"...ill met by moonlight, proud titanic..."

shackles crumble. they start to rumble. hoods slip off, pulled by reawakened hands. eyes ablaze as they form roving bands. jumpsuits now a symbol of power. and for the rest: that sweet superiority's turned sour. imagine the look in his eyes, the surprise, when that face he'd never paid too much attention to hunts him down; makes him eat his vomit off the ground. and i've been told not to confuse revenge for justice but it would be nice for just this one time to see black and white reversed. and i can see your reactions: they look so rehearsed. condemnation. anger. hatred and, er, what should we call it? racism is frowned upon these days. even when dealing with these fallen-but-now-risen excommuniqués.

Cutting Veins Away

ink me up and down, i want my veins to run with black. cut them away and watch gravity pick up the slack. as i fall i'll ask you to take up this, my attack. laying down to rest in death between the dying cracks. this means more to me than you will likely ever know. i alone will, in the moment, understand the meaning of when i am meant to go. a blood pact with a stranger i'll never meet. going out with a fftt, what a way to be complete. last call for memento mori, i'm praying i won't feel sorry. life and death are but two sides of the same coin. smile on my face as i watch opposing corners join.

The Hand That Cradles The Rock

savour the taste, feel its embrace. feel the weight in your palm, dying trying just to keep calm for another moment or two. the time is nigh but the whole thing has yet to start. another moment or two before the beginning of the end, before you get to play your part. bask in the heat, the sun, your anger, light on your feet, your eyes filled with rancour. this is what it all comes down to. the charges have been laid. there are things they shouldn't get away with, there are prices to be paid. the hand that cradles the rock strikes hard. anger from your pains fills your lungs, it fills your veins. and you: don't think you can get away with these games cause when it pours, it raises fists straight from the ground. can you hear that sound? that's what you sowed coming back around.

(No Relation) and Statue of Liberty vs. Brendan Shanahan

three feet in the grave, digging up bones. this summer it seems we're all dead ramones. black leather, bad weather. jeans torn at the knees. no upstroke: it's not a joke. we're all adopting names that end in "ee"s. the kkk took my baby away and these days i just want to have something to do. blood is gushing, rocket's russian. when i'm down you know it's carbona not glue. song titles that begin with "i don't." and when you leave, you know i'm glad to see you go; go mental.

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hold it up, hold it up high. thinking you've got it in the bag. got your arm raised up to the sky, hoping to see our shoulders sag. but you missed it. and you kissed it goodbye. nice try, but you kissed it goodbye. standing right there to pop it in the net. looks like all that's left for you is regret. i'm not sorry. you thought we were your quarry. moving on to bigger and better things. you're left counting your many rings from yesteryear. nothing to fear but pride in self. you'll excuse me when i don't drink to your health.

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so that was fun to get some new stuff done. i don't think either is 100% yet but... both are good starts. i still have to write "The Hand that Cradles the Rock" and that should be enjoyable.