AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.

I.

ROME.—A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE

Alessandra.     Thou art sad, Castiglione.

Castiglione.    Sad!—not I.
                Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
                A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
                Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!

Aless.          Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
                Thy happiness—what ails thee, cousin of mine?
                Why didst thou sigh so deeply?

Cas.            Did I sigh?
                I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
                A silly—a most silly fashion I have
                When I am very happy. Did I sigh? (sighing.)

Aless.          Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
                Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
                Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these
                Will ruin thee! thou art already altered—
                Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away
                The constitution as late hours and wine.

Cas. (musing ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—
                Not even deep sorrow—
                Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
                I will amend.

Aless.          Do it! I would have thee drop
                Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born
                Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio’s heir
                And Alessandra’s husband.

Cas.            I will drop them.

Aless.          Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more
                To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain
                For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends
                Upon appearances.

Cas.            I’ll see to it.

Aless.          Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,
                To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest
                In dignity.

Cas.            Much, much, oh, much I want
                In proper dignity.

Aless.
(haughtily).     Thou mockest me, sir!

Cos.
(abstractedly).  Sweet, gentle Lalage!

Aless.          Heard I aright?
                I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage?
                Sir Count!
       (places her hand on his shoulder)
                           what art thou dreaming?
                He’s not well!
                What ails thee, sir?

Cas.(starting). Cousin! fair cousin!—madam!
                I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—
                Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
                This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!

Enter Di Broglio.

Di Broglio.     My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey!
              —what’s the matter?
        (observing Alessandra).
                I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
                You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
                I’ve news for you both. Politian is expected
                Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester!
                We’ll have him at the wedding. ’Tis his first visit
                To the imperial city.

Aless.          What! Politian
                Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?

Di Brog.        The same, my love.
                We’ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
                In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
                But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
                Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
                And high descent. We’ll have him at the wedding.

Aless.          I have heard much of this Politian.
                Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not,
                And little given to thinking?

Di Brog.        Far from it, love.
                No branch, they say, of all philosophy
                So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
                Learned as few are learned.

Aless.          ’Tis very strange!
                I have known men have seen Politian
                And sought his company. They speak of him
                As of one who entered madly into life,
                Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.

Cas.            Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian
                And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he.
                He is a dreamer, and shut out
                From common passions.

Di Brog.        Children, we disagree.
                Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
                Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
                Politian was a melancholy man?

                (Exeunt.)




II.

ROME.—A Lady’s Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans
carelessly upon a chair.


Lalage.         Jacinta! is it thou?

Jacinta
(pertly).        Yes, ma’am, I’m here.

Lal.            I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
                Sit down!—let not my presence trouble you—
                Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble.

Jac. (aside).   ’Tis time.

(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
look. Lalage continues to read.)

Lal.            “It in another climate, so he said,
                Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”

         (pauses—turns over some leaves and resumes.)

                “No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—
                But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
                Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind”
                Oh, beautiful!—most beautiful!—how like
                To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
                O happy land! (pauses) She died!—the maiden died!
                O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
                Jacinta!

        (Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.)

                Again!—a similar tale
                Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
                Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—
                “She died full young”—one Bossola answers him—
                “I think not so—her infelicity
                Seemed to have years too many”—Ah, luckless lady!
                Jacinta! (still no answer.)
                Here’s a far sterner story—
                But like—oh, very like in its despair—
                Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
                A thousand hearts—losing at length her own.
                She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids
                Lean over her and keep—two gentle maids
                With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion!
                Rainbow and Dove!—Jacinta!

Jac.
(pettishly).    Madam, what is it?

Lal.            Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
                As go down in the library and bring me
                The Holy Evangelists?

Jac.            Pshaw!

