fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

so much is wanted but what we must ask

is for the measure that cannot be told

by ordinary creatures at their task

of making worlds to fit the human mould

beyond the which we could not be consoled

but asked for pity and received no share

of what was paid except this empty air

so turning we discerned no further bar

to our escaping save a simple stair

the crescent mirror and the morning star

 

you give a good account behind your mask

of where the trail was good and where just cold

no warmth remains except within the flask

nor any honour that's not paid with gold

right on the table where the hearts are sold

while every victim hears the case is fair

and yet the axe does not strike unaware

there's no part of the process that's bizarre

while far above our unbowed heads there stare

the crescent mirror and the morning star

 

in balmier times we might hope to bask

in the approval of the good and bold

enjoy the plaudits while we broach the cask

and wonder why a single voice would scold

instead the angry lessons are unrolled

as every back is loaded down with care

nor is there chance of freedom anywhere

that foolish interlopers hope to mar

beyond the chances of the normal player

the crescent mirror and the morning star

 

prince in the end you won't respond to prayer

as no petition has the sort of flair

to touch the souls of palace and bazaar

yet you must go to where the boldest dare

the crescent mirror and the morning star

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

in no great haste to change the solemn art

that deals with those who cannot render ease

in modern terms we make a florid start

presenting our regards upon our knees

as if our thoughts were villain amputees

regarding with some horror how the strain

of vision reaching through this veil of rain

has no effect on motion nor on rate

all in the end must seep into the brain

where only losers claim to lead the state

 

both rich and poor rub shoulders in the mart

while finding nothing that could truly please

an honest mind or else a yearning heart

since all the market has is hopping fleas

and some lost objects baking in the breeze

there's not a single value to retain

and all our hope might just go down the drain

as laughing gargoyles seem to contemplate

you cannot speak except now to complain

where only losers claim to lead the state

 

no one today would ever give a fart

for decent laws or honest high decrees

the vultures wait until the wolves depart

then each devours the carrion that it sees

there's no means left the monster to appease

just throw another turd upon the wain

since we have read the signal very plain

the door is shut and rescue's come too late

all that is left is one more ugly stain

where only losers claim to lead the state

 

prince as you look out from the morning train

you'll see the same old shadow once again

don't think of it as duty nor as fate

that's just a path that leads you to more pain

where only losers claim to lead the state

cap askew

May. 28th, 2009 01:42 pm
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

no matter that the cap's been set askew

there is no better story we could tell

about the way our honest vision grew

out of cold pain to fill the broken shell

healing the ill that you could not dispel

for all your efforts since there was no way

to break the walls or give the soul full play

we reach the bounds and have no better terms

than these old worn words no more than cliché

you might as well give up and feed the worms

 

we watch as grey  has come to rule the blue

there's nothing here against which to rebel

just the old order just the normal due

course of the world which we cannot compel

to alter for our will  there is no spell

that folk of magic could use to allay

these ordinary fears which still betray

just what we are old time alone confirms

that it can do its will and have its say

you might as well give up and feed the worms

 

after the rain we hope to see the new

growth that will rise the blossoms that will swell

once more in the bright garden to show true

that all things in the end shall come out well

so that on painful matters we won't dwell

and not look at the fossils under clay

the ancient dead in their solid array

since he who looks is also he who squirms

at thought of what lies just beyond decay

you might as well give up and feed the worms

 

prince your approach is all the gift we pray

knowing how well we count on what you say

beneath your wisdom are the least of germs

unable to resist the force of day

you might as well give up and feed the worms

cap askew

May. 28th, 2009 01:42 pm
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

no matter that the cap's been set askew

there is no better story we could tell

about the way our honest vision grew

out of cold pain to fill the broken shell

healing the ill that you could not dispel

for all your efforts since there was no way

to break the walls or give the soul full play

we reach the bounds and have no better terms

than these old worn words no more than cliché

you might as well give up and feed the worms

 

we watch as grey  has come to rule the blue

there's nothing here against which to rebel

just the old order just the normal due

course of the world which we cannot compel

to alter for our will  there is no spell

that folk of magic could use to allay

these ordinary fears which still betray

just what we are old time alone confirms

that it can do its will and have its say

you might as well give up and feed the worms

 

after the rain we hope to see the new

growth that will rise the blossoms that will swell

once more in the bright garden to show true

that all things in the end shall come out well

so that on painful matters we won't dwell

and not look at the fossils under clay

the ancient dead in their solid array

since he who looks is also he who squirms

at thought of what lies just beyond decay

you might as well give up and feed the worms

 

