Goblin Empty Cacophony

 

– Empty avalanche goblin
singing for the snafu.
Elenchus rips its cosmic epidermis/
showing us
its amplitude continuance incidents.

Reverberate mind/
imprecate the cacophony,
sednoid a tantric aniridia.

Pseudobulge daguerreotype/
fipple timid dimensionless decay;
Encolpion triggers the alarm –
sand vagina roars/
the background humans
laugh in agony.

 

Copyright © 2019 Charlie Zero the Poet

All rights Reserved.

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102 thoughts on “Goblin Empty Cacophony

  1. Pure Charlie Zero.

    Love the turmoil of the human condition and the trappings of the material world (right??!)

    this was a fave part for me:

    “Encolpion triggers the alarm –
    sand vagina roars/
    the background humans
    laugh in agony.”

    the background humans. ..so so so clever

    xoxo

  2. The opening stanza ripped into my psyche , it’s pure meth gold Charlie , then the second one breathes platinum sense.
    This is all very epic , like a huge display in the universe unfolding before my eyes.
    The title spectacular 😊, set the whole verse in epic motion.

    1. We shall probably get nearest to the truth if we think of the conscious and personal psyche as resting upon the broad basis of an inherited and universal psychic disposition which is as such unconscious, and that our personal psyche bears the same relation to the collective psyche as the individual to society. ~Carl Jung

      Poetry is external to our psyche just as much as music playing that role within our ears and consciousness.

      Oil Thief – In the Heat

  3. ……………………….Charlie,

    THE BACKGROUND HUMANS LAUGH IN AGONY

    the background humans ?
    friends, family, co-workers ?

    the poet written into a corner
    the poet as the last hope for a spokesperson

    day after day, activity at the dollhouse
    new puzzle pieces at best anonymous

    the dollhouse poet employed
    at unhinging one’s critical sense

    1. …………………………….Michael,

      Hope the background noise
      doesn’t impact the last humans.
      For spokesperson poet;
      Ginsberg knew a lot
      about dollhouse machine farms.

      After you’ve written
      the best anonymous puzzle/
      Employed yourself
      with unhinging senses
      and piece together those critical sarcasm.

          1. how do you do this? the right song for the right moment, again…. it’s quite something. What gorgeous sound and imagery…. and may I add, there is an interesting tooth theme going on here, in your music suggestions. Which fits right with the section of a book I’m reading.

            1. Music is what brings everyone together. The commonality is a force of goodness and balance within friendships. I’m glad you enjoyed this beautiful and imagery of a music video and song. 🙂 She is amazing.

              I’ll be back next Monday to post something new. The family is here for the Holidays. You have a wonderful thanksgiving. 🙂

              What book are you reading? if I may ask.

              1. Awesome, happy to hear you are well and with family. The book is Startle and Illuminate by Carol Shields; she mentions one reviewer or reader recognizing a theme of teeth in her works. Then this theme of teeth is woven throughout this posthumous book of her writings, or it is so far. Haven’t finished it yet. Savouring like a good meal. :)) xoxox Happy Holidays Charlie

      1. I love that! 👍
        An English Lit teacher at school once told me I wasn’t ‘allowed’ to make up words in my short stories.
        I did it anyway and she would mark my work down because of it.
        All she did was fuel the fire for my love of words – and my rebellious nature too! 😉🖤

        1. Never let anyone even if its a college professor. Tell you what not to write or create your own vocabulary.
          English professors are chained and imprisoned to a system of academic bullshit – that they themselves have been drowning in for a long time.

          You be you and create any form of poetry you want. Invent a word and use it to your stories in which ever way you want to. You have a voice… use it to fuel the inspirational fire. 🙂

          1. Oh, I agree absolutely!

            Having spent many a year in acedemia I know how infuriating it can be!

            We are all free to use words (new and existing) in any way we want. That’s one of the things that makes writing – and reading – exciting!
            👍🖤

  4. Wow. I can’t say the effect of this on me Charlie, an avalanche that invokes the power of the universe, tears my skin and sets me in motion. A motion of mirth in agony and joy. Of seeking connection…. I can’t explain it, I don’t know if my path is the right one, but I’ve picked up speed and it’s the one that I’m on.

    Another piece of art, I stand myself in front of it and let my mind wander…

    1. Great observation.

      The metaphor behind it. No matter how tough things can be there’s a voice of reason and hope near by.
      We seek connection but humans become too distracted with their phones.
      For then, we become disconnected. The sad truth. We may not be alone, we deep inside we’re alone in some way.

