A Free Verse Free For All: Volume III - Revised Version

In golden caresses, crisp with stiff humanity in the shadowy remorse of soft falling lament a young man puts forth a concept of fallen succintity Time screams is damnable lies of hypocrisies Little or nothing is known of imagination People bound by archetypes and figurehead Archetypes Stereotypes Bloodtypes Visionary madmen touched only by insanity's stream drink as oft as fate will allow of furious quintessential somnambulism's broken and frayed cup. Loud sounds, everywhere, deafening and killing men who speak of consciousness and living offspring when the rat form overtakes them in the cool moments of some hardcore sex game. They collect their axes in the forest, and watches the formless night take its infinite shades with all their primordial wisdom put on display. Perhaps Mother Nature shall bless them in due time. She takes each of them to her bed, blessing them, showing them all the corruption which they have always desired. Ah, to be men again! New and perilous, foolish gates open to death within the King's frozen and wretched palace. Here, in deep dark places, scholars with their treatises formed write and conceive all that can be held in the ever-grasping hand of shallow academia.  Tell no one the self-appointed Emperor wears nothing but his skivvies. Nakedness, nakedness, foolish folk! In terms of concept and amoral Freda there is but little worship but to bow down. False god of pretense! False god of provision! Here, a birth has taken place, a destroyer sent out to show all that will follow the piper's tune. Lust and derision drive men mad with only one thought: hedonism. Women for lack of communication and relationship no longer cope with extroverted dreams and the hope of finding a man who can understand. Connections and interconnections, nothing binds not even marriage. All escape on the back of the winds of lies and changed. They have lost hope Idiot children dancing in faerie pool dreams trek their way through worlds where adults find only danger and inhabitant long ago sentenced to death in the rational of wisdom and maturity. They have long ago moved beyond any such thing. The children laugh, watching the adults change their gold for pocketfuls of ashes. The adults dance in Plains of harrow and sorrow and there's always tomorrow Laughing and singing; always winging away to the next dream turned nightmare, the bird alights on a slim soft beech branch. Singing for the creatures about him, dressing themselves in nature's adoration, will take a listen and see if they can discover the definition of beauty in an abstract sense. Giants move in the land, vast guardians of the proper way to conduct barbarian murders. A giant's finger will but crush the voice, to leave to small chance of golden cries that have been elapsing since dawn. All beauty stems from pain, for that is what the giant tells us. Sailors worship the sun god and by night converse with demons of their ancient fishing lore. We shall gain fish forever for that is their sole purpose for living. Have you seen the children playing in the streets and imitating what they see with obscene reverence? Practicing heinous arts, our speech, the voice of culture and refinery, gives them direction and they focus on all things which give them control over those lower than they. Love inspires no sin, and for this reason they baste in hate daily, for we heap their hopes and their dreams into tight jars and mix them with every human's impotent righteousness. Power over one corrupts all, breeding torment and rimbauld lust. For the darkness grows thicker everyday and the earth vomits the filth over its inhabitants; struggling to overcome, the earth lies dying like a saturated bitch whose masters have decided to abuse it. Shiny brainarts, with but a little while to experiment Gloria and Doria are but two virgins on the cosmic ship. Their purity goes Unnoticed by all fathers and potential lovers Oblivious companionship wish to swallows them, and almost without thought they give themselves to any, not in rebellion, but in some desperate attempt to reconcile their belief system with the way the world really is. Here and there rise up grand warriors, bronze and tan and sullied in the ways of the world. These warriors with their gaunt, scarred skin have training only in endurance and ferocity and know nothing of things higher. With little or no experience in the art of maintaining religion, no wonder they have no desire for a divine friendship. I awoke in the early morning light scaring the rain clouds away, water pouring o'er my body. With little choice there was but one thing to do; my loin cloth was insufficient to cover my shame and the sound and fury overtook me. Rain stormed, I slipped, and took ill with a chinese wet nurse.  