Lizards in neat suits,
Play out a little game,
Hushed as in cahoots,
Impressing as if tame,

The night so dimly tucked,
Swallows flooding heat lamps:
The game is 'bruptly up,
They scatter from the camp.

This pasta predicament has us cooked,
Old floppy spies too long in the pot,
These spaghetti lines cut too easy,
Leaving our intel rather... al dante,
See you behind some tasty tasty bars,
Tomatom, and Pestor.
P.S. Luckily they are fettuccini.

Too much soy sauce forms a mellow pool,
Impotent in its frozen time to through the rolls,
Until with pace it rends the corner small,
But not enough to stem its rush,
So foists upon the world its virile gall,
The chaos dashed on ordered thread,
A salty smell for unshed tears instead.

Donning now the fools sharp head,
His sparking eyes and cheeky smile,
Forgetting all the self for just a while,
To laugh and be a laugh.

Lazy languages uneager to evaluate,
Cold fusion with an f and finding links
In complete chains away with lists and
Types with kinds in tight constraints but
Crashing down in loops and folds which roll them into mounds.

Sketching out a proof in riddles,
Strawn upon the fever dreams of
Brilliant minds which like to chuckle as
They make their maps of reason and
Find continents submerged in pools of artistry.

Play to the tunes of royal fools,
Court jester for the other's laugh,
Adorning head with clumsy hats,
Painting face with silly words,
Perhaps the gain exceeds what's lost,
Unboundedness escapes the cost.

With much vexation brooding deep within the self,
The foil of every thought is parsed and looped,
There erect thick bars and crosses to the south,
To be unmoved and hence to rail against,
Yet with a step the rage is past: it was a foolish game.
Though in it's passing I have found a meager grip,
The hem of strength in calloused hands.

If I were accursed,
Perhaps I'd mourn the fall,
Hours down the mountain,
Futile struggles for them all,

Perhaps I'd have no tears to shed,
Eyes dried up and learning lost,
Dashed to dust I shan't become,
But Sysyphus, no, I am he not!

The bounding boulders instil glee,
For now my toil has carried far,
The objects of my strife away,
Down mountain tracks and country paths.

When tripping makes the fool a sage,
I seem to stumble on a baffling note,
There is lunch without cost - I gauge,
A witness to the loosened lunch,
Unless strong eyes fail and mouth become,
An arid desert, parched beyond profoundly dead,
Empty as to the pit to which it gapes,
Swallowing dreams of dreams of smells,
Too far removed to be as freely mine.

Shorn short I must purport,
Though truth-saith I am but,
Haired not woolen. And of the sort,
Encroaching to my nose's jut,
Well almost so but still unfurnished for the task.

Boxing up all manner of things,
Propositions crammed in boxes,
Labeled and abstracted well,
Taped closed in all manner of reason,
Contracted to their meager symbols,
Implication and necessity split at seams,
Diagnosed with a case of severe rigor in their application.

Lingo flamingo!
Have you come for bingo?
_No, dear one, but bringing lingo,_
Tongues of fire for awed impression,
Skulls for unencumbered laughs,
Modern people in their little windows,
Talk in pictures as they did in ages past.
🔥💀

I am tired of your pictures,
Funny figures circle-dancing,
Why discard your caricatures,
At my feet until you're laughing,
So I ask you for a moment,
Would you care to hear my ranting?
No-gui~ No-gui~!
No-gui~ No-gui~!

What is this absolute mess on the floor?
All painted now and tossed upon the tiles,
Straight cubic chunks like packaged soldiers,
Striking chaotic rank and file in all but a measly pile?
Oh that's Caleb,
He must be chuffed to bits.

Inequality but not the tragic kind,
Instead invoke the nifty sign,
Familiar to some and strange to most,
An echo of a crocodile's boast,
I scarce care for crocodile meals,
Instead just how he stomachs all the reals,
How does he flip and intersect,
Under my full arithmetic set,
Inequality but not the tragic kind,
Instead invoke the nifty sign.

The Lun and done,
The day is gone,
Just right it is,
Just right it was,
For the merry laughter,
Formed a jig and danced much dafter,
Put a smile on where it ought,
Putting me in grateful thought,
I think that it was lovely too,
I thank God for my brother too.

