. the whole hype over the Brexit vote is so...  
hum ha ha... ******* bogus...
it never really existed in the first place,
perhaps on paper, but never in reality...
the hype is bogus, a media hamster's wheel...
i don't know why the people, "across the pond"
are so ******* excited about it...
    there are two facts that make Brexit nothing
short of a misnomer for current news...
first of all... isn't Britain and island?
so... what's the sensationalism? if you told me:
Wales and Cornwall will split from the UK,
N. Ireland will rejoin the the R.I. and Scotland
will join the Nordic league... **** yeah!
i also believe in the splinter league of Basque,
Catalonia, the Kashubians and the Silesians...
rings a bell: divided we stand: united we fall...
but Brexit is a story overtly hyperventilating...
the UK has its own, *******, currency!
it was never part of the EU, as such...
    no nation which still exercises a sovereignty
by use of its currency is, or ever was, part of the EU...
  they couldn't have been...
  currency is a bit like phonetic encoding...
"my" nation never exercised a phonetic encoding
akin to the French, with their illogical:
say one thing, hear another,
     with their mega mega LARGE cut offs:
does it make sense? crème pâtissière:
   if looking from above?
    crèm(e) pâtissiè(re)
   yeah! those letters in the brackets "do not exist"...
    they're written: but they never make
it onto the tongue...
  and that circumflex above the A?
   just how the french denote a: macron...
        the UK is a ******* ISLAND...
   and it still retains its own CURRENCY...
the people of these isles know argument 1,
island...
       perfectly... the atypical English "courtesy"
if not stretching their politeness...
      no country that still retains its old currency
was ever
in the EU to begin with!
            **** me... even the Swedes were
not dumb enough to join the Euro....
but the Italians were...
                  the Italians do not have any
weight behind their argument...
at Italians... airy-fairy...
   their argument is worth ****...
   i guess the Greeks also had their argument
quashed by being part of
the single currency...
             no... Italy is a hot-air-balloon of
arguments... as Italians: they have
to posture as they did under the influence
of the third *****...
  they're going nowhere...
               they are already entrapped by
the single currency...
                 the Italian political game
is puppetry... nothing more...
                                 i wouldn't trust them...
come on... sérrano ham beats prosciutto... hands down,
day, after day, after day...
            because it makes it all the more easy
to gesticulate at the EU with your own currency...
once you've lost your currency?
   you've lost your nation's sovereign stature...
and the Italians?
      they don't have their own currency...
         they're nothing more than *****-boys
of the EU... appeasing, or rather stalling...
the nations who still possess their own currency...
they're: IN-SÍ-GNÍ-FÍ-CANT.

did you know that it took the Germans,
around two weeks,
to overpower France during WWII?
yeah... marched into the land
like a warm knife does into butter -
and spreads itself over warm toast...
i can vouch to say:
   it took the Third ***** and
the USSR to split the conquer of Poland...
France... the one mighty Napoleonic
nation...
knelt... and ****** of ******'s
one ball sonata...
    yeah, that one, the Colonel Bogey
March... ****** him off for two weeks...
then dropped silent from
a jaw strain...
            went numb, or something...
not sure...
              but ****:
don't you think the French are masters
at baking?
    a brioche chinois:
   a chinois brioche filled with vanilla
flavored crème pâtissière -
give credit where it's due:
and ooh... Devon's full-fat milk?
   yum yum, yum the **** down...
the sort of food you want to eat
but also talk with your mouth full...
            i'll give them that...
papa England, mama France...
gwandpa Germany...
           still the holy trinity of
prosciutto...
         eh... the Italian sushi ham is too dry...
the German black forest ham
is o.k.....
          the best of the lot?
sérrano ham -
    who? the Conquistadors' tip-bit...
Spanish...
    so ******* juicy...
   by the way...
  ha ha! the Muslims of Europe are funny...
last time i heard...
you only launch a Jihad to reclaim
a land formerly in the possession of Islam...
a holy war, a Jihad...
to a war to reclaim land lost to invasion...
there was no talk of Jihad
when the Muslim Empire was expanding,
simply because it was not reclaiming
land...
   so when Muslims speak of
a Christian Reconquista? well... yeah?
i thought that was plain and simple with
you Jihadi Ginger Johns?
              i thought Muslims were versed
in this sort of ****?
   a Jihad is a holy war against
invading powers - a Jihad army is not
an invading army:
  it's a reclaiming army...
          first the heart: incoherent -
then the mind: a tower of Merlin that requires
a coherent persuasion...
after that? the body... which always
falls into ranks...
               swelling with a tsunami of
en spirit -
                   i thought Muslims in Europe
understood that Jihad is:
a form of reconquering lost lands formerly
under Muslim influence?
            you Jihadi Ginger
i Jihadi Nord - part time film noir critique -
part time black comedy enthusiast...
   like that jeffrey "napoleon dynamite"
dahmer giggler... in me...
           Jihadi ******...
            J-i-high-five-haddi-haddi-hadith
stalker!
s­till...
but no, impossible...
   the Italians make great prosciutto...
the Germans thought they could imitate...
yet it's the Spaniards that make it the best...
how they curate the sérrano to make
it so juicy is beyond me...
             must be the whole tapas, culture.

