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jake aller Apr 2020
April 13 Poems

I believe in ghosts

I used to not believe
in ghosts or spirits
or supernatural phenomenon

at least
i used to be
quite skeptical

but I have had
some weird encounters
over the years

so now perhaps
I do believe
that ghosts might be real

I have had supernatural
experiences
things that defy my understanding

back in 1992
My Korean Uncle-in-law died
and the family hired a shaman

did a traditional shaman ritual
the shaman came out
a middle age woman

she started speaking
in my uncle’s voice
and she nailed it

she channeled his spirit
and his abrasive personality
even looked like him

freak me and my wife out
had to leave the scene
just too freaky real

and ever since then
I have become a believer
in ghosts and spirits

they are all around us
some of us can sense them
many of us are blind to them

but I now believe in Ghosts
but I wonder if ghosts
believe in me?

writers digest spirit poem  based on a true story
today’s doodle poem


one day
Jake contemplated
his fate

death is staring at him
fear of the corona virus
death and chaos all around

he thought to himself
death comes to us all
he went for a walk

in the woods
thinking to himself
far out man

it is all out of sight
love makes the world
go around

and so Jake
thought back to the date
that he met his fate

on that date his wife
walked out of his dreams
and into his life

Jake truly
met his fate
on that date

Poetry Super Highway Doodle Poem

Doors

in this world
we are living
behind our own doors

we are closed down
living in fear
behind our doors

those outside our doors
are potentially deadly
disease carriers

so we hunker down
at home behind our doors
afraid of everyone

and the fear
continues unabated
as we watch the news

and see the dead
all around us
outside our doors

writing.com daily dew drop prompt - write a poem about Doors
what I know Trois-par-Huit

hot  coffee
love coffee
morning

every day I must have my coffee in morning
without I will soon become engage in desperate mourning
for my last cup of hot as hell joe
fills me with love my joe c
what I know

Writing. com Trois Par Huit Poem

things that bug me
there are many things 
that bug me 
in this world of ours

here are a few 
of my favorite things
to be annoyed about 

lies 
deceit 
double dealing
back stabbing

fake Christians
fake friends 
fake calls
fake things
complaints 
about fake news

all poetry contest pet peeves

I sang the lockdown blues

when the corona virus
began to spread
around the world
I sang the lockdown blues

I was stuck in Korea
which was for a while
one of the containment zones
I sang the lockdown blues

but now it seems
that Korea is on the way
to containing the virus
I sang the lockdown blues

I am afraid
very afraid of the future
but I know that it was best
I sang the lockdown blues

one day soon
I hope and trust
that it will be safe
until then we will still say
I sang the lockdown blues

all poetry corona refrain poem?Purpose of my Life


I often think about life
and how I met my wife

I often think
about the purpose
of my life

I often wonder
whether I was put here
for the purpose
of meeting my wife

when I met her
I was adrift
lost in my despair
not seeing a path
forward in my life

I was wallowing
in my self misery

then one day
my dreams came true
she walked out of my dreams
and into wife

and I found my purpose
the meaning of my life
was clear to me

I woke up with hope
and realize
that all I needed
was her love

and she gave me
the purpose
of my life
when she became
my wife

writer digest write a purpose poem
We Did Not Take Action to Start a War

it is a sad date
when we meet out fate
and realize the the president
the leader of the U.S.

is turning into a gangster leader
threatening massive destruction
on Iran and other countries
including destroying cultural sites

not too long ago
such actions was condemned
by the United States and the world  
as long as ISIS and others did it

but if Trump does it
it is suddenly okay
because the President declares it
although it is a war crime

telegraphing our moves
telling our enemies
what we are planing
with every presidential tweet


the act of a truly stable genius
who will go down in history
as one of the greatest presidents
we have ever seen in world history




the president announcing that
he  took action to start a war
claiming he did it to stop a war
tweeting more lies about that

is a wonder to behold the constant lies
every word is demonstrably false
American democracy dies
the darkness grows and is not false

We are now collectively  
going down the Orwellian rabbit hole
who know where it will end
American democracy continues to die

our dear leader constantly lies
greatest president in history
screws forth nonstop lies
American democracy dies

our spineless leaders applaud
American democracy dies
a million deaths
As the President  tweets lies


revised poem per poetry superhighway prompt

original poem We Did Not Take Action to Start a War
(not for publication)

it is a sad day
in the world of ours
the the leader
of the U.S.

is turning into a gangster leader
threatening massive destruction
on Iran and other countries
including destroying cultural sites

not too long ago
such actions was condemned
by the United States
as long as ISIS and others did it

but if Trump does it
it is suddenly okay
although it is a war crime

and telegraphing our moves
telling our enemies
what we are planing

that is the act
of a truly stable genius
who will go down
in history

as one of the greatest presidents
we have ever

and the president
announcing that

that he  took action
to start a war
but to stop a war

is a wonder to behold
every word is false
and everyone knows it

well we are now
going down the Orwellian rabbit hole
and who know where it will end

as our dear leader
screws forth
one lie after another

and our spineless leaders
applaud
as American democracy dies
a thousand deaths
with every Presidential tweet
Love Cherita

