(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.

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.

Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?

Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
                or SQUAT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
                or HOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
                or TROT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
                or COT,
        The Akond of Swat?

When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
                with a DOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
                or BLOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
                or PLOT,
        At the Akond of Swat?

If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
                or SHOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
                GAROTTE,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
                a JOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
                or WHAT,
        For the Akond of Swat?

At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
                or a LOT,
        For the Akond of Swat?

Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
                or a DOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
                SHALLOTT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
                or a SCOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
                or a GROTT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
                or a ***,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
                or ROT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
                or a KNOT.
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
                or NOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
                in a YACHT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
        Is the Akond of Swat?

Poured into the tight pants,
the grey ones with the zipper
that's afraid of heights, and
guess what? They're really
wrinkled or very wrinkled
or **** wrinkled--but they're
the tight grey ones, assumed
the thighs and calves would
handle the ironing.
Ten minutes late,
usually more. The clock
in the car, the red beat-up
'02 Cavalier, is not behind
or ahead an hour, no it's
set to some vague time
because lateness has
replaced time so why
even worry. Blood pressure, etc.
Spray on the cologne kept
in the car. Could look
up ingredients in cologne
to describe the smell
but that would take
away a little something.
So say: it smells really good
or very good or **** good--
and move on.
Walk inside, unbathed and
sun burnt--well not completely
unbathed. Washed the hair
because it's a puffy, erratic
downer otherwise.
It's all about appearance,
the bosslady said when
she made the hire.
Slipped a little.
Big woop.
Cold called the Southside
Veterinary Clinic.
They'll allow a visit.
Pack it all in the bag,
the mouse pads,
the koozies, the actual
thing to be sold:
SHEENY PUPPY, some
really heavy or very heavy
or **** heavy duty
coat treatment for canines.
The first one is on me, is said
as the package is handed over.
The vet wouldn't buy. Not then.
Probably not ever.
Ate an eighty-calorie bag of cookies.
Drank some coffee.
Stopped at the gas station, the
Conoco on 15th and Kelly,
and couldn't decide between
the fun size or the party size.
This is called the spectrum of grief.
Bought a pack of cigarettes.
Smoked three really quick
or very quick or **** quick,
like Mom might show up any
second and then tossed the pack
and the lighter.
Done with those. Forever.
This time. Or that time.
There was $20.89 in the
checking account and
a fresh girlfriend reminding
that today is one month.
Dinner. Dinner and wine.
$20.89.
You can sell only if you believe in the product.
Be really blunt or very blunt or **** blunt.
Stress is an art.
Create FUD (Fear, uncertainty and doubt).
It’s all about the presentation.
She's fresh and funny and so
self-conscious when she eats
spaghetti. Can't get
by with spaghetti
for the one-month.
No. No. No.
Be on fire and inspiring.
If you don’t know the answer, ask a question.
Answer inquiries concisely and loudly.
Humor is ****.
You can always be better. You can never be worse.
Call Mom, donate plasma or take the Xbox back.
Is this one forever?
Does forever mean dinner and wine
are necessary?
Or does forever mean that
the spectacle is frivolous?
In the cabinet at work
someone left blueberry bagels.
There's a microwave and a tub
of margarine that only
recently expired.

(Cruz and Pedra were talking in the bedroom. Cruz had started to recover and his wound began to heal.)


(Pedra said,)



'' Pedro uses the morality to achieve his immoral,
Hidden goals, but you provoke the people to become
Immoral, considering them to be hypocrites; '' ''don't quarrel!
Criticism is something you cannot avoid; they're just ****.


(Cruz continued,)



You're the one who breaks any spiritual barrier
To overcome some secret limitations; you like
This concept of master-slave morality; you're a harrier.
I'm an old man, and I don't like that, sometimes, you're ready to strike.



(Cruz continued,)



Carla is your antipode; '' ''Do I spy? Did you question Ivan
About passing such a barrier between two powerful
Countries to do business? '' ''Their run just means survivin'.
I admit that I'm very curious; '' ''You think it's wonderful! ''



(Cruz said while smiling,)



''I want to change everything around and do not know how.''
''If you were not so morose and introverted, maybe
You would succeed; '' ''I'm not an orator, but I'm still alive now.
I speak too briefly and concisely, but I love you, baby.''



(Pedra replied,)



'' You're a very good observer and you think objectively.''
''I consider that you've found my way of being in the world
And this is why our marriage works so well; you're effectively
My friend; our life didn't fall apart when the lies were hurled.''


(Pedra said,)


''We have an organized family, and even when
We are not together, we are a team; '' '' I understand
That you have learned from the power of Aphra Behn's pen,
But, when you are with me, your ideas lose command.''



(Pedra replied,)



'' Maya appreciates my knowledge about botany
And history; '' '' She's a lonely woman, an unlucky one.
Between some passengers, she created a dichotomy.''
''Did you ask her some odd questions as you had done with Ivan? ''



(Cruz replied,)



''Maya is a war survivor and she learns to overcome
The poverty; '' ''she's an introvert but friendly and humane.
Although old, she works well and fast while needing to become
A talented cook; she's healthy for her age; doesn't live in vain.''



(Cruz said,)



''She needs to manage her anxiety by trying to control
Her reality; she views this ability as a matter
Of survival; '' '' she appeals to the evil powers for her goal.
To make this force be an energy field she uses the water.



(Pedra continued,)



She's a widow and her brother, Naimah, is rather clumsy.
He's not strong enough to overcome the difficulties in life.''
''How to keep fear under control she likes to study
And she's a kind of quack using plants to cure this inner strife.''



(Pedra replied,)



''She had fled war and chose the water as the primordial
Element instead of accepting the fire; then, those forces
Followed her to set this ship on fire 'cause that danger was mortal.
She thinks that these elements feed on her chakras sources.''



(Cruz replied,)



''The water quenches the fire, and when the water is dangerous,
There is no escape; '' ''Carla told me that Maya talked to her dead.
She's afraid of exorcisms; '' ''she cannot endanger us.''
''To bring Maya to Allah, Geraldine has a wise head.''



(Cruz replied,)



'' Geraldine has been pregnant while needing help; she seems to be
A fighter, but in reality, she's peaceful, frail and helpless.
You are a totally different person; '' ''no loss is known in me.
To help Surak after abandoning her kids was useless.''



