Brave Menelaus son of Atreus now came to know that Patroclus had
fallen, and made his way through the front ranks clad in full armour
to bestride him. As a cow stands lowing over her first calf, even so
did yellow-haired Menelaus bestride Patroclus. He held his round
shield and his spear in front of him, resolute to **** any who
should dare face him. But the son of Panthous had also noted the body,
and came up to Menelaus saying, “Menelaus, son of Atreus, draw back,
leave the body, and let the bloodstained spoils be. I was first of the
Trojans and their brave allies to drive my spear into Patroclus, let
me, therefore, have my full glory among the Trojans, or I will take
aim and **** you.”
  To this Menelaus answered in great anger “By father Jove, boasting
is an ill thing. The pard is not more bold, nor the lion nor savage
wild-boar, which is fiercest and most dauntless of all creatures, than
are the proud sons of Panthous. Yet Hyperenor did not see out the days
of his youth when he made light of me and withstood me, deeming me the
meanest soldier among the Danaans. His own feet never bore him back to
gladden his wife and parents. Even so shall I make an end of you
too, if you withstand me; get you back into the crowd and do not
face me, or it shall be worse for you. Even a fool may be wise after
the event.”
  Euphorbus would not listen, and said, “Now indeed, Menelaus, shall
you pay for the death of my brother over whom you vaunted, and whose
wife you widowed in her bridal chamber, while you brought grief
unspeakable on his parents. I shall comfort these poor people if I
bring your head and armour and place them in the hands of Panthous and
noble Phrontis. The time is come when this matter shall be fought
out and settled, for me or against me.”
  As he spoke he struck Menelaus full on the shield, but the spear did
not go through, for the shield turned its point. Menelaus then took
aim, praying to father Jove as he did so; Euphorbus was drawing
back, and Menelaus struck him about the roots of his throat, leaning
his whole weight on the spear, so as to drive it home. The point
went clean through his neck, and his armour rang rattling round him as
he fell heavily to the ground. His hair which was like that of the
Graces, and his locks so deftly bound in bands of silver and gold,
were all bedrabbled with blood. As one who has grown a fine young
olive tree in a clear space where there is abundance of water—the
plant is full of promise, and though the winds beat upon it from every
quarter it puts forth its white blossoms till the blasts of some
fierce hurricane sweep down upon it and level it with the ground—even
so did Menelaus strip the fair youth Euphorbus of his armour after
he had slain him. Or as some fierce lion upon the mountains in the
pride of his strength fastens on the finest heifer in a herd as it
is feeding—first he breaks her neck with his strong jaws, and then
gorges on her blood and entrails; dogs and shepherds raise a hue and
cry against him, but they stand aloof and will not come close to
him, for they are pale with fear—even so no one had the courage to
face valiant Menelaus. The son of Atreus would have then carried off
the armour of the son of Panthous with ease, had not Phoebus Apollo
been angry, and in the guise of Mentes chief of the Cicons incited
Hector to attack him. “Hector,” said he, “you are now going after
the horses of the noble son of Aeacus, but you will not take them;
they cannot be kept in hand and driven by mortal man, save only by
Achilles, who is son to an immortal mother. Meanwhile Menelaus son
of Atreus has bestridden the body of Patroclus and killed the
noblest of the Trojans, Euphorbus son of Panthous, so that he can
fight no more.”
  The god then went back into the toil and turmoil, but the soul of
Hector was darkened with a cloud of grief; he looked along the ranks
and saw Euphorbus lying on the ground with the blood still flowing
from his wound, and Menelaus stripping him of his armour. On this he
made his way to the front like a flame of fire, clad in his gleaming
armour, and crying with a loud voice. When the son of Atreus heard
him, he said to himself in his dismay, “Alas! what shall I do? I may
not let the Trojans take the armour of Patroclus who has fallen
fighting on my behalf, lest some Danaan who sees me should cry shame
upon me. Still if for my honour’s sake I fight Hector and the
Trojans single-handed, they will prove too many for me, for Hector
is bringing them up in force. Why, however, should I thus hesitate?
When a man fights in despite of heaven with one whom a god
befriends, he will soon rue it. Let no Danaan think ill of me if I
give place to Hector, for the hand of heaven is with him. Yet, if I
could find Ajax, the two of us would fight Hector and heaven too, if
we might only save the body of Patroclus for Achilles son of Peleus.
This, of many evils would be the least.”
  While he was thus in two minds, the Trojans came up to him with
Hector at their head; he therefore drew back and left the body,
turning about like some bearded lion who is being chased by dogs and
men from a stockyard with spears and hue and cry, whereon he is
daunted and slinks sulkily off—even so did Menelaus son of Atreus
turn and leave the body of Patroclus. When among the body of his
men, he looked around for mighty Ajax son of Telamon, and presently
