"thespian" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Loons in the vineyard – sound the alarm !
Satan is milking his metaphors.
Such silly music portends no harm;
call home the cows and open your doors.
Brian Hugh Warner, a paleface freak
after finding his mom’s mascara
darker enlightenment did seek
and crowned himself with Baal’s tiara.
Scary drag-queen, scandalous, vain
Marilyn – the creepy thespian
rolled that fish-eye and snorted *******
like Crowley… how pedestrian.
Flashing his glowing cataract,
he gave the mommies quite a fright.
Censorship launched; no badder act
did sail (or assail) our sinking night.
Gothic dim-wits purchased CD’s
bought the goods, pierced parts, wore black.
(Cause for certain parents’ unease:
MTV’s Antichrist on the attack).
Son of Man – or rather, Manson
Milked to the max his demonic cow;
playing Satan’s naughty grandson
showing the flustered milk-maids how.
Urban legend surrounds this fowl
(those ribs removed – like Adam’s sin!)
Is he a misunderstood night owl –
or a has-been loon in a loony bin?
Rock-stars age (well, most) like a cheap wine.
or else in the way once-ripened grapes
withering, sun-struck, off the vine
transform, with age, into wizened shapes.
No – I am wrong. They age like prunes;
plums thus pass into their glory.
Even Luciferian loons
find lakes of fire at end of story.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
I don’t want to cut myself open on a stage,
Make my blood curdle on command.
Applaud me, will you?
This idea of sisterhood, this union
At the end of the play
One lives, one dies, and one has the glory
of letting the curtain fall down
Down on the story
Performed to move people.
I’m not a performer,
Not a thespian, actress or Janus,
I have the one face and that’s all I’ve got,
Like it or not.
My clothes are not a costume,
There’s no cue for me
That tells when to go on.
I speak now, with lines rehearsed
To keep playing the fool
The one no-one listens to.
Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Please applaud.
I am not an act, waiting for an audience.
I do not respond to applause,
There’s no curtain call,
No stage light in my place
That tells me where to fall.
I can’t keep playing
Can’t keep pretending
I’m the one who decides to walk out
On all of this, now.
It’s the final call, that one last bow
And thus ends the show,
See you next week, with all your friends in tow.
A standing ovation,
A brief revelation
I don’t want this, quick,
Act like it’s all part of it,
Stumbling’s funny, err on the side of performance,
Don’t reveal the truth, don’t bleed on the stage floor,
It’s all fake. All pretend, I’m no actor,
but I perform every minute of the day.
I’m not sure my heart’s real.
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 4:50 AM UTC
*Reflections of Paris this morning , for all the inhabitants of the world , especially those inspired by beautiful works of art and architecture ! Those fortunate enough to have dined in world class eateries on cuisine prepared by Master Chefs , marveled over the downtown skyline high atop prominent monuments ! Impassioned lovers perusing her avenues , window shopping store fronts , boutiques along famous boulevards ! Senior couples recalling their yesteryears with great joy , frolicking , happy children playing in parklands , feeding songbirds with euphoria and curiosity , strolling walkways along the riverbank at Dusk with great wonderment and personal reflection
The poet and poetess , musician and thespian , ballet dancer and street performer .. To lovers young and old , the continued hope of gaiety and splendor at every turn !
She is lovely indeed , the Queen of all that is beautiful on this Earth* ..
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
It isn’t what it seems, life isn’t but a dream.
A porous umbrella, a selfish Cinderella,
A deafening silence, an unfaithful alliance,
An inaudible roar, a dry liquor store,
A tell-all magician, a tell-all politician,
A stuttering thespian, a boy-crazy lesbian,
A sober alcoholic, a glad melancholic,
A deflated balloon, a dried-up lagoon,
A real-life oasis, a movable stasis,
A saddened hyena, a fat ballerina,
A one-item list, a sixty-pound mist,
An illiterate writer, a cowardly fighter,
A concrete bed pillow, a smiling willow,
A ****** librarian, a caring barbarian,
A fresh-water ocean, and a straying devotion.
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 8:36 AM UTC
The louche magniloquent maladroit malaise of the dense mayonnaise mouth of political palaver and longueur left me with that sad sinking feeling of believing there is nothing left to live for.
