sVento the HenpeckHobo's blog: "~*Prose of Purg*~"

Cicadas trumpet de`guello chants in an all-too-familiar, random drumline. The night blooms black in a star-spotted bruise, no clouds in her sky, save for the thin jet-stream just below... The brightest of August moons beams a glare that shudders the heart, reverberating elastic chills up and down my spine. The fiercist, fullest one-eyed stare I've ever witnessed peers above the jet-stream cloud like the frozen, glassy-eye of a tarantula, startling me into the shadows of our backyard Oak--the whipping boy of my young adulthood. The trunk of it still bears the scars of my knives in her bark. Those craters, chips and cracks so deep and severe that not even the clear night's sky and the shadows-cast from above by her own leaves and branches could hide the toll of a wreckless and miserable knife-throwing miscreant (as I was for three years) from the one-eyed August Lion's glare. I light up a cigarette and take in a long draw, expelling ashen wisps of cloud up towards the Oak's upper branches. The monotonous gray curbs quickly to the many pin-pricks of light seeping through the leaves, and swirling shades of two--white in grayish-blue--providing me with but one more barrier between the awesome eye of August and my own pair. As quickly as the cloud curbs to the touch of light, the swirling shades of ghostly-gray start to dissipate. Descending into the blackish glass of night, void beyond the realm of light, in two breath's time. I draw again, aiming once more towards the stretching Oak limbs, but I don't watch the cloud. I look down at my feet, flick my cigarette, and draw again, deeply. I listen carefully to the hissing of the paper and tobacco as its fibers sizzle, branch and twist themselves ever-closer to the filter--ever-closer to their death. I hold it in longer this time, and I watch the ashes tinkle down slowly, from falling reddish-orange sparks to gray flakes lost in contrast to the shadows. Then momentarily catching white wisps of light from the great Lion Moon of August. They flicker and shine bright in each flake, one at a time, as they all float slowly to the ground and disappear. I think to myself: *A Sky-View from a falling Snowflake couldn't be as alarmingly beautiful a view as this!* *The toll of my weakness; the passing particles of the poison I feed myself--EVEN THIS--is Beautiful in Death!* *Even this, a flake of ash, can have a muse--For even a flake of ash can catch light in the darkness of death!* ~*~TO BE CONTINUED~*~

This one's a message for all of those poor, impressionable, young would-be jihadis...may they earn their wings and sever their ties to the people who strap bombs to their chests. An Eye for an Eye often leaves the world blind on Land THAT territorial, the One-Eyed Man is King He Reigns in mass deception, but he has no Depth-Perception if ever there's a cross to bear, the blind man truly Sees And if the blind man seeks to flee the Awful One-Eyed King his fine-tuned self-taught Braille-touch is the Depth that gives him Wings And so the blind man rules the King, as eyes can oft deceive The Ground-Spider can have his turf, the Wasp can Fly & Sting! So leave the Spider to his wares, the Wasp can Fly & Sting! And let the Spider to his prey, the Wasp can Fly & Sting! A Spider's war is conjured in a cave of Wanton dreams The Devil's echo trembles harshest in fragmented screams Don't fight a Spider's Holy-War, the Wasp will Fly & Sting! ZZT! ZZZT! ZZZZZT!

Bridges are both spontaneous and simultaneous. They are simultaneously the most Noble the most Needed the most Used and the most Beautiful architectural undertakings/achievements known to ALL Humanity! They are designed to stand up to the Woes and the Wear & Tear of ALL of Nature's Wanton-Wares. Spread 'em! Bridge-makers are the most Noble Profession known to ALL Humanity, for like Bridges themselves, Bridge-makers are Present in every locale in every Profession and in every Place. Spread 'em! No Bridge is un-breakable, but ONLY the Strong can Stand the test of Time. No Bridge is un-makeable, yet ONLY the weak can fold on a dime. Spread 'em! They either Stand or fall... they're either Has-beens or Never-Weres. Spread 'em!

