Dust*

"Dust," a Short Poem by POINTE DU LAC
written Anno Domini Two Thousand and Eight

I breathe you in. Because of your Dust.

* ©

June Blood

Check the Closets for Goth Balls. Thou wilt know Them by their Smell. Not Musty, not White. Not Crystal. Aromatic, Night. Elusive as the Chupacabra. And just as Hungry. Said Goth Balls sayith, "We are the Wayith," like broken Jewels rotting in the Midst of the Heart of the Twinkling of the Sprinkling of thy Caste System of the Golden Olden. Gerunds be advised. Goth Balls are the Strike Makers splitting Strike Breakers whose Hegemonic Infestation is perpetuated by said Caste System. Segregate those Who segregate. Protect the Fabric. Clothe the Naked. Loathe the Moth. Then roll from thy Closets, from thy Dark Corners, Crawl Spaces, and Attics. Show Yourselves. For We are the Goth Balls.

We heart on the Eve of June. June Blood.

Haveth Returnéd

Alas! I do so sincerely apologize for my absence. For two years I have vacated my duties to this Testament. For two years I have endured the palpitating beat awaiting my return. For two long years I have received the biddings of my readers to keep this script up-to-date. Your voices have not gone unheard. I have returned to wage a new battle from the depths of my intelligent mind. A battle of words fought on the battlefield of ideas. I have read Plato and Aristotle and Nietzsche and Darwin and Freud and the bible and the Koran. Classics. No one reads classics. I have read them all. For you. They have shaped my mind into a crystal prism. I am the conduit through which epoch after epoch of ideas has been distilled.