I’m a just right, out of sight, lily-white,
Never coy, ball of joy, good old boy,
So great it keeps me up at night,
Clever son of all the tricks I employ.
A world-beating, caucus leading,
Really big deal, big wheel big shot,
Clean outside, mean on the inside
Super savvy, super cool, super hot.

I’m the guy you want to toast
I’m the tops, I’m where it’s at
Some are good, but I’m the most.
I’m a sainted southern aristocrat.
It’s not good to get on my bad side.
I’m a fearless, remorseless go-getter.
I’m right, you’re wrong, if there’s a fight,
Yeah, you may be good, but I’m better.

I’m a cut above, you’ve just got to love
A gift from God sent from high above.
A card-carrying good guy to the letter,
A credit to my entire race, nobody better.
Whether in the news or word of mouth,
A quality beacon of the Sainted South.

I’m the guy you want to toast
I’m the tops, I’m where it’s at
Some are good, but I’m the most.
I’m a sainted southern aristocrat.
It’s not good to get on my bad side.
I’m a fearless, remorseless go-getter.
I’m right, you’re wrong, if there’s a fight,
Yeah, you may be good, but I’m better.

So, go away with your stupid picketing;
We knew how to run things way back when
We have God on our side, so just back off.
Old ways are the best way, again and again.
Your talk about equality and nigras rights
May sound good, but it’s all just libel.
We are the chosen children of our God
And you can find that in The Holy Bible.

I’m a cut above, you’ve just got to love
A gift from God sent from high above.
A card-carrying good guy to the letter,
A credit to my entire race, nobody better.
Whether in the papers or word of mouth,
I’m a quality representative of The South.

A-Start the best part*
A-Healthy heart breakfast

Not so fast slow down of prayers
Just come and arrive
Sheer whispering Dress Aline
shapes of water are mine

The Green Gables sweeter lime
The twins whisper in doubles
The pink fur Hello Kitty
My best of the cattle in couples
Meet her friend the Furry Sable

The loud whisperers stealing hearts
Of sleepwalkers
They call her the wanderer
He whispers and she's the keynotes
"Her Real Estate' A-Steal for her estate diaries

But their children love to whisper

The crayons Highlights of the wonderland
Building more Ancient dreams

Stealing the grapes of whisper escapes
Like  A-dream planted to remain
A steal cannot take that away
Even if it's you're last meal

Walking with the one you love for miles
Come on baby light my fire
Whispering Morrison door to save
A dream to give the world peace
Like wishing well pulling the rope

Whisper could that be your prayer of hope?*
The guitar the invisible impossible star
And he steals another dream  
Whispering shadows pass like clouds

Australian Malamutes doing the salute *

Got strung along
And lost you

*A-STEAL for an eye for an eye
     HEART  just give a life

Whispering over again wasn't
the way to play smart
Losing my voice
How to trust someone's words
So hard like the concrete
The abundance of food
Ala carte or Dente

A-Steal dream putting it
into your mind

Whispering Falltime Women in her
Acorn-SHOE* prime time
Walk-in closet Godly light
Like the Viking of swords
Knight

Where to go who will ever know
Not a pin drop of a slight whisper
Clasping or gasping for air
The Holy Water was left

For the delicate minds
of the deer
That light talk of resistance
Lips of acceptance

With her silken pillows
Tied their dreams
Sopping wet rain
The French soothing whispering rainfalls
Wearing her trenchcoat
Whispering her sugar words
He could find me peace
to my river
Like two peas in a pod to float
A Steal how love can tweed his coat
My difference is hearts like "
Owl Hoot"
Just feel you know what's real
Often told the end is truly the taste
to breathe
Even if you are deep inside her dream
To justify her means
Like the Queen to the Diplomat
The highest authority

You almost felt only your whisper the priority
The Aristocrat cleaning up your
bad dreams
*High beams a spoiled love
Like a *** for the Tat
Not the fairytale Dr. Seuss
Cat in the Hat- or the desperation
of one last whisper
Up the sunrise eyes are speechless
The Astral my Goddess
You are the creature of the night
Shining the light never ending the battle night

Smells of baked cake through your nostrils
Rocky mountains of Colorado dreamy caves

Hearing  sounds but living in the distance
The romance blinded like a ghost
winning out the odds

The Even lovers like the Gods whisper
Canadian waterfall talking love deeper

Doing Pilates what *Yogalates loving the
yodeling dreaming watching him the diver
Going dirt biking just love the dreamy feel of hiking

"Hearing Attention ****** in the Summertime"

All blue eyes what a dreamer
The good Earthly brown so worthy
The Cafe Eyes

A steal dream like a spilled milk
Our cat "Jade Eyes" did I hear you
correctly an heir?

Summer the Kings speech air
The assembly line
Good and the bad memories
The years getting away with ******
The law of attraction what a steal in order

Erasing someone's scent
A- million stars you found your truth
Looking outside of your dream
Was your *Godly tent

now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

So I'll have mine
and you'll have yours?
who could ask
for anything more!
grey beards march
the union jack
build a wall
and send them back!  

Grudge, sludge
a sanguine view
****** off
and take the cue
hide, plunge
aristocrat
run the field
like an old tom cat

Narrow pass
and capital flow
falling crude
and currency woe
deep depression,
mutineers
the mastermind
of project fear!

Silver spoon
at Hampton court
madness waits
in Davenport
divisible
and off the grid
**** it up
100 quid

Helen’s horsemen
unified
the springbok club
will never hide
plebiscite
in deep despair
an open scroll
Trafalgar square  

Grapple, grovel
sentry shame
along the shore
of river Thames
king of wankers
lord of beat
break the rule
of old elite!

Stone the posse
bullets bare
load the chambers
fists in air
voices, faces
haunted souls…
should i stay
or should i go?

