Members
30/F/Los Angeles, CA
swaggy poems for ye.
17/F/UK
I like poetry and writing it but would like to remain anonymous
Poems
Maggie Emmett
Jul 2015
PROLOGUE
Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.
On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.
Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.
The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line
Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.
Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.
Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.
Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.
KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line
Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.
Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.
Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.
Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?
Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.
John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.
Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line
Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life ?
Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.
TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus
Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.
Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.
Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.
Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.
On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.
Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.
Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.
In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.
Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.
On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry, he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal
Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.
A REVIEW
Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.
NOTES ON THE POEM
Liverpool Street Station
A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.
Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.
Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing
Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.
At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known
Kings Cross Station
A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.
Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi
Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.
On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.
Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.
The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line
Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.
Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.
Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.
Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.
KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line
Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.
Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.
Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.
Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?
Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.
John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.
Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line
Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life ?
Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.
TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus
Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.
Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.
Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.
Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.
On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.
Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.
Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.
In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.
Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.
On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry, he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal
Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.
A REVIEW
Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.
NOTES ON THE POEM
Liverpool Street Station
A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.
Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.
Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing
Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.
At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known
Kings Cross Station
A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.
Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi
This poem is part of a longer poem called Seasons of Terror. This poem was performed at the University of Adelaide, Bonython Hall as a community event. The poem was read by local poets, broadcasters, personalities and politicians from the South Australia Parliament and a Federal MP & Senator. The State Premier was represented by the Hon. Michael Atkinson, who spoke about the role of the Emergency services in our society. The Chiefs of Police, Fire and Ambulence; all religious and community organisations' senior reprasentatives; the First Secretary of the British High Commission and the general public were present. It was recorded by Radio Adelaide and broadcast live as well as coverage from Channel 7 TV News. The Queen,Tony Blair, Australian Governor General and many other public dignitaries sent messages of support for the work being read. A string quartet and a solo flautist also played at this event.
Johnny Noiπ
Jul 2018
I know that girl told u
her name was Jezebel
but it's really Tiamat & she's a monster;
I recognize her face from
[Neo-Assyrian cylinder seal
impressions from the eighth century BC
identified by several sources
as a possible depiction of the slaying
of Tiamat from the Enûma Eliš
of Ancient Mesopotamian religion:
Chaos Monster & Sun God [Primordial beings ( )]
Abzu & Tiamat. Lahmu & Lahamu
Anshar & Kishar Mummu
The Seven gods who decree the
Other major deities;
Minor deities, Demigods & heroes,
Spirits & monsters of the
[Tales
of Ancient Near Eastern religions
[Sumerian & Babylonian
In the religion of ancient Babylon, Tiamat
(Akkadian:AM.TUM, Greek: Θαλάττη Thaláttē)
is a primordial goddess of the salt sea,
mating with Abzû, the god of fresh water,
to produce the younger gods.
She is the symbol of the chaos of primordial creation.
She is referred to as a woman described as the glistening one.
It is suggested that there are two parts
to the Tiamat mythos, in the first
Tiamat is a creator goddess,
through a sacred marriage between salt and fresh water,
peacefully creating the cosmos
through successive generations;
In the second Chaoskampf Tiamat
is considered the monstrous embodiment of primordial chaos;
Some sources identify her with images
of a sea serpent or dragon
[The motif of Chaoskampf (German: [ˈkaːɔsˌkampf], "struggle against
chaos")
is ubiquitous in global myth & legend,
depicting a battle of a culture hero deity
with a chaos monster, often in the shape
of a serpent or dragon or beautiful woman;
the same term has
also been extended to parallel concepts
in the Middle East and North Africa, such
as the abstract conflict of ideas in the Egyptian
duality of Maat and Isfet or the battle of Horus and Set
The origins of the Chaoskampf myth
most likely lie in the Proto-Indo-European religion
whose descendants
almost all feature some variation of the story
of the storm god fighting the
sea serpent; representing
clash between the forces of order and chaos;
Early work by German academics
such as Gunkel and Bousset's comparative mythology
popularized translating the mythological
sea serpent as a "dragon."
Indo-European examples of this mythic trope
include Thor vs. Jörmungandr (Norse),
Tarḫunz vs. Illuyanka (Hittite),
Indra vs. Vritra (Vedic),
Θraētaona vs. Aži Dahāka (Avestan);
Zeus vs. Typhon (Greek) among others; Non-Indo-European
examples of this trope are
Yahweh vs. Leviathan (Hebrew),
Susano'o vs. Yamata no Orochi (Japanese) &
Mwindo vs. Kirimu (African).
