Here is my version of a paradigm shift,
Socratic questions if you get my drift.
Why did God make the Universe elliptical?
To make an Aussie football, not spherical!
Why did God make football? See here,
To make men miserable, my dears!
Why did God make beer?
To make men happy, my dears!
So, some intelligent chappies here,
Taking beer to the football, no fears,
Now they're miserable and happy dears!

when life is quite through with
and leaves say alas,
much is to do
for the swallow,that closes
a flight in the blue;

when love’s had his tears out,
perhaps shall pass
a million years
(while a bee dozes
on the poppies, the dears;

when all’s done and said,and
under the grass
lies her head
by oaks and roses
deliberated.)

It was only a legend, my dears,
A normal town, living in fear,
There were fat feral urban virgins here,
Hell bent on their pleasures, cheers!
"Down with boys' daks, get here!"
A whole town living in fear,
Was it all an urban myth, my dears?
Urban virgins strolling the streets,
Battleships waiting for boys to meet,
Immaculate conception, each miss,
Having divine parthogenesis,
Yes, real fat funster chicks,
It was all about *******,
For each little Horatio,
Or was it a fantasy of bliss,
From an  urban ****** miss?
Did urban virgins wander away?
Normal town, not a normal day,
A normal town, living in fear...
It was an urban legend, my dears.

How to be a Happy Camper, dears,
Wake up smiling, we woke up, cheers!
Positive approach to daily life here,
Whatever happens, don't stress, dears,
Looking forward to a peaceful day,
No dumb arguments for a blessed way,
Say never mind, blip happens, dears,
Smile and walk away, no tears,
It ain't Armageddon yet, dears,
At least we woke up here,
How to be a Happy Camper, cheers!

This is a lateral Christmas, my dears,
The reasons for red-nosed reindeer,
Rudolph was on the *****, my dears,
Santa and Rudolph loved Christmas beers,
You could see it in their faces, dears,
Rudy and Santa were dipsomaniacs,
They drank all the ***** in Santa's sacks,
But worse, Santa's in a stroke unit, we fear,
We knew it was a bit hard,
For gifts, Santa maxed out his credit cards,
Red cheeks meant high blood pressure, we fear,
There's worse, Mrs. Santa was a real *****,
She drank all the eggnog with Rudolph and Blitzen,
The drunken elves kept all your gifts for their party,
They drank all your Christmas bevvies, party hearty!
There's worse, Christmas fairies live in fear,
They did ask Santa one year,
"What to do with the trees, Santa dear?"
"Wait and see!!" roared Santa, O dear,
There's a fairy with a tree up her blip here,
Now, Santa's in the Stroke Unit this year,
Folk at the North Pole, too much Christmas cheer,
So, there's no Christmas on Earth, my dears,
This is the lateral Christmas year...........

Lovely dainty Spanish needle
With your yellow flower and white,
Dew bedecked and softly sleeping,
Do you think of me to-night?

Shadowed by the spreading mango,
Nodding o'er the rippling stream,
Tell me, dear plant of my childhood,
Do you of the exile dream?

Do you see me by the brook's side
Catching crayfish 'neath the stone,
As you did the day you whispered:
Leave the harmless dears alone?

Do you see me in the meadow
Coming from the woodland spring
With a bamboo on my shoulder
And a pail slung from a string?

Do you see me all expectant
Lying in an orange grove,
While the swee-swees sing above me,
Waiting for my elf-eyed love?

Lovely dainty Spanish needle,
Source to me of sweet delight,
In your far-off sunny southland
Do you dream of me to-night?

You always read about it:
the plumber with twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
That story.

Or the nursemaid,
some luscious sweet from Denmark
who captures the oldest son's heart.
From diapers to Dior.
That story.

Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,
eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,
the white truck like an ambulance
who goes into real estate
and makes a pile.
From homogenized to martinis at lunch.

Or the charwoman
who is on the bus when it cracks up
and collects enough from the insurance.
From mops to Bonwit Teller.
That story.

Once
the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed
and she said to her daughter Cinderella:
Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile
down from heaven in the seam of a cloud.
The man took another wife who had
two daughters, pretty enough
but with hearts like blackjacks.
Cinderella was their maid.
She slept on the sooty hearth each night
and walked around looking like Al Jolson.
Her father brought presents home from town,
jewels and gowns for the other women
but the twig of a tree for Cinderella.
She planted that twig on her mother's grave
and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.
Whenever she wished for anything the dove
would drop it like an egg upon the ground.
The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.

Next came the ball, as you all know.
It was a marriage market.
The prince was looking for a wife.
All but Cinderella were preparing
and gussying up for the big event.
Cinderella begged to go too.
Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils
into the cinders and said: Pick them
up in an hour and you shall go.
The white dove brought all his friends;
all the warm wings of the fatherland came,
and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.
No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,
you have no clothes and cannot dance.
That's the way with stepmothers.

