Author Archives: scrunchymacscruff
You’re my sunny beach baby..your snow-cap crested waves rule over me. You’re the jam of the spoon that gets the fly, o! why, oh why can’t I? In the insect world I am its king, hear me sing. “I love you, I love you, I love you..Merry Christmas, Mary (hope it was good for you). ~Cghrissy PS, I love you..you, you,YOU!
A tiger. A painting of a tiger. The painting is hungry, the painting is panting, passing out from hunger; partly because there is nothing to eat and that’s mainly because of bad art, it’s a very bad portrayal on a wall, of a tiger, and, well..frankly the gallery is going under, mainly because of the curator not knowing what is good art, and what art is not good. Simple. This person paid a fortune for some really bad art to hang on the wall in a gallery, with good lighting, but no entrepeneurial expertise involved, no savvy. So basically a bad painting ate a dumb business loan, the End. ~c. P-s: Smart money’s in Luxembourg
Well, it’s my birthday. 70 is the number, but it’s just a number; but it’s doing a number on me and I feel number in my extremities, –deaf and numb, blind eye looks really blind, lately it’s turned blonde, with a hint of the redhead in it..from the blood. So I look like a replicant! (one eye at least). And it’s the warmest December 9 on record. They always say that but it’s got to be close, to a record high for this time of year in Big Bear; as daylight approacheth,APPROACHETH! Yes, Computer, I know you don’t like older English and you want to change it to APPROACHES. Well..tough! You can just have to live with it as I have to live with all my issues, blood in my dead eyeball, stuff on my kidneys and all these chemicals they drip in my veins, ostensibly, to make it go away; hearing loss, stents, here and there, hear? and more pills to make that work. Plus the hernia’s. And I got rid of all my ROYAL portable’s so when I’m trying to draft a poem on a computer I can’t hear myself think..CLACK! CLACK! CLICKETY-CLACK! Don’t type back, –yes, one thing about these tech-marvels, the computers, they make it easy to go back in and fix or improve what you wrote; or add a note! Note (to self): Don’t forget to praise the LORD! but I do miss the typewriter noise because it always made me feel like I was really doing soem==meth..so,SOMETHING! something important; because of the key-clicks! when you hear that you know some real writing is getting accomplished; until you stop ten or fifteen pages in and read what you wrote, –then it’s the circular file and start over, “My goodness!” Well, anyway, in spite of good ink and paper going to waste, I just want to wish my poet/self a very Happy Birthday, on this December 9, in the year of our LORD, 2024..HALLELUJAH! ~c. P-s: God bless
Us poor poets with our shabby chapbooks and meagre followings: lemmings; gophers; and rabbits, all following to the abyss! must needs dig deeper in our poverty ridden souls for the next sloppy..’work’, as they like call it; like the heavy equipment operator, in days of yore, –up there in the seat of power fingering his pocket-watch, handy for minding the time pulling on sticks, pushing at pedals and things to make Mr. Steam-shovel serve his desired purpose, pawing at earth’s crust, dredging up its stratified contents, and hapless creatures, regarded as mere waste in progress’ way; man-in-the-seat not even as noticeable as the ant packing in some m i n i- s c u le menu item, along on his path back to the colony, under the “..face of the firmament of heaven.” (Genesis 1:20) Sufficient, would it be to let go, and let God do what God does best..handle the pen that writes the poem, personally, by writing on the table of a poet’s heart, his psalms and hymns; then! all would be well; and the liberated servant – formerly, a long-winded fellow – cleansed of all sin, will pen..by the strength of his convictions, “It is well, it is well with my soul.”
