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Yenson Aug 2018
Why hold me responsible for the bad choices you made
Why make me a scapegoat for all your mistakes
Why vent your spleen on me
Why blame me for your inadequacies and insecurities
Why project your arrogance and ignorance on me
Then deviously politicize your shortcomings

" There but for the Grace of God goes I"

I walked each day to school with sandals held together with rubber bands
I received six of the best for un-submitted assignments or getting answers wrong, or misbehaving or not having required tools
I stayed up nights after nights studying for most-pass exams
I forego parties and relaxing outings to stay behind and study
I left home at 17 to another Country without my parents to continue

I saw my 18 year age mates owning cars, driving around having fun
I did not resent them or envied them, stole from them or burgled their houses.
I saw successful young men in their 20s and 30s running businesses
doing well, I did not resent or envy them or stole anything from them or burgled their houses.
Rather I thought, if I worked hard, get my degree, get a job, I too will
one day, be like them.

While studying I worked as a casual staff in Night Bakeries, in 24
Hours Car Parks
In Night Factories sorting rags for cleaning machinery.
I had college mates going to Disco and having fun, going to pubs
and having fun
I did not resent or envy them, I just thought soon, if all goes well
I'll be able to join them or do fun things too.

I put in the shrift and the graft, I made ****** sacrifices, I paid my
dues and earned my spurs
Then when I got my job, my car, a wife and success.

You and your indulgent, insolent, arrogant disaffected malcontents
with your strangulated anodyne corrupted version of Socialism
come along.
Justifying Theft and indulgent anti social behavior, screaming
Privilege, Silver spoon and Inequality and Greed.
Prattling " There but for the Grace of God goes I"
Because I told thieves and Scroungers what to do with themselves.
You talked of trading places and went on to destroyed every thing
I worked hard for and stood for.

Churchill quoted " "Socialism is a philosophy of failure, the creed of ignorance, and the gospel of envy, its inherent virtue is the equal sharing of misery." - Winston Churchill.

He was so right and you and your despicable gangs have proved it.
The Modern world is no longer falling for your crazy ideaology
and you and your deluded ideas will soon be forever in opposition

And my only consolation is, apart from still standing after all the unjust and horrendous things you've done to me and my wife

NOT ONE SINGLE ONE OF YOU CAN EVER BE THE MAN I AM

You know it and I know it and there lots out  there that knows it  too

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME ON YOU......
Lawrence Hall Jun 2019
To be chanted whenever the O Machine 1 fails:

Rumor has it that the Enigma
Was to Churchill a foul stigma

And that the ancient, creaking Babbage
It was to him but so much cabbage

Colossus One and Colossus Two
Those gadgets too he began to rue

They say he let them rust and rot -
The pity is that he did not


(I checked with the Lizard People on this – Churchill’s secret Second World War computers, powered by a primordial Lemurian source of energy so dangerous that even speaking its name in the ancient language of the Atlanteans is said to be fatal, are secured in a locked vault on Oak Island and guarded around the clock (set to Martian time) by the Trilateral Masonic-Vatican Continuum of deadly albino flying fish.)

1 E.M. Forster, “The Machine Stops,” 1909, Much-anthologized
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:

Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Just what do we know about
Ward Churchill?
That radical agitator,
That Colorado college professor
Most famous for calling
Twin Tower 9/11 dead technocrats
Little Eichmanns.

Noteworthy is the fact that
The United States Supreme Court
Denied certiorari,
Passed on hearing his claim of
Unlawful discharge.
Unlawful discharge?
Sounds felonious and vile:
Like pus laced with *****,
A criminal secretion, like mucus
Smuggled past Customs:
Vaginal contraband.

Sorry, Ward.
We just don’t give a ****.
Your fake Indian pedigree,
Your bogus Vietnam fairytales,
Your phony combat record,
Your forward ops recon
Way out in ******* Cambodia,
Fall flat like Buffalo turds.
You’ve been slick, Ward.
Hired originally to fill
Some gratuitous affirmative action quota,
Denied tenure in two legitimate departments,
You create some ******* academic discipline
For campus freaks & geeks.
Self-appointed Department Chairman,
A fraudulent college professor from the start,
Once tenured, a courageous warrior for free speech.
Describing Native American history as genocide.
Summing up American history as Holocaust denial.
Professor Churchill was all of these things,
And less.
But using the Holocaust metaphor
To anchor one’s fakakta politics?
That was the proverbial last straw,
The camel buster, if you will.
Especially since most of the
Stockbrokers & market analysts
Crushed in the rubble were Jewish.
Hava Nagila, Babaloo!
Lawrence Hall Mar 2017
Winston Churchill Defies the Nazis

#Intersectionality come together
#As one we are cliché strong privileged
#Patriarchy ethically sourced all options
#Are on the table chilling effect quagmire

#Teutons behaving badly doomsday clock
#Transgressive sustainable Guccifer
#Renewable change the gender binary
#Wiretapped microinequity

#Unity in diversity is strength
#Build bridges not borders no fascists here

                          And let The People say “#Meme”
There once was a Prime Minister named Winston Churchill
Who during the war years suffered with the black dog ill
The British people knew not of the personal cross he did bear
No reportage of his bouts of depression ever went to air
Churchill's ill was never allowed to publicly spill
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
whatever happened to the churchill statue beside
the houses of parliament...
is a bit like... the psychadelic
opening sequence of stan kombric's...

2020: a societal cull of the moon...
later know as...
   over-stepping the science with
fiction...
      19 years prior...
19 years prior... whatever happened
in the 20th century's 60s...
is but a dream...
a nightmare to some...

   a smile a scythe a sickle...
somewhere in che-shyre... involving
a cartoonish: & cat...

              the shard: the shadow emblem...
of some skeleton and some other -esque...
or... that "crucifix"...
from the artwork of led zeppelin's:

      presence...

for days i have been suffocating under
the impression of the arabic evil eye
of some malice-riddling ******...

it's raining and some house (if not two)
in the distance is being flooded...

             how it happens... that my expression
of freedom has to be problematic for
others to express their: supposed...
"counter"...
i am either dead and rigid...
or alive... and... paranoid...
    as it happens:
"i see what i want to see"...
pentagram ditto...
       or... i insinuate fictional
res extensa narratives when...
i feed no schadenfreude into the events
of the lives of others...
they happen with a measure of:
oops...            

      ...the statue of churchill in parliament sq....
the object on the sleeve artwork
of presence...
               such that the apes
gathered... and prostrated themselves
before the altar of the abstract form...
it was less clued-in to the definition
of the vitruvian man -
as all became known in the hindu "cruelty"
of depiction of vishnu and shiva...

hardly... the ****-erotica gratification
of the man... the vinci...
the vitruvian man...
when... some... hindu... dreamed up...
the deities as already gifted...
the angels and their wings...
the hindu deities and their four hands...
because it wasn't a *****
falling asleep who conjured up...
a pegasus - ******* unicorns?
and a chimera...
        no... only sober... rational...
people... need... to venture into the nether
of what's... allowed imagination:
a wish for a larger ****...
or a crop of hair... with one's receding:
corona... of it...

- it rained and it rained...
people confused my stoic approach
with either solipsism or altruism or...
worse... still...
   hybrid soul lost to tow...
the prosaic... and the... prime example
of atheism: the...
                  halo autist:
with no god...
         this diatribe of focus on nothing...
and someone: n'est ce-pas...
taking a selfie?
       who isn't to want to understand
an solipsist... when...
these supposed: social cretins...
are doing... the worship of moloch before...
everyone else's tired and ***** shirts?

- who's to bargain on what's the service
silver and chinese platter?

            - that object on led zeppelin's
album sleeve for the album presence...
    which is a reiteration...
that shard cut into the mountain...
in stanley kubrick's 2001: a space odyssey...

  how the apes became amazed...
at... perfection...
   how the idea of a chiseled mountain...
implied: stacking one up...
rather than... the microscope...
lost... and no detail of footing...
arrived at... prayer before the ascent!

how the gorilla...
   would preserve itself eating
nothing but fruit...
the panda the shoots of bamboo...
the bear... the half-wit
but more than ape...
how it would...
                "digress"... serve
the docile "god" of... not brightening
particulars... hybrid with:
                    hibernating...
                  since no genius of man...
came up with digressing winter...
beside all that... comfort foods
and lullaby hype of summer thrills...
morose and chew seance...

  hello chimpanzee omnivore...
bacterial tsunami norms...
                     2020: a time-warp odyssey...
because... how can you...
feel comfortable...
listening to people... citing a book...
like it's some...
chapter in the old testatment:
the book of malachi became true!

some... celebration of... sleep-walking?
it has to be subjected to: elation...
that... someone wrote...
what would become true...
70 years from now? circa.

            the statue of churchill:
that glorified object of geometry
in 2001: a space odyssey...
and the pristine geometric shadow...
twisting...
   i.e. when god carved
a mountain with nuance...
man competed with a pyramid...
and then... that ****-storm
with egyptian necrophilia happened...
somehow... sedated...
the greek Δ...