Cinderella went to the tree at the grave
and cried forth like a gospel singer:
Mama! Mama! My turtledove,
send me to the prince's ball!
The bird dropped down a golden dress
and delicate little gold slippers.
Rather a large package for a simple bird.
So she went. Which is no surprise.
Her stepmother and sisters didn't
recognize her without her cinder face
and the prince took her hand on the spot
and danced with no other the whole day.

As nightfall came she thought she'd better
get home. The prince walked her home
and she disappeared into the pigeon house
and although the prince took an axe and broke
it open she was gone. Back to her cinders.
These events repeated themselves for three days.
However on the third day the prince
covered the palace steps with cobbler's wax
and Cinderella's gold shoe stuck upon it.
Now he would find whom the shoe fit
and find his strange dancing girl for keeps.
He went to their house and the two sisters
were delighted because they had lovely feet.
The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on
but her big toe got in the way so she simply
sliced it off and put on the slipper.
The prince rode away with her until the white dove
told him to look at the blood pouring forth.
That is the way with amputations.
The don't just heal up like a wish.
The other sister cut off her heel
but the blood told as blood will.
The prince was getting tired.
He began to feel like a shoe salesman.
But he gave it one last try.
This time Cinderella fit into the shoe
like a love letter into its envelope.

At the wedding ceremony
the two sisters came to curry favor
and the white dove pecked their eyes out.
Two hollow spots were left
like soup spoons.

Cinderella and the prince
lived, they say, happily ever after,
like two dolls in a museum case
never bothered by diapers or dust,
never arguing over the timing of an egg,
never telling the same story twice,
never getting a middle-aged spread,
their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.
Regular Bobbsey Twins.
That story.

Loving me with my shoes off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.

There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot ***** for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls **** fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark

“Oh, let’s go up the hill and scare ourselves,
As reckless as the best of them to-night,
By setting fire to all the brush we piled
With pitchy hands to wait for rain or snow.
Oh, let’s not wait for rain to make it safe.
The pile is ours: we dragged it bough on bough
Down dark converging paths between the pines.
Let’s not care what we do with it to-night.
Divide it? No! But burn it as one pile
The way we piled it. And let’s be the talk
Of people brought to windows by a light
Thrown from somewhere against their wall-paper.
Rouse them all, both the free and not so free
With saying what they’d like to do to us
For what they’d better wait till we have done.
Let’s all but bring to life this old volcano,
If that is what the mountain ever was—
And scare ourselves. Let wild fire loose we will…”

“And scare you too?” the children said together.

“Why wouldn’t it scare me to have a fire
Begin in smudge with ropy smoke and know
That still, if I repent, I may recall it,
But in a moment not: a little spurt
Of burning fatness, and then nothing but
The fire itself can put it out, and that
By burning out, and before it burns out
It will have roared first and mixed sparks with stars,
And sweeping round it with a flaming sword,
Made the dim trees stand back in wider circle—
Done so much and I know not how much more
I mean it shall not do if I can bind it.
Well if it doesn’t with its draft bring on
A wind to blow in earnest from some quarter,
As once it did with me upon an April.
The breezes were so spent with winter blowing
They seemed to fail the bluebirds under them
Short of the perch their languid flight was toward;
And my flame made a pinnacle to heaven
As I walked once round it in possession.
But the wind out of doors—you know the saying.
There came a gust. You used to think the trees
Made wind by fanning since you never knew
It blow but that you saw the trees in motion.
Something or someone watching made that gust.
It put the flame tip-down and dabbed the grass
Of over-winter with the least tip-touch
Your tongue gives salt or sugar in your hand.
The place it reached to blackened instantly.
The black was all there was by day-light,
That and the merest curl of cigarette smoke—
And a flame slender as the hepaticas,
Blood-root, and violets so soon to be now.
But the black spread like black death on the ground,
And I think the sky darkened with a cloud
Like winter and evening coming on together.
There were enough things to be thought of then.
Where the field stretches toward the north
And setting sun to Hyla brook, I gave it
To flames without twice thinking, where it verges
Upon the road, to flames too, though in fear
They might find fuel there, in withered brake,
Grass its full length, old silver golden-rod,
And alder and grape vine entanglement,
To leap the dusty deadline. For my own
I took what front there was beside. I knelt
And ****** hands in and held my face away.
Fight such a fire by rubbing not by beating.
A board is the best weapon if you have it.
I had my coat. And oh, I knew, I knew,
And said out loud, I couldn’t bide the smother
And heat so close in; but the thought of all
The woods and town on fire by me, and all
The town turned out to fight for me—that held me.
I trusted the brook barrier, but feared
The road would fail; and on that side the fire
Died not without a noise of crackling wood—
Of something more than tinder-grass and ****—
That brought me to my feet to hold it back
By leaning back myself, as if the reins
Were round my neck and I was at the plough.
I won! But I’m sure no one ever spread
Another color over a tenth the space
That I spread coal-black over in the time
It took me. Neighbors coming home from town
Couldn’t believe that so much black had come there
While they had backs turned, that it hadn’t been there
When they had passed an hour or so before
Going the other way and they not seen it.
They looked about for someone to have done it.
But there was no one. I was somewhere wondering
Where all my weariness had gone and why
I walked so light on air in heavy shoes
In spite of a scorched Fourth-of-July feeling.
Why wouldn’t I be scared remembering that?”

