NOTE TO THE READER – Once Apun a Time

This yarn is a flossy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together, adorned with fur-ther braided tails of human frailty. The looms were loosed, purling frantically this febrile fable...

Some pearls may be found wanting – unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy...

The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or else be stranded by the readers and left unravelling in the knotted corners of their minds...

'twill be perchance that some may  laugh or loll in loopy stitches, else be torn or ripped apart, while others might just simply say “ ’tis made of hole cloth”, “sew what” or “cant seam to get the needle point”...,

yes, a proper disentanglement may take you for a spin on twisted twines of any strings you feel might need attaching or detaching…

picking knits, some may think that
       such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land’,
       such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land’’,
       such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land’’…

and this may all be true, if credence be dis-carded…

such is that gooey gossamer which vails the human mind...

and thus was born the teasing title of this fabricated Fantasy...

                                NEVER LAND

An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
with feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre’s sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he’s flown and perched upon a mast
atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
and all the while with bitter smile he’s watching us aghast.

As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday’s celebs,
we scrape and *****, we seldom hope - he watches while we ebb:

The ***** grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
he quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
“You’ve tried and toyed, but can’t avoid or shun the pale monsoons,
it’s sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons”.
The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.

While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom
and Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,
Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,
where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,
whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,
and gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.

Mid *** shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet
a painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
to tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
and indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away
to any guy who’s passing by with time and cash to pay.
(In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,
with flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)

Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a ****** titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.

The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.

A *** called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.

The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with ****.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbrue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.

The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.

Old Dan, he’s drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain and flailing in the flood
and no god’s there inclined to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.

Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry ***** -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
then stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

So Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood cling, splattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, *****, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

The eyes behind the head inclined reflect a universe
of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
of ****** tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
while poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.

A sodden dreg with wooden leg is dancing for a dime
to sacred psalms and other balms, all ticking with the time.
He’s 22, he’s almost through, he’s melted in his prime,
his bane is firm, the canker worm dissolves his brain to slime.
With slanted scales and twisted jails, his life’s his only crime.

A beggar clump beside a dump has pencil box in hand.
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned,
with no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The backyard blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
and Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,
behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;
the painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade
and now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.
Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.

Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned,
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.
With no excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eyes despair behind the stare, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how the world will end -
to die alone on empty throne and other Fates impend.

And soon the boys chase phantom joys and, presto when they’re gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features drawn,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
- like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, in fairy dust chiffon -
with twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

A boomerang with ebon fang is soaring through the air
to pierce and breach the heart of each and then is called despair.
And as it grows it will oppose and fester everywhere.
And yet the crop that’s at the top will still be unaware.

A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.
His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,
he bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,
the sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.

Now Railroad Bob’s done lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a ****, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.

Bob walks the streets and begs for eats or little jobs for trying
“the answer’s no, you ought to know, no use for you applying,
and don’t be sad, it aint that bad, it’s soon your time for dying.”
The air is thick, his baby’s sick, the cries are multiplying.

Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow flies all a’ flurry.
Hard work’s the sin that’s done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry,
and midnight dreams abound with screams. Bob knows he needs to hurry.
It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry;
he chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry.

Per protocols near ivied walls arrayed in sage festoons,
the Countess quips, while giving tips, to crimson caped buffoons:
“To rise from mass to upper class, like twirly bird tycoons,
you stretch the treat you always eat, with tiny tablespoons”

A learned leach begins to teach (with songs upon a liar):
“Within the thrall of Satan’s call to yield to dim desire
lie wicked lies that tantalize the flesh and blood Vampire;
abiding souls with self-control in everyday Hellfire
will rest assured, when once interred, in afterlife’s Empire”.
These words reweave the make believe, while slugs in salt expire,
baptised in tears and rampant fears, all mirrored in the mire.

It’s getting hot on private yachts, though far from desert plains -
“Well, come to think, we’ll have a drink”, Sir Captain Hook ordains.
Beyond the blame and pit of shame, outside the Walled domains,
they pet their pups and raise their cups, take sips of pale champagnes
to touch the tips of languid lips with pearls of purple rains.

Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’)”

Arrayed in shawls with crystal *****, and gazing at the moons,
wiled women tease with melodies and spooky loony tunes
while making toasts to holey ghosts on rainy day lagoons:
“Well, here’s to you and others too, embedded in the dunes,
avoid the stares, avoid the snares, avoid the veiled typhoons
and fend your way as every day, ’gainst heavy heeled dragoons.”

The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.

While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”

With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.

The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches after while”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.

The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
(“the last are first, the rich are cursed” - the leached remain the least)
with crossing signs and ****** wines and consecrated yeast.
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and, bored, he nods to Eden East
but doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.

The sinking sun’s at last undone, the sky glows faintly red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.

Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
sate appetites on foggy nights and days like crystalline.
A migrant feeds on gnats and weeds with fingers far from clean
and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.

The circus gongs excite the throngs in nighttime Never Land –
they swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
while Acrobats step pitapat across the shifting sands
and Lady Fat adores her cat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the band,
ask crimson Clowns with painted frowns, to lend a mutant hand,
while Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
lure minds entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents sell black tusk contraband
to Sycophants in regiments who overflow the stands,
but No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonely Crowd disbands,
down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their threadbare rags in strands,
and Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.

The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.

The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.

At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.

The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from  Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”

The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...

In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.

Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.

Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
*****, clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.

From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !

With the wind under my wings I soar
I see the west Canadian shore
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
Nuu-chan-nulth – A caring and nurturing people are thee
Small families among the mountains, rivers, and sea
Vancouver Island’s west coast is where you reside
Awaiting your canoes on evenings incoming tide

Your men are fishing in the ocean’s secret places
Worry and hope etched in their weathered faces
Each man knowing the days hunting success must provide
For many wives, children, and elders the spoils they must divide

Your rhythm and harmony with the ocean is strong
Whale hunts and oceans spirits intertwined through your song
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
I hear the east call, and open my wings to take flight
The distant drum’s heartbeat calls from the suns rising light
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
Coast Salish – You know how the sea dances and quivers
As you watch the expanse from your inlets, and rivers
Vigilance is needed in case a Storm approaches
To mount a defence if an enemy encroaches.

Your wise headmen lead with such divine humility
Your family life embodies true equality
Your features are defined by a broad face and flat brow
Your girls with plucked brows, braided hair prepare for their vow

You seasonally harvest your rivers resources
Spawning Eulachon and sturgeon complete their courses
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
As I leave your forests of tall cedars and aged fir
The drumming beckons me up the wild Fraser River
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war


Okanagan – You survive in the Valley and slopes
In a legend of a coyote you set your hopes
He educated you how to live off the hard land
Your very own lives you bestowed in his paw like hand

Your offspring, your joy, your future you know must be taught
So at an early age, to the elders they were brought
Your youths are handpicked and taught the roll they shall assume
If a warrior shall fall another shall resume

Your seasonal harvest of forest meadows and marsh
Will insure you survival when the winters are harsh
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
With the updrafts I glide over the dry desert plains
I hear the drum call from a land where it hardly rains
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
Secwépemc – your men come out through the eastern sunrise’s door
Your women’s entrance faces the stream to ease her chore
In seasonal cozy houses built into the ground
In a secret place your spoils and possessions are found

Your request for spawning salmon grows louder each day
The messenger crickets announce salmons on their way
You hunt with arrows and spears you crafted from strong stone
Needles and jewelry you made from animal bone

You patiently, wait in the winter’s silent brisk eve  
For the deer’s stealthy approach from the snow covered trees  
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
The drum it beckons from the land of river crossroads
The land where men come to bring and trade their canoes loads
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war


Dakelh – You are the people who learned how to barter
You are known as the people who travel on water
With gathered roots you weave fish weirs in the evening air
And you set your high hopes in the chanted salmon prayer

Your children learn from the oral traditions you tell
Chinlac massacres, caves where dwarves shooting arrows dwell
Your widows carry ashes of the husband they held dear
Their Mourning and sadness that will last over a year

The respect for the land for everything you have gain
Though much, and bountiful your harvest some shall remain
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoess, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
A plume of smoke and drum beat come from the distant Northwest
Echoing from the place where the Skeena River rests
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war

Gitxsan –Your Home is surrounded by snow tipped glaciers
Forests of spruce, hemlock, cedars, and subalpine firs
Your chieftain name and duties you hold for a short time
Other Wilp members are only ‘children’ in their prime

Like the rivers your families closely intertwine
Each account told is a lesson that is sublime
Each Wilp has your story told by a tall totem pole
Your History affects and moves you deep in your soul

Deer, Moose, and small mammal in the wild woodlands you stalk
You pursue the Mountain goat through rugged peaks of rock
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
The drums incessantly pounds as I take to the sky
Urgently calling from remote islands of Haida Gwaii
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war

Haida - You live in the pacific northern islands
Your fam’lies Belong to the eagle or raven clans
You watch the tide rise and fall over the rocks and sand
Great mighty sculptures you have created with your hand

With strong healthy cedar trees you made your long dwellings
The entrance way totem your history is telling
Your warrior canoes glide through the rolling waves
Through victories and battles you have prisoner slaves


The sound of the drum beat is mixed in saltwater spray
To Vancouver Island’s west shore I must fine my way
The drum it echo, echo, echo’s, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
As I leave your vast, and memorable territory
In the soft twilight air I watch the sunset’s glory
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war

Kwakwakawakw- So proud you are of your mother tongue
Born in this beautiful land your ancestors came from
Noblemen, Aristocrats, commoners and your slaves
Your narrative exists among your forefathers graves

Your canoes bow is carved into animal features
The whale, otter, salmon and other sea creatures
You hunt with such heroic assurance all year round
In the shapes of well carved masks their likeness will abound

Your long homes are protected by the oceans embrace
First nations, my people, you are a amazing race
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
I leave your land of legends in a misty gray veil
And on the horizons comes change’s white sail
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
The Europeans came into your isolated lands
Dividing your people into tribes, reserves, and bands
Before their arrival you lived mighty, strong, and free
Now your children fight to reclaim their identity

The drum will echo, echo, echo through time’s core
It will whisper a rhythm of time, change, and war
The drum will echo, echo, echo through your core
It will whisper a rhythm of time, change, and war

