"commonwealth" poems
Gold crown of Olympus, hair crown and
Skin gown. First we throw our bodies at
One another. Heaping piles of human soup.
Bold maneuvers, hands and mouths and
Boy meets girl lying down, on top, intertwined.
Skittish moves on a tryst. Wet fingers of freshly
Tendered infinite decibel pleasure screams.
Streamers above a long rooting movement.
Overture of Aphrodite. Sparkling, glitter woman,
Legs pressed tightly to the chest,
Loose appendages intertwined. Intersticed dactyls
In rapture, soothing. Bodies build to one heart's beat.
Two muses fused together. If I wasn't afraid I'd wake you up
I'd slip on my shoes and make a tropical fruit fondue.
Stage two:
Ice cream lover's delight. Opus to brown sugar.
To swimming again, a pursed lurking of lips
In the academy of the pastoral commonwealth.
We eat at our stations of the sublime. Today which was
A day of discord- you nursed me back to the land of the living.
Stage three:
***
Stage four.
***
Stage five:
As we earn our pageantry to take
Stride on this Earth, and string a
Great bow of eager success among all of us,
You, me, them. While I continue to
Gaze at you. If not dinner, perhaps a
Cup of tea instead.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC
Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings.
They wanted to cut you out
but they will not.
They said you were immeasurably empty
but you are not.
They said you were sick unto dying
but they were wrong.
You are singing like a school girl.
You are not torn.
Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
and of the central creature and its delight
I sing for you. I dare to live.
Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.
Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain.
Hello to the soil of the fields.
Welcome, roots.
Each cell has a life.
There is enough here to please a nation.
It is enough that the populace own these goods.
Any person, any commonwealth would say of it,
"It is good this year that we may plant again
and think forward to a harvest.
Many women are singing together of this:
one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,
one is at the aquarium tending a seal,
one is dull at the wheel of her Ford,
one is at the toll gate collecting,
one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,
one is straddling a cello in Russia,
one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one is painting her bedroom walls moon color,
one is dying but remembering a breakfast,
one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,
one is wiping the *** of her child,
one is staring out the window of a train
in the middle of Wyoming and one is
anywhere and some are everywhere and all
seem to be singing, although some can not
sing a note.
Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
let me carry a ten-foot scarf,
let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
let me carry bowls for the offering
(if that is my part).
Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let me examine the angular distance of meteors,
let me **** on the stems of flowers
(if that is my part)..
Let me make certain tribal figures
(if that is my part).
For this thing the body needs
let me sing
for the supper,
for the kissing,
for the correct
yes.
9k
We are a global society
When we want oranges in the fruit bowl,
When we want out of our rut
Just long enough
To brown in a patch of Spanish sun.
We are a global society
When the Japanese car breaks down
And we are in need of a cheap fix
To keep food on the table,
Some Latvian mechanic
Who helps us find our way home.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When the zeroes run low
And there are spaces,
Foreign faces,
To which we can point
And blame.
We are a global society
With our sweat-shop chic,
American coffee chains
Selling Colombian ground beans,
Frappuccinos in plastic cups-
Made in China
And served by a Romanian barista
In Italian heels.
We are a global society
When the demand is high
And the payment is low.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When hands reach out for help
And our pockets are too shallow,
Our time, too brief
To commit to a unity
We feel is dragging us down.
We are a global society
When the football is on,
When the lager is Belgian
And the supermodel, Greek.
When we cradle that bag of Cheetos
After smoking too much ****
We are a global society
When oppression is overt,
Caricatured in bulletin posters,
Threatening to land
Upon our own front door.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When poverty seems contagious,
When we have to clean up
Someone else’s mess,
Still we scar the Middle East
Only half-interested in an exit.
We are a global society
When we get sick,
When we borrow another doctor
For our ailing NHS.
When cities of white people burn,
We are a global society,
When Africa is divided,
We are nowhere to be seen.
Prime mover of the commonwealth
Yet we fall beneath the breadline
And living easy is so rare.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
Under the false flag
Of a golden age
We were conned to believe in.
Our nation, our island nation,
Lost amongst a sea of misinformation.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
On the twenty third of June, anniversary of my father’s death,
The United Kingdom voted to LEAVE the European Union.
It was a close-run thing:
Fifty two percent to forty eight,
Though over a million votes between.
A result that will go down in the annals of history.
Another vote the pollsters and bookmakers got wrong.
I voted Leave, confidently expecting to Lose!!!
My friends were split in two
As Remainers became ReMOANers!
For I’m now branded a nationalist, bigoted racist
Who has made a massive mistake.
But I insist: Britain has Rejoined the World
And Our Commonwealth.
