I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
When I am told that The self is just a fiction I wonder who spoke
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
“I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” -- Mae West The quest for purity is folly pure We are born wailing in blood and feces
Know your enemy Understand everything Reveal the mirror
The current theory Is that they destroyed themselves Because of their myths
Beware the indiscriminate father For he could well mistake you for his child And, while insisting that it is no bother
How bad must things get Before one decides that they Aren't worth the money?
My grandfather was an image hunter Polaroids, home movies, mischievous snaps; His silken, ninja quickness made us chunter
We watched the circus Become our legislature And our cathedral
Our love did not vanish suddenly That would have been more merciful It dwindled gradually One vindictive insult One criticism
A time will come when things will not improve When they will be stable, or worsening When descending will be your only move
Free advice is worth What it costs, said he, as he Chose just the right stone
Those humans who wish you well will rejoice When you find a source of harmless pleasure Even if it is an eccentric choice:
