Stood rigidly to attention either side of the hearth, the two bronze fire-dogs had been struggling to maintain that British stiff upper lipidness, which up until earlier that evening had best befitted their station in life... indeed, for the last half hour at least had become brothers in arms to the dying embers filtering through the bars of the cast-iron grate, passing from the present here and now, having lost every thermal attribute necessary to sustain any further vestige of life... to the shortly forthcoming and being at oneness with the Universe... only to fall foul of the overflowing ash-pan below.  This premature cashing in of the coal fire's chips could only be attributed to the recent and prolonged thrashing from the Baronial poker... and a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the family retainer, whom it appeared, required spurring along in a like manner... and while unseen mechanisms were heard to be engaging, then resonating deep within the Hall... that unless summoned... and quickly, the housekeeper had little intention of making an appearance of her own choosing and re-stoke the Study fire while the BBC Home Service were airing 'Your 100 Best Tunes' on the wireless, leaving the heavily tarnished pendulum to continue measuring the hour.

     An indistinct mutter and snap of a closing door latch sounded in the immediate distance as the unhurried shuffle of domestic footsteps... not too dissimilar from those of Jacob Marley's spectral visitation to Scrooge... echoed ever closer along the ancient, oak panelled hallway without.  Their sudden cessation, allowing the housekeeper ingress to  the book lined Study, was by way of sporadic groans from unoiled hinges, door furniture that voiced the same overwhelming lack of attention as that of the fire-grate set in the wall opposite and presumably, from the same overwhelming lack of domestic servitude.
                                        
     "Had his Lordship rang...?" the Housekeeper wailed dolefully, giving her employer what might casually pass for a courteous bob... and in lieu no doubt, of Marley's rattling chains, padlocks and dusty ledgers... "and would there be anything further his Lordship required..." before she took her leave for the evening.  The notion of a sticky mint humbug warming the cockles of his ancient, aristocratic heart gave her pause for thought as she rummaged through her pinafore pockets, then thought better of it, after all, confectionary didn't grow on trees...  In bobbing a second time she noticed the malnourished, yet strangely twinkling coal-scuttle lounging over by the hearth, whose insubstantial contents had taken on an ethereal quality earlier that evening and had now transferred its undivided attention to the recently summoned Housekeeper, who was quite prepared to offer up a candle in supplication come next Evensong were she mistaken, but the coal-scuttle's twinkle bore every intimation of giving what appeared to be a very suggestive 'come-on' in return... and had been doing so since she first entered the room... 'and did she have any plans of her own that particular evening', the coal-scuttle twinkled suavely, 'perchance a leisurely stroll down by the old coal cellar steps...'  Now perhaps it was the lateness of the hour which had caused the Housekeeper's confusion that evening, or perhaps an over stretched imagination, brought on through domestic inactivity, but it wouldn't take a great deal to hazard that a lingering fondness for Gin and tonic played no small part towards her next curtsey, which she did, albeit unwittingly, in the unerring direction of the winking coal-scuttle.

     With the household keys as her badge-of-office, jangling defiantly from the chain around her waist, the housekeeper began inching back the same way she came, back towards the study door and freedom... and back into the welcoming arms of her 1/4 lb. bag of peppermint humbugs and the pint of best London Gin she'd had to relinquish prior to 'Songs of Praise...' and which was now to be found... should you happen to be an inquisitive fly on a particular piece of floral wallpaper... half-cut, locked arm in arm with the bottle of Indian tonic water and in the final, intoxicating throws of William Blake's, 'Jerusalem...' hic.

     "Ha-arrumph..." the elderly gentleman cleared his throat... "ah Gabby" he said, lowering his book and placing it face down upon the occasional table set beside him.  The flatulent groan of tired leather upholstery made itself heard above the steady monotony of the mantle-piece clock as he stood and chaffed his hands in the direction of the bereft fire, "Oh! I'm sorry your Lordship, then there was something...?" as she maintained her steady but relentless backwards retreat unabated, the double-barrelled bunch of keys taking up a strong rear-guard action and away from the well disposed coal scuttle... "and was his Lordship quite certain that he required the fire stoking at such a late hour..." she dared, "perhaps a nice warming glass of port and brandy instead" gesturing towards the salver, long since tarnished by the half hearted attentions of a proprietary metal polish... "and would he care for..." then thought better of offering to plump the chair cushions herself, having discovered Mort, the household mouser in the final stages of claiming them as his own, deftly rearranging the Victorian Plush with far more than any noble airs or graces.

