Poem: The Tower Holds Sway Over All, not the Red King as was told.

Did you know from whence

I came, on what ashen dromedary,

and it what discordant spray?

They say, "who made thee?!,

who made thee?!"

Perhaps some things come to pass

all of their own volition,

too strange to exist in the imagination,

too bright for the real world.

The Inner Guard at pains for their supper,

and slipping to the Daily Mirror;

the a large three ring binder for the comms,

and memorizing capitals.

The good outside force recovered three maidens

from the somewhere, somewhere between here and there,

thought to be spoil from the outer rim.

Concubines and fodder,

going through their bags,

tin foil, glitter, bubble gum.

Trexler, cavorting.

Trexler, as unknowing as ever.

Spray of curl.

He took a woman, a kind of whore,

one of the street, and to the hospital with him

after he tried Heroin with her,

a hot dose,

but along the way, 

in a thoroughfare dusky and bare,

he found a another of that species "woman",

and moved to Scotland.

Demille was always good for fun.

He had set up wildlife cameras 

in roadside rest stops.

And among that,

he pleased them all,

pennies on the dollar,

and all that and such,

and the Feds got ahold of him,

and he told about his hook,

his financial guy that took his videos.

And on the way to the Tower,

there was a lovely red rose,

a singular rose among a field

of dandelions,

and at its core, that rose, not a bud

but worlds spinning along that singular spine.

One would think;

lies would set one up to fail,

but what a world they collect

along the way,

and the lies from the thoroughfare,

dusky and bare,

stray dogs, bastards at the watch,

and guns at the ready.

Such things as I have not seen,

or wished not to see,

such as the portal to 2001,

and I wondered why any would choose

a particular year,

a door marked "Kennedy",

Why any would choose?

It came to me that all things served the beam,

and I sat with mouth harp,

and set this down at the foot of the Tower.