THE LAMB
He jumped from the top step. He thought he could make it all the way down and then he’d roll when he hit the floor in front of the screen. He was six and he didn’t make it. He would end up falling and breaking, snapping, tearing his arm on the dirty and dilapidated hard wood floor that his mother had been so anal over. Washing and cleaning it all day long, she rarely, if ever paid attention to little Alan, or her drunken, husband, who sat on his chair in the living room and burned his tobacco and drank his old brandy, killing time with the local news program or some Spanish program he couldn’t understand, but watched inherently anyway because he thought the girls were hot and sexy sounding. Mom would have come to the rescue had she been home. Dad was asleep on the chair, or passed out; no one could really tell the difference. It was a situation where he could be in a coma for weeks and no one would think differently of him, for he was a lazy and happy drunk. Alan had been crying for three hours and, in that time, when his mind raced with youthful ideas of what feeling this seemingly impending death would hold, he had made it up three of the stairs trying to get to wake his father. Mom walked in and screamed something along the lines of Oh my Lord in Hailing Heaven, what has happened to my baby, for she was a God-fearing and gentrified woman, and she lifted him from the cold and blood stained hardwood.
Even though he didn’t understand what multiple clavicle, humerus and scaphoid fractures, and infected tendon damage with marrow loss and lacerations reaching the fractured bones meant, he found it hard to believe the doctor’s hard and cold stare behind his half-assed smile could be a showing of a positive outcome, or a good chance of full recovery. Alan always, though he was six, had been able to read people and get into their shoes. He knew when Mom was upset, even when she didn’t show it, and so Mom had coined his nickname Soul on the basis that, as she had explained to him and the unconscious Dad, Because his little eyes look directly at your soul and understand and try and help you, just like a modern day Jesus. Alan hated his nickname, and, due to Dad’s use of colloquial language whenever he was awake, and the ignorance of his own son’s age, Alan retorted Mom with a stuttering and quiet Shut the hell up, you faggot whore. They left the hospital in Mom’s run down, piece-of-crap car and headed to the restaurant where they would be meeting Mom’s friend.
Mom’s friend, which was really sexually addicted stand in for Dad, was standing in line at La Casa de Los Lobos Negros when they pulled up. His tall and gangly features filled him with an air of stature yet homosexuality and his small arms and goofy smile were definitive signs of his proclivity for uncommonly gay lexicon, which he had shown Alan many times when he came over for a Visit by saying something like Oh Jeez or Hot Sauce. He stood amongst a crowd of migrant workers waiting for a seat because it was three o’clock and most people wouldn’t be caught dead at a dinner and bar at three, and it had often crossed Alan’s mind as to why they even opened at two in the afternoon in the first place, and then he would remember what Dad had said to him when he asked about it. Fuckin’ spics love workin’ at two. Piece of shit dump like that ought to make ‘em work earlier. He then remembers how Dad passed out almost immediately after he answered the question, and how he had wondered why Dad cursed so much, and what alcohol was.
Hey guys! Hey little Soul, how are ya’ pally? Hey sweet cheeks, he said with the stupidest smile on his face, I’m getting us some great seats out near the docks. He then proceeded to whisper something into her ear, Mom laughed. He muttered under his breath to himself something childish and they walked into the bedraggled little shack know as La Casa de Los Lobos Negros through a crowd of sweaty, incoherent Mexicans to be seated by the docks of the Long Island Sound. Alan thought this place was ugly, and so were the people, and the Sound was dirty. He scribbled something he was dissatisfied with on the table cloth the workers allowed you to write on, which wasn’t really a table cloth, but more of a sheet of construction paper with taped edges and a bulging middle from a poor job of tape placement. Mom’s friend pulled the chair out lamely for Mom, with his stupid smile effervescent, but neglected to stop pulling back and allowed Mom to fall, because he noticed Alan’s cold stare. Nothing Alan did really upset Mom’s