literature

An Auction...

Deviation Actions

mousch's avatar
By
Published:
273 Views

Literature Text

Melancholy melancholy, who wants it? Who’s got it? Melancholy it’s poet’s folly if you never have any, melancholy is what makes us us and makes them fuss about the poetry that infuses lives, melancholy oh-so-holy roly poly sadness leads to madness and makes relationship rifts, poets don’t play well with others neither does the melancholy that you see before your eyes tonight!
To the woman on the left, yes you in the black dress, rather frumpy
Frumpy! Frumpy, frumpy who wants it? Who wants to be in the frump? Out of the frump
Phamtasms of frump await if you’ll bid though I can’t see how it would help you write but if it did here’s a second chance, a second glance you shirtsleeves to short but the last-resort laundry day clothes have a way in their own tawdry place with green’s leaves on the front and pants that are covered in duckponds, none of which show any vestige of womanly curves  
Womanly curves, a humanly scourge who wants the life of lies and prestige, to be without a wife who wants it? To the old biddy and her bachelor son, the truth’s the one that wants them is out of town tonight, we all know the story, you’re just picking it up for them. Treasure it, treasure it, in every type of wind and weather it will hate that you wear something so saturated with the lack of common human sense but no one knows or will ever give a snatch of what they think, nor you!
Bachelor bachelor, bachelor’s degree bachelor suite who wants one in polluted air?
Cars in your bedroom peeping toms and buttered cheese scones nothing else for weeks on end to keep you alive but the eyes of others and baking soda. Cardboard boxes make an excellent bed and you can write of how you use your broken dreams as a pillow and make them furrows in your forehead for one day when they come to your door with the oversized check nothing more than a sheet of eightandonehalfbyeleven will fit into your poet’s heaven the room’s so full of your melancholy ma’am; or you, a small room
Is the perfect medium for the storage of ill-fitting clothes!
Ill-fitting, ill-witting! Wit and candor sitting on your tongue at any given moment, how much would you pay? Wit-fittingly placed will brighten up a day, will make a bachelor’s suite into a corporate head’s mansion with brass on the bedposts and spitting to polish them so you can see your admiring reflection, and stop for tonicangin before heading out for a Sunday stroll in the Roll’s, watching television on leather incrementally sticking to the life of wit and making up stories of impoverished childhood while the maids prize that you took a shit in the bathroom that they just cleaned, all from a small bachelor’s suite, all from potato sack clothes and now you’ve made a merging expansion in a world where no one will remember tomorrow who you are
How much would you pay for this unlimited wealth born from wit, you can’t have just one or the other, you can’t say one part and that’s it, they’ll take it away and claim it to be your own, what will you pay to have your words stolen!
Head mansion, Charles Manson head space wrong places! Who wants an ill-pitted mind with a lack of action? Bringing it back to your brain without a rain of handcuff blows or frumpy striped clothes no chipping rocks but the same adrenelated feeling of crushing another with a cinder block all the experience for none of the price, all of the life with none of the tanned skin fresh air barely there summer clothes and axe murder holes in another’s bare flesh all of the wine and none of the tasting, all the pompous assholery with none of the hard work or wealth that comes with it! Living your life in another person’s shoes, taking up the room without their even noticing it plagiarizing their life without a nod of acknowledgement because, man, it’s creativity it’s a story spoilery to live your own life, after all Charlie never wanted to know who he took just danced them back to his farm, just dug holes to the beat of crosstown traffic in a bachelors suite window
Traffic’s terrific for staying up all night, fight with the whiteout blackout who wants out of the rent this month? Crosstown across the tracks left check smacks and right cheek retorts, drama from a simple meeting screaming without meaning, misunderstanding and therefore demanding answers those weren’t just the dancers from that concert they were new suitors, they were new commuters with their office blocks and rising stocks, they’ve never mixed cement never felt a cinder block in their skull but neither have any of the fine folks gathered here except for the ones who’ve had a very bad fall
Into love or out or maybe down the stairs! Who wants or needs for their next big thing, some big thing to focus on? If it’s love or if it’s war we know that it’s all fair; but if you’re walking down the street there are certain rules to make nice like a proper citizen and not some woodstove ghoul with contagious lice. Who needs to incur stares of making scenes, just come to me I know what it means to be a spectacle all on your own, come set the tone for your next opusetic while the public demeans your name much to your own chagrin – but fame will follow from the eyes of hollow high school faces, looking for places their parents forgot to lock the doors on – hey, at least they’re reading even if you’re the craziest in the apartment block
None here have a need for stagnation of the mind; writer’s block no one here wants to pay for that so let’s make it into an empty train station the abrasion of metal to metal stopping so that commuters, hopping with frustration can get on and make whopping claims of their treacherous commute
Treachery, murder, foul deeds done in brocaded blockaded princesses’ bedrooms
Puberty sleeping on pampered sheets can have that effect, first kisses become e-mail wishes
Who wants a crack at left-click twitches and chatroom blisses? Who needs typoed kisses with emoted sweet dreams over text and mere bits per second, with nothing to say of muscle stitches incurred over keyboards, procured with a simple registration and creation of something anew, but something that’s you with an imaging program to ensure that potential for bathtowels with his-and-hers monograms, just-because candygrams, buying-each-other’s-affection scams and clams for supper with I-love-you stew
Who here wants to try something new, something few. Few means of getting around the distance few ways to pay to get yourself over to the one in their cover of photoshopped profile who really, just knows how you feel and how you deal yourself out to them. Deal out feel out peel out of a parking lot in the middle of the night without a reason just leaving; it’s up to you to realize why possibly murder, possibly Manson maybe it’s just your mantra for you driving rationally has been contraband when you listen to the FM band on the speakers
Speaker sneaker, who hasn’t tried the if you don’t like the song kick it out of the window approach? Window won’t go to anywhere fun if it’s always locked closed let the meanies in let the bugs begin their nighttime trial of taking the smiles from your face with itching and scratching, bitching and snatching for the aloe or black-robed catching things you toss from the window in frustration or taking their intiation of your lights going off to be a valuable sign out go your valuable designs in innovation and recreation if you leave the windows open it’s nothing but an invitation to start the excavation of your worth
Meanies, who needs them, melancholy meanies in frumpy beanies? Meanies who go bump in the night with princesses, whose mattresses are set on peas but are more concerned with pedigrees in the schemies past who just don’t care and knot their hair and leave nothing but a hairbrush for the next morning of royal eggs benedict
Benedictine, benadryl sign, monk skunk nuns in habits with bad habits, they know the perfect way to treat your cold because I know that’s what some of you think of before you go to sleep at night no matter how little bearing there is with reality
The night is winding down my friends, winding down the binding of your next novel time to head back to your polyester down blankets in town with no one’s hair but your own littered across the floor, a bowl crowned with corn flakes because no ones grandmother bakes you cakes at their various and sundry kitchen bases those floured faces are not for you no matter how well or badly off you’re faring in the city streets with penfangs bared and smog making you shake your head to clear the air through the long walk home losing your way, not enough words for what you need to say and too many worthless ones along your stay that made the world stop caring,
Bearing, swearing, faring well in the world of poetry? Or is it a case of the poet and I, another person behind you, a shadow bidder and you don’t know why you’re here.
An Auction over Words that are Uttered, is the entire title.
Mr Land said it once in class (funny, he was talking about how his CW teacher steals phrases things people say during class, which I promplty did with this one)
Anyway. It was just begging to be written out.
it's sound poetry.
REMEMBER: SOUND BEFORE SENSE
You'll have a lot more fun with this if you read it out loud, but you will probably end up looking like a dork.
© 2005 - 2024 mousch
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In