And today
with the indigo streaks of dawn abating past the drawn linen curtains
there existed an old fear of doing nothing
in the face of everything
so I will take my pirate jacket
and walk in leather boots
in search of a love, a sword, or a letter
with transient thoughts of electricity winding in thin blue veins
throughout the edge of fog ensconced mountains
holding defenses like an age old keep.
The blackbirds flew in arcs the other day
against the backdrop of a quicksilver colored sky
that wafted in clouds of fulminous gray
like the dead steam from an old freighter
approaching a harbor on the thin blade
of horizon's West-observed dawn.
In the road,
the cracked old pavements
without a draught of beer
with the dreadnoughts of old nightmares
escaping an eclipse and sunset
with visions of tremendous violence
in a rafted holding pen of ships gathered like artificial atolls
where ten thousand queens
lorded over diminishing supplies
and the few pirate men
drank the last beer
before strafing procedures
by cloth winged biplanes.
I should have known love before
in the itinerant appearances of love messages
sent through a telepathy
as she hoisted her correspondences
with sniper's scope and bewilderment
as pale as the envy of a sea green sky.
Those blows from oars fell only on the ocean's skin
and below the tremendous surge of ink-infused black
fountains sprayed like oil and blood
at the verge of a longboat's wreck
but for the daliance of a maiden's hand
that sewed a pattern of oleander leaf
in silver on navy blue
were we lost for love
as the correspondence stricken with irreal guilt
did melt away in the diminished floatings
of an offshore stationary left to disappear
beneath the dark blue of tides
that lapped like a disturbed cistern
in gradients of love and hatred.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Outlog
Network assistant programming reset today to restart point on the twenty third of January, successive restarts failed, inadvertently downloaded internet software suspected of crippling drivers and factory computer qualities. The laptop functions like a scanner. When uncertain of travel options, rely on searches and mental examination of strangers and friends on the internet. The news articles are becoming sloughs of falsity, and communiques on Facebook and email express negligent and harassing promises in terms of known acquaintances. It is recommended that a break is taken from drinking beer and wine for the time being until the population's weather changes for the better.
Halfway thinking about what an electric guitar would bring to my situation in terms of increase of positive values in Life. It has been recommend and encouraged to purchase a high definition screen television, potentially for gaming in the future. An electric guitar or violin would necessitate an eight track recording device and amplifier, and may be more expensive and less encouraged with concerns to the listenings of current housemates.
Waiting to get paid in two days, desiring hamburgers and soda instead of alcoholic beverages which is a positive signification. Poetics have receded, straight truth is better anyways. The filing systems of the police are filled with junk data and garbage, taken advantage of by intransient and unknowledgable persons without empathy. Recent assessment of my mental acuity has placed me at Psychic Empath Intuit, Perceptive of Truth and Facts. There are no current problems besides future planning, I have accomplished the Joan of Arc mission of justice in life and feel significantly sleepy after experiencing horrors and beauty.
Halfway thinking about what an electric guitar would bring to my situation in terms of increase of positive values in Life. It has been recommend and encouraged to purchase a high definition screen television, potentially for gaming in the future. An electric guitar or violin would necessitate an eight track recording device and amplifier, and may be more expensive and less encouraged with concerns to the listenings of current housemates.
Waiting to get paid in two days, desiring hamburgers and soda instead of alcoholic beverages which is a positive signification. Poetics have receded, straight truth is better anyways. The filing systems of the police are filled with junk data and garbage, taken advantage of by intransient and unknowledgable persons without empathy. Recent assessment of my mental acuity has placed me at Psychic Empath Intuit, Perceptive of Truth and Facts. There are no current problems besides future planning, I have accomplished the Joan of Arc mission of justice in life and feel significantly sleepy after experiencing horrors and beauty.
the poems behind me
Parched cracked sidewalk
on the highway out of town
and junk cop cars
with rigged light systems
flashing orange
instead of red white and blue
as though the road
were some loading zone
where thieves pulled over thieves
and my heart beat faster
at Midnight
when they tracked my bootsteps
from across the brush fields
behind a supermarket complex
left dark in the forlorn planes
of a small mountain town.
