“The woman you put here with me.”

Adam Eve

Painting: “The Fall of Man” by Hendrick Goltzius, displayed at the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

Rather than analyze the cause of Eve’s fall from Eden along with Adam’s, we will concentrate here only on Adam’s treachery. The tale of the rebellion in Eden is one of seduction. This artifice was a craft learned by Eve and employed first on the face of the Earth by Satan in the guise of a serpent. What made Adam’s disobedience gravest of the three was that he was most deliberate in his sin. From the Biblical narrative of creation we can gather than Adam developed a close relationship with the Lord for much longer than Eve had, and for what may have been many years, Adam would have observed all of nature, and understood at least the basic order of the Heavenly will of God. Adam knew that the serpent had not the innate cognition and free will to tempt Eve such as he did. He knew precisely which adversary had led Eve to the offense she had just committed. The severity of Adam’s treason was seated, above all else, in that his infatuation for Eve outweighed his devotion and loyalty to God.

With added complexity, after her eyes were opened to see herself and surroundings in a new light on account of tasting the powerful fruit, Eve had been endowed with the craft of seduction and charisma. We witness this transformation as Eve speaks to Adam upon his return:

Hast thou not wonderd, Adam, at my stay?

Thee I have misst, and thought it long, depriv’d

Thy presence, agonie of love till now

Not felt (Milton, Book IX, 856-859).

We can only imagine with which melody and allure Eve welcomed her mate with the profundity of desire she now felt toward him. Eve’s enchanting beauty, coupled with her eloquent speech, greatly extended the lengths to which Adam was willing to follow his wife. Yes, Adam’s heart was deeply ensnared by Eve, and he pledged his very soul to her in speaking these words before he had ever brought the fruit to his mouth:

Certain my resolution is to Die;

How can I live without thee, how forgoe

Thy sweet Converse and Love so dearly joyn’d,

To live again in these wilde Woods forlorn? (Milton, Book IX, 907-910)

Just as Satan had said of his life in reluctant bondage to God, Adam too would have thought of the prospect of life without Eve’s company as Paradise turned Hell. The thought of wandering the great Garden without the woman that God had tailored solely for him would have been incredibly depressing to him. How could he love another woman than the only one who had been intended for him? Were they not, after all, one flesh?

Adam did not want to be like God, nor could he have cared any less for knowledge of good or evil. No; Adam’s sin was choosing to love to the death the woman that the Almighty and All-Knowing had crafted for him—the perfect woman. When God presented Eve to Adam, he had vowed his heart and soul to her for all eternity, and he would not break this commitment. If his rib had injured the Lord with blasphemy, the source of the rib must then pay the price along with her. So, Adam accepted Eve’s charms, but not blindly. Adam knew the consequence that following his wife would bring. Still, he made the choice all the same to follow Eve throughout life through to the darkness of death, for life lived with his one beloved Eve, even with eternal damnation as an end, was sweeter a thought than to be accompanied by another version, shallow and without flaw or will.

Works Cited

Milton, John. Paradise Lost: Book IX. Darmouth College,


The Unifying Principle of Humanity

In many of the classical works of literature, we find recurring themes of conflict, adventure, heroism, and one of the most moving elements of a great story—suffering. In varying degrees, human life is impacted by changes which, upon intersection with our expectations and desires, often cause a great deal of friction. We may sometimes refer to this unwelcomed friction as suffering. Nonetheless, this suffering usually adds depth to our stories, and this is especially true in literature. Two great classics, Ferdowsi’s Epic of Kings known as Shahnameh, and Inferno, from Dante Alighieri’s narrative poem known as La Divina Commedia, explore the topic of human suffering, and how they contextualize human existence. In this analysis of the two classics, we will review the sources of suffering found in the texts, and how suffering makes human existence seem inevitably tragic. We will also examine what the texts can teach us about how to deal with suffering, and the deeper understanding of the significance of human mortality that we can gain from reading these stories. The unifying theme we find in studying portions of these Shahnameh and Inferno side by side is that suffering plays a significant and universally educational part in the recorded story of human life.

