These are stories, but they’re all told in a poem format, and rhyme.
You can tell a lot about someone by the music they listen to when they’re drunk.
Off their ass—
It all comes out in the high.
Chaos breeds serenity.
Calmness equates slothfulness.
A man shouts with closed lips.
A woman cries with a smiling face.
And for one day, a disgrace, is exchanged for the answer.
Exchanged for the way—
And it is he, with a face pale as snow; powdered, and smiling.
With paints of blue, red, and a crimson clown nose, he stands, arms extended in triumph—a Molotov Cocktail in one hand, and a squeak-horn in the other.
Come forth to squeak and toss fire!
A shot glass worth is to drink, and the rest is to throw and burn; against the antagonist; goosestepping madmen in gasmasks in droves.
Unyielding droves, dodge the fire—from the fireclowns.
In where the soldiers use ammo and violence, the clown uses laughter and absurdity.
For what is more absurd than a mad clown?
Haunted by the shadows around him?
His world; war-torn, and made lunatic from the endless marching.
The boots on a man crack the skull with the sound; of men marching in droves—marching in rows.
The “HOORA” that comes from them; antagonists and authoritants.
With their tanks, they jump the suburban sidewalk, roll over the grass and rose bushes, slamming craters into houses.
TO evict the ones broke and poor—come for, to get blood from a stone—blood from the soul.
Drafted in, and brainwashed to obey—to attack the weak, and embelish the rich.
And that’s when the mad clowns step in.
With laughter unending, and darting all around; thousands with their faces painted and red noses.
Chasing away praetorian-sins.
With horns they squeeze; they tape two to their shoes—the sound of the clowns is all around.
The soldiers open fire, but the clowns are too fast!
They dash and dash, unendingly they dash!
With water canons, shooting forth; they intercept the marcher’s course—and soak the goosesteppers.
With ballons filled with pink paint, they toss them in the air.
Hitting soldier after soldier; staining their fatigues.
With rioting giddy laughter, the clowns bounce around–
all over the asphalt streets, over sidewalks, and rolling over tanks, HONKING and BONKING!
Clowns sporadic in motion; and mayhemic in sound–
Bouncing and bouncing; the squeaking squeaky balloons!
blot out the sun, and disrupt the helicopters.
Colorful hair; rainbow in patterns, or red like their noses–
The lunatic clowns zip and dash, and the soldiers can’t discern where their foe is–
Then vanish behind storefronts, houses or underground; leaving a burned city behind.
That’s the smell of corruption, going up in flames–from the laughter of the clowns, who by way of oppression, have all gone insane.
The sun. A halo.
The halo to end all halos.
Shine over the saint clowns’ heads.
As they fly about, disrupting war.
A disturbance a disturbance.
The clowns cause a disturbance.
Painting tanks pink; and moving about on pogo sticks bouncing—-
War is war; there is no way out.
The battlefield is the house.
The blood is the carpet; and the souls are the ambience—cries and their sound.
Chariot, chariot, rolling over the fields.
Dead on arrival, are anyone who yields.
Arrows without pause fire upon—unarmored enemy-noise—inlanders.
Swords go out, and slice like madmen—hitting trees and bone.
Chariots, chariots, gathering souls.
It’s the great gather of women; lifting them up one at a time—-
their milk breasts and soft skin; a gift from the divine
the conquering of this world, with every ounce of might.
For the feral princes with loose lips utter out all lies.
Take out their eyes! Sprinkle salt over them—and with wine, and the two eyes like clams, we will dine.
Loose women here, loose women there—everywhere. Longing for a purpose.
Looking for warriors.
The rolling sounds of armored horses, and the clinging sound of swords.
All in a day’s work, for the chosen ones, and their horde—
Is it the rolling metal like twisted metal that crushes us, or the weight of this world?
Heavy metal, unyielding, like a sinner.
Unable to depart from its own evil—mechanical evil.
Unwilling to bend, and unwilling to ascend.
The metal to end all metals; controlled by soldier men.
With gasmasks across their faces, they are formless—with arms and legs, yes—but without the empathy that makes us human.
Following orders to march the tank across the forest.
The forest once filled with birds, is now a desolate wasteland, trees like spires, vines hang from them—the blue-green everglade.
And then, she appears.
It is her, with elven ears.
A flowing gown, teal colored—
Like weightless nylon she swings from the trees; her face stretched with concern, and loathing.
Staring down at the human-war machines.
It is her; she is the civilian noise that worships the trees, as all elves do.
Unaffiliated with this man’s order. Unwilling to bind to King and country.
That’s what the tank-tires are for.
The newworld road. Paving the way, and setting up checkpoints, the villagers must pay.
Hanging from a branch, she aims her arrow, and it hits the apparatus metal with a ting.
But an arrow against metal is like a stick against titanium.
The soldiers aimed and fired their rifles at the elven denizen, to get it to scatter away.
In a panic, the elf swung from the trees to get away, her bare feet pitter-pattering the bark and kudzu.
Once again, The Order prevails.
