The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Hypertrophic

Atom bombs fall yet grass grows
sunflowers we all pan rubbernecking
corpuscles full of constellations
discordant spheres photographing 
the yellow-shift of afterimages
of skeletons stenciled on buildingside
and buttercups with lightning bugs 
the July hum of macroorganisms howling
on the backside of leaves and blades
cracking the sternum of sternest stuff
flags beg for freedom to proliferate
into another 13 or 17 year horde
huns of ideologues honing the horrific,
too many voices fill my fabric 
prick my web into consternation
this shiver is no tickle but an 
unwanted molestation of my
unflinching ganymedes smile for
youth blossoms in ignorance
aquiver with nictitating fairytales
salivations of the breeder-brained
exudations of the chasubled
eulogizing the memorial valor of
bullies masked in virtue signals
their albed asses all aflamed and adirty.

Why do I spread my tendriled mind
like clouds burning over foreign soil
tearraining for every slight but my own
neckhairs hackled and bristling at the door
no wonder I wander afar so I may call
myself noble the unwanted gas of so
much churning, Joshua learning not to play*   *From WarGames
forgotten hermitage lost in the dark forest
where minions subsist on shadow kindnesses
hidden from the perimeters of patriotic brigades
whittling darwin's fish in the sandscape.

So bury your treasure while Alexandria burns
for Sauron's eye will turn to the low hanging
and scythe a new harvest with the industrious vigor
of blue-eyed bucks rutting for Valhalla-claim
the terror of lockstep leaving bridges asunder
an uncultured quake of the resonantly amateurish,
immaturish, unmaturated arrogance of emotional eunuchs
refusing to lift the burden of a hefty manhood
to protect more than themselves from the arid dustbowl
of their incessant failures to imagine or lean
into the sunshine of their legacy, begging for them
to reconsider and let their eyes adjust to the
untitillating hew of the humble furrow and whatever
daily bread may be leftover, unconquered by the
meek who did not ask to learn the wisdoms they breathe
yet still share their shirt with unfettered hospitality,
an unassuming hand held out offering a hearty brew
of unfiltered and undeserved trust and kind willingness
to raise barns and villages but never moated castles 
which may stand for a moment yet soon fall to 
kamikazi ninjas who harvest serpentheads to feed 
the illegitimately hungry, homeless, and hobbled 
whose soft grass was never meant to bloom into blades
until they are once again kneaded.
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©2025 Mark Daniel Milbocker  All rights reserved.