Brace yourselves! I am a published poet! I kid you not! So if anyone calls me a f*cked-up c**t - stuff you! (Sorry about that - I'm just a bit excited =P)
You wanted it! You called for it! Streaked across the Olympics Opening Ceremony and ate protest hot dogs in demand for it! Plus I can't let Grace be weirder than me! Well.. it's up now... The Weird Dark and Moody Poetry Section! A great way to start the day. Contributions by others are welcome...
But before that, there are some important issues to be addressed... That's right! We're getting down to the nail-biting stuff here! But... Dang! There are just too many hot, burning issues to be addressed, such as the habitat of the mongoose/prarie dog and the proliferation of kitty-porn, but I've chosen probably the most relevant for youse to debate.
The Great Illusion
Resolute slumber hibernation terminates
The connection to
Truth
To you
Exploration seeks knowledge
Yet hunger is the truth of expectation
Loving without a conscience
Killing without a conscience
Memory has no conscience
Article Seven : Seven is a divine integer which cannot be divided by any other integer other than itself and One.
Significance is a measure of worth
Remember me for my tragedy
My self-esteem you balance
On the end of a hook
Dangle, dally, drop it
Life dispenses happiness like Russian roulette
Truth will never be found.
Solipsism is all the mind.
Melting
Punting integrity on placental afterbirths and
Cauldrons of cerebral off-cuts
Melting eyes and the mischievous grins of no consequence
Slathered mementoes of an prodigal life.
Gnawing society's sleeves at its seams
The clocks bend space into a knot
The noose tightening
For a euthanasia to the decadent
Choking the lost with a kiss
From the white horses.
Invincibility is an umbrella for the ignorant
But share the shame of fear
And the courage to admit cowardice
For who will then be the better man?
Than the oppressed or the resigned.
Butterflies Who
is the comforter of sleep When
in starry nights do the restless consciousness yield their minds Where
do they drain to? Or
captured in the net of infinity Are
they the substance if unwanted discards? Festering
away in the dark recesses of Never. Matter,
what can it be when
the nimble mind supplies what is not cherished?
But scorned as blasphemy is the produce
of the philosophising damned. I
know that when my butterflies leave their nest In
the cavern of my stomach They
will be blinded in the segments of limelight and
perish as they fade Burning
to shine as supernova zealots. So
I choose to cage them in my lair And
keep solemn vigil and prayer without respite But
I am no Daniel and I fear The
lions in me will not keep bay for the night For
me to return from slumber to find my
Lovelies gone, their golden butter Left
to feed today's maggots lying in their wake. "You're such an inspiration
for the ways that I will
never ever choose to be/ Oh so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned
you/" The
Prelude The
Beginning The
Middle The
End The
Post-Mortem Credits
mandelayenterprises@yahoo.com
