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*There are
two types
of people,
but only
one evil.

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. . . of incantations in                        
cantankerous philosophy!                
Of these lying liabilities,                    
   what startling objection, so accosting,
has exhausted me? More so than    
named quite unfortunate atrocity!  
Shall hordes of thought be accursed
by degrees of displeasing hostility  
such that satiated curiosity                
be evermore abashed in me?            

                    “. . . but I have admonished thee,”
                                                            said­ he,

this subtle, blackened tenant            
with a tin man's tonality.                  
This paper drum that bends to sing
does beg of him the courtesy;          
yet, acrid rhetoric singes the hair    
with unfavorable flintlock fidelity.
His evasive guarantee then              
upends the pores relentlessly.        

“These words will compel a poor
                    foresight to bleed in the fray
          as cascading tears cast their weight
                              upon cheek in dismay . . .”

. . . to quash the cypress toxin          
of a caustic potpourri—                    
a dissembling toupee                        
to one's balding reality.                    
O lasting opacity                                
of such poignant translucency,        
this flagrant serendipity,                  
once spawned, must always be?    
Possibly; though, I cannot count    
how many sets see dawns at sea.    

                    “. . . but I have astonished thee,”
            said he

through this Möbius rebuttal          
like some soap on TV,                      
though, it’s ne'er some rerun          
what’s cliché wants creativity.        
The veiling lee of his lofty marquee
     beclouds that one pyrrhic mystery—
that now-clandestine oblation        
of one bless'ed unanimity.              

“Akin to a twin whose soul’s
                    one sin was mine to portray.
          ‘I’ll pay ne’er a thought!’
                              curs’ed common naïveté . . .”

. . . and yet, that's cause to bend    
reverent knee, not to thee,              
but to that which mine                    
eye's sole endeavor is to see.          
“So, leave me be!”                            
I lament, ostensibly,                        
“Lest that passage fall paved          
by none other than me.”                
Perhaps the Second World war    
is just my cup of tea.                      

                    “. . . or perhaps this darkness is me,”
said he

By Arcassin Burnham

Look what you've done to me,
I can no longer smile,
I can not feel your touch,
Not even for awhile,
I like the flow of your hair,
Even though that's not my style,
It's you I can not bare,
But I was the golden child,
Golden Child,
The glass falls from the bar right
Behind me,
Devil's nector falls to intimacy,
Shared a cardiac arrest in the backseat,
Stole it from my chest and the next morning
Gave it back to me.