We are reborn
So sure there will be teething troubles.
We’ll have to learn to walk and talk again.
Cast off your gloom, Remainers!
Rejoice the brand new day.
Britain can be great again
As the dawn chorus resonates around the globe.
Opportunity smiles down on us.
It won’t be easy,
But when ever was it so???
The Phoenix rises,
Unfurling its golden wings…
Paul Butters
© PB 27\6\2016.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
March in the streets
But I urge you beware
They’ll still butcher the sheep
With the arms that they bear
Private properteers part with
No slave cropper’s share
So this Northern aggression's
Like Freeman’s red scare
All the colors of wind
Through the head-shavers’ hair
The Guevara adventures
These pigs wouldn’t D.A.R.E.
The Arabian knights
In the grand wizard’s lair
The denaturalized dreamer’s
Recurring nightmare
Of the Stalingrad ghost
Still witch-hunting like Blair
The projects to the precincts’
New modern welfare
The post-trauma disorderly’s
Empty screen stare
The savages they thought
Were waaaaayyyy over there
The debt clock ticky tock
In the heart of Times Square
The 1st world problem-children
Who commonwealth care
Because some barely EAT
And we’ve so much to spare
But these cowherds still like their calves
Medium rare
And the bulls try to sell you
Their laissez-faire snare
Till your trapped in a minimum cage’s
Last prayer
And the only escape
Is upgraded software
Like automaton autobahn’s
In disrepair
In this fascist facade’s
Fragrant breath of fresh air
Just as toxic as stocks
Of the mock billionaire
So I shock ‘em like Tesla’s
Bolt-action Voltaire
And I leave it to you
To go **** it out there
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
They are silent and beautiful,
gorgeous in in the white halo,
cemented in a beautiful terrazzo,
baring the names of fallen soldiers,
the European soldiers that fell in Wars;
second and first and the heinous silent wars,
i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre,
only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian.
Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa,
in India , panama , Latin America and europe,
the active fronts in which the allies fought ******
they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas,
in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa,
in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar,
They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved
on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires,
which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman
in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands,
he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard,
for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption.
I walk around the commonwealth graveyards,
in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire,
looking for the names of African soldiers ,
who died in thousands fighting for the queen
the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth,
Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with
the second duce Benito son of Mussolini,
fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war,
i have seen no name of any African,
I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo,
who was conscripted into the first world war,
Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo,
Biket back after seven years in 1918,
carrying Wandabwa's Belt,
Wandabwa died in the field,
Where was he buried, he is nowhere
Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries,
I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo,
who was conscripted in 1940,
to fight against ******
he was conscripted on his nuptial evening,
even before he had had the first ***
with his new wife, he went away crying,
he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves
the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen,
Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world.
you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt,
whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen,
you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya,
or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya,
you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group,
Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini,
Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR
the African sound for KAR is Keya,
in reference to mass conscription of Africans
into the KAR, to fight ******
A child born during that time is Keya,
A man circumcised during the time
is in the age group of Keya,
A simple lesson in regard to our people,
taken away to fight the colonial power
and left to died and rot away in the bush
with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial,
that come along with the death of soldiers,
who passed away in the battle field.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
words conveyed with a mutual clarity parity for communication
will end only when the world ends first
and the communitas is no more,and words, exist purposelessly
for there is no left with whom to communicate, precisely
but now, of this moment,
write words, sentences multiplied but circumscribed,
verses with mystical aura,
whose utility so suspect and multiple meanings hidden within,
taken by you for the specific utility you uncover and create
ah, to write of things clearly visible to all,
but possessed differently, by each reader, this is the greatest commonsensical commonwealth useful
for and of humans indexed by unique word tendons tenderly
when this passes, when literature no longer
can be messengered to 127 Persian provinces,
each the message same,
yet given up in 127 different languages^
when you understand my poems perfectly then,
*their utility is inutile,
the usefulness is in the* nth reinterpretation,
*a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth wired inner construct,
being pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
a lives paired wine tasting, together believing
in the greatness of joyous frustration
some say, I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our armed embrace at last*
p.s. Pradip, be careful what you wish for....a poet false...
9:15am April 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 9:29 AM UTC
i disavow my allegiance to the flag,
& to the Commonwealth of the Bahamas.
for we are not one people,
we are not united,
we do not live in love,
& we are unfortunately serviced.
what does the future hold for my Bahama land?
with our resources not being utilized for the betterment of our people...
but being sold to non-Bahama land.
no profits being aimed to,
or sources being owned by
our Bahama man.
as i lift my head to the rising of the sun in this Bahama land,
i see no hope for the future, no hope in my Bahama land.
no one to speak up,
the youth are out of luck.
the elders show no interest,
we are doomed.
still,
we march on to the glory..
but what bright banners do we have to wave high?
the means of the leaders are of no significance,
& i can no longer bear the pain that i witness.
how will we excel
if we do not love,
& unite?
going forward,
will we stand together
for a common, loftier goal?
as i lift up my head to the rising sun in my Bahama land;
i see anguish,
i see fear &
leaders with no care.
all the things i see are broad.
