In the book called “life” each page reveals many twists and turns in the plot.
Reaching the age of wisdom and experience it is time to dissect paragraphs that reveal great joy, some sorrow and lessons learned.
Words in play bring back memories and excite the imagination to envision our distinct version of choices made, dialogue expressed and feelings displayed.
Characters come and go but some remain to influence the outcomes of scenarios in our lives and to direct our course for the grand epilogue in the final chapter.
As we close the binder, take off our glasses and reflect. May the storyline have been intriguing, suspensful, delightful and peppered with the unforseen.
A grand final acknowledgement to the author who lived the story through wide open eyes and revealed it with integrety and honesty
Q: When a woman is having a baby, what do you call the periods of time between labor contractions?
A: Pregnant pauses.
Q: What happens when a restaurant doesn't sell all of its "soup du jour"?
A: It goes on tomorrow's menu as "soup du yesterjour".
Q: What do you call a group of witches doing their own laundry?
A: A self-cleaning coven.
Q: What did the prostitute say to the sympathetic arresting female officer from Buenos Aires?
A: Don't cry for me, Sergeant Tina.
Q: What did the cannibal chief tell his people when they were defeated by another tribe?
A: If you can't eat 'em, join 'em.
Q: What did two gay knights tell King Arthur when he asked them if they were dating?
A: We''re not a couple, we're joust friends.
Q: What's the difference between a vase and a "vahze"?
A: The price.
Q: How can you tell if a politician is lying?
A: His lips are moving.
Q: How would Hollywood describe a remake of "Day of the Dead" set in old Tucson with a score and lyrics by Andrew Lloyd Webber?
A: A zombie western musical.
Q: What might be the motto of a cannibal police force?
A: "To dissect and serve".
A DREAM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A wisp of smoke, a phantom limb,
the dream dissolves, a sugar cube in rain.
Gone.
Morning light bleeds in,
erasing landscapes built of moon-dust.
A fiction, spun in the quiet dark.
But then, a shard remains.
A glint caught in the corner of your eye.
A swan's cry,
impossibly clear,
reverberates,
caught in the hollow of your chest.
It returns, unbidden, unwelcome,
a landscape
of tilted angles and knowing eyes.
You stand there, powerless,
caught in its gaze,
a stranger in a familiar place.
Inclined to wonder,
to dissect and trace,
the questions remain
bewilderment etched upon your face~
What did it mean?
What does it mean?
They taught us to dissect frogs,
but not the feeling of being dissected.
We memorized the bones of empires,
but no one named the fracture in our own spines.
We wake up with hearts in our throats,
trap ourselves in flickering cages,
Pout like mannequins in group shots.
We google "how to disappear"
between lectures on resilience.
We draft essays on survival ,
while planning exits.
We smile at teachers who praise
our punctuality while we
count pills under the desk.
The counselor called us in one by one,
handed us pamphlets
with smiling cartoon brains.
Just ticked boxes
and sent us back to class
with a sticker that said “brave.”
which curled by noon.
When the windows whispered
and the knives called us by name,
they called it depression.
It wasn't.
It was syllabus.
We were just doing the homework.
In a round-about, indirect
Not to dissect but inspect
Alternative means to deflect
From some singular aspect,
Of getting to a point or effect…
I need to be more direct.
Perhaps in wanting to understand
We must abandon wonder
Whether willingly for the sake of rigour and strength
Or unwillingly surrendering to the unexplained
In those bylanes in order to explain
We study, observe dissect
Practise reductionism to the last atom
After that when the head rises up again
Devoid of wonder, innocent lost
It sees natural vastness
Sigh, explains it as infinity
Perhaps an expression of its own exhaustion
Having played with the tiniest
It has lost the power to comprehend
The abundance of which is only a part
Self-Owned
Remember
the day
you became entitled
to yourself
No debts to pay
no last charade
the circle closed
— indwelt
(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)
Reflection
Do we just recall
a memory
Or its cause
and its effect
Is consciousness
a chain of links
To front load
— or dissect
(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)
Beatitude
The deeper you question
the more you constrain
God’s true existence
to never explain
Loosen your grip
on what holds you back
Surrender to glory
— Divinity’s tack
(1st Book of Prayers: May, 2025)
The Only Thing
Winning is always
undefeated
Score
to tell the tale
The victory plum
is zero sum
With glory
— to regale
(The New Room: May, 2025)
All Is Now
Unplugging tomorrow
recharging today
Conscripting the moment
— inside which we pray
(1st Book of Prayers: May, 2025)
you built a throne out of your own reflection, mistook your arrogance for eloquence,
try to resurrect what you helped desecrate,
your ego arrived before you did,
while your sense of self suffered
every silence was a threat.
you dissect with vocabulary
but cannot name your own loneliness.
you mistook softness
for submission,
pauses for praise.
and when I left,
you called it cowardice,
as if I hadn’t spent years
trying to decipher a man
who couldn’t even pronounce himself.
They thought it would be fun to dissect Susie’s brain
But wait, Sue said. I am kind of allergic to pain.
We have new meds, you will hardly feel a thing.
She believed the surgeon, ‘cause she’s a ding-a-ling.