                         emerged...
now back to basics...
              the shape of man... will always
require... some basic focus for...
abstracting: anew...
                     fingers trapped in
the abacus...
                    
        and people want language to flow like
some narrative...
poetry: esp. rhymes with cages...
rhymes with either prefixes or suffixes...
-ing and an -ing:
and then... echo echo oh oh: PING *******
PONG!
    
            i give ******* to the scissors...
then a whole left hand to a rabid
dog about to make a sweater when biting
into a yorkshire terrier's ***...
for good measure...

             i will not give up...
some boorish sanctity of a formality of language
for a dear sir... kind regards...
have 'ere: a slobber of pride
of raw oink... slab sir...
of a prop'ah... pork chopper!
no like?
   as the ol' proverb says...

you can take up your ******'
bucket and *****...
and *******... to the next... sandpit!
savvy?
here: here we play... THIS... sort of "game".
Tommy Johnson Apr 2014
Winnie the Pooh is trying to think
As are Plato and Socrates
While The Little Rascals get rambunctious
And The Marx Brothers cause calamities
Jim Jones stirs the Kool-Aid
And Georgie Porgie makes his move
Bo Peep and Miss Muffett start to blush
Red Ridding hood just swoons
The Muffin Man does a deal
With Johnny Apple seed
These beings and people our real
In our Surreal Reality

******* lets the paint splatter
And Moses parts the sea
Belushi buys an eight-ball
Bruce is on trial for obscenity
Rorschach is on the case
Right behind Sherlock Holmes
John the baptist goes for a swim
Along with Brian Jones
Jack and Jill meet Hansel and Gretel
They're hungry, they're thirsty
These figments of imagination do exist
In our Surreal Reality

Rasputin was so evil
As bad as Captain Hook
Now was it ** Chi Minh or Nixon
Who said "I am not a crook?"
Mao Zedong looked at Stalin
With a shared murderous grin
Booth stormed the Ford theater
And shot President Lincoln
Kennedy and King we're both casualties
Of the process of the deciphering
Of our Surreal  Reality

Zeus said to Aphrodite
"Wow, you look real good tonight"
And Handel says "Hallelujah!"
As the Wright Brothers take flight
Baby Face Nelson
Teams up with Dillinger
Moe, Larry and Curly
Mengele, Mussolini and Adolf ******
Three bears, three little pigs
Along with three blind mice
Sit together, while Maurice Sendack
Cooks them chicken soup with rice
Charlie Bucket had a buy out
Wonka gave up his factory
Fiction or nonfiction it's all a apart
Of our Surreal Reality

Chicken Little tried his best
To warm The Little Red Hen
Of the sly trickster
They call Rumpelstiltskin
Rimbaud applauds Leonidas
And his 300's final stand
Da vinci  paved the way
For both Newton and Edison
Folklore and war heroes
And those with intellectual mentality
Are all just pieces
Of our Surreal Reality

Wee Willie Winkie's scream
Wakes up Rip Van Winkle
But not Sleeping Beauty who's been asleep for thirty years
But has no acquired a single wrinkle
Caligula has lost his mind
And Nero's lost his fiddle
What does Beethoven's hearing aid
Have to do the March Hare's riddle?
Abbie Hoffman fights for civil rights
Thomas Jefferson for democracy
Products of the conceptual
In our Surreal Reality

Berryman writes an ode
To Washington's wooden teeth
Manson speaks of Helter Skelter
Neruda damns the fruit company
Charles Schultz frames the story
And Seuss gives it rhyme
Some where far, far away
Taking place once upon a time
And the villagers all had omelettes
Thanks to clumsy Humpty Dumpty
It's all food for thought
In our Surreal Reality

Santa brings us presents
And Cupid bring us love
But we can never get back
The members of the 27 Club
Warhol makes his movies
And Buddha meditates
Joseph Smith reads the golden plates
Mohammed and Jesus save
Theses figures bring people hope
In life's dualities
Trusting faith
And our Surreal Reality


Han Solo is in carbon freeze
Don Juan's preoccupied
Sinbad sets his sails
Simple Simon didn't get his pie
Caesar looked at Brutus
Brutus looked at Saddam Hussein
Hussein looked at L. Ron Hubbard
Who prayed to Eloheim  
Dionysus can out drink us all
We cringe at Achilles fatality  
As Ra soars through the skies
Of our Surreal Reality

Aristotle says to Shakespeare
"Well Billy you old bard"
Frodo trades the ring of power
To Fidel Castro for a Babe Ruth Baseball card
Biggie and Tupac write their lyrics on paper
Ted Bundy is put in jail
They're making another skyscraper
For King Kong to scale
Hemingway is too far gone
Kant's take on morality
Einstein says it's all relative
In our Surreal Reality

Churchill said victory
John Lennon said peace
Judas gave back the silver
Then hung himself in a tree
Tojo and Kim Jong-il
Wanna be as cool as Brando and Dean
George Carlin warned us all
Now Hermes leaves the scene
So do the butcher, the baker and the candle stick maker
Followed by Old King Cole and his Fiddlers Three
As they make their way to find
A sense or Surreal Reality

Odysseus pines for Ithaca
Paul Bunyan chops the trees
The Jersey Devil has not been found
Noah herds the animals by twos not threes
Anubis wraps the mummies
And Augustus leads Rome
Bugs Bunny laughs with Pryor
All at the expense of Job
So what can we all make of this
Is this all actuality?
Symbolism or nonsense?
Realistic Surrealism or Surreal Realty?
Men and women are equal
None are *above
the other
In rights and respect
Equal

Men have strength yes
Yet it's women who endure

Men and women
Both are intelligent
As their brains made of the same matter
Biologically here equality stands firm

Differences of course are there
Yet minuscule
Appearances cast aside
Only  few can be observed

Women and men
Both are sensitive and feel
Yet where women show it; display
Men conceal; pretend not to feel
Society kills

In tactics and ideas
Is where our message ends
For  too often  it's said to
Disregard the thoughts of women
Too  dumb and feeble minded to be
 Of Value and interest

Yet where there's Winston Churchill
The mastermind of Britain
There's  also Elizabeth the 1st
The queen who beat the Spanish Armada

Hence with logics like this
Any notion of ****** inferiority
Can be easily dismissed
As utterly ridiculous.
A view point I agree strongly upon equality not feminism but the equality of both men and women!
Matt Apr 2015
“It is essential in order to protect societyfrom the ambition, greed, and malpractice or caprice of rulers to ensure the inviolatibility of even the humblest home.  The right and power of the private citizen to appear to impartial courts against rulings of the state and against ministerial decrees of the day.  Freedom of speech in writing, freedom of the press, freedom of combination and agitation within the limits of long established laws.  The right of regular opposition to government.  The power to turn out a government and put another set of men in its place by lawful and constitutional means, and finally the sense of every individual’s association with the state and of some responsibility with the actions and conduct of the state.”
Taken from a lecture by Sir Martin Gilbert entitled,

"What Did Democracy Mean to Churchill?"
Kyle Kulseth Jun 2018
I thought I heard
               Canadian slang
from the opposite bed-side
Like it's 2009, rub some lines off my face.
Inner space bleeding outward,
deep red, a nosebleed,
angled points on white of The Maple Jack.
               A Nip at the Sal's on Esplanade-Riel.

Grab your runners and toque,
               it's warm, but not forever
and these legs are sore. Polar bears
on the sweater you wore in the Fall--
Churchill, Manitoba, the streets are full of teeth and claws.
Awoke and wanted warmth lacking.
I thought I heard Canadian slang.

I thought I heard "it'll be okay"
from the voices of feathers fletching arrows falling.
     they whisper and screams sink deep behind
                                     eyelids
                                     closing.
A sentence unfinished,
                sinking in flesh
                              in time
                sinking
                              in snow and ice
                sinking
                              in water in Summer
                sinking
                              in memory.

I thought I heard
               plans being made
and shy laughter.
I heard it 5 times. Didn't I?
Days fade, ears dull*
Walking on streets, in the cold
towards her home
I thought I heard laughter--
                                   heard something
                        like laughter--
I thought I heard rain, as the Lodgepoles drank water.

I thought I heard laughter.

I thought I heard wax melt.
I thought I smelled fairness.
I thought you wanting more time
to bleed and blur tenses.
I thought I heard rivers rushing and roaring
                                                 their battle cries--
--asserting their presence.
I thought I heard cars pass and sounds of the daytime
                    and late March walk along bridges.

I could swear I heard something
     Like Canadian slang,
                 sweet
                     water
                  light
                      laughter.
Som­ething.
RAJ NANDY Jun 2015
AN EXOTIC JOURNEY TO THE
               KHYBER PASS!
              By Raj Nandy

“When spring-time flushes the desert grass,
Our caravan wind through the Khyber Pass.
Lean are the camels but fat the frails,
Lighter the purses but heavy the bales!
As the snowbound trade of the North comes down,
To the market square of Peshawar town.”
- Rudyard Kipling (Dec1865- Jan 1936).

Those immortal lines of Kipling had enticed me,
To delve into famous Khyber’s exotic History ;
And today I narrate its wondrous story!

THE KHYBER PASS:
Steeped in adventure, bloodshed and mystery,
The Khyber remains the doorway of History!
Winston Churchill, then a young newspaper
correspondent in 18 97 had said, -
‘Each rock and hill along the pass had a story
to tell! ’
Cutting across the limestone cliffs more than
thousand feet high,
This narrow winding path of 45 km’s stretch,
Cuts through the Hindu Kush mountain range!
Forming a part of the ancient Silk Route between
Central and South Asia;
Linking Kabul with Peshawar town during those
early days of Pre-Independent India!
The area is inhabited by fierce Pashtun tribesmen,
who live by their ancient Honor Code;
They value their land and liberty, and their winding
mountain roads !
They can be the greatest of friends and deadliest
of foes;
And as the saying goes, for a friend a Pashtun
can even give up his life;
But he never forgets a wrong or when rubbed on
the wrong side !
He always avenges a wrong deed done, -
Even after decades, through his sons!
The indigenous tribes living along the pass,
Regard this area as their sole preserve!
They have levied a toll on all travelers from
the earliest days,
For their safe conduct and passage through the
Khyber, - as Historians say!

HISTORIC INVASIONS THROUGH KHYBER:
At its highest point the Khyber is 3500 ft in height,
But its strategic importance can never be denied!
Around 2000 BC came the Indo-Aryan tribes
from Central Asia,
Migrating to the rich fertile plains of Ancient India!
In 326 BC, the great Alexander came through,
By bribing the local tribes to gain their favour,
To defeat King Porus on the banks of Jhelum River;
And set up his short-lived Bactrian Empire!
In 1192 AD Afghan warlord Mohammad Ghori, -
Invaded India to set up The Sultanate at Delhi!
In 1220 Genghis Khan with his Mongol hordes
came through the Khyber;
With the help of local tribesmen to plunder the
ruling Arab Empire!
In 1380 through this pass came Timur Lane,
To wreck and destroy the Delhi Sultanate!
And finally from Kabul through the Khyber path,
Came Babur to establish the Mogul Empire with
his victory at Panipath!
From 1839 till 1919, here the British had fought,
- three ****** Anglo-Afghan Wars!
And before retreating, drew the famous Durand
Line to ally fears;
But this Line is now the cause of bickering and
tribal tears!

THE BRITISH KHYBER RAILWAY:
At Jamrud Cantonment town 17 km west of
Peshawar,
Lies the doorway to the historic Khyber!
The track passes through a breath-taking rugged
mountainous terrain, -
Through 34 tunnels, over 92 bridges, a 42 kilometer’s
of winding stretch!
A five hour’s journey at Laudi Kotal gets complete;
The line stands as a tribute to British Engineering
feat!
The legendary Khyber Rifles had guarded the
western flanks of the British Empire,
With garrisoned troops guarding this route entire! @
Since 1990 this train is run by a private enterprise, #
With local tribesmen always taking a free joy ride!
Recent Taliban attacks made Pakistan to close
the Khyber Pass,
An uneasy truce prevails, only God knows how
long it will last ?!
But with that Durand Line of 1893 demarcated,
Forty million Pashtuns today stand divided, -
Between Pakistan and Afghanistan!
With hopes, aspirations and dreams of becoming
United!
- Raj Nandy
New Delhi .