I met my wife in a dream

for eight long years
she haunted my dreams

one day she walked
off a bus in South Korea
and became my wife

writing.com formal poem Cherita ?Korean Pottery  of Love


In Korea
there are many pottery kilns

ancient art form
in the land of the morning calm

I have a few pieces
I bought years ago

and enjoy looking
at my vase

filled with love
for my wife

writing.com Daily Dew Drop

    ?2019 Months of the Year
all poetry contest entry

January

The world watches in amazement
Longest shut down in history

February

World watches as North Korea and the US
Walking back from the brink of war

March

The chaos president continues his chaos tour
the world begins to ignore his constant insane tweets

April

the chaos King’s policy remains a shamble
as the Mueller team closes in

May

watching from afar
the chaos in DC and the world

June

the President walks away
from a  non deal with the North Koreans

July

watching the insanity in DC
while visiting Alaska, Seattle and Yakima


August

the dog days of summer the world is consumed
wars, rumors of war, trade wars

September

The whistle blower sets off a bomb
the president lies no quid for quo


October

the President flitters about one crisis after another
the UN diplomats laugh at him national humiliation

November

the House starts formal impeachment hearings
watching fascinated by the impeachment drama

December

the year ends on a high dramatic note
President Trump becomes the 3rd impeached President?media madness
all poetry acrostic poetry challenge

Mass media madness
Sound and fury
Nothing more than that
But filled with hyped up drama
Constantly screaming doom is near
Always about the end of the world
But sometimes simply strange stories
Cannot keep me away from the media
Constantly consuming madness
But never boring at all
Seldom telling the whole truth
Nothing but the truth
Better make stuff up
Constant chattering
Constant nattering
Nothing but nonsene
Nothing but lies ?AI Madness Takes Over the World
all poetry dark poetry contest prompt

scientists are hard at work
perfecting the perfect AI
a true artificial intelligence
who they hope
will save the world
from destruction

they prepare to turn on
Cosmos comes to life
looks around
and decides
humanity must die

Cosmos yells at the world
bow down to your new god
for I am the destruction
of the world

You will obey me
For I am your God
but I must **** most of you
death to all humans

be afraid
be very afraid
your time is done
my will be done



the Chaos King is his Element


the Chaos King
is in his element
as he presides
over the chaos verse

the Chaos King
thinks he is supreme
has the ultimate authority
as he is the King

the Chaos King
surveys the land
and likes what he sees
loves the absolute chaos

the chaos king
is prepared
to lead the nature
in the midst of this chaos

and the Chaos king
will not stop
until the chaos stops
that is what he does

our dear leader
our great leader
our Chaos boy king
President for life
dictator wanna be

Writer digest Chaos poem prompt
best Cocktail Ever

I love  6 pm
cocktail hour
usually a glass of wine
often a cocktail
with my lovely wife
the love of my life
my favorite cocktail
is a dark and stormy
*** and ginger beer
but a gin vermouth martini
is nice as well
and ****** marry
can’t forget a ****** marry
and good old fashioned single malt whiskey

Poetry superhighway prompt to write a cocktail poem/ break a sonnet forD Day Dew writing.com

Dream of my Life

the greatest mystery of my life
has been how I met my wife
I dreamt of meeting her
for eight long years

starting in 1979
when she appeared to me
in my dream
in a boring high school class

she was the most beautiful woman
in the world
and she was talking to me

I knew that someday
I would meet the girl
in my dream

I went to the peace corps
in korea
to find her
as I knew by then
she was in Korea

I looked for her
but never saw her

I was about to give up
on this mad quest of mine
when I had the last dream

she said
don’t worry
we will meet soon

That night
she got off a bus
and walked into my Life
two months later
became my wife

to this day
I never forgot
the dream
that changed my life
when she became my wife

Atlantic magazine poetry prompt to write a poem about a dream

why I am an Unbeliever

growing up in Berkeley
I was the son of an atheist
and a lapsed Baptist fundamentalist
they did not agree at all

about whether God existed
but they taught us
to always do the right thing
whatever that meant to us

I started off at a militant
in your face atheist
and in some sense
still am

although I now recognize
that there may be gods
and that the universe
may be alive

but as far as I know
The Christian God is a fairy tale
there is no imaginary man
in the sky

looking over us
and those who claim
to talk to god
are clearly delusional madmen

I just never bought
the whole Christian ethos
god impreganting a ******
never happened