Let us begin by considering the sources of suffering as found in the text of Shahnameh and Inferno. From The Epic of Kings known as Shahnameh, we learn that it is human’s fragile nature, and our powerlessness, that causes the greatest human suffering. Ultimately, even the mightiest of men cannot cheat death. We learn this lesson from three main characters in the story. The Shah, Kai Kaous, displays great obstinacy and lack of compassion. That ultimately leads him to act with betrayal toward his most valuable servant, Rustem. After fatally injuring his most formidable opponent, whom later turns out to be his son, Sohrab, Rustem implores the Shah to deliver his healing balm to save his beloved son, but his pleas were to no avail. The text tells of the Shah’s motives for ignoring Rustem’s call for help as follows:

The heart of Kai Kaous was hardened, and he remembered not the benefits he had received from Rustem… And he was afraid lest the might of Sohrab be joined to that of his father, and that together they prove mightier than he, and turn upon him. So he shut his ear unto the cry of his Pehliva (Ferdowsi 160).

Kai Kaous’ role in causing suffering, as recorded in Shahnameh, is rather obvious. In his service, Rustem never failed in furthering the Shah’s will. However, when Rustem needed him the most, the Shah’s obstinate heart did not go out to Rustem’s aid. Kai Kaous betrayed Rustem by withholding the only available resource that could have healed Sohrab, as he was more concerned with eliminating any possible threat to his power, than in helping out a life-long ally. This ultimately sealed Sohrab’s fate, and caused Rustem the greatest sorrow he would ever know.

The reader is offered a heart-wrenching description of the strong emotions felt as Sohrab’s life left his body. Rustem “heard [Sohrab’s] groans of pain… and… when he saw the agony of the boy, was beside himself, and would have made an end of his own life, but the nobles suffered it not, and stayed his hand” (Ferdowsi 159). Even amid the sight of the direct consequence of his violent behaviors, as he was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and helplessness, Rustem could think of nothing else but to solve this problem with more violence. He had partaken in so much violence, with little regard for the value of his opponents’ lives, that he could not find in his heart any other solution but to end his own life when there was nothing else he could do to save his long-lost son. These are the signs of a man who suffered without help. What, then, can we say of Sohrab?

Sohrab’s death was the fruition of the lies and deceptions that had been festering between the powerful contenders of Rustem’s time. Years of lies and deception met their boiling point, giving birth to Sohrab’s tragic death. The tragedy of this story is that, as this boy embarked on a noble journey to connect with his father, with innocent and pious motives, he was caught in the storm of swords initiated by the evil motives of those whom surrounded his father. The tale of Rustem and Sohrab was wrought by the demonstration of the most vile and dark emotions that humans can have. Sohrab’s death was not brought on by an evil supernatural force, nor was he destined to be slain by his father to fulfill a divine plan, as some schools of thought foreign to this tale may explain, but rather, it was the effect of nothing more than human villainy at its worst. In more modern and mainstream literature, however, we find a seemingly different narrative for the causes of human suffering.

Alternatively to the narrative found in Shahnameh, Dante’s Inferno has been commonly accepted as further confirmation of the Christian notion that suffering is caused by sin. More than simply linking the suffering to an immediate cause, that is individual sinful transgressions, suffering as a whole is often chalked up to the result of the original sin set in motion by Adam in Eve in the Garden of Eden. However, when we remove dogma from the interpretation of the text, we can decipher the more secular implications of human suffering found in this classic. We are greatly aided by Dante’s methodical juxtaposition of contemporary and historical events, especially with regard to the political climate of his time, to make these inferences.

The most notable specimen of the secular context of human suffering in Inferno is Pier della Vigna. The University of Texas at Austin’s analysis of Inferno provides some useful background information on this prominent individual, whose circumstances are particularly useful in understanding the extent to which humans, blinded by their inflated sense of power, inevitably meet similarly tragic ends. Pier della Vigna, similar to Dante, played an incredibly important role in the politics of his time. He held positions of authority from the Kingdom of Naples and Sicily to the Holy Roman Empire during Frederick II’s reign (The University of Texas at Austin). In Inferno, Dante writes that Pier della Vigna speaks, “’I am the one who held both keys / to Frederick’s heart, and I could turn them / locking and unlocking, so discreetly” (Alighieri, Inferno, Canto XIII, 58-60). Yes, Pier della Vigna was a masterful courtier. It can be said that, at the height of his role as official spokesman for the imperial court of Frederick II, Pier was the symbol of power of the Holy Roman Empire. However, the power he wielded also made him the target of much envy and spite from other members of the court. The University of Texas’ analysis of this subject shares that “Medieval commentators relate that Frederick [II], believing the charges against Pier (perhaps for plotting with the pope against the emperor), had him imprisoned and blinded” (The University of Texas at Austin). Pier della Vigna, now stripped of all power and alliances, could not bear the weight of what he must have viewed as a then-meaningless life. So, he turned to what little power he did still have left, the power to take life, and used it on himself by allegedly bludgeoning his head against the prison walls (The University of Texas at Austin). In so doing, della Vigna bought himself a one-way ticket to the seventh circle of Hell, where the most violent offenders are punished eternally. Over this realm, he had absolutely no power or influence, just as was the case in the prison cell where he ended his life. Only now, he had not even the power to put an end to this severest punishment.

From this brief analysis of two classical works of literature—Ferdowsi’s Shanahmeh and Dante’s Inferno—one can grasp a deeper sense of the nature and relation of suffering to human life. Although depicted with splendorous brush strokes, the somber reality of human suffering, and how one must deal with these realities is not as embellished. The excerpts analyzed in this work provide answers to at least three deeply philosophical questions. First, what causes human existence to seem so inevitably tragic? Second, how should one deal with suffering? Lastly, what can be learned from human mortality, specifically in the context of these texts?

To describe human existence as tragic, purely on the basis of mortality, is incongruous with the order of life as we know it. We must understand that life is accompanied by death. Some lifeforms die later than others, but for as long as humans can recall, all life eventually comes to an end. What one can perhaps describe as tragic is the extent to which humans are capable of what they perceive as greatness, either in the form of physical prowess, or intellectual ability, but always with a finale. This places a dire limit and air of ephemerality to the achievement of humankind, and it is this fact that is arguably the primary reason that it has for millennia been so difficult for humans to comprehend the notion that our life force could ever possibly reach an inexorable end. We can add to this the thought that, when compared to the age of the universe, even humans who have been capable of living past one-hundred years of age, have perished as but babes. From Rustem’s impotence as his son lay dying, we learn that when death comes to take us away, there is no help. There is nothing we can do, no matter how mighty we believe we are. From most of the experiences recorded in Dante’s Inferno, we can appreciate that the power that even the most eminent of humans have held in their lives on Earth makes no difference in the afterlife, whether we understand this concept to be the utter cessation of material life, or the perpetual punishment for the natural inability to attain perfection. In the latter realm, the tormented are stripped of their titles, alliances, and weapons, to be rendered utterly and indefinitely powerless. How should humans regard this perspective of suffering?

There is no other way of dealing with suffering but to accept it, and learn the lessons it teaches us. Our powerless nature as humans greatly impairs our ability to put an end to the source of our suffering, but we do have the power to learn valuable lessons from it. Otherwise, suffering is just unending discomfort, and that is not a weighty lesson at all.

What should one learn from this understanding of human mortality? The most important realization that these texts provide us is that no amount or degree of titles, artifices, schemes, alliances, or weapons can ultimately prevail against our true common enemy, which is permanent death, and the unknown realm that exists beyond. This somber reflection is truly humbling, as we can appreciate that, if we are all fundamentally crippled by the same opponent, at the core, each human, regardless of the apparent categorization placed on them as contextualized by the basest of material senses, shares this nature equally. In other words, no man or woman is truly greater than the other, since from the moment we are born, we are all destined to die.

In reading Shahnameh and Inferno, we can find themes that very much resonate with our everyday life. Events that occur in contradiction with our wishes and desires can cause a degree of suffering, especially when it presents us with loss of that which we value most. These are experiences that the characters in the analyzed texts endured. These texts have been endowed to humanity as a comforting reminder that we are not alone in the suffering we experience from time to time. We learn that suffering is connected to our nature as humans, whether it is effectuated by us, by chance, or by a fellow human. In any case, one of the events that causes much suffering to living humans, death, is also the unifying principle of all humanity, and one that binds and levels us. The text found in Shahnameh and Inferno teach us that, at length, we are all carried to that foreign and distant land of darkness where in perpetuity we shall remain innominately dormant and immobile.

Works Cited

Alighieri, Dante. “The Princeton Dante Project (2.0).” Edited by Giorgio Petrocchi. Translated by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, Princeton University, The Trustees of Princeton University, http://etcweb.princeton.edu/cgi-bin/dante/campuscgi/mpb/GetCantoSection.pl.

Ferdowsi, Hakim Abu ʾl-Qasim. “The Epic of Kings.” Translated by Helen Zimmern, The Internet Classics Archive, http://classics.mit.edu/Ferdowsi/kings.mb.txt.

The University of Texas at Austin, “Dante’s Inferno – Circle 7 – Cantos 12-17.” The University of Texas at Austin, http://danteworlds.laits.utexas.edu/circle7.html#pier.

22 de marzo

Tengo una cita con Ezis.

De veras, debo partir;

Pues su seno extraño,

Y su dulce plañir.

Sus lágrimas embriagan

Cuál tierno licor.

Ay, que otras me amaran

Con tanto vigor.

Salgo del lecho conyugal

A tu cuerpo encontrar

Para enpaparme en tu caudal

Más amplio que el mar.

El júbilo he probado

Con efímero placer.

El lirismo me han robado;

Llevo vacío el ser.

La melancolía me inspiraba.

Por tanto, debo escoger

Si tomar a la que me admiraba,

O a mi musa volver.



His A Street condo lay in disarray. The vast space that once remained pleasantly empty was now strewn with empty whiskey bottles, cigarette butts, and ashes. Strong odors pervaded the air, most likely originating from the cocktail of human secretions expelled during the night of revelry. Dozens of naked men and women slept atop one another in scattered piles upon the floor.

Dave stepped out to the balcony, pulling out the last cigarette in the carton. He lit it as he felt the weight of his self-loathing sink in once more. Or maybe that was just the hangover.

A gentle gust of wind rustled the thick brown hair on his head. The February air was unforgiving, and the sky was overcast to match his mood. His mind had been troubled for some time. Lunging headfirst into sensory overload was his first reflex amid his sorrow, but the booze, drugs, and women only numbed the pain for a few hours a day at most. These comforts always left him feeling worse the next day than the last.

The firm would have to do without him today. In spite of his young age, Dave had managed to rack up a fair amount of wealth working in the Financial District. From the large windows that spanned most of the side of the floor he owned, he could see the building where he worked. His visitors had often told him that he had the best view in the whole city, complete with the bay.

He lived a comfortable life, yet his career seemed to have carried more significance back when the fruit of his labor went to much more vital objects than Scotch and hookers.

He understood that the lifestyle so many of his peers relished–a lavish life of licentiousness that he too had sought immaturely when his income was more modest–was not as great as it had been made out to be. In his view, no man is truly essential. After all, how is man any different than tiny ants? Man is but a pest and a nuisance. In fact, man is worse than an ant. Ants are unwavering in their loyalty to the greater fabric of their existence. Man is arrogant yet parasitic in nature.

Maybe it was the deep loneliness he felt. He was surrounded by hundreds of acquaintances that took no issue with partying with him for days in a row. They partook in the many commodities he had to offer, but none of them were true friends. The connection he had with them would always be superficial at best. How could they truly understand? Half the people that partied with him were the spoiled offspring of the world’s elite who had thus far been tightly guarded and now made use of their newly-found freedom with eagerness. Others were higher class junkies, escorts, and cold-blooded businessmen who were only there to get their fix.


He had not spoken to her for over five months. That last call was about his son’s birthday party invitation. His ex-wife, Victoria, had married an executive and moved to a posh suburb of San Jose, California. From the few encounters he had with Victoria’s new husband, Bill, he had gathered that his two kids felt comfortable with him. Bill had an adolescent daughter, and Victoria spoke endlessly about how great he was as a father.

Dave did not talk to his kids much. He knew he should do more as their father, but he still felt guilty for having been so distant when they all lived under one roof. There was a time when he felt that they stood in his way. That man-child just wanted to have fun. He had held little regard for whether Victoria would continue to tolerate his behavior.


To whoever the fuck reads this:

More than likely, you don’t give a shit.

I know you won’t agree with this decision, but that’s a good thing. Most people aren’t supposed to agree with the poor fuck that shoots his brains out, hangs himself, or leaps off a building to his death. What a fucked up world we’d live in if most people agreed with that.

Just because I’m fucked up doesn’t mean I think other people can’t enjoy life. I guess I just don’t think it makes a difference that I do.

The way I see it, life is an acquired taste like good caviar, or a rare Bordeaux. They’re expensive, and incredibly sought after by some, but that doesn’t mean everyone will indulge in them.

I’m simply not impressed.

So, to my son Jonathan, and my daughter, Abigail:

You could not have a better mother. Always love and respect her. I’m sorry our story did not play out differently. I wish you the best.

To Victoria:

I hope you live a plentiful life filled with happiness.

Dave left the letter on his marble kitchen countertop, held underneath the knife block. He locked the bottom doorknob before he walked out his front door into the hallway.

He walked slowly to the elevator and stared at it for about three minutes, contemplating what he intended to do.


“Can you talk?” Dave had texted Victoria four days before. No answer.


The stairs seemed to be a more fitting vehicle to reach his destination. Elegant even. So he went up eleven stories to the top of the building.

His journey up the never-ending flights of stairs was laborious, but it afforded him the luxury of reflecting on the various choices he had made throughout his life, serving only to strengthen his resolve. He gained deeper conviction of the futility and utter insignificance of his contributions.

It became increasingly difficult to breathe, and Dave felt that his eyes were suddenly enveloped in a dense veil. He could no longer see clearly.

Dave stopped mid-step, carefully patting the ground in front and around him to set himself down to rest.

A cold hand gently cupped Dave’s shoulder in a gesture of pity. Dave knew. “I guess I should keep going.”

Slowly, Dave was guided up the remaining steps, until he came up to the door that exited to the rooftop. Dave clutched the doorknob firmly, twisting it while pushing the door with the weight of his body to force it against the assailing winds.

With heavy footsteps, Dave made his way to the edge where solid ground came to its end. He paused to inhale deeply.


The sun is rising on the West Coast.

Victoria awakens for her morning jog. Today, she runs along the beaches of the Northern Californian coast, a peaceful retreat away from the usual noise of the city. Her husband had decided to take the family on a weekend camping trip at a park upstate for a short break.

The morning air was cool and crisp, but not unbearable.

Victoria searched through her iPhone for a suitable playlist for her routine. A barrage of notifications went off as she entered an area with reception. Deep in the park, there was no service, a blessing for those looking to disconnect from the incessant noise of the modern world.

Among the four or five text messages she received was one from Dave. She called him, but there was no answer.

She called again. Still no answer.

Again. No answer.

Relenting, she carried on with her jog.


The picture of the building’s height could not dissuade Dave from his mission. He was blissfully unaware of the distance he would ultimately travel.

He smiled with mild trepidation as he stretched his arms.

The winds wrapped his arms and legs like thick frigid ribbons, pulling him downward with force. He floated with a sensation he imagined resembled a feather as it glides gracefully to the ground.

He heard a distinct ring in the distance. Was this the sound of death approaching rapidly? The singing celestial hosts beckoning him to respite?

As the sound grew nearer, his peace was swiftly seized and replaced with profound doubt and remorse.

It was his phone ringing on the twenty-ninth floor. He was sure of it. But he was helpless. If he could have grown wings in that very instant, he would have, but it could not be. The serenity with which he had embarked on his trajectory had quickly been replaced with terror. He was afraid of his impending doom, and he wanted nothing else than to be rescued from this torment and dread. What had once appeared to only take a few breaths to accomplish seemed now to take an eternity to complete. With every passing moment he lived, with every breath he drew, he further regretted the step he had taken. He was afflicted not only by the gargantuan weight of the shortcomings that had propelled him to this state, but by the end he could not manage to see. He yearned for the finale to his pain, but it would not arrive.

It may have only taken a few seconds, or even minutes, for Dave to exit his anguish, but he would have experienced it over the course of years in that reality which existed in his mind. Time was very much stretched out for Dave on account of the path he chose.


Rays of warm sunshine beamed through the thin white window curtains. A rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted in as the distant buzz of lawn mowers and the gleeful giggles of children filled the morning air.


Disclosure: This post contains language of sexual nature. Read at your own discretion.

Amid the tumult of daily life and the occasional dull daily routine, she sought release. Not permanent release, of course. She was much too good at her job to want out. In fact, her self-made success only boosted her confidence further, and that was just the fuel her embers needed to kindle the fire.

She was the quintessential modern woman, and a voracious feminist. She needed no man before, and she certainly did not need one now.

Of course, human company is not all that bad, but no one had a greater desire for the flesh of her body than she did. Her voluptuous physique tempted her with the sort of girl-on-girl experience some women may only dream of. Yet here she was standing in front of the mirror beholding the most succulent pair of breasts. Her flesh began to ripple. The thin hairs on her lightly tanned forearms stiffened erectly in unison as libido brushed her skin with electric current. Sudden bolts of lightning fed her body with energy as her imagination warmed up. Her velvet areolas shrunk to half their former dimensions while her nipples became tumescent.

For a few seconds she admired her beauty with a faint coy smile that was followed by a bite of her sweet bottom lip. She lusted for that woman in the mirror, and by-God, she would have her. The door was locked and in those predawn hours, she was the only soul awake.

With gentle caresses, she ran her fingers down her neck and around her shoulders and forearms to relax her trembling limbs. Then, she ran the warm palms of her hands down the middle of her chest, and around her stiff nipples, and down her stomach, stopping just before the gates of paradise. She was aroused, and the mere anticipation of what would ensue made her heart palpitate tenfold.

She now sat on the bar stool she had brought in front of the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t the most comfortable set up, but it would do nonetheless. She spread her legs to have a clear view of the seat of her womanhood. It was here that the magna opera of her own divine creation was manifest. Her womb, which carried her from princess-hood to queendom, was smooth and radiant. The gates of the barbican that stood at the front of her majestically walled fortification bloomed as they opened gently.

She closed her eyes now and ran just the tip of her index, middle, and ring fingers down the hood of her pearl and through the middle of her nether-lips, drawing in a quiet yet sudden inhalation. The electric current that had run through her whole body now ran from her fingers through her genitalia, and she was not surprised to discover that droplets of her feminine nectar were streaming from within her. The honey trickled down the exit of her blossom and down her perineum. Her hips twitched as her body tingled with static. Cupping the inside of her left thigh close to her buttock with one hand, she ventured to glide her fingers around her labia with gyration. As she heaved and her hips moved with rhythmic oscillations, her aperture was probed almost unwittingly–half a result of her pelvis drawing closer to her fingers and the other half caused by her yearning to be inside herself.

She was now in, and the waves of euphoria seized her. A plethora of story-lines set in fantasy shot through her mind at the speed of light and she was barely able to connect them or grasp onto any of the details as she became enthralled with the expressions of pleasure she caught on her face when her eyes halfway opened to see herself in the mirror. Rapture was near, and there were no signs of her slowing down.

Her toes tensed and released periodically as her most sensitive regions were indulged. Deep in concentration, her body gained a sense of levitation. She was in the clouds, enveloped in sunlight, resting on a bed of lotuses, perfumed in the fragrance of jasmines, and all creation bowed to her majesty, spectators to her artful process. Her bronze limbs tensed almost enough to curl inward toward her abdomen as blood pulsed through every vein and artery in her body. She was gasping loudly now as her head hung back, almost unhinging off her neck and rolling off her shoulders. Dozens of butterflies flapped their silky wings all over her body and most gathered near her womb as she drifted into paradise. Her legs shook with vibrating twitches as her toes curled inward and the interior of her womb and the gates of her domain pulsated vigorously. For several seconds she sat there, bathing in the aroma of her art with glee. Consumed by the fire of passion, she rose to heaven a queen to descend a goddess among mortals.

L.I.F.E. (Lost Irreversibly For Eternity)

Photographs and mirrors,
Testaments to the past,
Ever reminding me of who I am,
But more terrifyingly of who I was.

Relented I have…
Enslaved to the pleasures that corrupt.
Injected with the antidote of pain,
Whichever is nearest…
Wine or fodder…
Both, perhaps.
Don’t make me think…
Anything but that.

You cannot see it
Unless you advance time.
I am turning to dust,
Where I came from,
Or so is said.
So what’s the point of coming from dust
if you’ll just turn to dust again?

Sobriety is pain.
Lucidity is knowledge.
Knowledge of what is,
What was,
What could have been,
And what shall be.
Knowledge is futile.
Knowledge knows what shall happen
But knowledge is not heard,
Only silver and gold.

I know why I am here,
But however much I shall speak,
No one can hear.
I am drunk. I am poor. I’m enslaved.

I knew too much,
But could do too little.
I don’t want to know anymore.
Please make it stop.

I was young, once.
Maybe handsome once…
Until I learned the truth.
Why did you teach me?

I eat.
I drink.
I smoke.
I release………………..

It’s good for a few seconds,
But it all comes back eventually.
It all comes back in time.

I used to want a time machine,
But time was the one who did this.
Why would I trust it?
I just want to stop it now.

It’s slipping away.
By the time I realized what was happening,
It was already done.

The world is so fast.
Everything needs to be decided now.
All needs to be amended now.

Money comes only so it can go
And I hop from stone to stone
Hoping I won’t fall underwater.

Gotta make me feel important.
Wanna make my name known.
Have to pave a future
‘Cause I don’t want to be a loser.

Who am I though?
If I never wake up tomorrow,
Will I know who really cared?
There’s no heaven or hell,
So I wouldn’t know.

Do you know what a bottled scream is like?
Feels like a heart attack.

You think it’ll go away with a bit of sleep,
But you close your eyes and next thing you know,
It’s time to stop caring about yourself
And start caring about the paycheck.

There’s just no time.

You either get time and no money
Or money and no time.
Either way, you’ll end up screwed,
Because there is no freedom
When you’ve got to buy food.

Someday they’ll nuke us all.
We’ll be charred to a crisp
And if the next evolved species
Is lucky enough, they’ll know better
Than to invent money and banks.
‘Cause we were all happy
Until one fucker had to put a price on life.

Foedus and The Shadow, Part I


Painting by jslaney, DeviantArt

Cruel is the realm of mortal men,
Wreathed with pain,
And cloaked in darkness.
Hope does truly only feign
When it appears to show promise.
Fate cares not for age or gender,
nor does it soften at the sight of new life
for from its tight grasp there is no defender.

“A mother always loves her child,”
Most have undoubtedly said,
Though noble or wild,
Though live or dead.
So warm is the heart of a mother,
What nurturing caresses she gives.
There is truly none other
More tender a creature that lives.