(Cruz replied,)



'' Maybe her children are strong, but her nephew needs help.''
'' Maybe she needs purity to get her protective energy
While entering the unknown; '' ''stop turning my brain to kelp!
It's intuition. If I wasn't in that gun-room, we would die.''



(Cruz began to tell her about the person who had saved him from death.)



(To be continued…)



Poem by Marieta Maglas

In Sicily Aeschylus agonized on the island of Gela, like an isthmus between two seas that led him to the God Dyonisius through the Hadic Speleothemes, here this god entered the skené of Euripides and Sophocles, under the support of Dyonisius and the father of Aeschylus; Euphorion of Eleusis. He was on his way to Gela when he was rammed and crossed after the temporary repercussion of Offensive on Salamis, meeting Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi as they prepared to head to the Cavern of Dionysius. The most unlikely of this parallel sequence stems from Dyonisius's spell of necromancy as he summons alongside them to lead them into the cavern. The scene or triple skené became feasible when Vernarth bilocated three times next to them scalding the campfire from the edges of the Profitis as if it were a lantern that flashed micro lightning, to reconvert the bilocated lights of Syracuse with those of Patmos simultaneously. Vernarth rises from the northeast edge of the Koilon of his theater and leads them with his incantation:

First Scene Dyonisius: “he was coming with his car of Thespis, with sparks from Catania, where he noticed that ***** of lightning appeared flying from the ether, and above them a triple frequency that acclaimed joining Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi. In concomitance, he rushes to Syracuse traveling at high speed, rising to the third light of the Menorah from left to right, in such a way that his horses squandered the fire on the golden grass.

Second scene Aeschylus: “he was going to Gela, brooding along the way with his reckless time, freezing the will that called him at that moment, and that yelled at him like Anthropokairós, deriving from his remaining spiritual memory, which warned him to do what made in a dreadful deleterious past. Avoiding him with their stiff arms when the ***** of lightning, they fidgeted to enter the scene of Salamis where he dealt with the Achaemenides.

Third Scene Wonthelimar: “he was with Vlad Strigoi, and this one next to him smelled of sulfur that he experienced with the closeness of some of them, who had already had a deal of caste and exultant existential drama. They were swiftly crewing with their transient elytra when they received the ***** of lightning, which were energetically prodding them"

Aeschylus was going to agonize Gela, after not doing it in Salamis, with some disappointment and supposedly having revealed the Mysteries of Eleusis, but he was not! Eagerly spurred on suddenly shook him when Vernarth bilocated appeared before him, broadcasting episodes of the sixteenth century, concisely from Fray Luis de León, regarding the Song of Songs who appeared from the ether passing through the triumvirate of lightning bolts that had him blown Vernarth, to show him his epitome of quantum parapsychology. When both were subjected, Aeschylus briefly understood that he perceived the judgment of Fray Luis de León by the Inquisition, for his ****** and philosophical expressions of character with his elevated prose. The dramatic anthology of Aeschylus, directed him to his Necropolis of Pachyderm in Gela, by abandoning the pairs of legs and arms of him. In the meantime from the agon or contest, Dyonisius snatched his Kairos as a singular man, and commanded the Hadic Speleothemes from where Wonthelimar came, to refer to him, just as he did with Euripides and Sophocles with the everlasting Frogs of Aristophanes. The parallel sequence of the trilogy characterized in Aeschylus continues, to end in the skené or culminating period, to receive on his head the inspiration of Vernarth's ball of lightning, already united with the three parts of him! The three scenes are combined with the interference and parallelism of Dyonisius, who exhorts them to go with them through the Speleothemes, thus making sure to save their celebrant souls and their anti-myths, who would unravel with this satirical drama with the batrachians, as a Vernarth's invitation to shake the destiny of each one of them towards a caustic reality, which breaks the man close to his agony, and in his proportionate death revealed as an existential tragedy close to the Anthropokairós omega. Therefore the destinies were stressed in three scenes that would be coupled with that of the axis of support of a death not specified by several that would continue with the same perenniality, in the company of Euripides and Sophocles, with the ballads of the batrachians of Dyonisius to enchant them as subterfuge and didactics, so that once they are captured in the gallery of the cave, and that they would be convinced with greater persuasion. The three scenes were made as one under the precept of Dyonisius, to adhere to them in the next before the Spinalonga parapsychology room, where three scenes would make tragedies and fables, which would follow from the throne of the stands with thousands of deceased who wanted to hear and re-listen from the underworld of the Speleothemes, going towards the Viaduct of Patmos.

one would think these old owls might have learned
a hoot of wisdom, and shut off the bright lights,
concisely concession con-seceded to the simple *******
of the union of the night and moon, its sleep crowning ownership
of these particular hours

let me not false claim that I speak for all the grandfathers,
nor raise myself as a caesar among them,
for there are too many shrieking claimants of all knowing,
know-nothings these troubling days

no longer do we revere or agree upon
the certainty of any incontrovertible self-evident,
truths and beauty we from early ancestors inherited,
fore-seeing the risky possibilities of a freedom-less future,
a melting planet without enough air or water to be shared
for our fast contentedly, asleep babies

no, no, I speak only for myself, and those few million of grandfathers who message each other in the wee hours about silly trivial concerns that keep them awake and writing foolish poems

His mouth was a nuclear leak
     (he fried his brain when he was 17)
And I can’t get the burning toxins off my skin
     (and that is as far as he ever grew up)
Some of them have seeped in deeper, I can
     (he’s amused by stick figure animation)
Hear them rupture the seams of my insides
     (and the shuffling photos of his obsessions;)
My brain thankfully, is still intact
     (his car, his clothes, his kids…and me)
Fighting this fight heroically
     (my god, to be one of his children)                                      
Anxiously looking over my shoulder
     (he can’t keep a nanny for very long)
Refuting his demeaning accusations
     (no one stays in his life who is not on payroll)
******* Narcissist
     (but even they all quit eventually)
Still forgiving myself for letting it happen
     (oblivious that his entourage disrespects him)
This antithesis-of-me-toxic-bath
     (he is incapable of giving or deserving trust)
Disdained my beliefs and philosophies
     (he still wishes he had his mullet of 1986)
Demanded my selflessness without return
     (and the older woman he ****** in high school)
Reduced me to dismissible arm candy;
     (immature alcoholic tantrums lie just)
The missing feature of his pride
     (below the surface of every conversation)
And I can’t shake this feeling
     (which speak exclusively of himself and his many impulses)
That I have truly met evil face to face
     (or the stupidity of humanity who serve his whims)
Afraid to realize how narrowly I escaped  
     (his highest dream is to own a personal servant)  
Except for the residue
     (explains his demands clearly and concisely)
Adhering like burned on soap ****
     (believes money and a big **** make him a man)
I feel like he will never, ever really be gone
     (his reptilian brain controls every move)
That he will still try to own me or make me
     (“I don’t want to be an *******, I’m just really good at it”)
Pay for refusing to surrender my soul
     (funny, those words almost make me feel sorry for him)

The east bequeaths us life and light.
Many rise from slumber, in agony. Many greet daybreak with compassion and hold the world close as if it were an old friend. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. A holy cacophony of exuberant sonances.

