For you, my babe, I'd catch grenade.
And take a bullet to my brain.
There's just one question cause me pain:
My darling, would you do the same?

I'd throw my hand atop a blade,
And thrust myself before a train.
For you, I would endure this pain.
My darling, would you do the same?

Oedipus Wrecks: No Woman, No Cry

No woman, no cry.  'Cause the birthless don't die.
And it's only those bound up by gravity sigh.
'Cause we'd rather go upward, yet pulling us down.
'Til we lose all the thirst for the sky and do drown.

But we don't really know it, we're stuck here below it.
Until came along a most bothersome poet.
Who danced cross the waters, and caused such a bother
With songs that do blaspheme the way of our fathers.

And poet, you're crazy!  And mad, you just may be!
I think what you lack is a beautiful lady!
Distract, from your heresy, rhythm, and rhyme.
Do partake in the flesh, don't you know it's divine?

'Cause it's oh so sensational, flesh gravitational, next
you'll be saying we should be relational sex.
When the labia wet, and the member erect
And what happens is next, how my Oedipus wrecks.
With the clock and the moth and the rust and accruing of debts.
And the wine and the dine and the time and the wicked don't rest.
It's the same for the blessed, and of this I confess:
Not sure which I AM, but for sure I am wrecked...

And befuddled, confused.  By myself, I'm abused.
Whenever by compass of dust I am moved.
It's been oh too long, though the bound dub it wrong.
Yet the poet counts out a most blasphemous song:

No woman, no cry.  'Cause the birthless don't die.
And it's only those bound up by gravity sigh.
Cause the king of the hill is the king of the dust
and the clock and the moth and the thieves and the rust.
And only defying the gravity wise
Yet often colliding between of your thighs.
The weight of this flesh causes Oedipus sigh.
'Cause the birthless don't die.  Hence no woman, no cry.

----------------------

I'm not sure if this one is understandable by anyone (including me) but it may get us all a little closer to understanding to review the first in what has become the Oedipus Wrecks series.  Challenged myself by writing in anapestic tetrameter, and pleased that the flow of it seemed to come out naturally and it was really really fun to do a reading of it.  I hope I didn't talk too fast, in my head the rhythm of this one is a pretty fast horse gallop, but still wanted to make the words intelligible.

Love Song (Songwriter's Strike)

If you're up and on your way,
I won't write for you to stay.

Won't be your instrument to play
And I won't strum for you today.

If you're up and out to leave,
With heartache that will not be eased.
I know a love song's what you need,
But I will grant you no reprieve.

If all I hear is, "Leaving... leaving..."
Then I'mma need a better reason
To write the love song that you pray,
So I won't write you, not today.

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A spoken word cover (remix?) of Sara Bareilles - Love Song.  She was all sassy with the original, I was trying to go melancholy with this one but it came out sounding kinda menacing.  I think my voice makes everything sound menacing :(  

Oedipus Wrecks: Megalomania (Everybody wants to rule the world)

To my dearest shipwrecked Oedipus,

Everybody wants to rule the world.
As if somehow we'd do a better job.
Those established fools should bow and scrape to us.
And campaign oaths, they prove such vanity.
In four year's time, so dutifully we vote
again--the spiral gains momentum fast.
Too big too perfect world, it can't be ruled.
Yet Lao-tzu's sage advice ungrasped, unheard.
'Cause even on our best behavior
Turn our back to Mother Nature
Think ourselves some kind of savior.
Everybody wants to rule the world.

So welcome to your life, the one way street.
And there's no turning back, no trading.
Don't worry, even having someone else's life
We wouldn't live it any better, prob'ly worse.
'Cause even reap another's fields, we sow
our own in spring, the autumn harvest too familiar:
Antigone, how can it be? Again?!
So dry, dry, dry those eyes, don't sigh that
Nothing ever lasts forever.
Pleading, grant us just a measure.
Of some freedom and of pleasure.
Everybody wants to rule the world.

The design that I decide is my remorse.
And from these shambles help me make the most.
Yet there comes no echo, no reply, so I
Wallow in this indecision
Cloudy, lacking further vision.
Subject to my own derision.
Everybody wants to rule the world.

