A child wanders the hall before school starts
The emptiness and loneliness are his education
New children enter the school
As they exit the bus
Light shines on the school
As it exits the Sun
Yet the wandering child's eyes must adjust
To colors he's starting to see
Colors like jealousy and frustration
The wandering child is powerless to the explosive light
And searches for ways to extinguish it
He finds his solution in the room where we keep our guns
The room sits in the dark center of the building
Across the hall from where we keep our children

Kids have been playing with guns for a while now
Everyone my age that I know
Imagined shooting up their school
These are well adjusted people
It's just the times we live in
And what it takes to adjust

There are some things that will remain true
Killing is wrong
And murdering a murderer is ******
The executioner hides his face in shame
He's ashamed of the enjoyment he feels
From the power he holds over other people's lives
Unaware the power he holds
Is meant to come from love
Love that has been buried
For the temporary thrill of death

It seems like a dark joke
Giving a child a gun
And then asking them to go through high school
Because kids are ******* stupid
And some people never grow up
And high school never ends

The wandering child takes his newly found arsenal
To the densely populated cafeteria
Only to realize the other children are just as well armed
They drown in tension
When their actions have megaton weight
Before anyone can say anything
Everyone starts shooting
They grade each other in their minds
And their test comes at the end of the barrel
They find validation
In blood splattered on the wall
And bodies that once stood now lying
The gunshots deafened the wandering child
And the smoke blinded him
Reminiscent of the emptiness and loneliness before school started
This was his education

Today I watched a bunch of ants eating one another
Their ant hill collapsed as rain started pouring
Yet they continued killing each other as they drowned
They all seemed to be the same size
But their problems seemed so much bigger
So they found comfort in killing one another instead

Written in the language of the hard hats and dedicated to each and every one of us who have endured this horrible ****** Winter weather*

Rain in gouts from June till now
There's blue clay mud forever,
Orange excavators ply
With sturdy tracked endeavour.
Lakes of water, turgid brown,
Are Swirling  with the flow
Of four inch pumps in overdrive
With ****** all to show.

Streaming rainfall day by day
As dogged men press on
To concrete saw and generator's
Screaming, nearby song.
Welders, under shelter, flash
Their lurid silver light
And ghosts of reinforcing bars
Reflect like day is night.

Mightily the ironwork
Descends by crane to trench
And snaking snout of concrete pump
Disgorge their load to bench
The magic of the bentonite
Performs it's subtle dance
And the concrete locks for centuries
As thunderous skies advance.

Knee deep in the morass
With perplexed furrowed brow,
An engineer is pondering
A sticky problem he has now
How to isolate contaminants
From mud to water flow,
How to guarantee the purity
As seaward tonnes of it does go

And still the deluge thundered down
Relentlessly it poured,
Day to day and month by month
Despite the plea's implored.
Relentlessly the hard hats
Bent their sodden backs to task
And forged a mighty work of progress
.... More than anyone could ask!

Amazing the endeavor,
Just amazing how they work
How men can face adversity
And simply will not go beserk!
How bounteous camaraderie
Generates between ranks.
When the hardship is shared
And the boss smiles... thanks.

For the roof beams are settling
And those deep holes begin
The tunnel takes shape
As slanting rain whistles in
And the big trucks do loiter
To idle there for a bit,
As the loud water blasters
Clear the clogged wheels of ****.

And the public all clamoured
To wait and queue in the stall
To watch and to witness
A quite remarkable call.
For the old Birdcage tavern
On that grim cloudy day
Promptly lifted her skirts
And slowly scuttled away.

All the glue and epoxy
And the rivers of nails,
And concrete trucks queuing
As the ******* flails.
And steel by the megaton
All rusted and twitched
And worriers worrying
Till the problems are fixed.
And the augers are drilling
In a great tandem arc
And nobody knows
Where the **** they can park!!!
  
Then the bright sunshine breaks
And the smiles all appear
And the work rate accellerates
For the way is now is clear
To inter that  dear old Vic tunnel
Down deep in the sod
Then you'll hear us all chortle
"We've ****** done it ...Thank God!"


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
3 October 2010

Ten megaton and
it hit us head on
and that was the
start of the war.
but it was as before
when the last war was won,
dead on both sides and
both sides taken for rides
on the armaments train.
Someone's got to gain and
it has to be them,
those out of the picture
those who get richer
every time a
bomb drops.

I just watched a news report
about ‘Direct-Air-Carbon-Capture’
which removes carbon dioxide (CO2)
from the Earth’s atmosphere
to reverse climate change:
Big fans **** in air
which is passed through liquid
which absorbs some carbon dioxide (CO2)
then the CO2 is extracted from the liquid
by chemical reaction to form
solid pellets of calcium carbonate,
thereby removing CO2 from the atmosphere.

One Direct-Air-Carbon-Capture (D-A-C-C) plant
can extract 1 megaton of CO2 every year
from the atmosphere –
which is equivalent to 40 million trees;
It would take 40,000 D-A-C-C plants worldwide
to stop further climate change.

I wonder
when will global society
become desperate enough
to avoid bad climate change events
like cyclones, droughts, floods
that governments will spend the money
to build these 40,000 plants
and save us all from climate change.

trim and clipped,
a puff on sheets and—
oh my—a parallax
fairies down like
cars being pulled
across an ocean.
I ate you.
three times ten to the
power of light, a cobalt
yellow and megaton
of arum lilies
wreathing your
apple’s bottom.

Well,

Some sticks and some stones,
They may break a few bones, but
I've got megaton bombs,
That make dust out of homes,
My days are spent waging war,
Spreading famine and disease, and
I get anything I want, without ever saying please,
I'll slay your dragon, storm your castle,
Once I swim across your moat,
I'll slit your throat, and take your life,
Then **** your wife, and steal your goat,
I've overdosed on every drug ever imagined or conceived,
I've got a guile that's monumental, and I'm eager to deceive,
I'll tell you anything you want because you're willing to believe,
I'll build you up to break you down, the lost pieces, never retrieved,
My victims receive no reprieve, I live a life with no remorse,
My course of action's one for which I'll never seek recourse,
I'm an immovable object, I'm an unstoppable force,
I have discarded sympathy, and from my empathy divorced,
I'll bet you think that I'm depraved, that I'm a morbid ball of slime, but
I'm asleep inside of you, and you'll be mine within due time, cause
I'm the devil on your shoulder, I'm the voice inside your head,
I'm the blackout following the vision tinted red,
I'm the man inside your closet, monster underneath your bed,
I'm the reason for the millions the world over lying dead,
I feed my hunger with your fear, wet my thirst with blood and tears,
This machine is shifting gears, don't try to scream; no one will hear
I'm not a problem you can solve with stronger locks or bigger guns,
In fact, it's when you seek these things I know that I've already won.

Sleep tight.

There is no greater force than to consume a burning sun
The chemical reaction measured but the megaton
But when slowly done in a most diabolically methodical fashion
Each helium neutrino ripped apart by atomizing pure passion
Like helpless water circling down a drain pulled hopelessly in
Time will move ever so slowly once within

        With no beginning......and no end........

Every particle similarly blasted into basic atomic makeup
There is no bearing size of space for matter to take up
With each consumed substance its dark potential uplifts
Uniformly placed all things amazingly fit
In a place where nothing so exponential should sits
All melting into an event horizontal pit

        Every last light will parish.......not one bit will survive........

This force will never desist
Yet everything will still exist
On the great spinning disc of time
That has merely yet to reverse in our puny mind
To bang all possessions in unpredictable directions
Never really thinking of correcting imperfections

        Because everything has always been there......and never was.....

Her eyes cut like honesty.
She destroys certainty
like the contact of unknown lips-
Forbiding me
A desired amuse bouche,
and I couldn't hear her decline your megaton of yesterday's drudge.
"How do I suffer you?" "Go off, do your hedonist."

Truth is a bitter transmitter.
It always smells of curling cinders,
that I have inhaled deeply
Either unlike indifference
that I've guiltlessly-danced out of denial.

I'll know who's true to me.
With audacity you admit everything.
Your audacity, I pull generous hands forward and hear , "Yes."
Audacity that I grant access to shared thoughts.
Audacity I.

Honesty can be shrouded in midnight
or as rebellious as a pimple on your nose.
There is nothing to be gained from insults
(Or Cruelty)
Discovered before caresses and thefts.
Without who I agree, some of the terrible places
are left unused charities
Either debt. As if loneliness is not a department store.
I know where I went right
She destroyed random targets,
unmasking her borrowed glorious virtue
And after you hear the burst of her AR,
she'll feel the measure of her worth.

It's all my fault.
A locked window was your denial
So I crawled through the basement window
It wasn't an honest defense.

Let me buy you the wine list.
let her obey.

to be honest, you should have got to me when i was 21,
back in 2007,
i don't say this lightly, but i figure, these days,
the unbearable lightness of being is all i having going
for me - the silent waters merge with enough
tectonic force to forge canyons -
i didn't suddenly, spontaneously succumb to
madness, genetic idiocy wasn't passed down to me,
the only mental illness that you could have ascribed
me with was world war ii, the memory of seeing SS
men in black uniforms in my town of birth...
i'm not one of those people that slither into a leech pucker
**** on stereotypes, i loath the idea that
all of Eastern Europe is considered slave trade,
******* or construction workers...
but i'm neither here or there...
yes the Cartesian unit of i am when access creates
the aeroplane lag of sound compared to seeing a plane...
the **** is 20 miles behind,
                          these days
no one presupposes thought first, thought comes last,
and the ability to think as a pleasure akin
to golf is long lost... i used to possess the medium
with which i tantalised myself with a pauper's
idea of life: thinking... i actually loved it...
then the pain came, and i was forced into the macabre...
but hate is so exhausting, esp. when you see
no trial for retribution... i'm just scared i won't be
able to provide for my parents... when i go out on
my numerous periodical walks at night looking for *****
i'm sorta saying: well, if they won't care, i won't care either...
i'm about to do a Moses, i know where i can find
a fresh source of water... and i'll eat grass if it comes to it...
oddly enough the horse herbivores manage,
i'll manage too! i don't have any feminine company for
support... Frankenstein mode... go!
i'll become a ravenous creature who forgot the basic comforts...
and i'll relish this hope of having accomplished it...
either that or the liberation through death...
and let me tell you, consistency helps, when thinking
of death as in synonymous thinking about morality:
things gain a lucidity, a clarity that adds just simplicity
to the debate that you'd never have thought would be
appropriate to later see an opera in an overcrowded
place... i'm not writing this as a fetish of suicides,
i'm writing about the reality of: how when thinking about
death on a recurrent basis you simplify life...
or how you extract the essentials from life,
or how you treat life's nibble offerings as entire meals...
i'm in no position to want death,
                        i'm just in a position to feed off it...
as a toddler in a hospital i was bottle-fed
by a nurse who made the rubber ****** incision
a bit too big for me to almost choke to death
while being fed... i told you, i'm the intellectual
version of Rasputin... hence my unconscious
aversion to women... perpetuated... shame really...
lovely form... could have... wait a minute... why
are my ***** tickling with goosebumps as if i possess
feminine arousal? don't know...
and all the joy in the world concentrated
by possessing two *****...
                                             say that's cricket,
or football... whichever, the Coliseum lives on.
so like i said: blood sizzling on the brain,
being diagnosed as schizophrenic - again, a good metaphor
for being bilingual...
                                         they looked and they looked...
while i too was searching, good joke i've conjured:
what do you get when you invest in grammatically
categorising words when writing philosophy?
the (a) subconscious and the (b) unconscious -
i say... wait for the trans-generational Syrians!
they'll be a fun to watch... they'll be talking about someone
descending in Damascus with a two angel entourage
asking everyone to perform dodgy ******* positioning...
*******! on the carpets! Aladdin pronto! now!
well, the reason that philosophy books haven't
adjusted to utilising grammar means that grammatical
words are the equivalent of the subconscious,
the unconscious part comes from actually adhering
to trust, the trust the majority of people invest in when
structuring sentences... say the word noun
and up pops Aristotle and says proper names...
well nouns are actually names, seagull chestnut tree,
anatomy baritone megaton p - or p.i. or *** or he,
or 3.14 ha ha. but using grammatical words to basically
shove and recycle configurations is crucial...
but like i said, you should have reached me back in 2007,
when i was 21 and husband material...
i only drank on weekends (and not everyday),
i had a budding social life (now my very social active
is bound to a relationship with the merchants occupied with
selling liquid amber) -
i had my problems, sure, but i never expected
to be practising Christianity, given the equivalent of
Cain a life of forgotten ordeals...
              like i never expected to walk into a church,
hear singing, reality checking that i heard singing
with an iPod, so i did hear singing,
                            being alone in the church,
then, all of a sudden, random stars starter roving the
night skies... not Rottweiler comets, stars...
      all over the ******* place... sometimes
in     .                .    formation, usually just single stars,
once in a         .
                      .     .           formation...
hence my aversion to western society... oh right, i'm
the mad one? hallelujah!
                                             so back when i was 21
i could have had it... the established norm of a
respectable life of a roofer, or any kind of labourer,
and honest to god... i would  have loved it,
had my career in chemistry not taken off
to become a laboratory technician in a company or
a school... i wish i had that chance to live the simplest
of lives (which doesn't mean i'd like a second chance
of stabbing at it by reliving some fake identity thieving
form of reincarnation, if i lived in a country with
1 billion i might believe that lie...
given i live in desperate country, i'll give that idea a pass)...
but practising Christianity in its purest form
is ******* hard, i knew i shouldn't have cried
ALL THE WAY THROUGH that Mel Gibson film...
i did, the spoken Aramaic got to me... i swear to god
i cried the whole way through,
              you can travel to Essex, Romford and ask
if anyone remembers a teenager crying all the way through
the movie, given the fact that a few people joined in...
and using that as example, the plight of the
African-Americans? i don't get it... if they started speaking
about their plight in Swahili i might get it,
but they're just N.W.A. to me, and given that i don't
come from a post-colonial background, i simply don't get it,
oh sure, i'm using the language... but that's about it...
i use the English language like a telescope,
unlike Newton who designed the **** thing...
verily impersonal; as is the annoying fact... who in the world
invented this antagonist concept? last time i
checked there was no Antibuddha...
                                               buddy bud bud...
Sensimilia... poach the roaches... yep, jar of pickled mushrooms.
why the haphazard arrangement?
                                  i started loathing fruits since 2007,
can't eat them... resorted to only eating vegetables -
Yorkshire collie or prudish Scottish Lass?
                                          whichever,
reinventing onomatopoeia,
                                  recapturing the polymath idea of
sounds, and what sound would i get if i touched a
rainbow? Bob Marley reggae?              just asking...
  this is an idea in how to write an aversion but a new
version of the onomatopoeia....
                                it's a game that's predicated on
a hide & seek format,
                                  i might be shouting into a cave
for an echo,
                        i might be woodpecker knuckling a
knock on tree... the disguise of sounds comes with
the randomness of quick digressive changes...
          just an elaboration of what came about in
                 Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich... the sad part?
me, clarinet and being ****** into a solo heist of the heights.