When Charlotte Corday came to Paris,
She had only one thing on her mind:
To rid the world of Jean Paul Marat--
The veritable scourge of humankind.

Leaning toward the moderate Girondins,
Corday despised the Jacobin stance
Of killing opposers to the Revolution
And terrorizing the people of France.

Marat incited the Jacobin furor
With his deeply radical point of view.
Corday also blamed him for causing
The September Massacres of '92.

After journeying to Paris from Caen,
She found a shop, purchased a knife,
Wrote an address to the "friends of peace,"
And then set out to take Marat's life.

Imagine Marat in his bathtub writing--
It seems an awkward position to be in
When seeing guests, but Marat suffered
From horrible sores all over his skin.

Corday spoke of a possible uprising
And provided names at Marat's request.
Then she took out a six-inch blade
And plunged it into the "monster's" chest.

After Corday was tried and sentenced,
She stirred up some attention when
She asked to have her portrait painted.
(They milked the media way back then!)

Marat's body was marched through the streets
While Charlotte Corday lost her head.
HE became the martyr, which caused
More innocent blood to be shed.

She said she killed ONE to save a THOUSAND.
Co-conspirators? They never found any.
She took matters into her own hands;
But her plan backfired--as do many.

To act or not to act is the question;
There always will be decisions to make.
Remember, consequences will follow
Whatever course of action we take.

- by Bob B

“i’m done with furries”


i.
i can’t dream your dreams,
but you’ve told me about them.

you wear an owl mask
shaped by fists and transgression;
a laceration splits your side
from a skin split
to your rib splits.

your love,
Bill Clinton or Donkey Kong
(whoever populates your thoughts),
crack your bare skin
until makeup
leaks out of your pores.

you dream of emulating art;
O hanging from a ceiling claw,
clicking heels against drywall
until leg muscles give up
and her diaphragm accordions close.

but who is your sculptor?
who is your artist?

ii.
alas, i am only
a paper mache bird.

i flinch when it rains,
i flinch when i move;
my paper skin
could cave in
from lip crack to *** crack.

(i hate
Inside Out.
but, i’ve only watched it once,
and i’ve been told
my eyes would adjust
on the second viewing.)

i dream of emulating art;
Marat in an ice bath,
tragedy and love and death
captured
without conflict.

but who is my muse?
who won’t break my bones?


iii.
you don’t know my dreams either,
but we could dream together.

two reveries in polyphony
of an owl and bird *******,
making love
before they
make art.

our love
is ******* weird;
a childhood seesaw
we’re trying to
find the perfect balance
to with our weight.

we dream different things;
**** fantasies and intimate kissing,
but that doesn’t matter.
at this point in two years,
we can see through each other.

i can’t make art without you.

you aren’t done with furries.