NOTES:-
Battle Of Panipath, April 1526, where Babur defeated numerically
superior forces of Ibrahim Lodhi; thereby establishing the Moghul
Empire in India!
On 04Nov1925, the British inaugurated the Khyber Railway to carry
troops up to Laudi Kotal on the other end, short of the Afghan border
to guard the western flanks of the British Empire!
@KHYBER RIFLES: - Raised in early1880s with HQs at Laudi Kotal,
& garrison troops manning the Forts at Ali Masjid near the
mid-way point of the Pass, and also at Fort Maud to the east of the
Khyber Pass.
KHYBER RAILWAYS: With 75 seats, a kitchenette, and two toilets;
pulled by two old Lancashire engines of 1920 vintage! It cuts across
Peshwar Airport under Air Traffic Control! It was stopped in 1982, as
economically not viable! Started again by a Private Enterprise
in 1990, in collaboration with the Pak Railway! After the Partition of
India in 1947, the Khyber is under the Federal Administered Tribal
Area of Pakistan! A difficult and a volatile region to govern! The
Khyber now remains closed due political reasons! Thanks for
reading.
* ALL COPYRIGHTS ARE WITH RAJ NANDY
Kelly Bitangcol Dec 2016
In every battle, it is impossible to never have a speech. I have noticed that in watching movies. Like in Independence day, the President delivered a speech to the U.S Fighter Pilots before the battle. “ Good morning. In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world.”, yeah that’s how it goes. Or like King Aragorn’s battle speech at the black gate in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, “Hold your ground! Hold your ground! Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers”, he said. And it can even be a simple “May the force be with us” before battling with the galactic empire. And you cannot only see that in movies, there are speeches in real life which also inspired people to fight, like Patrick Henry’s Give me Liberty or Give me death, Winston Churchill’s We Shall Never Surrender, and our battles in our lives. Everyone will always encounter battles in their lives, and maybe we also had speeches for ourselves, created by us, for us, to continue fighting. And they say having a mental illness also means undergoing a battle. Many battles, and one of them, is a battle against the stigma. A battle to end the stigma of mental health. And now I will deliver my speech, to everyone of you, this is my battle speech, telling you to stop romanticizing them.


Poems **** once said that depression is a strange, yet comforting feeling. Comforting feeling, when you feel absolutely terrible, that even eating ice cream and watching your favourite movie can’t do anything to make you feel better. And when they ask you what’s wrong, the worse part is you don’t know. When you’re all alone, and no one is there for you, so you just feel like your inner demons are hugging you and telling you to just end everything. It’s when people tell you that happiness is a choice, it’s like a multiple choice exam, in which you just choose the best answer, but why does it seem to me that the choices I got were nothing compared to the best, and where is happiness? It’s none of the above. There is nothing comforting, nothing artistic, nothing beautiful about depression. It is not an artsy tumblr poem, it’s not an aesthetic, it’s not something you wish you could have,  depression is a total *******!


A twitter account said that anxiety is just another form of excitement. So does it mean that when I have panic attacks, I am just excited? When I avoid everyday situations, when I can’t get out of my house, when I can’t even get out of my bed, because all of those things cause me anxiety. When I expect the worst in everything that I do and it will ruin the hell out of me. When I’m in a job interview, and I suddenly have my panic attack. When I feel that in every place I will go to, I will experience danger and catastrophe. So you see, that anxiety is not another form of excitement, it is not a trend, it’s a difficult thing to have, it's experiencing chaos everyday in your life and who would want that?


Why do we think that having mental illnesses are wonderful? Why do we wish to have them when there are people suffering? Why are we belittling them, telling them they’re crazy, that it’s all in your mind, but can’t you see, that having chaos inside my mind is the most difficult thing you could ever have. Why do we think they’re weak, when they are fighting battles everyday and they never give up. Why do we think that people with mental illness are just asking for attention when they are asking for help because that’s the thing they need? Imagine that the demons inside of you gave you a gift that you didn’t want, and you can’t seem to destroy it, to leave it, because you think your demons have won. But they didn’t, and they will never. And we are fighting with you, we are with you.


In every battle, there will always be the ones who win. The ones who will achieve the greatest feat, happiness and contentment. But they say, that this battle against the stigma, is a never ending war. However, have you all forgotten who we are? If this is a never ending war, then we are the  fighters.  And we will never ever stop fighting.


*(k.b)
I stood beside the grave of him who blazed
The comet of a season, and I saw
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed
With not the less of sorrow and of awe
On that neglected turf and quiet stone,
With name no clearer than the names unknown,
Which lay unread around it; and asked
The Gardener of that ground, why it might be
That for this plant strangers his memory tasked
Through the thick deaths of half a century;
And thus he answered—”Well, I do not know
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so;
He died before my day of sextonship,
And I had not the digging of this grave.”
And is this all? I thought,—and do we rip
The veil of Immortality? and crave
I know not what of honour and of light
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight?
So soon, and so successless? As I said,
The Architect of all on which we tread,
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay
To extricate remembrance from the clay,
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton’s thought,
Were it not that all life must end in one,
Of which we are but dreamers;—as he caught
As ’twere the twilight of a former Sun,
Thus spoke he,—”I believe the man of whom
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,
Was a most famous writer in his day,
And therefore travellers step from out their way
To pay him honour,—and myself whate’er
Your honour pleases,”—then most pleased I shook
From out my pocket’s avaricious nook
Some certain coins of silver, which as ’twere
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare
So much but inconveniently:—Ye smile,
I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while,
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
You are the fools, not I—for I did dwell
With a deep thought, and with a softened eye,
On that Old Sexton’s natural homily,
In which there was Obscurity and Fame,—
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name.
Francie Lynch Apr 2018
No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse.
                                             Eve

I'm sure red's a better color for me.
                                              M. Monroe

She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
                                              Ulysses

N­ow that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.
                                             D. Trump

You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
                                              S. Freud

No. You keep it. I have enough.
                                              B. Graham

Are you sure that's the Delaware?
                                              G. Washington

E=Mc Donalds.
                                              A. Einstein

Go pound salt.
                                              Gandhi

Wha­t day is it?
                                               Roosevelt

T­hat's one small.... oops!
                                               N. Armstrong

I don't remember any of my dreams.
                                               M.L. King, Jr.

Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
                                                Jesus

Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
                                                W. Churchill

Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
                                                 R. Starr

It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
                                                 S. Hawking

Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
                                                  Robespierre

Before I was fined, I walked the line.
                                                   J. Cash

Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
                                                  Tolstoy'­s editor

What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
                                                   H. Ford

I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
                                                   ­Oppenheimer

I've never liked orange juice.
                                                    N. Brown

Really? You want to blame me?
                                                    ******

He stings like a butterfly.
                                                     S. Liston

#timesup #metoo
                                                     A. Boleyn

Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
                                                      Bell­

Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
                                                      R­.W. Sears

To be or to do be do be do.
                                                      Shakes­peare/Sinatra

When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin *******.
                                                      E. Whitney

We're the team to beat!
                                                      Toro­nto Maple Leafs

Don't call me a Mother!
                                                      Mo­ther Theresa

Is that a Cuban*?
                                                      M. Lewinsky
Of course all quotations are out of context.
Lawrence Hall Dec 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Gandhi, Churchill, and Shakespeare Wrote a New Year’s Resolution

                        (I mean, like, I read it somewhere, okay?)

Be the cliché-sodden, inaccurate,
And unsourced quote you always wanted to be
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
early on i left an imprint for me to remember,
kinda like 2 x 2, equating to 4,
not as simple with words:
i like this dialectic between Dionysian and
Apollonian attempts to express aye arr parley!
shake the pine trees to get the toothpicks
like you might get a mojito, onward! toward
El Dorado! transgressing 24 hour hours
and you get the flavour:
first beer in in from dieting, oh ****, it's bitter,
second beer, mm, sweeter... then the headline
of whiskey and coke... Kazakhstan nice... yok sh'eh mash?!

