A murmur of Lawyers show up at my door
Shy on thier woes
and all a shell of supposed business
They brush off their feet
and form a bray
about the perimeter of the living room
It is to be a patterwork of fabrication
a dusting of 'truths' and angles
a murderwork
a carrion of conclusion
an exhaustion
an enemy
a sick thing
and I opened the door
I invited it in

This is a Me
(hands indicate the body that they are a part of)
A responsive sock of meats
flush with The Other
and stringy with Thinker

From The Other
opperations may be performed
Within this mix
a View dwells
and this could be said
to be a Me

It's a bit of a confusion
but it can be worked
It could be tidier
With this as thought
The Being makes
a physical step forward
A Me indicated that it ought to
and it did

My Buddha remains seated
My Buddha honours silence
I tread each step
I perform each breath

A caster of mimes and mimicry
Stilts a prance
About the tomb full of guests
It's a mirrored jest to ease discomfort
Visitors present their cards of invite
And go swiftly about the social wetwork
Their practices and manners
Interact and ply
Pulling teeth of the guises
Harvesting an imflamation of words
A baffle of tongue chorings
There is an hour
A second
Then a third
Whittling time
Taming code
Resorting to a little physical...
And then they take their leave ;
Prizes into the nights snare.

Let's discuss The Redpath...

It's a way of base-studded energies

It is an expression of pains
With brief relief and heavy repercussions

It has ,in mind, the idea of a powerful hunter
But creates, instead, a coward of heady minded ignorant opportunity

It feeds with an already full and greasy belly

It's a wealth of pleasure exceeding to become sickness

It discards friends and favours ugly company

It is extremity
It is ****** and criminal imagination stretched foul and giddy
It forsakes cloth less and honest art

It takes to the air but comes up biting

It rids horror
Only by taking the part of horrors drama until it bonds no more

It spacks you open
And spares you scrappy litter

It degrades you when it promised you bliss by annihilation
And sleep upon oblivion

There's just futility when you pound on the the remaining closed door with bratty fists of anguish

It's pollution ; a rotting expense
Don't play with The Redpath

                      - Coal bitter heart tar

It's a trick of the imagination
It's a tremble of words
A trickle till saturation
A treacle of the absurd

A blink to regain reality
I think therefore I have a malady
A drink and a pill
To recall of some storm
A brick
A window
A breach amongst sanity
Some ink to **** on to the page
Pad torn
And I'm a fink
A sage
A bone
And a bore
Minimum wage
On form
To earn
An audience with royalty
Score one for mortality
I'm a scribble
I'm a scribe
Free to reside
And shake up a globe
With ruin ingestures
And muddy brutality
And wonderless digestions
I am my own worst memory
A victim of vanity

My Buddha walks for me
My Buddha draws the breath
I am a passenger
I am free to observe design