The woman of power, of the final hour,
Stood upon the gaping edge of death,
Savoring her final due breath,
Recollecting her spent time, as the demons beneath, did climb.

The woman, once unknown, many must atone,
With a simple display, she tore the lights that held the night at bay,
For nothing as powerful as she, should anyone but agree,
Resting upon her belt, the stars forever dwelt.

The woman, demur of the end, a challenge to death, she had penned,
A game, we shall partake, with eternal lives at stake,
For if I do not wish to die, your purpose, you must defy,
With a stolen piece, her years did increase.

The woman of blackened markings, her mind of ever-workings,
Stood tall upon her mare, chased with twisting white hair,
Upon her belt, rested pouched treasures, glittering fondly with pleasure,
For her company never to shake, as her pale eyes did forever take.

She was the woman of Cree, far beyond The Black Ink Sea,
The taker of stars, leaving naught but empty scars,
She was the winning player of Death's Game, her rewards, to gain,
With the twisting marks of power, deep to the pit, she did glower.

For nothing of its sort,
Shall ever hold her short,
From any a task within her aim,
A woman such as I, victory shall I claim.

And with that thought dancing across her mind,
She leapt, and left the mortal world behind.

My portion of the night
Pouched in a land afar
On this large bed I lay
Alone I toss and play

The skype is our hype
As I move the zoom
To view your blemish
Your smile my parish

A romance of apartness
It's a chance we take
Too long till the winter
When I can feel your strum

A traction on my heart
Vibrations on my soul
I'll wait for you my love
As we paddle the bustle

in england the maxim is said to be: i pathologize, therefore i am (pathological) - hence i write intellectual comedy, satire, yet still utilise canned laughter when necessary, i never understood humour as not so much what's said, but how body language primarily eases out the longest, simplest of laughters - i am the one who decided comedy had to be intelligent, and tragedy apathetic, because i didn't think, i simply pathologized: look at my grand psychiatric rainbow of an array of names to look at a shadow of the hand move behind a candle-flame! even a mongol horde could not invade england carrying thought as the explorer, the intention for pause.*

cheeks raised do not give straight rivers
of tears flowing down through to the periphery
of the face via jaw through to the neck,
and indeed when not acting,
both curvatures of mouth and eyes
are the same down-turned, such parabolas
of union, the third eye like an opening of an
oyster soft pouched thought of the lowest
union, neither intellectual union nor
heartfelt union - but as oyster shell to that
pseudo-muscle of the enclosed pearl;
tears flow with curvatures of raised cheeks
half ellipse river shapes - till the salty cool
of the content heats up the skin -
indeed the powerful avatars of asia who enrich
the gods, and the begging actors of the western world
who would be but beggars had they not the chance
to thieve from their fellow men and
live out a shortening of autobiographies,
or perhaps simply weave a myth from history -
deity actors (avatars) are hardly
what has become understood as twin-human
actors - so to enrich an eternity for the passing
memory readied with body to be given a grave
and forgetting - long ago the body was engaged
and was allowed to be given the womb of inscription,
yet a ghost of that body remained as a second life
for the lives of others, a memory, until that memory
be buried no furtherance of life equipped with
imagining otherwise can be staged for the re cycling
of an ordained body to enter and inscribe
a rekindling of the memory for the camp fire of talk,
hence the extinction of memory in almost each man
with the widespread talk of dementia:
seek fame in mythology rather than like a ****
attracting the swarm of flies that the paparazzi are.

Wondrous trees fly through the doors of my dreams.
The sun is that of shining black, and the moon that of dim blue.
Birds that dive to the depths of my eyes; fishing for cast away smiles.
Boulders that walk from ear to ear; releasing a sent of sweet, pouched apricots.
Grass that grows as ****** hair for the man that is the moon.
And flowers that bloom as coral in the oceans, coloured a violet hue.
Jumping clouds, and blissful sounds.
A lonely stool; untouchable to the madness.
Gray and bland; cold and stern.
The last state of sanity found within a single stool.
This is the torrent of my mind; the chaos of my thoughts.
And this lonely stool is the last hope of finding a place to blend with society.
But it colour of gray and it's form of sternness.
Is slowly fading to the abyss I have lost.
No worries I shall fear of, once all sanity has disappeared.
For a life with individuality is the reason why we life in a world that's full of rules...

a fixation
ludicrous that
flush charmingly
dill today
assuage the
dopiness in
market square
when such
alarm might
coffers redeem  
flowers that
wilt but
resonate for  
stale perfume
that has
really pouched
the air