they day finishes with: at last! a schoth reserve
for highlands nomads!
     long gone is the fatamorgana of soberness
coupled with a very softcore soviet sleep
experiment: i chance you to also say:
the soviet sleep experiment is a way to censor
dreams, **** it: another paul mccartney
can write another yesterday into the repertoire,
you can hear of marathon-men who did over
100 hours without sleep, and when it came to
sleeping: hour-long interludes...
as all the p.o.w's realised was the case:
stop this dream-industry of disney! stop it!
nearing 36 hours is nothing,
when i'm going to do a hiatus in Poland visiting
my grandparents i'm planning to top that,
perhaps 48... just to get the glory days of Jews
in ancient Egypt and Joseph the adviser to
the pharaoh: 7 lean years, followed by 7 years
of starvation: what we otherwise carpe diem
over-indulgence - Moses wrote the book
of disgrace... when things turned sour,
obviously he was *******, just a little bit,
from a Jew becoming an adviser to the pharaoh
by interpreting his dreams which were always
in abundance given his lavish lifestyle...
dreams come to people who aspire to lavish
lifestyle, dreams come to people who take no
pleasure from the simplest prospects of a peaceful
hermitic life... they need both the lavish life
and the lavish hope of an afterlife with abundant
dreams... they can't master the opposite:
from simple pleasures that life has to offer:
one forsakes the capacity to the need to dream...
yet those who attain a comfortable Buddhist /
bourgeoisie / middle life: through the ethic of hard
labour find dreams nonsense... only
aristocrats find meaning in dreams, because
they have enough life insurance to guarantee them
the very unentertaining life, hence the Freudian
cinema, and here is their seeking of meaning,
because outside of their sleep nod,
their meaning is already akin to a predatory creature
kept in a zoological confinement, rather than
beckoned to attest the prime element beyond
the classical elements of fire and: where was the
Japanese army bombing the hell out of that
****** tsunami to make the orca-surf shrapnel?
where? nowhere! the reporters were there prior,
i'd swear you could have done the reverse Aleppo
with that tsunami wave by bombing it and
saving lives... but no... atoms bombs were never
intended for warfare as such, they're non-profitable...
all the arms-dealers across the world make more
money from millions of bullets and thousands upon
thousands of guns being sold: atom bombs make
no economic sense... atom bombs make
no economic sense in terms of dealing arms...
the soviet sleep experiment was one of the topics
at the end of today... the other was feline pavarotti
in a cattery: i swear to god that ginger is acting
too much like a bloodhound... moans all the ******
time, i've heard every kind of Tosca, but a cat's Tosca?
never in my life has a cat so many variable versions
of meow... animals really do possess their owners,
but in a way that shows the owners to themselves...
a poem a day: keeps the psychiatrist away.
and back to the soviets, who discovered Yiddish
dream-factory ******* that only applies to
aristocrats akin to Wilhelm Oedipus II,
    i never understood why people desired so much
from dreams, pure unconscious doesn't allow it,
it's shallow dreaming that becomes easily swayed
by a decreasing poignancy of the senses that
creates dreams, and as we've already been told:
they're bound to millisecond intervals -
snoring can be seen as a prompt for dreaming,
but then pure unconscious that's beyond the sensual
realm of pulverising you with everything external
          doesn't allow dreams, because it allows rest...
the subconscious makes more sense in terms of dreams
than what it currently prescribed,
             on the fully-waking hour of what people call
reverse-psychology (popularly), or who people can
influence you and treat you as a pawn...
   in the waking hour the theory of the subconscious
is that it's somehow there, and it's brimming with
theories ranging from the unitary stealth workings
of a superego, to advertisers competing for your
attention, as in: how can this person be manipulated?
that's the strain of thought working from consciousness
where you are said to have: no free will,
no critical approach toward the world with thought,
that you are naive and gullible...
  such people do exist, because they're not working
on the subconscious from the unconscious position,
hence they are most probably highly-developed dream-machines,
they probably even dream in colour and remember
dreams vividly... but take all the things i said
about the subconscious from a conscious pinpoint
and invert the starting point from an unconscious
pinpoint, and all that manipulating dynamic that
the subconscious is supposedly is fed fades
   to simply expose the subconscious as the medium
of dreams, whereby dreams appear from a sensory
hush of all external factors... a few days back i dreamed
i woke in a bed covered in cobwebs and spiders crawling
in them... the last thing i remember looking at?
my pet incy-wincy hanging on a silken web in
the corner of my room... for this to be true,
and for all that pompous subconscious theoretical *******
to go away, to actually work on the subconscious
having a dream reality rather than a reality of
being easily swayed by superego or advertisement
and willingly giving up your will to external factors
that go beyond mere senses... you have to acknowledge
at least 36 hours of the soviet sleep experiment, clock:
no nodding.m i've set the threshold,
the junkies did over 100 hours without sleep,
but they were army material, i'm... dunno.
              a break with an article on melanie martinez,
and then back into today's end...
    it's pouring cats & dogs outside, and will so
throughout tomorrow, one of the street lamps has
turned itself into solitary disco strobe...
   e.e.m. (epileptic eye movement)
           vs. r.e.m. (rapid eye movement) -
the difference? the latter invokes the theatrical curtain
of the eyelids... the former invokes your eyes
having rolled to the back of your head so you only
see the sclera...
but a real life problem too!
in these pseudo-capitalistic societies, companies
have started to do the Pontius Pilate tactic,
they are companies without employees,
what they want are subcontractors, people who
are self-employed, because actually employing
employees is bad business for them: you have to
have a pension fund... and what capitalist wasn't
old people getting money for doing nothing?
most construction companies are following this trend...
but the problem with that is that these companies
are employing useless managers, construction
site managers that should be on a site for at least 2
days a week... even 3... so they can get the knitty-gritty
of organisation done and the project runs smoothly...
but as i've already known for months,
say a roofing company from Gloucester is given
a London-based contract... it has employed a
project manager... who 1st of all doesn't have the right
credentials to be a manager... and this pleb travels
to London from the village of Gloucester
and is on a construction site for about half an hour,
doesn't make any notes,
and spends the rest of the time being a ******* tourist
in and around London, a day like this happens,
an authentic waterproofing problem...
   so you have these flats near the city airport,
and they're connected with walkways and have planters
too... you lay the concrete, then do the waterproofing:
primer, hotmelt, fleece, hotmelt, felt.
                  now the problem, why impose self-employment
and also employ parasitical managers who know
jack **** or are interested in selfies on tower bridge?
only because they can get a cheap train ticket back
to the village of Gloucester before the rush-hour commute?
the problem is simple, or hard, depends whether
there's an actual plan and someone is bothered..
four elements...
       1. drainage matt,
             2. pebbles,              3. filter layer
and 4. ~artificial turf... plastic-like, not asphalt,
     i grant it a status of artificial asphalt,
  or turf coloured copper...
the debate ranged about where the filter layer should go,
but there was no manager with the appropriate
method statement to give... the ******* crane arrives
at 8am, and he texts the day before that he might have
an answer by noon... or that some other manager should
be consulted to the method statement...
i suggested that first: the drainage matt, then the pebbles,
then the filter layer and then the artificial asphalt...
   the other suggestion was: drainage matt,
filter layer, pebbles and then the artificial asphalt
        given that pebbles will never be spread like
a plateau of concrete, meaning there will be pockets
beneath the artificial asphalt to soften the walk
and give more spring to the step...
                  and then i read a newspaper in england
and start to think: are these the only people on an actual
payroll? with safety in retirement schemes?
          i used to think of journalists as daring...
Watergate journalism that did something...
               then you turn on the 24 news channels
and state media is no different to free-enterprise media...
     as people my age say: television is really
a piece of 20th century antiquity... who gives a ****
that millions watched a man walk on a moon
on it... at least a billion people watched the cinnamon
spoon challenge from some ******* on the internet!
     or that guy who gave his cat l.s.d.,
or that guy who jumped off tower bridge and caught
pneumonia and had to be rescued...
still, the rain is ******* down, i've got my headphones
on, and that rebel street-lamp has turned into
a discoteque strobe's of needy rhythmic epileptics -
as every: i count most psychiatric terms in popular
use as undercover poetics, people who don't read
poetry, nonetheless apply psychiatric terms
   an unilateral transcript of denoting them as metaphor(s)
in everyday sprechen; and yes,
our informal vocabulary usually suffers for the fact
that we have chosen a fixed (courteous, hierarchical)
formal vocabulary, that erodes any chanced deviation
akin to a cat-stretching: e.g. (a) so and so died,
(b) oh, i'm sorry,        (c) and you're the one who
brought back the resentful Lazarus?
(d) as if you could have, prevented the inevitable;
a conversation between four strangers.

(Frederick returned at his castle becoming a lonely man.)
Frederick was laid on the bed, seeing that beast in his room.
'It does no harm', he thought. It was tall in the evening gloom.
He was hearing the bells ringing while trying to understand
Why in front of God, this love and marriage were banned.

He fell asleep dreaming that while his stallion was grazing
In the green grass, his wife, Jezebel, was lying in the meadow,
The castle disappeared, while the time changed the life by rising,
And in the mirror's fate, that cruel reality remained only a shadow.

A life sound replacing the silence, which with a throaty grumble reigned
Touched Jezebel, and he embraced her, while she was sleeping there.
He saw that those two red icing eyes were keeping her enchained.
He woke her up with a kiss, and her sighs disappeared in the air.




She saw him, and said,' it’s like I wake up from a long twilight sleep.'
The surrounding assaults me with his new bright .This I’m really sensing.'
He smiled, ‘Sometimes, the memory of these kinds of dreams I keep.'
'It's a beast here envisioning me, and making the string's bad fate sing.'
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
(The ceremony of John’s coronation as a regent.)
The festive procession included the bodyguard, the table knaves,
The royal servants, the aristocrats, the dignitaries, and fighting braves.
The aristocrats carried a tabletop, on which the king's dress and jewels
Were laid out, and the councillors followed them according to the rules.

The insignia was carried by the dignitaries and displayed for the public,
Though, they wanted the kingdom temporarily to become a republic.
They carried the scepter, the golden cross, the golden eagle, the crown,
And the sword to the altar, while using words that end with a frown.

The archbishop and two of his suffragans accompanied the new king
Being followed by the bishops, abbots and clergy, who started to sing.
The procession entered the church, and the cardinal led John to a chair
In front of the altar in order to hear the sermon, the epistle and the prayer.

After the obligations about doing justice to clergy, widows and orphans,  
The king bound himself to demand nothing from his people or from persons
Visiting the kingdom that contradicted the divine and human rightness.
The new king promises to abolish the evil laws for the moral lightness.

The archbishop appealed to John to lead a good government, to care
For peace, and to protect the church. John said,'Before God I swear'.
He put his hands on a Bible, and the archbishop anointed his hands.
John said, 'I'll ask my dignitaries to collect from people their demands.’

The crown and the sword were on the altar to be used for consecration
The king was ready for the reception of the insignia during coronation.
After sanctification, John retired to a room to be dressed in his royal attire.
Returning to the church, he listened to the main sermons and the choir.

Kneeling before the altar, from the archbishop he received the sword
With words that resemble a pertinent prayer addressed to The Lord.
Drawing the sword from its sheath, he swung it in the four directions.
During the coronation, the still kneeling king asked for God's protection.

The royal councillors helped to place the crown on their king's head.  
The magnates symbolically extended their hands towards it, and said,
'The king receives the scepter and the orb!' The archbishop handed him.
At last, the king read loudly  the Gospel , and the choir sang a hymn.

The crown devolved on a minor being too young his duties to execute.
Requiring her protectorate, to govern in John's name she stood resolute.
Surah secured the throne for John to avoid the future succession struggle .
The handle of the political turmoil and  the intrigues she had to juggle.

Surah schemed to gain power, and to rule the country in John’s name
Thus, she defeated  the neighboring countries being hungry for fame .
The subdued  states could not regain their independence again.
This way, the neighboring kings became vassals during John's reign.

John's quick , easily wounded temper led him to make rash decisions.
Even so , the death of all the successors became Surah's  inner visions.
She made him feel slighted, when people didn't jump to his commands.
He lacked the patience for dealing with his administration's demands.

.does the concept of a misnomer, exist, within the confines of synonyms?

                       poets began complaining:
if we're not rewriting
         the brother grimms'
fairy tales...
   we're writing: about reading...
so what the hell
is up with the modern revamping
of journalism?
  journalism about...
journalism?
   and this legalißation of
homosexuality...
and the standardißing of
of transgenderißm?
i'm living inside a society,
that has abolished the concept
of the asylum...
      and i'm like:
oi! garçon! noch eine tee
   für mich...
             an dis verrückt
                  engländerteeparty!
- since writing about reading
is the consequence of
a landfill site ergonomics...
what is alt and Samson
journalism?
            oh look... another set
of people, who've entered
a problematic posit of plagiarism,
having to wrestle with,
yet another cul de sac scenario...
the nuestasi...
      i agree, there's a healthy
canvas of competition...
but... after a while?
  it's basically people slagging
each other off...
    journalists "doing" journalism
for the front-liners -
journalism as simply
     the editorial sections
of newspapers...
     opinion avenues, rubrics...
there's no longer a journalism
within the regards of:
what's happening in the world...
but...
  there's a journalism,
within the confines of:
what's happening in journalism...
the day had to come,
when the times newspaper...
had to run a page 2 story...
about a Toff Tinder dating app.,
about pseudo-eugenics -
minus the strict Nazis,
and more:
   those annoying English
aristocrats,
   who received, much more
than a circumcision when
     ruling over the Indian Raj...
mind you... it always bewildered
me...
   most european languages...
do not actually allow noun ascription
to letters...
   like the greeks might with
O being omicron,
   or A being alpha...
    hence me, among the "losers"...
well... because i have
a roof over my head,
and there actually exists a class
of employed
people in england,
that are, nonetheless, homeless!
    the latin alphabet,
with its Ah Be(e) Ce(e)...
                      ****...
just before they cut his ***** off,
the castrato at the Vatican: sang!
sang! ****** sang like a
Modena tenor... having his *****
squeezed, before having them cut off...
sung the alphabet...
   and... couldn't fathom
ascribing a noun... to a single letter
in the encoding metric...
            no surprises...
but it's not like tyrants didn't
need eunuchs to keep harems...
back when the plastic industry
wasn't in full swing...
   and you wanted to keep 200 women...
you basically needed walking ******
to keep the women occupied...
     so... a walrus bollocking
within the grasp of a, "sudden"
loss of stamina?
                 evolved...
like a tree made into a toothpick...
because... only some make
it into the kingdom of god,
imitating the monogamy of
the nobles, that are... notably swans...
the concept of
     widowhood exists among
swans...
                 sometimes...
among people...
        but hell...
                      this Bulgarian
******* asked me:
do you have a girlfriend?
   nope.
              - and the "affair" was over
within the confines of an hour...
the same emotional investment
as one might take...
   in killing a mosquito -
   omni corpus - nulla cor vel mens...
was that said, plaintively?
not really...
              no bogus drama -
   the sheep was still intact,
when the wolf left, satiated.