Lugubriousness aside, I was nevertheless momentarily nonplussed until I recalled that a bona fide thespian was once president. And to my dismay I remembered to say: nothing in the world can bother you as much as your own mind.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
Come ask me questions
of thoughts I’ve forgotten
and send me dreaming
to a distant road
where music is free
and tired feet
don’t stop dancing
when the tap is dry
Moon heron blue tide
Wandering naked lonely
Covered in feathers
faster bird flew
Where long haired brother
smoking soothing sadhu
can sit at leisure
or stand or lay
(or be lain!)
Lovers fall off the train
Drinking wines on Summer strut
Trough graveyards old tombstones
White women in dresses
With cotton torn old sole
rubbed closet rug
Shoe stains got gritty
in dusty old trunk
Her wig bleach bald
eyes lacking interest
Tired old neck feels
like a head on a stool
Thespian laughter
grouped in the attic
They animate slowly
in the shape of ‘you’
Ghosts get me closer
on hot summer drives
Up North to see dams
and **** forest rivers
In dark we then travel
with Kings of old tidings
and Queens who lay buried
the lamppost their bed
Laying so gently
the Bishop wife Medley
The grass that laid bare
of yesterday’s supper
The lamppost we take
a notion of tender
Still a safe haven
so deep in my heart
The sunset of splendour
the primary sunrise
they howl their jowls
Hysterical laughter
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
then I tried the stage
me an actor, the thespian
(Shakespearean, Greek tragedian
you know)
"Man and the arms I sing" - like that -
and so the director told me
I'd come on stage left,
a dramatic moment
amidst full sound effects
(and full house, of course)
and I would proclaim:
*"O ye Gods, and O ye elements
and O ye thunder - rage on, rage on
for I fear not"*
and I so galloped on stage
amidst full sound effects
(and full house, of course)
but I was confused by the sudden
and raging thunder above my head
and I proclaimed instead:
*"What the **** was that?"*
*And so ended my stage career
as it began
with a bang*
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
A thespian
In a play
A strong man
But not strong today
Leading girl gone away
One act
One scene
One line to say
His kōan
"What is the sound of one hand clapping?"
Silence.
Pretty girl
Gamine thin
Her Ribs
Bent staves
Round a coopers bin
And at the clubs
She picks up men
Who leave her
When they’ve
Had their fill.
And still
It’s courtly love she seeks
A treasure trove
That is for keeps.
Her kōan
"The moon cannot be stolen."
But maybe if she seduces it…
It will be hers.
She’s middle aged
There’s not much left
Her ******* aren’t firm
She’s barrel shaped
She watches soaps
And talks with friends
And fights the fear
That if it ends...
She hasn’t amounted to
Much at all
She could have been more
If she just had the time
Her kōan
"What are you doing?"
Nothing.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
In the midweek of twelves months I torched blunts and choked on wet smoke and chamomile tea.
Fretting the niggling giblets of a queasy disrememberance of a sober stroll through your tossed hair salad.
I managed to mangle the marvelous gross lust of our impending
delirium. i farmed bok choy to annoy our local siege. our muskets were polished with misdeeds.
our demons barked, all coy and ravenous in the sweet diffuse of our useless aplomb.
ginger rockets in our thespian numb. you Dis-Oriental surrogate Mom.
You.... flame folding cranes, like a Japanese cancer
with opposable thumbs.
Unstoppable in the dead wink
of an awkward eye
upon your heaving *******
You burn regardless.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
babbling bard's borrowed blabberpolished performers jibber jabberpinching published stolen cultureverse of a cuckoo, parrot, or vulture thespian thrush corally crowspilfered produce of past masters proseperfect posture, prancing croondotty damsels sigh and swoon shakespearian showman strutting stagesobtaining material from dead poets pagesstudious stealer's theatrical thirstrapturous robber, magpie of verse wisely walter mundane mittypoetical poacher prancing prettyempty shallow pretentious crookcrafty criminal compiling book robber of rhyme from archival shelfcopy-cat crooner can't do it himselfrouted teeth spout from mouth like a troutaudience wonder, what is he on about any question's? the laurete quizzedyes said one,...do you know where the bog is? this is a true story, i was there. and the **** concerned is the editor of poetry wales magazine. who told me that i should study other peoples work for at least five years before i put pen to paper. i promptly answered, .... too late butty, i've already published 3 books, and sold the lot (only locally mind, but did'nt tell him that). he read other peoples poems that night, that were converted from english to welsh, and no one round here speaks or understands welsh.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
Take a long drive to see the theater production
called "Your Life" in front of me.
