1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm

"The global bull market has continued its seemingly relentless advance, unchanged by geopolitical concerns…….."

• The Israeli-Hamas conflict now blazing in Gaza, Palestine, two military forces locked in a deadly struggle to the end, killing and maiming thousands of ordinary citizens.

• Malaysia Airlines flight 17 blasted out of a clear blue Ukraine sky by the Bus surface to air missile
             unleashed by the Pro-Russian Separatists killing 298 unsuspecting, innocent, international travellers.
             Culpability denied by all.

• Anwar Al Awlaki, the American born Cleric, directing clandestine terror attacks and assassination by Al Qaeda beyond the Middle east into Asia and Europe.

• Deposed President, Mohammed Morsi’s Muslim Brotherhood, responsible for terrorist activities including multiple car bombings throughout Egypt.

• President Bashar Assad of the Alawite minority, an offshoot of Syria’s Shiite religion, waging religious genocide against his own nations people
             and now in open conflict with the Muslim uprising Sunni forces of the new Isis Caliphate.

• The beheadings, slaughter and terror unleashed by the Sunni, Isis Caliphate uprising rampaging through Iraq.

• Russia’s sudden invasion and forceful annexation of the Crimea.

• Russia’s brutal pressure on the sovereignty of the Ukraine through its clandestine weaponry supply and sponsorship of the Pro-Russian Separatist Forces occupying the nations East.

The Middle East is now…an Apocalypse.

This epoch of cruel waste
Where man kills man
For God and gold,
For power’s lust.
Where the Sword of Calamity
Wields destruction and death
On those who can least afford it
By they who should never impose it.

In the face of all this …..an unbelievable prioritization with this headline quote from today’s NZ Herald….

“There are financial risks to be endlessly jumping at shadows…to overreact to market noise!"

UNBELIEVABLE!!!!**

M.
Auckland,
NEW ZEALAND
31 July 2014

Maryam
turned,
moving
away
from the
caravans of
bulldozers
entering
Homs.

She
could
not bear
to look
upon the
the teeth
of steel
tracks
sloshing
through
puddles
of blood,
plowing
the rubble,
burying the
mush,
coolly
covering the
fingerprints of
criminals.

Maryam
beheld the
conquering
soldiers
standing
atop piles
of shrapnel
marked and
launched by
Syria’s finest
artillery officers.

She
remained
within ear shot
to hear the
victor’s
orator,
recite the
history of
the conquest,
carefully
spinning
suspicion,
and casting
blame
for the
devastation
onto the
vanquished.

The speaker
lauded the
efforts of
esteemed
comrades
commanding
black regiments
chasing the
last rats still
lapping at
the edges
of the red
pools;
hieing to
the dead
catacombs
as sanctuaries
of salvation.

The barker
goads other gangs
to commence a
surgical search
of hospitals to
root out wounded
insurgents. He
suggests they be
removed from
their recovery
beds and thrown
atop the piles of refuse
where the busy tractors
will push the rubble
into the far corners
of the mind where
obfuscation and
forgetfulness
blissfully anoints
unsettled memory.

Alarmed,
Maryam breaks
for the hospital,
to nurse the
injured.

She moves with
tealth through
the broken city’s
debris strewn streets.

Maryam eyes the
inert concrete,
blasted into
ghastly shapes,
burying secrets,
concealing terrible
stories of what
transpired
during the
pacification of
Baba Amr.

These
grotesque
gargoyles,
sculpted by the
mangled hand
of a deranged
sociopath
will hold their
silence for
only so long.

Dark secrets
never live
forever.

The distended heaps
of jangled rebar
pokes through
broken chunks
of concrete
like rib cages
picked clean by
the jackals
of war.

The pulverized
concrete forms
telling Mandalas
giving voice to
the stained
stones crying
the secrets of
terrible truths that
unmarked graves
never keep
silent.

Maryam
is desperate
to find the
lost children.

She knows
the ungodly
conquerors
eagerly
hunt them.

The subjugators
are drunk from the
draughts of blood
they profanely quaff.

They thirst
for more and
have set
their sight on
the children.

The crucifiers
kiss the sword
to cleanse
the insurgent
city of its
youngest
citizens.

Bashar has
condemned
a generation
to death.

He desires
to purge Syria
of a heinous
memory stored in
the ripening minds
of Homs’ children.

They stand in  
witness to
the ******
of their
childhood.

Righteous
indignation
breeds a
long  memory
nursed by the
vanquished as
a cherished gift;
bestowed to
successive
generations
like a valuable
family heirloom;
but
resentment
makes for
a monstrous
coat of arms
vanquishers
bequeath to
the defeated.

Maryam
crosses over
the scattered
stones
incapable
of bleeding
one more
drop of blood.

She hears
the howling
spirits calling
from the broken
ruins.

She glimpses
the dark silhouettes
of fleeting apparitions
moving through
the upper floors
of flame stained
buildings.

The ghostly
shadows of
lost children
wander, seeking
the rest of an
expired future
sired by their
state sanctioned
execution.

Maryam
grows anxious
as she
approaches
the hospital.

She arranges
her silk scarf.
She examines
her calloused
hands. The lines
of her palms
are soiled,
cakes of dirt
have settled
under her
fingernails;
yet sufficient
strength remains
in her arms
to roll away
the large stones
entombing
revelations
of love and
miracles of
deliverance.

The pock
marked
hospital now
in sight,
Maryam
enters the gate
of a ancient
graveyard;
clambering
over burial
mounds
of her dead
ancestors.

She remembered
a placard hanging
in the hospital’s
waiting room.

“Art is long; life is short;
opportunity is fleeting;
judgment is difficult;
experience is deceitful.”
Hippocrates.

As Maryam
neared the
graveyard exit
she was
overtaken by
Syrian soldiers
brandishing AK’s.

One stuck a
dusty barrel
into Maryam’s
face while
the other tapped
the back of her
head from behind.

A weeping
Maryam
knelt before
her captors.

She
washed
the dust
from their
boots with
flowing tears
and wiped
them clean
with her hair;
praying for
the power
of love
to once
again
overcome
the stalk
of death.

Prostrate
and prone
Maryam
waited to
accept the
shaft of
recrimination
through her
bleating gums.

If recollection is long
in the living,
memory is eternal
in the dead generations.

The only known cure
for the disease of acrimony
is the strong balm of love.

Maryam would
never again nurse
the wounded
children of
Homs.

Music Selection:
Chanticleer & Yvette Flunder
There is a Balm in Gilead

Oakland
3/12/12
jbm

Negotiating with ******

You can't.
Even if,
He disguises himself as
Bashar-al-Assad,
Taliban,
Al Shabaab,
Hassan Rouhani,
Or that ole mass murderer,
Now not such a bad guy,
We could left him alone,
Cause he didn't have WMD,
Saddam Hussein,
He just mass murdered,
The old fashioned way.

They thirst for the blood of mine.
And when satiated, they will come for you.
There will be no Mass said
Over our mass graves.

Do not pretend to lead,
When all you seek is avoid.
The historians will seek you out
And label you coward, Chamberlin.

Shall we meet at the soccer stadium
Called Ghazi, for some ice cream
And a public execution or two?
Let's make it a woman, for the extra satisfaction?

A perfect place, conducive for relaxed negotiations!

Woe us/me, when our moral compass points only
Downward,
Into the bloodied earth,
Where we will soon enough be buried too.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Ben a homeless veteran of war, had a heart attack, fell from his wheelchair
and died and people stepped over him.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

A forest fire burned in Yosemite National park and Sierra Nevada destroying homes, and
threatening wildlife including 200 year old redwood trees.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Latonya lost her job, and in turn her apartment and in turn the custody
of her children.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Yu fellated a man in a sweaty brothel who was nearly four times her age.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Plant leaked tons of radioactive fluid into the
Pacific.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Syrian President Bashar al-Assad used chemical weapons on his own people.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

the world is adorned with a million windows
the bleakest night has a thousand eyes
daylight shines into the globes darkest corners
truth will ultimately expose all lies

NASA’s satellites circle
Tropic of Cancer latitudes
cameras pinpoint the disease
metastasizing in the body of Homs

from stratospheric limits
sensitive lenses read the names
magic markers have scrawled
onto white sheets covering the dead

YouTube gets Oscar consideration
for grisly cinematography
a real-time visceral docudrama
of panting fascists gleefully tramping

through the desecrated streets
coolly administering a coup de gras
to a city on its knees, pleading release
from an **** of incessant bloodletting

twitter records desperate tweets
the batting wings of endangered flocks
furiously thumbing into the blogosphere
calls for UN intervention that falls on blind eyes

BBC reportage,
the global gold standard
for journalistic excellence
scoops the stories
of London based FSA partisans
awaiting repatriation to scatter
Bashar’s Kodachrome killers

Has the All Seeing Eye
who has graced us with sight
laughingly curse us with vision?

Does the
One Caring Eye of the Universe
bless us with perception
to haunt us with images?

Has
The One Thats Sees Everything
blinked closed the eye of compassion?

Has the horror of Homs
become too much even for
The Universal Eye of Love?

the opened eyes
of a dead child
reflects our
cold winter
of indifference
demoralizing
dehumanizing
a watching world

Music Selection
Grateful Dead Eyes of the World

Oakland
3/2/12
jbm

Recep Tayip Erdogan though Turkish to the core
Has loathing in his Turkish heart, ferocity and more
For the secular insanity’s of Bashar Al Assad
Determines chaos at his border with warring Syria is bad.
With incursions by the Kurdish to the ISIS foe at hand
And the umbrage taken by the Kurds at Turkey’s open border stand,
Where ISIS can permeate both back and forth at will
Allowing freedom for Jihadists, now, to raid, behead and ****.
Europe visualize this menace at their doorstep as a threat
But Turkey, playing both sides, leaves NATO, now side stepped.
Where our friends become our enemies and enemies our friends.
In this Middle East miasma ..... confusion never ends.

M.
27 June 2015

it was brutal past these two days,
pedantry and what not,
first came the lacklustre observation
that needed changing given the perfectionism of coining the phrase:
machina non ex ego,
then came the familiar “god” barricaded with
what proper pronoun usage there is
in the omnipresent and omnitempus rubric will allow,
what’s the first person present acquisitive collective of i in latin?
it’s clearly stated that it’s poached egg...
so me and my totem the fox tonight, the streets empty,
november rain warming the air...
guns ‘n’ roses could be playing in the background
and a wedding of trendowata / trędowata
(helen mniszków) / ***** / i.e. ń where the bride dies on the honeymoon...
once in a honeymoon the blue moon makes a joke...
been here, done that, let’s mash up the tango with the foxtrot
while genuine genesis gets the ****-off-factor thumbs up...
peter gabriel never made it to the pop section of critics...
he remained hidden in the realm of late-composition
of mahler and whoever decided slapping lycra pants on
frying pans was definitely music.
hey, my sarcastic humour is back... which means i’m
sitting in an easy chair, drinking whiskey, listening to music...
no, actually my lower back is aching while i type
on a dinner table chair...
so the pedantic masochism that got me hot & bothered
for the past two days was changing: machina ex non-ego
to machina non ex ego
(it wasn't me... shaggy... who thought up
the need for traffic wardens... penalties for parking
on double yellow... or the one who
required michelin-star dining...
or the one who kicked a sphere into a rectangle...
i'm not the one who can claim
such social engineering... i'm not the one
behind the tomahawk...
or calling the mayan diety of wind and rain
hurakan like the polish aversion of something
behind storms an alt. spelling via huragan)...
god almighty... did you see the weather forecasts for december?
horrific!
nietzsche famously ignored america...
joseph roth didn’t...
now i’m at the stage of stealing shadows, given the theory
of actors stealing other people’s shadows, recipients
of life or not...
the only way to steal shadows from actors is in the cognitive approach...
make complete dumb-arses smart, turn the quote inside out
and forget existential ambiguity of single word meanings...
forget the spoken interpretation of the linear tetramarca (“ “)
ditto with theapprox. markings as solved, due to the explanation:
i think i said... not i think i doubted that meaning originally...
let me just change the spelling of what’s intended...
ah hell with it: “i” is worse than ~i.
this bombing of daesh is going to hurt the west...
i know why... the russians know why...
they’re doing the puppeteer tactic of war...
get a weak ruler on the throne... heat the throne up...
see the wax of the puppet melt...
see... russia sided with the assad regime...
the west didn’t side with anyone...
i can see a moral angle in favour of russia...
it bombs because it knows assad, bashar allah sad...
it wants the old honours back for the kingpin jim yong ping pong uno
(a.k.a. deep-blue-pong solo with a brick wall),
the west is playing english roulette...
it’s still the same wheel of fortune...
but the ***** are bigger... perhaps smaller...
throw a single grain of pepper / salt in for the gamble...
that’s the west for me... ****** **** ignoramus,
the ****** third cousin of the motivational coach of **** bred kim carmageddon:
oi guv! spare us a tickle!
but you know what i really really love... memories:
the time i read of kierkegaard’s faustian theory of dominion,
when a man can turn a bright spark of femininity
into a juvenille gamer too nervous to stop playing a game
and engage in conversation...
god that girl was something... but then she turned into a little
mouse who could pipsqueak the whole truth
under “supposed” interrogation...
you know that abraham came from the city called Ur
which is modern iraq?
no, you see, kierkegaard’s theory of faust, or faustian sexuality
in the book either / or is perfectly matched up
with don juan’s misogynistic polygamy - the village bicycle analogy -
he eventually becomes a conquered piece of meat
once thought to be the hand under the shawl of saint teresa...
the beatles v. the rolling stones?
bob dylan v. dylan thomas?
that quote from the devil’s advocat by al cappuccino:
‘i’m the ultimate humanist,
i’m the hand under mona lisa’s skirt!’
i vow my entry... you can have mona lisa...
my hand went right up under saint teresa’s shawl.
then i get an answer from ol’ pizza pound...
cantos xliii & xliv are undecipherable... until the usura sequence...
but then again...
he does mention a hill in canto xlii...
which could be a metaphor for the salmon swimming upstream
in the river known as writer’s block.

