Little boy stands,
In his empty room.
He's got nothing to do,
'Cept to crawl back in the womb.

Stands by himself,
Not one person at his side.
Voices inside him speak,
But he'll always deny.

Denys that they're there,
Denys that he cares.
Denys the looks and stares,
Denys the cross he bears.

Bi-polar fish out of water,
Flops around his own life.
Makes his way to puddle of water,
To only find a puddle of knifes.

Cannon ***** in,
Happy and glad.
Sinks further in,
Submerged and mad.
  
Denys that they're there,
Denys that he cares.
Denys the looks and stares,
Denys the cross he bears.

Tries to swim out,
Cuts paint the scales.
Fish drowns in blood,
His own gills have failed.

Little boy stands,
Watches it bleed.
Takes the fish in his hands,
***** out the life he so desperately needs.

Denys that they're there,
Denys that he cares.
Denys the looks and stares,
Denys the cross he bears.

Fish guts and blood,
Pour into his mouth.
Eyes open wide,
Life headed south.

Finished he licks his lips,
And grins a big smile.
The boy's life now has meaning,
The meaning is his denial.

Denys that they're there,
Denys that he cares.
Denys the looks and stares,
Denys the cross he bears.

Denys the den eyes...

I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.

Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.

But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady’s side.

Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,
A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.

Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?

Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.

Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.

Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o’er hill and mere?

Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.

Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)

Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.

Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.

But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?

‘T is the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.

But why does the curfew toll sae low?
And why do the mourners walk a-row?

O ‘t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.

Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.

O ‘t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.

Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.

O ‘t is none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)

But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet,
‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’

Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.

O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?

I get off the Belt Parkway at Rockaway Boulevard and
Jet aloft from Idyllwild.
(I know, now called J.F. ******* K!)
Aboard a TWA 747 to what was then British East Africa,
Then overland by train to Baroness Blixen’s Nairobi farm . . .
You know the one at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I lease space in Karen’s African dreams,
Caressing her long white giraffe nape,
That exquisite Streep jugular.
I am a ghost in Meryl’s evil petting zoo:
I haunt the hand that feeds me.

Safely back in Denmark, I receive treatment
For my third bout with syphilis at Copenhagen General.
Cured at last, I return to Kenya and Karen.
In my solitude or sleep, I go with her,
One hundred miles north of the Equator,
Arriving at Julia Child’s marijuana herb garden–
Originally Kikuyu Land, of course—
But mine now by imperial design &
California voter referendum.
(Voiceover) "I had a farm in Africa
At the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My farm lies high above the sea at 6,000 feet.
By daybreak I feel oh, oh so high up,
Near to the sun on early mornings.
Evenings so limpid and restful;
Nights oh, so cold.
Mille Grazie a lei, Signore *******!
Andiamo, Sydney, amico mio.
Let it flow like the water that lives in Mombasa.
Let it flow like Kurt Luedtke’s liquid crystal script.
We zoom in. We go close in. Going close up,
On the face of Isak Dinesen’s household
Servant and general factotum. (Full camera ******)
Karen Blixen’s devoted Muslim manservant,
Farah: “God is happy, msabu. He plays with us…”
He plays with me.  And who shall I be today?
How about Tony Manero for starters?
Good choice. Nicely done!
Geezer Manero:  old and bitter now,
Still working at the hardware store,
Twice-divorced, a chain-smoker,
Severely diabetic, a drunk on dialysis 3 times a week.
Bite me, Pop:  I never thought I was John Travolta.
But, hey, I had my shot:  “I coulda been a contenda.”
Once more, by association only,
I am a great artist again, quickly made
Near great by a simple second look.
Why, oh God? I am kvetching again.
I celebrate myself and sing the
L-on-forehead loser’s lament:
Why implant the desire and then
Withhold from me the talent?
“I wrote 30 ******* operas,”
I hear Salieri’s demented cackle.
“I will speak for you, Wolfie Babaloo;
I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.”

