Donavon’s Palace

Donavon awoke to the piles of severed limbs and bloody corpses before him.  The massacre had been swift, cruel, and horrible. Luck, if could so be called, was the only reason Donovan had survived, and this luck had graced Donovan with a gaping wound one the side of his large square head.

Donovan did not know where he was at the time, he didn’t even know that his name was Donavon.  He looked all around him at the piles of bodies, but was more distracted by the beautiful and graceful surroundings hosting the piles.  If not for the bile and bloodstains on the pillars and walls this place would look like a palace.  In fact it was a palace, Donovan remembered that now.  But why was he in a palace? He thought.

He then felt his clothes, and felt something on his chest, these, what were they called? MEDALS, yes, medals and badges, but why was he wearing medals and badges?  It was a uniform, yes thats why, he was in a military uniform, a quite well decorated one to.

As Donovan pulled himself to his feet, dizzy like a drunk he stumbled repeatedly using one hand to clutch the gap in his forehead and the other to make an attempt at balance.

Donavon had know idea who he was, why we was in a well decorated uniform, and why he was in a palace.  All he knew was that he was surrounded by limbs and bodies, but why? What happened?  Who were all these people, some like Donovan are in well dressed uniforms and others in tuxedos and other variants of 5000 dollar suits.  Women were in either classy night gowns or fuck me mini dresses, a fitting variety of your typical political wives, if only Donovan had realized that.

He stumbled around this tall palace with its glorious decorations, the room he was in resembled something out of Versailles.  The glory of this hall had Donovan lose himself more in its beauty than his terror and amnesia.  Donovan struggled to keep his wound from bleeding out more and his tears from pouring out his eyes.  Near the door to this hall was another pile of bodies engrossed in flames.  Donovan recognized the smell coming from those scorching bodies.  It was napalm.  Donovan could remember the smell of napalm but not his own name.

Donovan stumbled once again and leaned against the doorway, looking back on the gore and horror in the room.  Who were all these well dressed people? Why were they all in this palace?  Why were they all dead?

Donovan stumbled all across this palace, and from hall to hall it was the same.  Stains of blood and remnants of destruction, with the occasional fire and smell of gasoline and napalm, and bodies.  Lots and lots of bodies.

Suddenly Donavon turned a corner and found another body, a body that was definitely different from all the others.  The body was in a type of hand welded battle armor, it was both obviously self done but very high tech.  The body was that of a boy who couldn’t possibly be more than 18 or 19.  He had a red bandana around his forehead, and in one hand he was clutching a pistol.  He had been shot in the shoulder, and he was still bleeding out.  Donovan bent down to look at this body because it was unlike all the others it still seemed familiar in some way,  but how? Was he one of the ones responsible for all this blood shed?

Suddenly Donovan turned to look at the other bodies in the room and was alive with a great sense of terror and fear.  In a bloody heap just next to the boy in armor was a body that looked exactly like Donovan.  Everything from his large square head to the well decorated uniform were there, the only difference was this body had no gash on his forehead.

Donovan fell back in his terror and scraped his hand on broken glass as he crabbed walked back from the sight about ten feet before he was standing again, still dealing with the shock of seeing not only your doppleganger, but your doppleganger dead.

Donavon’s breathing was heavy, and the questions in his mind were endless.

Why all this death and destruction?

Who were all those well dressed men and women in the banquet hall?

Who was that dead boy in the body armor?

What caused this gash on his head?

Who was that dead man who looked and was dressed exactly like him?

And What was Donovan’s name?

Suddenly Donovan heard another sound that he clearly remembered for some reason, that of a large gun being cocked and aimed.

“TURN AROUND WITH YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

Several other guns were cocked as Donovan stood up.  He turned around with his hands raised and found several men dressed like the dead boy, all ranging from young to old and from race to race.  All in the same armor and all with their guns aimed at Donovan.

“Who are you men?” Donovan asked in the face of all these raised semi automatics.

A man still with his gun raised stepped forward, he was slightly older than the rest and was clearly a weathered veteran, a large battle scar ran down his pale cheek and chin.  “We are the People’s Liberty Army and you sir are under arrest!”

“For what!?” Donovan cried.

The squad of men could not stop laughing, “What a pathetic fool,” they all thought.

“You know exactly why,” replied the squad leader as he cuffed Donovan.  “For the massacre of innocent people, for stepping on the rights of every citizen and for every possible crime against humanity imaginable.  For robbing the public of their right to democracy.  For pillage and rape.  I’d go down the whole list but I’m afraid we don’t have time.”

“There must be some mistake, its all so horrible, I would never do such terrible things.”  Donovan begged and pleaded.

The group did not laugh at this one, in fact one soldier slammed the butt of his rifle in Donavon’s stomach.

“You should be ashamed you piece of shit.”  Said the soldier after he spat on Donovan.

“Stand down, he is an unarmed prisoner and will be treated as such.  It was orders that if he was found alive he gets a fair trial.”  The leader told the men as he winked and smiled.  Suddenly they understood.

But Donovan still did not.  He did not understand why he was being lead away? Why these men were after him? What had he done? What was his name?

Donovan was brought into a room of the palace that was filed with drawers and drawers of documents, maps and treaties and minutes from ever government meeting since the dawn of the nation.  The leader stepped into the room as Donovan was carried by two soldiers behind him. His hands were cuffed and his stomach still hemorrhaged from the hit from the rifle.

The men stopped before a man and woman at a desk, both reading files as other soldiers sort affairs and load their weapons.  The room had been turned into a sort of guerilla head quarters, and these two were definitely the bosses.

“We found him, We found the General,” said the squad leader.

“Very good,” said the woman, “you are a credit to the revolution sir.”

“Leave us with the general, stand outside and await further orders.” said the man.

Yes, sir, said the squad leader, he turned with a due salute and made sure to punch Donovan in the stomach once again as he left.

So, we finally meet the general. The man responsible for the death of so many children all over the world. Said the woman.

“Responsible for spying on all his people.” Said the man.

“Those drones of yours are nothing compared to the collected will of the people as you can see.” said the woman.

“Who are you people? A better question is who am I? What has happened here? Why have you done this? Why am I under arrest? And who are you to arrest me?”  Donovan begged and pleaded like a child to no avail.

“We are representative leaders of the Peoples Liberty Army.” Said the man.

“You are General Arnold.” Said the woman.

And this whole amnesia bit really isn’t going to work.  Although I must say that is a nasty wound. Said the man.

“Its not a bit.  I may not know my name but I know it isn’t General Arnold or General anything.  I don’t know why Im in this uniform, but I am no general.”

They both shook their heads in condescending disgust.

“General, this really isn’t going to work.” said the man.  “We already killed your doppleganger.  We know it’s you.”

“General, you turned a great democracy into a blood thirsty dictatorship.” Said the woman.

“You put chemicals in our food.” Said the man.

“You left your people is poverty.” Said the woman

“You terrified us with lies about our so called enemies.” Said the man.

“You raped.” Said the woman.

“You stole.” Said the man.

“And now you shall pay the price.” Said the woman.

“You are to be executed as soon as possible.” Said the man.

“No, NO!” screamed Donovan, “I cant die please NO! I may not know who I am but I know I have never done such terrible things.”

“Soldiers take the general to his appointment with the people.” Said the woman.

Donovan struggled and screamed as he was dragged away.  “I AM NOT THE GENERAL! I AM NOT! PLEASE!”

Eventually Donovan was dragged before large steps and onto a stage in front of thousands upon thousands of screaming people, all chanting KILL THE GENERAL.

On the stage were more guerilla soldiers with guns.

As they cocked their rifles and took aim, Donovan begged and screamed for them not to shoot.

“I AM NOT THE GENERAL I AM NOT THE GENERAL PLEASE THERE HAS BEEN A MISTAKE.”

But before his final plea it was to late.  The men fired their rifles and Donovan fell down dead to the crowd cheering and chanting. Some even pelted him with rocks and rotten fruit as his soon to be corpse collapsed.

Donovan fell and as he slowly slipped away he looked back upon the palace where he had just been taken from, it was tall and grandiose with a beautiful serious of pillars bearing its support, and the gleam of its pure white collar made it stand even more proud. For some reason, he suddenly remembered the name of the palace.

Donovan remembered this but still could not remember his own name.

It didn’t matter though, less than thirty seconds later, Donovan was finally dead, and as he slipped away all he heard was the blood thirsty chant of the crowd.

USA.

USA.

USA.

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Dare I ask and Repeat

A breach, now which many actual 

available

incoherent blank spots an twindeling sodden nature.

Well Lust

Well portioned

Well music and sordid fall

and another obsession.

Another obsession,

another trite matter?

Dare I ask

and repeat.

Nay, NAY

I say fault by a many a mature fortune.

Lost muck and rake,

and pollution of a self loathe lack of company.

 

A Very Long Title for a Relatively Short Poem

Sit now and humor another trip and lack of sync.

Another ball of wayward words and finished concepts,

Of both the joy and the road that is behind.

So only measured by  your fellow man.

What hidden smile?

What constance of any question?

Well rounded in the serpent and the cycles both.

So it is to be in its own,

in its deed.

The Cliche Sweet Goodnight

Peaceful mockeries,

disdainful sin

All the things that come from within.

Signs of Red, Blue, and White

Orange and Green and the Yellow of Light.

A big horizon in a tie dye sight,

A battle, A war, a roue, a fight

A chance to highlight the might.

Tasty foods, sweet Wines, and shiny Jewels

A show of shows for the fools.

A letter, a word, a message of rules,

A law banning such pools.

The battle raged with a roar of might

And so ended in sweet goodnight.

As It Is, As It Was

 

Praise new hours,

  a ticking clock to the foreign loss

  and familiar social pressure on a 21st century turn.

Broken and fixed,

  broken and fixed,  upon the repeated more beats and thoughts

  and proof of provocation of those of the past idiocratic splendor.

Fortune’s feed back, undue splendor placed on self fear, hatred and robbery.

Cast all such portrait demons to an all masters hell.

Say in the name of the father son and ghost

Free minds peaceful charged exorcised and true power striking reins.

I steer my pride,

I hurdle such thoughts

Laugh at such sites of un-dropped splendor, catching mason and craft.

See my talents psychological draft and draw.

Such for lust and delivery for souls mat and cut drive.

Charge, Charge, and Charge some more.

Watch in awe

  in strike and power do beg, do end but draw based on all forted fruition.

No master late on its drawing baited charge and as such martyred peaceful to its so called bitter end.

Yet no, no pressure built in the provoked dark heat and obtuse sexual tension,

Slight off hint and light of shuffle,

Always brought on by some Judgement, some danish lack of timing.

What Lacking?

What struggle?

What is this so long entrance of an exit?

Bolstered maintenance set on the told stories of the withdrawn world of the all true  contrived nature of a man’s word or attempt of strong bronze thought and singing  pathos on the corner stone of another contrived building on its foreign even rest Mountain.

Do mountains not erode?

Do winds not blow?

Do waters not draw?

Who is such that they resist these beautiful tides?

Is it true my friend?  The days of the self inclined blind fascist died with the very men and days themselves.

Make a point not to bored the change of marker.

The everted assembly of the now too true, nonessential of ending,

As it is and As it was.