“”Poe at 13.””

As we gather through the maze,
Malaise of mall-quest and my inhibitions are detecting
An easter egg.

Promodious woes,
And I spent on all the Poe
Hoes that raketh the earth,
And I have seldom had the coins
But yearned in advance,
Previews advanced,
Yet, still,
Did I go wandering a – to
In search
Of regards
For the poet that went
A – gandering
To some formal
Demise
In the sewer drain
Of opium scented, chalk outline.
I must find this man,
And bring Baltimore
Home
Capturing the gaze
Of the first streetlight
I had never seen,
But followed,

– by mere detection.

An undying wit,
The blackest of days,
Closed for seldom
Correspondence
As my throes, are much preferred,
Defected upon subliminal authority,
Of my understanding of an archaic world,
Traveling steadfast,
In theory,
To macabre mistakes, taken in error,
Salt the slug that throws the stone,
And perhaps the cat of midnight will clean up the mess for you.
Even as the bell tower quakes feverishly,
And the mummy bequest terrors
Upon activation of earthquakes.

I followed the humble hum
Of all destruction
To wonder
What a Virginia boy,
Had planned in tow,
For literary consumption.
Corruption,
Of a darkness fleet,
That strayed amongst defeat,
Only to corrupt,
The mind of a girl that dribbles ink
With her glands, salivating..
And even Pan becomes frightful
For the withering substantial
of a writer,
Once they have fallen,
for a posthumous muse.

Centuries,
Debacle.
Shade in vain,
I called the line again,
No tap,
To wither upon the rats,
That tinker with the noise jingling
in the walls,
And bells of the bolster-heavy,
Choir and chord,
Chant
“You must flee!”
Or the jungle
Will send
The insect of El Dorado,
Bent behind the fountain
That quatrains jovial,
In the midst
Of a brewed awakening,
Of one that has been punctured
In the lung
Of an unforgivable
Floorboard, splinter.

Eeeekkkkk-eek-eeeeek-
Creaks, –
Upon sight
Of my ravenous door
That gapes and maws.
Time has transferred!
But to illusionary tactic
And I wear the onyx and emerald
dress, once more!

Prevail upon thee,
As I must – it can’t be
I read and read
The worlds scribble into thine
Brained,
Poor, most-unassuming
Individual
With tortoiseshell, golden
Spectacles,
Traded for the curvature of black,
As seldom times,
Come back, to return
Of the smudge I placed
Upon thee lens
To mire upon thee,
The reflection
Of
Mine sight.

Hark!
The world is upon misuse!
Shrieked the missus of jewels!!
One she gasped in dropped maw
Above it before,
And so below it all

– This man of insistence, that seems to bear witness, upon travesty, corrosive pipe dream manifestin’ only withers upon scoundrels that walk the floor of scum !

And I am the one left to clean
The puddle of splatter
And I scatter
With a broom
The room one used to be hotel,
Present-day Prison…
And now it seems the King of the Rats,
Maintained a short stack
Of drafts
While the window drafted thine bones
Into humble query
Upon the rose
Of luck
That shattered
One’s own
Score of Four,
And the tune never stopped
Thump-thumping since.

Beevils teether,
Beetles seether,
One must be of the rock
To acknowledge
A snake
In one’s own glare of the yard
In which no other must travel
As thoust will be deemed
Treacherous
Upon avail
Of the realms
Of the garden.

Purgatoracious claims
Upon which a
Woman
Now stakes
A claim
Into the opulence
Of tyranny and sadness
As the view of the blue from the pier
Of the balcony
Of the block
Across that
Rock
Sustains to
Dismay,
And she whispers “..evermore…”
In the breeze, of sea to shining
Hole of nitre.

Diddle does the girl
The girl that plays the fiddle
But considers it a diddling,
All the same.
The missus
That contests, yes
In consideration of spending time
Of the long trail that leads
Only
To
Shrill,
Stringed vengeance
Upon reverence
Playing to the tune
Of other-where-else’s
Accord.

Her favorite necklace
Is made out of cheesewire.

Draught and fraught,
Did the gal
Upon her mired quest,

I’ve read your best,
Now I’d like to read the rest.

—

Took upon the reeds that gave forth
Life to misfortune,
Confused, unfortunate, bastardous
Lame
And I choose you,
Seeking same,
Centur a’ go a’ later,
Sometime.

I found this poet…
No words can really portray.
Obsessive compulsion,
Reverence for reference.
The smell of the rot of the decay of the house
Led me there
In some
Time
And I too,
Caught the gust,
And the rust smited
Any conceptual rest
The blamed-one-of-the-game
And I withered your pages with me
In soulful delight
Between the spirit in the room
That lingers
And zzz-zzz-zzzzzZZz’s
Like some
Mosquito.

Bloodsucker with a pen,
The pictures fall of the wall
Every time I sit down
The pen.
Autographed, in wrath
As the hyperbolic glue of erase
Would stain
Every time
The highlighters switched to charcoal
Dust
Flung
And swung
On the walls
In which I scribbled
Cave-art
Upon the walls
To amuse
This most unholy ghost,
That somehow became of use.

Opulence scored,
The Master raided,
And I was swaythed to procure my path
To the throne,
After a House destined to fall,
Is reborn.

