Jiggery Pokery astir Noisy Slag Klaxon

 

Gematria
doodled
noisy gore.

Dental spinach
the three-implanted klaxon.
Jiggery-pokery
abracadabra,
skimble scamble.

Hirudinea
creaks
your
slag
anti-flap,
zersetzung
diabolic
warlord.

Anthropocene
astir
cul-de-sac
phoma.

 

Copyright © 2019 Charlie Zero the Poet

All rights Reserved.

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92 thoughts on “Jiggery Pokery astir Noisy Slag Klaxon

      1. All hail 🤚the all conquering
        Chuck Vessel of the Junk Man,
        Emperor over the Vomitorium
        of Spam. The bottom feeder
        supreme from below the
        surface of thin cyber ice ❄️

            1. looking up at the underbelly of heaven
              three ladders directly to the clouds:
              the ladder of the skeptical
              the ladder of the optimistic
              the ladder of the ambitious
              poets almost always search
              for a more devious route
              zigzags around obstacles
              zigzags around the significance
              of every damn thing

              1. The writer is ever desperate
                The artist is only happy when
                depleted, extracted, and spent.
                The road less travelled is
                adventurous, treacherous, and bent.
                The corpes of the feint hearted
                are littered throughout the land.
                There are but two roads
                you can follow.
                Yet a multitude of means
                by which you can travel.
                In either case …
                the celestial remains untouchable.
                As wisdom shines on the humble.

              1. As Kate Bush would say,
                from the Heights of Wuthering
                her Babooshka ain’t paranoid.
                For she’s met that killer on the road,
                who’s brain is squirming like a toad.
                When it comes to evil scheming
                of mice and men, it’s a shame
                to even talk of them . . .
                One day they’ll all be in the ditch,
                flies buzzing around their eyes,
                with no one to care or say a prayer.

        1. only today I was in the void of bottom feeders
          where demons crave ready-made souls
          in fancy self-contained wraps
          a location where
          all the holy instructions are neglected
          and advice insufficiently appreciated
          yes, I was there in my role as Man Child
          the Walking Testicles of the Lord
          yes, I was there measuring the posterior nerve roots
          checking for any evidence of spiritual sodomy nestled
          among the fissures and shrubbery

          1. Sounds like a dirty job!, But,
            I guess somebody’s got to do it.
            On behalf of the reluctant angels,
            and the stay at home mum’s
            of Armageddon’s lost children.
            I wholeheartedly salute you.

            1. THANK YOU FOR THE SALUTE !

              yesterday we were peeling the socks off the expired
              parts of heaven still get cold
              and a healthy pair of socks
              can bring a pack of smokes
              the retreads are growing thin
              on the poetry wagon
              I’ve unloaded a lot of sheer nonsense
              ungrammatical and beyond pointless
              quotes from Hamlet
              anything that could be a considerable source
              of irritation
              I’ve safely stored in the overhead bin
              combative intellectuals and cannibalism
              poets in feather headdresses
              that’s what you see late at night
              pseudo-backsides

              1. You’re most welcome, Michael.
                Poetry can seem, at times,
                to be a Black Friday market place
                of the desperate, without no grace.
                Where the motives of the heart
                are on display, like in a jewellery
                store show case.
                Original inspiration ever lacking.
                Yet always the grasping claim …
                “I’m a wordsmith, but you may call
                me the Poet Laureate of Genius.”

                1. I find my comrades busy correcting early drafts
                  of “Poet Laureate of Genius”
                  I tell them to purchase their clothes extra large
                  because the future arrives overweight
                  glutinous jelly is temporary at best

                  poets
                  throwing
                  incestuous moments from early life
                  at each other as if they were rocks
                  three-dimensional body parts
                  roulette wheel foreplay
                  petals and stamens
                  regular / irregular
                  it all boils down
                  to horse snot

                2. Everything shrinks on the
                  fashionably dressed carcass.
                  I blame it on the third law
                  of thermodynamics.
                  But entropy is no legal excuse
                  for temporary insanity.
                  You’ll need a note of excuse
                  for the abuse of being a human
                  overcome with ecstasy …
                  signed by Salvador Dali.

