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Andrew T Jul 2016
Do we really want to leave our hometown?

To hell with this middle-class neighborhood, decorated with manicured front lawns of emerald grass smeared in geese ****. Nobody, but Arnie looked behind the identical white-brick houses for the skeletons half-buried in the backyards. Arnie used to be distracted by the pure white porches, the perfectly red-layered brick, and the ebony pavement seared from the heat of the cascading sun. As the summer morning stretched in monotony, Arnie went over to his mother’s house and looked more closely at the aluminum siding, sweeping his fingers across the crookedness in the fortifications. He touched the void in the blackness and the cracks outlining the surface. Underneath there, no rich substance laid in the soil.

But he knew something full of dread and full of anger resided in the dried-out bark and withered flower petals. With his shovel, he sifted through the dirt and wondered how much longer the seeds could sustain themselves in this soft and vulnerable soil. The ground decayed under his tennis shoes as Arnie closed his eyes, and felt the wind brushing up against his shoulder. He imagined the weather cloaked itself in the guise of a carpenter, chopping down the ancient trees with scythe and axe, and snipping down the stalks of tender flowers before they could grow to maturity.

Later that day, his mother told him children in this neighborhood either blossomed early, or never even experienced first bloom. Arnie ran around in circles, wishing the leaves and petals lost their infatuation with the wind, so they wouldn’t drift away, floating aimlessly from town to town searching for their heaven.

He knew no one wanted to live in this small town their whole life, wasting away in the sunset as the birds weep alone in the nests lined against the rain gutters. His mother and father worked every single day, consumed with their busy selves, they forgot to schedule for an exit-plan, their get-a-way maps stayed locked up in the bottom desk drawer, the hinges rusted over the years.  

When he turned, sixteen Arnie’s parents bought him a new shiny red 2010 civic. They handed him the keys and right then and there, he thought they wanted him to travel, to see worlds that looked different from the one he dwelled in. As he turned over the engine, Arnie realized the automobile appeared less and less as a transaction for his spirit. Not an anchor, but rather a cement block tied around his ankles, the knot tightly secured. The candy coat paint was too bright and too shiny.

He slept in bed that night and wondered would he ever leave his cozy room, as the blankets warmed him up from the approaching winter. He knew he was sheltered, but this shelter was home.

He kept forgetting if the walls were supposed to keep the elements out, or barricade him inside. The roof over his head made him feel secure, but sometimes he felt his home confined his body, his soul, and his spirit, as if his house was a bird cage. He told his mother, Don’t tell me the sky is the limit, when this ceiling
prevents me from spreading my wings, and flying towards the heavens.
I’m leaving this town, he thought.
Our generation believed we were the salt of the earth, as though we’d conquered the city, and yet we still ended up salting the earth, daring anyone to defy our intelligence and uniqueness. Yet, we were not original, we were not even different.

Arnie napped on his autumn red couch and his body didn’t feel made of flesh and bone. It felt composed of stones, and he couldn’t get up. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get up. He had millions of ideas that roared through his mind every twenty minutes. Like a subway train, but they always became derailed. Off the tracks before they came into fruition, before they reached the station, with every sip of wine with every **** of bud. So he waited patiently for the next train,
hoping to go somewhere with his life. Though eventually, he knew that train would not come whenever he pleased. He had to leave this couch, get off his *** and go.

Suburban mansions furnished with comfortable furniture and luxurious amenities. Wide flat LED screens were the new remedy. We had become tolerant to obscenities that flash and sparkle in the highest resolution, surround sound, so the brainwashing was soothing, as the subliminal messages were grooving. Through our ear canals and advertisement clutter pollution. Soul distortion as Arnie watched graphic images, but it was in the clearest quality. So he was in awe and disgusted, but at the same time he ******* loved it.

So stop saying you invented this and you invented that. Arnie knew the sun already scorched every original idea into smoldering ash.

But he didn’t want to burn. He wanted to survive. He didn’t want to remain a burnout. He wanted to rekindle the hearth and leave this godforsaken slow-burning ashtray, where everyone was trying to find a match to bring the light back

But we sit in assigned seating,
complacent in our concrete prisons, our youth decaying rapidly,
angst already cemented in our minds
Faux utopia where young minds rot in classrooms
Classrooms with no windows
We have opulence
but no oxygen
we can’t breathe but
we don’t know if it’s from this airless building
Or the smoke that surrounds us
so I guess we are LOST
Can’t you see? This (grab shirt) this is false confidence
we fuel our arrogance with shallow compliments
we are hypocrites
a walking contradiction
only our masks hide our lies so well.
Our souls are engulfed in sin from the day we are born
So I guess you can say we were all born
with something original.
But Arnie is oblivious to the shadows
that attach themselves to his weak shoulders
He’s stopped his afternoon naps by the tree,
The shade
is the brother of the shadows
There is sunlight
only a few feet away
Arnie only has to reach
Reach out with his hand,
To feel the warmth of the sun,
there is light
in this dark world.
The Trumpoet Feb 2017
Oh Donny and Arnie got into a battle,
begun by The Donald who started to prattle
on something so urgent... important... momentous,
which is: Arnie's ratings on this year's "Apprentice".