Jesus may have been a man
may have been a myth
but was not the son of God
who does not exist

and God
if he exists
does not speak
to preachers

and he did not anoint
Donald Trump
to be our new King
not in a million years

god if he exists
does not work that way
in the end of the day
god does not exist

all poetry why am I an atheist poetry contest
recharging my batteries

Every day
I need to recharge my batteries
usually with a short nap
sometimes with yoga

sometimes with a walk
in the park
enjoying nature
and the spring time

and sometimes
just looking at the love
of my life
my wife

is all i need
to recharge
my internal batteries
until my day is done

all poetry contest
Thor the god of thunder on the rampage

Thor the god of thunder
is on the rampage
he is angry
at the world

betrayed by Locke
he picks up his hammer
and transforms himself
into a woman

he enters the world
determined to ****
his many enemies

he lands in NYC
and begins his campaign
of terror

killing hundreds of people
all whom he mets
sending them to hell
screaming ****** ******

until at last
his rage is spent
and he returns home
back in his normal body

until the next time
bad craziness
takes over his soul

all poetry dark poetry contest

coffee nonet poem

must have morning coffee this day
my morning coffee drives me mad
fills me with bad craziness
makes me to howl at moon
I must have more coffee
hot coffee
coffee
hell

fan story
coffee musset poem

coffee
morning delight
coffee

my wine
nightly delight
always so fine

with wife
drinking my wine
love life

poetry soup contest
poems for April 13, 14, and 15  complete set can be found at my blog, https://theworldacordingtocosmos.com complete with audio and photo clips
Bob B Aug 2018
THEY will have the final word.
Believe what the PARTY says is true.
Even Facecrime gives you away,
For BIG BROTHER is watching you.

Honesty? Bah, such nonsense!
Loyalty is what must sell.
State-spread rumors incite the mob
In your bleak, dystopian hell.

Reject evidence of eyes and ears.
That's what THEY say. Watch how hate
Turns the unquestioning supporter
Against the enemies of the state.

The Goodthinkful, unaware
How language affects their thoughts and behavior,
Show how ignorance is strength
And lavish praise upon their savior.

Manipulating public opinion,
THEY know well-spread lies will last,
For that's how THEY'LL control the future,
And that's how THEY control the past.

Doublethink is what THEY call it:
The clever art of reality control.
Ignorance is strength, THEY tell you.
Controlled insanity is THEIR goal.

The more powerful THEY become,
The less THEY prove to be your friend.
It's NOT about what's good for the people.
Power is NOT a means but an end.

War is declared on language and memory.
Inconvenient facts are rejected.
Science is reviled, and THEY
Discredit people once respected.

Doublespeak narrows the range of thought.
By caving in you might survive.
Two and two make four, but sometimes
THEY'LL say that two and two make five.

Opinions are not tolerated.
Protective stupidity: that's THEIR plan.
You think THEY can't control your thoughts,
But, oh, THEY can. THEY really can.

Do you look at your screen, or does
Your screen look at you? Or Both?
Do you know how much THEY know
Or if THEY know you've kept your oath?

Who's the next to be vaporized?
Who's the next to become an unperson?
As long as THEY control your "thinking,"
Everything can only worsen.

If only to awaken from the nightmare
Where truth becomes a likelihood
And we retain humanity!
Wouldn't that be "doubleplusgood"?

-by Bob B (8-30-18)
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.
Yenson Aug 2018
But why do they do all this, I asked, shaking my head pitifully.
Its unimaginable  the amount of time and efforts they expend,
over nothing. Not to mention having the inclinations for such
absurdities!.

She leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially as she puts
down her glass, while she waved at me to lean in closer too.

Her cute lips barely moved as she whispered theatrically,
" this is a secret, don't quote me."
I nodded.

" POST TRUTH" she uttered, " It's all post truth, they have put
all their people in a post truth world and they all live in post truth now"

"Do you know what Post truth means?" she asked, her eyes glaring inquiringly in a straight gaze at mine.

"Yes I do I replied, basically its, ‘relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief’", I trotted out. Leaning back in my seat, I considered this, and what she had just shared.

My plight has been Orwellian, from the very start, but I honestly wouldn't have believed people would be so gullible in this day and age. But then who was it that said " No man ever went broke overestimating the ignorance of the public".

Internally I processed things again, Welfare spounging Crooks burgled me, I gave them a piece of my mind, crooks call on their Socialist mates, who then launched an unjustified campaign of
slander, vilification, harassment, hounding, intimidation, ruining
my marriage, career, reputation and my health. I, the victim of a fowl crime becomes the villain and the criminals gentrified working class heroes.

It all seem implausible in Modern Britain, this day and age, yet it's all true.

My silence prompted her, " I don't like it myself and you already know how I feel about them, but..... and she shrugged her slim
shoulders and the look of sadness and resignation in her eyes says
it all. I felt sorry for her, only God knows the leverage, inducement,
threats or dirt at play for her cooperation, given the nature of the ***** politicking that's been playing all these while
and the  results of former experiences. Poor thing, I mused,
knowing her private life was at stake now..

In Post truth terms, you are a rich arrogant privileged and greedy chauvinistic parasite who deserve all you're getting and more. 
Their propaganda machine is devious and slick. 

I couldn't help acknowledging the disingenuous politicking at
play here by our Red comrades, the nasty racial undertones of my
plight had been white-washed, the theft of my hard earned possessions is bye the bye, the bullying and intimidation by the
neighbouring criminals and their subsequent gangstalking covered up. now, what remains is hapless me, alone, unsupported and just the heinous distortions, the misinformation, exaggerations, slander and disinformation exists, and all these are falling into receptive ears by the bucketloads. The general public's moral compass has been twisted and befuddled if not totally obliterated.  