friend until now, for Alan had recently been diagnosed with Hypomanic Disorganized Paranoid Early Onset Schizophrenic Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Bouts of Hideous Rage and Hatred, or H.D.P.E.O.S.O.C.D.B.H.R.H, which Mom called in public Alan’s Little Problem, and which the doctor said he would coin as Alan’s Disease in his medical report, just for him. The doctors were astonished when they found out that he had it at such a young age, or even at all, for there had never been a recorded case, and of course Alan looked normal. His symptoms included paranoid trips to the bathroom to wash his hands, which he always considered filthy, accumulating his items in strange ways and shapes, like a pyramid or a smiley face, and jumping off the handle at any out of place objects or what he would consider hindrances. His hypomania rarely if ever showed itself, though it was the precedent of the whole disorder. This had started about a year ago, directly after he fell in the road and scraped his knee. No one understands why this was a trigger. Dad had his own idea of it though. He had said Mom drank robust black coffee when she was pregnant. In fact, she rarely, if ever, acknowledged the pregnancy. She would sit in the living room half-naked in some tank toppy shirt, smoking, reading the Tijuana Bible, and drinking that mud she loved so much. Dad had always called it mud, and still did. He also would remind Alan frequently about how different Mom was after the pregnancy. She would wake up to get him from the crib, and you’d be cryin’ like a banshee on meth, and she’d stand there, hobbling’ back and forth until you got dizzy and threw up once or twice. I remember the puke. Oh God the fuckin’ puke. It would dry and she would still be holding you so you looked glued together. She did it every night. She would just stand there, with you pukin’ and cryin’ your guts out. Wonder what she was thinking about when she would stare. He had deep feelings for her then, and was conscious all the time. The day that turned the tide was when grandma died of aortic abdominal aneurism at age 117. Mom said Dad cried TOO SOON for days afterward. He began drinking at the bar on East Street corner to drown his sorrow, and ended up waking in alleyways with homeless men looming over him smiling with their hair askew. Mom took him home and started working full time at Matitelicox Enterprises, a two building, 28 employee business, working diligently to create the stuffing they made for taxidermy items. Dad left his job and took up drinking as a profession. Alan could remember dad saying at one point how he was drinking to go pro. Alan was four at the time. He didn’t understand the proper way to wipe himself and Dad would be open and honest about everything. The size of women’s breasts, anatomy, how good he used to look before Alan was born, how Mom used to be a hippie girl until the drinking, which turned her into the Save-Our-Souls-Dear-Lord religious. Dad missed Mom. Alan thought about how gay this guy Mom was fucking looked, with his pink shirt and gelled spike hair, and French suit he kept lint brushing. Alan crawled under the table to get his crayon which he had dropped and saw the friend, called Gary, was wearing white socks with suede loafers. Alan was fascinated at how retarded it was. He sat there with a malnourished look on his face for about a minute, as if his soul had been sucked out through those shoes and those socks. Gary must have forgotten Alan was down there, because he started to slip his hand between Mom’s legs.
Alan buddy, come up here and let me see your cast, he said from above the table. Alan hopped up to his chair, eager to show off his wounds. I jumped from the top step and broke it square in half. I could see the bone and everything, Alan said with a smile. Why you do that?, said Gary inquisitively. Well, I was trying to kill myself of course. Why else would I do it, dummy? Silence. Oh my…Alan is that true? Why would you try and kill yourself? My baby’s insane! Alan wondered what was so bad about the simple act of improvement of life, the overall ender of pain and suffering, as he ran toward the door to the first dining room and found a flight of stairs. His hypomanic defiance showed through as he ignored the screams of SIT DOWN muffled by the mumblings of the Mexican migrant workers in his way. Watch Mom, I can do it. No fear, you fag, like Dad says. He said it so plainly, as if something so dangerous was so very simple. Mom jumped from her chair. He jumped from the top step.