saw him on the extreme left of the fight, cheering on his men and
exhorting them to keep on fighting, for Phoebus Apollo had spread a
great panic among them. He ran up to him and said, “Ajax, my good
friend, come with me at once to dead Patroclus, if so be that we may
take the body to Achilles—as for his armour, Hector already has it.”
  These words stirred the heart of Ajax, and he made his way among the
front ranks, Menelaus going with him. Hector had stripped Patroclus of
his armour, and was dragging him away to cut off his head and take the
body to fling before the dogs of Troy. But Ajax came up with his
shield like wall before him, on which Hector withdrew under shelter of
his men, and sprang on to his chariot, giving the armour over to the
Trojans to take to the city, as a great trophy for himself; Ajax,
therefore, covered the body of Patroclus with his broad shield and
bestrode him; as a lion stands over his whelps if hunters have come
upon him in a forest when he is with his little ones—in the pride and
fierceness of his strength he draws his knit brows down till they
cover his eyes—even so did Ajax bestride the body of Patroclus, and
by his side stood Menelaus son of Atreus, nursing great sorrow in
his heart.
  Then Glaucus son of Hippolochus looked fiercely at Hector and
rebuked him sternly. “Hector,” said he, “you make a brave show, but in
fight you are sadly wanting. A runaway like yourself has no claim to
so great a reputation. Think how you may now save your town and
citadel by the hands of your own people born in Ilius; for you will
get no Lycians to fight for you, seeing what thanks they have had
for their incessant hardships. Are you likely, sir, to do anything
to help a man of less note, after leaving Sarpedon, who was at once
your guest and comrade in arms, to be the spoil and prey of the
Danaans? So long as he lived he did good service both to your city and
yourself; yet you had no stomach to save his body from the dogs. If
the Lycians will listen to me, they will go home and leave Troy to its
fate. If the Trojans had any of that daring fearless spirit which lays
hold of men who are fighting for their country and harassing those who
would attack it, we should soon bear off Patroclus into Ilius. Could
we get this dead man away and bring him into the city of Priam, the
Argives would readily give up the armour of Sarpedon, and we should
get his body to boot. For he whose squire has been now killed is the
foremost man at the ships of the Achaeans—he and his close-fighting
followers. Nevertheless you dared not make a stand against Ajax, nor
face him, eye to eye, with battle all round you, for he is a braver
man than you are.”
  Hector scowled at him and answered, “Glaucus, you should know
better. I have held you so far as a man of more understanding than any
in all Lycia, but now I despise you for saying that I am afraid of
Ajax. I fear neither battle nor the din of chariots, but Jove’s will
is stronger than ours; Jove at one time makes even a strong man draw
back and snatches victory from his grasp, while at another he will set
him on to fight. Come hither then, my friend, stand by me and see
indeed whether I shall play the coward the whole day through as you
say, or whether I shall not stay some even of the boldest Danaans from
fighting round the body of Patroclus.”
  As he spoke he called loudly on the Trojans saying, “Trojans,
Lycians, and Dardanians, fighters in close combat, be men, my friends,
and fight might and main, while I put on the goodly armour of
Achilles, which I took when I killed Patroclus.”
  With this Hector left the fight, and ran full speed after his men
who were taking the armour of Achilles to Troy, but had not yet got
far. Standing for a while apart from the woeful fight, he changed
his armour. His own he sent to the strong city of Ilius and to the
Trojans, while he put on the immortal armour of the son of Peleus,
which the gods had given to Peleus, who in his age gave it to his son;
but the son did not grow old in his father’s armour.
  When Jove, lord of the storm-cloud, saw Hector standing aloof and
arming himself in the armour of the son of Peleus, he wagged his
head and muttered to himself saying, “A! poor wretch, you arm in the
armour of a hero, before whom many another trembles, and you reck
nothing of the doom that is already close upon you. You have killed
his comrade so brave and strong, but it was not well that you should
strip the armour from his head and shoulders. I do indeed endow you
with great might now, but as against this you shall not return from
battle to lay the armour of the son of Peleus before Andromache.”
  The son of Saturn bowed his portentous brows, and Hector fitted
the armour to his body, while terrible Mars entered into him, and
filled his whole body with might and valour. With a shout he strode in
among the allies, and his armour flashed about him so that he seemed
to all of them like the great son of Peleus himself. He went about
among them and cheered them on—Mesthles, Glaucus, Medon,
Thersilochus, Asteropaeus, Deisenor and Hippothous, Phorcys,
Chromius and Ennomus the augur. All these did he exhort saying,
“Hear me, allies from other cities who are here in your thousands,
it was not in order to have a crowd about me that I called you
hither each from his several city, but that with heart and soul you
might defend the wives and little ones of the Trojans from the