three movements working their way,
those conquered and exposed to direct roman rule,
presiding over the "charm" with roads, western europe,
now they're so pride to reach that far back,
mention Boudica, one, more, *******, time!
i'll give you Britain that made Louis XIV
the peasant king at Versailles, and Charles II
wise with a Guy Fawkes firecracker... mm, guess
it happened here! in the yeast of a baker's
reincarnation via Malachi's heresy:
Elijah coming soon? Elijah not coming any time
you blunt sword of monotheism excluding
the chance of many, democratic influences!
either the fish or the aquarium...
the aquarium... a billion of them plus Islam will
be anarchic China, people never wish for better,
they only wish to better themselves,
including the social strata stampede that's necessitated
in the process... scientific positivism of Enlightenment
died, the absolute necessity (god) / the absolutely
necessary thing became trapped in the Bermuda
or the Copernican triangle, no good for crossing
oceans, just ably whirling east to no east outside
the atmosphere, try me with two thing:
Copernican vectors with a stable point constantly moving,
rather than sunny, constantly expressed economically
as usurper against usurer and the university grant
of simony, although worthy of an actor to spread
charitable work and paedophilia in Asia dubbed
Portuguese Missionary - well i'm sure the apologetics will
come, my neighbour hugging her dog watching television,
closest kin of the genesis story having secondary reminders
determining whether the lie was white or instructive,
a joke or seriousness - indeed entombed in treating these
words as a holiness worth for all the present religious attire.
absolutely necessary Kant said,
he also said: you said omni- etc., indeed you're on a
roundabout of intellectual yawns, there's nothing new here!
i need god as a concept of vectors and cursors, mediating
more than the caging of man's affirmation of himself
with Freud... the sounds and equally shared optics
need to accommodate a oneness, god is a predicate
of essential function: a. the triple affirmative:
i, thought, existence... something to concern myself with,
b. the duo affirmative:
denial, thought, existence... the arithmetic goes further,
i am writing quickly hence i will not brood over,
except a comparison in cinema, the film *hostel
(2005)
and pretty much all of Hollywood's 1970's grit output...
take for example Al Pacino in the panic in needle park,
you know what i see? modern american interpretation
of what eastern europe represents, the farts
leave flamboyant Amsterdam hopeful for Slavic ******,
they come to Slovakia, and it hits them,
the passive lack of jealousy and need to impress
building a chrysler building, the oddity like landing on mars...
but it's already been done with, New York in the 1970s,
the same slavic grit, even the way the cinematography looks
like the colours were shaded with a peppering of sand...
new york in the 1970s is like Eastern Europe in
the horror set in 2005 in Slovakia... globalisation's paranoia,
there are still people out there who we can't ascribe
metaphors to being exclusive: no iron lady lifted the
iron curtain, the iron lady had an iron skirt, and she
couldn't lift that up either... Churchill puffer a cigar
and a million bees emerged heralded by Edward the Confessor.
that's the relation though, Hollywood's 1970's urban grit
and what the tourists encountered in Slovakia in 2005,
a sleepy kingdom, 2nd Mongolia, second to none,
which i beg to differ with, given the Scots were tight
stretching 2 pence copper coin to invent copper wire
and the Swiss (also in hilly surroundings) have us
elaborate paedophilia via Nabokov catching butterflies...
hardly two mountain ranges and hardly two plateaus.
it's called exotica these days... yep... the dissection of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth and the emergence
of both Lach, Ukrainian, Lithuanian, Latvian, Estonian
and White Russian is what the Czech say made them
speak both cesky and saksonski... tseba! holy roman
prague ****, disintegrated into the Austrian intervention...
very much as if: thank you for defending Vienna from
the Ottomans, Jan Sobieski.
but the Jews got reparations at the end of the ordeal,
and western Europe received the Marshall Plan...
eastern Europe received Marx... too proud they said,
it's not exactly Mama Russia surrogate,
it's Papa Khan also... moon gall! no news from Mongolia
i hear, sooner a tale from an American zoo
where a retired silver-back dragged a baby from
drowning in an inch of water, hero shot,
where were the parents? a four year old can hardly
sit on a kitchen stool let alone climb over zoological
fortifications... ah the blessing given unto man
by Iblis to ape ably a delay he has no chastity over:
if Iblis defended his pride, then man can but
defend his chastity - Iblis was given a longer time-frame,
man was given a shorter time-frame, Iblis'
choice expands furthest into myth, man's choice
implodes further into repetition - for Iblis' mistake
was but one, when knowing of man's aplenty;
it is said that when a man is to become a father,
he relives his childhood - legality i say would have
obliged me, but pride took no notice of symbols as signatures
of such love, especially given the expenses,
or as in the supermarket today, the cashier invested ?
into the one buying the goods:
- where is she? you're not together any more?
- oh, she's moving to York, it's her work, she has to.
- you're not moving with her?
- well, it's only for 2 years, and then she'll be back,
  training, it will take her 4 months...
na'h ah... bye bye...                       she ain't coming back...
tell you what mate, keep a cat, the most selfish animal,
bestia ex solipsism - no necessary petting by constantly
showering it signs of jealousy and ownership and upkeep,
as if having to punch a gorilla to hold hands.
i love feminism for one thing only:
it made sexism a branch of Darwinism, *** warfare...
in relation to me? two girls chatting away:
- *******! how could he leave you!
- but he did!
- what ***** made him do it!
- philosophy!
don't get me started on those who read very little
and can't allow philosophy a poetic form, and necessarily
have to plagiarise Aristotelian stylistics to be considered
philosophy (albeit only in scholarly musings).
i'm sure it was something about the fruits of our
presupposed wisdom that bore knowledge that individuated
us, to the point of extremes, as hardly scraps for
vultures, to no animal nobleness, parasitic amongst each other,
defining the 16th century or such desires to keep
afresh, minted and pampered for the next cohort of dupes...
some find the memory of dogs towards us keener
than our fellow men should wish to share...
the animal domesticated and not eaten is seemingly our
prefect to walk toward a seize-less craft of un-exhausted thought,
only un-exhausted because of missing interaction,
say there, is that Hegel's mirror (master) and narcissus (slave)?
the emergence of these belittled nations is clear in
western europe, the bombing of Libya,
the usurpers of Syria, the once conquered having a taste
for empire and colonial rule think they cherish
the biblical conundrum when the resurrection was inclined toward
the lands Sven and Mietek - toward the lands
of conquerors and the ones converted -
four movements thus (sketched):
a. sonata: βορας ηλιος - μακεδων να ινδια
b. adagio: βιργιλιος ως καντηνoν -
                  μεσoγειος: μαυρος (ex),
κoκκινος (ex), ειρηνικoς (ex),
ατλαντικoς (ex), βoρειος (ex), βαλτικη (ex),
south a poet, north a philosopher,
from only one sea came two oceans and many other seas
to sustain the thirst for seawater among men!    
c. scherzo: Casimir the 3rd welcoming the Jews.
d. sonata: an die mitternachtfreude - more like a calm
before taking up the arms.
Odd Odyssey Poet Feb 2023
Bones into the many ashes
dust in amongst the surface
The tithes of time; in service
of the hands running on the clock
Church bell hyms to the mountain
tops of heavens close to the hills
Oh Churchill- searching in my eyes of a servant; serving a King

                  ...I rise in bravery on this hill
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
so I says to the moth sleeping
on a kitchen curtain:
allow my hand curled
to be as soft as a laced
napkin, and you'll fly out
from my chamber prior
to the sunrise scything
the morning dew...
        ****!
     and as I lit a candle and
gently uncurled my hand
into a proud lotus
with a sitting Buddha:
the moth disappeared
    with what felt like...
a kingfisher diving into
the stillness of a narcissus pupil,
near figment,
replacement of
a woman's authenticity
of belief, subsequent
gangrene, akin to the one
success story bound
to the rigours of Walt...
****! thin air...
   a moth in this kingdom
of night, is lover
to the kingdom of day...
a fern replaces a laurel...
immobile drench
of autumnal perfumery
of sly, snail *** oyster
gluttony of excess saliva...
no cannon riddle salute...
deafening the living,
bewildering the dead...
my adversary is not worth
the impetus and subsequent
ordeal of gained
responsibility of Cain...
vain vagabond...
truant lavishness of
lavender...
     silence reveals...
what word is best said yet
best unworn...
   hardly woken...
like a child asked for buttocks
before a jab counter Odra...
counter Ospa...
            mid-dream...
           meningitis hepitatis
worn A, B, C, all through to
D?
         I see nothing short
of the clamour of the living
turned, dead,
   and no drunk statue...
only rigid, copper frames...
best seek the concept
of a cube in a cage...
             than a god in a man
in a man in a universe
with whatever strings attached
no more than chance, contra will,
in this circus of stars...
   however the elaborate
expansions of space,
reiterated by the whimsical
musings of time...
there's the bound man,
the rubric standard,
    the reiteration and
sense expanding cull: contract
  reiteration of medium...
the plateau man:
the safety net inferno...
10 generations apart,
and still: without a Dante...
and thank ****
Bukowski didn't mention Dante!
eerie now, my reading of
the "Bolognese" tirade,
and the monopoly
          of "earned" bachelorhood
of... the ma than becomes the gran
and the hopeful bride who...
can't make a broth...
as well as you...
           but of course...
rasta best explains:
     I is responsible for all...
     pardonable am... 100 years later,
and, apparently,
it didn't originate in Zurich...
  
      papa dont preach,  
I'm emeritus...
      Etc. Etc. in nomine
gratia plena...

words have become
quasi iconoclastic
within the confines of keeping
up with the rigour
of crafting logo...
coca cola, CoCa CoLa...
the ******* black madonna of
Częstochowa...

     genuflex of the abstracted
tetragrammaton...
   Y 'ere,
    
    W over d'er

                        HH: rugby.

FeO: iron oxide...
  BBC4 (radio):
      the Ushers...
    Churchill's θ...
    id est:
   not cheesy...
   w'ah'ver:
   w'eh'wee w'eh'wee
      veering on vague:
V(e) 'ucking, 'uck of e
     pringle.

very discrete,
that definite article...
scissor atheist thought,
either an indefinite
article of A...
    or the rubric of lost
items on the tube...
   with a genesis of
  a-;
    oddly enough...
no lost umbrellas in this one...

because god forbid a language
should ever incline to be
shackled to a mind only
safe in confining itself
to running a school, yard,
and brick cascade of
***** counter excavations
of equal numbering,
to avoid the heretical waste...
doon d' 'oobe...
    
    how else to translate
"******", shittz painting?
      poetry is...
the lost art of counter rhetoric...
a poem ought to shut
someone up...
suffocate them...
          rather than be,
what it currently is...
impedium of
replica...

     **** me...
even I had to check the dictionary
to convince myself
of the stature of but three words...

impedium of replica...
at least plagiarising painting
has a thrill of
plagiarism behind it,
a mischevious
         ploy on employing
subsequent experts...

               my tongue, mostly
completes itself,
on how best it confiscates
the flame of a burning out candle,
and less...
on how a slug might burp
in the Royal Albert Hall.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
their recent deal met with shouts of betrayal:
the new Neville Chamberlain,
The refrain quickly sounded on Capitol Hill.
sympathy should be qualified.
speaking in accurate French
This is our moment ... our chance to join together
But then when is it not a moment?
repeatedly mispriced and misapplied,
often with disastrous consequences.
A complete list would fill a book,
but here are a few items:
the spectre of war
the American invading forces
the border with China
the British appeasing ******
the whole woeful Suez adventure
the occupation of the Rhineland  
the Cuban missile crisis
the fire jobs, in which hundreds of thousands civilians were incinerated;
the saying “extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice.”
the hailing of Ngo Dinh Diem, as the Churchill of Asia
the Kennedy administration giving a nod to the coup
the latest culture of appeasement
the drawing of Jimmy Carter carrying an umbrella.
the mirage of a peaceful alternative to war
which is really a defeat,
peace in our time?
Why do I think that isn’t going to happen?
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source https://newrepublic.com/article/115803/munich-analogies-are-inaccurate-cliched-and-dangerous
JC Lucas Oct 2013
I’ve been going to this boxing gym and training every week.
And everyone there is fighting something
You can see in their
Eyes
They’re punching their dad
Or they’re punching
Whoever their wife is sleeping with
Or they're punching
Their kids who ignore them
Or they’re punching
Themselves.
Their boss
Their job
Their alcohol problem
Their poverty
And every week we get to fight our problems together
And we’re exploding inside.
What?
You can’t fight your problems?
It’s not only that I can.
I will.
And do.
Because crying alone isn’t good enough
Because all that fire you build up inside you has to go somewhere
Or it’ll burn you alive.
So you throw it into the heavy bag
Or into the guy you’re sparring
Or into the ground you run on.