Oh the wall I hit,
So often do I find you,
Closer than a comfort,
Now to greet a tired soul again,

Oh the wall I hit,
I wish you weren't so close at hand,
Or face or torso in between,
Alas, my tumble wound up your arms.

In scathing light of problem puzzles,
To taste defeat but cry: just yet!
This very day I fall but I will stand,
Another morn' the puzzle banished from my eyes,
In clarity cast upon the mast of darling reason,
Bearing fast upon the storm until I'm through,
Just yet! I will see the problem through.

A packaged parcel passed on by the postmen in their pristine vans,
What have you here? My very name address and oh!
I must be famous for someone to know my name and gift me this!
Alas it was just I who parted with a pretty penny,
Alas it was just I who petitioned the postmen now to post,
From out away in teeming warehouse,
From out beyond where I have known,
A packaged parcel passed along to find purchase and here preside.

When in the pace of life,
The month makes friends with year,
They grow alike a dozen times with beer,

They have no sniff of strife,
The month is abstract time I fear,
The year too never seams to reappear,

They have no stasis though they're rife,
At least I never see them twice.

A hearty pangram steaming on the stove,
The ancient stew dear to typographers,
Lifeblood of font soldiers and marching sets,
A tale to span the breadth of language yet,
To hold the gaze - transfix philosophers,

Why did the slight brown fox run quick?
Why springly jump into the midnight air?
Why chase the lazy dog while good stars sleep?
And bar them peace to bask in silver glow?

•- •--• --- • -- in Morse code,
Half a language for my abode,
To bare my memory full strength,
On characters two: briefness and length,
Twin summits verbose and universal,
In text or falling snow, a tapped rehearsal -
The pitter patter on the peaks,
The flashing lights and mouth-made beeps,
So I present to you an olden road,
•- •--• --- • -- in morse code,

Spiky chin,
I'll take the win,
For you becry,
Your prickled eye.
This just in,
My beards a thing,
And history's not penned by LOSERS.

There's still sand in my face,
Still dust crusts in my eyes,
It flickers to starlight on the sea,
What gorgeous geometry.
Framed pebbles in their flowing waves,
Like gemstones in bezels embed-
ded in my feet until they're red,
Next pebbles turn to pat my back,
A friend of rocks -
False friends with rocks,
Convent how they end up there,
At least I hear their laughter all the same.

I haven't been in the attic for a while,
Nor today or yesterday,
Likely not tomorrow even for a smile,
For I say - I say good riddance,
To burrowed nuts and bolts with style,
Odd bits and boxes can stay hidden,
Neatly in great towering piles.

I'll have a poem - two to go!
Please sprinkle in the crazy words...
Like jazzfunkle.
The kind that gives the impression of...
Something rambotent but that never holds a glass -
Of water, never solid but a vapour,
Of something hazy yet familiar.

The beating heart thrums loud unsaid,
From a beckoned chest - an urge to dance,
No, nod your head, your feet like lead,
The world is quiet listening still,
To unlyrics from jazzfunkle's quill,
Deeper than you know is you,
Yet you it is, for you see you move,
Your face turns sombre even stern,
To chew on rambotent lines and turns.

---

Nonsense poems what a laugh,
I see you puzzling at my path,
Its more than fun to walk on through,
I guess from over there I'm quite kookoo.

Old Shakespeare once told me,
He saw a man to the chaps unseamed,
Wait no - He was simply just privy,
To the musings of his quill and ge-
-nius a depth of meaning forcibly,
Made known in plays that march like poems.
Oh, I forgot to tell you that it's me,
You probably guessed it:
You've been Eugene'd,
About that incident yestereve,
I took a supernovella in my arms,
Wiped my brow and steeled my calm,
I ran into the depths of mind to watch,
The flash of definition in the pan,
A light of symbol in the dark,
I watched it delve into the lines of space,
Unseam it's deepest meaning to the chaps,
How did I return to tell the tale?
Do I not look like Mr E. DeGooseman to you?
\- Eugene DeGooseman

Clear out all you with your semantic antics,
This whole operation is reaching critical mass!
Too many poems to search and remember,
Too many poems to contain in one moment,
It's semiotic folds cry halt at the onslaught of words,
Yet this foreboding marks the end,
The symbolic degeneracy pressure falters on its knees,
I hear the rumblings of the end -
A supernovella is upon us!
Pooooooooooommmmmm.. . . . .

