Quirky from Afar (pre-Draft 1)

Quirky from Afar (pre-Draft 1)

Screaming screeching birds and
angry tears in the rain

Oh young beautiful girl
who might have been
where I could have fed
and praised you for
your perfume of being

I’ve seen you dance
in the bubble and cage
of the obscene show-biz scene

Oh magnificent party girl, don’t die young again,
young girl with the band and groupies

Leave your toady agent and your dreams
and let me be your non-toxic chatty drug
’cause I’d love to sing nonsense with you
because I am profoundly silly, and
I wonder why you’d die even with the
praise of your fans, and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly, no it’s

just that I’ve heard you scream famously
and I’ve screamed alone, because
I can’t seem to compose the song of my heart
as well as you who is talented, lonely, and sad

Maybe I could’ve been your odd high
the quirky no one who’s not hip
and hears your secret silent cries
that fans and agents never hear
when they feed you any drug of the day
you think you want, and if in a haze
you keep on chirping
I’ll pray for you, because
you are so beautiful and
of course, sexy, but
that’s not the point
though they say it is

Oh hey, I know about loneliness
and when you die young
I will wonder why talent doesn’t matter
and why I never met you

Can’t say if I would have mattered at all
can’t say if I would have been more than a quirk
or a mere jerk, but you will die young probably, and
maybe I would have given you an hour

An hour is all I need
to love being with a song

Don’t know why
beautiful girls die young
even when they can
sing their hearts out

— Douglas Gilbert

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Dates and Figs (Draft 11)

Dates and Figs (Draft 11)

Be vague
be hidden
quoth the Raven, and
George Orwell

Should not have searched
where beefs are regretted

Don’t care anymore because
you’re the only one I trust. How
would I complain if

some meteors speak
with streaking lines
written in the skies
without prejudice
for the discerning reader

Implicitly we know;
no? What’s to want
but you in the final days

Search not
want not

Dippers of naked truths endure
shooting stars with canned laughter, and
tyrants who don’t like sweet things

Boom times not sonic but mysterious, and
they keep a record of every word
won’t even let us drink our sweet sorrow
while they quote
Shakespeare in shallow ways
nannies of arrogance who think
broccoli will save the world

These elites are so smug
like sting rays sweeping volcanoes
under seafloor rugs

Should not have
searched for marinated moose steaks
’cause anyone with a moose
whose not looking up salads
and green things, must be
having second thoughts
about obedience

Hunting naked truths
and shooting stars
enduring canned laughter

There is news in the dry laugh:
an embarrassed meteor, pitfalls
and destiny dates, though

fig leaves do fall in pithy days with you
moist giggles in the morning dew

The can of dates is on sale
with the occasional pit
due to pitiful errors

But we have the era of
figments of imagination
the dried fig sweet when
meteors fall and we

collect meteor char
for the barbecue grill, though
no one has any
grilling questions, or
a steak in the truth fire

no one knows the source
of the delicious delusion sauce
that is the medium of solace

Media lies are very comforting
with vegetables and 16 ounce sodas
un-French fries with doomburgers
and saving trivia

Repent and save
a calorie in end times

Eat your vegetables or be
hit with a drone, but

we will hide in ourselves together
indulge in our poetry with a rhythm
and smile when we lick a bit of cherry pie
off our faces with
billions of calories

— Douglas Gilbert

Damn I Like My Fragments and Run-on Sentences

Run-on Sentence

Oh dumb-down computer, not every non-twitter beyond 140 infamous characters is a run-on sentence. Sometimes there is the inexplicable ramble in the brambles of life. Oh let weeds be.

Sentences, gracefully elaborated, embellished with the sounds of glorious triumph, with cacophonous instruments of drunken loquacious musicians strung out on their heart strings, these birds and cats playing around with joyful noise, sentences gracefully making every trill a wave to glory, oceanic, are not runaways, being ensconced in dreams, and pray tell, if I may continue, the words of the angels are infinite and concise like love that sings forever charming and as elaborate as is a sentence to joy, many times re-phrased, re-claused like a Santa Clause whose mythology endures way beyond his run away sleigh, bells of grace reverberating with every sentence pronounced by judges and supplicants gracefully joined in symphony, in sympathy, in empathy, and joined on every path to any pathy even daffy, because the complex can be simply wonderful like you all who indulge the marathon run into oblivion with a billion words and who pause to hear my running word.

— Douglas Gilbert

Dates and Figs (Draft 10)

Dates and Figs (Draft 10)

Naked truths
and shooting stars
with canned laughter

There is news in the dry laugh:
an embarrassed meteor, pitfalls
destiny dates, though

fig leaves do fall in pithy days with you
moist giggles in the morning dew

The can of dates is on sale
with the occasional pit
due to pitiful errors

But we have the era of
figments of imagination
the dried fig sweet when
meteors fall and we

collect meteor char
for the barbecue grill, though
no one has any
grilling questions, or
a steak in the truth fire

no one knows the source
of the delicious delusion sauce
that is the medium of solace

Media lies are very comforting
with vegetables and 16 ounce sodas
un-French fries with doomburgers
and saving trivia

Repent and save
a calorie in end times

Eat your vegetables or be
hit with a drone, but

we will hide in ourselves together
indulge in our poetry with a rhythm
and smile when we lick a bit of cherry pie
off our faces with
billions of calories

— Douglas Gilbert

Dates and Figs (Draft 1)

Dates and Figs (Draft 1)

Meteors, destiny dates and
fig leaves are falling

The can of dates is on sale
with the occassional pit
due to processing errors

But it’s more the era of
the figment of imagination
the dried fig sweet when
meteors fall and we

collect meteor char
for the barbecue grill, and
no one has any
grilling questions, or
a steak in the truth

no one knows the source
of the delicious delusion sauce
that is the medium of solace

Media lies are very comforting
with vegetables and 16 ounce sodas
un-French fries with doomburgers

Eat your vegetables or be
hit with a drone

— Douglas Gilbert

An Undefined Drop in the Ocean (Draft 1)

An Undefined Drop in the Ocean

She’s a renowned philosophy professor
an Atheist by trade, but

we looked out at the stars
one night on the beach, and
it seemed an oceanic feeling

when she professed her love to me
in her way, and I did in mine

Waves of happiness
swept over us like a
shared Yikeness in the Sillyverse

— Douglas Gilbert

Window Dressing (Draft 5)

Window Dressing (Draft 1)

Waiting out winter here where
rose petals have long since
swirled upon winds
like naked sweet flakes

Too many cold dreams froze the day.

You could’ve hung around
waiting ’til snow flakes
melted on your tongue

I can’t believe your
hot flakiness is gone
way out and far beyond
and I’ve

been chipping at a sorrow stone
like a flint rock without kindling,
cold slivers and flakes

You could’ve hung around
past winter’s blue tongue end
waited for the equinox
to knock us into Spring

But layers of your patience
seemed to flake off

you couldn’t wait
and cooled

Oh it
would’ve made us warm
that eternal vernal word on
the tip of my tongue
that winter day
looking out the window with you

Oh to wait for the ring
and the equinox

but you defenestrated my love
and from passion fever
defervescence
in abandonment snow

I can’t believe your
hot flakiness is gone
way out away far beyond
while snow flakes are
melting on my tongue

Is there a vernal venal groundhog
you’ve bribed with flowers
to look through glass, not
see snow flakes falling
this frigid Spring equinox, when
we ought to sing and pop up?

But I’ve been jumping and unraveling
like an unwinding spring
snow flakes melting on my tongue

I hope flowers are coming back
dressed in red flakes

— Douglas Gilbert