Sometimes I wish I didn't feel
I wish my heart was made of stone
That I was immune to all this ****
Of being on my own
My world is full of cockwombles
Fuckwits & ***** trumpets
**** burglars & **** puddles
**** stains & **** nuggets!
And those are just the few
That I've had the joy of meeting
I'd like to dare the rest to meet
Somewhere - however fleeting
Stand up and be counted
You liars, cheats and cads
You wazzocks & jebends
I'll grab you by the ******
Because I've simply had enough
Of being treated like a tool
Of believing all the **** you spout
Like some poor pathetic fool
I cannot shake the feeling
That the stupidity I feel
Is down to the betrayal
Of all the lies that you conceal
So I'm giving up compassion
To empathy goodbye
And to trusting blindly what I'm told
Farewell & fuckety bye!

(C) Pixievic 2016

several addictions have them, several
music genres have them regarding
their listeners -
    hell, a lot of people go by a nicknames,
marijuana smokers are stoners,
or loafers,
     ******* users: coke heads -
    ****** - dope fiends?
         or is that lepers, or is it scurvy?
metal music fans: meatheads
due to their head-banging antics -
the punks the ikes,
            the gays queers -
the transgender folk trannies -
     the feminists the ****** -
although i'd call them the sapphos sisters...
anyway...
    they can beat you down with regard
to your own antics -
i'd love to see another pissy-pants
  annoy oliver reed, and see if he'd laugh...
that being said:
   alcoholics probably have the best nickname
compared to the rest of them...
ha ha - hellraisers.
ah, on that note, having mentioned oliver reed,
oh, his athos? pristine performance...
it's gonna sound gay, but i also had
a crush on aramis: you know,
that refined english gay gentlemen without
hissy fits, what can you do,
you're young, your brain is moulding,
it will full decide aged 25...
  as it turns out: it was just a glitch of a child;
anyhoo, i watched this somewhere,
that heath ledger inclined himself
to pinch a doppelganger's case for his
role as the joker, after watching a few
tom waits interviews...
     it wasn't exactly theft, given that actors
are the respectable thieves in this world,
besides that,
   so there i was, watching the 1972
film henry viii & his six wives -
and as henry viii (donald pleasence)
started to age... it dawned on me,
in a subtle way: hey! oi oi!
     it's tom hardy playing bane!
obviously without the mask and the chain
smoker's voice raspy voice -
just the mannerism / punctuation marks
in the performance;
wouldn't you know - i've actually found
a suitor, and ****, even if the production
back in the 1970s was low...
   it doesn't matter: i was watching, actors!
i was watching the respectable thieves!
i was watching actors and thieves and actors
and thieves!
actors these day? more like burglars...
and there is a difference...
    acting, as if the audience isn't in the cinema...
sneaky little buggers...
back when acting was thieving!
i still think my favourite cinematic moment
in history,
  is when octavius caesar (roddy mcdowall)
reacts to the news of mark antony's
(richard burton) death:
the soup is hot, the soup is cold,
antony is alive, antony is dead...
                    and then the furore!
those really were thieves before they were
actors... not they are "actors"
        when in fact they are burglars.

Where’s the dog, where’s the dog?
There are burglars in the house
But the dog sleeps oh so quietly
As quietly as a mouse.

And so the husband, he takes charge
It’s the middle of the night
Reluctantly creeping down the stairs
He’s our hero in full – fright.

Of course – there was nobody there
It was one of those ‘sounds in the night’
And our hero couldn’t have seen him
He’d forgotten to turn on the light.

The hero thus returns to bed
Not to welcoming open arms
His wife has drifted back to sleep
Oblivious to his charms.

Oh well he thinks as he gets in bed
And then he falls himself to sleep
Meanwhile below, the hidden thief
Leaves for his home with swag to keep.

©JRW2014

We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.

No one is perfect
Or expected to be
Unless you happen to share a gene or two with this sort
And as if their generation was completely right
(the pattern of perceived perfection is a long lineage)
They pass their judgment
One generation to the next
The gossip makes its way across state lines
The tale of manipulation and corruption
Bred within our borders
Finds its place with mythical tales
Of mobsters and cat burglars
On cops

You work your magic
Sweet-talking people out of money
Not even Satan’s speech was so smooth
Talent for memorizing numbers
Credit card
Pin
But not your grandmother’s
Stuns all
If she knew of your antics
Pallbearers would have a heavy load
But fear not
Keeping secrets from the old and feeble
Is our talent

Discredit paranoia
After the  first time
The new paranoia
Is preparedness

The High Line (Pearls Before Swine)

is located on Manhattan's West Side. It was an elevated train track, that runs from Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District (wholesale butchers) to West 34th Street, between 10th & 11th Avenues, near the Hudson River, running parallel to the river.  