Here's a nice daily dose of H.A.G. Current mood: curious H.A.G. -- Hades' Ancient Greek: the Tongue of Has-Beens and Never-Weres (Nooks and Purgs). In a bi-polar world, Tomorrow being our permanent address and Yesterday being not only our permanent compass, but our personal Sender as well, is it safe to assume that those in the Present are merely Hobos? Yes, it is safe--if not crucial--to assume that. So what can all the Hobos in the Present learn from this? They can learn that in a bi-polar world, theirs is not a choice, but an ultimatum: They can either *Return to Sender* or they can ~Forward Mail to New Recipient~. The path they choose in this ultimatum defines what they are. If they *Return to Sender* they are Has-Beens who need a Nook from reality. If they ~Forward Mail to New Recipient~ they are Purgs, and their Nook is in the Future. Hobos and greed; they are old partners, parted by pardon and pun, in Hades' Ancient Greek. Perception plays this part in the Nook of Nikembus, and Mortal Premainders alike. For in both, Man is but a mere bi-ped without feathers, yet he still dreams of flight. *Bit of a shock, eh?* Conflict, son of All Conscience, son of Abel Ambition, son of Cain Moderation, son of Abel Excess, son of Cain Resolve, son of Seth In true Resolve, tact and fact are intact, and they multiply themselves into many divisions that break down equally to leave but One single remainder: Perception *The P-Word* Welcome to the Premainders, Nook! The only "real" reality is the one that exists in your mind. If yours is an existance of Devil's-echoes in a cave of Wanton despair, do society a favor and end it! You have THAT power, at least...but don't patronize the rest of us with your self-loving mask of smug humor, little Nook! We all know that you don't REALLY want to kill yourself, and don't try to write it off as a humble man's positive outlook either! What you are saying is not funny at all! *Sarcasm* represents the cowardice of humor, the flatterer of fear, the flaccid horn of all self-loathing Capricorns, and is, intact in fact, The Nook of impotent Wit. *Resolve* Hobos and Greed: when the two become One, they flock together like Moths to a Primrose. One might say it is artificial light by which they unite, but those who Love excesses know better. It is love. *Amygdala the Tramp* *Book of Nook* ~*~ ~*~*~*~ ~*~ ~*Narcissism*~ She who excesses in herself is the Devil's favorite whore. Proud Antlers are they that hone easily, apt to adapt and adorn in Wanton ornaments. They're not easily noticed, neither in the Forest nor in the Fog of War, but they're ever-present where ambitions peak and are adored (and much ignored where they're adored) ...The Devil's Horns! Saw them off with a gentle stroke and you will know which are his and which are yours; panic, and you may sever your own, leaving your crown vulnerable. Then, His goading Goat can charge you into cowardly submission. Humble-Fortitude is Key to Self-Awareness, as Self-Awareness is Key to Self-Confidence--the Twin Brother of Courage. ~*sVento the Henpeck-Hobo*~ ~Prose*of*Purg~

Current mood: creative Category: Writing and Poetry After interacting with myspacers for about a year now, I have come to realize why my writing is largely ignored: my writing is all based on either random perceptions or collective reflections, yet they lack a "definition" for the reader to embrace or reject. As a good purg, I am against putting any collection of written words--or spoken words--in a box by defining them in one specific way. People who do that, IMHO, are not only prone to putting words in a box, but ideals as well. You'd be likely to set "Virtue" apart from the concept of "peace", if you prefer to assume such a Nook-ish, defined outlook on life and literature. I feel that the collection of the poems in this blog, along with the order in which they appear, can give my readers a better glimpse of where my center--as a person--resides. Let it be a lens--or compass, if you prefer-- into the mind of a young, retired bum and aspiring Henpeck-Hobo and into the heart of a conscience gone WASP Pro-Bono--weathered by life's many wanton-wares Of Arrows and Olives Category: Writing and Poetry It may seem self-evident by the wars in the Mid-East that Arabs prefer