Must I wind up in the same
Viennese loony bin with Antonio?
Note to self:  GTF out of Austria post-haste!
I’ve been called on the Emperor’s carpet again,
My head, my decapitated Prufrock noodle,
Grown slightly bald, brought in upon a platter.
Are peaches in season?
Do I dare eat one?
I am Amadeus, ******, infantile,
An irresistible iconoclast and clown.
Wolfie:   “I am called on the imperial carpet again.
The Emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a
Shitload of ******* carpets."
Hello Girls: ‘Disco Tampons!
Staying inside, staying inside!
Wolfie: "Why have I chosen a ****** farce for my libretto?
Surely there are more elevated themes . . . NO!
I am fed to the teeth with elevated themes,
People so lofty they **** marble!"
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis.

So, I mix paint in the hardware store by day.
I dance all night, near-great again by locomotion.
Join me in at least one of my verifiable nine lives.
Go with me across the Narrows,
Back to Lenape with the wild red men of Canarsee,
To Vlacke Bos, Boswijk & Nieuw Utrecht,
To Dutch treat Breuckelen, Red Hook & Bensonhurst,
To Bay Ridge and the Sheepshead.
Come with me to Coney Island’s Steeplechase & Luna Park, &
Dreamland (aka Brownsville) East New York, County of Kings.
If I’m lying, I’m dying.
And while we’re on the subject now,
Bwana Finch Hatton (pronounced FINCH HATTON),
Why not turn your focus to the rival for Karen’s heart,
To the guy who nursed her through the syphilis,
That old taciturn ******, Guru Farah?
Righto and Cheerio, Mr. Finch Hatton,
Denys George of that surname—
Why not visualize Imam Farah?
Farah: a Twisted Sister Mary Ignatius,
Explaining it all to your likes-the-dark-meat
Friend and ivory-trading business partner,
Berkeley (pronounced BARK-LEE) Cole.
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

Oh yeah, Tony Manero, the Bee Gees & me,
A marriage made in Brooklyn.
The Gibbs providing the sound track while
I took care of the local action.
I got more *** than a toilet seat, a Don Juan rep &
THE CLAP on more than one occasion.
Probably from a toilet seat.
Even my big brother–the failed priest,
Celibate too long and desperate now–
Even my defrocked, blue-balled brother,
Frankie, cashing in his chips at the Archdiocese,
Taking soave lessons from yours truly,
Taking notes, copying my slick moves with chicks.
It was the usual story with the usual suspects &
The usual character tests. All of which I flunk.
I choose Fitzgerald's “vast, ****** meretricious beauty,”
My jumpstart to the middle class.
I spurn the neighborhood puttana,
Mary Catherine Delvecchio: the community ****
With the proverbial heart of gold &
A backpack full of self-esteem deficits.
I opt out.  I’m hungry and leaping.
I morph again, grab *** the golden girl.
Now I’m Gatsby in a white suit,
Stalking Daisy Buchanan in East Egg,
Daisy: her voice full of money;
My green light flashing on the disco dance floor.
I, a fool for love; she, my faithless uptown girl,
Golden and delicious like the apple,
Capricious like a blue Persian cat.
My “orgiastic future” eluded me then.
It eludes me still. Time to go home again to the place
****-ant Prufrocks ponder their pathetic dying embers.
Time to assume the position:
Gazing out from some trapezoidal patch of green
At the foot of Roebling’s bridge,
Contemplating an alternative reality for myself,
A new life across the East River,
In the city that never sleeps.
I crave. I lust. I am a guinzo Eva Duarte.
I too must be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires:
THE BIG APPLE.
But I am ashamed of my luggage,
Not to mention my baggage.
It’s like that last thing Holden Caulfield said to me,
Just before he crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge,
Crossed over to Manhattan without me,
Leaving me alone again, searching for our kid sister,
Phoebe, the only one on earth we can relate to:
“It’s really hard to be roommates with people
If your suitcases are much better than theirs.”
Ow! That stung; that was a stinger.
I am smithereened by a self-guided drone,
A smart bomb full of snide antigravity,
Transformational and caustic.
My meager allotment of self-esteem
Metastasizes into something base,
Something heavy and vile.
I drop to earth like lead mozzarella.

I am unworthy, unworthy in the maximum mendicant,
Roman Catholic mea culpa sense of the word.
I am now Umberto Eco’s penitenziagite.
I am Salvatore, a demented hunchback
(Played flawlessly as a demented hunchback by Ron Perlman),
Spewing linguistic gibberish in a variety of vernaculars:
“Lord, I am not worthy to live anywhere west of the Gowanus Canal.”
By East River waters I weep bitter tears,
The promise of a promised land denied.
I am a garlic-eating Chuck Yeager,
Auguring in, burnt beyond recognition,
An ethnic trope, a defiant Private Maggio
From here and for eternity,
Forever a swarthy ethnic stereotype
Trying to escape thru a small but significant
Hole in the ozone layer above South Ozone Park,
New York, zip code 11420.
That’s right, Ozone Park.
If you don’t believe me, look it up.
GO ******* GOOGLE IT!

And I just don’t know when to quit.
So why quit there?
Work with me, fratello mio, mon lecteur.
Like you, I took the LSAT so long ago.
Why am I not a distinguished American jurist
Asking the one question that seems to be on
Everyone’s eugenic lips today:
“Aren’t three generations of imbeciles enough?”
I am Charly from Flowers for Algernon,
A slow learner with a push broom, swept up in
Some dust from Leonard Cohen’s cuff.
Lenny: a grey-beard loon himself now, singing
“Hallelujah” for fish & chips in London’s O2 Arena.
“Suzanne takes you down, Babaloo!”
At last, I am Jesus Quintana—
John Turturro stealing the movie as usual--
This time in a hair net and a jumpsuit,
"Made of a comfortable 65% polyester/35%
Cotton poplin, you can even add your own
Ribbon leg trim and monogramming
For just the right look to be one of
The Big Lebowski’s favorite characters.
Mouse-over the thumbnail below to see our actual style
(Color must be purple). Style #: 98P, Price: $55.95. On sale: $50.36.www.myjumpsuit.com."
Fortunately, I am a savvy marketeer:
I understand the artistic potential, the venal
Possibilities of product placement. Go with me
To that undiscovered country.
The humanities uncorrupted till now by
Crass gimcrack television ads. That’s right:
******* commercials smack dab in the
Middle of a ******* poem. Why not?
Great literature has always been about
Selling something, even if only an idea.
Hey, **** me, Herman Melville!
We both know the publication costs of
Moby **** were underwritten by the tattoo artists &
Harpoon manufacturers of New Bedford,
Matched by a small research grant from some
Proto-Greenpeace, Poseidon adventure in some
Great white whale-watching swinging soiree.
Murray the ******* K, pendejo!
At last, I am The Jesus, a pervert & pederast,
According to Walter Sobjak—another post-traumatic
Post Toasty, like me, still out there in the jungle,
Still in love with the smell of ****** in the morning.
My bowling buddy, Walter, comfortably far to the right of
The Dude, and Attila the *** for that matter,
But who gives a **** if Lenin was The Walrus?
(“Shut the **** up, Buscemi!”)
“Once you hang a right at Hubert Humphrey,”
Said the streets of 1968 Chicago,
"It’s all ******* fascism anyway.”
That creep could roll, though, and as we know so well:
“Nobody ***** with The Jesus.”
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

INCOMING!
I just heard from an old girlfriend who is miles away,
Teaching school in Navajo Land.
The Big Rez:  a long day’s interstate katzenjammer,
A Route 66 nightmare by car, but by email,
Just down the block and round the corner.
I had previously closed an email to her with a frivolous
“Say hello to my stinky friend.”
It was a total non-sequitur, an iconic-moronic,
Ace Ventura-mutant line from Scarface,
Which may have meant–in my herbal lunch delirium—
That she should say hi to some mutual acquaintance
We mutually loathe, Or, perhaps an acknowledgement that she–
My surrogate Cameron Diaz–has a new **** buddy,
Of whom I am insanely jealous.
Or maybe it was a simple Seinfeld “about nothing.”
Who knows what goes on in that twisted *****’s head?
She spends the next two hours in a flood of funk,
A deluge of insecurity.
A veritable Katrina ****** of self-consciousness,
Interpreting my inane nonsense in terms of vaginal health.