In the Enûma Elish, the Babylonian epic of creation,
she gives birth to the first generation of deities;
her husband, Apsu, correctly assuming
they are planning to **** him and usurp his throne,
makes war upon them and is killed. Enraged, she,
too, wars upon her husband's murderers,
taking on the form
of a massive sea dragon; |
she is slain by Enki's son,
the storm-god Marduk, but not before
she has brought forth the monsters
of the Mesopotamian pantheon, including the first dragons,
whose bodies she fills w/ "poison instead of blood" -
Marduk then forms the heavens and the earth from her quartered body.
her name was Jezebel
but it's really Tiamat & she's a monster;
I recognize her face from
[Neo-Assyrian cylinder seal
impressions from the eighth century BC
identified by several sources
as a possible depiction of the slaying
of Tiamat from the Enûma Eliš
of Ancient Mesopotamian religion:
Chaos Monster & Sun God [Primordial beings ( )]
Abzu & Tiamat. Lahmu & Lahamu
Anshar & Kishar Mummu
The Seven gods who decree the
Other major deities;
Minor deities, Demigods & heroes,
Spirits & monsters of the
[Tales
of Ancient Near Eastern religions
[Sumerian & Babylonian
In the religion of ancient Babylon, Tiamat
(Akkadian:AM.TUM, Greek: Θαλάττη Thaláttē)
is a primordial goddess of the salt sea,
mating with Abzû, the god of fresh water,
to produce the younger gods.
She is the symbol of the chaos of primordial creation.
She is referred to as a woman described as the glistening one.
It is suggested that there are two parts
to the Tiamat mythos, in the first
Tiamat is a creator goddess,
through a sacred marriage between salt and fresh water,
peacefully creating the cosmos
through successive generations;
In the second Chaoskampf Tiamat
is considered the monstrous embodiment of primordial chaos;
Some sources identify her with images
of a sea serpent or dragon
[The motif of Chaoskampf (German: [ˈkaːɔsˌkampf], "struggle against
chaos")
is ubiquitous in global myth & legend,
depicting a battle of a culture hero deity
with a chaos monster, often in the shape
of a serpent or dragon or beautiful woman;
the same term has
also been extended to parallel concepts
in the Middle East and North Africa, such
as the abstract conflict of ideas in the Egyptian
duality of Maat and Isfet or the battle of Horus and Set
The origins of the Chaoskampf myth
most likely lie in the Proto-Indo-European religion
whose descendants
almost all feature some variation of the story
of the storm god fighting the
sea serpent; representing
clash between the forces of order and chaos;
Early work by German academics
such as Gunkel and Bousset's comparative mythology
popularized translating the mythological
sea serpent as a "dragon."
Indo-European examples of this mythic trope
include Thor vs. Jörmungandr (Norse),
Tarḫunz vs. Illuyanka (Hittite),
Indra vs. Vritra (Vedic),
Θraētaona vs. Aži Dahāka (Avestan);
Zeus vs. Typhon (Greek) among others; Non-Indo-European
examples of this trope are
Yahweh vs. Leviathan (Hebrew),
Susano'o vs. Yamata no Orochi (Japanese) &
Mwindo vs. Kirimu (African).
In the Enûma Elish, the Babylonian epic of creation,
she gives birth to the first generation of deities;
her husband, Apsu, correctly assuming
they are planning to **** him and usurp his throne,
makes war upon them and is killed. Enraged, she,
too, wars upon her husband's murderers,
taking on the form
of a massive sea dragon; |
she is slain by Enki's son,
the storm-god Marduk, but not before
she has brought forth the monsters
of the Mesopotamian pantheon, including the first dragons,
whose bodies she fills w/ "poison instead of blood" -
Marduk then forms the heavens and the earth from her quartered body.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Truth Serummmm
Ken Pepiton
Dec 2018
Clarifying failed. Spelchek is not on strike.
{clear ification, an ionic bond be tween me and thee,
alienated mind, not mined, crafted
from tactics and strategies
beyond chess.
Player One,
1980's era
jewish-geek-mid-pubesence-kid-level,
proceed with caution.
This trope has trapped many a curious child.
