Journal of Darkness: Assassin and Deceptress


Nov 21, 2011, 8:17:32 PM by ~OmegaWolfOfWinter
Journals / Personal




(description of storyline: all characters in this work are dragons, with the ability to change into a human form. they live in present day society, but have a base in the middle of the desert. there is a library with the history of the world, which is operated by stacra, an organization to preserve the peace in the world. there is a rival organization, the dracra, who wish to take it over. the dracra is led by a dragon named Darkheart, a dragon who has haunted the Scar line for millenia.)
"... sahsa...."
what was that mumbled sasha, a small town girl in modern day USA. she was nearly asleep when the voice called to her.
sasha was usually described as a freak. she was a dragon fanatic, and she carried her favorite books wherever she went, Brink of Insanity: journal of the Wild and the Broken; and its companion, Blood curse:  journal of the Destroyer and the Savage. they told of dragons living in new york who had to bear a family curse and sought a way to release it. the author was only known as "Lucian".
"....sasha...."
i'm sure i heard it that time...
"....come to me sasha...."
she didnt know why but she felt as if she absolutely had to find the source. she was barely clothed but quietly snuck out, leaving small footprints in the snow.
"....sasha!...."
she felt panicked. as the voice grew louder so did her heart, beating quickly in her ears. some sort of animal instinct took over and she somehow Managed to run on all fours. her whole body began tingling, her skin writhing. she looked back and nearly choked: wings and a tail... had grown from her body. her whole body turned white as scales etched their way into life over her skin. her body began elongating and enlarging, becoming streamlined and lizardlike. she was transforming...
"...yes!... just as you said, master...."
"...quiet, kovu..."
sashas vision went dark as she stumbled, barrelling through the snow. when she looked up, she saw an enormous dragon, with scars just like the ones in her book. "she will be a fine student."
sasha was dumbfounded as she saw her parents walk up behind them. "greetings, master Lucian, kovu." said her father.
"and you, rydon."
"y-you...know...?" stammered sasha.
"all will be explained in the morning, sasha," replied her mother.
sasha felt tired and her eyes shut as the ground came up to meet her.
sasha sat alone at the picnic table, surrounded by lucian, her father rydon, her mother sophia, and kovu. "so... you're all.... dragons.... like in my books..." she gestured to the two books.
lucian stepped forward and placed a hand on the books. his hand glowed and the glossy books turned to worn, leather journals. "yes, we are dragons. sasha. and you have done well guarding my journals."
"your... journals? but i thought that these were best-selling novels..."
lucian chuckled, "no no. young one, there are only two other copies of each of these in existence."
"wow..."
her father spoke up now, "so what are you here for, master? is it time for her to leave us?"
"leave?! what do you mean leave?!"
rydon looked worriedly at lucian and then at sasha,"you are dragon, and it is tradition for you to be trained."
"but what if i dont want to leave?!"
her father began to become angry,"its not your choice!"
"then whose-"
lucian's eyes glowed red in anger, "rydon, haven't you taught your daughter respect? surely you would know of my ways by now."
rydon nodded, "i- i'm sorry, master. i don't know whats come over her."
sasha ran, shifting to her new dragon form and flying away. darkheart had warned her of this, that lucian was a dictatoria leader. she asked herself, "why had her father taken his side? why did this have to happen so suddenly? and most of all, what was she going to do next?"
darkheart had given her directions to meet her after lucian made contact. sasha flew, tired as she was not used to the extra limbs.
once she reached the spot that darkheart had told her, she waited and thought things through.
once darkheart arrived, she spoke, "i want to join you. i beleive everything you've said."
darkheart chuckled, "i knew you would dear girl, lucian is the same as his grandfather, they both hounded me and tortured me, for their own twisted ways. i've tried to keep as many as possible from falling into their cluthces. i wasn't able to **** scarheart, as he captured me and forced me into his own body as an energy slave. he tortured me even there, and after he died, lucian, his grandson, got me. he too tortured me."
sasha looked at her in sock, "thats terrible. i didnt know..."
"you couldnt have, darling. those evil dragons keep everything from those who should know."
sasha stood, "i want to be trained. by you."
"really? i warn you, it is quite tough. not all survive. you must be willing to do whatever it takes to stop those vile dragons."
*     *     * 3 years later
sasha was 20 years old, and it was time for her to take on her first big mission: infiltrate lucian's schol and learn everything she could.
sasha had already talked to lucian, apologizing for her behavior so long ago. lucian had seemed hesitant but allowed her in. foolish old bat. she thought. she had been at the compund for a year and a half now and had become familiar with their ways.  sasha would often wonder why she was doing this, and she remembered, darkheart had said that lucian killed sashs's father. she always looked at him with scorn and wished to **** him. but she restrained herself and kept on the facade.
today she felt especially hating towards every master she came in contact with. she passed tsai, lucian's right hand dragon, as he went to talk with the master. she tried to eavesdrop but they were speaking in an ancient, coded language. she growled and her white scales flashed in the sun.