(a satirical pop at the Illuminati)*

It's time to slay fatted consumer cows
It's time to fumigate the Great Unwashed;
To sow mutation's seeds behind the ploughs
To see the dullard's dreams forever quashed.

How movingly they pray not to be harmed!
How doggedly they work to make a wage!
How prettily they line up to be farmed,
Yet, how they long to be at centre stage!

The Useless Eaters eat their pizzas deep,
Their double fries and creamy mayonnaise;
Produce only some methane while asleep,
And fodder for landfill, throughout their days.

It's time for the superiors to win;
Unleash the virus, let the cull begin.

Well if I sound depressed enough,
maybe I'll scrape together enough followers
to be taken seriously
when I write with
the melancholic grit
of Sylvia Plath;

and maybe then this sadness draped over my shoulders
will flow gracefully when
I walk by all the things I did for you;

and maybe this statement piece isn't so impressionable;

and I don't have to wear something plain to go with it,
because I'm tired of being told I'm 'over-the-top'
like a teddy bear peaking out of a garbage can;

and maybe I'll post this the instant
fashionable sadness falls out of style -

and then your pity would be quashed
and then your pity would be quashed

I’m a graced angel in flight;
Strawberry blonde hair cascading down my back.
I’m being devoured by the Parisian night.

Racing past the library a thief in sight,
Henry à la Pensée envelope chemise, André Perugia shoes.
I’m a graced angel in flight.

My heart kidnapped, I’ve lost the fight.
Black streaks of mascara running down my cheek,
I’m being devoured by the Parisian night.

Happiness quashed, dreaming of the afterlife-
Now the games are about to begin!
I’m a graced angel in flight.

I’m looking up at the moon shining so bright,
Sedated by drink I’m waiting it out.
I’m being devoured by the Parisian night.

With dancing feet I’m kicking off the last shoe
And stumbling to the edge, I fall.
I’m a graced angel in flight.
I’m being devoured by the Parisian night.

© Sia Jane

Seldom though eventually
His words will wash away
The human mind's a yawning sieve
That siphons thoughts away

For all we are is flesh and blood
And dust, in all due time
His face embedded in my thoughts
Will someday leave my mind.

Each grain of sand; each thought of him
Will slither down the glass
Slow and steady, one by one
Until he's in the past.

For now my mind's a youthful cache,
No wave can wear or wash
Impressions left upon my soul
Cannot be staved or quashed.



-Un-rhymed Notes-

*Every once in a while
The human mind is all it's built up to be;
A sieve, where the balm of time
slowly mends and knits
The torn edges of the chasm.

