"Before the prefects came around"
Roger Turner - Poet 

December 27th, nineteen and fifty one
The day the snowball war had officially begun
It started in the schoolyard
It was supposed to just be fun
But, by the time the whole thing ended
No one knew just who had won

The grade five class were lying there in wait
As the kids from home form seven
approached the schoolyard gate
With a yell the whole thing started
They were served up on a plate
the kids from home form seven
would not forget this date

The air was full of missles
Launched from wet gloves by the score
As the victims ran for cover
They were hit by four score more
They were bruised and hurt and battered
As they ran for the school door
Now, the kids from the grade five class
Lay waiting there for more

Two teachers came to stop them
Get them back into the school
but, the kids just launched more snowballs
Using scarves now as a tool
They would catapult their snowballs
which was really, really cool
And the teachers ran for cover
In the safety of the school

They'd built a wall near four feet high
To protect them on both sides
It channeled all who entered
The walls acted as guides
At most their little walkway
Was only eight feet wide
and their victims ran for cover
For the school, a place to hide

It was dark when the attack happened
The form seven kids came back
They'd left the school from the front door
And had now planned their attack
Their first snowball hit it's target
With a loud resounding crack
It was clear that old form seven
Was truly fighting back

The teachers had a huddle
Met inside and chose to fight
They would wait until the battle
Had gone on into night
They would sneak out of the building
With the absence of the light
And attack the grade five children
And show them how to fight

The air was full of snowballs
Bodies, gloves, scarves abound
there were children hitting adults
And there were children on the ground
They'd been at it for six hours
When they heard the alarm bell sound
It was time to get inside for bed
Before the prefects came around

The snowball fight at Wellesley
Public School in fifty one
Is the one that they remember
Out of all of those they've done
In all one hundred people
Were involved in all the fun
For next year they are building
A snowball launching gun!!!

"prefects of the firm categorisation of *homo sap"
Máteùš Izydor 

well, it's still better than what populists ascribed to with omni-; which basically led two major "monotheisms" (Christianity and Islam) into pantheism: e.g. - touch a rock, mm, that's god... touch a banana, mm, that's god; stick a thumb up your ass, mm... now that's truly god.

what i was aiming to suggest was the concept
of deo sapiens,
as an antidote to the overrated homo sapiens
categorisation, which can hardly be the limit
of our collective definition of man set apart
from nature, given his persistent submission
to the four elements of nature, which limit
man's assurance as above helpless animals he
decided to pet or industrialise in farming -
and apart from the elements the existence of
parasites and diseases (negations of ease) -
i only wanted to introduce the concept deo sapiens
to say F U to the Greek demoralising theological
poets, and enjoin the whole concept with
what was already inscribed prior: made in his image,
although image doesn't really go beyond
the demigod Narcissus in what's to be understood:
perhaps we are of the same mould in
the shallow realm of equal representation,
repraesentatio expilo (representative plagiarism),
but with the overruling body of nuance
hanging over us like a sack of shit or the sword
of Damocles, we can hardly continue as these unshaken
prefects of the firm categorisation of homo sapiens,
which is still rather an infant of conceptualisation,
we have no claim to homo sapiens, i cannot think
why man claimed such a firm atheistic belief with
his continual irrationality, perhaps certain discoveries
in science allowed him crossing the Nile of ideas,
thus in the same way as i disregard the categorisation
of homo sapiens i invite the concept of deo sapiens,
a rational god: it's just a massive grave and subsequent
plagiarism with pyramid schemes of dupes!
that thing ain't gonna fly! away from greek poets who
purposively created immoral gods to satiate their
human fancy: indeed an unfair world, but a world
where man can fully express his freedom, and what
freedom he chooses according to his will...
only a deo sapiens would allow such freedoms
(with that one bloody exception that's worth a thousand
stigmas in the shadow of the crux that gave us
so much narcissistic culture via iconography and dyslexia);
or in other words, yes, indeed only a homo insapiens
would dare craft the idea of a deo sapiens
(although in act of good faith / doubt), rather than
a homo sapiens crafting the idea of deo insapiens
(although in act of bad faith / denial) -
and yes, the paradoxical twins, who are actually
Siamese... it's now up to your choice of painting with
will what freedom you wish to see revealed on
the canvas... don't mind me, my hands are in the air,
i surrender... i'm not about to imitate an Islamic prayer
format of kneeling and mumbling something under
my breath five times a day; i'll do it in one smooth
guillotine stroke: hands in the air.

