Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Artiste’ Category

Light Inside Me

Light of me

i am a reflection

Held in the twisted digits

of the aged and the youthful

palms of a million observers, friend and foe,

in a world of light that casts my form by reflection

and refraction, on glass.

Stained, malformed by the trials of the world

i am a distortion

i am, myself a bearer of a mirror

clasped in my own palm, injured by toil and strain,

i clasp a splinter, a reflection and a refraction,

images of as many as the millions who do the same to mine.

In my daily toil, my quest for daily bread

of sustenance in this life, i search to clarify

and i interpret mine, by the evidence,

by the reflections of the many.

i forget sometimes,

that i must understand the splinters,

lest i draw erroneous and hasty conclusions.

i remember often,

i must leave behind, these millions of pieces

shattered, twisted, melted glass splinters,

bearing my image

and a million other images.

so, my own must compete with the others, and with time

and the twisted mirrors of the viewer

from the next age.

no, i must leave my own reflection,

something to balance things out a little

to lend things a new slant,

in ink or clay

i shall beat it or chip it away

from rock or bend it from steel

and rest a little more assured

that a chorus shall remain to the tale

of the light of me.

Evidence Benedicere

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

It is interesting to see what different results reporters end up with, starting from a different perspective. Iranian chancellors have since written to the earl of Bollocks [more].

The lady here of course, is dear Zelda Herzl who in her zenith, like lady luck, received a gift from the thief who had no right to be the giver in the first place. And that, her father, the mean Theodor, who punted the foul idea that a God in whom he had less than little faith, on the contrary, whom he denied the very existence of, had promised the land be given the lady by the thief who had stolen it. No wonder then, he had no friend who scholarly at that time in 1917 would stand with him, the podium to uphold by scriptures leaned against it so as to support thereupon the speaker, Theo our dear father of Zelda. Now the harlot protests much. “I knowest enough” sayeth she, “and want not more to hurt my delicate frame, with cold hard memory”. Of course, she knows a lot, and we forget less than she.

Such argument, made by pimp intellectual de Columbia Universal Scientiae taketh they us in jest. Are we court clowns or men and women of calibre? So eloquently unconvincing an argument to those who had ears to hear, if any there had been there, by Earl of Bollocks Bollinger in his treatise de character suicide. “‘is the most researched thing in all history” or something of this kind, now how my weak and ghastly severed mind serveth me feebly, most inaccurately, I’d ask of my readers that ye do me the kindness of granting me pardon. And for his conclusion then, “no more needs to be said nor observed by any other”. Again, most inappropriately he volleyed t’ward mine bat, yet caught i the gist of yon meek line of reason, most tangengial findeth the one who seeks to wander in a forest or maze on sunny afternoon, with parasol as succour from unkindly sunlight [mp3]. Is it Denmark this time of year, i hear the geese. Is it so, pray tell me. It reeks foul. Perchance the inhabitors of farther eastern regions that seek out the foul this mid autumn festival to annoint their tables, and make sacrifices to the elders, ancestors? Nay, surely, it be Denmark’s fate as well? Nay, ye are the learned ones. The relative of the Hun hath a tradition to impart to humanity, one of deep and subtle wisdom to display. When employee is about to be dismissed, at dinner table, in audience of the entire workforce, he is presented a foul, whose head faceth the benefactor (not so much the benefactor as the foul, for he is most least held so by the employer). He that receives the foul, glaring squint at him, is the one who next receives the chop, most ungraciously not from the chef, but from the host of such a banquet. It stares at him, his own pageant, such as Bollinger did prepare, and laughs him down the corridors of shame. Does what the dear Zelda received, this equate: intellecual wanton revelry? For her earlier setting up of the, cause, the terror and the solution most bizarre, the billions in profits that came in coffers galore, and the blood in coffers most macabre. Cry foul! Foul! Yes, foul for sure, we all are in the know.

Related:
Ahmadinejad Interview on CBS – 60 minutes (location: Tehran Sept 2007)

Read Full Post »