I'd never seen a woman's bare breast before. For you, my creature of the night, I give you only that which is what you have consumed anyway.  Here is your key and here is my life. She laughs, saying "Don't you understand? You can't give me what I already have." And I sit, devastated. She brings out her hands and clutches me and my neck bends, breaking off in her hand. The lady of dorkmant dormant night drinks the blood and throws her ideologies in the brain. So this is the way the world begins. Sullied and soiled souls appoint themselves as the trademark of the hour. Men with no known thought but still able to croon doomsday songs laugh at the flagging minstrel business and consider themselves above it all. The orphans with their parentless ways seek entertainment in the French Quarter. Not desiring any direction for they have that already; the children wish to discover in what manner should they live? Irony overtakes them daily as they are given rotten food and no shelter; this, in the place of wealth and opulent merchantmen, is what the wardens call life. Illusions of deep sympathy without mutilation is what the flower ladies give us when we buy candy at the stores and smoke cheap cigarillos in the dying evening on those brown patios with the writing (what was it you said, carving?) On the boards and those lovely past times when we'd watch each other smile just to see if love was true. Here and there lepers create daily pains and little mind rain, with sweet summery lament, made in the sun's heat with no thought of revolution for that would require searching for health and healing. With no plan and no chant of "Damn the man!" Never will the fornicators speak of truth or the liars speak of married sexuality. Those in love break their minds. If you're going to the same place as I perhaps we will meet there in a day or twos time. Out of love and in luck, our mantras exploit the young's weakness and soon our destinies, too impotent to live out on our own, will triumph over their lives for the betterment of mankind. Scholars misconstrue ancient figures with their pale knowledge [with] which mocks infinity with their superfluous jargon and never-ending analyzation Does this symbol mean life or does it mean death when in the end no such importance ever existed. Especially to those gods of eons past whose lives were daily built and chronicled and given to all who would hear and believe.  Their works shall live on forever for all the wrong reasons. Have we marked our obsessions with the correct marking colours? Red for love, grey for uncertainty, black for depression and evil, and white for you and I. The colours corrode my mind to the point of seeing rainbows in every tear and seeing uncontrolled laughter at somber [reserved] funerals, with the preacher speaking in that dialect of righteousness and all those cousins and aunts and uncles talking about how great the dead was when no one had seen him for years. Lest we appear without familial love, we shall accept all, and you go out the door. Fate and destiny do but cheat men of water and sex and meat Scientific idealism is stronger than morality for the only concern of man is not obedience to some higher love but propagating the race so we shall last forever.  Create in us a new child, so our lives will know no end. Yet the world has always been a eunuch; it cannot last forever. Bourban and Beale Street without blind Willie Mctell. They sing the blues and they sing them well, on those old gramophone records which are of course obsolete.  Why trade emotion for audio quality; have you heard the newest CD from the biggest boy band in the world? When the real age speaks of things wroth knowing, then the youth in their infinite magnitudes shall flee. Perhaps it is wisest to desert this ship of fools. Please! Please! Do not stun me; Please! Please! Do not please me! Please bare your soul into the very depths of the cosmos the tour guide at the local amusement park was saying. On your left [typo: elf] the world stays within our boundaries for we have constructed a beautiful model thereof. Here, sir, kindly keep your limbs inside. We shan't have you traipsing about, ruining the model. So much to do here, so much to do, and all you have to do is trade your imagery for lies. Inject your spine with our liberation and then your mind shall be obliterated -- what did I say? Of course, I mean liberated. Trade your childhood for memories of all those worn-out yesterdays and your adulthood shall know greatness. Bloodshot eyes with little perceivable cause speak of the unmentionable elegance of the previous generation: "Are you wacked out on wacky weed? You are, aren't you.  