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Tales the dead man tells


When was the last time we met? On so many occasions
we have been stumbling upon each other, and I do
admit we have become so close that I lose the sense
of space and time in your company. Your unknown
human body would understand not, your dead mind
would appreciate not—the vicious mess and
nightmare that the ever increasing number of your
folks has instigated, decreasing me to a simple number
who has been divided by cold murders, monies galore
and utter dejection. I'm so colourfully hopeless.

Do you agree your number, however high, is now in
drains? You and your folks haunt no more in the desolate
leikai and leirak but live among us—now and then in the
talking shop of the scoundrels, in the jungles of liberty,
in every wakat meepham, in each line of my poetry, and
in the shadows that shroud the landscape. We meet so often
and I have seen you have sucked the life out of our living.
From losing in a stream of unconsciousness, I have now
started to speak your language. And I live to hear your tales:

"Forceful and passionate I'm when
looting the people, when I rob them
off their vanity, rob them
off their happiness, rob them
off their contentment, rob them
off their peace of mind
And I keep my possession
some safely inside Keat's Grecian urn
some on top of the Koubru
some beneath the delicate petals of Siroi lily
and some away from your glaring eyes
of greed and disdain."







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