So Arnie said, "Trump - What's your priority,
a show you produce or the presidency?"
Then Donny said, "I'll show you how much I care"
as he made a dog's breakfast by hijacking prayer.

So Arnie said, "Donny, you ignorant *****,
when it comes to careers, perhaps we should switch.
You take on the ratings as job number one,
while I sit in the Oval and get something done!"

Of course, this whole thing's a ridiculous act
on the part of The Donald, so he can distract
all of us and the press and the whole internet
from the seemingly fascist agenda he's set.

So let's make a vow not to speak of this stuff,
and let us not heed this celebrity fluff.
Let's not make muckraking the thing that we do...
But now I have realized... I've just done it too!
You can also see this and my other Trump poems at: www.trumpoet.com
Link to video of this poem: https://youtu.be/Skz53RmFRYg
Written February 8, 2017
Big Virge Nov 2014
Ya know .....

This Violence thing ....    
just isn't in me ... !!!  
I'm just wondering when ...    
you masses will see ,,, ?  
    
That wars are like ****** ....  
"Without" ... A ***** ... !!!!!!  
    
See ... it really is ... "Futile"  
to be messin' with me ...  
    
I've got logic like Spock  
and ... Big Ears ...  
Don't you see ... !?!  
    
Yes ...    
The name is ... " Big V "  
and this style I believe ... ?  
is called ... "Slam poetry !?!"  
and I hear that ... to win ...  
it helps if ... you're ...    
    
........... FUNNY ........ !!!!!  
    
Well .....  
I hate to ... Disappoint ...  
    
But ...    
That's just ... missing ... the point !  
    
I try to write things  
that are built to ... " Anoint " ...  
An ... "Elixir of Pictures"  
in terms of ... My ... Scripture ...  
    
That Affect ... your mind ...  
Like ... Smoking ... "A Joint" ... !!!!!  
    
See ...    
One day it was Yoda ...  
who said to me ....  
    
'Virgil my son  
this poetry thing  
is your DESTINY !!!"  
    
Like Luke I said ....  
    
"Maaaannnn,    
that just isn't me  
performing this thing  
they call, Slam Poetry !?!"  
    
So ......  
Now that this veil ...  
is .... Covering me ...  
    
I feel like Darth Vader ...  
with forces ... So DARK ... !!!!!  
    
I keep checkin' my head ...  
for that ... 666 ... Mark ... !!!!!!!  
    
But .......    
God's force ... I ... " Believe " ...    
just keeps ... "Loving Me" ...  
So ... "My Soul" ... like my mind  
will always be .... " FREE " ....  
    
"Violence" ... surrounds me ...  
yet ... "Angels in my Heart" ...  
but it's ...... "Lucipher" ........  
Don't you .... see .... !?!?!?!  
    
who sits back with a ... "***" ...  
looking on .... " Patiently " ....  
Awaiting .... Those .... "Fools"  
    
.............. Wanting ................  
    
"Destruction' ...... of ...... " WE " .....  
    
"We" .... as in .... " PEOPLE "    
    
So .... What's Your ... " Destiny ? "    
    
It's ... "Lost Souls" ...  
who'll be ... ****** ...  
for ....... ETERNITY ........................  
    
So .......  
What DO they ... Achieve ... !???!  
    
See ......  
I've found ... NO Relief ...  
and now ... "TRULY" ... Believe ...  
A ... "Great Many" ... in this world  
just keep being ....  " Deceived " ....  
by ... BULL** ... and ... Lies  
that the ..... Media ..... "FEEDS"    
    
While these ... "Draculas" ... " **** ! "  
It's my heart that just .... "BLEEDS"    
    
Thus My Words ...    
search for ... "TRUTH"  
with .... " INTENSITY " .... !!!!!  
    
while Violence ... now ... " Reigns "  
in each ... " Big City " ... !!!!!  
    
EVEN ........  
Young Girls will ... "****" ... !!?!!  
Stab a gay ... in his chest ...    
or .... could it be .... This .... ???  
    
Is she just ... "Re-enacting" ...  
what she saw in ... **** Bill ... !???!  
    
"We told you before,  
Quentin's films are TOO VIOLENT !!!!!"  
    
The censors ... Complain ...  
but ... who is the ... Tyrant ... ?!?  
    
A man using film ... to ...  
"Reflect" ... our ... Environment  
    
Or .... "Overpaid MP's" ....  
who NEED ... Early Retirement !!!!!  
    
So ... Who do you ... TRUST ... !?!  
    
"Ashes to Ashes"    
    
........ or .........  
    
