Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen

Rich People* are pouring  brandy in their glasses
as the winter freezes the ones from the lower classes
The lazy riches who do nothing are eating a lot
and the hardworking labourers are left to rot
The Greedy Sons of Man fight and die for money
collecting even a coin,like bees collect nectar for honey

Rich People are commiting crimes and moving free
as the poor are treated like dogs of low degree
Swanking their richness is their biggest pleasure
and the miseries of the poor are out any measure
The Money Hungry just want more of it all around
just like mud laden pigs roll in muddy ground

Rich People believe they are not bound to any rule
and the low classes are the ones who get fooled
Even the government listens to the Riches the most
and the others are burdened with rising costs
The Lettuce Frenzied are hoarding money in bank
just like dogs bury the bones in the lands

Rich People believe that they are of a superior race
and the low classes are the ones thrown into disgrace
Exploiting the poor is Rich People's favourite habit
and the others just watch,waiting for the same of it
The Money loving people can make the system bend
and why does this vicious beast of humanity has NO END ?

It is often when I tend to pause and introspect  on life, my experiences with in in general. It is in such moments, I feel  myself imbibed, yet  so stunned  at the realisation of the fact, that it is so knowingly, yet often most unknowingly that we affect everyone whose life's paths we cross through! It may sure be the case that  we don't mean too much to a person as the other person already does, but then, what we still are mostly unaware of at that moment, is how beautifully, intensely or pathetically does our little acts and attitudes may be already affecting others, and theirs to us. Would our  lives be okay as it is currently, when the same situation is just altered a little by deducting air from it? Would we still be sitting so patiently as we are now, even if everything was same, except the mere deduction of water from our life? The mere absence of shelter and food yet again are the elements, whose mere mention of absolute deductance would be good and great enough to stop the mere throbbing of our heartbeats which might already have slowed or rather started being too swift by now!
It is interesting, how some elements are just a trifle to be valued, before we realise how worse our lives could be
only by their absence, or well departure! Doesn't that same rule applies for us people too? Most don't value  the hardworking yet lowly paid people like a builder or the labourer who builds their House, or mansion, as much as they value their guests and inhabitants that get into it after it's finally finalized. The guest obviously are worth the praise but aren't those
labours?  ask this to yourself for a moment, that what would your house be like if there were no labourers to make that happen! The house that keeps us safe and cosy now, is but many  day and night's struggles of someone who worked hard to make it happen in reality. He, his soul deserves to be praised for making your dream, your dream home come alive! It often makes me smile at some kindered souls whose ultimate profession is working for humanity, it's wellness, It's enrichment, It's improvement, and it's best progress, therefore I can't help but smile wide, when I come across a truly  honest teacher, doctor, mentor, poets or writers ever. They have a spark that's so  refreshing, inspiring and contagioud! They indeed are those eminent souls who nurture and enrich the souls of others so piously and profoundly, and it is often that they are just  so unaware of this preciousness and the greatness they so majestically possess!They pour in us, the true essence of the goodness our world is made up of, and make us feel a like a viable part of it. They brighten our days. it's a blessed blessing to be in the company of such gems, truly!

Afterall, us humans are so alike the state of matter called 'liquid', that is known for its 'adaptability' .It hardens and softens with  the change in temperature. sometimes hardened by our outer world's that haunts us often, yet are very eagerly  inter-convertible. And it is hence, when  the truest, and enlightening essence of  eminent souls touch us, embrace us, we transform in their moulds, sometimes and little and sometimes a lot. Sometimes very finely, and sometimes too coarsely, built in a confined type with the advent of time, and it is then, years after years, we become a person and then a personality that we let time , and the people that tread through it, in our lives transform us into. Every little to large element affects us, in ways we often don't know of. Everything teaches and tells us of life it's stories, it comes with lessons, and our hearts, out consciousness perceives them too, from time to time. We  shape mysteriously, yet so mysteriously   in and into the vessel of life eventually, that we interestingly don't realise the intensity of the change until someone else remarks us of it, and makes us realise it. These changes are just this mystical and inevitable! And change is the law of time.

Shine or shower, we bend forever
Bend to see if the path talks to us
Bend to earn a nickel with a foreign face

Oh! How it bleeds, to walk on the gravel
The stones are crushed to confess their stories
they could be frozen tears of
my colleagues and my fellow countrymen
Who tramped here before!

