He was what he repressed,
ignored, denied, resisted.

The pale, knotted crust
of a limp and aged hand,
reality’s veneer was shattered
by phantasmagoric sleep.

The apocalypse of him as him,

a will be reined by freedom’s reign
and he would be as he sleeps,
know what he was when he loved.

He was overzealous,

codeine and Capulet,
professed himself of primal root

and total alienation,

thus compelled to babble love
in death’s anticipation,
reach for mineral soils of stage,
conceive of timeless

stage-less stage,
bloom another’s other.

One comment

  1. Craig,

    I like this format. It gives more clarity than the original format.

    A good article here:

    So little is truly known. At one time the belief was introduced that some of the writings of Shakespeare were
    written by his students.

    I wonder how wrong future generations will get the history of this present day.

    Sure hope they don’t base it on TV or the movies. Maybe the best each of us can do is to chronicle our individual history in the most honest way possible. Thinking of the kim and him, two powerful fruitcakes,
    I’m guessing we better write fast.



Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s