1190

The Sun and Fog contested
The Government of Day—
The Sun took down his Yellow Whip
And drove the Fog away—

Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission,
Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition
Between two peoples fanatically at odds,
With their different diets and incompatible gods.
"Time," they had briefed him in London, "is short. It's too late
For mutual reconciliation or rational debate:
The only solution now lies in separation.
The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter,
That the less you are seen in his company the better,
So we've arranged to provide you with other accommodation.
We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu,
To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you."

Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day
Patrolling the gardens to keep the assassins away,
He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate
Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date
And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect,
But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect
Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot,
And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot,
But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided,
A continent for better or worse divided.

The next day he sailed for England, where he could quickly forget
The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not,
Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot.

Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand

In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation

She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”

Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous

Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher

The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to

However.

She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted

Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs

She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.

She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.

125

For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ration
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years—
Bitter contested farthings—
And Coffers heaped with Tears!

The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and  
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
fervor,                      
subtext of tension,                    
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.

The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
damage,
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
thereness
absorb the loss
of my English muse.

Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,  
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;  
disinterested love
present,  
desultory carnage
of rescission,   
absurdity personified;
euphemism
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.

The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
deferred;
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.

Poverty asks the
question,
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
integrating,
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
contested
the humiliation of
the word.

Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
provisional
personality
scorned,
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
sovereignty
assumed in
provenience,
native
horizon of the next.

©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner

A man gets lost in a rose garden
A lady is there, take care of everything
As a bee that flies between the petals
As a butterfly that lands
As contested nectar
Flowers offer beauty
A man gets lost and doesn't come back
A lady will be taken away
The garden that was once beautiful
is now growing thick and wild,
even more beautiful than before
The nature takes care of what humans cannot care for or neglect
And the bees and butterflies rejoice

Fire's beauty cannot be contested
even though it can't help but
burn when you come closer.
(He's fire)

The power of a black tiger
is entrancing
until it devours you, body and soul.
(He's an animal)

The high ******* brings is
addictive even when you
fall into a hell of your own making
(He's a drug)

He's fascinating
dangerous
intoxicating.

Stories about him
shock yet his
rampage on the vulnerable hearts
of this world
will never cease.

(He's toxic.)

S H E


She softly came into my life without her crown

To whisper, to shed light and to turn me upside down

As soft music, she spoke through her pictures

And once I saw them, I adored her features

Something is daily pulling me to her marvellous cave

To appreciate her fountain of beauty  to which I crave

She gave me something I won't lose

Even if I drank too much *****

She gave me something to keep in heart

So that we won't ever part

Something I look at and see her in mind

Then slowly move to heart to bind

Now that I am totally stunned and sedated

It is too hard for me to be eliminated.



Sam Burton ©



Today is Sunday, Oct. 5, the 278th day of 2014 with 87 to follow.

The moon is new. Morning stars are Jupiter, Mars and Uranus. Evening stars are Mercury, Neptune, Saturn and Venus.



In 1876, the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas, now Texas A&M;, opened. It was the first public higher education institution in Texas.

In 1883, the Orient Express train made its first run.

In 1895, the U.S. Open men's golf tournament was first contested. It was won by Horace Rawlins.



A thought for the day:



You can become a winner only if you are willing to walk over the edge. -- Damon Runyon





QUOTES for the day:



It is the desire of the good people of the whole country that sectionalism as a factor in our politics should disappear...

------------------------

He serves his party best who serves his country best.



Rutherford B. Hayes



You're dealing with the demon of external validation. You can't beat external validation. You want to know why? Because it feels sooo good.





Barbara Hall, Northern Exposure, Gran Prix, 1994



“So much of what we call management consists in making it difficult for people to work.”

Peter Drucker



"A champion is afraid of losing. Everyone else is afraid of winning."



Billie Jean King



POETRY





AEDH Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven



W.B. Yeats


Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

About this poem


"Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" was originally published in Yeats' collection "The Wind Among the Reeds" (John Lane, 1899).

About W.B. Yeats


A poet and playwright, Yeats was born in Dublin in 1865. He received the Nobel Prize in literature in 1923. Yeats died in France in January of 1939.

*
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience.


This poem is in the public domain.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate







Vocabulary

"Bona fide" is used to mean good faith, sincerity. It is the evidence of one's good faith or genuineness -- often plural in construction; evidence of one's qualifications or achievements.

Health and Beauty



Pumpkin Seeds



Have you ever toasted pumpkin seeds at Halloween? Don't wait until the holiday to eat them. Pumpkin seeds are a great source of iron, zinc, calcium, and magnesium, and area also high in omega-3. One handful a day makes a big difference.





CHINESE FOOD

In Canada, Thanksgiving is just over one week away. As an alternative to turkey, how about serving Cantonese Roast duck for Thanksgiving dinner?



Cantonese Roast Duck



By Rhonda Parkinson



Author Deh-Ta Hsiung writes: This is the duck with a shining reddish-brown skin seen hanging in the windows of a good Cantonese restaurant.

Serves 10 - 12 as a starter, or 4 to 6 as a main course. (Note: total preparation time does not include the time needed to dry the duck before cooking).

Ingredients

    One 4 1/2 lb (2 kg) oven-ready duckling
    2 teaspoons salt
    4 tablespoons maltose or honey
    1 tablespoon rice vinegar
    1/2 teaspoon red food coloring (optional0
    about 1/2 pint (280 ml) warm water
    For the Stuffing:
    1 tablespoon oil
    1 tablespoon finely chopped spring onion
    1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh ginger root
    1 tablespoon caster sugar
    2 tablespoons Chinese rice wine (or dry sherry)
    1 tablespoon yellow bean sauce
    1 tablespoon hoisin sauce
    2 teaspoons five-spice powder

    Prep Time: 30 minutes
    Cook Time: 60 minutes

    Total Time: 90 minutes

Preparation

Clean the duck well. Remove the wing tips and the lumps of fat from inside the vent. Blanch in a *** of boiling water for a few minutes, remove and dry well, then rub the duck with salt and tie the neck tightly with string.

