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tread Jan 2013
**** angles.
This house has got plenty of **** angles. Tom knows, I don't. Tom knows more about that kinda stuff because that's Tom's forte.
Old Cochrane.

I'm not sure what disabilities he suffers from, but to be honest it doesn't seem much like he suffers. He's just a dude with a loud set of brains fixated on a very Cochrane world, sort of like Plato I guess, beard and everything, looking at the angles and strange asymmetric dots with a feeling that there’s some preternatural 'other world' where all of Cochrane's expectations are met and this house as well as the world would do ******* well to abide by it if it knows what's good.

Old Cochrane loves Superman Returns. I once saw him watch Superman Returns 3 times in one sitting, to the point that it became Superman Returns Returns Returns and for Chrissake if Metropolis were real I doubt his ethics would be much appreciated anymore but hey, who am I to say? I'm no Clark Kent but I'm sure Cochrane thinks he is, and if he's damnwell Plato he can damnwell be Clark Kent just as well as the next Kryptonian sucker to crash-land on planet Earth, and it's damnwell possible Cochrane is from Krypton for all I know, he's got some miraculous will-power and push, that's for **** sure.

He's always yelling, 'ober-der! Ober-der!' like he's some sad German screaming at the **** Poles across the Oder-Neisse line as if it were there **** fault. It's either that or Krypton is ober-der and he just wants to go home, or maybe his face gets red because he knows damnwell where Lex Luthor is hiding and he just wants our ******* help finding him.

I think Old Cochrane has a crush on Kevin Spacey.

I wouldn't know, but I'm making that assumption *** Cochrane looks pretty spacey sometimes.
Okay, that was just a bad joke. I'm not too good at jokes.

I have two coworkers named Ryan. To avoid any confusion we all just call them by their last names, Soprovich and Danyluk, but most of the time we just call Soprovich Ryan Sop, and I'm not sure if he much appreciates the nickname. Our bosses name is Pam Wadden and in response to her calling him Ryan Sop he asked if he could call her Pam ***.
Pam didn't hear that of course, but I heard it. And it was at that moment I made the judgement that old Ryan Sop is good at jokes.

Anyways to slide back to my point, once I was working with both Danyluk and Soprovich and as I was leaving, to shave a few seconds before my bus, I said, 'Bye.. Ryan..s'
that made them both laugh a little so I quickly made the judgement that I'm sometimes good at jokes but I never mean to be which is kinda Zen I suppose. Buddhist effortless effort or whatever they damnwell call it.

I've always been somewhat of an intellect, but not usually of my own freewill. I read a lot, but I sort of read like a ****** addict shoots-up.. just one more line, just one more paragraph.. and before I know it I've finished a book that kinda scared me but good ******* the high was fine.

I guess it's not really like that at all, but I like to think of it like that sometimes, it kind of excites my stomach in the good way, makes me feel like some ******* rebel reading **** the government has probably already burned or recycled into the paper bags I shop with at Safeway..
shopping at Safeway.. livin' life the Safe Way.. gatherin all the grosh-rees, yeah, you ****** know me
I forgot to mention I'm somewhat of a part-time rapper and 40% of the time I have rap lyrics pulsing through my head as my own inner monologue. I dunno why but it's always kinda made me proud to think the way I do and ******* does life get high and low and if you understood you would know what I'm talking about, but I know you probably know what I know, I just like to be a little pretentious about that kinda stuff *** if I pretend I'm the only one it kinda manifests in my attitude and I get girls easier.

True story.

Maybe.

Probably not, but if ya see what I'm getting at that assertion is part of the pretention *** I'm a ******* hipster for Chrissake, writing like J.D. Salinger, reading like Kerouac without the squinty drunk eyes of infinite sadness.
Arjun Tyagi Dec 2013
Nomine Christi Amen
gushing,  came a crescendo;
Tenor, Alto, Baritone and Mezzo,
along-with an angelic Soprano.

In *Christ's
Holy Name
she sang with those of Faith.
While snow-laden trees
falsely sheltered a human wraith.

Unlike some on the street,
his lips were cold but not complaining.
Two frozen crutches, his legs; yet
heart warm and with purpose, beating.

A cigarette in his mouth,
skin like the smoke, deathly white.
Discomfort was an easy price
for watching his lover tonight.

As the final notes passed,
of the Diminuendo, into the night;
the pews were left in a rush of haste,
by people eager for homely sights.

Slowly the Gabriel Choir also
departed to its own ways.
The silent Soprano singing to herself
at the right of God, in wait.

Out by the door, he came,
and held her in full sight.
The neon-lit cheap Cross, humming
songs of static to a drowsy night.

And not unlike the moths,
fatally attracted to an electric glow,
he trudged along inside, to her;
ache of cold bones lost in the snow.

