Umbriate Press Poetry

Dear Mr. The Omphalos,

Both, as we are, committed, you to the asylum and I to the never-ending symposium ad absurdum, I believe a proposal is in order and of a magnitude that canticles the cant [sic]. So let us rant, unbeknownst to preying ears, of that which occurs, as though meaning or purpose were ours to sing. What say you, my dear Mr. The Omphalos?

Dear His Homunculus,

I concurrently agree to discordantly satisfy all your petty needs and the many that they are. The ingredients are in place. I await the leavening of our dreamy loaf.

Dear Mr. The Omphalos,

And so we begin. This morning’s sonnet slinked through my brain like a whipped dog–all saliva and whimpers, light ticking of hesitant paws on linoleum.

Dear His Homunculus,

I live in a day as blue as a dew drop once clinging to the drooping limb of a seared moon, where turning the page under its light singes my fingertips in darkness.

Dear Mr. The Omphalos,

Above my head swirls a cloud that is not one. Too many folds and tones and potential deficits pointing to the multitudes. And then there is the rain and thunder and breaking away slices of sunlight. I will remain inside today, never leaving the cozy sofa of dream.

Dear His Homunculus,

Dear Mr. The Omphalos,

Today I discovered the beautiful denseness of post-mortem revery. My flowers no longer require dirt or water. Freedom is no longer my long-awaited unwelcome guest.

Dear His Homunculus,

My back is to the wind, my face to the forge–my life hammered into the shape of a wilting smile. I am desperate to meet the coming snowfall, yet have no shoes.

Dear Mr. The Omphalos,

I know. One feels the country mysterious, otherwise there would be monotonous living; but the traveler who passes through these countries meeting space ignorant and collected on the surface of the depth and when you walk the vegetation disappears, bare soil, land not far from two churches of heretics’ endless plains live with ants like grown men to paint the thick sand of small objects under a sun tightened at times passing through the country mysterious.

Dear His Homunculus,

My legs are walking away from me. I am paralyzed by a dew drop. My head is encased in a gooey unknowing smeared over the inconsistency of living. I stand at the nearest proximity of my demise gazing into the gluttonous jowls of misfortune. I wish you to visit me, to put me out of my misery with your shimmering grin of contempt. Will you?

Dear Mr. The Omphalos,

Goodness, how you are a grieving subsidy of delusion. A visit at this time would be unwise, for I have obligations of an affected nature. My pothouse has fallen to the devils who plague our poor village day and night with their brawling and bawling flights of bawdiness.  Sorry dear comrade, but I avail myself of the sacred “No.”

Dear His Homunculus,

I am quite deceived by your passionless response. How unsympathetic to my brimming bathos are you willing to be. I tell you—I am night without the solace of day, the itch without the scratch, the vertical without the crucifying ledge of the horizontal nail boarding. You are a dog and…well a dog I say…no not even—a eunuch scoundrel.

Dear Mr. The Omphalos,

Pity, pity, pity. My dear slithering The Omphalos, would I were you might I be the lover of my own sadness. There is no mercy on the doorstep of anguish, no choice before the Titan’s alter—we do or we perish.

Dear His Homunculus,

Why have you forsaken me? Why punish me with your dark emptiness, your dead flower of tongue? I am a little man gone to seed in misery and you are the heartless gardener wielding the scythe.

Dear Mr. The Omphalos,

Enough of this nonsense…perhaps, but I can no longer hesitate upon the threshold of folly, and so with immodest intentions: I draw your attention to the unwavering tune of the recission of despair. You so madly partake of a world inhabited by the poetic function of language and the immaculate inconsistencies with which it litters the landscape of living. Sometimes sleeping, at others awake and often dreaming, even stumbling or inevitable falling, these narratives, lyric visions and imagistic forays lost in the order of twisted limbs and veined shadows are lost hopes that you will bleed, slowly, efficiently, mercilessly. A feeding of the disembodied limp is suggested. In your gluttony, do not forget the sharp-toothed meninx. It should be noted that the voices echoing between your bloodied ears conspire to remain forever unfound to all forms of stability. This bloated claim underscores one of the onerous missions of the oneiric intent of your turd existence — that is to tempt all things unworthy… and so I say with little time for love or for placing my cheek to the hard white page, early enough before contamination, seeking wisdom, things, the personal history of self must be cast off!