Later I had dreams of jealous love
and not in love letter format
but twisted with apparitions of steel and metal
that formed into the commerce of coffee
then and early in the morning
leaving me to wonder if sometimes
my dreams are symbolically psychic
or just repetitious
to the waves of Reality
and the undertow
of a less wakeful Beinghood
where I traverse through matter
unlike a ghost
but cautious and unalarming
frightened of wendigo lore and violence
without offensive weapons.
I knew my armor well
for it began to pattern like tattoos
across the nudity of my body
and I wondered where it wouldn't stop a pistol slug
or those broken dull urns
they save
for powder of ash
and broken ulnas
that weren't my keeping
or relevant to my corpus.
I should have taken a car
but for the wind power
of sailing gestures
leading me into blockades
of dark uniforms, blades, and chains
that didn't resemble the Hellcat dress
that I grew fond of
in drab theater performances
until I gathered that metal
carried some kind of electrostatic resonance
that could blow apart a vessel
containing magnet powder.
I could have sailed earlier
but the nightmare of hatred felt in the cabin
would have warded off any animal
much more a person.
Now the story is about unaccomplished violence
that I will let die and rest dead
in a cushioned crib
made of linen.
on the highway out of town
and junk cop cars
with rigged light systems
flashing orange
instead of red white and blue
as though the road
were some loading zone
where thieves pulled over thieves
and my heart beat faster
at Midnight
when they tracked my bootsteps
from across the brush fields
behind a supermarket complex
left dark in the forlorn planes
of a small mountain town.
Later I had dreams of jealous love
and not in love letter format
but twisted with apparitions of steel and metal
that formed into the commerce of coffee
then and early in the morning
leaving me to wonder if sometimes
my dreams are symbolically psychic
or just repetitious
to the waves of Reality
and the undertow
of a less wakeful Beinghood
where I traverse through matter
unlike a ghost
but cautious and unalarming
frightened of wendigo lore and violence
without offensive weapons.
I knew my armor well
for it began to pattern like tattoos
across the nudity of my body
and I wondered where it wouldn't stop a pistol slug
or those broken dull urns
they save
for powder of ash
and broken ulnas
that weren't my keeping
or relevant to my corpus.
I should have taken a car
but for the wind power
of sailing gestures
leading me into blockades
of dark uniforms, blades, and chains
that didn't resemble the Hellcat dress
that I grew fond of
in drab theater performances
until I gathered that metal
carried some kind of electrostatic resonance
that could blow apart a vessel
containing magnet powder.
I could have sailed earlier
but the nightmare of hatred felt in the cabin
would have warded off any animal
much more a person.
Now the story is about unaccomplished violence
that I will let die and rest dead
in a cushioned crib
made of linen.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Notations, January 26th 4 10 PM to 4 28 PM
This is my writing with a fledgling readership. I changed the information and seemed to have gotten less readers for some reason, as though the former title of "Strange Wren" encouraged reading.
The assonance of poetics in a helter skelter environment appears dismal with the afternoon freezing mist hanging behind the dull emerald needles in the pine trees. Glass and mirrors are becoming concerns. Do I have enough material on my mind that necessitates writing the truth? Yes, but not within the proportions of an encouraging reconciliation. My view of policing units, for instance, has frayed in its conceptions. I feel that policing apparatus has become an exercise in mental illness and that jail and prison systems only encourage the debasement of law in terms of financing and execution of anarchic imprisonment. I don't want to see the police, on the road or in person. I also don't want to see that many people in person or talk to them. Not that I am that reclusive, but it is cold out and the temperament of certain individuals I have shared time with in the past seems to rest on their narcotics habit. I am debating borrowing money for beer. The outpost here is slightly warm but it is snowing outside now. The prospect of beer seems like a benevolent exercise in abating the fringe beginnings of emotive paranoia. I get worried, especially when considering the past cruelties of a life spent under the scrutiny and persecution of insane executors of speech, word, and action.
If I had friends, we could listen to music and embrace each other, and if I had a girlfriend, I would kiss her lips deeply over a bottle of wine. I don't really like discussing love that much these days, but for a week there was a flux of interested parties who I vetted before sorting my relationship options down to solely myself. It is cold and slightly harsh in the mountainous environment, I have no spare space for a lover, and it can be frustrating enough to carry on with the housemates. I wonder now what the future allotments in life entail. Do they exist as reminders of times past, as fluctuations of immediate Beinghood, or as gold symbols that regard the future tense as possibility instead of probable happenstance? Is the future warm or cold, hot or dark, thin, or ample? I want to embrace a woman of age, smell her ample perfume, and have her respond in kind, and maybe have her present me with flowers in the middle of a sparse and hard won winter. I am not a psychopath or errant, I am not a fool and I am not a masochist, but these qualities have seemed to stop relationship prospects, or is it my capability and willingness for truth telling at any cost or outcome?