fierce Achaeans. For this do I oppress my people with your food and
the presents that make you rich. Therefore turn, and charge at the
foe, to stand or fall as is the game of war; whoever shall bring
Patroclus, dead though he be, into the hands of the Trojans, and shall
make Ajax give way before him, I will give him one half of the
spoils while I keep the other. He will thus share like honour with
myself.”
  When he had thus spoken they charged full weight upon the Danaans
with their spears held out before them, and the hopes of each ran high
that he should force Ajax son of Telamon to yield up the body—fools
that they were, for he was about to take the lives of many. Then
Ajax said to Menelaus, “My good friend Menelaus, you and I shall
hardly come out of this fight alive. I am less concerned for the
body of Patroclus, who will shortly become meat for the dogs and
vultures of Troy, than for the safety of my own head and yours. Hector
has wrapped us round in a storm of battle from every quarter, and
our destruction seems now certain. Call then upon the princes of the
Danaans if there is any who can hear us.”
  Menelaus did as he said, and shouted to the Danaans for help at
the top of his voice. “My friends,” he cried, “princes and counsellors
of the Argives, all you who with Agamemnon and Menelaus drink at the
public cost, and give orders each to his own people as Jove vouchsafes
him power and glory, the fight is so thick about me that I cannot
distinguish you severally; come on, therefore, every man unbidden, and
think it shame that Patroclus should become meat and morsel for Trojan
hounds.”
  Fleet Ajax son of Oileus heard him and was first to force his way
through the fight and run to help him. Next came Idomeneus and
Meriones his esquire, peer of murderous Mars. As for the others that
came into the fight after these, who of his own self could name them?
  The Trojans with Hector at their head charged in a body. As a
great wave that comes thundering in at the mouth of some heaven-born
river, and the rocks that jut into the sea ring with the roar of the
breakers that beat and buffet them—even with such a roar did the
Trojans come on; but the Achaeans in singleness of heart stood firm
about the son of Menoetius, and fenced him with their bronze
shields. Jove, moreover, hid the brightness of their helmets in a
thick cloud, for he had borne no grudge against the son of Menoetius
while he was still alive and squire to the descendant of Aeacus;
therefore he was loth to let him fall a prey to the dogs of his foes
the Trojans, and urged his comrades on to defend him.
  At first the Trojans drove the Achaeans back, and they withdrew from
the dead man daunted. The Trojans did not succeed in killing any
one, nevertheless they drew the body away. But the Achaeans did not
lose it long, for Ajax, foremost of all the Danaans after the son of
Peleus alike in stature and prowess, quickly rallied them and made
towards the front like a wild boar upon the mountains when he stands
at bay in the forest glades and routs the hounds and ***** youths that
have attacked him—even so did Ajax son of Telamon passing easily in
among the phalanxes of the Trojans, disperse those who had
bestridden Patroclus and were most bent on winning glory by dragging
him off to their city. At this moment Hippothous brave son of the
Pelasgian Lethus, in his zeal for Hector and the Trojans, was dragging
the body off by the foot through the press of the fight, having
bound a strap round the sinews near the ancle; but a mischief soon
befell him from which none of those could save him who would have
gladly done so, for the son of Telamon sprang forward and smote him on
his bronze-cheeked helmet. The plumed headpiece broke about the
point of the weapon, struck at once by the spear and by the strong
hand of Ajax, so that the ****** brain came oozing out through the
crest-socket. His strength then failed him and he let Patroclus’
foot drop from his hand, as he fell full length dead upon the body;
thus he died far from the fertile land of Larissa, and never repaid
his parents the cost of bringing him up, for his life was cut short
early by the spear of mighty Ajax. Hector then took aim at Ajax with a
spear, but he saw it coming and just managed to avoid it; the spear
passed on and struck Schedius son of noble Iphitus, captain of the
Phoceans, who dwelt in famed Panopeus and reigned over much people; it
struck him under the middle of the collar-bone the bronze point went
right through him, coming out at the bottom of his shoulder-blade, and
his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Ajax in his turn struck noble Phorcys son of Phaenops in the middle of
the belly as he was bestriding Hippothous, and broke the plate of
his cuirass; whereon the spear tore out his entrails and he clutched
the ground in his palm as he fell to earth. Hector and those who
were in the front rank then gave ground, while the Argives raised a
loud cry of triumph, and drew off the bodies of Phorcys and Hippothous
which they stripped presently of their armour.
  The Trojans would now have been worsted by the brave Achaeans and
driven back to Ilius through their own cowardice, while the Argives,
so great was their courage and endurance, would have achieved a
triumph even against the will of Jove, if Apollo had not roused
Aeneas, in the lik