Expanded pupils relaxed,
dilated to a semblance of normalcy.
As his stoic eyes adjusted,
his lover, was all he could see.

A moonlit shaft of dust-motes
played above her head.
Whilst she watched him approach, with
Neptune eyes of the Ocean-bed.

Fifteen steps of a distance,
and he came to the edge.
Existed nothing beyond this, save
two entwined breaths.

A soft parting of her lips,
almost soft as a whisper.
Much like the snow melting
at the passing of an unyielding winter.

Rosemary, Sage and Thyme,
odor of her skin, him it assaulted.
Aroused his senses, memories
of a Home long discarded.

You took your time,
complained the Soprano gently.
Your Daddy's gift ran out of gas,
he rebutted amused, mildly.

They left the Church, as ordinary
as the Sun, to eyes unwary.
But a keen observer would compare this companionship
to His and Magdalene's Mary's.

++

The Glasgow George Square,
above two heads, it looms.
Residential Avian families echoed their voices,
with soft caws, chirps and coos.

The Soprano sings a merry hymn,
an invitation to them, a debate.
Gladly did the residents accept, 'tis sufficient
to say the dialogue did not abate.

And whilst she sang her tune,
they replied in equal measure.
He looked into his empty cigarette holder,
wistfulness is seldom a pleasure.

A kiss on the cheek and a hand,
tender on her waist he kept;
I'll be sitting over there, Eve,
come when you are content.

He watched her then; the Soprano,
joyous yet somber as she sang.
Till the bell from the Church, in finality,
ten times it rang.

The dialogue it then ended,
with the Avian families eager for more.
For not many deliver them, from
their monologues in the cold.

She walked to him, steady
a child of gazelles and nimblest of men.
The aura of her pulsating radiance,
begging to enfulge them.

Outstretched hands, even
on plain Earth devoid of danger,
to those in love may feel like
a lifeline to grasp and reach a place safer.

He took her in, his arms
all the Sanctuary she needed.
A sober expression, not always
reflects that the soul in fact is elated.

They walked again, two souls in the streets
of Cochrane, Ingram and Miller.
What trouble is distance to a man's feet,
when another pair walks together?

St. Enoch's came and passed too,
so did Dixon Street and its leaves, strewn.
Till the lovers came to rest, at The Clyde
reflecting the newborn moon.

Night-time, self-proclaimed
sailors still pedaled and rowed.
While The Clyde, with its waters black, licked
the bridge across the road.

Care for a swim milady?
he chided with a boyish smile.
Amusing the Soprano now and then,
was indeed worthwhile.

Eve, he uttered, at a roll
of her eyes. His muse, her name.
Quick pecks on the lips
could put woodpeckers to shame.

Its cold she replied, Mona Lisa
smile hiding amusement unknown.
He led her away away from the breeze,
It was time to go home.

++

A glorious smell of familiarity,
came with the inevitability of Dawn.
Arms at ease around her waist,
her head tucked under his jaw.

Oi, he asked her to wake up, attempts
in futility, not always are of lost cause.
A soft moan and to press closer
was all he received for a response.

Oblivious, on purpose with
no heed to the workings of the world outside.
In ceaseless comfort of slumber,
wrapped around each other they did hide.

Warm of skin, warm of heart,
a bed warmed by nightly hours.
The Soprano and he, content
in their lovely little Glasgow bower.

Moons waxed and waned,
Suns rose and fell.
Every breath escaping their lips,
only promise it would foretell.

For a man needs not much, save
his Love, his God and his Peace.
The Soprano sang each morn, blessed by the Lord
his life, calm as the Clydian breeze.

The Song of Life went on for them,
each day the same as last.
The Glasgow Soprano sang till his death,
but her Voice he took with him as he passed.
kirk Feb 2019
Different words we will seek out, some are new and strange
The Enterprise has left dry dock, she's the only ship in range
We'll explore the distant galaxies, find other new life forms
There has been stars and nebulas, and hostile ion storms

The star ship Exeter has been found, orbiting Omega Four
Only uniforms remain, and the crew they are no more
They have suffered a disease, No one is left on board
We must beam down the landing party, lives we can't afford

Captain Ron Tracy has gone rouge, violating the Prime directive
While in pursuit of long life, this was his main objective
Crystal remains of the Exeter's crew, was it the planets evolution
The Omega Glory can be solved, with the American Constitution

If your not of the body, then brainwashing could turn sour
Mr Sulu is in paradise, just beware of the red hour
Hooded lawgivers are out there, for the bidding of Landru
Waiting for The Return Of The Archons, another Starfleet crew

Stella would chastise Harry Mudd, but he didn't get annoyed
Finally having the last word, with his special wife android
The arrogance of Harcourt Fenton Mudd, with a touch of eccentricity
Many androids created in I Mudd, a planet of multiplicity