Make the stuffing by heating the oil in a saucepan, add all the ingredients, bring to the boil and blend well. Pour the mixture into the cavity of the duck and sew it up securely.

Dissolve the maltose or honey with vinegar and red food coloring (if using) in warm water, brush it all over the duck - give it several coatings, then hang the duck up (head down) with an S-shaped hook to dry in an airy and cool place for at least 4 - 5 hours.

To cook: preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. (200 degrees C./Gas 6). Hang the duck head down on the top rack, and place a tray of boiling water at the bottom of the oven. Reduce the heat to 350 degrees F. (180 degrees C., Gas 4) after 25 minutes or so, and cook for a further 30 minutes, basting with the remaining coating mixture once or twice.

To serve: let the duck cool down a little, then remove the string and pour out the liquid stuffing to be used as gravy. Chop the duck into bite-sized pieces, then serve hot or cold with the gravy poured over it.

Courtesy of Deh-Ta Hsiung.

JOKES



Skeleton in the closet



A very large, old, building was being torn down in Chicago to make room for a new skyscraper. Due to its proximity to other buildings it could not be imploded and had to be dismantled floor by floor.

While working on the 49th floor, two construction workers found a skeleton in a small closet behind the elevator shaft. They decided that they should call the police.

When the police arrived they directed them to the closet and showed them the skeleton fully clothed and standing upright. They said, "This could be Jimmy Hoffa or somebody really important."

Two days went by and the construction workers couldn't stand it any more; they had to know who they had found. They called the police and said, "We are the two guys who found the skeleton in the closet and we want to know if it was Jimmy Hoffa or somebody important."

The police said, "It's not Jimmy Hoffa, but it was somebody kind of important."

"Well, who was it?"

"The 1956 Blonde National Hide-and-Seek Champion."



Quick Quotes



"It was different when we were kids. In second grade, a teacher came in and gave us all a lecture about not smoking, and then they sent us over to arts and crafts to make ash- trays for Mother's Day." --Paul Clay

---

"We should have a way of telling people they have bad breath. 'Well, I'm bored...let's go brush our teeth.' Or, 'I've got to make a phone call, hold this gum in your mouth.'" --Brad Stine

---

"Doesn't it bother you when people litter? The most creative rationale for throwing an apple core out the window is 'It will plant seeds for other threes to grow.' And, of course, our highways are lined with apple trees--right next to all the cigarette bushes." --Nick Arnette



Republican or Democrat?



A woman in a hot air balloon realized she was lost. She lowered her altitude and spotted a man in a boat below. She shouted to him, "Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don't know where I am." The man consulted his portable GPS and replied, "You're in a hot air balloon, approximately 30 feet above a ground elevation of 2346 feet above sea level. You are at 31 degrees, 14.97 minutes north latitude and 100 degrees, 49.09 minutes west longitude.

She rolled her eyes and said, "You must be a (political party)." "I am,"replied the man. "How did you know?" "Well," answered the balloonist, everything you told me is technically correct, but I have no idea what to do with your information, and I'm still lost. Frankly, you've not been much help to me."

The man smiled and responded, "You must be a (political party)." "I am,"replied the balloonist. "How did you know?" "Well," said the man, "you don't know where you are or where you're going. You've risen to where you are, due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise that you have no idea how to keep, and you expect me to solve your problem. You're in exactly the same position you were in before we met but, somehow, now it's my fault."



Birthday Gift

A husband went to buy a birthday gift for his wife. Some friends had been invited over that night to celebrate her fortieth, and he wanted to get something special. At the store he spotted some cute little music boxes. One blue one was playing "Happy Birthday."

Thinking they were all the same, he chose a red one and had it gift-wrapped. Later, at dinner, he gave it to his wife and asked her to open it...

When she lifted the lid, out came the tune to "The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used to Be!"



Blonde Convention



80,000 blondes meet in the Kansas City Chiefs Stadium for a "Blondes Are Not Stupid" Convention. The leader says, "We are all here today to prove to the world that blondes are not stupid. Can I have a volunteer?" A blonde gingerly works her way through the crowd and steps up to the stage. The leader asks her, "What is 15 plus 15?" After 15 or 20 seconds she says, "Eighteen!"

Obviously everyone is a little disappointed. Then 80,000 blondes start cheering, "Give her another chance! Give her another chance!" The leader says, "Well since we've gone to the trouble of getting 80,000 of you in one place and we have the world-wide press and global broadcast media here, gee, uh, I guess we can give her another chance." So he asks, "What is 5 plus 5?"

After nearly 30 seconds she eventually says, "Ninety?"

The leader is quite perplexed, looks down and just lets out a dejected sigh -- everyone is disheartened, the blonde starts crying and the 80,000 girls begin to yell and wave their hands shouting, "GIVE HER ANOTHER CHANCE! GIVE HER ANOTHER CHANCE!"

The leader, unsure whether or not he is doing more harm than damage, eventually says, "Ok! Ok! Just one more chance -- What is 2 plus 2?"

The girl closes her eyes, and after a whole minute eventually says, "Four?"

Throughout the stadium pandemonium breaks out as all 80,000 girls jump to their feet, wave their arms, stomp their feet and scream...

"GIVE HER ANOTHER CHANCE! GIVE HER ANOTHER CHANCE!"





Have a super nice Sunday!

