If you insist,
My favorite flower
is a deep purple iris.
If you insist,
there is nothing
I detest more than
If you insist,
I believe in memories and
if you must know,
I am afraid of you.
The look in your eye
is expressing need.
Red shoes. I also like those.
Don't buy them.
Spent part of my day
Attacking fire ant nests
I'm not a hater
But fire ants I detest
Hate bigots, too
GW, Cheney, and Rummy
And their ilk
I know, I know
Should kill them with kindness
But find it hard
To be kind to fire ants
What Mother Night bequeathes her child,
betwixt the scurrying, blind, and wild.
A sour child atop a throne of thorns,
with flashing eyes and gorgeous horns.
Alone, and anxious to rule the realm,
harness the power of moon, and tide;
but what is Lord of all that screams
without a tender, loving bride?
The creature searched, and scoured the earth
for the maiden full of mirth.
For she to accept him as her king,
and from the gardens his praises sing.
There, she lay, beneath the skies;
flowing hair, and curious eyes.
Keeping sacred the days of youth,
innocence, beauty, and untold truths.
He knew he wanted only this,
for him to treasure, only his.
But, lo, the sun did burn,
yet his nocturnal flesh did yearn
for her tender touch and kiss.
Oh! His heart would surely miss!
For he must wait till the moon is cast,
to take the damsel, safely, fast.
When she awoke beneath his gaze,
his heart and soul did catch ablaze.
She shook and gazed, her hands did shake;
seeing this, his heart did ache.
To have this treasure in his trove,
more sacred than the whitest dove.
"What is thine name?", he whispered calm,
then from her lips came like a psalm ,
"I am all that the sun doth shine, which calmest seas define divine.
I am a child of virgin spring, I am to be a mother of things...
now, tell me, beast, who hath taken me so,
will you ever let me go?"
The dark lord cackled, and kissed her hand...,
"No fairer queen in all the land!
My dear lady", spoke the king ,
"you seem to detest not a thing!
a heart of gold to match my own,
and venemous, lowly heart of stone.
So dear lady, daughter of day, stay beside me,
let us dance all time away!"
Now, the maiden did think twice,
she knew of shadow's fine device.
But the way he spoke of things,
of romance, longing, and of springs,
For he who feels, who loves, and dreams,
has some purity in his heart,
and knowing this she caressed his face,
and smile, a warm, long sigh,
"I belong to you alone, my Dark Lord of the Night.
Lead me to the rightful throne,
and banish thine light from being shone.
The end of youth, I give to you.
Carry this deed eternal through."
He shone, "And if thou maiden, feels alone
and lost all through and through,
Darkness is always be close behind
quietly watching you. "
It was the talk of many nations
the hunt and capture of Dr. Hawley Harvey Crippen
after the most disturbing of finds
confirmed a Jack the Ripper state of mind.
Time went swiftly past as the investigators delivered facts
and in the year of 1910, many cheered the guilty verdict on a fast track.
Cora Crippen, what little remained, laid to rest
along with failed dreams and life unseen: the murder all detest!
Yet as his capture made the waves, Belle Rose went upon the sea
from shore to shore, a singer reborn, shrouded in mystery.
She made the stage, the lady Belle, still without talent...some thought her vile...
and watched it all from afar, the Crippen trial.
Cold case files? Or just a hunch? Something didn't add up as it was.
Mrs. Cora Crippen, something with you wasn't what it was...
your husband deceitful, a consumate player
and then it would seem it wasn't you in his layer.
Did you don your stage name and flee your husband in dark's cover?
Were you very angry with your husband's long-standing lady lover?
Is this why you sat silent and watched his trial and death?
Well Belle Rose (Mrs. Cora Crippen) of all the facts, I wonder most at your last breath.
My heart is encased
Like it's been erased
Its locked away
Since that horrific day
I have the key
To set it free
Its like Pandora's box its a forbidding chest
Filled only with evil regret and detest
Should I use my this key to unlock it
Or maybe I should put it back where I got it
You say that you love me
But I know you're a liar
That word love that you say
It burns more than fire
I want to tell you about how I feel
Let you know that my hatred for you is real
You threw me away like trash in a can
So that is when my anger began
So when I think about how I arrived
That's when my feelings of detest come alive
You allowed me to move from place to place
I wish you could see the tears on my face
You ripped my heart out of my chest
Now all I feel is anger and detest
I wish you were feeling all of this pain
I'm hopeing that it will drive you insane
Every tear that I shed
It fills me with dread
It easy to say that to me you are dead
i feel a raging fire
inside my bitter soul
i feel a burning desire
inside this hollow hole
what i want and crave
is not what i possess
yet still i do behave
in a manner of address
to those i detest
and make myself feel blessed
people in the sky
going somewhere new
they will never know
who i am
or why i'm blue
they fly further away
each with their own problems
the then the plane hits the breaks
and they fall
descending to the earth
what some of them deserve
It all started with one small wave
That I have met you, my dear friend
Memories then started to engrave
When you came by; a real godsend.
