@ Blog

Seven & Eva In French’s Forest: Other Woman From The Woods / Lady Faye Of French’s Forest

at — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 18:38:49 +0000

i Lady Faye Of French’s Forest

“Eva …” Seven said, lightly touching his new love’s porcelain knee.

She had been slipping in and out of consciousness for about an hour now, leaning into his shoulder, her drool smeared across his plaid sleeve.

He delicately brushed some stray red locks from her face.

It made him nervous that she was sleeping so much, and he was glad they would soon be arriving–when she would wake again, and he could relax.

He longed for her companionship in the deepest sense. Even when she only drifted off ever so lightly, he felt more alone, and more lost.

When she was gone into the oblivion of sleep, he was more exposed to the visions, left vulnerable and helpless.

The old fears would creep back in. The black clouds would again roll overhead. He would once more grow anxious.

Faye would fall in sight, on every strand of wind and traffic, and he would hear her mad voice cackling at him:

‘Come show me your Lucky Hands, Seven … Show me your Lucky Hands!!! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha, Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha … SHOW ME … YOUR LUCKY … H-A-A-A-A-A-NDS!!! AH-HA HA HA HA! AH-HA-HA-HA-HA …!’

She would tell him she was coming for him, and that he couldn’t run for long.

She would tell him she was the only one for him, and that he couldn’t ignore the match their fate had made in hell.

She would tell him that they belonged together forever, behind the bent boughs of French’s Forest.

Reanimation

@dmin — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 22:32:29 +0000

Once upon an impossibly ancient, now petrified nest,
Two lovebirds lived as a feather, yet always in vain at best,
For the current twisted crests, of our often fallen flocks,
Have locked on hate’s faithless weathervanes in protest,

For before the wars warped the world’s way, we were blessed,
And we loved equally, but only shared our beds with favourites,
Yet today, love’s viciously vain versions are villainously restless,
For fawning over the infamous, we’re favouring fickler lips’ met.

So all of our hardened hearts will fly along,
But only for so long, so solo, under such duress, unfettered before,
Our chronic independences instill in us all,
Such lonelinesses we’ll be unable to sustain our isolations anymore,

And in deliverance, our cynical confidences in solitude will slide,
And we will diverge from our sad single lifestyle mores, to reunite,
And tour the continents of commitment and romance’s tidal words,
Where knights sung for ladies, but for brides, swung their swords.

So in preparation for the end, in an unprecedented universal love in,
All will begin to pair up as ones and zeros once again,
And by reuniting with our own soul binary oppositions,
We will finally be able to discontinue feeling so trapped from within,

Yes before too long, in unison, innumerable twosomes will blossom,
And the fields of empty longing will run barren, as love fairs better on,
For by recollecting the shards of our shattered childhood cadence songs,
We will be extinguishing fires ashen in karmic catastrophes common.

And by the stiff proud power, of our upshot hardened hearts now humming,
We will be fully embracing the bold beauty of simple monogamous loving,
Never again to be shackled by the alienating wanderlust of crush’s longings,
Now plaguing every man, woman and animal, addicted to fresher fawnings,

Yes, with our new manuscripts on living, we will be faithful and forgiving,
And we will wish everyone so vividly, back into the primal pining’s dream;
We will banish the banshees of subterfuge to the ends of human freedoms,
Choosing to reign in the dwindling dreams, and see them lit more readably.

New Empire

@dmin — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 22:31:52 +0000

Where once rolled lush, verdant pastoral meadows,
The mad modern mega-cities now stand jagged, dead and hollow,
For the endangered forest floor, not long ago leafy and log-locked,
Is now all cold worthless concrete and metal.

And where once rose great red wood, and wild dinosaurs,
Insane city subways now scream across the world,
For what’s left of Mother Nature once so wonderfully plentiful,
Can now be counted on one guilty human hand alone.

Yes, solely in the mind’s eye remains the only authentic oasis,
Still left for those fleeing these despised industrial hell holes,
For if one only dares drive deep enough, under heavy iron hides,
One will always find inside long-sought golden garden shells.

For only in optimism are we capable of such higher superhuman feats,
And only in imagination can we emancipate such heavily chained feet,
For if one just braves creativity, trading it in for the failures they meet,
One will be prepared for the best of everything capably conceived,

Yet when fleet street feet break away, escaping to big sky countrysides,
They usually can’t keep still long enough to save their own lives,
Expecting long red lights, and beggar lines at every corner,
Along with all of the chilling ill urban lifestyles.

And when country bumpkins pile into their station wagons,
To spend their days gawking at big city center attractions,
They gravitate toward the rustic haunts of familiar fashions,
Likened to hardwood taverns, and abandoned railway stations.

So its not the person’s place, but his or her proud purpose,
That persuades a hollow house, like a hopping home to feel,
And with likewise stubborn wills, tombs turn into towns,
And red beating fists, become high hearts’ songs fulfilled,

And life’s secondary circumstances shall not all assemble,
How one acts under anxiety, or where one’s will will fully fall,
But rather first principles of causation will always resemble,
How everyone’s ultimately their own captive captain universal.

Bonfire

@dmin — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 22:31:18 +0000

Ever since Prometheus long ago, when flint and stone sparked,
And stole our innocent souls from old Mother Nature,
We’ve grown grim and cold, beyond our savage primordial mould,
From which we’ve all been struck so wondrously pure,

And never since Atlantis sunk below, when the superhumans went extinct,
And we lost our towering powers to roam through the mind’s outer regions,
Growing so childishly stupid as stone, ignorant of our own immortal bones,
Way off course in the world, yet still indifferent toward what it all forebodes.

And now all of us are unravelling fast, spiralling downward,
Into the gaping abysses of our avarices’ sinful allures,
Snaking dead last through the lost swamps of reality’s insanities,
Gone blissfully oblvious to all of our original treasures,

See, sometime between now and infinity, we abandoned all reason,
And we began gnawing at the hands of insanity, reaping demise’s needs,
Faking death to get more sympathy, for calamity’s messiest seasons,
Incapable of being reasoned with, for good measure–and means even,

For ever since sentience first banged open its big brash entrance,
That godly ball afire has been rolling over everything,
And creatures of lesser design and greater humanity,
Have been crushed in the frenzied path, of our ego driven sins,

And always calling on the guts to be greedier, we’re doomed in here,
Trapped between a sharp wedge, and a mountain’s giant despair,
Spurned by our brothers, burned by our mad mothers and fathers,
And all too sure the messengers have buried blades in the letters.

For never stopping to talk about what and who we were doing in,
We’ve been using our forces for the purposes of evil intentions,
Always strumming the violins of violent end-game repercussions,
Without ever discussing better uses for times spent in judgment.

Oh, we’re forever forcing forward, for unfathomably fickle future uses,
Unreservedly reclaiming matter and space, for our own special purposes,
So certain of our mortality, driving stakes deeper in our dark eternities,
Trading endlessness for ownership, consuming the cosmos so fervently.

The Sunspots Of Serendipity,
by M. A. Torrington, Honours B.A.
Abridged Edition 2008, Four-Hundred Forty Quatrains
18,682 words, 5 Books, 55 Poems
Copyright 2008
$20.00 Cdn + Shipping

Crescents On The Bar

at — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 21:16:57 +0000

Crescents On The Bar