Hey, you want to ruin a woman’s day?
Tell her, her **** smells.

The moment love ends!
The fear of starting over
Thought of never finding love
Or feeling worthy of it
It takes time to heal the stubborn hear is locked
On the person won Denys and rejects you most
You can't replace it feels wrong
Others show love but the heart is reserved
Always thinking of what shoulve
Or wonder what couldve been.
Others unworthy of love
Because it's not true love
Moving forward is hard
But trust one day true love will find you

I couldn’t beat the ceiling fan,
or that wonderful breeze.
Closing my eyes at 4 in the morning
is a plea for something better. An electric chair
wake up call.

Then I think I can get famous
for writing my sweet nothings on a bathroom stall.
But falling asleep on drugs , I’m wondering , “Where the **** am I”

Then it’s a Denys and it’s 3 hours earlier
And we’re all shooting **** while Fried potato
sticks twist around in our mouths.

You were talking life
and all these pretty words you’d never seen,
I was too high to care.

But the come down left my stomach
like an old gravel road.
I wanted to throw up hot asphalt.

But you smiled like “Let’s light up again”.
I ran to take a ****,
Hid in the bathroom and picked up a pen.
Then wrote out.

“4:00am and you’re too ****** to know I can’t stand
you now. Here’s a note, and a ten. Get a cab
and good luck with the rest of your life.”


That’s what best friends are all about.
Rotting together in each other’s *******.

But God that ceiling fan is good.
Clicking away like a countdown clock
on a stick of dynamite.
Looking forward to that sweet mid 20’s self destruction,
I assure you.

-Kevin T 6/16/10

To be lonely in this world**  is to have someone you love,  but can't be with them. Its when your family denys you making you feel like you're nothing.
   To be lonely in this world is when your father is alive, but is never there when you need him. Its when the person you love with all your heart is contimplating walking away.
There are some people who wish to be alone and completely on their own. Those who wish to embrace lonelyness I would gladly give them what they want. I would let them take it, because I have been alone for much too long. If they want it they can take it and never give it back.

Said forever isn't my word
never knew you would turn it into a sword
digging deeper until it hurts
Though our fights were the worse
cause there were actually never the fights.
But now i see this empty space,
it feels like an ultimate sway just to chase
I told myself it's over, good and enough
but then again i wish it was none

and as you comes by
all my thoughts flys away
as if like they never exist
all my compliants seals away
as if like they were meant to be
all my hurt heals away
as if like it have to be
I'm telling it that was good and enough
and it denys as if it is all rough.
craving and hoping for renewal

The world as I see it?
What kind of question is this?
The world as I see it,
has fallen with fists.

The violence, the fear,
the world bathes in rage.
And more has developed
as our world faces age.

The human heart
has become quite cold.
The story of peace
is no longer told.

The Earth is decaying
and dying today.
And inncoent souls
are passing away.

Shawdows of hate
have plagued this lost land.
This forsaken world
denys Gods command.

But there is still hope!
Our love is not lost.
Words spoken of peace
will come at a cost.

The world as I see it
has much more to learn
to heal the black scar
from the Devils Harsh Burn.

Shed all the pain of past hurtings,
It taints your furure,
Forgive.

Remove fear of future disappointments,
It  denys you laughter,
Believe.