                (Exit)

Lal.            If there be balm
                For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
                Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
                Will there be found—”dew sweeter far than that
                Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermo

At a time when I was held prisoner
By my shy nature
Especially when it comest to talking with girls
You put your best foot forward
In order to break the ice
Which was doing its best
To try and freeze me to death
As though I were but in Antarctica
So, I thought you my friend
Mind you, an assumption it wasn't
You called me your best friend
Not once or twice
But many a time
You even called yourself my sister
A trusting person that I am
I took you at face value
Which was probably one of the biggest mistakes
Of my life in entirety
If Australia dominated cricket
You were my dominator
Your name stands for desire
And all you desired
Was getting your way
When it comest to anything and everything
You were such a drama queen
You put the Kardashians to shame
Only your "bestest friend" escaped
From your terrifying glare
Which burnest everything in its path
Much like Lord Shiva's third eye
You were always right
We were always wrong
Again, with a notable exception
Your precious little "bestest friend"
What he saw in you
Only God knowest
Marking you absent in the attendance register
Which was but my duty
Turned out to be a crime
Fouler than ****** itself!!
How dare I mark the "Queen" absent
Even if she were indeed absent!!
How dare I support Chennai Superkings
Even if I were but from Chennai
Not to mention, a huge fan of MS Dhoni!!
East or West, North, South Or Central
Mumbai Indians were always the best
All other teams were trash
You and your whims and fancies
Driveth all of us mad
Quicker than a tracer bullet
As Ravi Shastri would say
Even to this day
But you were my best friend
Not to mention, my sister!!
So mum I kept
As would a fiercely loyal dog
Even when ignored by its master
After our college days endeth
I stayed in touch
As would every friend in the world
In particular, a best friend
But best friend you were certainly not
I can forgive even an enemy
But not a friend who cuts me off
For the flimsiest reason in the world
To you, I was wrong
Though reality speaketh otherwise
But hey, why would I want to lose my best friend?
So did I apologise
Not once or twice
But many a time
Though for the kind of response I receiveth
Might I have spoken to the wall instead!!
After ages and ages
Cometh your response
As arrogant as James Potter in his school days
You showeth me your true face
Nothing but a jumped up rich Punjabi Brahmin
Who thinkest she were the best
In not just India
But the world in its entirety
Gone was your sweet tongue
In full display was a mini Bellatrix Lestrange
Ready to **** even her best friend
As the real Bellatrix did
With her cousin Sirius Black
Well, I would rather I died
Than maintain a friendship
With a cunning ***** like yourself
You deserve not
A single true friend in the world
Not even your "bestest friend"
You smashed my self-confidence
Into a billion little pieces
Pieces that I continue to pick up
Even to this day
Something I could but have avoided
Had I not taken you up
On your offer of friendship
Which was but as fake
As the smile of a Kardashian
I endeth on this note
It is but a lesson to all
Not to get swayed by sweet tongues
Scratch beneath the surface
Then only showeth up the true character

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat *****;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and *****-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

Within the gentle heart abideth Love,
As doth a bird within green forest glade,
Neither before the gentle heart was Love,
Nor Love ere gentle heart by Nature made.
Created was the sun,
And lo, his radiance everywhere held sway,
Nor was before the sun;
Love doth unto all gentleness aspire,
And in the self-same way
Doth clarity unto clear flame of fire.
     Love’s fire is kindled in the gentle heart,
As virtue is within the precious stone;
From out the star no glory doth depart
Until made gentle by the sun alone.
When the sun hath drawn forth
By his own strength all that which is not meet,
The star doth prove its worth.
Thus to the heart, by Nature fashioned so
Gentle and pure and sweet,
The love of woman like a star doth go.
     The reason Love in gentle heart doth stay
Is why the fire unto the torch-head flies,
Burning as he doth fancy, bright and gay,
And were too proud to do so otherwise.
But Nature’s cruel scheme
Contrasteth Love as water, flame; as heat,
Quelled by the cooling stream.
In gentle heart doth Love his bower divine,
Since like with like must meet,
Thus diamonds in the iron of the mine.
     Upon the mire the sun sheds his bright rays,
That is still vile, nor doth the sun turn cold:
“Gentle am I by birth,” the proud man says.
33 He, mire, and the sun, gentleness, I hold.
Let no man think that he
May be possessed of gentleness, although
He boast a king’s degree,
Unless a gentle heart be found in him:
The water is aglow
With stars, and yet the heavens have not grown dim.
     God the Creator in heaven’s mind of grace
Shines brighter than before our eyes the sun;
There it is given to see Him face to face,
Whence in their beauty the skies, serving one
Just God, to Him do turn
And the blest end of primal love fulfil.
Thus the truth which doth burn
In my sweet Lady’s eyes she should make clear,
Of her own gentle will,
To him who in her service tarries near.
     My Lady, God will say: “Didst thou not fear,”
(When my soul standeth yonder in His sight:)
“To pass the heavens and seek Me even here,
Vain love pursuing with My image dight?
To Me doth praise belong
And to the Queen of Heaven, who from her sphere
Of glory endeth wrong.”
Then I could plead: “Thy angels up above,
O Lord, like her appear;
I did not sin in giving her my love.”