prince your approach is all the gift we pray

knowing how well we count on what you say

beneath your wisdom are the least of germs

unable to resist the force of day

you might as well give up and feed the worms

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

truth is the lowest form of human freight

it does not seem to have the taste of air

nor are we certain it will bear much weight

no man nor woman ever seems to care

just how things look in the hot tropic glare

nothing much matters we just have to please

the angry critics and late attendees

who may demand the whole thing be reset

or treat our words as symptoms of disease

since there is no pure language of regret

 

what's left behind is nothing we could hate

just rules and regulations mostly fair

requiring we be done by a due date

so that there is a little time to spare

before we hear the last horn's angry blare

then put our tools down and bid all to cease

in swift agreement with the high degrees

knowing that there are needs yet to be met

but all our duty then will be to freeze

since there is no pure language of regret

 

the game is ending in one more fool's mate

just one more blundering youthful affair

nothing to bother those high in the state

nor would the general public be aware

of yet another private small despair

there's not one thing that could ever increase

the civic joy or add a single piece

of sorrow that would make the people fret

so tongue's held silent by the mind's police

since there is no pure language of regret

 

princess you watch as all the refugees

from the last war petition for your peace

insisting that you owe them all a debt

you think  your choice is guided by caprice

since there is no pure language of regret

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

truth is the lowest form of human freight

it does not seem to have the taste of air

nor are we certain it will bear much weight

no man nor woman ever seems to care

just how things look in the hot tropic glare

nothing much matters we just have to please

the angry critics and late attendees

who may demand the whole thing be reset

or treat our words as symptoms of disease

since there is no pure language of regret

 

what's left behind is nothing we could hate

just rules and regulations mostly fair

requiring we be done by a due date

so that there is a little time to spare

before we hear the last horn's angry blare

then put our tools down and bid all to cease

in swift agreement with the high degrees

knowing that there are needs yet to be met

but all our duty then will be to freeze

since there is no pure language of regret

 

the game is ending in one more fool's mate

just one more blundering youthful affair

nothing to bother those high in the state

nor would the general public be aware

of yet another private small despair

there's not one thing that could ever increase

the civic joy or add a single piece

of sorrow that would make the people fret

so tongue's held silent by the mind's police

since there is no pure language of regret

 

princess you watch as all the refugees

from the last war petition for your peace

insisting that you owe them all a debt

you think  your choice is guided by caprice

since there is no pure language of regret

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 though aiming forward we are losing ground

hearts may be filled with hope but our hard fate

is to be weighed and valued pound by pound

as the remainders of a great estate

the counters' duty it is to collate

what goes to storage and what to the worm

what will be buried to build up the berm

and what parts of the fortune they might keep

those who are watching are the very firm

our place is taken and we have to sleep

 

so much of what is said is to confound

the ones whose task it is to count and rate

the complete measure within proper bound

they aren't allowed to lie nor to inflate

the tiny parcels into something great

but must agree the winner is the germ

that strikes the mighty hard as they might squirm

and into every corner seems to creep

it's certain victory we can't affirm

our place is taken and we have to sleep

 

we wanted to astonish and astound

win the reward of gold and silver plate

have banknotes piled up in a giant mound

cart off bright jewels in a well-made crate

these are not the conditions we instate

we find ourselves most rotten and infirm

unable now to generate a therm

nor over lowest bar ever to leap

our weakness any fool now could confirm

our place is taken and we have to sleep

 

prince you may rule us for a certain term

since none of us has power to reaffirm

just what we were nor what we had to keep

within our power nor underneath each derm

our place is taken and we have to sleep

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 no one will think an error self-corrects

blind folk see better than those who have led

our startled crew and learned from the effects

that it were better if they all had bled

completely flat and nothing more were said

it being time now to express true rage

and letting no kind words the mood assuage

we will not let the hero get the blame

it is our duty now to set the stage

before we pass into the final flame

 

the kind of man who his own thought collects

might think that there was time to prevent dread

but he who speaks knows best what he expects

when facing those who he with lies has fed

at the right moment when the world turns red

he has learned swiftly their weak minds to gauge

and shows himself to them as king and sage

while not revealing the whole thing is a game

there's no defence monocyte macrophage

before we pass into the final flame

 

you might have thought of these human defects

as bringing matters to a stirring head

but not a one here fact with fact connects

or sorts the clearly living from the dead

all are just here to earn a little bread

make some small money collect daily wage

for that alone they would their time engage

you might think that a kind of mortal shame

it's not their task to answer your hard gage

before we pass into the final flame

 

prince you might wonder at these things backstage

but they're the matter of our dying age

we say the words and give the facts a frame

but that's no more than simple persiflage

before we pass into the final flame

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 all of our efforts fall into the shade

