Wow... I must say... Not only had I been waiting on somebody to tamper with the piece for a while, but you really worked it. Thanks, seriously and sincerely. I was in a bad mood before I got to reading your comment. You've actually both missed and gotten the whole concept of the poem, mind you that is very possible. I guess it was my mistake, but when I actually started to write this piece, it was about homosexuality, but that became a bore and I took a dive into my own name's meaning. Being a criminal, in the sense of also being an outsider - it's a relative thing you know, relative to what you believe in. But yeah, basically the poem went something along the line of: Demented (To us, but beautiful in their own aspects, like certain demented poets on this website who go unnoticed because of over infecting effect of the masses - mind you I wrote a piece about that one, 'Convicted Contortionist') to the ectasy of the crime (like the empowering feeling of being above the law, being above society) to being hunted down for it (for both having commited the crime and out of envious hate) to - and you were right about this being a turning point - the end of the games (He's being caught, and although he is guilty, he's considered to be innocent - and this is usually where the downpoor of hate from society is applied, and he feel a chasm between he a society; it's been truly cemented) to the end (this is the endgame for us all, death... the first part was a recollection of, literally, the cop cars and the flashing lights; a reality that he could no longer escape, one that society was hammering deep into his soul in a sense, destroying the beauty - his perverse version of it, that is - and the second part was really the execution, heliacal peripharals was that sensation of being put on the spot, when you've got soo much blood pumping that your skin feels like it's on fire, or when you're just scared out of your mind; crowning the fire was for the pain of either the poison, or the rope tightening around his neck and lastly - also my favorite part because of it's impact on the whole story line, and well the irony - he dies, and take his truths with him to the empty darkness of beyond. You must realize here that I am not talking about just any criminal, I'm talking about the kind who perversly need to commit these crimes - the ones they call pathological killers on the flashing box - because if they were like everybody else, or accepted as being like everybody else, they'd be the few unique who'd stand out as sincerely beautiful. It's a darker beauty I guess, but the irony is that, if anybody in their right mind reads this, they'll think justice was done - if they understood it this way - and if anything, if they had any understanding, they'd acknowledge that he wasn't meant for this world. That is the play on truth, because he himself does hold his own version of an absolutely magnificent, awespiring truth - that may or may not be appreciated in the afterlife.)
Although, all the things that you painted out in your understandings of this piece were and are the things that are currently going through my mind. I guess I was writing towards one goal, but since I dip into my subconciousness a lot, that I unintentionally wrote about all those other things. I have to say... my mind is always running - it's like one of those late night working officers at his computer screen, simply unwilling to give up until the case is resolved. And I really enjoyed your take on understanding, and being open minded. I sincerely do agree with you, because I find myself in that exact same situation most of the time. And understanding is a pretty important thing for me, I will literally devote all of my time pondering on these huge things that nobody else really cares about, just because it puzzles me - and like the cop, I won't stop until it's resolved. And to comment on your ending thought, I've also thought a lot about that, how it would be to be shallow and narrow minded and I came to one conclusion before all other: You'd be blissfully blind. To an isolated farmer who knows nothing of the world beyond his farm, a good crop is good enough reason to work year round and to feel purposeful. To any person inoculated with awareness and 'wisdom' as society qualifies it, that means absolutely nothing - in fact only one thing really matters, being above death... which is kind of stupid, because then you find yourself in the criminal's situation, but in a shallow and selfish manner; in an ugly way.
Hey no worries about the late comments... I enjoy reading your pieces because I feel like I'm on the same wave lenght - at least on a mental note, I indulge myself in thinking about those things you point out in your poems. I truly am a man of thought, so sharing them isn't all that hard. I'm happy to hear that you appreciate them, my thoughts, and I did indeed enjoy your perspective - or insight to your perspective - behind both pieces.