Every now and again, she’ll send for her sisters; and then they’ll be an army of em aiming their arrows, trying to entrap the Big Boy Tank a’rollin’.
But it’s all just sister-civilian-noise.
The Order prevails, with each pass of the tracks over the forest bed.
And with two men inside, and the cannon loaded, the long-ears don’t stand a chance.
Adagio for Glass Harmonica, K 356, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791) <—-Glass harmonica song used for audiobook
The Panopticon of Pain (Audiobook)
The Panopticon of Pain.
It’s where the prisoners come out, in shame.
A concrete hole, about 1,000 feet underground rests, with a skylight used as a ceiling.
Ominous, and palely yellow, the skylight glows over the rotting concrete cells. In a circle, like a sphere, where prisoners hide in fear.
Inside rusted metal cells, one at a time, in permanent isolation. Unable to leave their forced-dorms, for the crimes they’ve done—until coming undone.
The harsh neck-snaps of the metallic gears ring out every couple minutes that pass, from the grinding bloodworks.
A single watchtower dots the middle of it all, like a black spire with gasmasked goons on it. In a 360, able to see all around—panorama incarnate.
And then, the siren sounds!
The gasmasks press a button, and every cell opens at once.
And like a spotlight, or a beam, the skylight focuses its illuminant stream.
And then, they come out.
Like rats outta the closet, ambling toward the false-light.
The prisoners—all dressed as clowns!
In a circus!
Their faces painted white as snow, stained from tears of embarrassment.
Big red noses glued on them all, with big pink rosy cheeks, and white multilayered neck ruffs.
With running mascara, and multicolored hair, and tortured faces they amble out.
Like raving wolves cheering, or like children parading, the gas masked jailers clap—for the prisoners have finally entered the courtyard!
Then the music plays. Like invisible wet glass bowls scraping up against each other, the glass harmonica from the prison’s rusted sirens blares out—the fun will out.
In a painful waltz, the decorated inmates twirl around in the honey-light.
Lifting their arms and tousling their fingers around themselves. Their teeth grimacing with each spin.
A basketball bounced here under the rust-red acoustics, sounds like 5,000 at the same time—but here? The ball is red.
Small, being thrown about in their hands, under the gas masked men, cheering for their inclusion.
For hours uninterrupted, the clownmates twirl like teacups, until the music ends.
Once more, the skylight return to origin.
Time for the inmates to return to their cells.
With trembling smiles they crawl back in—-into the rustmetal.
The door shuts behind them, and they await the time a’gaine, for them to return back into the concrete aquadock they call, the courtyard of shame.
The Inevitable Bladed-Prison (Audiobook)
His arms were made of wood.
They were as wooden as a mannequin—his pencil shaven arms.
Kalif was claustrophobic. His soul was crushed under the concrete weight of the room.
There was no way out for him. He was surrounded by despair.
In a concrete room, concrete was everywhere.
The ambience combined with the impenetrable silence, so quiet, that one could hear the shuffling hair from their classmate’s eyebrows flex.
One could hear the wiping of sweat.
There, seated in wooden desks they all were. The expressionless, aimless, and directionless teen youth. Wearing same-clothes, with unimportant hairstyles, each staring forward in vain. Fog was in the room, set up like a classroom, and it covered over the teacher.
Like blurry glasses, the farther from the chalkboard you stared, the harder it was to see.
They each were given a test to take.
This test was the test of tests, and there wasn’t any more need for any other tests.
This test was the test to decide all other tests.
Kalif, stared down at his test and began.
The inescapable soundless room flooded his mind with worry. This way and that way, the scribbles of graphite shifted across the paper, with the occasional breaking of lead. One-by-one, Kalif watched nervously as his classmates would get up, to sharpen their pencils.
And that’s when the fear came over him.
The fear that his pencil would break, and he would need to wander the fog to repair it.
It was an aimless walk, meaningless and worthless.
But as the hours dwindled, soon his pencil started to become dull. He knew the time to sharpen it would come.
Finally, the time came when he could no longer use his utensil adequately.
And so he stopped!
No longer working on his test, he huddled his arms over his paper, and slumped his head—too stubborn to leave his seat.
“What if my arms turn to pencils!?” He thought. “What if I have to sharpen them too?!”
In his stubbornness, his test was falling behind, while the others continued. Finally with a sigh, he stood to his feet.
With legs feeling like cinderblocks glued to hardening concrete, he slid one leg over the other, slowly making his way toward the black sharpener.
And with legs shaking like jackhammers, and arms tossing about like noodles, Kalif’s teeth chattered.
“LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!” cried one of his classmates. “HIS ARMS! HIS ARMS! HIS ARMS!”
And sure enough, to his absolute horror, Kalif looked down to see that his arms had morphed into pencils! Dark green, wooden, oversized pencils!
He had horrible pencil arms!
“Oh no his arms are both pencils!” cried another classmate.
His arms were made of wood!
They were as wooden as a mannequin—his pencil shaven arms!
