Canto Eight ~ Though many would dispute it, for little conclusive is known even now of the Clovis, Colonel Cridge is the greatest man of this age in Life’s Lurien and perhaps the world.

The old codger sat
His hands in his lap
Waiting for pleasure
The moment to treasure
When Constance walked by
No stockings or tights
And he could expose
And see how she froze
When she saw his red flesh
Which he firmly pressed
Tween thumb and forefinger
In order to bring her
Alert to his action
asking for reaction
Showing she had seen him
Throbbing pulsating
His fingers gyrating
Juices escaping
in the back of the bus

Pass me the cheese for my peas,
please,
Before I get stung on my knees
by bees that carry disease!

to the preying machinations of madness
I don't want to subscribe….

in the wilderness
it's nice and cold
no one who confronts me
is as bold…
as you seem to be thinking only after this bard
that I could be
and in the midst of a maddening crowd,
I'd like not to bow
but to you alone
I seem endowed

as you do more than others read
many perhaps are now fed up too
what will Loved do
if none read ....

shiney sax
youngster brash
honkin' and squawkin'
shellacking a tune

"When Sunny Gets Blue", I think

she's wailing and flailing
with hot mustard gusto
and slap-happy swing

it's 6:00 am

I'm wishing she were older
caressing the tarnish
and weathered lines
in breaths long,
slow, and sure

Canto Seven ~ It is Late at night and the boy crouches near waiting for his hostage to wake. He has ministered to the warrior’s injuries and takes only passing note of how swiftly they appear to heal. All accrued in combat with a monster the boy knows nothing about. His anxiety grows.
The man is more exquisite than any he has brought here and of a strange nature whose origins play tantalizingly at the memories he denies.

A car, I can't see the driver, rolls down the hill
across from the ravine that is my view.
It's white and gone; now only the tree tops,
green with buds, wave and jitter in the wind.

Anne's Refraine

In wanting I wait
the sealing of fate
in the dank gloomy womb of my room.

I pace and I scratch
at the rust ridden latch.
"To scold and to hold.", I fume.

Time is a harpy
binding me sharply.
I bleed with misdeeds
to my doom?

When guilty they hail
handled, hauled from my jail.
Relief for my grief I presume.

In wet windows high
I know He draws nigh
a bloated blood stone.
I defy!

THE SASKWATCH

Now if you sit quietly, and don't make a fuss,
I'll tell you a story, for no one but us.
About a strange creature, who came from the woods,
A creature who'd wreck our good lives if he could

For I was quite young then, and ran with the pack.
We were all timber wolves and we'd HOWL and we'd BARK
And how the men feared us, for we were so strong.
We hunted the deer, (and some men - was that wrong?)

Leaning with my tousled
head the morning like
a gin cloud

my girl speaks in alphabets
her voice a tainted angel
loud

A tinsel tack with money
back the dealers out of town
and were riding 6B junction
down to the suicide corner
out of town

all of the plans arise and
fall sound of tenant television
in the halls

shes wearing day old Bergamot
the paisley shirt
the tired skirt

the hot expanse of morning
sun glints off chrome