Tickle the trickling, pickling rot
mindlessly; or else solder –with fodder– that clot
— or let bleed, and proceed to relieve the disease
by attention, so end the well-pensioned distention
you’ve cuddled with smuggled-in mud.
Upstairs is the heat, with its broken machines,
where they labor in acrid and humid cubbies,
enslaven to urgencies, admins to please,
all eyes flicker down: one-way glass: no release.
Under basement beneath is the coolness, relief;
slick the swarming earth-sod, ground by tentacle roots
at midnight: animate, ride the respirants, heave
fearlessly, and dig deeper for motilant truth.
Into the Clarities 
I enjoyed the sound devices in this poem as I read it out loud! Fun.
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Thank you, Carla! I do love the sensuousness of words, and what that communicates.
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Reblogged this on Kindra M. Austin and commented:
Gregory Stackpole slays.
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Reblogging is probably the ultimate flattery. :-)
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<3
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Don’t you just love the opportunity to write “chth” in sequence? I believe that may be a genetic inheritance among the Welsh. Now if you could just work in Aberystwyth or Cowperthwaite…
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I can’t _make_ half of the Welsh sounds, as I discovered, so I settle for lesser pleasures like “chth”.
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;-)
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Just stumbled on this. It’s golden.
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Thank you! So glad it resonated.
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