I've never asked for someone better
My bland life you've put some color
Why would I even wish for a boyfriend,
When I've got you, my one true friend?
You’ve made me laugh, you’ve made me cry
Some nights we even got so high
I try my best, every free weekend I got
We would hang out anywhere and eat a lot.
Your surprises gave me much joy:
The little things I’m grateful for.
When I am down, you pick me up
Gave me the strength I need, my friend.
I may have wronged you in some way
The things I’ve done, the words I’ve said
Yet, you find ways for us to amend
I thank you, (and sorry for those!), my dear friend.
But then one day, something changed
You’ve stopped the laughter and the games
We weren’t the same as before,
Where is the “we” that we used to enjoy?
“Dear I’ve missed you, how are you now?”
Days have passed, waiting the reply
You’ve replied, alas! You said “ciao”,
I thought it’s “hello,” but it was “goodbye”.
No reasons, no closure, still you left
Mad as I am, I didn’t care
Bubbling up inside me, this bowl of hate
I didn’t want this, this bitter fate.
The flames died down, also did my fear
Of losing someone, who’s always been so dear
It took guts, but then I approached you
“I’m sorry”, I said, the tears weren’t few.
You said nothing, expression’s blank
Double-checked if this was a prank
Your lifeless face remained in sight
My dear friend had recently died.
I shouted your name, right out loud
Even said the things that we have vowed
It was too late, you’ve gone to rest
Myself I then began to detest.
I put all the blames on me
For being so weak and a crybaby
For not admitting my past mistakes;
To save our friendship, whatever it takes.
It was hard, but I accepted
A big part of me has already ended.
So, goodbye my dear, I’ll never forget
How I had someone like you, my one true friend.
The light of my life.
The poem of my tongue.
The fire of my chest.
The wind of my loins.
The hate I loathe.
The beauty I view.
My hesitant rainbow.
My fearless tears.
My coverlet and starlet;
my blanket and dainty amulet.
My distant promise and cautiousness;
but in all my darling; looking ever so stately-
yet not like yon faraway, morning dew.
The hands I adore;
the fingers I want to kiss.
The solitude I live in;
the fate I was born in.
A pair of eyes ever to me too divine,
A charm that loyally strikes, and glows and shines.
A lock of hair that petulantly sways and sweats.
A midday tale of love; as how it is mine,
a beauty that this world ensures,
but cannot adore.
Even the brisk turquoise sea
is ever less glossy than thy eyes,
for their calmness is still less harmful,
unlike unbending, thus insolent tides, at noon.
Ah, Matilda, thou art yet too graceful,
but tricky and indolent, as the puzzling moon!
Thy purity is like unseen smoke,
tearing the skies' linings like a fast rocket,
making me ever thirsty, turning my heart wet,
but still this attentive heart thou canst not provoke;
thou art a region too far from mine;
but still luck is in heart whose fate's in thine.
And as thou singeth a tone I liketh to sing
I cannot help but more admiring thee;
And as thou singeth it genuinely more,
thou capture all my breath and give it all a thrill;
for I realise then, that thou canst be stiff, as sandless shores;
but thy beauty canst so finely startle,
and whose startledness
But deadness, and ever desolation
are vividly clamouring in thy eyes;
Thou art but distinct, distinct indeed-from serenity;
for thou warble thyself, but gladly-away, from thy sullen reality.
Ah, Matilda, how canst a soul so comely
be hateful to fame, and dishonest just from its frame?
Matilda, to those merciless hearts indeed thou beareth no name;
Thou art a shame to their pride, and a stain to their bitterly fevered, sanity.
Yet still, thou art to innocent to understand which,
and in love naively, as thou just art, now-
with that feeble shadow of a pampered young fellow,
Whose stories are also mine,
for his father's money is donned,
and coined every day-by my servant's frail hands;
The sweat of my palms obey me in doing so-
I am my master's son's poor sailor,
and he his sole heir-and soon is to inherit
an indecent boat; full of roaming paths, doors, and locks
And at nights, costly drapery and jewels shall be planted in their hair-
yes, those beastly riches' necks, and skin fair,
And thou be their eternal seamstress,
weaving all those bare threads with thy hands-
ah, thy robust virgin hands,
whilst thy heart so dutifully levitating
about his false painting, and bent even more heartily, onto him.
Ah, 'tis indeed unfair, unfair, unfair-and so unfair!
For such a liar he was, and still is-
Once he was betrothed to a bitter, and uncivil Magdalene;
Uncivil so is she, prattling and bickering and prattling and bickering-
To our low-creature ears, as she once remarked,
She who basked in her own vague hilarity, and sedate glory
And so went on harshly unmolested by her vanity, and fallibility;
But sadly indeed, occupied with a great-not intellect,
As not sensible a person as she was;
At least until the winds knocked her haughty voices out-
and so then hovering stormy gales beneath,
took her out and gaily flung her deep into the raging sea.
Still he wiggled not, and seems still-in a seance every night,
whenst he but cries childishly and calls out to her name in fright.
Her but all dead, dead name;
'Till his father tears him swiftly out of his solitude
And with altogether the same worried face
but drags his disconcerted son back into his flamboyant chamber.
Ah, and I caught thee again, Matilda,
Bowed over the picture of yon young sailor;
'Twixt those sweet-patterned handkerchiefs
On thy lil' wooden table, yesterday
And curved over yon picture, I was certain;
I caught some fatigued tears in thy eyes-
for from thy love thou wert desperate,
but still unsure even, of the frayed tyings of cruel fate.
Ah, Matilda, your hair is still as black as the night
The guilty night, though nothing it may knoweth, of thy love,
and perhaps just as unknowing it seemingly is;
as th' tangled moon, and its dubious arrows
of unseen lilies, above
Shall singeth in uncertainty; and cordless dignity
And which song shall forever be left unreasoned
Until the end of our days arrive, and bereft us all
of this charismatic world-and all its dearest surge of false,
and oftentimes unholy, fakeness.
Oh Matilda, but such truest clarity was in thy eyes,
And frightened was I-upon seeing t'is;
As though never shrouded in barren lies
Like a love that this heart defines;
but never clear, as never is to be gained.
Ah, Matilda, and such frank clarity dismays me;
It threatens and stiffens and chortles me,
for I am certain I shan't be with thee-
and shall ever be without thee,
for thou detest and loathe me,
and be of no willingness at all-
to befriend, to hold, or to hear-
much less reward me with thy love,
as how I shall reward thee with mine.
Matilda, this love is too strong-but so is, too poor
And neither is my heart plainly bruised;
For it is untouched still, but feeling like it has been flawed
Ah, why does this love have to be raw-and far indeed, too raw!
I, who is thy resilient friend, and fellow-sadly never am in thy flavour;
for in his soul only-thy love is rooted;
And this love is forever never winning-and it is sour,
Like a torn, mute flower; or like a better not, laughter.
And my heart is once more filled with dead leaves-
Ah, dead, dead leaves of undelight, and unjoy;
Whose cries kick and bend and strangle themselves-
all to no avail, and cause only all its devouring to fail,
For his doorless claws are to strong,
Stealing thy eyes from me for all day,
and duly all night long.
How discourteous! Virtual, but too far, still-
corrupting me; ah, unjust, unjust, and discourteous!
Tormentingly-ah, but tormentingly, torturously, insincere!
Ah, Matilda! But soon as thou prayeth,
every single grace and loveliness thou shall delicately saith;
Thy voice is as delightful as nailed, or perhaps, cunningly deluded vice-
Which I hath always feigned to be refuting tomorrow,
but is only to bring me cleverer and cleverer sorrow
'Till hath I no power to defy its testy soul,
that for no reason is too shiny and bold,
but so dull, and bland as a hard-hearted summer glacier,
and too unyielding as hurtful, talloned wines.
Oh, but no appetite I hath, for any war
against him-for he is fair, and I am not,
He is worthier of thee, than my every word;
He who to thee is like a graceful poem,
he who is the only one to smirk at
and hush away thy daylight doom.
Matilda! For evermore thy heart is mine;
and mine only-though I canst love thee
only secretly, and admire thee from afar,
Still cannot I stand bashful, and motionless-too far,
For I wish to hath been born, for thy every sake
Though it shall put my sinless tongue at stake
And even my love is even gentler then blue snowflakes;
and more cordial than yon rapturous green lake.
Ah! Look! Upon the moors the grass is swirling,
so please go back now; and be greedy in thy running.
Still when no music is playing,
all is but too painful for thee,
which I liketh to neither witness, nor see,
for upon thee the moon of love might not be singing,
as it is upon all others a song,
But somehow to nature it not be wrong,
for he cannot still be thy charm, nor darling.
O-but I hate thinking of which affectionately,
when thou crieth and which sight, to my heart, is paining.
Ah, Matilda! For even to God thy love is but too pure;
for it is faultless as morns, and poisonless-
like those ever unborn thorns;
Of yon belated autumn melody,
But is, somehow, fraught and dejected
With sorrow, for it is him, that yesterday and now
Thou loveth softly and securely,
Two hours later and perhaps, in every minute of tomorrow.
Matilda! But still tell me, how can thou securely love a danger?
For I am sure he is but a danger to thee, indeed;
Once I witnessed how his face
grotesquely thrusted into furtive anger
As he burst into a dearth of strong holds,
of his burning temper-under the blooming red birch tree;
And as every eye canst see,
He is only soft, and perhaps meek-as a butterfly,
Whenever the world he eats and sleeps and feeds on in-
Tellest him not the least bit of a lie;
Ah, Matilda, canst I imagine thee being his not,
ah, for I shall be drowned in deflating worry, indeed-I shall be, I shall be!
I dread saying t'is to thee-but he, the heir of a ruthless kingdom,
and kingdom of our God not-within their lands and reigns of scrutiny,
His words are but a tragedy, and a pain thou ought not to bear;
O, Matilda, thou art but too holy and far too fair!
Thy soul is, so that thou knoweth, my very own violin-
To which I am keenly addicted;
I am besotted with thy red cheeks-;
As whose tunes-my violin's, are thy notes
as haunting and sunnily beautiful,
And cloudless like thy naivety,
Which stuns my whole nature,
and even the one of our very own Lord Almighty.
Ah, Matilda, even the heavens might just turn out
far too menial for thee;
and their decorum and sweet tantrums idle and unworthy;
Thou art far, far above those ladies in dense gowns,
With such terseness they shall storm away and leave him down.
But why-why still, he refuses to look at thee!
Ah, unthinking and unfeeling,
foolish and coquettish,
unwitted and full of deceit-is himself,
for loving should I be-if thy smile were what I wished,
and thy blisses and kisses were what I dreamed;
I wouldst be but warmer than him,
I wouldst be but indeed so sweet,
I wouldst be loftier than he may seem;
and but madden thee every sole day, with my gracious-
though sometimes ferocious-ah, by thy love, ever tender wit.
I hath so long crept on a broken wing,
And thro' endless cells of madness, haunts, and fear,
Just like thou hath-and as relentlessly, and lyrically, as we both hath.
But not until the shining daffodils die, and the silvery
rivers turn into gold-shall I twist my love,
and mold it into roughness-
undying, but enslaved roughness;
that thou dread, and neither I adore;
For for thee I shall remain,
and again and again stay to find
what meaningful love is-
Whilst I fight against the tremor
and menace this living love canst bring about-
To threaten my mask, and crush my deep ardor.
Ah, my mask that hath loved thee too long,
With a love so weak but at times so strong;
and witnessed thee I hath, hurt and pained
and faded and thawed by his nobility
But one of worldliness; and not godliness
For heavens yonder shall be ours, and forever
Shall bestow us our triumphs, though only far-in the hereafter;
Still I honour thee, for holding on with sincerity-
and loyalty, to such contempt too strong
For thou art as starry as forgiveness itself,
and thus is far from yon contempt-and its overbearing soul;
And perhaps friendly, too unkind not-
like its trepid blare of constant rejection, and mockery
And as I do, shall I always want thee to be with me;
For thou art the mere residue, and cordial waning age of the life that I hath left;
For thou art the only light I hath, and the innate mercy I shall ever desire to seek;
and perhaps have sought shall, within the blessed soul of my 'ture wife.
Oh, Matilda, thou art the dream t'at I, still, ought not to dream,
thou art the sweetness I ought' only charm, and keep;
As thou art the song, that I may not be right'd to sing;
but the lullaby; which in whose absence, I canst shall never sleep.