MINCEY MOONSHINER
Jolin Atlinson had always been fascinated by time. He awed at the sullen incoherencies pulling it forward constantly, marveled at how time may never be stopped or slowed down, and swooned over its perplexing existenceless existence. In short Jolin was a thinker and a deep thought maniac who got his jollies shook by the in congruencies puzzling him each day. He hadn’t been thinking though when he crashed his ’97 Plymouth into a pedestrian doing seventy on Interstate 95 on the very memorable night of 9 August, 2009, his twenty first birthday. He had been drinking, much more than his body could take-which was very little, for he was regarded as scrawny or lanky in most circles of friends, or at parties, and was in fact nicknamed The Stick, for apparent reasons, though never to his face- and he ended up reporting to the police officer interviewing him Da’ guy hit me. I wers’ jus’ sittin’ dare. He was a student at Yale at the time, a pre-law student with a quick wit, and was exalted for in his trial by the whole school administration, their defense being, such a smart young man of this caliber and wit? How may any person be so contented with stifling his contributions to this society? We say with the utmost sincerity, that all of these court proceedings are nonsense, and, needless to say, he was not granted freedom. Besides being sentenced to ten years in prison for negligent manslaughter and being expelled reluctantly from Yale, Jolin was assigned and set up by the judge for, upon his return to civilized society, an Ignition Interlock system to be set up on his car. The system lay just over the front driver’s side door, and looked like someone had glued a bong to his car, and had the words MINCEY MOONSHINER™THE GRAND MANAGEABLE IGNITION INTERLOCK SYSTEM FOR HOME OR DRIVE in uppercase 24 point font on its attaching part; a black computerized measuring system lay inside to measure the alcohol on his breath and did not allow him to enter if it read even the slightest amount. In prison Jolin was raped every day by his inmate Mongrel, and came out of jail a chain-smoking, weary-faced, serious, hobbling man with a set of muscles and tattoos that would make Arnold Schwarzenegger roll over and die. His eyes didn’t have the same youthful vigor and light acceptance they once had. He no longer looked like the promising prep-school kid who could go anywhere in his life. He swooned over time, and wished a reverse. He took heroin to ease the pain. He thought his life was terrible, until he met, with some unfortunate luck, Mr. Jayson Smites.
Jayson is a stout and short man with unwelcoming features. A lumbering, fat man who looked very out of place on the football fields he’d loved so much-he couldn’t really play though, because his kneecaps had been lost in a hit-and-run incident at the age of 10 in his home town of Hecktown, Pennsylvania, where the driver was on some sort of amphetamine and could no longer grip the amount of reality required to institute intuition, and careened off the beaten path of some off route street where Jayson was taking a stroll with his dog, now deceased-and a feared man in the court of law he would later represent-which, evidently, is no court whatsoever, but yet a gangs meeting house where they meet to rival each other on matters of street cred, or talk about who’s going into whose turf. His gait is dragging and slow which leaves long marks in gravel roads and dirt pathways. His head is small, much smaller than his body, which got that way because of a deep sea stint, which is what he likes to call it, but is, in all actuality, a result of being dropped by the mafia into the Marianas Trench-upon which occurrence a team of Coast Guard watchmen saved him at a depth of about two miles, and, upon emerging, he was reported and filed as having sustained a depth no other man could and his only injuries being his newly shrunken head, crushed extremities and a stutter. The only reason he is alive, in his mind, is because he sold his soul to Satan and God is punishing him with life. The curse of life has been thrust, ever so powerfully, upon my plighted body, as he likes now to put it. His voice doesn’t fit his appearance, it’s a high pitched, shrill toned voice that when in deep conversation, or whenever he utters the syllable ES, hisses and whistles in childlike excitement. He is, by his own psychotic volition, homeless.
In Jayson’s short 25 years of life, he has been arrested on no less than 32 occasions, most of which were faulty accusations, has been sexually and physically abused, has used drugs, been involved in 13 motor-vehicle accidents, attacked by dogs-where he lost his right forefinger- in an abandoned parking lot where he was just trying to sleep, has tried to commit suicide twice, and is an emotional phenomenon, never once showing any sign of discontent. His eyes-ever-following such as the Mona Lisa or the eyes of civil war soldiers in photographs, e.g. he’s a creeper-will bulge and water like a child’s if ever you mention anything of his past. In fact, his whole demeanor and appearance is that of a child’s. A balding, alcohol drinking, and womanizing child. His facial hair is patchy as well, just to add to the over-all affect.
Jolin found him at a required AA/NA meeting -he couldn’t recall which type it was- after the accident. He saw him sitting in the corner near the coffee machine reading to anyone who came by portions of Kierkegaard’s The Sickness unto Death. Jolin could hear him faintly, In spite of or in defiance of the whole of existence he wills to be himself with it, to take it along, almost defying his torment. For to hope in the possibility of help, not to speak of help by virtue of the absurd, that for God all things are possible — no, that he will not do. And as for seeking help from any other — no, that he will not do for all the world; rather than seek help he would prefer to be — with all the tortures of hell, if so it must be. Jolin quickly realized he was not an alcoholic/addict as one would expect, but in fact the instructor of this horrid class, which he only teaches on Fridays because the rest of the week he is enthralled in using all of his energy in getting arrested and/or judging the cases for the gangs, and is, as Jolin would later find out, only here to make a distinct point as to what type of character someone could become if one were to let themselves slip away; an experience sort of thing that showed real results because, when he would talk about theft or drugs, the people required to come because of drug arrests/DUI’s would mentally masturbate to the lovely thought of relapse and abuse- a class containing, in his Yale mind, the lowest form of the low. Jolin spun on his feet and slapped his hand on the wall, trying to console his addicts mind. He stood there sweating for a moment and breathing heavily until a bedraggled addict/alcoholic touched his shoulder lightly and said, faintly, and almost, in Jolin’s perspective, prophetically, the wall don’t love you back.
Jolin jumped into his black iron chair at the back of the room, laying his feet against the ground with a loud I-don’t-want-to-fucking-be-here thump, shaking Jayson and making a schizophrenic fat woman to his direct Northeast yelp in fear. No one said a word, the room was in a total and complete silence, save for the Mark 3, 1986 Humtastic™ Air-Blower and Heater-near Jolin and a black man in cowboy boots with dark, rusted spurs-that sputtered and wheezed a broken flow of air, fluxing in temperature, at its old age. Most of the people didn’t even have their eyes open. In fact Jolin didn’t think anyone was awake until the black man next to him jumped up and yelled at the top of his raspy lungs, sweet Lord Jesus in Heaven, save my erratic soul!, to which the seemingly narcoleptic group sprung to life with a rousing roar, which Jolin was innately sure would get them kicked out of the room at the Rec. Center they had rented out for use in meeting for this AA/NA group. An AA/NA group which had been so adamant about Jolin being brought under their-the AA/NA association’s-care. Jayson dropped a clipboard he was holding and stood up-which at his small height had no real effect to his stature among the crowd, and most people just snickered as he did so- and screamed, with delight radiating from his brown teeth and wrinkled face, TALLYHO!
Jolin could tell it was going to be a long night.

