...And kirchéglise(Notre) dame
   o u r l a d y m y l a d y
encyl-able, Pope or Pope or popedeux
and vindicate the waysteland
   My caska is openclosed!
(pews is pause is putride and prodigious)
Et tout-en commun?Gizerly pharaoh HA
lf gone.
Source-error of Oz
Ymandias
and dust, and dustinction

   god pull downwhich?

or fleurs-de-litigation.
Vini, vu/gesehen, conquered/konkeri?
And tot
And mort
and trunks gefallen.
Fantast-asy—I flail.
pause

S e m p i ternam.

I am not Julius
Don't stab me with fallacy
And then walk away

Words of black
hang off your lips.
Singing songs into ears
Of your friends.

Each letter
Slides off your
Pink, lushes lips.
Like a kid on a playground.

The kid is happy and content
Running around playing.
But at the same time
The playground is dirtied.

In doing so you dirtied me.
I loved you and respected you.
Fires lit are now washed away
Far gone past the salvation point.

What's left? What's left after youve gone through
Like a tornado your words twist and turn
My every tear upon my face.

Like a knife your words
Let the blood escape my back,
Not just the back.
The legs, the stomach the chest, my head.

My arms are sore
Of the stress you
Made me endure.
All it took was three little words.

are you collecting the old counts of how
they slaughtered your son and his power-hungry heart,
twenty three knives to the torso,
the killing blow delivered by a beloved friend?
or are those the scrolls that you wish
dust would settle over forever, relics and reliefs of
everything you see behind your closed eyelids.
a politician’s mother
must be all the more clever; her son will not
be going into battle to die with honor
but rather with deceit. give her-- you-- a laurel wreath,
the irony of the goddess nike standing
golden over the tomb of your son: emperor,
caesar. mother of summer, of boiling july,
are you not the sun? are you not the constellations
freckling burnt pale skin? are you not
the fiercest and brightest of warriors, quietly,
without warning?

Beware the Odes of March (tho’ this is not really an ode)

or

In the Italian Kitchen with Brutus and Cassius

or

I Come to Curry Caesar, Not to Baste Him

Julius Caesar on the Ides
Marches to the senate house
Up to him young Brutus strides
And, too, Cassius (what a louse!)

Then mean Brutus takes his knife
So does Cassius; you know the ballad:
“Lettuce chop cold Caesar’s life
And thus create the Caesar salad!”

Every day the sun shines brighter as I open my eyes wider and start to breath deeper. The sun starts to rise and like Superman in the midst of death, raises his glass to the shimmer of the valiant sunlight and is invincible yet again.
I feel the death peeling itself from my body and I'm ready now to travel.

The bones shiver restless notes from xylophone keys that keep me running to an unheard harmony in the grace of the bluest wind. Something is carried on the feathers of the geese and its the blood of the wicked innocent. I don't run with them because of the migration. I don't run with them at all.

I've felt the blood drop like rain from their wings as they pass and they've left the trail wide and open. If destiny dripped dismal disappointment on you, would you follow it?  No. But it's destiny, and if it leaves in the hands of bandits and marauders then perhaps a bullet hole is my destiny.

A bullet hole big enough to stuff back the tyranny of a fallen harp and all the sorrow of its broken chords. Ill take it, Destiny.

Destiny like a cruel caw from the crow. I'm here,
Elate me with your dreary melody!

I'm not running from the satin blood red,
Not anymore.

I'm running towards the weeping needy,
I'm running towards the ***** and dead,

If destiny cried havoc,
Then I'm running to let slip the dogs of war.

"The Druids taught their disciples many things about nature and the perfections of God, and that, there was only one God, the Creator of heaven and earth. One name, under which they worshiped him, was Esus or Hesus (“He," in Celtic meaning, "Lord," ) or Harits which is their name for Horus..."

~Julius Caesar from [Signs and Symbols of Primordial Man, by Albert Churchward circa 1912] [Page 186]



"He,"  -meaning, "Lord," and "Sus," being the most ancient Minoan form of, "Zeus," therefore, "Jesus," means in Celtic and Greek;

"Lord Zeus."

The word "Harits," being Sanskrit identical to, "Charits," and "Marits, Maruts," a mythical epithet for Aryas, or Aryans so the usage of it for his name means it represents him as being Aryan.  

Jesus as an Aryan.

If You can prove it, prove it wrong,
then do so here or do so in song.
If you can also, do it in verse,
then truly you'll deserve a purse.
I do not believe there will ever be,
on this point,

...a mortal man to challenge me!

Good Luck