O Tulip Tree,
Towering titan true,
A fond memory I have
Of splendorous ventures long ago!

O Tulip Tree,
Timid and taciturn,
I remember when you,
Paragon of the forest,
Stood tall with power
And eclipsed the noontime sun!

O Tulip Tree,
Tallest tree that be,
I recall when you,
Pillar of perfection,
Were as mammoth in my youth
As you are this day!

O Tulip Tree,
Tremendous yet tender king,
I pray for you,
Noble giant,
That envious naysayer
And usurper alike
Stay their distance
From your domain!

And when the hour is nigh,
O Tulip Tree,
I shall stand tall with pride
Between these vile fiends
As you taught me to long ago!

Giles Corey

What is there, really,
Left to say
When you cannot trust
The honest pay?

Do you, really
Hear the sounds,
Of the clocktowers
coming down?

I do not, really,
Know the time.
We're just acquainted..
No friend of mine.

No friends at all
Are mine, per say.
Just folks to call,
From day to day.

From day to day,
And dusk to dusk.
There's nothing left
But empty husks.

I'd gouge my eyes
With forks and knives,
If that would bring me
To Saint Ives.

Gouge my eyes
At sight of her
Hopes I despise:
empty aquifer.

That saturate the souls
Of bedazzled bums
And homeless ******
Sent to pick the crumbs.

Great fallen father
Oh, dying mother
What way is water?
Who hid the shelter?

Your sons and daughters
Are frightened now.
They cannot win
They don't know how.

We all have fears
Of how we'll fare
When you say,
"We need more engineers.

To build the cities
And the gutters
And the gluttons
And the guillotines
And the gilded glaves that gorey Giles brings.

To pile the stones
On our frail young frames
As we're forced to cry
To **** our names,
"More weight."

A Nightmare*

In my dreams I am the melting man.
Through tinted glass I am without senses.
With eyes that feel the sting of sight and fever of hearing,
I am allowed into the killing ground.

I followed my friendliest faces through some foggy
thick soup that does tickle my eyes
and vex them to lower.

Up again to this lonely temple
Where so many familiarities touch the ground and
my vessel with fatal hands.

First kiss and polystyrene men;
synthetic and terrifying.

Where have I seen you before?-

December 11th
Close your eyes.-

Here we are again.
there are sweats all over
i have been here so many times before and i sweat and cry

the killing grounds
dear mother, take me home, i sweat and cry for i have come here again
take me away? where have you gone?
the killing grounds

the pile of death
hopeless death that is violent and
my poor fragile eyes sweat and cry and
drip away

see those empty faces
of first kiss and polystyrene man
i reach for mothers hand
but i must linger in the mess of filth

December 11
please let me leave

i am losing
skin falls in drips
like cream or paint
and i must join the filth

no crying may save me.

Testify before your false god
        built of owned wood
        burnt to glowing ashes on
          pulpits like eggshells


    forgive all transgressions
  for to give
       merit to
     an inch to the game
                
                          will mean the end.

Paint me to whatever you please
stretch me, bend me, twist me
Sculpt me from ear to ear
Wrap your hands around my brain
Smear my mind, **** my body, bare my soul
Elegant lines that all match
from my head, to my waist, to my sole

Over the ridge, round the bend.
Through the weeds and palm trees,
lies the trail that never seems to end.

There you’ll see the stones,
for hobbling and hopping over the creek.
But be careful, many tend to turnover
On those who wish to seek.

Now comes the scent.
Exotic and enthralling.
Whisping through the air aimlessly.
Like the dandelion seeds that have gone and went.

Then there’s the waterfall.
Mystic, wonderful and serene.
My oasis, my sanctum, my serenity

There was once a juxtaposition of a silent mathematician,
hand in hand with a melody called fiction.
Fighting to be free, yet fleeing from fruition.
Unure in his conditionm, he is guided by her transition.

      This was never going to work.

Fiction's as ignorant as his judgement was missing.
She was vexed by his logic, and his rate of attrition.
Suddenly she see's him far from volition,
Whilst he hears something new - designing definition.

     The record plays softly

Finally he understands to feel free from inquizition,
is about more than just logic. It's about his ambition
He returns from his audition
Dressed well with suspicion

     Blood on his hands - the endeavour of reason.

Now filled with guilt, this once honourable statistician,
is dynamic and pretentious, it's impossible to miss him.
Because through a bad combination of radio emission,
sounds a shriek from the crowd's world's worst composition.