     "Poor Mrs Alabaster, you will recall Sir, I'm sure..." a pained expression crossed the Housekeepers face as she collided with a corner of the Georgian writing bureau and bringing her to an abrupt halt... "her late Ladyships lady" she continued, indiscreetly rubbing her derriere, "whose services your Lordship dispensed with at the onset of last Winter, shortly after the funeral, God rest her late Ladyship... when you made her redundant... and how she's been unable to find a new situation ever since on account of her lumbago flaring up again, seeing as how it's been the coldest January in living memory", which in all likelihood meant since records began... "and SHE didn't have any coal either... or a roof over her head for all anyone cared... begging yer' pardon, yer' Lordship", letting her tongue slip as she attempted yet one more curtsey... "and it's wicked-cruel outside this time of year Sir, you wouldn't turn a dog out in it..." and how ordering the coal used to be Mrs Alabaster's responsibility...

     "Oh no, Sir", as she unsuccessfully stifled a hiccup...she would be only too delighted to rouse the Cook, especially after that dodgy piece of scrag-end they'd all had to suffer during Epiphany, but it was only last week that the Doctor had confined Cookie to bed with the croup... "as I'm sure your Lordship will recall..." as she attempted a double curtsey for effect, the despondent coal-scuttle now all but forgotten, "that below-stairs had been dining on pottage since a week Friday gone... and it tends to get a little moribund after almost a fortnight your Honour... and that Mrs Cotswold's rheumatism was still showing no signs of improvement either by the looks of things... and was having to visit the Chiropodist every fortnight for her bunions scraping... and how she's been advised to keep taking the embrocation as required".

     As a young woman, any disposition her grandmother may have had towards sobriety or moral virtue had quickly been prevailed upon by the former Master's son taking intimacy to the next level with the saucy Parlour Maid's good nature.   Shortly thereafter, having been obliged to marry the first available Gardener that came along, she was often heard to say "a bun in the oven's worth two in the bush" for it was with stories 'of such goings-on'  that made it abundantly clear to the Housekeeper, that it was far more than old age creeping up... and that if she didn't keep her wits wrapped tightly about her, as she threw a sideways glance at the winking philanderer... then who would.

     As for the Gardener, "well... he couldn't possibly manage the cellar steps at this late hour, yer' Lordship, wot' with the weather being the way it is right now Sir, seasonal... and him with his broken caliper... and bronchitis playing him up at every turn, even though his own ailing missus swore by a freshly grown rhubarb poultice first thing each morning", but oddly enough, "how it always seemed to work better if the young barmaid down in the village rubbed it on, especially around opening time..." even his brother, Mr Potts Senior, ever since their Dad passed away... "God rest his eternal soul", as she whirled, twice in as many seconds, a mystical finger in the air... had said how surprised he'd been to discover that it could be used as a ground mulch for seed-cucumbers... it was truly amazing how The Good Lord provided for the righteous... and even as she spoke, was working in mysterious ways, His Wonders to Behold... "Praised-Be-The-Lord".

     And how the entire household, with the possible exception of Mrs Alabaster, her late Ladyships lady, who doggedly refused to be evicted from her 'Grace n' Favour cottage...' the one with pretty red roses growing around the door, that despite a string of eviction notices from the apoplectic Estate manager... had noticed what a fine upstanding Gentleman his Lordship had steadfastly remained since her late Ladyships sudden demise... "God-rest-her-immortal-soul..." and may she allow herself to say, "how refreshing it was to have such a progressively minded and discerning employer such as his Lordship at the helm, one filled with patient understanding and commitment towards the entire household..." much like herself...