The President drew a line in the sand
And said” Don’t you cross this, Assad.”
“If you do, you will be like the souls of the dammed,
In the hands of an Angry god.”
Despite consequence dire (brimstone and hell fire)
Bashar Al-Assad risked the President’s ire.
Will Obama stand down or put boots on the ground?
Oh Valerie, what should he do?
Will the matter be pressed- or the Emperor undressed?
Ms. Jarrett, he’s waiting on you.

I keep trying
to finish my
beer but
Miles is playing
Homs with Damascus
on deck like
Green in Blue in
Bashar
and the conservatives,
that is, the Muslim ones
or rather
the extremist ones
that is, ****
there’s good people
dying to a machine gun
bass line
‘dada doo da’
‘dada doo da’
and they all want
the guy gone
but we’re just playing
White Christmas on repeat
trying to drown out
the bass line
but it keeps bumpin’
‘dada doo da’
‘dada doo da’
so I finally take a sip
but it’s sour and
flat and the bass line
is bumpin’ my elbows
and pulling’ at my chest
‘dada doo da’
‘dada doo da’
with a C-4 concerto
that makes Bach
seem irrelevant
and Mozart a spoiled
brat, my god
it’s a sink-hole in
Dm, the last one
on the album that
makes you think,
“Why did they let
this happen?”
‘Dada doo da’
‘Dada doo da’
Oh boy!
It’s enough to really
hang your hat on,
but that’s for another
generation to wonder,
Me-
I’ve got this beer to
finish and the record
keeps skipping
‘dada doo da’
‘dada doo da’

take into account the entire picture
of the world, men being cruel and inhuman
on the large scale, wars, nuclear annihilation threatening,
genocide most recently in Syria,
in the history looking back
that is what I see, the gas chambers in Germany,
the Congolese under the rule of Leopold,
the Seminole, my peoples the Cherokee mostly dead,
mass murderers, such as
Stalin, Mao, Islam and Christianity,
campaigning slaughter, inhumanity to man,
like a wild animal, the beast is us. Then
let us look at us. We, in our actions, our wanting at all costs to win, our
genetic makeup our striving to survive,
all bred and taught into us just continues it all. And we ask why?
Look at Hello Poetry. For a year a war has been fought. And no one is winning.
But both sides are unable to say enough. To say you too are of my kind, human, And
here, we are supposed to be the best of our kinds, the empathetic feeling ones in this crazy ****** up place we call Earth. ******* it.
Poets fighting each other as reckless as one sided as ISIS against  Bashar al-Assad .  Or Kim Jong-un threatening the world.
I am beginning to like animals
more than people.
They love unconditionally or **** for food.
There is no mistaking, no middle, no rationalizing,
it just is nature. Man is different. He kills because of words and mistaken ideals, no animal does.
Poets , in my ideal, are to use their words for love and peace.
Not mirror the rest of this ****** up world!

When I Was Fourteen
I took a walk around the world
When I was fourteen.

A round-trip from the country
Of Florida to the province of
Friendship.

I broke out my camp gear on
The way to the sea of desire
And edged my way to the point
Of view.

When I was fourteen
I took gym class and failed
Showers.

The water lapped at my body,
Its steamy blows pelting my
Boyhood.

The jocks jeered at me ‘cause
I cried in shop class a lot
When I was fourteen.

The girls wore saddle shoes
With bobby sox and they
Liked me seeing as I could
Dance the jitterbug.

I loved the beat, the jiggling
Of my legs against my pants
And I learned to cope with
My feelings of trackless taunts.

I starred in a one-act play but
Forgot my lines
When I was fourteen.

I had a dream in the province
Of friendship that there was
A boy called little prince
Who nourished a rose.
Prince taught me that I would
Only see clearly with my heart
When I was fourteen.

A new boy came to school one
day and sat next to me at chorus  
practice.

He gazed at me, his eyelashes
and lips detailed in copper, head
tipped back as though in trance
and pulled off his t-shirt.

I am here today because he was
There, nourishing me like prince’s
Rose, but with courage.

When I was fourteen
I met the gymnast of love, his
Daring glance, his feather touch,
Defiant, preaching counterpoint.

I tried to run away but his name
Kept Calling me back, like a
Birdsong: “Phillip,” it whispered,
“My name is Phillip.”

And I went to him, to his glance,
To his smile, to his arms, and
He sang to me, this boy named
Phillip:

“I know you, my little prince,
You are a wee patch of blue,
My Mordecai, my Bashar, my
Ivan, my Carlos, branches of
The same tree, so serious at
Fourteen.”

Soon another dream came over
Me, I dozed, drowsy and snug
In the arms of an unknown hero,
And I was wrapped in a frosted
Halo, when I was fourteen.

My halo was a gift from Phillip,
And it dripped so silently down
On the closet, on fire, holding
The me that I now behold in
The mirror.

I saw the shower and stood up
Proud, I saw the stage and
Remembered my lines, and
I was proud.  I was the rose,
Nourished. And I was proud.

I danced and dreamed and was
Filled with courage, my chest
Popping with buttons, my head
Filled with melody and my
Shoes tapping in rhythm.

Today we went home to see
My mom, Phillip and I, and
She put her arms around us
And said “Welcome, boys,
I love you!”

When I was fourteen.  


© Lewis Bosworth, 2014

There once was a man who drew lines in the sand
daring Bashar Al-Assad to cross.
When “the Lion” so dared he was so unprepared
our man looked like the back of a horse.
Now the same man says he’ll stare down Iran
There’s no need for advice and consent.
John Kerry, his proxy, the Ketchup Queen’s mate,
Ignores deadlines that he never meant
He’ll bargain some more til he sells out the store
The Jews, our lone allies, be dammed.
When the I.C.B M.S rain with bombs they’ll obtain
Tel Aviv will melt into the sand
Then we’ll all learn the true cost of “Peace in Our time”
with the murderous thugs from Iran.

Sisyphus merely refused to push any frigging rock
he said my mother never named me as such
and neither trickery or deceit are in my trove
Hades was and is never my home

look yonder at Putin and Magic Grandpa's slaves
them nuetered and brainwashed simpleton
who deems equality is stealing and robbing
not earning and toiling for needs like others do

our irrelevant mob drunk on fantasies and delusions
who shy from reality and live in cloud cuckoo loonies-ville
deranged with lies and falsehood they run from truth
using poison, intimidation, bullying and treachery as Putin does

the joke plain to see is all the slaves are Sisyphuses
living hellish lives they carry rock on chipped shoulders
march uphill, tumble down with fake unworkable ideologies
as hate, bile and frustration drench them in their delusional quests

from their schools of the Hopeless and crazy underachievers
their odious mantra is attack is the best form of defense
followed by lie, lie and lie again until you believe all the lies
then poison, defamed, slander and destroy reality and all truths

no need to preach just look at Putin, Xi Jinping or Bashar al-Assad
see what they do, opposition poisoned, 45,000 dead but say 5000
**** your people wantonly and say they are IS and Taliban
and to rub it in all these devil have the best while the ordinary die

then some grade a uber western leftists plays Sisyphus
while he gets weekly Welfare checks, free housing and medicals
help to get ahead is available, opportunities are always  created
but our dorks decide its revolution and stealing from one immigrant is exactly what the world should be obsessed by right now
Someone lease tell the deluded crank-pots to take a reality pill
The Sisyphuses are you but you lack the grey matter to see it.
if perhaps you think white, white-washes everything, it doesn't!!

aestuosi pedes or perhaps pedes aestuosi:
whatever the order might be
it did bring me unto a rather favorite passage
of Cicero:

“He’s a slave.” But he may have the spirit of a free man. “He’s a slave.” But is that really to count against him? Show me a man who isn’t a slave; one is a slave to ***, another to money, another to ambition; all are slaves to hope or fear. I could show you a man who has been a Consul who is a slave to his “little old woman”, a millionaire who is the slave of a little girl in domestic service. I could show you some highly aristocratic young men who are utter slaves to stage artistes. And there’s no state of slavery more disgraceful than one which is self-imposed. So you needn’t allow yourself to be deterred by the snobbish people I’ve been talking about from showing good humour towards your slaves instead of adopting an attitude of arrogant superiority towards them. Have them respect you rather than fear you.

noted: for the sense of fluidity i discard
all above formality of Place or Name: sometimes
on a whim, yes, if prominent: either place or name -

and note that each new line is not bound to
paragraph (¶)
  pillow                             -                     crow

said to measure: expanse of - money, printable sap
of space of (a) page
                        and as such: a sobering ambition,
reflection, reminiscent of youth
and Nietzsche and: if anything equivalent to
Ecce **** can be printed
then this governed by the luxury of not printed...

on morality: as a prejudice?
that's not Nietzsche: not neat: cher:
chim-chimeney-chim-chimeney-chim-chimy-cherry
not him: me,

on morality: as prejudice...
since mortality is not ethics but an allusion
to ethics: morality is like fashion
is a sense of fashion
while ethics is simply the dignity of wearing
clothes or rather of wearing
protection
morality is how there is more to cloth
than simply keeping warm
the allusion to *** should summer come and
summer women...
who are not the women of winter
and how all that attire is exclusive
no, in summer a woman's attire becomes inclusive
or they say: it is warm enough
for the bees and the birds and
honey glazing of otherwise porcelain "anemic"...

larvae like see-through skin
you'd dare to look for a pulsating worm-like
structure resembling an *****.

or is there a subjective experience of having a heart?
i wonder
because the objectivity of heart on the basis
of pulse:
is there a subjective experience of the heart
like a heart is subjected to the clenching of the hand
to insinuated not so much
a fist to further insinuate violence but
a clenching of the hand to insinuate
a clenching of the heart a heart's pang of pain
not pain: real but pain metaphysical
                                                    ­  like love lost love loved
love as a chemistry, binding of two bodies
then unbinding like the need for two rings
of metal coupled...

                   quote:
"on this perfect day...
           i buried my four-and-fortieth year...
philosophy... hammers...
               now i'm going to tell myself
the story of my life"

                                  and that is curious,
or rather this is also how you experience a luxury
of writing should reading be exhausted
and by no far stretch of the imagination
this is a little vain a little sordid or at least there's
an aesthetic to the ascetic -
                                            which is hardly seen
but remains intact
                    perchance on the street outside
a train station three bums drinking wine basking
in the sunlight while everyone else busies
themselves (with themselves):

existential revisionist theory,
a soft beginning, inclined to the romance of Islam
maybe i've been working in the security
industry far too long with a multitude of
races, creeds and chocalatiers
since i believe i see that the future is biracial
at least a new Aztec Mecca
in the smoldering *** of hyped over hyped ***
i see the future as mixed-race
but i don't see the other necessary future
that is in me:

bilingual because it's not just enough
to break a few eggs
into the tease of horror-sexuality of the cis-woman
so much better than the early
sexuality of Bilie Eilish and now out for Lunch
bad guy bad guy
i'm finally making a girl cry
not the one crying not the broken idealist
of my years of 21 springs
now i finally found my wrecking ball
my Damian O
                        O the wheel and O i spin into
o o
o
o
o o
o o  o
o o
o o
             bubbles all not so like bubbles
but some sort of covert mathematics
like algebra but
not algebra because there are no hard-on
limp **** problems clearly defined
no this is more an algebra without letters
as letters or unknowns
with only 9/0 fold Truth
the avenue of awe while angels
stopped singing and instead started whispering
to me
the angels stopped singing
instead started whispering
into my mind's ear

if there is a mind's eye: i third party who and why

sobering thoughts burden me
when i drink two fire-milk whiskeys
and smoke a joint because
i microdose
i micro-dose
what i smoke if a sprinkle
in a giant bush of tobacco
rolled up rolled into a tight bun ***
oh the glutton over the intolerance
to the whey woah woe-ah like woe sulking
over a disco mummy dance
behind a mirror and all the ****
that's equivalent to the population
of octopii of the seas...

all she knew prior was no music
because she was collecting music
then sold the vinyl
melted it into linq:     liquidrice
liquorise... darker than spice
a bit like hash
Hashish Hasha...
         Ashar and the Bashar al-Qud

revel in the following telegraph:

CHRSTNTY XHSTD
exhausted
humanity
somehow
too much humanity
in a single man
existential revisionist
not secular dead end
all politics no myths
just newspapers
not fires and talk
and the one madman
Elijah to go into wilderness
for the voice of god
because humanity
somehow forgot and forgave
itself:
it started forgiving itself
for forgetting and making
upkeep a sort of last resort
of angles in the health
and safety rules at work

ergonomic sophistry
like i'm rhyming to the rhythm
of a song...
rhyme to rhythm of a song

RHYM' RHYTHM
i found the two gammas...
alpha male
beta male
and the gamma male
radioactive...
imitation of Rzeczpospolita
"too many consonants"
not enough vowel glue...

Riff - raff -Ryvm...
very velvet very not sleepy so borrowed
time on the touch of water
from behind a white glove...
no not helium filled surgical gloves
touching the waters of birth
waters of ***
waters of mouth
waters of oral
waters of constipated ***
and anti-birth
for the *** all pleasure
just gay dead ends no children
now my children not my children
all seem like children
and chills...
the waters of periods
moon skies and cycles
and buying plots of land
but not buying with words
like pennies by the simple math of
effort invested in, regardless of rewards
because

capitalism is anti-literacy with
the books it pushes all
autobiographies written by ghosts
of men
who excuse them reaching the heights
being dyslexic...
that's Muhammad the Prophet of WHWH
because is LLH to special for gay lord...

such is the extent of AI generated responses
it's like having a secret internet
that was not there prior
and that's me not even having dwelt among
the super cool gansta rot of the deep web
with all the human perversity
depravity and satan bound to happy-sad japan...

elsewhere the transition from Christianity
to Islam because the Hebrew cult is confusing
enough from how language is a study of the Torah
and how slang is not going to be anything
short of finishing that book
mind you currently on my list
of multi-tasking books
because i have taken the forbidden fruit
of an audiobook of the lord of the rings: the fellowship

but i'm gathering history in books
i can't just overlook, forget,
a labyrinth alley of forest dried and smoked
books, list:

knausgaard's vol 6 of mein kampf
frank herbert's dune
olson's the maximus poems
zhuangzi's writings
the master and margarita in german....

i have all these books started:
problem being
like someone i heard say
about Dickens' the Pickwick Papers...
oh yes...
that's another book on my list...
like this person said
to entice...
the problem with the Pickwick Papers
as a book...
is to have finished reading it...

thus i pledged: start reading as many books
and leave them unread
or rather keep them...
eternity is going to be a long flight
of the citizens of nothing toward god
so it's going to be boring and painful
so i need reading material
and the forthcoming book on my list of books
started but not finished is...

mad enough to spend £47.55 for a book
of 420 pages...
meadows of gold and mines of germs
by al-Masudi...

just because he was an ummi (mommy's boy)
doesn't mean that in some trance
he started scribbling, Muhammad...
anyone can take complications of a man
and attire them to self then somehow
exfoliate counter to the narrative of the supposed
clues to cues for life...
but i will not transcript the answer of the AI
(chatGPT is like the internet as an app
since i predominantly used the internet
to search, regardless of music i want to listen to
best advertised
but search engine for answers
like skimreading like a skinny late
like a skinny girl no **** no ***
so i mean like Google 2.0 that's chatGPT):

see the poem Q.

O People,
I have become your Sultan,
Break your idols after your misguidance,
And worship me...
I do not reveal myself always,
So sit upon the pavement of patience
Until you can behold me.

Leave your children without bread,
Abandon your women without husbands,
And follow me…
Praise God for His grace,
For He has sent me to write history,
And history cannot be written without me.

I am Joseph in beauty,
No golden hair like mine has God ever created,
No prophetic forehead like mine,
My eyes...
A forest of olive and almond trees,
So pray always that God may protect my eyes.

O People,
I am Majnun Layla,
So send me your wives to bear my seed,
And send your husbands to give me thanks.
It is an honor to eat the wheat of my flesh,
An honor to pluck my almonds and figs,
An honor to resemble me…
For I am an event unseen
For thousands of years.

O People,
I am the first, the most just, the most beautiful,
Among all rulers.
I am the full moon of darkness, the whiteness of jasmine,
I am the first inventor of the gallows,
And the best of the messengers.