I take it in letting my imagination float
and get wrapped in the reality of you and me.
The plot will thicken and the suspense grows
the desire will bring the ****** then resolution.
But by the time it leads to the final scene, I'm upset,
as there is no happy ending, just confusion.
So now I leave the stage with disapproval and hurt
thinking how I just wasted my time.
Unwilling to accept the fate of this show
I wish to re-write it with my own rhyme.
Spending hours upon hours pondering new ideas
of how to end this show perfectly
Rejecting every possible outcome I write
trying to elude the feeling of misery.
However, I can't give up or stop trying
this play must not go sulky.
I must keep on making endings
to complete the thespian in me.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Something terrible has happened to the entire world, we've lost Christopher Lee.
He was Count Dracula and he was also Saruman in The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
He starred as Francisco Scaramanga in a James Bond film and as Lord Summerisle in The Wicker Man.
He believed that his greatest performance was as Mohammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of modern Pakistan.
He starred in two Star Wars movies as Count Dooku.
He was a talented actor, a singer and an author too.
Sadly, this fantastic thespian has died at the age of ninety-three.
People are shedding tears as we say goodbye to Christopher Lee.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
As the exhaust spewed its mourning glum
onto the whimpering porcelain snow,
the chauffeur looked up and desperately prayed
for an Academy Award winner.
"Novelty tears shall spout at all times!"
And the thespian will charge through those double doors,
beginning his craft from the moment he hears the ***** *****
singing the deceased's pleas towards the golden gate of Heaven
and crunching through an audience of bawling admirers
of a man he barely knew.
He was chosen to give the eulogy.
Designated to speak on the behalf
of man he never thought to glance at twice,
besides the intervals of days spent
despising the realization of his existence,
resenting the scars created in surplus quantities,
stomping down the darkest layers still oozing from the coffin.
For a handful of hours, it must all become a waning spark for the
method actor giving the most crowd-pleasing breakdown of his life,
delivering a perfectly tailored recital
cloaked to all the front-pew viewers
as a heartfelt elegy.
"Just a few hours," he thought as the double doors creaked,
and the scene will end with him sliding into his car,
a dead weight off his shoulders,
driving victoriously into the sunset.
A new set of tears rolled with the end credits,
along the face of the son,
liquidating the thespian with their bleak sincerity.
They were drops of remorse
for a bond that was never born,
with an abortion in a wood encasing
for all those people out there in the dark.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
strange to be surrounded by the heroism of the careful edit of Thespians, who can wage win or lose wars with a careful edit and the use of steroids to show the hardship of our former life now made easier - being surrounded by the staged heroism of careful edit, Thespian expression breeds in all a dissatisfaction with menial labours we could be better off to encourage as a non-victimising share of labour, and yet among such numbers of fellows we find our labours too menial, robbing us of the comfort of being as one among so many, only because we're being fed fake courage of Thespians and the subsequent fake adventures of the same profession, to only turn askance into the world and instead of adventure only seeing prospects of tourism, and former hardships of our forefathers as only menial banality.
recitation of religous mantras
seem all the more important
with the blocked toilet
of darwin's **** keeping
the foremost populist adhesive
among people reciting no other
scientific theories -
like that one about a pea-sized
dollop of toothpaste
and any more actually causing
nicotine colouring on your teeth -
dentists & money
& each other
trade (tried and tested, agreeable paradox).
well currently darwin and einstein
are instructing societies in terms
of respectable talk, talk so respectable
that no counter opinion can enter,
because too few scientific facts
are given mantra status...
cite me a theory from chemistry,
cite me at least one thing
about thermodynamics...
exactly, you can't!
we might as well endear a harking laugh
of a fox and the howling bark of dog -
because the western dogma mantra is so
limited - maxims replace poems
and poems are hid whether under the
debasing blanket of lyrics that are simple
due to excess instrumentation
and no hope of singing in duo presence
of both singer and the one expecting song -
or under blankets of fictive corpses
of bored readers - as once noted and spotted:
a funeral service corporate "shop"
and in it too st. francis' hospice selling charity books.
should shiva's attainment of vishnu's peace of mind be attained and subsequently lost, shiva's third eye opens and turns the mind toward the only subsequent definition of former attainment of peace, the third eye opens and turns to warring and destruction; toward the east, Asia's Thespians are known as Avatars - if not thieving from men, then at least enriching gods.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
"I don't act this way to change the world. I act this way so that the world won't change me."-- Patricia Charbonneau in 'Desert Hearts'
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
as The Act
is but an act.
