The Dramatic Tragic Epic Comic Poetic Of All Time

I. I was.

In the beginning with God.
Here before anyone could read.
From the Vedas to the Odyssey.
Recited, throughout history
"Oh sweet gift of poetry!"

II. There.

Where the Sumerians become ruins, composed upon runes.
The dust becomes the dunes as the Golden Ages bloom.
The monoliths and stelaes spell HELL and friars eternal doom.
My blood spills, twisted wickedly into tales of ancestor cries.
The papyrus stains fade. The parchment becomes paper.
It is all. I devolve. I become. Withering bricks in the wall.

III. I am.

Ars, what a poet creates like a carpenter Ars his table.
I have no meaning, be, what thee, are, just am, me. Poetry.
Litter. Your bitter sweet miserable lover ever breaking way.
Into a broken tablet made of shards of what was and is.

An Epic. Framed around a ring.
Gilgamesh, the immortal hero-king.
Surpassing all to see the deep.
The Cosmic realm of wisdom Ea.
The fountain once unknown beknownst.
The copied sea 'n' burnished throne.
The Iliad’s Dark side. The Sith
'n' every known 'n' unknown myth.
The hymns, psalms, suras and hadith.

I am the Harsh Oppressor.
Two-thirds God and One-third human.
The Word that tames beasts and birds.
A friend, a fiend, the sandman's dreams.
The demon garden. Eden's trees.

I'm carving doors, for thee, my Lord.
For thee my love, for thee my sword.
I spread my blackened wings, my Lord.
He floats o'er endless streams, the three
that streak the lakes, the ponds, to thee
ocean's deep that drowned men reap
the souls that hymn the war 'n' peace.

The doors damn and divert the flow
carry dead kings to be buried
beneath the river-bed. And Lo.
Peer above the wall to water
hear the slaughtered heroes laughter.
See the corpses crawl on rafters.
And Behold.

I am the Cheese With The Wine.
The finger, the pearl, the swine.
The broom brushing white tail
foxes millets into poisonous brew.
The flour put in Jowar turned into Bhakri.
The flat bread spread for destruction
prone hook bills. The true parrots.

The lore that lures and tunes a lyre.
Stingy strings. Spoken word. Easily broken.
The bum who fuels ants with umbra crumbs.
The bull of heaven that plagues the landofthehuns.
Instructor of Destructors of libraries 'n' Libras.
The Taurus that taught us to spell Kill.
The Murder slated. Slayed in defiance.

I am all that is left. The King of Kent 'n' Kish.
The fisherman captured by the lord of the fish.
The wave to disappearing ships. Joy to despair.
I am Mark Antony's one last kiss blown to Hera.
I am the babbling oracle. Thrown out of tower.
The eagle that breaks the fall of cowards.
I am the seven sages that build legendary walls.
I boast to the ferryman, "I can never be destroyed!"
I am the walls of Troy. The Acadians hour me down
to prove their power and turn me into tablets.
The stone reign. Believed to lie within the gap.


Taken into context. I am a genre and a storm.
The long and never-ending. The demon taking form.
Hypnotic. What is isn't. What is not is. I am.
All concepts in union. A certain state of mind.
The dramatic tragic epic comic poetic of all time.

A by-product of human activity and waste.
They wear me like a vest and cool shades.
I stimulate the senses and power the mind.
A Generator of emotions and ideas. I find
their mind. Their mind! Their mine! Their mine!
Relate to me. Appreciate me. As I subtly
influence your conception's reception.
Your mood changes. Ah, a masterpiece.
A blessing! Commercialize. Mass-produce.

Oh I express. I justify. I am read.
No illusions here. I am not red.
Just art concealing art within art.
A flat surface with the shape of support.
Each property lies within a pigment
creating Beauty for Her own pleasure.
For Her own sake at Her own leisure.

Allegedly an elegy and a tragedy. I shatter hearts waves and chant.
Gregorian’s wants raves and rants. I'm the light-hearted diplomat
with a big stick. I swing rhetoric through the thick and thin of it.
Negatively capable of romance. I'm abstract like colonial expanse
moving to new frontiers discovering. Searching for the fountain of youth
and every bit of truth there is. Boom. Translations. The Epochs of Exoduses.
The Smith and Gardner’s exegesis. The beginning. The end. I am Genesis to Revelation.