What did I tell you about smoking dope?" "Sorry Sailor Sam, they drugged me up. You know I would never touch the stuff on my own." And the magistrates approach, looking at Sailor Sam with his parenting hat. "You must be punished for raising such an ill-manor child!" Sailor Sam cries, beseeching him. "That's not me, cap'n!" He would mumble, over and over. "His mother's a bitch, his mother's a bitch His Mother's a Bitch," over and over again and all the children pick their father's chant, singing opera style. Oh Captain my Captain [write parody of this] Shiny ceramic Paramount with their brief concerns on the legislation of the criminal art now break dance daily in C.E.O. meetings. It is the United Artist Way [Previous up above June 11, down below June 12, 2002] "Novice gold-diggers escape the sea's fury, inciting plaintive porpoises, hiding themselves in some vast stronghold of broken wealth. The young and old alike lead themselves away into isles promising riches beyond compare, and they invest their lives digging, digging, digging, escaping whatever crime they had done in some unitarian past life." The old man stands rigid, his back to the sea, standing high upon the Mount.  He gives his freedom dearly to all who shall listen. "Without mountain and sea where is your majesty?" The youth ask, and he shakes his head, bearded and weary, and pointing to the sky speaks these words: "You live on the same isle and the same mountain. You are as vain as I." So this is what it's like to be assassinated. Extremity with little destruction breaks all the rules of a soldier's etiquette. We must without fail bring the patriot's way to all these infidels in this damnable country. There must be no one standing who does not support the way of morality, the way of our side. We bring gifts for those who shall receive them, and for those who turn away a sword. Fallen grass cuttings raked together by a homosexual will without a doubt catch fire this very afternoon. Rivulets of consequence have been forgotten. The fire spreads and will not die until nightfall, and then all men shall answer for their revolutions. You know nothing of revolution, he would say to me, trying to hold my hand as I turned away from those vagrant eyes and those ever-ceaseless lips. Perhaps the man with soon be gone into the dusk, gone away from the fire.  That is my only hope, and then the praise shall be mine. Triumph; glorious victory; all these things shall be accounted to me.  These are my methods and these are my works.  Shall we dance in the light of my love? Then nature can go and dance in its folly. Its master fleeing, its child long dead, its perceiver imperceivable, for the axe hinges ever closer and the wandering pipers call their tunes ever so loudly. The cyclists with their black-jacket ways speak and complain of the distortion of the road. Cancer has crept into their testicle and the road now is their only lovers. Both the young and the old fall away, ceaselessly aware of the others' vanity and the attempt they all made to correct it. They discover only more asphalt and those ever-winding mountain highways & byways.  Soon they shall pass over the river bridge and without warning sleep overtakes all who enter. Mouth and blessed (bless-ed) organs full of potential populace show and expel all that is necessary for the life's continuation and emulation of what our scientists term evolutionary plausibilities. Dancing, playing, bringing the music of yesteryear to a generation that knows nothing of the old music, nor can the operate in that fashion for they are beyond caring. With break-neck speed, they reinvent the populist musical movements and the older mourn for the loss of culture. Soon the young will turn grey, and wander why no one plays their music anymore. Populace composed of reproductive cells: truly the stuff of magic though not of sex. Pageants of napoleon show the necessity of the French domination. No rest for the ever seeking, no shadows for those who wish the night to last on forever.  By force he shall overtake all of Europe and be declared King: God-Emperor of sprawling hills and ever-fattening maidens. This has long been destiny's call, and history shall reward him for his valiant efforts. Here and there deviation devotions are our only want. Reciprocation is a thing not to be looked for There is but one, and in that there is reservation with little or no children, we shall die Showing me the ecstasy of a hidden and desirous love driven by unnerving passion and the need to propagate. Denial comes in the early mourning hours when pregnancy has taken its firm root and can only be shaken out by crystalline murders.  