1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.

The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.

The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.

Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.

The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.

The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.

The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.

The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.

Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.

In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.

As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.

I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.

The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.

First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.

The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.

Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.  

History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.

A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.

As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.

We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.

The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.

The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.

From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?  
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?

Was the illusive
article of liberty  
worth its weight in
the blood expended?

Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?

Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?

Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.

The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.  

Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.

Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered  from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.

I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.

2.

The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.

WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.

During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.

As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.

Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.

Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.

The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.

Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.

We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.

The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.

Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.

America desperately
needs a new narrative.

The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.

The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.

It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.

Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.

3.

During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.

Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.

The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.  

They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.

They will spare nothing.

Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.

The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.

From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing  
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.

The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.  

The capitol is
indeed burning
again.

Looters are
running riot.

The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.

Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.

MLK has lost
his humanity.

He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.  

MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.

Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument,  I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.

I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.

This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.

Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.

They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.

4.

A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.

The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.

Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.

Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.

To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.

5.

DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.

Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.

USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.

The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.

A crowd  
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.

I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.

DC is all surface.

It is full of walls
and mirrors.

Its primary hue
is obfuscation.

Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.

The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.

Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.  

Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.

Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.  

They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.

They are the children
of privilege.

They will never
alter their path.

You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.

These young ones
portray a countenance  
of benevolent rulers.  

They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.

They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.

6.

Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.

I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.

I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.

Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.

America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.

Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.  

I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.

I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”

The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.

The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.

I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.

The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.

7.

Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.

The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.

Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.  

The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.  

Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.

Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.

I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?

I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.  

In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.

The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.

As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.

They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.

I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.

If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.

8.

I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.

My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.

My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.

The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.

Yet they remain
inert.  

Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.

The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.  

They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.

They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.

America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.

Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.

I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th

LAST UPDATE:
I won't cancel my account here and delete any poems which I like... I once was a poet here with freedom of speech. It is past now. Thank you all. Black, blue, silver, green or white can't be repainted with pink, as some state paid fools would desire. Bye

I STARTED WITH THIS;
Please be aware that the account hellopoetry.com/retardnnn with current female nickname "sara" IS NOT A REAL PERSON POETRY ACCOUNT, but a social media watching account used by the MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR OF THE CZECH REPUBLIC.

Please don't follow this account or support it anyway. If you get or did get any private messages from this account, they are a scam.

Since 2016, this account "retardnnn" can be found on many social media platforms including deviantart.com/retardnnn and many others. Here are some characteristics of it:

- there is never any uploaded content of the user, so no poems from "sara" even on this site where an invitation poem is required to join the community (perhaps deleted after joining)
- favorites of the fictional user are completely non-sense and accidental, completed just by clicking on similar tags, resulting in a mix of poems coming from many years, this is very distinct from a real person loving poems from people who they watch at a moment. You can see it yourself on hellopoetry.com/retardnnn
- in other sites like pinterest.com, the photo of "retardnnn" or "Sara" is some kind of pretty looking teenage girl. Even not being the same ******* all sites, this is a (jail)bait. By searching the source of the profile pictures, as I did, you can go back to the years 2012 or 2013, and the source photo is matched to Russian websites. This is certainly NOT a real person.

Use your brain, not sympathy for girl names.

I claim the main reason the mentioned profile joined Hellopoetry several months ago is me. Particularly my short prose written in Czech that I published here on December 28th which mocks in a very unpleasant way corruption-driven part of state administration in Prague, responsible for supervising so-called "independent contractors" employment model which is widespread in my country (also known in UK and US I guess). It also targeted particular state official in Prague in a way that became some kind of popular after that. With this text, I achieved what I wanted and I am proud of it.

The user hellopoetry.com/retardnnn is now watching me but I blocked them, so is present just as number 6 but invisible in my watchers list.

I WILL DELETE THIS non poetry related text after this user GETS OFF THIS SITE. Thanks, LV

The employee rights complaint written by me dealing with Czech authorities is accessible through http://tinyurl.com/svarcsystem (in Czech language of course).