      Your view on my work is incredibly amazing and spot on. 🙂

      Groove Armada – At The River

      1. I see… the background humans on their phones, seeking connection and severing it at entirely the same time. We get swept up, in agony, of gritty sand in places we can’t speak of (love that line by the way), tumbling, muttering incantations when really we need to see the person beside us, in front of us. Within us.

        There’s more to this to, Charlie. I’ve only scratched the surface. And, I love that song…. it’s like a balm. I saw Groove Armada live once, they were amazing. I was going to copy the link to ‘superstylin’ and then I thought this one is particularly relevant:

        1. It’s so refreshing to know you also are a fan of Groove Armada.
          And yes, there’s a connection that you understood of where I am coming from.

          The music video you send me is relevant to our conversation.
          To know she is thinking about her friends and her wanting to remember the good times with them.

          I wish I had friends like that who genuinely want to hang out and really enjoy a great time as friends and cherish good memories. Unfortunately, friends can be complex due to the rise and distraction of wanting to make an actually deeply intellectual conversation with someone.

          1. “friends can be complex” – oh Charlie, so much so. But when you find a good one, keep them. That feeling, when you can be yourself, no holds barred and know they will love you regardless. That is truly the best feeling in the world 💕

  5. Argh Charlie… These two things caught my attention and sent my own mind in a spiral of thought
    “fipple timid dimensionless decay”… and “Elenchus rips its cosmic epidermis “….
    Oooooh… sent my mind down the rabbit hole… 🙂

    Of how we have been entrapped within this Illusion of mind control, and how we now self perpetuate our state of decay.. Minds an empty void of trivia.. While latching onto the Hollywood,’Wand’ of manipulation and dismay..
    ❤ Hugs your way

    1. I love taking all readers down that rabbit hole for intellectual reasons and understanding. 🙂

      And as Morpheus said in the Matrix to Neo:

      Morpheus : This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.

      1. 😁I took that red pill years ago dear Charlie 😏 and I still cannot fathom how many still want to stay in bed and sleep. Who are blinkered to this reality.
        I was born a rabbit, and love to dig 🐰🐇 😏🤗

    1. reverberating pseudobulge
      a common discovery
      at the truck stop showers
      stop-and-frisk
      drop-and-frisk

      male playthings
      glorious smiles
      some skip across the rooftops
      shinnying drainpipes
      others travel night and day
      on the endless highways

      hourly conversations with loved ones
      relatives running from the police
      common folk caught up in random absurdities
      mournful sounds with off-mainstream prose
      the Amish upset with petty poetry
      downtrodden poets inventing words
      songs without music
      words without noise

      proto-poets will never colonize Mars
      pseudobulges produce no seed

  6. The Truck Stop Dinner plays
    Mexican Radio for the speed
    Queen and Captain Fellatio.
    Since Charles Manson,
    and his gang of lousy little poets, raged against the machine age
    of a fictitious tomorrow.
    Yet, Lick Crave & the Bad Seeds
    are ever the life of the party at
    the Mars Hotel Bellagio.
    Only the Lonely Starman,
    full of cosmic sorrow,
    sees the big picture.
    Where he dips his brush
    no Earth Man can follow.

    1. Mexican radio here in South Florida
      is limited to one station
      a rather strange genre hybrid
      where Prison-Spanish is spoken
      reasonably intelligent citizens
      find it difficult to digest
      locked doors and headphones are advised
      listening is rumored to violate parole
      beware people selling bootleg CDs
      “The Best of Mexican Radio”
      sometimes Nicolas Cage narrates
      sounding like a milk-drinking mama’s boy
      (what happened to the villainous Nicolas Cage
      who once sold stolen Gideon Bibles on late night TV ?)

      1. Nicholas Cage met his grudge match
        with a rumble fish named Laura Dern.
        The wild at heart never learn
        as they crash and burn 🔥
        Hollywood is a white collar gangsta
        selling crack pipe dreams in the hood.
        Florida is the place to be when
        Californian slides into the sea.
        But keep that Key Lime Pie recipe
        away from me pie.
        That pastry can only lead to insanity,
        as Mexican Booleg Radio plays
        the Gypsy Kings in the lavatory
        of the land of the free.

  7. the drifting flavor of salsa funk
    almost all rest stops on the expressway
    play elevator versions of the Gipsy Kings
    electric flamenco that would
    encourage old people to weep
    the sound of water running
    and a thousand zippers in motion
    “Oh, to be young again”
    Key Lime Pie is made from old bicycle tires
    an actual Key Lime Pie would cost over $250
    and you would faint if you saw the condition of the limes
    for $150 you would be lucky to get a plant-based pie
    tart and creamy
    hopefully with a touch of decency
    you would have better luck with hardboiled peanuts
    or the crud-of-crud fruitcake
    just remember
    have an alibi ready
    if you get caught purchasing fruitcake

  8. Every fruitcake is out to make a buck
    on the potholed Freedom Highway
    is a broken down capitalist truck.
    As Ernesto Che Guevara sticks out
    his hitch-hiking finger and asks,
    “Hey amigo, what’s your hurry!?”
    to the baby booming grey nomads
    trying to explain to the last generation
    how they’re not completely guiltily
    of a cold war planetary atrocity.
    Meanwhile, Miss Cream Tart and
    the Cisco Kid jump bail, and hit the
    trail down to Mexico … screaming,
    “Turn up that radio!”.

