Non Inspiratione

There is no rhyme this time
As the pen almost meets the paper
In a slow motion mime

No words come out
As though the ink has run out
There will be no rhymes today

Once And Future Beast

The Duke of Goat sat upon his throne
With it's three mounted sheep's heads
Covered in soft fluffy sheepskin

He tapped his cloven hoof nervously
As he waited to see the bride his father had chosen for him
Mad thoughts raced through his head

"What if she is ugly?
One of those four horned sheep women?"
Or worse
She could be one of those sheep who shaved in inappropriate ways
Ways that only a sheep from the wrong end of town would do

Unconsciously his fingers were stroking the sheep's head on the left
Between it's stiff tanned ears
Yet another nervous tic
Amongst a long list of such things

The breeding process to get goat-men and sheep-women has been fraught with issues
Many undesirable outcomes had been seen and culled as needed

Nothing had gone to waste though
As evidenced by the stately throne the Duke was sitting upon

The current state of the species
Had most males with the upper torso, arms and head if the ancient humans
With everthing below that more resembling a goat
Why the men were called 'goats' instead of the more classical 'satyr' was a mystery to most

Females were usually having the reverse
With human lowers and sheeplike uppers
And were preferred to be this way by most of the male goats
With origins of that preference likely laying deep within misogyny
This chimeric mix of parts the result of thousands of very strange courtships

Suddenly the Duke heard the clip clop of hooves
Accompanied by the soft slapping of feet upon the plank flooring
He apprehensively gripped the woolen heads on either armrest
Biting his lower lip in anticipation

As the small group came into view
His bride marked by her white sheer gown
Her long statuesque legs visible in silhouette

The straps of her dress resting lightly upon the whitest, softest looking woolen coat he'd ever seen
Her petite face looking intently his way
Her long ears twitches slightly at the sight of him

She was perfect

Of Aspirations, Itches, Lost Things & Pee Dreams

I strive to be a builder in my dreams
To take sticks and mud
Or steel and stone
In the making of something grand

Or something not

Maybe just something useful
That gets touched every day
But always subtle and never noted
Sturdy and needed in every way

Instead I pick at scabs
That itch until they drive me mad
Which can't be scratched enough
Never paying off like a deadbeat dad

Or I look for things I'll never find
Always just out of sight
Perhaps around the next corner
Trying with all of my might

People get lost and looked for too
Though I seldom know the who
Just that they are lost and need finding
The fact that I'll never succeed neverminding

The pee dreams are the worst
Having to pee but not able
No matter how I pose and swear
The water never comes

This means of course
That I have to wake up
Or I'll wet the bed
There is no veiled meaning here

As for the others it's always a mystery
With the itch that won't be satisfied
And the things and anonymous people
Who refuse to let themselves be found

P.I.F.S.

Poetry is for suckers
It often pokes at your psyche
Looking for holes
That it can wriggle itself into

A tear rolled down the lamb's face
Keeping pace with the progress of my knife
Drawn slowly across it's snowy white throat
It's innocent eyes losing focus as the wound drained it's life

See what I mean?

But wait
What if that lamb was evil?

A red glow overtook the look of innocence
The lamb's head raised up with a snarl upon it's little upper lip
Baring it's teeth that weren't there a minute ago
Lunging at me as I tried to roll away
Burying demon teeth deep in my hip

Sit, Trigger; Sit

Pulling the trigger on a gun
Causes a precise chemical reaction
A small contained explosion
Channeled and chambered to propel in ballistic fashion

Drinking too much
Triggers a predictable thing
A headache and retching
The result of alcohol poisoning

Eating strange food and drink
Can trigger Montezuma's revenge
A burning clenching fever dream
Dubbed worth it in the end

When the president says "Jedi mind meld"
It triggers a face palm
Every explosion I hear
Triggers a flashback to Vietnam

The right word whispered in my ear
Will cause me to buy
While another strategic phrase
Will trigger the sell off

Telling the wrong tale from your past
Or spinning a certain fantasy
Will trigger me to go fetal with fear
Your predator personage all that I see

Thou shalt label such things
To keep my eyes away
Warning labels and safety gates
To prevent the poison trigger or treacherous fall

The act of living
Triggers death itself
Everything is a trigger for something
No mere warning will ever be enough

Wordbeards

Words can be merry
Words can be scary
Words can be witty
Words can be light

Oh that they could be hairy
That those wordbeards could dance warily
Upon my blank pages
Each and every night

Place Progression

There is a place
Full of something
Maybe full of answers
Or perhaps more questions

Down this path
This barely visible path
With an occasional ancient cobble
Poking through the knee high scrub

Past the rotten log
With the partly hollow inside
Decorated with mushrooms and moss
A lucky toad's high rent abode

At the very shallow lake
With the shimmering clear waters
Showing everything to any observer
Sometimes what they least want to see

There you'll find what you seek
Where they lyric takes life
And you might not get what you want
But you'll surely get what you need

Then it's away from the shallow lake
Following your footsteps in the loamy soil
Crunching the occasional small shell
To the coolness of the trees once again

Past that same rotten log
Where the toad has rearranged the place
Adding a few sticks and a daisy
To spruce up the joint

Back up the path
Grasses brushing your calves
Tripping over new and different cobbles
On this ancient forgotten road

Now with a memory of that place
That fades in the details
With every passing step
Until only what is necessary remains

Nestled just where it needs to be