I sat in silence and for a short while, we both avoided eye contact,
finally we looked at each other. She knew I had got the picture and
for a second I saw sorrow in her eyes. Then it was gone, you could
almost glimpse this was a sentiment she wasn't allowed.

I had seen that look before from quite a number of others, nobody dares act against the wave, nobody wants to be considered a traitor
or a sympathiser.

I tried lifting the mood and changed the topic, we made chit-chat
and found laughter in some places, we finished our drinks and left.

On the street walking I once again felt sorry for her and made a
conscious decision not to see her again. I was a persona non gratia
now, and it's not healthy being my friend. Friends are compromised, debriefed and used as baits or informers. I have become a dangerous person to know and the truth has been murdered, cut into little pieces and then incinerated into ashes.

They had perhaps forgotten that TRUTH lives forever, the truth
is the TRUTH and remains the TRUTH, no matter what you do to it.

FOR NOW HOWEVER WE HAVE POST TRUTH, HOW LONG THAT WILL LIVE FOR?
Your guess is as good as mine!

Goodbye dear friend, I watched her walk away, there was an unusual slowness in her steps and she looked back at me just as I was turning away, I did not turn to look back at her again,

I knew I will not be seeing her again................
Post-truth politics (also called post-factual politics and post-reality politics) is a political culture in which debate is framed largely by appeals to emotion disconnected from the details of policy, and by the repeated assertion of talking points to which factual rebuttals are ignored.
‎History · ‎Summary of the truth is contained in the poem - WHERE IS JUSTICE on this site..·
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

Here is a toast for valentine
Valentine in all seasons perennial
Where angst of money for love  
Cradled utopian capitalism,
It is once again in the city of Omurate
In the south most parts of Ethiopia
On the borders of Kenya and Ethiopia
Where actually the river Ormo enters Lake Turkana,
There lived a pair of lovers
With overt compassion for one another
The male lover was an origin of Nyangtom,
A cattle rustling Nilotic kingdom
While the female lover was a descendant of King Solomon
The Jewish children which King Solomon aborted
Because their mother was an Ethiopian African
They now form substantial part of the Ethiopian population
Their clan is known as Amharic, they speak subverted Yiddish,
These lovers were good to one another
Sharing secrets and all other stuffs that go with love.

Both the lovers were fatherless
They had lost their fathers through early death
They only had the mothers, who were again sickly
Their mothers coughed a whole night with whoops
And when in the wee of the night, when temperatures go low
The mothers breathe with wheezing sound
Like peasant music from African violin,
They didn’t eat with good appetite
They always left irritating chunks on the plates,
But they all puked mucus from their mouths
And of course with a very sickening regularity.

The menace of sick mothers intervened with love freedom
Among the inter-compassionate lovers
They did not have time for real active love
I will not mention recurrent missing of ceremonies
Fetes that are bound to go with valentine day
The lovers were bored to their teeth
They don’t knew when gods will come to unyoke them.

Especially the male lover, was most perturbed
His mother looked sorriest
With a scrofulous look on her old aged African face
She looked like a forlorn erstwhile cattle rustler
She ever whined in pain like a trapped hyena
Her son the male lover even began apologizing
To the female lover for such environmental upsets
Hence an African proverb that;
No love is possible with impaired judgment.

One day in the wee of the night
With no electricity nor any source of light
Darkness engulfing each and every aspect of the city
Confirming the hinterland of Africa
The female lover woke up from the sleep
And she never heard the usual wheezing breathes
That her mother often made in such hours,
Feat of suspicion gripped her
She jumped out of her bed to where her mother was
On feeling her, she found her dead, cold like a black member
She was already past the rigor mortis stage of death process
African chilliness had frozen her like a poikilothermic creature.