                3. Salvador Dali
                  proof that the dream has a navel
                  that he snapped off a Supreme Mother
                  above as below “which way do you want to go ?”

                  I was laughing at the café with American poets
                  they had suitcases stuffed with metaphors
                  per Robert Frost,
                  “metaphors were the leaves of giant trees”
                  I kept quiet
                  knowing that Miles Davis thought of metaphors
                  as the hemorrhoids of creativity
                  what a strange thought
                  suitcases full of torture

                  Americans who would close themselves
                  in dark rooms with tiny flashlights
                  and psychoanalyze for the sake
                  of new and improved poetry

                  citizenship with rent
                  intellectual circles
                  specimens
                  Freudian shadows
                  wet finger indiscretions
                  the first rush of outside love
                  curtainless, Eden was a stage

                4. Marilyn Monroe
                  did have a hole
                  in the top of her stockings
                  for finger pocking
                  back when things were shocking
                  Soaking in the Ritz
                  to a jazz trumpet solo riff

                5. I’ll say one thing,
                  “when one sets a Marilyn Monroe trap
                  make sure the bait is loaded”
                  ——did have a hole——
                  poor Marilyn, when she woke up in the other world
                  was she rich and famous ?
                  were men lined up to see her without her body ?
                  Marilyn Monroe really naked / nude

                  the name of every abusive man carved on her tombstone
                  postcards of her baseball husband with the donkey dong
                  scrolls of Kennedy antics

                  the demons today were finding humor
                  in people who eat fallen fruit
                  cartoon people with big heads
                  poets riding stolen bicycles

                6. Strange fruit in the boot
                  of a ’57 Chevy, named Hell Fire.
                  As the boys lit up,
                  I couldn’t get any higher.
                  Marilyn was softly
                  singing Happy Birthday
                  to the Deadhead of Desire.
                  Jewels dripping
                  like crystal sex
                  down her ethereal dress.
                  The rich and infamous
                  all riding that black train
                  of spilt milk and stolen gravy.
                  One man’s privilege,
                  another woman’s slavery.

                7. Saw Charlie last night at poetry workshop
                  he was handing out free passes
                  to the unknown
                  to the uncertain
                  he had a handful of maps
                  to the unexpected
                  to the incomprehensible
                  he was 100% goal orientated

                  STIMULATE HIS READERS

                  he’s willing to throw out words
                  and then follow them
                  wherever they lead

                8. Shakespeare invented around I,700
                  new words for the English language.
                  I think Charlie wouldn’t be too far off.
                  The word virus is a living organism,
                  that can evolve, mutate, and have it’s
                  DNA spliced. There is no telling what
                  some mad scientist could end up
                  creating! There are zero options for
                  the innocent villagers but to stay
                  deaf and dumb.

                9. the poets of paradise
                  brought before Charlie
                  to distinguish and number

                  words like lottery tickets
                  the poet eternal
                  a life after life
                  what a win

                  the bonds of friendship
                  inner gratification
                  each day
                  royal

                  poetry
                  all cogs meshed
                  Charlie embroidering

        1. When you say; Yes yes yes. It reminds me of that skit of Saturday Night Live with ‘Stefon’.

          Do you know which one I’m talking about? He’s hilarious in that show.

          Anyway, Music has generated some crazy ideas running through my head. Lots more to come. 🙂

  1. …………………………..Charlie,

    Ask me if I remember “cul-de-sac knobs”. OMG, you had such a crush
    on that person. You always said cul-de-sac’s neighborhood was
    the warlord trombone maze. God help you if you were walking there
    at night and you heard the sound of the horn.

    I love how you included so much material from your childhood.
    I chuckled at your mention of “jiggery pokery-prickle”. You are
    one bad boy, Charlie.