"Dust to Dust"  
    
An Icepick ... in your chest ... !!!  
in a ... FIT ... of ... " LUST " ... !?!  
    
Well .......  
It's my ... Basic Instinct ...  
That allows me to ... "Drink" ...  
    
I've got ... "A Shield of Steel" ...  
But ... My name ain't ... "BATFINK" ... !!!!!!  
    
See ...    
In these few words ...  
"My Truth" ... is ...  
    
.... REVEALED .... !!!!!  
    
and like ... Bruce ...  
I survive .....  
    
On my ... "Boy Scout" ... Appeal ... !!!  
but now it seems ..........  
Like Lambs ........  
    
You're all ... "quiet and silent" ...  
as I draw .... analogies ....  
from movies ... with ... VIOLENCE ...  
    
So ... when this .... Inscription ....  
is ... "FINALLY" ... "DONE" ...  
    
Will I be ... " The ONE " ... ?  
who's ... INJECTED ... your mind  
with thoughts of ... " Freedom " ... ?!?  
    
Well .....  
Be careful what you wish for ... !!!  
cos' i'm the ... "Wishmasters' Son" ... !!!    
and will take your ... Last Breath ...  
if you wish to ... Retain ...  
Your ... " Youthful Reflection " ...  
    
So .....  
What ... Reflects ... WHAT ... !?!?!?  
    
Is it ... Life ... "Within Movies" ... ?  
    
................. or ....................... ?????  
    
Movies that .... " Reflect " ....  
what goes on in ... OUR LIVES ... ?    
    
I'm not Arnie .... !!!  
BELIEVE ME ......... !!!!!!!!  
What's TRUE ... in a ... LIE ... ?!?  
    
I'm a ... "Lyrical" ... Prince ...  
but ... My Doves ... "DO NOT CRY" ... !!!!!!  
    
It's ... " PEACE " ... That I LIVE FOR ... !!!  
    
So this VIOLENCE ...    
    
........ “ MUST DIE ” ....... !!!!!!!
I'm pretty much, Anti ... Poetry slams, having done a few back when I wrote this, but, have to at least be thankful, for these words they inspired ! How many movies and shows do you know that I have mentioned ... ???
Alan Maguire Mar 2013
A is for Adam the Aardvark and his band the African Ants
B is for Broderick the bumble bee who thinks they are pants

C is for a cynical cat named Crusoe
While D is for Darwin the delightful deer
E is for Eric the elephant who always drinks my beer
F is for Fernando the Fox but in Spain he known as  Zorro
He lost his wife Matilda last week and is now brimming with sorrow
G is for Gerald and yes he is a Giraffe
He wore odd socks last Tuesday and made Heinrich the Hyena laugh
Imelda is an Iguana and she is quite immense, though she is really old but has unstoppable sense.
Jack the Jackal has a regular name but he is an assassin and has a pretty good aim
K is for Kimberly who happens to be a kangaroo but she doesn't live in the outback anymore because she lives in London Zoo

Laramie the Llama lives south of the United states , he loves hiking in the mountains but one thing he hates, is being mixed up with Arnie the Alpaca.

Monty the Moose loves drinking maple syrup and playing ice hockey,
yes he is a stereotype but I am his Jockey
Nero the Narwhal is the unicorn of the deep, he loves scaring sailors and loves to sleep
Olive the Orangutan is a neighbour of Kimberly the kangaroo
but they have a plan to escape from London Zoo.

Pug is a Pig , just a regular pig, but he wishes to be ferocious and really big
Quentin is a quail and buddies with Pug, he likes eating sunflower seeds but never a slug
Ramon the Rhinoceros also dwells in the Zoo and is part of the escape plan with The red ape and kangaroo , he'll actually be the one to bust them out,
but to get his attention you really must shout.

Sylvia slithers, Sylvia is sleek if you were a mouse and saw her, you'd go EEK!
Terence T. Tiger is terrified, because he was asked to escape from the Zoo,
yes with the Red ape , Rhino and Kangaroo.

Ulysses is a horse who super glued a horn to his fore-head , he wanted to be the last known Unicorn because he heard that they were all dead. Vincent is a Bat, just a Vampire Bat,
he doesn't really like blood but is enemies with Crusoe the Cat.

Warren the wolf has many female fans but spends half the day with Eric the Elephant drinking my cans .Xenops is not an alien , it's just a rain forest bird, I'll give you more info as soon as I've heard
Y is for Yul and I don't mean the bald actor , this Yul is a yak but does watch the X factor
Z is for a Zebra named Zak and yes he does know the Yul the Yak , they were introduced by a certain kangaroo, and now it's their job to visit London Zoo
Aa Harvey  Jul 2018
Terminator X
Aa Harvey Jul 2018
Terminator X


A cloud burst into life and rained down acid rain;
The skin peeled from the bodies of those who couldn’t be saved.
The future termination just waiting to send us to our graves,
Means our destiny is already written and we cannot be saved.