...but may the road that my people trod
lead us to our God,
that will help us on this march to save our Bahama land.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 8:49 PM UTC
THE COMMONWEALTH GAMES
THE QUEEN'S BATON RELAY
THE POETRY OF QUEENSLAND
IN BUCKINGHAM PALACE TODAY
MY BOOK IS IN THE PALACE
MY LETTER FROM THE QUEEN
PROMOTING OUR BEAUTIFUL STATE
LIKE NEVER EVER SEEN
I AM A BRISBANE POET
THE QUEEN HAS MY BOOK
THE BATON RELAY HAS STARTED
BY HOOK OR BY CROOK
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
763
He told a homely tale
And spotted it with tears—
Upon his infant face was set
The Cicatrice of years—
All crumpled was the cheek
No other kiss had known
Than flake of snow, divided with
The Redbreast of the Barn—
If Mother—in the Grave—
Or Father—on the Sea—
Or Father in the Firmament—
Or Brethren, had he—
If Commonwealth below,
Or Commonwealth above
Have missed a Barefoot Citizen—
I’ve ransomed it—alive—
1.8k
I woke up to the pious sunlight of broken dreams
drenched in the faded tear drops of yesterday
arcing like a broken rainbow down empty streets
leading to the septic tank of tomorrow.
Resplendently dressed in rhetoric
silk woven by congenial weevils
frantically fed on gypsum and diesel
weaving verbosity with loquacity
table a motion to make independence illegal;
keep the status quo unequal between certain people.
There once was a dream called change
proclaimed to be the prize of revolution by some
restrained and contained as hyperbole by others
the disenfranchised left muddled in facts unexplained
the vocal ambivalence of political unrest is to blame
as Union Jacks march on Glasgow with steel toe-capped boots
and in the George Square riots the Saltire burns in flames
as history repeats itself
and the thistle of Scotland is ripped by her roots
the first act as a welcome back
into the fold of the commonwealth .
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
Burgundy book oh such a creation.
500 million British passports in circulation.
Patterned leaves adorning a secret interior. Without this treasure am I inferior?
Access to benefits and free healthcare. In a world like ours in a world so unfair.
Shiny pocket book taken for granted?
Non owners aware of its powers, automatically deemed the disenchanted.
Access to a phone call.
Access to legal aid.
Access to commonwealth.
Access to the European Union.
Access to free education.
Human rights.
Freedom.
That marvellous lifesaving book of epic proportions with the ability to eradicate human ill-fortune.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 5:20 AM UTC
The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
THE QUEENS BATON RELAY
STARTS FOR THE COMMONWEALTH GAMES
THE TORCH IS NEALY READY TO GO
THE MESSAGE WILL REMAIN THE SAME
ATHLETES HAVE COMPASSION AND SKILL
AND WILL COMPETE ON THE GOLD COAST
THEY ALL HAVE DEDICATION AND PASSION
BUT TEAM SPIRIT IS THE MOST
THE GAMES REPRESENT
THE BEST OF THE BEST
COMPETING WITH EACH OTHER
THERE IS NO OTHER CONTEST
THE TORCH NOW STARTS
SUCH AN INCREDIBLE JOURNEY
CROSSING OUR GREAT PLANET TO SEE
THE TORCH YOU MUST GET UP EARLY
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
Can you hear the wheels of the carriage, as they hasten along the stony tracks of Anglican countryside?
Oh, deviant highwaymen, you are concealed by damp foliage, and I have not yet reduced the heat.
I fully appreciate those discussions where connection to other realms freely occurs without inhibition.
Oh protector of the commonwealth, I long for your parliamentary executions.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Pink is the color of spring flowers.
Pink is the color of the raincoat.
Pink is the color of strawberry milk.
And pink is the color of my shirt.
Everything has to do with the color of pink.
And one last thing, pink is the color of my heart that loves me.
