Release

She said he should release all hostile thoughts anger
Or anything negative clouding his mind.

And he said you hardly know me.

And she said, I know that you have a lot of anger, hostility

And he said if I do, it is my business, after all who knows better than myself, my mother, my father…

Yes, yes. Yes, she stared vacuously.

I am really trying hard not to step on toes. Be hostile but at times they are so baaaaaaad to me, they simply seem not to care.

AND SHE SAYS, is your nose still intact?

And he says, doc says they’re ready to fall off any time, but can wear a prosthetic.

But what about you, he asks, you don’t look so good yourself, what’s the matter with your eyes? They’re sagging.

Oh they’re ok, just need a little surgery or two, and they will be fit as a fiddle.

‘Then why are you always crying?’

‘Because my tear ducts dint work properly’

‘Don’t worry, though, it don’t bother me, but your arms seem to hang funny’

‘Yes, she says teary eyed’ as she dabs them with a napkin, but really I am getting better, and I really love You Doug, and I don’t care if You are not capable, you know, that way, I love you, Doug, really do, and what you look like matters little.’

He itches, and chunks of flesh come off his arm, as they embrace,

‘What is happening to You, Doug?’

I also have flesh eating disease. Only a minor inconvenience, I am going to be operated tomorrow, doc says my little toe on my left foot has to come off.

Too bad she says, but don’t worry, I have some other issues as well, I’m spastic, and have a touch of Alzimers.
'Aren’t you too young darling, for that kind of thing? She asks credulously.

Not really, but certainly worth noting. My case was written up in the New England Journal of medicine.

Oh darling darling, sweet,

The set grows dark, ambulances can be heard shrieking, and the curtain closes.

The above is an overheard conversation between two advanced cyborg prototypes, disposed as obsolete in the year 2078.

If could, I just pray,
For heathen soul,'d
Denial,
Whereas took thousand, nay, thousands of years of evolving, to get here from there,
Wherein the darkness, the cave beckons.

Pretty boys, pretty boys,
Do you love, him that deserve th most,
Socrates, in fury,
Socrates in dis pair, of the formless form,
Upon which all creation,
The love for which desires?

Nietzche, pretty sad boy,
Lionized by mad king who upon the twilight only siegfried’s travails could harangue,

Tho Gods themselves had to retire, to re-write a story so delicate,
So bizarre, that they themselves the gods had to be crazy,

That is the duplicity present, why,
Genet went and blessed his lover whom he loved,
That is why, when the endeared one took a wife t
hough jealousy tore on his heart,
And that is why Sartre be took him for a saint,

Do not mock dear heart, the despair occurring at the twilight of the dark night, wherein no choice, but of the formless sexless figure of the Nemesis,
luring him out,
So as to descend into the pool of ambiguity,
Of the release unto himself primarily,

The final act is redemption through self sacrifice,
The only cure to this love,
for others, warned by the portrait of Dorian,
That let those ill advised not suffer his fate,
For so painful a memory.

Filled with remorse to such a one, could yea love wisdom over
Coming the cruel time passages, without engaging in such a tremendous love,
of nature, as if the very whisper of the gentle breeze
Carrying a sweetest message to You, can carry?

Accept it friend,
or resolve never, again to be sad.