     Fearing an uncontrollable attack of the ague, which invariably took the form of a selfless and unstinting dereliction to duty and always flared up at the slightest suggestion of having to roll her sleeves up and do something... which incidentally, was the first mutual attraction by common consent to which her parents, some forty years earlier had discovered they both held in tandem... and "would his Lordship take exception..." feigning a sudden relapse as she gestured towards the nearest chair, were she to take the weight off her feet... she plonked herself solidly upon the Chippendale before his Lordship could decline... "perhaps a recuperative drop of brandy" she volunteered, "just for medicinal purposes", she swept her feet onto the footstool, then crossed them with a flourish that would have caused Cyrano de Bergerac to hang up his sword... "the good stuff, if his Lordship would be so kind, in the lead-crystal decanter... over in the corner by the potted plant", she caught sight of the adjacent cigarette box, also tarnished... "just to keep body and soul together, may it please 'Him upon High'..." and just long enough to brave the coal cellar steps and refill the amorous scuttle... "if only it were a little less chilly", she gave an affected cough... on account of her diphtheria acting up again, she felt sure that his Lordship understood...  Moving over to one of the book lined alcoves, the elderly Gentleman lifted several tomes from the shelves... 'My Life in Anthracite', an illustrated compendium' "to begin with, I think... followed by... hmm!" 'The History of Fossil-Fuels, a comprehensive study in twelve breath taking volumes' "and we'll take it from there" as he threw the first on the barely smouldering embers...

                                                      ­     ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                         1859

"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles."

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
    Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
    Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
    Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
Or get the straight, and land your ***?
    How do you melt the multy swag?
***** and the blowens cop the lot.

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
    Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
    Pad with a slang, or chuck a ***;
    Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
    You can not bank a single stag;
***** and the blowens cop the lot.

Suppose you try a different tack,
    And on the square you flash your flag?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
    Or with the mummers mug and gag?
    For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
At any graft, no matter what,
    Your merry goblins soon stravag:
***** and the blowens cop the lot.

THE MORAL
    It's up the spout and Charley Wag
With wipes and tickers and what not.
    Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
***** and the blowens cop the lot.

solemn disappearance of
Scrag...
his silhouette
in actuality Red being in deep Doubt
his silhouette near
he's done something to his neck
fell for Scrag's neck
of course when
people haven't got anything better to do
than fall for people it's a lot of
experience. maybe it's not that
he's more like Scrag than i am; his neck just is
better. maybe he had that kind of neck That is
naturally why i chose him, because he had such a
neck for it... Look he's going

conjures up an
Important Gesture
no one to write on
that's why i feel i must do it

outside
the old man stayed at the fence and
said: "My dear
owner of the bed of roses"
and the owner answered: "dear vacation"

let me hear you more
clever than it might be a trick and you
are not In. only to
bring Scrag off of that path

lowered, the whole smelled of desolate
loneliness. in dreams, for a while, they kept
hanging over the fence, but it's less fun to hang
over it when there's no one to send you away
anymore. So i keep on
walking

"i wonder where he went" red being
Meditative
of course he killed of course he poisoned and beat
and shot

"poor old Scrag"

he had no trouble catching her because
she couldn't run away
"but then why did Scrag ****** her"

"you think there is only one single reason to
****** someone" red being Stirred
if you had read all those books
mixture of red and I, you would know there are a
myriad of reasons to ****. i bet you Scrag
hid himself
the other found him
that
dreadful sound
kept him from sleeping: it made a hole in
Scrag

A Judge, once noted for his lack of compassion
Found when sentencing crooks, he’d a passion!
When sitting on the Bench, he was permitted -
Appropriate to misdemeanour committed-
To administer punishment to fit the crime!

With his court full of petty crooks that first day -
Thieves, robbers, swindlers! All found to their dismay,
He would show no mercy!  He could not be swayed!
Once declared, their sentence was never stayed!
Though he would allow them to make their plea!

On his first morning, after he opened court,
He would give judgement on each case brought,
Then once proved beyond a shadow of doubt,
He’d carefully mete apt punishment out,
To each prisoner that came into the dock!

First to come ‘up’, was a ‘known’ lawbreaker!
Though a skilled and ‘rising’  craftsman baker
He’d been caught ‘loafing’ with counterfeit ‘dough’!
Evidence was brought. Police ‘kneaded’ to show
The Court, he never did a thing half ‘baked!’

