The Denison Chronicles
There goes Mister James Denison. …embracing featherless compassion, never medicine… none’s needed, for the direction he’s headed in… …he’s hesitant, but if you’ve known him long enough… you know he’s tough, one rough son of a… …bitch, who gave a fuck, if you give a fuck who he is… but here he is…. James Denison… …young boy undiscovered, covered & masked in indecency… basking recently, in the self conversations he has so frequently… ..tune in the frequencies, seize his radio brains, that boy’s insane… keep him contained… …he remains in his room hallucinating cartoons, drawing em too… lover of blues, with the blacks in em too, his art awkwardly construed… …offset & off balance, a boy of all talents, that’ll visually grab at… your eyes, and stab at your mind with designs devised of war cries… …as he tries, to recapture the rapture of warfare with warm dye’s… and if you listen close enough you can hear his breath swarm sighs … …as form binds with brush, connecting paints as pains to touch… rubbing the canvas, dreaming of havoc, James loves anything tragic… …he’s gallant, snatching aspirations to chase squeamish actions, It’s his passion, to see the reaction of men prior to being ravaged… …emotions clashing, ***** sadness enveloped upon physical damage… He can’t wait till it happens, the day his paintings become real… …he’ll steal away the innocent, he’ll capture, he’ll feel… And so he paints, he ponders, and of coarse he dreams… He waits, he wanders, and forces screams… Through portrait screens, held behind his frames of sighs… Awaiting the day when he can truly display his designs… …years passed, and naturally his age became greater, came closer… to the age of an American soldier, daring & bolder, …with broader shoulders, abs of boulders, brawny and burly… somewhere between all the works of art, James had peaked early… …surely, what an advantage, to a young man ready to paint… masterpieces in a whole new way, he dreamt of etching fates… …made a date with providence, can’t wait to stare it face to face, placed upon fields of mortality… …his fallacies are fair-weather, so he doesn’t expect dependence… in reality, he wrenches tensions, fending off defensive vengeance… …but revenge is only as sweet as the reason, so he creates some… he hates them, because he still hasn’t been able to paint them… …faint drums, the snares chase guns, as parades come… And soon it was time, it was now, it was finally here… He’d waited, he’d dreamt, to embrace their fears… Blew out his candles, ran off as prompt enroller… He’ll fall in love with his paintbrush soon as he holds her… Private Denison … …young man undiscovered, hungered & impatient for dessert … hurting eagerly, in the self illusions of inhumane masterful works… …he’s the quirks of a loony ,batty, or screwy, with a tad bit of jerk… he’s mad with a clad ironed shirt, ready to burst his finest feature… …such a mendacious creature, his true caliber deep & discreet … and he loathed boot camp, felt it revamped his wait to complete… …his masterpiece, but he’ll paint soon enough, rifle in hand, his aerosol to spray… …and when they die, he knows they’ll all die the same way… because they’re all just a stroke of his brush, & his art’s to blame… …his brigade finished camp, it was perfect timing. The Vietnam War, their first assignment… And he’ll create, he’ll paint, and of coarse he’ll kill… He’ll glamorize guts & gore, fulfilling thrills.. Through his paintbrush, he’ll sketch all upon his range… Unaware of how quickly his frames would change…