I..Kind of down in the dumps today, depressed, feeling vastly empty inside; lethargic, you know (sick). I, I need, I need..I know! I need a poem. Read! what shall I read? Wordsworth? Shakespeare? Coleridge? T.S. Elliott? he gone to seed (you see dat). Milton, Milton, I need? or something more modern, yeah, real, and egocentric one, regal and banal..bragging narcissistically on, and on, on one’s dissipations, et cetera, and cetera; and don’t make sense! otherwise; or I could take a pain pill, or two, –or 3! and that does something, too..but no, they won’t last; but poets do, and are – unnecessarily – forever! (fortunately, or unfortunately). A poem’s like a pain pill, black! it’s slimy, uneasy..queazy, it slides down, it’s quick! only it doesn’t stick to your ribs; then you need another..right away! plus you build up a tolerance for it. More! more poetry. I must have more, more of “The Myrtles, and thee laurel’s, and, and, –I-V”:”To pee, or not to pee!” (it’s a question; if youse bee’s da ancient mariner, –whizzin’ over the side in the sea, see?) “..where thee women come and go, –(and!) speaking of Michelangelo,” “What about that ‘Mick’ and his David, eh?” flesh of stone an’ hardened arteries..little rig, like a fig, alone! points, he points to the Psalms (God gave him to write, right?) don’t he? and the prophets, too! and the prodigal’s old shoes, holes on the soles, there, gettin’ new, that’s the real stuff, in the parable, love that is not tough. Of that, you can never get enough. Old Testament (might save ya). So, now, let’s go down there, get to the refin’d poetry, an’ redefine..it! fresh from the dumps. See? Si! me go, he go, –Van Gogh’s..ahh! (a Yugo) ~c.
Fire. Man plays with it. Governments – as men – play with it; as do..without compunction, the princes. They’re their own boss (they think). Fire heats the palaces; and fires the ovens that produce the bread, the potatoes, and cakes..and steaks! Mm-mm, delicious! to satisfy visiting heads-of-states (like the Pope’s). How was it first acquired? and when? Hundreds of little fires light chapels at midnight, for masses gathered around the world, flickering in staring faces of icons both dumb, and blind; recalling The Nativity for example, to help imagine what we worship, hearing notes out of pipes being played at the organ from sheets, of sacred music illuminated by tiny fires, wicks dipped, and re-dipped in tallow..cut, placed, and lit! en masse, to keep faith burning in hearts and minds, throughout life’s difficulties; which, as it turns out, are manifold, –Fire! it does so many cool things. It started in a ring, in someone’s cave; and some kind of a way to vent the smoke, so as not to choke, “Ach! achh-achh!” It went from there, through the various refinements and applications handed down by time..like gunpowder; and the internal combustion engine; to flight! in space (like the tower of Babel, overreaching?). Are we getting our history? with fire?? Fire..God is one; and i s an all consuming one. Does not depend how you define, IS! (which takes us back). At the first, in his creation, there is no mention of fire. Why? Was it unnecessary? Was the earth originally so delectably balmy and dry, and creature-comfortable as to preempt its existence? The Bible tells us so. They didn’t need a fire to feel cozy, actually. Forests didn’t need to burn, they were happy just to sway with the breeze, and reflect, on God’s holiness, demonstrated by the brilliance of the sun..as all, was One. And pyromaniacs did not walk on the planet as of yet, to require the fire to incinerate them; or derelict buildings, too, for that matter, even old churches with their tall stained-glass windows; and no empires clashing occasionally with one another, so that one might..desire the fire! to achieve a pyrrhic victory over his brother empire, in fact! it was just another cool, sunny morning, with occasional clouds and sprinkles expected in the afternoon, there, in fair Eden; and nothin’ more was needin’, no long-underwear for snow and its bitter chill ’cause there ’tweren’t none, just 360 days a year of perfect weather, –like we say, just “..’nother day in Paradise.” And that was it, brothers and sisters, fine and fair, rest of the week, the month..and thee year. There were no pyro’s; and no weathermen! Who needs ’em? And no Walter Cronkite; and, I guess, no need for poets, too, because God’s creation had all of that handled, nothing to fix..not a jot nor a tittle; and no worries, friend. Praise God. THEN, the snake! in the tree; in the middle of the Garden..and the cherubim, and the flaming swords, and all of the rest. So that’s why we needed fire after t h at, Thee End.
