Licing Home , Final

Home is ambivalent agony of always endingupalone,
lion's share of my life in such ambivaliving 
spent shunning, shadowstriped w/ solitude 
of tired tiger cadging a cage.
But tho' animal me had misgivings, 
it must have felt l/ home
if home is defined by how many times you return,
wherever you may roam. Show me t/ way to go home,
I'm tired & I wanna go to bed
alone in ambivalent agony.

My unheimlich f/ever home 
is a permanent pearlescent adolescence.
Opaque to myself, a reflection only of t/ present,
l/ a fleshwound of mythic marble. 
I read 'Borderline adolescent' is a tautology;
no wonder being needy gets so boring,
all apologies f/ vicious flatline circumflumping
t/ monotonous circle from
overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens
to this Borderline 37olescent.
Assentaneous bittersweetness my last deserter.

Enough oddbouts of messy ire 
complex to oversimplify infallibility 
as extension of aloofness,
telling a few home aloofs 
is rush of Unabomber smugness
at my own deviant basketmaking 
a.k.a. poorman's genius. Clichéd, 
but an artist is a spiritual exile
a.k.a. richman's homelessness.
An omnicidal somebody w/  bespoke nuke
in a hollow copy of Walter Mitty's 
hollow 'Collected Poems'
- nothing them genius weenies duz really pleases us,
& vice versa we earth gods amongst you derfwads.
F/ what abode of hip food & humble ideas could rival 
t/ visceral crystalclear unheimlich adolescent 
opacity of eternal ambivaliving 
in a righteously paranoic Present?
All heres & all nows unified, underpinned & 
undermined by t/ constantfeeling 
some known unknown is very very wrong.
So persistant 1/2  t/ feeling 
is feeling verymuch at home w/ this.
'Swhy suicidalideation always seemed such a 1/2way house,
tho' no1 can really live on t/ middle of a busy bridge.

But it surprises me how anyone can call anywhere home,
t/ universe being profoundly plummeting 
pulverised fieryfroze matter,
just plummeting & scuffing & pulverising & fusing  
w/ other fieryfroze matter,
islands of conflagration
in an ocean of calignosity 
until all t/ homefires 
of Nature's H-bombs 
fade out, gargantuanly, to 
t/ Grim Reaper covering Gloria Gaynor a capella f/ever.
Our peeling Nikes peeking out 
of a panther pelt shroud, peeled from a panther 
as big as t/ Guntz (including t/ non-baryonic 
schmutz). Homeless, but as its hangdog furniture, 
t/ future's my retainer as I mature 
against my better judgement.
Roots always get t/ better.

But I would fall into your arms, Dark Cow,
l/ profoundly plummeting, pulverised fieryfroze matter
- go on, let my cuddle scuff you, 
wipe out your comfortzone of tyrannosaurs.
1 can stay at home too long, you know.
As far as concepts & their tails go, 
I'm more of a feeder than a finisher,
so I'll fill my writingboots, biro my toes,
by feeding home's humble ideal:
home is where we're more furniture than feature,
& neither dimmed nor bright lites can be home's diminisher.

Hi [insert cat's name here], I'm home!