drastic the choice but not without its crumb

of gentle hope to keep hearts unafraid

a chance of passion that would allow some

to build new life where others would be glum

or hang their hopes upon a rusty nail

for you to laugh or others to assail

those facts of business that prove not so tame

but can stand up when others simply fail

these are the rules and we must play the game

 

time with its tricks our patience must abrade

or beat a rhythm on a noisy drum

such are the practices of normal trade

when all of human life is a small sum

and nothing much splits millionaire from bum

we are blown off our course by the swift gale

and can't expect to make an easy sale

since all we get is insult and foul blame

it's tasks like these that make the toughest quail

these are the rules and we must play the game

 

others might seek to hide or to evade

the pains and penances that have to come

in rapid series and in swift cascade

we cannot keep these things beneath the thumb

nothing is left and we have been struck dumb

preventing the recounting of detail

all  honest words are cast outside the pale

and truth becomes a matter of ill fame

against the facts there is none who would rail

these are the rules and we must play the game

 

prince you receive no message through the mail

and find the secrets have turned very stale

there's no one left who can ignite the flame

but many there who hard fate could bewail

these are the rules and we must play the game

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 some parts of memory are never green

pressed into service they cannot retire

nor can they hide behind a pleasant screen

too many symbols have come down the wire

too many songs been belted out by choir

it is the season for us to deceive

not just ourselves but those who have to grieve

and have no time to beg nor to deplore

so much their sorrow that we can't conceive

yet when we started we all knew the score

 

there is not time for anger nor for spleen

nor any sentiments we don't require

these are not matters to bee heard or seen

you aren't allowed to think nor to aspire

about such things don't bother to enquire

just take a breath and give the foe a heave

tell folks to go when it is time to leave

just say enough and not a sentence more

there is no good that any will achieve

yet when we started we all knew the score

 

our thoughts have all been branded as obscene

and all our books must go into the fire

our presence here shall soon have never been

that is the goal at which we must conspire

our signal glory is to be denier

of that which honest folk might all believe

remove those things so no one can retrieve

and once we've finished simply close the door

those who thought otherwise are just naïve

yet when when we started we all knew the score

 

prince there's so much that you will not achieve

because our target you just can't perceive

so many good materials we abhor

since all we do is shatter and bereave

yet when we started we all knew the score

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 each writes the tale  upon a golden leaf

no safer record for so short a time

age after age the truth beggars belief

we think that honest labour is a crime

when all our hopes are cast into the slime

your choice is simple just cast out the blame

the monster's wild that you thought mild and tame

no hope is placed in partner or in friend

who knows the rules of this most profane game

we seek the melted snow of last weekend

 

the winner turns out just one more old thief

who casts his words in good old-fashioned rhyme

and promises that he'll be firmly brief

but does not move you into the sublime

before the clock has uttered its first chime

such matters will not lead you out of shame

but are the sort of thing that fools might claim

to make you bow or lead you now to bend

hoping to turn you from your steady aim

we seek the melted snow of last weekend

 

pain of great loss produces no more grief

than could be borne in such a foreign clime

as this there is no wisdom seeks relief

or hopes to gain a dollar or a dime

we've reached the bottom and we must now climb

past all the horrors that we cannot name

knowing that no good thought will stay the same

and that our duty no one would commend

still though our feet are tired and very lame

we seek the melted snow of last weekend

 

prince you have mastery of wind and flame

your state is great in glory and acclaim

but to this act you may not condescend

beyond the limits of the human frame

we seek the melted snow of last weekend

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 so much to say and we are out of touch

with what belongs to our most secret heart

nothing remains not even a small crutch

to hold us up this is not on our part

the source of pain the reason for our smart

what makes us grow will lead us from the fire

take us to ease and much abate our ire

all that we plan to do is outlive shame

ignore the voices of the angry choir

and in our time ignite a living flame

 

what has been hidden in the deepest hutch

becomes a matter for the painter's art

it starts out little but it becomes much

we may not recognise it at the start

but learn to know it before we depart

as something never easy to acquire

a teaching that must pass from child to sire

that might reverse the meaning of the game

this is the thing about which we inquire

and in our time ignite a living flame

 

we make our manses pretty and as such

have many hidden words we must impart

before we let the visions leave our clutch

so we cannot allow the light to dart

our of our hands into the open mart

nor can we let you tune upon your lyre

the sounds that might with ease go even higher

instead we hold you down and keep you tame

insist that you do nothing but admire

and in our time ignite a living flame

 