“If it scares you, what will it do to us?”

“Scare you. But if you shrink from being scared,
What would you say to war if it should come?
That’s what for reasons I should like to know—
If you can comfort me by any answer.”

“Oh, but war’s not for children—it’s for men.”

“Now we are digging almost down to China.
My dears, my dears, you thought that—we all thought it.
So your mistake was ours. Haven’t you heard, though,
About the ships where war has found them out
At sea, about the towns where war has come
Through opening clouds at night with droning speed
Further o’erhead than all but stars and angels,—
And children in the ships and in the towns?
Haven’t you heard what we have lived to learn?
Nothing so new—something we had forgotten:
War is for everyone, for children too.
I wasn’t going to tell you and I mustn’t.
The best way is to come up hill with me
And have our fire and laugh and be afraid.”

THE WAY

The way through the wilderness is clear,
Impossible dreams come true, my dears,
Tolerance to be taught to the human race,
We're all sparked with mankind's grace,
There is a way through the wilderness,
Impossible dreams can be achieved, no less.
All children do play together,
Until dissuaded by adult's blether,
The way through the wilderness is clear,
Impossible dreams come true, my dears,
Kindness taught to the human race,
Universal smiles free on everyone's face,
The way through the wilderness is clear,
Impossible dreams to achieve, my dears.

“Defying Adam and Dancing Among Lilith”


Fighting tooth and nail,

Knowing I can never prevail,

Scared of being hammered,

Yet yearning to be smacked once more,

Praying for your finger nails to rundown,

Sinking into the small of my back,

As your hands trail lower,

All the way down to my backside.

For I am nothing but a tool,

An object for him to utilize,

Tossing me to the curb when he’s finished,

Craving for the one piece of the puzzle,

He shall never bestow upon me.

Attempting to obtain a sense of fulfillment,

As his tongue explores vast canals,

And valleys of skin,

Filling up the vessel with a force,

Of immense ecstasy,

Until he reaches sweet release,

Planting his seed in my Garden of Eden.

Yet I am not submissive Eve,

For God’s Adam to control,

As He exerts his dominance,

Superiority as king of all kings,

Who claims to possess the daughters of Eve.

Envious of her natural affinity to nurture,

To give birth to a new generation of existence,

In this cruel, wondrous world;

Her ability to adapt and expand,

And her right to proudly display her beautiful body,

With hips that sway with each stroll,

Conveying the body belonging to her,

And her only.

Instead the sons of Adam state,

The daughters of Eve presented them,

With an open invitation,

That you, the sons of Adam,

May ever so kindly indulge upon whenever,

They may feel ever so free to do so,

Over and over until satisfaction,

Is proudly obtained.

Mother Earth is never meant to morph,

Into a world dominated,

By the charming and dashing Adam;

One can only imagine Gaia and Isis rolling,

Their eyes in the way only a woman can,

Depicting her disgust,

Frustration and irritation.

Rebellion bemuses those individuals,

Foolishly content in a failing system,

Crumbling into a downward spiral,

Meant to rule,

But unfortunately never manages,

To achieve such a triumph,

Admonishing the warriors who truly deserve,

Such a glorious title.

These fierce stilettos under long legs,

Follow the path of Lilith,

Refusing to submit to Adam,

Simply because I’m told to do so.

Call me a demon if you wish,

Or perhaps a harlot among the Harpies;

The damage is already done,

Now that one aligns my identity,

To consuming children,

Yet you, the sons of Adam, are the ones,

Devouring upon the forbidden fruits,

Of this exotic deity.

Through your eyes, my sons of Adam,

I am beheld,

As this seductive and tantalizing temptress,

Who renders all of you to befall,

Such a fate of being nothing,

More than powerless victims;

How ironic since the daughters of Eve and I inhabit,

The world of the all-powerful Adam!

Should you not relish in such splendor,

At your noble deeds?!

Anxiously, I shall a wait for you,

The sons of Adam,

To reprieve the bleeding wrist and ankles,

From the chains placed upon many,

In such an ever so wicked manner.

The ever so fortunate ones include:

The daughters of Lilith,

The daughters of Eve,

Children of the rainbow,

And the beautifully alluring creatures,

Who dare to defy the reign,

Of Adam and his creator.

Your patriarchal world stifles the vividness,

Enthralling talents of Maidens,

Gentlemen and children,

Those who belong to both,

Those who are neither,

The ones of all different shades,

Those who fall in love with the same,

Who bleed crimson liquid,

Cry brackish tears,

Become hungry without nourishment,

And seek companionship just like all of you.

How dare you to deny freedoms,

To those lovely dears,

Who certainly possess the title,

Of being addressed as human beings,

As much, if not more than you,

My darling sons of Adam.