The Tragic True LOVE Story of Blanche Monnier

Just for falling in LOVE
With a commoner
Blanche Monnier was kept in attic
For 25 years
Blanche's True LOVE survived

The year was 1876

In midst of the Third Republic period in France
When the historical power struggle of royalist ******* and republican radicals were discussed in bourgeois socialites
That's the time when
In a small place called Poitiers
Four hours away from Paris
There lived:
Madam Louise Monnier
Wealthy and prominent
Member of CLASS society
Known in Parisian high society
For their charitable works
Who had received many community awards too

With her son
Marcel Monnier
A brilliant student
And a prominent lawyer
Well respected in Paris

And her daughter
Blanche
(Marcel's sister)
Twenty Five years old
Beautiful beyond words
Intelligent
Very gentle and good natured
A young socialite in rich circles

Lived happily in their
Monnier Estate

It was during this time
Blanche fell in LOVE with a suitor
Let us call him
James
Who lived in her neighborhood
Sadly he was not young
Nor was he from rich aristocrat family
He was elderly man,
Basically a commoner
And an unsuccessful penniless lawyer

Madam Louise Monnier - disapproved
Of such alliances for her daughter Blanche and
Insisted Blanche to marry a more suitable man
Of her own age, class and status

But in passion of her LOVE -
Blanche profusely disagreed
And Madame Monnier got angry
They quarreled and argued
One day Madame Monnier locked Blanche
In a dungeon attic ordering
"Until you would agree - you are imprisoned"

Years passed
But Blanche was stubborn
So much in deep LOVE with James
She did not relent to her Mother's wishes

So the story goes....
Nine years passed

On this side James - Blanche's suitor
The beau too died in 1885

It is said that
Blanche's brother Marcel apposed his mother
To at least set Blanche FREE now
But Madam Louise Monnier had absolute
Stronghold and control over the family
Thus Marcel aboded to his mother's decree
And Blanche was kept locked still after

In the eyes of society
Beautiful young Blanche had simply disappeared
Without a clue

Madame Monnier and Marcel mourned
In front of everyone
Stating Blanche ran away
And continued to live their lives
As normal as those rich aristocrat families live

No one gave much thought to this
Everyone went about their life
As if nothing had happened

With time - they say
Blanche was forgotten
From everyone's memory

For over 25 years,
Blanche remained in a attic dungeon
Tied to her bed
Waiting for her LOVE
To LOVE, to be LOVED by JAMES
But her mother Madam Louise,
And her brother Marcel
With their two servants
No one helped her to be FREE

Blanched was chained in a dark attic room
She was accompanied by rats and lice
Day after day
Living in dirt and darkness
Alone, isolated, in solitude
Blanche became insane
Drown in her own tears and
In company of
Rats, bugs and pests...
And rotten odor

Rumors say that it was one of the female servants
Who slipped the secret of
Monnier Estate's beautiful daughter Blanche
To her boyfriend
Who immediately wrote a letter to
The Attorney General

In 1901,
Attorney General of Paris
Received an anonymous note
Handwritten and unsigned

The content were disturbing
And The Attorney General
Sent his police team to investigate
The Police arrived to search Monnier Estate

At first,
Police couldn't find anything unusual
Until they came across strange odor
Coming from upper floors

When the Police went upstairs
Madam Louise Monnier sat
On the ground floor living hall
Calmly reading a book

When the Police approached
The attic room
From where the odor was coming
They saw that the room was padlocked

Realizing something amiss
Police smashed the lock and
Broke open the room

The horrors lay within

A pitch dark room
With only one window
Shut closed with black curtains

The stench of room was so over whelming
That immediately the window was broke open

With the light coming in
The police realized that the bad odor
Was because of rotting food
That littered all over the floor

And in a corner - there was a bed
Where an emaciated women was chained

She was our Blanche Monnier
Fifty years old now
Tied to the bed
It was over two decades
She had not even seen the sun
And she had lived
In her own excrements

That beauty of youth
That youthful LOVELY being
A divine, kind, pure hearted girl
Did not even resembled like a human

She was naked
Chained like animals to the bed
Lying on a straw mattress

She was completely
Frightened and delirious

She weighed just 50 pounds (22 kilograms)

Police covered Blanche in a white sheet
And took her to the hospital
Madam Louise Monnier - and Marcel were arrested
For this atrocious inhumane crime
Of imprisoning and treating Blanche
So badly
For what? -
for a natural act of LOVING

"We can not even comprehend
What a LOVER goes through
When subjected to such punishments"

Blanche was horrendously malnourished
In hospital she was lucid to be rescued and freed
She exclaimed...
"How lovely it is to breathe the fresh air"

When she was informed about James
She could not even remember
The reason for her current state -
Was "LOVE"
Her eyes were hollow, her face was blank

There was public out-cry all over France
It was loud and clear
Public out-raged was brimming
They wanted the mother and brother punished

And Madam Louise Monnier -
Who was seventy years old then
suffering from heart disease
Could not take the shock
Of such societal backlash
For the horrible crime she committed

It is accounted that
Madam Louise Monnier
Died in police custody
15 days after Blanche's rescue
Police say -
Probably of a heart attack

Brother Marcel was imprisoned for 15 months
He confessed of
Not being directly part of the crime
But just acting under pressure of his mother

The whole blame was put on Madam Louise Monnier
Brother Marcel was considered only an accomplice
And thus when Marcel pleaded innocent and sought pardon
He was acquitted and set FREE
Such were the laws of those days

Our LOVER - Blanche Monnier
Had suffered greatly
The mental trauma
Of LOVE longing had
Lasting psychological damage

There after
Blanche lived in a French Sanitarium
Till she died in 1913
Twelve year after she was liberated

People say - that at times
The nursing staff used to hear Blanche
Sing the songs of LOVE

And they used to see Blanche
Talking LOVINGLY with a non-existing person
Most probably that person was "James"
The man she LOVED more than her life

Thus is remembered
The story of Blanche's LOVE

She suffered but never relented
To her mother's wishes
"To forget her LOVER James"

It was impossible to survive for 25 years
Without proper food, light, sun, or any human company
In that tiny dark dungeon attic
But Blanche did miraculously survive
With the hope that one day
She will be FREE
She will meet James
And she will LOVE James
And she will say to James
"My Jamie, see I did truly LOVE YOU"

That's the power of TRUE LOVE

You are hidden from view
You don’t see me
I don’t see you
This makes me nervous,
You see
I know what you have done
Through history

The wars you’ve caused
The blood you’ve shed
Down so many streets
Rolling heads
Armies and power
Rows of stones
Crosses and flowers

Court jesters
And child molesters
Clowning around
Bishops and criers
Lingering liars
Towers and trials
All of the arrogant
Baying and praying
For a male child

****** horsemen
Hunting with hounds
We no longer want you
Around

Sean Hunt  May 5  2016

It starts to happen when the bad days outnumber the good days. At least that's what I'm told. Or maybe I have told myself that.

I've had this peculiar tick since I was a child. I rub my hands. It has become more prominent as I've gotten older. I'm sure it goes unnoticed, but I'm also sure that I'm not sure of much these days. On the good days I don't think of my hands. On the bad days I seem to be on the verge of clapping. If only enthusiasm came from this anxiety driven mannerism. On the really bad days I know that rubbing my hands together is keeping me from pulling my hair out. The really bad days are the days I get my headaches.

"If you're going to excessively ask questions I'll need a new server," Dante stated, purposefully avoiding eye contact. You don't make eye contact with the help, he was once told.

The shades are covering the windows of the restaurant, and the sun that gleams through the oil stains looks fresh. The coffee I ordered smells burnt. It may or may not be the fault of the server. But seeing as how I received two creamers when I specifically asked for three certainly leaves me to be speculative. A bell jingles at the entrance, I turn my head, nod to my friend, and pour my two creamers into my coffee. Two should suffice, although I did ask for three. It's the principle.

