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In desolation
I stare wistfully
At the gray moon

With a hankering
Like dry withered meadows
Hungry for rain
I yearn for you
Like magnets on similar poles
Unbearable pain

How I relish
On this reminiscence
Transcient saccharine days
Saturated
With your memories

I stand underneath
The moon's dreary eyes
Glistening these tree leaves
By her moonlight
And the wind
Bellows
A familiar love song
And they dance
Dextrously
Scintillating
The starless skies

Oh
My frail heart
Sheds faint cries
Aching
For your adamantine arms
Like warm wings
They bury me deep
Into your chest
Smother me
With your sweet solace

Remembering your words
Succulent
As your lips
Haunting my reverie
Stabbing my sanity

And I am stubbborn
As a child living in fairytales and fantasies
For I will remain here
Undaunted
Because the moon had whispered
"He has been lost in this labyrinth of stars"

Then I shall wait
In this tryst
For our fate
Is a lemniscate by design
Until such time
Our paths entwine

Whilst the lonely moon
Sends off
Her meteors
Glints of this lunatic's unwavering soul
I watched the heavens weep for my sorrows



-Infinite Lunacy, Margaret Austin Go
Duncan Brown Jul 2018
In the times before the current ontology being right was easy; a gift from a dextrous God. On the other hand, the world was beautifully sinister. The ‘metaphysics of the sinister condition’ propelled Immanuel Kant to conclude, that: ‘Looking at your right hand in the mirror you see a left hand, identical to right, but unable to replace the other, which, like God is right.’ Wittgenstein, a patient soul, was rightly amused and replied 200 years later, (that’s the kind of guy he was: prepared to wait a couple of centuries in order to deliver a dexterously sinister reply), ‘A right hand glove could be put on the left hand if it could be turned around in four dimensional space’. (Neil Armstrong, Captain Kirk and Doctor Who have ordered two paisley patterned pairs each).            
Machiavelli absconded from this digital count, citing an ‘a priori’ engagement with the Inquisition as a not unreasonable excuse for his point of departure. Aristotle replied: ‘Might is Right’ was true Philosophy
and fitted the world like an un-left handed glove, but he didn’t want to hang around to debate it, because his brilliantly sinister protégé, Alexander, played a very destructive ragtime with his band and was quite decidedly a great southpaw, who got dextrously cross being labelled ‘sinister’ and imagined himself to be rather charming, in that mirrored image kind of way.

Julius Caesar like Jimi Hendrix before the fall
Playing a right handed empire upside down
Until only decadent ruination was left
Second handed down to instant history
Carved in stone upon an ancient broken glory
The experience never left his soul alone
Unlike it left the beautiful Saint Joan
True righteous in all her blossoming
Left to solitary incineration at the end
Leonardo always painted in the mirror
Reflecting images from right to left
And made the distant appear quite near
A smile gazing in the closer distance
But there’s miles of mystery in the eyes
Everything else is just as he rightly left it
Beautifully left vertical on the right horizontal
Restoring your faith in renaissance artistry
Bounarroti worked the Sistine ceiling
With God outstretched in dextrous touch
Toward Adam’s innocently sinister reach
In that other Eden; Adam was left handed
Not dissimilar to the artist and the vision
Set high above the holy sepulchred floor
With its tabernacle likened door
Left so far and distant down below
The hell of all those dazzling heavens right above
Inspired Napoleon to abandon his rags
For a brightly coloured bespoke coat
And a gorgeously tailored left-ways hat
The woven garb to free a continent
And safeguard the very precious joys
Of Liberté, Justice and Egalité
The food, wine and song of democracy
In a very left handed kind of way
That was so right-on you loved him for it forever
And Moscow never looked the same without him
It’s much more Left Bank now in its Russian ways
Catherine thinks it’s Great, and in that style she left it
Then left was right an’ wrongs were righted leftly
Until everything left was rightly wronged in cruelty
And left a scar that rightly shamed a century
Nothing lasts as all things pass to dust and history
Yet the phoenix flies in the face of burning misery
While the ever salient Homer left us his republic
And his equally luminous sinister revelation
That Jack the Ripper and the Boston Strangler
But worst of all, Ned Flanders were all lefties
As it is in the end, so it was in the beginning
The ever brilliant Elvis has left the building
Marsh Orian Sep 2019
He shuffles a deck of cards. Plush black backing with a standard face. I watch his hands move elegantly and dextrously, dealing, his hands glide from his pile, to his friends, to mine. Life dealt us very similar cards, though we fan our hands differently and play in polar opposite styles. He is conservative with his plays, preferring to save his hand for opportune moments. A card counter. I am impulsive, high risk for high reward, which usually paid off. No regard for the maths of the game. I glance down at my hand, the soft glow of candles warming out the room and giving the impression of something that someone, somewhere, could mistake for romance. There is no mutual connection. He wears his expression neutrally; I wear my heart on my sleeve. How dangerous for a game of poker. He speaks his mind; I speak my heart. How dangerous for a game of love.

— The End —