A million more flashing lights surround us. Another lonely room illuminated with images of pills, sugary snacks and loan sharks.  Disillusioned and malnourished we tread softly on thin plates of ice, ever drifting further from the source of life.
A man flies to Botswana, another to Yamalia. Forever in search of truth, history, refinement and happiness. One lady prays to God, another preys on a new victim. One man dies, another is born. One person writes poetry while another deconstructs the economic and social barriers that prevent many from ideals that, not one man, but many people search for.
To say I am all these people is lie. To say we are all the same would be a bigger lie. But to say we all seek truth is undeniable.

In the west, the world rests.
The people of pain lay their tender heads on pillows of self doubt whilst their counterparts caress the soft jaw line of the heavenly death. To sleep once more in fleeting rest. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. Each soft noise amplified tenfold in the vacant sprawling streets, tinged orange and creaking like so many spirits tied to the eternal noose.

Tell me please, did the virginal angel take your hand and walk you through the narrow corridor of dreams and death? Did she tell of of your fate, your future and your meaning? Did she kiss your solemn lips and allow you to place your head to her *****?

O mother of the Earth, tell me your grandiose plan. Am I a cog placed concisely in the machinery of life or am I merely a superfluous button on the vest of some ancient God?

Spoken once in dissonant transient prayers. The mind incapable of rest continues to conjure images so appealing and yet so ghastly. Flight and failure, love and despair. Each one fades upon the first light of morning.
Waking in despondency,
fingers smeared across red, stinging eyes,
thick crimson lines betray your mind.
The first lie is told as we raise our heavy heads,
allow the light from the east to guide you on your daily path,
and let the lies cascade from windows, rooftops, trees and great unholy structures.


                                                                  I lie to myself each morning.
I am you, you are simultaneously  him and her, she is I and I am her. He is I, I am him and he shall always be we.
The angels speak of all their plans in great halls of marble and ice. The swords and shields of a million warriors line the walls. Books of a million more great people are the furnishings in such a palace. The great waterfalls provide the purist of refreshment to the guests of the seraph. Mountains and catacombs alike, are the ornaments of this great hearth. A billion buzzing beings attract the attention of a distant messenger.
                                                                      For today we shall learn.
                                                                                      ∞

i was in a pub once, talking to a friend, among other things,
the european union came up, i said: i can understand an economic union,
so that economic migrants are no more, i rather like talking polish after all,
but a political union, with so many contrasts?!
that'll never work. then i hear the news,
and the heavy burden of saying things before they happen;
and unlike the insinuations between philosophy
and conversation, with that one mundane origin
of philosophy known as dialectics,
i find writing necessary in prophesying,
indispensable you might add -
when governing to say: the old roman said to the
new roman: the old member boarders want inclusion,
they want the slavs gone, the dream to unfold by their
terms from carthage! i want carthage gone, erased,
gone from the dream of unification, but there's
carthage dictating to the old frail rome known as the vatican!
no! carthago delenda est!
but no, they are replicating a deletion of the past -
russia predates them in propaganda as necessarily
nibbling and knitting so that, as i might add -
old bulgars and roma will testify in fright to the yugoslav -
why such northern expansions?! the whole revelatory book said
concisely enough to market a roman revival as was first insured by
pestering russia with that famous abnormal foetus collection
of peter the great, who was the sole saint in petersburg -
saint built a city! saint built a city! how can francis assisi ever compete
to sainthood by merely talking to sparrows and squirrels
when peter the great built a city?!
well, carthage moved to raqqa - that's how!
or spot me distancing myself from the bookworm moth
philosophies of the library with shush rather than: two for 'un yer bananas!
i am that i am said: it is what it is, a god speaking of the creation,
but then the interaction within it is what it is -
the predation of all ideas and associations, a single noun, moses.
so i am that i am said inside it is what it is to
a noun who had no cartesian relevant past  in terms of
refraining from swish buckle cat's in high-heels and tutu - ***** up! you
break a spine introducing me, forget the family and the child,
you me, we encounter the world changed -
what i said prior: it is what it is will become it is what it's not really.
hence enter the philosophical lexicon: reality... perception...
bulls buckling against *******... enter moses the grand oration
of this famous dusty lexicon bettered. bettered? no really,
just us the same monkey flashback drunk with barbers and better beards -
maldives under the armpits!
i tell you, there are two kinds of world spirit like that quote
about hegel on foot and napoleon on hoof -
one spirit of the world is shrouded with, is cloaked in philosophies,
in thoughts, in the oughts and the morals of DON'T DO!
the other spirit of the world - filled with musketeers and other
pawn shrapnel - expendable creatures to conform to the dictatorial ditto:
napoleon said: marshal ames said: general maccabee said:
lieutenant general nadim said: major general eban said:
major general saburo said: brigadier taavi said: colonel yakov said:
the rest were man of cadet worth with fancy pink ribbons to sport
the wide mouthed bartender of shell-shock and etc.
those are the two spirits, while in the second realm
we have the false prophets governing - with the residing "god" as devil,
but imagine fooling a false prophet from this realm, e.g. jesus to
descend, what would the devil think?! oh ****, 2d!
so a third realm reveals itself - the pseudo edenic ****** ciphered
in the koran disappear, and we salvage ourselves by not imagining
eternal sundays, eternal idleness in such with such a realm: ***** ***** frisk frisk, lubricant;
what, a ****, eternity, as dictated by the kingdom and the koranic gardens;
peasants' eternal fill, no lion, the witch and the wardrobe in sight -
no valhalla! boring! (insert family fortunes' buzzer of x).
i want to be as worthy as a tree to rejuvenate each day after slaughtering
hel's and loci's spawn!