The High Line was originally constructed in the 1930's, to lift dangerous freight trains off Manhattan's streets. The High Line, nowadays, is open as a public park, owned by the City of New York. The District is now a night life hot spot of elegant shops and restaurants, among the few remaining meat packing firms, a "scene." If not in a hurry, and unfamiliar with the High Line, look it up (see notes), to get a visual of image. Or not. I can't remember who I promised I would dig out my High Line poem, but a promise kept.
_________________

Walk­ed the High Line after work,
early summer afternoon,
a pubescent evening-tide,
the teenage colors
of the setting ball,
seize your breath,
your eyes, enthrall.

On Little West 12th Street,
climbed up to
breathe the green,
thriving railroad earth-beds
tucked so cute,
tween the rusted ties of
intrepid railroad tracks.
still working in
service to humanity;
nature supporters now,
a new kind
of freight carried.

Climbed up on the backs
of a jumbled combo of
dressed beef carcasses
and yuppie carc-*****,
both obedient to the
Law of Consumption:
Consume or be consumed.  

Looked down on them,
grazing,
gazed upon them
pseudo social-dancing,
they are all prowling,
cat burglars,
searching for felines, roosters,
to tango/tangle with till
the shameful dawn walk,
a final tally of who,
was consumed,
and who,
got consumed.

Watch with bemused fascination
at the children,
swilling and chilling,
some liquor, some swill.
nonetheless  admiring each other;
their Lauren cut and Hilfiger heft
the finest of fat veined lines,
decorating their svelte,
but very attractive,
full figured appearances.

USDA Grade A,
a genuine meat market,
humans and
animals guts,
intertwined.

The Highline,
an architect's composition
of summer grasses,
planted in nooks and crannies
of man's discarded invention.

Summer grasses in unison,
stadium waving to
the music of summer breezes,
Manhattan sounds,
clinking glasses,
goods and services exchanged.    

The view admires you -
Oh baby you look so fine,
Your hair, like the
Hudson River's aquas
is a shining, streaked,
by High Line highlighted
late afternoon,  
sun-setting golden sparklers.

Your gold chains entwining,
fire crackers on top of a
the blue ribboned river,
exploding, dazzling,
your obedient admirers.  

They complement your skin,
aglow, one of nature's works,
soon to be painted on a canvas,
across a horizon of a
pinkish-tinged lavender sky -    
a gift of the oh-so-refined
refineries of South Jersey.  

Cool summer afternoon in
the Meatpacking District,
traffic, human, automotive,
clogs the Gansevoort piazza,
a NYsee zone pietonne,
a Manhattan cocktail of
young strivers and Eurotrash,
where you check me out,
and I return the favor,
using a pre-certified checklist.

Are you young?
Are you hip?
Are you beautiful?
Do you possess
what it takes
to undress me?
Reservations and a limousine!

Everyone who's there,
by definition, is in,
otherwise where else
would they be!

Pearls of perfect people,
perfect lives,
in, around and
before, swine.  

Am I the only one
who gets the joke,
or is the joke, me,
because I just don't got it
in order to get "it"?

Am I the only one
who sees the dead,
ancient and newly arrived,
human and other kind,
the living,
sharing the animal spirits
of the Meatpacking district:
some animated,
some haunted,
some summer tanned
some blood drained,
ghostly white veined?    

In this city,
my sweet city,
city where I bore
my first breath,
city where I'll be laid down to
my permarest,
the hues of my life
are city pastels,
colorful shades of asphalt
and concrete gray and
dried blood,
interspersed with the
speckled glitter of the
potpourri of human creation.

The Highline, an architect's
composition of summer grasses,
planted in nooks and crannies
waving to the jazzed music
of Manhattan lives,
its history, summer breezes,
emblem of the city's only coda:

Transform, rebirth -
survive and prosper,  
or else,
be slaughtered and die.

Summer 2010

Cascades were dripping outside of this moving vehicle
White noise, patternless and arrhythmic
like magnified sounds of nails on a concrete wall,
made by souls desperate to cleave their way to dryness

This public utility vehicle holds spirits successful in finding this temporary heaven
Weathered, soaked and almost drowned
like panting dogs that managed to swim ashore from a shipwreck
caused by the iceberg that is the eye of the storm

This safe haven holds champions in a world of misshapen men

A woman clutches tightly on a bag of lime and her ever waning youth
Tired, but not eager to face Death
still closing her windows to his cat burglars
that come faster than the downpour of Typhon's tears

A homeless child comfortably sleeps on the far end of this ride
His innocence tested by fate
Too experienced for someone his age
instead of just playing in the streets he calls home

The jeepney driver has eyes on the road painted by Van Gogh
Unabashed, industrious and assiduous
determined to serve,
provide for a family whose stomachs hunger not but they hunger for his return

This other dimension nurtures alien thoughts and parallel thinking among beat down men

