An Ambiguous Personal Truth: Part III

It was September, 

or some other irrelevant month

that one a soul did read his book

and sing her song.

Some even celebrate it.

Such a thing to celebrate,

Nothing worth more stress

and relief.

It is no slave song

or national

or social anthem.

To come all this way for nothing

To Channel these things

only around the world.

Dutiful do and

do two but one know?

What is such a forced question?

No more rhetorical

thrive and


No is such,

No best for last.

No least.

No luck,

No grain but in

a once romantic verse.

Dived for some

coined creature

no mass in this or other hours.

Other thoughts of this


and shining

and neuanced work or

walk and


of known

of the molded

and their

unmolded young

and heavy glows

known lived

always before.

Under what


and partner.

It is no, it is all

and ended

it is only

a thought upon the

hour which could

burn no waste

and could only 


A place I love,

A way I feel

a way a way does feel

in only this attention so 

called miniscule


No lonely no feeling

only spite and the

retribution that is all 


and needed.

To the day it comes,

To the stir of

echoes of a forgotten

repetitive chapter.

Written of right

to be spoken.


and on

  and on.

An Ambiguous Personal Truth: Part II

Yes in Chapters, mad known only at arms length,

A song in the megaphone,

and thought was relevant.

Alright now all lost and blown.

No helpful

or relevant thought.

Ode to such a feeble attempt

at loveable help.

Only the folk saint and statue 

of a literature classic.

Eastward unknown

oxymoronic and

not wasted

despite all that so seems.

What celebration

as so many things return.

Oh it was missed.

Raged and full

and an all time



once thought post and only paid

cruel tribute

by psycho treatment.

There it is blank on purpose

and forced stupid.

An Ambiguous Personal Truth, Part I

Now it is here,

heard by its

courting and strings.

Rocking back and forth

with this thing

and requiem.

A new and eternal one,

erie, and only as soft

as the sick mind dreamed,

and wanted.

The gears and strings

pump this climax

and salty tune.

Yet it ends

so easy.


So are the thoughts that did bring such ideas



Dare are so the words,

So are the thoughts that did bring such ideas

Only to be wasted

and erased.

By too serious word

of market call and pathetic swindle beacon.

And question beg,

beg in such pathetic notion

Plea such pathetic overture.

Drunken landlords

freedom stolen in its right day.

It is.

It is here and ready

no more to be its old self.

No more to be right,

but ready to be wrong.

This is not a stage,

this is what the real, the time has chosen

and it is only to be regretted

Only such is to be trivial & wasted.




Sleep New Now and Old Relic

Sleep New now

on with another repetitive motion,

another due song.

Another on demand stage.

No home but the heart for the holidays.

No truth to the wasted patience

What deserves this deja vu?

This Brutal question

Forgotten lingo

with music’s new slang.

This word

It is nothing

It is everything

I say yes

I say No

I say there is no point to wasted questions.

Always questions,

but give trust its due,

faith means not blind,

in fact there is logic in faith.

An old talisman, 

and relic,

given its proper

just due stage.



Chance stream of Consciousness and Chants.

Other urban dessert

and over crowded chatter on the scene.

Chants of a forgotten

of an unneeded,

of a faulted,

of a fateless vapor on the threads

of suburban reck and entertainment

by another televised chant.


Another short tangent for a very long point

Whatever happened?

The muses were singing

the juices were flowing,

whatever happened to the forward influence

and lust and drive of the mind

and so of the state of being

and its other.

It’s wrong and possesive

of the daily hour.

Annoyed at the simple; broken

into stanza and meditative powers

of the mind of the soul 

and the likeness

of its all and seat.



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.



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.



The Battle, The Ballad, and The Girl : Epilogue

So it does end

This constant and the like,

another man does pay for his regret

and his sins, 

in such a concrete compound.

Lost is such a beautiful romance

and so does a life breath on

love less


and fearless.


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.


Our hero


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,


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.

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