Member Poem

Nudge from internal nosing into different categories, I mean, there must be some form of elaborate label with sprinkling hue alert banners beyond extremely edgy immediate attention to even one whose mind, and at one point on the cerebral compass that curved nail long finger might be awful accusative in its indignant irascibility at the enigmatic person writing about how the mind can be compartmentalised in such graphic detail where items whose pale grey area genesis would be as likely to perplex into deep wisteria looping wells of puzzlement.
Personalities abound but where are they and do they have any personality as in a blaze script.
One wonders  in a dazed state of rippling lip smirks at this junk shop which is cluttered yet devious scheme cluttered with books about books and ornate scroll pages inside faint mouldy stain strewn pages.
Even cherry blossom wood sideboard cabinet.
Somewhere to be found junk in a remote building
at the far edge of one of those spots in any town of some renown that occupies only minuscule space on a gaudy grandiose relief map that’s a relief to have fancy title gobbledegook appointee expert interpret with its gadget generated referenced points that would bog down those brainiacs whose legendary focus defies limits.
This segment of town which is almost  its own fog mist and haze as the dusty steam curves wickedly upwards as a rebuff to the glare.
In the sense of bemused passersby whose urge to peep slyly might be repulsed by the macabre surroundings.
The mind can be sectioned like an old hut.
Partitions can be built up, moulded, refashioned, skyscraped
tower blocked, astounding to perceive yet frightening in its gargantuan stoic steadfastish fixedness.
The dominant fugues in that quaint place may seem obscure and almost inchoate.
As the mind can capture and compartmentalise the golden garlands of sunshine nuggets that bounce of legendary tiered hue rivers and their sinusoidal detours that wend and weave as if impelled by the silent imprimatur of a riveting Earth orbital spin that is merrily muted though still only to an inert dalliance.
In equal measure though maybe without the structures of meter the universal psyche can intrude upon, spy, observe, eavesdrop, plagiarise and pilfer dry wit down to earth devilishly side splitting gag swops or a cabal loitering on the fringes.
Of an old hut of any kind or its equivalent.
Nameless entities swing rhythmic as a juggernaut of areas under one area appearing more like some mini microcosm or universe downsized.
A dwelling can be that tilted, tottering, transient, it can be that carrier pigeon of named occupants of bizarre nomenclature, or names prosaic that vanish without a tiniest trace into a vacuous atmosphere voracious in its appetite for a nothingness.
“if only I could put a finger to what’s going on.
I observe, scan, peruse, absorb.
Sponge like absorption in an entranced ritual careening as a rickety road vehicle swaying in cantankerous unpredictable anarchic fashion.”
Methinks whilst being sucked in vacuum cleaner style by what whets the enthusiasm.
From a distance this desperation may have the illusion of collating diverse disparate fragments of thoughts in any context that maybe on a rudderless quest for a context being either decontextualised or to absently minded plonk, to be dumped like rubbish in a recycling bin whose fate we can only subject to conjecture.
A jolt, huge earthquake of a jolt that had my reflections on abodes of any kind momentarily feeling that a spectacular incandescent  comet … this is a jubilant jittery  jolt that had this miracleous high speed chase to pressurise me as if I was the diving course or the human, some say a noisome nagging numbskull with a yellow flare streak of hybrid shade goes on  a furious spark flying downhill daredevilish helterskelter.
The old hut can accommodate though not entirely always facilitate what goes into it gingerly with no apparent escape hatch for character or figure whose author and keeper have successfully sequestered or sheltered their identity.
As for this old hut as such, thank you very much if cluttered dwellings or compartments lurch and  may seem out of character but inhabitants as one can delineate the insiders without betraying this enigmatic pantheon..
“Awake from SCREAMING NIGHTMARE that’s in fact devoid of sleep pact
as the old hut of misty side of mountain mythology is sunken inside my shrinking skull.
And scares me several shades of scarlet when juggling the other versions of the old hut as that microcosm of an encyclopaedia.
“Yikes didn’t anybody  hear me, I mean yell!”
Actually that’s me the writer as I do a hilarious hand glide in one of the many multifarious maze like the word maize nearly as an apparition sneakily surreptitious showed in another context.
As in munching traditional fare by the fireside with a tribe of close friends.
I the inscrutable I was drifting past the echoes in a moonlit airborne sweep, eerie and hairraisingly uncanny.
Do these old huts or cellars, undercrofts really stick in the mind.
The writer which sounds as a Turin Shroud type
when one peers deep into buildings, compartments, storage devices that one can feel so engulfed by, green moss tidal wave engulfed that a form of intrusive possession and a loss of one’s essence perfumed and otherwise in question looms without constraint.
Has this wool spun notion of a dwelling cast aside in a peremptory fashion by plausible fluidity  such as the laws of gravity, and massive pantheon ( another variety of hut)
of other curbs that are that impregnable glue which is the assist to the notion of universal conformity now under siege.
Contents and prized possessions even suggestions of spooky, unearthly associations of every conceivable genus.
Abnormal associations that fascinate fortune tellers and those enigmatic predictors of fate are among that incognito clique which derail and diffuse the hut like dwellings inside and outside their head if one is duty bound to envision the surreal stretches of a term that can be adapted.
The upshots of this conjugated contour claustrophobic yarn that has lost the thread of its multifarious tangled strands is this.
Behind the sprawled and scrawled delineation of this neuron cell ignited, uberzealed  piece is despite the old hut and alone offshoot it’s the writer who shall be nameless being the actual hut metaphor, their brain, their bee hive thrust, sound the horn  speed freak traffic light jumper of imagination being one and the same.
Devoured by that monster, the hut of their exploration.
As for the characters of this piece, let’s say along with the anonymous writer these characters shall remain nameless!
GOTCHA OR DID I NOW?
I TIP MY HUT (HAT) TO THOSE WHO PREDICTED THE ENDINGS
ITS  A PLEASURE TO SHARE THIS “PIECE.”
WHOEVER ACTUALLY WROTE THIS IN THE ETHER.
EITHER (ETHER)  I OR SOMEONE ELSE!

Dedicated to the most wonderful person ever
Jay  A  Pallen