Champagne flask - a bit of class 

inherited from days survived. 

A swing, a hit, and crack of glass.

Bless the starship

Edendrive.

The old star, it holds the line..

Still holds the night back from the sky.

Yet coil your fingers around mine.  

As Lana said,

We’re born to die.

We’re born of this continual flame.

Love eternal, love astray,

love in dilligent acclaim.

Endless morning,

on our way…

Now we’re cooking, burning blue.

Sugar, spices, that’s my lot.     

Yet nothing tastes quite like you do,

my ravishing 

pepperpot.

Everywhere else in the world, a tramp or beggar is a either a depressing economic reality incarnate, or a romantic archetype that goes on to inform the concepts of many great works, from Disney classics to, daresay, viral Russian breakout achievements in music. ;)

In Romania, “tramps” and “beggars” are sadly a disgusting carcinogen/simian offshoot of humankind. They don’t conform much to the above description. Although small, hunched and feeble-minded, they are not destitute, and certainly not romantic. Indeed, most of them are home-owners. :) Yet, much more than their distant cousins-by-name, they belong on the street. Amusingly, they will pound their chests, boasting misguided loyalty and malformed pride in said street.

Sometimes, they will spill over onto the internet. A scary, global garden thus opens to them. Their base, feral natures react to this cornucopia with a predatory instinct: they will make use of this garden… they will sample its fruits… yet they will trample over its most colorful flowers, hiss at its most gleaming markings, futilely try to upset its balance… for such is the way of the beast - to attack all that is beyond it and out of its comprehension. They will eat out of the hand of the shepherd, yet pounce upon stragglers from his herd (and soon enough pounce upon the shepherd himself). They will make their little cardboard shack sites, extending their empty palms and empty hats at passers-by. They will curse and mock those of higher station, staring daggers at their satchels with one eye, and coveting with the other. They will hide a seething, impotent jealous rage with rodent snickering and the false wit of the disenfranchised. They will rest their heads on asphalt, and teach themselves to hate the softness of the pillow. They will cheat and steal above all others, yet be the first to point the finger. Like the common rat, they will know a level of militant solidarity that us humans cannot replicate, making them strong and resilient to our meager weapons of common sense, logic, and self-esteem. And they will have opinions. Oh, they will have opinions.

Cute. 

Winter is upon us however. This is the time of year that beggars perish.

- from the palatial-housed desk of Liar, his bath-robed, flip-flopped, hyper-wordy maje$$$ty of indiscriminate Music/Truth; brought to you by a life well lived, a time well spent, a mind well fed and aptly conditioned, a soul immaculate, and a divine mandate; paid for by the office of The Sun They Will Never Afford to Even Look Up To.

“We take a little time apart 

To ponder matters of the heart,

Both untimely unaware 

That ripped apart it can’t repair,

But i may reassemble, hence, 

From shreds we cobble future tense:

The endless, ravaged fields of when

We are never one again.”

doomsayer

i ran the streets screaming at the sky

aloft with sound

it listened

*

fireworks

go off as if always eager to happen

the most beautiful thing

is somehow a weapon

and still we have fun

we are the children of the gun

*

we’re the untimely

growing pains only befit

growing hair only to shave it

breathing air only to run

we are the bastards of the sun

*

questless

the function is us now

with no merit to plough

we entertain

that the point is the byproduct

*

bereft of plan

through fire we persist

we’d sooner die than 

not make love exist