The cold bore down upon them.

No signs of heat or heart.

Just murmurs of some warnings.

Like they told you from the start.

But NO! You wouldn’t listen.

And now you know the way.

If only you can get through this!

Just to live another day…

Some will heed your warnings.

Some will pray for shithouse luck.

Some will calmly walk through fire.

Smile sweet, don’t give a fuck.

Vincent might have been a better writer than he was a Painter, and unless you’ve read his letters to his brother Theo; then I’m certain that you might want to debate. I’m not interested…

I have read volumes on this mans life and death, and never have I encountered so much absolute bullshit and misinformation surrounding one person. This is the problem. If the public and humanity are so easily fooled, then all history comes into question.

Vincent Van Gogh did not cut off his ear and give his discarded body part to a prostitute… There is an actual police report, and the only witness to this supposed mythology was master swordsman PAUL GAUGHAN. Paul was not much for fiction. However, he did manage to fool most everyone with his efforts here.

Paul Gaughan cut off Vincent’s ear and created this story to evade jail. Scotland Yard detectives came to this conclusion several decades ago when they studied the police report. Vincent was too drunk to remember anything.

In the 1960s, the last of 3 brothers died, and on his death bed confessed that it was him and his brothers who accidentally shot Vincent. Vincent took days to die and was conscious, and he took this secret to his grave to ensure that these 3 brothers, his tormentors, wouldn’t be punished.

It’s my opinion that based on these 2 almost incidental examples; that history has a major problem.

They gathered in the city after abandoning the farms.

A silent somber motley crew, full of piss and doing harms.

They hardly drew a notice, just didn’t look the part.

The country cousins consortium, taking mayhem to an art.

They stole and raped and pillaged. Took a dark and fearsome path.

Until they ran into a ringer with a cold and wicked laugh.

There’s a silence in the meadows. She is waiting by the phone.

But her boys don’t call or write. For their sins they must atone.

I don’t worry too much about love.

I have never been that cold.

Had it bad for scent and beauty.

No more meaning she could hold.

In the end, I grew from gullible.

I held on for the ride.

Like a soldier has his duty.

I kept all those things inside

It’s just daydreams hope desire.

I guess I am that blessed.

To know now how you felt then.

I just never would have guessed.

I don’t worry much about love.

My head it feels so clear.

No more hunger expectations.

I just walk the earth, my dear.

She said she was a mother, but not much of a daughter.

Said, “You reap now what you sow.” Which landed like cold water.

I don’t believe in luck or the curse she said I brought her.

But to say that looks could kill. I was the lamb they brought to the slaughter.

I asked, “You don’t like men?” There was so much I could have taught her.

She was past the learning stage except from scars of those who fought her.

Baby took a deep dive, I wasn’t there, I could have caught her.

No crying over.spilt milk. Or whatever it was that got her.

Piano rose above the frost line.

Sweet music cold and still.

She held that note and damn the cost.

I just had to get my fill.

My attention was the darkness

Gold light did touch her face.

I’m so attracted to your beauty, dear.

My mind is in that race.

Now, I hunger for the quiet.

And how that used to be.

Before the beauty and the music.

Before this madness that I see.

The sun returned with a vengeance.

The cold air was hanging on.

The headmaster took attendance.

Appeared that one of us was gone.

Some prayed for her safe passage.

Some cried for her return.

There was no meaning or no message.

Just a look of harsh concern.

There was a shuffle in the hallway.

And some movement at the door.

She said, “I’m late, but I’m ok.”

And she’s not missing anymore.

I don’t know why my baby loves clowns.
Whose painted on tears never fall down.
I don’t know what she sees in their eyes
Perhaps the line between horror/surprise…

I don’t know why my baby can’t sing.
Why carnival music isn’t her thing.
It fills my head when I’m at the fair.
Searching for clues in clowns everywhere.

I don’t know why she screams at night.
I hope it’s not why she holds me so tight.
Because I’m the type I’m weak for love.
Carnival music I rise above.

Is it the pain or is it the tears?
For some carnival crime from yesteryears.
Maybe it’s you, maybe I’ll never know.
Maybe it’s me, baby let go.

(chorus)

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the kings horses and all the kings men.
Tried and they tried but she fell down again.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
She went to her shrink ended up at the mall.
Humpty Dumpty wanted it all.

Dennis Mantin

I’ve been patient with understanding…

And all things that I don’t know.

They piled up and not withstanding…

Except those marks from letting go.

We were holding onto dear life.

Confused like children in a war.

Lack the words for clear expression.

Peace and love were not in store.

There is something in the shadows.

Dare take a look? Oh, just a peek!

There’s something Holy in the answers.

When the strong protects the weak.

Dennis Mantin