Captain O'Reilly and the Blackbeard Brigade

In the palms of their frozen, shaking hands,
a carefully placed rifle aims
at the backs of their throats
swollen shut by moldy bread and custard,
as they muster up the courage to attack
with arms flailing, with guns raised,
entering into the last stage
to make their final keep-
to prove the majesty of heavenly miracles
and
storm
that
beach.

and enter into the tunnel of tomorrow,
through the eyes of their ragged shoes,

the look of warning reflected
in the whites of the eyes of who
are the needles with the threads tightly woven
soaked with dyes an odd shade and hue,
leaking over
every line,
every stitch,
and every groove.

in step, in beat- they move-

onward across the snows of the departed,
to finally conquer and defeat
while vengeful units keep
on changing into possibilities
trapped forever in decoration and bloom
ready to bare the fruit,
until infinity, they knew,
they could never shy away or retreat.

No, there was but one option,
they must
storm
that
beach.

As circulating and rippling demagogues of disfavor,
they are tattooed by the slaves of cheap labor,
creations that only he can remove
by witchcraft and a bloody mix of runes,
ancient relics of their past glories that
only the weakness of the willing can savor with haste,

then prune with propaganda and cartoons of extreme distaste
assimilated from the center
of the republic's ripe peach, as
someone screams out to,

"move out and never trust the peace!"

it's the Captain,
he's mumbling something while
bullets become clouds of bees
moving their stingers
along his windpipe
whizzing closely by his skull,
but there was only one thing he
seems to be able to speak,

"we gotta keep on until
tomorrow is forever captured,
we gotta storm that beach!"

However, with every reoccurring episode,
their brethren disappeared
one by one
gun by gun

with the noon coming and going

sun by sun
the cry of the last chicken hawk
run by run

the bombs mirroring a mood ring
changin' all types of colors
as in the throes of their last gasp
they look upward to reach
for all eternity

until they finally
storm that beach.

Image for the poem Fencer's Foil and the Mystery of the Galactic Eyes

A Note from the Author


i've only wanted
for the longest time to say
something that you would see
something that you would read
and see
with your mind the things
coming out of these fingertips

of how badly
i want you to connect with

my relentless metaphor and dreams
about how i want you to see into my heart

circling around
my pulsating atria
spreading their mouths,
parting like the Red Sea,
yearning more for sustenance,
more plasma,

so
how about you put down that magazine, man
and
how about

we

mix ours
let's meld as
one in expression
like music raging,
pulsating through
your rib cage
as you jump onto the stage
and move and move your face
your arms
your body

let's go ahead
right now
and see the importance
of every living thing
the people filling the halls
the person sitting right next to you
even now

these are some my feelings
lingering in my mind while i write
in detail and bizarre stories
about strange things
of no real significance

these are the points that are
bottled up in images
in description
in redundancy
and scattered thought

this is what i feel for this art
this is what i feel for you

open up and see

and move with me

to the

rhythm

as we sway
as we play
old guitars and shuffle
onto the sand

like when i saw these two African men
play in their homeland spreading
an idea of what this world could be
if we could only believe in our dreams,
and share our experiences and sorrows

and so on and so forth

basically, it is there
where i still remain
basking in the reality,
in the courage to face
fears, adversity, challenges, and draw strength
from the well of the human spirit.

this is what i felt,

and so i now share it with you.

Thanks for reading-

Your Humble Author,

Curt Allday

The Haunting of Hippie Hill


It was in the color of her eyes
the way she held her gaze to the sky
that had me going on

from day

number

one.

With the sun coming over our backs,
our shadows made railroad tracks
as we kindly let the trains
know that

the remains of the day were to be extended;
that's not to say this was ever
intended to be a brisk good-bye.


"Listen to the waves in my voice,
and do not stop, come on, make the proper choice to
move along, just chug on by!

Leave us here, my friend,

so that at least
we may begin to
see these inspired fellows
finish their

incredible,

pulsating,

creation."