UPDATE: In an attempt to discourage people reading my poems, I have ADS IN FRONT of my poems. You can see it by logging off (at least from my IP).

UPDATE 2: For visitors coming outside, the number of views of this text IS FALSIFIED, compared to what I see when I log in.

UPDATE 3: After publishing this, ads disappeared. Also user hellopoetry.com/retardnnn stopped watching me. The number of views of my texts is rising again.

UPDATE 4: Ads again renewed, but this time for any poems I see from my IP (country). Guys are working hard.

UPDATE 5: After having published new header about censorship on my profile page, FREQUENCY OF ADS dropped but they are still present.

UPDATE 6: Still being the same guy (Adasyev) I have changed my profile name to a better known one, only to see if this will influence displaying ads.

UPDATE 7: After doing this, the number of views (of this text) as seen below is blocked at 251 (for readers coming outside the community, my IP or country). The number of views at my poems is also blocked.

UPDATE 8: Number of views is fixed to 540 as of August 5. This is meant from country's IP adresses.

UPDATE 9: When viewed from my country's IP, the profile hellopoetry.com/retardnnn is still present with 8 followers.

UPDATE 10: Number of views of this text was fixed to 635 when viewed from my country's IP. As of August 6. When I log in the current number is 715. Ads are displaying almost everywhere on this site from my country's IP. Immediately after publishing the above text number is modified to 726. Any future value will be falsified and blocked from my country, so it lacks a sense to continue with this updating.

UPDATE 11: In response to the censorship on this site from my country I have already deleted in the last days the incriminated text from December 28th and few others concerning state administration in my country.

PLEASE NOTE: With the current censorship on this server in Czech Republic, you can't be sure whether I get or did get any private messages from you. I didn't get one till now.

I DIDN'T REPLY TO ANYONE TILL NOW. IF YOU GET ANY MESSAGES FROM ME, BE SURE THE ONLY THING I CAN DO HERE NOW IS TO UPDATE THIS TEXT AND MY PROFILE'S TEXT.

Link to this post is:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2631516/a-message-from-me/

Shortened link (as seen in my profile's header) is:
tinyurl.com/linktomylasttext

UPDATE 2021-06-14: I got reaction by e-mail telling me that hellopoetry.com/retardnnn and other accounts ARE surely NOT related to Czech state administration, they belong to a young person. The events above mentioned remain unclear.

IMMEDIATELY PLEASE REMOVE ALL OF MY INFORMATION FROM YOUR DATA BASE FORTHWITH.  ALSO,
ADVISE ANY AND ALL CONTRACTORS, SUB-CONTRACTORS, AGENTS, SUB-AGENTS, AFFILIATES, PARTNERS, COLLEAGUES, ASSOCIATES, CLIENTS, WEBMASTERS, WEB BASED LINKS, WINKS, TWINKS, COLONEL CLINCKS, BOSSES, CO-WORKERS, EMPLOYEES, VENDORS, SUPPLIERS, SALESMEN, ASCCOUNT REPS/EXCS, ACCOUNTANTS, BROKERS, CO-BROKERS, HACKERS, SLACKERS, WHACKERS, JERKS, PIMPS, HOES, HOBOS, BUMS, DERELICTS, DEGENERATES, DOPERS, DEALERS, TWEEKERS, GAMBLERS, RAMBLERS, SOLICITORS, SIDEKICKS, COHORTS, WINGMEN, WHEELMEN, LOOKOUTS, OUTLAWS, IN-LAWS, RELATIVES, FIANCES, GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS, FAMILY, FRIENDS, ENEMIES, EVIL NEMISIS', CANVASSERS, INQUIRERS, QUEERS, QUEENS, COWBOYS, KINGS, ****, DRAGS, HAGS, HETEROS, HOMOS, TONY ROMOS, FEMALE IMPERSONATORS, (PRE OR POST) MALE IMPERSONATORS, *****, *****, VAN *****, **** VAN ****, LESBIANS, LIARS, BUYERS, CRYERS, CIGAR SMOKERS, CARPET MUNCHERS, RUG RATS, TODDLERS, TEENAGERS, YOUNGSTERS, SENIORS, SUCKERS, TRUCKERS, MOTHER shut yer mouth, LAW MAKERS, LAWYERS, ATTORNEYS, JUDGES, POLITICIANS, PECKERWOODS, LEADERS, FOLLOWERS, DISCIPLES, PROPHETS, EVANGELISTS, SAVIORS, SINNERS, SAINTS, SOOTHSAYERS, MEDICINE MEN, GYPSYS, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES, WITCHES, WARLOCKS, VAMPIRES, LYCANS, ZOMBIES, WAR MONGERS, PROTESTERS, SOLIDERS, GENERALS, GOVERNORS, PRESIDENTS, PATRIOTS, PACKERS, LIONS, BEARS, BROWNS, BLACKHAWKS, REDWINGS, RIGHT WING, LIBERALS, OR LAW BIDING CITIZENS, THEY ARE NOT TO CONTACT ME AND LOOSE MY NUMBER.
BUT IF YOU SEE MY MOM, TELL HER TO CALL ME.

