Rancor,
Swashbuckling with a sawtooth grin and sacrilegious shouts, selcouth with an unsound mind, the commonness of uniqueness, the commonness of opinionated onions cutting their teeth on life and crying, again, and ready to saw off the limbs of the opposition out of revenge!
Rancor, relax, you're not a Twitter matador, I wish you were because I’d love to watch the show.
We cuddle with exotic nylon fibers and squeal about our weight and status and how someone insulted us and how terrible it is to be alive while sipping on easily accessibly high fructose corn syrup! Life has never been this sweet, but I guess we’re getting sick of honey.
I complain about the complaints, I am the anti-complaining complaint club president.
I am a writer, an iPhone thumb tapper.
Hear me
These mental gymnastics will somersault and summerset you right, child,
Don’t listen to Rancor,
That man’ll grab your gaze and stir your attention into a cocktail while winking at you from behind the bar
he’ll leave your brain a little woozy from a life that used to be sweet until you left it out in the sun a few years too long,
I wonder if some of the dead watch us from the corners of our bedroom or the trees along the freeway, waiting for greatness to unfurl.
I’ll bet they do and I’ll bet you’re a glitch, I’ll bet a little piece of another galaxy hit you in the head and made your finger twitch.
How many hot car hours have been spent in a parking lot,
the skin dries, the phone dies,
the spirit once lifted towards the outlines of the mountain peak now seeks memes, transcendent in their own right.

Rose:
  "Dandelion,
how dare you grow in my bed!
Only I have the privilege of feeding on this nutrient rich soil,
created for me, me alone!
You have no right to make your home here!
My keeper will pull you out of the ground
and dispose of you like the **** you are."

Dandelion:
  "Rose,
I've just as much right to grow as you do!
Why do you insult me?
Am I not a flower just like you?"

  "Dandelion,
you're a common garden ****,
I'm beautiful, admired by all who set eyes upon me.
My keeper feeds and carefully prunes my body.
She admires my soft velvety petals which are the deepest red.
My stem, so slender, my prickles tempting, dangerous.
I'm beauty and pain in perfect harmony.
You can admire, but do not touch!"

  "Rose,
I'm beautiful in my own way,
don't you see?
My yellow petals, the colour of golden sunshine.
I symbolise the sun, moon and stars;
I'm also resilient.
I've no carer to look after me, yet I still manage to flourish,
even in the toughest of places."

  "Dandelion,
your time will be short in this place!
There's no room for your commonness here.
I'm a special breed, you're ******!"

  "Rose,
I know my fates sealed,
I accept the situation for what it is;
Beauty's in the eye of the beholder.
What you don't realise,
we'll suffer the same fate!
You'll end your days
standing in a vase filled with water.
My death will be quick;
Yours prolonged!
In the end,
your beauty will be your downfall!"

There is a great river this side of Stygia
Before one comes to the first black cataracts
And trees that lack the intelligence of trees.

In that river, far this side of Stygia,
The mere flowing of the water is a gayety,
Flashing and flashing in the sun. On its banks,

No shadow walks. The river is fateful,
Like the last one. But there is no ferryman.
He could not bend against its propelling force.

It is not to be seen beneath the appearances
That tell of it. The steeple at Farmington
Stands glistening and Haddam shines and sways.

It is the third commonness with light and air,
A curriculum, a vigor, a local abstraction . . .
Call it, one more, a river, an unnamed flowing,

Space-filled, reflecting the seasons, the folk-lore
Of each of the senses; call it, again and again,
The river that flows nowhere, like a sea.

I HAVE heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
That empty the heart.  I have forgot awhile
Tara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,
Because it is alone of all things happy.
I am contented, for I know that Quiet
Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart
Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,
Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs
A cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee.