PHENOMENAL FINDINGS
The anatomically correct mannequin lay with its arms splayed and prostrate on the dirty floor of the workers trailer-a trailer you see at building sites or, in this case, the headquarters for a freelance mining business-the mannequin’s head donned with a sticker containing the childish mantra KOOL KIDS ON THE KIDDIE SWING GET THE KOOL KAKE being alike and, for the tall, seated woman at the trailers desk, pertaining to the Ettero Freelance Mining and Excavating, Inc. mantra of NICE GUYS MINE LAST. Years had passed since Lucy Franz’s husband passed from this world in a blaze of glory. A literal blaze; he passed from this world from a mining accident when his Zippo™ Lighter Fluid leaked a trail behind him from the spot of dynamite detonation to the safety zone three hundred feet away, lighting him on fire and, ultimately, killing him-a blaze that still resonates into the deepest confides of Lucy’s psyche, and effects her work, especially, today.
She sits amongst a pile of seemingly random papers that she touches and frowns at every once in a while, her blank eyes staring, affectless, down, waiting for them to complete themselves. When standing, she is a tall and brawny woman, with arms of tetrahedral shape and thighs that stump thunder when they move. She gained a significant amount of weight since her husband passed from this world. That what she said, passed from this world. Never died. She softened her words to make herself feel better about what was truly there, a sort of accidentally inherent denial of reality, the way people with psychotic depression use humor to console themselves on matters of grieving (be it for death of others or the asymptomatic feeling of death depression instills in its sufferers), and it worked, for the most part, for others. They accepted the fact that she may not be able to accept the fact of it (redundancy), and so the days played on like a never ending collision with a train of emotion, for anyone who saw her-feeling as though they were helpless and could only stand off to the side and say I’m sorry, which, for the depressed and grieving, is the most callous and pretentious thing to say, only fueling the flames of their anger because for them it makes them feel like someone is trying to take the pain away but they feel there is no pain because of denial; the wheel of fortune rolls on with spikes sharpened, in a sense-and most people who caught her glaring eyes as she walked-less of a walk, more of a hobble and stumble; the unmannered and clumsy walk of The Fat-as she walked down the ashen streets of Ettero, West Virginia they would veer away from her and hide in remorseful disbelief that they could be so selfish. Lucy knew people did it. She saw; no one could deny if she waddled over to them and they were confronted in one of the many alleys of the small mining town-laying at the foot of a mountain with consistent strip mining vehicles running to and fro through it. But even though Lucy knew of their now seemingly trite disillusionment of her mental state, she couldn’t help but feel she had done it to herself. That even though her husband passed from this world two years after they had moved to Ettero- the death was inevitable under such conditions, albeit surprising- that she had done most of it to herself. And now sitting in her office, minding her work, she thought, inadvertently, that maybe this realization that she needed to just accept the fact that she is no longer depressed about her husband dying, but is now depressed about the fact that she can’t even walk because of the weight gained by the initial shock of the death-over 300 pounds extra- and that she can’t even summon the energy sufficient to work, or even complete a task; that maybe this realization was the only true thing that could allow her to come out of the ocean of black she laid at the bottom of and breathe the freshness of the mountain air. People who blame themselves initially for something just start a cycle of blaming the blame they had started with for their problems now. A never ending loop within the flow of life that drives a person deeper into the metaphysical shitstorm they’ve created. Maybe Lucy was going to be okay now, with this clearing of the enigma. Maybe. She pulled her eyes away from the work and toward the mountain of donut boxes that were stacked haphazardly in the right hand corner of the trailer, near the door. Shit, she said aloud. She looked out of the small window and saw a man running toward her trailer in rampant stride. He carried with him a binder and 3 small rocks and was sweating profusely. As he closed in on the trailer, Lucy could make out details. It was one of her miners, a moderately sized man with brown scraggly hair, blue eyes and distinctive short arms. His mining hard-hat fell off of his head as he sprinted and his blue overalls fell askew on his shoulders. He wore a shirt with the initials T.A.M. on it, which meant nothing to Lucy. She tried hard to remember his name as he bounded a large rock about 20 yards in front of the trailer. All she could pull from her memory was the name Jones, and figured he would understand if she called him the wrong name-she had over 250 workers, and could not be expected to remember them all. She heard him wheezing as he climbed the stairs to the trailer and knocked voraciously on the door, yelling in a southern drawl, LUCY!, as he did so. She stared out the window as she fumbled to her feet to open the trailer door, her eyes turning ever so slowly as she did so. She opened the door, turning the handle inherently slow, dreading the reason for this intrusive and obstructing visit. Her former steps continually hobbled the trailer, and the man that may be called Jones jumped into the room before she could open the door fully.
He stood a while, panting in front of her. Finally, after what seemed like eons of silence, he spoke. Uranium, Lucy. Fucking Uranium, he said through struggling breaths. Lucy’s eyes widened so fast, she could hear the tear her pupils made dilating. Uranium meant, for miners, imminent shut-down. She looked longingly to her donut pile.
Where the hell did it come from?
We found it down in the lower part of the mine, near the heart of the mountain. Lucy, I don’t know what to do. Everyone saw. No fucking secrets. I mean, Christ, they were so damn loud about it too. Hootin’ and hollerin’. The blind guy who works the elevator, what’s his name? Davis? He fucking knows what’s going on they were so loud. Everyone’s freaking out. I just…I just-
Don’t tell me about freaking out Jones. I run this company. There has got to be some way to get around this, you know there’s got to be-
Jones? No, no, no, my name is Terrance Frost.
Right, Terrance. Mindy Frost’s brother? Right. Okay, well Frost, I know how you work. Mindy told me you’re smart, a well-rounded kind of guy. WE can work this out. We don’t have to involve anyone else. I want the largest guys you have on your team to excavate the part of the mine where you found this shit. Strip it clean. Then flush all operations for the day and bring all of the Uranium back to trailer in lot A-15, near the dumpsters? We’re going to put this off somewhere. We need to, or you and me, WE, ain’t going to be making any kind of something around here. This town will go dead. What’re you waiting for tying your shoe? Get to fucking WORK.
Lucy had emphasized the WE, even if it were grammatically incorrect-she hated when she made errors because of her anger- to make a point of them being in on this disaster, if such events may turn to be so, together. Terrance kicked up the dust behind him as he ran back toward the mountain, telling anyone he saw that was staring-intrigued by his initial sprint to Lucy’s trailer-telling them to mind themselves. Lucy paced, up and down, shaking the trailer and making its wheels squeak and cry in agony. She couldn’t believe it. Goddamn Uranium has to be in her mine. Lucy’s life flashed before her eyes. All the times she spent on picnics with her now passed from this world husband, and how they laughed and cried. How he had always said, in a time where she was young, and slender, that he would take care of her. Forever and always. How he said he would run the business, and have kids with her, and keep her young and fit and in love. How she loved and lost, and wondered now her place in this world where the fuel of nuclear destruction would turn up in her mine. Her thoughts echoed in her head, as if they were yelled from a mountaintop. They faded into the black behind the images she saw in front of her, in her minds eye. She opened the door to the trailer and picked up rocks and hurled them at the side of it. People recessed into the alleyways and behind hills of dirt near her. She scowled and leaned her head against trailer, in turn, leaning it. Nuclear destruction echoed especially long. She turned, bleary eyed from pressing them, closed, against her arm, toward the mountain. She could make out the distant figure of Jones…Terrance running bee-line for it. She remembered her passed from this world husband, and his relaxed and calming smile. A white flash of hot dynamite igniting awoke her from her nostalgic trance.