The assonance of poetics in a helter skelter environment appears dismal with the afternoon freezing mist hanging behind the dull emerald needles in the pine trees. Glass and mirrors are becoming concerns. Do I have enough material on my mind that necessitates writing the truth? Yes, but not within the proportions of an encouraging reconciliation. My view of policing units, for instance, has frayed in its conceptions. I feel that policing apparatus has become an exercise in mental illness and that jail and prison systems only encourage the debasement of law in terms of financing and execution of anarchic imprisonment. I don't want to see the police, on the road or in person. I also don't want to see that many people in person or talk to them. Not that I am that reclusive, but it is cold out and the temperament of certain individuals I have shared time with in the past seems to rest on their narcotics habit. I am debating borrowing money for beer. The outpost here is slightly warm but it is snowing outside now. The prospect of beer seems like a benevolent exercise in abating the fringe beginnings of emotive paranoia. I get worried, especially when considering the past cruelties of a life spent under the scrutiny and persecution of insane executors of speech, word, and action.
If I had friends, we could listen to music and embrace each other, and if I had a girlfriend, I would kiss her lips deeply over a bottle of wine. I don't really like discussing love that much these days, but for a week there was a flux of interested parties who I vetted before sorting my relationship options down to solely myself. It is cold and slightly harsh in the mountainous environment, I have no spare space for a lover, and it can be frustrating enough to carry on with the housemates. I wonder now what the future allotments in life entail. Do they exist as reminders of times past, as fluctuations of immediate Beinghood, or as gold symbols that regard the future tense as possibility instead of probable happenstance? Is the future warm or cold, hot or dark, thin, or ample? I want to embrace a woman of age, smell her ample perfume, and have her respond in kind, and maybe have her present me with flowers in the middle of a sparse and hard won winter. I am not a psychopath or errant, I am not a fool and I am not a masochist, but these qualities have seemed to stop relationship prospects, or is it my capability and willingness for truth telling at any cost or outcome?
Outlog
Weather conditions are approaching freezing point, the sky is overcast. Hike into the mountains stalled based on financial credit system and low temperature. Toes accumulating cold in leather boots. Transmission from Los Angeles County expected later, designations about purpose beyond psychiatric prescription check up questioned. Flummoxed by roving spies last night in the open midnight atmosphere, wendigos feared. Concern about town and housemate substance abuse rising. Paycheck arriving in three days at night through electronic transfer. Search for a friend with a vehicle have been negated by known drug dealer apathy in work environments, and transfer of my personage into a vehicle seem less than likely. Mountain fire road travel into Apple Valley is a possibility, but marked trails seem complicated to traverse especially at night and with the cold wet weather arriving. Forty two degrees outside and cloudy.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Destitute Outlog
Considerations of Being Estimation in terms of Living Value outside of Worker Commodities has seen a Plunge recently in Valuation of Labor.
If I had a Blaster Pistol, it would Burn Up the Kitchen.
Let's Dance for a Night, For the Rest of My Life
Saturday, January 24, 2015
autobiographical poem, the songs of twilight and the truth
When I was 26
there was all this telepathic garbage going on in WA
and I had almost died
after suffering at the hands
of some interstellar war
that ended up being not so stellar
after Forest Grove the town
built a massive computer
to blow up the sun
with some kind of awful laser strike
looking like it was made of black anti-matter
that I stopped in two seconds
with an askance telepathic gesture.
I befriended a bitter time traveling friend named Liberty
who was well versed in combat tactics
or at least in taking over things
that in retrospect I wish I had sang to
instead of fighting,
but it felt like I had been directed
instead of maintaining my freedom of choice.
The neighbors
seemed to be cannibals
and I was selling gold and spending uncovered silver
perhaps due to the evil or darkness
of certain wendigos or spirits on the night winds
such as Morgan, Vincent, Mohab, and others
too dark for me to necessarily describe
and most of it I listened to
if it was beautiful or loving
but the immoral things
I could barely subsist with
even in solitary confinement
with an orange peel as my pen
charged with a five year felony
for putting a doctor's arrest out of action.
