Information Warfare

I'm a bit angry at this point. Max returned with nothing.
Just requesting it wasn't going to help. I'm going to have to retrieve a key.
I made a call to Bachman, who has no relation, and tried to get a union of the minds.
Max and Bachman discussed the tactic at length. They seeked and derived a plan.
In walks Cartesian (yes he's foreign) with a pervasive barrage of children.
I could barely constrain my composure, but managed to fire off a request for truce.
This was hashed out, granted, revoked and rolled back. I angrily scribed some notes in my growing log.
I needed coffee while I tried calling my parents. I ripped up my notes into torn pages. It was many to one.
Upon return I found them all set at one table holding a tiny sign with Suspect written on it.
I decided to ask the all-seeing oracle if I could dump this heap. She was busy merging with an entity on the couch.
I fell flat even after contacting Beap, and Treap. I was in a paradox with no backup plan.
Deadlocked between detachment or dumping acid on them, I just walked away without violating my integrity.
There's probably more to this, but, my friends I'm not that type of operator. There will be no sequel.

Desperate Mary

She prayed in fright fearful of a tasing
guns bright blazing
left with a grazing

Mary spent the night and wondered
could it not have been right, rather than she hungered
her situation escalated as she plundered

Now shes running like a rocket
without a penny in her pocket
unless you've been there, don't knock it

The Love

The desk. The drawer. The dove. Is dead.
The window. The willow. The woman. Is dancing.
The room. The rage. The ringing. Is deafening.
The bed. The box. The book. Is diary.
The pages. The paragraphs. The purpose. Is despair.

The clock. The circle. The clicking. Is fading.
The doorway. The den. The dark. Is frightening.
The mind. The maze. The memories. Is failure.
The floor. The flask. The fluid. Is fatal
The love. The lost. The lesson. Is final.

Snail Repose

I've got it made 
in my tiny palisade
under the sun 
and in the shade

The city unkind
now behind
I will be one
I am resigned

No longer confined
its here I'll dine
and never be done
of love and wine

I've got it made 
in my tiny palisade
under the sun 
and in the shade

The Fly

The Fly

The fly flew in unafraid. Smartly as a dart, in a peculiar way. 

Did he have something important to say, this fly who flew upon my page.
He did not appear to beg or grovel as I read my novel - 
only looked and hooked upon my eyes. Could he be a prophet in disguise?

Nearly at my finger, there he did linger. Had he brave words to say?
His purport I could not gauge. Enchanted, without rage, I dared to engage.
I hoped and prayed he'd have no remorse, if we shared some discourse.
With hands steady and breath held low, I curiously offered a Hello.

While I waited, hoped and prayed, a wind blew in upon the page.
Without a shrill or trill the statue stood still, unafraid upon his stage.
No words did he share, in his lipless stare. Was he really there?
I may not impress, no matter the manner I address, a fly whose eyes play chess.