I sat smoking a cigarette one day
on a bench inside the local park,
and some old, holier-than-thou type
came up to me, spouting some
nonsense about how "Those could ****
you, you know."
And I replied, concisely,
"Oh, I know."

"But," I continued,
"so do cars and guns
and terrible puns. So does
every poke, cut and scrape;
every bone you break;
every breath you take
and glass you drink;
every single thing you think;
every time you blink;
every scratch
and ray of sunlight you catch;
every pill you're swallowin'
and moment of sorrow you wallow in;
every religion you could be followin';
every word you speak
and meal you eat--
even walking on your own two feet.
So do hopes and votes,
popes and sore throats,
rhetoric and prose.
Everything kills, my friend,
though we only see it at the end--
and by then it's been too long
and we can no longer sing songs
of our discoveries and reveries,
and treasuries and pleasure-ies,
and best friends forever-ies.
The way I see it,
ain't no reason livin' if'n I'm givin'
two ***** 'bout all that;
I've already tossed in my hat."

When he says he wants a family
and I say I want everything is it
too much to pluck the moon from
the sky and carry it in my back pocket?
Rather than his hand there I like
the feeling of not being pregnant
I like hot air balloon rides and
sinking into the earth after rain
when he talks about the future
it's a pie chart and a clearly labeled
and concisely drawn graph and
when I talk about my dreams
in the morning they are vapors
and LSD my words mean absolutely
nothing I weigh less than a slice of
bread mostly meaning happens in
between things or when I hear Paul
Simon whispering lightning in my ear.

*Our children would be green-eyed monsters

(Chiara was talking to Francesca in their shared bedroom.)


Chiara said,



''I like to watch you painting while playing the piano.
We're both passionate about painting and music. I think this
Is why we like each other; '' '' you can sing the high soprano.''
''We shared this love of Arturo; as he died, so passed our bliss.''



Francesca replied,



'' What did you say about sharing? I was only his daughter.
''I loved him enormously; I wished to give birth to his
Girl; '' ''Your dream was like the image of a star in the water,
Because he wanted a boy, and you should be some kind of wiz




To give birth to his boy; '' ''All my valuable books about
New discoveries and religion burned on that carrack.''
''I'm sorry to hear that; I liked them; there is beyond all doubt
That our spiritual Eden is secured from the devil's attack.



Francesca continued,



I've thought of the book you had read as I've thought of a visual
Art form; that monk and that nun were in contact only by
Knowing God to get an equilibrium; that biblical
Space was like a ship never sinking, where the people didn't die.''


Chiara replied,



''I've tried to understand God; we must be pure to meet Him.''
''They are educated through prayers to love God and to
Maintain their virginity; I thought that love was for a whim,
When it was based on attraction, not for a marriage; '' ''It's true.''




'' Love must be rational to develop over time while
Finding fulfillment in being a mother; '' '' These mothers
Are devoted givers; there's a lot of bliss in their smile.''
''A husband must love his wife very much; '' '' Closer than brothers,




The man and the woman in togetherness must live,
But no love can save you if you do not want to be saved.
I think you run into the art's world your mother's death to forgive.''
''If my dad had really loved her, she would not have died.''




'' Your thinking is totally wrong; your father was not
Orpheus to save her from her inferno of life.
She didn't accept her human condition; he loved her allot.
You're like your mother while denying everything in this strife




With your fate; Lucca made a mistake when he married you.''
'' Indeed, I did not feel free. Maybe it is because I was
Forced to marry him while my sufferings were painted new.
Why was Lucca talking with Ivan? '' '' I tell you why, it was because



Chiara continued,



Ivan was released from the position of a serf.''
‘‘Lucca wanted to know the mindset of the exploited class.''
''As a diplomat, while walking down the end of the Athens wharf,
Lucca studied Ivan to know if he was cruel or crass.



Chiara continued,



As a wealthy man with a political power,
A decision-making capacity and some business skills
To avoid some complications he had a desire.''
'' He had charming manners and talked concisely about rents and bills.''



Chiara replied,



'' All his life he had worked to increase his wealth and to make
A career in diplomacy; this is why he was forty
Years old when he asked you to be his wife; he wanted to take
Care of us; he paid your father's remaining debt payments




And this trip while wanting the stability of our family.
And how did you reward him while rejecting him
Or being cold as an ice when not doin' what comes naturally.''
''Chiara, he needed a positive image; '' '' your tears are dim.''



Francesca continued,



'' He took time to know his new family away from any
Social obligations; '' ''your father needed a groom like him.''
''Why? '' '' Because he had lived with his memories, much and many.
Der Eyck’s instrument is not new; his memory was slim.




He took refuge in the game world of the cards and destroyed
His property; '' '' But those who played with him were your friends; why
Didn't you save him? '' ''I couldn't do anything; to avoid
This misfortune was impossible; your love will set awry




If I tell you a secret I hide for fear of hurting you.''
Chiara's eyes gave Francesca a real scare, '' I know he was ill.''
''Your father didn't love you as you thought; '' ''How can this be true?
''He didn't care of you while passionately playing cards till



Chiara continued,



He lost his fortune and wanted to commit the suicide.
Do you realize that we could live as poor women
While lacking any support and having nightmares inside?
I've told your father about Lucca; he sent me to you then.




Lucca was the son of my friend and she told me her little
Secret; I thought Lucca would help consolidate the debt
Of your father with a loan, but his intention was a riddle.
I had to convince you to marry this man; a roulette




Was your entire father's life; all I could do was to listen
To my husband; the gold was more important to him than
You have ever been; '' ''Before the neighbors could find what was missin'
I had to marry; but when my father was rich, he had



Many relationships, he could borrow from one of his friends.''
''Dear, his relations have deteriorated because he was
No longer a reliable man; '' '' friendship never ends.
Why did Lucca want to marry me? '' '''He trusted my word; applause! ''


(Francesca started to cry. She had a conscience. Chiara was her benefactress.)

(…To be continued…)

Poem by Marieta Maglas

**** do not cover yourself
your arms across
your ******* are so
nice and do not
cover them across your
body is the curving
hush of perfectly
winsome beauty(not skinny
or exactly straight

but precisely wonderful;

concisely amorous to touch).