Kalif, mortified, flailed his arms about like a thrashing salmon in a panic. Not only was his pencil dull, but now he had two more to sharpen.
It was a damn, damn, shame…
And he had to write with his two arms that whole day.
Never the siren; ever the muse.
To be defeated, is to gloom upon the news.
Broken and shattered, the bones will crack–dead on arrival, like the ghost of a past.
Never the soul; forever the mold.
The soul molds, what everunfolds.
The jawbone is a bone milked dry with unabashed words.
A decade of lonely souls, go froward and untold.
Nothing is same; same as nothing.
Faceless is the man unashamed, by his endless wanting.
Like a phantom going forward in vain.
Never the night; always the pain.
The soul is encumbered by itself—the body is a weight; chaining the man to the ground.
Bound by itself; shackled by skin.
Unlocked by wandering; wading through sin.
==================
Never the siren; ever the muse; for that sweet sound is in the air!
The music is a broken melody, like scraping plates; angelic plates, like a glass harmonica within its grace.
The allude! The allude!
A broken harmonic tune—it comes forth, come for, to awaken the noon.
The sound of the color orange, is having its way with the color turqouise.
And the untamable cerulean blue hue—I cannot blend with—becomes the sky, becomes her dress—I cannot fight nor contest.
Blue is the blue, and blue is the blue!
There is no other blue besides the bluest of blue hues.
For you see, the muse sings, but the siren chains!
Shackling young men a’gaine.
With a cat-o-nine-tails, she whips the flesh—until skin rips open; she holds no detest.
And sings her song, like a harpie—luring in meals.
The muse minds the melody; the siren snatches the flesh.
Like comparing a honeybee, to a moth’s breasts.
Never the siren! Never the siren!
Ne’er-do-well of the muse.
Lifting froward men along.
The muse, the muse!
Uninterrupted is the muse—
for with her tune, we’ve learned.
Of the coming grace of the lune—
As within; so without.
Darkness begat darkness. Light begat light.
Destruction begat chaos; life begat longevity.
Cowardice begat confusion; bravery begat fearlessness.
Therefore the angry writer begats an angry novel; while the sad writer begat a sad story.
A faithless writer begat agonism; while the god fearing begat morals.
A virgin artist, paints like a child; while a hedonistic artist paints like a sadist.
An evil man writes an evil book; while a good man writes a good novel.
A paranoid writer writes tin-foil hattery; a stoic writer deals in stoism.
A horny man depicts explicit actions; while a prudent man stays away from the brothels.
God begat godliness; the devil begat devilry.
A machine is equal to 1’s and 0’s; a human is equal to humanity.
There is never any inbetween; there is only yay’s and nay’s. This is the way it’s always been.
And always shall remain.
This sword is ebony made.
Owned by obsidian-ebony, and made from the soul.
A black sword, black as coal; it knows no end. It never tithers nor folds.
It is always black; as black as can be, and unabashed—its blade is sharper than an axe, with a razor that goes on for infinity.
For what shame is there to be had, in a sword made from pure black?
This coal is the coal that moves the soul. Black like the asphalt, black like a mountain made from blackmetal.
Black was the color of the razor against the flesh; from a swing held by the armed swordsman.
Hitting the skull, the skull splinters and yields. Unable to cope with the painful steel.
Obsidian, obsidian, tally ho there! Obsidian! Unable to be broken, for made like onyx.
Ebony-made, it is black like a purple everglade.
Come forth to thrust, and pierce the heart.
This sword is black, it cometh from obsidian—the blackest of all the blackest rocks.
And black is the hair on her head; with every strand. She is the sword-bearer, and tosser.
And of her a people are made, in this endless brigade.
All with black swords alike; and cannot be tamed.
Unable to be maimed, for obsidian beats the rock. Unable to be broken.
The black swordsman carries the blackmetal hilted in his black sheathe.
Awaiting the time for battle.
To unlock that ebony everglade—unyielding steel.
Blackmetal soul in the form of the blackmetal wielding chief.
The smoking gun too blind to see.
For the gun is invisible.
It comes from nowhere, and has no eyes to see where it’s going.
It’s the gun of darkness, yay, come to destroy or become.
Come for thyself, or from o’er there? The gun, yay, who have been wroth.
Without an answer, the gun stalls.
Too worried of change—-that accursed change.
It is nameless, looking for a name.
The smoking gun, fire and brimstone; for the soul.
It toils in vain, until the firing begane.
This smoking gun is a nameless accursed brigade.
Who goes there? Friend or foe?
The mindless namer, or the unsung stoic stone?
Accursed and lawless, smoking gun like the monk-in-a-prophet.
Shooting words, delivering truths.
Undead, and gone too soon—the gun on the lap in the afternoon.
Invisible to the touch, for this is the kind that grows on the mind. Like a mushroom or parasite.
Unable to decide—who chose the path.
And so the hand is severed, attached to nothing.
And the finger is trigger-disciplined, upon this smoking gun we call a prison.
Cascadia Legends and Poetry 