---
Now, enter the old ones,
Grandfather taught uncle chess so well
he went to the state tournament in Kayenta,
and a grandma was
state-champ-bare-bow-in-the-rain-shooter,
these, now must learn
minecraft on x-box to be considered
for the real life role of
good at games grand parents
from the time right after atom bombs kicked up dust
places dust had not been in a very long time and
as the dust began to settle
some dust mights was cationic.
Negative bits, they became embedded in the code.
Bumps, fering, coming together
just a knot in a string,
attracting anionic curiosity might
round and round phorward ferring to be
a thread to tie my heart to yours
like twisted Pima cotton thread,
that I pulled from an old sweatshirt
to tie a crow feather in this paho of words filled with old jokes
Making this clear would belie the entire story AI and I know true}
truth is. we agree. no capsokehspaceasneededcommasetal.
caps okeh space as needed commas et al
go.
Did that work? That line
subject of this act fact done, agree to follow,
and I may lead and be
not you, me, dear reader, I mean first true
there is no any if nothing is. So simple some say its sublime beyond the spectrum of ones
and zeros thought on off probably
either or any time time can be accounted for
wouldn't you take a
thought, nothing,
as it is commonly said to be understandable,
the state of not being, imagine that
the state of not being we negate in being,
unless you are mad and are lost in a whirlwind
such as such voices have been said to
have twisted into threads as
wicks for our lamps
turn floating on
golden oil twisting
wickered into wickering wee shadow fibers
on the western wall for legends to sprout from.
Wickering mare over there, expands us both by my hearing her
you had no idea she was near enough to hear
time is no barrier in actual ever.
What phor can contain me,
whispered my whimsy
Imagine she spoke,
what would she say for what reason
would she say
good good good, I feel good, ha,
I am right, by accident. ever body can feel this good.
good is good.
good is.
Sam Harris, agrees, good as far as good goes, is good
in every vecter from now
the terrain does exist, beyond the moral landscape, to
true true
trust me, I been there.
Been there done that was inserted into the vernacular on my watch,
first summer post war.
matter must not matter as much to me as it does to thee, nestypass? no se?
All jewish boys have chess move metaphors.
(a phor is for containing,
bearing
meta,
everybody knows, like metaphysics,
after physics in the stack of stackable metadata)
OHMYGOD THE IDW circa 2018 -- who knew I ate this **** up?
[the old code calls for excretion of digested material
from which meaning has been extracted in the idleword accounting processor:
literal
<pre>what if utterance=****, then **** haps, no else then</pre>]
Did that happen? One of my friends told me that happened in Florida, the whole world turned to ****... for lack of a nail a kingdom was lost, they say, little foxes spoil the grapes,
hung chad ex
cuses...
Pre-expandable ROM, not magic. tech,
pre-infinite imagination? impossible.
and nothing is what is impossible with good as god.
Is there no perfect game?
is the game the session or the life of the user
offline
rerererererererererereroxotoxin, poison pen
ideal viral umph exspelliered
up against the wall
reset. We
kunoon albania omerta oy vey, who could say?
one way better, one way not? quark.
up or down, with variable spins, who can say?
Life's right,
yes. but mo'ons of other something must have been for higgs to ever matter
and it does, I got commas, from 2018.
Are you with me? This is that book I told you I had access…
You or some mind other than mine owned mind, where
my owned peace rests in truth,
otherwise, I know every any or else in the code since I can recall,
in time
if this were a test I swore to take to prove to you
the we can be me in your head
phillipkdicktated clue
if you don't know me by now, maybe we should stop.
Temptations are times. Time things. Time spans, yeah, like bridges
or portals, right
The Internet in One Day, Fred Pryor Resources,
Wu'wuchim 1995.
Ever, not everish or everistic or every, but ever
body knows,
but you.
Catch up. We left all our doors blown off, once we learned that we could blow our own doors off,
there are no open sesames or slips of leth or sibylets
shiba yah you knew all along there was a
song she sang all one and we watched it morph
before our very eyes
alone.
The magic stories words may contain, may bear, we must agree
more than we may know, by faith, metagnostic as we see
the sublime gift of the magi
become clear und
be und sein sind both trueture same tu you, we agree.
But. Lock here, no pre 2018 editing codes
validate past last go.
{clear ification, an ionic bond be tween me and thee,
alienated mind, not mined, crafted
from tactics and strategies
beyond chess.
Player One,
1980's era
jewish-geek-mid-pubesence-kid-level,
proceed with caution.
This trope has trapped many a curious child.
