To Whistle and Never Blink

Death is a great waste

A waste of potential flung out of this place

Nevermore to rise and fall on the wings of grace

Grace so profound that it ever increases

Ever increasing and never ceasing taking its path with care

Reveling some hidden secrets left in a half-forgotten nightmare

Oh, let the dreary disillusion be done and never spoken of again

Until by chance a black horse galloping down from the mountains again

Some secrets should not be left to chance

Do Dead Men Grin?

I am a nut case, with an eye dangling from around my neck and the sleek shadow draped across my thick form, no one sees a clown for what he is: a manic-depressive sociopath. As I look back and reminisce of the once-was, almost a full year in the choking past, I realize it was always the quiet moments, those times when I stared dumbfounded in joy at my meant-to-be-bride. Always the times when in a joyous stupor I tripped over my words the same as a drunk trips over his own shoes. Those are the times I remember, those are the times I can still hold dear and fast to my heart. But I have to grow up.

Pounding drums won't let me sleep, but I don't want to. The moon is shinning, and she dances just for me. There was a day, a day when I hosted a ball in honor of the Fairy Queen, but there was a language barrier, even when I didn't realize it. My words ran like mud and filth, spewing like spit and spittle from my mouth, she rightly fled from me. But recently I have made new friends, friends who can speak my language without flinching, and as far as I know, they are masters of the Verse.

A long time ago I was stabbed in my heart, it was ripped out, and I bled slowly into Death's embrace. He held me so tight, and kissed me softly on my cold lips, oh how I wished we had met under better circumstances.
I am rising slowly from my grave, Lilith and Brünhilde are holding my hand, and a gelfling maid is showing me the path to Heaven. Few things seemed to make me smile when I was alive, but now that I am dead the very sunrise makes this dead man grin.

Bold words can mask weak wills.

Mantoheu, wa tsortj kitjomva wa qan watl djato tvog az.

Drums

Drums keeping pounding in my head, begging, pleading, clawing desperately in a vain attempt to wake me up. I imagine her heartbeat is like a drum, and her voice like some babbling brook. I hold the dead bundle of flesh to my chest and sob to myself, so alone, so alone. I know my heart has not beaten for far too long, I know that my voice is like a crashing wave, with neither clarity nor grace.

But still the drums keep on their pounding, I would give Skarl a kiss if I could met him. I think it's some kind of defense mechanism, self-deprecation. You can accept words of praise with a smile, but deep down you cannot let yourself truly believe the kind words others say. I imagine her eyes are like wells, doors beyond space and time, little windows wherein eternity and the unknowable knowledge can be glimpsed. I hold my cup to my lips, and turn my  nose up at the smell, but I still swallow it down, like a moth to flame, or a man to folly. But when I close my eyes and hear the drums, I can almost see her, sitting there smiling at me. I sometimes fantasize that she is the one playing the drums as I sing. Sometimes I picture her with war-paint and bright eyes, singing songs only Mother Nature can hear. Sometimes I see her in the ether, and I hope she sees me too.

The drums are like maps of the soul, explaining ever twist and turn of the human path, I think she is a totem or some shaman I have yet to meet. One day we will breathe in the smoke of the ether together, and we'll meet on the same island. We'll paint one another's faces and know that we were always the drummers.

Playing music only our hearts can keep time with, knowing no words are needed for us to understand, feeling the flow and ebb of the ether between our minds and our hearts. Spitting into wind and not caring when it slaps us in the face. Holding hands, but knowing all things pass. How we can truly say we are alive when we have never loved?

THWUMP, THWUMP, THWUMP, BWAM, THWUMP, THWUMP, THWUMP, BWAM, THWUMP, THWUMP, THWUMP! 

Play on Skarl, I am not yet done dreaming, I will hold her heart in my hands. I will know her face by memory. I will sing her voice for eternity, and I will never let the music stop ringing out into the ether.

Drums, drums in the deep.
Drums, drums, in the heights.
Drums, drums, in the day.
Drums, drums, in the night.

Twelve Reasons Life Is Worth Living

Living is
Obviously a
Very difficult
Enterprise
You sole
Obligation is
Unless you
Reserve this right
Simply to learn the
Enemy of
Life and to find the truest
Freedom, all other journeys are another path than life's

An Heartfelt Prayer For a Friend

Dear,
Enternity
Apologize
To
Her.

Butter Knife

I'll carve your eyes out with a butter knife

I'll make your useless corpse as my wife

And you'll never look at me

With shame in your eyes

And you'll never look at me

With your blood I am going to paint a portrait

And with you bones I am going to frame it

And you'll never bleed again

With pain and tears flowing

And you'll never bleed again

I am going to bite your tongue right out of your pretty little mouth

My dear our dream has taken a turn down south

And you'll never speak to me again

With guilt and shame in your voice

And you'll never speak to me again

I've carved your eyes out with my butter knife

But you still don't want to be a part of my life

You keep staring at me

With anger and indiscretion

You keep staring at me

With my tears you will grow strong

With my sobs you'll write a song

You keep screaming at me

With words I cannot understand

You keep screaming at me

You've taken my heart in your hands

You can never truly understand

You keep telling me what to do

But you don't even know me

You keep telling me what to do

Now that I've said goodbye

Please stay away......

You keep telling me what to do

But I know the truth

You can't keep telling me what to do

Repetitive Stabbing Motion

The strange thing that will tighten a man's trousers

The objects of their affection wield some baleful powers

Nubile and soft and speaking lies

Oh the filthiness buried in those pretty eyes

But here comes the first part casually ask her name

And she'll smile and giggle tell it and ask the same

Nubile and soft and oh so fearsome

No spider's bite would be so gruesome

Here comes the second part he'll ask: My place or yours?

Blinded by his eyes he can't hear the she-beast as she roars

Nubile and soft and oh so calculating

Manhood's pursuit is so emasculating

Here is the third part, furious clawing at cloth

She's the flame to his foolishly innocent moth

Like the master hunter he supposes himself to be

He makes a repetitive stabbing motion

Like the queenly whore she knows she is

She takes it all in stride as she brews her potion