Mt. Snoring

I wrote this while in a kind of weird state of mind. It either turned out okay or it’s complete garbage. I haven’t made up my mind yet.

Scott McMountainclimber

snowy mountain
Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

All I want in the world is whatever I want in the world.

I want the freedom and creativity to write rhymes

That don’t rhyme and stories without glory.

I want to wake up in the morning

And say that no one is boring

Because when people are boring

It’s like Elon Musk is boring

A hole in my head the size of a make-believe mountain

Named Mt. Snoring,

Where every Wednesday at 9:23 his sleep apnea machine breaks

And his snore wakes

A village and stirs an entire lake

Made of the most decadent pie

You’ve ever had in your life, one to

Die for. I want to wake up and smell the roses

With my nose’s

Holes instead of the twists and bends when I use three hoses.

I want my poetry to have such little consistency that the free-form

Feels like chloroform

On a most fragile mind.

Nothing makes sense, and something is wrong, but in the end, this poem is about Mt. Snoring and the people it’s boring. This isn’t a poem. It’s fucking garbage. It has no place here. The world is boring… and so is life.

Childhood whimsy is the messiah because when it doesn’t make sense, it’s fun. It’s stupid. It’s pointless. It’s everything that it’s meant to be.

Nothing Makes Sense Except for a Dollar

“Reading this one gave me a pretty good understanding of what it feels like to have a stroke.” – Kyle

Scott McShouldn’titbespelledcents

Do you hear the sounds? The way the orchestra plays in the back of your mind is like a train smashing into the side of your car. The way the notes tickle your inner ear, making you dizzy to the point of nausea. It’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t figure out what.

The piano is thumping, and the keys of the drums are ringing. I can hear the way that the bass drum thuds on the strings. My violin sounds like a flute and the trumpet sounds like an oboe. I don’t know what it means but the confusion feels like ecstasy. The way the dancers sing, and the choirs slide around the ballroom. It all makes sense but it’s all so wrong.

feet legs animal farm
Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

Climb to see higher and understand the room. The room is on fire, but the furnace is an icebox. The freezer is a chair and the meats are on the sofa. People are ablaze, but the pool is full of snow. The oil below is lit but water spews like a geyser. The trombonist is in a bathrobe while the Tibetan monk is in the shower. Nothing makes sense except for a dollar, but my wallet is full of kittens, not currency.

The meat stands from the sofas and dances with the monks. The steps keep going on and on, ever reaching and fruitful. The banister’s are carrots and the stairs are hermit crabs. The room is confusing and the writing on the walls is moving like ants. The words move to spell out what you’re thinking, but you don’t understand your own thoughts. The bass drum play’s Clare de Lune and the piano plays a jazzy hi-hat.

The stairs disappear but they still exist. Nothing is true, but all is accurate. I step higher until the beauty rips me down from my pedestal. I am the flower while the petals are the confused. They fall one at a time. They love me. They love me not. They love me. They love me not. They love me. The money in my wallet purrs like a jet plane’s engine and the kittens play with the dancing choirs which were nothing but yarn.