Sunshine Psychedelic

Sunshine Psychedelic
on a hot summer day
you’ve an appetite for rocks,
and you’re coming my way
(it’s actually spring,
but come anyway);
mushrooms on parade
in this pretty how town,
you’re the bell I want floating upside-down.
Dig:
the fashion displayed
and the colors arrayed
and the children at play,
but the stones you hold
are what turns the day.
Within our hands we turn to clay,
we mold ourselves warm
and wet
and God, but we need a space private and away.
Sunshine Psychedelic,
you take every pose:
coquettish and coy,
inviting sans clothes,
the thoughtful intellectual,
the playful tease,
the mourning heart,
the one to please,
and I’ll love them all,
each and every one:
I’ll make love to each facet
’til you tell me you’re done.
Sunshine Psychedelic
on a hot summer day
I’ve an appetite for pie,
and I’m coming your way.

50 Years Late and $7.37 Short, Adjusted for Inflation

Daydream darling,
I decorate a psychic space for you:
this space is filled with colors,
filled with textures
and tastes;
dark chocolate M&M’s
silken paisley, astrakhan
green and blue and purple and black
and every other shade has a turn
on its back.
Rainbows in bottles,
artistic banal
it might be mundane
but I’ll color it all,
I’ll color your world,
I’ll color it all.
Floral prints and gothic refrains
the goal is not to mask the pain
but make it palatable,
a bit more sane
in the madness of our love,
in antique daisy chains;
daydream darling,
awaken me
awaken all
that we could be,
as we defy
normality,
every law
including gravity,
connect and drift
on astral tides,
heal me and
consume my love,
my life.

One Hundred and Counting

I suppose I owe you all (or just owe myself?) a journal entry, if for no other reason than to commemorate this grand occasion: reaching 100 followers for my journal/poetry blog! I know it’s just a number, and I definitely shouldn’t start trying to measure some rating of “success,” but it feels like a little milestone despite all of that. Thanks to those of you who have put up with me since 2013, and to those who are just climbing on board: these are interesting times we live in.

I feel like maybe a recap is in order, a little summary to help guide you through the tangles and knots in this thread. It might give you some idea of who this Lord Rumfish person is, and with a little luck I might even drop back below 100 followers (I never said it would be good luck).

NOTEWORTHY TRAITS

1. Creative. Whether for good or ill, whether talented or lackluster, I just can’t stop creating things. This tends towards writing and gaming (many various forms of both), although recently I have been dipping into fashion, and even thinking about interior decorating/design and how the mundane spaces around the house could be given an artsy facelift.

2. Quixotic. I am a hopeless romantic, a defender of lost causes, and in many ways a somewhat ridiculous human being. Somehow I manage to balance this with other traits, including logical analysis. Humans are so conflicted and nonsensical.

3. Open-Minded. This stands in for a lot of other labels, things like “bisexual” or “independent voter” or “agnostic” or whatever. Part of having an open mind is challenging your comfort zone every so often; it doesn’t have to be all the time, but you’ve got to practice what you preach.

4. Depressed. Even though I try to see the world through rose-colored lenses, I have grappled with depression my entire life (I have had other diagnoses at other points in my life, such as Tourette’s Syndrome as a child, and social anxiety when I was in high school). It saps my energy, makes me sleep too much, and colors my worldview. If you are curious, I am unmedicated.

WHAT THIS IS

This is my poetry journal, my journal/poetry, my… somewhat-edited thought stream. I let my hair down here, but maybe not quite all the way. I have used this forum to discuss politics, economics, philosophy, dreams, my life (obviously), psychedelic rock, and whatever other interests motivate me such as writing, gaming, or edible wild plants. It’s a hodge-podge of stuff, not consistently one thing or another; on a good day, the “typical” entry would have a journal-y bit, and then a break for a poem that might be related to the journal writing.

