was in a great library, walled with books on every topic. These flew off the shelves in a mad swirl about me. Each page began cutting through me, filling my head with their strings of information, their lineages of history- even though I'd not read the infinite details within their word. But in the fury of those pages, I saw the constructs that grew into our time- the foundational principles of relation, those threads of connection, those long arcs of human interest.

Not the details of a moment, which are easy to be an arrogant authority on, and ever so dismissive of others because of. But instead, an internal meaning. A realization of self-relation as something stretched across time and crescendoing into this moment. Something deep within ourselves but not of ourselves, replicating us into this world we share.

For so long, I tried manically owning space, filling my head with the fog of self-grandiosity, or of divine saintliness in service of a great system with many perfect-speaking prefects. Such silly prospects as you grey, and grey quickly these harrowing days. And so I will say, all my moralistic frustrations, poetry, and writing I’ve shared with you these years trying to sedate my tears, all those deep pains of division, the unfairness and cruelty I've witnessed- all have weighed my heart heavy, and set my mind dumb at times.

And yet, none of those sorrowful words will abide anyone safely to comfort on a dying world as this, though honestly spoken they were. All ring hollow without a future to find place in. We live on the edge of planetary collapse, and there will be little time for easy words anymore. No more soft blankets to wrap over our fears of genuine calamity, no more obsession with mirrors and echoes which we disconnect through. 

All of us today, now live into a future of shared suffering.

Elo, not just us this time, is passing cusp to Celestial Age.

My poetry has required little sacrifice, and I honestly feel a liar about it, as though the mask I chose to express my pain was one of innocent purity. A saint or savior. But it's not so, I’m as messy and wayward as any other- and a lousy preacher without ordination. I do question my feelings a lot, too much, driving me toward an uncomfortable and observational shyness that finds more comfort in silent writing.

In any case, here at least, instead of teary poetic sorrows, I want to offer hope and vision, silly as it feels to think possible. But at least a way to find commonality with others. All I know is that we must create new stories together, narratives we can thread into our lifestyles, something to pull our better futures forward.

And in that spirit, I will share my truer self here instead of just innocent religious-tweaked and rambling poetry. Those stories of my messy character running around chaotically into messier problems within this great organic system of us. Besides, none who live today can claim cloistered purity, and the ones who fervently do, are usually hiding something underneath their perceived innocence, or really, just lacking any real experience.

So, no more teary innocence without some belief in visionary hope.

No more personal nihilism without searching for shared meaning.

This vision is of finding balance contained on Elo, 

It is that untold but known story of Systos and Cela. 

The struggle of a civilization body and its state-mind. 

And in this moment, living cusp to an environmental calamity, 

If they do not find better ways to communicate productively, 

Then Elo may not continue to sustain either for very long.

You all know your body quite simply,

And most can see a color gradient,

So that's my grand starting plan,

A living body, and colour to feel.