I do not know them but I can hear the cries of their emotions,
their longing to be felt and empathized with
Their voiceless cries are guns with a silenced nozzle
shooting at anyone ignorant who curiously stare at this minefield of a passenger jeep

there's a fat plastic tube taped sub-clavian carrying ruby fluid
from a clear bag that hangs overhead
draining mysteries of modern alchemy
into your body, its lifetime measured, silent droplets
inside a hermetically sealed hourglass we can only watch, not touch
but they don't change you

by protocol your nurse wore her nitrile gloves doubled-up
lest she get this stuff on her fingers - it's toxic -
advised you to flush the toilet twice,
making certain to eliminate stray molecules that might
be exposed to sitting innocents

i should be in the next chair, holding your hand

we might share complimentary raspberry danish,
stare at a silent TV on the wall
as it broadcasts flashing pictures of calamity from
the latest war or storm savaged country
but we’ve been living there for years already
our home not populous enough to draw serious media attention;  

we’d wrestle sips of anemic coffee from free paper cups
yours going into a red can when you've finished
because that brilliant color insinuates itself into saliva, eventually
as it does to blood and *****;
i could take mine home

i'd read moving captions at the bottom of the screen
to know what's going on in the images
while you'd feign interest in this tedious world and remind me, again,
how life is tenuous

ask me the name of that dripping liquid just to see if i was listening,
an appellation alien - if life were fair it would be easier
but i’d get the pronunciation wrong
maybe it could be a French word i remember reading to you from a menu in Paris
we might paste it thickly, soft cheese onto torn chunks of baguette
savored between sips of cabernet from long stemmed glasses;
pronounce it “good” as if we could own it

****** and gigolette -
we’d stolen the whole earth that moment,
grinning like a pair of cat burglars at a cafe table where i'd held your hand
but here we are, old again, bitter enemies
for the moment, i'm glad for Ativan and Motrin,
the only names i can remember from your tray of saltines and ginger ale

instead, i'm sitting alone at home with cigarettes and bourbon,
more congenial poisons
staring at a white, unmoving ceiling, pretending I’m working
we're like that, you know, tug and tow - where you go,
i'm heart-bound to follow
Doctor Jack insists i'll live much longer, a little sicker after
i might adjust expectations for a worn-out liver, headaches,
possible blood pressure elevations; short warnings written on the label

while yours smile, with more tricks than carnival barkers
they say, now, a handful - or only two - more tricks up their sleeves,
the grinning, white-coated thieves
Jack smiles, pats my hand, a warm man

smoking is prohibited in the clinic
i'd hang from the window ledge to get the next nicotine fix,
but it won't open to alive, mowed grass outside -
these proceedings always sequester hidden behind curtains in private,
a secret art of undertakers doctoring flesh to look still-living,
love making in mid-evening darkness we've long forgotten

i’d draw deeply chemically-treated air, forget it’s now happening
remind myself a paternal need to stay healthy for survivors
while trying to avoid living in midst of your horrors,
a preoccupation that subsumes my mind

if you’re right - and you always are - how could i bury you?
when the dog died,
i dug her hole in our garden myself, deep through tree roots to bedrock,
then beyond, depth a measure of devotion;
carved a stone with my own fingernails, her name in a crossed heart
and we two cried like shivering babies
as we shoveled all the dirt back in to cover her

these are words of a weak man, selfish ******* that i am
and really, all of life's slumped over in my lap right now,
just this little girl sleeping
but i should be in the next chair
if you'd only let me sit there
again

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a very notorious couple
     of cats.
As knockabout clown, quick-change comedians, tight-rope
     walkers and acrobats
They had extensive reputation. They made their home in
     Victoria Grove—
That was merely their centre of operation, for they were
     incurably given to rove.
They were very well know in Cornwall Gardens, in Launceston
     Place and in Kensington Square—
They had really a little more reputation than a couple of
     cats can very well bear.

If the area window was found ajar
And the basement looked like a field of war,
If a tile or two came loose on the roof,
Which presently ceased to be waterproof,
If the drawers were pulled out from the bedroom chests,
And you couldn’t find one of your winter vests,
Or after supper one of the girls
Suddenly missed her Woolworth pearls:

Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
     they left it at that.

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a very unusual gift of the
     gab.
They were highly efficient cat-burglars as well, and
     remarkably smart at smash-and-grab.
They made their home in Victoria Grove. They had no regular
     occupation.
They were plausible fellows, and liked to engage a friendly
     policeman in conversation.

When the family assembled for Sunday dinner,
With their minds made up that they wouldn’t get thinner
On Argentine joint, potatoes and greens,
And the cook would appear from behind the scenes
And say in a voice that was broken with sorrow:
“I’m afraid you must wait and have dinner tomorrow!
For the joint has gone from the oven-like that!”
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
     they left it at that.

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working
     together.
And some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of
     the time you would say it was weather.
They would go through the house like a hurricane, and no sober
     person could take his oath
Was it Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer? or could you have sworn
     that it mightn’t be both?

And when you heard a dining-room smash
Or up from the pantry there came a loud crash
Or down from the library came a loud ping
From a vase which was commonly said to be Ming—
Then the family would say: “Now which was which cat?
It was Mungojerrie! AND Rumpelteazer!”— And there’s nothing
     at all to be done about that!