I think I still owe
some hundreds to the court in WA
but it seemed to have been forgotten
like I was for days and nights
subsisting under an odd sort of watch
in a solitary holding cell
where I heard notes on the telepathic networks
from an anonymous friend
who's name turned out to be Samantha
before recently she turned into a professional scumbag
and perhaps now is dead
or living next door
which I don't know
because of the hurtful lies
but for awhile she was Awan to me
and we would journey through the cities and towns
persecuted by a psychiatric apparatus
run by professional clowns
who maybe could have calmed down more
to work on their jokes
because believe me
it wasn't any sort of a laugh riot
talking to people trying to destroy you
who don't work an ounce in their fucked up lives
and think they can poison you with psychiatric drugs
that turned out to be vitamins after all.
Well sometimes I graduated from life
and not as mentally retarded or dumb
but when my body and mind had enough
I would leave it through layers of planks and wood
as I have found out now
and I would appreciate people of the Earth
sending me letters to my email
that say things disconfirming my recent fears
that the ones on the outside of jails and prisons
are policing cannibals with the value of a reflective and distorting maze
as traps and psychological horror tactices
because I ran into cannibals in Ventura
and my god, I hope they are not alive anymore
and have been disconfirmed
by the value of Truth, Beauty, Love and Life.
send me a message
to sparrowandthenightingale@outlook.com
tell me the Truth, i'll tell you the Truth too
about anything
such as GMO horror
or riding out into the desert in Gina's silver Nissan
to get away, to get away from psychiatric backstabbers
like the Native in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
sometimes later running through the pines
and maybe it would have been ok
had I not been raped by drugs and left with little money
after I was denied contact to friends
based on a lie that the doctor believed
which he wouldn't hear the Truth from me about
and now I carry this guilt
about the shoplifting in the past
but what I really think
is that maybe it is forgivable or a flux of an economy
in an underfunded and unjust Republic
where the rich are rich and the poor are poor
so I don't think it was criminal
when I had no way of eating or feeling well
so invite me over to yer mansion
and I might take a banana without asking
even though I'm not really gribby grabby like that
unless I'm drinking hard alcohol.
So you know, I only defended myself
and provided for myself
off of less than three dollars a day
and less than that
so if you want to accuse me of thievery
take a day off
and accuse yourself
of not giving me a twenty dollar bill when I needed it to prevent my torture and rape,
but like I am fond of saying now
I'm Boba Fett
so please don't approach me
unless yer a kind rebel
or some beautiful kind lover
to all my old enemies and the Famine/Death Church
leave me the fuck alone.
there was all this telepathic garbage going on in WA
and I had almost died
after suffering at the hands
of some interstellar war
that ended up being not so stellar
after Forest Grove the town
built a massive computer
to blow up the sun
with some kind of awful laser strike
looking like it was made of black anti-matter
that I stopped in two seconds
with an askance telepathic gesture.
I befriended a bitter time traveling friend named Liberty
who was well versed in combat tactics
or at least in taking over things
that in retrospect I wish I had sang to
instead of fighting,
but it felt like I had been directed
instead of maintaining my freedom of choice.
The neighbors
seemed to be cannibals
and I was selling gold and spending uncovered silver
perhaps due to the evil or darkness
of certain wendigos or spirits on the night winds
such as Morgan, Vincent, Mohab, and others
too dark for me to necessarily describe
and most of it I listened to
if it was beautiful or loving
but the immoral things
I could barely subsist with
even in solitary confinement
with an orange peel as my pen
charged with a five year felony
for putting a doctor's arrest out of action.
I think I still owe
some hundreds to the court in WA
but it seemed to have been forgotten
like I was for days and nights
subsisting under an odd sort of watch
in a solitary holding cell
where I heard notes on the telepathic networks
from an anonymous friend
who's name turned out to be Samantha
before recently she turned into a professional scumbag
and perhaps now is dead
or living next door
which I don't know
because of the hurtful lies
but for awhile she was Awan to me
and we would journey through the cities and towns
persecuted by a psychiatric apparatus
run by professional clowns
who maybe could have calmed down more
to work on their jokes
because believe me
it wasn't any sort of a laugh riot
talking to people trying to destroy you
who don't work an ounce in their fucked up lives
and think they can poison you with psychiatric drugs
that turned out to be vitamins after all.
