I’m painting a landscape with Bob Ross and we’re coloring it with our own imaginations
salt and peppering our mountain tops with mists of blue and white
gold -in sun-
where my heart comes out and springs to life
dance with me
There is a mountain top where sky bursts a true-ish blue-ish azure mellow yellow verdancy.
how thy song becomes thee.
In flight, a bird, rests upon each crest and divvies down in spectacular light, light graces
of feathers balanced amongst the winds
My target- I spy-
my preyer to love-
of happy days- spent in the sun-
army in army, my happy mouse will be my best friend
A Tom & Jerry kind of Cheshire smile between us.
Nothing else stands in the way…
What Science does The Songbird have to give it’s young,
to pass down through the ages, as Songbirds do?
In times like these, which are my own, I have naught,
but what wasn’t lost within translation, from father’s father, mother; mother’s mother, father
and what I’ve just been making up all along that wasn’t lost, dropped, or mistranslated.
I’ve been making songs up all along, never knowing I was making songs
There’s an ancient power locked beneath my breast
the word of the instinct- knowledge; the song of intuition- belief
To believe I must first acknowledge, but what is knowledge without belief?
The two must be your constant bedfellows,
the question is the act- initial and ultimate positions both within the aspects of the cosmic bedchamber.
I haven’t breathed like this in years, or it’s years I can’t conceive but oxygen is taking me there- to higher thought
Airier there the hairier care, with carefully sent care packages so nary a hare, (their rare derrière right there!) before Miss Clare B. C. Eclair (their bare au pair bear), wouldn’t dare, to be fair, do worse than ensnare us in, (Dear?) dear deer hide nightmare mare, paid dearly for our batches of Crumb Water Back Snatches, a dire dessert for our dearly departed most recently deceasedly refuse receptacle it awoke in such explosions the door bore erosions well beyond it’s years and one fears, oh yes, one fears, that one of us won’t make it out alive when nanny gets her claws on the Crab Apple Tree Apple Tree Crab creeboppling critters on the head, they go: don’t creebopple me Mr. and Mrs. Crab Apple Tree Apple Tree Crab, I’ve got enough humbly bumblebees buttmunching my Arundel, ME’s “Simpering Sundries: Butter Creams: Collections”, And yells down one of our wartortley tart teeming throats, “I’ll Mary Poppins you ina minute, if you don’t cut that out. Chocolate Bunnies, my arse!”
Don’t sing songs down my throat with your gutterball loneliness I’ve a rich place of my own. A rich place of my own. I don’t know less than what I don’t know, but that’s knowin’, I don’t know much, but I know knowin’ much is just about the same. I’ve let go of thoughts I thought I wrote but the message gets me low, so I don’t message much about those days any more, no more, I‘ve got sights set from yesterday to today, I’ve forgotten tomorrow already-
I thought that was yesterday.
wasn’t much for homeliness,
so, with my tune in a bucket
and a white shirt that read “fuck it”
I bought meself a comeliness,
to comb out all them cares away.