No Piper's lament

No Piper’s Lament for me. I will lay me down in this foreign land, far from Bonnie Scotland and The Green Hills Of Ireland. Mother Earth will take me back to my Home by the Sea. Alas, no kinsman will bear me forth for my final journey, for they are far and away, cast from me in bitterness and pain. Few may know my profound sorrow at this estrangement, but it is naught, for the thought of freedom from all of this beckons to me like the welcoming arms and smile of my lover. Weep not for my passing, For I Have Truly Lived!

The Word

Words fly from my lips, like;
Winged harbingers of life;
Silver birds, of my innocence,
seek that place,
named as my childhood.
Bright streams and meadows,
cry for,
my return to your sweet shores.
Shall I rest there,
in my slumber, forever cast,
in quiet respose.
To lay my head, upon your breast,
far away from ill grown woes.
Would that I could truly know you;
Within the veil, of mystery.
To sail forever,
on a lost, and forgotten sea.
Alas, like all things mortal,
I know it shall not be.
So, I become now,
some ancient lore in history.

Strange

Strange, how we give so much weight to words.  A few words strung
together in a certain fashion and a war is born. Then a few more words are
crafted on a parchment and a war dies. In a rush of testosterone and pheromones, we spit out emotionally tempered words and a relationship binds us to another.Then, in the heat of an angry dispute, words sail forth like barbed arrows and a relationship is slain.How has something as hollow and empty as words become so powerful?  When did grunts and groans become the purveyors of so much? The ancient grimoires record combinations of words with much emphasis on the shaping of the sound of the words to produce the desired effect. A beautiful melody may stir our soul, but add a vocal line in harmony and it may become an immortal anthem to stir a nation of souls. How strange that something so fleeting and shallow may live for millennia, while monumental deeds and actions lie forgotten in the detritus of time.

Leaves

Leaves
of sorrow tumble on the wind like the fading memories of my childhood, lost
behind the veil of time and distance, no more borne aloft by the idealistic
dreams of youthful optimism, they tug gently at the frayed corners of my
experience, reminding me of things I once held as truth that have been driven
into exile by the modernity of this world. No new lands to explore, no
frontiers remaining to conquer, what are we left with but the bittersweet
realization that this civilization is just treading water until we drown in an
ocean of mediocrity. Hear hear, to the rebels and villains of the past that walked
the out of style.

Whose Reflection

I look at you in the
mirror, and I think,

Who is the reflection, and
who is the reality?

When I walk away from the
mirror, I do not see where you go.

Is it the same for you?
Are we both, perhaps, trapped in our respective

Worlds, prisoners of our
own delusions? The dreams that haunt me at night,

Are they all mine? Or
maybe, fleeing phantoms, somehow, able to cross the barrier.

Off times, they are dark,
and so brutal, I am startled at the depth of cruelty they reveal.

Are these dark children
mine? Or, progeny of your world and your mind, the inverse of mine?

In the shadows, something
cold and sinister, slithers silently, like some ancient serpent,

Turning, twisting,
flattening to fit into places that none should fit at all.

Over a shattered sill,
flowing like smoke, it senses, something.

Moving forward, ever
forward, in the hunt, it knows,

Within, lies it’s need,
it’s desire to feed.

Pale thighs, open,
waiting, wanting,

The flesh and the seed.

Unteryrth

From
underyrth where shadows fall, the treeless root, a nameless call;I was a god
but now I’m stone,a broken dream, on shattered throne;seasons fell like endless
rain,so time has fled my madman’s game;the mother’s breast on which I supped
has bled away my sanity;I’m burned alive, immortal beast, I may not rest before
the feast.Come one, come all,the great and small, I want to slay you in my
hall.I want to slay you, one and all. And lay you down, within my hall.

The Green Vale

Therein lies
a green vale, shrouded in grey mist, far away from the land of men; Strange
beasts cry in the distance, and dark, winged shapes flit overhead in the canopy
of the forest. She laughs and shakes her head with a pout on her lips as she
darts from tree to tree. I follow eagerly, laughing also, at her silly antics,
it is just a game, but it is ours to play all the  days and nights of this endless dream, and I
know in my heart, at last, I am home.