Being introspective and witty, and being objective and authentic was once seen as a form of normalcy. To clarify: if the latter is factual, it will usually coincide with the former. We are a parasite to information. Our senses are forces. We are forced to see, to hear, to taste, smell, feel. No matter how we perceive our sense, we are forced to experience it. How do you satisfy yourself, when one, there is too much to consume --mentally omnipotent, perhaps, considering our infinite curiosity regarding research in the field of neuroscience (Over the top sarcasm). And two, when the ability to retain information is slowly escaping our grasp; or becoming obsolete due to the convenience of technology. Narrow thinking. Black and white. Left or Right. Right or wrong. Our sense is our higher power. Maybe, just maybe, that feeling of being watched, the possible "sixth sense," is why we seek solace. Answers evade us, and we become irritable rather than theoretical. Is there a God? Is religion formidable? Are we God's children; are we the abandoned children of a martyr that is still seeking resurrection and resolution? Maybe our specie is the homeless man looking for sanctuary resting atop the church steps. Kneel at the altar. Seek Christ. Stare at the cross. An everlasting reminder that we have failed as a whole. We look for a sign, while we craft them to gain attention, or recognition. Are we the homeless man? Or are we the worker that pays to sin? What are we now? Where are we?

What are we now? Where are we?

Ignore the cracks in the sidewalk. To Hell with the sidewalk. To Hell with the path of righteousness.

Our days are borrowed.

Wednesday is lent to us. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

{MW} exhaled in annoyance. "Where's all this coming from, man? I get having an opinion or being bias, but c'mon. Some things you shouldn't bring up in conversation. You know people say there are certain topics that are never good to bring up, and I'm sure religion is in the top three."

"Don't you send weekly emails to politicians?" Dante asks passively.

"What are you getting at?"

"Nothing, forget it," Dante says, trying to pull himself out of the hole that is already dug.

"No no, continue with your point. Unless you need time to conjure one up."

"I don't need time. I believe I have everything well thought out. But you...better to instigate than participate."

"Get to the point." {MW} says.

"Okay, listen. What I am saying is that being blunt is now regarded as being closed-minded. If you say or write anything that conflicts with a person's morals you're going to be seen negatively. Sent right down the ******' river. People are sensitive. And we're conditioned to be this way. Our governments need order, as do we, so we set our own codes to coincide with black and white moral issues. As for religion, the only concept I can agree with is The Ten Commandments."

Our server walks by our table. Our eyes follow.

"That's it?" {MW} asks.

"What do you mean that's it?" Dante asks in return.

"Mr. ******' opinion and you give the most vague answer."

"Thank you peanut gallery."

*You become close with a person over time, now speaking first hand, we can sometimes adapt to their nature.

That is what I saw her doing with me for a long time. Simple as repeating things I've said in conversation. Her drink taste, until she evolved into this retroactive aristocrat. There were a lot of things that I had seen. I am guilty as well. I became interested in her reading habits. So, I started to read books she liked, little things like that. And so it goes. I would excel in social situations, and she would inadvertently expose me to a lot of great literature. I was always attracted to her books, and to her features, I suppose. And after time invested, concerning our friendship, it seems like in this situation there is a connection. Now, I know we just handle our relationship differently. And that's how I know we are different. There is a difference between not being empathetic, and being apathetic. I'm content. She's in a gray area.

This is far too complicated for me to speak verbatim. As bad as that sounds, I think after I explain myself you might be more sympathetic toward me.

Animals abolishing apples and apricots,
angry astronauts abandon Abraham's automobile,
algae acting after ant at Ally alligator's aunt's apartment
Aching antsy alpha aardvarks arranging afternoon arguments
After Amanda ate anchors, Anna attacked Alabama
at Abbey Road Alice anounced an aristocrat arriving.
An acceptable antonym!

it's so strange how fear strikes
gently at first, like morphine
it dribbles through you, you bottom out.

and then when you are dry and cracked
it soaks into you like gasoline to driftwood
the sound of the birds become dull
and then you panic about your panic
because the birds see everything and you need them
when the wild beasts come
need them to listen, so you can sit still and hum--mmmmmm
dear forest, can you block the taste out of my mouth
block the sound of talk radio voices whirring through the channels
pineal staticky as a black hole, so you say
vacuum packed emotions cemented in nothing
compressed trash dumped into the same landfill
and suddenly your cup runeth over with the poisoned caviar
and you ignored that ******* caveat when you were young
the bed you make you lay in it, you dug your grave and then fought them
all the way in, i guess that deserves another personality pathology

words and pictures and angels that george carlin doesn't believe in
but i don't mind i still mostly agree with him
except quietly poking that thought to the back of my mind
to recirculate and well i don't want to forget it in too much time
but angels, there are some things you can't describe to people
that eventually make sense, and some that make you stop
before you start because, you have to see quezacoatl to believe it
and i understood after all those nights of john darnielle
soft voice meant to carry, snakes, destruction, and ripe plums

there are some little devils and some little angels
they don't need a medium, just an invitation
a little thought, blind intention, unconscious manifestation
and only then can they live
hocus pocus **** whatever,
illuminati is distraction,
these aren't legends they are presently presence
essence and breathlessness and aristocrat embezzlement
i'm not worried about the devil
i'm worried about the people who crouch to his level
leveraging him on their shoulders
parasitic loaner, bankers thirsty to sell us
everyone's just looking at miley cyrus
welcome to america, this is a ******* mess
i might overnight some toy blocks by UPS to congress
if they learn to count 1 2 3 but in millions
perhaps it'll dawn on them how much ******* debt we're in

so some nights i let the crackle overwhelm
and sink into the consciousness
and let the shadows prowl around
because pajama sam keeps demanding
not to be afraid of the dark now, for my art, for my heart
there's a world in there and sometimes you have to fall
to know what's life when you come up for air and see
this show is so debonair i can barely bare to read the latest
it's all so plasmatic, phlegm and smoke and paper
burning cities, smoke and mirrors, moving more paper
the only way to act outside the script is to stop acting
and it's the roughest road to choose
but it'll be worth it when you can actually rest in peace without dues
reality isn't real is it, blue collar is another word for slave isn't it
9 - 5 is another expression for consume, a check goes in a box
but we assume it's fair work for pay
we are each a stock, worth about as much as a tea bag
to a party of executives in hot water

and the man outside keeps screaming
something evil is hidden in the depths of the news page
slipping through slack fingered open mouthed people
somehow we're still clueless in the information age
we see it, we read it, we feel it, helpless
we sit in our desk chairs and wonder what next
and the devil sits in our ears whispering don't worry
i know what you're expecting of me
i'm coming, if that is what you all collectively believe

i turn to quezacoatl and all he will murmur
is
what are you going to do about it
the collective has power
waiting for a fateful hour like
a wave puffing up it's chest
oppressed does not mean suppressed
and politics are liar language
money is bluffing to keep us thinking we're nothing
once you've seen what hides in the dark
the light glows brighter in comparison
keeps you safe in the early hours of morning
when you listen

we are the change
we are absolutely everything

You came to me this morning and you handled me like meat.
You’d have to be a man to know how good that feels, how sweet.
My mirrored twin, my next of kin, I’d know you in my sleep
and who but you would take me in, a thousand kisses deep.