Intangible at that.
She may be silent,
but She is strident
in action.
Later,
She is given a voice.
But,
The Lady thespian,
assaulted by
The Gaze,
is subjected
as the objected
by the subjected
and the objected.
Greta Garbo dominates
the Pre-Codes.
Betty Davis hesitates
but follows the new ones.
Miss Monroe,
the ideal ***
erases Her history,
creating a new toxic one:
"Look and touch
as you please,
Mr. President."
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
"Blame the woman for everything"
say 'Ordinary People'
and the Academy
salutes you.
Look Lady,
shoot to 'Kill Bill'
for a manly thrill
to be
remembered
still...
Still waiting for change...
Legally,
a Blonde has brains, too.
But who knew
that twists
and turns
and changes
can happen
to you?
All from Her:
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
on the big screen.
You
just
can't
touch
Her.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
I purchased a ticket to your matinée.
You sold me on the storyline.
*Boy likes girl,
girl likes boy,
live happily ever after.*
Everyone loves a happy ending.
Here I am, front row and center,
popcorn in hand;
clueless as to why I am alone.
In this dark, cold, empty place,
I am alone.
Nonetheless, here for you.
The curtain rises, it's your time to shine.
It's just like you said,
*boy likes girl,
girl likes boy.*
There are no two hearts more in unison,
though it seems something unsettles his mind.
Thoughts of her lying,
Thoughts of her cheating,
Thoughts of her leaving,
bestow tragedy.
I am waiting.
Where is the happy ending?
I am here waiting to watch you love,
to watch you hold,
to watch you unite.
I throw popcorn at your deceit,
at your paranoia,
at your hysteria.
You ripped me off.
I now know why I am alone.
In this dark, cold, empty place,
I am alone.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
So, a big fat poet
who is a friend
of mine,
and who likes
to wax poetically,
came to me
in a dream,
and he said,
"Enough of this simplistic stuff...
give me some complexity...
something modern...
something more like mine"
so I went upstairs
and wrote a poem
about coffee
where I artistically expounded
in great detail and exageration
about the matter of making
coffee,
and when I was done
I thought,
"Eh...it's like my old style...
no wonder I changed"
so, enough
of the Great Bards
who talked
in the accent
of a Grand Thespian
with his voice
like William Shatner,
it's back
to being simple
like me.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 7:45 PM UTC
I looked at the beggarman
Wrapped in a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
With a royal smirk on his face
As his eyes pierced mine
For the second or less
It took to wander by
His space of rest,
His makeshift nest
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...
Today he laid
On his side,
Knees slightly bent,
A blue Bic gripped loosely
In his right fist,
Notepad white
In his right...
What does a beggarman write
From his sanctuary
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
I wondered?
Could it be a sign,
A plea for a penny
Or a piece of bread?
Or was the beggarman
A thespian well-read
With a tale or two
Trapped in his troubled head....
As he was,
In his bastille
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...
A Danielle Steele
Undiscovered....
An Amiri Baraka
Reborn...
A literary genius trapped
In a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt
With a royal smirk on his face.
~ P
(#TheBeggarman)
2/28/2014
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Is it naive to hope or dream,
To dream of hope, or hope to dream?
Some say it is naive to ask a question.
A question forged by a dream with hope of success.
Upon the topic familiar to the thespian.
A dream of which you hope would be redeemed.
For when you ask you believe it your task.
When you puck up some courage, its not what it seems.
To ask the question in the dream once had.
Although the answer you receive may or may not be.
Be as you believe in the dream.
The reply comes but not as a beam of warmth and ecstasy.
But a beam of darkness and regret.
So, the hope is gone, the dream is shattered.
With you now standing still and tattered,
With memories.
Memories of the dream now shattered.
And all the while your heart now battered.
Your outlook is now bleak
With you now feeling weak.
Again you repose the question with hope that.
That the dream once had could be more than a dream.
It’s 50/50, yes or no,
However.
We all know the results reside in the latter.
With more planning given to the former.
Due to the hope in a dream now lost.
You stand there now alone and cold with nothing.
Nothing but the ensuing darkness closing in.
Falling now as though of lead.
You try to stumble off to bed,
You weep a silent tear,
Among a wash of despair and fear.