prince you may think yourself a proper flyer

controller of your own life and desire

but there are forces here you dare not name

that will take over when at last you tire

and in our time ignite a living flame

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 day follows day in precise normal mode

all of our arrows remain in quiver

nothing it seems can act as force or goad

the journey's not made in ancient flivver

all is dependent on silent giver

to take us past what might have never been

the gallows raised upon the village green

such matters take a single simple course

and end in places that are now unseen

the sage must value man and never horse

 

this is the start of a long tiring road

ending at mouth of a large slow river

a standard gift or horrid curse bestowed

as blessing or as truly painful shiver

not something that we could deliver

this matters we find not a single bean

so much we say we cannot ever mean

the word in each mouth turns so swiftly coarse

the voyage never becomes transmarine

the sage must value man and never horse

 

our hope is never wholly safely stowed

dependent as it is on heart and liver

a sort of signal in a secret code

of which we can know only a sliver

enough at least to tell the forgiver

how to begin to set the final scene

and to command as if a king or queen

speaking in honour and without remorse

a gathering that we could all convene

the sage must value man and never horse

 

prince we escape and know that we are clean

of human wisdom all that we could glean

to the full limits of our petty force

do not attempt to fight or intervene

the sage must value man and never horse

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 bodies and trees are aching for the rain

as in the evening we note fading light

so much of living involves daily pain

and waiting for the outcome of each fight

to be recorded or to see the right

sense of desire intrude into the known

realm of division where each mortal groan

tells that the mortar truly met the pestle

and into powder we grind the soft stone

the gentleman at least is not a vessel

 

within each heart we hide a single grain

of honour that we hope will still burn bright

if ever we can truly ascertain

not just the force of ordinary might

but that when we ascend the greater height

an honest glow will rise from in the bone

the deepest fear at last be overthrown

and hatreds will find no room to nestle

but from our minds with fullest force be blown

the gentleman at least is not a vessel

 

time it turns out has been our greatest bane

a statement that no one would say is trite

it leaves us with a visible slow stain

that turns at last into the final night

we speak in whispers of that lasting plight

but not a one of us has cause to moan

each goes to the last end wholly alone

standing on a stark old bridge or trestle

with nothing left to pardon or atone

the gentleman at least is not a vessel

 

 

prince as you sit upon your golden throne

you have no reason to curse nor condone

nor any champion to fence or wrestle

a better crop you could never have grown

the gentleman at least is not a vessel

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

a sort of secret in this open yard
what is best hidden cannot be said plain
but may be whispered when the window's barred
so many stories of that concealed stain
of all the ones who went against the grain
and let the rope and leather simply fall
the beast escape from the well-guarded stall
matters like these are not beyond surmise
words might be spoken at noon in the hall
the winner is not he who gains the prize

you do not see the sign upon the card
that might be said to mark the loss or gain
of those who need to earn your good regard
the ones who speak know you will not remain
once all the symbols cease to be arcane
for what is sugar may one day be gall
that which now pleases must swiftly appall
if you aren't told that we should now advise
you must not let these foolish ways enthral
the winner is not he who gains the prize

an honest purpose may be easy marred
by those who want to tighten up the chain
and laugh and you the silly avant-garde
who seek the pleasure and forget the pain
that comes on later you cannot abstain
from taking part in the far larger brawl
that is expected when you hear the call
of the strange forces that reshape the skies
and come upon us like a sudden squall
the winner is not he who gains the prize

prince we are here for quite the longest haul
and ready for the struggle great or small
we may seem paltry to your noble eyes
but we will make it though we have to crawl
the winner is not he who claims the prize

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

a raft of centuries beneath the gun

enough we'd think to leave us without name

or make us all the sort you'd want to shun

eager to suffer not ones who would claim

to seize our places in the rolls of fame

not by ambition far less by design

we stand in place and go not out of line

your thought of us is as a plain mistake

and agents of a slow painful decline

but when we stand the world itself will shake

 

you think of us as merely made for fun

beings whose nature is lacking in shame

mere creatures of the torrid tropic sun

you do not want to give us too much blame

our greatest actions don't deserve acclaim

that's what you say and slavery was fine

to liberty we should not yet incline

and in the servile tasks a while partake

to be in bondage for our sort is fine

but when we stand the world itself will shake

 

of gentle qualities you say we have none

and your desire is to make us all tame

a worthy task you think and easy done

if you could only teach us proper shame

and learn to douse our anger's ready flame

so that our strength would with your wit combine

and you could rise above us all divine

the universe in your image to make

all of the stars in your name to align

but when we stand the world itself will shake

 

