Intro: up to 50 words (delete this text and enter your own)



Those three bitches of destiny,

Those stitching sluts make it hard to endure.

And because of their dark and nimble senility

It just gets worse, year after year.

Though I curse them with a sailorly

even a clerical vigor

Better I cry at the amnesiac sky.

                     If I live to be a hundred

                     This truth I have learned.


But cursing, damn it, warms the blood.

Warms it like every ingenuous sinner knows

Like even furious love cannot.

Profanely sworn, vehemently shouted vows

May incite a timorous heart

Bound in its crumbling ditch

To burst that last damned, unendurable stitch.

                     If I live to be a hundred

                     This truth I have learned.


Drunk, I dreamed. Loutishly weaving,

Ball-fisted I went, grinning and grimed,

Carried beyond those whore’s conceiving

To the place where all mummies unwind.

I sang where all stitches unravel!

I danced in abandon unbound!

Laughing, I swore and I swore and I swore

Just for the joy of the sound!

                     If I live to be a hundred

                     This truth I have learned.

© ImSJ 2023
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you also seem to have an at least suspicious disposition towards the Fates.

i understand what you’re saying here. not even Zeus can ignore them without paying the price somehow.

they are weaving for the wheel of time/destiny but whose instructions how to weave are they following. that is the question.

good poem .

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