    1. on the way to Mexico
      we got wide-eyed in Babylon
      with everything bulging one had to fear
      a spray in the face, a Peter North
      exhausted-looking characters
      outside sharing cigarettes
      additional dialog———–no way
      shrinking rigor mortis reality
      “she’s wanting us to paint her ceiling”
      after a life of rehearsals
      grandiosity for the wallow
      she just lay there spread out
      asking to tinkle on the hour

      1. Is Tinker Belle of the Ball just
        another baby goblin on the run?
        Marching to the tune of Pablo
        Escobar and his Mexican Power,
        since Johnny Cougar moved to
        Miami. Anyway, she doesn’t kiss
        and tell. Not unless you do her the
        favour of a postmodern renovation.

  9. a postmodern renovation
    her silk petticoats used as stationery
    to write sympathetic feuilletons
    about her backseat bum
    the great measure of a limousine
    a frigate waiting to be freighted ?
    finding nothing embarrassing
    she permitted it to express itself
    large and overripe
    “the hour of the buttocks is at hand”

  10. The limousine chauffeur
    and his mystery passenger,
    a Goblin King and part time
    television preacher named Sid,
    stopped to pick pick up Tinker
    the Belle, as she had jumped
    bail, along with Miss Cream Pie
    and that bad hombre illegal
    immigrant gun for hire, the
    Cisco Kid.
    The Goblin King had a hot
    frying pan in his hand ✋ 🍳
    and said to Tinker the Belle 🧚‍♀️
    “Hop into the fire 🔥”

    1. Trump’s personal lawyer advised me
      not to mention
      anything about the Goblin King
      I KNOW NOTHING
      workers are complaining about all the new machines
      that are stealing work from them
      Robert Frost is writing prose
      about the hollowness
      of machines
      all I could think about:
      those soft touch flesh-tubes from Japan
      the ones that encourage release
      feels better than the first time
      and so simple to escape
      effortless friction
      what a concept

      1. The personal lawyer of Trump
        better know a good lawyer, as
        he obviously doesn’t know what
        he’s in for when the weather gets
        Stormy. All the Goblin King’s men
        end up in jail, it would seem 🤔

        1. wayward children may go to prison
          but rich demons live in a black market paradise
          escapades of eating and drinking and reality TV
          no need to surrender
          cryptic poetry
          passes through the system
          with hardly a trace
          criminals and thieves fencing stolen prose
          stray dog verbs and fancy letters glued together
          one word was over 40 pages long

  11. Will the last standing survivor
    bend the knee to Mother Dollar?
    Just like all the others picking the
    grapes of wrath for Big Brother.
    A universal convulsion can be felt
    by the collective conciousness, as
    Selfie the Ambitious seizes the day
    without first washing his hands.
    But Big Brothers bitch, the last man
    standing on reality television, has
    other nefarious plans. The word
    virus is on the loose, with a truck
    of karma for the gluttons of zen.

    1. a truckload of Karma
      “Holy Smokes”
      I sure hope that thing passes me by
      I’ve paid the price multiple times
      having run through the minefields of youth
      having lost the most valuable things one could possess
      “please, Mister Karma Truck pass me by”
      all I can think about is what Karma delivered to Jesus

      Robert Frost is still dreaming of bringing together disparate cultures
      he was trying to rhyme some damn thing with deer eyes in headlights
      the poet who worships autumn colors and the freedom of anonymity
      walks around like a huge advertisement, “The King Poet of Library Shelves”

      1. I do hope that Robert Frost finally
        found what he was poetically looking
        for …
        “One of these days
        and it won’t be long
        Going down the valley
        and sing my song
        Gonna sing it loud
        and sing it strong
        Let the echo decide
        if I was right or wrong
        Silvio silver and gold
        Won’t buy back the beat
        of a heart grown cold
        Silvio I gotta go
        Find out something
        only dead men know”
        ~ Bob Dylan

      2. The driver of Dump Truck Karma
        has a care for lovers, artists, and
        dreamers. So never fear, Michael.
        He’s sure to steer clear.
        But his headlights are blindingly
        bright, so I do fear for those deer
        wthat graze without a care on the
        highway of despair.

