I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Those who do you wrong Provide you with raw material For splendid stories
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
The afternoons are fly-buzz drowsy now The fans ignore us and, bored, turn away; To lift this leaden heat, we know not how
How proximal we are to this old scene Though our page in the book of time seems new Still do we brook abuses most obscene
When I am told that The self is just a fiction I wonder who spoke
“I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” -- Mae West The quest for purity is folly pure We are born wailing in blood and feces
Know your enemy Understand everything Reveal the mirror
The current theory Is that they destroyed themselves Because of their myths
Beware the indiscriminate father For he could well mistake you for his child And, while insisting that it is no bother
How bad must things get Before one decides that they Aren't worth the money?
My grandfather was an image hunter Polaroids, home movies, mischievous snaps; His silken, ninja quickness made us chunter
We watched the circus Become our legislature And our cathedral
Our love did not vanish suddenly That would have been more merciful It dwindled gradually One vindictive insult One criticism