Arrows over a Peace. Ten centuries stained with War-lore have increased a culture the Olive Branch can never reach! But where in the world has this not been the case? North South West and East Our Compasses all cock to Alexander's Greece Our hearts beat in drum-lines no mind would dare see... and there we Unite when desires are peaked In Drama and Life, the Grail and the Fleece the Hunter's nocked Arrow precedes every Feast. ********************** Shades of Mars Current mood: contemplative Category: Writing and Poetry red chambers transcend into veins of blue timid vs. tranquil the beating drum of life the vintage of Mars--infra-anger...black and strife coarsing blood knows nothing but cold and hot on and off pulse and pause tick and tock alive-encased in a box Aces ashuffle in drones of fifty-two passion vs. nature is dealt with each flip Hearts and Diamonds bruise temptation into the lips tattooing passion in dimensions of two--red, in blue spades and clover-clubs know nothing but dark and white loss or gain absence of light vs. essence of life between the two is animation's hue the Shades of Mars bold...in a world used to the in-animate Shuffle me *************** The W.A.S.P. Watching you, I'm wondering...Did you know you're sleepwalking? Restless idle eyes beam, shifting moist eyelids flickering flourescent spheres; slamming doors and spilling tears... Can you feel me when you're dreaming? Have no fear! sVento's the name; Henpeck-Hobo, at your service, W.A.S.P Pro-Bono--Wanton Angel's Suicidal Poltergeist... I'm delighted to be your Con-Scientist! Heard of me, have you?..No?! *suh-VEN-toe?..Sheeyit! Tawk Texan yuh friggin Gyp!* Hmmm... I'm like an Earwig, yuh dig?..Tunneling deep? Swelling the pale-grey goo, inside of you, asleep... I give chase while you dream, in strides following down that jolly green-back bricked road to the wonderful land of W.A.S.P. With each step, you leave my mark behind, you know? And these little piggies have seven toes: One for each dark and beguiling Virtue that provokes you, smiling like the Endangered Cockroach hanging on the roof... of your has-been Old-Man's gas-propelled digs. You feel me NOW, don't you? I am Immortal where tangibles don't exist... Where Jiminy, my enemy, is often sought, but never caught. Tux or not. Where driftwood burns without a fire I cuckold the flames of your desire!... Does it hurt? ********************* A Henpecked Hobo Current mood: awake At 18 years old, Dad and I seldom fought, Homelessness bought us nostalgic alarm. Except afternoons spent with Scott, at his lot No two men ever locked-horns with such charm! Perceptions from bums could collage a pig-sty. Evicted, my sorrows bled ripe--but their pride Could white-wash the fears from my skiff, by & by Knavishly jesting and feeding on lies. Exalted, all Kings need a Duke to harass Deciding who's crowned is a sport for the brass Had I the desire to quarrel like that One fact would remain: I still couldn't bat! Because theres no difference between Noblemen Or roles like the slave and the vagabond, Finn *********************** Always Low Prices...ALWAYS! Category: Writing and Poetry Weary, homeless and all alone at three am, temperature low: thirty-two degrees; automatic doors hesitate upon my entrance-colliding with the glass(always!) as four silver Washingtons ring from my pocket into the till; totaling the price for... a shit-brick piece of Hershey, Pennsylvania made with love (and almonds): 'ninety-three cents' [without tax!] alas!--No change; yesterday was the same, seems tomorrow will be too... ALWAYS ************************* Psyche's Garden Halides Category: Writing and Poetry To see you in the dark, my dear makes flaccid crimson pound with cheer 'cause saddled to my chest, right here is Cupid's quivered arrow-spear. Though gone is Cupid's bow, no fear it drowns with wings in Venus tears. Without it arrows should be thrust by hand into your fleshy bust. I don't know if I have the right though prick you anyways, I might! My trembling fingers catch dim light impassioned by your very sight. Much adds to this young stalker's plight cause beauty best shines in the night. To see you under moonlight, glow makes sneaking stealthy easy, though should not decide for you, I know ('Cause only Cupid feeds the bow!) You needn't arrows to win souls from you a look would slay the bold! Your chestnut eyes react, and stare...... They do not know the force they bare! Like Garden Halides: plants abode with naught a flimsy internode! Since ever first a seedling sprouts stems pawning leaves must know their route! Bright warmth envelops breeding greens. No moderation. Not this weed. When water's sucked, and soil's dry I will crave halides till I die. For nourishment, fried stems reach high not needing any azure sky! Good plants crave NPK-Ca imbalance 'tween those forces may Yield basic or acidic pot. 