STUFFING
A man in duress from the mystery of life is a tyrant at the table. The torment of the folly, of ignorance and intolerance, or impatience, weighs heavily upon his already burden laden shoulders-him, being the head of the family- and so, he may yet forget himself when his family needs his support to start their day. It’s the mans business to play the part of loving husband, caring father, prophetical master of all things children related, son, worker, and sometimes, though rarely must this be done in front of the children, he must take on role as mistake maker. He must take up the sword, especially in times of great stress, and learn to walk valiantly through the fire, for the betterment of the family. He will accomplish such a feat in learning.
To learn from our lives we must first live them, as complete and as thorough as we can make them. And this basic fact is what makes most men dread the fate of dying, meaning, to them, the ultimate part of this learning of life and its wonders. In this world, they have lived nearly but a fraction of an infantile spec on the colossal and ever-growing continuum of time, so how can they be expected to learn all needed in this journey into self which leads him away from corners, and to accept, along with this journey, the ultimate result of this learning? How must one react to ones own mortality? Maybe, it could be said, that the incoherencies and impromptu learning experiences are ex post facto the divine workings of some gigantic being sitting on a throne in the clouds, diddling with ants in the infinity of this universe, which is unlikely, or the result of something less grandiose, and closer to home. Maybe man, in his endless search for self, can be said to find self in the interworking of the everyday and family. Maybe one must react in hopeless horror to the end of days, instead of wasting his moment of living on the meaningless, the trite, and the banal. Maybe the end of days is to remind you, as you loop around in your soul’s incarnation, not to fuck all of this up and release yourself from the values of family and the wonders of living. Maybe God is just another word for family. The husband who passed from this world must damn well think so. Shitstorm after shitstorm man must take, day in and day out, just to come home to whining and complaining. Daddy, Mommy said no. Daddy, Brother said this, or Sister said that. Metaphysical things no one believes to be meaningful. But it is the metaphysical which defines the physical and allows the physical to manifest. Where is action without thought? All this is a primer for the end. Everything leads to black. Albeit, a lit black. Davis, the blind miner, can be heard chuckling as I write. I can just see a psymatic logomaniac coming on this page, and a lady in bleach blonde curls curling her lip and popping her gum. Everything leads to black.


THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE WATER
Thomas Morn ran every morning at 5 A.M., stopping at the tree on the corner of Fleet and Freud Ave. in the rural areas outside of Johannesburg, South Africa. His head pounded him every time he stopped, his doctors had said it was an extrapyramidal effect to the meds, a tiring combination of Zoloft™ and the aspirin for his heart-the run being to help him awake thoroughly in the morning, along with his daunting coffee chug and late afternoon triple tea time. His stock I-pod™ played David Bowie’s Heroes as he ran, a version he downloaded illegally and skipped around every several moments, annoying him methodically. He can smell a fire in the backyard of some angry eye-patched man. When he ran, it seemed to him like he was watching himself, like it was some grand task or a cutaway scene in a movie, with the rising sun glinting in some trucking camera lens just beyond his peripheral. A rocket just misses his head and strikes the house 20 yards to his southwest on the left side of the roof, blowing it to pieces and sending a baby’s crib out and into the air. He ran faster. This was not the first time this had happened, the revolution had been going on for three years and it could be almost expected that the Fanatics would try to get you. Especially in Thomas Morn’s case, being a Seat Holder in the South African parliament.

Resonance

I said something today
(Lacklusterly eyeing and fondling the air)
I witnessed something today
That shook my core
The tides arise my fire dies...
And befell unto me my own head
My grave
Floating in between the bear lake and
...dead Danielle awake your eyes...
My rocky shores
My city of ruin
Justice was made a fool
In this city
Cut the damned city
Cut the heart I stand upon
And lay my ashen feet
Near the river's water, running through
My filthy hands
Staining
With blood
Healing
With tears
...dead Danielle your fire cries.

