It is an honour

for me to be there for you --


Until you sell me.

+ Inequality is good, a wise friend once divulged
+ It was a good thought that has a hint of truth
+ Why? I asked to uncover its mystery
+ Then he replied, and informed me gleefully

- Perfect liberation is too far to achieve for foolish men,
- In the present times I witness what I believe
- Blissful faces all around and it's probably not their last
- Ain’t we living now in an unequal world with future to trust?

+ I ask, but what about those people lamenting in the dark?
- I’m sorry to tell you bro, in a senseless quest I won’t embark
- Unfairness is when happy people are the cause of their misery
- Which we are a part of, this is ours and that is their destiny

- Of course I won’t impede your stance in this matter
- I believe you ain’t too foolish with your freedom and liberty
- It’s just that some people get what they want on a silver platter
- While some work their ***** of just to receive their miniscule pay

+ I understand my friend that harsh verity
- Harsh? Yeah to some people it is full of cruelty
- That’s why they want to overturn the norms, the world’s ethos
- I admire their courage but that is a matter I don’t intend to poke my nose

+ Speaking of unfairness, I have a thought of mine
+ Why do people complain of what is absent
+ When compared to others they have a lot present
+ Is it because man’s greed knows no confines?

+ And some people grumble about their problems that  
+ When compared to other’s crosses are just shallow vats
- If it is what you said then what use is contentment?
- And the second problem’s just like a game in my discernment

- Level by level we are differing with every other
- It is by which our environments determine our given attitude
- A level one complains to a level seven, a higher number
- And a level ten complains to a problem of greater magnitude

- By which sometimes the level ten see level one in annoyance
- For how lucky he is yet grumble of his misfortune
- See, its just a matter of perspective and vision
- Now why are you looking at me in askance?

+ Your logic has something wrong, I’m just pointing out, not debate
+ Why can’t a level ten, over a level 1 problem, grumble?
+ For its just a matter of perspective as you did articulate
+ And if it is the case then what use is the level of the people?

- Hahaha, you got me right my friend
- My view is flawed as I am
- Please do share thy thoughts so all this will end?
- For we have talked till the cows to home, come

+ My friend, I dare not belittle the view you conceive
+ For I think it has a hint of truth, even though with a flaw
+ You have a wisdom that exists only on a chosen few
+ So let me add a bit of my subjective perspective

+ The great may whine of a small barricade
+ The lesser may smile to the towering obstacles ahead
+ In every individual there are many factors of multitude
+ This is what you have missed, the peculiarity of humans

+ Not just discernment,
+ There is also temperament
+ We not only have perspective,
+ There is also attitude that we give

+ Many matter in life, I thus conclude my statement
- So that’s it! Thank you for the enlightenment
- Those factors really do affect our actions
- As long as we are humans, there are no exceptions

- To persist, to cower, to grumble, in traversing the rain
- To take it easy, to seek help or to accomplish it on our own
- Despite all this choices one truth will always remain
- That in life we most likely will reap what we have sown

step right in
where commodity and fiction
are deliberately blurred,

electrostatic dust collector,
after-shower body air-driers,
a spatially disconnected
from the world roll-on wife
complete with a dining table
that sinks into the floor;
don't tell her she's an android;
just don't.

she is captured
and ever ready,
she was a stenographer
but quite unsteady,
her mouth a spark of vowels
when her far off places
are aroused.

repeat this soothing motto — space, place, memory.

outside is scenographic sensation:
lightology. unbreathed air. porcelain skin.

she's the soft electric assurance
of a better life — the life which rests on device alone — a strong, sweet poison which infects the blood.

she is "the light of any home"...

They work very hard,

while the pilgrims are asleep:


the wallet-rippers.

Clearing ivy,
pulling up handfuls of
choking bindweed,
uncovering delicate
wildflowers in
neglected garden corners,
and there’s this
tiny bird
lying in the dirt.
Feathers sparkle
pretty and golden,
as fairytale light
falls through
parted vines.
Surely dead,
but then
- like Snow White
surfacing from
magic apple-induced
dormancy -
the bird moves,
woken by the kiss
of sunlight and
being witnessed,
and seems to breathe.
A gloved finger’s
exploratory, leathery ****,
a moment to realise,
then disgust,
sharp recoil.
A wing lifts;
gleaming feathers
parting reveal the
crawling mechanics inside,
the writhing, parasitic mess
behind the sick illusion,
the briefly faked miracle
of something
like life.

Away over a fence,
Union bunting
***** erratic and jarring
in a neighbour’s garden.
In a stuffy town hall,
the town band is practising
God Save The Queen, but
still can’t keep time.
Our betters wave to us from
high palace balconies
and golden coaches, and we
cheer them for it.

There’s such hunger, such
pain and desperation out there,
you can feel it, if you
forget to stop yourself.
There’s so much tragedy and injustice,
you have to go numb or go crazy.
There’s no future we can see,
and the past has been rewritten
to reflect the views
of focus groups,
fascists and fantasists.

And there’s a bird
lying in the dirt,
garlanded by fragrant petals,
feathers flashing like jewels,
so dead
it looks like
it’s breathing.

The news, every day:

fires are burning in the streets --


right out of the hearts.