His legs shackled, - which was no surprise,
Was quickly found Guilty, then told to ‘rise’
So this first crook, a very unhappy wretch
Was sent to ‘Leavenworth’ for a long stretch!
Given five years incarceration, for his crime!

A carpenter was the next to be jailed.
Evidence shown was quite ‘plane’!  When ‘nailed’
By the local Cops, they ‘saw’ he had ‘awl’
The loot he’d ‘chiselled’ from a shopping mall.
The Jury  ‘panel saw’ he’d not got it ‘square’!

So it ‘augered’ ill for the carpenter’s fears
When the Judge ‘ruled’,  ‘free board’ for six years!
This cracked the ‘veneer’ he’d worn though the trial.
For prison ‘drill’ would soon wipe away his smile!
Once ‘clamped’ in irons, with others he ‘filed’ away!

The Butcher was next to find himself in a jamb
He’d sold ‘scrag ends’ for ‘prime’ and mutton for lamb!
When the bare ‘bones’ of his case, were fleshed out,
That he was in the ‘soup’, there was no doubt!
While the police asked that he be sent for the ‘chop’!

The Judge declared the punishment he’d ‘meat’ out
Would break the Butcher’s ‘links’ with crime, and had no doubt.
He’d never ‘carve’ his way out of the ‘joint’!
Without ‘mincing’ words, he ‘skewered’ each point
Explaining his ‘beef’.  He was in a proper ‘stew’!

When Police ‘cottoned’ on to a ‘shoddy’ scam
They caught a tailor, ‘embroidering’ a monogram.
‘Patterned’ after that of a famous fashion designer.
Smuggled out in the ‘seam’ of a jacket ‘liner’
This ‘needled’ the Judge, who, with some ‘zip’

And some ‘bias’, ‘felt’ he should practice ‘needlecraft’,
“Stitching’ mailbags for the post office. Hard graft
For a man who had ‘satin’ comfort for a long time.
But ‘fitting’ punishment for a ‘reel’ bad crime!
He praised the  police for ‘buttoning’ up this case!

When Police ‘forked’ over newly ‘dug’ earth
Their ‘spadework’ ‘dug up’ ‘planted’ goods worth
A fortune .  ‘Raking’ through the ‘compost heap’.
‘Embedded’ by a gardener, were, buried deep,
‘Silver Bells’ and a gold chain! This ‘chain, linked’

‘Fences’ to crooks who stole goods on demand.
He’d ‘staked’ all on being put on remand.
But the Judge said I ‘dig’ your kind! ‘Turn over’
A new ‘leaf.  Mould’ and mend your ways.  Moreover
‘Perennial’ felons! Are ‘rooted’ in their ways!

So, ‘till’ you ‘turn over’ your loot and repent,
You’re ‘grounded’! It seems you’re an ‘annual’ event !
You tell me that with this crime, you’ve been ‘framed’,
But I’m sure you’ve not been unjustly blamed!
Five years in a ‘glasshouse’ to sleep in a ‘raised bed’ !

Next, a Furrier and his girl - a sly ‘minx,’
Who went too ‘fur’ when they ‘stole’ a ‘lynx’
A ‘foxy’ pair!  Of this, there was no doubt!
‘Trapped’ in a Police ‘cloak’ and dagger stakeout
They were loaded with ‘pelts’ when caught

Now the Judge, whose ‘ermine’ robes shook with rage
Said the only cure for this type of outrage,
Was to ‘stretch’ them on the ‘rack’, and ‘tan’ their ‘hides’.
This he ‘felt’ would be ‘fitting’ !  Though his insides
Told him he should send them away!  ‘Furbelow’!

A cobbler, without a ‘sole’!  A ‘ low heel’,
This ‘snob’ with an ‘Oxford Brogue’ had a zeal
For stealing! Not the ‘last’ incarcerated.
He was caught ‘legging’ it, while inebriated
His ‘cleats’ leaving ‘patent’ clues to see!

Wearing ‘rubbers’ he’d work in gloves and ‘spats’
Stealing mainly from apartments and ‘flats’
He was down on his ‘uppers’, quite destitute.
When caught with his heavy bag of loot.
A ‘slippery’ customer if ever there was one!