When I was young and I did not sleep, my mother told me to count sheep one by one
Needless to say it didn't work
I still stayed up night after night terrified of what lurked in the dark on the streets
Even back then I knew of the monsters who were human: kidnappers, rapists, burglars

And as I got older, the doctors handed me pills
They told me: it'll make you tired, they'll help with your depression, it's for ADHD, ohh and don't forget your mood stabilizer, that'll make you better!
Yet, I spend night after endless night awake until early hours into the morning
I am no longer afraid of the kidnappers and rapists or burglars
I'm simply afraid of the demons that haunt the darkest spaces inside my mind

And so, I do not sleep
And I will not dream tonight

"My cousin's out fighting dragons, and what do I get? Guard duty."

i get it, there's nothing to me
but you don't need to grind it in either
i see nothing in me already

"You hear that? I swear, there's something out there. In the dark."

and I look good in person
but i think nothing of my shimmer
i don't expect people to like me
it's all opposite

"Only burglars and vampires creep around after dark.
So which are you?"

I've expected people to beat me
It's what i've known
and have to watch for

"Gotta keep my eyes open.
**** dragons could swoop down at any time."

so no, i'm not what you seem to think
i am
or yes, I don't know
you'll listen to your own opinions about me
over anything I have to say:

"Watch the skies, traveler.”

Two inches was the measure, of young Stevies blunder,
Digging out concrete, not knowing whats under.
He felt a nugget, that wouldn't yield to the Pick,
So he used the Jack-Hammer, until he got that "kick".
Caught fire on the spot, looked at me, shocked,
Died in flames, got a days pay docked.
Cut the main cable, Fifty millimetres, metric,
I know you hate to ask, but Friends aren't Electric.

Dennis stepped back, pleased with his graft,
Fell two hundred foot, down an unguarded shaft.
Been on the Grinder, cutting out steels,
So the Elevator boys could fix , their cogs and their wheels.
Never said a word, no shout or no fuss,
Dennis died like he lived, just one of us.

Me and Baz on a roof, we knew was asbestos,
Brittle like toffee, temperamental as Kate Moss,
Had no crawling boards, so we tip-toed like burglars,
Clinging on tightly, think Ivy on Pergola's.
I heard the crack, leapt to the hip-tile,
Baz clawed and scraped, resistance was futile.
They spread out the sand, where Baz hit the deck,
To mop up the blood, from a broken neck.
Health and safety, if's and but's,
Shoddy workmanship, taking short-cuts.
We have no say, we try our best,
Hard hats, harder boots and high-visibility vests,
Are all that we leave, not Time-Shares or Merc's,
Just daughters in tears, Dads not home from work.

The Cons fed no rations...hahaha

The house breaking Burglars are Chris, Joan, Tom and Kelly
Ably assisted by Jim and Cindy, the black and white *******
who broke up their families, move in together, to **** each other
Life's too short, forget abandoned spouses, what the hell, ok
Then there's Linda, who's had three husbands in ten years
all leaving after a while, leaving her with two kids
to look after, what a palaver, where's a true lover
These ******* ****, use and take then do a runner
Her trust in ******* men ruined to pieces and no nookie

All dysfunctional lives, full of pain, angry at the world
Yes we're in Limehouse, but do we have to **** sour juice
They're all seeking to vent, seeking revenge for their miseries
Look that couple upstairs, always bright, styled like Vogue
neat and tidy, full of laughter, going places, yuppie cts
See quiet husband, walks like Bowie, with a kin of **** swagger
And the wife so cute and petite, drives the shiny Red Mini
He ***** her every night, I hear them, I tell you
Their skins glows, shines like the sun, too happy by half

Chris the Scot married to strife and bother
The criminal life is such wahala, police here and there
its hide and seek, no money, no nookie, no nothing
Well OK, there's Tennants and Special Brew to drown the blues
****** hubby again in Wormwood Scrubs serving ******* Majesty
Tom ain't stealing as much as father, have to beg next door again
Joan is ******* and ain't making no money, now in the duff
only fifteen, by ******* Nobby, from the Young ******* Socialist Brigade, Kelly is also ******* and only twelve, what a life
Ahh ....  life on the Estate is life in *******

Listen you all, here's the deal, here's the number
Those ******* Happy couple at number fifteen
Why ain't them struggling like us all, where's the cushty
You don't see them carping, the ******* are loaded,
Them knobs have it all, smiling and laughing like *******
Let put some fire up their *****, let's teach them street life
Hears they think they are royalties, let tax their ****** *****
I'll be the lookout, you kick in the ****** doors
Liberate their valuables, we'll all have a party

******* Nora, the quiet man has blown a frigging gasket
Says he gonna tell all we are crooks, gonna evict us, the fool
Go get the posse, go put out a contract, a ****** for the jump
We are Eastenders, born by Bow bells, and we look after our own
How ****** dare the toffee nosed tory, says I should go get a job
as if, working for honest gain is our thing, ****** idiot
Yes mate, the boys are out, the contract is on
Let's see Jackanory tell us a bleeding story
Hero to Zero is now playing at Roman Street market