Was it a chance that made her pause
  One moment at the opened door,
  Pale where she stood so flushed before
As one a spirit overawes:--
Or might it rather be because
She felt the grave was at our feet,
And felt that we should no more meet
  Upon its hither side no more?

Was it a chance that made her turn
  Once toward the window passing by,
  One moment with a shrinking eye
Wherein her spirit seemed to yearn:--
Or did her soul then first discern
How long and rough the pathway is
That leads us home from vanities,
  And how it will be good to die?

There was a hill she had to pass;
  And while I watched her up the hill
  She stooped one moment hurrying still,
But left a rose upon the grass:
Was it mere idleness:--or was
Herself with her own self at strife
Till while she chose the better life
  She felt this life has power to ****?

Perhaps she did it carelessly,
  Perhaps it was an idle thought;
  Or else it was the grace unbought,
A pledge to all eternity:
I know not yet how this may be;
But I shall know when face to face
In Paradise we find a place
  And love with love that endeth not.

You soldier and civilian
Rememembered with red and white
Poppies
We today commence this
Remembrance Sunday
Proud still of our nation
Who seeks to save
Who lost so many
In the bombs and the blitz.

May we learn in these hours
What sacrifice means
What love is and trust
And seek that this world
Endeth not in tatters.

Love Mary ***

Thou art th' love, that danceth through my veins
Thou art th' charm, that befriendeth my dreams
Thou art th' heart, that consoleth my pains-
'midst those torrents of greedy stains
and those wakeful, shattering rains.

Thou art th' walls, that bear my soul
The wondrous cells-within my arms, legs, and lungs.
Thou art th' bushes of my nature;
thy redness dark, but plain and pure!

Thou art th' gusts to my river;
that layeth awake in its daydreaming.
Thou releaseth it from its wan longing!
By thy fast speed, like a bird's wing!
Thou blusheth my cheeks and giveth me warmth;
but thou turneth mad at every harm!
Yet as I healeth thy bruise is gone;
thou greeteth my clouds, and praiseth my sun.

Thou art th' gold sands, to my pearls-
which free 'em from any hassles!
Thou bringst me strength in my rambles-
in my green lake, thou'rt brown ripples!
Thou remindeth me in solemn peace-
that lips areth for a sincere kiss!
Thou blest my life and happiness-
thou feedeth friendship and forgiveness!

Thou burst violent at my temper-
and sink my foul into disgrace!
In thy mind love is sweet laughter-
with no floods of cry or blighting haze.

Thou cheereth my joy and lifteth it up,
thou keepeth flowing and never stopeth!
Thou relieveth me on thy blessed shore-and aye!
Thou endeth my drought like no-'ne before.

I am the Narrator. I Narrate. You read what I have narrated. I often wonder how my words will be digested by you the reader, will my words spark an intense desire to burn in the Fire of What Is ? I am the Narrator, I am not Jesus ******* Christ - OK, or O ******* K ! There never was a Jesus ******* Christ dear readers. Oops I have digressed, alas I digress an awful lot; my mother told me I distracted the delivery doctor and nurses at my own birth, something I cannot recall myself. Wonder if he had a beard. You see my mother had an intense dislike of bearded men, and if this be true then my birth must have been deeply traumatic for her. Such a brave woman to carry on and remain as my mother. She was perfect for the residency. Mother, wherever you are please do take a bow.