I remember the hours I spent at your side a crippling disease bound you to a wheel chair but as life of the physical became limited
And activity receded in to distant past memories your spirit blossomed and grew strong and vibrant under difficult circumstances
You were transformed from the light energetic always on the go traveler to one who became conceptualized and grounded flights of
Deep brooding and understanding replaced the open by ways of this life the tests brought rewards that showed in your changed
Personality and life something unattainable became common place advancing years was not the delivery system but suffering kept
From the seemingly desirable all important action and endless treks to faraway places your compensation inward discovery no longer
Reaching for selfish goals gave you the treasure the fulfillment of knowing the saviors designs and hopes and dreams for your life
Your notable place in life was that you did more from a wheel chair than others that had no restrictions you gave me the colorful
Landscape that you found from an altered journey you said the pristine forest green the places of shadowed dreams was where
This lands first people were given ultimate truth it was carried throughout the holy land and to the ends of the earth that meant
it reached this land it came as one walked a life time in a forest always confused the trees held the sky in limited view but the
Time came when the forest opened into a great clearing then how the mind was enlarged by new realities that were open and clear
No longer blocked and holding the sky muted now thoughts grew grand and true a mist descended from the great hoary mountain
In it was a spirit not one to disrupt and distract but one who made all things crystal clear to seek only gain for one self was
Counterproductive give yourself away and then how surprisingly clear the path would become and how much more you could achieve
From this simple practice everything was so perfect and easy to follow the Great Spirit was a father who made us all had great plans
For his children but then his own most favored and trusted friend was found to have a different spirit earth experienced a great
Lighting strike this was not the natural wonder being displayed but the battle lines being drawn up for a war that would be waged until
The end of time and at the end of many days more lighting and darkness filled a mount called Golgotha the father showed his
All consuming love by coming into the human existence and once and for all making freedom possible for all through this act
And obedience to the rules that followed true lasting freedom was offered but confusion was sown in every corner of the earth
Doubt was bred into the fabric of life only displaced by receiving faith through the true and sacrificial lamb no longer doomed to a
Downward spiral you could catch the bestowing life from purest holy compelling that came to lead sustain forgive make you a new
Creature empowered to walk above low depravity walk encircled in love contested by all the means at heavens disposal by this you
Would be judged only for reward not separation and everlasting punishment that is the fate of our great enemy as you can see this was
A lot for a child to take in but in this knowledge and wisdom I have known great comfort and hope possibly I will share more of her
Enlightened wisdom later.

I remember the hours I spent at your side a crippling disease bound you to a wheel chair but as life of the physical became limited
And activity receded into distant past memories your spirit blossomed and grew strong and vibrant under difficult circumstances
You were transformed from the light energetic always on the go traveler to one who became conceptualized and grounded flights of
Deep brooding and understanding replaced the open by ways of this life the tests brought rewards that showed in your changed
Personality and life something unattainable became common place advancing years was not the delivery system but suffering kept
From the seemingly desirable all important action and endless treks to faraway places your compensation inward discovery no longer
Reaching for selfish goals gave you the treasure the fulfillment of knowing the saviors designs and hopes and dreams for your life
Your notable place in life was that you did more from a wheel chair than others that had no restrictions you gave me the colorful
Landscape that you found from an altered journey you said the pristine forest green the places of shadowed dreams was where
This lands first people were given ultimate truth it was carried throughout the holy land and to the ends of the earth that meant
it reached this land it came as one walked a life time in a forest always confused the trees held the sky in limited view but the
Time came when the forest opened into a great clearing then how the mind was enlarged by new realities that were open and clear
No longer blocked and holding the sky muted now thoughts grew grand and true a mist descended from the great hoary mountain
In it was a spirit not one to disrupt and distract but one who made all things crystal clear to seek only gain for one self was
Counterproductive give yourself away and then how surprisingly clear the path would become and how much more you could achieve
From this simple practice everything was so perfect and easy to follow the Great Spirit was a father who made us all had great plans
For his children but then his own most favored and trusted friend was found to have a different spirit earth experienced a great
Lighting strike this was not the natural wonder being displayed but the battle lines being drawn up for a war that would be waged until
The end of time and at the end of many days more lighting and darkness filled a mount called Golgotha the father showed his
All consuming love by coming into the human existence and once and for all making freedom possible for all through this act
And obedience to the rules that followed true lasting freedom was offered but confusion was sown in every corner of the earth
Doubt was bred into the fabric of life only displaced by receiving faith through the true and sacrificial lamb no longer doomed to a
Downward spiral you could catch the bestowing life from purest holy compelling that came to lead sustain forgive make you a new
Creature empowered to walk above low depravity walk encircled in love contested by all the means at heavens disposal by this you
Would be judged only for reward not separation and everlasting punishment that is the fate of our great enemy as you can see this was
A lot for a child to take in but in this knowledge and wisdom I have known great comfort and hope possibly I will share more of her
Enlightened wisdom later.

