Celebrations if they can so be called

By splendor of the candid lie

and sardonic comments of commentary.

The seed of the disgruntled,

the post-mo angst of ancient.

Urban born

with a rural spawn.

Given by uncommon narcotics

and cultivation.

Dreamed of in their own con

and color

and match

and splendid.

Seeded by the posted smoke.

Colored by the hands not their own.

Celebrated once,

and celebrated no more.

 

6/9/11

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My Nightly Energy’s Addiction

The nightly energy

and binge,

come to in addiction

and worlds within worlds.

The wonder of the new

gone in the creaking entertainment,

the soft breath

and the annoyed

viral source of long winded hours.

A love so contrived, 

Sociopathic rhetoric,

and celebrity truth,

read through wrong

and right

and broken riots.

Repeated expressions upon its burnt easel.

Barrel meditations

in the cities of trees,

a one way to the city of angels,

and another to the one of sin,

and no metaphor exists in either name

or hour.

 

6/8/11

The Battle, The Ballad, and The Girl : Part IV

Well now our lies in the bowels

and rags of the cage.

Malnurished and nothing,

He walks in and out

day in

day out

each for his trials.

Guilty with no remorse, 

and locked away.

Our hero does go,

for now he is at his low.

No love,

No home,

No woman,

and no allie.

Ours does now live with the constant eye

and knife.

He bleeds like christ,

but he does not die.

He

Our hero

fights.

He cares,

He lives, 

He struggles.

Now and forever at these hands and these depths.

He does live on.

Live on and strive and so for another hour

on another day.

Yet, no night did pass when she did not come to mind.

And with every muscle and fiber,

he did his best to hold back the tears.

The Battle, The Ballad, and The Girl : Part III

He did break his strength

and he did get to know this woman

of heartbreak and sin.

He fulfilled his debt by fulfilling her lust

but no thoughts of this witch lived inside his head.

Only the beauty of the one he lost lived on.

He slept with this woman,

in scorn

in hatred

and in vein.

He was living a life not his own,

If the cruel man had left his true love be

none of this regret,

ruin,

or sin would dwell.

How our hero did pine for her.

How he spits and dances on the grave of the cruel man.

Only regretting that his deed only retributes,

it did not return his love.

Death does not bring the other dead back to life.

Escaping her thoughts in the wicked lust of the other,

and in the narcotic stupor of his

increasing drunks.

With each bender and binge

his mortality hands and drifts

and his only release are his lustful returns

which always spurn regret.

Never leaving the witches home,

at her passive beacon

and nymphotic call,

he festered his days on the run

in one place,

in one hand.

But all his regret came all to not,

for the Marks of the law 

did put them both in their hands.

His lustful regret fucked her way out of trouble,

and our hero was now at the bay of the pigs.

Still his only regret

was the Witch.

The Battle, The Ballad, and The Girl: Part II

The Cards of logic 

stop man from such fates.

Yet no.

The cruel man lay down

at the hands of the other.

A smoking barrel

and sting paranoia 

as the rush away began.

So lies dead the worthless soul that did rob our hero.

So off into the world of fugative he did run.

With no heart

mind

love

or plan.

His love was gone

his deed was done.

There was no more to his life

than one on the run.

But soft, our lofly hero is lost and way ward after

his deed.

No purse,

no home,

no allies but she was gone in the winds

of loss and time.

But he did find shelter in the home

and heart

of a woman he did despise.

Her lust and cunning shattered his heart once before,

but her lust did twindle and he did walk away the victor,

but it was so in the cards that be

that he did return to her arms.

Only for warmth,

Only for shelter

and she did welcome him in,

and at the time she did have her evil, and lusty smile.

The Battle, The Ballad, and the Girl. PART I

And so begins such as 

a simple pair are born.

To souls of opposite ends and sexs

apart in the lines of North and South.

What light she grew

into of state and health,

and such a rage did he.

Drunk on his families toil in the vineyard,

in any constant euphoric rush.

Alone on this ranch was he,

She adrift in her own popular beauty.

They grew to different ends and the like and so

Only as the sorrow drunken days of he passed

And she only aware of her own mortality,

yet she to lived in a world alone.

It was in their academic days they met.

So still of their distant worlds

Yet so fallen apart.

For their worlds to distant

and lost

in better days.

He sat and pined over the cruelty of fates

and contemplated the potential of his own cruelty.

To find the man whose action did force this love away

to the unknown southern shores where she was born.

So he decided, and resolved

To use his own potential cruelty

and that this cruel man

would be no more.