As if to come upon a limb a dangle
Over arch the canopy bramble
And strung from this twig pious and vile
A face cut from human hide it was torn
In scorn born deep within a cruel man's inner war
Worn was that skin shrunken yet still warm
It's your mother, it's your father, it's every blur
One might pass in the street, begging to eat
Lend me your horror, but please do see
The framilar features that will not delete
A walk in the woods you see?

Never have you ever seen a nothing?
Silly little something you are already found
Prophetic, prolific, a sea of chemical compound
The very notion confounds any attempt to explain
A reverent proclivity for life or its viral civility
Once this is said nowhere have you been
Commentator of moral, of sin
Thus a nothing could you have been
As we are so, nothing also is of being
Justly, all that he is lacking are all these frames that estrange us

Stunning sightings of a stark reality
Made boring as the playhouse sleeps
Watch the show pleas from the beak
The crow doth speak
A tellers tale of the human folk
Whence they both still walked and spoke
He cries in squawks of sheer wonder
A show he'd say loudly frayed
The people evoked only slain opinions
From the mouth black liquid pour
All the pride they had built, split
Release of their very souls
In surrender to the grandeur of the theater whole
So bold it preformed as the creatures sunk deeper
Into the folded molds of their seats
Thus sang the crow the tale he told
Of the how men became stone
At the precipice of only the greatest of shows

Got got by bobby heady sleep eaters
Learned a living frameless
Never would I change this

Fall, 2012, the end of the world as we know it… Funny how it seems that the most profound beginnings are almost always born in the wake of some monumental ending. This is my thought as I give definition to the date of my era. So, what is this that I am getting at? What proof am I introducing, if it can be called one at all? This is the function of record, to unravel some truth, is it not? Well, perhaps only if the accuracy of a history is either of little importance or something that its author is ever in ignorance to. The truth; is among my possessions, its conveyance is not. Honestly--
While leveling, admittance, and guilt are still in my human sack of possession, I wish to divulge an unsightly insight. I am no writer by profession, nor by education, simply I am one in spite of those whom have the audacity to take inventory of what their fellow man may or may not possess. This is the entirety of the agent of that gives my waking life propulsion. The everlasting perpetuation of what capability continues to be: that which we have done.
The fall of 2012; delivered to man upon the shoulders of summer, of spring, of winter, of year prior, of years prior, of seasons past, of men past, of love whence, of suffering before, of continence evermore. Save the tongue from words predicting repetition and favor those ephemeral, like each of us. So very similar, begging in tugs for the familiar and never once the identical…

Benign was yet another passer by to predisposed mentality
But both secretly wished somewhere beneath their tempers, demeanors, and myths
For the other to beg pardon for salvation at last; trading their ghosts and their pasts
The men of social civilization, disconnected by strange colors and baffling arrays of advertized trash..  asking where’s the rest of the cash?

So it may seem the wrath of industry, media, and projected reflections
Make trial and test for the all of the rest, connect and digest.

    Such was the spoken scramble of this morning in particular. It was no more and certainly no less jovial than what has continually been the subjection of mister Hulton’s consciousness. Often he wondered to what degree of affect had he been lent these sharp-toothed thoughts. For within him a feeling of great unease would settle as his mornings waned ever onward. Hulton; a man, or so he is told, was painted grimly by the colours of intellectual, asocial, endomorphic (in a figurative sense), and partially blind in at least one eye.

Young man, American, what’s got you shaking?
Dreams or the lack there of?
Fear the wizardry of a scientific society
New world discord resounding the stifled edge of thoughts in bloom.
All things contented flavored toxic at the roots
Withdrawn intensity and token gestures
Jest at your many hearts with happenstance and impossible fore knowledge.
Come one come all to the lonely show
Behind closed doors streams the jitter pains.
Giving cause to matted hair that dreads in your sleep.