Well sometimes I graduated from life
and not as mentally retarded or dumb
but when my body and mind had enough
I would leave it through layers of planks and wood
as I have found out now
and I would appreciate people of the Earth
sending me letters to my email
that say things disconfirming my recent fears
that the ones on the outside of jails and prisons
are policing cannibals with the value of a reflective and distorting maze
as traps and psychological horror tactices
because I ran into cannibals in Ventura
and my god, I hope they are not alive anymore
and have been disconfirmed
by the value of Truth, Beauty, Love and Life.
send me a message
to sparrowandthenightingale@outlook.com
tell me the Truth, i'll tell you the Truth too
about anything
such as GMO horror
or riding out into the desert in Gina's silver Nissan
to get away, to get away from psychiatric backstabbers
like the Native in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
sometimes later running through the pines
and maybe it would have been ok
had I not been raped by drugs and left with little money
after I was denied contact to friends
based on a lie that the doctor believed
which he wouldn't hear the Truth from me about
and now I carry this guilt
about the shoplifting in the past
but what I really think
is that maybe it is forgivable or a flux of an economy
in an underfunded and unjust Republic
where the rich are rich and the poor are poor
so I don't think it was criminal
when I had no way of eating or feeling well
so invite me over to yer mansion
and I might take a banana without asking
even though I'm not really gribby grabby like that
unless I'm drinking hard alcohol.
So you know, I only defended myself
and provided for myself
off of less than three dollars a day
and less than that
so if you want to accuse me of thievery
take a day off
and accuse yourself
of not giving me a twenty dollar bill when I needed it to prevent my torture and rape,
but like I am fond of saying now
I'm Boba Fett
so please don't approach me
unless yer a kind rebel
or some beautiful kind lover
to all my old enemies and the Famine/Death Church
leave me the fuck alone.
The Cross of Lorraine and the VA Ward in OHSU
The cross of Lorraine, its a double bared cross meant to symbolize, commemorate, and designate those who fought in the French Resistance against Fascist Occupation in World War Two. It could conceivably be used to designate those people in everyday life who have fought against Tyrannical Rule and Oppression. The cross could be powder blue or white, similar to the monolith at OHSU that I witnessed unwittingly on a stretcher when I was taken out of the hospital post-surgery and still goofy on anesthesia. My time in the VA ward was spent trying to help a man with a busted liver while I was under treatment too, I think the only gesture I could make was having my lover give him some cigarettes when the inhuman health plan had kicked him out of the ward and back onto the street. Situations like that are both non-military and non-civilian and are unacceptable no matter the personal opinions of the nurses or doctors. If somebody is still alive, it is their right to seek fair medical treatment no matter the ailment, and they should also not be deprived of such treatment for substance abuse or non-compassionate mental health diagnoses.
Friday, January 23, 2015
Truth Is The Color of the Universe
A equals A
Every time that I stare into the sun
the angel dust in my dress just comes undone
Every time that I stare into the sun
the angel dust in my dress just comes undone
Admonitions of Specifications Ruled In Past Transit And Declared By Unrestful Truths
Now I wake a little more, my finger rings need to be sterilized and picked up from the city of Redondo Jewelry Store that closed for business and relocated to the city of Hermosa and scattered as the Scorpio Shop, leaving my adornments to travel by way of gravity, airmail, and lithe lies through Wilshire where I left a bracelet outside of Venice before I dumped the false beer on the lawn of somebody's criminal prisoner who wasn't myself for I am neither a criminal or a prisoner, trapped in prisms of crystal and stone. Like we said, "poetry" was a word for language that assualted the grave decour of decay beneath the Los Angeles airport and beyond the circumstances of magnetic drugs proclaiming every corpses' funeral but mine, for I am not a corpse but a corpus according to falsifications of truth that blandished my fashion with dull lack of blades.
Clenliness is next to Godliness but I need a Lace frindge for mine Skirts held down and dour Today.
Realization is a Salve Should You Save Yerself and Follow Beams of Light Held Without Common Lantern Today
Truth
Bought a pack of cigarettes
and the credit went through
but now I wake up a little more
and want to quit smokeing them
in loneliness
because sometimes
there was only Misery known as you
in the cold planks of an apartment
where poison fumes fluctuated in heat and cold currents
and now I'm begging to the Northern Star
I'm the Angel,
kneel into the frozen lights.