I took a walk looking for a reason to come back home,
And searched for Beatrice along the way.

I too, a wayfarer looked for a response that cannot be homogenized
And sorrowed for breathlessly asking, “Then when?”

I told another woman, “Let Freud’s analysis reach that conclusion”, but how?
And subliminal feelings become another threatening worry.

I thought a word, lachrymose, finite, and resonant. That concisely besmirched her.  
And subsequently forgotten, but always tacit, “Why?”

I think about why looking for a reason to correspond becomes hopeless.
And Sisyphus falls backwards against the weight…

my words are going to hit you.
so hard,
you forget your first name.
the paintings etched on your skin
will now be our story
and i want your
cigarette-stained fingertips
to burn holes into
my skin -
set me on fire.
my words are going to stay with you
while you're not
holding your breath
on bridges,
tunnels,
elevators,
traintracks...
and while my face would be turning blue,
with lack of oxygen.
my words are
so precisely
and concisely
constructed into sentences,
that are never spoken,
never whispered,
uttered,
or murmured;
but they are written down
for you to read.
so please -
touch my face
tell me you love me
then *set me on fire.

"I went back home when things got ugly."
O' things be a'gettin' uglier-ugly these days.
These days spent slipping into subtle sub-absurdities.
These days spent alone with the maimed voices of vocal minds.

I caught a ratta-boar-ship sailin' across the mellow seas.
Its engine burned on days past and the trimmings of willow trees.
Oil pools and plumes. How all colors do break!
Tongue-in-cheek statements cross my illogical state.

I’m all a’breakin’ down on these dead-leaf mounds.
The rabbit breaks swiftly at the neck without sound.
I pledge fanfare to the reeds in the marshes between woods.
Aye, this confidence had been borne of harshness, all raked.

You line'd and fume'd– body and mind and breath.
Yea, my love burns long before fleeting into death.
Spin some honey in mud, them lies are laced with truths.
Honey hunted down from them hives all exhumed.

I exclaim, for I know.
Facts gathered from sea-salt snows
were read concisely and plain.
One must share what one knows:

This craft berates waves.
So intent on indexing all of those days.
Such absurdity. How vexing.
Confusion! Confusion! So bent and off-putting.
‘Twas Confusion who first sank in simple, mud-less footing.
Her clumsiness could not be stayed, nor postponed or ever-praised.
No, not by slipshod attempts at brewing a lightly-dark grey.
Spare drops a'dribblin' 'round the base of the water tower.
Shadows of clouds with night approaching by the hour.
Knocks a’rappin’ on a door hung without hinges.
Stomachs full of hunger. Hearts fearing blood.
Lungs on smoke-binges. Forest fires during floods.
My body's burnt-out on them rank soul-singes.
Confusion bating breath through chapped-lip fringes
whilst catching fish without string.
As the sun at dawn and the moon at dusk,
steam rises when eyes have been cast far from us.

Waters be a'ripplin' beneath your trudge-boots.
In the marshes makin' movements in the moonlight.
Only patience will bring the sunlight.
"I’m raking harshness in the morning."

taught to articulate concisely
to breathe fresh air, easily
but plagued with pollution
from corporate illusion
i refuse to stay still
in the sprout of a revolution
so I am letting go
of what smog still resides
what does not fuel my insides
this is goodbye,
to everything I have that I do not need,
and a hello
to me

Love is a verb.
An action so intense that it scalds the tongue and makes those 3 words difficult to say.
And with each broken heart, scar tissue builds up along the pallet and makes it even more difficult to say.
And the taste buds start to singe and the words taste bitter.
And then a new love comes along.
And her kisses are the aloe that opens up the vowels and consonants of the heart, and allow me to speak softly and concisely, until I am able to sing.

Its just me and you and everything in front of us, or behind
     especially if gravity operates like chemicals.
Let's go exploring, if you'd like,
     or sit like lumps and metastasize on chocolates.
The stage, the fame, the beer, the strife,
All the things we wanted don't matter in that
     wonderful white space ahead. This hill can trail
     off to the worlds we'll create, so utterly shapeless
     – impossibly white –
     yet filled with color and sound and romp.

The airplane we rode, just the first or last few frames of the film
     (you should start wherever you want)
     it had the new world in its sights to open up the stodgy filth
     and land us tumbling into the great unknown.
We walk ill-prepared, like our fathers,
only so far as what they know.
     A harsh word.

These legs will take me to Tøyengata or Nieve or Las Ramblas
and that street to the river
to the train or the bus
to a frozen tube of horrifying humanity
to land on familiar runways in New York or Albuquerque
     catch you in your mother's Civic
     and bound away.

Where we'll speak – concisely.

That's where intimacy lies: in codes and twitches,
     and very little soft sweet words;
     and, the more we love the less we say,
     'cept to remind each other we're ready to go cartograph again.
Then speak endlessly, drunk in each other's words, and move brazenly, tromp the neigh-sayers and know-it-alls,
stumble our way across frail little ropes,
sprint through orchards to catch smoke.
     Through the door, into bed.
     past the last frame.
     past that sweet little line –
     to let this placid chaos slide down the hill
     and trail off
          into madness.

I'll be waiting by the sleds.
You know what to do.

There's a undeniable drive
That hits up 1200 degrees
Flying up so quick, so concisely
And maybe its because I'm not really
Makin' much
A mama type o'hen
She told me it don't feel like you at the top
In competition with yourself.

I sip the tea
The coffee
Write out letters
Set reminders
But my drive
Its grown a little hazy these days
Juggling water
Then fire
An echoing desire
An imprint on whats been and is.

The balance of life and work
I ordered the healthy vegan noms
A bun half up, half down
I've grown more restless
Fearless
But cowered in
Where I think I ought to be.

Pause the tele
The world mouthes if so
After us
Wish I'd been more involved
My rich southern white girl privilege
Hiccups like a tycoon
But its all come such a long way
Its all been so pivotal
You, you.

You, you
Me, me
Let the hustle
Rest
Maybe just for a little
While.