A ‘dandy’ with a ‘black belt’ in Karate!
Was sent by the Judge to a ‘necktie’ party.
He’d killed a haberdasher, without passion -
He complained it was ‘knot’ the current fashion!
But he could  ‘hang’ around until it returned!

Sentences varied but all were most apt.
Strong men turned deathly pale when his gavel rapped!
By sentences received, none were less enamoured,
Than a crooked auctioneer, who got ‘hammered’!
For ‘knocking down’ ‘lots’ ‘under bid’ to himself!

Crook followed crook in quick succession,
Making quite an impressive procession,
As each took his turn in the prisoner’s dock,
He’d turn and face the courtroom clock,
Under which the Judge sat, with solemn face!

The Judge went down in history that day,
With sentences most apt!  What more can we say?
His procedures quickly made the front page,
And soon appropriate penalties were all the rage!
Except for those of the criminal class!

This punishment proved to be a deterrent.
More so, if they were set to run concurrent!
As for waiting crooks, from Con Artist to thief,
When he adjourned court, they sighed with relief!
Hoping they’d get a more lenient Judge later!

Rhymer April 18th, 2018.
Sorry, it's tad long, but I got carried away!  Lol.

he just blurted out some things of course that
Scrag is alive and must be in a room somewhere. no one cherishes
being on vacation eternally, They
just stay for a while
so that they cannot be
caught

"he looked different"
doubter "new suit or new
curtains maybe"

some time ago
do you remember
well, being red just like in the Mystery
i bet you, right now he can't find Scrag
within. he buried Scrag in his garden and now he strolls about

in the middle of the road
to go back and be able to see what (s)he is doing
new adventures

very carefully two young people
by accident
the owner outside her door of Plants
eating, as promised

unfamiliar through the same Fence
just a moment in Their garden
with His bed of roses in her mind
that wasn't great. that was very sad.

Genetically glad
Genetically sad
I'm running with momentum over scrag and path
My muscles drag me to the destination

Other's pass by me
Other's I pass
All shapes and sizes
All styles and devices

The view from the top is sublime
Body sore from the climb
The town below think we are mad
Me ...I'm genetically glad

strong-looking men... maybe
go back first and...
an older man. i saw
clearly... the others all
young and firm...
washed in doubt. "I don't know
what to do..."

removed the key from
his eye; the door threw
itself forward. And there
eye to eye to Scrag

and his dignity
forgotten: he erupted
he recovered
what does it mean

a hand at red at an ear
his Other the one from
downstairs. there he looked at the
daylight, investigator again
he erupted roaring. again he recovered

Well, what does this all mean?
uttering Scrag, "that is them"
took his leave
to a hole
uncovered
in his most official
manner

A Lazarus body litters the sidewalk
outside a well-lit, desolate lobby.

On the left is a mexican restaurant,
with a line reaching to the
entrance. They should stamp
the grey and scratched up
plexiglass with a light and
dark purple neon:
Welcome To America.
It would be reinforced
by every delicious crunch
one hears on the way out as
cheap crumbs garnish concrete.

On the right, there’s a bar
alive on a Friday night.
Friends share hearty laughs
and pats on the back.
The bitter and the perishing
pretend they want this
when they should be
somewhere or someone else.
And mingling singles look for
compliments and numbers,
or maybe just someone to
take back and **** the **** out of.

But in the midst sits
a throne for ghosts.
Ceiling fluorescent reflects
off porcelain, paler than a farmer tan.
There are no other colors besides
the receptionist, bored to death,
leaning on the wall behind
the porcelain reception desk,
reading a copy of Ebony.
No ottomans or chesterfields
or benches. No consoles or cocktail
tables. Nothing adorning the walls.
Not even a stain.
Just a white hole, a bright
***** in an otherwise colorful
street on gray canvas.

I rise from my slumber
and mosey on out the lobby
in my purple linen suit.
The impoverished scrag,
his dog lapping his sores, asks
if I’d spare some change.

“Sorry, I only have card tonight.”

“That’s alright, sir. God bless.”