Break them up, mash  them down, ruin their lives
lets play 'trading Places, see how the cts feels
I already see cool man strung up. dangling on a rope
How dare they live happy and comfortable
two wages, car, dining out, new attire every day
Come on Jim, Cindy, Linda, all go get your mates
There's work to be done, no time to play
We are the TUC, that's Thieves United Confederation
And we've got the ******* Red Boys in the Team

It's down Tobacco road for Mr Tory, the bleeding ******
Ain't no more laughter, we'll put them in the gutter
Lie and slander, defame and harass, topple Saddam
Get the ******* Red mill going, its round Robin time
How's yer father,  no more mate, not ****** likely for a while
Yer only leg-over is gonna be legging it to the Social Security
Its Dole time, pain and miseries for you sunshine
Sing a song of hate, pariah on a roundabout
Yer marathon man now mate, come meet the Red Devils

Here, They need no ******* introduction

Hey remember that night when we chased the burglars in the front and back yard
and you almost kissed me?
God, I wanted you to.

I submitted a Post Secret of two young French lovers kissing in the rain
and I wrote “This will never be me” over the woman.
******* Parisians.

Once upon a time,
I bought flowers for myself just because I wanted to.
It was the most empowering thing I could have done.
But for the two weeks they sat on my window sill,
I was constantly reminded no one bought them for me.

Long ago, in a land far, far away,
I used to believe in miracles.

This one time, We sat at the Spanish Arch,
the one the Conquistadors built,
comprised of ancient old stone that caught the tears of the heartbroken,
heard the tales of the old salty men coming home from the bar,
and saw the transformation of an old Irish city into a new, artsy town.
We looked up, saw a shooting star, and wished on it I would be with him forever.

I was 19 once, and he sat on the beach with his flicky blonde hair
and a Corona and his oversized tee shirt hanging off his body
and we sat on that beach for hours, in the eye of the storm, soaking it all in.
It was the first time I realized I could love.

We were 22 and he was in love with somebody else and I loved his soul,
but I wasn’t in love with him and we found out we’re in the same boat.
We will always love each other but we can never be together
because we cannot give each other what we need.
He’s the only man who has never let me down.

As a child, I thought I could fly.
Not physically fly, but Peter and Wendy inspired me,
and I knew I could fly as a dreamer, and soar through the skies
like the hawk or the raven or the finch or the ******* pterodactyl if I wanted to.
And I wanted to. And I did.

I wrote a story once about a girl who ran several miles at two am when she couldn’t sleep
and the personal demons kept haunting her and taunting her
and the whiskey wouldn’t shut them up.

Every once in a while, I clean the house naked.
Sometimes, I kinda wish the UPS guy would catch me.

Every day, my life is filled with sullen, sunken, exposed regret.
I wish I did what I didn’t do.

WORDS GANG STALKERS DO NOT WANT TO HEAR

The first, of course, is the “G” word. No explanation necessary.

GANG STALKING

VIGILANTE

The gang stalking recruits are of course being recruited into a cult for the purpose of carrying  out vigilante activity. As we all know the same authorities who “do not have the resources” to protect you from burglars, gang intimidation, vandalism, mugging, ****** assault, etcetera, are not short of resources to deal with the least whiff of vigilantism, as people desperately try to protect themselves. The recruiters of course do not wish their recruits to be reminded that they are engaging in vigilante behaviour, so I remind them at every opportunity.

CULTS

The methods the recruiters use are classic cult methods. The recruit is told lies while their emotions are manipulated; they are not told the true agenda of the cult they have been tricked into joining; they are given targets to hate and vent their frustrations on; they are enslaved and over time leached of all their resources; their children will also be indoctrinated and used. People know joining a cult is a bad thing. So at all costs the recruiters wish to keep the idea of cults away from their recruits. Again, I make a point of reminding them.

CON ARTISTS

Another word/concept the recruiters want the recruits to forget. Again, another rich source of conversation with a gangstalker.

COVERT WAR
A major tool in the gangstalkers weaponry is successfully keeping the practice of gang stalking a secret. Most people not being stalked and many who are have never heard the term gangstalking and do not know what it means – a major Orwellian coup. Getting the word out is a major difficulty. From this point of view the words – covert war – are hated by gang stalkers. Both words, and especially in combination attract peoples notice and naturally induce them to read further.

FAIR GAME (Scientology)

Remember the film “Fair Game”. Odd title don’t you think when the story line had nothing to do with Scientology. The story based on fact about the betrayal of a CIA agent betrayed by her own government.

Gang stalkers do not like mention of Fair Game because the methods of Fair Game and gang stalking are identical. The existence of Fair Game tactics are acknowledged, but the response of authorities to gang stalking is to assert dogmatically that gang stalking does not exist and any who claims it does need the help of a psychiatrist.

MAFIA

The authorities do not wish people to be reminded of the Mafia. Many gang stalking methods and Mafia methods are identical, particularly the diverse rackets both gang stalkers and Mafia engage in. Infiltration of legitimate businesses, exploitation of labour, housing scams, protection money, and controlling people such as medical personnel who can make ” mistakes” in medical treatment, or an office worker who can “lose” or corrupt private data.