We are the Choice of the Will:  God, when He gave the word
That called us into line, set in our hand a sword;

Set us a sword to wield none else could lift and draw,
And bade us forth to the sound of the trumpet of the Law.

East and west and north, wherever the battle grew,
As men to a feast we fared, the work of the Will to do.

Bent upon vast beginnings, bidding anarchy cease--
(Had we hacked it to the Pit, we had left it a place of peace!)--

Marching, building, sailing, pillar of cloud or fire,
Sons of the Will, we fought the fight of the Will, our sire.

Road was never so rough that we left its purpose dark;
Stark was ever the sea, but our ships were yet more stark;

We tracked the winds of the world to the steps of their very
thrones;
The secret parts of the world were salted with our bones;

Till now the name of names, England, the name of might,
Flames from the austral fires to the bounds of the boreal night;

And the call of her morning drum goes in a girdle of sound,
Like the voice of the sun in song, the great globe round and round;

And the shadow of her flag, when it shouts to the mother-breeze,
Floats from shore to shore of the universal seas;

And the loneliest death is fair with a memory of her flowers,
And the end of the road to Hell with the sense of her dews and
showers!

Who says that we shall pass, or the fame of us fade and die,
While the living stars fulfil their round in the living sky?

For the sire lives in his sons, and they pay their father's debt,
And the Lion has left a whelp wherever his claw was set;

And the Lion in his whelps, his whelps that none shall brave,
Is but less strong than Time and the great, all-whelming Grave.

Cam ye o'er frae France? Cam ye down by London?
Saw ye Geordie Whelps and his bonny woman?
Were ye at the place called the Kittle Housie?
Saw ye Geordie's grace riding on a goosie?

Geordie, he's a man there is little doubt
He does all he can, who would do without?
Down there came a blade linkin' like a lordie;
He would drive a trade at the loom o' Geordie.

Though the plaid were bad, blythly did we niffer;
Gin we get a wab, it makes little differ.
We have tint our plaid, bonnet, belt and swordie,
Halls and mailings braid—but we have our Geordie!

Jocky's gane to France and Montgomery's lady;
There they'll learn to dance: Madam, are ye ready?
They'll be back belive, belted, brisk and lordly;
Brawly may they thrive to dance a jig wi' Geordie!

Hey for Sandy Don! Hey for Cockolorum!
Hey for Bobbing John and his Highland Quorum!
Many a sword and lance swings a Highland hurdie;
How they'll skip and dance o'er the *** o' Geordie!

lyrically, I kind of feel like an assassin
at the task point & equipped with poison darts
for I'm 'bout to let fly an attack in
this b#tch with toxic bars
pointed, like v𝗜per's fangs, at an
outfit of office bo[ɑ]ds/do[ɑ]gs
kno𝗪n 𝗔s "Electro𝗡ic Ar𝗧s"
at the time it was found
a certain game of thine is shut down
like a chipmunk, I went nuts
'cause, for keeps, I'd lost 𝗠𝗬 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗦 (lost)
on styling which, several hours were spent
thanks for all the time wasted
don't even have effing screen captures of them
awesome, amazing!
——————————————————————
when it comes to discussions like games get
human noggins go crazy
it's not them themselves are stuff to put blame on
it's, among things not mentioned, such situations
——————————————————————
now getting 𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞
to those r𝗘sponsible for that scoundrelly act
and probably not gi𝗩𝗜ng an ounce of a f#ck
𝗟ike a tire drifting down a speed track
[attire]
it's gon' get smoky & **[ɑ]t (for you)
barbecue; so go hit a dog & bone & ring up
[heat]
a local smoke eaters squa[ɑ]d
'kin to "Rebel", I scream f#ck the suits
[keen; ice cream]
like somebody chosen to o[ɑ]pt
for a punk-like look
but you can all get choked by asco[ɑ]t (lethally)
as if you were getting iced by someone who's
got Caledonian blood (a Scott)
𝗔ppetite to hunt unful–
–fi𝗟𝗟ed; you're in it to make bread like *******s
[field]
but don't be swift to get laid-back, don't chill
ak𝗜n to potatoes & sh#t
like th𝗔t, better maintain your eyes peeled
better still is beating a hasty retreat
si𝗡𝗖𝗘 in the same freaking field
[sins; freak in field]
I am; the Creeper, in it to prey like a priest
[pray]
as if you were ****** in religion (horse?)
I'm speeding your way like a whip (vroom-vroom)
in other words, you're in fO̲r some moll-treatment
told I'm in it to prey since it's writ
large that you're being a game in this b#tch
which, in turn, is the reason I'm playing a bit (with words)
to say it in brief, you're simply collation to ge[ɪ]t
let me add a medievalish taste to this sh#t
[evilish]
arranging it akin to the H & the G
[a range]
not "H" & "G" as in hunter & game, though
"H" & "G" as in Hansel & Gretel
i.e. with you getting ablaze like a witch
with this one, might be given a place in a list
of ones given to making it lit
in the middle of taking a trip, the freighter's equipped
and fit for action like babes in dance clips
the cargo's like a pro[ɑ]stitute
becau[ɑ]se it's gon' go down on you
a kind of mood to bust the roof
of the "Arts" HQ; an armored loot
box, large & toom, perha[ɑ]ps, will do
then dump on you a multitude
of fla[ɑ]sks produced from gla[ɑ]ss & full
of ga[ɑ]s, then put a mat[ɑ]ch to use
like pirate dudes, I spark the fuse
the falcon shoots, the target's doomed
dead in the water, so a po[ɑ]ssible res–po[ɑ]nd from you (pond)
is nothing short of garbage-good (dead in the water)
[lyrical waters]
these bars being by the side of you are like balloons
within a reach of clowns
in other words, you might get it twisted now
but it's time for you to find a new **** jo[ɑ]b in view
of the lines above becau[ɑ]se it looks
like I̲'ve zilch short of go[ɑ]tten you
fired, which explains why I̲ feel like a bo[ɑ]ss 'kin to
a vehicle used bY̲ whelps to get brou[ɑ]ght to school (bus)
exorcism bout
for it's like getting demons out
[letting demons out]
guess you, "EA", have already figured out
the amusement which shutdown
my pen is steamed about
it's "NFS: W"

