all was peaceful serene secure content in this sleepy isolation with only the dogs for company had i wished to disturb their soothing repose reading a little-known novel once heralded the hero if he could be called such was fracturing slowly on the brink of shattering
but before the incendiary final pages could be reached this dormant comfort erupted interrupted by a shattering much closer to home; both dogs and man on the highest of alert searching for a cause anything to blame but finding nothing
What has become of me? I've turned into such a reprobate. Watching ****, and neglecting writing. I think of Nin and Henry Miller, turning lust and clitoral stimulation into ****** literature. And here I am... *** stains on my laptop, and looking sadly at the miniature bust of Shakespeare on my writing desk. Even he looks disgusted.
hail to a power of authority hail to a magic of a magic authority magic hail magic to its power of authority magic is a literature of magic magic is a literature of authority magic hail magic to its literature the power of authority is the literature of magic
literature is literature of a magic authority rise to a hail of authority rise is a power of authority rise to a literature of authority literature rise to literature literature rise to a power of authority power is a sight of power
power is a sight of authority power is a sight of literature a power of authority is a sight of authority a sight is a sight of authority a sight is a sight of literature magic rise magic to its authority magic rise magic to its literature
my writing is called philosophical writing. i only uses middle ages words,words from the renaissance for instance words liked gracious,extravaganza,etc... this poem is about a sight is a sight of authority. i don’t add capitalization’s on my writing.
I. Fireman, censor of literature and destroyer of knowledge, with his mighty flamethrower. He loves his work. He loves trouble and strife. He loves fascination with the people next door. Mostly, he loves his hammock. But sleep will be his final unrest.
II. A gift for the darkness: reading from the forbidden kept hidden in the air-conditioning duct. The walls within turn on and off like Cora Pearl. His wife listens to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. They walk on as an extinguished connection. In the flickering of his eyeballs, he dreams of driving recklessly to Dover Beach and drowning her.
III. Burning bright. He is burning so brightly. In the factory of mirrors, he takes a hard look. He's a flammable book. And it's a pleasure to burn. "What are you doing?" She asks. "Putting one foot in front of another." He answers.
Banished before thon barren plains, Where treacherous tears abstain Fare. Fair is the waste, The impurity of deep, decrepit weeds. And dage brings fruit then touched Only by their ravens of rot. May they paint thine tainted stave In golden garth and lull the lark; “Mine, Sweet babe, Robbed of cradle Readied for ritual. Mine, Sweet babe, Gore masked black Within the crimson bath.” Lacen their throats, the gullets that gloat! Lest langes of thorns, wrap the bairn sworn. Death breeds glore o’er luid nights Beldam rise belles in wicked repel. Round the funeral pyre.