Tangible sin, its what i'm looking for
let the rants and raves begin
cause tongues of fire can never settle
for a one line poem or a break in tone
they need the blood red of wine in their glass
these aristocrats drinking from the lower class
we are far too outspoken to speak of silence
that's something only the seculars teach
Maddness, now there's an idea i can get behind
Imagine ideas like countries
nuclear weapons at their highest state of alert
what we believe is what we once held true
and whose finger is this on the trigger?
then eventually, yes
the tyrants will get voted into office
doing away with terms and treaties of old
eventually you'll get two shoes per person
as you read your generation's scripture like truth
from the nearest stall bathroom wall
for a good time call, God
cause he doesn't charge you per hour
well, only on sunday mornings nine to noon
but for everlasting life who wouldn't drink that elixir?
just one more broken promise
cause Buddha told me i'd be back again
back again to serve in the same platoon of freedom fighters

I live in the belly of the bully, And that bully is fat and bloated
after eating too much of everyone else’s food without permission.  Although he had more than enough to eat and he wasn’t really hungry, he left his island home; and sailed the seven seas to fill his sacks, and bring things back.  He pretended to pay, elbowing his way into, through and around their worlds, and because they did not speak English they did not understand his slippery words (and he didn’t learn theirs).  With sleight if hand and cannon he subdued then sold their souls to some obscenely wealthy aristocrats back in his island home.

He pushed them into the fields to farm and when they could not lift their arms from starvation he said it was nature’s predestination, so he did not shed  a tear and he did not interfere.  The natural law was all he saw.  That man was very  fat and and he was very flawed.

Sean Hunt  June 12th

Long ago, when soldiers were soldiers
the world was in balance
an artist, craftsman or engineer earned a living and got paid his dues
It was with wars in Atlantis and Lemuria down to Shumer, Babylon and Rome that regimes changed and thus so too with economies

Soon the world stopped reading and learning
So the aristocrats could profit from this
A lazy and unthinking society meant that they the gods would pay themselves for doing nothing but holding seats and positions

However it was not all dark for there were still Guardians of the Divine Truth
These Guarduians would travel through time, incarnating when the world was facing doom
They were soldiers who had given up their own will for the divination or channeling of the Divine Plan by FATHER
Now they were geared and strong and bold but victories would never come easy in a world where there were still blood oaths, worship of idols and evil indoctrinations
so the principles of these cults would be carried out by a grand master from time to time through the intelligence of crystal skulls
these principles would take precedence over a soul's conscience and Universal Morals
there would be vortices or channels that would have to be created by these soldiers but because of corruption and greed they would not be paid for doing so

it was only after they had left or died that the world realized the worth and value they were adding to the world
The more good deeds were punished rather than rewarded the less God of the Universe Enjilou grew tired and impatient and thus took his Good souls to reside back home in Heaven
it was so bad that even when the evil tyrants would come back from the dead to address their followers of evil, the followers did not listen
the evil 'ethics' were so infested and embedded in their psyche that it was hereditary

So when these soldiers came to reactivate the DNA areas of conscience, compassion, love, peace, happiness and kindness they would be ranked as anarchists or terrorists
this was because memory was lost of human beginnings and our galactic heritage
the Jehova uprising and the Ceasars that followed him under the guise of Lucifer  were controlling planets using obelisks and sonic beams emitting negative frequencies to sustain war, division, classisism, greed and mass ******
this was so they can induce an energy that would sustain them in 3D form, so animals were sacrificed in their name in a hope for spiritual awakening which was in actual fact leading to doom
   the destruction of conscience in each of us meant that the world was filled with zombies automated under the orders of the Unholy martix and its drivers
This war would dtem deeply in the heart of the Universe in Jerusalem
there bases in Syria that were being fought for still
This made the job of these soldiers very difficult but each Guardian would meet from time to time with the Divine Creator for reports and a status update
For as long as the soldiers weren't being paid their dues, and these were huge sums!
It signified the level of spiritual evolution and the progress of the revolution

Becuase of the decay of the planets, temples being destroyed and lies spreading
many soldiers turned against the truth and sold their souls for monetary gain
but this meant that to make money you have to ****, a lot of blood had to be spilled and there was a huge regulation on how you spent your money
basically you were now a slave because the money you had would be spent at the places owned by the aristocrats or gods of old
if you were making an honest living, you were paid very little and life was made tough for you
  So on his last day a gladiator is intructed to reveal the truths of the world and speak on behalf of all soldiers who weren't being paid for the good they were doing:
and his employer in Heaven told him that, "today you return home, the people there will not pay you and even if they do, a good soul will cry for you with 4 pounds and a note, the point is you will not be allowed to enjoy your wealth because it has been hard very hard up to this long to pay you your dues, you win a league they tell about marketing and the old systems of malls in Ur.... You win another marathon they tell you about licenses, you win a trophy after that and they tell about age or christmas, IT SEEMS TO ME THEY ALWAYS HAVE AN EXCUSE TO NOT REWARD YOU BUT ARE QUICK TO PERSECUTE YOU FOR NOT PERFORMING A TASK"...

SO you see this soldier would have to die broke, following the script of many geniuses and cardinals
in refelection it meant that there was a new consciousness which was stealing money, being selfish
   there was urgency for making a quick large buck than an urgency for doing good and awakening souls and improving the planet
  there were very few soldiers who would surrender their own will that they 'can' do something for the greater good (which was allowing the Divine Plan to manifest)
  We Gladiate

people prize
the words
aristocrats toss,
not the effort
commoners
exhaust

rarely do i have a title before a poem,
but sometimes it feels like i've abstained
from ******* for a month and i write one down;
i'm surprised i didn't take the bait,
i was a blind man that was give sight years later,
every gold-digger's wet-dream some might add,
but what post-Marxism has revealed is that
that bourgeoisie like to belittle those of menial-task
labour rather than the upper-tier socialites,
it's just that they don't possess insignia of power,
they exercise their power on the lowest kind,
men who'd gladly spend a hot summer's day toiling
the fields in full happiness of physical splendour
than spend it pampered in a Versailles parlour kin -
they think books are their macaroons...
i should have not minded my self-worth so much
and settled for the prize of easy-living,
it was more like a self-obsession but made kinder
with the word solipsism... whatever it was,
i spent a month in St. Petersburg like Al Paccino in
Alaska insomniac witnessing the white nights...
i could write a honorary poem with rhyme and
perfect punctuation... but life isn't like that...
it was a night to remember, a great **** on a bed
with a tortoise green headboard and a line of mirrors
where the concept of ******* was made clear:
Narcissus watching himself ******* with nymph
after nymph until Echo's turn came; it was no longer about
the face or beauty, but the insect-like banality,
Narcissus inventing fiction, ******* in-front of a mirror,
discharged and opened a Pandora's box for himself,
pronoun usage... strange how all monotheists contest
the existence of one among no other, like polytheists
contests the existence of one among many... like now...
if they be gods, their names do not necessarily denote
a chance encounter and formal airs or grievances mastered
for a brief conversation; very much resides in their poetic
investment being banked, that Narcissus, less noun
and more imagery is best understood -
for i claim that poetic techniques are equally needed in
the lessons of grammar: such that metaphor,
onomatopoeia, imagery, pun are equal with noun, verb,
adjective... etc.

rude words? crude words? well, i guess
you're fine with the carnage of images,
you abstract someone in alternative versions
of dimension and say a £-D person doesn't matter...
when did Luis XIV ever bow before a *******?
so she calls you up, this rich, pampered,
self-righteous Cinderella hopeful from
St. Petersburg with a flat about 10 minutes
shy from the the Hermitage...
she's walking on glass, i can hear her from
a mile away like a shark sniffing a droplet
of blood from a mile, the salt, the salt
agitates it's senses, god be merciful,
but god wasn't with missing eyelids on
aquatic creatures and serpents, i'm guessing
the Darwin in me swoons to say:
eyelids breed dreams, mammalian blood,
no eyelids, no dreams,
amazing how a rainbow can penetrate a
cave of darkness, don't give me the meaning
of dreams, Freud, give me how it happens,
your why is perfect for the rich,
a second coming of communism -
those neo-**** punks don't know what
they're defending, they think is glam-rock
style obituaries, it's degenerate culture
right on the pitch of saying... it's a fork.
no, i don't have any respect...
why did you leave Edinburgh, she asked.
i don't know, he replied.
now comes the abstracting of rigid
fiction systems due to the psychology of
being attracted to ancient pronouns,
after all psychology was always attracted to
ancient pronoun uses,
we have the scholarly etymology from ego
as the up-keeping of Greek -
fair enough, keep the alphabet, but forget about
the ideas behind it... but wait, you kept both!
and the urban etymology from self
as the insertion of slang & slur and what
other nonsense you'd come up with for applause...
so she calls you up after you asked her:
those anti-contraceptive pills working?
yes.
you asked me to not use a ******.
yes.
can we keep it casual?
yes.
am i looking at torture instruments in a museum?
yes.
**** me, i better get drunk every night and hope
for an early death... 'cos that's what i'm doing right now!
i don't want to live more than i had wished to live...
every ******* time i open *harold norse'
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel i'm nagging,
i read the **** thing, too much premature **** in it -
or.. swearing... a healthy approach to a vault of vocabulary -
it's not a version of bankruptcy, it's just economics babe,
say it blunt, use a sharp knife... better that than
saying it sharp, and having to use a blunt knife,
believe me, you'll be taking oaths on a guillotine by then...
but you'll find it easier buying a harold norse memoir
than one book of his poetry...
it's antiques we're dealing with, this ain't
alan ginsberg's howl, it's the fringe, a scotland of
the roman empire, antiques!
i do wish i never said: get an abortion...
but the dialectical dichotomy in me that some would
say less eloquently as being schizophrenia now wishes
i didn't... but... what's that argument for feminism?
i forget taking contraceptive pills he ***** me on my period
or he ***** me on my period and i get impregnated,
so this is some miraculous ****-up situation by chance?
she said the exact words: i think i'm pregnant.
the Cartesian in me says: i think... so i'm guessing
she doubts she is.
better still... i don't know!
so she is, she isn't... my truthful reply would be...
i, don't, have, any, money... she's the one with
a spare apartment roughly 10 minutes from the *******
Hermitage and i'm stuck in limbo to her game plan of
having parents and never growing up...
well of course poetry doesn't sell, we don't have
patronages from popes, and if only english teachers
and aristocrats write in this medium...
then you're all about to pack your bags for
Disneyland...
still the first page from that autobiography ****** me off,
i don't know why, there's so much pompous pie
in it... given social stratification the outcasts feel
empowerment by rebelling against social norms and
expectations, while the social in-casts have to feel
shame... and this is an existential shame, a sense of
purpose without a sense of continuum -
that's what's bothering me, it's that shady grey area
of ratios 2 : 1 in China, 2 : 3.4 in England or...
1 : 2 (single mother, two children)... if i really did a runner
would i write for zilch? if i did a runner i'd run blind
completely, i wouldn't expose myself to some minor
event in my life... i'll repeat...
approximately 10 minutes... from the Hermitage...
i can see the Shard of London as a toothpick from where
i'm sitting on the odd day in the park...
my position isn't exactly one of power, but more of gob.