So call on Arnie to save or ruin the day,
Here he comes in a rush to redeem or bring rage.
Is he good, is he bad?  Let’s write another sequel,
Because we can’t get enough of this cyborg killing people.


Terminator 1, Sarah Connor is forced to face death head on.
This Terminator X is going to rip somebody’s face off
And Terminator 2 saw Arnie as a Hero,
For John Connor likes Guns ‘n’ Roses, look out here comes a truck.


Terminator 3 the machines are on the rise again,
The future is shown to us; it looks like humans live in pain.
We are obsolete; the robots now rule the entire world.
So let’s rebel and give ‘em Hell, one of Johns acolytes is a hot girl.


So stab your blade shaped arm through a chest
And hope you find the right Sarah Connor.
Dead bodies litter the doorsteps of random nests;
You know he won’t stop until he finds her.


Get Arnie some new clothes to cover his nakedness,
Use nitrogen oxide to put an end to this X-file government,
Conspiracy of robots, they are here to end our lives;
So crush their body and throw this terminator into the fire.


(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
when marco polo sailed to china,
kublai khan was the emperor of china.

or what other privilege can i speak of, if not that celebration
of the bilingual, there rooted, the sword in slavic
and the sheath in pseudo-Germanic;
for what violence is to come
it will always retract in the Germanic
for a time-period of two-faced thespian
pleasantries,
           without the need for pleasantries
already waiting bloodthirsty,
        as said, the common motto
more true now with ***** farms of turnip
donors than ever before,
science has become arrogant, almost religiously,
it's arrogant, it's arrogant, it's arrogant,
and because it's arrogant: it's blind.
       high expectations for words so grand they
fathomed nations to be used in between
kettles, teacups, knives, forks and napkins...
where's the equilibrium economy?
     well, for one this sort of work is deemed "work",
intellectualism is nothing in the post-Germanic
world of English and Americanism -
if you ain't singing (citing the motto): you
ain't thinking... for the quick buck, doctor.
it's sad and almost revealing,
          a cursed fate of our fathers' indentation
on the world...
                 you don't grow a beard to look smart
while holding a book using your upper-body
to wriggle the jig of a song, the vanity of having
a double chin...
       the principle of ensō is to have things intact,
ensō doesn't exist outside of poetry,
      you don't drink coffee in between and
then flick to a sitcom for a "creative" break
to what is: an already generic narrative.
prose is the excess of narration, there are sparks
along the way, but nothing as convincing
as Stendhal's omnus...
                and could i have simply abandoned
that quasi-epic poem of mine that's two days old?
only having realised that all said things prior
and now, subsequently, after are instilled within
the ensō principle that's less axe on the gallows:
and more guillotine; which translates into
symbols and the effectiveness of *less is more
,
what's the standardising canvas? alcohol,
i.e. proof.
               a poem can be nearing 100% proof,
something you'd use in a surgical theatre...
i have drank spirits in the 90 - 99% range...
          a poem can be considered to be in the >50%
range... after all... people are able to memorise
poems, or are intended to do so -
which is hard to conceive the Koranic attitude
toward poets, the Koran states an abhorrence
towards poets, in some surah of so-and-so number...
my problem is with the Hafiz: people who memorise
the Quran... as suggested from the above:
prose literature can be considered to be in the <50%
range... hence the need to extract spoilers /
quotes from prose books... something memorable...
and because prose is laden with too much
narrative lead, it sinks to the bottom,
into the unconscious, and is only revised within
dreams, when something synonymously-parallel
happens to us in your daily-narrated lives:
we are more prone to narrate than think
in terms of Jefferson and the light-bulb...
i wish i had the encyclopedic reference point where
the Quran explicitly states hostility toward
poetry... but thankfully the mere existence of
the Hafiz undermines the Quran as: the poetry
to end all poetry; and where does Stendhal
come into this? in the Red & the Black, the protagonist
is also a "Hafiz", in that he can recite the entire
Biblical text: by heart. i retain the this fact even
though the days spent reading that book
extended to many hours on the bus to school...
Julien Sorel / Ewan McGregor (in the realisation
of the book onto the screen)...
if the Quran attacks poets for their fickle-mindedness
i can only say: the mind is very literally fickle
in the first place, given:
a. the number of choices we can make, and
   b. the reversal of where the mind is embedded,
i.e. in the brain, and given the brain's complexity
and foundation in polymathic expressions
from the gymnastics of trivia, to the labours of
  singled-out interests... poets aren't fickle
  minded because they're poets,
   we're universally fickle minded, because the mind
is a fickle thing in the first place...
  to counter the complexity of the brain,
    only when the mind is found migrating into
the ******* region or the heart is there any sense
of determination to be seen...
clearly Muhammad migrated from the brain
   got himself a mini-harem and established a family,
****** Ali over on an empty promise and
immediately established a schism that took much
longer to be established in Christianity...
       i told you: my prejudices are personal,
they're not environment, i did have Muslim "friends",
i did read the Quran and i did sit in a Reagent's Park
mosque in my socks looking at the feng shui
minimalism... obviously the schism would come
from the place where a major element was used
in dressing up the mosques... persian carpets...
   and the fact that the Farsi loved their poetry...
the fact that the Quran is to be sang is basically
one poet, telling all others poets to come:
YOUR WORK IS ****!
                     that's feeble, esp. if you take the sword
out after when people tell you no.
   but that's what i don't understand, if the Quran
is so against poetry, doesn't the existence of
the Hafiz mean that it actually is poetry?
  could you find a team of such plonkers to memorise
a single chapter of Tolstoy's war & peace?
  i ******* well doubt it...
plus the whole mono-lingual attitude toward it
means for me to argue certain points with some
Sheikh Ali-Baba would means years lost
   to hark out a word of arabic...
      point being, any chance to learn a new optical
encoding of sounds is impossible,
the one i already have has eroded such a potential:
plus the fact that it's so different...
plus i spotted some anomalies in the system i'm
using: here's it's saying java, .dos, linux...
               oh don't feel left out from the computer
programming community: turn the cheek and
say in robo-slo-mo: psi-borg     (Ψ-borg):
it's the crucifix of the psychology community anyway (Ψ)...    
        i inherited the difference between
   s & ś                         a & ą -
or as one ironic German phrasing had it, a long long
time ago on a Catholic retreat in the south of France
(Taizé): vey didn't oonderstand my good Inglish aacent,
you know how Arnie sounds, right?
just like that... became the running joke for a few years...
you basically learn an accent having spotted
  diacritical markings... having been raised in
a phonetic-realm where diacritical marks are used,
and then growing up in a phonetic-realm where
they are completely disregarded... well,
it's not hard not sound English and then lurking
in the shadows if someone is calling your ethnic origin
as vermin... having such a kind remark as this one
to further the entertainment... i heard
that in America there's that thing called "white-privilege",
and that you can't be racist to a white person
if you're a white person... well... you won't be getting
any jazz and blues out of me sweetiepie, that's for sure:
politics, unfortunately; and what better way
to state politics than with poetry, or the tact within
poetry: telling someone to go to hell with them
anticipating the trip.
Northern Poet Jan 2019
Imagine all the things I could have been
And all the places I could have seen
I should have married that girl
From Kensel Green
A beauty queen – so serene
The day alcohol ruined my life

