Still must I hear?—shall hoarse FITZGERALD bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?
Prepare for rhyme—I’ll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

  Oh! Nature’s noblest gift—my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,
The Lover’s solace, and the Author’s pride.
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which ’twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet’s shall be free;
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream
Inspires—our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

  When Vice triumphant holds her sov’reign sway,
Obey’d by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime;
When knaves and fools combined o’er all prevail,
And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale;
E’en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

  Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies, e’en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed, Pegasus!—ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!—have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed—older children do the same.
’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;
A Book’s a Book, altho’ there’s nothing in’t.
Not that a Title’s sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write,
Tho’ now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review:
Not seek great JEFFREY’S, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

  A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure—Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning—call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie,’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet caress’d.

And shall we own such judgment? no—as soon
Seek roses in December—ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that’s false, before
You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY’S heart, or LAMB’S Boeotian head.
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, ’twould be sin to spare;
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
’Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, why I venture o’er
The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod before;
If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
“But hold!” exclaims a friend,—”here’s some neglect:
This—that—and t’other line seem incorrect.”
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden—”Aye, but Pye has not:”—
Indeed!—’tis granted, faith!—but what care I?
Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE.

  Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE’S pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain;
A polished nation’s praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people’s, as the poet’s fame.
Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE’S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY’S melt;
For Nature then an English audience felt—
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler Bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past.
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire’s self allow,
No dearth of Bards can be complained of now.
The loaded Press beneath her labour groans,
And Printers’ devils shake their weary bones;
While SOUTHEY’S Epics cram the creaking shelves,
And LITTLE’S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves.
Thus saith the Preacher: “Nought beneath the sun
Is new,” yet still from change to change we run.
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas,
In turns appear, to make the ****** stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts—and all is air!
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:
O’er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail;
Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own;
Some leaden calf—but whom it matters not,
From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT.

  Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;
For simpering Folly loves a varied song,
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels—may they be the last!—
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner’s brood
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why;
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard’s grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

  Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,
The golden-crested haughty Marmion,
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight.
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace;
A mighty mixture of the great and base.
And think’st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,
Let such forego the poet’s sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain!
Such be their meed, such still the just reward
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo’s venal son,
And bid a long “good night to Marmion.”

  These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;
These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow;
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.

  The time has been, when yet the Muse was young,
When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung,
An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name:
The work of each immortal Bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years.
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth,
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live.
Not so with us, though minor Bards, content,
On one great work a life of labour spent:
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,
Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!
To him let CAMOËNS, MILTON, TASSO yield,
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,
The scourge of England and the boast of France!
Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,
Behold her statue placed in Glory’s niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,
A ****** Phoenix from her ashes risen.
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,
Arabia’s monstrous, wild, and wond’rous son;
Domdaniel’s dread destroyer, who o’erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e’er knew.
Immortal Hero! all thy foes o’ercome,
For ever reign—the rival of Tom Thumb!
Since startled Metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,
Illustrious conqueror of common sense!
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,
Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,
More old than Mandeville’s, and not so true.
Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! cease thy varied song!
A bard may chaunt too often and too long:
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say,
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way;
If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
“God help thee,” SOUTHEY, and thy readers too.

  Next comes the dull disciple of thy school,
That mild apostate from poetic rule,
The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friend “to shake off toil and trouble,
And quit his books, for fear of growing double;”
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of “an idiot Boy;”
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the “idiot in his glory”
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.

  Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here,
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity’s a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a muse,
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ***:
So well the subject suits his noble mind,
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind.

Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! Monk, or Bard,
Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard!
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,
Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo’s sexton thou!
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak’st thy stand,
By gibb’ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band;
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age;
All hail, M.P.! from whose infernal brain
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;
At whose command “grim women” throng in crowds,
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
With “small grey men,”—”wild yagers,” and what not,
To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT:
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease:
Even Satan’s self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta’s fire,
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?
’Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.
Pure is the flame which o’er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o’er,
She bids thee “mend thy line, and sin no more.”

For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue,
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires,
And o’er harmonious fustian half expires,
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author’s sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think’st thou to gain thy verse a higher place,
By dressing Camoëns in a suit of lace?
Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste:
Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE.

Behold—Ye Tarts!—one moment spare the text!—
HAYLEY’S last work, and worst—until his next;
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays,
Or **** the dead with purgatorial praise,
His style in youth or age is still the same,
For ever feeble and for ever tame.
Triumphant first see “Temper’s Triumphs” shine!
At least I’m sure they triumphed over mine.
Of “Music’s Triumphs,” all who read may swear
That luckless Music never triumph’d there.

Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward
On dull devotion—Lo! the Sabbath Bard,
Sepulchral GRAHAME, pours his notes sublime
In mangled prose, nor e’en aspires to rhyme;
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.

  Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings”
A thousand visions of a thousand things,
And shows, still whimpering thro’ threescore of years,
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers.
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles!
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?
Whether them sing’st with equal ease, and grief,
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf;
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells,
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
In every chime that jingled from Ostend;
Ah! how much juster were thy Muse’s hap,
If to thy bells thou would’st but add a cap!
Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest,
All love thy strain, but children like it best.
’Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE’S moral song,
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years:
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain;
She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE’S purer strain.
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine;
“Awake a louder and a loftier strain,”
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,
By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone—but, pausing on the road,
The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode,
And gravely tells—attend, each beauteous Miss!—
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss.
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!—at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe:
If ‘chance some bard, though once by dunces feared,
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first,
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets

In the farthest reaches of known space, a single starship lay juxtaposed against the stars. The ship was named Destiny. The cold metallic shell hummed with energy as it sat motionless. There were large chunks of wreckage and shrapnel surrounding the Destiny, the last bits of oxygen burning away.
The Destiny was a silver and blue X-Class, a state-of-the-art high speed ship, currently the fastest in the Nine Galaxies. It's pilot was a female Extro-sapien named Jade. Her species was descendant from ****-sapiens, a long forgotten species from the Third galaxy. Extro-sapiens were humanoid, though taller than their descendants. They prided themselves on their indestructible immune system and immunity to all known poisons.That, coupled with the fact that their skin was strong enough to repel most blades with ease, made them extremely hard to ****. Extro-sapiens were nimble hunters, naturally armed with razor sharp fangs and claws. Jade was a bounty hunter, taking contracts to hunt down criminals or to escort VIPs in hostile areas for generous sums of currency. Her target's ship now lay in ruins, it's now-dead pilot floating in the void of space.
Jade walked from the cargo bay of her ship to the cockpit, stripping away her suit and clothes, tossing them in their respective rooms before sitting at her throne, not a stitch of clothing to be seen. It was relieving to be free once more.
She glanced over the various screens before her, some with pictures of her target either on a wanted poster or in the sealed container aboard her ship. She swiped the images to her left, compiling them into a message for her client before sending them. Almost immediately there was a soft chime as her client started a video uplink. Jade quickly grabbed the large headset from the floor and placed it over her pointed ears. She swiped her finger over the right earpiece and it clicked to life.
Jade growled and crossed a hand over her chest just before the screen shifted. An image of her client appeared before her, a reptilian humamoid adorned with gold rings on his short horns. Jade heard him hiss in surprise.
"Bounty hunter, if I had known you'd be so stunning, I'd have met you in person."
Jade's dual vocal cords echoed faintly in the cockpit. The sound of two angelic voices rolled off her forked tongue. "Flattery will get you nowhere. Besides, a night with me would cost you a fortune."
The man laughed, "Worth it, in my opinion."
Jade growled, "You have your proof of death, Silva, I expect you've wired the credits to my account?"
"Of course, of course! Though I could add a little extra if you simply move your hand."
Jade narrowed her eyes. "A show like that would cost you at least a million. Because I'm worth it."
She heard him chuckle, "Indeed you are." There was a pause and then he smiled, "Feel free to move your hand now."
Jade flashed her fangs, "Of course, you don't mind if I check first, right?"
Silva shrugged and Jade used her free hand to pull up her bank account. Sure enough, her initial payment had been received, along with the extra. She grinned and lifted her hand away from her chest. "Feast your eyes, perv."
She grinned as the reptilian choked. "Now that is worth a million!" He grinned from horn to horn, "I'll let you know when the next contract opens."
Jade returned her hand to her chest and growled, "This stays between us. Remember, I know where you live."
Silva's expression didn't change but she could tell that he flinched. "Of course. Until next time, gorgeous."
The video screen faded away and Jade quickly began to transfer her payment to other accounts. She sighed and turned to her right, seeing a map of the nearby systems. She spotted a contract pinned on a planet a few hundred lightyears away, and she gawked at the price tag.
"Ten billion units?" She whispered, "I could retire early with a payday like that."
She furiously began to type in calculators and coordinates. Her computer's voice echoed I'm the cockpit, "ERROR, PLEASE RECALCULATE TRAGECTORY."
Jade bared her teeth in anger as the holographic screen projected a diagnostic of her ship. One single line of text blinked slowly, enveloping her attention.
"FUEL LEVEL LOW, MAXIMUM SAFE TRAVEL: 40 LIGHTYEARS."
She swore under her breath, growling deep in her throat. She adjusted the microphone on her headset and cleared her throat. Her dual vocal cords echoed faintly in the cockpit. "Destiny, lock in coordinates to the nearest space station. Lock down cargo and prepare to engage hyperdrive."
The hologram buzzed to life as the various systems reacted to the sound of her voice. As Jade waited she shut her eyes, gently running her fingers over her bare chest. Jade's was proud of her body, hating to cover such beauty with clothes. Her arms, legs, and back were covered in ornate tribal tattoos. Jade had spent three continuous days enduring the hand poked tattoo, and she felt very proud in displaying the art whenever she could. She let her hands wander about her curves for a moment before stopping. Jade blinked a few times and shook her head. The bells at he tips of her long silver braids jingled. Jade whispered to herself, "There's time for that during lightspeed." Since she worked alone, she took every opportunity she could to relieve her tensions, as it allowed her to focus on her work without distraction. Companionship meant liability in her line of work.
She waited patiently for the computer, leaning back in her fur lined throne. Once all systems had finished their tasks, a soft voice echoed, "Hyperdrive on standby."
Jade took a soft breath. "Engage."
The starship lurched forward, the engines roaring ferociously behind her for a moment before the sound dampening system kicked in. She heard a familiar beeping and glanced up at the hologram, seeing the countdown from ten seconds. She felt the comforting shiver of excitement she always felt before launch, smiling softly to herself.
She braced herself in the chair and said, "Open view port, engage shield."
The large metal screen in front of her pulled away, revealing the grand masses of stars and planets before her. Jade took a deep breath and counted down, "Five. Four. Three. Two. One."
The ship screamed forward, and the starlight formed a beautiful tunnel around the Destiny as it traveled through hyperspace. Jade slumped back into her chair and closed her eyes. "Destiny, Disengage interior gravity field."
Jade felt herself lifting off of her chair, becoming weightless. Her braids jingled softly as they spread around her like a lionfish.
Jade pulled off her headset, letting it float in front of her as she stretched, running her hands along her body again and she shivered again. She twisted in midair, turning to the sealed door behind her. She touched the panel next to the door, feeling the familiar cold screen. The door opened and Jade floated into the corridor. She turned left towards her quarters and entered through another door. The walls were decorated with digital posters of various terrains she had visited during her travels. She drifted toward her bed, covered with a fur blanket and pillow. Jade wandered to the storage locker next to the bed, opening it delicately. Inside were a few personal mementos and data logs, and a small decorative box on the top shelf. She shivered as she thought about its contents. "Later. I think I need to sleep for now." She gripped the stability handle above her bed and lay down on the warm gel bed, covering herself with the fur. Jade breathed a sigh of relief as she relaxed, closing her eyes. It was at that moment that she felt how tired she really was, her muscles ached and groaned as she pressed a button on the side of the bed, changing the density of the gel to allow her to sink. The warm gel creeped over her legs and belly, then her chest and shoulders.
Jade groaned as the gel encapsulated her, covering every possible inch of her. Her mind wandered as her hand hovered over the other controls. "Massage or no?"
She bit her lip and pressed the button once, feeling the gel start to pulsate around her body.
Jade shivered and said to no one, "Who needs a man when you have tech like this?"
She spent the next few hours in the massage bed, finding her way into the decorative box partway through. Once Jade had thoroughly massaged her desires away, she climbed out of the gel, thankful for the weightlessness. She was no longer confident in the use of her legs. She pressed the first button twice and the gel began its cleaning process.
Jade retrieved her toys and placed them back in the box, pressing a button similar to the one on the bed, closing it and placing it back into the storage locker to clean.
Jade stretched again, invigorated. She floated back to the cockpit, checking the projected time of arrival. "Ten more hours. Plenty of time to get my gear ready."
Jade floated back into the corridor, this time twisting to the right towards her workbenches. The room was dark, save for a few blue work lights. As Jade hovered in the doorway, the overhead lights snapped on, casting a soft white glow around the room. She floated towards the first bench, where her gun hovered in a stasis field. It was almost four feet long, with three rotating barrels. Most bounty hunters favored energy weapons and plasma rifles, but not Jade. She preferred metal bullets that could shred flesh and punch through doors with ease. Her weapons would not fail her in case of electro-magnetic pulses either.
Jade floated to the next table, where her boots and mask hovered in another stasis field. Her boots were strong, heat and frost proof, and had a strong magnetic field to allow her to walk in zero gravity or even upside down. She had recently installed a pair of thrusters to them, which would allow her to fly for a short period of time, enough to get her out of harm's way or to a better vantage point.
Jade's mask was armor plated, angled to deflect any incoming rounds with ease. Two tubes connected the mask to an air reservoir that sat at the base of Jade's neck, underneath her braids. The eyepieces doubled as eye protection and target analysis. One of the lenses was cracked beyond repair and Jade swore. She hovered over the table and delicately disassembled the mask, letting the broken lens float freely away while she installed its replacement. She reassembled the mask and slid it onto her face. There was nothing at first, then the internal computers activated and she saw clearly through the mask. She glanced over the diagnostic data and nodded once she was satisfied. She took off the mask and set it back in its stasis field.
She turned to the final bench. Where her bodysuit lay in a crumpled heap of woven uranium and steel fiber. The bodysuit fit her like a second skin, adhering to every curve she possessed. The uranium fibers acted as an energy source, powering all of her necessities. The black suit shimmered as she touched it, reacting to her skin, begging to be worn. She smiled softly and patted the heavy fabric. "Soon, darling."
Jade glided to the door, leaving her gear behind as she returned to her living quarters. She hovered in front of the full length mirror, looking over her body. She smirked and purred, "Gorgeous as always."
Jade went to the storage locker and retrieved a large metal crate from the base. She took it to the mirror and opened the crate, revealing thirty blue feathers, each roughly a foot long. She had collected one for each of her braids, and she began to tightly weave the feathers into the tips of the braids. In the middle of each of her braids was a strong electro-magnetic core that, once activated, spread her braids like a lionfish. They would act as a distraction, allowing her the element of surprise. The magnetic field they created also acted as a strong shield.
Once the last feather had been woven into her hair, she then wrapped each braid in strips of the same uranium-steel fibers as her suit.
As the last of the fibers had been tucked into place, Jade grinned. The powerful fibers would amplify the effects of the electro-magnetic cores. Jade smiled at their resemblance to whips. She wanted to test them, see if they would crack like an actual whip.
Jade returned to her workshop, donning the bodysuit and her control gloves. She floated into the main corridor, which was wide enough that she wouldnt hit the walls once her braids were fully extended.
She took a deep breath and touched the her thumb and forefinger together twice, activating the electro-magnetic cores.
The sound was deafening, forcing Jade to scream involuntarily and clutch her ears in pain. She was shaking, her vision blurring. Her ears were ringing as she was finally able to hear again.
Jade reached up and felt her fully extended braids, marveling at their rigidity.
Once her hearing had completely recovered, she tapped her fingers together, deactivating the cores. Her braids floated limply in the air and Jade curiously went to the cockpit, sitting in her throne.
"Destiny, analyze decibel range of sound from main corridor."
After a moment, the ship's voice echoed, "Decibel range of one hundred ninety."
Jade shuddered, she was surprised she hadn't been deafened by the sound. She shook her head softly and looked at the projected time of arrival. "Seven hours."
She yawned, "Time to sleep then. Destiny, wake me up thirty minutes before we reach the station."
"Affirmative."
Jade lifted herself over the chair and ventured into her room. The gel bed had finished cleansing and she pushed herself onto it, feeling the familiar warmth. She focused on slowing her breathing and she closed her eyes, passing quickly into deep sleep.