We’re all fighting something
So what about you?
What are you fighting that’s so ******* important?
No, don’t tell me.
Tell that heavy bag.
He listens.
He listens when your wife doesn’t give a ****
He listens when it doesn’t even matter
Tell these padded mitts.
That one-two punch says more than a twenty-four volume encyclopedia
And speaks more concisely than Churchill or Hemmingway or Ghandi ever did.
Don’t tell me how it feels.
Don’t even try.
Let that punching bag know.
Because you know he’s listening.
And he doesn’t have anything else more important to do.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
the ontological basis, comparatively
with what the people think when too many
politicians exist due to centralisation
of government, with so many parliamentary
members paid a wage yet still so aloof
that they have no eagerness for local
governing of things: we all know the Orwellian
metaphor of pigs by the trough:
cabbage and porridge, we all know the joke...
but when the zeitgeist of the populace is
plagiarism and ******* you must surely
admire politicians... they feed the people
facts slowly, instead of feeding them
carbonate ***** of wheat to bloat the chickens'
stomachs, they feed them breadcrumbs...
politicians delay matters so much so that
conspiracy theories arise...
for indeed people are not so much critical
of politicians, but of the number that emerges...
esp. those not schooled in sophism,
but rather schooled in unnecessary observance...
there is more to observe on the streets outside
the palace of Westminster than there is within in...
the lawn Mohican on Churchill's statue
with a pink lipstick around his face
and Caduceus revised Baphomet on his walking
stick... how i prescribed myself headphones to
create an artificial cerebral buzz-maker
each time i hear the blood sizzling fizz...
without everything being too quick or too immediate,
politicians are delayers of things...
they want the schoolroom banter to take place,
they're the ones unafraid to make and poke fun at
each other, sophism is intended for that...
philosophy takes offence too easily, hence it's
dangerous, it's limited to public engagement
because it's intended for individualisation of circumstances:
whether you end up homeless on a street
or ordained a palace and a crown;
you can't describe philosophy in five minutes
in the same way that you can't limit politics into
the same confinement... zoologically speaking it's
necessary for a lion to be kept in a cage as long as he's
being kept in it as a glutton who frequently sleeps
because he's well fed and doesn't dream of lamb-shanks
but instead of  being Simba (a Disney character)...
politicians delay and provide dietary requirements
of what the public ought to know... they're
like dieticians, they give you a dietary scheme of things,
because so many of us are prescribed duties
it would be madness to suddenly tell you:
Martians visited us last December, we need to
throw away our workman's utensils and go and pray
to them for free food and unlimited electricity;
in this sense i can't disrespect politicians,
i just think that an excess of them in Parliament is
what's fuelling a public disgruntling...
but the thing is... the politicians that people are disgruntled
about are not those in the mainstream, they're
not from the centralised "celebrity" batch of politicians,
they from local governments, and their presence in
the centralised house of commons is really disgruntling
to the public in most respects...
either way, admiration for politicians slowing it down,
disrupting the sharing of facts so that we
can accept our functions without anarchistic boredom
being awoken like some Godzilla...
in terms of facts i want to be a Columbus,
on my own initiative... i don't want to be a ******* turkey...
wanting to be a turkey breeds conspiracy theories...
in a torture chamber you just here: 'but they fed me this!
but they fed me this!' 'and you were stupid enough
to mistake facts for propaganda? catch the surf, ******!'
wanting to be a Columbus means you don't care
to own a plasma television and a Ford Mustang.
Paul Butters Nov 2015
With a Jewish religion and a German Queen,
Who has a clue where the Brits have been?
Mum’s clan were Huguenots,
Dad’s maybe Welsh.
Lots of Africans in our football teams.

Keep out those immigrants many do say,
Even those whose parents came from Bombay.
We’ve lots of patriots from Pakistan:
The younger generation, Brits to a man.

But some are Radicals I hear you say,
We should be sending them on their way,
Back to Asia where they belong,
To the tunes of a UKIP song.

So what is “British” we must ask,
For this is not an easy task.
Justice and Democracy I hear you shout,
Tiny islands with some clout.

Shakespeare, Beatles, Rugby Lions,
Churchill clapping foes in irons.
Let’s be glad that we are free
And settle down to a cuppa tea.
Paul Butters
Rule Britannia! PS there must be a character limit here as I did Not give Bombay a separate line myself.
AlanK Jul 2014
It was a glass of liquid sunshine
If I were to believe the waiter
My senses would be flooded
With essence of vanilla and
Glimpses of the land.
There would notes of citrus,
Faint odor of old leather
And deep berries would overwhelm.
If I shut my eyes
I could relish the peppery finish
And the buttery after taste.
I would be a fool to overlook
The healthy dose of tannin
Balancing the sweet cherry, plum and cassis.
The wine swirled in my glass
The fragrant bouquet filled my nose
I’d be lying if I said
The anticipation didn’t create
A certain aura of arousal.
Not just the sunshine in this glass
But all four seasons inhabited
My crystal goblet,
And the sheltering moonlight
Was in there too.
This wine surely has character
Like Gandhi or Churchill perhaps.
And legs. What legs.
Slender and vibrating
Long and glistening
I could stare at those legs
Until dessert.
Having passed the cork test,
All eyes were upon me
Lifting the bowl of undulating liquid
To my lips.
I sipped.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.a very prominent interlude of bitterness - something that needs to be drank as an antidote of the aftertaste of a brothel... bourbon - sickly-sweet bourbon of a brothel... otherwise the best beer on these isles: the original stout: st. guinness - second, 13... hop house lager by the same culprit... i don't know about you but a regular IPA doesn't float my boat... stale pale ale of 3 day old sputnik ***** excavation of bio-matter living off of iron shrapnel and termite ****... let's not go over-board with the bitterness of fenugreek seeds added to a curry... but... a hop lager is not an indian pale ale... because? well: because of the excited circumstance of extra bubbles! once upon a time that horrid absinthe period... last time i checked i became the st. peter of the drug details... ***** tells you too many truths come the moral-hangover the next day... but ms. amber in her guise of adele bloch-bauer by klimt: take her for a whiskey, take her for a bourbon... a chanel no. 5... or a brandy or a cognac... please excuse me from drinking the ales... goldwasser: athens, sparta, venice... dan dan Danzig... i'd call the genesis of world war II to be... that envy of the city-state... the little cosmopolitan high-heavens of a concentrated locum... of affairs of both tourism and the subsequent merchant class... that Danzig didn't belong to anyone: not really... does it even matter now? the current city-state model is... don't bother filtering the excesses... it has to become diluted... you'll find pockets of concentration near them... yes... homogenous... therefore solaced by that fact alone... only teasing incorporating outside influences... it's not going to be a replica venice or danzig... for that you'd need a window... st. peter designated the window into europe as a capital with an access to the sea... not land locked... even though i'm pretty sure that moscow has a river running through it... jump-start the window: a capital by the sea... hey presto! a window: the baltic sea into europe... words that become apparent: microcongestion of undigested souls... a schrödinger's cat... one foot in limbo... another foot in reicarnation... lob it or nutmeg the footie: it's a particle when observed and a wave when not observed... an orbit for the schematic... but a cloud when getting into the nitty-gritty details: specifics oblong... misnomer... if my ******* into a tissue, subsequently flushed... then a baptism of a shower... is not a genocide? then... bullseye... the ***** that made it into the ****... it's an abortion mid-week... i'd count that ****** come a certain count of months... otherwise... well... there's that cat of his... one foot in limbo and one foot in reincarnation... wasn't it the western exhausted theological mind: from that god of the omni- litany looking toward the budding-ha-ha? abortion... prized ***** makes it to the egg... ah... ****** from the argument of effort... me and the basic schematics of genocide... otherwise: schrödinger's cat... one foot in limbo... one foot in reicarnation... better still... Farinelli! drop the ******* don a niqab! the muslims and an eye-fetish... mind you... i do have a hand-fetish... "fetish"... i can count five of hers and only four of mine... fingers! unless she is a proper Arab bride with roots of synonyms in the Ukraine... and she has butcher's hands... hot-dog fingers... and a kardashian thick-*** that is just readied for a 12" dung-digger of ******... while at the same time... breaking the floral patterns of a porcelain geisha's... "missing tongue O"...

manícorona: peanut-crown!

               in between the hype and...
in between the trough...
and the happy pigglets of prop
and grandour...

little charlie little dervish of
a dar: gift...
                        win-win scenario...
i'm worried about...
constipation...
           terribly bothered...
                    
         but there's also the fact that
i haven't seen a dentist for...
a donkey can count a decade:
at least that's my hope...

my tooth filling has become lose...
having finished with yesterday's
etc. i tried to fall to sleep...

the pain came as a blunt object
in need of sharpening...
it wasn't a sharp object per se:
to begin with...

the radio was off...
the dream of falling asleep to the sound
of rain like it might be
a song off the cure's disintegration
album: lost...

                 i concluded:
it must be a dream...
how else explain this trivial pain
of a tooth when all the bones lay
intact in a body in an impeding grave?

to have been lullabied by a trivial
pain of a loose filling...
                   i'll give it until monday
to check a dental clinic...
i'll wait... because:
god only knows i am bound
to learn something new from
this crazed - infuriating pain -

          but at least that has
constipation covered...
    fear not: ****** **** of the golem heights!
no chelsea smile up your alley:
any time soon...

        the crown virus...
sooner or later: yes my liege...
yes my sire...
i'm sure the africans will... jump the queue...
we've been raising money for
a malaria vaccine...
i'm sure they'll be quick-on-the-mark
to raise money for the crown-virus
epicenter! europe!

oh... come come... komme komme, meine liebe!
it's true!
the europeans will be fundraising
money for malaria...
while the africans will be fundraising
money for the peanut-crown virus...

or... i like that one quote i heard,
"somewhere"...
   a stewardess asks a mother whether
or not her son would like some peanuts...
the mother says... he's allergic to peanuts...
he's allergic to maize... air...
glutten... ******* haribo gelatin and all...
he's allergic to hiccups...

