An Untitled Epic (work in progress)

[Guest]

[Ploe]

Strapping serf once,
of card and of meat.
Tinned time now flashbacks of soup.
Then hated - now nostalgic retrospect.
Twice of each week,
spent to gain,
the best years of life;
Printed in sterling.

Not hero not nothing,
just life drifting – passed.
Meander? Not that.
More a structure.
A house!
Spoils on loot and travel for his her.
That time,
that place,
he went,
for him to better.

For semi-reclusive was abandoned,
just left,
for want of better.
Academy topped dale for five out of seven.
And blue apron'd boy for the two that remained.

Then at then,
from his total of tea,
that man - the serf,
found the sweet bullet - of rapture.
Ecstasy.
For times were hard,
and all need release,
and ale not quaffed hurts something indeed.

That time there was fires,
their positive glow,
and floods – no meaning,
they happened to be happening though.

Recreation so needed that that's all there could be.
All that time all he wanted was this,
to give up and be.

So school was now out.
A grocery peon alone.
One thing he'd gleaned though,
a thing that never could be freed,
that expanding stimulant,
fun to eat.

Thus play became ritual,
alongside new found sage.
Cake-holing or swallowing,
many-a-go.

Discovery of this,
in Python that's self,
lead to rejecting the sale of life.
Weeks were missed even disciplined for.
Now only memories he still feels his fear.

Made another day his own,
on penultimate warning told,
“You may as well be home.”
Ok!
That's not paraphrasing or even a quote.
Our hero, the serf, narrator and scribe,
took that what was said to mean – liberate oneself.

[Aristotle Shostakovich]

impressive' your time in the wilderness as been well spent' a very abstract meta-physical piece of writing' with the scope being just a touch short of the pata-physical' a well rounded study on lifes paradox...........or at least i think' ethier way i like it a lot'

keep up the good work........

till soon.........

Ari

[Ploe]

Cheers Ari, I'll make sure you know when the expansion is out.

[Ploe]

The void of proxy paternal,
I know that he, my "Dad,"
don't know I know.
His first, that eternal,
what I'd call my woman.
Marriages in past of his -
There're two.
I whimper and bully on.
In drink I and none in him.
I try to rouse, but it ain't there,
Why keep those aces near to your beat?
I don't want,
FOR I'll ever ask,
Next I,
Some day I hope that you'll give it to me.
You won't...
Is there a lack of trust?
Is that insecurity on my part?
Son not earned?
There's enough time.
Or does she take flesh and blood.
I would like to know. He'll never find out.
Flesh and blood be dumb.
Too self righteous, without no measure.
Judging and moderating only to hiself.
I beg of a God that is never there,
I weep at postcarded rejection never intended,
I call myself the son of man through ego alone.
Did God that HAYZOOSE do the same.
Wrapped in his fiction, his solemn - his wise...
For days that pass without right to mine.
Time spent will ne'er be blood nor pop (serf)
Someday, someday perhap he'll get.
A labyrinth a maze one can never escape,
foreward thought is a gift from above.
He wished that twine was his in hands - the moment he dropped - I

dropped from that wretched womb.
Belief all hazed and progress nowhere, panic about - I wish I was

there.
For if so then t'were me to pick that apple, commit the first sin, and

man would mens'

Can she be so hard to believe.
Why is slumber so easier to attain when considering unrequieted?
A man wants all in one  second but he'll never get -
forever at his own loss.

Tangent now, what?
I'm sorry.
I'm going to take you back to my days of institution.
There I was forced before I understood significance,
not I but he,
there I lay one Autumn I think,
on my own with a stream such as...
There I composed and felt content for once.
I wish it was that moment that he, I, decided this.
Those choices he made. Locked in a private act.
It would be more humble if it t'were masturbation.
But it wasn't I'm afraid, the hero of his life will always be mine.

(I don't know where this fits yet - still a work in progress...)

[Jay]

I've had to read this a couple of times. Dense, but achingly personal. The line breaks, as in here:

foreward thought is a gift from above.
He wished that twine was his in hands - the moment he dropped - I

dropped from that wretched womb.
Belief all hazed and progress nowhere, panic about - I wish I was

there.
For if so then t'were me to pick that apple, commit the first sin, and

man would mens'

really aren't like you, but they work very well. There's a real sense of travel in it - subject to subject, place to place, time to time - which suits the form, and you're always in control of it, it being so centred around you. I really want to see more of this.