"Lucian, somethings not right about that youngling sasha... she's always watching us, like she's gathering information."
"yes, tsai, i know. i know exactly what she is."
"what?" tsai looked skeptical.
"she's an agent, an informant. for darkheart."
tsai stared, incredulous."wha?! how do you know?!"
"ive been under the influence of darkheart before, as have you. something about sasha is of darkheart's doing."
tsai nodded "even still, is she possessed by her or under orders?"
lucian thought for a moment "i beleive under orders..."
both stared as lucian's son, kovu, walked up to sasha.
*       *        
"sasha! hi!" kovu had taken a liking to sasha since his father took her as an apprentice.
"oh, um. hi. kovu..." *i cant let my emotions get in the way of my mission! "how have you been?" sasha felt herself blush under the gaze of the drake. he wasnt half-bad to look at, and she often caught herself watching him.
"i'm doing great, training with tsai is always fun. what about you and master lucian?"
her eyes darted to her master, her target, then back at kovu. "you mean you're... dad?"
"yeah... my dad... but we students can only call them by their designation. even master scaleweaver calls some elders master."
sasha's ears pricked up as she heard scaleweaver's name. she was assigned to gather information on all of the masters. i must make madame darkheart proud... i am worthy... she must see that...
"is... something wrong, sasha?"
she caught herself, "n-no i'm just tired is all... just tired..."
her master lucian came toward her what a fool, he doesnt even know about me... "sasha, i need to speak with you.... alone."
kovu difpped his head and backed away respectfully.
"sasha, come."
she swallowed her pride and said, "yes... master..." and followed him.
once they were outside, lucian turned to her and said, "i know, sasha. i know that darkheart sent u here to gather information on us."
sasha's eyes widened and her mouth dropped. she thought hard how?! how does he know?! this cant be possible....
"i-i dont know what youre talking about, master..."
lucian turned on her with a peircing gaze, and made her wince as he studied her. "there are better ways to lie, youngling... but not to me. ive known for quite some time now."
sasha felt her legs give out beneath her. she sat, looking into the dust, listening incredulously at lucian. "how... how do you know?!?!"
sasha ran forward, clawing at lucian's throat. she was instantly frozen in place, an immensely strong spell holding her legs in place.  "let me go, lucian!"
"its master to you, youngling. and why would i let you go? you just tried to **** me." sasha struggled helplessly against her bonds. she saw lucian mutter something and felt her legs grow suddenly cold. she looked and gasped as ice started to creep up her haunches.
"lucia-master, please let me go... i was only under orders."
lucian chuckled, "how did darkheart get to you?"
"i can't tell you..."
"oh? then let me guess; theres another informant, a higher up in stacra, who told darkheart about you and she arrived, possibly a week before us? she fed you a story of stacra destroying the world and trying to take over the one that they created. she told you that she was only trying to help restore order. am i close?"
sasha felt naked under the gaze of the elder, who saw straight through her act and through her commander's plan. it made her heart quicken and her scales writhe. she felt a sharp pain as the ice crept up and chilled her thighs, creeping steadily upwards. "how... how can you know these things?! darkheart said you wouldnt be able to know... she said that you held her prisoner... that you tortured her... she said that you- you killed my father."
lucian shook his head and wiped something from his face, revealing gruesome scars. "she altered her face to look like mine... look, and know the truth." he placed a claw on her forehead and she gasped as a flood of memories flooded her, darkheart inside lucian's mind, taking over him, taunting him, and forcing him to do terrible things. she heard lucian say, "she tortured me, she held me captive. its true that stacra destroyed the world, but look also;" she saw the corrupt government of old, and their wretched attrocities. "they brought about their own destruction. we created the world you know, but dont wish it to be taken over, we merely want peace...We act as peacekeepers. darkheart seeks to enslave all to do her bidding. and your father died at darkheart's talons, not mine." sasha saw a gruesome scene as lucian tried to save her father.
she felt him withdraw, and felt the magic and ice withdraw from her, the ice's touch fading from her ****. she shivered and crouched low, warming her body.
"sasha, darkheart is a liar... she's been at it for thousands of years." he watched her shiver and said. "come, sit around the fire."
sasha noddded and followed close behind lucian, hiding her vulnerable state.
"i'm sorry, master."
"all will be okay, sasha... all will be fine.."
lucian brought sasha into his study under his wing. he had her sit down in front of the fire and draped a blanket over her. he sat down behind her, looking over the latest reports, waiting for her to speak. after a few minutes she sighed and looked back at lucian, tears forming in her eyes. "is everything you said true? Is darkheart nothing but a deceptionist?"
lucian looked up at her and nodded. "all of it was true. I'm sorry, sasha. darkheart is a gifted deceptionist and many of us have fallen for her tricks.  including me."
sasha turned back and looked into the fire with sad eyes, tears rolling down her cheek. she shuddered and took a shaky breath. lucian came up beside her and placed a comforting paw on her shoulder.
"darkheart forced me to **** my best friend... a she-drake named Clia... in front of her other followers to show that we must be able to turn on anyone to fulfill the mission..."
lucian nodded, "so I had heard... darkheart has become more cruel than ever."
"l-lucian, what can i do to make her pay?"
lucian thought for a while and then shook his head. "let me think more on this, sasha. for now, let no one know that you are an affiliate of darkheart, it could have deadly consequence. you may remain in here if you wish, or you may return to your own quarters. i have some things to attend to."
sasha nodded to him and gasped as everything went still and dimmed, even the fire seemed grey and frozen.
"wha-"
"sasha... you must tell me now, will you work with me?"
she was stunned. "where are you? what do you mean?"
"you want to get back at her, i know how to. but you must tell me if you will work with me."
"i-i will, lucian. but whhy ask now, and in this way?"
"because, there is someone here, that is going to try to **** you. he was listening to us and is going to attack you with magic. ive cast a spell that will give an apearance of death. just let the magic do its stuff and u'll do fine">
"but wait!"
"you must trust me, sasha."
all of a sudden, everything went back to normal, and lucian was gone, she could hear his fading footsteps.
what was that abou- wait! the killer... she kept facing the fire and listened as she had been taught to the clawsteps of the incoming dragon.
"is it true? you're one of them?!"
sasha turned and gasped, flashing him a shocked, innocent look over her shoulder. "what are you talking about, kovu?"
he was angry, and she was struck with fear. "i overheard you and lucian talking. i heard everything."
sasha turned to face him."y-you, heard everything..."
"then you are one of them! i cant beleive it... i cant beleive i trusted you."
kovu stepped forward and sasha's eyes shifted, trying to find a way out. "kovu, i- i can explain."
"you're nothing but a trickster, a deceptress! dont try to talk me out of this."
her heartbeat quickened, stricken with dread. "out of... out of what, kovu?"
he said nothing but uttered the death spell.
*      *    
sasha let herself go, remembering lucian's spell. but as she did so, she thought about why she was doing this. *to make darkheart suffer... she heard lucian in her mind. "you'll be going to death-sleep for a while, a few days to make it beleivable. now sleep, sasha... sleep and i will awaken you soon."
"o-okay, master lucian..."
"there is no need to call me master anymore, sasha. from now on, you no longer exist. which is why darkheart will never see you coming. its time... dont worry."
the death-sleep overcame her and she fell to darkness.
*   * *
lucian ran downstairs and saw kovu standing over sasha's body. he put on a facade of dread and said, "kovu.... what have you done?!"
kovu looked at lucian angrily. "you were going to harbor a killer... i took care of the problem."
lucian became angry now, "no, you made more problems. you didnt think... you didnt listen. she was willing to help."
kovu snarled at lucian, "i did what needed to be done. I killed her for you, father."
lucian responded quietly, "you killed a helpless dragoness in cold blood. i have no choice but to arrest you for ******, my son." he muttered a binding spell and blocked kovu's magic. he watched kovu struggle for a moment then went to pick up sasha's seemingly lifeless body. he contacted her mentally, saying, "i'm taking your body in to the infirmary, i'll oversee your examination. in 2 days, i will wake you, when i do, be very quiet."
"yes, sir."
sasha's new appearance was stunning, quite different from the black color of her original scales, she now looked like each scale was a glittering saphire, and her horns and underside were now a shimmering silver. sasha was astonished by what lucian had done, he had also changed her voice and form, making her more slender and agile, he altered her voice in such a way that it seemed that she could charm the heart out of a rock. even lucian who had a mate of his own had to keep himself composed. but he was undoubtedly pleased that things were turning out well. lucian had to change everything about her, her eyes now a deep green, her draconic fingerprint being her tail-tip and spine, were changed to furry mane and a slender diamond tip.
she looked at herself in amirror and remarked how mature she looked.
"you may have to be put in certain situations which may have you exploit some... erm... feminine charms."
"so i'll have to...."
"only if you let it go that far. it depends on you. you said that you'd  do anything to get back at darkheart. these matters are up to your own discretion."
she thought long about this. "i want to g

