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ABadPenname Apr 2016
I like  you.

I like  you  a lot.

I want to be bored with you.

I want to hold weekly board meetings over the topic of you.

I could impress the shareholders. What do you think?

     I think you enjoy honesty, and despise flattery.
Believe me, I know the difference. I hope you do too.
I am no wily flatterer
I would never say something like, “I’ll sail to the MOON for you,”
something impossible and irrelevant. With the consistency of soupy puke.
I should just as soon say,
“I WILL jump recklessly from the top of a very tall tower, and land—perfectly intact and unharmed
for you.”
I hope I am not the only one who sees a problem with this sort of logic.
So instead I’ll say:

Let the madness of what this fixation has turned me into, fuel my fears and my ambitions and drive me therefore, to construct a missile, with enough space inside to harness only myself, enough kick in the engine to erase my past—and all the laws of life as we know it.
I will have those memorized by then, and plan to have my hands on new laws unforeseen by any of the other
mainstream earthlings;
maybe using my new third eye to grasp at something up there that was previously air —
& I will beg this nonconsensual devotion you’ve evoked in me please grant me the derision to press the button, and launch myself into that forgetful lazy river that contains all the planets, asteroids, black holes, spaceships, a lonely-wandering U.S. radio transmitter, spilt-paint nebulas, one of Tiger Woods’ golf *****, a drunken astronaut, some of the crew from that Malaysian airplane (you know, the one that went missing), and also there are suns (often called stars), and moons, and there has gotta be a little love floating around somewhere with the celestial ants
and supernovas
and EVERYTHING.
and dissimilarly nothing you can grasp.

to the Moon?
sure,
why not babe,
if moon-rocks could somehow make you fall in love with me,
I would plan to rob the Smithsonian (or probably a similar museum of history but one with less security),
and if that ended up a no-go,
thenyeah.


     Mad. Zoom.


straight to the ******* moon for you.
Sebastian Hale Apr 2020
The princess in sandals
Watched from high the great bazaar.
The last Palace that still stood
That survived the Hindustan war.
No cloud but one broke the silken sky
From which a great gleam bored;
A mighty sound, the heavens roar,
A metal bird did soar...

Shock and screeching chalk
etched itself more memories.
The princess saw from up on high
The metal bird decline.
In haste we ride, ride to beat the tide,
but lest she not neglect,
Her temperament and Royal reference,
and not omit her kindliness.
Step in, in slippers, to the shaded sheets,
In gilded glory peeps
four straddled stalls striding high;
Their equivalent copper hover fly.

This sight had not been seen; the royal court dismayed,
The flying bird was not alive but dead as boulder valley,
From which clinked out, like bugs, a line of faces similar but dissimilarly designed.
Some stories told that they were travellers from heavens farther way.
The future is not desperate but desperately In decay, plagued by fires in futures present of dust and soot and plague.

Perhaps if inclined they stayed, swayed a while in palm like grace, then maybe,
Maybe then, we could collide our past and future pace.


05/04/20

— The End —