The busy street is ignoring all the calls he makes. It is often true of late. Nothing can be right when red lights are above your head. He do remember his father said. Remember son, smash all the blue ones instead.


In this valley where the poor dwell, the lurid, somewhat rancid feeling of uneasiness emanates. From the street corners like a swarm of gnats, spilling out onto the boulevards. To the dark and dim alley. The ship's galley. The broken masonry of the forgotten monastery. The sharply dressed old lady. Young Machiavelli, gaudy and unhappy. Oh bleak and dreary. There are things that are changing here tonight, they all agree. We must be wary.


His hands are chained to the sky, with feet bound to a tree. Old, but still tall and mighty. For years he lived his life with the lady. Pumpkin and Honey bunny. Blissful mornings, rose and daisy. Tulips and lilac. Magnolia and cherry. Cheery. Happy. Unconventional. Free. He let her go but she never left. Like a raven up above, overlooking the mess.


Bite the bullet and swallow it whole. The rabbit's hole is down below. Across Achilles' Styx and down the Acheron. The morning's dusk and the evening's dawn. Will you be ready when the clarions call? Leave Valhalla empty, that grim and greasy hall. For he died in his sleep or so they say. In the afternoon while the moon bathed in the bay.

About this entry