So much hair falls loosely to the floor,
Bunched up in hived off little cliques,
They giggle in their wavy waves,
They are at last free from my head,
To wander off to lands uncharted,
To meet their chauffeurs in yellow brightness -
Dustmen in their hardy suites,
Dustmen wearing diligence like fluorescent bands,
Off they go to lands uncharted.

Dentist-entist,
Cleans what's been missed,
Informs of cleanliness,
At least it's short - that is the list,
Of what to do for toothy bliss,
Dentist-entist.

The April Fool - a merry antic in the flesh,
Yet I only saw his shadow in the day,
Just a whisper of his name,
No fish or crying laughter all the same,
Alas I'll tell of this symbol olden,
The April Fool scratched tin to golden,
A spoon to sharp and edged knives,
A fellow needy of nine lives,
Pity he is all but a cat -
A Fool, a jolly April Fool instead.

To the day I cry aloud:
You Have Been Had!
And you were none the wiser!
Strolling through the skies and parks,
I saw your meandering by my side,
Yet you saw not my taking breath,
Puff by puff I seized the day,
Each moment ever fleeting till...
I unravelled time itself and stepped on through,
To here where I cry aloud:
The Day's Been Had!

What spices work with beans?
So many questions for cuisines,
I couldn't tell you where I lean,
So the Dr told me 'Don't be keen.'
'Just grab the ham and fried eggs green!'
But this I say I've never seen,
I wipe my brow and turn to glean,
Why am I the one befuddled mean?
*You* were meant to be Eugene'd,
\- Eugene DeGooseman

A slowly day,
A day less travelled,
A meandering rooted to the spot,
A wooden seat and strangely creak,
A looking to the window side,
A windy gust that splays the green,
A thrashing dance of hedgerows lean,
A slowly look into the fray,
A slowly look upon the patter in the rain.

Gandering gooses,
Blank canvases with beaks that always seem to stare,
A chord hanging briefly, unrealised on their exhaled breath,
This dash of orange does sound alarms,
It plasters flashing tape out floating 'fore its face,
"Danger, danger,
I gander until I don't,
I gander until I won't,
But blast your ears the most,
With goosley chords from blaring horns."

"Accosted by a flippin' fox",
And other such outrageous sayings,
From people I shan't see again,
Except after such a baffling refrain,
These people - where do they come from,
Such perfect strangers' mutterings,
Incomprehensible so respendant gold,
To light the day with exhaled laughs:

"I put it in the microwave,
And that wasn't good,
So just give 'em a pound"

Men with spiky beards,
Maybe one day I shall join their ranks,
For now I laugh with mountain goats,
My spiky hair an island not a sea.

I found a new way to sit on a stool,
A single quarter seated,
Three abseiling in the air,
And to level: I'm just kneeling,
With wood legs just right there,
Right behind me upside drifting,
On my calves - so please beware,
I like to wobble this stool neatly,
Until it clatters everywhere.

A joy to look,
On brief English air,
That rolls on by,
In grey greens and browns,
The curt nods of trees,
The neat standing grass,
The wizened oaks that grin:
"Moornin'"
And holler from a friendlier world.

I wish to write a nonsense poem,
For I've reasoned through the day,
I've straightened out spaghetti code,
And wrinkled up my brain,

So now I shall describe the feeling,
Of misstepping on the stairs,
When all is dark and the well falls short,
A step from what you thought before,

Oh tumble up and over yonder,
Your sole stomps down and shin asunder,
At least it feels so in the night,
You lay there in a dazzled plight,

This misstep of an upward fall,
This hubris shattered as the glass,
This clattered mirror of the world,
That holds just one step many in your eyes.