That all will be lost and propped-up for the entire world to laugh and sneer.
And shout “fool!”
For they knew the aforementioned dreams were that of pipes.
And you are certain that they will poke and snipe.
To derive their own sadist torment for the woe that drags you off to bed.
You lie there now weeping
Sobbing and not yet sleeping.
With dreams of dreams,
And hopes of dreams.
And the hope to dream of her again.
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
The moon casts an ominous shadow overhead,
as if the sun's lightbulb had gone dead.
The hairs on my neck stand on end,
something dreadful is around the bend.
I don't know what i'll find there,
there isn't any thime to prepare.
All that lie here lie dead,
some stabbed, some shot in the head.
The engraved marble shines with threatening air,
something tells me i'm in for a scare.
A flash of steel announces the precense of his quarry,
this is where I begin to worry.
He starts to circle me menacingly,
that solomn steel blade is all I see.
The corners of his mouth turn up to see
the prominate fear inside me.
He crouches and bows his head,
it's all to clear he wants me dead.
The bite of his blade is all too real,
the wound he just made will not heal.
My heartbeat significantly slows down,
as I bleed I fall to the cold hard ground.
As my vison goes I begin to see,
this thespian was always after me.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 4:23 AM UTC
the world is your stage
but it is my
playground
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 4:21 PM UTC
this thespian ardor.
aokigahara-
jukai, suicide of morning trills.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
I'm an actress
Everyday
I put on my mask and go out in the world
I act like I don't care
Like I'm fine
Like it doesn't really bother me
Like every single couple doesn't get in my head
Like it doesn't hurt me to say your name
On stage, I'm not as good
My "real" emotions don't come across as well
I can't cover up the mask I wear everyday with another one
A fake one
I'm artificial enough as it it
I'm superficial
I don't let people in
They know as much as I want them to and no more
People will never understand
I'm a world class thespian
But no one knows
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
All I've ever had in my possession were bones.
The framework of a biological nuisance, something empty
on the inside, though full of what any of us may call life.
At the least, the semblance of which we can be convinced:
parading a corpse across the bridge, most talented thespian in space;
and medicine, the hobby you picked up so you could learn to ignore death.
You are too old, now, to foolishly believe you can outrun death,
the inevitable silence that haunts your dreams and soaks through your bones.
You breathe in too quickly, too aware of the emotional cavity, of the space
between your thoughts and your actions. Your words have always been empty,
a reminder of the very symbol of your own faith, though you aren't convinced
that you, yourself, can ever measure up to that vivacity that floods his life.
Repeat that in your mind, over and over; that the anomalies in this life
can be proven as effects of the reckless and the brave, that their death
is ultimately yours to cause or to save. So, of your own importance, you are convinced,
and you know you are the best, always have been -- always, Bones.
So don't waste your energy on the thought that all of his promises are empty
and trust, instead, that this lunatic, this love, will survive all of space.
There's nowhere for you to escape this bitterness; indeed, no space
for you to claim as your own, your sanctuary. No chance of a separate life
when you've had all you can stomach of this insanity, this empty
endless game you've boxed yourself up in, until you surrender yourself to death,
to the simple cessation of your repetitive motions -- but, no, Bones;
he will never stop. His life will continue, his body and soul immortal -- of this, you are convinced.
No, he'll keep on going, as perilously as before; of his invincibility, you are convinced,
but you, yourself are, as ever, determined to follow his failures through space,
to diligently spout your expletives and condemnations and advice; you are now, as then, his bones,
and you never forgot that. Just as he never forgot who takes credit for his life,
his bones, his common sense --- you alone have, time and time again, forced death
to hang its weary head and return and yet, his own promises are empty.
You've learned to scoff at his vows of safety; his idiocy, you could handle. Still, empty, too, were his promises of faith. His loyalty, he proved, but you stay thoroughly convinced
that alone would he remain, had you considered your logic. Somehow still, like death,
the logic was an inevitability, and you learned to detest one trait in all of space.
You can see his faith fading as it goes, as logic proves itself a thief of your life,
and you lament the truest fact of all -- no longer could you be his bones.
And so I've managed to pull my empty shell together, as he never could, for in space
nowhere can I hide from the death of my ethos; yes, in space alone I dedicate my life.
And I am, as he was convinced, an honest man. I end as I begin -- with all I've ever had: Bones.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC