Saturday, December 11

Lines I just discovered, scribbled on beer-stained pages, written...who knows when?


The Epitaph of My Loneliness

Sing praises of your joy, but myself a pariah
Cannot partake, cannot gain your exlusivity of access,
When the muses sing your funeral's aria
I will be alone still, but laughing to excess.
Who will laugh? I!
_________________________________________
Unspeakable tenor (? sic), a tenor in the veins,
Courses through my blood straight to my brain,
To my soul, the heart of the thing --
O, how it is to feel Hell's sting!

This is one of those instances that I would pray
If I wasn't a godless man,
If I wasn't strong enough to stay
And take my fill of pain.

Now I know my life will never be the same,
That I was foolish to believe I could remain
Here in this depth of hopelessness, a mire
Of longing and woeful despair.

Speak, my sorrow (ach, so trite... -A), in tongues of sadness --
I am not long for this world, the coming madness...

Speak! clearly and with some power!
Leave no hint of ambiguity
In a statement of regret and error;
Speak for generations to come, for perpetuity.

______________________________________

My Lot

Wandering through a vacant lot
alone at night and lost in thought,
I fail to realize my danger,
for the people in this neighborhood are quick to anger.
I carry with me wads of cash,
with intent to spend them in a flash,
at some seedy bar or classy club,
where you can soak with dancers in a tub.
Still lost in thought I wander on
until there is an interruption.
Three hooded thugs, armed with knives,
approach me from an alley, but I don't realize
they're there before they've shanked me good --
I lie bleeding in this slummy neighborhood.
They grow alarmed but richer, then abscond
with my wallet, 'round the corner and then beyond.
I hear a distant wail of sirens blaring
as I look upward at the stars staring...

_____________________________________________________________________

How a petulant, obese woman who hobbles around like a retarded ape, that is, Ms. Ansley, can have such a high opinion of herself belies her honesty. There is no doubt that her title Ms. is appropriate, for no man would want her. She can barely walk, not because of any justifiable sports-related injury or accident, but because of her obesity. One must be healthy in body in order to be hale in mind --- this is a basic principle of human character. Thus I see that this so-called woman has none of the aesthetic traits of a woman, and is morally weak also. She compensates for her weakness by projecting an air of superciliousness with others, as thought to suggest that one has failed to meet her basic expectations in some area. This is a psychological gambit that she, perhaps unconsciously, uses in order to shield her waking psyche from some depradatory revelations anent herself.

 

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