He’s a big barreled suave broad caster (he casts broads) who smokes a cigar, the phallus broadcasted on his exclusive speaker. His voice is pinched with a husky drawl, ever sure, and he declares whatever he wants and you appease.
The Brute: Step right up in this horse race, honey. Pick your horse. I’ve got Fight, Flight and Response . We got blue, green and red, honey. You pick your horse and your color…a pause and grin: I picked it honey, its Red. The horse is Flight.
The Wise Man stands tall with aged hair, a philosopher of intent, set and a crook at his back. What crook is this? Is it the weight of the world on his shoulders, the burden of sins from these cheats, so claimed, yet they are in their way. It’s the burden and grace which arrives when the crook is a weigh, some scale balanced, and some wisdom given and gained.
The Wise Man: Pick your poison or purpose. Is it a poison with a purpose? Or a poison purpose? Or a poise and purpose.
The Maiden is fair of face and hair. An innocent infantilized. Let them decide, where is all, some center thrown from the mother, a birth digress, a stopping feat. Father gathering her sheaves in hand but it’s not fair, an unfair process and progress. A woman solely bred in men.
Maiden: I’m so helpless in this design.
The Wise Man: Don’t be so helpless in this you designed it, what do you wish? This brute gives a clue, without knowing it, there’s dear blue.
The Brute: This design is red, he’s fitted, get set. Lorrie, the broad is cast, panic. What a waste, Flight, Helpless can’t steer her mane, this design in circles. It’s a Hopeless blue. Your type can’t conclude.
Maiden: This design haunts me. What can I see, where can I go, how do I feel, all these maids around in fleece, I’m sheared from head to toe, and these remnants scattered. My design is obsolete. Calling and haunting me, they do.
The Wise Man: Take your hand, it’s not false, it’s yours as you want it. A black recess made stronghold. Don’t give up your hold on your right. Fight. You can build your own design.
Maiden: I don’t compare. Not for anything worthwhile, beauty can’t exist as it is and develop inside the lines of my mind; it’s deranged in might, yet passive in defeat. The way is outside me, floating. I’m this helpless cause. Horses that run but aren’t free.
The Wise Man: She’s become the brute, but doesn’t know it…in time she’ll give up the mime. In time she’ll combine.Flight: Wo. Fight: Man. Response: Human kind.
Maiden: It’s in me but it’s gone then. How old? Years until I meet me somewhere. Colors in a sea and smear, running faces, running laps, Flight, and chastised speed…anger never aired. What women did this to me; they are the ones, no protection from this animal force? I could not receive it nor create it; it was given, not provided for.
The Brute: Women they are my ultimatum, she is not dear, they are each a helpless witch I possess.
Maiden: There’s no beauty reckoning, we all break, there’s no me in she, I’m a man, it’s safe and sound…the noise is mine but it isn’t, how can I know, the face and stance, the course, the horse and colors, the way to anger against men is all women are brute, thus I’m a me helpless she, power substitute, whose feminine is masculine displaced inappropriately instead….Women can’t stand, they can’t think, they can’t feel, they are hated.
The Wise Man: Therefore you are a helpless he, for women is you and with this expression you’ve fled from the receptive creation, and the mate in your creation.
The Brute: You are embedded in my style. Lines spasmodic and my center. Spiraling red looking glass that cracks, petrified, a repeating pattern, this broad cast in space. Nowhere set.
The Wise Man: This is it. What can you do in this, your baby is, you’re her the helpless, you repeat and what is achieved? No mother could love your maiden. No mother could suckle your baby. No mother can love your earth, you’re mass, a tyrant: horses, colors, and course, the podium enlarged, the broadcast cast and its skill. You give this whether you know. To women a hell in home they can elope, and without you, just herself. Ovation and a standing. Women are the slate you write your epitaph on. It’s you.
Maiden: What man could take away and bore, his scape to my bone, a vision I couldn’t be. They were all alone. Their design etched in stone. They could do anything fly in the air, land on their feet, crash cars and toll bells for supper one minute and crook the next, the cheat sheet, white blanketing, like snake skin, a cloud—no molting for me into something else.
The Brute: It life, red to sear. Watch her grow diseased, fall and its light, for me.
Maiden: It’s here, this fear, what design we can make. A blue vitality stretched across eons. Flight, with its second sight, the brute sows what he reaps, a green fight for life. I create this response.From this poison and bewitching arrives wisdom.
We’re cast along the broad race to fall. We’re built up in the broadcast to race the next. We fall into a summit in our time and rise to fall in time. This wisdom in Wo-man runs its course with its poison antidote. It has it has its poise and purpose.
Suspension Framed the Matter and Cast Our Source
What Relief Can We Make from this Still Expulsion
It is Our Design