Presents the following slapdash
higglety-pigglety bupkis, whereby reader
experiences being mentally hogtied
perusing pseudo poetic perambulation
devoid of sense and sensibility
welcoming character assassination
concerning pride of yours truly,
who merely strung together
words sharing "arian"

as their last five letters
for no particular rhyme nor reason
quite aware that forced gobbledygook
underwrites storied reputation
of unnamed aspiring author
cramming nonsense linkedin
jibber-jabber hodgepodge fashion
deplorable basketed mumbo jumbo

First the perfect man, topless astride his bike,
his skin a matte black, his body reminding us
that Nature and the gods aren't racist.

And there's the perfect woman, ponytailed,
in miniscule denim shorts. She's slathered
with the heavy grease of lustful stares
from the greedy and slack-jawed, yet
she walks in clean light, her head high.

Another topless man is sunburned
and walks with a clumsy lollop
and more than a dollop of self-consciousness.
It's OK...stop worrying...the sun is out for you too.

There she is! The perennial Old Lady who,

Whispered secrets echo gently.
Forgotten roses lie against the window,
and their thorns etch an ancient language into the glass.
The words float in the air like waterlilies,
soft and weightless,
unable to fly
but incapable of sinking below the surface.
Frost spreads over the pond,
trapping those words where they drift.
But secrets never die
They will shiver in the cold, but they will not freeze.
They will turn stiff and indigo, but they will not break.
Because secrets never die
Their words will live forever in song,

Life in fear and happiness
Walking around the house smiling
Playing with my brother
Until he wanted to do his own thing
Looking for validation
Attention and care
That would come from mother
Dad was sometimes there
Saying mother feels cold
And dad feels warm
There’s a distance there.

I was happy
Running playing and being berated
See dad liked the booze and it loved him back
More than mum could
More than the four of us could together
Yet I adored him.
I was so close yet just out of reach from his soul

The following poetic account
written more'n a dozen dirty dancing decades ago,
while I (a socially withdrawn Homo Sapiens)
groveled along (on a secret Msn)
along boulevard of broken dreams,
whereby yours truly forced to eat crow
quite challenging cuz
wonky twittering angry birds
alive and well darting hither and yon to and fro
able, eager, ready, and willing
to gouge out the eyes of one common Joe.

Arduous agonizing affliction
didst unrelentingly assault and assail...
aghast to exhale... lest I would lose
desperate clinging clutch

n the light of autumn skies,
one might sense this blind turbulent endeavour,
raptures veering like some wanton thunderstorm,
behind dark moon frost allure,
amber leaf vortex among bemused grey clouds,
gust-ridden disco blue hue,
tumbling high jinx from skyline moist beams,
damp rot urban shed cluster,
nomad squatter plight,
so at odds with pending freeze,
summer folly red blaze passed,,
heatwave immigrant rues latent scorn
a strained close quarter riddle,
never ending once an everlasting phase,
now deep chill month outlier,