Phoenix gal,
Desert hals,
Never went that way,
Out upon the outskirts,
And jokes, and jesters,
And fools,
May deliver
An experience of more hearty,
And soon.

The Poet smirks.
The Poet is beaming,
Forced upon redeeming,
There is no Lover like you and I.
The one that can’t be seen,
And I chase your twine-like
Saccharine star,
That wanders above all
And brought you – Hark!

Oh betrayal, as I am seethed.
Oh poppycock, as I entrailed
To tell you,
Dear Unholy Ghost,
I gave up on the cells, and deem fortale.

I found you in many ways through the years.
Even the toro that bailed crimson and clay,
The attic that smelled
Of gardenia
The witches that enrathed
As their gravestone pal sat back
With a billy club.
And nurtured sentiments
Towards those who defy death
And move slowly
The sunshine that shot the noise
Of the jungle monkey
To rely in light
Of a broken boulevard –
cabaret show.
Why do the girls have such thin mustaches?

– when they ascorn the stage?

A walken,
Of shell left stocken,
Audio delight,
Was another frightful time,
When I closed thine collection,
Only to erect
In its frame,
That you have friends in thine sight,
Fortuitously into death,
and still you gain fame.

Inspirational with insight,
Only of the most frozen
Of hearts
Seemed to used to enjoy

They, your quotes on metal
That streams
Cups of coffee and wankor
In the stanken erodiation
Of a life
I thought was all mine.

You’ve named enough of them,
I guess they got you before,
When all was so dismal and dreary,
And I sat upon cemetary
Bench
Glancing at a clearing
And in the shade of two
One path I saw in my view,
Of the bench that drenched
Soaked in ratified honey,
And of seldom quake
And sombern autumn grace,
I noticed the sought of two,
Formulating in fruition,
I follow,
Your fallen grace,
The path that sewn,
The hark of heartbreak,
Wilderness gleams,
Coinless adventures,
Dusty jars of penniless
Succumbed
To bribes –
To the scent of rent –
As I toil at my desk,
Stained upon hands
Swollen from key,
A wrench I must
Unquench,
Just to live up to the notion of one,
Celebratory meandering existence.
The plagues waste away in thine vessel,
And I mustn’t, not mustn’t not treble,
As the clouds that became fimble,
Nimble, vapors,
And the aura enhanced of they betrayor,
The Slaught of the Scum,
Only in life, to believe,
One must have it all wrong,
And used sockets for screws,
Venning-less sues,
Demeaned quake of authority,
Some semblance of poor playing
Rotary games
Dominion-living, it’s really all the same.
When it comes down to it,
And as I walked the path to the cloudless wack
That drummed in mine
Drums of ear
And sought to fear
Of the shrewless hue
That caught mine gaze
As soon
As tweed tumbled
And I switched taffeta swatches
For horn-hipped gown,
And suddenly lace circumvents
The frown
Turned smiled
The ravenous door opened.
And I –

– I taketh the same path as thee.

Scrimbles, and flunders,
Garrulous wonders,
Whimsy with cries,
I want to be as dark
As thine own
Coat
After the one
Is buried
Upon massive stroke
And only the henchman
Few
Disperse
Thine quibbling dialogues
Illness, distraught,
As there is no other
Upheaval
Between the art
And the artist,
of the Wretched,
That wound a view or two,
Semblance of notion,
Life is dreary upon waking,
Weariness,
So I choose crow,
For dinner.
Expecting your reservation
Without answer
Nor notion.
Accompany and I will not forsake thee.

A gleam lines true,
Between the venomous verum
Of you
And I.

Never in circulation,
Distribution has not sought
Accommodation
Though I tinker noiselessly,
Silent, vampant, creature of some sort.
Tirelessly,
I hope I
Croak,
The same way,
You do:

In the afterlife.

– a special thanks to my friend and colleague Mike Utley of Silent Pariah for providing the title, direction, and a gentle nudge of encouragement in order to finally get around to writing this self-imposed, long-awaited piece depicting my personal love and professional admiration, that has somehow driven me through the ups, downs, pure-abandonments, and absolute-joy of writing; upon return to this expansive, varietal, ensconced-with-spice field. This has been the most fun, I’ve ever had writing. Full of references, allusions, and otherwise inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe and all of those furthermore alluding to a poor poet’s infamous life and peculiarly decadent work that has seemed to flood the world with easter-eggs of creativity. Even amongst the woes of a mostly melancholy existence of fortuitously macabre, entrenched endeavours – Poe continues to thrive today. His lavishly, profuse contribution to poetry, prose, writing otherwise; is held tightly and permanently somewhere in the midsts of the canals of insanity between the overcharged neurons that have somehow led me, to become a writer. Poe, egregiously, provided the jumpstart for my most soulful fulfilling of passions that has seemed to garner to keep my attention, even if it’s been a mere speck of a moment pursuing writing professionally [officially].

– All this comeuppance due to a few irrigating correspondances of comments detailed in “Fable of Commensalism” between Mike and I, that “briefly” expresses a foreshadowing to my own origin-story actualized, in the ever-constant ongoing pursuit of being a writer, part-time poet too.

– Sam Borromeo Wilson Villalobos