STASI

If the STASI were not the creators of Zerzetsen, they were the world’s foremost practitioners – a massive state spying apparatus which created as many spies as citizens. Gang stalking and Zerzetsen are identical.

dailykos.com/story/2010/10/12/909826/-ZERZETSEN-TORTURE…

WORDS THAT GANG STALKERS WANT EVERYONE TO HEAR

SCHIZOPHRENIA

After the primary objective of gang stalkers to keep awareness of gang stalking from public knowledge is the secondary objective to ensure that if anyone comes across the concept of gang stalking or targeted individuals it will be immediately linked with insanity. The purpose of gaslighting behaviour is to make the person on the receiving end look insane.

Here’s to girls who laugh at your jokes 

And don’t want you to **** yourself. 

Here’s to the grind, and all it’s soul-*******. 

Here’s to weasels, and

Possums and rodents of all sorts.

Commence, the hallucinations of

Cream-colored wheat fields, and 

Their straw guardians, 

Harkening to the inept and 

The inadequate, to try their product.

It’s why their older stuff is better, 

It’s why the alternative is the standard, 

Because you’re too **** much 

Like everybody else, 

And inside, it’s killing you.

Like every spelling mistake you 

Forgot to correct, and every 

Fallen soldier, with pop-top wounds, 

Whose blood, you never lapped up. 

Buzz-to-Buzz.

You can’t play the victim, when you’re 

Already the villain.
And the “S” on your chest doesn’t

Stand for your name.
You can try, but anyone with 

The good decency to wear

Sunglasses can see through you.

And then the acid kicked in. 
And
The amusement park of your 

Unimaginable, becomes obvious. 

And there’s a leather belt wrapped around 

Your restrained eyes, lest their be any 

Burglars, out to climb through those windows.

When you’d rather scar up your 

Arms than let them be the 
Better half of an embrace. When the 

Clouds are a few more shades of 

Gray darker than they were the
Day before. When your life is as 

Disposable as your coffee cup 

Or your college education, 

Come find me.

First gelid dawn
of the dying year.

A crescent moon
shivers above
achromatic frost.

Four crows perch
like fluffy black
lumps of ice
on taut power lines.

Hungry sparrows peck
the severe ground.

The old poet
fears the cold.

Chilled eyes notice
bare ruined trees
and windshields
waiting to be scraped.

The earth has pulled
the covers up
around its neck,
wakes stiff and slow,
but stays in bed.

Cold's bony fingers
probe the old house
like burglars seeking
points of entry.

Still, the chill roads
point toward the
inevitable return
of warmth;
                  spring sits
silent as a cat waiting
for a door to open,
bidding its time
to counterattack.

Even on the most
algid morning
hope slumbers,
but never dies.

  ~mce

This very dawn is just a white breath,
an obscene pain: a semblance
of you hardening my veins.
And my father wakes me up: asking
for car keys, but i'll need them
to see if i am seeing you
and then we fight. This october
annoys me and is cheating,
but what i meant is good for you too
you who, with your ecstatic moods,
never listen nor care, ever: as if
on certain days water comes even from the sun
and in mirror shop windows i’m all blue.
And there’s nothing like a ****
that can liberate from the future,
from the multitude of folds
and parts above, over which i identify,
as, on the other hand, all do. So i’m
seeking those private holy parts
and i immediately see yours, that you
reckon so distinguishable. That semblance
of yours, and its vessels, are as red as
bootyless burglars or amphorae,
turned to chamber pots
or spittoons. And
my mum shows up doing the math
about the month that’s not coming ; and yet she knows
that our rhythms are not alike .
Not that i’m feeling supportive gender empathy; rather,
i would not wish daughters like her. I’ll withdraw
if i hear them trot me out, in the room
that i want inadequate and warm; i’ll be
alone or with someone: i’ll disclose you
tomorrow on the phone, without telling you.
-----------------------------------------------------------
­Italian version, written in 1995

turbe vascolari

l’alba proprio bianca è un alito,
un dolore osceno: una parvenza
di te che indurisce le vene.
e mio padre mi sveglia: chiede
le chiavi della macchina, ma la macchina
mi serve per vedere se ti vedo
e litighiamo. quest’ottobre
disturba e mi tradisce,
ma quello che ** deciso è un bene anche per te
che non stai, con una certa tua aria estatica,
ad ascoltare né a sentire, mai: come
in certi giorni l’acqua viene anche dal sole
e nelle vetrine a specchio sono tutta azzurra.
e non c’è niente come un cazzo
che possa liberare dal futuro,
da questa moltitudine di pieghe
e parti sotto, sopra cui mi riconosco,
come, d’altra parte tutti. la cerco dunque
questa parte, privata e benedetta,
e penso subito alla tua, che credi che
si conosca cosí bene. quella sua
parvenza, e i vasi, sono rossi co-
me le vergogne di ladri senza refur-
tiva o anfore, a far pitali
o sputacchiere. e
mia madre arriva e fa di conto
sul mese che non torna; eppure sa
che i nostri ritmi sono differenti.
non che senta, io, solidale complicità di genere; anzi,
non vorrei figlie come lei. mi ritirerò se
li sentirò tirarmi in  ballo, nella stanza
che mi piace scarna e riscaldata; starò
da sola o con qualcuno: te lo telefono
domani, senza dirti niente.