Every once in a while
It is as if the wound has healed
And the flow of muscle memory
Ripples beneath the unmarred surface

She was always the other woman, flowers in her hair, cascading down her back
freckles covering, porcelain skin, cupids bow, painted dark red, hair strawberry blonde
vintage fashion of Henry a la Pensée, envelope chemise, peignoir, blue iris mink fur
shoulders forward, rain splintering, bare legs, André Perugia shoe, one lost amidst the cobbles
favourite novel in arm, to read, as she contemplates her choice, Gertrude Stein; Fernhurst
oh how can one author write ones heart so articulately she thought so pensively, the other women
spring blossom blown away as a puff of pink smoke, a thief in the night, racing past the library
the winding stair case, the oh so fabulous and opulent parties, laughter and cocktails
the tower in sight, a beating of an empty heart, lovers lost, a baby once nurtured
taken, those back street black market abortion clinics, she'd never recovered
she shivered, the time was now, black streaks of mascara, tragedy, loss, pain
the tower was in reach, she gazed upwards, it was near to midnight,
perfect, she thought, the exact time she lost her sister off this same tower,
both plunging to their deaths, love broken, hearts kidnapped nowhere in sight
the game was about to begin, her happiness quashed, every hour, the motions run
dreaming of the afterlife, sedated by drink, she waited it out, effortlessly thinking,
what now,
with a kick of the last shoe, a stumble to the edge, she fell, like a graced angel in flight
devoured by the night.

© Sia Jane
--

“I too am convinced that life is dark, and at the same time I love life.”
Simone de Beauvoir

| / / | \ | \ \ | \
/ // / | \ | \ | / |
/  / / \ \ \ | / / \

Storm is gone
and all hypes  have settled down
i go straight to that one place
for that much awaited
cleansing...............and freedom
i strip myself of clothings
on the surface
and those underneath my skin...

Under the shower
i am bare
as a newborn babe.  
sighing....as i surrender myself
to the trickles of water sliding
                                            down
                                                   my
                                                         body...
I turn around once...
                              twice...
                         ­           thrice,
                                            to spray the wetness
                                                     all over me...
...i turn the **** gently....for more water
...close my eyes  
...as countless thin drops flow out, touch my head,
                                                           ­     i let them trace
                                                           ­             the countours
                                                       ­                          of my face...
Mouth opens a bit
i drink in some...to quench my thirst
let go of some...and retain the rest
be overcome by the coolness of the tap water,
.....take time to reflect...to ponder...
....while wet eyes give way to sniffles
....blending with those refreshing trickles,
...........erasing muddy stains of fear
...................and dried marks of tears
................sighs, of fatigue...and regret
.............these, i most often neglect...
.....under the shower, they'd be quashed
..........i'd let them all be awash
......................save for my personal friends,
..........like grit........and good ole common sense.

As water saturates my whole being
...a few expectations and dreams
..........go down the drain
.......while others.....stay
........and dwell within.

Some feelings just cannot hide
...some, refuse to surface, and stay buried deep inside.


Sally

Copyright October 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Where were you,

When the world was calling you,
When Love & honesty was only with few.

When Poverty & Hunger was at its high,
When exploitation & injustice was very easy buy.

When Poverty rips through their veins,
When child in ragged clothes, with tired eye, begs for few beans.

When their bellies ****** is not by choice,
When destitute mother cries as her hungry child dies.

When women were exploited, with no one to tame,
When humanity was cringing with shame.

When even little girls were not spared by lust eyes,
When she was left with bruised body, with her dreams crushed & with groaning voice.

When baneful herbs of hatred were spreading viciously,
When aroma of love & tolerance was crushed blatantly.

When moral outlines were quashed,
When values were scotched.

At least now,
Stop Just crying foul & grumbling,
Stop feeling sorry & bleating.

Time has come to move on,
Get off the couch & plan for a new dawn.

Lead the change with your head  high,
March ahead, your limit is sky.

red wine beads at my brow
I wait to wince

poppies dance out in the yard
in the little warmth from seasons since

her feet trail away
the broken magnum at mine

head, heat, blaring haze
scythes at the atlas of my spine

scorn and disgrace
raw and insipid

the sun turns its face
lends whatever light to the wicked

she said she'd put the fear of god in me
but god is not what I fear

not what oppresses my feet
nor the ache of my best years

he does not hang from her tongue
like the prize of her spiced ***

any vestige of will; any spirit, any trace
for any iota of refrain

quashed, quelled
concealed and contained

another fickle whine
another fleeting wish

any mistake I've made is mine
and hers are carried on the wind

she speaks like the end;
the war, and then what's won

no more sour a tend
than to the wounds of what's been done

the world armed to defend;
her foes a heavy sword against a throng so young

infantile infantry
ripened from infancy

what a weapon are my sons

what a kindness she's coughed up