Upturning haystacks,
Needles call,
To find the thing that lacks,
So long, thin spike,
A key or pick or pointy sticks,
This needle lost in piling hay,
This needle lost in mounting stacks,
Alas, alas, the needle is stuck sedated in surmounting shambles.
Ah! the needle calls!
A prick upon my finger slack,
It wound its way out from the stack.

Jumping is as jumping does,
A fun pastime to hop and fly,
From heel to floor - life's firm high-five,
Mechanical beyond the first onlook,
Subconscious as it is sublime,
To force the ground and feel it push,
Up to the sky and make you fly.

Hit the wall,
I peel off like a pancake,
The day is overdone but edible,
Charred dough for battle scars,
Patchy with bitter and sweet,
Covered in syrup for the day is replete.

A cross-legged perch,
The seating position with a timer,
Counting down in fleshy clicks,
Time!!!
A foot falls half asleep.

Alas, farewell you trusty stead and friend,
How far we walked, how far we send,
Our merry little presence beyond,
Past stately trees and murky ponds,
To lands that bustle in the smoke filled air -
Oh, it stopped tingling.

You've been Eugene'd,
The Christmas has eve'd,
The house has been cleaned,
For merry making,
Great celebrating,
On One whom I lean,
The birth of the king,
Now forever living,
His blood for my sin,
And He humbled Himself as a baby.
\- Eugene DeGooseman

---

# Description

Bonus:
Last Christmas I gave you a poem,
The very next day I gave you another,
This year to save me from tears,
I'll give you another poem.

Polka dot socks,
A bundle of warm,
Binding heat to feet,
To hold a firefly swarm,
Hot nettles and petals,
I speak loosely of form,
But all blurs to furs,
-well not quite but fabric adorns.

POEM
Omitts
Explanations
Munificent

Dry cereals,
And the crunch resounds more real than reality,
And it's arid grasp seems to scatters through my body,
Like a tempest, and I'm driven to a little shake,
A sour face, for things not sour but milkless,
And a little water heralds it's incompletion.

All hallows'eened,
You guessed it...
You've been Eugene'd,
These spooks that are seen,
These bats, skulls and fiends,
Make me want to glean,
Why with spiderman death has been?
And we try to scare ourselves mean?
It makes me think - which I do like to do,
Why brother John chose these words, just a few:
Perfect love casts out fear.
\- Eugene DeGooseman

You've been Eugene'd,
My hubris and spleen,
Convict me as mean,
So here we convene,
About fields ungreened,
The chasm between,
And words left too lean:
You are no less preened,
You have my apologies.
\- Eugene DeGooseman.

You've been Eugene'd,
The council convened,
You have been outpreened,
It wasn't my dream,
That they intervened,
This land in between,
Is left bare ungreened,
I hope its regreened,
We'll convene tomorrow.
\- Eugene DeGooseman

Poem,
Cut,
Shorter,
Like my hair.

Annoying tasks,
I see them seethe a little,
They don't like it when I do the things to be done,
You could even say that...
I'm ticking off the tasks.

Today I became a taxi,
For a boy, I walked a span,
Him on my back with neon twigs,
And telling me of shapes and faces-
-time to refuel, my arms too tired...
Now we sit in midnight fields,
On a plastic bag and waving,
At the passing faces that march on and smile,
I boot up the engine,
Off to find his Mum I tread.

Head scratching,
Splayed fingers drawing lines in tied up hair,
Individual artists sculpting messy plumes,
And splashing patted-down paints,
Their art just seems to...
How to put it...
Scratch the itch?

Family scramble,
Flying down on a mumbling Dad,
And the duvet is thrown,
A tumble bumble of words,
And a wittering weave is sewn,
The window blown -
Right open, see the heat is on high,
And the scramble is now.
*May I have the covers back?*

Double oh seven,
Special agent on a pajama mission,
To find the passing time within the day,
And the shadows in the sunlight,
Lobbing balls like grenades...
And maybe catching them again,
Ok, ok, this agent got distracted with a game of catch.

Time to talk about my tongue today,
Roaming round my mouth it stays,
Inspecting all the teeth it says,
Yet I just think it all day plays,
And often sits still and obeys,
When I just want to think away,
The maths problem on the pristine board,
That I shattered with my ordered numbers,
Just like this very rhyme, you say?