This is like
The study hall
Easily distracted by rubies
More may be less
tale of  two cities
Dicken's

Please listen
Diamonds are too clear
But rubies we love to
blush
Who cares to be the fairest
Rubies are the
greatest
fortune tellers flush
Like Barbara
Stan evil met Stanwick
Her sparkling candlesticks
Double Indemnity roulette
Those Rebelites statuettes

And how the ruby hooked
on her cultured pearl string
Being pushed over one ruby
My gems got
stretched
like marionettes don't sleep
you will be changed
Into the Gem Bodysnatcher

Just ditch her fake ruby cup
of coffee
Always wanted to be
reassured Ruby Jubilee
Stabbing her jeweled
pen Glamp Tepee

Her ruby could be
locked up and stored
It better be insured

People were naked
without their power
of rubies
She sat so confidently not
to be
outshined
Looking at the
moon-ruby-shrine

Monsterous devious maids
Took her for everything
Screen playact
****** just a tad glad
Redrum
The ruby cluster rash
Ceremony hot flashes
Ruby loves to blush

With Frank Sinatra
Gave Lana Turner a cluster
That was just
the starter Hey Buster

Someone is always
quicker and
****** sicker
Just light her flicker
She was the gem of
the trade
The real boot

the kicker was Jack of
all trades the shinning
But Frankly, they were the
made gem

Something you call
love but
ruby success
You said these boots
are made
for walking
that's just what
they do

One of these days these
rubies will walk
all over  you
Ruby Ms. Gabby
Miss ruby lips Tabby
Loreal and hubby I am
not mail service
Or your ruby police
Ruby slipper to be
escorted by fake Prince
welcome to sanity

Artsy Aristocrats
in the Pick-INNS
All ruby for sucker pins

Her belly went in
The functions
that
produce rubies
anything you want
But reproduce love
Over my ruby heart, you won't

Rubellite head Humpty* Dumpty
The Wall Street
the diamond
the exchange got  overly
populated
Of the Dynasty
transported
her ruby
So far__________

Catching high gems stars
The best-aged ruby
color winery Tuscany
Ruby-Tuesday
Hi ****** in springtime

Ruby fanatics
The Ruby blew out the
candles at one go
Was the grandeur
Ruby grapefruit

God/Goddess/Ruby that is
Nod/ Mistress/Hobby
Flight/Gem/Food/ don't wait to
marry him
She got the
cutest little
babyface diamonds
are way too
clear
Mommy dearest
Anna Karenina
one heartbreak for
this ruby the meanest
The beauty unbound
The rarity like no
other to
be found

too many fictional stories have congregated,
into what was once a three-dimensional
space, new age agism (joke)...

      but... whenever three dimensions exist,
with a frequented present,
a nostalgia for the past,
and an imagination for the future...

whatever...
  doesn't it bother, anyone,
that too many fictional stories have overpowered
the rarity of the reality narrative?
no?
  just me then?

         sole idiot, just the only Robinson Crusoe
idiot around these parts,
of: the rediscovery of the world?
just me? no Friday?!
just me...
good good... good to know...

well then... i've achieved the stature of
paying due concerns to a *******,
rather than repenting before
a crucifix with... what... what...
deaf people gesticulate...
         no... i couldn't go blind...
i'd have to have tender skin...
as any blind man would need...
to read Braille... tender skin...
that sort of arithmetic?
you're kidding me...
you're not expected to have the hands
of an aristocratic courtesan,
compared to the hard, thick
layered buck of a guitar player,
or some hammer yielding "minotaur"?!

then i'm thinking...
perhaps all aristocrats should be blinded...
well....
   we could cater for their bodies
in light of their embodied souls
as twins... dualistic...
           save the hindered body,
with what becomes the unhindered
body of what becomes:
an unhinged soul...

              but i am but a fool...
who could suspend such architecture...
and succeed in asking for success
of the originating of the said construct...
Edward the Confessor?
  he put you up to it?!

            such great mammoths of the worth
of man have died...
and the world...
    the world...
                assured itself neither day
gained not day lost...
assured itself neither blink lost,
or blink gained...

just like god said...
           i can't be bothered with what
has become too intricate...
too personal...
too free-willed...
     no... i can't do it...
even running the marathon,
i cannot introduce myself
into this affair a second time...
i "thought" it a great idea the first time
round...

            second time....
let them assure themselves in icon,
and the subsequent iconoclasm of
the anti-thesis of dyslexia...

   all?                         ah...
good to know...
      all of them?             ah.... elaboration
of the sigh...

                                but i can't...
you know i can't...
we drink up north to keep warm,
or. "fool" ourselves in keeping warm...

so?
  ******* with your coffee and baklava!
take your caffeine addiction
and your diabetics...
out of this place!
                                 *******!

the sign reads: NOT WELCOME!
no... no Martin Luther King Jr.
speech at the University
of Newcastle...

     no! no! nein! nein! nein!
up yours.

the people in question pushed
the wrong buttons,
and the people who pushed the wrong
buttons unconsciously...

i'll be the last of my people
to leave these isles, on a boat
charged with the gravitas of
Charon...

             believe me...
    i'm thankful that i didn't **** your women;
i was accused of ****?!
                              not once;
ha ha...
    they still think they won the cold war...
ha ha!
ah ha ha ha ha ha!
the war where there was no war,
and, rather,
    colonization imploded upon itself?

(Readers I been going crazy to write  like this for a long time so if it suxs  too bad lol please read its a bit long also 4 those who do ty for reading & commenting)
________________­_______________
She seen his stares since earlier in the ball room & during most of their acquaintance's growing up also when he'd visited her family at her home in Hampshire... She bluntly ignored his many advances while
at the Queen's Ball and she also publicly shunned him in front of  many aristocrats, He asked her even then to be his wife, She flat out said NO! with out going through the proper channels it  "*******" just wasn't done,  Her chaperon Lady Gideon was no where to be found so she did what she thought was best and walked away from him as fast as her small frame would allow.  

She did indeed find Lady Gideon in the kitchens with  the cook in the "Blimey!" broom closet. NOW on this night she'd truly become his and pay for her misdeeds & mistreatment's of him at The Queen's Ball...Duke Lincoln Pierre held his new bride Virgina Abagael Pierre  
tightly as he assaulted her mouth thrusting his tongue in her mouth- parting her lips in a seductive dance, as his hands moved lavishly up & down her buttocks, betwixt her bodice caressing her breast.

Lincoln tried hard to control his need for his new bride,  He was supposed  to be with his "mates" for another hour or so whilst his-  " well now" his wife's maids readied her for their marriage bed.
Lincoln couldn't wait & as he rushed his guest out the door not even
waiting for Jefferey his Butler to do so, He ran taking the steps two at a time, His need for Virgina was more then lust.  He wanted her ever since she shunned him at the Queens ball & as he visited her home--  watching her bloom into womanhood, Tonight she'd pay for his humiliations of that night at the Ball. He burst open the door and bellowed  for the maids to Get OUT!

At once they went running like rats. All except Beatrix stood her
ground and told him in not to kind-of words that  "She" had to prepare Virgina properly and He was acting reckless.
Beatrix  was his nanny & nursery maid, she was  also there when he first open his sparkling  hazel round eyes, God rest "Duckies" soul, His mum, she died in this same bed whilst she gave her last breath for this handsome devil.  His Da,  poor man was getting on in age and this was a wish he left in his will to be fulfilled before he died. "Lin" as she'd called him must fulfill but without scaring the poor chit off.

She unfasten Virgina's stays & hooks as fast as her old hands would allow, before she could help her out of her bodice  "Lin" ushered her out....Well she'd said her peace and exit Lincoln's rooms praying as she left.....
Lincoln kept  up his assault  while Virgina had a look of fear & misunderstanding in her mahogany sapphire eyes, Her small frame was shaking to her very core,  Poor chit but it couldn't be helped he was in a rush to be done with virgins and their silly concepts of love ex specially this "his" new prudent bride,  Yet he wanted to make her come alive, bring out the "bleed'in devil" of lust he knew was trapped deep within Virgina's un tapped core.
Lincoln teased and licked as he removed her clothing, ripping a bit of fabric in is haste, she kissed him back! Shocking his own sense of sensibility.

He picked her up splayed her on the bed and stared at her dark luscious Honey chocolate  creamy coco skin, it shined like a lovely indigo ocean on a summers night.
With carious longing and dread,
it was still an interesting moment Virgina didn't know what to do and as he capture her waist she felt  even more unsure, sensing a thrilling sensation wash over her,  Her new husband Duke Lincoln Pierre kissed her with un-abandon lust Virgina instinctively crawled up to the head board on the bed, as she did so her new husband reached for her in a blink of an eye she was caught in his steel grip, she cried out not for pain but because she had no ideal what he meant to do with her,

Lincoln laughed and made a tsk tsk sound as he pulled himself atop of Virgina.  "My Lady I beseech you please leave off I mean you no harm''
Lincoln proclaimed yet his meek smile said he was lying,
Virgina only stared with her mouth gaped in a perfect lush O shape.  
Her husband undone he own clothes  in a heated rush.  
Once done he stalked towards her kneeling on the bed.  
With Virgina's gaze fixed tranquilly on his stiff shaft, she looked at it apprehensively  she wanted to move away yet her limbs wouldn't allow her to and with banned tears threatening to over flow
she ****** in her breath as her capture Duke Pierre her husband climb a top of her.  

Little did her husband know she'd wanted  him all her life she longed to become his bride but she had no ideal it entailed this rough treatment of her person to gain access.
She'd sit with her own nanny "Liv" short for Olivia  
at Hyde Park watching as his carriage made it's rounds.  She dreamed even then to marry him, his eyes always laughing and He was forever teasing her when He'd visited  her "now" deceased parents lord Duke&Duchess; Harrisburg. She'd dream he were always saving her from dragons and evil villains.

But tonight he seemed the Villain.
As he touched creatively over her she felt flushed, his hands trailed down to her hairline where her tulip was hidden as he proceeded to caress her he felt for her budded rosebud playing teasing  rubbing his fingers with gentleness over her.
He continued until Virgina's head was thrashing wildly left & right on the pillow she was scared and shocked not knowing what was coming over her,  she wanted something--   this need that was growing  building within her, she didn't understand and it made her feel weak with a longing she couldn't comprehend, as he removed his finger & hand a light yet cool breeze cam through the cracked window causing the sensation to slowly subside Lincoln moved down trailing kisses as he went his mouth hovered mere inches above her tight yearning rosebud he bet down and tasted honey as he licked in an out of his new bride, sliding his index finger within her tight silt wile wrapping his mouth around her budding rose, he ******, gently  causing Virgina automatically to lift her legs wrapping her hands in his golden brown hair.

He felt her throbbing shaking and he wanted to laugh because of him she now new what it meant to be pleasured,  Virgina began trembling with a urgency not knowing what her body wanted just that she liked this feeling that washed over her from her toes up to her Honey dark coco head.  Her long brown auburn hair fell in waves of curls around her as she melted to her husbands ministrations.

Lincoln could barely contain his want and in his eyes His new bride was a wanton ready for plucking like a ripe strawberry, His little filly was bucking beneath his demonstration's.
He'd played with the God's wile tempting the devil & now there was Hell to pay...  Sadly for his new ****** bride he could no longer hold back, he wanted to consume her, his control was failing, wreaking havoc on his now intoxicating senses.  

Virgina bucked up towards his mouth letting out a seductive cry breaking Lincoln's last restraints  
He spread her wide held her fast
both his hand on either side of her hips as he lead his shaft within her lustrous wet inviting opening, moving in her swiftly as to not cause any more unnecessary pain,
He felt her maiden-head give way but it was to late t pause, he try not to move slow,
which with half in sympathy he wanted to stop his penetrating ****** yet his need for release in his new ****** brides velvet tight silt kept him urging forward deeper&deeper; within her tight walls.

Virgina let out a piercing scream as she also called out Lincoln's name twas an interesting moment when a fierce jolt consumed both occupants of this lovers den, she cried out as he ******'ed deeper still within his new bride....

No longer did he want to  punish her he felt something chip away at his heart releasing a need to want more then her body as they coiled becoming meshed together in legs & limbs traveling on waves of ******* bliss.
Duke & Duchess Pierre

Always Me Ayeshah

Body so cold
But my heart is so warm,
This landscape, my landscape
Pushes my wings to keep beating.

If I feel now I would not be sad,
For I wish only to land up
the manicured lawns of Aristocrats.
I would have earned my sleep.

Raw is how I feel,
the brooks, the hollows, the trees
all seep into my mind and bones.
Utter joy and contempt, a mixture.

