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Alex Fontaine Feb 2019
Colossal arms catch the radiant sun,
Giants rooted in tree shrouded hills,
I smile at them till my workday is done,
Sun soaring above as we pay the bills,
Pompously colossal and full of drive,
I look up at them looking down at me,
Laboring away beneath resplendent skies,
With the spirit of Jesus and Don Quixote,
We sally forth into the teeth of fate,
Wielding noble visions of how life should be,
No effort too small nor sacrifice too great,
Not to impale self to self upon Odins tree.
And the hills turn to dust, dust turns to earth,
The void collapses, the sun burns away,
And I’m left to question what our needs are worth,
Smiling at windmills till the end of the day.
Eva Ellen Aug 2017
A man once told me, "Never write a movie where a man is left shouting after a woman who is sure to return"

I was raised by wolves and Don Quixote
lead with(in) the heart; regret with(in) the brain
dead weight hangs hungry in my chest
I see fear creep in my knees
my teeth are looking to be tested
my skin is stained like a constellation capricorn gemini pisces
I am my own galaxy:
only porcelain angels looking over me
backstage pass to my caterpillar identity crisis
My imagination (machinations of muddled emotions) was waiting for someone like you

His laugh rattles my subconscious and decomposes my rigor mortis
kiss youmeus like your tongue was made of money
finger me as much as I do my hair
I like sinking into your mind; it's warm in here
bread & butter
you're the apple pie to my adam's apple (with all the cavities)
I'm a headless chicken framing instant coffee amber memories
ice cream melts the closer I get to the sun...

It rained today.
Some statues talk, some people have nothing to say;
who will you dip in gold and call your temple?
Why does it have to be art and not just us?
you're just another outlet mall; your sheep are in Leeds
the shoes are from your closet and I need reupholstering
my feet will go where they dare but
the yellow brick road is turmeric and
I'm on a deserted island and all I see are birds
all my doors have a neon EXIT sign
It began and ended with the Space Odyssey-

She decorated her soul with dreams:
the kind that can't be stolen,
not even by the inexorable march of age
which eventually robs you of yourself.

Her love was a massacre;
savaging everything in it's path,
but with a beauty that you forgave her
before she apologized.

Her eyes were lilly pads,
and her voice
was the crunch of snow underfoot,
and while you couldn't believe that she could be hurt
you knew from the moment you met her
that you'd be her unneeded Don Quixote
Lawrence Hall Dec 2016
About Those Purple Socks
Graham Greene’s Monsignor Quixote
The world had no more use for any of them:
An old Communist, an old priest, an old car
All of them well into their horsemeat days
And so they fled, and crashed into the truth
On a chivalric quest for purple socks
Wandering on the road to Golgotha
Their Stations of the Cross a cinema,
A pair of Guardia, a brothel, wine
And so they fled, and fell into the Truth
There at the foot of the Altar of God
Fighting demons
Bursting bubbles
He's in my head
Among the rubbles
Seeing that most things get done
He works at it from moon till sun
He tilts at windmills only he can see
Please meet.... Don Quixote

My affliction
or my soul
hearing voices
takes its toll
Fighting what may not be there
And if it's not, why should I care?
Before the windmills in my mind
Don will find

An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air

Hidden loves
Broken hearts
So much to do
just where to start
No Sancho Panza by his side
In my head he's stuck inside
Keeping madness at arms length
Don minds strength

Unfinished tales
Broken dreams
So little time
Or so it seems
A wayward soldier on his way
What windmills will he fight today?
The thoughts I write reveal what's me
Allowed outside by Quixote

An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
wes parham May 2014
Always, I have been here before.
I tried living backwards with her,
Asking the questions after her answers,
Falling in love once she was long gone.
But that was another, not the same, in a chain of serial Dulcineas.
But then you came along and climbed down from that pedestal,
you slapped me,
But laughed,
And I realized,
how you had been right,
All along.
You've got it all wrong.  You're doing it wrong.  Listen to that coarse voice because it is much more practical than you.  There is nothing romantic about a pining Quixote, he's just another giant mouth to feed.  Elevation and desire, the one you need is not the one you want, candy is sweet, but can give you indigestion.  Life's best lessons are painful, don't ignore their value.
Hear that noise here:

— The End —