I
ON the grey rock of Cashel the mind's eye
Has called up the cold spirits that are born
When the old moon is vanished from the sky
And the new still hides her horn.
Under blank eyes and fingers never still
The particular is pounded till it is man.
When had I my own will?
O not since life began.
Constrained, arraigned, baffled, bent and unbent
By these wire-jointed jaws and limbs of wood,
Themselves obedient,
Knowing not evil and good;
Obedient to some hidden magical breath.
They do not even feel, so abstract are they.
So dead beyond our death,
Triumph that we obey.
On the grey rock of Cashel I suddenly saw
A Sphinx with woman breast and lion paw.
A Buddha, hand at rest,
Hand lifted up that blest;
And right between these two a girl at play
That, it may be, had danced her life away,
For now being dead it seemed
That she of dancing dreamed.
Although I saw it all in the mind's eye
There can be nothing solider till I die;
I saw by the moon's light
Now at its fifteenth night.
One lashed her tail; her eyes lit by the moon
Gazed upon all things known, all things unknown,
In triumph of intellect
With motionless head *****.
That other's moonlit eyeballs never moved,
Being fixed on all things loved, all things unloved.
Yet little peace he had,
For those that love are sad.  
Little did they care who danced between,
And little she by whom her dance was seen
So she had outdanced thought.
Body perfection brought,
For what but eye and ear silence the mind
With the minute particulars of mankind?
Mind moved yet seemed to stop
As 'twere a spinning-top.
In contemplation had those three so wrought
Upon a moment, and so stretched it out
That they, time overthrown,
Were dead yet flesh and bone.
I knew that I had seen, had seen at last
That girl my unremembering nights hold fast
Or else my dreams that fly
If I should rub an eye,
And yet in flying fling into my meat
A crazy juice that makes the pulses beat
As though I had been undone
By Homer's Paragon
Who never gave the burning town a thought;
To such a pitch of folly I am brought,
Being caught between the pull
Of the dark moon and the full,
The commonness of thought and images
That have the frenzy of our western seas.
Thereon I made my moan,
And after kissed a stone,
And after that arranged it in a song
Seeing that I, ignorant for So long,
Had been rewarded thus
In Cormac's ruined house.

MICHAEL ROBARTES AND THE DANCER

He. Opinion is not worth a rush;
In this altar-piece the knight,
Who grips his long spear so to push
That dragon through the fading light,
Loved the lady; and it's plain
The half-dead dragon was her thought,
That every morning rose again
And dug its claws and shrieked and fought.
Could the impossible come to pass
She would have time to turn her eyes,
Her lover thought, upon the glass
And on the instant would grow wise.
She. You mean they argued.
He. Put it so;
But bear in mind your lover's wage
Is what your looking-glass can show,
And that he will turn green with rage
At all that is not pictured there.
She. May I not put myself to college?
He. Go pluck Athene by the hair;
For what mere book can grant a knowledge
With an impassioned gravity
Appropriate to that beating breast,
That vigorous thigh, that dreaming eye?
And may the Devil take the rest.
She. And must no beautiful woman be
Learned like a man?
He. Paul Veronese
And all his sacred company
Imagined bodies all their days
By the lagoon you love so much,
For proud, soft, ceremonious proof
That all must come to sight and touch;
While Michael Angelo's Sistine roof,
His "Morning' and his "Night' disclose
How sinew that has been pulled tight,
Or it may be loosened in repose,
Can rule by supernatural right
Yet be but sinew.
She. I have heard said
There is great danger in the body.
He. Did God in portioning wine and bread
Give man His thought or His mere body?
She. My wretched dragon is perplexed.
Hec. I have principles to prove me right.
It follows from this Latin text
That blest souls are not composite,
And that all beautiful women may
Live in uncomposite blessedness,
And lead us to the like -- if they
Will banish every thought, unless
The lineaments that please their view
When the long looking-glass is full,
Even from the foot-sole think it too.
She. They say such different things at school.