A thin white dust of snow littered the concrete path like an overspill of Styrofoam *****. Summer had her hands buried deep into the lining of her coat pockets and her chin pressed tightly within her pashmina scarf. It was the first bite of wind she’d felt in a while. She had been holed up with her friends for several days and the concept of loneliness was already foreign to her, much in the same way as privacy. She could feel the cheap red wine rust in her veins as her body told her “too much” and in truth she was ready for the crackle of vinyl and the promise of fresh sheets and a shower. The week had been fun, she guessed, she’d certainly felt closer to her friends than ever before, even though they all went back for as far as it was worth remembering.  ‘She guessed’. She’d been guessing for a while now, living in absences with everything held at an emotionless distance – whether or not this was deliberate she could not decide.
It wasn’t a particularly long walk back to her house, enough to take the bus - but she guessed she wanted the walk. The cold air made her eyes glassy and occasionally she had to blink furiously to catch the water forming along her lids. The din of distant inner city traffic consumed the airwaves around her but the path that lay ahead of her was surrounded by parkland, and within eyeshot there was a lazy brook where children would often be seen playing, though they’d be at school at this time of day. She guessed. She wasn’t quite sure of the time, but she knew it was the 15th of February. She couldn’t always be sure of what year it was though, her head was often stuck back in the 1960’s, before she was even born.
Summer could feel the claustrophobia of youthfulness shedding from her every angle and with every insipid step she took, the world took on a more familiar feeling and she took her first real breath of air for days. From out of nowhere she felt overwhelmed at the breathless ease of the faint snowfall and the slate grey of the sky. The clench in her stomach – Summer often found herself weeping for no real reason, and she could never quite work out whether she would be weeping for beauty, or for sorrow…she guessed that there was some compromise between the two. All she knew is that she was very sorry when she reached her front door that her walk was over and that she must again disappear into the walls.
The heating had been off for almost an entire week now and Summer could hear the house groan into action as the radiators cracked back into life, and she felt much the same. The kettle jittered on the spot as the water steamed and bubbled welcomingly and soon the kitchen was greeted with the smell of tea. Summer retreated to her room upstairs. A wide room with white walls meant that it was often brighter than the world outside and it often appeared to unadjusted eyes to have a ghostly glow about it. Summer thumbed through her proud collection of second-hand LP records until she settled on listening through Pink Moon for what was now an uncountable time. “Saw it written and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way”. She let out an exhausted but contented smile and fell onto her bed. The sheets were cold from privation of use but the coolness on her cheek was welcome and she closed her eyes and imagined she was still outside on an effortless walk, with the sounds of Nick Drake overpowering that of the exhausts of one thousand cars.
After several moments of another world, she reluctantly sat back up and began to take off her clothes to get a little bit more comfortable. It felt good to get out of her clothes, she’d only meant to stay for one night so she had not been able to change her clothes for days and she’d appreciated the idea of clean underwear in a way she never considered worth noticing before. She unclasped her bra and felt it fall clumsily to the floor and just sat there for a moment, bare-breasted in the pearl white of the chilly room. She couldn’t help but feel like an illustration, of pastels or watercolours. Her mind was still a convoluted collage of the past few day’s events – the haze of alcohol and **** still occupied a small corner of her being, despite the cleansing walk and the wonderful clunk of a familiar guitar bouncing across her walls. Her ******* were hard from the cold so she threw on an extra large male t-shirt that fell to just below her upper thigh.
She slid off her skirt and underwear, which fell limp at her pale thin ankles. Looking at her thighs, she could still make out the small thumb-sized bruises scattered across them from the distant and removed *** she’d had at some point last week. At least she guessed, it could have happened back in the 60’s for all she knew. It felt as if the past week was not real, a familiar feeling. She was almost certain that man who had shared her bed did not really exist and her bruises contested her own existence. At least that’s how it felt.
She turned over the vinyl and remembering her tea, slid between the covers and warmed her hands against the steaming ceramic. The tea was perhaps the most wonderful and delicious thing she had ever tasted and she felt it nourish her metaphysically. In a way beyond words, she felt herself heal with the rush of warm past her lips and the sweetness on her tongue. The room was slowly warming as she skimmed her legs back and forth against the mattress in complete comfort. Once the last of her tea had been drunk, she let the empty mug rest on the bedside counter and almost immediately fell into a dreamless sleep.

Crop fields, once
Today tall grass has taken
Vigil on the hills
Named for old dead boys

Grass aplenty (surely
Two, five, ten winters
Steeped in lead, bloodied,
Washed clean in rain
Could feed a generation)

And then the sun
Always beating, Drumming
Sweat before my eyes
My life—flashing— a lark—

Here in this meadow
Mankind came to slaughter for a train yard
Between the mountain passes and the river
And the Run, once dried, is spilling over

With blood, with clay, for
Sons and daughters of
Virginia, these American tales
(Contested, my chains for soil...)

Pass whispered between
Mothers and little ones, the words
A lineage: Captain to farmer,
Farmer’s granddaughter

I witnessed the passing of our story
From one generation
And I stood by

a partial lobotomy of grey matters only to broken mothers of lost soldiers,
pentimento fading a revelation of humanized
modernized sentiment beyond the reaches of fingerless hands;
jagged bangs cut across the face of Burn-Victim Barbie if she were
seven feet tall,
imperfect,
9-dimensional shattered knees.
vote or die downward spiral protecing six-fingered man of mystery:
my name is the youth of America,
you killed my voice,
prepare to suffer in the solitary expression of the empty room.
peanuts for peanuts in a gold star self emporium with
thinking as a feeling sport contested by numerology in all matters moral.
Our very own
Satan as Hamlet,
set in a post-9/11 forgotten Washington,
drowning Ophelia in an ocean of plastic bottles non-recyclable.
meditation of the Om on a springboard of economic dis-stimulus:
up with the people!
in the midnight Vendetta,
too young to learn or sin originally,
masterful drunkenness shrouded in opera scenes from a hat.
fast track to a treble cliff diver
if you ever were my home.

There once was a boy, well an usher, in truth
who had worked long hours, lack of sleep was the proof.
It was a quaint little spot, never left an impression,
but customers were lively, while in line for concession.

It was always full of people, conversations were numerous,
but the usher was always so down, he never found one humorous.
The theater was packed, full of laughter and grins.
but the noise was so loud that his patience wore thin.

Among the crowd and chatter was a man,
a simpleton at best, balding and in need of a tan,
who presented his ticket to the usher
with such joy that no one could understand.

The usher greeted him, but his curiosity got the best of him.
"Excited for this film?", the usher asked him.
"Oh I'm killing some time but thank you for asking".
The usher wondered why the man was so excited.

"I'm going on a date with my beautiful wife,
the most wonderful woman I've met in my life.
Lobster ravioli in Rosée with wine,
that is always her favorite when we go out and dine."

"Sounds delicious", said the usher, finally cracking a smile.
No customer had shown so much excitement in a while.
“I should have enough time to get her a gift,
but on to the movie so enjoy your shift.”

As the man walked into the theater, the usher had a refreshed start;
he had that man to thank for bringing life to his heart.
As the movie finished running, the man left in a hurry.
The usher thanked the man for coming,
“Gotta go - it’s past 6:30!”

A boy walks towards the usher, asking if he’s seen a man.
He described him the same, “Balding, needing a tan.”
"The movie had finished around 6:40.
He’s going on a date-"
The boy stops him.
“He told you that story?”

The usher, clearly confused, nodded his head.
The boy wasn’t happy, but worried instead.
“That man is very ill, and I'm sorry for the confusion.
He tells people this tale as his mind rests on delusion.”

