So, dope  young fellow
With your pretty boy swag.
With your SnapBack on.
Pants so **** low.
Every girl just waiting in line just to give you a blow.
You're royalty around here, but this is still high school.
Taking every girls cherries and jewels.
You think that you're raising the bar but I've seen this before:
Call it VCR.

And then there's me:
Who don't get no ladies.
Because I'm the type of person who actually treats females as actually human beings.
Not toys.
I'll put them before myself.
I care about their joy.
You know what's dead: chivalry.
And it can never be reborn.
Not like Call of Duty: zombies.
Boom, headshot.
But there's another ten coming your way.
Then it gets to the point when you're just blown away.
But I'll be your player 2.
Girl, I'd give up all my perks just for you.

So you guys out there with the pretty boy swag.
Who just zip it all up cuz they think they got  it in the bag.
I'm going to fight.
I'm going to step up for the voices not heard.
Cuz you've drowned them in depression, you've choke them with cruelty, and you've slapped them with sadness.
Unable to act.
Like a flightless bird.
I'll let them out of their cages so they can fly once again.
So you can't weight them down:
Call you Anchormen. Ooo, **** em'

So, pretty boy, nothing close to fantastic.
I just wanna say:
That I know  I'm swagtastic.
S- saving
W- women
A- against
G- guys
T- that
A- abuse
S- sensitive
T- tender
I- innocent
C- companions.

Shorten that: swag.
S- she
W- wants
A- a
G- gentlemen.

So now boy,
Lets just see which one of us got that "Pretty Boy Swag"

Have you noticed how the music screams,
How children in the mall confront,
How anchormen are filled with glee
When TV news disaster's front?

Noticed how the colours fade
When iridescent seas are fouled
Or skies turn turgid grey from blue
And football crowds scream hatred loud?

And why is it that every time
An ethnic immigrant complains,
He points the finger square at us,
The fools, whose benefits he claims?

And Asiatic hatreds brew
Between the Indian brother’s, brown,
Over Kashmir’s shaky border fight
And Pakistan’s deep, angry frown.

There’s trouble in the Middle East
Kalashnikovs shoot up the town,
Somebody soon, should tell those boys
When slugs go up, they must come down.

And what about the filthy beasts
Who scatter needles in the sand
To leave the fickle fall of dice
To innocents with tender hand.

Have you noticed how the wealthy keep
The good stuff for their selfish self?
The rest of WE are left to fight
Amongst ourselves for lowest shelf

And how about Ghaddafi’s end
So brutal at the sandy drain
Where wild eyed Arabs shot him dead
And TV watchers, fat, complained?

And listen to the moaning Greeks
Who’ve clearly lived beyond their means,
Complain about austerity
And pauperize their Europeans.

And witness now the howling Yanks
Who stand to point recession’s claws
Directing blame at anyone,
But themselves, whom problems cause.

And finally an Arabesque,
Macabre in its grotesque call,
Of skeletal, Ethiopian forlorn
Whose starving end, ignored by all.

There’s beauty in this bounteous world,
There’s Godly, good, and quiet serene,
But just beneath the surface lies
The human filth, deserved, obscene.

Marshalg
Observing my world in turmoil.
Auckland N.Z.
22 October 2011

Anchormen every morning
Famed KC's three-sided hub.
Traffic northbound,
Southbound,
Eastbound,
Westbound.
Honks and blinkers all resound
In one ear and out the other,
Distant memories of highways
I'd never traveled nor cared about.

Now you've brought them meaning
I've passed over every road
Racing to you
Then cruising and dreading visits' endings.

For the CBC Anchormen’s Quintet

Take the keys (of C and G), call a cab
Take the ‘phone from the moaning baritone
Bury their sheet music beneath a slab
And chase from the bass the inverted cone

Hot coffee to purge demons a capella
With fervent prayers to our merciful Lord
Please save each and every harmonic fella
And free them from the ringing chord

Oh, call a priest, call a mom, call a cop
Because friends don’t let friends sing barbershop!

Mr White carried out the crime, it must be so.
Police caught him cleaning blood off his lips and though
He said it came from a last desperate kiss, anchormen
Disagree. TV knows the truth, has given him a life sentence,
Public opinion bets on his guilt, odds are now six to one.

Only he could have free access to the family abode,
Approach Mrs White so close. She must have trusted him
And ignored, he had lost faith in her when he saw, her flaws,
In the arms of an unknown improbable lover, to both
The handsome tennis coach.

He must have premeditated the vengeful actions,
Bought the rope at the grocery store, be it with her
Credit card. He must have obliged her to write the note,
It would explain the shaky scribble she left behind. He must have
Handled the neck loop with gloves, no killer DNA found.

The house is full of his fingerprints, yet it’s his own,
But none on the rope. His tears must be fake, his fright,
Cowardice. Mr White carried out the crime, it must be so.
He must have staged the whole suicidal show, he must
Be guilty, it must be so, prosecution says so.

But do we really know, beyond any reasonable doubt?
What if she had lost faith in him when she saw, his flaws,
In the arms of an unknown improbable lover to both,
The handsome tennis coach? Bought the rope with her own
Credit card, placed the loop around her neck and hung?

linguistic ******* as the emergence of furor poeticus
  :: out of phonetic oral *** comes lyrical transcendence


  /
acacia thorns pierce the skin
while shittim pierces the veil of the perceivable
as golden incense weaves across the sky
to a sanctuary where we unwind space & time

prophet's write of the vapor turning on lights
and horns shining in rays of synesthesia

magi mixed herbs under the desert moon
which mapped a path through golden the sand

bundle's of wild harmel wood burns
as sparks flicker & dance with stars
in a moon reaching bonfire

under autumn shadows
in the harmonic hum of the aboriginal didgeridoo
drifting on the streams of wattle-seed smoke
  gazing down as the earth unfolds and refolds
            in a cymatic origami cardtrick

out of the soil grows the ship
which flies above the starry skies
fruit of biblical implications
with seeds of knowledge
& keys to ghostly dimensions

    //
Thomas Aquinas
& Meister Eikhart shared the same eye
as you & I
peel wide the smokescreen
& spy through the looking-glass used by god
  which saw god
which was the eye through which the son of god saw
& wept at the stale state
  of the collective unconscious bots
lost in spirals of consumption & mirror reflection *******

this is not the godless wasteland
advertised by the screaming anchormen
    fear-mongers & alarmists
who sell panic by the gallon

with electrodes probing their temporal lobes
the prophets & shaman's
are in the asylums
labeled as ******'s for their visions of angels
& demons
& messages from the god's

an amnesiac species
chasing the neurochemical highs
shaped by evolutionary design
as a means to survive

barrel of monkey's biologically
swinging about nuclear powered technology
        alienated
that far removed from nature (forest. desert. ocean)
planning to leave the planet entirely


    Om Mani Padme Hung
    OM
    Om Mani Padme Hung
    OM