Chatter

she. what are u listening to?
me.  melancholy song writers broken love tunes

she. ugh.  why?

me.  wanted to see how deep into the bed
I could sink,
till you came a looking to
play with me, my spirits to raise,
a game of capture the flag
indoors

--—————
Aural vs. Oral

her night dress rides up,
I awake to an undressed
waist and thigh,
take advantage of the pomp
& circumstance,
cause i believe
whole heartedly in
waiste not, want more

as tongue performs its
repertoire of magic tricks,
i.e. reciting poems,
to the standard whelps
and yelps of “oh its just you,”
keep hearing little tiny whispers
but not  those accustomed
sweet nothings?

turns out she is
listening to her book,
quite the mesmerizer,
on her new cordless earbuds
which are  tablecloth covered
by her blondini tresses

upset?

nah. applauded her
multimedia tasking,
but took it as a challenge,
my efforts redoubled

she didn't seem to mind

now she wakes me up to show me,
Surprise!
her cordless earbuds, in place

sigh.

--——————-
Ordering Coffee

weekends, get coffee in bed
in my 19 oz. porcelain
cup from Toronto,
standing order is:
fill it to the rim,
extra cream

she says.  
isn't ironic!
that is exactly
what I
charge for my coffee

payable in advance

And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah*
a cry you hear at night (my nighttime vocabulary), the same repertoire as the daytime residents, yelps and screeches, groans and screams, bleating whelps and yelps, grunts and curdling silent  low moans and pierced wails, crues du cœur, (cries from the heart)  but at night when these orchestral sounds are released without modification, freed from the governor of self-consciousness, the embarrassment of waking mirrored witnesses, atonalities as raw as a violin string snapping, the terrible sounds, twice as harsh as the scrape roughened roaring sound of the  hoarse word, raw, when spoken out loud but I count them all as friends, these then my nighttime vocabulary companions.

each deed, each sin, committed, lifelong repetition, dances in a chorus line, across my eyelashes, each demanding my punishment with a different matching sound; the reciprocal noises of the lives I shed, the lives I've taken, the forsaken forsakings, the blatant ones done with no excuse, no pretend rationale, these are my very own
songs of the night, conductor, musician, audience, one for all,
all for me, my torment of endless and relentless unforgiving sonality

His matriarch set off in the brilliant burn
Pre-monsoon summer skies as she flies
Home to Big Blue and strawberry fields, rolling sand dunes
Studded with peaches and cream stalks full corn ears
Past the gunmetal  hulls - Motor City madness
Send that cheap crap back to China
Import ratchet dreams that obsolesce faster than a preteen’s
Boy band crush
We left our polite goodbyes on padded benches in the Sunport
Trekked the cement labyrinthine path back to the car
Sprawled myself out in the backseat
Marinating in my bipolar haze of relief and regret
Two weeks of my soft under parts presented  
Respect for the Alpha who never hacked up a rabbit
At the mere sound of my keening cries
Sate the pack tomorrow I’m off the forest floor
In all my ears back, feral, foaming at the fangs glory
Salient thought abandoned on the crest of a stressed induced migraine
And the whelps yipping for pricey coffee with caramel drizzles

She broke my bleary eyed unfocused reverie
Wrangling two carts corralled by bits of ragged twine in the parking lot
As she ferreted through her peculiar tinsel adorned collection
Scraggly plastic wreaths, sad ghosts of Christmas past
And her grizzled locks wound round a red velveteen door decoration
Muted hues against her transient mantle
I caught myself looking away…
A triad of flies buzzed her presence
The dull thrum of something important forgotten
She shuffled to a center table
Arranging dusky floral skirts and kohl layered clothing
With hands caked with cracked black grit
Fingers studded with grimey chunk costume jewelry
Dug at the lid on a generic bulk bowl of noodle soup
While baristas and capri clad patrons skirted her table
As though they were restless waves
Fleeing before the power of God across the Red sea
And me ******* spun fat from the top of an overpriced iced concoction
Without pittance in my pocket
Caught myself staring…
Waiting….
For someone else to do the Christian thing

Is that how a Freak rolls?
Tongue lolling for the opportunity
When crazy plants itself
In the high backed chair in front of you
And pops open a styro container of “stroke in a cup”
Do you flash that cash wrapped round a tract
Put a hand on her weary back and pray
Do you simply look away
Caught up in awkward indecision
Uncomfortable in your urban bubble
This is latte day at Starbee’s for God’s sake
And she never put a hand out for help
Or spoke a single word
As if a bag of Oprah’s cut leaf tea would
Change her world.
Or yours.
Pride goeth before Christmas wreaths, and shopping carts
And *** metal costume jewels