............................................................­............BA-ZING..............................................­......................

they meet at hospital locked unit for torture victims undisclosed site no unauthorized access their condition experiences high risk public relations for war effort mainly patients seclude themselves in anxious solitude when not in anxious treatment they will remain under strict government surveillance until war is over at which time another administration will determine their resolve

she graduated from Stanford with Masters in 9 languages employed jointly by Hachette Livre and Random House Mondadori publishers United Nations attaché interpreter translator then Special Forces Black Ops

he graduated P.H.D. from M.I.T. in political military economic social information infrastructure systems tactical behavior strategy campaign employed by private security contractors consortium assigned to unidentified location

her captors splayed arms legs to table force fed 1 gallon ***** down throat 2 gallon enema without anesthesia sewed shut eyelids **** sphincter then starved rat inserted in ******

his captors blindfolded handcuffed victim prepare beheading live internet feed decide instead shackle him to wall douse gasoline ignite water hose scorching body 3rd degree burns then apply nail-gun through testicles ***** dowel to temporal lobe

act 1 scene 1

small unused visiting room 2 gray couches end table with lamp vase of plastic flowers

HE sits in wheelchair severe burn scars to face scalp body memory loss hoarse raspy voice stiff protracted body motion

SHE under continuous psychotherapy supervision patient suffers severe PTSD shaky submissive prescribed modified combinations of 13 medications (Prozac Adapin Vivactil Nardil Desyrel Wellbutrin BuSpar Klonopin Vistaril Neurontin Inderal Catapres Seroquel) administered twice daily

HE i brought you bacon strips in napkin from breakfast

SHE (eyelids flutter hands tremble) thank you but you keep it (pause) you know i used to be vegetarian

HE i know i look monstrous get over it there’s a real human being trapped inside this mutilated mess

SHE i i i can’t talk (pause) don’t know what to say (pause) after they sewed me up they ripped me apart shoved rodent to gnaw my insides (pause) skinned cooked made me eat it

HE you’re still alive aren’t you quit your whining show some gratitude stop being such a big baby

SHE how dare you ******* accuse me you’ve got you’re ****** **** nerve

HE i apologize please forgive me i’m not myself since the injuries i’m desperate for diversion pain management escape from excruciating pain nightmare thoughts i still endure

SHE who’s the big baby now

HE please help me overcome this consuming terror distract me with your loveliness please be my muse

SHE i’m no healer what do you mean be your muse

HE inspire me open yourself up to me arouse feelings beyond my suffering

SHE i’m useless look at me i’m a basket-case

HE spread your legs let me see

SHE what! you’re rude blunt disgusting

HE show me your cooch you got ***** hair?