And I walk on, aware of the
Abrahams rubbing up against
a ****** in my wallet. I take a sip
of whiskey hidden in my empty
can of a drink that can never
satiate me. I wait for traffic to pass,
and then I jaywalk across Sticks St.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

4/19/2019

I’m too skinny to be mean,
So why do I walk with swag?
That’s not maturity, I’m so green.
They say, “Work out, you’re such a scrag.”

I should try to smile more,
A scowl doesn’t draw people.
But the outside reflects from the core,
So change is not that simple.

Jesus change my heart,
Fill me – no, overflow me!
I need all of you to start,
To erase this mood of gloomy.

I’d rather be a nice guy,
I wouldn’t have to worry.
My old image – it’s time to die.
My turn to forget my history.

I’m still worried about my image,
I thought I climbed over that!
This culture values the savage.
In Your face, they’ve spat.

I’d rather be a decent fellow,
Someone readily trusted.
I’m quiet, I don’t bellow,
This way I was made, but I’ve resisted.

I was raised to be a gentleman,
What does that mean?
Call me a madman,
Act like Christ, when not even seen.

I’m done with looking tough,
I want nothing to do with grim.
I’ll act in a way devoid of mischief,
Even if I look like a weak victim.

But going back to culture;
I don’t want to slip into the throng,
I won’t blend in and become a vulture,
Feeding off the weak, don’t make you strong.

“Speak softly and carry a big stick,”
An interesting concept.
People these days are all talk,
That they are wrong, they’d never accept.

Even when I’m hated,
By Christ, I will show humility.
It’s not that complicated,
An extension of His credibility.

And he knows poor old Scrag is dead and
buried in his bed of roses. now let us
speak
to hear nothing anymore
the owner had
enough

first time:
wrong
explanation

"upstairs, hurry!" the old man
opened up to a leader
to a small bedroom
opened a small crack his ear
tacit then whispering hoarsely
"i will tell you
something. i believe that he too is after
Scrag and dressed up like him
to cause no suspicion. That's what i think in the
Mystery. exactly a man like that. There"

red in Whispers: "come here
in his garden; he's spraying
refusal again on his bed of roses"
hanging frontally forwards

poison surely
death He...
giant
fear; suddenly locked up and
turned upside down. after that the sound
drifting tried the door

tomorrow i should go
inside
dive in the ditch
"there it is"
the absolute evidence all the way from Scrag's
fortress

and he could
not keep his eyes from the bed of roses, did
you see that? just like the man in the Mystery
Scrag must have been buried
in there like a policeman

like it says in the
books: firm "They will never go to the
books" they will first discover and then send away

"haven't we already discovered everything that is red?"
"we haven't found enough"
honest, it is not enough
and will still somehow escape. We're going to have
to talk
so much

"how then shall we get what we already have?"

we have to Be
no pistols
"then what shall we do?" red being increasingly anxious

Watched
you in white.
How you crossed your
sceptered body, glazing
ludicrous contortions

Supple-legged exaggerations
***-shod, patent platforms
towered, figure-hugged
and cut to high indecency...

Ah, the slow-cooked
incandescence, that you
struggle to contain....

though pay no mind
to likes of me,
a letching scrag
who yearns to see you

set yourself on fire....

i propose, to try ourselves
lower deck thoroughly grounded
found
a few minutes not thinking
the purpose
"well" he swallowed only half of it
"are We actually here?"

aflutter
in that corner over there
" we came to find a murderer"
austere
He put over his ears
his face of Leadership
try to look at him

red being Stares
He is coming

their own eyes unbelievable
Scrag on his own legs...
in his own hands
anyone would have lowered their courage into the ground
had
all the divergent facts fit into it

"someone else dressed up like
that too, to hunt. i bet, that she is
just like me: the
Mystery she has read
imagine if, we
both had foreseen it. of course we'd melt

the old man only just moved in
his name
Scrag, and everyone making an effort
to remember new humans
the humans named themselves
after their appearance or character

the owner in trouble because the man's name
was longer than usual and looked kind of
wrinkly he had dark glasses
by the fence and his job was to
produce a Great Curiosity
for everyday things

for anyone that even remotely feels anything it would have been
clear that the owner was in trouble if interest and
activity collided in
his head; heated even then
there was more than a
look at last
he stood up after bowing down and looked, said