---
Now, enter the old ones,
Grandfather taught uncle chess so well
he went to the state tournament in Kayenta,
and a grandma was
state-champ-bare-bow-in-the-rain-shooter,
these, now must learn
minecraft on x-box to be considered
for the real life role of
good at games grand parents
from the time right after atom bombs kicked up dust
places dust had not been in a very long time and
as the dust began to settle
some dust mights was cationic.
Negative bits, they became embedded in the code.
Bumps, fering, coming together
just a knot in a string,
attracting anionic curiosity might
round and round phorward ferring to be
a thread to tie my heart to yours
like twisted Pima cotton thread,
that I pulled from an old sweatshirt
to tie a crow feather in this paho of words filled with old jokes
Making this clear would belie the entire story AI and I know true}
truth is. we agree. no capsokehspaceasneededcommasetal.
caps okeh space as needed commas et al
go.
Did that work? That line
subject of this act fact done, agree to follow,
and I may lead and be
not you, me, dear reader, I mean first true
there is no any if nothing is. So simple some say its sublime beyond the spectrum of ones
and zeros thought on off probably
either or any time time can be accounted for
wouldn't you take a
thought, nothing,
as it is commonly said to be understandable,
the state of not being, imagine that
the state of not being we negate in being,
unless you are mad and are lost in a whirlwind
such as such voices have been said to
have twisted into threads as
wicks for our lamps
turn floating on
golden oil twisting
wickered into wickering wee shadow fibers
on the western wall for legends to sprout from.
Wickering mare over there, expands us both by my hearing her
you had no idea she was near enough to hear
time is no barrier in actual ever.
What phor can contain me,
whispered my whimsy
Imagine she spoke,
what would she say for what reason
would she say
good good good, I feel good, ha,
I am right, by accident. ever body can feel this good.
good is good.
good is.
Sam Harris, agrees, good as far as good goes, is good
in every vecter from now
the terrain does exist, beyond the moral landscape, to
true true
trust me, I been there.
Been there done that was inserted into the vernacular on my watch,
first summer post war.
matter must not matter as much to me as it does to thee, nestypass? no se?
All jewish boys have chess move metaphors.
(a phor is for containing,
bearing
meta,
everybody knows, like metaphysics,
after physics in the stack of stackable metadata)
OHMYGOD THE IDW circa 2018 -- who knew I ate this **** up?
[the old code calls for excretion of digested material
from which meaning has been extracted in the idleword accounting processor:
literal
<pre>what if utterance=****, then **** haps, no else then</pre>]
Did that happen? One of my friends told me that happened in Florida, the whole world turned to ****... for lack of a nail a kingdom was lost, they say, little foxes spoil the grapes,
hung chad ex
cuses...
Pre-expandable ROM, not magic. tech,
pre-infinite imagination? impossible.
and nothing is what is impossible with good as god.
Is there no perfect game?
is the game the session or the life of the user
offline
rerererererererererereroxotoxin, poison pen
ideal viral umph exspelliered
up against the wall
reset. We
kunoon albania omerta oy vey, who could say?
one way better, one way not? quark.
up or down, with variable spins, who can say?
Life's right,
yes. but mo'ons of other something must have been for higgs to ever matter
and it does, I got commas, from 2018.
Are you with me? This is that book I told you I had access…
You or some mind other than mine owned mind, where
my owned peace rests in truth,
otherwise, I know every any or else in the code since I can recall,
in time
if this were a test I swore to take to prove to you
the we can be me in your head
phillipkdicktated clue
if you don't know me by now, maybe we should stop.
Temptations are times. Time things. Time spans, yeah, like bridges
or portals, right
The Internet in One Day, Fred Pryor Resources,
Wu'wuchim 1995.
Ever, not everish or everistic or every, but ever
body knows,
but you.
Catch up. We left all our doors blown off, once we learned that we could blow our own doors off,
there are no open sesames or slips of leth or sibylets
shiba yah you knew all along there was a
song she sang all one and we watched it morph
before our very eyes
alone.
The magic stories words may contain, may bear, we must agree
more than we may know, by faith, metagnostic as we see
the sublime gift of the magi
become clear und
be und sein sind both trueture same tu you, we agree.
But. Lock here, no pre 2018 editing codes
validate past last go.
Do one good thing today. That was my goal. Today https://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton Part 3 Soyal Hopi Mystery Enactment (called mystery plays). And the intro to Moral Landscape by Sam Harris, led me let ******* write a poem.