SHE oh god you are so ****** creepy repulsive (pause) and I’m not a very hairy person

HE come on darling work with me stroke me relieve me

SHE i don’t even want to think or know about it go take care of it yourself

HE i’ve tried i can’t stay focused i see my disfigurement then get sidetracked i can’t get myself off

SHE all i am to you is a piece of *** you brutal *******

HE you could show a little tenderness maybe nurturing fix what’s broken give it up to me girl please i beg you let me do you or do me

SHE i was informed your ***** is shredded testicles disengaged

HE who told you that it’s a lie my ***** are maimed yet intact my **** still gets ***** granted it’s not a pretty sight keep your eyes shut

SHE (body twitches) you want power over me

HE ***** power i want some release i want you in control you in charge of my ******* please be my curing goddess

SHE (looks away) i don’t trust you

HE what’s not to trust i’m a pitiful casualty of war just like you we weren’t born like this but we’re both now doomed useless pathetic

SHE you could try being more polite civil congenial perhaps if we were friends first liked each other and you won my sympathies but you’re so forceful intrusive

HE war does that to a person

SHE please make an effort

HE you mean if i talk nice you’ll consider

SHE i will take it into consideration

HE i think you’re pretty more than just pretty beautiful

SHE i’m shattered damaged wrecked ruined

HE i see beauty in your face figure beauty in your words reactions

SHE i’m afraid to let anyone inside

HE i’ll be real gentle i promise

SHE i’m scared

HE yeah i’m scared too scared i’ll shoot blood instead of *****

SHE shut up

HE help me please find a way back to myself a way to accept love respect you

SHE hmmm uhhh since you phrase it that way i’ll think about it i’m not promising anything just considering (pause) ok? (pause) how would we go about doing this?

HE we used up our free time today they’ll be searching for you begin picturing in your mind how you would like it done imagine feeling loved protected

SHE (eyelids waver) help me learn slow how to do this dance

HE every step of the way

SHE thank you see you tomorrow

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THE BALLOONS hang on wires in the Marigold Gardens.
They spot their yellow and gold, they juggle their blue and red, they float their faces on the face of the sky.
Balloon face eaters sit by hundreds reading the eat cards, asking, "What shall we eat?"-and the waiters, "Have you ordered?" they are sixty ballon faces sifting white over the tuxedoes.
Poets, lawyers, ad men, mason contractors, smartalecks discussing "educated *******," here they put ***** into their balloon faces.
Here sit the heavy balloon face women lifting crimson lobsters into their crimson faces, lobsters out of Sargossa sea bottoms.
Here sits a man cross-examining a woman, "Where were you last night? What do you do with all your money? Who's buying your shoes now, anyhow?"
So they sit eating whitefish, two balloon faces swept on God's night wind.
And all the time the balloon spots on the wires, a little mile of festoons, they play their own silence play of film yellow and film gold, bubble blue and bubble red.
The wind crosses the town, the wind from the west side comes to the banks of marigolds boxed in the Marigold Gardens.
Night moths fly and fix their feet in the leaves and eat and are seen by the eaters.
The jazz outfit sweats and the drums and the saxophones reach for the ears of the eaters.
The chorus brought from Broadway works at the fun and the slouch of their shoulders, the kick of their ankles, reach for the eyes of the eaters.
These girls from Kokomo and Peoria, these hungry girls, since they are paid-for, let us look on and listen, let us get their number.
  
Why do I go again to the balloons on the wires, something for nothing, kin women of the half-moon, dream women?
And the half-moon swinging on the wind crossing the town-these two, the half-moon and the wind-this will be about all, this will be about all.
  
Eaters, go to it; your mazuma pays for it all; it's a knockout, a classy knockout-and payday always comes.
The moths in the marigolds will do for me, the half-moon, the wishing wind and the little mile of balloon spots on wires-this will be about all, this will be about all.