Everything's Fun

What sank the Titanic is no secret,
The ice berg is more famous than the ship.

King Arthur is modish man,
Laying with the young.

Jack the Ripper was a psycho,
Or a misunderstood revolutionary.

It's later than ever to turn around,
When I've given up on expelling my demons.

King Midas would have done much better,
Were he to choose dust.

Dracula was thirsty,
And, ironically and unintentionally, God provided.

Jolin's Manic-Depressive Sentiments

High and Mighty, Also Slow

I struggle to think,
To write.
Its my life,
The only thing making me feel
Alive.
All of this worrying I do,
And my mother shrugs and hugs me
Saying,
"Everything is difficult and this world is cruel."
Grueling pain in my tenuous ears.
Justice is served a meal of grog and bread,
And sent to the halfway home for addicts.
Addicts of life.
Slaughterhouses,
Like the coffin here.

Orion, Orion, steady light,
Save me now, in this bright night,
I see too much, I know too little,
My soul, in stride, the irons whittle.

Say it again,
And again,
And again,
And again...

Still

Every time i see the sun
Be it in the morn
High noon
Dusk
I see within it's radiance
The might of it's rage
And i see
Time and time again
It seem to move
When I know
That
Like me
It is still.

We are Legion

Happiness.
Long ahead.
Long ago.
What's your name, my son?
WE ARE LEGION.

Heathen.
Decadent.
Deadly.
Completely, now are you in Hell?
WE ARE LEGION.

Greatly introduced,
Joyously praised,
Born of the State.
Who are you now?
WE ARE LEGION.

How Long Until Infinity?

Time and love, like a living being,

So thoughtless, they may be.

She sat there, making faces and giggling

Like a hyena,

Like a damned woman

Under possession.

Who knew you would work so efficiently?

So Effortlessly?

Dear god in heaven, my frivolous head

Teeming with the dead lives of fragile days of old.

How i long for those days.

How i long for the infinity of the world to submit itself to measurement.

Tear my body from this ashen earth,

Like frothing billows of maddening girth.

Look to my eyes for belittlement,

For loving hatred,

That this American society lays down for,

That it worships.

Die, die like them all.

It's okay, my beauty,

I wrote words for your love,

Stay here a while,

We could play a dirty game,

A game that old Jim called "Go insane".

Lets let the worms crawl in our brain

And clear the ever flowing stain.

Spanish words will slay our way.

Still, I think your beauty swells

The powerless mind into this hell

That makes the world seem upside down

And gives infinity it's crown.

Zephyr run with dried up leaves

In loo of judgment, time or taste.

And make us see the growing debt we owe to God

Or the Devil's clutch.

So, sicken me now with your tyrant qualms, or kill me with

Your healing storm of growing strife.

Time and love, like a living being,

So thoughtless, they may be.

So tireless upon us, it may seem.

James Morrison...Destroyer of Worlds

Tonight the computer tried to eat me.....in the form of jim morrison....

Knowledge from Hell

Little by little, the little are defeated.
One by one, the good may die.
Two by two, the kings are crowned.
Three by three, the kings are drowned.
More and more, the big fall down.
Ten by ten, the timid burn.
Thousands by thousands, we all burn.
Dig and dig, the graves in mass.
Rolling and rolling, down they go.
By and by, we sense our doom.
Then again, we know our doom.
Why O! why, does this hell insue?
Because, because, because of you.

For the Love of London

London fair, my beauty sweet
To you, to you i send my heart,
Through blackened plague and restless mind
The thoughts, the thoughts i yearn to find.

London fair, my frivilous deity,
To you, to you i throw my life,
Through the fright of loneliness and plight
The paths, the paths i yearn to light.

Rose within the patch, so boldly
You may rise within my eyes,
Through the overpowering red
Your white, your white may strike me dead.