I **** people with the knife of fear without hesitation
In their world, its just another day of hallucination

Churning out muck from the milk of the bodies of the dead
Seeing them die with agony in hell's own bed

The pleasure I receive,the relief that I get
From the ****** bodies that I behead

The terror that grips them day and night
I never miss it out of my sight

The web of commonness to which they stick to
I give them a new world of pain to go through

I, the doctor of the dead and devil of hope
I give their demented souls a boat of peace to row

The darkness that lurks around and the silence that prolongs
That is the only thing they see and in their ears that echoes around

I slash them with the sword of anguishness
I help their suffered souls to attain true tranquilness

I relieve them from the trance they live in
From the decayed mind with which they from heaven ship in

I see the agitated bodies lying in my hands
Whom I bury with the shovel of hatred into the blood stained sands

The ethereal hearts,in my hands I take them
I shred them out and give the dogs to feed them

I live to see them get killed
And with a sigh, I pray to the God of Hell and dream of someone someday devouring upon my dead body's filth.

Time passes a thought
To another, in a climbing sense of renderings...
We see the call to unify, in a shy voice ought?
Today was a marveling hour, we could marvel's ends...

Bite me...with a resolve?
They said the sour news is a welcome sunshine
With pets and history to come at all...
Of a younger moment to be quiet, for a composure of time...

Hours as we know, a fixation on else
Can be, the truth be found in a place of sin
Was this imagined tongue, the saying of wealth
Yet to be, the stir of justice of what is a craved wince...

Of passion over a legend to become, our friends
The tale we notice, and simplify by devoid and avoid
Is but a loose remark of such to roll and imbue, the like we end
As if the world knows any better: the fight of certainty's choice...?!

Sly or slime?
Tows of redoubt, between lovers or a heroism of dry finality's
Sunny as we should note, is about the hour I am trying
We see the traitor of commonness and pence, our humor is...

A rushing eye, to know a catastrophe
That is being a silent opportunity, to approach though
And worth the implied key, we find in the future feat
Of lying to the misses, when a game is for those we hosted, should first owe...?

Twisted eyes of oak and ivory

Clanging, rusting gears of old, wily whispers

Hear the whimpering window drops

Across sadistic crossed circuits

Within an unwavering edifice to edify

In a masked evanescent parade.

Why must I watch?

Why must we learn?



Just another face in the crowd

Staring with ageless eyes

Among sheltered innocents

Walking within shadows

Driven by no desire

Where echoes of different

Times resound.

Looking for memories of yesterdays

Left unfound.



Stagnate in the suffocating silence

I, emotional exile

I, fugitive from freedom

Against image defined.

They, surrendered to mediocrity

They, shed the age old scent of our commonness

For machine refined.



Shocked reality

Mocked integrity

The wheels of industry ground.

Bold repressiveness shut out lives.

Opinions bent toward standard waves

Bleaching out divergent shades.

To fall out of use-

Too much allowed is the end of you

By excused abuse.



Vague ideals

Within profound direction.

Systematic spontaneity.

Weakened, weary prey

Synchronized in their play;

Immersed in the cause

All sacrificed inner needs

In collective reality

Collective response.

At the end of my day, looking out my window,
I reflect on the things I did, the friends I met, the thoughts I had.
I regret only what I regret, leaving out so much I could have lived but I didn't.
So many feelings conveniently ignored to make ground for a reflexive and inane life.
So many opportunities neglected and that remained invisible to me.
So much existence trimmed down or that passed by my side in silence –
I was too distracted with nothing and everything to reach out and ****** it and live it.

I’m happy nonetheless, for I realize that life is indeed a show of middling experiences
That arbitrarily builds up or into greatness or into commonness.
It’s the patchiness, the randomness of life that makes it wonderful and lovely.
It’s life untaken by contemplation that flows and grows into something special.
We think too much, for nothing!
Nature doesn’t need your help to follow its course.
You are and you will always be the greatest obstacle along your own path.
Bring down your guard and unwind your mind.
Try to be like the minute sparrow intuitively carrying a twig to its nest.
Let the wind blow, let the sun shine, let the grass grow.

I  believe in a world that I can see, unfiltered  by concepts,
That is touchable and is untainted by the mind.
To think is to destroy things – that’s the sole sake of thought!
I believe in a world that is solid, eatable, drinkable, and can be sensed by the skin.
I believe in a world that can be heard, and pushed, and slapped, and squeezed.
I believe in a world that is uncertain, but that is real.
Don’t come to me with your romantic and impractical ideas that are hazy and shapeless,
That require my gullible imagination, my complicity, and a speck of idiocy, to survive.
I want to stay authentic.  Please, let me stay ignorant and authentic!