The usher is stunned, almost demands to see proof,
alas the boy doesn’t hesitate to tell him the truth.

The last time the man saw his wife,
he reserved two for eight,
But then something odd happened-
she never showed for that date.

Her body became ill, and also weakened her soul,
so she lost that great battle around three years ago.
When she begged "let me die", he contested, said no,
and his mind ever since has refused to let go.

The usher then asks, "then where is he going tonight?"
"Well his loss is a truth that his mind always fights."
He orders a glass of wine, while also clutching the menu.
And he's there often enough that he's a regular at the venue.

So he waits two hours, maybe less, maybe more,
while he prays to his maker that she walks through the door.
He later goes home to sleep, her absence never how it seemed,
and is convinced the next morning it was all just a dream.

Again, and again, he reserves two for eight,
with his heart tricking his mind to prepare for his date.

“I could tell him the truth,
but I choose not to bother,
I can’t bear to see that pain again,
in the eyes of my father.”

That man is this boy’s father! That man lost his wife!
He’s sacrificed three whole years of his life.
Spring never came for him, winter woes with his wife up above,
but this was tragic evidence of unconditional love.

So his joy was imprisoned like a caged bird once free.
The usher’s heart broke in two
for the man who'd lost three.

She Wants

Scarlet cheek
Drenched in heavy breath
Praying to a god of lightning within skin
We sin electric
Along the pulse of thunder
That pounds along the prism of rib cage
As an empty echo waiting to be filled

We reduce the night in hidden instincts
Back down to darkness
Kissed in candle flame
So desperately close to being blown out
That we have already settled into gloom  

Sightless in the slap of touch
The weight of wait
Tension in tendons
Curled toes and closed eyes
Fearlessly peeking
To drown in the bounty of hair
That hangs heavenly
Like a blindfold
Lost in the black sea of pupil
A lack of breath
In lip bitten lungs

We surrender to a pillow case prison
Bed sheet asylum
Deemed insane
We play straight jacket
Handcuff confessions
Shrink our skin
Closer to a clothing called sanity  
Admit to the sweet seductions
Of tounge **** swallow lip
Quiver to bow
Notch arrow
Draw steady down
Hold
Hold
Tremble
Release
To bask in the wisdom
Of hip slips singing
Dipping witness to testify
In the court-ship of submission

A contained chaos
Contested as corruption
But our bodies speak universal
In a language of moans and mantas
Sung out over the churning bass beat
Of heart thumps that resonate
In the taught syllables of beau-ty
Caged between skin and its slap  

We are powerless in the presence of passion
And position our bodies in sculptures of sweat
A natural occurrence
A midnight madness
Where we shed this skin
And let our bones scrape
Till our skeletons knock the nails outa this casket

Resurrected we wake as infidels
And follow our echoes
To the origin of our conversions
A little death
A simple attraction
Tension
And release

the talk of the Medieval town, long forgotten,
with the un-literate community in calendar
upheavals of the 40 days spent in desert hiding,
to become an actor of Messiah -
you need a Greek word for that -
Moses wasn't annointed - this ain't no brother Grimm
fairytale - real politics happens from these few
scribbles compared to Dumas' libary -
a role quietly suited - to be born with a miracle
but no miracle given with a fully conscious
expression of i - stigmata nouns - you are
and i am bound to the same fate: use certain words
and you're a madman... but i'm watching
the vocabulary of atheism's enthusiasts and that of science
also, and i see no well-minded correlation -
both seem absent-minded - when one uses
a theological word i see another not using a
scientific word, and both are the same to me -
taxes, mortgage loans, insurance claims -
whichever side you choose, none of the two is
better than the either - it's one and the same in
the Graeae cauldron - both are lazy in not having
studied science - they argue from a point of disaffection -
both are lazy not having taken religion seriously
given apologetics of religion and the upkeep via torture -
the ones greedily ridiculing religion are
way too eager to engage with science as mere
laboratory rats, experimented on -
given 2000 years of Greek Judaism, imagine the next
2000 years of Roman Judaism, bypassing Nero -
i crack the bones on my hands - readied -
i contested to not further educating myself in chemistry
with dread of becoming a lab rat... indeed a lab rat i became -
when philosophy came there was no politics of
thought - but when psychiatry came there was a politics
of experience - extending politics from outside into
the inner the politics of experience became a politics of thinking,
meaning many new formats could emerge -
the politics of depression as experiencing thought -
the politics of schizophrenia as experiencing thought -
with that much said: thought is not an experience
of identity - many of us experience thought without
a politics of identity - for many the existence of thought
does not undermine them - it cushions them -
but for the very few thought is like a synonym of god -
for others a misnomer, an incubation of potential -
the schizoid element of the dualism of thought v. being
rather than being v. non-being is much greater -
and it is a grand divide - not a paranoid pluralism of
pronoun use content on segregation into units -
to prove the existence of thought is akin to proving the existence
of God, in that proving thought exists is to find no
compensation in the presupposed existence of morals
or codes of ethics / social scrupules - as in relation to the proof
for the existence of God demanding the non-existence
of saints - culminating in the wheel of fortune, paradox,
and contradiction outlining a stoppage of further argumentation.
why can't people make narrations from the word god
as to not seem imbecilic and childish, while those
making narration from the word ego are accustomed to
less criticism of their choice of vocabulary?
if god is a stigmata noun - even a casual inference of the word
is being targeted - then why is ego a nirvana noun?
the former merely identifies a being however lost in Disney
it might be...
the latter identifies a sound, given its use in encompassing
a solidification of individuation (an individual and its
behavioural pattern) - ashore on an island of onomatopoeias -
we have ego (a theoretical placebo), and we have
a person that simply identifies with an eaten-up echo -
the vocabulary and the choir also vampire-like
without echo like image in mirror -
but if god is identified as a stigmata noun, then ego
is far from being a nirvana noun - given the prime concern
for western Buddhist converts at reaching a nirvana
is to cure western man from thinking, i.e. thinking in
the western psyche is the prime source of suffering -
imagine how hard it will be to uncouple thinking altogether -
and when re-coupling thinking not think of the Dalai Lama
and instigate an upheaval of the atom as individual -
with the cloud of electrons of others' existence,
yourself the neutral, privatising a positive vibe using
knowledge of the existence of protons -
well, the atom teaches us: equilibrium is sustained by
the neutron (tree) encompassing both proton (good)
and electron (evil) - the latter no longer orbits but cloud -
a fancy take on your everyday urban interaction
environment - a cloudy throng of inter-action -
London the perfect explanation of quantum mechanics:
particular instances of revealed energy (cameos) -
v. universal instances of revealed energy (marriages) -
or quiet simply, via the two: now you see me, now you don't.