Under the cool blur of my ceiling fan I glance skyward for answers
Offer a smattering of plaintive prayers
For matriarchs
And mavens with dull velveteen bows in their hair
For my children
For release from the pain at the back of my brain
And the constricting grip of entitlement torqueing my brittle heart
God breathes in moments missed
When we simply look away…
TL Boehm
08/21/2014

Smile happiness
Mourn sadist
Play, until you die
Treachery, till you lie

Slay, the eternal demon
Hail, the blazing fire
Only if you knew the truth
Avoid fate's tooth

Angry whelps
Drain out, until you fall
Live, to die soon
Death, you're all gone

There are houses on this street filled with wolves.
He-wolves and she-wolves and wolf-whelps howling for meat
Scattered like snowflakes across the neighborhood.
It starts slow, and ends with “I lost my temper” “It was their own fault”
“All the better to see you with, my dear.”
Some of us are eaten up, and some of us grow wolves in our own bellies,
And some last long enough to meet our wolves down the line.
What does it matter if you become the wolf or not?
What narratives are left to us now?

Another dead
another broken
another word is left
unspoken

I saw you in your time of need
your sores and pus I'd often bleed
with this we'd formed a sacred creed
I'd be a friend in word and deed

time and  time again you'd  stumble
and the more my tongue would fumble
your flesh grew big I grew humble
both our minds became a jumble

Another dead
another broken
another word is left
unspoken

your every life like night and day
from Hot and cold you'd often sway
whilst my nine empty  dressed in grey
grew stagnant in lukewarm decay

with every passing solid moon
for your howling ache you'd swoon
my fear would take my every boon
in angst I would await high noon

another dead
another broken
another word is left
unspoken

as I watched our friendships dying
I only wished that I was crying
eyes were dry,  was my heart lying?
thought of pain,  felt only sighing

do I pervert and weakness skelp
or in my lonely sorrow yelp?
was it in heart I tried to help
or do I prey on weakened whelps

another dead
another broken
another word is left
unspoken

Look at the world, you may find
Sunshine, rainbows, fantastic mankind
But when you actually look
You'll find all you need to know in a history book
I'm talking death, suffering, immeasurable grief
All caused by people, to people, no disbelief
Yes when you take everything in
All that'll happen is the beast mankind will maul you and grin
Because we humans are curious beings
We ****** and steal; **** and we ****, all without seeing
The affect of our devastation
Mother nature the victim of our molestation
Animals being made just to die
I think we are all on a power high
We proclaim we are better than all else
But in reality we are just tiny whelps
On some great being's mighty ***
You say, "Now don't be so crass!"
Yet we glutinously eat anything living
Doesn't that sound like a horror beginning?

Belgrano

Can you hear the curses? I hear them still
dead in the air rolling on the grey high seas,
fluttering, stuttering, up in the cold stony clouds,
frozen like kites in the middle of nowhere.
I hear the silence too, of the boys, the young young boy's
pressed against the bulwarks and the dead eyed iron,
sense their gun metal faces hidden inside the masks
of home spun green wool - skittering eyes peeping
through knitted balaclavas worn as cold comforters
dripping in Atlantic spume.

I can hear the whispers, the trembling pampas whispers
of near men, close men, light shaven, cropped near-to skull men,
some with dark, bull herding eyes , hearts full of Spanish guitar
and pampas whistles and beside them the rich city blond men,
quiet and bookish, alone with their poets and pebble black rosaries
running like the southern tides  through their cold chapped fingers.
All hugger-mugger equaled by forced conscription, circling in silence
within their sea shrouded fears - crammed like live fish quivering in their ancient tin of old victories.

Yes I hear them still, calling out for a distant mother's arms, ripping  
loose their little boy screams that are clear as over head seagulls
yet eight thousand miles away. I can hear their raw primitive panic,
ancient as the whelps of beaten camp fire dogs echoing back
from the steely grey clouds; I see them tearing at the
sea born mist, slicing the strings of their pampas kite curses
with broken bones and shattered skulls, loosing curses that rise to run
above the waves to our shores carrying the lost, little boy simpers
of clamour and death that found  roost in our forgetful hearts.

Yes I still hear the screams, the sea drowned, salt soaked screams,
a cold southern ocean full of drowning young Argentine boy dreams
(pronounced men before their time), those fire soaked screams and I remember how we the civilized danced on their sad lonely deaths in our distant dry victory soaked streets of triumphant,disregard and screamed ;
"Gotcha".

The wicked whip of word
lashes whelps
upon the starved psyche
of the errogenous mind

Indeed !
The moment rises
in smoke and flaming
"I-don't-knows" of sheets
of layered heat
pressing down
into the flesh of desired
impunity . . . iniquities . . . liquidity

Happy is the framed statement
of thine , birthed
behind plastic cups of wine
in sheds of grey wooden sides
from long long ago

Was it board through (Bordeaux)
or just shabby (Chablis)

But the experience
while daunting
leaves you panting
for more

Standing in the mirror never seeing myself
my death can turn to heaven when your living in hell
Fat but not jolly
Never popped molly
learning from my folly
****** a sinking couch where I smoke tree
The best is what came out of me
Worst was all my apathy
Losing a battle of wits when my mind keeps attacking me
My words could leave whelps
although the pills never help;not really but who the **** can I tell
stress digging me deep I could live in a well
Got 99 problems and its all mental health.

****** *****, ****** *****
Single and so gay.
Everyone in Christmas mood
Why throw this chance away?
*** *** ***, drunk on ***,
Inhibitions light.
Party time and we are here.
Let’s have some fun tonight.

I just hate to help you think
All us gays are flits.
We do not all act this way
This image gives us fits.
But far too many do
And ***** and drugs don’t help.
Unfortunately gay life has
A bunch of silly whelps.

****** *****, in the halls
And bedrooms when they can.
Some are fond of parties
With wall to wall **** men.
That’s not right, but every night
The Christmas parties start,
You can see which ones are tarts.
They really stand apart.

Sadly though, they hit the news
The rest of us do not.
All you hear of is the ones
Who act up and get caught.
Most of us think Christmas time
Is time to celebrate.
We wrap gifts and make cool treats
And really we can’t wait!

I know you know that I know that you know so
where do we go?
******?
analysts
Analyzed it's a cycle
Rumor has it
We're chasing our tales
Appearing malcontent
because everyday
                 I'm in a place
That Formerly didn't exist
                

                    A space



with the Erie feeling
that  
I've been here before
And I keep saying
Would've gone crazy
By now
if I kept sane

What everyone says
Each and everyday
A million thousands
Things
With this million dollar
Dream
A million thousands steps
And the
lessons in between

Glory from the pain
Gains through suffering
Drinking water
From the rain-y days
10 seconds for buffering...

Now I'm wondering
Punchlines for daze
And I'm stumbling
Back on my old ways
And it's humbling
Lightning quick thought
And its thunderous
In my brain
like a grenade
And I fumbled it
When I lost it
is when became
one with it
And I ain't done
Till you say,
What have you done with it?

Cause in my mind
I don't mine
What you digging up
I'll raise on the
Third day if I'm GOoD enough
Or perfect
Died for me
hmmm...
not worth it
With apple in hand
Conversed with the serpent

                     SIRIously

I need some help
I'm loosing to myself
The whelps
Are from being a slave
To everyone else
Are you not entertained?
If not check yourself
Caught in the game
Of making a name
For oneself.

All the while
Balancing, mind, body and
Health.

There comes a point.
And time
When a point. in time

A point.        .         /same it will
Never be
From that point. on
That point. is NOW
Infinity and beyond

Question
So when we exit
Where has everything gone?

Who left it

The best conclusions
Drawn

Is by The artist

The revered
less respected

Who can alter your
Point of view
with their
Perspective

The poems, the pros
The architects
architecture.

sonnets.

The painters,the psalms
The songs,

the silence


The writers the creators
The readers,
designers

Actors, producers,
Engineers,
provide us

A keep safe for
Keeps sake
It's ok to **** the messenger,
the message keep safe.

All I keep saying
Is
I would've gone crazy
If I had kept sane!

A cancer in my mind
No cure to find
Slit wrists and throats ease my shame
Self sentenced on death row
Yet, happiness is all I ever show
Broken and shattered no one wants to be
So who could possibly want to be around me?

I look and look
For reasons to thrive
All I can see is my dead body among the pines.

She entered my life like a rising sun
All she wanted was some fun
Perfection is all I see
Finally free
Genuine happiness floods my mind
A final end to my eternal find.

Yet, abandonment soon came
The storm returned ravaging my brain
With final hope I told the world my deepest shame.

Locked away in a place of sadness
With patients all claimed to suffer from madness
Yet, in the palace of shame
Brief peace I find once again

They told me to leave us torn apart
I could not heal the scars to my heart
I tried to believe it was the best for me
Yet, the second released I returned to thee
I just need your ecstasy with no fee
But, who could possibly love a fiend?

The tears cluster my eyes
Leaving my happiness eternally blind.

Their is only permanent cure for me
Only to pass on the cancer to the ones that had the burden to care for me
Now, I am nothing but a slave to the hearts that beg me to stay.

So, stuck I am in this eternal sadness
Once again silent towards my pain
With supposed fain
Yet, no doctor ever understands that my silence always whelps
Somebody help.

Look at the world, you may find
Sunshine, rainbows, fantastic mankind
But when you actually examine
You'll find even more than just famine
I'm talking death, suffering, immeasurable grief
All caused by people, to people, no disbelief
Yes when you take everything in
All that'll happen is the beast will maul you and grin
Because we humans are curious beings
We ****** and steal; **** and we ****, all without seeing
The affect of our devastation
Mother nature the victim of our molestation
Animals being made just to die
I think we are all on a power high
We proclaim we are better than all else
But in reality we are just tiny whelps
On some great being's mighty ***
You say, "Now don't be so crass!"
Yet we glutinously eat anything living
Doesn't that sound like a horror beginning?

We love to change clothes,
we love shoes for running, hicking and strutting on the catwalk.
We love to smell sweet, ****, confident and **** plane mad.
We love costumes to look like angels or monsters.
We are a slave to change,
we complain when wear same for so long.
We seek out illicits, to get the variety.