My feelings are my thoughts (they are my only thoughts).
I have feelings as a flower has scent and colors.
I don’t want to think about the world.  I don’t want to understand it.
I want to be a part of it.  (To be we don’t need to think.)
I just want to love the world and accept it.  
I want to love it, but I don’t want to know why I love it, nor what it is I love.
I want to love it for love’s sake.
I want to love it with childlike innocence.
Love is always uncomplicated. Remember this,
Love is always uncomplicated.

Calmly, as the oak tree I see in my garden,
I pull back from my window sill and go back to  my life,
To my pointless life, my careless life, my foolish life,
So filled with simplicity, truth, and beauty.

Connections and commonness
Adds charm
Even to an acquaintance

Grey insistent rain
is falling on my world.
Sad shriveling old asphalt
shrugs off abandonment
and lies stoic in the cold and wet.
Looking out my window
I see people pass splashing.
Shall I put on my 'winter weeds'
and go amongst them unknown?
Then, as the rain pelts my body,
I can touch my chest and whisper,
"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."*

But I am not washed clean.
I walk a lonely mile into the wind.
I see mud, and stark branches
and metallic traffic blurring by
and in my commonness I am invisible.
Suddenly a sob bursts from me
from the depths of my longing
and I look around to be sure no one heard.
But if they did, there's no sign.

I walk on to a park close to my home
and stand against a tall majestic tree.
Its branches enfold me
and keep me from the rain.
The roots are so very deep.
I feel my sadness dwindle to the ground
and I am weak, but my heart's less torn.
The storm inside me, like the storm outside has quelled.
Distracted and confused I make my way home.
I sleep to dream of some fabled sun.
Some other world, some other dimension.
Some other me.

Knowledge is now very simple
Single word questions
And answers in a breath.

Knowledge is now aplenty
Evenly cut pieces of bread
Within easy reach of the laziest
Then why do you
Lift your eyebrows
When forty line answers are spit out
For question that won’t hold in four lines.
The Thaj Mahal is not a wonder, its snobbery
The vain argument goes on.
From the other lone
This lone doesn’t look greener
but only a funeral patch

You are argue with yourself
And throwing a set of fruitfulness question:

Why the evening’s rosiness nestles in the snake bird’s eyes?
Where does the garden lizard leave its memory for a while?
When did the owl start cleaning the day’s dirt to end the night?
Who feeds the pair of rabbits on the moon without fail?
In what soft tones does the ant whisper secrets to its mate?
In which impoverished month did the white ants burp and wipe their lips
Who wrenched the cricket’s courage that they make such noise?
Why can’t the **** wake up the neighborhood without loosing its sleep?
Why can’ t the peacock break its contract with the rain clouds?
From where did the fox gain its cunning?
Which river entered the forest, fighting the sea?
Why war, floods, poverty, quakes?

In word : God’s fury.
Look how simple knowledge is,
Beautiful in its commonness.

Still you argue
You swear
What met isn’t knowledge
Nor the way to knowledge
Then of what
Does it symbolise?

Tell me in a word.

======

Wasp addendum
More than out of and
Quote the finality, well to avoid...
A sting that churched a brassy man

Wasp substantial
Adding the heed, of couth and comparison
Does a reach for time, understand arousal?
Quiet time searching for youth, that knows the question...

Wasp divine
Kiss and kindred, the tools of solemn tone?
Enchastened with a host, too cursory to be orders vision
We hear the spoil of the wind, become a new loan

Wasp merciful
Craving a thought, to tell a tale kept
By the unity we foresaw, a heard bliss still...
Was a chance meeting with a yearning fate, bereft?

Wasp earthen
Where souls intertwine, the taste of home
Is a careful wish, foreseen in the earning?
Or should might, take the time to intend guidance as done?