The burglars had been observing the bungalow
set in an out of the way place.
Smart expensive cars parked on the small drive
but they didn't observe well!
Certain this would be a profitable break in
their planning could begin.

The bungalow down a long narrow track
owned by a middle aged couple.
Few knew they were devil worshippers
this gang failed to find out!
Not digging deep into the victims past
this job would be the last!

In the community locals kept well away
from this evil bungalow!
The thieves were only focused on money
they had blinkered vision.
Confident they would not be disturbed
and certainly not heard!

The large dark van was parked out of view
hooded men approached.
It was after midnight now in the garden
quietly making an entrance.
And dealing with the expensive alarm
it was going like a charm.

Though it all changed when they heard a sound
noises came from below!
Ignoring it they proceeded to search and steal
robed figures came from nowhere.
Overwhelming them and taking each by force
dragged to the sounds source!

More robed figures chanted from every corner
dimly lit by black candles!
It was some sort of temple with a central altar
the first was put on top!
Gagged so they could not shout or scream
something bright did gleam!

The bungalow looked peaceful in the morning
nothing looked out of place.
Guests staying had already gone before light
the couple left for work.
The van was removed from its parking spot
smoke blew from a chimney ***!

Unless invited nobody visited the bungalow!

The Foureyed Poet.

Forgive me dearest mother; I have blood on both my hands.
I seem to keep on torturing and murdering your lands.
My siblings, we have fought, or more so waged war in your toes
and it was never in our right to throw you all these woes.

Now sweetest child whatever do you think that you have done
when all your actions have been planned to fulfill only fun?
You sail across my waters and dance in sylvan brush.
What harm could you have done in joyous smile and sweetened lush?

Why we have killed and stained the world in our own heinous pride!
I simply do not see that fact, just flick the thought aside.

Our factories spew onyx soot to poison all the air
their mammoth boilers seething heat no one could ever bare.
We melt your gemstone icecaps to make tsunamis out of fears
and drown the world in oceans, salt-filled with dying tears.
So ravenous is hunger that our stomachs burst with acid
consuming grand and graceful woods, aged and wholly placid.
We don't even take ownership of our raw gruesome deeds,
and yet we have the guts to say others are filthy weeds.

Oh such greed that runs and courses through our soured veins
we crack a whip, so carefree, as we throw our kind in chains.
We are the grand oppressors. That is all there is to it.
We trample on the trodden to squash out all the spirit.
The bombs we build explode to carve deep craters in your heart
tearing blood away from blood and forcing friends to die apart.
We use wars as excuses to burn and **** and pillage
never mind the ceaseless, toxic flow of radioactive spillage.

Experiments on your children throw their lives on gory shelves
to concoct potions and elixirs to immortalize ourselves.
As arsonists we roar to celebrate forgotten pain,
and the world trembles in fear when we set fire to the rain.
Burglars sneak about in black beneath a starless sky of smog
while miscreants cheat cheaters and lie in lazy bogs.
We claim to have a right because 'survival of the fittest',
but we are murderous monsters: the bottom at our best!

All this is quite alright my child, for after all you see;
you are the only one you hurt, your bombs cannot scathe me.
You are such selfish creatures, though not in the way you think
not self-centered in the fact you seem to consume in such great feat.
No, you my little narcissist with such egotistical mind
you are selfish because you are oh so very, very blind.
For the truth, my sweet child is that all your ****** games
harm not a single soul but you: humans and their names.

Your flames burn but your ashes, your explosions reap *your dead,
and the lacerations you inflict? scar just inside your head.
The world will live regardless of your stained and guilty hands
and honestly, you won't be missed from these alluring lands.

While sitting home one night, I hear burglars fiddling
with the lock. This is what I've been waiting for!

I run around to the back and open the door, invite
them in, and pour some drinks. I tell them to relax,
and I help them off with shoes and masks.

In a little while we are fast friends, and after a dozen
toasts to J. Edgar Hoover, they begin to carry things out.
I point to the hidden silver, hold the door as they
wrestle with the bed, and generally make myself useful.

When they get the truck loaded and come back inside
for one last brandy, I get the drop on them. Using Spike's
gun, I shoot them both and imprint Blackie's
prints on the handle.

Then I get in the van and drive away,
a happy man.
"Moving Day" by Ron Koertge, from Making Love to Roget's Wife: Poems New and Selected. © University of Arkansas Press, 1997.

