I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music do you?

It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled King composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you

She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah

Baby I’ve been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you

I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah

There was a time when you let me know
What’s real and going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?

And remember when I moved in you
The Holy Dark was moving too
And every breath we drew was hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah

Maybe there’s a God above
And all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you

And it’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then–in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life–was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness–for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama–oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!–it writhes!–with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out–out are the lights–out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

-- Edgar Allen Poe

.....oh... it is such a beautiful night..... i think i'll kill myself.....

....that's the spirit...thank you for your honesty....now fuck off and get out of my sight....

roman dirge's
children's tales for disturbed children

Pear Head Man and Bread Boy--

nature did not have a plan
when it created
the Pear Head Man.
he had one friend
who was made of bread,
but the birdies ate him.
now he's dead.

the alien ballerina--

no one believes me
that i had seen a
happy dancing
alien ballerina.
it danced very badly
as though it were stiff.
it stopped dancing completely
after it went off the cliff.

wierd family wierd baby--

it's not a question
of maybe
a wierd family
makes a wierd baby.

the guy with a thing on his head--

there's not a whole lot
that can be said
for the poor guy
with a thing on his head.

critter pie--

a little horror,
a scream, a cry...
that's how you make critter pie.
they beg
they plead
they try to run.
this makes cooking so much fun!
four to five critters would be nice.
the "big-boned" ones just add spice.
everything must someday die-
might as well make critter pie.