That's why i still love pink so much because it's my favorite color of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Anonymous. 10/21/2016.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 1:23 AM UTC
Don't listen to me, I'm a copy too
I'm nothing that should be considered original
I'm nothing worth building a statue over
I'm nothing that can't be replaced
If I get hit by a bus
Just pull someone else of the street
Put them in my clothes
You'll hardly notice the difference
I think my parents will like someone they won't have to feel guilty towards
They ******* me up
They know it, too
My brother'll like someone that's not trying to put him down all the time
I'm still in the process of ******** him up
He knows it, too
You could all just throw my dead, stinking, toxic body in the back
Feed me to the dogs
Let's mosey in the other extreme, let's say I'm unique
Or you are
They won't let us be different
If the commonwealth start listening
They'll **** us
Out of fear
What else they can do?
If we threaten them with consciousness among the masses
We got to go
It's nothing personal
I'll never have a Swan Song day
I'll never have a woman that I love
I'll never get to die peaceful in bed
I won't get to see the kids I never had grow up
But I'll have the benefit of having the memory of a fresh life
Doesn't sound like we have much of a choice, does it?
Conform, jump through the hoops, sell our soul, give yourself up
Or you live your life not giving in
And they decide you can't stick around
You're given the people funny ideas
I'm sure they'll **** you or me
If we're too free
They already got rid of Bobby, John and Martin
I guess that's why Jerome went into hiding
He gave too much hope and courage to people
You can either rot from the inside
Or you die young
Because, maybe one way or another they get you
I like to believe they don't though
Imagine this, as you lay bleeding from the three holes in your chest
With that last word of hope or love or divinity or whatever you want to call it on your lips
You sit and you think
It was all worth it
I don't regret anything
Because
Unlike them
I can still taste her lips
Unlike them
I can still hear the music
Unlike them
I can still see the endless fields of rye, the forests, the amazons, the rivers, the mountains
Unlike them
My eyes still smile
Unlike them
I laugh
Unlike them
I dance to my own music
And as the blood that retains it's anima leaves my veins
I smile
Because I'm not like them
And I realize
So I'm grateful
And I notice
All the little scared people look so cute in their mislead, unshaped, self-righteous indignation
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 1:15 PM UTC
.*thank god the English girls were into Pakistani boys... i'm literally off the hook... not that i was expecting to bang one of their hoards of spending outside a male sensibility of earning money... thank god i can double up with not being circumcised.... phew... uninhibited listening sessions to early Madonna, like some Duran Duran fetish... make-over death-metal... bass, man, the bass! the 80s snared the mark... woah woe... oh woah... so is there something to be bothered about? no? wh'aaah don't you use it... wh'ah'ah'ah'ah'ah... this is the part where i pretend to give a **** right? so i basically get to **** an oyster or a chattering clam? which one is which one is where i get reminded that i originate from eastern Europe, whereby eastern, Europe, is around the Urals, knee deep in **** in Russia? Copernican antithesis or something?! oh, don't let me down... i'm trying to get into the groove... you have your commonwealth fetish party, i'm the damaged goods guy... i'm the guy who'd make a great dog-leash companion but a ****** father.... well... don't know about a father, more like a ****** boyfriend... thank **** i'm not the sort to mind myself as: the desired goods; it's like... holiday... for 71 years; give or take; **** if i was the person, deluded, about fulfilling the role of a partner... no... that was never going to work... i'm out... the end... a big NO NO... i'm ******* listening to Duran Duran... if i had a girlfriend, she'd be in her late 40s for fuck's sake!*
not a lot of birch trees in western
europe, eh?
plenty of oak filled forests...
not many pine tree forests?
sure...
east meets west;
back east an oak tree
was... UNESCO...
western Europe...
not so many pines...
are there?
don't lie... i know there
aren't...
and there aren't as many
marshlands...
with marsh reeds....
in western Europe...
the air is variant in terms of
the perfumery...
but sure as ****
a lack of birch treets...
and certainly the oak
overcomes the pine tree
in terms of counted density.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
my loose hair hides in the pockets of my clothes
calves and elbows jumbling tiredly along the gravel path
that leads to the road
that leads to the only quiet place
left in a city
the strands close their eyes individually so i can dress
the blinds are plastic
and it's too bright to nail a blanket over them
so i make pancakes
and sleep
blond hugs the black of my coat and declares illness
washington doesn't have a secretary of commonwealth
which means the question is blank
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
We declare
- this our bedroom -
an independent
dominion
secede from
the United Kingdom
& the Commonwealth
of Nations
(although still enjoying
our European unions) .
