ROUND TWO: (5)NYCSPITZ vs. (21)oXus - (OXUS WINS 7-1)

[NYCSPITZ]

Winter winds whirpool the softly settling snow
a homeless man sits, serene in his melting abode
Thinking pose, frozen to bone; the felt of his robe
flutters frayed, gray amidst this muted delta of souls
the concrete island - a fountain stream which levels and flows
Columbus Circle, January. Body nestled in stone...
the waterworks' synthetic sound is a lesson bestowed
businessmen with icy stares can never lessen this cold.

. . .

Amnesia - grants me reprieve from my whirlwind past
I have data, just no memory but the twirling crash...
Nothing more. Except for the smell of my girlfriend's flat.
...the only thing I know for sure is that the world went mad.
I was reborn a few months ago in Central Park. Wise in mind but knotted in heart
my only friends stand on those big stones which dot up the park.

. . .

...General Custard's moody this morning. Standing tall, his collar is parched
he twists around as I near, his proud man's sneer - a common facade
There's tension in his face. That bronze countenance, so awful and taut.
"Top of the morning General!"
in a rage - "Private! We'll take LeGrange Hill and model its top
arrange tents and attend to wounded who hobble and cough.
This war'll be over soon enough. Those damned Confederates will topple and flop!
Get to work! The dead rest proud...but as of now they're fodder for hawks."
I chortled. His bug-eyed, saber pointing pantomimes were always a chuckle.
a salute. "My interests lie to the South today, I can't support your bawling and bustle."
I wave an admonishing finger, turn and fall...then crawl out a puddle.

. . .

Humans are similar to before. Ego-driven, neurotic: the highest of beasts
but in this new world they just mumble - there's a loss to their speech
only my new friends can speak, all these other mutes in confidence seek
some impotent cause to live for - to accomplish their peak.
I trudge away, South...to the second and last friend I sport in this world
on a pedestal by the lake's bridge - a short little girl.
My presence warms her. She pulls up her skirt, curtsies and gorgeously twirls
a goddess' eyes, all black: something unborn of this world.
"Hello." She said.
"There's the little lady." I wheeze it out, squint suspiciously at her and crouch down
...I've been breathing my last breath for too many months now.
"Surrealist prose: creating art as a will against mechanical posturing in an era of wavering will"
"That was my dissertation! I remember it verbatim, in fact I play with it still
You're a prodigy Sue. I know you understand the state of what's real
life's circle turns, merciless - whether you ride or stray from its wheel
I just...can't decide whether this world made of clay or of steel."
She smiles wickedly - the statue sees him clear to the bone
her false face suddenly looms into focus - it was by far the worst fear that he'd known.
the girl's face glints in the sun - as she grants him an absolution of kinds:
"Your lover and daughter died in that crash, the same caused this dissolution of mind
but blame your magnum opus, that sorry work for consuming your pride...
This reality's a mirror of your obsession: the evil of your path
...your views are just the consummation of people in your past
in a sick way you're fond of this mental fog and amusement
secretly in love with all who brought on the illusion.




. . .