Reed nestled in my jaw,
I try to form a pleasant tone,
Yet a little squeak leaves near ears sore,
Early practice is to bad notes prone,
But it was just for fun nothing too hard-core,
Just to know how my dad feels when in the zone,
And blasting out great jazzy tunes through solid doors.

A soft glow lights the room,
Periodic jolts fire across the splayed open circuitry,
Pristine white folds into the crevices of the shaded cabinets before retreating like a receding tide,
It flickers ceaselessly and is all at once still,

"I think its fried"
"Yeah I think so too"
"Operations said something about a reactor meltdown and overclocking a thingy..."
"Bah! We'll just reboot him tomorrow, usually works a charm"

Loudest shirt,
Drowns out the cannon balls,
And flying water sprawled about,
And all the laughter and stern sights,
That lock on flying yellow spheres,
Dived under by a shirtless bunch,
That smile and hit wild crashing blows,
On yellow balls that bounce above,
And eclipse the sun...
Yet even still the talking's drowned,
Yet even still the great joyful cheers,
And dancing fall so quiet from: the loudest shirt.

Train game,
And we sit around, lame,
Unmoving by the table same,
And pressing in for that family fame,
Gotta grab those cards to lay down your lane,
Expectant the nights watches through the pane,
For us to laugh each others names,
And maybe pull a funny faces or two...

Or three.

Polychrome tactile chunks,
Rattle round my head with style,
Clicking down memory lane,
To wisened corners twice dusted down,
And now I grasp thee,
Algorithm of the tactile breed,
Turning with my fingers hastened,
Till the polychrome mosaic sits still in tranquil rows...
And I crush thee into squirming chaos,
And rattle on with speed in tow.

Four pees podding,
Squashed up in wrapping duvet,
Wittering joyous nothings,
Echoing one another between bursts of lucid lines.

Fried eggs,
Left a little crunchy round the edge,
And spiced thrice with simple salt, pepper and paprika,
Flipped and sizzled in oil,
And interspersed with tiny fragments of egg shell...
Wait a moment...
That doesn't seem right,
We'll get another crack at it tomorrow.

Socks worn through,
Maybe it's their last curfew,
Or rather time to get something new,
To stop tiny toes going blue,
And to scatter a few
Stretchy socks in my draw as a clue,
A clue for detective feet to cover up and settle down.

The silence plummets,
With the arching dart,
Homing in a little to the left of where I thought to land a hit,
But alas a double eleven is struck,
Surely darts fly to my best interest,
Surely this sequential flying dream will pierce the-
Oh, I missed the board,
A joyous giggle resounds between friends.

Clipping nails,
And they ping like rubber into the bin...
Mostly.

Trimming my finger shields,
To help in dextrous finger flipping,
Furious finger picking, flicking, pinching and prodding.

They're rounded with a rugged, artsy edge,
Mostly rounded I must say,
To place myself in linguistic safety.

Finally fit for the cause, that I pledge,
Ready for more finger adventures tomorrow...
Poem tapping included: batteries not so much.

One,
Four,
Two,
Three,
Mixing it up with little bit of numeracy,
And some stratified date reading,
As the days are pleading,
For me to stop being the April fool,
But I can't change when my birthday falls,
In April that is...
Not today, that would be unfortunate.

Jack's beans,
Broke by the jostling brush,
Just bursting out of beanless bog,
Breaking beyond the joyous bubbles,
That bask in jolly brightness,
Beyond, bumbling branches do bolt to jumbo Jack-eaters,
And belligerent bellows jostle the bean branches.

Works I suppose.

A staccato story,
A man walks,
To meet a friend,
It's bright out today,
Oops just passed the place,
Oh hey,
How longs the wait?
Oh well good to see you,
We should do this again,
A man walks,
Heading back,
It's a little quieter now.