Us a Republic
of Love
out on our own
our New Found Land
as Donne had done
a currency
of caresses
our national tongue
...kisses
needing nothing
but the other
to complete
our independence
flying the flag
of happiness
in this our brave
new world
of
Love.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 4:00 AM UTC
I will no longer hop skip or jump
and I will never get to walk on the moon
that always was for the select few
and I never was going to be an athlete
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
it is a REGAL RHAPSODY to my EAR
to hear
that you'll be GIVEN SEVEN years
for what you did to me
while you AIM your
prison darts at my face
tremoring with hate
eating POTATO in a TUBE
I'll be YAWNING in an OUTFIELD somewhere
doing YOGA and JUDO in the sun
I, hardly concealing my GLEE
will vacate this
EXECUTIVE state
the commonwealth of massachusetts
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
when women speak of eternity, my masculine immortality says: do i have to?! why? because my masculine mortality didn’t.
that a prophet’s nation is not without honour, but among the nation’s
ownership of itself in what’s being compared as nation-defining,
and thus dishonour with a nation’s history claiming more than
the nation’s honour in terms of taught examples lost
in emotion guaranteed by pride and jealousy,
so telling the history of poland
via the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
as defining poles...
nest well in a foreign tongue in order to keep your mother’s,
should your father’s execution of foreign tounging disgrace your mother...
but no talk of honour... should a nation’s honour be
defaced to localise individualism...
thus localise individualism and deface to entrust such a nation
with the concept of globalisation that f. d. r. could have oppossed
in the riddle of isolationalism that ended the great depression
and the phobia of the last years of misguided capitalism
carving the futurism of domestication of anything but the sexually adequate:
consciously-careful animalism of grunt and snorkle and bitten snouts
of the animalism correcting the 90 angle into 3.2 children multiplier
as perfected village people: 4kg of potato, 3 children, 2 pints of milk...
34 sundays kneeling in a church in aid of worship to dogmatise the pyramidal prism
as an aversion to staircases nonetheless climbed
to echo arthritis oiled for the perfected propaganda caste.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
i'll be the one fattening the nationalists like
they're worthy to inherit the swine skidding
kinds of talk of the famous winged Hussar toppling
mountain in stone as in grain of sand: avalanche -
and akin to a crows' kraken bellowing: gluttonous kra!
und tod! schatten överskuggar död:
and what yearn be dripped in acknowledged European -
loftier thought than done, kindred of what's called
the civilised / colonial world - toward the auburn horizontal -
and in due bereaving: left undone, and unduly asked for:
to be grasped as worshipped, quasi Lutheran,
mingling Calvinist and Catholic... but never the love affair
of Henry VIII. so much of modern English
history is bound to Las Vegas, and so much to the Hajj toward
Jerusalem no one cares about... then so few to mind
the invasion of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth by the Swedes... because this is England,
and Cockney speaks, usurper of the royal tongue, due to pride,
due to the elephant man, due to jack the ripper and
harry the stinker... and the joyous rhapsody coming
from the lonely mile in Irish slang; or said: Mamelukes -
because the Mongols were at one point defeated -
and thus grieved the Baghdad skull with tinges of Hamlet -
oh the grand library, what was left of it, could remain
enshrined in Texan avoidance - not to be:
Chilcot Coke - Cooled Coca and later Koala - Bruise and White -
thugs' select - later respect'ah - bony g and later bonbon
and much later bony m - and much much
later Alfonso Jalfrezi - alias gaga: and all the culinary sagas,
the Forsytes of Malta... or the Forsytes of Málaga?
i'm sure that question is all about:
wherever the peppercorn blows
and wherever the sneeze deposits a hunch
toward an itchy cartilage - from an itch and a scratch:
a butterfly! well, isn't this
the most beautiful of all possible worlds...
sorta makes you want to get up in the morning
and say good-morning to someone.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
.no problem about the Polacks, the Romanians or the Bulgarians... no problem... the Polacks will return to a Clint Eastwood mentality borrowed from Gran Torino... thank god the Polacks are leaving these lands... but... you can always have your Commonwealth rape-gang! so... thumbs up! both parties win!
well, just another turn of
the century dynamics,
what else is / isn't to be expect?
the european provides
the wind,
the african provides
the drums...
****
the asians provide the
underlying bass notes?
that's not going to work...
i can't seem to spot
more colors on the piano
other than black, and white...
biG problem...
slaves? what slaves?
the African saved the Europeans
from violins, cellos,
and entombed themselves
in brass...
horns, saxophones... you name it...
what slaves?
so... if the narrative of
the world history, makes its crucible...
on the focus of the first man,
originating in Africa...
personally? as the last man...
the last in the lineage of Shem
Abel and Cain...
if i am supposed to play
the role of the last man,
and the man...
that's also supposed to become extinct...
i'm not liking it...
i'll just drink my blackbeard shake
of *** & coke...
and...
this is the part where i add:
now scuttle along... like the good
vermin that you are;
just don't touch my fox pet
on the way out...
no one touches Rommel.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC