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Shoal's AdmirerShaol's Admirer
"I've heard naught but scraps and mites of,
this might full tale of rebirth and mole of orts.
The Lazarus that our man may be, strewn a mors by shove.
Regret may he, remorse did we, to read his cross to ports.
But on my eye did gleen a sheen, of dark but not abrading amaze,
for by its hand it led me through a maze of dread and gasp,
upon of which I marched in mirth, a beaten road of days
stepped down by a slave to fate, a hook, a pin, and clasp.
The Ancient Mariner, dresses his own fate,
and by what a fate awaits his lay, laying him to sooth.
Forsooth, a man abused and wicked was he before too late,
but on his rest he came to breath, sorry, cross his teeth.
Over his tongue and under his tooth.
To garden more his heath."
Political RantPolitical Rant
What a fascist faction of government this repugnant republic is.
What swill it utters.
What repulsive stills it festers.
Swishing a swaying the suffering people, lying in the gutters.
The swines. Faces fat in the sewer with faltering lies,
Buzzing with fecal flies.
What false promises it proposes.
What a sad and lonely, pathetic little monarch we are.
Masking ourselves as some other people,
We killed those soldiers, and burned those steeples.
We threw those books in the fires.
We the liars, the enemy, the arson.
We the teacher, doctor, and parson.
What horrible, deceiving, monsters we are.
Salted fruits and ashed meats,
Suckling from our own soured tits.
We dine on tainted ideals of anthropophiles,
and all the while, we are those people.
"Hypocrisy" I shudder.
If those things living in your masks want change, then beckon it.
It's unbecoming of them to abstain their reckoning.
They're wrecking themselves to hide, and it's sickening
It's demeaning to lose
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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