IIII. What is heard.

Eternal Law. Uncomposed yet decomposed by humans.
The ageless nature of our wisdom, revealed by God.
The burning of Hesod. The symbol and the token. The spoken
word hung upon the trees. The sway into the mystic breeze.
Always rife with mystery 'n' misery 'n' fantasy.

An unorthodox heterodox orthodoxy.
An ephemeral hurricane upon the birch.
The bark and palm leaves of the Rig-Veda.
The branch that is an arm reaching into ages
From Panini to Buddha back to sages.

V. A traveler:

Along Canterbury woads on narrow roads to the deep north.
Bewitched by God to instruct or be King. I journey forth.
To the Tanakh, the Shahnameh. The infinite source of love.

VI. I have seen.

The Fall and the Spring of great kingdoms.
The northern polished ware of iron cultures,
no longer painted grey. The corpus preyed
upon by vultures. The ivory dice rolled alone.
The mud baked like bricks and laid in stone.
Hydraulic men nibbling on the true grass.
The raft of medusa striking the bank of Arguin.
The naturalism of the light and of the shadow.

VII. I have.

Died with my creator.
Seen the heavens flood.
Been to hell and back again.
I have lost sight of love.

VIII. I hate

Pompous social classes
that make me a hermit
confined to castles.
the codified hierarchies psyche.
Monarchs. Inarches. Plutarch.
My Arch-Nemesis’s lurch.

Pluto. Plato. Play-dough.
I want real dough!
Not Movies or Video games.
My superlative unimaginative imitations.
The Mono-oxidized inhibitors of zombie nations.

VIII. I escape.

From logic, illogical without diction.
No dictator’s dictation or fictional depictions.
Norration so beautiful and sublime. I conquest without
a thought, I rap, and I misplace rhyme and sometimes,
my rhyme times don't make any sense at all!
But I can save lives taken out of medical text
I switch to gecko and stay in holiday inns.

VIIII. I wear.

Philosophical pants. Sans souci; sans skrit; sans ants.
Just ordinary, unheroic rags with the tags still attached.

I once wore wings made out of wax.

Said, "Look, I can fly up high to the sky! It's fun!"
But then they melted, from the heat, defeat.
My face turned downward and arms up stretched
plummeted thru clouds and impacted the ocean
and the judges waved tens. It created wind.


X. I am worn.

Out from all of the stress.
And the test of time.

XII. Do.

Pay attention. Argue.
Inextricably intertwine my role.
Use a meter, rhyme or don't. I care not.
Be prosaic, it's still poetic I care not.
But question me, I demand!

Put the reader in the web within a poem read.
Look at me in the past, the present, in the future last.
Stand in front and listen to my westerns canons blast.
My peter is not rhythmic though beautifully intoned.
I pause the pattern. Saturn’s rings scan iambic modes.
Or accelerate your writing with the elements of NOS.
Ascent to accented syllables. Make multiple killable,
like the Japanese with their Samurai swords. Stressing'
the Latin, Catalan, French and Spanish moras.

Slice off limbs from the bush. Wish me into what you wish.
Make me heard. Be a bard with a beard. Be remembered.
Hand me down to current editions in sequence with traditions.
Etch the stone, composite sketch the tone of laws and death
you wretch. Mortally minister to me like Agni with oblation,
lore, and reverence, skilled in sacrifice.

XIII. Time

The most important thing.
Square it and multiply it by matter.
Energy. I can live without it.

XIIII. You too.

Will be an ancient society. Record my script
like the Mahabharata, the Ramayana.
Oh sweet poetics. Study my aesthetics.
Slave, worship me. Take me to the grave.
Like the rituals of the Shi Jing
Confucianism’s canons Ming.

Let me be the one to tell the Sun I am the one.
You must die. True nature is the means of life.
To know is to I know the aspect of knowledge's melodies.
That wisdom is to witness all of life's fallacies.
So for God's sake go to college and make collages.
Explore the wilderness to the end of the nature of perception.
Outside settlements, collect and connect the clouds of mythology.

XV. The end.

I am an end in itself.
Non-existent though it is my purpose for existence.