Imagine all the books I could have read
And all those words left unsaid
I went out and got ****** instead
Fell down the stairs and broke my leg
Ten pints and I'm ready for bed
The day alcohol ruined my life

I could have been a Premiership footballer
One of the greats – the league's top scorer
Sponsored by Adidas and Diadora
Up there with Bobby Zamora
Scored an overhead kick from a corner
The day alcohol ruined my life

I could have been a movie star
Champagne and Caviar
Me and Arnie in the Terminator
*******, hookers and fast cars
Enough money to fly to Mars
The day alcohol ruined my life

The day alcohol ruined my life
I lost my kids
And I lost my wife
I woke up in East Fife
On the day alcohol ruined my life
the girlie man of Australian politics
had the term coined just for him
the tough man Arnie Schwarzenegger
from California was thinking of him

Bill Shorten is a *****
when it comes to fiscal matters
that's why his statements
on the budget are all in tatters

soft approaches toward
spending will never do
the nation's finances are in need
of a tightening *****

the treasury office stats
don't mislead of go awry
a salient tale they tell
about a well running dry

there are no Jesus Christ figures
in Canberra to divide the loaves and fishes
a certain amount is in the nation's war chest
which must fulfill the people's many wishes

the Shorten alternative economic policy
has great sieve holes in it
the nation's well being under it
would be rendered unfit

at the end of the day
the taxpayer always pays
so the ledger should be in balance
without any stalling delays

fiscal responsibility
is good for a nation's health
marshmallow centered Shorten
has no interest in stock piling our wealth
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
.one of the great dissatisfactions of life: dreaming... which makes me suspect of the anglo-saxons and their subsequent branches of sub-ethicities... they dream... they have recurring dreams... lucid dreams... i find that slightly suspicious... i rarely dream and if i do dream, the dreams are so bogus or so uninteresting that they make no sense to: "interpret" them via any freud-cubism schematic - that a woman's sun hat implies: the depth of ****** and promiscuity, or some otherwise bogus stretching it mate, really stretching that analogy... but why do the anglo-saxons have such lucid dreams, even recurring dreams? are they descendants of joseph: der traumgehhilfe? last time i had a dream? oh... family invites me to say, three memebers of the family don't like me... **** the rest of the family with a knife, a gun and a baseball bat (somewhere in south east asia)... a few of the killed members run into the street to die... i somehow pick up a kalashnikov and shoot the murderous 3... then i jump into slender boat with a motor with 3 or 4 women... 'jesus'... and i escape the scene of retribution sailing to... cambodia! **** me... even sylvester stallone or jason statham or arnie wouldn't star in a movie as b-movie as this... but anglo-saxons seem to have the most vivid dreams... two good examples: h. p. lovecraft and william burroughs... is dreaming a form of escapism? if so, then evidently i'm quiet content with reality... like today: too much pop psychology, too much self-help guru mishmash, too much advice: not enough stories... video streaming a game being played... etc., so i retreat, even from modern music, into? here's a beginner's guide list to medieval music:

       1. qui habitat in adiutorio altissimi
       2. da pacem domine
       3. agni parthene
       4. dum pater familias
       5. chevalier, mult estes guariz
       6. virga iesse floruit
       7. walther von der vogelweide's
                 palästinalied
       8. codex buranus no. 179:
                     tempus est locundum
       9. non é gran causa
      10. herr holger
      11. herr mannelig
      12. die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft
      13. meie din liechter schin
      14. under der linden
      15. mayenzeit one neidt
      16. mönch von salzburg (das nachthorn)

   why would i have stopped at merely
Orff's reading of Carmina Burana -
                 sure... that's the entry point...
   but the radio only plays o fortuna till
the cows come home in a full-moon lit night...
yawn...
    if only: fortune plango vulnera,
      veris leta facies, omnia sol temperat,
     floret silva, or... or!
   a monk's love song for the queen of england -
were diu werlt alle min:
              were diu werlt alle min
              von dem mere unze an den Rin,
              des wolt ih mih darben
              daz diu chunegin von Engellant
               lege an minen armen.

but no... it's o fortuna or nothing from that album
on the radio...
    i get it, great song...
   but why is auld lang syne only sung once
a year, on new year's eve?!
              
as with women, so with music, one simply tires of
contemporary examples: not exactly the music
but the lyrics behind the music...
                        music will never change to appease
the brute and the beast... but modern lyricism
is just agitating... it exhaust with its choice
of subject matters...
                                and by the looks of it...
    i spend too much time with music to find myself
in needing the comfort of a woman's voice,
a cuddle or relationship or whatever you want
to call it from now on...
           i am wedded to three women that will
never materialize: Euterpe, Sophia and Amber...
and all the better...
                                i could never wallow in what's
currently being wallowed in...
by some who have these recurrent dreams
and are unable to stop them from recurring...
hence my suspicion with the anglo-saxon traits
of vivid dreaming: this cruch of relying on dreams...
of so easily being ***** by celesto-cerebral powers
that impregnate their sleeping heads with
these realities that only exist in the mind and
a sleeping mind at that!


(nb. not proof read, apologies in advance for any mistakes, upon rereading will correct if any appear - or i'll just keep them...)