The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!

Go on with haste and fly through this undawning memory of love,
What is the moon looking up at, perhaps a dance of pulsar stars ?
What is the sun looking down at, perhaps the life growing from light?
An eternal sinner wanders under their light, with no aim, no goal,
All he carries shall be the pride in his heart, with undying love burning as bright as a hyper nova in the nearby young nightsky,
Lingering sadness seeps it's way through, to the surface of the moon, forever to be bound in an orbit, overshadowed, shining in lesser light,
Yet does it oversee, what beauty it brings to the night, or what it would be if darkness reigned supreme without it and the stars to rise?
Enlighting the darkest of nights for us, forgotten it keeps up his duty,
For maybe, even if just one is touched by his luminosity it would be enough to keep going, until the time comes to greet the break of dawn
The milkyway alike a river of stars, each with their own story to tell,
Stars stand with their secret hidden, an orbital parent to many planets
The sky is the eternity in a land of pure fantasy and hope after all,
A dream which knows no death till its termination draws near,
But isn't waking up the commencement of something far greater ?

~ Umi

I think that I might fly away, in my hot air balloon,
And hide from worldly worries on the dark side of the moon;
There’s but one thing I need before I float into the blue:
I need a sky companion and I want it to be you.

We’ll fly beyond the storm clouds and we’ll watch from up above,
I’ll cover you in rainbows as we feel each others’ love;
You’ll shower in the stars at midnight in our special place,
I’ll dry you with a comet’s tail and kiss your beaming face.

Dreamy drifting panorama, changing every day,
Every night your loving smile will be my milky way,
The moon will wane before us, sailing there in heaven’s height,
For nothing else can challenge our love’s everlasting light.

Venus shining on us, glowing soft at our devotion,
Our daily drifting dalliance in love’s celestial ocean,
I’ll write you lovers’ poetry, and you will be my muse,
Orion and Andromeda will oversee our cruise.

We’ll sleep with clouds as pillows, maybe steal an angel’s wings,
Then fly as magic lovebirds, or slide round Saturn’s rings,
And should we tire of drifting and the stars all floating by,
We’ll hook onto a meteor and soar across the sky.

Will you consent to be my mate on our celestial ship?
I’m ready, heart all packed with love, to last us for the trip,
Take my hand and step aboard, we’re heading for the sun,
We’re flying till we find the place where our two souls are one.

Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only dirt that, like jellyfish, echoed away

A refugee of the Imperial Court once hid in the Zhongnan.
He survived in silk rags, and would ode The Way

Moss-haired men watch Magnavox in windows,
the evangelical salesman begging them not to toad away.

Across the street, near the top floor, a freshly-ex-student
sits at his desk in an IRS building, told five hours ago to code away

A face, topped with hot pink, brandishes her crop in a field
of signs, screaming at Wall Street's old way.

A yam of a man, braving his new home in the hills,
freedom from obligation, finds a stream to wash the woad away.

Along a country road, a man with a sandpaper'd
face counts his money, having just sold whey

Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only a past that, like jellyfish, echoed a way

Twenty one years have given me many names.
Call me Kyle, or the others I've borrowed away.

Zuo Fen meets Jia Li and her child Hui Ying. The temporary guardian of the palace speaks with the help of one of the pack-horse men who understands something of the dialect this young woman owns. Zuo Fen would rather envelope Jia Li with her eyes than communicate in three-way speech. And so when Jia Li begins haltingly to tell the same tale told to Meng Ning the previous night Zuo Fen halts her translator with a gesture until the story – and this is what it appears to be – is told.

(Here Zuo Fen assumes the persona of Jia Li as part of her rhapsody titled The Sorcerer of Eryi-lou)

Alone in this crumbling palace
I guard my father’s charge,
He has been ill since late Spring
And I have disgraced my family
With a child whose father stayed
but a week trading horses.
Hui Ying was born here
And here we hope to stay.

I have now come to recognize
Many spirits of the past.
Mostly invisible I take them by surprise
In their mortal form; meeting a lady
And her maid on the hall terrace;
Seeing two men bent over
A game of go in a lesser chamber.
Music and the sound of poetry float
Variously through the many rooms.
The aroma of food comes and goes.
The burning of incense is ever present.

For many seasons my village supported
Palace life during the Emperor’s summer visits.
We provisioned and provided animals
For food and transport. Our young men,
Our women too were propositioned
For the more elaborate practices of the court.
Twenty summers long the palace secured for us
a livelihood beyond expectation.

Over time the events of the Emperor’s
Last sojourn in the palace became
For us the stuff of legend, though we do not
Embroider its story and have remained silent
Out of respect for the Emperor’s memory.
We know his son has rarely ventured here.

Let me only tell what has come from
my father’s lips, what he as a young man
Witnessed and through his guardianship
Has protected and honoured. He was chosen
By officials of the Emperor as a trusted servant,
A man who would oversee what had been precious,
What had been valued here, and is still deemed to be.

My father has spoken to me of the disappearance
Of the Emperor’s second wife with the sorcerer Yang Mo,
A disappearance witnessed by the whole company of visitors,
By the Emperor himself, and his son. I am charged to tell
Of this only to those bearing Emperor Wu’s seal.  Know I speak
With all truth and honesty in lieu of my father’s presence.

Amongst the many guests honoured by the Emperor
The sorcerer Yang Mo arrived by invitation
To spend part of the third season at Eryi-lou.
Already well-known to the court he had come
At the express wish of second wife Xie Jiu.
It is said that he created many remarkable illusions.
Unusual objects and rare animals were summoned to appear,
Rain fell and winds blew inside the Emperor’s hall,
There were piercings of flesh and limbs seemingly severed.
One morning it is said Yang Mo caused a boat
To appear on the lake, thereby at odds with the legend
That no vessel should ever touch its surface. Forthwith,
The Emperor decreed that such sorcery should
cease. But he was discouraged by second wife Xie Jiu
Who wished to visit the boat and sail on the lake.
Yang Mo offered to escort her across the waters
And led the assembled company to a small beach where
A path of red slate had been laid.  This appeared from
within a cave in the hillside. From thence it travelled
to the water’s edge and beyond, under the water
in the direction of the magical boat. Yang Mo is said
to have brought wind and fire and smoke
To play upon the company, finally inviting Xie Jiu to step
On the Red Slate Path and accompany him across the waters.
The couple walked slowly down the path into the lake
Gradually divesting themselves of their garments
As the waters consumed them. Then, before their very eyes
The Emperor’s guests and entourage saw the boat
Enveloped in a pall of smoke and disappear from view.
Yang Mo and Xie Jui were never seen again.

The Emperor was enraged, realizing suddenly
he had been tricked and made to look a cuckold
in front of his own court. In such a remote region
He had the slenderest of means available
to search for the missing couple. He resolved
to leave Eryi-lou immediately. Neither He or
His son nor his court has ever returned.

Allowing Jia Li to tell this tale without interruption had proved a right and wise decision. No sooner had the young woman realized her story had grasped the undivided attention of this celebrated courtesan than her words of description seemed to take on a rough poetry. Zuo Fen felt herself summoning unbidden images of the sorcerer’s illusions, moments of secret and forbidden congress between Yang Mo and Xie Jiu, the appearance of the sailing vessel from the early morning mists, the lovers slowly processing down the Red Slate Path, the disbelief and then fury of the Emperor.
      When Jia Li had taken leave to comfort her infant child Zuo Fen called Mei Lim to summon Meng Ning. She was clearly troubled by how her autumn visions from the west had brought her to this place and its unforeseen legacy of magic and deceit. The illusion of the sailing vessel and the walk into the lake on the Red Slate Path, both were elaborate and well-contrived artifices. They required skilled assistants and collaborators and the most careful planning. Sitting in silence opposite one another the courtesan and the chamberlain set their minds to consider the possible and elaborate trickery that might have been brought to bear on the complicit theft of the Emperor’s second wife. It seemed clear that all official record of what had passed had been expunged, and the Emperor had decided to abandon not only his summer sojourn but also his palace - immediately and forever.
        Zuo Fen wondered at the fate of the lovers. There could be no future for them within the known territories of the Empire. Their lives would have to begin again far distant. The province of Yunnan perhaps? But she laid that thought aside.

(to be continued)

1
it’s graduation day
and the teacher gives awards
to each :
a book to one
a staff to another
silk or precious stones;
and to Nasrudin
the teacher
gives a donkey

2
It is some years
and the teacher
hears of Nasrudin’s fame
and comes to visit
the House of Prayer Nasrudin oversees
and to pay homage to the Saint
buried just beside

3
O Nasrudin,
says the teacher -
how great your fame
and vast your following
Tell me, which Eminent Saint  
is buried in the mound
beside the House of Prayer
you oversee?

O Master,
says Nasrudin
It’s the donkey
you gave me
It died just 4 years after
and I buried him here
And everyone wants a Saint
so I have not disabused people
of their faith

4
The teacher nods with a smile
and Nasrudin continues:
But tell me Master –
which Eminent Saint is buried in the mound
beside the House of Prayer
you oversee?

Ah, Nasrudin, says the teacher
*though people believe it’s a Saint
it’s really your dead donkey’s mother

The branches of the trees were almost breaking under the weight of the fruit that sprang from amongst their leaves. All through the garden, men and women of all ages were making preparations to harvest the fruit from the trees they had planted generations ago. Some years, the harvest was poor, and other years the harvest surpassed even the most optimistic of expectations, but the people always had enough to get them through the winter.

As they wheeled their carts underneath the trees and erected ladders to reach the tallest of branches, there was a feeling of satisfaction amongst the people. They had worked hard all year, and for the first year in five they began the harvest knowing they would have more than enough fruit to get them through even the harshest of winter months. The sun shone down on still waters, reflecting the reds and purples and greens of the trees, and all through the garden there was joy.

High on the hill, where trees did not lay their roots and water restlessly hurried by, a face peered out through a dusty window. The sounds of the horses and laughter of the people had roused the man from his slumber. As he looked down he saw the tree tops spreading below him, and with each moment that passed the colour seemed to leak from the branches, and at the same time the carts disappeared under mountains of fruit. His mouth began to water at the realisation that it was the harvest season, and soon his hunger would be satisfied.

Each year, the elders of the village would oversee the harvest. They knew what needed to be done, having been a part of it since they could walk on their own two feet. The children would play amongst the trees and the carts, observing the older boys and girls at work, and looking forward to the day when they might play a larger part of this festive occasion.

It was late in the afternoon. The sun had long since passed its zenith, and slowly the carts made their way to the village. At the foot of the apple tree, a boy tugged at the sleeves of an old man who had slipped into sleep in the afternoon heat. His eyes opened, and he looked at the child tugging at his sleeve. Satisfied that he had the man’s attention, the boy asked “Why does the man who lives on the hill not come and help us with the harvest? I saw him looking from his window, yet he did not emerge from his house. He is the only man for miles around who does not lend his hand to the harvest. Is he afraid?”

The old man bowed his head as he listened to the boys concern. He knew very well of the man the boy spoke about. There was a time, many years ago, when he would help with the harvest. Then, one year, he broke his leg after falling from a horse a few weeks before the harvest. The people had told him to rest, that they would manage the harvest without him. So he had sat and watched as everyone else did the work without him.

The next year, when harvest time came around again, the man thought to himself “Last year, the harvest went fine without my help, and this year, we have much less fruit to pick. Surely it would be a waste of my time to help.” And so instead of helping, he pretended he was sick and stayed at home.

Over the years, he spoke less and less to the men and women of the garden, until one day, he suddenly stopped leaving his house. He would say to himself “Why should I help with the work? Everyone manages fine without me. They plant the crops and tend to the trees, and still there is enough food left for everyone – including me – to eat. It would be a waste of my life to help when it is not necessary. No, I shall stay here and enjoy the comfort of my chair.”