"nothing" being all happy
"then why?"
"to look at you"

still happy, but without
moving
"go away! do you hear me? go
away"

For long there's that  tempest
inside me ,it shrieks out its voice.
It howls,moans and whimper
There's the raging war that has never happened.
Neither did my teacher taught me,
nor have i read .
One side stood my brain ,waiting to scrag
no stranger, but my heart.
The stronger had no sense of revulsion
all it wanted was bloodshed.
The poor cried in pleed
not in greed to live,
but not to let that misdeed upon his pal.
Week fret ,it screamed.
The languid ended ,
yet i believe, he was valiant.

past, though i would try again
i believe
he's probably too careful for that
At that time we had reached the fence
even more careful
that the
man nor syringe nor poison remained. at the time he was
tying roses he felt cheered on

"please come back"

a lack of tools
on a difficult occasion in his occupation

"excuse me"
excuse me for interrupting you
where the older one went

he Is

courage sinks in great confusion; on the
end of the road only panting disciples
might be better to be afraid of him
walking in a thoughtless maze
is great when you're afraid
it is easier to lose yourself

"after all of this, do you really think Scrag is on vacation"
of course not, he is on Deep Contempt

Scrag, pensive
turned questions around
after all it would have been stupid
on occasion not to accept
running towards the future; catching with a
stern frown i will
begin. i will look very innocent
i will look
how they always do. only the brightest one looks innocent
do you remember the man in the Mystery
he couldn't stop himself from looking at his bed of roses
over and over again; there he buried his victim, he
Had to look at it. they noticed that

"i don't believe you should go
back it seems rather dangerous"
he could still keep his poison
close to him imagine
how dumb it would be to go back
that he is a killer

seriously
i don't believe people like him will **** twice
in a row. you can **** without
being clever but you cannot **** everyone
who passes by
What i mean is that almost everyone who meets someone new dies

cut open
dead
no mask, i have gotten a little reckless

you can find anyone and
emigrate
an essay and put
your hands deep in your pockets; do you remember in the
Mystery he dressed up
as the killed one, went to the killer what I mean
is if you can hide yourself
Mask; write everything down You
will be well

"but who could dress up like Scrag?"

i have a home and a  
head actually i lost them
wish i had them to make mental notes of everything
full of doubt, even
difficult
to see anyone else
became used to

"very well" red Plans "we should go to tomorrow
right now
if he saw me he'd bring out his syringe!" like Lightning

they got together again

myself completely in doubt

getting a shock, his eyes (possibly) on me "if he'd see
his victim came to life again"
it went the same way in the Mystery
humble
again braiding over his ears "i would't have
come up with it myself. it is very cleverly invented". All these stories
clever writers. i will write these kind of stories
when i don't have anything to catch anymore

yes in Red "but what will we do now?"
we almost Are

both of the gardens empty
farther afield
greenhouse
walk over to the other side
it would not be
the Good. it might be better to
wait until he works in the garden:
Scrag probably
one with the door

Tell me! do you even have

no clue cheerless
"i had one when i started but it
broke"

giblet soup with sherry

scrag of mutton



****** of burnet with parsley

the consistency of good cream

& of fried breadcrumbs

a melange



we make woollen cloth

you ask for the menu yet we do not know what you mean

please speak plain

☆☆☆

you may have

giblet soup with sherry

scrag of mutton

****** of burnet with parsley

the consistency of good cream

& fried breadcrumbs

☆☆☆

then

a melange of blancemange, yet

we mostly make woollen cloth

aware; he thought he looked exactly like the Inhabitant

you don't like me, the people
stung. if they see me, they'll only
think that Scrag returned. now
that I think about it, i believe it would be nice

just so they would think i am real
this Plan
what happened
too far
like this
mustered a deep hate
regularly, illegitimate

better a pity
because his proud nature did not allow him to slip
"i'm not sure whether those pants still fit
me" Do you remember, the last time
after us
so now we must be a little more careful

those two houses

aside. their doubts about the
authenticity grew by the minute
dissimilar, irrefutable meant
to frame a larger face
oblique. Moreover
much too young