I should have flown away more often,
My nest in the turret was always a haven,
and natures prison,
I would have earned my hope.

i guess when you're pretty, you can be androgynous,
and that's hardly the worry for the next skin head kid of
great Ormond St. -kneecap feeling of guilt - but hell,
i'd rather **** "Nicole" Maines than his twin
(wortschatz von herrzensor) -
pretty face akin to the river of binging
on looking at philippe i, fluke of orléans
******* it off while ensuring his wife
entertained a brother's calm to juxtapose
figurines worth a thousand souls
akin to blowing out of candles -
so why bother dreaming a coercion for
fakes and faeces into supposed applause,
that those nearest to you cannot afford your company,
yet afford it by being affording debt?
no smaller duty over a dress at court,
than it should be relative to the least exercise of power
undressed, and un-courted, to be anticipated courting,
given one's personal allowance as having wavered the king
toward crown and gravity, rather than anointment
and god... how thus disguise a caricature of
one's former serious argumentation for competing
sentences that disallowed sentencing via treason
thus, years later, allowed? is the crown
the joke? the king? or god? or maybe it is
man's laws that are the donkey's tail being pinned,
as forever in lover's jest best exemplified:
a man of actions will never be a man of words -
hence muscular actions gratifying easiest
leverage of the abomination of lexicon lost,
impede quickest and most versatile as those replacing
a forgotten heart, best kept secret between
however disgraceful the ******* of brotherhood
is given toward worship for a Narcissus not smashing
a kindred resemblance, instilled the widower swan
the blackened pupil with vigorous rubric:
repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat... only a conquered
woman is comforted - a freely reigning woman
ought be sacrificed with her belief of interpretation:
thus crucified; well, she damns the brothel,
but she isn't crucified enough to encourage
love freely born; but born under torture.

talk of empire can be a tedium to say the least,
the Maharajahs of India never felt more
at home with european literature and
culture overall, but class system doubly
emphasised - or as the television series proved -
hardly an affair for the pithy concerns of
pitiable folk - first season i never bothered to
sense a tightening -
you see, looking at colonialism is not looking
at racism - racism has a dynamic to it,
colonialism has a hierarchy - the two differ,
second season in i sense colonialism as the
intelligent form of racism, presuppositions too many,
racism for the poor and the idiotic and
colonialism for the rich and cultured and
Gentlemanly - pork buttocks for the fork to my care,
i said once i'm not into these post-colonial
dynamics in England - the only winners are
Australians, former convicts who care much about
preservation of the populace of crocodiles -
this 2nd season is really piling it in to differentiate
between barbaric discrimination and civilised
discrimination - i guess a prior history of instilled
hierarchy made the Maharajahs akin to the Brits
(the caste system, untouchables in Bengali),
the "great rulers" didn't mind, they were actually
trying to be kept in the commonwealth -
such aristocracy easily scared and even more easily
scarred - the aristocrats of communism came from
the intelligentsia - bookworms and hardly the
pompous old farts ready to hunt tigers replacing
goats with little children tied to wooden poles -
that's what capitalism fears, a coerced class of
intelligent people, coerced into a class, they fear this,
it's hard to control such people, collective ignorance
is too easily dissected and denied, via doubt -
hardly a reason to be a recipient of existence (out of
every instance per se, hence the sigma unfathomable) -
and to only be rewarded with entertainment?
these far-left intellectuals breed on thought to be
the sole existential reward, and subsequently entertainment;
i too find thinking a pleasure, when you assume that
there's no reward for it, or a reliability to it
being a kindred of an ***** phallus -
never mind - you see, this talk of empires has given
me an ideal conclusive remark:
landlocked empires, or, should i say,
empires that thrive on spreading via land alone,
ref. e.g. to the Mongol or the Alexandrian empire...
they're short lived, they increase landmass exponentially
and very successfully - their motto:
strike the iron while it's hot -
they depend on constant success - they require
a bacterial like membrane of being seemingly
invincible - these land locked empires come and go
very quickly -
unlike the second type of empire building,
those which also require more than horse hoofs
at a gallop, the ones that treat the power of the seas
as its arteries, and land as their veins -
the British empire, the Roman empire -
once an empire is dependent on sea and subsequently
trade, it will be convincingly successful and will
outlast all those brutal empires that spread via land alone -
russia is indeed an anomaly - but then again hardly
an anomaly given the harsh terrain it encompasses -
no one wants to live there, who in their right state
of mind would, anyway?
the russian pride has a weakness - siberia -
oh **** looks great, a 12" protruding **** of geography,
but it's Siberia, -40°C... the way i see it, Russia
is the size of from its borders with Ukraine
Belarus and the Baltic states and the Ural mountains...
the rest is Mongolia - the peoples are steppe Eskimos.
so to summarise - ambitions of empire building that
do not utilise the power of the sea are indeed
the largest but also of the shortest lifespan -
like that old fable of an old farmer dividing his land
among his sons - sooner or later it ends up
a complex intricacy akin to the Holy Roman Empire -
or as the Romans said: dub the germans holy
and you're going straight to hell! little princes that became
major beggars and leeches - the louse jealousy took over...
breadcrumb like land ownership:
20 kilograms of potatoes a year for each son,
enough to feed a pig for a month...
and yes, doubly conclusive, i don't know why
Christianity is blamed for the desecration of greek
culture, the so called "robbing of the greek culture" -
i can't imagine any singled out people
to be infused with ****** and keep it up -
Nietzsche blamed Socrates, the modern intellectuals
blamed Jesus of Nazareth... you know who i blame?
Alexander the great, a Macedonian after all,
and Aristotle (partially) -
that's the greeks though - the Mongols had nothing
prior and nothing after of note on the blank page
or care for a library, and perhaps that's all the better,
you hardly hear news from Mongolia in our
present age... they had the wind to write their history
in that great Genghis Khan Stampede;
i did tell you that the communist experiment took
place in Mongolia, didn't i? before it was accepted
as counter-Tsar pyramidal and later in the satellite states
it was first tested in Mongolia...
if you don't believe me, believe the guy who
sat in the UCL history library and was writing up
essay notes roughly 9 years ago.

.and i thought that only Metallica took back their mojo from the current musical oblivion... but it seems... the Prodigy did likewise with their new No Tourists album...

i'll be honest... English humor?
bewildering...
               just odd...
                      black satire,
or out-in-the-field plain heap of
ridicule...
        German? humor?
                       what? i thought
the Germans were pure logos
and absolutely no pathos...
   wait... oh... right...
schadenfreude... and irony...
but back east?
                 the Polacks have their
own version of humor...
it's primarily self-deprecating...
the older the ******,
the more they joke that Poland is
the Cinderella of Europe...
    what with the mild non-existent
hiccup due to democratic monarchism
of the aristocrats,
who... well...
   let's just they had their patron "saint"...
Konrad I of Masovia...
who... in attempts to conquer
the Prussians... invited the Teutonic Order
to aid him...
        and obviously the Teutonic
Order, outstayed their helpful hand
culminating in the battle of
Grunwald (which in the east is like
the battle of Hastings)...
yes yes, the dates...
  but Rome didn't make it to these lands...
i used to live about half an hour's
bicycle ride from a flint-stone
      mining community...
  sure... you can have your genesis monkey...
i have a flint-stone mining community...
now i get American humor...
    why?
                its pompous...
and there's nothing intelligent about it...
well...
  who the hell needs intelligent
comedy?
                      i don't want to think:
and then chuckle...
               i want to chuckle prior to
whatever impetus to think about
having laughed is left.

- and then the financial crisis begins,
in whatever year it was,
2007 or 2008...
       just like with the raiding heretical
Sunni Muslims who seem
to not understand the ideology of
jihad: a holy war,
yes... but to reclaim conquered lands
formerly in the possession
of Muslims...
this... this is the second tier of
expansionism, right?
but jihad is a type of warfare
to reclaim lost lands...
sorry... i'm not about to become
a clone...
    ah... wait a minute...
i figured how someone like
   Joel Osteen can speak so persuasively,
the whole point of his sophistry is...
well... just read one book...
and reread it like... countless times...
i must be scatter-brain by now,
reading the number of books i've read...
if i only read one book...
oh hell yeah... my confidence wouldn't
falter, not even once...
   i'd be like the equivalent
of a cardiologist: specializing in
all things heart related...
         point being...
the financial crisis didn't really
affect Poland...
    and this whole Hijab Party
central?
                             i might be a mere
citizen... but my heart is
entombed in the people...
            once criticism though...
  why the **** did you have to bury
leszko kaczyński on the Wawel Mount?
why not in Warsaw Wileńska,
where the presidents are buried...
hell... closer to the Belweder Palace
to boot...
       so... we're moving the capital
back to Krakow?
if i had the time, and money...
i'd seriously think about the noumenon
of how a certain part of Poland
was not affected by the bubonic plague
in 1347...
                 or Islam circa 2005.

It is the day I have been waiting for.
To meet my maker in human form, after delivering human uniforms
I have so much to tell you God
Ten years ago I lost my grandfather
so Creator Son Enjilou and now is it CALIEFAH, Can I call you Granfather?
I come from a world where I have contributed to the human consciousness and development
It was said when the angels took me in and declared me their soldier that the holders of money and big media and mining would not pay money to people like me who do good
It was said that people like me are  hardly ever acknowledged


I have so many friends back where I come from
they tell they love me
it's funny that on many ocassions they are the very ones who have been plotting to have me killed, working together with my family

They tell me I'm a star back on Earth, that I have so much money and that I have composed so much music and helped so many people
I have never seen my name on television but they tell me I've written stories
They tell me that when I turn 25 I will receive my wealth and be deemed Royal
However I was never too young to be stolen from
never too young to carry the baggage of the world
never too young to be killed
never too young to have my identity stolen
never too young to watch other men take credit for my work
never too young to watch my beloved's die
never too young to be lied to
or too old to be made the fool


In that world ruled by Darkness, wars are manufactured so the greedy can be richer and the wealthy more comfortable,
this pressure causes a strain and kills the human consciousness as a whole, when an elite group of individuals monopolize their sustenance through drinking the blood and energy of good and hard-working men and women
They tell you you're a hero there but no-one cares if you have bread on the day, a place to sleep, an income or money to get to a certain place
just as long as the aristocrats are comfortable in their seats, spreading ***, running drug cartels and destroying feminine energy through lust and abuse
through human trafficking and ***-slavery
If people felt the urge that is felt by the martyrs, the yajamanta, the  gladiators, the pilgrims and sages; then the world would change instantly

The selfishness of the leaders is unbelievable, the present progress of this makes many humans toddlers because they are constantly needing help more than helping themselves
it makes them parasites because they will sit down and wait for someone else to clean up their garbage
"I'll just keep ******* up and garbage boy will clean it up for me, anyway I'm late for Satan's church"
that's the reality
People fight for bonds and inheritance, killing and lying to each other to attain these material goods
They never find happiness because of this, they feed on the flesh so that them energy vampires
  they are burnt by the truth because they bathe in blood baths and still feel the injuries of the desolation of Mars
In this world, there are few people you can really and truly trust if any
because once they realize that there's someone you can trust; they go after him and bribe him or manipulate him
Truth be told if people were extremely hungry for Heaven they would probably find it in an hour
If they gave praise or directed their frequency of vibration embodied in Soul to God just as they do to their Lord Lucifer; the world would change in a day
   But people love Lucifer, they love being victims, staying on the ground after you've fallen, never learning from your mistakes
waking up after you realise that you've been sleeping
so and so on
At this, people then don't become soldiers and then fail to change their lives around
it starts with admitting that you've messed up doesn't it God?

So you ask me, do I have a bank account? Sure, but here they clone and sample everything so that way you never get to receive what you deserve
If these Fraternal members or tyrants really believed in god, every genius who dies protecting an idea would be compensated immediately, if they can access your personal data that quickly
   but that doesn't happen, you speak the truth and fight for your money consequent of the hard you've been doing, you get crucified
it seems to me, if they cannot pay these inventors their dues then they are more uncomfortable with watching these geniuses live and enjoy their money which they deserve
  So the real prisoners are the Emperors you see, they are not free from themselves
  and if supporters they are and truly love you then they'd appreciate what you stand for and they wouldn't love money more than they love what they stand for

So there is a huge pool of insecurity, and once ego dies then a long list of addictions and confusions also die
Humility is born, new worlds are discovered, old systems are replaced and there is a new meaning of life
Then perhaps artists will have a chance
their work won't be abused or spoiled and compromised
Then the Truth would Reconcile

i'm sometimes bothered about the times i live in,
it's getting weirder and weirder by the day,
England is becoming like the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth partition years:
the szlachta (aristocrats and brokers of
the economy) have already partitioned England,
not on the visible spectrum of borders -
the Poles are punching bags by the offset of
the refugee crisis that caused the unrest in the
Union - we know where the problem truly lies:
it's hard to practice the religion of Louis XIV,
mainly: appearances are everything -
to appear non-discriminatory is the prime concern...
but there are always a few village idiots to
give the ontological experiment away as flawed -
as i once lamented not ever having an English
girlfriend, even though i've lived here
30 / 8 of my life... but then i look at the statistics...
maybe that's for the better...
but what i'm really bothered about is that we're
not living in times of real history, of making
dents in history like Achilles might have,
we're living in times of nostalgia...
now i can appreciate individual nostalgia,
Hölderlin and Nietzsche lamenting Ancient Greece...
a revival that never came... i can understand
patient and individualised nostalgia,
a well-informed nostalgia...
but en masse nostalgia that i'm experiencing?
horrid... horror! i'm living in the days when
20th century musical nostalgia is rife... it's everywhere!
compare the mood of individuals (Sylvia Plath)
against the mass of the 1950s and the 1960s...
there are no comparisons under the microscope -
the two expression will never fit, i know that's obvious...
in history there's either the whole being sold,
or there's the selection of what's worth buying and
what's worth discarding...
but that's how it's becoming to look like:
whatever is deemed historical on television
is turned upside down into nostalgia -
in everyday society, in clubs in pubs, anywhere,
history is irrelevant,
                                    the sacrilege of talking politics
and religion in English pubs is just like
walking into a pub wearing some football shirt...
but isn't that crude, given neither politics or religion
are in an Utopian ideal?
for the most part, we obstruct history by invoking a need
for nostalgia... it's always the obvious that i write
about... perhaps nostalgia is a sort of defence mechanism
to history... current, and future...
                    we learn about history in schools,
but we rarely appreciate it in leisure times -
nostalgia is a leisurely approach toward history -
nostalgia also makes Darwinism redundant:
i still don't know why it's so important, when in fact,
you turn on absolute radio on Friday
and it's the 1980s theme... but whereas those
Romantic poets experienced a nostalgic so far removed
many changes were possible and invested in...
whereas i? i live in an immediate state of the masses
recuperating from history in nostalgia from
30, 40, 50 years ago...
                                      which has created this
bubble in history... it's as if we all decided to create a
cut-off point from previous histories, and whenever
past history pops it's ugly head, we excuse with shock
from the cut-off point of the second half of the 20th
century (the pinnacle), followed by the words:
IMAGINE THINGS LIKE THAT HAPPENING IN THE
21ST CENTURY! SIMPLY UNTHINKABLE!
well, reality is a raw herring after all: in cream
and white wine vinegar - bites!
i don't know if all this immediate nostalgia will be
beneficial... i actually think it won't be...
it's almost harsh to realise that we will never be rid
of the 1950 - 1999 period - but it looks like that -
and then you think: so those redeeming literature
from long ago are dust brood and bore -
perhaps... some prefer new furniture, some prefer
antiques...
                   but this is me only being 30...
     i wonder what will happen to this omnipresent
prescription of nostalgia... i guess no real historical
importance will be given, 200 years from now,
to people who lived in it... we'll be considered
the nostalgic period of human history,
                  not the historical period as already stated:
sure, technical innovations -
                                                   to make people
important as they once were will be the major task...
along the lines: Louis XIV, Jesus, Genghis Khan...
           Apple's iPhone 6s Plus... that's what it looks like.