        1. our identity existing on the outside of ourselves
          not the identity that lives on the inside
          which sense of yourself should you follow ?

          that was the question of the night at Poetry workshop

          Robert Frost was saying that when rocks fall from outer space
          they contain various forms of sugar
          this sugar comes directly from God
          at one time we were that sugar

          Robert Frost frowns on amateur poetry
          and counterfeit words
          the older disciplines
          the way wide
          Robert snapping his fingers
          not difficult to imagine
          “Pump Up The Volume”

          wash away the clay
          unplug the hysteria
          whatever it takes to bridge the empty space
          to translate nonverbal gestures

          1. I fought with my twin,
            that enemy within,
            ’til both of us fell by the way.
            Horseplay and disease
            is killing me by degrees
            while the law looks the other way.
            Our partners in crime
            hit me up for nickels and dimes,
            the guy you were lovin’
            couldn’t stay clean.
            It felt outta place,
            my foot in his face,
            but he should-a stayed where
            his money was green.
            I bit into the root
            of forbidden fruit
            with the juice running down my leg.
            Then I dealt with your boss,
            who’d never known about loss
            and who always
            was too proud to beg.
            There’s a white diamond gloom
            on the dark side of this room
            and a pathway
            that leads up to the stars.
            If you don’t believe there’s a price for this sweet paradise,
            remind me to show you the scars.
            ~Bob Dylan

          2. Poetry is born
            in the hearts of children.
            Formed
            or spawned disformed
            with sugar and spice
            seeking a reading in paradise
            Some take the lashings
            and thrash the sour cream
            Like Sid and Nancy
            snorting the snuff
            on a big screen
            murder scene
            As Johnny Rotten
            makes the cover
            of Teen Magazine
            Poetry is the expression
            of the huddled masses
            Powerless but to graffiti
            the walls of slavery
            with the flavours of a dream
            It is poetry’s businesses
            to be dangerous
            Not the property
            of the rich and famous
            The elite do permanently
            have a collective
            nose out of joint
            to think that the masses
            don’t take their literature classes
            The democratic poetic
            The poetry of the revolutionary
            The beat off the street
            That inspiration of rebellion
            Spontaneous …. and rebellious

            1. had to stop the children from playing
              it was time for them to age and die
              they were living “Moby Dick”
              5 of the 8 wanted to be Queequeg
              innocence resides in their ignorance
              self-identification
              like you went into San Quentin one color
              and now you’re a different color
              strangers asking if you’re cloistered
              poets are bookish and cloistered
              poets are often Don McLean
              singing “Vincent”
              a solitary occupation
              a hobby that leaves the imagination paralyzed
              a parasitic thing
              go for a period of time
              and produce nothing
              like you’re a fancy chicken
              backing up the eggs

              1. The problem with the poetic
                pop vox, all calling on experiences from an empty Pandora’s Box, is
                that it don’t mean a thing unless
                it has that lived through ring.

                “Oh, what’ll you do now,
                my blue-eyed son?
                Oh, what’ll you do now,
                my darling young one?
                I’m a-goin’ back out
                ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
                I’ll walk to the depths
                of the deepest black forest
                Where the people are many
                and their hands are all empty
                Where the pellets of poison
                are flooding their waters
                Where the home in the valley
                meets the damp dirty prison
                Where the executioner’s face
                is always well-hidden
                Where hunger is ugly,
                where souls are forgotten
                Where black is the color,
                where none is the number
                And I’ll tell it and think it
                and speak it and breathe it
                And reflect it from the mountain
                so all souls can see it
                Then I’ll stand on the ocean
                until I start sinkin’
                But I’ll know my song well
                before I start singin’
                And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.”
                ~ Bob Dylan

                1. you find pleasure
                  locating yourself
                  on an autobiographical curve

                  how many times have you passed Kerouac
                  like a Barbie Doll turd ?

                  juvenile delinquents fold your poems
                  into paper airplanes
                  and fly them
                  away from the sun
                  away from people eating borscht

                  poets who articulate every little thing
                  who try to reconstitute sensations
                  who try to stretch ecstasy
                  God help those devils

                  tormented giraffes
                  afraid to swallow

  12. Barbie poop is 97% reader wish-fulfillment
    I see it everywhere, often livestock grade
    the more one says over the dinner plate
    of an actual dead beat poet
    the more they fall victim
    of what they can’t say

    any struggle with language
    and constrictive demons appear
    fondle them with encouragement
    and they swell like a balloon
    the guys at the pool hall
    often discuss the difficulty
    of destroying word meanings
    “have to atomize the word”

    Ken was very sensitive
    about his transitory body
    where was his horn ?

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