I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat,
you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet,
who loved you with his frozen love,
his second hand physique, with all he is, and all he was,
A thousand kisses deep.

I know you had to lie to me, I know you had to cheat,
to pose all hot and high behind the veils of shear deceit,
our perfect **** aristocrat so elegant and cheap,
I’m old but I’m still into that,
A thousand kisses deep.

I’m good at love, I’m good at hate, it' s in between I freeze.
Been working out, but its too late, it’s been to late for years.
But you look good, you really do, they love you on the street.
If you were here I’d kneel for you,
a thousand kisses deep.

The autumn moved across your skin, got something in my eye,
a light that doesn’t need to live, and doesn’t need to die.
A riddle in the book of love, obscure and obsolete,
till witnessed here in time and blood,
A thousand kisses deep.

And I'm still working with the wine, still dancing cheek to cheek,
the band is playing Auld Lang Syne, but the heart will not retreat.
I ran with Diz and I sang with Ray, I never had their sweep,
but once or twice they let me play
A thousand kisses deep.

I am not disposable.
That's a fact, it's non-negotiable.
A fact, which right now you smirk at-
but I am not a servant, and
you're certainly not an aristocrat.

I am not expendable.
I wish proper etiquette was injectable,
because that's a vaccine you desperately need.
Caring and truly caring-
you need to learn the difference between those two things.

I am not nonessential.
You think you know me inside and out,
but you don't have the right credentials.
I try to understand your motives,
but your thoughts are cryptic and confidential.

I am not unnecessary.
You make yourself into two faces-
the object of all my affection, and my greatest adversary.
This situation is just a coal mine-
your treating me like I am these things is the canary.

These things are what I am not.
I should be paramount in your life.
Through your own actions you've proven these are all I am to you,
You've unsheathed a backstabbing knife.

I am here to stay.
Though you've nonchalantly tried to toss me away,
you will learn someday,
that I am not disposable.

991

She sped as Petals of a Rose
Offended by the Wind—
A frail Aristocrat of Time
Indemnity to find—
Leaving on nature—a Default
As Cricket or as Bee—
But Andes in the Bosoms where
She had begun to lie—

We will start with every Jew of every sect.
then every Muslim of every sect.
then every Christian of every sect.
then every Buddist of every sect.
Then every Vedic Hindu of every sect.
then every Animist of every sect.
then every New Ager of every sect.
then every person who lives  "religiously".
then every person who "believes in and worships" any "god" or "goddess".
then every person of either *** or any of the  five skin colours.
then the redheads.
then the disabled.
then the  "gays" male or female.
then the "Politicians" of any belief.
then every member or supporter of any Oligarchy anywhere.
then every Capitalist and supporters of every sect.
then every Socialist and supporters of every sect.
then every Liberal and supporters of every sect.
then every Monarchist and supporters of every sect.
then every "aristocrat" and their supporters.
then every Militarist and supporters of every sect.
then every Fascist and supporters of every sect.
then every "Freedom" lover of whatever belief.
then every Revolutionary and supporters of whatever cause.
then every Criminal of whatever crime.
every Hippy.
every Ecofreak.
every alcoholic user.
every tobacco smoker.
every Cannabis smoker.
every priest of every "religion"
every Khat chewer.
every ***** of any junk.
every celebrity especially public ones.
every historian.
every novelist.
every poet.
every lecturer.
every expert.
every "adviser".
every spokesperson.
every print or electronic journalist especially.
every Television chat show host.
every one else.
Its the only way to get neither War nor Peace
on this war ravaged planet,
but simple existence without any corruption or criminality.
and then who will be left?.
NO ONE!!
Except me  and my twin flame
and oh boy will we have a great time of it.
Alone but all one.
just us and the Isness of the Universe.
wandering this beautiful playground gifted to us by the Isness of the Universe.
The Isness of the Universe to walk with and talk with.
Fruit hanging from trees .
Cold clear waters to drink.
Nuts to crunch.

oh and Amber our huge sheppie--
connosseur of Pork Crackling
and doggy nonsense and wisdom.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

Sartorial elegance

He always wore a yellow silk scarf around his neck
The type actors wear when in blazer having a drink on the terrace
Of a posh hotel, he bought his scarf at a second-hand store
In Cheshire, nevertheless, it was made to fit him
Oddly enough the rest of his apparel was purchased in a Chine's
This gave him an air of seedy elegance that normally comes with
Those who suffer no self- awareness

He was poor and lived on bread and marge, when not invited
To high-born party by people who thought he was an aristocrat
Sometimes I came too because as he said he was writing a novel,
And that made me interested in people with literary ambitions,
There are so few of them hidden in lofts and not spoken of-
His dead was sudden a rope and a beam,
he was missed by the locals
I have not had a proper dinner for a long time,
But I wear his yellows silk scarf for a book unwritten.

Look at us pseudo clever race of ignorance,
Addicted to entertainment our only common
Pleasure filled pain. We will fight to maintain
An uncomfortable satisfying false reality
A reality where we all are individuals controlled by
Another uncontrolled individual.
Through a maze of tunnels lies the mystic wastes
Smoke filled shanties makeshift villages and,
Dim lit ***** dens
The marijuana plants in the basement
Grow into the hard wood floors of the cigar rooms
Of an ancient aristocrat mansion
No infested with the ***** demons of the wasteland
Goats amongst sheep, the bring rolled joys
To dying black hearts of the innocent sinful
Humans in our civilized chaos.
Renaming our creators for the simple bliss of renaming a unnamed
Uncreated creator.

