The Edges lifted slowly.

Saw something in their eyes.

They were choosing words so carefully.

Building manufactured lies.

I was less than loose and goosy.

And more than just a breeze.

I was feeling cruel and dangerous.

With a glare not meant to please.

They were nervous from the get go.

I was feeling filthy right.

And left them in their misery.

To contemplate their plight.

It started out as leisure.

Just a story with a name.

Just a dirty little poem.

With no guilt that wasn’t shame.

Then there was the paintings.

Looked like something maybe art.

Then a thought became a film.

Just no stopping once we start.

Was a murmur from a choir.

And a voice that rattled hymn.

From a note that just got higher.

In a light that knew no dim.

In the moments that were awkward.

I learned to listen and looked to see.

Saw the living and breathed spirits.

You can’t guess which one is free.

I am reading again… Savage Art, a biography about Jim Thompson, the author of The Killer Inside Me & The Grifters.

Here’s a quote:

“There are 32 ways to tell a story, and I’ve used them all. There’s only one plot. Things are not as they seem.”

Brilliant Mr Thompson!

3 years ago… I had just told her that I was no longer the most beautiful man in the world. That I had transcended beyond beauty.

Dennis Mantin

I live in this world by choice, interacting with people who are wrapped up in their own affairs and see the same world through whatever lens available.

The latest statistics are 1% Psychopaths. 4% sociopaths. 5 % Narcissistic Personality disorder. 10% Alcoholic. 10% drug addiction. = 30%

Interesting to me, Nuerosis = 30% in This World.

The remaining appears too busy working to offer much support. Clearly, something is wrong in This World?

It’s 4a.m. on a Monday.

The roads are quiet, nothing is on.

Been staring at the broken line.

Where the past is never gone.

And you know it’s not too pleasant.

And that’s where my head goes.

But I never stay too long.

A rolling stone where no moss grows.

There is caffeine in the café.

The cat still has a purr.

The kid she sleeps so peacefully.

And at daybreak, all will stir.

The future holds all meaning.

Don’t know which way it will go.

But if I have learned anything.

It’s best that you don’t know.

My coffee was exotic.

The cream was thick and chill.

I was feeling down like burnt malaise.

But for that, they had a pill.

The model came from Instagram.

So hot, it seemed like crime.

Necks all snapped, and heartbeats capped.

Traffic halted on a dime.

There was liquor and a base beat.

And the rest, I’m not so sure.

There was lust and fussed and upper crust.

And my intentions less than pure.

All

Sleet crackles down upon the windshield. One degree to cold for rain. Blew the stop sign with a yield. Thought of you and back again.

It’s 3a.m. and black as Tuesday. They don’t have a cure for this. The accusations of a rude way. Where truth and lies could coexist.

The abyss appeared in all her glory. Speaks so sweet and knows your name. Are many ways to tell a story… Just one plot, it’s all the same.

All as pretty as a picture. All as calm and coasts are clear. They are looking for the sick cure. There’s not something like that here.

You are gone, and that’s the good news. Made it home, safe once more. The sleet is warm in pale blue hues. I will leave that at the door.

All are pretty as a picture. All are calm, and coasts are clear. All are looking for the sick cure. There is nothing like that here.