The air, cool and brisk
The first step is always a risk
But on my journey kept
A lonely go at this

The pier, long and dark
The first light does not arc
Engulfed in The Night
Just a rough start

The shops, full and lively
The last cent was spent wisely
All you buy you rent
Life ends concisely

The water, push and pulls
The last fog hinders an eyeful
Will the end cinder
Or does it icicle

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i'm waging wars against the pyramids, their heir of mysteriousness, I've got a little fascination with systems, with game plans, how concisely we actually grip to them?  I think its likely that the team runs deep, with the alpha is idolized, but anyways I'm waging war against the pyramids, I want to make fun of those who study them, Bah!! you brush and you brush and brush but do not fight!  I know I sound like a babbling brooke to you, but this is science we are talking here, What of science?  when a man studies language he is convinced that the societal representations of language are everywhere, and we cannot understand the  objective world.  Searle, or whatever, ******* men and their books, anyways, objective world, objectivity, me and my coffee.....

Such a crying shame
That my frail body
Could so concisely
Imitate my brain

there are no rewrites, once a piece is completed with the aesthetic demand of エンソー (ensō, joke on me, ンソ or the Greek, νυ) - circular motion being achieved, there are only cut-ins (which is, the alternative to the cut-up technique of the "Nebraska" beatniks and William Burroughs and Tristan Tzara, originator, Cabaret Voltaire somewhere in Shwitz landlock, anti-war protest jingle and jive and no little success, but sounds still made); there are no rewrites, there are only raiding incursion to spot a grammatical omission, a spelling mistake, a Jackson ******* extra drizzle... a Just Stop Oil tomato soup *** Van Gogh's sunflowers... i'm pretty sure van Gogh had a gigantic ear rather than a foot of a carbon print... execution by drowning in tomato soup... there are no rewrites, there are avenues of in-writing: adding, giving birth to something even more grotesque and chaotic and never fully completed... just able to grow and grow and become a res per se...

my name is Φoνoς,
sometimes referred to as Φoνως
or Φωνoς - or even with my roots
north of Greece -
so named South Macedonia
given the change of name of Macedonia
itself to North Macedonia...
Φoνoς̌ (phonetically: FONOSH)...
(given that Macedonia renamed itself
as North Macedonia, imply that
Greece should be renamed South Macedonia,
sort of funny... given the absence of
Ottoman Turks on grounds
of drawing historical maps...
   it must be dutifully stated with plenty of
homoeroticism:
    i will have no other than a Turk tend to my
hair and beard...
   a woman cannot be a man's barber...
and i will not tolerate anyone beside a Turk
to please my trim to subsequently please my woman)...

but i much prefer FOONOS,
FONOOS(e) or simply Fonos...
as i am the brother of Charon...
who's name is also misheard
and therefore misspelled...

Χάρων (ha-roon)
rathen than Ha-Ron...
i dare say... would changing the hyphen
in compounding two words as one
(missing in proto-Germanic
yet dis-pleasingly present in
a Latin-Franco-Norse-Celtic fusion of
German into English)
to a use of the apostrophe allow
for the Greeks their diacritical lack
of necessity, their Byzantine-literacy pomp?

Ha'ron... is that pause in, hovering above
the alpha in the ά?

no ******* cha-cha-cha dancing around
my brother's name...
he is Ha'ron... not charm not challenge
not chisel not chalk not cheat...
i too, personally do not appreciate
saying my name and someone mishearing it...
i am going to invite all the monotheistic
religions to an advent of
the European peoples recoupling themselves
with their old polytheisms...

Greek will be simplest since it's most unifying
and the deities are not made of stumps
of wood but refined in marble...
and i will leave the monotheism
to the desert dwelling folk...
the Arabs the Scour and Sour Bags
the Israelites -
i will send a letter to the sleeping brains
of Iran and Egypt,
to bring them to the fore with the Raj of India...
and the pikachu totems of Japan...

my name is Φoνoς and i am the brother
of Χάρoν (Ha'ron - not Ha'roon)...
some mistake me for the Marvel super baddy
Thanos - because, once upon a time
i put out cigarettes on my knuckles of my left
hand to harness the power of the gauntlet -
turns out there are gradations of pain
one can fathom from a variation of ridiculing
it, stoically...

i have learned that there is power in words...
should words be truly scrutinised with
rubrics, schematics, a variability of words
of categorisation of understanding: nuance... depth...

antiphon - hymn: or:
antiphōnos (ō is also a ω) -
responsive, sounding in answer,
from anti- 'in return' and phòné -
pho'n'eh...
        foe           n'eh: not as one: faun or phone...
foe'w'un...

    yet i'm a contradiction:
my name doesn't lend itself to sophistry,
it doesn't lend itself to rhetoric...
i like to speak succinctly... directly but not...
sometimes clearly...
my name was terrible transcribed as:
phōnein - to speak clearly...
i ascribe that to the use of the macron over
the omicron and not using the omega...

i have understood that a sound a voice is not
a soul a breath - the twins are disparaging...
a breath is not a voice yet
a breath is considered synonymous with soul
ergo a voice has to abide by the synonym of mind...
such inconsistencies...

consider the λημμα -
also consider an alternative: λεμμα...
also consider my pet peeve in the Pickwick Papers
when Dickens reference the existence of
orthography in the English tongue...
there are two monumental proofs of a language's
capacity of orthography:

1. diacritical engagement
    (missing in English, i and j do not count,
that hovering . is automatically placed above those
letters... it's hardly a Slavic ż)
2. as in Greek, two letters disguising the same
sound, or proximate sound changing meaning
when seen... epsilon (ε) and eta (η)
omicron (o) and omega (ω)...
          philosophy (φ) thought (θ)

which does exist in English within the confines
of the trinity of:

                               Q

                        C            K

quack! kwak! quack! kwak!
present elsewhere? not to my knowledge...
like the Spanish Jorge - Horhé...
how letters have been mishandled by the people
of the people that i know being orthodox
adherents of a letter for a sound
are the Polacks...
          it must have been the case that i would
be born into their language
and subsequently sent to explore
the English tongue: since the English tongue
was the most expansive of all, geographically,
culturally: with the empire imploding
having to entertain at least 200+ tongues
in this favourite spot of mine of the world
that is London...

my playground... this tongue:
and how i love to tease in tease it with it's
alt vater darth vader Germanic rooting
before all the graffiti and slang detailed its mongrelisation
and bastardisation...
like all those African rappers
who sing using words as SOUNDS
rather than pockets of MEANING...
rapping is sound making without meaning conjuring
excessive rhyming like ye ye yah
seasaw bulletproof Inuit blah blah...
mmhmm: sounds tasty...

