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.

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.

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.

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.

There was meaning in her silence.

A force in that smile.

I was at the launch of damaged past.

And she heaped me on that pile.

There’s a time for cool reflection.

Contemplation to be clear.

And there’s a time for quick escape.

And acknowledgment of fear.

I left her in the meadows.

I was shaking at the shore.

The tears are from the laughter.

And her silence has a roar.

The mood was light and airy.

All smiles seemed engrained.

They begged, “Stay in the moment.”

And yet, someone still complained.

No banquet halls were empty.

All musicians danced and played.

The bankers were all giving loans.

And the priests and wisemen prayed.

All pets were housed and fluffy.

All disease they found the cure.

The activists raised concerns.

To what? No one was sure.

I know it never happened.

I know it might sound rude.

But I have heard with mine own eyes.

People who complain about free food.

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.

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

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 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!