The only time the people would see the man was once a year after the harvest when he came into the village to collect provisions from the stores. “Where have you been,” they would ask “We could have used your help with the harvest this year.” The man, not looking up as he filled his cart with bread and preserves muttered, “I have been ill,” and without another word, turned and headed back to his house on the hill.

As the old man recalled the events that had led to the man no longer sharing the work of the people, he felt a great sadness, for he knew the man had no illness or injury that should prevent him from working. No, his sickness was not one of the body, it was one of the mind. Thinking it would be better not to attempt to explain this to the child who had asked him the question, he smiled and said “He is a busy man. He does not have time to help.” The child, satisfied with the answer, ran after the carts laden with fruit, and no more was said of the matter.

Time passed, and each year the people would come together and harvest the fruit from the trees and the crops from the soil, and each year the man would stay shut away in his house on the hill. The people always had enough to eat, although recently, the harvests had been poor, and the food had been rationed to make sure there was enough to last for the month ahead.

One year, the harvest was exceptionally poor. The elders knew there would not be enough to last them all till the following year. Even the children looked concerned about the lack of colour in the branches of the trees. There was a lack of the usual festive joy that usually surrounded the harvest, and amongst the older and more experienced men and women, there was a very real worry and concern about the coming winter. What could they do?

As they turned back towards the village with their carts half filled, they were surprised to see a man standing in the centre of the path. No one knew who the man was or where he had come from. They knew not of any other people living in the garden, yet the man greeted them like old friends. “I see you have had a poor harvest this year” he said, “but you needn’t worry, for at my house I have enough chairs at my table for all of you, and enough food for you all to eat.”

The people felt relief. Although they had worked their hardest to provide enough food for everyone, the sun and the soil and the rain and the rivers couldn’t meet their expectations. Then, out of nowhere comes this man offering his hospitality. His timing could not have been better. It seemed they would not go hungry after all.

“I have only two horses”, said the man “The journey is short, but I must show you the way. I will send for you all one by one, and in time, all of you shall feast at my table.” With that, he turned and headed away into the distance. The people continued on their way, and went about life like normal, but inside each one of them was the knowledge that they would soon be dining with the man they had met that day.

Over the winter, one by one, the people rode away on the horses that the man had sent for them. Eventually, there was only one person left. It was the child who had spoken to the old man on the day of the harvest. As the last of the food ran out, the man arrived with the horses. He lifted the boy onto the saddle. “There is one more seat left at the table,” he said “We have been waiting for you to arrive before we commence our banquet. We had better make haste.” And with that they rode into distance. As the horse cantered through the trees and rivers, the boy turned around and saw the old man peering through the window of the house on the hill. ‘He must be too busy to come to the banquet.’ he thought to himself.

Winter became spring; spring became summer, which slowly gave way to the autumn. The trees of the garden were rich with colour and the smell of fruit. The branches broke under the weight of the fruit, which slowly rotted; the crops wilted in the fields. The sound of horses and laughter - by now just a distant echo lost in the depths of the rivers and the leaves of the trees – did not wake the man from his slumber.

Everywhere, clocks and gears oversee
The passing storms that time their paces.
The leap between air and faces
Is more imagined than shown.
Forever lost among the few
Are trails, leaves, and traces.
Given up on chases-
I'd rather be alone.

Gazing into the bright dome of the sky
Through veils and drifting continents of cloud
Suspended lost dimensions travel by
I hear the universe dreaming aloud.

Infinity reflected in a lake
Deep mirror to the heavens far above,
Where reeling kestrels fly for flying's sake
Where breezes sigh like whispered words of love

Love lead me to infinities of blue
With endless depths of cloudscapes on all sides
To ride with kestrels; oversee the view
Which hitherto I'd seen with earthbound eyes.

For always with us, high above the crowds,
They glide; shape-shifting monuments of clouds.

Out of the blue
he grabbed me
sent me from pillar to post
there was little to oversee
but I saw my ghost
it was the shadow of me
a year in which to come
there was little to oversee
just that I saw what I'd become.
I did not care for the vision
it scared me beyond my dreams
there was little to oversee
or so it seems.
Cant alter my past but
I can make a change to the present
could do nothing more than I did
and believe me it was not pleasant.
I grabbed my shadow and bent the rules
I surrounded it with a home truth
I told it I am not what I used to be
I had in fact altered my youth.
The shadow disappeared
out of the blue
and then it reappeared
it had made me brand new.
So my life has changed
just as if it was on cue
all of this happened
it was if it was out of the blue.

Welcome to your execution
You will not be exonerated
Your rights will not be debated
In this secret prison
This bay of pigs
But it’s not the pigs imprisoned
Corporate sponsored terrorism
Government created schism
Between the illusion of rights
And the truth
There will be no repeals
And when we are ready
Secret tribunals with no oversight
Will oversee your execution
Or worse your lifetime imprisonment

.                           revolution?!

   what revolution?!

i can't see a guillotine!

****...

hey! guys! there's no guillotine!

there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...

your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..

this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
  
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...

  the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...

i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...

         it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...

       one question does the job...
honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?

         honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...

Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
      i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...

done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
             too much of:
enjoying  a hell
of a good time...
    it's a simple economic logic
focus...

what you're selling?
i'm not buying.

it's that simple!

i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?

god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******* screws
into place...
    
         but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...

there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...

so...

         where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
                 what revolution?!

Thank you.
Thank you for carrying me,
against the wind, the jagged rocks and tainted floorboards.
Thank you for enduring,
the pain, the burden, and heat.  
In sadness and in grief,
I torture you, standing, waiting, depleting you of your vitality.
In happiness,
I dance, prance, shake, and run,
I oversee your longevity, as you harden to sustain
my happiness.

All that's left,
is an impression, an imprint in the sand that trails behind.
Effete and tired,
I thank you, my feet,
for carrying me through it all.

Looking at the heart wrenching image,
Moved my whole being to tears,
Laying lifeless, bloodied,
Entry wood to her temple;

The husband craddling her head,
Tearfully looking down,
At the love of his life,
Never again to cheer his home;

She left the home that morning,
To oversee elections,
To serve her fatherland,
To contribute her own quota;

But all she got,
Was a bullet to her head,
The robbing of her life,
Abrupt end to an unfolding story;

Two children have lost their mother,
Parents have lost their daughter,
Sibblings have lost their kin,
And a husband his confidant;

Would she like many others,
Be a little statistic,
Some unfortunate incident,
Lost to unending callousness?

