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B Young May 2018
Living is as important as dying.
Do not let words leave you, for once
They do they transform to smoke.
Living is just as important as dying.
Do not let the words build up inside you,
For, once they do, they turn to a ball of  
unpolished stone.
Living is as important as dying.
Do not leave this earth without, before
Crying out the words which, if not, will
Turn to sour stone. Because,
Living is as important as dying.

Then Narcissus spoke:
We are the moon
We are the sun
We are the stars
   Twinkling above.
I'll 'A-ha!' when you 'Da-da!', be yr
hangdog lapdog Vince Dingo &
yr own personal Theo
(someone to sell your art, someone who hearts),
if you don't pose a go-go, my girl Gauguin. O when you sulk you

sizzle like a Cezanne
in the boot of a Securicor insideman's
sunset sedan, absconder after a fence's attention
to monetise his hot Tate pension
of filched Impressionists
& the Expressionists they felched
(tho' only in the noble Athenian mode
of an erastes taking an eromenos
under his ring, I mean, wing!).
There's a Degas in the trailer!
A Bazille in the footwell, clogging up the clutch!
A Seurat jutting out the sunroof!
A Manet between the shell & the chassis!
No Pissaro in thisscartho'...

Monet spiders of impasto Aprilshowers
are a freebie windscreen Renoir's squeegee,
parting gratuity from carwash clouds
of Securitannia, as our artnapper's
Salon des Refuses-replete saloon
insouciantly mounts the Seacat's ramp
at sweatfree sunset speed, en route
to Costa Calida
sans securicaution.
A victimless crime against the aesthete Joe Public,
it'll only cost Aviva.

So, Dark Cow & my unherd of readers,
thank you for reading
the rejexpectorated stye-ary
of Adrian Steppenmole,
aged 29-38 & a haller.
ConnectHook Sep 2015

GNOSIS, my friends, is alive and well,
corrupting the hearts of the masses.
They fashion a fable to fit their need until their crisis passes.
An idol from here and a text from there – just a little dabble do…
for a do-it-yourself epiphany as the counterfeit passes through.
They lose themselves in names and mantras,
thinking they’re mining gold –
while the god of this world enhances the shine of spiritual lies retold.
So get out your old Santana records, pass the **** to the left.
Listen to Jimi and Marley and worse; it will leave your soul bereft.
It’s the same old trip – the first century
has seen all of it come and go:
such transcendent explosions of heresy
are worth less than the price of the show.
In the local body of Iesous Moshiach our pastor has faithfully showed us:
nonsensical notions of Gnostic obnoxiousness
fail to enlighten – but load us
with half-truths and fantasies, cosmic conspiracies,
spiritually false revelation;
which turn on the blacklight and dazzle the mind
but maroon you in dark desolation.
So I’d like to prepare you for several short poems
exploring the way of the Gnostics.
Though I love Elaine Pagels and
Demian**‘s Hesse,
they fail to provide diagnostics…


— The End —