                           there's a winking match
involving imitation chess between
the very sick psychiatrists
and the mildly sick schizophrenics...
a bilingual comes along into their foray...
and asks: who's multiplying
and who's in charge of division?
all a splendid metaphor... wouldn't you agree?
there... metaphor...
already the focus is gone... splinters...
some go to metaphysics,
some go to metaphors...
some go to orthography...
some go to: telepathy...
        some go down the para-
hello, my name is Norman...

         it's natural then... darwinism in action...
hold a peanut to a crowd of
people allergic to peanuts...
the joy of cashews...
the joys of pecans...
   cashews, pecans, brazilians...
macademians... hazels and waldorff's...

no other feeling...
like a ripe hop lager in between
a bourbon's drip drip drip...
      
                   horrid breaking up an already
comfortable ideology... isn't it?
when something like this speaks for itself
and the "lamm von gott" is brought before
the altar...
                           darwinism sings!
sings! like the brian jonestown massacre...
this is my body... my peanut...
brought to a cult of peanut-allergy-riddled
anemics and haemophiliacs...
        
the darwinian ideology fizzles out...
when it's not longer looking up through
the telescope of a primate's ***...
but looking through the form most primodial...
i've been gardening for the past week...
i've watched an earthworm here...
an earthworm there...
        life without eyes without ears
without music... but this idiotic god-given
impetus, imperative, "will": "freedom"...
virus... crown virus...

sooner or later we'll all be kings and queens,
sneezing and waiting for the entire
small intestine to come out of our noses
like glue: glut and gelatin pieces
wobbling where once bones stood
to be later broken...

a beer in between these slugs of bourbon
will do just that...
all good when it concerns
of apes and men...
           the similarity greatly helps...
but of course we'll borrow from other
skeletons...
                  no one ever heard of a headache
from having "too much"...
i.e. od przybytku: głowa nie boli...
o ale boli boli boli...

      constipation...
            the peanut crown virus...
and a loose tooth filling...
                ***** blondes and "how many"
light-bulb jokes it would take
for a tsunami of bleached ***** hairs to turn
into a happy cousin itsy-bitsy:
a spider cravat... what else?

otherwise history...
   either a wet-dream or a castration...
              or the bull wrestled by the horns...
or a dog wrestled by either kicking it in
the ******* or wrestling with its mandible jaw...
echoes of warriors...
warriors and pirates... the lesser muscles
of a farmer? a blacksmith?
              either a wet-dream or a castration...
lost avenues of "heroes":
all leading to: up my ***... otherwise known
as my original churchill's V...
the welsh longbow men: ditto the fwench...

such a shame that so much of history
is to be filtered when the children learn of it...
and whenever returning to it...
it's as stale as an antique's roadshow...
or it's: skimmed over...
whatever natural selection gave...
i don't know whether it's natural
to witness this historiological selection...

some would say:
too much of a congested toilet: n'est-ce pas?
too many of the dead are still haunting us...
natural selection contra:
historiological selection...
                             the ape versus the virus...
it is over-inflated...
where are the boils, the blisters...
the glutton spew of ****?
                              
                     this is... it?
panic riddled neurotics?
   so... so... twiddle-thumb-twiddle-toe...
where are all the psychotic:
airing of the soul examples?
smoke and mirrors...
   if i see a *****?
   i'll let you know!
          we'll huddle and watch
tom hanks win an oscar for
Philadeplhia...
                          show me a *****
******* a zombie...
         this, this grand disguise as flu...
it's almost a precursor
to a greater joke...
       of... phantom limbs that
had grenades worth of champagne
bottles being uncorked as
the origin of the demise of...
if only they named the ship Prometheus...
Titanic is so general...
     Atlas... Hyperion...
                  Oceanus...
                                   you can't expect
to keep an adjective as a noun: afloat...
or could have... could you?

but about time you listen to all the darwinists...
when the seas are: a'rough...
ask them about not looking up from
that telescope via a monkey's ****...
about the darwinism of a...
very original... very basic: a first...
first in line end result...
that might have been us...

                 tough luck bringing
no wine and no bread...
to the congregation...
nut-allergy riddled whisperers and soon-enough
to be drop-off counts of: the sieve...
the peanut! crown - and:
if only it was as simple as a reconquista
of what the goths left behind having
stalled spain's worth
and having died off in north africa...

now's the time to stop looking through
a darwinistic: famous detail of:
the peeled banana on the inner-sleeve...
the root or yellow...
teasing you unpeeled for all that was
the velvet, the velvet and the underground...
a very pushy bladder...
i mean: fickle bladder little gremlin
with a yappy-yappy for a mouth...
and it's not the sort of mouth that echoes:
hungry! hungry!
the sort of mouth, though...
give it the plumber...
                          
        how very pedestrian of me.
Signs point in different directions
Art>
<Science
History^
Oddities¿

Art:
Every memory of every sunrise
Every beautiful melody
Here.
And so many images of her.
Some sweet
Some candid
Some sad.
How can we revel in the joyful
Without knowing it's opposite?
Every delicate poem
Every lyric yelled
Every painting
Every sculpture
And in all of them,
Her.

Science:
Models of molecules
Diagrams of data
Sketches
(Where are the equations?)
Math is forbidden in this museum.
Lectures
Theories
All gathering dust.

History:
Names.
The greatest of men and women
Julius Caesar
Constantine
Marc Anthony
Cleopatra
Rosa Parks
Elinor Roosevelt
Patton
Churchill
Kennedy
MLK

Maps and charts
Famous cities of old
Sparta
Alexandria
The halls of Montezuma
Constantinople
Babylon

Oddities:
Phantom Kangaroos
Homemade Bazooka
"That made the news?"
And Bubblegum the Baluga

The Raven Empress
Flaming mattress
Sharks with lasers
Pandas with Tasers
What the heck just happened?
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i don't have a conspiracy theory... i just have an encyclopaedia of adverts... western intelligence is squandered on pub quizzes and trivia knowledge shows... spies are like magicians, although a spy's audience is a bunch of journalists high on tarantula venom, quote: (uh... what's going on?) take any stoner to speak that bracket.*

when my parents were eight, they were still
blossoming in a natural environment,
using the inherited tongue like a hammer:
here's the nail, here's a plank of wood,
now hammer that thought of yours in.
aged eight i was thrown into the deep end,
having to learn a new language, as somehow
unlearn my mother's tongue, i didn't budge,
i kept it scheming, rather than subconscious,
i didn't repress it... thrown into the deep end
i didn't become like most migrants
"assimilated", i.e. losing heritage... i kept it
(just in case)... now the chameleon of me
is about... suit & tie... then tracksuit bottoms...
no little russian kakashka (little ****)
would dare **** me, all the information i have
is useless... it's too personal...
i was supposed to be the rebound guy...
she sort of faked using anti-contraceptives...
i ended up a boomerang after seeing all
the possibilities of education...
that's the thing with the west and education,
it, just, doesn't, work... because all the menial
jobs have been exported, the west is sort
of puzzle-box tied in terms of hands able,
with hands actually disabled...
this excess outpouring of poetry is one sign,
the obvious one, excess poetry as deviation
from a chronology of illiteracy and books left
in the shadows and dust and crematoriums...
you tend to write poetry when you're either
illiterate or haven't read much that's on offer...
read the least number of books, then you get
to write poetry, simple as Victoria sponge or
bechamel sauce for a lasagne, motto being:
just keep stirring that flour into the frying butter,
just keep stirring, then slowly keep adding
onion bay leaf nutmeg infused milk slowly...
just keep on stirring...
western society likes bureaucracy, by way of
exporting the ideal that's democracy,
but it's so ******* n'ah! keep slang as an expression
of encrypted onomatopoeia, keep slang
as disguised nouns in onomatopoeias...
russians love poetry, hence they tend to send poets
into the gulag... in western society they
take poets to be raw meat and send a dozen flies in
to **** sperms into it, to clarify:
pornographic actors get paid, poets don't...
O masters of this glorious sphere, what will
this Eden Project prove? a third eye that's Voyeurism
en masse? when the blow-over fringe was running
for president i just said (no, no hindsight):
i wouldn't laugh... imagine a female pope!
women are not supposed to wear the Kippah...
western society in crisis; today i was watching the
film Cleopatra (1963) and there was so much dialogue!
take a movie from 2015 or 2016 and the dialogue
you get is: TNT BOOM BOOM BOOM!
CGI that's a fake of pixels being arable for the original
intention... the great decline... it only too one hit...
one ******* hit... and it ended up being a K.O.
you'd think they'd be able to take more... but Islam
became a Mike Tyson... *******... take one more hit!
what you're seeing now is what's called
the paradox of treating democracy as Utopia,
democracy isn't Utopia (Churchill said)...
but this is the unravelling, treat democracy as
the sole expression of utopia and then watch when
something alien hits it... one smack and you're out...
treating democracy as utopian politics is false,
too many self interests and too much bureaucracy;
or i can example my father for you...
two Lithuanian labourers employed by a company
****** up his drill... they weren't electrocuted
(the drill was wet), because if they were
the effect of electrocution would be like that of
an electron cloud the glue of keeping the proton
and neutron nucleus intact, the thing electrocuting
would be like a crocodile's jaw snap, you wouldn't
be able to let go... instead they became Lithuanian
vandals... smashed the thing... and what about
being self-employed and having his wages cut
once in a while? self-employment is the norm in western
societies... because the boss of BHS took a big fat
pay-cheque for a yacht with Kate Moss on it
while employee pensions went down the drain or
into Hawking's theory of black holes colliding...
zero hour contracts to match up the statistics...
western powers are mad to export their ideals...
i wouldn't trust them with a water-pistol,
and you know why? they'd just want an Iraqi to
wear Nike trainers and eat a Big Mac.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
a. aristotle's nonchalance in comparison to his other ideas when investigating the lagoon (although wrong on the no. of teeth in a woman's mouth and the origin of flies from rotting fish - two jars, one open, the other covered - he treated his theory of adaptation of an animal / in humans on an individual basis - with less concentration of necessity for the theory to be expanded than his logic or poetics) - i.e. it was not good enough to be made dogmatic, like darwinism, therefore aristotelian darwinism does not exact a necessity to put the theory akin to a theological standpoint.

b. 'the darkened mind, whether that be by illness or some other cause illuminates in reverse to the mind of the plateaus: the stark difference is that the darkened mind attracts light like a moth into it, although it does this attraction without ever revealing the pin-point, the last revealing point of what the light has to illuminate, it's no good providing this point in a reference to psychology searching for the "ego" of that known existential notative abstraction working on the basis of the pro-verb: know your self. the darkened mind is in fact providing the basis for the search of nothing, and a subsequent of offshoot of what knowledge nothing provides: whether that's geology, pharmacology, chemistry, physics, or any of the humanities - although the humanities actually provided the basis for scientific study, since it was poetry that was criticised, and provided the basis for the two socratic pillars: knowledge of your self | knowledge of nothing - without a critique of poetry none of the subsequent investigations beginning with a non-empirical study that's philosophy would still be among the crumbs of history and stone of the parthenon. subsequently the mind of the plateaus simply regurgitates via regression to a known origin, it illuminates with knowledge that was hidden for a while, esp. during the times of illiteracy, which made it easier, although these days almost every man is literate, he is still illiterate in the sense that he prefers images to words / symbols... he's being fed a second illiteracy even though he is literate, therefore whatever knowledge is provided, it's immediately hidden, hidden via the use of images to distract, because words and the symbols that create them are not of an ontology of distraction, but harsh / labouring engagement - esp. if they are not used for the utility of speech, but made solely cognitively optical, they resonate with a double decker bus filled with about 90 people and only one person reading a book.

c. ah the introduction is over, and then the actual poem,
if i could remember it exactly,
it dealt with a cartesian contemplation
dealing with an extension from the trinity model,
what was the extension model? what was the basis
of it? i remember noting that the mind of the plateaus
originality came only with coinage of phrases,
i.e. coining a phrase, or simply crafting a
new compound from words rather than chemical
derivatives... the philological monstrum
of a fixed prefix like sub- or un-
and then the all encompassing suffix
like -conscious - and then some grand complication,
like the word oedipus becoming a complex,
and this complexity reaching a point
where no original idea can be encompassed,
because what's required is the practice
of creating and using an analogue,
so that those in the range of the intended
gesture do not have to go further in their reading
but further their practice: a draw of stars...
none longer or shorter than the other,
all uniform... one shoe fits all story...
i mean how can words conjure ideas
(esp. original ideas) if words are intended
for meaning, and solely that?
ideas come when the intended usage of
such symbols as a - z are not expressed in
how they were intended to be expressed:
pre vox. if you spend a long time with these
symbols in the optic area rather than the
larynx area... you'll find the holy grail of
crafting and fathoming ideas...
philosophy begins here... seeing rather than
the utility of these symbols... to see with them
rather than to speak with them... after all...
think twice before saying something stupid.
i'm still bothered by that cartesian connection,
how did i manage to tangle in the one third
of the equation: substance, thought, extension?
what the hell was i comparing to make that
analogy? surely it wasn't a way of working
from the way existentialists abstracted
something concrete as an identity and decided
to do the pontius pilate of washing their
hands clean of any responsibility using the ditto
marks? sure this abstract enclosure for an identity
(in phonetic units expressed as ego)
cannot have stable if not merely sane grounding
in all serious theoretic engagement by the logic
of being a possessor of a soul;
first they dispossess the people's confines
of the soul's existence, later they come after thought,
and it's there, the proof, like today in the supermarket,
me waltzing for my intended purchase,
and a horde of zombies bewildered by
the abundance of products... standing about the aisles
mouths open, ready for the wind to change
direction and their mouths perpetually opened
with the medussa wind... or simply waiting for
the next pigeon to do his duty on a copper statue
of churchill outside parliament sq., bleached crop
of hair with **** in it.
honestly... the zombies are coming...
first they fool the people that they have no soul,
backed up by the logic of a soul that, when
compounded (i.e. psychology) makes it sounds
important, like an edict by the house of windsor
about to make rise to the 2nd lord protector
via a re-emergence of oliver cromwell...
then they decide to invade the parameters of thought,
they used psychology (the existent non-existence
of the soul) to banish all original thinking...
thought has become banished into hades...
if the soul is not allowed in the body, then
thinking surely isn't either, and how did they do it?
they said: the existent non-existence of the soul
will convince thought to disappear, making
the body virtually mirror like invisible -
like a black kid before the social revolutions
at the back of the bus, before the old lady stepped up,
and yet in the 21st century, the old minotaur is there
at the gate of the new labyrinth; in my school days
all the black boys sat... well... you guest it...
at the back of the bus... so much for the old lady
making a stand.

d. as the title suggests i was working up to a crescendo,
i was about to mention the sort of confusion cuneiform
might have provided had it existed in writing
but not in thought, although we write with latin symbols,
i'm sure that our thinking is still ingrained in
the coming of the three magi and the loss of cuneiform,
all the many offshoots of christianity you'd think
we were living in babylon, where the king went
mad, and the hebrew architects scratched their heads
so hard and so long that it caused the babylonian
king to become sensitive to scratching sounds,
he ran out of the palace screaming:
'cockroaches! cockroaches everywhere!'
then the enslaved hebrew architects just said:
but sire... gardens upside down? earth above sky?
how will that work... we did the pyramids,
perfect geometry, perfectly understandable geometry,
but garden that grow trees upside down?
didn't you hear the greek theory of how trees grow
by eating the earth from below, rather than above?
'cockroaches! cockroaches are nibbling!'
so i did end the poem i lost via a message on the screen...
jimi is dead, forget jim.
i ended it by noting the admiration of the romans
when it came to the mausoleum at halicarnassus,
persian design, intended for mausolus,
so admired that the word mausoleum gained
popular public everyday usage status,
a bit like a war-pig / war-dog in the legionnaire army,
above the general's servant: does battle...
doesn't do pampering with perfumes.
seems fair enough, got the warring grunts / barks,
runs miles with the horses, has a piquant snout and tongue
for human flesh... plays dead, finds mushrooms
beneath the slain... speaks broken german war-cry...
perfect for combat... not really perfect for my quarters of rest.

e. what does it really matter, this 200,000 million
or thousand year old historical co-ordinate?
the chinese were drawing dragons with the welsh
concerned with st. george long before dinosaur
bones were unearthed; if this isn't an example
of the jungian collective unconscious of being
"clued-in" then i don't know what is...
esp. given that not even 2000 thousand years of
history fits into my brain when i boil
a kettle filled with water in 5 minutes...
smoke a cigarette in the same amount of time,
it makes no sense to "pump iron" so much
when practising history to go as far back as that,
it makes in-the-moment living so far detached
from life per se, that you begin to wonder
why we went further than the epic of galgamesh
(where all western take on history begins)
or the upanishads... when the caste system
became operational: from dark skinned sri lankans
to the masters on the boarder of the himalayas:
un-believable... racism within a society
that did not expand into colonialism...
strange to have kept the blue indians in mint condition
due to the cuisine... and have slaughtered the red
indians keeping them a minority to such an
extent as to keep them in nature reserve parks...
black president is a phenomenon? a slave, former,
is a phenomenon? i puppet i suspect...
get a native on the top seat and their will be
less jubilation i gather.
but that blue indian word for demon: rakshasa...
from the serialisation on the t.v. entitled indian summer...
the h as silent as in dhaal?

f. if something profound has happened to you,
and you want to speak about it,
remember to take hold of the psychiatric buffer,
this buffer zone will enable you to see
an atypical sociological reactive compound
of the ****** expression, it will reveal
who you can reveal a secret to,
after all, psychiatry is all about listening,
therefore not thinking, therefore not doubting,
therefore actively engaging with the precursor
negation... sartre to descartes:
i use too many punctuation and "punctuation"
marks, therefore i can't couple thinking with
doubting, i must therefore couple thinking
with negation... descartes to sartre:
i always knew that even though we salvaged
the latin alphabet by adding the diacritical marks,
our punctuation and style would get the better of us...
what's the point of ć ń ś ó if we have
the capsule of " " to mind in terms of what words
are allowed a blessed disunion from meaning
when over-used esp. when you to deceive rather
than covey orthodox meaning?
K Balachandran May 2013
Flower beds in every nook
was Bangalore's delight
for long long years,
even before the time
Winston Churchill lived there
as a young British soldier.
Salubrious climate turned it then
in to a pensioner's paradise,
full of quiet tree lined streets.

The one time cool "Garden city"
one finds now with a new itch,
in its mad rush to get hitched
with the so called" flat world"
every which way possible,
it kills the symphony of colors,
both willingly and otherwise;
trees fall, monstrous flyovers rise,
technological behemoths,
which fast become dinosaurs
as economic down turn hits hard,
stand daunting us, adding green house gases
now, its all kitsch and concrete **** everywhere.
Arcanus Sep 2015
Adolf ****** was really quite a chap
He made those Froggies eat a lot of crap;
And he made all those Norwegians
Look like a load of paraplegians.
He marched into Poland with his troops
Into their pants those Poles did poops.
He made short work of the poor old Greeks:
And in their pants they did big keeks.
Killing the Jews was oh so bad and cruel:
Burning them up for harsh winter fuel.
But invading Russia was a bad place to go
And the Nazis froze in the cold and snow.
The Yanks were frightened to join in the war:
They were **** scared of what they saw;
(they only got involved when the Japanese
brought the Pearl Harbour fleet to its knees).
Only the Brits stood resolute and brave
For Churchill was an inspiring knave;
He fought Adolf on the shores and beaches
And the Germans crapped their leder-britches.
So what is the lesson of these facts from history?
Not ****** much - what a ******* mystery.
I await your words of praise and other comments too.
John F McCullagh Jun 2012
The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he came to escort me inside.
"Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we must hide."
"Herr Goebbels was our school's inspiration.
Joe McCarthy taught here till he died.
Charlie Rangel is among our directors.
Our Grads over nations preside."
"We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth."
"We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths."
"By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind."
"They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind."
"With our Grad course in prevarication
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Obama was born in Hawaii,
his foes say he was birthed out of state."
"When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury
I nearly went out of my mind."
"If only he'd paid more attention in Class
and less to some coed's behind."

We had come to a massive rotunda
The Pantheon of all untruth.
Holograms of Stalin and Churchill
told whoppers in an endless loop.
There were quotes from
the World's Great Religions
inscribed on the sides of the wall.
A Left wing devoted to Lenin.
A right wing like a Munich beer hall.

" The sheeple must never be told
that a place like this even exists."

" You can count on me not to inform them."
I said, without moving my lips.
In Dublin during the 1916 insurrection, the Medecity Institute was destroyed by British shells.  It didn't take too much imagination to change one letter- then it was off to the races with my imagination.
Robert Kralapp Aug 2012
The West End wanders in my recollection
like a quiet madman. All the times we were
reminded of the War, pointed out the bullet-riddled
walls of the Old Tate, the Arch, guided through the
rooms where Churchill walked. All that aside,
we looked to keep homesickness in its box with strong
black beer or red, by wandering Regent's Park strewn with
fallen gold, or the Garden's rioting roar of flowers, apples, oranges, potatoes and
all of it turning to the ceaseless industry of men and women.
Mystery was the grey-haired Underground men, grey clothes
stuffed with crumpled paper. Once, I stumbled on a scrap
of unreclaimed, timeless London: shattered glass and rubble
carpeting the dull ceramic tile. Ghosts and dusk entered
where ceiling once had been, the silence of a grainy,
blackandwhite Blitz echoing.
Memories of a semester in London.
Shaded Lamp Aug 2014
Up on a feathered duvet a man conceding defeat
To the Sunday that had just begun
Reeking of last night’s sweat, smoke and self-deceit
Threads of reality so rapidly un-spun

All that he promised himself to accomplish this day
All that stuff to be tossed in the bin
Procrastination rearranges plans or lets them decay
And all because of his love for gin

Amnesia of last night’s antics plants the seeds of guilt
Shame shall be his shadow today
Enter a recurring thought... a sword driven to its hilt
Piercing pain added to his dismay

Rusted cogs of cognition screeched slowly into action
"A cure" he grumbled "A cure"
Wearily off the bed searching for medicinal satisfaction
To make last night less obscure

The stark bright light of the bathroom fried his vision
But as his senses normalized
He stared in the mirror shocked, BANG! In a collision
Mouth agape and paralyzed

Finger painted on his forehead, with what must be blood
G    U    I    L    T   Y
From down stairs somewhere
A woman's laugh
Mocking
Fear took its grip quick

A sword driven to its hilt



Part 2 of 6
a sword driven to its hilt


Arctic chills froze his spine
Pick axes hacked his mind
Tongue pickled in brine
Suffocated and confined
Heart beat pounding
Breathing short and quick
Terror was abounding
Throat swallowing a brick

Staring at his reflection . . . G U I L T Y
Unable move any limb
Even for his protection
Return of memory grim . . . a sword driven to its hilt

Back to the bed room to search for his phone
To make contact with the real world
From down stairs came that exact same laugh
Every hair on his body tightly curled
The phone was nowhere to be found upstairs
Again that tormenting laughter
He called out "Who is it?" but only silence replied
Then that laugh again soon after
"WHO ARE YOU?!" he demanded to know
Arming himself with a cricket bat
Tentatively descending the sweeping staircase
Noticing the post on the door mat
The newspaper informed him it was Monday
Confused, frightened he ran outside
A burnt pile of his clothes lay in front of his door
He yelled but only the laughter replied

Then through the dining room bay-window
Sitting at the table as if a patient guest
A gruesome wide eyed greying corpse of a man  
A sword driven in his head and out his breast

In the dead man’s hand a glowing phone
The source of the tormenting laugh
Not thinking, our man rushed in to take it
The phone flashed "maintenance staff"

Every sense heightened
Sickened and frightened
Feeling he was being observed
Part of a wicked game
Driving him insane
But so far he had been preserved
As he answered the phone
He knew he was not alone
"Hello sir... I hope I haven't disturbed"
------------------------------------------------------­-----------

part 3 of 6

Saturday Night


The late afternoon sun draped its golden satin light
To the house-staff, Giles (our man) seemed uptight
The butler Zamira dutifully stirring his drink right

The sun dipped behind the poplar trees standing straight
He orders "A Churchill  martini" trying not to sound irate
Giles watched her stirring, stirring as in a hypnotic state

Zamira presented a chilled, frosted Riedel martini glass to him
brimming to the top with Gilpins Westmorland extra dry gin
The sun slowly sank behind trees as the drink loosened his limbs
"You may both leave, till Tuesday" He said to Zamira and her twin
Liliana (the cook) and the butler were often dismissed at his whim
They sped off in their green MG, off to the Slaughtered lamb inn

Giles raised his glass to the bobbing full hunters moon
Waiting was now over, the others would be here soon
First a pinch of Peruvian sniffed from a little silver spoon

This day had been prepared in detail for nearly a year
One final act of courage and tenacity he must engineer
All hushed except the sound of large cars drawing near

Four black Jaguars and a white refrigerated van

Crunched over the gravel drive towards (our man)

Giles Bradshaw-Behran stood still.

It had began.

---------------------------------------------------------­--

Part 4 of 6

three years earlier

The Gallows and Noose


"This, THIS! I'm so tired of all THIS!"
Blurted Giles as Zamira dressed his wrists
Pathetic! (She thought) A dismal attempt
Then left the room concealing contempt
Giles just stared at the

drip

drip

drip

dripping of the morphine
Candle light danced on the walls
The demons sank back into the shadows
Giles returned to the womb
Basking in weightless warmth
Comfortably apathetic
Numb

The drudgery of the next day unfurled
As Giles accepted defeat around noon
Something had to be done about life
That something had better happen soon
  
He brunched in his office
and so began his search
All that day
and night
that week
That month

Deeper into the cavernous "dark web"
seeking any answer to end his despair
but every search became a cul-de-sac
No doors opened for this millionaire
No doors would open
All remained firmly locked
Sitting in his office chair
Feverishly typing as he rocked
He rocked as he typed
He swivelled as he clicked
Searching for something
That he was less able to predict

But that something found him
And sent him an invitation
Explaining that they had been watching
Seeing his frustration
Understanding his world view
May he could understand theirs
But before he were to be accepted
He must climb down the seven stairs
He
      Must
                Climb
                           Down
                                     The
                                           Seven
                                                      Stairs
Dis­tant from the blinding light
Cast yourself from the hallows
Embrace darkness embrace night
Take the Noose and the Gallows.

The mouse pointer hovered
over options "Yes" and "No"
His heart beat quickened
But then came the red glow
of two laser beams from directly behind
circling the yes option
From past the windows' opened blind
"Yes" and the two red dots disappeared
The wheels were put in motion
His future was now commandeered
A force that seemed greater than him
Changed the rules and took control
Embers deep inside of him flickered
Re-igniting the coals of his dark soul

The seven steps awaited him...
What ever could they be?


-----------------------------------------------------------­


part 5 of 6

The Seven Steps of The Thuggee


Giles sat statue still in his office
Unsure whether or not he should move
Like a hunted deer in the woods
Waiting for chances of survival to improve

And yet though he were vulnerable
Life coursed through every artery and vein
The lost keystone of his arched spirit
The panacea for tedious boredom and pain

DING! ****! The doorbell rang
"Zamira, who is it? Can you please see?"
Footsteps approached the front entrance
Giles felt instinctively "fight or flee"

He sat with silence looming over him
For what seemed like an eternity
"****** ancient bell!" he shouted
"This whole house repels modernity!"

Down stairs
At the entrance
The Cuban butler stared out into the night
Looking for a sign
Looking for who...
Who had left the parcel she now clutched tight

No one
Nothing
But for the song of a lonely nightingale
She hurried
To the office
Where she found her employer looking pale

Zamira explained what had happened
And handed him the black wrapped box
"Would you like me to open it Sir?"
"No! I would like... a chartreuse on the rocks"

She left to attend to his request

For the attention of Mr. G. Bradshaw-Behram
Soon after the two laser beams were on the wrapping
Inside the box was a detailed program
A history of the Thuggee cult and a Thuggee king

The Thuggee King called BEHRAM!
Behram, BEHRAM! His late mother’s family name
A Thuggee cult King relative?
With over 900 hundred murders to that man’s claim

900 strangled victims
To please Goddess Kali
Every drop of blood for her
So humanity can be free

Zamira returned with his drink
Giles had never needed one so much
The following weeks more instruction came

Weeks just turned to months
Months quickly turned to years
Six of the secret steps complete
So many grotesque souvenirs

All leading to this moment
On his lawn under the hunters moon
The waiting was now over
The others would be here very soon
First a pinch of Peruvian
Sniffed from his pretty little silver spoon
Adjusting his cummerbund
That soon would erase two souls fortune

Four black Jaguars and a refrigerated van
Crunched over the gravel drive to our man
Giles stood still and smiled, for it had began

Each of the six women and the six men
Were concealed with hoods and veils
But Giles' face was not hidden from them
Now that he controls the final inhales

Deep in the candle light of the wine cellar
Which had been prepared with plastic sheets and tape
A skirt of dismembered arms on an altar
A grim garland of forty eight human skulls, mouths agape

But fifty skulls are required
According to the ancient text
Two more to soon be provided
Giles planned to do that next

"Bring the two travellers to me" demanded Giles
"Let me send them on their final way"
Eight of the group left and within minutes returned
With four bound, hooded for him to slay.

Giles felt suddenly unable to function
"This was not meant to be!"
"The others witnessed the abduction, Sir"
"They...will not please Kali"

"Stand those women over there
Tie them back to back
Make sure your knots are fixed
Offer them no slack!"

The silk cummerbund slid
Effortlessly off his waist
Weighted near the middle
To offer death less haste
The first of the male offerings
Only kicked for 30 seconds
the world stopped moving when
the other felt the silk band

The back to back females started spinning
Their hoods removed and ******* gone
Giles did not look up to see who he knew
Focused solely on continuing strangulation

This time the Thuggee's had another view
Zamira and Liliana in a blurring spin
Black of space and ocean of deep blue
Zamira angered, Liliana peaceful grin

All but their arms becoming one
Morphing seamlessly into each other
The (previously twin) sisters had become
The universe's all powerful mother

          K A L I...


Final part

Nothing escapes the all-consuming march of time!


As KALI consumed time and space
Her dimensions grew and grew
Her skin darkened to deep space black
From unfathomable ocean blue
Rivers of obsidian flowed as her wild hair
Untamed, magnificent, streaming
Three blood red eyes past, present, future
Decided who needed redeeming
Four arms, three of which were grasping
A sword, a spear, a bowl
The fourth grabbed a Thuggee's head
Sword decapitated the soul
A crimson red snake of a tongue lashed
Out for every drop of blood
Then the sword slashed every throat there
Her tongue lapped up the flood
KALI'S gaze finally cast upon terrified Giles
Evaporating his body with fire
His conscience was that remained in that dimension
His conscience changed KALI'S desire
Frightful fury morphed in to motherly compassion
Her skin back from black to blue
Spewing out rearranged history, time and space
No other being could construe
But a mother must teach her children lessons
So she left Giles not without guilt
A ****** message painted on his forehead
And a sword driven to its hilt

*THE END!
I know, ****** long and therefor wont be read by many but I just thought it should be posted as one document.
David W Clare Jan 2015
I love the witicisms of Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill...

"Dogs look up to us meanwhile cats look down upon us but pigs regard us as their very own equal."

Churchill

— The End —