    1. ……………………………………….Michael,

      Of jiggery pokery prickle heard.
      Material luxury burned.

      The maze crush warlord
      started its night
      with poking its eyes out
      and flooding the floors
      with blood neon green.

      God knobs cul-de-sac/ bad sound
      meditated by trombone corpse, Michael.

  2. You manipulate and reanimate me every time, Charlie!

    I also liked ‘verve warlord’ very much. It reminded me of the clip for Bittersweet Symphony. In it he was a kind of warlord — the street kind maybe.

    Much love, B.

    1. I love that song. One hit wonders of the 90’s music. 🙂 I can see why the verve warlord popped in that way. hahahaha!!!

      What influenced the poem came from this type of noise sound.

      Christoph De Babalon – What You Call A Life

        1. I love this electronic sound. It’s really up my alley. I never heard of ‘X Dream’. Now, I will be listening to them a lot more and their other music as well. 🙂 Thank you so much for this video. The sound is so good and I’m getting some ideas for what I’m currently writing at the moment. 🙂

  3. Sefirot? Are we getting inspiration from Kabbalah? I have some book filled with sefirots (the Tree of life – the cosmic Adam) and plenty of numbers.
    Hirudinea slag phoma suk!
    This poem is quit interesting and very challenging.

    1. Kabbalah did entered its inception when I wanted to write the poem. A mixture of words, sound, and listening to noise music. The influenced made it with this sound:

      Three Legged Race – Permethrin I

      These noises in the video indicate a connection in the birth of the cosmic which is Adam and the universe which is Eve.

  4. Charlie, I have this echoing in my ears, like I am standing next to a speaker, letting the base reverberate through my very body. “its jukebox gematria –“This kind of summed it up for me. Code that only music can release. Love it!

  5. “sefirot petals floating” – love that 🌸
    Also got a kick out of “Dental anti-flap charivari, percussion noisy” 🦷- it’s that tooth theme again, Charlie! ;))

    1. What inspired the creativity is using something called: ‘Cut up Technique’.

      If you haven’t read or heard of ‘William S Burroughs’, he inspired many writers to use that technique.
      And how it works…please watch these two short video clips and it will explain the process behind it and how anyone can use it to their own work.

      Cut-Ups William S. Burroughs

      How David Bowie used ‘cut ups’ to create lyrics – BBC News

      Cut-up technique

      https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cut-up_technique

      Hope this helps.

      I’ve read some of these poems at an Open mic night here in L.A. a few people said it was a cool and unique approach to poetry.

            1. It’s all about how one utilizes the cut up technique and in which way they approach theme, style, and imagery wise.

              In poetry the rules are broken but still maintaining a visual aspect of creativity and making readers think. 🙂

  6. Everything shrinks on the
    fashionably dressed carcass.
    I blame it on the third law
    of thermodynamics.
    But entropy is no legal excuse
    for temporary insanity.
    You’ll need a note of excuse
    for the abuse of being a human
    overcome with ecstasy …
    signed by Salvador Dali.

      1. Cotton candy zombies
        melting on the red carpet
        of a May Day Parade …
        as the Big O 🕶️ sings,
        “Hey step up and play
        each machine seemed to say,
        as I walked round and round
        the penny arcade.”
        The machine head,
        of metal heavy, then said,
        “Only the lonely
        in rest get laid,
        now the Big O is dead.
        You are but sleep walking
        in a surrealist painting,
        so get back to bed.”
        The Fifth Disciple,
        with a speeding jitterbug
        eating his brain,
        had forgotten to awaken
        George Michael
        to go-go necro-dancing
        with Johnny Rotten.

          1. Comes with the crap,
            and gone with the bin.
            Sid Vicious,
            the sonic zombie,
            forever suspicious
            of Vampire Nancy.
            “Step up and play
            … I dare you!
            The machines have gone mad,
            and are talkin’ to George Michael.”
            But you’ve gotta have faith
            to escape the Penny Arcade.
            It’s now or never
            a matter of survival

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