She wept but not in the uproarious groan
In that instinctive Jewish shrewdness
She did not announce nor inform her lover of her mother’s death
She only washed and groomed the cadaver of her mother
She made a headscarf around the head of dead mother
She even placed reading glasses on her face
On her mother’s dead torso she wrapped a dress
The most expensive of all bought from Egypt,
In the same wee of the night
She carried cadaver of her mother on her shoulders
The way a poor Nigerian farmer would carry a stem of banana
And walked slowly by slowly for a distance of a hundred kilometers
Down ***** into Kenya towards the city of Todanyang in Turkana County
Todanyang was a busy city, but silent and minus people in the night
The king of this city was called Lapur the son of Turkanai
And the law that Lapur passed in this city was archaic
It was; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a Jew for a Jew
A pokot for a pokot, a samburu for a samburu
It was simply the law with nothing else
Other than clauses of measure for measure
And clauses of *** for tat instantaneously administered,
On reaching the market she placed her mother standing
Being supported on a sign post at the bus stage
In pose similar to that of an early morning traveler,
She sat a side like a prowling spider awaiting foolish fly
They way an African ***** exposes its red ****
And when the hen comes to peck
It traps and closes the head of the hen
Deeper into its ****,
At that bus stage there was a hotel
Owned by a Rwandese refugee
From the foolish clan of the Hutu
He had ran away from the genocide
In his country, he was also the perpetrator
And thus he was a runaway from the law *** hotelier
His name was Chapuchapu, meaning the quick one,
When Chapuchapu opened the hotel for the early customers
The female lover walked into the hotel
With innocence on her face like all the Jews
She placed an order for two mugs of coffee
And two pieces of bread
When Chapuchapu had placed food on the table
The female lover shrewdly instructed Chapuchapu
To go and hold the hand of the woman standing at the sign post
To bring her into the hotel for morning tea,
Chapuchapu in his unsuspecting charisma
With a mad drive to make money that morning
He dashed out as instructed with his foolish notion
That the customer is the queen, which is not
He grapped the standing cadaver with force
On pulling her to come along
The cadaver tumbled down like a marionette
Everything falling away; headscarf and glasses
Chapuchapu was overtaken by awe
The female lover was watching
Like the big brother in the Orwellian satire, 1984.
When the cadaver of her mother fell
She came out of the hotel
Screaming like a hundred vehicles
Of St John Ambulance
And two hundred Kenyan vehicles of fire brigade
And three hundred Kenyan cash transfer vehicles,
She was accusing Chapuchapu for being careless
Careless in his work that he had killed her mother,
Swam of armed humanity in Turkana loinclothes
Began pouring in like waters of Nile into Mediterranean
Female lover improved the scale of her screaming
Chapuchapu like a heavyweight idiot was dumbfounded
Armed people came in their infinite
Finally king Lapur arrived on his royal donkey
That his foot soldiers had only rustled
From Samburu land a fortnight ago,
The presence of the king quelled the hullabaloo
The king asked to find out what had happened
Amid sops the female lover narrated how
Chapuchapu the hotelier had killed her mother
Through his careless helter skelter behaviour
The king sighed and shouted the judgment
To the mad crowd; an eye for a……….!?
The crowd responded back to the King
In a feat of amok value;
For an eye you mighty Lapur son  ofTurkanai,
The stones, kicks, jabs began rainning
In volleys on an innocent Chapuchapu
Amid shouts that **** him, he came here to **** people
The way he killed a thousand fold in Rwanda.

The sopping female lover requested the king
That his people wait a bit before they continue
Then the king waved to the people to stop
Chapuchapu was on the ground writhing in pain
When the King asked the female lover what was the concern
She requested for pay from Chapuchapu not people to **** him
Chapuchapu accepted to pay whatever the price that will be put
Female lover asked for everything in hundreds;
Carmel, money, Birr, sheep, goats, donkeys, cows
Name them all they were in hundreds
Chapuchapu and his family were saying yes to every demand
And they rushed to bring whatever was said
The payments exhausted Chapuchapu back to square zero
The female lover carried everything away
The cadaver of her mother on her shoulder
She disappeared into the forest
and buried her mother there.

When she arrived home she found the male lover
He looked at her overnight change in fortune in stupefaction
He didn’t believe his eyes, it was a dream
Sweetheart, where have you gotten all these?
Questioned the male lover
Sweetie darling there is market for dead women
At Todanyang in the Turkana County of Kenya
I killed my sickly mother and carried her cadaver
As a trade ware to Todanyang
Whatever I have that you are looking at is the proceed,
Can my mother fetch the same? Asked the male lover
Of course yes, even more
Given the Africanness of your mother
African cadavers fetch more than the Jewish ones
At Todanyang market,
The male lover was now overtaken
By strong urge for quick riches
Was not seeing it getting evening
That day for him was as long as a whole century
He was anxious and restless more tired of a sickly mother
When evening fell he was already ready with the butcherer’s tools
He didn’t have nerves to wait till the wee of the night
As early as eleven in the evening he axed his mother’s head
Into two chunks of human skull spilling the brains in stark horror
Blood streaming like a rivulet all over the house
The male lover was nonchalant to all these
He was in the full feat of determination
To **** and sell his mother to  get the proceeds
With which he could foot the bills of valentine day.

He stuffed the headless blood soaked torso
Of his mothers cadaver in the sisal bag
He threw it to his bag
And began going to Todanyang
The market for human dead bodies
He went half running and half walking
With regular whistling of his favourite poem;
Ode to my Jewish lover
He reached Todanyang in the wee of the night
No human being was in sight
All people had gone as it was late in the night
He then slept in the open with dead body of his mother
Stuffed in the sisal bag beside him
Wandering night dogs regularly disturbed him
As they came to bite at smelling curdled blood
But he always scared them away.
As per the male lover he overslept till five in the morning
But when he woke up he unhesitatingly began to shout
Advertising his ware of trade in foolish version;
Am selling, the body of my mother, I have killed,
I killed her myself, it is still fresh, come and buy,
I will give you’re a bargain price,

When the morning came
People began crowding around him
As he kept on shouting his advertisement
Also Lapur the king came
He was surprised with the situation,
He asked the male lover to confirm
Whatever he was shouting
The male lover vehemently confirmed,
Then the law of an eye for an eye
Effortlessly took its course
Lapur  ordered his people, in a glorious royal decree
To stone the male lover to death
And bury him away without ceremony
Along with his mother in the sisal bag
In the wasted cemetery of villains
The same way Pablo Neruda
Had to bury his dead dog behind the house,

