Echoing Mimsies

I desperately crave a glimpse of limping muse. :[   Just some leftovers to try to spring myself into creativity. meh. Mimsy as in the nonce word combining both miserable and flimsy; not as in the slang word vagina. :) pretty sure I misused it in the title, but whatever; it's a made-up word. I can misuse it if I want. Enjoy (grumble, grumble...math; grumble, grumble...French-and-Indian War)



Dear wanderlust,
I feel the inchoation
of ten-thousand tongues
sizzle-snapping against my ricocheting arms.
I wind up anti-clockwise,
bowing belly-up, head arching to
see what lays beyond the unseen
and the retrospective-easel of consequence.
15 particles of hair threaten to dangle past
the asymptote - delicate Proclamation Line - and
I think I may finally get it
Mr. Gray; {y does not exactly equal wonderful} and
{x is not always the decimation of tides.}
Sometimes the domain crosses the range,
and there are implications,
exclamations, and interpretations
of truth.
F(x) marks the spot where you will
not find me.

Crickets play hexachords on tinder-tender
hips, chirruping outside my shutter-slit eyes,
and sometimes in the baking heat of nightmare,
I beg them: slower, slower. Make the night
lag a little longer through
daybreak.
I would chime in, but it appears I am musty;
rat-a-tat-tatting on wood-paneling,
squeaking and chipping pieces of aperture
with each skippity-skip-rustle breath.
In the deep of morning, it is a bagpipe that
is resonating in my organs, flutes sounding;
on lazy days, the ivy-vines
can be seen metastasizing upon
the very skin I trapeze.
Does this mean I'm lonely?

Dear carpet-cluster,
I thrust the throttle forward
and fell down because I lost the acceleration
in my knees.
This moment is a horrid one
because I cannot seem to
collapse my backwards-elbows
like a tent, shins shunting into vinyl
bags for storage. Understand, I need every brittle pinion,
because I was born four teeth past telling and
four bones short of strong.
The wind can blast me cerebrum-down
or sunny-side-up and it won't matter,
because fingers have
twinkle-twisted me
asunder.
There isn't any room for
ruminations or ripened spiders
in my bedazzled sleeves.
I am walking icy-hot on coals
of disaster, and my ear-canals are telling me
westward
is where home has blown.

Glassy windows crack open enough for
air to circulate but not to my
delight, as manuscripts are
often unnumbered and torn from my hand
in a tornado of analytical-disintegration.

Between forest-fires and lackadaisical
leaves, I clickity-clack these words onto
the underbellies of trees, scrounging around for
leftovers to nuke and, hopefully,
send me whip-lashing back to originality,
because most of what I have seen
is plain ignorance and rusty inference.
I want something luscious and drenched
in liberties; tempestuous and total.
Does this mean I'm undeserving?