"summer - in that i find historians the prefects of philosophy, the Republic guardians,"
Máteùš Izydor 

it's quiet hard to find a welcoming book, i can cite two read in one sitting, thus spoke Zarathusrta (the original intent) and the soft machine by burroughs... all others came with many composed sittings... but none of the repeated encounters can be spoken of so favourably as Bertrand Russell's history of western philosophy, with that book came the kindest summer - in that i find historians the prefects of philosophy, the Republic guardians, leave the poets to do their sing-along, and furthered abstracts of symbols (should they wish, and ought), give presence to historians like Russell and Tatarkiewicz (surname derived as descended from Tartar auxiliary at the battle of Tannenberg with two naked swords dipped into virgin soil awaiting blood by a Lithuanian king married to a Polish gal).

sometimes poems can be more memorable than entire
books, there memorableness technique used in
epics gets lost most of the time,
writers' custard narrative awaiting a memorable
spontaneity is always missing, a memorable quote
needs to be bookmarked, it's hardly remembered,
all that talk of etiquette, esp. 19th century is always
the fog in novel, Mr. Darcy and his twin
Mr. Rochester, both haunted -
the former by social structures (prejudice;
his wife to be by lower caste governed by pride)
while the latter by a madwoman in the attic -
there's nothing memorable about these novels
in mono assertions, unless you have a book-club or
a cinematic script and a movie... poems are more
memorable, naturally, even if you're unable to recite
them because you rather recite the list of ingredients
for a bonkers curry, someone else will recite you a
poem, no problem. i guess that's because memorising
poetry is afforded by rhymes, the crude musicology
if given an instrument, would be to pluck
two same notes, ugly with a guitar, beautiful with
the tongue.
no, novels are not memorable, ask blind Samson about
the pillars he absorbed with his strength and pulled
down... ask him...
or... or i can tell you a little secret, it's a secret concerning
Sylvia Plath's bell jar... page 119 in my edition (Faber & Faber),
slight digression: a page later she's complaining in
a "fictive" personality about the ineffectiveness of sleeping
pills... she has been apparently given max'      imum
strength pills... dear Sylvia,
                                        against your doctor's orders,
          against all pharmaceutical orthodoxy,
sleeping pills are best effective with alcohol,
even though the tagline is to avoid mixing the two...
i can't specify the quantity of alcohol in milligrams
akin to the dosage of the pills, dear Sylvia, they're only
effective with the liquid sedative, and perhaps a painkiller
like paracetamol...
nonetheless on page 119 she's citing a book you will
probably not read, and neither did she (explanation
a bit later)... she cites the first page of J. Joyce's
Finnegans Wake...
                 riverrun past Eve and Adam's...
and that ONE-HUNDRED LETTERED word:

  ba'ba'ba'dal'gharagh'takamminanarronk'onn'bronntonner'r­onn'tuonn'thunn'trovarr'houna'wnska'wntooh'oohoo'rdenen'thurnuk!­

i tried the syllable scalpel to my best ability for breath,
this grand anti-onomatopoeia, cut for brief pause...
but she didn't read any further like Delmore Schwartz
trying to sell this damn Grææ tongue...
she didn't read on, because there's another century in this
book:

(i left a bookmark on the page (no. 23) - a painting by
Diego Velázquez, the toilet of Venus 122.5 by 177 centimetres)

with loss of breath and entry of the centipede as follows

perkodhuskurunbarggruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhur­thrumathunnaradidillifaititillibumullunukkunun!

but i must i don't have the ratio, since i didn't bother counting
either words, but Sylvia did, and if she counted the first word
as a century, this second word must also be a century -
yet on suspicion should i believe she read further, or didn't?
they claimed the book to be a Babylonian Tower
readying for dispersions of the people, yet with historical
events it's a joke, given that there are no diacritical marks
in the book to provide stresses of accents:
e.g. fumatul poate să ucidă (romanian for: do not smoke
cigarettes, yes, there's a black market for cigarettes,
THANK GOD!) - and with saying that, it is not a book
with a Babylonian Tower attached to it, it's a tower for sure,
but a Globalisation Tower, how english became the
Lingua Levant once more, when the Franks had their
puppet king of Jerusalem at the time of Saladin.

— The End —