WHERE I AM NOW

I am in the midst of a confusing and burgeoning romance that pretty well defies normality. All kinds of feelings are wrapped up in it, and I cannot go into prose detail; I’m likely to write a lot more poems and a lot less prose for that reason. If you like poetry about love, in particular messy forbidden love, then you’ve come to the right place. I’ve also been experimenting recently with psychedelic imagery and beat poetry. With any luck I’ll also feel inspired at some point soon to talk about my eternal disgust for Herr Trump, and the impending nuclear winter that will make everything else pointless.

For old times’ sake, here’s a poem.

Half a page, half a page,
Half a page onward,
All in the volley of Dearth
Wrote the one hundred.
“Foreword, the Lord Rumfish!
Charge for the words!” he said.
Into the volley of Dearth
Wrote the one hundred.

“Foreword, the Lord Rumfish!”
Was there a man who wished?
Not though the headline knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs ought to make reply,
Theirs ought to reason why,
Theirs not to do and die.
Into the volley of Dearth
Wrote the one hundred.

Canon to right of them,
Canon to left of them,
Canon in front of them
Follied and sundered;
Stormed at with bot and sell,
Boldly they wrote and well,
Into the jowls of Dearth,
Into the hair from hell
Wrote the one hundred.

Flashed all their egos bare,
Flashed as they razzed an heir
Needling the gun-nuts there,
Heckling an army, while
All the world shuddered.
Plunged in the mirrors-and-smoke
Right through the lies they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the hairpiece bloke
Nattered and guttered.
Then they wrote back, but not
Not the one hundred.

Canon to right of them,
Canon to left of them,
Canon behind them
Follied and sundered;
Stormed at with bot and sell,
While Truth and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jowls of Dearth,
Back from the hair from hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of one hundred.

When can this gory facade
Ease off from Leningrad!
All the world wondered.
Honour the razz they made!
Honour Rumfish’s page,
Noble one hundred!

Take Me With You

Silken joy descends upon me,
black lace love, diaphanous deep,
the night has not been made for sleep
and neither has this day.
Smooth and wet, you whet my stone
and sharpen our desire,
sparks fly when the whet stone meets
such soft and sharp edges
beneath.

We meet in the gap,
an opening
that creates life and love and good,
so fortunate I, tis welcoming
though I am a thief,
a corsair meandering
along this wood.

In mere moments,
unraveling
all the futures I had seen,
replacing them in shades of green
and love.

Disappear,
we are wandering,
two corsairs foreign and far away
together through the mystic days,
unseen.

Negligee and Verse

Some madness must be taking me,
because I’m feeling good:
I’ve moved beyond the “why” and “if”
and gone to “how” and “should.”

Guilt recedes, and different breeds
of feelings now abound:
it’s love, it’s lust, passion or bust
in touch, in sight, in sound.

We trade our dreams through heated scenes
of negligee and verse;
we cannot say upon what day
things grow better or worse.

Reinvent music, clothes, morals, prose,
and know we risk disaster;
somehow it seems the very thing
we both are pining after.

Spontaneous Combustion

The fire starts at the cell phone
(not so smart now, is it?)
then rapidly engulfs your body;
it spreads across the couch,
burns a trail through hallways,
doors, stairs,
until finally it comes licking into the bedroom.
We probably could have put it out
if we weren’t so busy pouring kerosine;
the flames devour pictures, beds,
husbands, wives and family.
We really ought to escape this arson,
but now we’ll see it through:
the flames devour everything,
including me and you.
Ashes can be fertile,
and something new may grow,
but it’s also pure destruction,
so forgive me while I glow.

Love Language

I hold your wrists
so you can’t slit them;
if I bathe you in pleasure,
maybe you’ll forget the
jangle-glass hounds
that dog your croons,
and if you can’t forget
maybe you’ll just swoon.
They call it love language,
how affections express,
and my love language comes
by dermal caress:
if I make you lose count
of little deaths now,
perhaps the big deaths
will be eased somehow.