My sweet blonde, grown weary from spite
Washed from the shores of your kingdom come,
Through the window, upon the graves
I see you amongst the ashen names.

"Whence you came here, i did see
The joy in life, and all its wonder.
Now I've dipped into the lake,
And now i ask, when will I wake?"

"My London so fair," i say through my tears,
"You've not even begun to feel the pain
Of what death has brought, and what Hell will bring."
I grasp my head, and my ears now ring.

"What manner is this? You've put me in pain!
My London, my sweet, why do you retract
When all I do is make light of what has happened to you?
Do you want your cake and to eat it too?"

Things Behind the Sun

Hurricane,
Endless test of time...

Said the birds of the hill,
"Little known the ways of man be,
That we may die and you may see
And stop it not though you know it wrong.
Ye may just yet stop and think
That maybe all the killing be
Something bad that sets none free."
But they may listen never, for they want naught the little birds alive
They want but life for themselves
And to witness the unknown behind the sun.
How may anything be left to chance,
Like the death of another or the life of a bird?
Is it right to be a dead man in a time of unrest?
So it may be said the birds may burn to those who see,
And little may they understand or care
Because the birds are different,
And they don't speak their language.

Return to the beginning
Of the Hurricane.

AHHHHH!
A fright in this dark end of the world
That splays the comfort of home and family.
Going back to the television, or radio,
Unknowing and believing in the solidarity
And content of the American household.
Direct result of murder in their sleep.
We know this violence
We know it's shadow,
It's name,
It's place and time.
Why do we die?
To heed warning to those oblivious?
Nay, we never die for any reason.
We just
End.

Set in stone, beyond the light,
Is spotted dark...

C'est a toi?

Jessie does as jessie do,
Sure fire crazy
And so are you,
Like the tides and ambrosia new,
Jessie does as Jessie do.

Sheets of iron, sheets piled twice
Hearts on fire
Heads on ice,
When the world, in two, is spliced,
Won't you, won't you be so nice.

Abundance; Cow Herd

I thought that this life would bring me to a height...to somewhere beyond the rain...ive never been one to be afraid...but abundance in fear leaves me feeling flawed and unimportant in my ventures...do i have the volition and drive to put together my ideas?...ive seen others fail...and fail again...but within the confides of this life, this much is certain...that a life without permient reason or wontoness in whatever it is you want, is no life lived or even remotely given...ive been to hell and back...ive seen every person in this life find nothing because from the very second they join this existence...they are taught to love everything their parents tell them...acceptence is the product of apathy...we are all lost to apathy...i sometimes wonder if what i write down everyday even matters...if what ive been striving to convey in things i give people has any substance...then i think if i could ever write anything good at all...i think...for hours i just think... and then...like every cow in the field must do when the duress of insight becomes too weighty...i graze...unaware...until a day comes where i must see...

Inauguration; Flitter Flutter

Like the days when the light used to shine
Tides of Ice upon the falling side
To feel the flowing essence, we will radiate the power of affluence
In conjunction with the lucidity we all enthrall ourselves with,
I shall convey this heretofore mentioned upon the days of now.

Though little lights the sun in days of now
We may be able to find such elegance in the amalgamtion of our sun-drenched heads
And it is here, in the valleys and plains, the low-lands where so much is set free,
where we shall inherit the meek and the world shall ascend,
But lo and behold the projection of our souls, for it is the fear of light that ends the fear of dark,
Though all otherwise noted, we have been led to the believe,
That though we think
Our thoughts matter little.
NAY! i exalt!
NAY! I retort as the belittlement continues.
I say rise and meet the light.
I say rise and fear the dying of souls within this so sought after life, And i say now,
To those i have long loved,
To rage against any hinderance, and rise against any flaunted, daunting haunt
And break the bonds so helsd within these valleys,
And rise, like Icarus, to heights unimagined by those stuck in the purgatory of the valley,
And preach my love upon the hills of time.
Everyone lives,
Everyone gives,
Everyone crys,
Everyone why?
Everyone dies, though justice is flown away, and little is explained.

Who dares the might of the colossus?
Who fears to mourn the impatient?
May it be said to those who disillusion themselves by pulling hard on the rope of fate
That all we may percieve is a faulty, gregarious disertation on the look of life?
Put together by some spouting madman on the hills of thought and reason?
Again?

Find yourself.