Restless in bed, the stir of warmth blossoming in his heart,
the girl he loved has gone,
drifted from his house to the field of vacant stares.
Rainstorms brew in his mind, shifting from one end to the other,
the current forming into a large sheet of distance damp with disconnection.
He thinks of fire. As he rolls out of bed.
Grabbing a cigarette from his ashtray,
he lights up. Old habits stay kept in the roof of his mouth. Fresh air
permeates through his nostrils as he steps out onto the front porch.
He props his elbows on the balustrade,
brushes against the grainy wood
tarnished from the skywater.
The sun droops below the gray cluster of clouds
hanging over a horizon colored with blues, reds, and yellows.
While he smokes on his cigarette he remembers the girl. Her name is a
wrinkled photograph stored in a dusty shoe box.
She has green eyes and curly red hair.
Her body is shaped in an hourglass figure.
She's tall and gaunt, but her
legs are toned from running several miles on her treadmill
each morning before the dark slips away into the fog of light.
He grounds the cigarette out on the porch. He steps onto the driveway. There's a red
Honda CRV parked across from the two-car garage.
He hops in. The key turns.
Booming engine roars out loud.
The wheels churn backwards. He pulls out of the
cul-de-sac. And he drives, drives,
until he can remember the road map, the one
that she stole from him to follow her dreams, and hopes, the aspirations that he had
once shared with her. A thin, white film of mist
belays across the windshield.
And for a short second he wishes that he were dead.
Dead so that he could have the
perspective of an omniscient narrator to oversee everything, and everyone.
But where is his girl? She's not the one who got away,
she's the one who abandoned him, the
night after he ate the sweet nectar,
the fruit, little drops of dew splashing onto the back of his tongue.
The red Honda CR-V careens down the interstate, windows down, subwoofers pumping
with something similar to apprehension,
tense with overwrought poems.
The substance lacking from trying too hard,
for something that wants nothing to do with him.

I shalt not fall in love with the hand of one god
For many oversee my world.
Nor listen to the lies that dance off your tongue
In a way so distant and curled.

See I live in a way so peaceful and kind
As these spirits around me say.
For seeing through the eyes of one powerful man
Is like selling my soul to the grave.

Your love-
Your captain-
Your savior of beast-

Although whoever betrays him is of ways-
Of crafts and horrid slurs to keep
Me locked in with devilish dismays.

The fate that lies if I do not drift
In love with the hand of your kind.
Of a man that promises all and hell
If I don't sync with the ways of his mind.

So go on and tell me the ways I should see
Although I feel it deep in my heart.
For if I succumb to the ways of your world
My life will diminish and fall apart.

Surrender my soul for one who sees all as sin?
I'd rather vanish into the depths-
Of whirl winds and tragic mystics that spin
Down the treacherous dismays of man.

So go on and tell me the things I should feel
Just because you were brought up that way.
For it doesn't mean I shall appeal to his eyes
For mine turned opaquely to grey.

If hell is what I'm given for my love
Of many spirits and gods-
Then let this reign of "darkness" devoir
My body-
My heart-
And my mind.

                                              Alysia Marie 2015 ©

[I’m not sure if you can]
call them “fantasies.”

I prefer “scatological reveries.”

Usually,
that small porthole of time
just before sleep comes—
that’s where I oversee my
little light bulb factory.
It churns out countless
watts of bright notions—
whose warm light
paints descriptions on still walls
& outlines what exactly it is
that I intend to do to you.

These temporary art forms
are incredibly specific—
down to the slightest detail.
[For example:
the amount of pressure I’d apply
as I sink my fingernails
into the bare skin
of your back.]*

Some nights I go to bed
with my windows open
& I imagine so loudly—
I’m sure the neighbors can hear.

I hope *[they have popcorn on hand.]

The way that I know, you're knowing me.
Was the older me.
That old is over, see.
There's a few mistakes god needs to oversee.
I’ve done such bogus things.
I repent in the words of my poetry.
Refocusing.
The direction of a reflected
soulless me.
Misguided and couldn't hide it,
I wasn't fighting,
the vices holding me,
back
and whats sad is that these manic laughs,
as ecstatic as they come,
stem from the fact
that I'm feeling like crap
sad sap, too fast to play dumb
sad-sack ,
trapped rat
thats numb to the things that once would make me run.
Rock bottoms not a problem for my partna
who’s drug drama and habits are this fun.
These rhymes that I've designed inside my witty mind
redefine what is brand new.
The reflection of perfection,
the best is my profession,
and the rest belongs to you.
The professors teaching lessons,
of transgression in repressive,
unimpressive
back road routes
perspective is subjective but
effective in selection
and reflection of the truth.

Truth.

Cure me
Of this plague
That’s snaking around my throat

Allow me to tiptoe
To avoid confrontation
Social humiliation

I would speak if I could only say the words
Cure me
Of the echoing dull in my heart
A dying buzz

A cycle of depression
Undecipherable ****** expressions
Stunting my progression

I would sing if I didn’t care who heard
The vines circling my feet
Threatening to tighten
Forever clutching
Me in its embrace

I need you
You say you know me
Maybe I don’t want you to
The biggest lie, can’t you see?
Because I don’t even understand me
I hide behind poetry

I would pray to a God, if I were sure
Sure that this world kept its promises
Every inhale a burning desire
Reverberating thoughts clouding
Polluting my mind
Exhale

This isn’t a plea
But I am trying to oversee
But this love I feel for you
Isn’t meant for just one,
It needs two

This legacy of pain
Scorching my veins
Spreading the plague
A world filled of vague

Cure me
Before it spreads
**To you

Summer sun surrounds us.
Those icy biting winds are long forgotten.
We’re smothered by sultry, moisture-laden air.
A cooling breeze
Cuts through the verdant smell of fresh-mown grass.
The kids are playing:
Shouting loud.
Flock birds twitter,
What a crowd!

Those early mists give way to sun,
And wispy high-clouds stain the blue.
A happy sky to oversee our fun,
With sun to highlight every hue.

The Summer Solstice has been and gone
And nights will soon be getting long.
But it’s still hot I hear you say,
Who cares if thunder’s on the way.

We pay for sun with thunderstorms:
In Britain the weather soon transforms.
Yet now it’s time to cease the day;
I’d better send you on your way.