The doctors hypnotized her and she stayed in place
While they cut a tiny hole in her front lobe face
They extracted a bit of her teeny sand brain
I’m naked! The piece yelled, and don’t forget my train!
They pulled out a gown, a petticoat and a bridal veil.
I am eager to see what you’ll do next said Dale.
Wait! Said Tori as I was telling this story to her
Who is Dale and were her dendrites still pure?
Since I was rudely interrupted, the tale is now dead.
So now poor Susie is stuck without the rest of her head.
I do not feel guilty, I am the writer, thus the boss.
Not knowing the ending is the reader’s loss.
letter and science
dissect-able fraud in statements as advertised to the press
abuse's of power by poor people to create recession
this is underpinning the news
to prefect the crime knowingly able to.....
post rebuttal after the word of crime is witnessed
public relations
public policy
political relations
Damage control for a politician is the response to bad press. It often takes the form of a press conference or news release that rebuts or provides a positive spin regarding the original bad press. It can be a significant part of a political staff and is often referred to as the Crisis Management Team. Damage control is also we a politician is playing defence in the political arena
from a non profitable transaction being a representative in government and out front of a church in tax certification of tax shelter
these crimes are pivot points from a non free speech
all of this investigative journalism finds this pattern of corruption in time
The world feeds on tragedy, with an insatiable hunger for misfortune,
They demand confessions, not out of care, but to dissect and devour the soul,
When I reveal my pain, their eyes become glassy with disgust,
And their pity drips like acid on my open and bleeding wounds.
Perhaps that's why I've made my sadness a "nameless grave,"
A place I visit alone, away from prying eyes,
Where no one can turn my pain into a fleeting spectacle,
Where silence weaves veils over memories and unshed tears.
There, in the dark silence, I bury my sufferings one by one,
Away from eyes that wish to turn my story into a show,
I have found a sanctuary where the echoes of pain are my silent confidants,
And only shadows keep me company in this dance of lost souls.
It is a place where I can breathe without feeling the weight of curious gazes,
A space where pain is not a phenomenon but a part of me,
A corner of the world where silence whispers solace and secrets,
And where, ultimately, I learn to embrace my own darkness.
i will grip the last shards of you,
until the edges slice my palms.
through skin and tissue,
muscle and bone,
'till its through the other side.
when it lands on the pavement,
blood-soaked and broken,
i'll clasp my palms together,
stronger than we ever were,
and scoop up the shattered pieces.
i'll cradle them,
with that gentleness you one day forgot,
and never shown me again.
as i step over the stains in the concrete,
my lacerated flesh,
held tight to my chest,
i know.
i know that,
i'll let your memory dissect me forever,
until all that remains—
is a puddle of all i hoped we could be.
The cragged moon, a curdled, midnight bloom,
Where veins of frost, dissect a shadowed room.
A galaxy of mold, on lunar stone,
A whispered legend, soft and darkly known.
It weeps a brine, a sharp, celestial tear,
A pungent phantom, banishing all fear.
Then, amber relics, in a glassy tomb,
Where time's slow fingers, weave a spiced perfume.
Each wrinkled emerald, a sunken, ancient eye,
That holds the secrets, of a bygone sky.
They swim in brine, a sun-kissed, golden sea,
Where sharpness sleeps, and tangy memories flee.
These kindred spirits, in a twilight tryst,
A marriage strange, by starlight's silver kissed.
One, a moon's decay, a noble, bitter grace,
The other, time's own kiss, upon a verdant space.
A symphony of tang, a whispered, aged lore,
Where phantom flavors, haunt forevermore.
A taste of ages, in a shadowed, secret place,
A paradox of pleasure, etched on time's worn face.
A velvet darkness, and a sunlit, sour dream,
Where sharpened shadows, and aged sunbeams gleam.
And The Mona Lisa is tired - her canvas cracked from stares
A billion eyes dissect but no-one repairs
Her smile is a lie
Just a facade created to survive
They worship the fallacy but the woman's been lost.
Forgotten in history
her own identity to her remains a mystery
She had a voice once, a name, a life-
Now, she's only a sum of their expectations
Lost in becoming a true masterpiece
So polished that there's no personality.
I wonder if they soothe their imperfections with her crafted beauty
Perfectly imperfect though hidden behind reflected beliefs
Even if I scream they'll only hear silence.
Even if I change they'll frame me the same.
They will never see me as me,
Because I'm their Mona Lisa
And it doesn't matter what I want to be.
I Have Nothing Left To Say
my moment in the sun
and in a sweeping motion
the clouds took it all away
with you by my side
I wait for another day
I'll pen my thoughts
pull the blue
and erase the gray
ask you to dissect
each moment along the way
short and simple
but, I think you know
exactly where
the road will go
down a winding path
of light where dancing shadows
touch insight
without a rthymn nor reason
the truth shall insist
Where a light of love will silently manifest
Let's climb the highest mountain
And dive into the deepest sea
For all rage and glory
In belief we shall achieve
could It be you
I'm craving to impede
I'll follow your muse
I'll even let you lead
rambling in an injamblment
atlast the sun broke free
Sitting in our sanctuary
I have nothing left to say
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