As a child
We see ourselves
As important
As the centre of our worlds
Pursued by burglars
and murderers
Always in the centre
Of an exciting story
Making cities in dirt piles
And castles in trees
Running from house
to house
Like they're kingdoms
And we're kings

And not so different are our adult ways
We control our own destinies
And we alarm our homes and equip them
Because "it could happen to you"
Making buildings from dirt piles
And building cabins from trees
Driving from city
to city
Like they're different worlds
And we're different people

In all the craziness of life, in all the haze that comes with sobbing people and cruelty, there comes a home.
This home is not a structure. There is no wood, no carpet, no windows.
Instead, the walls are flesh and the bathtubs ooze blood.
When you are near this home, vines erupt from the ground and tie you down, keeping you in the present.
You know that even if you lost them, you would be eternally grateful to have known them. To have walked through their halls, knocked on their door, and slept in their bed.
They feel like they belong in your arms. You want to keep them clean, safe from burglars, and broken windows. If something breaks, you would get on your hands and knees to clean it.
I found home. I pray to god I do not lose this home.

We're all born with dreams, with gifts, and passionate hearts.
& just like Bella we all often imagine a rice covered path to the finish line right from the start.
Some choose to lay their hearts open but Bella, she chose to lock it.
Some of us are born on rainy days destined to see grey clouds, some to stare at celestial sunsets; you're either born staring at a broken mirror or with a clover in your pocket.
She fell, stumbled, she couldn't control it.
The locks she had in place served no purpose, he charmingly broke in picking through her fearful security with warmth and stole it.
Sometimes burglars can be intruders that you want inside because being locked up alone is no life at all.
Life seises from being short when you're loved by someone, you don't feel time at all.
Well, actually, maybe you feel it all at once the day you stare into their aged eyes at a youthful fire, but you never hear the clock tick.
A life in love is truly a roller coaster, feels like an eternity to get there but once you fall, the thrill, the rush, flashes by oh so quick.
Poor Bella. She wasn't a believer in such a ride until she woke up a top that hill.
Realizing she was ready to dive, to fall and scream. Heart racing, palms sweating, she realized his deepest dreams had become her priority will.
Sadly, something happened as she stepped into that cart.
He had no interest in sitting next to her, he was on his own climb to an enchanting fall & he walked away crumbling her already fearful heart.
Bella wasn't born with the clover, she was born during the storm, born staring into the mirror and trying to ignore the hurtful cracks.
Be grateful if you're born with that clover because you're lucky & you have a chance. & if you're the luckiest person on this entire planet the person you love decides to love you back.

"My cousin's out fighting dragons, and what do I get? Guard duty."

i get'it, theyire's knowthing twoo me
but yea'don't knead to grind it heithere
i scene gnomething oin mean owlready

"You hear that? I swear, there's something out there. In the dark."

and ire looks gold in pearsin
but i thinks knot-keen of my shimmer
i done't acspect peep'les to too light-key me
it's hall'opposite

"Only burglars and vampires creep around after dark. So which are you?"

hi've acspected spleenpoles twoo b-eats me
it's what i've no'n
and halves tune watsch fuohrer

"Gotta keep my eyes open. **** dragons could swoop down at any time."

sew know, i'm naught which'ya seam toon thunk
i'm
or yea, i no'n't, naughts
u 'le glisten to your ownpunions' bouts me
over antsynthing i chavsed to say

"Watch the skies, traveler.”

You're safe
Locked up in your safe
No one knowing the combination but you
Feelings in safe deposit boxes
Padlocked just to make sure

I tried to sneak in the dead of night
Hoping to find a crack
But I never was good with subtleties
I attempted to hold you hostage
But you never even bothered to ask about a ransom
I even tried to blow you up with dynamite
But only lost pieces of myself

You're safe now
Locked up in your safe
Safe from burglars in the dead of night
Safe from being held at gunpoint
Safe from being in a war zone
No one knows your combination
Or has the keys to your padlocks

I hope that she has a wrecking ball
Smashing open your steel door before you even see it coming
I hope that she has a stethoscope
Pressing her ear against your chest as you hold her close
Each beat of heart is a click closer to cracking the code without you even knowing

I hope that she frees you from yourself because I sure as hell couldn't

You call me
A poet and a thief,
So let me indulge thee
I'll make this short and brief,
We're all alike you and I
A tooth for a tooth
And eye for an eye,
Makes us thick
As thieves in a booth
No lock to pick,
If the door is open
Why still do we break in
To steal a heart
Is this a sin?
If done with poetry
The rules are faulty,
Meant to be broken
Golden token
Means; there's not a ruler
That can't crack
A diamond jeweler,
So we find ourselves back to back
Meeting on a level plain
Stealing syllables from the insane
We interpret and manipulate
All vowels and consonants in prose
Burglars thorns and words a rose...
©okpoet

Alone in my dark room I sit,
as the spiders build their web,
trapping these brick and mortar walls
inside of it.
The wolf lurks outside my window,
his mouth waters as he is peeping in,
just waiting to sink his teeth
into my skin.
Creeping shadows
I mistake for burglars
are at the windows,
every time I pass them.
The wind whispers of danger,
as it hits the house with a running start,
it's murmurs seep through the cracks,
disturbing my fragile heart.
I hear the clash of broken glass
falling to the floor.
Who or what could that have been?
The wolf has broke down the door,
the spiders have made their way in,
and the man with the knife,
has just took my life.

m.e.