Yes, there will be blog…

Good name for a blog, I think. As the Ale 81 Inn proceeds through its evolution Yes, there will be blog… will remain as the free, public facing side of the site. Comments are encouraged and welcomed, though they may not always be answered. Various contributors will appear on this blog, identified either by the color of text or with an icon corresponding to the writer. Black text for Tom Darby,  blue text for Celestial Wilde and green text for Ford Wenty. Icons will be added later.

What are we about?  Well… about anything, really. To elaborate a bit further upon the tag line on our home page we are:

An eclectic collection of trivia, musings and free range lunacy. There may be blood, very loud music, the consumption of illicit substances and on Wednesdays there is about a 60% chance of sexual deviancy. (80% if the fair is in town)

Sound like fun? Stick around, things could get interesting.

 

Nightmares and fantasies

The fevered dreams of our childhood

that we should hear the siren’s wail

Underground to waste

or remain to perish

Maybe fight on in a leftover world

Two flavors in the cupboard

Constant fear

or blissful ignorance

Grown up, chose the latter

aided with poisons of choice

The giant hotplate

for a nation of frogs

Graduated from apocalyptic nightmare

to an extinction fantasy

 

Clowns march on

Who will play this theater now?

The stage for all reality debased

We’re left wondering how

to get there, all signs defaced

Follow the march of circus clowns

Disproven theories like confetti strewn

No longer can they mask their frowns

at questions they find jejeune

Blood and money the price of admission

The tenets of a creed unkempt

All non-believers face derision

Heretics deserving only contempt

For they see the facade is cracking

Not money, only truth is lacking

And still the clowns march on

Only clay

Plum and fuchsia blossoms

all fallen now

Dead and brown in undergrowth

Spark of light

lit the fuse

Green tides follow

ungrateful, unknowing

from whence they’ve been wrought

When two fortnights have passed

the waves recede

Their supple skin to wither

shed to the earth

Languish in the damp

food for springtime spores

Or burn upon pyres

an offering

to unnamed gods

What would we be

to shed our own with such ease

No ash, no dust, only clay

A postcard from the solstice

Sunlight glistens upon velvet

hairs upon the stalks

They bend at the weight

of pods suspended

In shadows of their sisters

Cosmos blossom, pink, orange, red

They sway together, seduced

by the west wind’s gentle kiss

Their afternoons eternities

Timeless while time runs out

Swimming in a sea of green

with amber, scarlet, violet

in field and glade

sun or shade

Upon grass oceans

Beneath woodland canopies gracious

The whitetail’s abode

this land of splendor

A creature only food

for beasts no less noble

While we assail ourselves

bludgeon our bodies

with concrete, steel, light and sound

Kill ourselves slowly

trying to recreate what was ours

Til we pass to no greater purpose

We’re not even meat

The finish line

The lights blink

Suddenly I itch all over

It’s a phase, it passes

The sedation takes hold

and just for a time

the crushing noise abated

Only my own sick thoughts

and the ringing in my ears

to console me

As I am awarded

Condemnation

Lacks presentation

Morose lamentations

of all the best intentions

No hoary thunderer

or sunny cosmic muffin

greets you at the finish to say

Oh, they meant well

Wait… what? Vol. 29

These fucking emojis are going to become our hieroglyphics.  Some day, centuries from now, some unfortunate well digger is going to strike some of our sad remains. They’ll be the remnants of a species left with stunted speech through their descent into irrelevance. They’ll puzzle this curiosity and wonder, in whatever tongue they understand, and say “What the fuck was wrong with these people?”