One old poet to another: I don’t, anymore, s e e flowers. I cannot recall certain words, –Mate! d..D’ y’hear birds? i’ve no sense of the hours (clock stop’d ticking); and I am alone, I alone; yes-sh, with bumble-bee’s,Shh! i guess-sh, w e can..make, a poem! dig deeper fur it in other words wordless word-miner digging grey matter’s witt-a pick-axe, regardless, mining for words; but no gold..nor golden honey! (getting old). My hands I fold I sigh! in sunburn’t deserts of dry poetry’s hearing flowers, goo-il-ly..black as Texas crude, “Gusher!” carried on winds ta-b’yond Ashur..circling crustily overhead, crass croakings’ echoes among the dunes; our fine feathered friends! cast their long shadows at nap-time, –oily cow-skull for a pillow. (One..red-skinn’d, un-housed, undernourished, yesh, &parch’d! thin, naked poet’s carcass to the other): ?i say, “o! i say..Mate! can thish, really be..thee end!” ~c.
P-s: Relax! it’s just them cats..o! my raven-haired lass!! (“RATS!”)
Hey, A (on the eve of thee proverbial, before all the National-chitchat’s-hits-the-fan Day) To: All you left-wing knee-jerk liberal commie-pinko-francophobe’s out there..have you considered: (La Marseillaise, hear it?!) Perhaps Trump is an angel entertaining youse unawares, –? a YUGELY entertaining heavenly being sent by God, via the Big Apple, to give all of you’s one last chance to change your minds and lighten up a little on your program so you can avoid the wrath to come? (i.e., miss hell by a centimeter). Have you thought about that?? Look at YOUR PLATFORM, so-called..what are its planks, what you fight for so determinedly and with such dogged determination, –WHY WE FIGHT! and are so willing to cheat and lie, and steal and lie and cheat to protect your interests, there? What is it? Let us look at that: Plank #1); Kill babies..you call it by various platitudes, BULLSHIT. You peoples are so into your propaganda’s aided by your short term memory losses it sickens the unbrainwashed. Back in the 60’s you used to call our enlisted men drafted into the service, –and volunteers BABY-KILLERS and spit on them and revile them upon returning home from their tours in hell..fighting for your freedoms’ sake. “Baby-killers!” you yelled and spat, “..baby-killers.” Meow-meow. And now, in another bullennium into the next century you brag about and insist about a FAKE constitutional right to kill innocent children in the womb, i.e., babies; and call it a health decision. Don’t you see a problem here? “END THE WAR!” that was your vesper call to worship, sacrificing to that old serpent; and hallucinogenic drugs were the unholy sacraments taken in casual, semi-secret ceremonies –forbidden fruits of modern times..how has that been working for you? Woodstock was Mecca, beginning and ending a hippie’s pilgrimage on the planet..in a parallel universe with those who have become today’s career political bosses, bound for outer darkness – God forbid – implacably serving ‘the enemy’ of all creation with careful plans to complete the destruction of a once proud and godly nation; and from the appearance of things all of ya’all must have dropped the brown acid you were warned against by the Master of Ceremonies from that ad hoc stage with its electrifying guitars, looking out over a sea of naked bodies, caked in mud. But hey a drug’s a drug and ’tis what it ’tis..so what’s a few million more innocent babies dismembered-to-death in their wombs turn’d-to-tombs, with special killing instruments designed to finish them in there! so that technically it’s not mass-murder, it’s a woman’s private, personal health decision between her and her selected ghoul/person posing as physician and his bag of attorney tricks..about her body. So now in another corner of that same bag of liberals’ conceptual claptrap pleadings (to the court), we – WE MEANS YOU – we hate war and (enigmatically) we hate the one who kept us out of it: Orange man. You democrats are sure one bad trip that never ended. Your choice leaders, over time, cultivated a child’s garden of high-priest, highly-decorated grass-smoking punks running the Pentagon, on stolen valor’s; who made our proud military into a San Francisco halloween ‘pride’ parade (when we blink’d); and in that fashion are marching them off to die in wars around the globe, ill-prepared to fight slicker enemies with better weapons and a deeper resolve, guns and gear given them to kill US..by your picked leaders! from their stolen elections. And you support that? Really? to review: Preventing Chinese communist aggressors armed with Russian weapons from colonizing Vietnam..Then!