Wasp witnesses
The tow of commonness, in the voice of salutations
Memory served, the break of justice in a winds shade
Here to fore, timidity is a challenge, for a truer intuition...

Birds sing and fly
Flowers smile
Rivers flow
Mountains invite
Rainbows bend in
Seven colours
Sunset and sunrise
Do not amaze us
With their beauty
Their beauty
We do not care
With them we cannot pair
We do not have time
To stand and stare
At them to feel
And heal our broken selves
We catch them
In our cameras mechanically
Showing off our taste
In a haste lest the time
Should pass between
Our fingers stealthily!

We are busy fighting
Over a dead carcass
We use all our might
To prove our commonness!

While Nature laughs at
The grotesqueness of humanity
Its song, fragrance, breathtaking heights,
Soothing colours that might bring sanity
Are squandered and drowned in the rites
Of violence engraving epitaphs at
The doors of suffering humanity!

vagrant in black corners creep
complaining with darkest meaning
remembering the border  of commonness
or forgetting

she spins does life
the web we get so caught up in
wove into corners and kept for another day

complex as dark yes
no a minute to think
the spinnerets go on weaving

complex webs

In the new being that dawns, must I
Console waste and falsehoods;
Used not to my romantic skies,
Nor my Victorian delight, tonight.

In the new human that lives, but I
Run like a murmur, and shadows;
Those misshapen, unnatural forms
Falling away into vernal decay.

In the new soul that breathes, yet I
Come to made solace and comfort;
With no romantic tenderness
And softness that tend to me.

In the new influence, the new smoke
But I taint my arts and visions;
And make blessed sonnets insincere,
Ridding of their appetite for me.

I was born in the modern, caught
Within the naught of being;
What carries this new feeling, I guess
My soul may not find rest.

I was urged to stay, and say
What the morose hold yet to tell
Not the honest of me; the truths
I may have fallen into silence.

I am only able to live at night;
Being true to dark, ******* sights,
That attract but no organism,
Nor living thoughts and modern insights.

I am only capable of misery;
Their arsons are killing to me,
I cannot paint all that rages in me,
They suspend my arts in dishonor.

Their poems bring about nothing;
My delights they have all killed,
Out of my aesthetic will,
Out of sane satire and parody.

Their art charters no bliss;
I am like the quiet of the sky,
In the midst of this war, I only say
None but the imagery of lies.

Their spouses enjoin ill kisses;
Coining sublime in our frights,
But never frightened like our tears,
Dwelling in our drained thoughts.

Their remarks make us dissolve;
Keeping art away like a spectre,
And dissect my love like a sombre,
Like they were the mere sober souls.

What if the poet in me, conformed
To those marks with no heartbeat;
And my angered words lost their form
Ending such good tones of their wit.

What if the worth in me, paid to them
The wanted chords and juggled songs;
For their ****** and erratic admission
But so not my final destination.

What if the written stopped to sing
To leave, and wish me just well;
How could I stay blind to frustration
How would I restrain such fevers?

What if the tune in me, made dead
By the modern’s hustled breath;
Sung by the engrained commonness,
Having lost its poetic madness.

What if the hours in me, silenced;
Made moroseness, and quiet
I have not been recalled anyway;
I have been silence like yesterday.

What if the seconds in me, tickled
And turned and bored me to dust
Would their hesitations ever last
Would they come to the truth?

What if the leaf in me, peopled
All of their impossible periled
To petrify and sicken my desire,
Shall I embrace mossy poems still?

What if the rose in me, tempted
To lose hold of trained purity;
Would my punishment rise in smoke,
Would I be chained to hell?

What if the love in me, stunned
To death, and its cordless vision;
I am never loved anyway,
Nor guarded, nor made of love.

All roads lead here, the Conduit says.
You cannot count the infinite paths.
To fathom every touch is madness.
But, brick by brick, time after time..

This place has written its own history.

How can it be so, in such a small plot,
To spin the tales of so many?

To be the grand hall of tears and joy,
misery and folly, hope and fear?

Who would we be without it?
How are we so bound to a singularity?

We must marvel at the commonness of it all.
We must marvel and be thankful.
We must marvel but not dwell.

All places, in all worlds are the shapers of creation.

There are red storms inside me;
All these, in a drained solitude.
Pains, need not exceed to feel;
but even to breathe, I feel ill.

There was a child, there were stars--
yet I have not yet been born.
What might they expect from me;
When what they see is just sanity.

Normalcy, which I think absurd
That they condemn me as awkward;
I do not conform to their scars,
They do not dear me in their hearts.

Mornings are hard, and afternoons;
that I feel home at lonely nights.
Their mighty skies are unjust to me,
They ruptured my arts, my poetry.

Nights are home to my lullabies;
Unheard songs, unspoken colours.
My pride, which paints and writes no more
Hath never felt loved before.

These scars, that once threw me
Continue their flamboyant dance.
The London streets are no longer;
I have been left in here, forever.

These holes, that have corrupted me
Craving for my souls inside out;
I am not loved, not a beloved
Life has had of my love enough.

The swarming moon, and lilac sky
Shall mean no more when I die;
All around me is commonness,
No madness, no rains, no happiness.

The sheltered sun and dire summer
May they thrive in their jolly days;
May love bloom again when I leave,
and when I’m gone, shall still it live.

the x-axis time
plotted against the  commonness of peace
the y-axis seems broken
one straight line
from left to right

i sit in the darkness
for i can not see
why is it that emotion controls me
fear

i try to see the sun
but the cloudiness in my eyes
prevents me
fear

i want to feel safe
both day and night
but can't
fear

why is the darkness my comfort
but light my prison
fear

when i look inside myself is see a tornado of color
these colors are my emotions
emotions i can not control
fear

each color stands for one emotion
red is anger
blue is happiness
purple is sadness
black is hate
yellow is commonness
grey is fear

why can i not understand these emotions and control them
fear
do i really have these emotions
am i emotionless
a person who feels nothing

or is it something else
fear

by scarlet rose
April 23, 2014

Commonness of the flowers  -
virtuous insignificance,
invoking visions of royalty
for ants, and snails, and such,

How trivially contests mankind,
what costumes their children wear,
while, silently, a bulbous sun
sidles across the sky.

Tears unshed before, fall now
The distance ahead, shrunk to an end
Memories are spared for us to keep
Time continues, even at our standstill
Years spent, succumb to a day.

Our last paper, joying our spirits
Together we wrote; each his own
The moment a speciality, faded into seriousness
A room filled with relief, not ready to relieve
The future is bound, the past is profound.

Walking away from the building, once detested
A struggled step, not a leap
No matter our differences, our commonness are intertwined
The regrets we have, are that of knowing
The base we had, cherished more considering the unknown.

Friends that motivated our wake, promise to stay
Lightly are their words taken, the truth we have seen
Gratitude owed, to all those who held us up
Chapters written, a glory unmatched
As our grasps meet once more, finality taints the romance.

Life begins again, with responsibilities anew
The crossroads met, our respective pursuits acknowledged
A farewell granting us solace, to a well-traveled journey
Love found, lost to a depart
Our childhood glides away; independence, comes to stay.

Like true, like more, in cold regret
Harrowing mars of simplicity
Have the taste of a house where we met
The nerves of sense, come for stance and audacity

Miles above our repose, a storm form's
The tale of complexity, to serve as a door
Where we wink, stink, and think the minding of norm's
Suggesting the guidance of a hand along the reach of other's

Sincere rain fall's
The torrent asking the house to understand
Were we the same of unity, oft a happier but silent wall?
Or is a gift of room's and their sides, a fear we can...?

Tenatiously, the isn't and the done
Realizing the truth in a legend, approval of misfortune's who'd
Nature has a laugh, we have, or ache and similarity to gun
Looking this way and that, if a love is to survive, is could not...?

Threshold, do we know the rise of yet another fate?
Ably, continuing with harbored commit
Energies in reserve, if not conscience to lend, for sated
Weal's we never knew, except to say, the irony we meant...