Anothers mind and soul, is what we seek. But the self loath.
We give testimonies, of how I was and know how I am.
We change hairstyles, upgrade our accents.
We long to experience others, in yourself.

This mire and bog, has seen great minds simplified.
Seen whelps turn to fierce dogs,
Has seen urchins turn to masters.
Has seen those who bow, being bowed to.

In our quest for difference, we take alters and influencers.
We stimulate and live our imagination,
Till we become trapped and eventually lose ourselves.

Though we flirt, with drugs, alcohol, religion and mantras
let our aliases not take over us.

-Shards of heart broken by love

-1 perfection with 1000 deceptions as results

-Silently walking through the sea of animals which we call whelps or people

-Wondering the mysteries behind my remote failures for one succes

-lies,lies,lies searching this petty dammned soul like a cockroach

-sunlight too disgusted to greet this small nobody

-horizontal and vertical spinning like the Never ending zeros

-time stops , and observe this Infinitly little one who is nothing but another one

I am just a broken lover

Cut off blue jeans,
with white strings,
like frayed dreams,
in sunlight beams.

Visions of beauty, with each sway,
watching men sigh and bow and pray,
thanking God for fallen angels
and for their curves and their angles.

But she walks on, with nary a look,
none of these guys, can read her book,
her pages are closed, but admire the cover,
the good stuff is saved only for her lover.

The trail of tears she left behind,
brings the waiter all the time,
she tries to stop the cries and whelps,
her t-shirt reads, whiskey helps.

one's wise to fear a bear robbed of her whelps,
as well a big brother, the good one,
who watched
eagles act all menage d'three

and proved, to all who see,
we can see you anywhere,
anywhen,
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Dear reader,
     This is a long one. Though it was written in 1995,  I’m including it because the inexcusable and inhuman Floyd phenomenon      
demands answers of some kind, human beings seeming to have a need to exclude; itself a discreditable phenomenon.
Have patience and read to the end, please.
Arlene            

             Inclusive/Exclusive
 
I heard them talking.
Back and forth they talked about the universal;
Secular society’s exclusion of the concept evil.
Focusing on genocide, race killing pride.
They harkened back to World War Two,
To Pole, gay, Gypsy, Marxist, Jew –
When one mustachioed-crazed face
Decided to **** off a race that never was a race.

“How does it come about, they asked.
-And how can we prevent it?
There was rabbi, priest from West and East.
“How can we **** the killing beast?
Turn killing to a feast and peace?”
They were erudite all right.  Not right, bur erudite.

One said, “We teach the whelps. Education is what helps.”
One said, “we cannot burn the seed. Punish those that do the deed,
Chase the villains, make them bleed;
Justice must be served and seen.”
The cause was man alone.

But where was God, I heard me groan.
The priest and rabbi, smart but green,
-Oh, God was there, but cause was man.
The cause was man?
How can the cause be man when God is absolut-er than
First cause and seed, the first split second all decreed,
All that stems from filling need.
Plainfully clear, it followed as the night the day
That even murdered masses stay
Within the scope of God’s good meaning.
(from which one ears oneself screaming)
If God is, and still they die,
There’s meaning somewhere in the sky
And meaning must be dying’s seeming,
Any other meaning dreaming.
(Let’s let that specific theory by)

Back to rabbi and to priest:
Back and forth they sought solutions.
I could see a key, a yeast
Which, when expanding, chokes pollutions:
Heres the  final codicil:
                            
Leave the club that says “Exclusive”.
Join the club that says “Inclusive.
It’s not easy not to hate,
Include the ‘yids’,
The blacks, the gays; yourself. the kids.
But it’s a gate.
We are geno-of the-cide.

By taking God on this queer ride - or ethics or morality,
A good way to begin Is make a circle drawing in
Someone whose eye you catch; who happens to fall in your patch;
Who chances near, or seeks your ear;
In short, who forms the batch of living skin.
(Include the wretch you are, as well,)
To make a heaven out of hell,
And feed the world with perfect food,
Tell, yell and ring this perfect bell:
Include, include, incude!!
 
Inclusive/Exclusive 5.23.1995 Definitely Didactic; Our Times, Our Culture; Defiant Doggerel; Arlene Nover Corwin  (revised 6.9.2020)

In a police state citizen-eyewitnesses are punished. Your life means nothing to the police. Their priorities are power, pensions & promotions. Pigs laugh in spurts homophiliacal, hemophiliacal & acrobatical like Ed McMahon in dead, sick sand as it's only fair for Tony Blair with macaroni hair. ~ Irwin Schiff will be (in due time) remembered for his keen intellect. He was an old soul. His martyrdom puts a nail in the coffin of the New World Order. ~ The Eisenhower name is one to be eternally ashamed of. Its infamy stands with ******, Vlad the Impaler & Pinochet. Shame eternal will dog the whelps of Eisenhower. Wherever Eisenhowers slither, wherever Eisenhowers fornicate, shame shall accompany them.