Feel their hearts, they're cold as ice.
I've come here to confess,
watching you burn up in lies and refuse
and watching you burn
I realized that you were so dumb
take me into the river someday
we'll make decent lovers
if you were not a liar.
He comes from a coal mine
I see you
as it covers us all goodnight.
Put on my best Sunday Dress
and walk straight into this mess
with all of the pain I have to take what is mine
with all of his sorrow and all of his false pain
what can you burn up
what can you burn up?
and the credit went through
but now I wake up a little more
and want to quit smokeing them
in loneliness
because sometimes
there was only Misery known as you
in the cold planks of an apartment
where poison fumes fluctuated in heat and cold currents
and now I'm begging to the Northern Star
I'm the Angel,
kneel into the frozen lights.
Feel their hearts, they're cold as ice.
I've come here to confess,
watching you burn up in lies and refuse
and watching you burn
I realized that you were so dumb
take me into the river someday
we'll make decent lovers
if you were not a liar.
He comes from a coal mine
I see you
as it covers us all goodnight.
Put on my best Sunday Dress
and walk straight into this mess
with all of the pain I have to take what is mine
with all of his sorrow and all of his false pain
what can you burn up
what can you burn up?
Monday, January 19, 2015
to the living
I missed
the depictions of snow globes
and not like Citizen Kane,
"too shocked to speak"
and would have shared a red wooden sled in the cherry illuminated snowfall
under scarlet illumination
when changing my love lorn names
from Steven to Brody to Courtney to "Samantha" to William
never really knowing then
where the spectral born flames of love
were sprouting from
out in the violent world's curvatures
as the sky bled black at twilight
with sharp crackles of neon blue
during those sad days
where I walked from train to bus
under a clock's observance
just waiting to meet you
for a cup of coffee
in the open downtown center
not knowing then
why I felt delusional
but gathering afterwards
that it was the words "vate" and "fett"
which now are stricken away
from language (as if they ever had a place).
I knew a few of your symbols
just the magenta leaves
and those stapled emerald needles
that one could soak for tea
and pinto beans in a lucent Christmas package
waiting at the store,
unlike yourself
but showing of your generosity.
so let us share a few moments in song and music and kindred love
before meeting too late
in a clensing cyclone
that forfeits Hell and Heaven
leveling "beauty" down to basic Earth
that spells out Heart in anagram
and boy oh boy
let me buy some cigarettes
in case you come over, yeah?
the depictions of snow globes
and not like Citizen Kane,
"too shocked to speak"
and would have shared a red wooden sled in the cherry illuminated snowfall
under scarlet illumination
when changing my love lorn names
from Steven to Brody to Courtney to "Samantha" to William
never really knowing then
where the spectral born flames of love
were sprouting from
out in the violent world's curvatures
as the sky bled black at twilight
with sharp crackles of neon blue
during those sad days
where I walked from train to bus
under a clock's observance
just waiting to meet you
for a cup of coffee
in the open downtown center
not knowing then
why I felt delusional
but gathering afterwards
that it was the words "vate" and "fett"
which now are stricken away
from language (as if they ever had a place).
I knew a few of your symbols
just the magenta leaves
and those stapled emerald needles
that one could soak for tea
and pinto beans in a lucent Christmas package
waiting at the store,
unlike yourself
but showing of your generosity.
so let us share a few moments in song and music and kindred love
before meeting too late
in a clensing cyclone
that forfeits Hell and Heaven
leveling "beauty" down to basic Earth
that spells out Heart in anagram
and boy oh boy
let me buy some cigarettes
in case you come over, yeah?
Sunday, January 18, 2015
from Lysander J/Brody/Samantha/Athena/Courtney Love
my hands felt dead
and my voice was hoarse from screaming at the cannibals
whatever sleaze meant to them
I didn't yearn to know
crowned Ms. World by a violet colored word
and knew not the dark untruths
but only fields of fire
that earned their snowfall in abeyance
to unsubstantial allies
who fell like snowflakes
to a better resting place
than the elocutions of liars
and my voice was hoarse from screaming at the cannibals
whatever sleaze meant to them
I didn't yearn to know
crowned Ms. World by a violet colored word
and knew not the dark untruths
but only fields of fire
that earned their snowfall in abeyance
to unsubstantial allies
who fell like snowflakes
to a better resting place
than the elocutions of liars
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