(=Bad); but NOW! aiding and abetting global terrorists in their ages old mission to destroy Israel (+subjugate the world)=good; and fund terminating unborn children by the millions, without codified limits. I see. Okay. This may sound like the banal ramblings of a toxic hater..hate-crime looking for a place to happen, but, –Right; but aside from the extreme rhetoric, offensive for some (I suppose), please think,THINK! of how it might feel to be alive, and BE a live blood-sacrifice-for-satan from within your own dear mother’s womb, your brief, temporal home-away-from-home, en-route – by life’s journey – back to your eternal address..horribly butchered with Mom’s consent, before you so much as set foot upon this God’s green earth. Is it good? Or is it good? How is it equality?? (?)=(?), are you okay with that? care for a taste?? Just only try putting your guilty self in that innocent person’s place for one minute of the process having his or her life brutally ended, enveloped in a silent scream to the Father..for reasons that are totally unjustified and incomprehensible, –except! in a pitiless, bleak totalitarian system such as where we might be arriving shortly, perhaps in a matter of days, or even hours? if something else doesn’t happen first (like a peaceful transition of power from inmates running the asylum, to saner heads prevailing). Plank #2); Bad Orange-man bad, tell lies..big, bad lies. #3); See #2 (that should utterly clarify liberals’ religious mandate for installing their regime permanently, subject to certification). NOW..If you think this all just a Bible thumping theoretical/philosophical excursion on someone else’s dime, consider the genre (in which) it is written: CONFESSIONAL, –confessional, what they, in ‘the biz’ call it..that is – generally speaking – a ‘work’ composed in a non-fictional literary frame, in which an author shares ultra-personal experiences and insights of questionable value for the reading public, and told from a polarized pov that, by, and at large, they aught not endure, –cathartic outing tapping ‘way at the typewriter-keys, strictly for the writer’s gratification, to expiate sin; by transferring his torment on the reader. Bare your soul, baby..Bare, Baby, Bare! So here’s the confession. Not only should liberal women – and babies – have a stake in the abortions brouhaha, so aught everyone, including ME, I’m qualified..by the following order: 1) I will, in heaven meet! a sibling who was aborted. They told my mother it was a mass of tissue..it’s no big deal, really. Mom always regretted going along with that ‘choice’; but she knew, positively, her sins were washed as white as snow, in the blood of the Lamb..and she was ready to meet Him when she went yonder for eternity. 2) I will someday meet in heaven some one, who might have been my first-born; but who died at one month, more or less, because of my alcohol addiction that I made a non-choice to not kick..at a time in life it would have made sense, and avoided much grief for many. 3) Someday in heaven I will meet the child of a stranger who was killed in the womb, who I sat in the close proximity of in Dad’s car, giving his, or her teenage mother a ride to the abortion-clinic; because the babe would have been born out of wedlock; and they convinced her it was best for all concerned (her unborn child certainly voiced no audible objection). So there it was. Me, Dad, and her; and a fourth person..who I assume returned to our Creator (barring a miracle). Dad was a minister, ordained by the Presbyterians’, fast-becoming-marxists in that age, at the synod proceedings by degrees..Age d’Or; and I? I, a poet..of no particular distinction, now-turned-pastor. Do these facts raise questions? I have my sure beliefs; and an absentee/mail-in ballot we all get..from The STATE facing me on the fake veneer dinner-table to cast my vote in the hotly contested 2024 election tomorrow, Tuesday. November 5. And my choice has never been clearer. How about you. Hey, —
a? –BZDE..F! ~c. P-s: ‘F’ is for FAKE..like, FAKE news, get it?
Scruffy's..Blurgh! 