I use make-believe
overwriting memory
to bring me some peace
The fiction I’ve weaved
you’re at the store - you wouldn’t leave
is a fool’s relief
So I take mine neat
sweet opiate of self-deceit
my strange trick or treat
*a play, in 3 Senryus*
.
.
.
ps, I write short stories too
After a long tired day
I come home,on my bed,
Listening to him;
Never felt so touched, never felt so swayed
This was not the classic music this time which made me pleased,
The words, the unspoken pauses he took,
I understood this time.
The song said a lot, having deep emotions within,
Felt connected to a human I never met.
The silly little dance of his,
The green-blue eyes, the deep kinda husky voice,
The feminine manhood, the curly brown hair
Lucky are the other girls,
Who met him and Glare.
Not gonna brag but everyone will say they adore him better,
But in my heart, he will always be with this love letter.
~V
Janissaries of Peculiar Fictions
David J Walker
Janissaries of Peculiar Fictions
David J Walker
Janissary mercenary
Defender of the faith
What fate awaits the imaginings
Of the faithful
From the thrown colored in
Peculiar fictions unknown
Whether worlds without end
Life everlasting with
Saints and angels singing
on the heads of pens
Or streets paved with gold
bought and sold with
Favors of 70 virgins
in waiting
Janissary mercenaries
Defender of the faith
The hungry sleep
at your feet
Unnoticed
Creating avatars in political and law reality,
contracts and controlling stability.
Modus vivendi where the money flows,
oceans of spirit fears in tows.
Irresponsible silence of motions,
honored sheep’s and their devotions.
Munchausen’s syndrome via comic book,
kindly bulling with every look.
Home at causes, churches and cult,
never able to see the own insult.
Insisting on taking over and fixing things,
manipulated moments for the kings.
Being aloof with natures flawless bound,
no key for the self chain can be found.
Pride in the unfathomable meek,
pointing fingers to the seeming weak.
Motivation all about themselves,
to shine in opportunities like sparkling elf’s.
Taking care of this the millionth time,
when the world needs them in that golden frame.
Justified by abusing others because of it,
stories of the leading role in every bit.
In control to the freakish point,
if not involved so bitter anoint.
The masters and puppeteers put them in charge,
then everybody loves a hero at large.
The preposterous fictions many
profess to be unvarnished truth
warp the very fabric of our universe --
cause those long dead to walk among us
through the spectral midnights in our minds.
The bone dust of those past millennia
films our eyes, coats our shelves
of sacred primers, those missals
unquestionable in their catechistic
authority -- so we become
the acolytes of those controllers
who have themselves always been
instructed, conditioned, and suppressed
by generations of such teachers --
through example, reward, or punishment.
Think! Open up your mind!
The truly free do not fear to question
and to decide the truth or falsity
of any proposition, any statement
or assertion and to declare
what they have concluded to be true.
Or false.
Walked in my topsiders
Another path of lies and outsiders
Sashayed dauntlessly in a setting of acquaintance
Laugh, drink, and dance… Forget the stance
For every hour’s worth of deceit
This lie is my fuel to withstand my emotional defeat
A night pumped with intoxication
Denial is worth the suffocation.
Forced by circumstances
I’m living this life with little chances
I am expected to feed my responsibility
However, fazed by youth, dopamine and rationality
Occasions are not a lie
I lie for the occasion.
The heavy feeling is my hangover
Not from intoxication but from my treacherous nature
This fiction is more than YOLO and FOMO
It’s to cast brilliance from an incandescent shadow
My faith will bring me to places I’ve never been
Set up the engine, let the lies begin.
The lives of others I can not but steal.
Their thoughts, their dreams, their loves, are all in books inscribed,
Ripe for the taking. Their minds fit mine like new skins.
It does not hurt them: book folk are not real,
And I need their worlds, for my eyes described
One jagged, where crimes can’t all be sins.
But my mind’s stretched, sagging without their shapes:
Written on my soul their words are transcribed.
Once I’m done in my mind they still lurk
Holding my soul’s too hard while round they traipse
I am patchwork
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