Amusing to most cynics, these tragic tales of love.
Questioning his mercy, the one who watches from above.

Diabolical confrontation, an army so strong.
Sleepless nights withered, pondering what went wrong.

Meek perception of a fickle minded clan.
Denouncing an ambitious child, an insubordinate man.

An intense adoration, eloquence of being crazed.
Contested against vehemently, all hell aggresively raised.

Not unrequited, not unfair, a beautiful symphony meticulously shared.
Infatuation so strong, hope for lives to be paired.

Cacophony of society, this petrified state.
Throngs of loathing, a cumbersome hate.

Agitating separation, an indignant ploy.
Hearts shattered, like a worthless toy.

These bonds of unfair blood, creators of an avenging soul.
Guaranteed devastation, eager to come out of its hole.

Upset the master plan, cause his own disease.
Let there be genocide, In god's decrees he did not believe.

Buried alive, weight of there mutual debt.  
Grieving loss, Giving up on everything left.

Beaten, he screams in mortal vanquish.
His very soul on fire.
He forsakes them all, allows his blood to douse there funeral pyre.

King Richard and his honor guard
saw advantage slip away.
Northumberland betrayed his king
and stayed out of the fray.


King Richard spied his rival's arms
on Bosworth field that day.
Lord Stanley on the sidelines stood
as if in Richmond's pay.

Richmond did not care to fight.
His men struck Richard down.
They stabbed at him repeatedly
till blood royal soaked the ground.

The battered and contested crown
-found in a thornbush there
-was placed on Henry Tudor's head.
as Henry knelt in prayer.

The naked body of his foe
was tied across an ***.
Had ever a King of England
been so dishonored once he'd passed?

Two princes of the House of York
were in the Tower Lodged
Their deaths ascribed to Richard's hands
the truth- known but to God.

If Overthinking was a contested sport
I'm sorry but I'm sure I'd have 8 gold medals and be endorsed
It's something I wish I was nowhere near as good at as I am of course

If self doubt was a state of mind.
That'd be a constant for me I'd find.
I don't know why, but I'm always quick to criticize
Myself, my playing of music and most of all my rhymes.

I guess if I was a film I'd probably be pulp fiction
Out of order and nonsensical to some,
But to someone with a similar sense of vision
My tatters would be silken robes
And she'd be Cleopatra maybe... I don't know.

He screamed
From what he couldn't see
He screamed
Through the in betweens
And screamed
Of all the things
He never had

Never chanced
For more

Never stood
For more

Than he could afford

A man it is
A mantis
Atlantis in a war
Of sees
Sinking
Quietly
To piece
es

Predictable

Board

Fishing
For
The rewards
Of discord

His apple rotten
To the core

Crying
For
A *****
Amidst the horror
In the store
Of euphoria

In delirium

In the serum
That nearly killed him

Magnificent
Is the malignants
Of his presence
When rejected
From the projections
Of nervous lessons
lessening
The blemishes
Of the beautiful

Reluctant
And dutiful

He paints the faces
With razorblades
And shame
Carving plates
From skin
The sin
Is only in the flesh

Cut the cancer

Win the contest
Of contested
Blessings

Bleeding
From the lips
Of kids

Victim
To the blips
From beyond
The calling
Of calmly talking toos

Three cubes
To clueless

He knew this

As a dream
Within a dream
And construed it
Through another stream

Beaming
The misleading
Lights astray

He was dead
And seething
Perpetually
Grieving
But he likes
To play

I boxed him up
But
I will show you
Someday
Maybe sunday

Okay

Or I would be, could be if the
sea was a memory, distant periphery,
granted sideways glances between
sought out land masses that can
offer some known substance, sore
eco thumb prints making them
seem special, almost terrestrially
relatable, debatably to people,
less contested to ideas, thoughts
and reasons beating back brazen
treasons of the seventy percent
that needs to take over, its
meaning is deeper than dirt.

This is not a new day, this is a day gone bad, rotting and stinking like putrid death, but repackaged, perfumed, and sold like cheap ***, for dimes or a sense of certainty or just company,

Surrounded and Alone-
The essence of city life

Out of windows, dusty, and brushing cotton flakes out of hair
In a cold room there is so much to do, like breathing,
Running hesitant tongue over stoic teeth,
Why use it? When communication is fraught with shipwrecking maelstroms of miss-understanding, miss- understood and miss-interpreted

                                   -heavy headphone armour on,
Check.

But what is sung is wrong, pursued by romantics old and new, this modern age is fractured and cannot be seen by a mirror unbroken, while comedy halls are bursting at the seams with self deprecation and I laugh at everything I don’t understand, and don’t understand why I laugh but-

But I’m fond of morbid irony: is it possible to commit suicide accidentally?

I ask the Eternal Cockroach as it salvages waste and it rolls its Eternal eyes at miss-placed Inconsequence. It rolls its eyes and sees the bottom of my shoe and ***** off to cockroach Hell or Heaven while the crushed and oozing carcass stains my sole.

And I don’t care if I asked a question or wanted an answer or, in the end, what I got at all.

Forget the bridge; I’m flying over this-

A poem, played out on stark eyebrows and two fine forehead lines, then quirked, ruining a long lamentation’s worth of time, to say nothing of the ruminating circle, the square that fits in it, those fine fired diplomatic lines, deluxe and then depraved and then forgetting what that means.

