Lasting fancies

Sounctrack: Supertramp and silence. Sound of my life, for the moment. Loving the "...famous last words..." album with a proper, true devotion; that is, when I remember to actually turn it on. Am extremely absent-minded right now, and keep forgetting important information and obligations and...stuff. Timey-wimey-wibbly-wobbly. Would be nice to have a machine to turn back and redo, sometimes. Surely would.

I am now past 400 Blog entries (weee!!), in one-and-half years or so, approximate numbers, and celebrate this grand event with some ramblings out of randomness, to prove my addiction to composition upon a whim; just a thought, again, and to write out of these thoughts, these feelings, that constantly run through me, infect my system, these pricking, passing fancies that need to be released somehow. Or, how I myself need to be relieved of them. Fully dispose of their consequences; the mind consumption and various mental complications they induce. Leave some room for what I should be doing, and the rest, give me some peace; grant me the chance to escape from my own flights of ideas to be able to focus on those of others, learn and memorize them as well. I am talking school, of course. I am talking about the consistent, inevitable fact that I distract myself into a state of own and engrossing, overflowing babble (and doodle, lol) whenever I should be clear and attentive and ready to absord the knowledge presented to me; oh, and that I ought to be more susceptible in general, but that's a whole different story. Sticking to this one, let's see what we've got:

"The Craven Warlord" - for my forlorn soldiers
By Scaramouche, the Po(t)et, because of the cruelty that is being bluntly sacrificed and left behind, in the mere distance, especially when still beholding a will to fight. Figurative meanings of the extremest kinds. Since my three passions of the moment, as of always, are the immortal Love, Death and the Ocean, you may guess which one this poem regards...mainly...although, I suppose you could say that it deals a little with each and on the whole depicts all three. Started out as a one-off dedication to my überhero Ezra Pound (lalala station of the metro et cetera, but there's SO much more!) and the simplistic style, as seen in the first stanza. Continued with some what-follows pensiveness that resulted in a prose paragraph as seen below. Very Whitman-ish, which fits since Pound was influenced by him and has even written poems for the guy. Albeit they weren't all that very praising. It's (simultanously) simpler and more difficult than I usually write and it's a bugger to decode, even for the Mistress herself. Feel free to try, all attempts and comments appreciated! Also, I like my poetry in italics - currently. Another fancy that will probably pass, or decrease in frequency. For now, I'm lovin' it. And decisively letting my ramblings feature it.

too cruel
beloved
way too
cruel
perchance
for your own
good
and sought after
impossible

where were you when the terror so commenced
to hide beneath the broken grounds and there belie
and next be gone, abundant flares across the mound,
you stranger of the thousand seas, come back to me
be there more fights of gory, vicious pleasure, somehow leisure
see what we will have time for then, arrangements overcome
where are you when the horror so continues, on the wane,
you fret of escapology and still remain detached as echo
to cloud the view already blurred by crazed communes
with fervency of closed and outright flatness, quiet,
your return predicted, your departure more proclaimed
where will you stay when even final floors collapse
I yearn to know just how the manic plans are schemed
as birds of prey, my love, and ready for betrayal
to think that I am settled, never more to roam and seethe
parade a slow accept of any take, to always make a give
our prophets rest in true defeat, locate the battles lost
the victims you refused to treat when you trailed off
they linger in the sand of bungled deserts, striking sails
and cannot make the pain undone, rebandage wounds
where were you when the utmost moorage wrecked
and heavens opened wide to let the trembling feathers in
the trumpets cried for you, the horses ran without their men,
to bring you hence, I wonder how the shields might work for cover
chance to show you, I, who cried so much of blood in vain
and took the beatings for a signal that the truth was simpler
where will you be when all the wars rage on within, will you commit
or lay your head on someone's gentle pillow in the stiller mud
you dancer of the thousand starlit constellations, I believed you
rather shy to see the one whose spirit shan't be sacrificed
as you would feebly render - I might be torn in two, I set my sword aside
and leave my weapons be, make further not, let myself in for loss