Achates, accept now, this auto-award
For I cannot allow that you cannot afford
To be armed with apology. Alert the afraid
That we have the advantage of arms at our aid.
An ageless adventure, though aged, I admit
That as an accomplice, I’ll always accredit
The anger and antics that after arouse
To an abstract abuser alerting the crowds.
Before I begin, though, to babble and bare,
You boast with a bargain: “Be bold, or Beware,
For the Beast of the Battle will banish the best,
And besides, it is better to break in the breast
Than to box with a boy that is brown-eyed and bruised,
And the boil of the burn could be bad for your blues.”
So I’m building a bunker to bury the blow
And in being, I’ll be but a bother below.
And I’ll color my cabin in copper to cage
The calm of the canvas you carry away.
And you’ll keep me captive by charming my cries
With the charge of the claim to the clouds in my eyes.
And then, close up my clutter, compound and concrete
Conceding to comedy, class and conceit
Conserving the chaos; conjuct yet confute
And content with the conflict to soon co-confuse.
I don’t doubt the doing, but dare to detest
That the distance is damn difficult to digest
And the drift of the dread is dramatically dim
As it drags and it draws and it drowns me down in
All the dirt of deeds done, so drastic and deep
To drench me in dreamless days doused with defeat.
So double the danger, and drop the donation,
The darker the duty, the drier it’s done.
Each ear-splitting evening, the ease of the earth
Elapses the ego, and early the worth
Of elation egresses elastically, eating away
At the end of an else-ember day.
Embolden, emotion! The enemy’s near,
Engrossed in engulfing the eve’s engineer.
All will enjoy envy’s next episode,
The epoch erased as the era explodes.
And I fall back to fancy the fangs of a fan
And his fat featherbed, and I feast on the man,
For fewer than he have fibbed flawless and fared
To be fortunate after the flight of my flare.
But a fever soon flails our fabulous friend
And I’m flat in the folds of the fog once again.
One flush and it’s foiled, fragmented, and foul,
A fractured-up future, a frustrated frown.
So gone is the glory, no gamble, no gain,
No gage for the goodness and guts of my game.
I gather my gifts and I go, like a ghost
Of a girl who once giddy is ghastly at most.
God, grant me the gall to get on with my goal
And good grace in the grapple of greeting my soul
With a greatness in grievance. Ground the grotesque
And then growl at the glutton that groans in my chest.
Heaven, hold tight to my hand and my heart.
Had I hoped for this habit, I hardly would part
But I’m half on the highway and whole on the hour
Of a headfirst and heavy haze hanging on power.
I hear the heatstroke, and I heighten my heel,
A hearty “hello” hardly heard. Was it real?
Could the hero be haunting the harlot at home?
The whore has a history: hire to hold.
And then, in an instant, an icy idea
Imagined inside illustrates all the fear.
I intend to intimidate, impact, immune,
And increase the impossible instead of the soon.
For you could infer information too late
And inspire emotion that’s all-too irate.
Intrude into me and my intimate plea,
And I’d itch to inform you of the irony.
Just know, as you judge, I will join in the joust.
My jealousy jades me, my javelin’s out.
And I jump to the jest in the juice of your jaw:
Justice to jeer at the joke of the law.
No jury to jail me, no jitter to juggle,
Only the joy in the jerk of the struggle.
Junk in my journal to gel my whole journey…
The jewelry of Jane a she jolts on the gourney.
You keep on knocking, but I have the key
And I know how to kill you, my knee-deep knit king.
The knowledge, the knife, and the kind in my kiss
To kindle the kidnap. Keep calling my miss
And your kamikaze to kick off the kill,
A kink in kinetics, a knot in your will.
I’m up to my knickers in all that I knew,
And now, king-kabob, I can see, so are you.
No lesser than lovely I laid by your side.
I’ve loved, lost, and lusted, and Lord have I cried.
And now, I add lonely, the longer the list
Of the last links to life that I’m likely to miss.
Should I learn to be literal, lazy, and lithe
Or look on to lower the lurk of my strife?
Later, my laughter will lace up this loss
And the lead of your legend will lessen the cost.
The outcome is obvious, overly old
I own one, I owe one I’m outwardly sold.
Objection, your Honor, I often obsess.
I’m on, and I’m off, I am only oppressed.
He offered offense and was openly opt
To order the outreach again, once I stopped.
An overproduction, an ocular oath…
The oddest occurence oozed into us both.
Perhaps the perfection put into each part
Payed the penalty put on a perceptive heart.
I pictured the pity, he promised the prime,
And now he’s projecting each page of my rhyme
As he previews my pride and he picks from the lot
All the probably purpose of each purchase bought.
I pose as a puppet, pretending to be
A person with purpose, but that isn’t me.
So quick to quiver in quarrel and quest
In question is one in a quiet quartet.
And I quote, “Quilt the quirt for your quixotic queen.”
Though I quake at the thought of hands stained and unclean.
Then out on the quad, the quack of a quail
So queer and so quaint in its quarterfold hail
That I quip at the quittance and quizzically grin
The quota to kill quasi-empty within.
Rally the recipe, ready the blame
For we have the remission to regain the reign.
Repel your remorse and restore resolution,
Reportedly, rank will repress revolution.
The role of the rival, the route which he roams
Can rarely restrict the return to his home.
The king has retired in his royalty,
And I have remodeled his residency.
Salvage our suspect, his sanity saved,
For the scare of the scandal will send him to grave.
The scramble to scourge him can scarcely sedate
But the salt of seduction will self-educate.
Send for the servants in serious shock,
And service the sergeant to sit in the stocks
And sharp in the shadows, the shaky shall stay
Or the silk of our silence shall give me away.
Then tenderly will I turn terror and tears
Till the theme of our tyranny taunts in the ears
Of the throne that we took to the toil of the tomb
And tomorrow, tight-lipped, the torture resumes.
For the town on the trail of a traitor in trade
Will trust in the turning of twilight to shade.
The two-handed truth and the twist of my walk
Will tailor the theory the thunder may talk.
Upon the uncrowning of that useless urchin
The urn of his corpse will be burnt rather urgent.
The utmost respect must you dare to uphold
Not to upset the others, for some are untold.
For an unfaithful uncle is prone to unite
With an unguarded nephew in un-called for fight.
Should you be unaware, it will be of no use
When you are unconscious from ugly abuse.
Vengeance is ours as we vanquish the vault.
Vanity, value, and vice are at fault.
The vile vindication of our victim’s voice
In volumes so visible, we have no choice
But to visit the viper in his violent tomb.
On the verge of our victory, valor is gloom.
A verible verdict, a vigilant void,
A volume our visitor could not avoid.
