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From the Tundra...

Let the water flow.

By PhrAustie HusePublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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The Anvil which gives the Mountain it's name

From the Tundra, comes forth the Phraust. Pernicious and tenaciously clinging to the notion the ocean knows notions of potions for peace. This isn't the vision revision decision for incisions in rotations for insatiable palatable creations to consume...I'll never ever forever sever the reaming dreams of creaming seams on the dotted rotting lines confined to the mind. No, I'm not knowing the growing of gnomes in Nome; why how could you? These are the frothy lichen drenched stones caught in the endless sea of sun dried red and orange mixing an infinite rage of earth on bones. I'm the loving result of two warring ideologies droning on opposed in rows like it's the civil war America never left. This isn't the best of the test but a mind at rest; incensed, we sense, the Tundra howls for more galore. As the berries carry life amidst the strife rife with variation, let the water flow.

Ageless in the sun, worries melting on, yet nothing can feel quite like the end of winter on the birth of spring. Waging wagging tagging looping troops of baboons in suits matching the cards in the hands of madmen, I’ll always wonder what wandering takes yet never gives. The pussy willows wallow in shallow streams teaming with the bubbling brooks crooks wish to the sink their pans in vain for veins of gold. I’m of the other persuasion, looking quite asian, but I’m sorry, you couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m brown like the sound of the earthy “Om” on the nature’s nether lips. Creeping right along, like the swallows death song, the chirping burps smelling like mosquitos on a fine feline June evening. These notions on the oceans, reflecting fire in your eyes, give cause for a season. The season is a reason, a reason to be proud. The land is stranded with a man and a beast. As we said before, the snow doth snore, let the water flow.

We’re here in fear the Tundra melts its belts of frozen methane gas. In these infectious bubbling messes of history’s evidence, how do we explain the truth? Like a scientist pissed his wrists are broken with token revelry, it’s high time the crime scene bleed with glee. I’m just a shadow of a hologram inside a space time continuum but don’t you dare call me a bum, I work for what my bones carry true. I’m off the meds and fully loaded, this direction erected selected and tested like “why I oughta show you a thing or blue!” My body quakes and writhes as a dairygold can sunrise captures the day and still we’re here and the water still flows.

In this vast expanse of man-less land, I’m happy as a pie in pie heaven. Why, what for we’ve got these gracious spacious looky loos and what have yous, hell, I think it’d be the best place for a space. I’d go for days on rays with these stormy ways. It’s what those wayward Christians would say is “All the land we need to transform our lives thanks you to JC!” And the bones to pick begin! And still they ask us, “Where does your water flow?”

I don’t know about the stone that’s grown looking like a heart attack on crack with cracking craggling vines on tines with this expression of rotting food. I’m just a critter going hither and thither waiting, anticipating, just when I can get mine. As the fox watches the man and the bear attempt to fight over there, this reindeer doesn’t know what’s coming. Attatanuqpuq I thank you for this our daily struggle the string on through in this our wandering pandering wiccan Way. And still I ask you...from the Tundra comes the Phraust...let the water flow!

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

PhrAustie Huse

I’m a village reared college educated fool with a zest for life. Bi-Racial bridge piece feeling like the stone the Builder refused.

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