If anything at all

A New Year I don’t know what to do with, an old expectation I still harbour, though here ships can only be wrecked and left unrepaired save for chewing gum and spit.

Baby faced innocence wrinkles faster than hands in tepid bathwater; here,
Skin crawls with the tactile hallucinations of a spider’s breath; evaporating

The words, which are always contested even by themselves, that remain seated on a reluctant tongue, everywhere, where echoes of watercolour paint and bolognaise sauce compete for existential poetic perfection, here,

There, on cracked amber shores, ancient icons and ancient dramatic dreams, tumbled shreds of history textbooks and photographs combine into nostalgia, ready to catch a hot wave and jump into another word-

The essence of speech, like bread and potatoes, is starchy blandness- the plaster base of meaning, waiting for the frieze,

Really, it’s a tasteless memory that supports the world in its frame, in its seams, and cracks before it compromises-

I do not compromise, not because I am the best but because I fall apart without myself, and any compromise will mean death and that arduous reinvention of the smile, the hand, to wield pens and stroke guitar strings and make gear changes and fidget with hair and with fingers express urgent ideas in the shape of air,

Here,

The hollow house has already been burnt out, but an X was marked, so let’s ruminate around it still, and still before we pounce

On anything that gleams, anything that shines; hunt with snout in trough for lost treasure, those things that gleam and shine-but it’s a hoax

As fox masked bourgeois wolves run behind backs and pinch backsides and pick pockets. Steal pocket lint and ticket stubs and laugh, waving miss-fortune in faces, equally lost in the search for the words of missed discontent, but with money and our pocket lint and ticket stubs to forget it-

Until it just stops: Reach out, and bash them on the head- or start a civil war, it’s not always a choice, but now it yours-

To swing lavish hips in the garbage of history, or not

Don’t want or need to know what made this: put up a sign for the archaeologists of the future: don’t dig here, nothing worthwhile here, take the trowels and brushes and theories of Diffusion or Constructed Hegemonic Discourse (though Gordon Childe may stay for Tea, tea, that most holy incarnation of caffeine)

And go.

There’s nothing that one could want here that isn’t already known; when weeping, when looking in a hotel bathroom mirror and pulling at hair and eye sockets in mad disorientated frustration-
So,

I’ll be East of Eden, looking for East of Ordinary (if anyone cares) dropping and rescuing causes like pebbles and shells on foreign shores,

Sure, I don’t know what to think, but I’ll feel it anyway,

Spitting in open mouths next to ancestral verse, no reverence for irreverent history or this,
these narrow doorways and double standards are doing heads in;

shrink it, trim this mental overgrowth, neo-liberalise this stress, just privatise it all, and it becomes

Decrepit disconnections, miss-spelled and miss-meant; missing a lucid neologism and marvelling at its absent meaning. See, all there was to believe in was a circle pit that spun forever and insistent chords and the increasing pressure that ended in a broken nose;
                                                who knows?

Revelation: maybe I quirked that eyebrow, and disbelief simulated stimulating dreams-

I’ve seen promises made out of diamonds, wood, gold, amber, spit, so don’t ask me to repeat myself or this, to diagnose or understand it-

I’m sick with everything I cannot count or count on, things accidentally found and purposefully misplaced. I could lie and it would probably mean the same thing anyway,

See, there’s nothing new to see, to this or me,

This is not a new day, but one wasted in a cold room.

Visitors land in Athens engulfed with a feeling of great excitement in the air,
Renowned for its rich history, it is as if Greece is waiting to lay it's soul bare,
The cab driver's effusive welcome is prelude to a magical experience in the offing,
As he regales you with the city's historic landmarks, seemingly without stopping

Made of limestone rock, the Acropolis means "high city" as it is atop a hill,
Visible from almost everywhere within the city, it is Athen's sentinel still,
Dedicated to goddess Athena, it originally showcased buildings colored lavishly,
Transformed later into a city of temples, after destruction by the Persians savagely

For inhabitants, it was a place of refuge in times of invasion due to it's location,
Women barricading themselves in the fortress in mute protest was just a distraction,
Depriving their always-at-war spouses of worldly pleasures was a way of having the last word,
Such acts of frustration were so successful, that it is practiced even in today's world

The star attraction of Acropolis is the Parthenon that stands out in majestic splendor,
The resplendent marble structure being the epicenter of religious life is no small wonder,
Columns leaning slightly inward give the illusion of true straight lines and a lifting effect,
Remaining in use for a thousand odd years despite ravages of time, shows it was bereft of defects

Awe-inspiring Parthenon is a tribute to the innovative imagination of the talented Greeks,
It was geometry at its best sans extensive calculations, inspired by passionate geeks,
To make a line look straight, it had to be tapered or curved - a tenet of site mechanics,
Fitted together like the world's heaviest jigsaw puzzle, the massive columns seem titanic

Scenes of mythical battles can be seen in sculpted marble metopes in the Parthenon,
Tribal human Lapiths combating savage half-man, half-horse Centaurs are depicted spot-on,
Stage-wise motions of horsemen getting ready for a cavalcade are convincingly conveyed,
Goddess Athena's birth from the head of her father Zeus has been beautifully portrayed

The Erechtheion sits on the most sacred site where Poseidon and Athena contested,
Athena's olive tree growth trumping Poseidon's spring gush is a fact to be digested,
As Patron of the city, Athens took it's name from the victorious Athena,
Erechtheion is still considered the real religious temple in the present-day arena

The theater of Herod Atticus below the Acropolis built by the Romans is a majestic marvel,
Chunks of aesthetically designed arched structures are fodder for the mind to unravel,
In use even today for concerts, ballets and cultural performances during the night,
It's breathtaking view from the elevated Acropolis is a photographer's delight

The rock of Areopagos that is below the Acropolis, is a picturesque location,
Panoramic views of the Plaka, Monastiraki and Athens, leave little to imagination,
Climbing the slippery steps, the vaunted locale is ideal for a glorious sunset view,
Watching the city lights at night is a great way to wrap up the day without much ado