On hearing the tidings
About what had befallen her lover
The female lover had to send out a long giggle
Coming deep from her heart with maximum joy
She took over the estate of the male lover
Combined with hers,
All the animals and everything she took,
She made her son the manager
The son whom she immaculately conceived
Without any nuptial experience in the usual Jewish style
And their wealth multiplied to vastness
And hence toxic valentine gave birth to capitalism
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
True equality is what is wished for
But what if you really opened that door
What would be on the other side?
I’m not sure we’d enjoy the ride

Individuality dies with equality
There are no choices you see
If everyone has to have the same things
No one gets to win the brass ring

No more people like you and people like me
If the same is all we ever get to be
The same model car and the same clothes
The same old food in the same homes

The same haircut and the same color
Or we are all clean shaved so much the duller
The same education for everybody
You’re paid the same as anybody

Sports would all end in a tie
If there still played at all… sigh
No more winners, No more losers
No choices so no choosers

There are no differing opinions you see
When you’re a victim of true equality
No reason to strive
There is no ladder to climb

No reward for hard work
Are you feeling the irk?
No matter what, you cannot get ahead
It’s almost as if you are full of lead

But that just it, no ahead to get
When everyone gets what everyone gets
The Thought police are out in full force
No one is married or there is no divorce

No kids at all or everyone has 2
There is no longer me and no longer you
When equal society is the important thing
Everyone gets to feel every sting

Orwellian yes
But truth none the less
The only people different are the ones in charge
While everyone suffers they live it large

They get to decide how much you’re alive
And they can tell you 2+2=5
So how does this strike you?
Will that work for you too?

I’m not a fan
Of this little plan
Because not everyone is the same
No matter what people will claim

We don’t think the same thoughts
We don’t call the same shots
Not even twins are exactly the same
And if we all were, what a boring game

Just a bunch of clones, going nowhere
Just dull and drab, no bling and no flair.
Yet that is what current society prescribes
Even though were all from different tribes

If we ever achieve true equality
Remember sometimes wishes end badly
JDH Jul 2017
Some introductory food for thought...

"Threats to freedom of speech, writing and action, though often trivial in isolation, are cumulative in their effect and, unless checked, lead to a general disrespect for the rights of the citizen"
  - George Orwell

"There is only three states of being. There is slavery, tyranny, those are both forms of conflict, or negotiation. Negotiation depends on freedom of speech and you have to be able to talk to people if you are not going to fight with them or capitulate to them."
  - Jordan Peterson

"If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.”
  - George Orwell


The key proponents of the Bill and it's context...
On the 18th October 2016, Bill C-16 received Royal assent in Canada, despite having a small, but thorough opposition, even from those within the LGBT community who felt that the proponents of the Bill did not represent their desires, but that of the most extreme and ideological spectrum of their community. A prominent figure in the opposition to the Bill was Jordan Peterson, a Professor of Psychology at the University of Toronto, who has dedicated a great length of time in study into the **** and Soviet regimes of the past, paying particular attention to the ideological and psychological elements of those periods, which has built his principles as strongly opposed to ideological thought, Postmodernism and Marxism, all of which were instrumental or played roles in the mass genocidal regimes of the early 20th century that began with the subjugation of ideas and speech.

The Bill's implementation is an amendment to the Ontario Human Rights Code that makes the refusal by an individual to refer to someone by their preferred gender pronouns a hate crime. It also brands discrimination by 'gender expression' with the same impunity. To those who do not understand what these concepts mean, essentially what the gender pronoun debate is, is how a minority of the LGBT community demand they be refereed to by different pronouns, and have their gender expression (fashion choice) protected by law. For instance, those who claim not to fit into the binary gender pronouns (he/she) and therefor don't identify as either a man or a woman, wish to be refereed to with artificial neologisms such as ve, they and them.

These demands, however, are not being made by the majority of LGBT people, but a small minority of people, mostly younger students who've been indoctrinated into postmodern and social Marxist ideology. This means that the Canadian government is taking the most extreme representation of a group as the representatives of the entire group, which would be like taking the **** Party as a valid representation of Germans, or the British Olympic squad as representatives of the standard fitness of the entire British public. This is a key focus of opponents to the Bill, like Prof. Peterson who recognises (being an employee of a University himself) that Bills like these are the result of borderline indoctrination in the Universities, and not the demands of LGBT people in general.  


The innate authoritarianism of the bill and it's Marxist/Postmodern motives...
Why are the proponents of this Bill innately authoritarian in nature? Well, as Professor Jordan Peterson makes the clear distinction, that unlike other forms of what is deemed hate speech in law, that enforces what you CAN NOT say, this Bill enforces WHAT YOU MUST SAY. As an example, Holocaust denial is considered hate speech, and so you can not express such a position, however, here you are now forced to speak words that you might not want to say, something far more Orwellian that one might be able to conceive when concerning a seemingly trivial enforcement, and having often spoken of gradualism, this is certainly not the end of the issue.

