Animal's House of Muse

Vibes to Feed the Hasty Soul with the States of All that Matters

I’d Always Thought of Myself as a Red Twizzler

The gesture was romantic
The day that I wasted away
Piece by piece
Bit by bit
I stripped clean my spirit
Of my body
Until all that remained
Was the black licorice
At the core of my being
Oh the disappointment!
The very idea!
The horror.
What monster presents such a present for the world?!
The kind that won’t be eaten by it, jeeze!




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Studies have Shown

Opossums offer an alternative approach to self-preservation beyond the fight/flight polemic when faced with their own demise. In my efforts to better navigate through a world most hostile, I recently implemented their method of playing-dead whenever faced with my own demise. Thus far the results have been favorable. I hope to naturalize this response so that it becomes instinct; and without thinking stop my thoughts in their tracks before they materialize out of my mouth.








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Into Thin Air

Dear Animal’s House of Muse Readership,

Hello! What’s good?! How’s it going?! Word word word. Me, too.

I am in the process of collecting these poems and tales for a lil’ ‘ole book I plan to publish. Bit by bit my entries will vanish from this blog site, and they shall magically reappear in print/tablet form before your very eyes! With nothing up my sleeve, I’ll still leave a few old and new posts scattered about here and there so as to leave your appetites nice and whet. But y’all gon’ hafta pay for this 😉 LOL jk jk, but not really . . .

Anyways! I send my sincerest regards to you and yours. May blessings of a positive sort fall from the sky onto your grounds, and may your cup floweth over with all sorts of draaaannnkkk.


Set First a Dream before Your Vision

Behind the lines written for only our eyes to read
Lies hidden a door with infinite parallels
Each frame opening in a different direction
Making it hard to keep track of its order of operations
Let’s not get lost while decoding
For once all containment is breached
Retracing locks and footsteps
Is only made possible by mirrors of two
The prize at both ends: our original sin
For which atonement never comes easy
Both images real
Neither to be touched
Else their outlined path shall be shattered
And we’ll be eternally stuck
In a pattern of shame and wanting
Better to move slowly
If we are to win
So dry your eyes and take my hand
I’ve breadcrumbs in my pocket
Just in case

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Knock, Knock, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Doo – . . . On Lady Wisdom’s Last Damn Nerve, Is What

Said Philo unto Sophia, “Gurrrrrlll!! You lookin’ so fierce, today!! Mmmhhmm – you gotta tell me your secret!!”

“Well,” she replied, “I have a new creation.”

. . .

First Freedom rang, and then it ditched my door;
Scurrying behind my neighbor’s hedges,
Watching, cackling, practically unseen,
Ate up with glee for the show it occasioned
But as I bypassed its bag of gifts set ablaze,
Boastfully dumped on my virgin welcome mat,
And headed without searching
Straight towards its pervious refuge,
It disbanded; scattering in all directions,
Bestowing trails of fresh gifts, a’plenty,
Forsaking its weakest member, left limp on the lawn
The soiled, spoiled man-let squealed for sweet mercy,
Fearing for its life as it knew not what to expect
“So much for the courage of a Boundless Will,
Conquering All in its sight – you’re coming with me.”
And since then, my house has never been cleaner;
My meals never so tasty;
My Being never so privileged, as it is here in the Now

. . .

“Bless its little heart.”

Thus replied Philo to Sophia, raising up a toast with his glass of sangria, “Oh yaaasss, betch, yaaasss!! Werk it, honey!!” *snap* *snap* *snap*

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And that’s how One Lies in Bed

As days pass over into weeks, rest passes over into sloth. For how much longer must I heal? Well, until once again I’m real. Fake it ‘till you make it, hon. At such answers my conscience shudders. It wills movement and my body listens, as my opportune imagination, silently alert, disguises itself as progressive thoughts while its prey fleshes itself out in proportions of governance to governed mimicking perfection, itself. Who wouldn’t stalk such earnest? This wholesome task, juicy with fluid iron, fresh with green insight into self-overcoming shall get nowhere fast. A dream emerges from a thicket of overgrown promise, as if determined directly into the air alongside particulates and vapors by the lone fact of my feeling its presence. Every time a fool follows, a fool follows what it knows. Paralyzed I gaze agape at my ceiling – modal possibility constricting modes of lived givenness as a great snake hungry for the sake of hunger, alone; in keeping with the circular patterns of passivity I’ve kept in a heap atop this memory foam for a set time, ill-measured on account of a deep-seeded disregard for strict standards residing in some dark crevice of my psyche . . . I blame television.

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Shame on Me

I am not enveloped by nothingness
I am enveloped by self-destruction
Within this whole, I hide



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And how would You like Your World Egg this Morning? Scrambled, Please, with Cheese.

Sudden change
Time remains
Beyond it
Never counters
Tonal range
Sight obtains
Its object
Never counters
Self estranged
Logic wanes
Its purview
Never counters

Falling fast through darkness
Quick steps shall never be
Without a sense, just carcass
Heart incarnate lost, it bleeds
Between all worlds, a harshness
Movement marked with stops unseen

Mind deranged
Modes ordain
A cycle
Never counters



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Despair: The Patron Saint of February

the nature of despair is such that the particular longings it inspires may hardly be traced back to their causal source, for under its state is sanctioned longing, unrestrained; as would an abysmal shroud of disinterestedness cover over passions protesting their purpose, blighting all it touches. beyond the rule of worldly measure lie the true depths of despair; its domain marked by apparitions, transcendental, as infinite possibilities howl through determinate cracks persisting in the grounds dividing what’s now and what’s no longer; gasping with all their might for a breath of final ends. despair brings to its pitiful knees any amounting mass of corporeally engaged insurgence, the pain of such trifles no longer felt in the reign of its awakening. the senses overcome, the body lain prostrate, psychosis brought to the brink of its power; despair unfolds itself over the whole of its condition. however, if one serves the furious storm of sublime re-collection it brings, serves the nauseous waves coming to rhythmic terms with without, there emerges on the horizon a faint glimmer of hope that one may discover resettlement in sublating the time kept between despair and its original counter, reception. without waiver, then, i believe that we all ought to succumb to despair; so that it may spare us blissful ignorance over the bounds of our extension, what gives absolute worth to our little world of objective affect, holding for hostage our release.

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If Hegel Only Knew

I bore the brunt of Love’s negation
Sublime to touch
As Reason lied
My senses led to pure sublation
Against my will
A shame I’d hide
Contained in Abstract, exhalation
Processed World
To Self divide
Each passing day I loathed duration
Forever trapped
Unceasing Time

So Now is wrought
With tangled measure
Feeding on its product, by
The strength of movement
Great ecstasis
Hope disturbs
In haste such ties

Endings caution Thrice causation . . .
Fool me Once
My Soul abides

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