Nobody's business

Besotted by impish stupidity
of sultry feminine quality.
Sputtering useless guile,
gnawing on bits of
purposelessness;
Of turmoil caked on surfaces
present,yet
only trite and vacant.
Of coal black thought,
of hopeless chatter at
nothingness,

Enchanted by uneducated guesses
of a garbled rich, dense
perfume of the futile muse.
Damned would be too strong,
perhaps volatile
perhaps obliterated
perhaps smashed upon a shore
where your feet don't sink in.

Exiled by the own inner sense,
of ought and naught colliding.
Of sinking stink contrived
into heart beats
heavy feet
sweetness like a burn
and a question shot to heaven.
The pantry of a godless answer
of a naughty promenade lacking justice
of a suitor dressed in
jaded wishes
presuming
persuasion
exasperated by the elegant
desire perspired on stone.

Wooed gloomy by self as woman
chided nastiness as glass on
a split floor
close to a word like love.
Take an ax
chop up the knowledge
chew it, spit it, burn in to ash
make a tint
use it for ink on the tatty
tattoo.
Licking chuffed lips
at the indecent scent of diligence
of illiterate options
of jagged skin
of vacant possibilities.

A womb divided in many parts
the innards of inhospitable existence
assessment battle ship and glory
missing
Not much between nose and toes
they said about it
political correctness take
the bazooka 49 and hit the high road
lickedy split,
don't get caught without a thank you
for the back stab on the way out.

Who said it for innocence?
Did it gain acclaim?
Did it foster prosperity??
Did it conquer all that it possessed?
Somehow doubt would be the guesser.
Rigged up like buttercups and honey bees on
fossil fuel.
Wouldn't it be the embarrassed
to get nicked of a dime.
Wouldn't the lime light be just as
audacious?
Disputable?
Exonerated?
Phantasmal in an unknown dictionary beside
god itself.

Well...there is no ship like a sinking one.
No building like a falling one.
No person like a dying one.
This among the tycoons crib-less child.
Harboring no necessity to abolish
tree bashing
whale eating
spirit devil need.

Good Maud in her burnt apron
good Maud in her best bloody frock
watches pieces enter into un-named
places.
Of no return
looking back ass-ward at nature's
phantasmal point of orgasm
What did she know about
Bones and soil?
What did she know about
smoke and sky?
About wind and shrapnel?
Mother's milk and stale cookies.

Humor as thick as dried whiskey,
3 teaspoons of moral hangover,
four bruises,
eight stitches upper brow,
Cant sweep it under the carpet.
You'd be the looser in a circle
of competitive idiocy to do so.
Granted the ghost offers its wish,
a white flag
could
perhaps
unfurl.
Neither- nor
think again
Boom.