Whenever I think of leaving power,
My conscience forbids me…
Who, then, shall rule after me these kind souls?
Who shall heal the lame, the leprous, the blind after me?
Who shall bring life to the bones of the dead?
Who shall draw the moonlight from his cloak?
Who shall send down the rain upon the people?

Who, tell me,
Will flog them ninety lashes?
Who, tell me,
Will crucify them upon the trees?
Who, tell me,
Will force them to live like cattle?
And die like cattle?

Whenever I think of leaving them,
My tears flow like a cloud,
And I put my trust in God…
And decide to ride upon the people
From now until the Day of Judgment.

O People,
I own you
Just as I own my horses and my slaves.
I walk upon you
As I walk upon the carpet of my palace.
So bow to me when I rise,
And bow to me when I sit.

Did I not find you one day
Between the pages of my ancestors?
Beware of reading any book,
For I read on your behalf.
Beware of writing any speech,
For I write on your behalf.
Beware of listening to Fairuz in secret,
For I know your intentions well.
Beware of reciting poetry before me,
For it is a cursed devil.
Beware of entering the grave without my permission,
For that is a great sin among us.

And keep silent when I speak,
For my words are a sacred Quran…

O People,
I am your Mahdi, so await me!
And my blood pulses in the heart of the vines,
So drink me.

Stop all the hymns that children sing
In love of the homeland,
For I have become the homeland...
I am the One, the Eternal,
Among all creatures.

I am stored in the memory of apples,
The flute, and the blue melodies.
Raise my portraits above the squares,
Cover me with clouds of words,
And marry me the youngest of brides…
For I do not age.

My body does not age,
My prisons do not age,
And the instruments of oppression in my kingdom do not age.

O People,
I am Al-Hajjaj; if I remove my mask, you will know me.
And I am Genghis Khan,
I have come to you with my spears, my dogs, and my prisons.
Do not resent my tyranny,
For I **** so that you do not **** me.
I hang so that you do not hang me.
I bury you in mass graves,
So that you do not bury me.

O People,
Buy me newspapers to write about me,
For they are displayed in the streets like prostitutes.
Buy me green, polished paper like the grasses of spring,
Ink, and printing presses.
Everything in our time is for sale,
Even fingers.

Buy me the fruit of thought,
And place it before me.
Cook me a poet,
And serve him among my dishes.

I am illiterate,
And I have a phobia of what poets say.
So buy me poets who sing my beauty,
And make me the star of all covers,
For dancers and actors
Are never more beautiful than I am.

Buy me all that cannot be bought
On this earth or in the sky.
Buy me
A forest of honey,
And a pound of women.

For with hard currency,
I purchase what I desire.
I buy Bashar ibn Burd’s poetry,
Al-Mutanabbi’s lips,
And Labid’s odes…

For the millions in the House of Muslims’ Wealth
Are an ancient inheritance of my father,
So take from my gold
And write in the great books
That my era…
Is the era of Harun al-Rashid…

O Masses of my land,
O masses of Arab nations,
I am a pure soul sent to cleanse you
Of the dust of ignorance.
Record my voice on tapes…
For my voice flows like a green fountain,
Like Andalusian melodies.

Capture me, smiling like the Mona Lisa,
Gentle as the face of Magdalene.
Capture me,
With my dignity, my grandeur,
And my military staff.

Capture me
As I sever the people’s necks like apples,
Capture me
As I hunt a deer or a gazelle.
Capture me
As I tear poetry apart with my teeth,
As I drink the blood of the alphabet.
Capture me
As I carry you upon my shoulders to the eternal abode!

O Masses of my land,
O masses of Arab nations,

O People,
I am responsible for your dreams, when you dream,
I am responsible for every loaf you eat,
And for the poetry
You read behind my back.

For the security apparatus in my palace
Informs me of the birds’ whispers,
And the secrets of the ears of wheat,
And of what happens inside the wombs of pregnant women.

O People,
I am your jailer, and I am your prisoner,
So forgive me.

I am the exiled one, within my own palace,
I see no sun, no stars, no flowers of oleander,
Since I came to power as a child,
And the circus men gather around me—
One blows a flute,
One beats a drum,
One polishes my boots,
One kisses my hands…

Since I came to power as a child,
No advisor has ever told me "No,"
No minister has ever dared to say "No,"
No ambassador has ever stood against me.

They have taught me to see myself as a god,
And to see the people, from my balcony, as dust.

So forgive me…
If I have turned into a new Hulagu,
I have never killed for the sake of killing,
I **** only to entertain myself.