Quit smokin' while you can.
My wife and I been rollin' our own lately
Those things got wax rings in 'em
You're smokin' wax that'll give you cancer
See these 17 year old kids with that mornin' hack
You know it's not from doin' it for years.

2. Be aware of your surroundings.
Some of these kids get so lost in their phones they don't realize they're a target.
Isis could drop right in and pop 'em right there
It's sad.
I got this flip phone.
I can check the time, check the weather
that's all I need.
One person has my number
that's my wife
She's all I need.

3. There's gonna be a revolution.
Last time aristocrats were in power takin' money from the bottom you know what happened?
The French Revolution
It's gonna happen again I can feel it
Republicans think Trump is gonna lead 'em there but he stepped over dead bodies to get where he is
He's not who I'd pick, honestly.
Hilary isn't my first choice either if I could of had my way I'd pick Bernie.
They say oh he's a Socialist like he's some ****
They don't understand the difference.

4. Mary has been working in there 20 years.
Makin' 10 dollars an hour.
That's sad.
I got up to 14 dollars and that's after a two dollar cut in pay
Most those kids won't ever see 15 dollars an hour
I tell 'em get out while you can.

well O... well... O, give me life! i need no beggars of the cyclone to repeat the foundations of seasons and things tectonic! O... well, O! rounded-up by rugby geometrics for an oval symmetry of the orbits... O... might i add - oh? well harp me a sigh with it too - or play me the ******* violins... i too might add my toes in the muddy sands of the Calais of India that's Goa: with toes clenched inward like a grip of a crow, or the antics of a ballerina; indeed Calais, the footnote of the Angevins... tell your integrating dogma to successors of william the conqueror's behaviour, as by-way dehumanising righteously - such the tongue spoken, such the tongue rebelling - via the term identified with utmost against the irish post-stamp claims for a peace treaty: rōnin; no, you be sub-human teaching me the language and then venturing into treating me as a simple cashier - no education system is necessary to craft the near robotic professions! why crave capitalism in the educational system when all might be happier un-educated for the professions the lazy aristocrats intended for them?*

i'll march against your little
utopia...
by god i'll march against your
Parisian Disney fairyland
with teeth clenched and fingernails bit
to a manicure!
for the chastity of white
lacking colours of a rainbow -
since on white an imprint,
and on black an absorption to stack-up
the many lacks of expression.

The Profitis Ilias was snorting the exokartic energies through the sinkholes that filled the thickness of the Arms of Christi and the Souls of Trouvere, from Leros came Ezpatkul with the Gerakis for the closing of the Codex of Raedus. Stratonice was dressed for spring with Persephone for the amendment of the wind tunnel so that everyone would go back to the esplanade at the top, where Vernarth was inspiring all the children of the Codex of Raedus-Vernacentricus-Profitis Ilias. Zefian brought the Toxota and Pezhetairoi arrows, they were sovereign moldy points of the Bronze tips of the Taxota Archers and the Falangists. That in turn from the high sky formed a great pinwheel when from the great dimension they shone from the flat equinoctial sky, bumping the chins of Kaitelka that the Parthenon dealer lost, that they rang the great bronze pineapple, kilometers in length forming the makro koelum from Patmos; with vertices of the Pythagorean canon of Polykleitos. A large horizontal Lecedemonia “V” was visible from Aorion's falling acrotera, projected in a copper mega bolt coming from Betelgeuse's armpit, and forming a Barnard looped sidereal Vee, fired by the hunter Aorion from his constellation. This would be an architectural last, and Pythagorean canon-mathematical for purposes proportional to the Mandragoron. They fell from the four arrows that Zefian launched, from Crete, since they were approaching the contravention of Apollo, and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points. This is how they began with the first two sagites that are placed on the arc string, each one belonging to north-south trajectories and the other two that once again clashed with the eastern arc, to shoot the east-west arrows with limits of magnetism. southern. Three arrows are deposited in the canon of Polykleitos, and in the reticulum of the Pleiades that Aorion pursued. The points of the Taxotas were approaching with the North: Vóreios (Boreal de Zefian) South: Nótos (Austral de Borker), then Pezhetairoi: West: Dyticá (Sunset of Leiak) East: Aftó (Equinoctial of Kaitelka). The Codex came to an end in an aureole of the Melismatic hymn, within a lyric towards the rebellious polis of the Hidro Saltinbanqui, who listed their antiphons on the thirty-three codes, embodied in green fields and Lavender fields, where they exhorted the Lotions to stand until death, clinging where kings come down from their altars, under the ultimatum to celebrate the feast in the Persephone canals, pouring out the mouths of those who have perished in the desert of lyrical abstention, and wine in the cruel kindnesses of satiating her after falling into the arms of lavender.

Wonthelimar climbed up the caliginous air differential that emanated from the Basilisk's snout, which surrendered to the propagation of the ascent through the firebreak that took him to the top to meet Vernarth and Zefian, along with all the Sibyls who were also levitated towards the meeting. of the Fourth Arrow. Lochnith, Sibyl Herophila, Mardiath, Elpenor, and Vlad Strigoi were featured, all of them joined to the Phalanx of Arbela, leading to the restitution of the belligerent site, along with a great compacted mass of citizens who heard from all over the Aegean world and surroundings. The bay of Skalá was full of ships that poetized in the roadstead with intense poetry, before a new and heroic rebirth of the bones of the fallen in the transversal battles, each one carrying in their hands a bunch of lavenders, for the brave hearts that they wanted to be reborn in the bones, towards the arrival of Zefian and the raising of all the panoplies united in his bones, as a whole taking over the Patmian island. They did not let go of the bundle, but until they released the last momentum of repose, to activate the beauty of being all united in the building of the Megaron Mandragoron.

The men became more men, and the children became men, their wives were legitimate invincible forces as if they were Moiras burnishing Panoplias that rudimentary the most incomprehensible noises, until they awakened from the chin to those who had difficulty reaching the top to renew their bones Who, full of death, retired from their enslavement. This will be a truth, which was hiding behind the falsehood of a contingent greater than all the archaic invasions of foreign civilizations hungry for wisdom. Everything is great before the small because everyone wants a hero who dies and is reborn again, the brave one dies twice and is reborn twice before the arms of Vernarth, the pain is three times greater than the relief of a mother who longs for the return alone of one of their own after each battle, by wandering wastelands of enemies who dream of wanting the legitimate escape signals of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who made their crying and howling that they cannot console themselves. Poverty is tinged with gold, and those who need a similar shelter will be the object of their own unity as they are prisoners of ill-fated wealth. The Hoplite could have a parallel from the ninth book of the Iliad, towards an Arete or courage of his brave cop that filled him with branches from the spray of every morning when he was pubescent, with the Agathos or Courage, which led them as great splendors through the tube or wind tunnel rising at the speed of the Lambda, in the notch of the Lacedaemonian fold in its bronze duplicates Kardiá or Hoplite hearts. The shields were crowded upon the awakening of the same gods of Olympus, all sleeping together the same mirage during a Long Night that would rescind the power of each member and fabulous lost, before the new Megaron superior to Olympus itself, presided over by Vernarth, and assisting also Zeus; this time carrying an oak in his hand and a Dorus, detached from its rays of a beautiful Death that is reborn in Patmos, carrying in the other Hands the bunch of Lacedaemonian Lavenders, solving them from the Trésas or doubts of facing the sun of victory in both eyes divided, the heterochrome with the beautiful green green of Alexander the Great and the Lavender of Vernarth from Lacedaemon, providing the Demiourgía with his brother Etrestles, with the power or full Aristokracia of the moving spinners of Ezpatkul and Stratonice, for the purpose of unleashing the wind tunnel with the Gerakis from Leros, sharpening with remnants of Miletos, already degraded to aristocrats submerged in the dawn of the Alikantus and Kanti ridges of Crete, who still dwelt restlessly with their wounds on their backs, taking with them robes from the laurel forest of Matico and Sauco, who wrapped themselves on the perches that fringed on their heads to welcome them, and round them with some dark orange blossoms, which They muttered between their gleaming incisors in bronze greaves, woven into their corselets that continued to walk the wounds on their backs that pointed and implored Aorion, recesses in aristocratic awards for the Hetairoi hall that awaited them, very close. Vernarth rehearsing his Himation on his way to the Seventh Paradise.

I'm not Shakespeare, not some romantic poet clad in flowers and doves
I'm no Fitzgerald, a dapper socialite at home with the intellectuals and aristocrats
I'd like to be Hemingway, a man in all senses of the word, guided by a certain wit and drive
Hell, I'd even take Bukowski, or Kerouac, drug addled and safe in the strength of my arrogance
I'm not your favorite department store
no recognizable brand
no jewelry
My love is not measured in the moments quenched with awe
no symphonies or trips to the opera house
In a dime store I trudge through the aisles of shelves
rummaging through the lost and found of people long forgotten and dead
I find a necklace, shells strung together on a piece of fishing line and I think of you
young and happy with a bucket and a *****
so curious as to the motion of the ocean, you slowly approach
only to run away - giddy in your fear - as the cold tide licks at your heels
digging up ***** to show to your Mom and Dad
I think of you, my hand clutching that Dime store necklace
I think of you now
Me so intrigued, I draw up my plans with tact
only to crumble before you
I am the shells you dug up
I am the fishing line your dad cut off for you
the knots he taught you to make
I am your lost and found
helplessly missing you always
I am your Dime Store love

Lived the life of an artist
long before I became one.
Pressed to guitar strings
until my fingers were numb
to all exposed skin
that was not my own.

Listened to one thousand sad songs
over and over
until the pointless chords
clamoured over one another,
psalms of living
fall on deaf ears.

Trawled archives of *******.
Lauded aristocrats of cheap whiskey nights
and black coffee mornings.
Garnished my days with addictions carried
by better men
in love with real women.

Grew thin, moved about the apartment
in the graveyard hours
tacking songs to the walls.
In the absence of chains and ***
I fixed myself with neon lights
and cigarettes.

Spilt paint over undeserving paper
beneath the halogen bulb
to colour radio silences
of past friendships,
mountains I should let recede
like a ship in the night.

Stood alone in crowds
to witness the onset of a moment,
openings and closings of mouths and doors;
each one to allow another person in.
I go home alone
and sleep with my thoughts.

Put on your make up
while we're in the car
peyote in our air
travelling through the desert
holding hands
air conditioner broke
smoking 4 dollar cigarettes
kissing
wiping the sweat off our faces
with old shirts
torn sweaters
you wore a dress
that exposed your knees
no bra
and your shoulders were bright
like your eyes
it was 100 degrees
lip stick smeared on the rear view mirror
when we kissed kansas goodbye
driving with no shoes on
let's stop for gas
but the wind
the heat the peyote and the lips of yours are
keeping me on the road
melting like hot candle wax
we stopped at a motel
the windows let in a draft of hot air
coffee machine broken
the cable television speaking spanish
making love
listening to dogs bark
as if we were aristocrats
in a private box
at an opera
the sink leaked
adding background static
to the sounds of the air conditioner humming
sputtering for air
we bought bad whiskey
took off our clothes
fell asleep in the sand mixed with mexico's moon light
when I woke up
my good sweater was gone
the 1980'd-rusted-flat tired-oldsmobile was gone
she left me a cigarette
the rest of whiskey.