'Cause lacking either makes them rot! And timid is the one who smokes harvested gifts that often choke! Those eyes of yours, much like this drug Imprison Gods as common-thugs. I have not what it takes to lie or break your will, make you confide or make-believe your hand's aren't bound to love me back, like any hound! Though tempting as that life may be, 'tis not true love when geared towards me. (No Matter what the common creed In Mount Olympus Cell Block Three!) Like feeding plants or bows, you see? Good love's fed balanced! He and She! ********************* Love's Shadowy Manta Current mood: accomplished Category: Writing and Poetry Oscar Hammling wisely wrote: "To ask of love that it be without jealousy is to ask of light that it cast no shadows" I agree. Love is a blanket whose light is night dancing to mock the flames People escape in it's embrace... leaving no trace Of it's true face But what if shadows cast while I'm blanketed in Darkness? Who has envy when there is no love? Cupid has a neurotic sense of humor he never aims to please... merely to subdue hearts with the shadow of Olympus. Jealousy is a cancerous cast over our thoughts--conscious, sub-conscious and unconscious wearing a mask of conscience, common sense and pride. Blanket. My light is Night. I dance to mock the flames. People escape in my solace... Embrace ************************ When Daddy was Fifteen Two days after Grampa's Irish Catholic Knuckle-lipped bona-fide punching-bag wife Left him, took the kids, and ended her strife, he cried 'til his .45 blew him a kiss: ti-click...POP Nine years passed in heart monitor ticks Beep-pause beep-pause, lungs wheezed on like a fife. Just three fourths a brain, his hospital life. You prayed for nine years while he drowned in the Styx. ~*~ "Get me outta here, boy! Dont'cha know I'm okay?" "Yes, Dad." "Y'all never visit me...What gives? You ashamed of your old man, son?" "No, sir. I visit you every week bring your smokes, smuggle in your Jackie-D... Remember?..." "You know these coons, boy?" "...Coons?" "Yeah! COONS!" "Who? The orderlies?" "Don't give me lip, boy!" "They just work here, Dad. ...Fluff your pillow, Clean your sheets--" "They STEAL from me! You know that don'tcha, boy?!" "Yes, sir..." "You never did tell me... How's the baby doin'?" "What baby, Dad?" "Well...you know?..The baby. ....The BABY! The fuckin' baby I was holding when the lightning hit me!... ...The BABY!--" "--Baby's fine, Dad. The baby's alright." "Oh, yeah?.. That's good." "Get some sleep, old man." ~*~ I see it now, Dad. Why your heart is so rife with those bitter old aches from your past. Why you binge. I see why you sever love--tongue like a knife Ever fifteen, your development singed. Subconcious yearns a man comparably bad, Tempered through me--any boy--not as sad. Any son with a Dad... ************************* Won't You Write a Dixie Tune for Me? Current mood: amused Category: Music When Nicholson took to the screen and didn't mold to Ratched's scheme and plotted his escape like Steve McQueen we knew: The battle's lost, but not the War! Only true losers are ignored: Why don't you write a Dixie tune for me? The Combine never broke before this cunning R.P. stole the floor and freed the minds that Ratched whored to sleep. McMurphy sowed what he would reap 'cause Big Nurse Ratched plays for keeps and poor R.P. had his lobotamy... The worst of Ratched's therapies! A Purgatory without dreams but Bromden saved him from this misery And now the Chief is free to dream I wonder if he'd ever sing: Why won't you write a Dixie tune for me? The Battle's lost, but not the War! Remember me, I do implore Why don't you write a Dixie tune for me?