Dismal, however, is the life of few,
To whom blessing and bliss rarely ensue.
Such is the tale of a creature vile
Whose existence was only peril and trial.
Warmth was most unfamiliar a gem
and kindness was only his to give
to all who chanced to surround him
‘til the last day he did live.

Spawned of turpitude was he,
though what fault on him could be
for the villainy that took place that night
when yet far he was from sight.
A wicked spell was conjured in the dark
where blood and seed of kin
mingled were in violent assault
and most abhorrent sin.

Ghastly was the critter’s gaze;
its eyes were large and unblinking.
It seemed he was in somber haze,
but there was no doubt he was living.
A murky red film enveloped his eyes
and caused his lack of vision.
The terror of his hideous guise
would lead to much derision.

Dry pink scales covered the whelp;
his skin was cracked from head to toe
and when he tried to let out a yelp
only air would he softly blow.
His mother was taken away by such shock
as she held it with no bother to calm it,
all she did was lay there and gawk
until she could no longer hold her vomit.

The mother did not wish to see the child
and in fact demanded its death
so much that she became too riled
to even hear its very breath.
Alas, she refused to nurse him
for she had now become quite grim
that such horrible events shall occur
by reason of that saboteur.

Despite the wicked deeds he’d done
The father could not slaughter the babe
For it was his child after all
and the child he had to save.
Though when he gazed upon the likeness
of the creature he had begotten
he understood as he witnessed the illness
that his crime could ne’er be forgotten.

Smiley the Clown


Art by zombie-orchestra, DeviantArt

Smiley was a friendly clown.
Laughter he gifted plenty.
From circus to circus up and down
He went, and birthdays were too many.

A mask he wore
Of bliss and joy and glee.
But who was to know the man who bore
What that costume would not let you see?

His voice was cheerful,
And his tricks astonished crowds,
But something was turning awful
Inside his heart of shrouds.

No one knew what his personage withheld
From those who only saw a smile.
For no emotion had ever welled
As his art was his craft to beguile.

Until early one morning it was found,
That a noose ‘round his neck was bound.
The smile on the face of Smiley the Clown
had turned into a terrible frown.

Darkness is Nearing

A dark and tumultuous time is growing ever nearer and all man knows it. There is a terrible fright enveloping the world. God-fearing or no, man, woman, and child will all be riveted.
The four corners of the globe herald loud and resoundingly of the death and famine that is to come.
The priest will lift his tremulous hands to the heavens to plead for aid but he will not be heard.
The wealthy will throw their gold and silver onto the ground with a mighty clanger as they learn of the futility of their belongings.
Salvation cannot be bought nor can repentance serve of any use against the storm that is to come.
Gather the ones you love and the babes that are yet suckling at your breast, for no force above nor below nor amongst us will be able to save us but we.
To your weeping God of wood and stone, silver and gold, you will pray and beg for rapture, and yet no one will be found to save you.
Mayhaps, misfortune wills to spare us and we shall be left untouched.

Beauty is But Skin Deep

You love the man now
for his monumental physique,
but wait a few years
and his arms will be weak.
He won’t treat you right,
and you’ll break down with tears
at constant frustration and horrible fright.
His heart has been hollow
all of this time,
but you just couldn’t notice
his horrible crime.
His words were sweet
and his face a delight,
but now you’re left naked
without motive or might.

“That woman,” you say.
“A goddess I see.”
She is your dismay,
and your ruin she’ll be.
Her stride is graceful
and her glance breath-taking,
but her speech is distasteful
despite her love-making.
Bored she becomes
of the man that you are,
and so she succumbs
with the man at the bar.
It’s quite a pity
to see someone so pretty
become disowned by her own injury.

This is the tale I tell to you:
“No matter how pretty
according to view,
or how nice he speaks
when he kisses your cheeks,
you musn’t let go
of your virtue so.
For beauty they’ll only keep
as much as skin deep.”