Heyla, my fine friends, greetings to another bit of strangeness that popped from this pile of smouldering ruin I use for a brain. Hope is suits and is to your liking. If it is, or if it ain't, just write me a quick little review, I'd be ever so grateful. Might be more, depends on if there is a need to continue the midnight meanderings of this mental masterbation I like to call poetry. (Sorry for the alliteration 'spill", but like BP, I'll promise to clean it up and just leave it there under guard, I don't care if poor, helpless little word creatures are being poisoned by my aliteration, I am pure verbal 'E-ville') Buwahahahaha!
Oh, bother, almost forgot: I don't own anything of anybody elses, this is just written in all good fun, the only recompense I recieve is the acclaim or jeers placed upon this story and my head by my peers.
"Twaddle!" a disgusted voice booms as across the room a well-handled tome flies through the air to slam against the wall of institutionalized cream. Fortunate in his lack of roommate at this moment, he neither had to concern himself with accidental injuries to his potenial dorm-mate, just a slight scuff revealing a light green tint from the past. With a frustrated sigh, he retrieves his missle and smooths the few pages crinkled from its flight and unscheduled landing.
Some perverse imp seems to propel him to the screen and keyboard, provoking his inner poet, fingers flashing over the keyboard slaming keys with hunting fingers in his inusual style. A wicked grim forms on his face, the more he typed the the bigger the grin.
Love Most Rank
Where love's radiant blossom most sour'd turned,
and happy heart in deamon's forge burned,
O'er damned being living still,
doth echo horrendous stoned mill,
Mine invalid state do weeping bring,
yet still the lark do winged sing
Unto thine graved body born,
this wearied pilgrim arrivith forlorn,
And so to darkest shadow find,
the unliving quickened not in mind.
But still this walking corpse do bear,
the image of my soul so fair,
Whose visage do the angels weep,
for not so fair their beings keep,
While face and form most beauteous see,
heart and mind most septic be,
And to such falseness promise made,
mine centre core do shrink and fade,
Thus to mine word must honours met,
'pon such a sorrowed course is set.
Sitting back a bit aways from the computer, his now unfathomable features glance over this new exhibit of a deep-seated hurt. With one click on the 'X', a box jumps out, asking if he would like to save his untitled document...on pressure of the mouse and this would disappear forever, just a momentary exercise, gone, leaving no visible trace, no record, forever...he presses the left mouse button. A box appears, asking for a file name to save it under. Typing in '1998taxes', he moves his cursor to save and the program disappears from his screen, leaving the blue glow looking out until he shuts it down.
Remember to review, it is like the best stuff ever!