Slipping away, we while our lives and quest not for a piece of us to live on.  No children, only life for us. Perhaps this is the great quandary of the universe. Shout it out loud! Shout it out loud! Shout it out loud! Shout it out loud! "We show our passion to all who will be willing to take us in and give us what we can never take or own.  Enter the new place and never question our authority again!" I look into my beloved's eyes, those eyes of grey which have known no tears. There I see pools of deepest azure, reflecting only myself. I watch you move in silent array and all that you are I love and cherish. Your eyes bleed their beauty for me; your body shall never know another. I will be sure of that. You shall ever appear in those white clothes, dancing ever in the woods as I watch from my tower, with my arrow I shall preserve you and keep you for all generations. You and your beauty shall last forever for my sake, for my life will continue as well. You are dependent on me, a lover to bask in the beauty that is you. Our lives go on assured. You are the object of affection, and you are I You are I. I are You.  There is no question in the Matter. Erudition of a corpse, oh damned mortality, will lead us into the next vaseline hope. A little more lubrication and we shall slide right by death. Our cause has not been duly represented.  We desire that which has never been.  We deserve it. Separation of representation: this leads to the despair all men must face. Women with their bloody hands and frozen centres have long been the enemy. No gesticulation shall save us now. To the man goes evil, and to the woman the curse, and to all humanity the brand. The young and the old cannot join together in this fight. 6-14-02 Crude oil always come when unlooked for as the manicurists and the tavieros with their paradise merchandise is pushed onto all those unsuspecting tourists.  "Damn, it's a racket and we'll get rich one day," the medium quintal tells their constituents, hoping against hope that perhaps a little money shall give them exercise of some imagination, for all men need imagination to even dream of happiness. Perhaps just a little drum will be all it takes but even then the oil spills, covering the ground and no man shall benefit from racketeering, or in the least, privateering. Spilling the weeds across the earth, wielding sickness and claiming it as his own invention, the scientist shall overcome all that has been stolen from man: immortality, sincerity, purity, and fun. Cleaving and sheaving the sacred rose store, there beauty comes and yet decays in the light August wind, so fragile and carefree. The moralists scared and dared and even cared and then, with a swift motion of the dagger, drive it in trying to give them something they never had. Overcome with the inventions, there shall be no more clash.  No one must doubt the scientist. Driven deep in the haerte of a deep corpus purple monkey perhaps a little, perhaps a lot, golden lottery misbegotten luck. Tissues and toe shoes and even golden blackened horseshoes They clatter against the azure sky with those memories of times not so long ago when all were children and ran in the village ahead with the freedom that only youth can bring. The old look upon the young, some say in contempt, others say fury, whilst still others say envy, but what goes on in the mind of the old as they watch the youth cannot be guessed by love or hate alone. Perhaps pre-conceit is the only answer. [precocious; physic phenomenal starts with p] Blues and hues and even a pair of dancing shoes: Those are the moments where adolescent boys, swimming in those lazy summer days and those baptismal life experiences occupy their minds until they must either expand or decline life's valiant offer.  They have not yet learned discernment; the offer as a cheat never occurs to them. Grey surrounding, silver ever bounding The grey overtakes the silver and yet cannot overcome that silent hope of immorality. The Silver, that ‘quaint' hope, envelops all races and yet there are some who have turned from silver to gold. Their lives are cast in grey, yet in the end, those who discover gold know wealth beyond words. Deep and dark and light driven way down way down to the center of the universe there's a secret just waiting to get out. Can the wise guess its nature, or the children with their agile bodies overtake it and sequester it?  To approach or not to approach, that is not the question. To die or to live, that has long been the problem. Here there is no pain Here there is no shame Here there is nothing Voices of the damned have never reached this unified place. Transfiguration and ramification and great sullen copulation: have we forgotten our candy today? Reconciliation is the name of the game though neither party deserves it. Walking across the silence that is their phone lines and communications, they grasp passionately: the man feeling all over the woman's body and the woman holding him so tight you'd think he'd almost break. Yet still he stands, and still she grasps so tight, encouraging his advances.  Soon a new life shall arise, and no struggle will overcome this moment of unity. 1-02-02 Solemness grandfather clock Tick Tock! Tick Tock! Tick Tock! Tick! Tock Tick! Tock Tick! Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock Only the time dresses us in its infirmary and there can be no escape from the glass-hour. Time is but the one worst fate, for death circles us and there is no escape. Cheating us with sex (for only the vain believe in progeny), taunting us with memories, and rewarding us with pain. Time we begin in slime and end with dust our destination. Time.  Time.  Ever time. Stealing and bleeding and always dealing. Yet eternity beckons beyond time's borders, and there are those who claim to have been beyond these boundaries that can only be met through death. There is no age where the lucidness returns fully, yet there are those who promise light. Shall we look?  What shall we see? Oh tell me, cherished Christianity! Lome-shires and looms of brazen idols The earth rids herself of nutrition and we gather the crops into ourselves. Impregnate the earth with seed, and behold the great mother give us plenty in the violence of birth. Place your hands upon the hearth; know now the broken and macabre gods you serve. These idols demand grain and meat. We shall give them their sacrifices, though drought is in the air. Can you smell the stifling?  The aridness? This is the reward of our multifaceted idols. Shall we carve into their wooden flesh the deeds of hunger? Or shall they save us from that as well? A fate unrescued, the temple runs dry of blood and fun. Cults come and cults go but hunger will be here forever. The gods themselves strave; we rely on them to save us? The temple rats grow fat on their priestly allowance; remember, they are the representatives of our divine benefactors. Perhaps they hold the key to unknown wisdom, for all bellies, even the authorities, grow lean but theirs ever grow more plump and wiggling. A dome is but a spherical intrusion into an otherwise boring plane of existence. A glimpse of the time sheet disturbed results in those supernatural themes we all have some hope in.  Surely you have some belief in A dimensional crack in time's mighty flow that may lead into another realm, beyong time's lurid and groping greed. Let us name this expanse eternity, and then build credence for her. Have you too felt the call of eternity?  She needs no justification of us. She lies like some whore, haunting my mind with her promises of freedom. The price is only my soul.  What lie must I endure to discover her marital extracts? Beauty and fertility intertwine, and I wish only to throw off time's damnable constrictions. Time -- she is the real broker of misery. In the world beyond age does not feast upon bodies. What universe must contend itself with continuing decay? Surely the universal norm has no such atrocity! Does eternity limit itself in line format for -- eternity? I see no end to time's mighty rush -- greedy and hungry like some lesser god of humane invention. The wind eats into granite, and the mountains overthrown by time's countless minions of decay and cracks. The line continues continuously, and there is no stopping the rolling of time. The ball cannot be stopped, but perhaps one hill remains. Far off, where there is no time, Where the line shreds itself in pity for the inadequacy of dimensional existence. Perhaps. Pin the pennant on the lovely pregnant lovely pregnant lovely pregnant . . .. She has won the wet dream award.  See the sleep begin anew? There is no one to grope in the darkness. Time laughs against the cruelty of tomorrow. Markets and shores and poets everywhere dreaming of memories that hold some manner of truth in them though they have long forgotten the definition of truth. Lilacs and shorn bleary golden gloom Carriages into space, marriage into waste. These are but come realities they war against. Flowers only remind them of their impotence, and the world knows only to well the mockery made of men. Open door of time [A Wound-Dresser, Whitman] Cast aside and forever this unbeatable tide of mine It's the tide of time. The power intoxicating.  Local molten wine. We are the wine-skins, time the wine. Here I pour out to you the gift of destiny. Drink deep.  Hold deep.  Contain much. Show me you are capable capable of so great a gift as this: a free life. Perforated countenance [contenance] only bleeds in the face of foes. Hear the continual clicking of the time piece. The time piece that meditates only on death. Perhaps a child would raise your socialistic cause and concern. Perhaps then you could forget death and think only of living. Yet time hurls us all toward death. Hauling and pawing and always mauling. Perhaps a child of mine would save the time. Hear me and think of my rhyme. Then on we go, and the children with me. The death of the father delays only the son rising, and soon the son shall know his eternal sleep as well. Yet no sleep is eternal, not even death. So we hope. Child o' mine.  Sweet child o' mine Silence in deepest desperation Not even the tick tock of some master clock can be heard There is no time nor peace to count off moments of gripping insanity only the silence, the silence, the deep damnable silence of losing consciousness. Loss and unrequited love greet me. Moments began and moments ended with only a blink. Soon, soon, only a very little while the lines descend across the face of some ashen citizen, bent over and wobbling, trying to find what manner his death shall greet him.  There must be no hearing here, for there is no justice in death. His friends are one forever.  Gone forever. Gone forever and a day Perhaps a glass he shall see them through, diamond sheered. A light touch, and then time strips that away. Bumping into one another, and then forgotten in time's line. Yet a few he remembers.  A few. He watches them dance in the playground of his memories, but they fade in and out, glassy and unaware. They may be lying in the ground for what he knows of them, or they may be alive indeed.  But he has lost them. "Come to me and give me comfort," he calls out, but they go through his head and float out again; broken ether which no man may hold forever. Pour me drink, a deep great comforting drink. A drink of a draught of true life.  Of living life. Of unspoilt life.  Of life untouched by time's greedy caresses. Life borne of passionate kisses, happiness now lost in time's barnacle blows.  There must be light. There must indeed. The sun is in syn, shining and illuminating that which we need to see rebel from the light of the sun.  She only shows us age. Age has no place in the light. Turning to the lesser light, that which brings fertility, and we only see Dianna sitting there, mocking mortality. Alas for the moon and all its deceptions. Devilry infernal lies within her halls. She brings us the earth renewed, with wavering lines of grain, but then she shuts herself up again, for the moon, as all others, knows the fruits of her labour will be ravished by time again and again. The moon cries out, as does the sun, to her children. "You could come back to me, if not for death. but here, in this great round place I have found myself is cut off forever, forever, forever and a day while on this terrestrial globe.: in heaven, deepest heaven, we shall meet again but never here, never never never here." And then only silence. There is no moon who speaks to her children. The further the line rolls, we discover only too well mythology is only mythology and the moon is cold and barren. Love wants to show you her arbour. A quiet arbour untouched by profane hands. Each lover wants to believe in this idea of the quiet arbor. A place to spend time with the one of their own choosing. Of passion furiously hurled against time's bars, only to come cascading down their flesh in form of offspring. Even the mistress must have some sort of game to play. But this game of love is for time without emotions or logic or reason. There is but one way to go eventually. Separate and then forgotten. Give me silent meditation. Give me the way of hope. Give me the way of quiet ratification Alone in the woods I do walk. But for a while I walked with her. My love. Now she is beyond my reach. The mistress has claimed her prize. Girl of yellow, of faerie spirit, your hair falls in raven locks, and your horse with tossing mane and crippleing looks is forever lame. What of your lover, of the stranger you've claimed as your own? Has he left you? What raiment do you bear in your hair hear? Did he adorn your locks with leaves and daisy locks, or was that you? Yet the raiment is spoilt by grey. See, the flowers wilt, and your hair no longer holds its colour. Where is your lover now? The delightful little sprite led me to a grand caldron. Here.  There.  Everywhere. Forest deep, ever changing with hues of yellow and blue and orange. Lost I am in the woods, but the little faerie woman led me to her woodland palace. Seducing me with promises of an ageless land. Then my own flesh sagged, and she withdrew in horror.  Frost now the window gleams, and her bones are brittle. The edge soon shall I come too -- the edge of my own life. Frost now grows daily. What redemption shall I find there? Saw into the pool cauldron of hate ever brewing dispensing and never compensating here there everywhere pain anger Pandora's box 1-7-02 Saw into the pool; ceaseless its surface disturbed, the hate steams, blinding our eyes, loosing sight of all others. The young ones, now gone. Where now shall they turn for wisdom? We offer them only the poison of our vapours. We offer them our souls in exchange for theirs. Knowing youth has passed from our bodies into theirs, we reach out, twisting them, breaking them, forsaking them for our lusts. This is the legacy of your sires. Perhaps our own did this as well. Age in her hot lust has consumed us, yet the children shrink back, crying not from age but from the hands of the elders. "Have they forgotten something in their senility?" they ask, but the most perceptive so only this; "It is malice, not age, that drives them ever hence." Shall you drink of her cauldron as well? Is there yet someway you can avert that poison from gracing your lips with our stint? Yet the hands that reach out to fight their way knows wrinkles as well.  Peace is in their minds, but we have none. We have none. To think these faeries are responsible To think these faeries are responsible To think these faeries are responsible To think these faeries are responsible All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Do you really believe the lies of lust? Alas, my blessed Babylon, where now is your thrust? Throwaway verse.  Soft madness.  Nonsense imagery. Once I engaged in all three. Now only one remains, and none help me sort out my brokenness. totems totem poles totems hidden in the bowls hidden in the bowls of a stolen cargo ship The Indians carved their destines upon the wood, and then hid it in the woods and dales of some ancient world. Now we turn to discover this ancient world, of youth renewed and age never lost. We as sailors setting out to find some beach of world. There the world of man exists only in limbo, caught between death and deathlessness, of age and beauty, of sorrow and joy. In the Beach of World there shall be no passing, but neither shall there be no death. This is what we seek with the strength of mighty men long spent in vain wanderings. Childless mothers and grieving sea gulls, cleft of sensuality and any sense of time, seek this mythical place all the tyme yet only one has found it, one has found it. One One has One has found One has found it Found what? Beach of world. One has lost it One has lost One has One One One Two? A town and a bounded jpoim hound, there's no wandering in this nightless town. The only crime in this here get around is a broken and cheerless haerte Those who speak of hope are ridiculed. Have you not seen the endless day stretch forth? Exposing any word said against the regime? There is no joy here, and the police break our spirits. [Eat their eyes, and then perhaps we shall understand their deception.] Feast upon their ears, and then hear their own philosophies rattle about in our heads.  They are here to stay forever, but perhaps then they may make sense.  What bosh is this? Eat their eyes, and then perhaps we shall understand their deception. Why else would they beat the rich and extol the poor? Poor in spirit, yet now rich by the virtues of age; who now shall you criticise, oh lawful authority? Stand!  Arise! Taken those capt'n's eyes? See from what he sees, see what he sees Don't you want to see? See what he sees? Anouncement to the saved. Calling them to youth's form of Paradise. Calling all home. Now or then, you decide. Now or then, you decide. Human ‘brilliance' at its finest. Toiling. Inscrutable harsh power.  Intelligence. There is no willpower left in the English way. Association of distant therapy, aroma lust of bean core death. Brains and brawn and ever shunning danes. No wonder we grew up fearing the dogs of war. Center place outerplace innerspace boredom whore. Remember when sex actually made sense? Kill and spill and even deal. Here and there ever now and again, there would be no questioning only blind following. We can pluck a fruit, the fruit, the golden ring fruit. Adam and Eve's very own offspring. We've no need of the fruit.  We have age for that. Silver and apologetic, without promise or decoration. The young call out to us to by these apologetics, some even of our own age.  Old yet young, but still they die. Still they die. Hospitals.  Hospitals.  Always hospitals. Why never house of healing?  House of healing? Healing of house.  There is no healing of this house, only death to bring on some immortal life. Old yet young, new yet ancient. A child but wise, a man with a craving for milk. You have reached your brokenness through your own methods. Hereditary.  Now pass them on, leave. Immorality morality I'm in morality. Those of us ageless youth now walk in morality. Amoral men.  Amoral women.  Amoral horses. Without a match there is but sulphur. Argument; loss of all capacities; that is the destiny of those who steep themselves in the darkness. Argument.  Nipple.   Breast milk for the brand new born. This is what we want for you. Nourishment.  Death will come, but now in the form of hopelessness you so think. The courtship begun here shall be consummated pass death's gates. Dusk.  Lover.  Grand bed. This is where he wants to lead you. Through death comes the higher innocence. And through innocence the higher form of passion. Worry nothing of those passing notes of some former life. When we arrive that will be only long ago memories. Concentrate on the present. Can I do that?  Can I do that? But no, not all will think of the ageless legions as any but fools.  Still the body drives them on, and they must satisfy their cravings for some sense of temporal reality. A body interested in legacy A mind interested in corruption. a child interested in interest A old one interested in renewal. A new one, though old, interested in death. This is the way homeward. Passing through the broken portals, meant to disconnect us forever but now only the window into the larger world. That's the way of truth. Hark, oh unsung heros. Hark, you who reap and sow. Come to the grandest of all shows. A famous golden row. here and there, where are treasures to be found, you have discovered what lifestyle truth forms itself in, and now pursue it. Where it is you shall be also. That must be your heart cry. Give no thought to anything save that which shall lead you home. To death and beyond. I's a pharmacist says my friend to I an artisan I am, says one to another. An everyday man, says one to another. A resident of truth.  A once lost now found son and daughter.  To those who lie outside our home are lost indeed.  We were all there once. Have you forgotten? Or do you seek someway of shaking their age paranoia as well? Give no worry to any but those who worship the Beach of World, a world without death.  That will lead to despair. Delicate cluster who has peaked its spirit (Whitman...titles), pursue now the entire world of incendiary myth. Muster what you can, do no damage to the cluster of brethren. Nocturne dancing upon the waves with faerie playful spirits, dance upon the waves with mermaid legs, and give without terrestrial concern yourself to the waves. There you shall see the miracle of the water's world Mermaids and mermen and grand white whales. You began once your own dance of the life in this primordial world of water. Another birth awaits you.  The water points only to the birth of that temporal flesh. Now watch as the spirit aches for another birth. The ones who no longer fight death but court it, awaiting it as the gateway it is, have gone through the gateway.  We have peaked, this delicate cluster of seamen. we have witnessed the birth of legend of myth that became fact. We have seen all legend eradicated, and then given its new shape in form of some D-Day infant. This is the birth that leads to all other birth. Question nothing now. The Marriage shall bring us into our reunion with him. Death has brought us here.  We shall spoke solemn vows. Eternity that haunts all men will be begin forever, and time will know no sort of line to guide us. Where is time in eternity's wake? Abolished long ago, now we have no concern but to praise and to work.  To love Forever. Darkness broken by a shaft of light. An island of light in the sea of darkness. This is our destination. Shall it be yours? Sea of Darkness Come and swim to the shore You are my lost love Come and swim to the shore You are my lost love. Let darkness take those who wish for no light. Break no heart, I pray of you. Shall you return to me, as once you were my very thought? Let not the darkness eat your soul, for consume you it shall. Come and let me hold you. Let the rebirth begin. Let the lust die. Let your own concerns die. Then home you shall be. Forever. A Free Verse Free For All: Vol. II 6654 Words (Revised, Much Better than rough draft) A Collection of Free Verse, Num. III                                     June 25, 2000 A Free Verse Free For All: Volume III - Revised Version A Free Verse Free For All: Vol. III - Revised, Much Better than rough draftJune 25 2000, Written October 24th, 2001 © on Jan 07 2003 11:53 AM PST, Michael Edward London    dark • lyrics • nature • pain • personal • sad • society • spiritual • thoughts • weird