‘Tis they who are fabulists:
The Fakers-to-be who are not
And the Fakers-not-to-be who are.
‘Tis they who employ language
As theaters for thoughts
Composing black apparel
To sheathe the naked corpse
Of the often too black Truth.
‘tis they with the organized souls
Who are fabulists.

The merchant’s lady
saunters into villages
forsaken ages ago,

discovering cues
of lurid-ways no man
would even dare to dream,

much to say she has not
of which can be testified:---
the wretched man!

Philosophy may serve its purpose,
though theory is far
more pleasant than reality.

We know not of that Woman,
though ‘tis known that for years
she has begged for death.

what marred such a creature?
unsought furtherance,
everlasting atrocity,

or a centaur,
agog martyrs and honor,

‘tis certain that,
once the castles are built,
their emperors,

though drunk on ***,
and branded by adulation,
shall ascend.

but does fame bespeak
an eternity of pandemonium?
Perchance.

It has been stated that on judgment day
We may be given not the shape of diamonds,
But of bones.

Plausible now, more than before
In our last days we shall infuse as one
(To mirror the imagism of each other),

Yet display no parallelism
Could that be why we were
Disgusted by daring faces,
Yet never revolted?

From merchants
One law may be derived,
To warn all

Our constitution is a lie.
What they call Evolution
Is nothing more than,

An inflated fallacy
fashioned by the outlaws in us
meanness is constant.

Free from the sins of the America’s bureaucracy,
you were always indifferent
To jealousy,

Yet your poetry
Has fostered poets
To compose legendary verses,

And, though you are distinguished from,
The majority of your contemporaries
The wounds of the broken have been mended.

To him all women are hallowed
minus those that hustle themselves.

How instantly and cunningly
they commit truculent acts
yet never bribed by mischief

except by rendezvous.