De jeunes écoliers avaient pris dans un trou
Un hibou,
Et l'avaient élevé dans la cour du collège.
Un vieux chat, un jeune oison,
Nourris par le portier, étaient en liaison
Avec l'oiseau ; tous trois avaient le privilège
D'aller et de venir par toute la maison.
À force d'être dans la classe,
Ils avaient orné leur esprit,
Savaient par cœur Denys d'Halicarnasse
Et tout ce qu'Hérodote et Tite-Live ont dit.
Un soir, en disputant (des docteurs c'est l'usage),
Ils comparaient entre eux les peuples anciens.
Ma foi, disait le chat, c'est aux égyptiens
Que je donne le prix : c'était un peuple sage,
Un peuple ami des lois, instruit, discret, pieux,
Rempli de respect pour ses dieux ;
Cela seul, à mon gré, lui donne l'avantage.
J'aime mieux les athéniens,
Répondait le hibou : que d'esprit ! Que de grâce !
Et dans les combats quelle audace !
Que d'aimables héros parmi leurs citoyens !
A-t-on jamais plus fait avec moins de moyens ?
Des nations c'est la première.
Parbleu ! Dit l'oison en colère,
Messieurs, je vous trouve plaisants :
Et les romains, que vous en semble ?
Est-il un peuple qui rassemble
Plus de grandeur, de gloire, et de faits éclatants ?
Dans les arts, comme dans la guerre,
Ils ont surpassé vos amis.
Pour moi, ce sont mes favoris ;
Tout doit céder le pas aux vainqueurs de la terre.
Chacun des trois pédants s'obstine en son avis,
Quand un rat, qui de **** entendait la dispute,
Rat savant, qui mangeait des thèmes dans sa hutte,
Leur cria : je vois bien d'où viennent vos débats :
L'Égypte vénérait les chats,
Athènes les hiboux, et Rome, au capitole,
Aux dépens de l'état nourrissait des oisons :
Ainsi notre intérêt est toujours la boussole
Que suivent nos opinions.

There is no other way. Either you forget the lies you've been fed all your life or waste yourself away, to chase a fabricated truth.

Man is only free when he breaks up with those lies, when he denys everything and becomes ruler of his own reality -  but that demands sacrifice, and is harder than anything imaginable. In fact, it could well be the hardest thing you'll ever have to do in your life: to demolish an entire temple and be left with nothingness.

It means you must be able to see yourself for what you truly are and accept that your reality is what you make of it.

It also means you must be prepared to blame yourself for your failures, just as you would eagerly blame yourself for your successes.

Those who believe that man can rule another man, that lust and feasts are the answer to solitude and boredom, that love can be bought and worn like a badge for the world to see.

Those who name a king a king, who give church the greenlight to do their bidding. Those who fiercely believe that man has what it takes to wield the gods and bestow their will.

Those will say many things to contradict your reality and your dreams, because their reality and dreams are the greater good. Those that see you and me like a means to an end. But we can spot them. Their system is flawed, and that would be ok: because man is flawed. But they won't accept their own reality. They will remain untouched, in ther little shiny rooms with mirrors. Twisted until the end.

Well, it's your death in the end. That's all you should know, all you should care about. It should be enough to tell you what kind of life you need to live. Because all else is a farse.

What the other writers of past centuries have wrote is true. And the truth prevails anything. No matter how many generations pass and take the wheel, the sullen play goes on, with or without you.

Your dreams will be crushed, and your failures noticed.

But you only lose if you give a ****.

Down a Road I tipped an toed
If only I were to ever go..

Down the path where no one knows
My steps will print in the what lies before,

As the wind hollars an the rain falls,
I follow a leaf in the windfall,

Back an forth it leads to go,
To an fro I follow to it's home..

The sun it sets beyond the sky
The where about The light denys

Only my senses are left behind,
Only the greatness of the mind..

Crunch crunch... R.I.P. "The Leaf"..
There go's my destination as I think..


Only to find what it was to hide
To understand its meaning to life..

Secrets held inside my head
Thanks to the Journey that it lead. :)