look at these two slogans: let's make America great (again)!
complimenting the English variation
let's get our country back! ring any bells? i guess you must
have heard one or the other as an English speaker -
it's hardly surprising - the English Prime Minister singing
a little toodeloo then uttering the word right upon
reentering number 10 - shambles ahoy! every rat and
mutineer bailed - we're in free-fall, Trotsky had it coming,
this guy hasn't - hardliner but a bubble-gum tongue -
it stretches like a joke my English teacher said:
how was copper wire invented? hmm? two Scots
tugging and pulling in opposite directions a two pence coin -
for all their worth, they joked the blond quiff of
both Boris and President Donald Yeltsin - where one
gets drunk on egoism, the other just gets drunk -
even though they don't like him in Scotland, they sure as
hell bought the slogan like a Big Mac - the problem is
there's a zenith, and then a necessary decline -
you can reach the zenith of breaking the 100m sprint,
but then a stock-market dip (necessary) -
much of Britain's exit from the European Union was due
to the campaign trail of the Doodle T - the best politician
i assume is the one that enjoys the most prodding jokes,
which also means the majority of votes,
jokes and votes walk hand-in-hand - people don't want
leaders, they want caricatures - after all, the little existences
have to matter with a joke in the Oval office.
i can't imagine the unholy alliance of feminists running
the place in the west - Theresa May in England,
Hilary Clinton in America, Angela Merkel in Germany,
Ms. Le Pen in France, the Polish prime minister
Beata Szydło - it has to look like a 2nd Cold War scenario,
a break from World Wars... Putin and pukka Tyson Trump
on the other side, macho v. macho - man talk and
the ultimate bromance. i know that Nietzsche referenced
genius too much, assuredly i hear that a lot too around
here with child geniuses storming around for silverware -
children geniuses and not original? so technically you're
talking about data storage in porridge - trained monkeys,
right? those children will be scarred for life as if they
saw their parents ******* - what sort of genius is a genius
if he doesn't work from blank but is there are a memory
gimmick to boost hopes of curing dementia?
philosophy doesn't do geniuses, it does things like Spinoza,
solitary wanderers, loners - outsiders and mesmerisers,
there's no genius in philosophy - there's only solitude -
granted that an open-minded psychiatrist is a modern subplot
in not reading philosophy - where is the ultimate source
of compassionate solely theory based (anti) psychiatry?
in reading philosophy books rather than exercising authority /
abusing it - R. D. Laing is a perfect example -
who wrote after reading philosophy books - i mean read them,
in the English speaking world i recommend reading
the works of the anti-psychiatric movement of the 1960s,
which was much bigger than the Beat Movement - obviously
not as dazzling, but with poetry you're imitating Philippe Petit
(film, the walk) - i watched it and my legs experienced
needles, and a firm assertion of gravity and the location
of the floor - films like that are worse than horror -
you share the heart of the original, but given it's Plato's cave
we're talking about representing the events, you realise
that no matter how much you want your shadow to be
Philippe Petit, you hear from the outside world, your legs
are firmly on the ground - basically: **** that - men are not
born equal, they have to live by principle to be at least moderating
their excellence into a respectable cohesion (democracy) -
quiet simply juggling their strengths with their weaknesses -
man is not born equal, he was to strive for equal measure -
when subduing their strengths and when exfoliating them -
no man is born equal, as no man is an island - the two synchronise.
(i'm deliberately masking what's coming)...
but there is genius in philosophy - but only in one area of
interest - religion... we know that popular beliefs are
grounded in plagiarism - the Trojans became the Romans
via the accounts of Virgil, and we know the Trojans in
becoming Romans plagiarised the Greek polytheism -
Zeus became Jupiter, Poseidon became Neptune,
Cronos became Saturn, Hera became Juno, Aphrodite
became Venus... etc., it was done to mimic the Greek heart
from the defeat at Troy, to invoke a heart that overcame -
every pauper and every king would identify with
this pluralism - but a second plagiarism had to come -
it was prophetically echoed from approximately 2000 years -
the Greeks later plagiarised the Hebrew concept -
the monotheistic concept, yet because their thinking
was so advanced (or so they thought) they dismissed the
sects of the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Essenes and
the Zealots... their hero was their antagonist - and nothing
of their learning was actually work their concerns since
they boasted of their Aristotle and their Plato and their
Socrates - the peddle-stool effect appeared -
but what if a Latin man (well, these letters are Roman) were
to say - never mind the son, how about the father?
in Christianity the father is rather anonymous in his
omnipresence etc. - but let's assume on the biological tenet
that we are referring to the old testament god -
would we want to plagiarise the Greek plagiarism of
Hebrew? i already mentioned the four prime canons as
imitations of the tetragrammaton - of course they're
intended to not be identical accounts, but there must be
two that are mirror images - i.e. referring to h      &      h
of the tetragrammaton - if there are no two mirror images
then we are bothered - i can see why the Greek mind thought
that Y refers to a convergence, a mother, a father, a child
and the entry point to the gospel: a genealogy -
Y being representative of a convergence - past and present,
following through - this is all about first impressions,
from what i can remember and regurgitate back -
in Catholic school we were taught by majority the gospel
of St. Mark - the others were discredited -
i can't tell you if there are two identical gospels (or at least
with very little variation between them) - what comes after
them is what comes after all essences of religion,
bureaucracy - imams and priests, yoga teachers and
whatever it is that comes with religion for the common man,
but in the new testament this is the essence, a shady
reinterpretation of the tetragrammaton - but a Latin man
who didn't bother to attribute symbols with nouns,
but made his alphabet musically orientated for the
castrato and the choirs to come - a (alpha) b (beta)...
o (omicron / omega) it became obvious that the four letters
arranged as so with missing Adam and missing Eve
would provide more than just four interpretations of
the same event / person - for when a Greek has to cut off
-lpha from a to attach it to another letter to create meta,
the Latin man has only to cut off less, perhaps dentistry's
ah, or otherwise cut off -ee from b... the world is full
of such possibilities, and this is the only area where
genius can be applied to philosophy - the genius of
philosophy is within religion, and nowhere else -
of course mind that i don't identify myself as one -
i treat genius as an angel or a demon, that fairy-tale
race of creatures that whisper into your ear - markedly
geniuses are more powerful in demanding an individual
rather than clones of the individual, e.g. Mohammad
and Muslims, Jesus and Christians... which is why i suppose
the genius of Moses also allowed others to write on sacred
paper, but of course excluding Malachi for falling into
heresy with a polytheistic concept of reincarnation, not
oddly enough Malachi's was the last book before the two
major strands of his heresy emerged like Behemoths.
Thinking of You Aug 2017
Saw you on the street tonight,
you were walking my way.