Confused, the storm abates until severity's morrow
Work's we have been, totaled for ages, mere and decision near...
Seeking the poise of courage, if not comprehension in worlds
Seemingly for the commonness we see outside, out where, if and all sakes, adhere

Sitting on the banks of the
Big Sur River—a person in
flannel and denim, named and
identified, albeit uncomfortably so.

What’s missing? Fauna. No fauna
except for the small brown scorpion
on the lapel of one’s jacket.

“I thought you were a Gemini.”
“I am.”
“Then why do you have a scorpion
embroidered on your jacket?”
“Where?!”
“There.”

Scorpion gingerly removed
with a manzanita twig, flanneled
and denimed returns to the
Big Sur and gets lost in the fluidity,
flowing through identities—
first this one, then that one.

What name shall we give ourselves?
Wanting to hide all of it: the Welsh, the
Confederate president, the dreary
commonness of it all.

In an attempt to sever past
associations, we commit posthumous
patricide, jettison “Davis” . . . for what?
What goes in that empty space on the
line at the bottom of all forms?

What rings true? And what does truth
mean anyway? Why not Lie? Such a small
phoneme—Lie. Why not let falsehood stand
in for a name?

And so, standing now, walking now, back
to the tent, newly knighted, self-named, thus:
A. Lie

Pretty ordeal
In the semblance of avidness, the tow of commonness
Lions for levity, lambs for unity, saving all...
In the realm of vice, we know the irony we guest

Courage, is a legend in the world
Sakes to visit the justice, in a lore we save
Patience would, a requiem early
The worth has bloomed, the comparison eaved

Well, if not synchronicity?
Pretty order's to a new fate of simplicity?
Honor in the space of gain, a wholesome gaiety
Hi, and the presence of courses in validity...

Now?
Or the candor of a new friendship
With the patience of pleasance and kind's, we dote for allow
Taste's of if, the world has a climate to wish...

Never?
Time in the more's we sake to language
Romance and assurance, the tale of composure
With resolve to love, a care that has seen forces, imagine

Nature?
Omnipresence to finalize a curious fact
Of weal and needy limit's, in mind for what may a work
To see in the light, that we are a smile with future's to ask

Handsome
Truth is a noisome bird
Vestige and shall, know come
A voice worth commonness, is a voice heard

Try the stone, understate home
See the order to rhyme, and meet is cares
Finding vice among friends, is a lot atoned
With worth to step forward, comes only love fares

Poise, is half a problem gone all the way
Thinking but beauty, will earn unrest
Seldom and its inkling, know what to say
The patience of a king, is it, the other side of blessed

Where-with-all knows where love dies
Liberty is a second chance, that lives for most
Acts and actual, the lips of joy conceive wry
Sincerity is but loves key, still about the dreams and its own, host

Merit a kiss, and earn divinity's smile
Long to life, and known for humanity, desire may
The conscience of any, is for those that gave all
And the backwardness of prodigy, is the gift of way

A laugh has the time to share a skill, if noted to believe itself
Making time a shrewd kindness, has a question to its might
Through and few, the days repast of couth, is the moment of wealth
Looking hard and fast, to improve live for another may, is light

Sally would with the wall
Music so shrouded, a hat of compliance
The terror involved
A chance meeting with resolve, that stated intention...

My name is Carlton
Spate energies, and the vague way
A harping halt to better problems
Has saved me from a hateful demon, with it to say:

Choose me over any other, the collapse of vows
Has a futile throw of light, in the remark innuendo made
Salt and harmony, to fetch a liberty without how
Is a door on commonness, that has the shape of futures sate

Lemonade and dickory cookies
Shown the time of their life, a hallway to sigh
Scurrilous was a special man, with a plan, for a dreams ease
With the stone of fending remorse into a corner, of life...

Patiently, the day came to a close...
Proud Sally, or privileged Carlton
A wish adrift in the evening your, the scared host
Of another smile to win, the promise of a stoic question...

Hello, I have the world to sleep longer than me
Simply roles of victory, victimized by a lip of succor
Rhyming and doling the obvious, of a secret means
To an ending for serenity, that knows your craving for ours?