From the northeast corner of the Acropolis, one can see Athens city stretching out endlessly below,
Viewing Plaka's ceramic-tiled rooftops, Hadrians Arch and Lysikratous street makes one want to bellow,
The giant Temple of Olympian Zeus ruins and Olympic stadium can be seen nestled in pine covered hill,
As a visually stunning island of green in a sea of concrete, the view admirably fits the bill

It is with a cocktail of emotions that one meanders back to Athens city at the end of the day,
Topped with awe at the sheer brilliance of the minds of Romans and Greeks in their heyday,
Generations will be on the learning curve while gleaning facts from the rich history,
The multifarious reasons for the Acropolis being so popular can never be a mystery

rarely do you wake up with your father in pain, stomach... so what the hell happened you ask? ate some sausage, best-before-date 20.1.2017... no wonder! but it was frozen and recently defrosted! so you just tuck into that **** raw? yeah yeah, should have poached it. like hell you should have! so he runs me an errand, can you make me rosół? no problem paps. i'll give you the money, run me this errand. you taken any no spa pills? yes yes, well thank **** for that.

ugh, soups of england, soups in england,
what an ugly sight,
   no soup pasta in them,
  and all of them look like mud holes,
or shambos (the pits of **** in rural areas) -
can we get some clarity in them, please?!
and this one is a classic,
its a clear chicken soup,
  contested between both jews and poles,
from times immemorial...
you get a chicken, cut off the *******
to use for an idea for tomorrow,
and then you chuck the remaining corpus
into water, pour water to the brim of the ***,
throw in a bay leaf, peppercorns,
five allspice meteor,
       and a few teaspoons of all-purpose
seasoning: namely / mainly salt...
          then you get some carrots,
garlic, a whole onion, leeks,
     celery, a parsnip, and fresh parsley,
and then you cook slowly,
  until all the fat runs off the chicken,
   and a bit like pouring a pint of guinness,
you wait for at least two hours,
until the almost brine water,
   turns into a golden colour,
       but that's it!
  then you boil some angel hair pasta,
and there you go: a clear chicken soup -
dubbed the medicine soup,
  it's actually now even called a soup,
  it's actually called by its name as a separate
category within the category of soup,
i'll try to write you the name without
the native diacritical markings...
  rosół = and this is by best approximate:
   ~ρ-sew
         (rho-sew) - yes, that verb participle of
the act of sewing - as: prompt (enforced
labour: sew! sew!) -
          no, sowing as in rho-sow doesn't cut it...
like that prolonged sound of disgust
with eww / eew... however you write
oh and ooh...
           can't think of an easier chicken soup
recipe, but *******, it's tasty...
  and heavens above: it's not a typical english
soup of just plain dumb creamy:
creamy tomato, creamy mushroom, creamy this,
creamy that, **** it, let's just skip
the entree, eat the main, and get stuck into
the choc cake and custard...
   when i eat a soup, i want to see the bottom
of the bowl...
the garlic and onion are crucial,
  and yes, you plop the onion in a whole,
like all the other veg (obviously cut up slightly)...
   nothing simpler, but you need to slowly
cook the **** thing until you get this
diluted amber colour...
   and you definitely need a lot of fresh parsley,
and angel hair pasta...
           fine spaghetti, after all,
  it's not a chinese noodle soup...
              and before going to bed i asked him:
any better? yes, better...
    so we finished watching the nail-biting
poland vs. montenegro game... 2 nil up,
2 - 2, and then magic in the space of 10 minutes,
almost feels like 1974: 4 - 2.
so i asks him one last time:
   can you drink a glass of cognac with that
medication? no answer, a grunt...
       you know, the scots call ms. amber the maiden
of the bowels... have a warm glass of
cognac, to burn that bug out...
and he goes: did you know that eating
a polish sausage can **** you?
  yeah, it's called a *kiełbasa jad (tenacious d -
opening track:
  etymological explanation -
   kieł- i.e. canine, -basa [baza] i.e. base -
   based on canines - tearing into it,
carnivorous implication, my bet) -
      so he says:
  yeah, you leave the sausage in a warm place,
esp. in sunshine, and it turns into
a venomous snake, can **** you,
   starts fermenting a venom akin
                                            to an asp...
so i reply: well, next time stop being so
****** greedy, and if you're in the mood,
at least poach the **** thing!
he might not be drinking the prescribed
cognac... (insert snigger):
   but sure as **** i'm drinking the whiskey.

The beautiful bride for the world prepared,
by Europe's colonial powers divided.
Her priceless worth was seen and hardly spared;
hence the need to woo her was decided.
Two great superpowers made their advances,
as she danced before their lustful glances.
Now she's wooed by none other than the Chinese;
who dangle their bread crumbs and putrid cheese;
seeking relentlessly her heart to please.
Africa is no doubt a priceless jewel,
historically contested for by a duel.

Could I be more empty than what I am, I 'm a room
within so many buildings of what are now vacant with
vagrants of contested thoughts.

Please don't think because my rooms are empty that
there is nothing in there even though it doesn't
look desolate it is full of lingering shadows of thought.

We fill the hollow vastness of non relative meanings
with nothing but essences of what we lumbered on?
My thoughts are of empty consequences nothing less.

Can you see in the deserted realms of a once awoken
mind, now it is hollow as each room of thought became
depleted of anything but unoccupied stagnant thought.

I hear the suicide note, it lullabies my motions
into the erratic switches from the highs and lows.

The melody of that connection that i murmur
in contested reflections. I want to bleed that chorus.

Wanting this to be expelled from my ballad of
speculation, and stem the tears of desolation that cut.

Singing the suicide note off key,  I know what I'm
debating towards and others hear my mourning.

I write the notes down to expel this louder than
reality notion and then I walk into the other room.

Don't feel sorrow or pain, this was a song that I had
been humming for longer than most now I hear none.

"My song is silent the notes are still,
"This chorus has run its moment,
*"But this song ended and I faded out,