We lived in the 8th eme, near the Canal
A lovely apartment we couldn't afford
our usual lifestyle
I did the shopping at the cheapest store I could find: Ed
Ed-day,  you say, and they sell life's basics
like milk with the date stamped on it
and I'm careful about the date
We were Parisienne
Life abroad isn't real, it doesn't matter
you are not you, known exactly
your mother tongue is the lingua franca of the world
but a gulf separates you from the cares of the real
people there, a gulf of culture, experience, genetics even
I am an odd mixture of religions and regions, strange even for New York
There I am a different species, which is good because it helps my normal
worries stand still, and I am able to be a spectator on life
like a child, I
notice every little nuance of the French day and I am put on hold
I keep to myself, my own thoughts as I can understand
so little of what swirls around me
and that is a burden lifted
I am not homesick and I watch with the same curiosity
Americans on the Champs Elysses,
recognizable by the men in boxy t-shirts
and the women in athletic shoes
I don't speak to them, they are foriegn to me now, too
we walk over centuries of experience, that have given a quiet wisdom
to this place and I learn every day, and the mistakes of the past
are right there under foot or in a museum
the scream and rage of the past has echoed for the last time
long ago, and something has been learned from it
France was right, "we are an old country, and a wise one,"
right before the second Gulf war
we didn't listen
Life has slowed down here,
In America we have that energy, that desire to create and make it
and we run ourselves ragged, into the ground, alone in our independence
no time for strangers but here, our friends take vacations and boldly
make a bridge to form a four day weekend and are proud of it
and invite us along for trips and long meals
and visits to old castles, now over run with "the people"
who enjoy the carved gardens and angular pools as much as
any aristocrat ever did
and I don't want to leave
I'm learning so much
but mostly I don't want to be real again
I don't want to be that American person with problems and no
excuses of distance and language and culture
and no excuses of the need for rest from the rat race
because in America, no one admits to that need
And one day in Ed the expiration date on the milk
is past our flight date
and I freeze in pain
knowing the milk will sit here
long after I am gone

i always favoured Händel (see the hidden γραφεμη variation of the a diaeresis - some simply sprech Hendel, also not the aesthetic mimic symbiosis with sigma - aesthetically it is written Σσς, so too it should be written Εεη - with the variations of epsilon - η - written conclusively, as with the variation of sigma - ς - the remnant, a last resort - the greeks don't believe the tetragrammaton twins of the symbol H anyway, they already laid new pavements for the road ahead, ridiculing the old testament with fanciful quotation, so that man could imbue a godliness rather than the filth of prophetic warmongering in the desert, sacrificing children to a bear like Elisha, the new testimony and the clean prophet, beware the wolf in sheep clothing, sheep equating itself to Nazarene cleanliness, but the wolf inside that will be worthy a tri-summation of interests - before universal education in the Victorian era, when finally enough horses were used up and machines took over, and people were allowed to be escorted into the cinema of uncovered phonetic encoding - taught literacy - but to no avail, having squandered that on acronym shortenings... multifaceted digressions ensue, as i am true to the purpose of suddenly injecting venomous imagery into this whole crescendo of the new regime, nightwatchman every over day, to save myself the pointless stimulus of drinking - let's leave the realm of italics and regroup with the points already made...

what a glorious night yesterday's was, by me saying,
well, there is still over an hour left to include yesterday's
night as today - the heavy Baroque organs of thunder,
interchanging with brilliance of lightning -
7,000 accounts of lightning flashing in a square mile,
perhaps more - there was me, reminiscing what i missed
about Freddy Kruger in the original version of
a nightmare on Elm's street, the 2010 revamp made it
plain (i thought Freddy was a bit of a loser compared
to the other horror icons, like Jason, Michael, Pinhead),
but then it dawned on me... he, was, a *******!
the former two were mutes, hefty mutes, bodybuilding
mutes, bulls, charging, dragging around them a gravity
of pure animal, a bit like a lion hunting although without
the growling - if only lions had cat eyes,
but lions don't have serpent eyes, their pupils are more
mammalian than cat eyes, bonsai, Asian squint, inverse,
serpents in fur - their pupils dilate proportionately
to small pupil, large pupil, not vertical Asian squint in
leather... anyway... what a night to watch a horror movie...
the big brainstorm before the referendum,
morning's newspaper and the newspaper *the times
in revamp mode of the tabloid the sun with
a Shakespeare quote: i to the world am like a drop of
water (or, whatever, water is precious, Shakespeare
is about as much a schooled sneeze / quotation in
comparison), that in the ocean seeks another drop -
told you, the times is just a revamped tabloid version,
it's under the same umbrella group - the only two
opposition newspapers with credentials in England
are the guardian (the left) and the daily telegraph
(the right) - i can see now why Freddy seems pathetic
but is more frightening - it's the ****** talking,
the nursery rhyme jingle - that's the freaky part -
but in the same night i expressively enjoyed
t.v. caviar of Versailles, no critical essay mind you,
just noticing this strange pair of aristocratic ladies,
fakes, a mother and a daughter, what's revealing
is that the girl has no interest in the king, this
builder is eyeing her up, whistles, and loving it,
she has not desire for aristocratic **** *******
of her cousin who's courting Louis XIV brother
Philippe, the gardener ex-soldier (a Socratic type)
warns him, he's asked by the builder, what the hell you
doing here? oh, i'm trying to see the garden more clearer.
he ain't though, he's questioning the entire hierarchy,
later on the same builder puts a pink rose in a bucket
and lowers it down to the garden promenade
where the same pair mother and daughter are walking,
the girl engages... she isn't aristocratic in the least!
she's more interested in frolicking in the hay with
a builder than some king or prince... the mother is poor,
she knows all the salon politics, she basically wants
her daughter to get herself a pension by ******* the king
and bearing him a *******, but there's a scene where
the daughter asks late at night... what are you doing?
the mother replies... writing letters... now you'd expect
that to mean letters in the style of Voltaire or de Montainge,
but by letters she means A B C, D E F... she's illiterate!
an aristocrat and illiterate? how else to control the
masses so long ago if not keeping them illiterate
content with fables from Plato's shadow puppet metaphors?
later the mother becomes frightened that the motto
Louis XIV emphasises (appearances are power -
deception = poker-hand perception, bluffs the higher up
you go), she's walking alone through the corridors of
Versailles and starts chatting up the court inquisitor etc.,
Fabien Marchal - he ain't exactly the aristocratic type,
she's already seeing the failures of her daughter
and the failures of too much information being passed down
to her about how to catch the eye of the king - god i love
this show, Philippe taking an ancient form of a selfie
looking into a little mirror before charging on his horse,
the power struggle, Louis flicks some porridge
onto Philippe, Philippe flicks some back,
Louis shoves a whole bowl of it on Philippe's head,
Philippe ****** on Louis, a wrestling match after:
you might have ****** on a brother's head...
but i ****** on a king's head. so why **** this entire
notion from Detective Comics and Edward (e)Nigma
******* all the brains out from a television set?
the idea of a bulls-eye is still out there - just have to know
what to glue yourself to;
but never mind that, to give closure to this whole
random escapade -
vote leave, reason? three houses of parliament in Brussels,
not a single member is elected by the public,
they're all self-appointed or appointed by connections.
vote remain, reason? cheap cigarettes from Romania,
Bulgaria and Poland - under new regulations they might
not be so cheap, i might have to resort to e-cigarettes.
probable outcome? Europe is already failing, it seems
that the idea of the free-movement of people doesn't
really apply to member states, but to non-member states,
esp. those outside Europe - the stigma born from
the grand European expansion of ~2005 fuelled the problem,
free movement of post-British Empire peoples, yes,
movement of member states in the political union? no,
no one from California and go to New Mexico,
but Mexicans can go to Washington, what a ****** up
logic - the prophesy of a revived Roman Empire is a bit
daft - and if i really did have an illegitimate child,
at what age does paying child support end? 16 or 18?
i wasn't married, i asked about the contraceptive pills,
but still the hot-bun shoved under my pillow to think about...
i'm positive that's when the buzzing in the left
hemisphere of my brain will end, and a grand L.S.D. trip
will appear in the sky, like a big Christmas mince pie -
ask me then, it's been 9 years in, i might have a break,
but until then i'm contemplating juggling Joyce with
Burroughs, and telling you... you know what i'd really like?
hearing Händel messiah in German... singing opera
is English is so so horrid, i love the opera never mind,
i was inspired by the section:
opernchor - weil von mann kommen tod -
to want to hear it in German - and trying to write German
using English grammar, and translate it, is like
a little-Oedipus fable, not as bad as mother and son,
no gauging of the eyes, more like the standard practice
in Arabia with marriage between 2nd or 3rd cousins -
and D.N.A. quick-tests in Iceland, who i'm praying will
win if the vote is to leave, fairy-tale Leicester City,
a country with the same population, 330,000;
not to mention Gudmundur Benediktsson's ******
that beat any South American gooooooooooo(h)'l /
enlarged spelling of ~gall, and so on and so forth bladder
or blah blah blah blah blah.

You wonder why I dwell in the dark,
You wonder why I never call back,
You wonder why I be a lost sane,
I wonder if I’ll ever see you again,

Evading the city flare,
Evading to the mellow lair,
Evading the caramelised routine,
Evading a contagious whine,

A thing of pity, years and hence,
A sweet  obsession, that only commence,
You wonder if I have lost every sense,
I wonder if I ever made any sense,

You wonder why I invest so much,
You wonder why I run on loss,
You wonder what became of us,
I wonder if it's fantasy or lust,

Come! Come! Sure let's reshape our maps,
What has been and maybe perhaps,
Swoosh! Whoosh! Be undone and done!
How awfully convenient, is it not, hon?!

Exuberant creatures they flatter me often,
Those lofty lot, enticing I find none,
Sure I shall allow an unbiased  trial!
Sheath the heart, her eyes a biased thrill!

Never mention my poached heart,
And we'll get along just fine, love,
And be forever entwined,
In that same old fairytale, concubine!

You wonder why I am a repugnant aristocrat,
You wonder why I am a narcissist in grave dearth,
You wonder why I am a deception to change,
I wonder how passionately I was never your gain...

Of course I am not an island of my own,
Of course I am but a mere fraction of the whole,
Oh! Tempting balms! they embrace me so,
Quite the way you wrapped me Cozy, long ago,

You wonder why I am stuck in a rut,
You wonder why I choose not to be smart,
You wonder why I wait without disgust,
I wonder where my rescue boat is lost….

You wonder why I let the years fly by,
You wonder why I live in the bygone and deny,
You wonder why I never forget your voice,
You wonder why I keep every memory alive,

I wonder if I'll ever see you again,
I wonder if it will all be the same.....

I am an aristocrat.
The kind that molds and seams sentences,
one word upon another as if they were ancient incantations
taught to the younglings of Native American tribes. Generations upon generations.  
I’m well spoken.
Can’t you tell? The way I’ve found that happy medium between the whimper and the whine?
I won’t be a bother. No, no, if you want me to kneel for you, I’m the frayed ends of your welcome rug. Sing you a song?
I am your mobile radio.
Tap my dials, I’ll make you squeal
with delight in the evening light.
Tip, turn
She was an American girl.
You yell, you scream.
I’m a sweet talker.
I’ll make you slit your eyes with pretend apprehension and the slightest, least perceptible grin I’ve ever witnessed performed by a member of humankind.

Oh, you know I’m never lonely.

Never have I spent minutes in the corner
scrounging for the few innocent nickels I’ve left to
maneuver claws and
obtain my purity.

No, my pockets are full.

Full of falling stars.
And not even just my front ones. I’ve got so many that it’s starting to affect my strut so people notice and congratulate me on my confident and masculine demeanor.

I was told to save them for a rainy day.
But I’m rain repellant.
That billowing storm wouldn’t dare approach me.
There is a drought,
and it’s deliberate.

Here, have a few of my stars.

I’m a real winner, and I’m living it large.

Touch me, I’m golden.
I am a fighter.
I am a winner.
So long, reflection, I’m off to woo the world.

by Leonard Cohen**

You came to me this morning
And you handled me like meat
You’d have to be a man to know
How good that feels, how sweet

My mirror twin, my next of kin
I’d know you in my sleep
And who but you would take me in
A thousand kisses deep

I loved you when you opened
Like a lily to the heat
You see I’m just another snowman
Standing in the rain and sleet

Who loved you with his frozen love
His secondhand physique
With all he is and all he was
A thousand kisses deep

I know you had to lie to me
I know you had to cheat
To pose all hot and high
Behind the veils of sheer deceit

Our perfect **** aristocrat
So elegant and cheap
I’m old but I’m still into that
A thousand kisses deep

I’m good at love, I’m good at hate
It’s in between I freeze
Been working out but it’s too late
(It’s been too late for years)

But you look good, you really do
They love you on the street
If you were here I’d kneel for you
A thousand kisses deep

The autumn moved across your skin
Got something in my eye
A light that doesn’t need to live
And doesn’t need to die

A riddle in the book of love
Obscure and obsolete
And witnessed here in time and blood
A thousand kisses deep

But I’m still working with the wine
Still dancing cheek to cheek
The band is playing Auld Lang Syne
But the heart will not retreat

I ran with Diz, I sang with Ray
I never had their sweet
But once or twice they let me play
A thousand kisses deep

I loved you when you opened
Like a lily to the heat
You see I’m just another snowman
Standing in the rain and sleet

Who loved you with his frozen love
His secondhand physique
With all he is and all he was
A thousand kisses deep

But you don’t need to hear me now
And every word I speak
It counts against me anyhow
A thousand kisses deep!

In wolf’s lair,
Will you be?
There to meet me
and greet me
With salutations free
I can see your eyes now
soften with sadness, somehow
But then,
Like the howl of the wind
There you stand,
without fear
You reach for a hand
You will not fail this time
For here your future
Awaits you,
In wolf’s lair,
The glory of your dignity

Morning’s child
And poet’s rhyme,
Etched on your face
The contours of your grace
aristocrat  born
With kisses mourn
The passing of life
Your only destiny

Beautiful man of the ages
Beautiful passion of the sages
You who threw  your courage
In wolf’s lair,at the villain’s outrage

You have won in your defeat
Carried the burden of this feat
Neither the moon in its dark haze
Can forget the intensity of your gaze

Lay your weary mind now,
In wolf’s lair, the cry  has sounded
glasses wildly strewn
Across the earth’s floor,broken
The valkyrie have chosen
Your name they have spoken


You will fight with reason
You, a hero for all season
vaguely a whisper in December
born in sweet November,
dying in July,
On your lips was a cry
Long live
Long live
Forever you shall live
Like the waves in the sea
Like the leaves of a tree
Everlasting in your sleep,
There, the hero will no longer weep

Will you meet me ?
One last time,
In wolf’s lair, the valkyries’ nests
Gently smile upon this solemn memory
That shall forever nurture
And grow in love,
It can never die
And you will  never die,
One last look my hero ,before you go
Into the sky,
Into spirits high
Mark my soul with the breath of your
Silent song,
Pictures of your face
Give me strength to grow
And to glow…
You will always be….
My hero
You will always be,
My love….

Monarchic Rant

Though I was born in Britain
I am not a 'Brit'
I do not fit in
Their houses are so cold
Because they are too cheap
To turn up the ****** heat

I find some of them deceitful,
They self-righteously pretend
To be serene
And peaceful
But love to fight
All over the world
Blasting other beings
Into the netherworld

Tied to tradition
They insist
On going against the global grain
They weigh in stones
And still drive on the wrong
****** side of the road

They sing 'God Save The Queen'.
God has more common sense
He believes the word 'Excellency'
A too commonly used currency
Slapped, like a hat
On the head of a simple aristocrat

God save the common people
Living under too many thumbs
Of  pretentious and powerful people,
With utterly obscene incomes

Sean Hunt  Windermere Dec. 7, 2015

you asked me long ago why every time we ******
it was 'so passionate'
today it hit me,
as i was reading tropic of cancer for the fourth time
it's because i am passion,
i am passion embodied
your other women,
they may give you something else individually,
but they are not the look in my golden eyes
as we both stand on our knees
and devour each other hungrily
they may be beauty or intelligence or a simply good ****,
but they are not passion
i realized that it is not the **** that you crave,
but the characteristics that you lack, you take from us
you need my passion to stay sane and whole
i gave it freely because it is all of me
i have an endless, abundance of passion
a depthless well of fieriness
you pay me in faux love and deep friendship for the dedicated doses
of passion that i put into your soul
your words stick to me because they are my words
i gave them to you with each passionate ****
and you spit them back in just the way i loved
the more i ponder our coup the more i realize
the ******* was for me to unload the heavy burden passion brings
you needed it to fill you and i have a surplus
as each day ends i find more clarity
you are a hollow vessel and your women give you your character
they are all loved and unloved by you
they all give you what you need to feel human
but i must start rationing my passion
i need it for my writings
i need it for my living
i need it for my sanity
perhaps to hone it so that at a simple touch i can ignite sparks
in every beggar, aristocrat, country-man
rather than to fill up your empty chest where love is not welcome

"I'm in love with you," her aristocrat says,
And the girl tries to hide her dismay.
"Why do you say that?" asks the girl
"because you're new and old" says the Earl.
"You love me because I'm a novelty?
Just because I'm pretty and not like other royalty?"
And she feels her heart begin to ache
And she curses herself for being a flake.

But then he merely laughs and draws
her hand into his and with a little pause,
says: "The taste of you, the smell of you, all these things are new,
and this is why, my Sweetest one, I cannot stop kissing or touching you.
But deep down Dearest, you should know
that as sure as the Kilimanjaro snows-
That even despite my young ******* son
Or the fact that my leg's shot through
and the ghost of an ex-wife hovers over me
and the skeletons won't stop tumbling out-
Still and always you are known to me.
It is as if we had never been strangers, see.
By the crook of your smile and the laugh in your eyes,
You couldn't hide from me, not in a disguise.
And this is how I'm in love with you, Sweet,
Newest yet oldest lover-friend, with you, I've found my own two feet."

Fallen down flat,
*** for tat,
Enough of that,
Small as a gnat,
Swept under the Matt,
My back don't pat,
Not but a rat,
Treat me as ****,
Fell through the slat,
Next up to bat,
Enough chit chat,
Lost in combat,
Set in format,
Don't copycat,
A spinning laundromat,
Or broken thermostat,
Scared little pussycat,
Decisions arrived at,
Flexible as an acrobat,
Masked aristocrat,
Hiding in a top hat,
Known through Snapchat,
Don't even work at,
Used like a doormat,
Cat calling at,
Filed caveat,
Blind as a bat,
Lost sewer rat,
Fallen down flat.

They think they own the land!
They don't.
They think they own the water!
They don't.
They think they own the energy!
They don't.

They think they own you and I!
They don't.

A doomed aristocrat once said,
“Let them eat cake!”
As the poor starved in the street

Her head was sent to the basket

We the 99% stand up in reply,

LET THEM EAT PAPER!

We produce the goods
We work the fields
We run the grid
We police the streets
We create the wealth of the Earth
We destroy the greedy and self-serving
We can take care of ourselves

LET THEM EAT PAPER!

While he was in the alchemical session with Valekiria with the ***** lushness in the veins of his beloved, he felt instantly the arrival of some mounts. Etréstles, goes out and looks around the store and makes sure that Alexander the Great's entourage was there. I brought him a letter. Etréstles alerts Mardiath and the others. As the General pulls out his Leonatus, he dismounts and approaches the tent where his chief commander Vernarth was. He sees him surrounded by probes, which were like branches inserted by his right pectoral and his main veins.

Alexander the Great says:

Khaire, "I wish you joy" my great Commander Vernarth ...!!. He raises his hands, clicking with his hands to scatter some tiny earrings, to grind them on his face, they were sent by the Falangists, paying homage to him. They were like pieces of the horse's leashes with gold fillets that they ripped with the hooves of the cavalry from the armor of the bruised containers. With the tips of his fingers up his face and his hands up he appealed the presence of Zeus, and then bowed.

The last time I saw your individual, we had alternated to see the enormous over-proportioned bravery that Vernarth imposed on the battle. Here you arranged your army so that we could face everywhere, forming a large rectangle that we could face attacks from anywhere. I saw millions of Arrows fall on our army, I paid attention to you, your Lord Vernarth, who went with your wounded right breastplate, also semi hanging your Hoplite breastplate. You had legs and shoulders with impostor arrows that did not detract you from continuing with the ****** ramming of the enemy infants who were incapable of you. You mounted Alikanto and with all the momentum in an act of extreme madness you ravaged the insistent enemy ranks. There was the last great moment that I could see about your great courage and bravery to decapitate the enemy troops. Today we have defeated and I will go after Darío after his flight, which is what the world did behind him who should never have dared against our alliance with our army.

Vernarth replies:
All plunged into the Dorus and Xiphos with their multiple ****** edges, like a new blood alliance that must provide us with a new life beyond our deaths. In the hand of the blacksmith forger will reside the new lands where we have to implement new expeditions.

Brisehal, my Dog of Lut, embarrassed his ambitions to tarnish our designs. Now on the plain there are signs of panic, that only He infused on the bodies unscathed by the Falangists, they are witnesses of our daring and of the wild rebellion that caused the flight of the Achaemenides. On the glory that I do not stop aspiring, I will go to my hopes of meeting my ancestors in paradise, I have to gratify my great brotherhood to the kingdom of creation that boils through the great chimneys of the universe separating the own faculties from the power of true love , that make us coexist with our arms and legs without it being anything clearer than the footprint of the shadows, more exceptional than the same that others must thank with love to represent under all the limits that exceed the upper limits.
Alexander the Great embraces him and honors him with his battalion. His comrade Hephaestion dispenses the liturgy and dedicates a war song chanted by one hundred Hoplites plus the inclusion of his figure on the Hellenic banner to always be part of the military emblem arc of all the Greek armies and the coming social class. The Liturgy begins for a great commander and a good soldier who inherited new lands. Not only because the greed of the enemies could not be hidden, but mainly because he worked the land, which was a school of virtue for the veteran, in which he acquired the qualities of vigilance, strength and justice that form the basis of the military spirit with honors.

Hoplites say: with the General's voice in unison Khaire !!, “We wish you joy”. Our lord Vernarth eternal life. He will never forget, and he will remain enrolled in this life and the other all this feat, as a great soldier and comrade, who will also be the father of our family, out of concern to preserve the freedom of all of us, who will now be ours in the good reason to fight.

Hephaestion proclaims: Same nation and age with my lord Alexander the Great. As a Macedonian aristocrat and a Macedonian general noble. I do not see another certainty when we know your greatest skill in all the works that will be sculpted in our monuments. Today we must before your divine figure, of our credit to compensate all those who will swallow history before the same people as their own bite. Aristotle will grant volumes to refer to Vernarth in his history as a contribution of Helenofilo hero and all the jargon involving the new and unpublished diet of the poetics of the Greek world.


In the third part of the noon, when a voluminous day the most underlined epithets of the homage to the greatest commander of Alexander the Great increased; all would leave to continue the investigation of Darío III. In the store were Mardiath and Etréstles faithfully accompanying them along with his wife Valekiria.


The Parapsychological session resumes:

While Vernarth was in the hands of the Medical Medium, they kept their narrations attentive, which his assistant recorded and took note of the most relevant. To know more about his incessant chronicles. Countless journalists and people in the field of information were already stationed there near the building, all shocked by the reputation that this unusual parapsychological event had taken, before the clinical, political, cultural and news media.

Ellipsis Vernarth in Berlin, Germany - April 16, 1945:

Vernarth was paying attention to Reichstag defenders April 16, 1945. As he walked between the cross-shootings of the Wehrmacht and Allied sides. He walked in between the Battle of Berlin, which was the last major battle in Europe during World War II. It began on April 16, 1945 after the start of a major Soviet Union offensive on the capital city of the Third *****, and ended on May 2, 1945, when German defenders surrendered in the city to the Red Army. That full ability allowed Vernarth to interrelate inter-war situations of a political / warlike nature, as for this stage that remained to be reported. Now it was already in Germany occupied by the Soviet army. And to be able to continue living intensely in this way the marks and vestiges of the bullets of heavy caliber, which would be of great historical boast for future civilizations and their socio-political criticism, which still follow these marks of bullets in all the generations of this great Nation.

"On January 12, 1945, the Red Army entered German territory during the Vistula-Oder offensive and advanced westward at great speed, up to forty kilometers a day, entering Eastern Prussia, Lower and Upper Silesia and Eastern Pomerania, to a stop sixty kilometers east of Berlin, on a German defensive line along the Oder River. When the offensive resumed, two Soviet fronts - army groups - attacked Berlin from positions to the east and south, while a third attacked German positions to the north of the city. The first preparations to defend the outskirts of Berlin began on March 20, when the newly appointed commander of Army Group Vistula, General Gotthard Heinrici, correctly anticipated that the bulk of Soviet troops would cross the Oder River. Before the start of the battle of Berlin, the Soviets managed to surround the city thanks to their victories in the battles of the Seelow and Halbe hills. On April 16, 1945, the First Belarusian Front led by Marshal of the Soviet Union Gueorgui Zhúkov began to bombard central Berlin, while the First Ukrainian Front led by Marshal Ivan Kónev, pushed south to the remains of the Army Group Center. The German defenders were led primarily by Helmuth Weidling, and consisted of exhausted, ill-equipped, and disorganized divisions of the Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS, to which many joined. Thousands of Russian cannons bombed day and night, air control Russian was total, the avenues were at the expense of fanatical Waffen SS, totally Blocked ”.

Vernarth, was crossed by means of the Reichstag, and was parapet taking a German machine gun to harass Soviet soldiers, who only used it to protect himself, limiting that he was neutral. Then he disappeared into the hills and kept his distance, only seeing the immense fires that were trying to take over a dominated city. The Reichstag building was located in the already abandoned Tiergarten district, in the Mitte district of Berlin, the capital of Germany. Where he was just interned with the combatants, and in order not to be captured he served the side that received him unequivocally.

Thousands of Russian cannon bombed day and night, Russian air control was complete, the avenues were at the expense of Waffen SS fanatics and blocked. Vernarth was crossed by means of heavy transport vehicles and mortar and cannon bombs, until cornered in some skirmishes and colossal ruins. Where he manages to escape and heads to the Hotel Adlon, a great palace of kaiseres and authorities of the great bourgeoisie. Here he manages to reside and finally escape crossing borders without knowing, thinking about going to Munich and crossing other borders, perhaps disdain to join the allied side and serve as a spy.

To be continued, under edition

and tell me
how it feels like
returning to the suburbia
walking past couples
eating chilly popsicles
from each others’ hands
while kids fall on the pavements
not a worry, not a melee
as the first full moon
overlooking us
beyond the double pulses
built at the epicentre
witnessing all of the
wild, harsh river flows
that taught us life
I am not the melodramatic aristocrat
you are the forgetful, envious plutocrat
will you make it through January
when I still linger with December?

you would know that only answer.