In her dream, Jade stood on a slightly raised metal platform in the middle of a desert. The platform was massive, with sand covering the edges. Jade looked around, seeing nothing around her. She looked up into the sky and saw a single massive sun orbited by twelve planets and a ring of stars. Jade looked around her again and saw a massive wall of water closing in on her from all sides. She shut her eyes tight as she heard the water rushing around her.
Jade felt herself being carried away by the current. When she opened her eyes, she was back in her bed.
Jade blinked and sat up, unsure of herself.
She thought she could still hear the water rushing past her ears.
Jade shook her head and the bells brought her back to her senses. She could hear Destiny's alarm ringing within the bed and she pushed the third button, silencing the alarm. "Destiny, restore gravity.
Jade felt heavy for a moment, then the gravity stabilized and she rolled her shoulders. The countdown was now at thirty minutes.
Jade retrieved the headset from the floor and slid them over her ears. The screen in front of her had brought up a diagnostic of the space station. A light flashed on the instrument panel and Jade pushed it gingerly. An alien voice came over her headset, "X-Class starship, please respond."
Jade positioned the microphone in front of her mouth, "This is X-Class, go ahead."
There was a pause, then, "This is the Space Station Ender, please state your business and expected stay."
Jade hesitated, then said calmly, "Refuel and resupply. Expected stay no longer than forty-eight hours."
A minute passed, then another. Finally a response came, "X-Class you are cleared to engage docking procedures upon arrival."
Jade smirked, "Affirmative. ETA twenty-five minutes."
There was an audible click as the call ended. Jade sighed and pondered the contents of her cargo hold. She stood and turned to the back of her ship, going to the very end of the corridor to a locked panel.
Jade typed in an eight digit combination and the door swiftly slid open. The walls were lined with large storage compartments, though Jade wasn't worried about those. She counted her paces and stopped four paces from the door and she sidestepped right twice, touching her gloved fingers to the floor. The sound of gears and hydraulic pistons echoed throughout the room as a six foot by ten foot container lifted from the floor. Jade ran her fingers along the side of the container, opening the multitude of doors. As each door swung open, stacks of weapons and explosive devices became visible. This was the cargo that her target had been carrying. Since it no longer had an owner, it was worth a lot of money. Jade couldn't resist the possible fortune, bu

Little Johnny Piccolo is sitting in his room
and he’s gazing out his window on a stormy afternoon
He sees the clouds a-tumbling topsy-turvy through the gloom
on a wind that whips the winter through the trees
And there’s lashing licking raindrops streaming down the windowpane
So the scene is shimmer-shaking and can never stay the same
And wee Johnny’s all a-tremble with excitement in his veins
When Mummy enters, saying, “Johnny, please,

PICK up your lego now, PUT away your pens,
TIDY up your soldiers, and I WILL not ask again:
You NEED a tidy bedroom, I’m EXPECTING you to try!”
But Johnny stands defiant, shouting “WHY?!”

Well, Mummy is exasperated, horrified and cross,
she shakes her head in anger and she’s really at a loss
She calls into the corridor to show the boy who’s boss,
And Daddy enters, standing by her side.
“Now look here, boy,” his dad begins, “let’s lay it on the line:
I shouldn’t have to talk like this to any son of mine.
When Mummy gives an order you should smile and answer, ‘Fine!
I shall obey with pleasure and with pride!’

DON’T answer back, my boy, DO as you’re told
you MAY think it’s clever and you MAY think it’s bold
but BAD things can happen if you GIVE the wrong reply!”
But Johnny, slightly smiling, answers, “WHY?”

Well Daddy looks at Mummy now, and Mummy looks at Dad.
“D’you think that we should tell him?”  “Yes, I think we better had!”
Outside the weather worsens till it’s frighteningly bad
And dripping darkness gathers round the room
Daddy drops his voice as if he’s whispering in fear
Johnny has to hold his breath and turn his head to hear
“My boy,” his Daddy whispers, “there’s a fearsome buccaneer:
the Whyrate Captain, coming to your doom!

PLEASE pick your words, my lad, DON’T let him come!
TRY a little harder John, for ME and your mum!
IF the Whyrates come for you it REALLY is goodbye!”
But Johnny, rather shaken, answers, “Why?”

Oh, Heaven only help us!  What a stupid thing to say!
Johnny looks in shock, as both his parents back away
Their hands are up in panic as the black and stormy day
Begins to shake the window in its frame!
Then SMASH! goes the glass as lightning streaks across the sky
The wind goes whipping round them as his parents turn to fly
And through the crashing darkness Johnny hears a shrieking cry,
“We’ve got him lads!  The Whyrates stake their claim!”

IN through the window comes a GRINNING, swarthy man
a QUESTION mark the cutlass that he’s WAVING in his hand
“COME, lad,” he wheezes, “you are JUST our type of guy!”
And Johnny, frozen, barely whispers “Why?”

“Ya-HAR!” The captain bellows in a whirlwind of glee,
“I knew it lads, this boy’s the one!  We’re taking him to sea!”
And quick as thought he grabs him with a one and two and three
and bundles Johnny through the rising dark
Now, maybe you’d be frightened – I am sure I’d yell for aid
If a bunch of crazy Whyrates hauled me off upon a raid
But Johnny, little Johnny, he is not one bit afraid –
Instead, he thinks, “At last! I’ve made my mark!”

OUT of the garden now and INTO the night
BACK through the gloom his bedroom DISAPPEARS from sight
OFF to the shoreline where a SAIL obscures the sky
And stitched in silver letters – simply, ‘WHY?’

Now Johnny doesn’t know it, but these Whyrates he has met
are about the most notorious of villains you could get
and many weary kingdoms are unlikely to forget
the day the Whyrates sailed into their shores
And what is it that makes them just so deadly and so feared?
Is it all the men they’ve murdered?  All the children they have speared?
Well, no – in fact the truth of it is really rather weird:
They simply ask what’s not been asked before!

WHY should the people have to BOW before the king?
WHY should the government rule EVERY little thing?
WHY should so much be owned by OH so very few?
And no-one anywhere has any clue!

And so it is in Bannerland, a country miles away
Whose population struggles just as Johnny’s whisked away
The lives that people lead there – well, I hardly like to say –
you can hear them weeping, wailing in the streets!
They live around the palace where the crazy King does lie,
just taking – never giving – in a bed that’s warm and dry
His dungeons break the bedrock and his turrets split the sky
while folks below must work so he can eat.

SUCH is their misery that NOBODY has thought
to ASK of anyone how this has COME to be their lot
When OUT of the east upon a FOAMING ocean swell
The Whyrates land, and Johnny’s there as well!

Well word gets to the Palace, and the King jumps from his bed
Shivering and shaking, comfort overcome by dread
“Burn the ship!” he hollers, “and I want the captain’s head!
We’ll have no questions here in Bannerland!”
But up from the harbour Whyrates bundle by the score
A ripple of inquiry from the palace to the shore
And Bannerlanders flock to them, all asking more and more,
determined that it’s time to make a stand.

“WHY should we help a man who TREATS his people thus?
WHY should we think of one who NEVER thinks of us?
WHY should we hold him up, when REALLY, he should fall?”
The Whyrates crackle-cackle through it all.

Well Johnny stands in wonder and delight at what he sees
As questions shake the kingdom like a tempest through the trees
And Johnny thinks, “You know, this is my realm of expertise,
I think I’ll go and see what happens now!”
And there, before his very eyes a miracle begins
The palace starts to crumble as the King goes mad within
And the jangling of treasure can be heard above the din
as gold and silver spill across the ground!

GOLD for the beggar-men, GOLD for the slaves
JEWELS for the serving girls in SPARKLE-jingled waves
FOOD for the hungry and CLOTHES for them to wear
(Of course, the Whyrates take a modest share!)


Well that was just the start, of course, of Johnny’s long career
He travelled with the Whyrates out to countries far and near
Starting revolutions everywhere they would appear
A simple question, then it’s back to sea
But when at last he wearied of the buccaneering days
He travelled bravely homewards through the tumble tossing waves
To Mummy, and to Daddy, and that’s where our Johnny stays,
A most obliging son, they both agree!

And IF he should grow weary, and BEGIN it all once more
and START to grumble grumpily when ASKED to sweep the floor
say “WHY should I go back to life the WAY it always was?”
Well, Mum and Dad just smile, and say, “Because!"

It’s really a feeble attempt to make something between one and five work in our daily lives. They have gone from an intriguing idea and amount of worth to a silly little gift grandparents hand out freely on Valentine’s Day along with a card worth more than the contents. They've never set foot in any wallet of mine; they simply always made their way back behind my socks. The valuable of least worth I owned was never spent strictly based on rarity. These days you are a mistake just like all the other rarer coins like that three-legged buffalo nickel only I could maybe pay a bit of college tuition with one of those. You can bring in about four Lira though; enough to get a big bowl of any kind of noodles and sauce they have down at that restaurant in Istanbul near the Grand Bazaar. That night I stopped a little closer to my hotel and spent my last four on a beer with my meal. We kept walking and saw that young boy shivering as always against the cold vents that produced less heat than my freezer back home. No change jingled in my pockets because I had eaten my fill. A thousand suns heated my back without that jacket but the warmth was bitter like stolen Turkish Delights. I couldn't tell if he was going to drape that jacket around his tiny body or have it stolen by one of the bigger kids. We still spoke though. I know that was the day I discovered the language of the universe.

The cozier side of loving
Taking the ride inside
a picture pours
The rosier* pompadour
Mirage sale outside
The heart got heavy his
spoonful guided to lighten you

Picked you his cream eyes
Your brush he strokes
He 's hooked but your
unhooked the writing
on the wall
He's having a ball
Whats in his gesture
He's his  own stir
Standing like the still-life
Afterlife do we get our pleasure?

Venus mix of measuring
love pursuing
Needing more
room until?
We sign a love will

Watchtower not much
time
Why do they say time
will tell
The sacramental
"Venus"
Canvas genius

Secretive confidential
Can you ever be more
Specific love is terrific
Modern times
conventional
You just know
the love
The only way
From the bottom or
Your top lips
Venus had you on fire
"
How just knowing
first, love your head
above the canvas
Venus appears
It moves you

But occasionally
it turns off gas heat
He's thinking of
you opening his door
Venus of Gods

Spiritually doctrines
of habits
His cozy tidbits of
stories
Your rising in digits

The big study of the cafe
Painters of biology
So genuinely gifted
On the mountaintop,
he draws his body in
His canvas  of Venus
You're sinfully sweet
body wins

The win or the sin
hard time beats me within

The mystical interpretation
Those erroneous heats I see
Above the sea sweets for me
How he lands me
And than forbidden
Hands me God for what
I didn't really see

Not set to be turned
  like a time machine
can reset my buttons

Venus, you got me
To better love me in my
prime a matter of time
His favorite
You're his pride and joy
This wasn't a ploy
Your long friendship_*
No time for my memories
What outwins my failures
Just laughing it off comedies
He healed you inside at your best
The worst distance painting to rest

Like a triple heart by-pass
of doubles, life was a gas
A sense of who
you are
The religion is a
whole lotta (Zeppelin) love
The shaking (Elvis) painting  
Like a Viva Las Vegas
How the money jingled
like Venus

How you formed me
words listed scorned
To paint each other
The quaint picture
To be reborn again

You get the
picture right? the gain
All commitments
Venus invitations
It transforms into
a world
of forgiveness
Like the enigma
love engine locomotive

Taking your shoes off
Get cozy not to
be crossed off
Here's Johnny
the crossword puzzles

He looked at you
like a  blind man
For the first time
in your life
He was sharper in his
love than any man or wife
He said you are
my person


Venus of love talking,
humming, flaming
importantly, how
I see you reacting
you look
reading along
love_book
But laughing is
the best
medicine

Venus, All mine to love you
and me maybe a baby
That's the name she's Venus

"do you wanna do something?"
"of course."
"like what?"
"let's start walking and see where our feet take us."
"sounds good."
she slipped on her boots and planted a kiss on my forehead as i tied her laces with a double knot. her hand found it's way to mine and we waited for the click as she closed her apartment door behind us. she wiggled the ****: locked. the keys jingled as she tucked them inside her shoes, creating music with every step.
"come on feet," she said, as we ran down the stairs. we both looked to our shoes. "take us somewhere special."

The bottles were scattred monuments to beaten livers and bad decisions.
I awoke like any other morning okay afternoon hungover and to void of ***** to deal with
hampsters or flying monkeys .

The agony was what I was used to but the ringing in my head was altogather a diffrent matter.
it grew louder that constant annoying ring and to my suprize much like the voices in my head after my
usal sixpack and half pint of Wild Turkey it was still there.

It rang and rang and caused such a clatter I had to finally get up off my **** and see what the **** was the matter.
I opened the door to the pub to be met by a bright light jesus christ it was the rapture or one of thoose other
big hippie rock festivals dam you  lalapalooza!

But it was just then I remebred to put on my sunglasses.
That huge annoying lightbulb was a cruel ***** indeed.
Now in the realm of what most called the outdoors the noise was clear and to my suprize it was some
strangley dressed ****** slash recruiter for the Forein Legion or Salvation Army really whats the diffrence
ya see one fashion cult ya seen em all ohh snap!


The woman kept ringing the bell as if in some weird trance and like some strange witch she stood by a kettle
dear Lord! what if she was putting a curse on us all.

Hello sir care to make a donation?
It seems I could pay to keep the witch at bay why hadnt i thought of this scheme myself.
In a slurred voice i spoke to the witch in her native tongue most people call it english.
For ?
I said in a naughty school girl way inwhich a ***** ses to the teacher when she wants good grades
or a ride home with a happy ending.

It's to help the needy on Christmas.  
It seesm the pagan was raising funds for one of her bizzar rituals.
being the reporter with the heart of gold and not grain of sense I asked her to speak of this
strange custom.

It seems as though her good had had one to many and made another little hampster
so far this God sounded like someone I could enjoy a drink with.
Then he called on his homeboys to vist the little dude and give him some totally useless
gifts hope they kept the reciets cause ***** that crap give me a gallon of Turkey and a Xbox

She rambled on with her fairy tale and how now people seem to all give things to one another
On this strange holiday .
Boy like that will ever catch on sister .

She jingled her bell as i jumped and screamed like a little girl a very manly little girl may i add
dear lord woman !
That noise you may use your magic to scare other's into paying you but when I pay
a woman it usally ends in *** okay almost always.

She looked at me deepley she must have been undersing me with her eyes i felt so ***** in the right kinda way.
But enough with the foreplay children.
Are you insane?

The witch asked in a angry voice her grip on her bell tighten she spoke again.
get outta here  you ******.
Yeah i know she was totally into me.

Witch I know you've cast a spell on me so why toil with your silly made up holiday scheme.
Of all the pubs you could have decided to hook in front of you picked the home of
Hello's favorite guilty pleasure .
I say we cut through this silly spell  **** and go into the bar and i give you the most forgetable experience of your life.
Hey as long as im happy thats all that counts kids.

She paused caught deep in the moment then asked whats Hello?
Oh that was a site that used to be really fun and now really isnt.
She paused yet again pulling in her magic purse often used by witches
and candy **** singers like Justin Bieber!

She pulled from it some magic spray that blinded me.
the pain was terrible i herd her blow a whistle  lucky whistle.
Calling her warlocks who I feared were powerful and *****.

Soon I  found myself locked in a dungeon with other strange people all under spells.
there was a man dressed as a pagan God calling himself Santa
Seems he liked to play with his candy cane in public.
Yeah who doesnt?

The days passed and i was put through a horrible torture worse than having
to watch the O network or listening to Justin Beiber that musiacal ****.
I went days without  my ***** i was put into a strange state called sober.

Finally the curse was lifted as the guard showed me out he informed me
it was cause it was Christmas .
Dear lord !
The witch had  cast her spell over the world.

So as I sit in the confines of my Pub whiskey flowing like water.
I've learned beware of this bell ringing witch and her tales of strange Gods
and give or fall victem to her charms as did I.

Untill next time stay crazy hampsters.

I remember how that Puxatony dirt
felt between my fingers. Gritty
and cold – the earth that covers  graves.
Falling from my palm, landing at his paws,
he curled around my leg, shivering.
Against my ankle, he rested his long ears.

Polaroids of a mothers chew-toy earrings;
memories of March spent playing in *****
backyards, forests, and playgrounds. We shivered
together, in the heat of Spring, with gritty
rock-filled driveways underneath our paws.
Lives, those playful daisies sprouting from gravel,

that we ate day by day; pushing graves
down out of mind, but spilling from our ears.
The summer wrought steel cages to grip awe,
with training meant, bent to destroy dirt
kept caked on worn-out sandals. Grits
scooped off a breakfast plate to a shivering

dachshund. His collar jingled, shimmering
as it clashed against his bowl. Cold gravy
and dry cat food, with textured scents. Gritty,
furry, and harsh. Ears dipped in water bowls
finding the only bath of the month, clearing dirt
from a death in the family. Soft, unknowing paws

treaded with grace, and a parentless pause
as we crumbled. Directionless grief shivered
the big men with their shrunken hearts, *****
from a three-hour drenching sob at the grave.
But love is not measured by the size of loss -
it is made of highs and lows; rough and gritty.

Seven pounds of compassion weighs with gridded
precision on my chest. Those tiny paws,
batting at my heart. Soft, two-times-too-large ears
crying with us and pleading through shivers
to enjoy everything. Now your graves are dug
together - between you only a foot of dirt.

Gritty reality seeps in from shivering
fiction. Your paws on your own grave,
I place my ear to the dirt, and whimper.

A poor soul, asked the eternity-
Can you tell me,
Where is my destiny?

The eternity jingled, mingled
Laughed, puffed
And said, why should I tell you,
In comparison to me
You are so tiny!

The poor soul, finding the response
Cried a lot, but silently
And asked thyself
For an appropriate answer-

Later on realized
The cruelty of fate,
And, thereafter
Remained silent forever.

Deafened by your silence
Lonely in a crowded place
I look for a glimpse of hope
In a once smiley face

Dead eyes that see
A broken heart that beats
I fight against the blur
Of your voice that still defeats

My memory has lapsed
Your words are my remora
I should have never opened
The box owned by pandora

Evil lurks in every crack
In every crease
Your work of art
Your masterpiece

Jingled my bell
Frightened my serenity
Striped my soul
From any trace of identity

Stamped on my heart
Ridding it of blood
Causing my eyes to water
A never ending flood

Have you ever wondered
What it's like to live a life that's been plundered
Body and emotions *****
What kind of monstrous life it shaped

Let me tell you a story
I apologize now, it maybe a little gory
It's about a little girls life
How she was forced to walk on the edge of the knife

The sadness started at her birth
At this event there was no mirth
Before her a brother at 4 months had died
She was not born a boy so her mother cried
But she was the apple of her Dad's eye

So for the next 7 years
Her world was full of cheer
Except for her mother's geers

There was mud pies
Sunny sky's
Bicycle rides
Slip and slides
Camping trips
Potato chips
Fishing poles
Daddy's hand to hold
Big sisters kisses
Mother's suppers delicious

Then came the split
Her heart was ripped

A dad rarely seen
A mother that was mean
Then came the step dad, what he did was obscene

A mom never knowing
Around the girl the darkness was growing
The keys on his belt jingled down the hall
He was coming to call
Under the covers the girl of 8 cowered
For he held all the power

Step dad beat the girl's mom all the time
He threatened the child, "tell no one, I claim you as mine"
She told not a soul, not even her Dad
She was afraid step dad would hurt him bad
Besides a new family with a new baby boy her Dad had

So she suffered in silence till the age of 14
When thinking back on what her years had gleaned
For her dad had recently passed away
It made her heart cave
She made a trip to the cemetery laid down on his grave
Took a handful of sleeping pills, death she craved
To her disappointment around noon the next day she woke up
Trudged back home, knowing she would have to drink the wrath from her mother's cup

Fast forward a few years
There was still plenty of tears
The sins of a mother is like no other
On the little girl they covered and smothered
The little girl knowing only pain as love
The girl married a man that beat and shoved

After four kids of her own, 3 daughters and a son
She found the key to her rusty cage and made a run
She was bound and determined thier childhood would be full of fun

For man's wicked way she had been shown
So for 13 years her and her kids lived all alone
She tried her hardest to protect them from the monsters
Only family was let close enough to love and foster

She didn't realize her mother had married ANOTHER *******
The little girl's  SON'S soul was tossed into the fire
Though she questioned her children all the time, the results was the same
Her son suffered in silence and shame
Even though the little girl didn't know, she was mom and she was to blame
All of her love couldn't heal her sons pain

The years ticked by
She lived under the darkest of skies
Her son's anger grew
He's words created scars that where new
Along with the constant every two year visits of the abusive alcoholic she had once been chained to

That girl decided her kids where grown and with her life she was through
Swallowed two bottles of pills
Praying it would cure all her ills
She went behind the veil to the dark quite abyss
Her children would be all she missed
Much to her chagrin
Those doctors brought her back to life again

Fast forward just two more years
There would be new founded fears
That abusive alcoholic made another visit, dragged her to the woods
***** her in the worst way he could
He left her miles from nowhere, bruised and bartered
More holes in her soul, ripped and tattered

That was a year ago
The darkness from it all still grows
She struggles every day
As she tries to keep the demons and darkness at bay
For her thoughts heavily weigh
When she thinks back on her life in decay

Are you wondering what happened to that little girl lost
How she lives on still paying the cost

Well you see
That Little girl is me

I'm still all alone
In my bedroom at home
That is where I cry
Screaming at a non existing God why
Why, I was only given a few happy years
With agony the rest was filled
Not understanding why I was spit out of deaths mouth, just to be ***** again
Tell me God, at the age of 8 what was my sin
Why was I condemned
Never to see blue skies again

This happened last Fall, during Thanksgiving break.

Lisa and I were at the MET (The Metropolitan Museum of Art), with her family, at an exhibit of Art Deco sculpture. Lisa and I came out of a gallery and there was a group of older adults gathered near a bar.
“Hermé!” Lisa suddenly squealed. “Come on,” she said, dragging me towards the group. “I want you to meet one of my favorite people in the world!”

We crossed the room and found ourselves at the back of a large group, Lisa nodded to highlight a 60ish (I’m being generous here) lady. She was wearing a midnight blue Givenchy asymmetric midi dress and way too much jewelry. Both arms featured large and small gold bracelets that jingled when she moved. “She’s a friend of my grandma's,” Lisa said, “she’s off the hook.”

Hermé was chatting with those close to her and after a minute, Lisa said, “I’ll get us a drink, wait here,” and headed for the bar. Watching Hermé, I decided that she embodied the 4 fashion-aesthetic-principles: 1) dress for the occasion, 2) look good, 3) feel good, and 4) be seen looking good. She was definitely the center of attention.

People peeled off the group, one or two at a time, as people will do and as I got closer, Hermé was saying, “Russians - the way human history repeats itself, it’s like we’re in a time loop.” There were sounds of agreement.

When there were only a handful of us, I was the odd one out, being under 60. Hermé asked me, “And who are you?”
“A friend of Lisa’s,” I glanced over and waved at Lisa, who waved back, “Anais,” I finished, offering my hand. She was wearing little white gloves which suddenly seemed like genius (in these virus times).

“What did you think of the exhibit?” She asked, looking through the ½-frame glasses perched on her nose.

“Art Deco Sculpture?” I shrugged, looking around at the room’s remaining art lovers, “It looks like men doing heroic things with their clothes off.. like always?” The silence that followed seemed to beg for words, but I felt like maybe I’d said too much.

Then she laughed. The laugh was as measured and controlled as an opera singer’s vibrato. There were a couple of other chuckles too. Then she became serious, “What do you think of the Ukraine mess?”

“I’m a pre-med major,” I started to demur, but her gaze was on me uncomfortably, “Putin *****,” I answered.

She smiled, this time with no hesitation. “You’re a Yaleie - with Lisa?” She followed up.
“Yes mam,” I answered. I guessed she’d seen Lisa steer me over. She was sharp as a tack - I decided I liked her.

Her cell phone chirped then, and she excused herself. I mean she said, “excuse me” and everyone else made themselves scarce. As I took a few steps toward the bar I overheard her telling the caller, “Tell him he can just have it..” and after a split-second she added, “at cost.” I had to smile, no one’s as cheap as the rich.

I reached Lisa as she picked up our drinks, two American martinis (gin, vermouth and olives).
“Hermé has a ‘gild’ complex,” I whispered, indicating the glittering, fake gold fashion on display.
“No!” Lisa said in shocked amusement. This was more than repartee, it was 411.
“I’d be willing to bet.” I assured her, quipping, “fashion is my passion,” before I sipped my drink.
Lisa moved around to where she could inconspicuously observe Hermé better - we didn’t want to be rude.
“I like her, but her Louis Vuitton “Ponthieu” handbag is fake,” I said in a low murmur, “the pleshette’s wrong and the logo etching is too deep and reflective.
Lisa sipped her drink with an “mmm,” as she appraised Hermé anew.
“Her bracelets and necklaces are fake too,” I continued, “fake gold glitters, reflecting light like a mirror, real gold lusters, it caresses and almost deflects light.” After a second I nva’d, “Of course, she might be afraid of being robbed.”

An elderly man, about 90 (my guess), who’d been in Hermé’s group a minute ago, was making his way, slowly, in our direction. He was wearing a suit with black, tuxedo pants and a deep-red crushed-velvet coat with black trim.
“Who shot the couch?” I whispered to Lisa. We thought he was headed to the bar. But he stepped right up to us.

“What are they teaching you girls at Yale these days?” He asked. He had a ******-mary in one hand, so I opened up.
“A load of science, and how to do laundry,” I said, and wanting to escape the usual questions, I added, “and there’s a lot of drinking.” Leaning in confidentially, I added, “It’s opened me up, emotionally.”

“I was raised in the old ‘carnage on the highways, broken lives, stay away’ days,” he revealed, winking.
“But you got over it,” I nodded at his cup.
“We evolve, you know?” He said.
“Yes sir,” I grinned, “I hope so.”

As we talked, Lisa’s dad, Michael, joined us. “What are you two up to,” he asked, then, under his breath he added, “you seem conspiratorial.”
“Nothing,” Lisa said. “We’re taking fashion.” I updogged.
“Better lose those,” he nodded to Lisa indicating our drinks, “before your mother and Leeza get here.”
We’re under 21 and she doesn’t like us to drink in (Manhattan) public.
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Songs for this:
Dat's love (From "Carmen Jones") by Lesley Garrett, Andrew Greenwood & Philharmonia Orchestra
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Martino Cafe by Gabrielle Chiararo

4/30/17

A cheetah speckled woman
With long curly red hair
Invited me to a bean shaped cushion
In her studio apartment.
her keys jingled in the closing door
Sealing us, a hot red room.

"Love is creepy"
She says, sinking into
Her candy apple bean shaped cushion

I am a watcher.
When We met, She was in her natual habitat.
A coat tail of men,
I admired how oblivious they were
to being faceless goons.
watched her direct them
like an ***** desperate orchestra.
My back against a wall,
Smoking a cigarette.

Now, I'm in this studio apartment
Again, I am a ******.
She tells me stories
Of bad tinder dates
as I survey the strung up Christmas lights
Posters of Marilyn monroe.
Teenage quotes of aspiration.
"Be unapologeticly you"

She smiles at my ignorance to her body.
I am not ignorant by any means
Only respectful
I notice her smirk at me swing around
Leaning into shelves of pottery and art supplies.
flying around with a clipped wing.

"Will I be a poem?" She asks.
"You're right. Love is creepy."

I pull wine out of my bag and place it on the counter, put Chicken and vegetables in the fridge.
She turns on Netflix and asks
"whaddaya wanna watch?"
"bird documentaries"
i say,
an effort to incite her own decision.
domestically,
A bird documentary starts to play.
I gloss over a smirk at my failure
We share wine meditating to the sounds of
Bad Voiceovers and chirping

We are the card dealers of moments
hourglass columns
sand falling where art should be carved.
fractures of timelessness stacked like
Jenga blocks
each sip of wine a ritualistic dymensia
blackjack tables with no dealer
just a bartender

We watch an owl puke up mouse bones
"Owls are Creepy."
We agree.
witness to me, is indulgence
silk strings pull my heart towards exhibitionists
When she changes to A pink robe
Textured to compliment my heart strings
the singsong of birds chirping.
provides an exotic baseline for her sway.

I stare at her body.
"My love is creepy" I say
pressing thumbs to divets in her hips
I am slave on her shadows
My hands trace contours
follow my worship eyes
"I like the attention" she says

In the morning
drafty eyes part

whisper From swirling pink elephant dazes
smiling at me.
the soft moans of her night
the reason I started dealing cards.
an addiction to that moment.
the reason I turn the hourglass.
the wide green foggy eyes
Watching me stare back.
stretching like a cat
who plays with the bird
brings it to it's master as a gift
limp and submissive,
Perhaps she is the bird.
Sunken to the curves of the bed.
a limp beautiful body
the most honest and intentionless fracture
love is creepy.
I am a watcher
ask only that you exist.
Existing is equally as creepy.
we have fingers
thoughts
consequences.
So why not stare at a part you want to keep?
Why not write it down for others to fly?
so many beautiful things are never seen
Oppurtunity wasted for fear of being creepy
Fear of love.
fear of cats
Fear of birds
when I stare I capture
When I write, you stare
love is creepy.
we are creepy.
birds are creepy
be my creepy love bird.
peace dove
fly with me, if for a moment.
and stare down at everything while we can see it
I want to see everything with you
For now I see you in everything.
Photoshop you into my dreams
Imaginary
Love is for the birds anyway.

The boogeyman
Last night I thought i 'd saw the boogeyman.
He was dancing the boogie going up my stairs.
He stayed out of sight be for most of the night.
When the bell jingled, he began to wiggle.
Dancing to the moon light tune I looked and saw his head.
So round I thought maybe it was a clown.
He bounced up and down like a ball.
Then I saw him in the hall.
As the  light came on from the boogie man.  He was gone from sight.

The lone rider
left the station at high noon that day.
Sadly, it was something he had to do.
He knew he might not come back,
there had been an attack
a few weeks earlier,
all had been scalped,
with no survivors.

His ample-provisions
of salted jerky & biscuits
were stowed away
in his leather saddle bag.
He carried a .44 along
with his trusted notched-rifle.
Snugly on his head,
he wore a black drovers-hat,
a faded red bandana
was wrapped loosely
around his neck.

It was going to be a long ride,
but he hoped to make it to Laramie
before the next sunrise.
His keen-eyes scanned
the desert horizon,
you could tell he was pondering.
He seemed a bit worried,
but did not give any inkling away.

His girl hugged him goodbye,
kissed him on his grizzled-cheek,
then turned with tears in her own eyes.
She did not cry for she knew
he would have been upset.

Then like lightning,
he was up on Ranger,
his spurs jingled,
thundered off in a flash.
He rode headlong,
leaving a burnt sienna dust-cloud
swirling behind.

She watched him disappear,
stood there all day long,
until the sun
began to set,
to sink low
in the western sky.

Reds, oranges, yellows and pinks
shot, splintered the skies,
then faded to pitch,
there was no moon.
As the stars began to emerge,
she smiled,
thinking twinkling beacons
for her cowboy lover.

She closed her teary-eyes,
held her hands in prayer
& made a wish,
but somehow she knew,
she had a strange gut-feeling,
they would not return.

And they never did.
That day was the last time
anyone would ever
see the lone rider & Ranger,
again.

I waited for a while. For something to happen, an explosion, a bomb, something that would get me out of there. Why did I drive him here? The though span through my mind every second that I had to wait. We were at the propane store in bethel, and my dad was looking for a fire place. The temptation of my blue Subru in the parking lot, I had the keys. No phone, no board game, no s reaming family to entertain me. Just my dad, bob, and I. I had to do something, there were grills, propane powered lights, and thousands of gas tanks.  There a burgers in the car, and grills all around, its taking this long. The keys jingled in my pocket, Get me out! How did this happen? We went to walmart. Past the target. Get some coffee. Soda's in the car! I could run!
I waited for while.

No words could be spoken
Wrapped around in a beret
Nothing could be sensed
Cats lay torpid
He jingled the coins in his pocket
There's not much he had
There was nothing he spoke
A cold wall of dissociative amnesia
A blustery day
Driving all those fears
Into the wild
Covering all those scars
With ice cakes.

Lost childhood
a shattered snow globe on the floor
enchanting glitter and broken glass,
swirling in a mass, I find no cure.
Swept up the shards
that faintly jingled while being discarded
cut myself cleaning the mess
and it scarred
a surface of me that must stay hardened.

So independent
I can live on my own
don't know what is best
but it's better unknown.
I am shaped the way you had me sculpted
I've got a sharpness deep inside
here's the woman that has resulted
from a young girl's need to hide.

Mom
I brought a portrait photo of you
with me to art class
the teacher said
I looked just the same
everyone always told me I was like my dad
I was so happy to be beautiful, that day.

and I know you've said you don't understand poetry
so I'll say it easy
I love you so much
I hope you don't hate me
for what I used to be.
Forgive the broken snow globes
I have already forgiven the memories.

I am the ice sweating in the
midst of a surreal desert.
I rise as a wave in unbelievable
imagination of ravished lunatic.
A jingled chortle
of thundering sky,
a contemplating flower under bodhgay.
I am a mere rogue
tattering at the flowing time
in the ruined temple of life-
hearing the obscene truths sung by cracked skulls.
I sprout as a black cat in darkness
letting the reality to shudder
transcendentalising fantasy.
Sowing soul in the unlimited land of poetry
i water my emotion.
I am the silence of swaying lamp
the inevitable stream of its resonating music.
The songs sung by a million stars
the warm glow puffed by the moon
fills my soul with fluid of purity.
I am a pillar in a church
burnt by a ranting fire
punched by a vehement wind.
I vanish in the fugitive mist
varnish the blazing creature in oppressed slave heart.
I am the space between the doubtfully raised hand
of a poets pen tip,
i am his colorful idea
that has power to devastate the earth.
I howl with dogs
on my knees
in the streets letting everyone to watch my insanity
with uppity sarcasm, superciliously and pitying my senses.
I am a shrilly shriek articulated involuntarily
by a labor carrying 100KG weight,
cruelty of giggling pain in his heart.
I am the suppressed tear
screaming in a lovers eye
trembling tone
of last heart beat.
I am the idea of uncertainty  
in Heisenberg's theory
i am that tone of Einstein's piano
which tugged the nerve
that can pronounce E=mc2.
A myriad universes flow in me
as i am smaller than an electron.
I am unbelievable
irrevocable
i am poet.

The Jester put on his cap and bells
For the final time, we’re told,
The Queen was set to replace him for
She said he was far too old,
‘He doesn’t amuse me like he did
Before, when we all were young,
Should I dispense with his services,
Or command the Jester hung?’

Her courtiers were gathered around,
They wanted to please the Queen,
Lord Chalmers said, ‘Suspend by his feet!’
Then Darnley: ‘No! By his spleen!’
‘Tar and Feather him,’ said Bottolph,
‘And run him around the town,
Then tether him to a stake, and light
Him up, in the palace grounds.’

The Queen thought that was hilarious,
And clapped and cried in her mirth,
‘By Jove, we’ll have us some jesting yet,
We’ll bring him on down to earth!’
‘He’s sure to appreciate the jest
For he won’t deny your fun,’
The Chancellor of the Exchequer said,
‘We’ll gather in everyone.’

While the Jester sat in his lonely room
In a dark and evil tower,
He knew that he would be summoned soon
But he didn’t know the hour.
He wondered if she might knight him then
For his services to the crown,
Or grant him a fabulous pension for
The years that he’d played the clown?

For Jesters, they are but mortal men
Aside from their clownish role,
Down under bells and motley lives
A far from perfect soul,
The jesting covers a beating heart
That is rarely ever seen,
And his was filled with a lifetime love
For Her Majesty, the Queen.

He’d loved her since, as a little girl
She’d laughed and played in the grounds,
While he’d leapt out of the bushes there
To her squeals, and laughs and frowns,
He’d always jingled his bells for her,
And carried her in to tea,
When she was sleepy and all laughed out
After playing so happily.

He knew that he’d made more enemies
Than friends, as the years went by,
For jealousy breeds in a court with needs
And the courtiers were sly,
They took it in turns to trip him up
And to hurt, as part of the jest,
But he took new heart at the cruel laughs
By the ones who were not impressed.

He finally stood in front of the Queen
And bowed right down to the floor,
He looked for a smile on her much loved face
But a scowl was all he saw.
‘You’ve come to the end of your usefulness,
A Fool on a bended knee,
Take him outside and string him up,
Upside down from a tree!’

He hung for an hour in misery,
And then they had cut him down,
Tarred and feathered his motley’d form
And beat him around the town.
They wanted to stake and light him up
But the Queen said, ‘Let him go.
Give him a crown in a silver cup
For the years he amused me so!’

They cast him out in a farmer’s field
And barred him then from the court,
He wept and wailed in his anguish there
For a day and a night, and thought;
The slings and arrows he’d suffered from
Were now brought up with his bile,
And sweet revenge was his ruling theme,
He planned and schemed for a while.

One night he went to the palace yard
And crept down the cellar stair,
He doctored all the barrels of hock
And the fine French flagons there,
Then some time after the palace hunt
He hid in the servants’ hall,
And waited til they drank and were drunk
At the Queen’s Most Favoured Ball.

Then Bottolph woke in a barrel of tar,
And Chalmers hung by his heels,
While Darnley woke in a quivering fear
In a barrel of snakes and eels,
The Queen awoke in her stately bed
Pinned down by a giant sow,
And wearing the Jester’s bells. He said,
‘Who is the Jester now?’

David Lewis Paget

It's the day after
I've spent the memories on other things
I sat at a candled table
eased into wicker chairs
with plush cushions
and cigarette smoke coiling into the humid air.

I-among others- wet our tongues on sweet wine
and sampled crumbled cake from antique bakeries
sipped steaming tea from tin kettles
and laughed as coins jingled in our pockets
and happiness jostled against our souls.

I spent the day after
not thinking about that hurt
but rather forgetting for a while
that just the day before
you had fallen far
in my estimations.

One ordinary day at the temple,
Jesus purposed to watch people go by;
He observed their heart attitudes,
without them… even knowing why.

He watched the gait of the proudly rich,
dressed in their expensive clothes;
they jingled a portion of their wealth
and drew attention with uplifted noses.

Christ properly noticed and judged the scene
of them depositing their offering coins,
disappointed that they collected their reward
(of pride) below the temple’s cornerstone quoins.

Along came a widow, who gave her last two mites,
a reflection of a poor and impoverished state,
unknowingly falling victim to the scribes’ greed,
as she quietly suffered under poverty’s weight.

At the moment, Christ exclaimed to His disciples
that ‘she had given more’ than those preceding her;
for the others offered a pittance of their wealth,
although possessing an abundance of gold and silver.

For the misguided woman was improperly taught
that God would replenish her monetary seed,
when pressured to extreme and unholy sacrifice,
as she clung to the belief of His meeting her needs.

Unfortunately, she failed to recognize the false doctrine,
being perpetuated under the malpractice of the scribes.
For near to her was the Christ - the One who provides
the Living water, upon which one may graciously imbibe.

Please note that this story is not about giving,
but about learning to observe false Pharisees.
The widow’s unhappy sacrifice was for nothing,
since the Christ’s presence… she did not see.
.
.
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Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Mark 12:41-44; Luke 20:45-47, 21:1-4; Matt 23:37-38

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.amazon.com/Reaching-Towards-His-Unbounded-Glory/dp/1419650513/ref=sr11?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1388058560&sr;=1-1&keywords;=reaching+towards+his+unbounded+glory

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.

i let you inside of my mind in my darkest hour, you planted seeds and from my nightmares grew flowers. you took the key to my heart and jingled it just out of reach, as i tried to ****** it you laughed and it was then i realized i was never getting that key back because you'd have my heart forever, and i was completely content with that.

I walked to the ocean
And swam in her waves
Until I saw a storm coming my way
The birds began flying
To find a dry place
As the first drops of rain
Fall on my face
The shells that I collected
To make you a necklace
Jingled and jangled
Down in my pocket
Now I'm covered in rain
Now I'm covered in sea
Just to see you happy
It's worth it to me

We could walk the craggedy side-
Walks
stubborn old Trees sending their roots
beneath them to better prop themselves up—
looking out over cascading rooftops and through
our Smog—
so they could make out the orange hum of a
California Afternoon sun reflecting off
the distant ocean.
joyous Willows drawing the lanes of the neighborhood avenues
tried to entangle their dancing threads in our hairs
As we traversed the mountainous sidewalks
onto which our melting 65-cent popsicles dripped
dye-drenched cherrybombs next to our plastic-soled sneakers—
And we snuck past gardens overrun by passionately-blossoming
Vines and wild rose bushes, where the paths changed every day
And wind chimes sang listlessly from sagging walls with cracked paint,
Our backpacks jingled despite our silent curiosity.
Forgetting the things behind us and things ahead,
Sunshine sloshed through tree-tops onto our happy pink cheeks,
all full of sweets,
as we slowly made our way back home,
along familiar streets.

Life is purchased
with metaphors
you jingled those coins
loaned them to anyone
gave your students
a lift
down alliterative avenues
danced at the front
of the room

The plantation overseer
cruel as dominion allows
stirred your fears
made a ***** in your confidence
Schooled in permitted wrongs
she let the lash fall
on those on whom it is allowed
Indulged her charity
honeyed harms for some
obfuscated raw aggression to others
hooked the faithful
for the delicacy of a minnow glittered soul
because pain like tears
is a universal taste

You rallied and held on.
Recalling the poverty
of the adjunct
you feared falling
through that trap door
Oh faithful moon man
you leapt over the danger
turned fear to comedy
showed us the stairs
with howling laughter
and for a time
climbing the career steps
out of the basement
I tried a Vaudevillian
performance too
at your urging.

You cultivated adoring lines of students
your succulents
yearning for the secret
how to survive
in dry times
how to nourish the roots
when life is scorched
and fragile and taut
You imparted the gift to sustain the soul
to anyone who would listen
a verse on the tongue
is the secret wellspring
and you showed them all
how to find it.

Pockets in a pinafore
as mother said,
can hold much more than little hands,
but our eyes
being bigger than our bellies knew
that mum had hidden jelly tots and with
the keys that jingled jangled lay
two packets of
original spangles.
Eventually
the washing having been pegged out on the line
the day being windy
the weather fine
mum sat and gave us treats,two sweets
each.
Peachy days and pinafores
what more can a boy desire?
'cepting maybe
marshmallows toasting by the fire
but that was dad's domain and so
we waited for dad to arrive
from work at twenty five to five.
Kids today
don't even know that they're alive
but we did.

Midnight was in bloom.
The lamp in my room spilled shadows.
With its soft fingers the chill kept pushing me
Under the blanket. It was doing its own work.
On the table my character on papers was undressed.
As I sipped some droughts of self-served coffee,
And mused on the wish list inked on memory,
Outside, the funeral bells jingled and crept in.
In a jiffy I stuck out of window, the chill prohibited.
On such a time of celebration of the New year, death?
Puzzled me. Feelings of insecurity covered me.
The 2015 was being carried by time into space.
Something sparkled in the moonlight. Very incandescent.
I gazed. Some words in golden hue were written.
WORK IS THE NOBLEST THING.
THE SPECIAL THING TO BE CROWNED,
TO BE HONOURED, TO BE TASTED
AGAIN AND AGAIN THOUGH SOMETIMES
SALTY OR SOUR OR A VERY HARD NUT.
HUMAN GLORY LIES IN WORKING.
HAPPINESS HINGES ON IT.