Just a reminder - I am the Narrator. I Narrate. And you read what I have written - this is not spoken word(unless you want to read it aloud)it is the written word of the Narrator - nor is it the word of god, and I have already mention Jesus ******* Christ, so I will swiftly and smoothly move onwards to the goal; I will rise to the challenge, I will seek the final word. Mother did not have a sense of humor. She never laughed - never. Smiles did occasionally appear. Mother, oh desperate and perfect mother of mine. You never lost your shine.

This is the introduction dear patient reader. Be brief I said to myself. Yes ! I can be brief, but they all laughed and cried so much they ended up in a river of oral, nasal and tear ducts; what messy contents. Be brief ! Brief ! Be ******* brief ! So here I am, but who am I ? What am I ? Yes, yes, I know I am the Narrator for the duration of these words I write. It is a role, one of many roles I will play during the day and occasionally the night. Who is it that drives this wreck of a physical vehicle, which has changed beyond recognition since my face appeared from my mother's womb. STOP ! OH PLEASE STOP ! Is what I imagine you are screaming out loud at me - the Narrator.

So here is brief in the style and pomp of your Narrator. I am sitting upon my throne which is not made of gold. Oh but please I must refrain from letting loose and going on another rampaging digression. Do tell me dear reader when you next see me. You will wont you dear reader ? I am here writing these words and you are there reading these words, which is kind of cute without wearing any dazzling suit. I can't avoid the occasional rhyme, its such an effortless joy. Here endeth the introduction. Yes ! I, the Narrator have completed the unimaginable. I wonder where the words will take us ? I'm quite excited - are you dear reader ? Life is a freshly created golden wave head butting its invisible opposite. Everything is already known. But by whom, or should that be Whom ? Or am I going down another digressive hole ? And so dear reader I do give to you the final full stop.


Lenny Gazbowski(c)2015

For four years have I known you
From railfans to close friends
Quite the journey has it been
In the train of relationships

Thou art innocent and sweet
But when it comest to talking
Oh boy, do you set the bar high
With an expertise in four languages
At the age of just twenty-four!!

Every outing we've had
Has been nothing short of memorable
From the hurricane run
On board the famous Pune Shatabdi
To the thrilling boat ride
Through the equally famous Bhigwan Bird Sanctuary
Add a few movies in between
Not to mention, drinks *** dinner
And you have the icing on the cake

Whenever I've come to Pune
I've always felt at home
Your family being the engine
To my train of love, happiness and peace
From your mother's cooking
To your father's hospitality
Not to mention, your lavish home
With a plethora of facilities

You ain't just no friend
But a younger brother as well
Quite the honour has it been
To have you at our home
Something we should do more often
After all, we are thick as thieves

For four years have I known you
And with every year
Our bond has grown stronger
Than even the Rock of Gibraltar
Which ain't no surprise
Since we have a lot in common
Trains, cricket, movies
Food, drinks, cats
The list is endless

For four years have I known you
And our friendship is something to be cherished
As much as India winning a Cricket World Cup
Or a journey in a diesel-hauled train
Or even, Hyderabad's finest Mutton Biryani!!
I endeth on this note
Age is just a number
Even when it comest to relationships

The grey

My darkness turned as grey refomed and night became the day
this world outside ...
my grey out and loud
madness amongst the followers as lies spread on lies
yet we all do take it ....
and live a greyness life

I see it everyday yet follow as they say
the grey that is our savior ...becomes us

in sheep we do follow until the endeth rest
the grey that is our leader until the end of breath

Oh How I loveth thee
A quite quaint angel in my own eyes.
With dark and white broken wings.
Und'r ****** falls.

I shall waiteth, and comf'rt thee.
Liekth thee loveth thy beareth.
Until the endeth of p'riod.
A hoarse voice with angelic tone.
Haer like the colours of my chameleon.

The tend tender lips of loveth.
A smileth and mind of ambivalence.
I shall loveth with nay judgment.
A halo as bright as the mistress
Possesseth in humans death's-head.

The lukewarm blue chopt lips.
The sleep chamber the lady did lie upon.
H'r ilness, but I accepteth death.
I can kisseth with green valor breath.
The strength of a giant.
The nimbleness of a lilliputian fairy.
Thee can doth aught.

Yon can crustheth and slipeth.
Through the cracks of timeth.
Thee can beest fell'r joyous.
Liketh the visage of a monst'r
I loveth thee f'r who is't thou art.

Thee can beest the wild animal with scars.
mine own canine ears ope to hark.
Thee can has't warts liketh a toad.
A belly as big as the univ'rse.
I shalt beest a fath'r.
thee can has't barb'd wire on thy corse.
My chivalrous armour does not mind thy pain.

Thee believeth chivalry is gone.
Somewh're on the planet, 'r in the heavens above.
Sickl'd by the grim reap'rs ploy.
The apparition 'r man you love.
I'm the pap'r thee loveth at which hour thy depress'd
The smileth thee misseth.
I am thy sir'r knave at heart.
I'm the knight thee wanteth me to best.
The lasteth sir standing at the edge of the w'rld with thee.
Thy the only ***** I protecteth, and loveth f'rev'r.
I give you can seeth how I loveth thee.





This poem was written by Shane Michael Cleary at 12:42 2017 on June 30th.

Witchdoctors of wall street
Maketh potions of poor man's disgrace

Angels still left on earth
Dying to get back to their place

Their sick of the heartbreak
Humans tend to bring

All it would taketh
Is a lightning strike
To make those humans fully believeth in pain!!!

Pillars of salt the cities hath become
Liquor stores to stupor one down

Some weareth pearly apparel
High class yet ( not found)

These fancy dressers
Pick and choose
The lives they wanna live

Whilst the angels sit on back
Saying do not taketh mine friend
But giveth...

Pilate like rulers
Rule by sharpened tongue
Making gods of figurine's
Lying in another mates secretion
Thinking they haveth won..

Cloying masters
Of tyrent rage
Emptied out of the bag
False lovers of nothing more
Than control whilst at hand

Club-women
And club-men
Hanging out at bar (clazelle)
Sold their soul to Satan
For a night of wine and hell

They fraternize their wicked schemes
Whilst making one quick buck
Wherein is that dying breed
Lost on mountain musk?

They freck thee with smooches
They leaveth thee the next day
Fratriciders of suicide
To their friends and family decay

Ideomotor ideas doth come
At least to those who art lost
Gaveth all they've had
For a fake idea and posh

But it shalt all endeth soon
The storms now rolling in
A hurricane of sweet refuge
No more cheaters to lovers sin!!

Jesus approached Santa the other day.  "Yo Santa!  What's the big idea?"
quipped Jesus.  "Huh?" mumbled Santa.  "You heard me, you fat bstrd!"
Jesus declared vociferously.  "Hey, watch who you're calling bstrd."  Santa replied.  "Well then fess up."  Jesus demanded.  "Jesus, I swear to Christ, I really don't know what the fck you are talking about."  replied Santa.  "You know exactly what I am talking about Claus and don't try to deny it."  snapped Jesus.  "What did I do?"  asked Santa.  "You're giving away gifts on MY birthday.  What's the big Idea?"  resnapped Jesus.  "Th-Th-the children."  was all that Santa was able to mutter.  "Give them gifts on THEIR birthday, *sshl*."  endeth Jesus.

Hi Aishwarya, very very hearty congratulations!!
You deserve this
As much as we recruiters deserve success
After burning the midnight oil
For months and months

Of you I'm so proud
Of course, always have I known
That, extremely talented are you
Not to mention, dedicated and hardworking
Nevertheless, quite the feather in your cap this is
And gives you bragging rights, it does!!

From "Jagame Thanthiram" to "Archana 31 Not Out"
And from "Gatta Kusthi" to "King of Kotha"
Always, have I been enamoured
By your ability to act in a variety of roles
AND play them all to perfection
By your expressions
Which change as frequently
As a chameleon changes its colours
And finally
By your utterly bewitching beauty and charm
Something that can be replicated not
Even by the most celebrated divas of Bollywood!!

An amazing actress are you
And an even better human being
Nicer than Keanu Reeves
More humble than Johnny Depp
And at the same time
Extremely outspoken and brutally frank
There ain't nothing
That you can achieve not
I endeth on this note
You are under arrest
For the crime of stealing my heart!!

The words will be remembered
As he held the book sprouting
From his dead corpse,
"We The Peoples!"
The soldier of nothing's bloom,
Will he have been vindicated
For the sacrifice he made?
The night follows a tearful mourner,
Behold the book of words
From the forgotten wars
And ignorance that breeds the child;
"So he died for what he believed"

Poetry of the warrior's bane,
Between reading it and
Not learning from it,
That poetry in its beauty petrified
The lesson that dies in the tomb
Of the un named soldier,
Though a candle is always lit.

Well such pretty words worthy
Of the fallen,
And a book in a soldier's hand,
How glorious the book was sprouting
From his corpse,
And there endeth the lesson.

Rope to ***** the weather, sweet sixteen dreams
The mirror tells we can have some fun in teams
I can't find my reflection anymore, searching in eloped reconnaissance streams
Lassoes in the sky, stealing cars under the starlight standing in strong dreams
Another day in paradise, looking better in paraplegic purging preteens
The electric fuzz on your face touches my standing goosebumps gleam at the ****** seams
Bumblepuppy acolyte turning at the prongs of the tattered road, calling up your Hessian friend and making politics right at the sanguineous pea-brain lean veal after the mob gets out on Russian ruby streets running with honesty
On the other side of the world, where the sun sets and polite moonrock never survive on The Berlin Wall tonight abseiling away sealed away, waiting for the ballot or the ballet
Waiting for the limelight to subside, guts tellin' me to keep my self in lowly mad hatters tied to napes, hundreds hanging by weather reports claps in laughter, descending tents by the brook beaming at us in starry dynamo of the thousands
Losing himself in a lucid dream of what was once the world's reality now sleeping, dead presidents in stygian darkness
Hanging on to the word of the weatherman, crime is rising in Russian motherless children hung for misdemeanor looking for a metaphor, the nation understands and wants to know us
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns, we are at the trapdoor
Resurrecting the insurrection, pejorative for misnomers and draconian dead beats sibilant suss
Too bad I see the whole earth, on my body stains on laconic red flags, still fly indeed
Flying in the wind, like idiots in the weatherman's underground cuss dirt into the report sowing dead seeds
Unable to see the sun behind cold clouds in stormy weather, battered suitcases breeze by murmurs talking by-lines and stolen **** in ****** underwear ****** unable to breed
Then, the bombs falling and shifting with changeling wind charred sun under the unbeing reading in the Aurelius light
Thousands in the starry dynamo might outshine us all and the nation can't hold us back and keep us far from the fault in stars
The silver lining in the cloud, puerile virile as lady lying Glasnost to the prognostic benzedrine patient
I've never seen a can in hang in stormy weather
Charting out the Chinaman on the hydrogen shore, communism is on the brink of helium war with itself, viscerally hanging from Tomorrow's daughter
Whipping up the foamy sea like cold ice nostrums thawed in search of the antidote to warm red planets named after Roman Gods
Looks like the sea lord created a thalassocracy for the sea cursed by memos and pastiche, droll parody in the mewling hall of the rebuke of free-prose poetry hanging on the tinkering lampshade
Touch me now, never or now bullish books read the list of people who were once on this winding road just like us shining crummy ******* now in a handful of stardust
Being is tougher than living, and the berserk wind keeps changing
Under forked lightning, it gets worse when the spoon picks me up
In my wet dreams, I'm killing myself hurting to find if you can put your mind to this cornish dream of Cavendish and hashish
Stuck in the stitches, and the ******* don't drip blood and sweat it
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns already
Murders on the mystery train, never reach the orient station looking for a whimsical refill
Halting sloth the indolent, I remember redolently like moth attracting to the blazing coruscating gleam, that's when a screaming teen becomes an upstart or a fiend
With an iridescent grin, caviling on the shore asking more from jackknifed business kitsch photos of the crosses
Throwing them in the trash, just like that
Ire of the nation broken with the lugubrious sleep of dinners after the summer's madness, hurt by the locked hearts in an armed madhouse looking at everything like geniuses
Asking what does it mean? Motifs and everything, lintels on the fluorescent signs on numinous streets caressing our wires, hanging by the piano wire
Waning adolescence now has a name in Hades' beard made of fiery pubescence that doesn't wanna listen
Tantamount to the king's orders, ligature marks on the hands that only know cuffs
The que glibly glistens in the lively dungeon
Hosted by bacchanal and mistresses, Elizabeth Bathory in the company of friendly books full of picturesque pedestrians on the streets of angry murders with ****** sleeved shirts
Blackened lackeys looking for a toss of change or pederasty with Countess Dracula
Moloch, you have made my life changeable despite skiffs
Moloch, I hang in the balance of the skirmishes of scorching fire burning at the midriffs
Easter bloc, ropes hanging for whoever doesn't wanna burn in the witch fire, sold for 200 pounds in a dilapidated home, till the berserk wind blows the candle out, old under Tudors that say a lot in a few words about style in art as slavery is merrily rampant
Killing the people, in the name of the republic of 1968 reminiscent of Phoenician Lands, rueful murmurs arouse the twisted looks turning out the traitors
From the rapidly changing wind, that brushes our hair and kills the pain of hanging to our families in bunkers
From the road of hope, I find some affliction in the forgiveness
Of my lord in whom I find breadth, heareth, endeth the breath that lendeth thy will, in the lengths of my souls searching for horizons in Old Earth
I died with my elegy in 1968, the wind still hoists flags in my name in death three years in the latter

The voiceless shores of Ancient Greece
If we are constituting heroes in Greek mythology
Tiresias what do you saidst the will of Zeus
One, the one hath been blessed
Like the music in my ears
That who doubt my prophecy
Worldly truths tell of a boy of otherworldy strength
Nether broad, but, pure
Hera burns in red blush as her eyebrows furrow
The sin is complete and so is the milky way
Where the divine milk hath flown
Iphicles may cry a plenty tears
The charioteer Iolaus is born from the split
As bright as the azure complexion of the sea
Heracles runs like the blue skies, now
The wind fastens him and his power
Two snakes may fast approach their demise
The day fast approaches when his virtues outlive the vice
A broken lyre abrogates his penance towards music
A golden apple rests on Megara's tunic
The daughter of King Creon in Thebes
But the God yields to anger of his ego
As this lover faces her happiness endeth
Heracles rests and pursues the Nemean lion
First of his hard labors under Eurystheus' scion
Proceed the Lernaedan Hydra of immense spine
Two for one and a head for all
Twice ahead and none shall fall
As the final call, Hera sends the mightiest of them all
Iolaus aids in the downfall
A captor may miss the Golden Hind Of Artemis
Buttressed arrows shall never lose or run amiss
Heracles runs as the wind does, however, carries some abuse
It eluded him a year till vast effuse
The pavilion was set on trust quite ostensibe
To conquer every existing monster
In this primordial nature
The Erymanthian boar, who dare deny
The world was ruled by forests once
There were lances as Pholus took his chances
A gift from Bacchus held the balances
Often, the strength of such wine needed tempering
The hero of the peregrination asked for him to open his cask
The wine attracted centaurs far and wide
The divide made the labor a slightly precarious task
Many of the centaurs died from the arrows
The teacher of Achilles' took them in
His name was Chiron
He was the wisest of them all
As well as civil
Poseidon is beguiled to rage and cavil
As Hera reconciles with her child after many, many years
Developing a fond kinship with love to attest to
Heracles also lost to Dionysus in a drinking contest
One may say the voices are still heard
From the remnants of Heracles apotheosis
Came a soul worthy of Mount Olympus told by sages
And lovers that existed and stood the tests
Illud erat vivere
The embers of the golden summer spent in joy
Burnt out with the sacking of Troy

Despicable future lies ergo, ahead here we trade to go
Pretending receptacle, disk-like topsy-turvy and a memoir
The years of strenuous struggle and summer's past
Antithetical to the present, zenith is here we endeth
Hermaphrodite, are you a dove in a flock
Of seagulls, that entices the erudition of like minds
Of yells and drama that show promise of an actionable decision
Derisive, and here's where we toll and we ring like bells
To the signs of perturbation, and anticipation is latent
Derogatory, and denunciated is dystopian life in this derivative
Of residence, maybe, we might mold ourselves into movers and the touched
The items that are among a collection are well-cared and nurtured for
Trembling fear is your colonel who is braving those storms and keeping rank
Somnabulance, serried, surfacing terms of senile agreement met
Setee and servile and set by the beset sentencing of someone on trial
Like I came into the room knowing the poor vernacular of my dreams
The error in my ways was courted by other folks
Floored and my pleas, were met obligating eyes

Here lies the endeth lesson
The believe ends
With the jejunellies stop when the lies
With the dandelions as we garrison the climb the steppe can climb
Here lies the free will lies within the girl
Sighs again
Here lies the pressing mead, measure mulling Axylon
Here we are on the stars and under the stars
Halcyon halo when london burns
You heart burns in London
I left my hands on her ken
I left my heads on her akin
Leaving the burning the stormy ******* women
The jealous ones can live their jealous lives
I wait for the doubts to come
Foolish boor said sanctum caitiff
Sanctorum can live for life on fir trees
I sang with the wild
I traced the wild
I touched the wild
To land on the stale sky
There lies the mon dieu sais je toujour aujour quest ce que sil vous avec pense ecriree
LA nous allons
Le fille de magnique
Le mille du pont connais pas
Francais pas non je pardon ne moi
I'm singing because my heart is silent
THe roses can turn blue
If my roses afternoon falls with the ashes
If my love fails pick at my hate, Teddy Bear
If my journey fails me, I need your silent stare and your wisdom
I feel high, kono kata de kai mono kono warui na
It's a bus, a bus that travels farther than the metro station 4th arrondisement
Howling wind, carry us in he moonlit spoon
I burn myself in a silent way when the weight becomes last
Orange bushes and red roses in the fir trees
Axylon and Pamphyllion
Greater than good lives serfs had found their freedom
Heading out into the world I had lost my love

I told you to Sunday sufferer
Stay in church, without the Bible
Lest we do not wish to wake up on Monday
And go to school
I told you so
Stay at home, this Saturday
We left our folks back at home, looking
For the same old songs, and dinners
We came back from the war and talked
More about the change, except the sons and daughters
Weren't there to hear you
Wish we could have pulled you out of battles
We could have sons and fathers, as one
Wish we could have pulled out of the school
We could have sons and mothers, as one
Sharing ideologies and sharing church-goers
Who learned how to be spring lovers and well-doers
We learned from the well-wishers and sufferers
And the scathing looks in the school, reminded
That we may have been the wrong color in this oak town
We shouldered our responsibilities, as the black of blue
Often, the shoulder straps really set into my shoulders
The bruises are worse when a person uses the wrong tapered leather
The belt is mightier than the gut, but, I detest them both
The guns of beatings and shootings, I endeth them here
They ring in my soul, telling me "I am a dead stay, inside."
They ring in the church.
I thank my brother, I thank my sister. I thank the sinner. Jesus has taught me the value of friends and family.
Jesus said, "I am dead, stay inside." with a soul-searching look
"If you can't walk. Crawl."

Swallowing the whole sun
The eyes envelope one's darkest night
The light could not be created on sallow skin
Escaping from the deity
Only an unkind look without velleity
A feature of true athletic build
A statue of such gilded nature
Where tenderness wears a crown
The sun may have no roots
Many truths can be told in those unfazed eyes
For the light shines and ripens fruits
For those with a future brighter than
The son of Zeus and Leto
Made from these pastoral tools
All of my love fails in your creation
If your ego isn't frail
All of my love passes through
And my spirit proceeds beyond thee
Here endeth the tale
As I am what I am
You are what you are
If I walk or run through life