The Times They Are Changing

The times,
they are changing. The once, independent minstrel, has become a modern
musician, dancing like a mad monkey in a really terrible puppet show, dangling
by the strings held by the bloated corpse of a greedy banker, interrupted only
by the shrill shrieks of glee from the cesspool mouth of his prostitute wife,
who is constantly brushing the maggots from her rotted and diseased lips, and
smiling over her shoulder at the pedophile priest that has his hand up her ass
while he buggers her toddler sons and daughters. Meanwhile, the poets, the
players, and performers all, bow down and worship her husband, showing their
obeisance by licking the dripping, bloody secretions from his flaccid member,
proclaiming loudly to the world, “His is the staff of life, and his seed, the
nectar of the gods! All worship him, for he is truly divine!” What a clever
irony this is, for, in their blind obedience, they fail to see beneath his
Caesar’s robe, the army of mad money changers propping and shoring up his
skeletal legs and spine, feverishly stuffing the bodies of the poor working
class into the gaps and voids to keep it all upright. “More, more, more,” the
bean counters, the accountants, yell into the cancerous cell-phone computers
that sprout from their heads like demonic horns! “More, more, more,” they
loudly chant in a mad mantra, as they place orders for more virginal
cheerleaders to be bent over the altar of the national pastime, and sodomized
with oversized I-pods so that the entire spectacle may be streamed live to the
waiting, salivating in anticipation, democratic, free world. “God Bless
America,” everyone cries at the top of their voices! “It is our god given duty,
to bring the rest of the world to this wondrous enlightenment!” “More, more,
more, “ the accountants scream to the machine! “We must have more, and we want
bigger I-pods, we want to see those virginal asses ripped and bleeding, torn
beyond repair, so we may stand revealed, as the true masters of all this
wonderment!”

          All the while, in a little café on a
backstreet in a little town in Italy, Mephistopheles is kicking back, drinking
his espresso, smoking a Lucky Strike, and grooving to the sounds of Vivaldi.
Across from him sits a willowy redhead, smirking behind her cappuccino, she
flippantly chirps, “You know, this is all your doing!” Without hesitation, he
replies, “ Oh no, you can’t lay this at my feet. I quit this business a long
time ago. When he,” pointing to the sky, “ fired me for doing the very thing he
hired me to do, I washed my hands of the whole mess. When he gave these
assholes free will, he opened the door for this shit! Now that it’s not working
out in the way he anticipated, he is just using me as the goat! I am not having
it! Let him and his boy stew in their own mess, I don't really care anymore,"

The Dog

My Dog got run over by a
fucking truck today.

It was real bad. All his bones were smashed
beyond repair, so he can’t stand on his own. Most of his internal organs are
now hanging outside his body, protruding from various orifices, natural and unnatural.
The Vet is working on him, but it looks real slim. Plus, hundreds of ticks,
fleas, and other parasites keep his immune system so drained he just can’t
quite get what he needs to recuperate. Sensing his demise, the maggots have
infested him from one end to the other. It looks pretty grim. I told the Vet to
go ahead and put him to sleep, but the Woman said, “NO!” With enough drugs, he
will be perfectly able to live a long life, she said. It would be evil and
wrong to put him down she says. I says, He can’t eat, He can’t move, He can’t
fight, He can’t fuck, Hell, He can’t even take a shit anymore! She yells at me,
“What a cruel and inhuman brute you are!” “How dare you suggest that the
quality of one’s life should have bearing on whether you should want to live or
die”.  Before I knew what was happening,
the Judge served me with a court order to cease and desist in my attempts to
have my old hound dog put to sleep. “We have ways to deal with fascist assholes
like you”, he says. So, I get booted out of the Vets’, they tell me if I come
back I’ll go to jail, and they have impounded all my assets to pay for the dog’s
treatment. Ain’t that some shit you say, and by now, if you haven’t figured out
this is a metaphorical tale, I really am wasting my time. The point is that
America has been run over by a fuckin truck, and no amount of fixin by Barack,
by Hilary, by Dick, by Sarah is going to make this fucker work. This dog just
can’t hunt anymore. It should be put down.