How it pains, to sleep on flour, which is not mine
Lack of family affection makes us half humans
It has been an infinite urge to
Fly away on the wings of breeze
Just to escape the scorching sun’s torturous smile

We extinguish the fire of anger
No fire, but the flames in the breast
Endure between ambition and desire.

We see light in soldering electrodes everyday
But can’t see the bright eyes of our children for ages
Oh how it torments, a faithful heart that’s broken
To avenge the sad tale of labourers on a foreign soil

For us who experience all the ravines of Life
Night returns with dark chocolates
We continue to lift and bend ourselves
With fragrant bosoms near our feet

Theme : We get to see many  labourers working in the Middle East and East Asian countries like Singapore, Brunei etc. These workers, as construction labourers or as grass cutters, toil a lot on the road exposing themselves to Sun and shower. Most of them are from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka etc. It pains to see them working under very unfavourable conditions. This poem is an appreciation of their commitment to look after their family back home.

i like looking up these shadow-people, the labourers
away from the spotlight, away from easy reference conclusions,
Ludovico Arrighi is among them, as is
the high jumper **** Fosbury - no belly-flop in
the competition after... after 1968 the road signs
told every jumper to expose the back and ***
when overpowering the heights -
Philippe Petit is outside the world, the ultimate
expression of solipsism, what grandeur (previous
attempts, the dyslexic source: the graphemes, æ,
previously i wrote grandeur as: grandeaur,
grandaeur, etc., somehow the syllables of only
vowels can leave you momentarily dyslexic,
when we're talking pure consonant graphemes
we have an aesthetic performed,
sheering can become šeering, whereby the diacritical
input overpowers excess spelling of graphemes,
such examples arise from what became the silent H...
or the surd H... ping-pong with the tetragrammaton...
e.g. dhal - which is said with a macron over the a:
dāl... but the trinity of spelled words gives rise
of neurosis... unless it's a word as conjunction,
the tribunal of aesthetic in keeping language beautiful
will prefer the spelling dhal or even daal rather than
what i proposed). concerning Ludovico Arrighi's
italics type... the skewed rhombus alignment /    /
is prescribed for emphasis... i need something to introduce
something that doesn't stress emphasis, but
sarcasm / ridicule... when i write something,
as i did in Christianity 2.0 (two point oh),
i'd change the direction of the ~wind, i.e. instead of
/    /    for emphasis, i'd like to stress ridicule in the
following direction:    \     .
but that's beside the point, it's like a western with
English not applying noticeable stresses...
for example the English trill, or the French hark...
they should be equipped with diacritical marks
of distinction... some sort of uniformity
of suggestion... the northerners trill (roll)
their R, the French used to, now anything but
a puddle of phlegm... but indeed, easy dyslexia from
pure vowel graphemes... cutting up graphemes
with diacritical incisions (safety, in a persistent vocabulary,
following the method of philosophical methodology -
hence my casual use of diacritics and graφemes -
i.e. when graphemes can't be constructed due
to a lacking of grapheme intention - unlike θ and φ -
supported by their alignment of a twin sound,
the Greeks would never consider applying diacritical
marks on p, t, h - unlike in Polish, where the h
is distinguished into a ch for aesthetic purposes -
e.g. chleb - bread and huj - **** -
but overpowering the vowel graphemes produced
their disappearance and the emergence of diacritical
vowels, e.g. the acute o (ó), which is a U, i treat
the diacritical mark as an incision point for the parabola,
cutting up the omicron, and that seems natural
given that the Greeks already did it without the acute
sign, i.e. the omega (the double u) - ω - again,
aesthetic reasons, the forgotten gallery of words
is there, you just have to forget Chomsky for a while.
but indeed, breaking up graphemes provides us
the necessity for diacritical marks,
the ancient Roman graphemes might have disappeared,
but they're still digitally present: mostly concerning
major words, like onomatopoeia - or encyclopaedia -
graphemes behave differently with the barbarians,
the latter encyclo- example is obviously nostalgic,
the ono- example does a reverse grapheme variation
of oe... but modernity expresses these couples
with individual distinctions - i.e. encyclopaedia
could be written utilising... well not a caron - not quiet
***, and more p'eh - the resurrection of the tetragrammaton
is necessary, i'd have inserted the variation without
minding French, i.e. grave accent on e eating away
the last vowel... or vowels... i.e. encyclopaèdia -
so avoiding the French usage that would cut off the -ia,
i'd insert it for reasons of interacting with a h, p'eh.
Joyce's Finnegan's Wake should have been written like this...
instead, it was written without noticing the diacritical
marks, and therefore made it's pompousness known
by omitting diacritical marks, therefore succumbing to
excessive spelling... or the ruin of Delmore Schwarzt -
nurse! scalpel: sch(sh /sz / š)- -wä(łä)- r(z)'t - drum-kit
wet snare tss't like in jazz.
still i need to define the R being trilled (rolling ball)
akin to the å - but of course the umlaut would do the job
likewise - but it's the aesthetic purpose that's necessary,
i guess umlaut designates an eased concept of
arithmetic included above the sound: i.e. prolonged,
count +2.

but these are but minor points of consideration,
obviously it would take decades to implement, and knowing
human endeavours in this realm, once fixed, once
fixated, nothing will hardly change - due to the already
existing utilisation, whereby it works perfectly to segregate
people... and the fact that there's no linguistic bible to
mind... but talking about orthodoxy and meddling with
dogma, i'm still bothered about the Malachi heresy,
how could it have been implemented?
i mean, a polytheistic concept of reincarnation is the oldest
form of identity theft, isn't it?
monotheism is incompatible with the concept of reincarnation,
this is the weakest spot / the blemish in Judaism...
Malachi is the actual inventor of Christianity and Islam,
he introduced the concept of reincarnation with
the return of Elijah, as mentioned in the New Testament
where Jesus is compared with Elijah...
it's a monotheistic heresy... reincarnation has no place
in monotheism, yet there it is, glaring at everyone from
the page... it was Malachi's error that gave rise to
schism... the litmus test of a monotheism is it's inability to
succumb to schism... well, Christianity is poly-schismatic,
Islam suffered an infection of schism early on...
Jewish schism?  you either practice or don't...
you either don the full attire of a Hasidic jews or you simply
turn your opinions toward earthly matters...
and so much rigour just because they didn't care to
roll the ******* back during ***, all that much work
from snipping the *******... early intervention did the job,
snip the skin off and we have the most ridiculously
funny god in the thought of man, an entire Mongolian
horde of intellectuals have been spawned from his existence...
imagine if god intervened when plastic surgery came around...
wouldn't be so ******* funny by my count.
****! listening to the radio and standing up between sentences
then realising there's no go-back button... it's live...
sometimes the oddities of not being your own d.j. can be
petrifying, when you're working against the river-current
like a Salmon of rhythm.

lastly... i guess this is a major point, in a magazine article
some dung-heap of opinion wrote something
about poetry, in ditto:
a policeman shoots dead Michael Brown in Ferguson,
Missouri in August 2014, Maggie Smith's poem
Good Bones goes viral, it wasn't about Ferguson,
it was about life being short and often terrible -
continues with: poetry is the language of crisis, of
profound thought and deep emotion, it may not be
much read these days, but it is certainly felt...

is that all true? is poetry the language of crisis?
i think that assertion is a load of *******...
it's a bit like using a hammer to paint the civil room's
walls (living room, i call it the civil room) -
if i'm reading poetry i'm not commuting or lying in bed,
i'm perched on the windowsill in a quasi-akimbo pose,
sipping a glass of bourbon with coca-cola and
smoking a cigarette, mindful of never wanting to
wear contact lenses or eyeglasses,
poetry is more than this idealism about it,
that you read poetry to savour the moment of critical needs,
i read poetry because newspaper articles **** me off...
poetry is like newspaper articles when those monstrous
literary ****** get going for months of necessary
attention to finish them... poetry, when drinking
bourbon, smoking a cigarette, quasi-akimbo on the windowsill,
perfect use of spacing, i bet most people who stick
to poetry will have better eyesight when they grow older.