Detective Duke meets the Minions of Minos

the moon was coming over the mountains
accompanied by the shattering of the hill tops
by the thickening thunders
pressing all against
your psyche
as you became me
and we rode together
we moved against the back
of that dash board
and laid the stores
of villagers
onto their backs
then settled you
onto yours

the surest of things
was that we were never meant
to make it out of their alive
anyway
because each lead
led to some obscure, ancient village

and there was only
another mystery upon mystery
laid upon
every discovery
to uncover
to forge into another
pattern
and labrinyth with
no absolute way out
but subsequent
corners, where
where we would rendevous
with some other eye opening
clue
another revelation
meant to lead us further and further
to pull off
mask upon mask
hero to villain

all the same

all villains

the same men all inside
the same men all alive
and peddling their souls
for facades
so they could live on
within the center of your dreams
exposing their hidden agendas would mean
nothing more than
hitting the end but
not having the
the savior there
to save us all

from the collapsing bridge
the fiery helicopter
hitting the ridge
hidden deep within
your eyes
lying there
in disguise
a quiet pond, its mist
sprinkling over the sunken skyline
with this
decaffeinated dusk
speeding towards us
as we unravel
until we get tired
ready to give up and go,
my god, for oh so

very, very long

you looked at me
and i looked at you
and we simply set down
with our hands
one on one
trading the outward
for the inward,
daughter for son,
knowin we'll be

doin this instead.

moving inside one another, while

taking the time to just breathe out

all the maps
all the answers

every last key

artwork for the book in progress:

Work in Progress


before he knew what hit him, it went for him, as he lie asleep in his midtown, mission in law. this was the life it has chosen for itself, from all the millions of things this thing could be doin', all the blow he could have been snortin' out in hollywood on the set for his favorite band's break out music video, instead he was there. crawlin like a creepy crawler, rem

The Mystery of Minnie

The crowd was nothing more than an unshakable stare
like a bear with teeth
foamy and barren
rearing to go and get out of this
mixup of who's in the know
who, in the hell, is going to
show all the blow

when she left it out
on the tabletops out
pops the bellies of
her somewhat able bodied
well studied
superior officers
twisting the galaxy up
between
their fingertips and toes
lingering among her lips of magesty
and woe is she
curling her e's
with laughter

simply a reflex, she was
moving to the changes in wavelengths
the length of time
it took to spin the plastic
around the pin of
Minnie's saturn
shaped, swirlin'
tape player

she decides to
savor the moment
and slurp up
the proverbial
marrow from the very
origins of her bones

grows, blossoms
all knowledge

bites into the apple

until the commotion
arose from the dead
and scattered
mad hatters
dashin' and flashin'
badges of identification
nation to nation
a milky way of free form
space travel

picking through
doo dads and gadgets, there's
a strange noise coming from
their ships'
Baydoor control keys

"Look," she says,

"A galaxy
waiting
for me to
begin, to
shine again,

from beyond the winds
of their nuclear planned
world war three
type of messed
up universe
destroying
type of gig."

similar to the ancient
political party and hair pieces
called Wigs, her bosses erupted
from their buffet
of gluttony and pastry tossing

to see her enveloped
in magic and flaming
with red green and gold

with her pen all scribbling
onto a choclate covered pad

writing about how
she was going to implode
all the evils they been
perpetuatin'
while they been burnin' holesbr> into their
noses

or so she goes on to say
but either way, whatever way,
her contributions will be remembered
not by her truculance
but for her icy hands,
soon discovered drifting,
with her cold, stern body,
written on both of them,

"She wanted a rebellion,

well, by God, she got one."

The Secret of the Greenback Broche

"It seems the times have changed."

the raspy voice of this gypsy
echoes
bellows
but nothing
moves from his mouth there
quivering. sitting still
while
both eyes rotate
in their sockets
glossy, ragged
frozen but betrothed
by the mosquito
repelling
candle

he seems to be
remembering
something
anything
to make you feel
for a second as if
he is only
whispering

to you

but he can only be
speaking

to everyone
to everything

each syllable and phrase
pulsating through
space into your mind
disrupting the
most heinous of thoughts
waiting only to prevent
a progression

"afterall," he says, "it is the time to
stand fast."

the wrinkled coats
and glittering jewels
become mist
fog
blackened like the most fresh
crop of corn on the morning

mixing, diffusing

the faint, scent of roasting
boiling to the surface

you are awakened
the coffee brewing
the paper waiting to be read

the mystery hanging on you
like an emerald colored broche

with your head held high,
the new day awaits, yet
lingering only in the shadows

Highway Crucifixions and the Lazy Eyed Mystic

With hands outstretched
i'm content to let
this fresh meat
spoil in your sunflower
colored cupboard,
with its doors always closed
under the watch of your nose
and your
wandering sinister
eye,
smiling,
holding
enjoying glasses of gin with
a shit-eating grin,

why pin the doors down, are they never meant to be opened?

