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gus Jan 2019
Of all the things a man can say,
the worst is i forgot.
for it is the doom of men that they forget,
and of women they do not.
gus Jan 2019
With regard to my belief in god and the devil,  
I'd  be inclined to say of neither!      
I’ve offered my soul on both accounts,    
and received no reply from either?
gus Jan 2019
Hot cold                                                             ­                         
Light  dark                                                     ­                       
Up down                                                  
Man woman                                              
Love hate                                                             ­       
Solid liquid                    
Sun moon          
Good evil  
Open close
Awake asleep
Never.... soon?
                       All twins everywhere merge with something more,
                       whether a hospital bed, or an airport lounge,
                       Terminal, but a door.  
Life death                                          
   Black white                            
       Day night                                                    
       ­      Right wrong                  
                  Left right       ­       
                         Boy girl
gus Jan 2019
Like a vicious circle you can spiral,
like a wheel within a wheel,
like a odd sock without a purpose,
forgetting how to smile or feel.

Like walking slow but holding scissors,
and ignoring an untied lace,
like being still in moving traffic,
knowing where you are, but out of place.

These are the images and stuff,
when you don't get out enough.

Like a needle stuck on record,
trapped in a carnival balloon,
like drip of a tap becomes your heartbeat,
quenching your sun to cool to moon,

Like pacing blind within a circle,
like the wringing of broken hands,
like a frozen clock face crying,
at frozen grains in hourglass sands.

These are the images and stuff,
if you just don't get out enough.

Like a day as nights not sleeping,
like a limbo forged from choice,
like watching life flash by your window,
screaming warning with no voice.

Like mental weather that can chill you,
with silken "words of truth" you wish not hear,
like in a  bag your slowly drowning,
weighted with false strengths, to mask a fear.

These are the images and stuff,
when you just don't get out enough.

Like a circle in a spiral,
like a wheel within a wheel,
like soothing surrogate emotions,
like you must dwell on what you feel.

These are the images and stuff,
if you...just cant...get out enough!
Spiraling
gus Jan 2019
You
You are brilliant! Amazing!
And so is everyone around you!
People can be a bit”insular”with a personal space,
But at the end of the day what's new?

The world is beautiful, beyond compare,
to the broadest of imaginations,
and a world of light, and love, yes love!
Despite its procrastinations.

Of change I speak, where we all go wow!
All or nothing, double or quits! Clear the air.
We’ve so much to worry about, just as it is?
A dilutive duty to care, yeah.

But we'll crack on regardless you and I,
a penny for a thought in our jar!
Because I thought I'd take the time to remind you,
of just how brilliant and amazing you are.
gus Jan 2019
Our skies above us thump with the restless steps of Ahab,
amongst harpoon stumps and lines, to our white whale,
democracy he cried, as he beckon, he beckons!
To take all to watery depth, for we are not fit to sail.

Smashed boat and bone, soon put pay to all legend,
the ropes uncoiled as harpoon cut the air,
how many barrels gained from this ****** task I ask again,
as our white Devil wait, biding time for those that dare.

Row boys row, and sing to beat of drum!
Our cause be just, despite this crimson moan,
our answers long since enemy, we harvest for good of all,
though some return less limbed, now sporting white whales bone.

He beckons, he beckons! Crucified with ropes,
how many barrels shall we harvest from this task,
for cursed is the journey, and mission we now engage,
though make my mark to sail, though where we sail not ask.

Slice the blubber, fetch the cauldron, light the fires,
should we question commerce, and falter all its goals,
we fill the hold of dear old Pequod, for duty wage and Ahab,
till ships profit met, its owners own our souls.

One day we smelled land, where there be no land,
our watch then cried aloft, the games begun,
clung to rigging knuckles white, our captain did take sight,
though scarred of secret battle to be won.

And so he will rise again and beckon, yes beckon,
selfish needs shall curse to devour all those in reach,
scarred souls shall tarnish all, shared fate will now befall,
sanity beyond all method, to impeach.

We light the lamps of life's expansion and requirement,
respected in endeavour fulfilled of needs,
this white fiend shall take us deep, all cursed, no rest nor sleep,
for what we need serves deeper needs, of which now it feeds.

Nantucket is but a memory, as I row,
and who am I to question captain, or as such my part,
needs of world and commerce damns me, damns me to the depths.
For I followed Ahab, and did not seek to see his chart.


Call me Ishmael.
gus Jan 2019
A note to all who pass these words,
before they fade or be took down,
its pretense ignored a life is full,
for in hourglass sands we drown.

Heed these words less fade as much,
to mere rumour upon your way,
but warned you were, of days ignored,
        by you, of then,.. today.
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