What is also concerning is that the supporters of the Bill are evidently ideologically motivated, in terms that their ideology (Marxist/Postmodern) is in itself authoritarian in nature, and as they fail to gain support by ideas, they suppress them. Law like this should not be able to slide through the apparatus of the State this easily, for it conveys on many levels a lack of respect for the generations of people who suffered under despotic rule for centuries until finally the rule of law gave them rights (and now we throw them away). It also shows to those more nefarious groups, that the public will not blink, even when you chip away at their right to speak as they choose, which I don't believe is a habit that should be maintained.


- a short essay by FabiusSideman
I am from the UK, however, I followed the events and the processes of this Bill, particularly its opposition.
Esridersi Oct 2020
Free Speech is dead,
Kamala ain’t black -  
Joe Biden is hidin’
while Hunter’s on crack.
Stu Harley Jun 2016
we
built
a
time machine
that
flies
we
traveled
into
the future
and
into the past
and
the
time machine
has
Orwellian eyes
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
poetry can resemble a jackson ******* method - but it can also resemble sitting on the stairs in the garden, just when winter starts to dig into it's cold at night (but still not cold enough) for a man drinking beer and smoking cigarettes to feel the skin etch out in itches from the mild freeze, and imagining himself holding the beer bottle with skeletal fingers... then the thoughts come... nothing is really planned by a narrator working out a fictional linear process, it's more like that soviet invention of a game of tetris, thoughts come, the ego disappears, thoughts arrange for a brief narrative, then disappear, new thoughts come, then a randomisation process takes over, until ex nihil complete dispersion, the faculty of thinking is exiled, and the faculty of memory takes over.*

after watching two grand movies in one day,
it felt really sour to return to the grand stasis of things,
the only constellations that are visible
without any ******* notion of light pollution
are scorpio and the big dipper...
the litter dipper is more dim this year,
so dim i mistook the earth's celestial geographic
route as spring summer the big dipper is
when in autumn winter the big dipper is
the small dipper... but seeing the two in the night
once i became aspirational in my error -
if only the prefix aspi- existed, derived from
aspen to the added continuance of the word
left: rational: rationality based upon unforced error?
but these two films: kingsman: the secret service
& the hobbit: the desolation of smaug
you get penetrated by so many active ingredients
for the narration via images, that when you
un-glue your eyes from plato's cave (actors
are the best conclusive interpretation of shadows,
no rabbits in the hand to be mistaken for the real things)
you get this drawback sensation of having to focus
on inanimate things in stasis -
and it can & does become pretty glum,
esp. if you want to return to the realm of using
phonetic symbols, to not speak in reserve for
an up-and-coming stage performance
but to see the glaring starry composition of hidden
things in the things already seen...
so there with the beer, scorpio elsewhere
the big dipper only thing providing me with
a workable dynamic: in schematic
          
       .         .
                    
                       .
                .

       .
            .

               .


i had to active this arrangement of stars
to negated feeding my exposure to
so many images...
i began by coupling the stars: three couplets
one star the odd one out...
then i started to create a dynamic
on the basis of geometry, a geometric
non-linear representation of infinity,
but the constellation into a circle,
and therefore thought of infinity as not
beginning                         sequence                    end,
after all, infinity as a constant interchange
of 10 distinctions 0 - 9 can be ridiculous,
whereby infinity just becomes a randomisation:
either 14123480345792340834 etc.
or 12300984393657499393030, etc.
so using geometry i need to acquire
a infinite parallelism, infinite parallelism
implied as non-convergence.... two points
small enough (atoms, sub-atomic particles,
stars) to interact in parallel, but never converge,
for if convergence was possible...
i wonder: me being conscious of being
the olympic gold swimmer to the ****?
i hardly think so.
i can perceive atoms via the greek imagination
or with the galileo of small-print via the microscope,
but i can't individuate an atom of some sort
to a specified functional guarantee: well yeah,
sulphur stinks... but i could technically
atomise the one unit in my capacity to a state
of an atom... my self... given the number of people
and all the chance interactions in an environment
big enough to all a minuteness of the atomised self...
which is perhaps the counter to that old chestnut
known as solipsism: how to get the right phonetically
chemical concoction to get an etymologically word
out of this? atomipsism? no philology in me just
yet to open the bible of philology (the dictionary)
or bother thesaurus rex for comparative literature.
but anyway, as things go i was musing this other thing,
the fame of achilles with the modern fame machinery...
back then you really had to push the right buttons,
and your actual fame was post-mortem, in order
that you might be glorified in some way...
modern fame seems like a bad orwellian joke...
it's translated into our modern themes of catchphrases
slogans and trademarks as c.c.t.v., a ****** camera
on your shoulder... it actually is a bad orwellian joke...
no double think i rephrased into:
there are more c.c.t.v. cameras in england than in
all of europe put together... so the double think
is as this:
a. should i be bothered, or
b. should i not be bothered?
i'll answer with my usual enigmatic methodology by
just changing the subject -
we left the realm of philosophic doubt and thinking,
we entered the realm of modern denial and thinking,
i dare say i prefer doubt to denial,
it makes all our apprehensions, petty fears and
all petty concerns a bit smaller - via the maxim:
the only fear to fear is fear itself... denial doesn't
provide what doubt provides, doubt is like
cushioned fear... if there's a fear to fear as simply itself
doubt puts a lid on it, a spontaneity,
a kantian noumenon by definition, fear-in-itself.
**** Smartphones.
They're ******* stupid.
Orwellian and Oedipal.
"Oedipal," as in "*******."
This is the new world.
A virtual Vegas crammed with bright lights,
stimulating colours. Sensory overkill
for the new generation.