A false accusation
Leads to a truth,
And a breakdown;
A realization

A growing issue;
A breakthrough.
I see you as a virtue;
Limitless we argue

You hold belief in divine right
Even as I rule your day, like light
Calm you down, like night
Oversee your thoughts; I am your sight

You are the exception
The flaw to my opinion
A breech of my dominion
You are the devil’s minion

You’re the catchy hook in every song
The heat that makes a summer night so long
The passion that makes love feel wrong
You’re the motive that makes a liar strong

A fear in all my dreams
A decibel in all my screams
Turn my tears to streams
Collapse my walls to broken beams

Water bottle and a candle sitting in the dark,
the room filled with heat,
so much energy vibrating in and out,
what is it that helps me stay focused.
The night is not as bright as a full moon would be,
but you can hear some kind of gloom.
Is it only because I only look at the negative things,
because all I think about are these stupid flings.
I can live life with no strings,
attached to my mind and just act like kings!
I should just stretch my wings, and fly maybe until I get to the Colorado Springs.
Does it really matter?
Because what im concerned with is being happy,
I shouldn't get mad if there is a challenge cause that just means I get to be a bit scrappy,
This is no reason to get all ******,
and make myself and the others around me unhappy.
I lived and I learned,
Sometimes in life you just have to be;
And not worry about how to get free,
No matter how bad you think you need to flee.
Because you learn that nothing is a guarantee,
So even if it feels like your emotions are falling out of your heart like a planed that crash and left debris,
Everywhere so everyone can just plainly see,
who cares just let it all oversee, that there is nothing **** wrong with being ARTSY.

It's funny how you're no longer attractive to me
because my week with you was laced with an ennui
that I could not foresee
and was forced to oversee
your drug-induced reveree.
It's funny because you think you're a player,
but you've got only one layer,
which acts as a disclaimer
to your vacant container
of empty and witless charm.
You seem to ooze smarm
to those who haven't been darned
with knowing the feel of your arm
in their, and you always seem lost
and somehow aloft
but I think that's just because of your recent list
for a drug that breeds mistrust.
I'm not saying you can't get high,
or that I don't have the supply,
but I can't understand why
I could never verify
and ounce of sobriety in you
in the week we went through.
If this is a preview
of your future revenue,
I don't want this friendship to ensue.

Your life’s story is haunting,
Filled with the worst memories imaginable
How can a soldier like you deal with the trauma?
The experience? The witness to the killings and suicide bombings?

You’re out there, fighting for what you believe in.
Not knowing if you’ll ever come back home,
Knowing if you’ll see your loved ones again.

All you do is hope for the best, stay on guard,
Gun fully loaded, waiting for an unexpected target to pass you by,
While you oversee others and step over land-mines.

You wish this was over with. Six months may not seem long.
But to you, it feels like you’ve been here forever.
You keep your head up, no matter the circumstances.

You can’t help but go crazy, in moments where
The enemy steps over the line without a glance,
You lose your mind, lose it so fast.
Pulling the trigger out of instinct,
You label yourself as a criminal,
Killing only being politically justified.

Your comrades say it’s out of defense,
While this may be true, the guilt hovers over you.

So tell me, soldier: How does it feel.
Fighting for a country you love,
Feeling remorse for carrying out the deed,
Receiving honors for a mass killing spree?

How have you kept up without shattering to tiny little pieces?

letting the pen right
letting the ink hit the paper
and smear what you think is wrong

letting the hand learn
letting the mind unfold
and move that smear into words

letting the words combined
letting the feelings come forth
leaving today in writing

letting the vocal cords oversee
letting the unspoken, forget
and push me further into the page

wings of birds were stolen by the gods, centuries ago
an earth's day lasts for 86, 400.002 seconds
children are roaming in the mind of these lines
they are counting, playfully and without feelings

days come and go, they float through our lives
i wrote about the stages of dreams and dreamt of an *******
the ruins of old poems are silver, blue and red
remains of a day's thoughts, decoded and clear, similarly

it is not wise to count seconds while you are breathing
it is not wise to count on people while they are leaving
it is strange to use "wise" in order to refer to cleverness
people of color may feel excluded by our languages

in german, "white" is called "weiß" and that sounds like "wise"
explain to me the origins of such a word, i demand it
before the river will have swallowed me; i demand an answer
poems come, poems go, leave a trace, stain – and a change

fools are flodding the streets in order to have a five o'clock tea
proudly, they are talking about their old heroes, bearded conquerors
these guys nevah really wanted to dig strangaz, dey killed 'em.
they killed unknown people, they stabbed my dreams

they murdered ancestors because they were used to murdering
they invented words without speaking but grinning
power is an invisible instrument that consists of hierarchies
power is what we see and oversee, power is the origin of wars

wars are the origin of despair; and that is nothing new
wars, though, may be invisible and silent, just in the mind
what is a war, does a war need bombs, guns and soldiers?
wars occur everywhere, daily, within 86, 400.002 seconds

the length of a day is measured in numbers; they are just inventions
numbers are man-made, animals orient on the sun and the moon
humans celebrate planets and write poems about them
we all will surive as long as we keep writing and tolerate each other

Wish you’d spank me.
Wish you’d drag me.
Wish you’d
make it
known
what you own.
Wish you weren’t
such a quiet man.
Wish you were rougher
with those strong hands.
Wish
you’d insist
That I do
your dishes.
Wish you’d make me wear skirts;
Wish you’d bend me
over, then,
before dinner’s served.
Wish you’d let me
fold your shirts.
Wish you’d f* me
til it hurts.
Wish I was
your pretty,
little, thin-waisted missy,
and you kept
your reigns tight on me.
Wish you’d
pat your leg,and
invite me into
your lap.
Wish you’d let me curl up,
beneath your muscles,
all burled up,
more often than not.
Wish I packed
your lunches,
with little surprises,
you’d be embarrassed
if other men saw.
Wish you’d oblige me
with whispers
of “ride me”
and guide me
when it’s so early,
it’s blurry,
but you’re already
stirring.
Domestic Clink,
ain’t a bad thing,
long as you got
a fella
you wanna call warden.

Long as I have
a fella
I wanna call warden,
It’s a retro kinda kink
to stand in front of
a sink.
I’ll misbehave, clearly,
But you’ll find it
endearing,
and I’ll do it
with intention,
to end up under
your hand.
A Mr. Don Draper
to put
his thumb
over me.
But I want him blue collar,
and beefy,
and solid,
I don’t want whiskey
and suits,
I want beer and
work boots,
I want that
to be you,
Because that’s
what I need;
a good man
to oversee me.
I’m just here
to please.
I should have married
in the 50s.
Equality is boredom,
I want a **** warden.

The
camera
on
me_
Modern Crimes to be
Or you forgot
Set the mood
Or set the stage
My home
Two lovers oversee

Distant
lover
home
My
head
met his sunset
The love reset

Don't hock
my best
China
South Carolina
cultured
Pearl
Ever finer
24 karat
Gold one-sided
Movie blinded

Pick
up the ((Ring))
Molly
Ringwald
Artist
Telemarketers
They cannot act
Like Bald eagles
The Bee Gees
Staying alive
Baby boomers

Place me set me
Marathon
runnersFree me
Bride and Dog Groomer
Barking
abilities

"Beverly Hill of Billies"
Five
willow
tree's
With
anyone
else
But for me?

"Whimpering *******"

To dream on
Singer Arrow=Smith

How much
he could
have
loved you yeah?

Mans best movie
and dog bark ee-me
Woof La femme bakery

Movie slavery
Not one ounce
of your undivided
attention

That bad movie

Webbed into a mesh
Monochrome
Flesh to flesh

*** Chromosome

Get me geared up
So willing movie set
His way
no way out
So pay up
"Coffee Creed"
movie cut
my lip

Harvest
pumpkin-head
We
mapped
his
Pitt bulls
long
tongue
In her
******* Jacks
Cheerleaders
Well packed
Honey Comb
Movie on the limb

Pocket comb
She left her heart
Movie set
tombstone
Hands
came out
Bella Italian gravy
That
((Hotshot))
graved me
Honey engraved
Bunches
of scary wits
Bunches of Honey
Oats
No redemption

College drunk dorm
Mega babes 3d glasses
Griswall honeymoon
vacation
light my Fire Morrison
Burned me house

A-D
Dump her
disorder
One  pill
makes
your  
movie
Eyes
stone
killer
Screen
LARGER_

Purple hazed me
underestimated
how to  
raise Movie  family

Do what
the
Romans
do drink
***** off
Sweet
Cherry
wine

Roaming hands
Not a valentine
Poem set
She-devil
Styrophome
I Smartphone
Apple-Computer
Made-man dumber

But no one listens!!
Maybe $$$ pants
I need to fasten

The robot
Alexa
Strike
Lotto lucky
Charge him
On his Visa

Next
door girl
Actress Mona
Homebody
His Bodyguard
Is home
Watching?
Diggity Dogs
barking up
Funeral home
Rock and
Roll hall of fame
Cleveland
playing a
game
dead
dying

Count to five trying
Only five fingers left
What happened in
the movie
set?

Where to begin
How to start
All I have to do is
Take a breath. Go.

Say what you need to say
Highlight your main points
Oversee any changes,
Under and over with vocabulary
Let it flow through you
Definitely. Divide. Daft. Difference.

I think this is... I think.

Where do they lurk? Where can I find it?
Rather a difficult chore, it seems
I can hardly take it! No more!
Take me away! I almost... Just a little. I just can't....
*Eureka.

Lawmen oversee the old day's hanging's,
Exit signs designed only for those who wear worn out tennis shoes,
Conquered,
Overcrowding as if only cattle can fit through!!!!

No salt nor pepper to design creation meals of home,
Fall is near,
Plumbings far to clogged,
Days passeth night,
As night begins to freight!!!

Wolves on the outside trade fur's with ferrel dogs!!!

Clenching of teeth siren off as oven's they bake,
They brew,
Country town folk with rod and ungodly staff they overtaketh and rule!!!!

Crises of all temptation,
Bleeders to readers,
****** deviants get out to put down their own indignations!!!

Desire all thou wilt,
Desiree's,
Empathies,
Chalkers, scoffers , doctors of deaths pill!!!

Read on,
Read on uneducated pillar,
For thy hooks art thy scrolls,
Thy eyeglasses maketh thou gnomes of such readings to bring thou thrillers!!!!!!

Fragrant destiny resistant to all microbial force,
Accusation's humbling,

Sovereignty is a mystery to us mortals!!!!

Dragon's slayed to stature founder's ditches of war dug out of centurion portals,
Wreaking architecture drawn out of mapped whirlpools lies,
Some groweth deathly,
Sweet talkers are refusing to trust their own worried minds!!!!

Black coated tuxedoed hosts delighting their own escapes,
Some window's stay open,
Some stay closed in the fortress,
This inescapable place!!!!!!

Tis,
This human landfill,
Dump,
Waste!!!!

They gave me the wrong address when I was sent to boarding school this year.
Maybe it was the receptionist’s scaly hands that shook a little when she wrote it out, or the skies pouring out their sorrows onto my head.
Nevertheless, I’ve definitely been at the wrong school.
The boy at the end of the hall is always playing with fire and smells of ash, dark cedar and benzene, but he’s never burnt himself once.
There’s a set of twins, upstairs in another dormitory, who always flood the bathrooms, and all their clothes smell vaguely of salt and mildew and pebbles, and I think I can almost see the ocean in their watery blue-green eyes.
On the rare occasion that I find myself wandering near the lake, I can’t help but feel watched, not from above or behind as would seem natural, but from below and ahead
All the first year students I know swear on their lives that the walls and stairs move to trick us, or bring us to our destination faster depending on one’s luck.
My rhetoric professor’s eyes droop and film over during lectures and he scarcely moves millimeter from his statuesque place at the podium; yet he never fails to catch the slightest indiscretion or misplaced gesture from a student.
Meanwhile, the choral director’s ears are said to be as pointed as her canines, and her hair to be of the deepest black and violet.
I’ve growing suspicions about the gardens in the back of the kitchen, all tangled over and wreathed in what seems to be an ancient species of briar, though I’ve never seen a rose bloom, nor the gardener cease from his endless pruning.
Sometimes, I’ll catch a glimpse of insect-and-birdlike creatures flitting around the windows, and the moths around here seem rather foreign, though I’m assured the difference in flora and clime requires differences in adaptations.
The older students oversee the halls with the kind of aloof confidence built from familiarity and practice, and laugh easily about missing articles of clothing or assignments, as though a mischievous spirit or creature had nicked it. They, too, seem to disappear around twelve o’clock, not to be seen again until tea time.
There’s a section of the library which seems to positively seethe with darkness and cold, and only the bravest and boldest dare ask for entry.
And oddly enough, after a rather jostling ride by rowboat to the gates at the beginning of the year, the headmaster greeted us all by name and only drew a blank once, at mine.