How peculiar is it
that which tempts me lies in icy blue panther-like orbs
-the clearest deepest purest brightest blue I’ve yet to come across-
and words that dance like 18th-century aristocrats
-balancing baubles and gaud on their faux hair
waltzing and marching in highly practiced steps about an opulently furnished and lit facility with glistening fountains and marble floors echoing flirtations and strings and heels and sneezes into embroidered handkerchiefs-
and how desire has strayed from maintained eye contact and prolonged gentle kisses and subtle smirks of amusement
-bordering on genuine happiness-
and I’m sure
that even if you were to sweep in again
declaring poetry and romance with roses in your hand and one between your teeth
-glittering with all the fantasy an idealistic Me would have swooned for and adored-
or even if you were to creep in again
confessing exploration and emotion with wildflowers pressed in a book filled with soul-searching entries and personal revelations
-glowing subtly with the authenticity all secretly wish to find even a shadow of-
I wouldn’t want any of that now:
I’m drawn to that which dies quickly
but while alive is full of life—
love has been tabled for a much later day.

and i too thought the english banknotes were big,
but by god... have you seen imperial russian's
banknotes?! you could wipe you entire **** with one.

no, i don't own an imperial russia's
banknote,
or a kopek dating pre 20th century
that Dostoevsky might have used to
gamble,
no, i don't own an imperial russia's
banknote with tsar Nicholas the 2nd's
face on it;
you can rob me all you want,
i think the banknote to be cursed...
a cursed luck of lost reason and logic...
but when i look at that all familiar face
and stare into the ageing face of elizabeth the 2nd...
i see papered ****** gravitating
to forfeit a chance of excelling in Olympics...
Olympics indeed, of muscles turned
into oyster mush... about to be exercised
in breathing exercises of forgotten
oxygen toxins...
no... i don't own imperial russia's banknote
with Tsar Nicholas 2nd's face on it;
i did tell you my maternal great-grandfather
spoke 7 languages, didn't i?
only bothersome and subsequently fake
nobleness stresses its point...
the true aristocrats suffer with enforced
ailments that only breed an exaggerated libido,
to quote myself... *i'd **** anything that moves
within the framework of the trinity of mouth
**** and ****... my ******* are always
goosebumps frolicking to a tingle and i
just want to relax with an unloading of the content,
i didn't read marquis de sade for no reason,
other than the quoted bibliography of
the marquis himself, having read books
using only one arm, with the other...
"making bookmarks", ha.

The Court Jester

Spinning
twirling
with you by
my side.
Within the elegance of mirrors and
reflections only the graceless could
see. Skirts and suites and smiles and
masks, many, many masks, with finery
of the aristocrats, the lovelessness of
the gentry.
Dancing
laughing
with you as
my guide.
Ballroom floors are marred by
glistening fans and jewels, adorning
elites and children, the adults joking
and the innocent conversing seriously,
with their hands carefully crafting the
facade only dreams
can bring.
Embracing
kissing
your light-hearted sighs
while writing

our simple end.

man, a shattering of woe against the shoreline of synonymous
due applause - or kindred with the devil,
burrowing to circumstance the saharan shadow,
tipped shortest via noon,
                    how experience
    humanity without a language,
that god brokered, and not sanctify
Pontius Pilate as the saving grace?
  lava mea mani mundi -
wash my (mandi(ble)) hands clean (purus) -
aristocrats of Pompeii... ugly *******;
       differed - as was the price
of entering Oxbridge.
                 which is why the content
of dreams was questioned, rather the context...
because who was the narrator, after all?
                  why didn't Freudian theory
question the narrator, but instead superimposed
itself as the gravitas narrator: combining both
content and context of dreams?
                   i find it scary that Freud
managed to toy around until the point where
he found a dysfunctional dummy staging horror
that lacked all necessities of a ventriloquist
       framed toward a subplot: embedded in needing one.
  is Freud the only person to provide narration
for the phenomenon of dreaming?
                i still find dreams caged in Kantian noumena...
i.e., why do they happen in the first place?
        i think it's strange that dreams occur in the first place,
that's the context question,
  Freud already answered the content question:
****** Pythagorean truce: it's called all geometric shaping
fits the answer: *******.
      yes, that's me done & dusted...
                           i'm just wondering about what need
we have within Darwinism to dream... what are
the evolutionary downsizing benefits?
isn't dreaming a delusional cauldron that disturbs
our will... or is Hollywood dead and our fancies
are no longer fanciful... what would a history
of dreams reveal, merely Joseph as the sole
dream architect?
                     Freud was but a man,
he said something about the content of dreams,
he didn't say anything about the context of dreams,
i can't find anyone to explain to me
                a need for a context and a need to dream...
i guess the people who dream are as easily
impregnated with a summary of Voltaire's Candide...
that this is: the best of all possible worlds...
          sure, but inscribe upon this world
a concentrated censorship of dreams...
       let me dream the last thing i might see
and give it all the mechanics of what others dream of
to the tilt of fully-embraced enhancement fakery...
             i will still not understand how you managed
to lodge a photon inside my cranium, or why there's
a need for me to dream, that's Freud point + on the content,
but that's also Freud point minus given the context...
    not if i have to hammer a thousand nails into
planks of wood will a dream matter to me....
             by god, make your money from analysis
dream content, but you'll end up a pauper analysis
dream context... are our lives so dandy and simple
that we retreat from political hierarchies
                            and what needs to be addressed
and with tails dragged between our hinds
                  we create foci for translating dreams into
a realism that can never be realised, because being
a realism, it's only a superficial version of
the pain that reality is?
                  yep, so much "wording",
and how many breaths did you inhale and exhale
while i said that? me too, on words: too many.
             Freud can have his content-invoking
affirmation of life and the subsequent prejudices...
but Freud cannot have a context-angling depravity
     to forward life, and consequent pejoratives
being suitor:
             for those who dare not think
                    are easily converted to dreaming...
and those who care to not dream,
   are ushered into the most obscure thinking
   that has not parallel with celebrated thought
akin to Einstein or Newton... but then again,
the celebration of dreams have only one representative,
and he's biblical... oh sorry: mythical.
yet that's where it all begins,
and it is a great sacrifice... to abandon the comforts
of dreams, in order to think uncustomary
   or even murky, uncelebrated thoughts...
                         to think the mundane and non-applicable
insistences... and then dream nothing,
and then see humanity's impecible practibility
  in the do rather then the lost assertive of be,
for humanity does the most, and is the least...
  for every hundred of do instances,
there's but a hundreth of a be instance worthy a mention;
meaning? do the plumbing...
       chop the timber, fix the electric...
                    no one tells people to reach a frantic embodiment,
or calls for an impersonal god that might leave them
   personal & authentic... everyone always asks for a personal
god that leaves them impersonal... robo-tectonic akin
  to Islam... thus ascribing: quantifiably nihilistic...
                   is my life too unbearable to continue or
unbearable to convene such a life, and quote:
  "simply nodded" on my Christmas greeting card...
******* cha cha cha...
                             i ain't a trebuchet,
but i'll swing a plum with a pair of knuckles
should you need more lip-balm for a smooch;
i'm just jittery about the date you'll test me.;
because the other-half-of-me was particular
about that dietary schematic of anorexia;
some said it was cool amphibian akin to ambiance
and hence the strobe light and break-dancing epileptic:
                       coffers full of chuff!
o lookie lookie, who the ****** unit of the
daffy bunch: quack squint-mc-dire...
no wonder she says her name's Chelsea postscriptum.

(Start)
Divinity void at birth, grace gifted through a parents love, bestowed without warning, maintained without fuel. Security measures drawn, placed on potential porcelain tombs, and entrances unfit for entry. Soft spot guarded with a proficient level of tenacity, insuring life, and the maintenance of its quality.
(Stability)
Speech found, dolled out first in small dosages, replicating familiar terms. Footing discovered, despite quaking legs, still unsure of their design. In combination, a wonder tumbles forth, and empowers its creators with a sense of responsibility, and the need to secure a path in the world for their embodied prosperity.
(Dissolution)
Understanding drawn on a newly clarified society. Building and grasping onto fictions established to promote grounding and self-sufficiency. Day in, day out, the world expands, never contracts, overcomplicating itself among the generalities of everyday life, and everyday struggles. On the other side comes a curiosity in the form of confusion, demanding a translucent pictograph of intention and purpose.
(Reimagining)
Class starts with every other date, then expands until it consumes all but weekends, providing young, attentive eyes, with simplified understanding, all while slowly working to whittle away at the delightful fancy once taken up for the sake of fun. Aligned thought found in fellow participants working their way to the front of the feeding line, struggling to maintain the self as different views collide. A decade later, time to move on, and be separated from acquainted normality to draw from a new pen, and learn from a new set of rules.
(Disintegration)
Social circles established instantaneously, as a coping strategy for life in the wild. Evolutions of ideals and traits occur overnight, percolating to the surface before necessarily ready, as expansive thought draws away from fact, and onto experience, merging itself with a blue print stripped from an old socialites attic. Transgressions worth more than grades, as misconceived youths wander about for momentous occasions, misspelling and speaking in their retelling.
**(Re-entry)
Tempered blues played over megaphones in the high school gymnasium, as latent minded aristocrats, mocking and forging the appearance of Asperger’s, time out the cadence to meet without accord. Catatonic assembly line of carbon based replicas march in a circle, out of tune, winking at policeman, politicians…profits all the like. All this, while Aesop’s fables are shared to the collective of misty-eyed teens, in a speech of many words, but little point…Children, caged, redeemed, and finally reincarnated to match the product line being loaded into trucks, awaiting shelves; the new, meek breed of paper holders who once believed that education carried worth.

talking exhaust writing, talking leaves no impetus to write,
talking is like staring into a closet or a boiler room,
there are fumes of missed chances, or of shadowy skeletons
asking for a revision of the social etiquette no made:
what is the quasi-dialectics modern society prescribes
nudging in a lie with a lie followed by another lie?
whatever the defining term, it only prescribes a loss of furthering
discussion, empowering this etiquette with solipsism;
or there this overly psychologised parent thesis,
this morbidity of the lost beauty of language, fixated
on guarantees of never being undermined - it stinks of
excluding all other uses of language, or it simply tries to
incorporate them under the banner that history, poetry, philosophy,
physics can be psychologised into one affordable use of language,
which is why when i write psychological words i am greatly pained,
e.g.:

a bit like probing someone’s subconscious for a quick
memory stimulant: in a shop two friends
passed the isles,
the music shop was blasting creedence clearwater revival...
with the song cotton fields being used
as the adequate prop for the experiment...
when i was a little bitty baby
my mama would rock me in the cradle,
in them old cotton fields back home;
it was down in louisiana
just about a mile from texarkana,
in them old cotton fields back home -*
buzzing, looking for dvds of gone girl and some science fiction
movie...
the music in the background wasn’t discussed...
but the revival of the vinyls in a corner was admired...
34 quid for the beatles’ white album... *******...
and cornershops’ brimful of asha lazy instrument at 70£...
then some tea and café awkward flirtation...
then to the pub!
two pints down the gob and the quizzical stutter gone...
the sort that means you thought for very long
and didn’t speak to someone for a long time...
nerves of caffeine and nicotine with the boogie wagon...
so yeah... prodding memory in the subconscious
as short-term, meaning long-term in the waking hour defines
the personality among other faculties of the membered brain,
whether that’s liver, kidney or lung... the brain troops
them into the body on the northern korean march sport of the army...
some say the chinese will come with a pigeon or a crane strut...
no geese in pseudo-hindu affiliations of order...
memory and the third party from sleep to wake?
how many dreams could you actually remember with the alarm clock ringing?
about none...
i wake without the alarm clock... and when waking i have a strange
dream in the 5 minutes of the snooze button imaginarily pressed...
the general anaesthetic isn’t death... because under general anaesthetic
you don’t actually dream... it’s chemical not even remotely natural.
so that part where i exclaimed: to the pub!
some landscapist on the wall with full biography lamenting
the curses of the french revolution and how the aristocracy suffered
with the new aristocracy of the newly rich... the merchants
the shoelace tiers... the cobblers and the chieftains of the cooking ***,
‘yeah, chicken hearts in onion sauce have the consistency of squid rings,’
and so... in the olden thou art a battered beetroot cheek...
this landscapist wrote four clauses about ol’ *** village known today
as gidea park... he swore that he noticed chalky graffiti
of vituperativeness... he said: no chore of violence was revealed,
since the graffiti was sworn as an oath to dig into the coal mines of melancholic bile
and simply vandalise the new aristocrats’ possessions
with words of cursing chiseled in by chalk, of the newly rich
who never passed their gains through blood but rather through molten iron or sporty leather - but you know what they say:
the merchant of mecca dies... the blood heirs become assassinated
and the four caliphs (the rashidun) emerge.
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition - they dare to mishandle language
and by mishandling it dare to usurp prosaic grammar structures,
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition, singing the alphabet:
a b c d e f g... h i j... k... el em en l o p... q r s... t u v... w x blah blah z (
with a quasi incy wincy spider timing).
that's what i mean! i hate psychologism and psychological
words in general, they literally domineer people,
it's like the jungian theory of the collective unconscious...
it's like we're supposed to remember the archetypes...
but the unconscious has no memory-content...
given the fact that the unconscious is pure imagination...
since we dream... i don't know how we remember dreams...
but it's hardly in our sleep but upon waking...
a thin red line though... 'tshh... mayday mayday...
boeing 747 flight no. 209zt is going to crash...
black box on the ready, over and out... tshh,'
unless the memory function in the unconscious is to
remember the image sequence that are dreams
upon waking... thin red line though...
oh no... how did i get tangled in this psychology *******
once again?!
unwind! i walked home in the cool autumn
wearing just a shirt...
down a very english road of haunted houses of satiated
materialism... the colour patterns of flowers
still not stampeded by winter in blush violet and indigo...
amorous chequers of flamingos and oranges...
and the sunset with a 10 - 1 bet against it...
with the moon just behind the corner of the sky
looming hazes of cloudy cider sky of the northern dark.