And, "There's a room where light won't find you."
A fantasy, how can it be, much more?
There's no wall that won't come tumbling down.
Holding hands, as sands pour inexorably.
And when they do... I'll be right behind you.
Everybody wants to rule the world.

Sincerely yours...

--------------------------

The third edition in my Oedipus series... so as you probably know I'm not really up on pop culture like at all, but I somehow heard Lorde's cover of "Tears for Fears - Everybody Wants to Rule the World", which is more menacing sounding than the original.  I like menacing, so I thought I could do a menacing one too in poem form, but it ended up coming out lighter (not light, but lighter, for me... it's relative, leave me alone!) but it's just as well I have so much menacing sounding works anyway. I tried to challenge myself by doing it in mostly iambic pentameter.  Here's Lorde's cover if you're as behind as me and just now heard it.

House Bolton

Our blades are sharp, and this we know...
because the flayed man tells us so.
His screams resounding in our halls
The audible trappings for our walls.
And our floors are crimson true.
The only thing they lack is you.
Your cries and anguish, these conflate:
The Dreadfort shall ye decorate.

A naked man has secrets few
But everything comes into view.
A Bolton knows the truth that's whole
hidden deep within your soul.
Beneath the surface that we peel
And then the wholeness is revealed
From the breast, we take it from:
A flayed man, he has secrets none.

Greyjoy Anthem

Some men plow, oh yes they till.
To raise the grains that some men mill.
Some yoke oxen, some yoke steeds
To plow the fields that all men need.
Some men toil and work the land,
And they're a diff'rent sort of man.
Some men nurture crops to grow.
"Some men" we're not:  we do not sow.

Some men barter, some men trade.
These men we send to salty graves.
Some men purchase with their gold.
We snatch what's ours from fingers cold.
Our skin is salty--hearts of ice.
Our wealth we bought with iron price.
The hoe and ploughshare:  these we scorn.
We do not sow--we're ironborn.

The Drowned God sent us from the brine.
You will not find us in the mine.
You will not find us in the field.
Although you beg, we will not yield.
Your wealth, we take it as our own.
The salty depths are your new home.
With iron price we send you low.
Let it be learned:  we do not sow.

Drowned God, protect us on the sea.
Storm God is full of jealousy
And seeks to dash us on the rocks
Deny us reaching iron docks.
Until you need some men to row
Until the day that we sink low--
We do not dig, we do not hoe.
We only reap:  we do not sow.

-------------------------------

I don't even like House Greyjoy, but i think their house motto is pretty epic.

Valar Morghulis

This bitter truth won't pass us by.
There's no escape, yet how we try.
Postpone at most, yet time does fly:
Not one exempt:  all men must die.

And some they fight t'increase their days.
And in so doing, lose their way.
And was it worth the few more breaths
to suffer such ignoble death?

To die with fam'ly, riches, fame--
All by itself--is so inane.
Enjoy it duly, while it lasts.
Inexorably becoming past.

But all too soon, the end does come.
To leave us stripped, bereft, and dumb.
Our fam'ly, wealth, we cannot take.
And that we could, we did forsake...
For a few more breaths, a few more days.
That preciousness I should have saved.
I should have increased, should not have spent.
And now I'm left with this lament:

Don't busy yourself with chasing breath,
And unaware our fate is death. 
'Cause men not foolish, clear of eye,
Indeed know this:  all men must die.

Were I among them, then I'd know--
That blade and spear are not my foe.
It's to die with nothing left to show--
Ashamed and broken, forced to go.

The best of men, they plan for life.
And always loathe to sacrifice.
They build up fam'ly, wealth, and fame.
And fight with those who do the same.

They only see worth on this shore.
And greedily they're wanting more.
And on their last, they beg and plead
Before the Reaper, on their knees.

But the least of men are much more wise.
The prize they seek not with their eyes.
And plan they not increase their breath.
Instead they ponder worthy death.

When Reaper comes, they say, "You're late.
I've been past ready for my fate.
Do take this body to the grave,
Take it all, 'cept this I saved."

But to such heights, I cannot fly.
And time so bitter, passes by.
Raise your head, and do not cry.
Valar morghulis:  all men must die.

---------------------------------

Been watching too much game of thrones, then figured that "valar morghulis" is an interesting philosophy.  I'm not quite satisfied with this piece so I may do another.  Iambic tetrameter (with some deviations