Thursday, September 20, 2012

In the name of my

There are many sorts of outlaws, just as there are many sorts of birds. A sandpiper and a sea eagle both have wings, but they are not the same. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws are more like this ravening Hound than they are the lightning lord. They are evil men, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising the gods and caring only for themselves. Broken men are more deserving of our pity, though they may be just as dangerous. Almost all are common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house where they were born until the day some lord came round to take them off to war. Poorly shod and poorly clad, they march away beneath his banners, oft times with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoc, or a maul they made themselves by lashing a stone to a stick with strips of hide. Brothers march with brothers, sons with fathers, friends with friends. They've heard the songs and stories, so they go off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they will see. Of the wealth and glory they will win. War seems a fine adventure, the greatest most of them will ever know.
Then they get a taste of battle.
For some, that one taste is enough to break them. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in. but even a man who has survived a hundred fights can break in his hundred-and-first. Brothers watch their brothers die. Fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold their entrails in after they've been gutted by an axe.
They see the lord who led them there cut down, and some other lord shouts that they are his now. They take a wound, and when that's still half-healed they take another. There is never enough to eat. Their shoes fall to pieces from the marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are shitting in their breeches from drinking bad water.
If they want new boots or a warmer cloak or maybe a rusted iron halfhelm, they need to take them from a corpse, and before long they are stealing from the living too, from the smallfolk whose lands they're fighting in, men very like the men they used to be. They slaughter their goats and steal their chickens, and from there it's just a short step to earning off their daughters too. And one day they look around and realize all their friends and kin are gone, that they are fighting beside strangers beneath a banner that they hardly recognize.
They don’t know where they are or how to get back home and the lord they're fighting for does not know their names, yet here he comes, shouting for them to form up, to make a line with their spears and scythes and sharpened hoes, to stand their ground. And the knights come down on them, faceless men clad all in steel, and the iron thunder of their charge seems to fill the world...
And the man breaks.
He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man.
Beware of broken men, and fear them . . . but we should pity them as well.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Mothers don't let your babies grow up to be Cowboys..

Its surreal (and upsetting) for me that most women I know; acquaintances, friends or lovers; are overwhelmed by the most elementary of courtesy, civility and chivalry. Things that come naturally to me are considered old fashioned, often extraordinary, making me feel like I've been transported to some distant and bizarre future where nice guys have been extinct for so long that they are now stuff of fairy tales.

Sigh.. why must I feel like a relic?

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Hypocrisy, thy name is Government!

If this lands a guy in prison u/s 124A for disrespecting a national symbol.

What about this?

Monday, September 10, 2012

Against all odds

How can I just let you walk away - just let you leave without a trace?
When I stand here taking every breath with you,
You're the only one who really knew me at all

How can you just walk away from me when all I can do is watch you leave?
'cause we've shared the laughter and the pain, and even shared the tears
You're the only one who really knew me at all
So, take a look at me now - well, there's just an empty space
And there's nothing left here to remind me - just the memory of your face
Take a look at me now, well, there's just an empty space
And you coming back to me is against the odds and that's what I've got to face

I wish I could just make you turn around - turn around and see me cry
There's so much I need to say to you - so many reasons why
You're the only one who really knew me at all

So take a look at me now, well, there's just an empty space
And there's nothing left here to remind me - just the memory of your face
Now, take a look at me now 'cause there's just an empty space
But to wait for you is all I can do and that's what I've got to face
Take a good look at me now 'cause I'll still be standing here
And you coming back to me is against all odds - it's the chance I've got to take

Take a look at me, now

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Come loving black-browed night

Yes passion does make
fools of us all
we fly in its wake
and falter and fall

Though carnal sin
seems deadlier still
than greed or wrath
or envy will

Yet I deliver
vile deeds sans thought
and the preacher's admonition
does come to naught

Let me be damned
ne'er was I free
and burn though I may
for eternity

My sin is purged
from my lips, by yours
let paradise close
its golden doors

I will endure,
with joy, this pain
Sin from thy lips?
Give me my sin again.