The world shall fall as they fall
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends

Bring in the seraphim
Tear the pure clouds, reveal the gods above
If doubt is a stronger virtue
Then I am its paragon

Women fall at lofty feet in a harem
Gorging on peasants' spines 'till faces turn mauve
Fear is the new moral breakthrough
A scale higher than the utmost echelon

The world shall destroy as they destroy
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.

The snake bite no longer stings
Calloused as a tyrant's compassion
The purest hands do grow relentless weeds
As they laze on the filthiest plots

Kings and hearts mount to slings
Foreboding most malleable deception
Blood spills bright on their letterheads
As truth gets set by red-handed bureaucrats

The world shall burn as they burn
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.

Marksmen are wealthier than diplomats
Golden bullets to the golden rule
The trend is to laugh at our silence
The principle is to break lives not dictates

There lies no purgatory for these aristocrats
On to the vile ember cesspool
Until then, they fawn in worldly omnipotence
And not one revolts, not even conscience

The world shall end as they end
In their sceptre,everything follows
And so it goes on.

oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
                history repeats itself -
                                you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a ****-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
                    it's free; a guess is free,
                                your little birdcage houses no sing-along.

They said we had it all
Middle American brats
bottom barrel aristocrats
we were told we were
propitious children
left alone to wonder
the bland landscape
of our gated community
to stand in submission
in our lovely subdivision

When things changed
it was us they blamed
or the media
or the influence of the ghetto
so far away
but never did we stray
it all came to us
and that was OK
we wanted something more
then material things

Our parents were there
but never really there
not enough to care
though they thought they were
Asking random questions
drinking their cocktails of
white wine and ******
telling us to turn down the volume
and what kind of ****
were we listening to today
telling us how music was better
back in their day

You gave us the world and in return
we shouldered all the blame
took the blame for all the pain
and were reminded daily of
how things could have been
how things should have been
if only you waited to have kids

And you wonder why we
f*ck and fight
stay up all night
become drunken fools at seventeen
just so we can change the routine
so we can feel alive by slowly dying
cigarette smoke and xanax bars
some percocet then drive our cars
to some place
any place
where someone will tell us that
we are special and unique
beautiful as they touch our cheek
and make us feel human again
smart and talented
more then our cookie cutter
gated box of a life
we have been told since birth
we must carry on

We just want to feel alive
to feel that someone really knows us
deep inside
from front and back
To feel that we are good enough
that its OK to be different
to feel different
and still know you will
love us just the same
and take back some of the blame
to hold us up so we don’t fall
and shatter like glass
from a child to a parent,
is that too much to ask?

David Martin

chlej (verb): to drink excessively
or chlaj: you do it,
  or even chlać (noun): to do so.

it's an aesthetic variation the acute
scalpel incision on the c: piquant -
the Ukrainians call the Poles: Lachy -
which is not the sound of witchy itchiness -
it's not the sound of cheap:
but something akin to a hark -
potency of how the French literally don't
trill or cartwheel their Ar (argon?)
           and thus say the literally Greek
rho (ρ) - thus the story of: chleje (i am drinking
to excess, but i'm not going to repent
for these antics, **** it: every single
psychopath in us to his gamble).

thus said: some say that diacritical marks
are also punctuation marks
that somehow became dislodged from
the linear function and entered the trigonometric
expression of tangens -
            offshoots into infinity -
or how the western niqab is a pair of sunglasses -
or how every autistic darty eyed celeb
dons them to hide those creepy eyes -
while psychiatrists only ask *two questions:
a. are they biting their nails      and
b. what about eye-contact?

another funny word: ryło -
czerwone (red) and czerń (black)
           czerwone ryło: etymological
ambiguity: it's either gob or cheek
after being pinched by a set of knuckles with
a punch - no Victor Frost wasn't here with
a -40°C Siberian pecker of a smooch -

kot srający na pustyni: variation of a selfie pout
(a cat ******* on a desert) -
funny thing, Darwinism, that sound encoding
didn't evolve to utilise diacritical marks
      as duly (not dully) expressed in Joyce's
end of Ulysses where all punctuation is lost
and left to the dynamo of babel...

there are, truly, more fun moments in poetry
than rhyme - not to mention the anorexic variation
of prose with cutting short the paragraph:
yes, that famous mishandling of paragraph that
poetry truly is... due-lee and dolly -
then the peeps said: oh yeah, that clone sheep -
dolly in science-land, and hence the wonder.

but i do feel sick having watched aeroplanes
and birds, trees, the wind, and cats and all that
dynamic harmonica and never use that
reverse of a freemason handshake (could it be
plural possessive, i.e. ownership?)

****, i'm drinking and then comes the functioning
alcoholic doing the Apache thunder dance
with alchemic cooking up a pumpkin risotto -

o to historia z kantem, co podwujne ma dno,
gdyby napisał ją dante,
to nie tak by szło...

       and here lies power...

        ą (ogonek) my evolutionary step forward into
a tango - tailed-a - or me says me monkey
why Anglo without tailed-a?

    sz = sh = š        cz = ch = č
                    rz = ż = ž                       :
look at them, those humanists, they just as horrible
as scientists, they're doing their *******
electron travels like they might cite Gulliver's -
and they never tell you what's going on,
until someone places a skunk in a room full of them
and once attempting mutiny on the Mayflower,
are soon the horde of Mongolian rats
escalating into a fury of a furry tsunami as an attempt
to conquer the seas in the numbers...

but in all honesty, i feel ill if i spend a day not
using these phonetic encryptions -
i see too much colour, too many shapes,
too many shapes not governed by man's
     geometry - and only in this medium can i
rest my drunken head while "as if talking in my head".

now, i can accept the serious criticism of
philosophy against poetry -
            but when journalists are at it...
those gob-smacker-chatterers are in for a plum hue
under one of their eyes - that ambivalence of
my tongue actually waggling away into concern
  is the point where i use my hands more to
craft the dough of some who might be
victims of a Westminster ******* ring of
   aristocrats (italics sometimes implies sarcasm).

Time is nothing new, knowing knots will never be undone
Evil crawls in the minds of man, manifesting itself to be beautiful
Accepting and acknowledging all aristocrats who abuse their power
The world is bland, where a woman loses her womanly flower
Covering each other up, taking out the surface not the root, it’s wrongful
Uncommon is the book, imagination in the individual’s ideal of no fun I sit pondering upon these problems, probing a way into fixing all
When a crumpling crucial crumping sound, roared through the skies TV’s turned on, radios turned up, the Television speaks of trumpets
Couples, church-goers, children cry to the camera “Ready your Caskets” Fire and hail trail to the ground, blood blaze behind, Earth in her demise
People jab and judge each other, nobody understanding the Trumpets first call.
As the people panic in passionate rage and fear Everything is going, diminishing, dying, covered in dirt, grass and trees burning
A second trumpets serenades through savage yells
Mountains begin to burn and fall, along with the church bells
The seas slowly from within spoils into blood curling
Every child glances up joyfully as staircases appear. A ten horned beast raises out of the sea, mouth maliciously open with intent
Scrambling and screaming sub-beasts crawl into an unhinged jaw
It rages and shakes the ten kings hoarding on each horn. Three kings crumble, crash to cultivated grounds, their bodies torn. Blood bathed, entitled; enraged the beast takes earth as its thrall. The people scared, scratched, scraped and tortured bent. Blackened beasts bash past the saints
Looking for sin, sinister civil devils
Trumpet three blows, while sitting upon universal long ledges
The demons demonstrating patience beyond the ages
Hells helpful and hazy corruption seen at different levels
Through mans lounging, Wormwood falls to decide fates. The world is weeping through wasted weaves of wind
Disgusting smell of dead rides the tormented tasteless air
Swallowed by the fourth trumpet, bravely bashing through gusts
To find safe haven upon the throne of tusks
No animal though that tasted the tenacious disease will be accepted in care
They will be banished into the cold forever dark air, where they will shiver and cringe. The world is silent waiting, wallowing for the fifth When it comes Angels, breath beneath the blacken clouds
There striking wings linger as they blow three cornets In the sky, seeping through the soundless sky sails comets
A sight for the still faithful all watch in a crowd
As the comets releases Locusts from beneath. Laying lusciously low in a most lucid state, The ***** Her words wager, weave, win through the minds, falling for false prophecy
Ripping right by the remonstration of being The ***** of Babylon
Woman and Man fall for the words, seeking haven from hell hereon
Adult to child, wishing away her whims, she is the spiritual adultery
No newly made Neanderthal seeing her for the devils zany zealotist abhor. With The ****** lies, breaches the Mother of abominations
The one obtuse and first woman to walk in the Garden of Eden
Human at first, ripped apart, away from innocence; Lilith Haste to Hate, Revenge against the rotting earth, taking away human health
The goal stupendous, shaking sorrowfully, any good is forbidden
For killing is her passion, her art, her own Revelations. The sixth trumpet signals the release of the most dangerous Soldiers
The four enticing beings of end that are released from Euphrates the great water
Their massive army mounting at two hundred million minimizes us
Useless and hopeless everyone allows plagues in their bodies with lust
All people want is death, decaying, disembodied from the soul, without a bother
The ***** still preaching, but not a single being is listening to her false words of a philosopher. In the mix of mist and swamps I continue to sit and scrutinize
Every evil endorsing embassy of hell-spawn
Floating and coating, demoting every satchel of thought
As every defecate of remorse leave me in distraught
My mind is distilled where my initial thoughts are withdrawn I empower the sour cowering stare of the devil’s eyes. I cannot look away, the steady statue stare Embracing escalated enmity, fighting for it not to invade my mind
Never knew cruelness existed and brought beings such delight It covers itself in kindness and caring as it wishes me good night
When wrathful vengeance I awake, to aspire, to find
A torture most terrifying, tossed into twisted tarred souls, my religion I forswear. A game of chess, played between each, no physical state
Dictating the defence, drawing out, hitting, harassing and hackling
Pawn for a pawn, the pound of flesh taken from the absence of attack
Everything twists and twines around each feeble thimble of thoughtless comeback
Devil sends soulless soldiers, crashing crazily through bones a crackling. Finding flirtatious moments to pass the queen into the kingly gate. I have lost; no match made on earth can win with the Devil
Although I lost, I still hold onto faith that in the everlasting end I will be acknowledge by my God, I’ll will be shown care
I sit, sore, scarred, seared of my dignity, I pray
In my mind the Lord’s Prayer is the only way I can defend
I know beyond my brave but bashed thoughts that I kept away from evil. The loudest, most holy, mind clearing trumpet rings
The seventh and ending of the biblical war
A hole rips the sky, rendering useless, entirely beautiful though
Angels dash rescuing the ravaged by faithful souls, protection from beasts below I am avenged, my mind repaired from the unprotected un-releasing pain that I can now ignore
I praise to the Lord, lavishing, laying beside his council of twenty-four of forgiving beings.