Is there something you don't want me to see
as you keep
up these
appearances, always impeding
my progress
the progress to move on
from your kitchen
into your bandaged
bedroom with its clandestine
doors and cracked mirrors
mystically and mysteriously
locked up by fledgling boards
and age old, masking tape

yet i cannot
and you cannot
and we cannot do
so
we then get
so
caught up and strung up along
fictitious Roman highways
with cord cutting through
cord of flimsy vasculature

as we endure the high noon heat
hitting the newly paved streets
boiling our bones
with feats of irrelevant
speech
unable to turn back the clock
as time matures
and we have no lungs left,
they're bleached
by our troubled stories
unable to breathe,

but if only
to expire?

and so i retire back to my
original position,
my old stomping ground, while
you gather your strength
to stand up
to
the stench of your decaying
produce and deli meats

with the opaque kitchen door
only a vague trace of memory,

the winds pick it up
and shake it up
that institution as its
rather asinine demeanor
and condescending staff

stains and greys

like old transistor radios
leaving me altogether crushed.

i am so very crushed

but somehow I venture outside myself
and I see me there,
blowing in the wind,
a leaf meant to sour and fall
but all in all
I'm just simply a pine
ever to stay,
ever to needle its way
into the sides of another
scavenger.

as i venture north,
my head remains limp,
my arms lifeless,
my face pushed back,
my hairline receding
as I fly tied down
by waves of torrent breezes
freezing me in space and time

hanging above your ancient arts
and Babylon,
i learn nothing
i do nothing
i simply suffer in absurdity

with only pennies

in my pockets

i stand down and give in

to wind

and offer you

everything

Fencer's Foil and the Mystery of the Galactic Eyes

the memories were all there
but he could not pry
out anything but galaxies
blooming from the center of his
chest
popping pollen
pulling and unraveling
a fountain of stars
erupting over the moors
of some english town
hovering with
a deep, foggy mist
dripping into and over
the pupils of her eyes
as they are pierced like
fencers pushing their foils
with toils of another rhythm
growing over each word
he put hastly
to the page
to engage you gotta know how to
wage a consistent type of war
where the chips stand
for more than good and evil
the kind of fright he'd have
if they simply built over the house
he lived in as a kid

whose eyelids
are now fluttering again
soaring through his retinas
leaping from man to woman
woman to man
making her soul sizzle like
burning paper
the burning visage
of the world's most fearsome
enemy
the pale white ghost
a host of other problems
coalesced and eclipsing
a moon
the very one you see up there in
the sky

because the hour is not nigh
it is distant
in the futures hanging like
vines from trees
in Atlanta's Southern grace
whose face is painted white
with black lipstick licking
like lizards as they burst
from each arm
of the damsel in distress
whose tresses are flowing
over her shoulders

as she lets him take
advantage of that moment in time

yet again

it is frightening
as their TV fizzeles in and out
in the dimly lit living room
where Kona whines, wagging its tail
lulling them both to sleep
as they lie back
in the cofines of their coffins, their
hourglasses

which are not only fading but half full
moving in reverse, across the room
back into their hands

Introduction

This is a mini project. I am capturing epic, fanatasy/horror children mystery inspired tales exploring the issues of crossroads as when you speak about a crossroads, doesn't it always feel like some apocalyptic future? This is grazing that surface with purpose. This is a mini book, probably with around 10 poems.

Nothing big, but I'll be keeping them here. I am gathering short story ideas for my other project, [g]eppetto [G}estapo, which largely music based but using the ideas, short stories, and poems to help inspire music or be inspired BY music.

This is neither. It is simply a poetic piece.

So let's see where we can go shall we? Because this whole thing, the world, life, is about bettering oneself, thinking, loving, sharing, learning from diversity.

Now on with the complete and utter insanity.