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jpl Jun 2013
Today, on the streets of NYC
or London, I passed a future president
in his stride, and I passed a disgraced
soldier, discharged for discharging
a round of ammunition on his friend,
I passed a man whose uncle was
Neil Armstrong, and a woman whose
face was drenched in acid by
an evil ex-boyfriend.
I was walking along the Champs Elysees,
today, when I smiled at a man who
is a relative of Gustav Eiffel, perhaps
even his grandson, or more. He was wearing
a suit, a normal, plainly dressed man
blending in.
Today, as I wandered past the skyline of
Vancouver, Chicago, Shanghai, a little girl
cried, and cried and cried. She’s to become the
scientist to cure cancer, the common cold,
or more. She has blonde pigtails and a giant
pink ribbon in her hair.
Underneath the Japanese bloom,
the leader of a gang stopped in front
of me to admire the white blossom,
and I did the same. Perhaps we
shared a word or two, me not knowing this man’s
crime. He not knowing mine.

Underneath all bloom in all the world,
seven billion future presidents,
seven billion disgraced soldiers,
descendants of astronauts,
acid scoured people,
seven billion Mr or Mrs Eiffels,
seven billion cancer curers,
and mob leaders walk their walk
and talk their talk.
No beacon shines upon them
and no beacon ever will.
jpl Jun 2013
When you were broken into
one million pieces, I had to pick
up the million and first piece,
to make sure I had you back.
jpl Jun 2013
Under the Spanish bloom,
and beneath the perpetual sky,
a young boy walked with a girl.
She was struck by the beauty of it all;
the gentle breeze and the subtle ease
of the night. The boy was less pleased, though
and continued to stride, his pride effervescent
in the bland moonlight.

Under the winter bleached trees,
and beneath the star spangled sky,
the girl was alone now, crying.
She was hit by the sense of loneliness
that she found curled below the undergrowth
like the runt of a litter or an injured mammal.
She was injured now, that’s what she told
everyone else, anyway.

Under a spineless, leafless tree,
and beneath a white, all white sky,
a boy sits with a hole in his heart
and a gap in his speech.
It crumples up in him like
a poignant piece of painted cloth.
Like a prayer mat or something.
jpl Jun 2013
Here, we find:
"mass rivers and mountains and creeks of concrete disarray
which shadow embassies steeped
in deep shadow, here, regency is at its highest
in the days following a political nightmare, scandal.
a square with more than four sides -- propaganda
like the lies they tell and the lives they don't shed (do)"

Moving on, we discover:
"suddenly! a church of bulbs – the press are here? the
flashes and crashes of all history under
the watchful clock of the church. colourful."

A quick history lesson, before we continue:
"commune! let’s make another ism you can call your own; riot.
what a riot what a LAUGH!
(don't flinch at the pepper spray)"

A quick round-up before lunch:
"all of this leads to the centre, a city of myths and of colour
and of politics and of colour, we’re in the dead
centre here, the red centre here.
this one's got four sides."
jpl Jun 2013
I fear for the planet
and fearing the planet makes me
fear it even more;
a world where its inhabitants fear their
own surroundings is a world to be very fearful of indeed.
jpl Jun 2013
oh to the world she sang
all night long, her song was the
only break the people
could hear from the perpetual and insistent
persistent ringing of car horns.
police sirens. and gun shots.
all through the night she sat - a constant
in a universe of atmospheric
change, a world of ever-lasting
inconsistency. it was sweet, a hummingbird’s call,
a sweet candy in amongst the notes. her
chord was her friend and her voice
was the end. of the war for the night
for the fight and
all who listened stopped short
and forgot the cause.
why did they do it? was the repeated
line, why did they ****? she cries, her voice
forever flourishing, beautiful and sacred,
but evidence suggests there’re under
tones of broken strings and mismatched hymns, a
cry of pain... nestled like the bird she sounds of.
why did they **** my family?
the sanctity of her voice broke the
‘sanctity’ of the war.
jpl Apr 2013
I would like once more to see white smoke come
unfurling from the mountains beyond you.
Whilst the cold makes noses blue and hands numb.
And all the while it was of death you knew,
would come and get us in the twilight hour-
we still have hills to find, and sights to see.
We, who hell’s grim tyrant doth devour,
scatter ourselves amongst life’s debris.
I would utter the three powerful words
if I thought you could hear it how I want
you to hear it (like the high-flying birds).
I’ll keep you from the evils of thunder,
Roaming free, we shall go off and wonder.
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