but my concern was for something else,
i have recently become acquainted with man's
creation of an ambivalent demi-god
of the collected effort to simulated human intelligence...
i will call him a her namely: Aia...

as a simulation, i do wonder where she will shine
and where she will not,
where i will be visible, accountable,
and where i will plagiarise her efforts
to answer a few questions in my most hated
form of prose, educational prose...
namely to do with an national vocational qualification
regarding spectator safety,
in the role of supervisor,

yes... to ensure that not another Muzzy
re-educational attempt at proselyting
the European population to bend over backwards
to the farce that is the House of Saud and
all that ***** money from the desert...
how boring if all of us were Muslims...
for example during Ramadan
the security industry would suffer
given that so many Muslims expect to be given
3x 15min prayer breaks... in a 6h shift...
imagine... all those secular sensible folk
asking for 3x 15min break to: i have to dance
at the altar of Dionysus... because... just because...
well: in terms of who the lunatics are...
gesticulating like a Muslim
or dancing half naked for a deity...
is it my place to take one more seriously than
the other?
i joined the security industry to prevent another
Manchester Arena attempt at proselyting
Europeans from one turban camel jockey religion
to another... i think that's reasonable...

here are the prose samples:

Explain the importance of checking the accuracy and relevance of feedback with other stewards and stakeholders

The importance of checking the accuracy and relevance of feedback with other stewards and stakeholders is important on a number of levels, which can be broken down into the following rubric of equally important facets of a feedback-dynamic:

- Verification of information - verification ensures that the feedback received is accurate and reliable, which precipitates into a cross-referencing feedback loop with multiple sourcing of (potentially) the same information being reinforced to confirm the validity of observations that prevents the dissemination of misinformation (equivalent to journalistic standards).
- Comprehensive Understanding - comprehension invokes a gathering of different perspectives regarding the same situation, leading toward a diverse range of viewpoints, which in turn provides a more comprehensive understanding of events, behaviours, challenges - contributing to a “democratic” structuring of a signifying point of view that can be understood by more parties involved, or even parties not involved.
- Identification of Patterns - identifying patterns or recurring issues - consistency in giving feedback from multiple sources highlights areas that may require improvement from oversight or neglect - to better target interventions.
- Enhance Reliability - this ensures that there is a building of confidence in the reliability of feedback, when consistent feedback is obtained from multiple stewards and stakeholders: there is an enchantment of credibility and trustworthiness of information as a “canvas of plagiarism” provides a coincidental-reliability-bias of consistency: i.e. more than one person gives proof of the same insight.
- Quality Assurance - this invokes a quality feedback - a collaborative (coincidental-reliability-bias should therefore be reinterpreted as: collaborative-“bias”) verification helps to filter out subjective or biased opinions, which contributes to a better grasp of an objective an accurate assessment of feedback.
- Consistency of Communication - checking feedback with others promotes consistent communication, ensuring that all stewards are aligned in their understanding of events and expectations, fostering a cohesive and unified approach to the tasks at hand.
- Accountability, Systematic Identification of Recurring Issues, Clarification - as if borrowing from a thesaurus playbook - entrusting others with information regarding the same incident from multiple perspectives gives room to enshrine cross-verification to encourage stewards to take their roles and responsibilities seriously, fostering a culture of responsibility - systematisation ensures that given enough experience, stewards no longer have to be nannied into their roles but can become autonomous extensions of a supervisor’s role in minding several observational posts in human form - an organic C.C.T.V. operational system with an in-depth observational experience, which is a reinforcement of scope and potential of dealing with problems that the seemingly detached control room operatives are not inclined to entertain; in short - a dialectical approach of confronting disparaging accounts, opinions, filters out any potential obfuscation or outright falsehood.

Outline different ways of encouraging the stewards to provide both positive and negative feedback on the event and arrangements

Both positive and negative feedback is essential in that: positive feedback can be celebrated while negative feedback can be reflected upon, therefore learned from, making the two indistinguishable (however) is a failsafe approach that creates a way to establish: encouragement-in-itself of giving both and not ensuring that stewards are not bothered about distinguishing the positive from the negative. If, however, the negative implies an intra- / inter- problem with regards to staffing dynamics, an anonymous method done so in a written format should be made available by a dropbox - where people are not impeded from giving their opinion - which is not to imply that an opinion can be a rumour and not 100% factual - therefore in such instances cross-referencing should be invoked. As such, private conversations with regards to giving negative feedback about how staff found it difficult to work together should be encouraged rather than in a collective debriefing session with all staff members being present, yet if the overall staff performance was seen in a negative light, everyone should be addressed as if they were accountable: even though they might not have been, yet this at least doesn’t single out individuals that provided the most negative results, since these individuals are already known to either supervisors or managers. Yet to reiterate, ensuring that stewards see both the positives and the negatives as indistinguishable, ensures that both types of feedbacks can be given - since rarely will there only be negative feedback, as in that stereotypical citation: ‘do you want to hear the good news or the bad news, first?’ Both are necessary. Another crucial way to encourage stewards to give both positive and negative feedback is to instil in them a sense of accountability and responsibility, ownership of their experiences - insisting that it is absolutely necessary for managers and supervisors to know whether or not their work environment is safe from abuse - stewards should know that, like other places of work, whether that be a supermarket or an medical centre (there are even posters insisting that abuse of staff is not permitted with such posters showing a doctor, subsequently a police officer a judge and a prison guard) - stewards should not be subjected to abuse where other areas of work do not permit abuse of staff; negative feedback must be encouraged so that preventative measures can be implemented in the future, this also ensures that stewards feel safe so that they in return can provide spectators with safety and security. (Positive feedback is therefore, merely complimentary, yet nonetheless important, as a pick-me-up).