You were with Arnie,
I knelt down to play.

You tried to pull him away from me,
Like I was a stranger passing by.

The excitement in his little body, made me want to cry.

I asked you if you weren't going to stop,
You gave in and paused.

I got dirt all over my face, from his little paws.

Everyone thinks their dog is special,
But Arnie actually is.

He has a lightness about him that makes you forget the world isn't sheer bliss.

You looked at me with such disgust and asked me how I was. Hoping it was bad.

I said I was good and asked you the same.

You said
GREAT!
FANTASTIC!
COULDN'T BE BETTER!
I LOVE MY JOB!
I GOT A RAISE!
I'M SEEING SOMEONE NEW!

I said that's great and i'm happy for you.

You pulled him away from me soon after that.

Our little puppy grown up. He wasn't coming back.

I hope you know i'm actually happy for you,
if any of what you said is true.

I wish no ill intent on you.

My only upset is for the girl who comes next,
and the coldness she will one day receive.

I gave parts of myself to you I have never given to anyone.
We shared a dog, a home, a life, for over a year together.

Yet, you act like i'm a stranger on the street.

I get it. We all get mad and say things we shouldn't in fights.

But it has been a month since you've seen me or talked.
So how can hate be the first reaction in sight?

The lack of kindness in your eyes was inhumane.

You are a soul sucker who has moved onto his next victim.
Tossing losses to the side.

You said I was dead to you.
Guess what ******.

I'm Not.
Phoenix Rising Dec 2014
I wish I could party with Leonardo DiCaprio
We'd be crazier than "The Wolf of Wall Street"
Johnny Depp would be there, too, riding in the backseat
He would come up and sit with Leo and I, at the party on the couch
And say "Arnie stop it, you're doing too much coke. AHA, just kidding now scoot over and let me have a blow."
After we'd wipe our noses, up we go
To dance, dance, dance and drink drinks that glow
Hours on end we would spend our money brutally
Because our money basically speaks english fluently
Yeah, Leonardo DiCaprio would be a badass friend
Johnny Depp too, we'd have too much fun in the end
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023
Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon  a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another,  thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise,  machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters,  bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ
Ben Jones Jun 2013
The Night before Christmas of the Living Dead

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all down the street
Came a howling of wind and a lashing of sleet
The stockings were hung by the 50 inch plasma
And parents were snoring like bulldogs with asthma

The children were nestled in cosy wee places
With smug little grins on their villainous faces
Their mum in her nightie and I in my skin
Were of Christmassy spirit, specifically Gin

When out in the garden, a moaning was heard
I sprang to my feet without breathing a word
To the curtains I leapt like a naturist ninja
As spry as a horse with an **** full of ginger

And what did I spy as I peeped through the crack?
No jolly fat Santa or magical sack
It was as I had feared but had always expected
The zombies were here and St. Nick was infected!

His sled, with a frenzy of giblets, was smitten
And was pulled by a mob of the people he’d bitten
He threatened and jabbed them to get them to run
And struck at their heads with the **** of his gun

“Now Arnie, now Johnny, Now Barrak Obama
On Oprah, on Beckham and on Dalai Lama
On half of Madonna and Samuel L. Jackson
And run for your lives at the sound of the claxon”

The sled rose aloft dragging corpses behind
Like a wedding day prank from a murderous mind
And with more than a hint of the melodramatic
An almighty crash rattled down from the attic

Still dressed, as it were, in my birthday attire
Some pants and a chainsaw, my only desire
I crept on my tippy-toes, ever so soft
And I heard a grim sound from the stairs to the loft

I searched for a weapon and first to my hand
Was a porcelain Goofy from Disney land
I ran from the bedroom to battle my foe
I turned to the stairs, but now where did he go?

When a breath on my neck made me shiver and freeze
And a trickle of ***** advanced to my knees
I came to my senses and spun on the spot
And before me pulsating with maggots and rot

There stood zombie Santa, he drooled as he leered
His eyes filled with hunger and blood in his beard
I screamed and I bolted, I ran down the stairs
I bounced and I bounded and leapt them in pairs

I rounded the corner and flung back the door
I flicked on the light but could journey no more
The windows were gone and in every direction
Were lurching the victims of zombie infection

They lunged and they nibbled and ripped me apart
They tore out my liver and chewed on my heart
Like tinsel, my entrails hung on the tree
My kidneys were baubles and under it, me

And while they made meals of my pieces of mind
Upstairs there was gore of a similar kind
The missus was mangled and minced in her sleep
And Santa selected the pieces he’d keep

The children still snoozed with not even a groan
The zombies sensed evil, and left them alone
Now their job was completed they hastened away
To the attic they galloped to rev up the sleigh

With a scrape and a grind and a clatter of slate
They took to the air to continue their spate
And the voice of St. Nick could be heard from the sky
“Merry Christmas to all and to all……

DIE!”

— The End —