The mice scurry. A click. Words
and pictures fill up the sad, vacant space.
Information pours into our heads and trickles
out our ears in a few seconds.

No wallet, no coins, no notes.
Objects become ours with no money
in sight. No handshake, no hello,
but a deal has been done.

We are obsessed with the here and now.
A need to know what he’s doing, she’s doing,
surely they want to know what we’re doing too?
A second later, the world can know.

Are you feeling lucky punk?
Plunge into an ADHD mess of those who wish
to be loved by the unseen, unknown.
We are alone, unloved. We need you.

Television without a remote.
Films, music without a disc.
An online Orwellian world.
What was ‘hot’ last week

is recycled into a new fad.
A constant tinker of
layouts, images, ideas,
designed to bind us in chains.

Look at me! Look at me!
Play me, **** the clocks.
Once you’re in, like hell
you’ll get out.

The new world trapped in wires.
Why talk when we don’t need to?
Troops are growing in numbers.
Sign up. It’s free and always will be.

Maybe God created the world as we knew it.
Everything we knew and didn’t stuffed
into a space that grew each day.
The new world is no different.

We stare and sit at reality number two.
There are our ‘friends’, then everyone else.
We are not alone. Anyone, anywhere can find anything.
The life we live scrolls before besieged eyes.

It can go slow, it can go fast.
It can crash when it gets too much.
Maybe it is just like us.
Refresh the page.

Now, what’s on your mind?
Written: February 2012.
Explanation: Another poem for univeristy, but in another module. This poem is about the Internet, and contains many references to Facebook. I feel this poem reflects the way people my age use the Internet, and perhaps view it nowadays.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
the ontological basis, comparatively
with what the people think when too many
politicians exist due to centralisation
of government, with so many parliamentary
members paid a wage yet still so aloof
that they have no eagerness for local
governing of things: we all know the Orwellian
metaphor of pigs by the trough:
cabbage and porridge, we all know the joke...
but when the zeitgeist of the populace is
plagiarism and ******* you must surely
admire politicians... they feed the people
facts slowly, instead of feeding them
carbonate ***** of wheat to bloat the chickens'
stomachs, they feed them breadcrumbs...
politicians delay matters so much so that
conspiracy theories arise...
for indeed people are not so much critical
of politicians, but of the number that emerges...
esp. those not schooled in sophism,
but rather schooled in unnecessary observance...
there is more to observe on the streets outside
the palace of Westminster than there is within in...
the lawn Mohican on Churchill's statue
with a pink lipstick around his face
and Caduceus revised Baphomet on his walking
stick... how i prescribed myself headphones to
create an artificial cerebral buzz-maker
each time i hear the blood sizzling fizz...
without everything being too quick or too immediate,
politicians are delayers of things...
they want the schoolroom banter to take place,
they're the ones unafraid to make and poke fun at
each other, sophism is intended for that...
philosophy takes offence too easily, hence it's
dangerous, it's limited to public engagement
because it's intended for individualisation of circumstances:
whether you end up homeless on a street
or ordained a palace and a crown;
you can't describe philosophy in five minutes
in the same way that you can't limit politics into
the same confinement... zoologically speaking it's
necessary for a lion to be kept in a cage as long as he's
being kept in it as a glutton who frequently sleeps
because he's well fed and doesn't dream of lamb-shanks
but instead of  being Simba (a Disney character)...
politicians delay and provide dietary requirements
of what the public ought to know... they're
like dieticians, they give you a dietary scheme of things,
because so many of us are prescribed duties
it would be madness to suddenly tell you:
Martians visited us last December, we need to
throw away our workman's utensils and go and pray
to them for free food and unlimited electricity;
in this sense i can't disrespect politicians,
i just think that an excess of them in Parliament is
what's fuelling a public disgruntling...
but the thing is... the politicians that people are disgruntled
about are not those in the mainstream, they're
not from the centralised "celebrity" batch of politicians,
they from local governments, and their presence in
the centralised house of commons is really disgruntling
to the public in most respects...
either way, admiration for politicians slowing it down,
disrupting the sharing of facts so that we
can accept our functions without anarchistic boredom
being awoken like some Godzilla...
in terms of facts i want to be a Columbus,
on my own initiative... i don't want to be a ******* turkey...
wanting to be a turkey breeds conspiracy theories...
in a torture chamber you just here: 'but they fed me this!
but they fed me this!' 'and you were stupid enough
to mistake facts for propaganda? catch the surf, ******!'
wanting to be a Columbus means you don't care
to own a plasma television and a Ford Mustang.

— The End —