prince you have looked above us for a sign

that you could our natures with your chains confine

but hearts and bodies do not simply break

you think us just another sort of swine

but when we stand the world itself will shake

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 

we do not claim this place as any home

yet are most happy when we see the door

it takes a lot of energy to roam

and we are glad to reach a well-known shore

caring so little of the total score

that we might wonder that we took such pains

and pulled so heavily on all those chains

that hurt so much and calloused our small hands

we know the song and know all the refrains

these are the best we find of all the lands

 

there's something honest about the sea-foam

upon this beach something we adore

about the way the waves gently comb

the weedy rocks with their soapy amour

we take a pleasure in the endless roar

it seems a kind relief from all the strains

a blest reward for our long hard campaigns

and better music than we hear from bands

it eases all the fevers in our brains

these are the best we find of all the lands

 

we won't find written in the longest tome

the secrets that we have been looking for

but on this strand in the fresh morning gloam

we are aware the world holds something more

than horrid monsters good folk should abhor

we turn from seascapes to harder terrains

and look on hills rising above the plains

our feet move slowly on the hard-packed sands

we cannot know how much to us remains

these are the best we find of all the lands

 

prince of your force not one of us complains

since such great power only a god attains

and we are subject to all your commands

let us rejoice that these are your domains

these are the best we find of all the lands

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
you never wonder what's the proper case
there are no reasons we must now take flight
all of our chickens are in their due place
and we have shown our foes that we have might
no one expects us not to be forthright
we do not have to terrify a brat
nor stamp a mountain till it is all flat
you know full well we need not more than glower
and not a one would dare create a spat
we have the will and we have all the power

there is a chance to fill the needed space
with things that could make our days sweet and bright
returning matters to their due full grace
and keeping back the pressure of old night
that is the sort of luck that should excite
even the heart of carrion bird or bat
the kind of vigour that a god begat
descending as a swan or in a shower
upon a maiden on a golden mat
we have the will and we have all the power

you do not think that you could just abase
yourself and seek to take a gentler bite
in some half-manic game of saving face
your chance of freedom is not more than slight
and your kind could not hope now to unite
against us any more than could the rat
become a gentleman with a cravat
or transform itself in a brief half-hour
into fair partner with the hungry cat
we have the will and we have all the power

prince so much happens and we must see that
your will and ours are tested in combat
you know full well how much we can devour
take care you don't become another stat
we have the will and we have all the power

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
this is the kingdom of the angry sheep
where no one has a choice about the rant
and many promises are still to keep
a sage could pause before he must incant
and let the process of itself enchant
the ones who needed most to feel such ire
as would make even the most bold inquire
regarding just why we needed such a rule
or how pressure could go even higher
the one who finds the answer's not a fool

the truth of power goes not very deep
and turns out to be a most shallow plant
yet is not something that we can get cheap
its makings are not things we just decant
upon a fertile ground there is no cant
only for chanting on guitar or lyre
to which the simplest stripling might aspire
it takes much more than just going to school
we have to struggle hard out of the mire
the one who finds the answer's not a fool

all of our efforts end up on the heap
as victims of the termite and the ant
and nothing's bettered by some hours of sleep
nor is there anything we might recant
or any older mode we could supplant
these failings mark the end of all desire
no different for the seller or the buyer
we load the backs of every willing mule
it does not even moan or once perspire
the one who finds the answer's not a fool

prince you'll discover right across the fire
that there's no difference save in the attire
matters take little time to reach their cool
and you learn swiftly just what we require
the one who finds the answer's not a fool

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 who wants to echo the most moral sigh
of those who in the morning fade away
without a chance of hearing the reply
as all the darkness slowly becomes grey
another silence earns its proper pay
in shaping what we do not care to know
of all the forms that nature might bestow
upon the places where we might reside
whether from high above or down below
this world is where we bury all our pride

too many fools have listened to the lie
and thought the hardest task was simple play
their faces now are hidden from the sky
and they cannot their horror now betray
who have been taken out of human way
we in our turn have many miles to go
beside the river that won't cease its flow
there is no place to run and none to hide
we have no chance to escape hungry crow
this world is where we bury all our pride

an idiot might sometime dignify
all means by which the many go astray
but such things do not please the aging eye
of those who have seen many a bitter day
and understand the meaning of each ray
of failing light which no one could forgo
as dying millions wait the killing blow
and high above the lazy vultures glide
no footprints are left in the sand or snow
this world is where we bury all our pride

prince in your face we've seen the final glow
of nuclear light and seen the dead chateaux
palaces barracks cities none abide
all order now has met its overthrow
the highest honour has fallen most low
this world is where we bury all our pride

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