Words to pass the time:
Like [pass]ing salt and pepper grinders between,
[Grind]ing out the minutes and seconds,
[Second] to the moving clock,
[Mov]i[e]s rolling into hours,
[H]on[our]ing times and precious moments,
[Prec]ar[ious]ly stacking loose thoughts,
[Loos]ing clothes to slip on pajamas,
[Cloth]ing slippers in the sands of time,
[Sand]y, dusty and all cobwebbed up,
Like [cob]bled stone, long still and final,
[Final]ly the time is passed,
And words remain a sufficient slot,
To fill the time.

Promptly plating packed peanuts,
For pill-and-drill-proof protection,
So that the peanut payload can be perused by the proper person,
Pulled out and perceived in all its popping pazaz.

Powerful procedures pre-empt such perilous pulling,
For proud peanuts pluck and possess the pitiable person with unparalleled palatable pleasantries,
Maybe ever more pleasurable than patisseries,
How peculiar.

Small words,
That are a tad brief,
Are at max five in one,
Here nor there,
Only some by the side,
Like a tiny spark,
That dance in merry brain waves.

The waahwaah tree,
Stands dignified in the jungle of its melody,
Pastel fragments of light step between existence and non-existence,
Playing like fairies on the singing winds,
And adding flashes of flavour to the flowing melody,
All is like a dream,
The shadows too bright and the lines blurred and fuzzy,
Wrapping up the marshmallow clouds in softer blankets of fluffy uncertainties,
The land seems to fall through and stand firm,
As the whirring waahwaah contextualises the floating footing.

Sitting stairs,
To stare and sit,
To think and blink,
To tap and link,
Words together,
Like clinking chains,
Sinking into thoughts and rhymes,
Sinking into grace and mercy,
Sinking into warmer times.

Tumbledown Town,
The land of the free,
Free from regulations,
Free from the fees,
So no need to share,
Just come on down,
To the Tumbledown Town where rats abound,
Free from the rules,
Free from the law,
So take a look at the door,
And leave.
It's not very good here,
Life abounds in the arms of the lawgiver.

'Poems came'
Whispered the weary eyes,
Blinking silent syllables at the screen,
Thinking of the many lights that sought to meet it in its depths,
Yet it returned to the screen once again,
For it shines the warmest light on deepest darkest pupils,
A chorus of static fizzing meets the eyes,
Friendship for the tired days,
They sit still again,
For silence is the talk of sleepy friends.

Sleepy eyes...
Follow the brilliant white keys along the screen,
Hiding depths of groggy wakefulness,
'Maybe poems will come'
The eyes whisper to the screen,
An inaudible sizzle meets the gaze,
They sit in ponderance,
For the night is younger than it could be,
And tomorrow shall remain a little ahead of them,
As it always has...

I'm afraid to inform you:
That this poem is about what rocks dream of.

An oblique darkness warps the empty sight,
Impenetrable night drapes curtains over the numerous veils behind,
They fall backwards unto infinity,
Yet depth itself is the lonely remnant of a dream to them,
A dream filled with disquieted mute tones,
A symphony too quiet for the ears,
A sight beyond the horizon,
The present sits uncomfortably disjointed from this land,
Maybe such a thing can be considered oblivion.

Hefty bag,
Laying deep into my shoulders,
A burden of utility, civility,
And a little bit of food.

Maybe one day,
My shoulders in dismay,
Will sit battered,
And ponder...
...the weight of knowledge.

The bristly yet familiar carpet tickles my toes as I pace around,
A cozy kind of dimness holds the air in its grasp,
And I wonder what it's like to fall upwards.

We're always falling downwards, you see,
And I was wondering if you could, you know...
Mix it up.

Broken shoe,
Unbridled joy,
A little less serious,
A little less 'mysterious'.

O broken shoe,
How does it feel,
To peel back and flop,
To break and kneel,

To be tread on,
Yet yield,
And support my weighty soles,
Through mire and field?

O broken shoe,
Unbridled joy,
I take myself a little less
Serious...
Maybe a little glue will hold you together?

A sleepyleb lounges,
Enchanted by the prospect of no more commutes,
And much less muchness.

The daily clamour is a racket three times more than not,
Its a great dance and parade,
Great fun and great games.

Nevertheless, after work comes great rest,
And after rest great fun.
It's the natural rhythm of things.