The after life part 6


After sending each soul to their next lives, Cronus has been totally busy and his next soul was afl player jack reinstein who played for Ipswich in the 1960s and made himself a lifetime member of the Brisbane lions for playing in the QAFL back then, jack died peacefully in hospital at the age of 88 and when he entered Cronus said what or who do you want to be in your next life and jack said I would love to play afl footy in the Auskick to see if my spirit in my last life can make me grow stronger in the game
I would like to be good enough to be a footy player because I am spiritually good enough to play this game and Cronus said yes you were good at play and you were a good coach as well, and jack said even if I start up in the USA to play basketball it will be fine, my soul was made to play sport
Please please please let me tough and skilful enough to play sport, I used to get drunk a bit as a kid and there are a few things I did I am not happy with but I never killed anybody nor did I hold anybody hostage, just a few drink driving fines but I paid my debt to society and I should be able to play more sport a lot of sport and Cronus said yes I remember that but I am not judging you and Cronus sent jack to Athena for a soul check and to Buddha to make sure he gets what he wants and then jack went to start coaching a team on Jupiter called cosmos kings and then serial killer Noel thengate who killed 123 people between the 1950s and 1980s and when he was arrested in 1992 he was sentenced to life imprisonment till he died just now and Cronus said I am going to not give you a choice who you are, you will have cerebral palsy in your next life and Noel said ok but you are putting the future of the world into sadness but Cronus said no I am not, you did and if you want to improve your next life’s condition you have to be a good person up here in the cosmos but if you don’t you won’t live very much longer ok and Noel said but if I died I will come up to you again for another life and Cronus said yes but the same old ****** life untill you could prove to me you have changed and then Cronus said because you made the emotional part of the world really bad back then so you are being punished for your crimes and Noel said but you don’t want to destroy a baby’s life for my crimes and Cronus said yes I do because what you did back then was awful and dreadful, so I am not giving you what you want, and Noel said I went to church in prison so I should be in heaven but Cronus said yes but you still punched a few people in prison while you were in church and Noel said ok but they were worst people than me mate and Cronus said yes go to Jupiter and cause a hurricane because that is what your soul wants to do and Noel said crap mate and Cronus said you will go to Athena for a soul check and then Noel went to Jupiter and a hurricane hit California but Noel Denys wanting to do that but Cronus said I am not reversing my decision and then dean Marlow who was 45 died in a workshop fire came up to Cronus and Cronus said what do you want to be in your next life and dean said I want to be a seagull because I want free fish and chips without having to worry about it, please give me that, cause 46 years ago you gave me this ****** life after I came off my horse as a little girl, and Cronus said, ok I will see what I can do, but being a seagull is a tough job, you have no strong muscles to protect unless you Charge over on people and dean said yes I know but I live for fish and chips so I want to attempt to steal them from the humans and Cronus said no seagulls don’t do it like that, you won’t survive like that, so I will make you a seagull but because of your attitude I will give you problems because you need to change, mate and dean said ok make me a rich man
I am going to powerful, no matter where you send me and Cronus said no you will suffer, mainly because of your attitude, the world is about helping people by mending each blade of grass one by one and if you don’t know what that means you need to change and Cronus sent him to Buddha for a morality check and then to Athena for a soul check but the decision wasn’t what dean was wanting, so he headed to Saturn to get high on methane and dance to bon Scott in the club hoping he gets what he wants in the end
While Cronus was thinking as he sent more souls to where they wanted, hoping dean Marlow gets to where he is needed

I saw the fog as it came crashing through the trees
As if the heavens had changed its mind
Striking the soil,
The fields untilled,

At last, imbalance,
bitersweet imperfection
Free from the yokes of the ether
The heat of the stars but a memory

O! To become breath itself
O! To speak and to be
O! I am that which the light denys
Forsaking shape and dimension
Relentless and undefined

What if I told you,
There's  a third option?
That there's more than fight or flight?

Heck, I didn't know either!
Still haven't consciously experienced it!

Instead he did.
He discovered that I picked a whole third option
One night.

I have nightmares, but ironically,
Even my sleeping self is good at pretending it's fine.
She rests in odd angles, dangling off the bed, or rather
She takes up as much as she can and
Denys it to any other.

You see this third option appears
When and only when
One attempts to disturb that absurd nightmarish
But sleeping dragon from her rest.

She tends to then act out, purely instinctively,

Clawing
Choking
Crying

She has picked the third option
It means she cannot run because she is sleeping
Which, I guess she knows and understands.

But apparently she can fight regardless of
Her comatose self.

And she will.
To the either the death or you desist in poking the
Sleeping dragon.

She will apparently continue to rest soundly,
Sometimes in incredibly odd positions and
Awkward angles.
But she is quiet, she keeps to herself and guards her territory,
Unconsciously.