Is Professor John Gill guilty, of a prime directive violation
Advanced technology has been used, to create a **** nation
The Planet Ekos is contaminated, evolutions set off course
Zeon pigs are off the street, to evade Patterns Of Force

Trelane wanted fun and games, It was time to make a stance
An ancient duelling pistol, may be Captain Kirk's one chance
Challenging The Squire Of Gothos, who is the sharpest shooter
War games against four federation ships, with The Ultimate Computer

The Mark Of Gideon was Kirk's blood, and Odona was infected
Kirok experienced The Paradise Syndrome, before the asteroid was deflected
In the body of Mr Spock, Henoch didn't have no sorrow
Will the essence of the captains mind, Return To Tomorrow

Plato's Stepchildren used telekinetic abilities, to force an interracial kiss
Zefram Cochrane's in love with The Companion, in Metamorphosis
We are stranded on a planet, something's threatening our lives
Body cells are being disrupted, so protect That Which Survives

A Requiem for Methuselah, Flint is part of ancient history
Miri is a young woman, the Grup's disease is now our mystery
Klingons in Errand Of Mercy, tried to take Organian's turf
A warhead in the past was detonated, in Assignment Earth

The Lights Of Zetar invaded the body, of Lieutenant Mira Romaine
Bread and Circuses gladiator sacrifices, a fight to the death again
Lost in the past will we get back, from All Our Yesterday's
Lazarus is positive and negative, The Alternative Factor's split two ways

Was the creature made of rock, we didn't know for certain
A fight with history's greatest foes, behind The Savage Curtain
Janice Lester captured Capitan Kirk, he could not elude her
She took over his body and ship, in Turnabout Intruder

An impostor is on board the ship, Kirk has been separated
Men have good and evil sides, but now there segregated
Does passive need aggressiveness, a malfunction caused their sever
Transporters need to be repaired, to splice Kirk back together

These are the voyages of the crew, of the enterprise
Many officers have died, and we've said our last goodbyes
Missions placed in the ships logs, along with crew memoirs
Our adventurers may continue, with our trek to unknown stars. . .
Back by popular demand is this the third Star Trek poem, featuring the episodes :

Season 1:

Miri
The Squire Of Gothos
Return Of The Archons
Errand Of Mercy
The Alterative factor

Season 2:

I Mudd
Metamorphosis
Return To Tomorrow
Patterns Of Force
The Omega Glory
The Ultimate Computer
Bread And Circuses
Assigment Earth

Season 3:

The Pardise Syndrome
Plato's Stepchildren
The Mark Of Gideon
That Which Survives
The Lights Of Zetar
Requiem For Methuselah
The Savage Curtain
All Our Yesterdays
Turnabout Intruder

These 22 episodes represent the last episodes that appeared in The Original Live Action Star Trek series. With my previous 2 poems based on this subject, this completes a trilogy of poems which cover the whole of Star Trek The Original Series originally aired from September 1966 through June 1969
Other adventurers and missions do feature Captain James T Kirk, First Officer Spock, Doctor McCoy and the crew of the Original Star ship Enterprise some known some not so well known all of which are a continuation of the ones outlined in my poems.
I am not sure these will materialise in any form in the future but other dimensions may indeed reveal further adventures. . .
tread Feb 2013
'Fish door,' chants Cochrane. 'Fish door, fish door, yea.'
Most jobs don't come with a box of surreal. Or allow you a bowl of cereal.
This job is different.
sap sap deibi coli pik decía david cassidy a los pies
de su melancolía en primavera ¡oh!
esa melancolía sonaba como siete cañones grandes de la
primera guerra mundial
cuando él la agitaba o bailaba con su hermoso costado

pero ahora callar
david cassidy sube por las calles del pueblo
y es como si hubiera un oleaje seco frío
más ***** que la cólera que ardió

con todo eso ¿qué hacer? ¿eh, presidentes?
se le evaporaron jugos entrañas humedades a david cassidy
dejándole huesos tirantes
crepitaciones cuando roza el otoño

¿alguno sabe realmente qué hacer?
david cassidy pisa rosas muertas ha mucho
y levanta un olor a podrido frágil
como la tía francesa que escapó al amanecer

qué pies señor algún día
david cassidy se encontrará varado en Cochrane Street o en la
esquina del cine
y no habrá más remedio que regarlo y cuidarlo del sol

david cassidy seguirá convirtiéndose en rosas
distraídas que los niños arrancarán
será un bello final una bella continuación mejor dicho
en vez de andar vagando por tanta tierra agua fuego y otoño
como todo lo que se tuesta asa quema o chamusca

y los que lo envidiaron se morirán de rabia o rabiosos
no irán a pájaros ni a peces ni nada
mientras que david cassidy
cantará todo lo que tenga que cantar

— The End —