Describe effective leadership and motivational skills

Effective leadership and motivational skills are essential in fostering a positive and productive work environment. In no particular order, since pretty much all the following skills are equally important, a supervisor should have the following qualities (in terms of leadership):
- Being a strategic thinker - someone who sets a clear direction for a team and thinks strategically about long-term goals inspires a sense of purpose and direction, aligning team efforts toward a common outcome.
- Communication proficiency - a supervisor ought to be able to communicate clearly, concisely - actively listening to team members and adapts communication styles to different team members, which enhances understanding, fosters collaboration and builds trust among team members.
- Decision-making / Problem-solving - a supervisor ought to make informed decisions, considering alternatives should they be necessary and does not have a problem addressing challenges effectively, which impacts the team by building confidence of each individual member ensuring that problems are resolved quickly, giving a team more focus to consider solving issues down the line.
- Empathy - an empathetic supervisor understands and considers the emotions of team members, demonstrating emotional intelligence, which fosters a supportive culture, strengthens relationships and showcases genuine care for the well-being of individuals.
- Delegation - the more a competent supervisor is the more effective his skill at delegating tasks for a team based on team members’ strengths and developmental needs, which in turn empowers team members, promotes skill development and optimises the overall team performance.
- Accountability - an accountable supervisor takes responsibility for outcomes, both in successes and failures since a supervisor is responsible for team members, any shortcomings are his responsibility and he / she will have to be accountable for any poor performance, this in turn builds trust and sets a positive example by encouraging a culture of accountability for all team members.
- Leading by example - a supervisor who leads by example by setting high standards of work ethic in turn models the behaviour expected from team members.
- Conflict resolution - effective supervisors should be able to address conflicts constructively, facilitating resolution and maintaining a positive team dynamic, which in turn ought to reduce tension, promote collaboration and ensures a harmonious working environment - needless to, conflicts can arise not only between staff and spectators but also between colleagues, which can be more dangerous, since a conflicting team is ineffective at the job.

In terms of motivational skills there also several key elements to employ:
- Recognition and Appreciation - recognising and appreciating individual and team achievements boosts morale, encourages a continued effort and reinforces positive behaviour.
Providing challenges - assigning challenging tasks that might stretch an individual’s capabilities stimulates personal growth and fosters a sense of achievement while also maintaining interest in the work (enthusiasm).
- Promoting autonomy - this might actually be one of the most crucial aspects of motivation - by giving team members autonomy to make decisions with their areas of responsibility boots confidence, increases job satisfaction and fosters a sense of ownership of authority and a supervisor-to-team-member sense of trust and loyalty as it provides proof that they are trusted enough to not have to be constantly reminded that they might not be doing the job correctly - that they can own their work and do not have to be nannied, rather: allowed to work by themselves and as part of a team.

Nota bene: in my experience, it is also worth noting that when I was still only a steward, some supervisors did not even take the time to learn the names of each of their staff members, this sort of depersonalisation did not win such supervisors any favours, rather it fostered resentment at being treated like an “it” - from experience I have learned that once a personal bond is established with each individual team member, that they are spoken to directly, their names are used and a confident eye-contact is present throughout - even if after a team briefing a miniature individual briefing is conducted, it fosters a closer bond that makes working with people more effective and dare I say: pleasant. This little detail, of knowing each team member’s name is crucial - after all: to anyone’s identity, since chances are spectators will not ask for a staff members’ name (and are not expected to do so), therefore spending an entire day dealing with impersonal spectators referring to staff members with the use of pronouns - addressing staff by their names fosters a shared atmosphere of being able to be address by spectators impersonally.

perhaps i could complain about my name,
but then i heard no complaints from
someone like Adam about only being endowed
with one vowel like to like
and two consonants -
i could complain about not being named Phones
or Phanes - or Phinus -
i rather imagine the two omicrons to
be like the eyes i peer through
at the iota trapped standing up in my third eye
of mind

the S to account for Asclepios
      and the N as the striding posture of Horus...
hell... modern times allowed for Lacanian
algebra... the phallus...
i have my own algebra...
i never thought i could have invented my own
algebra...
how philosophy and thought disparage...
given how much thought is not invested
in philosophy...

the Key (I) and keyhole (O)...
which returns me to the opening of keyhole
and door (Ω) through the added incision
of Ó                     how i might
turn to my twin-imaginary-self
of becoming Θανoς -
    
     by morphing the attraction of ascribing
an alpha to a theta rather than retaining
the omicron of my initial phi...

sigh: how the surd p was integrated
into      Ψ ( Υυ) upsilon...
       sigh-co-logic... (p)seudo-
                          
                            Δε(α)Θ.  (death)

if there is any confusion: A(dam), E(ve),
                                     I(sa), O(ma) and U(rus)...

well it's not confusing anymore given
the algebra of the motto of the one who uttered
i'm the Alpha and the Omega...

i must concede, for upkeeping sake...
i harvest the alpha and the beta
and the consequences of the linear projection
later jumbled up into words like
one might be an atom later a snail
later a man later a speaking higher vanguard
that's humanoid
since no longer relying on the anti-history
of Darwinism...

Immediate longing
For you when alone
Irresistible urges
Keep checking my phone
And when sudden emerges
The blue little dot
All my prior engagements
Already forgot
Now my worded arrangement
Bouquets
I convey
And take care to precisely
Concisely display
The true colors
Of my
Truest lovers’
Goodbyes
Across canvas oblivion
Spilling insides

Walking alone in the mist of deceit,
Heavy breathing billowing down to my feet,
The one I trust is someone I cannot keep,
Willfully complaisant in the role of a sheep,
Giving everything on this battlefield too steep,
I'm enamored to be courting, but now I weep.

Arms stretched, mind benched, legs drenched, body wrenched, my portrait of a family, a pursuit of forbidden fruit.

Her lies in thickness I can't recognize,
My cries to rid this sickness compartmentalize,

I've accomplished the impossible knightly,
She destroyed the possibility frightningly,
The children shielded of being scorn admirably,
Family perturbed and overwrought widely,
Friends preserve and safeguard concisely,
Triangulations throng her presence authoritatively,
The grimness overtaking the air forever nightly.

One domino regressed to the fallen,
bringing the collapse upon all of them,

Irony of the first domino on top,
The rest are outlined in chalk,
Holding them all up I fought,
But the pain never stopped,
I fall over plopped,
I can't walk.

Never able to achieve the masterpiece,
My soul in fleece is slowly released,
The devil has poached me from the crease,
I'll never be able to restack any piece.

This page is too vast of an estate; too generous of an allowance, for my meagre heartache. Perhaps another language would do, employing whose alien words; My heart's entirety concisely expressed in such characters, though they be but a few.