It looked so green and promising even before its inception
The labourers came with zeal and great expectation
The countenances of some exuded determination
Just to work to achieve distinction
For some, their first encounter with the green vineyard was a divine orchestration

Yet today, I ask whether this orchestration has metamorphosed into illusion?
It appears the initial symphony of elation
Is gradually turning into a chorus of depression
Are the labourers now swimming in a sea of confusion?
The morose faces worn in the green vineyard obviously expresses frustration

The disenchanted labourers complain about structural demolition
Others think the vineyard environment facilitates capacity extermination
The highly skilled brains and hands are looking for the exit gate with desperation

Though majority of the labourers now regard their decision
To work in the vineyard as a massive compunction
I believe a divine intervention can produce the needed salvation

Guys, God will certainly provide the desired destination.

The gold that flows, through our elaborate veins,
The crop that is known, by many names,
The gift that alleviates, our daytime pains,
The commodity that plays, one too many games.

Our world is nothing, but a bottomless mine,
Simply waiting, for the wrath and plunder of humankind,  
Oh labourers please, wait your spot in line,
For it was not you that made, this incredible find.

You’re a fool to think, the system needs a redesign,
For your fate and this chain, are forever intertwined.
Stay in your corner, as they wine and dine,
For it is you not them, contained by this chain’s bind.  

Posing as a gift, that elevates their daily grind,
The brown gold is no longer, part of your bloodline,
It was their chains after all, that made this incredible find,
For it now flows away, from the Plateau’s skyline.
  
You continue to hope, for these chains to be redefined,
But to imagine you even exist to them, is asinine,
Yet you believe a consumer movement, would be so inclined,
For you forget that chains were made, to always confine.

what a ****-pile of ******* (petition rendered
on the hyphenated word compound
i wanted to correct- yeah, all the dudes can hide,
i tried the Oxford crew, but instead
i just got American  colonialism:
the part where you say: i said the funnier joke,
therefore i'm funnier,
TEAM U.S.A.! yeah! **** yeah! let's keep it as
just that... TEAM U.S.A. GO!
we're aiming for sushi right now...
and i love the fact that Green Day's
when September ends is a sidelining the 9/11,
ever you mind dialling 911...
oh, because i was the fascist, tell that to your mother
when baking bagels, ****...
i don't like the way poetry
tries to incubate violence as the non-existence of,
i hate that poetry is written by *******...
i ******* hate these goody-two-shoes more
than i'd care to think abut ******,
who will, given enough time,
become a fetish subject for historians when
we reach a historical threshold,
give it 1000 years he's be a mythological Barbarossa...
that's what i said about him not being
a unicorn.... give it 1000 years and he'll end up
being a hero, just before the
historians make a fetish out of them like they did
with Genghis Khan...
they'll talk about the autobahn before they
speak of the holocaust and constructing Israel,
which we are assured, by fake-socialists
taking on communism by sitting on a train floor...
if that guy Corbyn is a socialist then i'm Comrade
Mao... you never experienced socialism,
i hardly think you're able, like you
said that former feudal made communist
factions were predestined failures of capitalism...
i know you'll fail being communists,
the Chinese are in charge...
you, aren't, going, anywhere!
yeah, believe the socialist sitting on the train floor...
that ******* comes last...
and don't try that fascist tactic for me ti speak clean...
i'm not going to speak with the everyday citizens' speech
talking to the queen... no, i flap the tongue
you provide the wind and the winding,
schooling in over, so is shooing into lining up...
page 64 of Valis:
either knowledge through the sense organs and
is noun-categorised (some say called)
empirical knowledge, or it's arises within your head
and it's called a priori -
i don't see a problem? do you? well...
isn't a posteriori dismissive of empiricism?
to reach a posteriori knowledge you have to dismiss
empirical involvement... also to mind:
there are aren't any sense organs as such.... i'd like
to thin there are... but deaf people wouldn't consider
their ears to be organs, they're still using sign language
and continue living, neither are eyes organs
given Braille... Philip K. **** had more insight on Kant
high on amphetamines than Hegel ever did...
the basic implant? God... a few people
have escaped the a priori and a posteriori argument
for God, most were seduced by atheism
trying to relieve themselves of the argument being
argued let alone argued for a non-existence of such being,
arguing alone proved the argument to be fallacy riddled,
i.e. / as in: it was argued in the first place... for no reason...
i mean we're talking mutation:
how to mutate a priori hexagonal
               through the empirical medium pentagonal
into a posteriori hex once more...
                   the problem is searching for God in
the medium, the Cartesian substance,
the trial and error coin-flip, empiricism isn't about that,
empiricism is about the necessity of error,
i'm bothered about whether God was implanted
in us as necessarily, or whether he emerged to our
a priori mind from the medium of empiricism -
i call that a Darwinian fallacy, i don't think
the human brain can consolidate a harmonious
coexistence with self-belief and being a Buddhist...
the foremost concern is not whether:
god created man, or whether man created god...
we're talking whether the two ever coincided with
needing proof...
                               obviously not.
that part about being a Buddhist? that's shrapnel...
most of us have so much self-belief that we become
eager labourers, and hardly complain,
because the billionaires have ferrets for a haircut.
but as i said, the easiest, aphorism type of reading
Kant doesn't come from Nietzsche, it actually
comes from Philip K. **** in the bookValis...
empiricism was always going to be a watery product,
rigging scientific results, i mean lying about the results
would end up diluting a bottle of whiskey so it looked
like beer and tasted like a 20% voltage on the tongue
pallet: hardly numbing.
so the three tiers: one before, one intermediately,
and one after...
                           how a hexagon passes
through a pentagon and remains a hexagon...
or how a hexagon passes through a pentagon and ends
up a pentagon....
or how a pentagon passes through a pentagon
and ends up a hexagon...
                                             or more simply?
Bleep Beers... or Bibi (when you say b b and then add the
ee, umlaut arithmetic to double up on) -
no, i don't place my belief in the existence of god
from an a priori suggestion, as if i was to invent it...
to later discredit such a belief with a well argued augmentation
from the inheritance to later dispose of such an argument
in the charity shop of the a posteori stance...
that wouldn't excuse or explain the religious inheritance
of the Kippah or the Hijab...
who would be dumb enough to originate having to wear
a Hijab from not having experienced some sort
of necessity of divination? they would have had too experienced
something outer-worldly... god is too ridiculous to
be an a priori or an a posteriori concept...
but he's just ridiculously worthwhile the unifying
concept of phenomenology in that grand empirical theatre...
which means only one thing... our caving in and mining
god in the realm of the a priori is yet another
reality check -
                         summary:
i'm still bothered why not affiliating the hyphen to that
letter will make not meaningful reference, i.e.:
a-        (without)
                                   which means, a priori
(without a prior / without a beginning)
                       which means, a posteriori
           (without an after, without an end) -
it doesn't mean whether you have god as an implant,
whether you get rid of the implant
after experiencing the empirical medium,
you'll nonetheless experience the medium of the pentagon,
establish that sense-organs are not really organs,
because classifying something as an organic makes
life essentially a continuum, but blind men live long
after the eyes are gone...
                    i'm just saying that god as an idea
is hardly a worthy unit, which ideas are, concentrated
thoughts that cannot align themselves to either
telepathy or narration... they're immovable...
unshaken, undisturbed...
i'm just saying we're too intelligent to seek god
in the a priori realm or the a posteriori realm of things...
we were not actually ever going to find him
on the shores of Ireland or Florida...
it's not that ridiculous to find him on the Atlantic...
he's quantum physics after all, pocket presence...
isolated proof... never a collectivisation to enable
politicised coherence... it's a quantum experience,
a quantum experience that without atoms
gets so much stigmatisation as Judaism proves;
the mock-joke of Moses rummaging realities rather than
reality in the desert to the count of 40 years...
yeah... and later the idea of the multiverse...
that's not funny mate... it's horrid...
but there you are safe in democracy... but you're
used to reading the media outlets citing child abuse...
well... what are we missing? APPLAUSE! APPLAUSE!
ENCORE!

Scarred hands of a
Tired, underpaid worker
Shake while he
Picks the beans.

Tired, underpaid worker
Sighs at the routine as he
Picks the beans
And carries them out the door.

Sighs at the routine as he
Orders the same things again
And carries them out the door.
I watch him as I sip my coffee.

Deep. The day wears the crown of untruthfulness
Up above the weather bears the trademark of deceit
shallow mind of a betrayal and they said

Run away run fast
don’t look back
short paths cannot be taken
narrow paths changed the plan of this traveller
No funds to pay for chariots

Run away run slowly but run fast
Words of My lover in the letter
Memories of affections
waves of distractions across the sea
debts of homages not paid

The old neighbours laughed last night of
Old jokes from the old man saying
Run away Run fast as you can because the fairy tales only comes when the full moon is out
If the moon won’t  come in full tonight I will wait till the morning when i will see the sunrise
I am not running from My destiny
I am not staying with my doubts
All i want to do is feed on the power of positivity .

I

Some day I will go to Aarhus
To see his peat-brown head,
The mild pods of his eye-lids,
His pointed skin cap.

In the flat country near by
Where they dug him out,
His last gruel of winter seeds
Caked in his stomach,

Naked except for
The cap, noose and girdle,
I will stand a long time.
Bridegroom to the goddess,

She tightened her torc on him
And opened her fen,
Those dark juices working
Him to a saint's kept body,

Trove of the turfcutters'
Honeycombed workings.
Now his stained face
Reposes at Aarhus.

II

I could risk blasphemy,
Consecrate the cauldron bog
Our holy ground and pray
Him to make germinate

The scattered, ambushed
Flesh of labourers,
Stockinged corpses
Laid out in the farmyards,

Tell-tale skin and teeth
Flecking the sleepers
Of four young brothers, trailed
For miles along the lines.

III

Something of his sad freedom
As he rode the tumbril
Should come to me, driving,
Saying the names

Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard,
Watching the pointing hands
Of country people,
Not knowing their tongue.

Out here in Jutland
In the old man-killing parishes
I will feel lost,
Unhappy and at home.

Extraterrestrial humans have traveled through a warp,
Galactic gate to this world wanting to engage with us.
They sought treaties with our United Diplomatic Corp.
'Mayan descendants coming from Nibiru', wrote the press.

'On 5000 BC, that earth map had big continents.
During the time Of Moses, strange Mycenaeans appeared
Having an alphabet for hieroglyphic documents,
While an alien space from Atlantis, for sure, disappeared.'

'Thutmose had a place of the ear for Amun unique god.
For 2000 years, human societies have been like tides
In revolutions of states continuing to maraud.'
'Our telepathic thoughts keep all your historic asides.'

'That Atlantic civilization described by Plato
Disappeared in water together with its continent.
The Aegean islands formed by Santorin volcano
Have been subject to that historical change consequent.'

'Some underground bases with space gates to other planets
In Egypt, Siberia, Germany, China and States
Can be built by us.''This is not foretold by our prophets.'
'The strands of DNA are the same, thus we can be mates.'

'Anunnaki are described on Sumerian tablets.
They crossed the asteroid belt having shipped to reach us.
The Earth slave labourers looked like being chained black rabbits.
Human rights can be assailed.There is nothing to discuss.'

'The origins of the Illyrians remained unclear.
Unlike Dorians, they disappeared into Slavic zones.'
'It's all hooked up with the Illuminati, and it's clear
That with this pass, Nibiru cracks its planetary stones.'

'There's too many of you here, when you are teleported.'
'This unseen infrared planet is ours, though you see us.'
'Vatican knows this, and to keep the secrets they ordered.'
'You need knowledge to survive.''This thing we do not discuss.'

'We belong to this dual-binary solar system.
In the Oort Cloud, there is a large low-mass aborted star
Making our planet orbits be elliptical. Listen
To the interplanetary plasma that breaks so far! '

'Odd records around these times of comets and disasters
Lead to the disintegration of civilization.
This old world sows confusion due to our last massacres.
Many birds, animals and people die from starvation.'

'We're not those lizards, or those giants from your Vedic myth.
We represent the Federation of Living Planets.'
'For us, to celebrate Life with Peace means a Holy gift.
You are near our thermonuclear reactor blankets.'

'Your refusal leads to intergalactic incidents.
Our friends traveled through a spatial wormhole to be with us.
Does the Six Day War support 'elongated' imminence? '
'In front of St Thomas Aquinas we stop to discuss.'

Poem by Marieta Maglas

Oh you saviour, of the rags and riches alike
The favourite of students, labourers, executives and wise
The in between of a mattress like loaf
Easy on the teeth, pocket, and hope
The staple of Bombay, the vada pav stop