Society moves like a bullet
And there's no way to cool it
We're not big fans of reflection
So we become slaves to deflection
Bouncing off of hard surfaces
Like limiting gun purchases
Constriction isn't part of or vocabulary
Proliferation is all we know
Watching weapon supplies grow

I live in a country
Riddled by bullets
Bullets that blast through our ****** body
Though the holes in our mind are bigger
When we can **** those we think are naughty
We become judges when we pull the trigger
But the media makes mountains out of molehills
And it is for those exaggerated reasons we ****

We are stuck in a bullet storm
When TV advertises bullet ****
This helps make bullets the norm
So we treat mass shootings with a familiarity
Because we can't acknowledge the only similarity
Is obviously the gun
We're blinded by the sun
Of defense contractors
They're negative reactors
When we purpose a change
The conversation they rearrange
By firing in every possible direction
This is the aforementioned deflection
And it works
You can tell because people are dying
Or standing in the street crying
Or watching the news sighing

Bullet time has wooed us
Bullet crimes have moved us
There are people who gain wealth
From our diminishing health
They hold society on their rope
And the only way we can cope
Is to ****** that rope from their greedy grasp and pull it
But that's hard to do while being punctured by bullets

gambling, and to think that money has become rampant, pointless, towering over man, where once money was deemed an effective medium of passing labour, now, gambling has proved the complete defunct nature of the construct... when once a respectable way of rewarding shared labours, now, a means to bloat it, inflate it, give it extra cotton candy... i'd like to see times when money had some value, but since there is none to it in an applicable sense, no wonder its flushed down the toilet at the gambling table... for a "species" that wonders at making things refined and more efficient, to see the unrefined end product of the ultimate inefficiency; it's almost sad to watch.

i understand islam in only one way,
if i heard correctly islam
dictates a rigour in appreciating
money,
           in that, if i (once again) heard
correctly, islam doesn't
appreciate interest...
    i.e. if you borrow £100,
          you give £100 back...
    not £100 + 20%...
                  and i really do appreciate
the sanity of using money,
an abstract (compared to the value
of gold or timber, or a painting)
form of a thing...
   but the problem is, money has become
less and less reasonable,
in that it has become less tool-like
and more: parasitic-like.
              i do appreciate the fact
that money creates an exponential growth
of possible jobs,
  that it allows people to do nothing
more than a *Pilate gesture -
i.e. washing their hands clean...
    but we live in times of hidden slavery,
i have a friend who's in his 50s...
he's not paying off his house,
       he doesn't own it,
        he's paying off the interest rates!
so basically he's renting rather than working
toward a capital...
          i have no idea how the original
idea of money has become infested by
a %... it should really be written
     %10 rather than any elevation to
a currency...
                  £10 is actually £23.50 when
monday it is spent, and by friday when it's
asked to be repaid...
  it's an implosive multiplication,
covert...
       you ask for a potato,
you're asked for four potatoes back!
          i can't believe that people are still
so sane if at least playing the role of sensible
with a thing, that's clearly inorganic,
and can't self-replicate without a cheat
mechanism being in place...
             like i said, if i heard correctly,
islam abhors usury -
                lending on an interest...
     but i might have misheard this,
even though i might not have, misheard it...
i understand money in that
i understand someone willing to do
   a ****** job to get his UNIVERSAL UNIT
of interaction,
i get that, i'd do a ****** job if i had to
in order to watch the Pilates of this world
play the Gatsby...
(book? not so great)....
                    the philosopher's stone
the trans-valuation of values is but a copper
coin away from any reason to
fathom a sensibility in such affairs...
      but imagine merely paying off
the interests rates, and never the product
you supposedly bought...
            **** me that's a tearjerker -
all the communists in hell are either laughing
or immune in a pensive pose of:
the **** is that?
           - and if this is true about islam,
i.e. you take one, you give one back...
and not,
you take one, you give two back...
money unlike any other thing in this world
is sick... it's infected with
a propagation virus...
         a mad self-multiplier...
the same self-multiplier which is the reason
why we produce more than we need,
in that we produce both product,
         and waste.
                    even if you applied the keenest
of minds in the field of mathematics to
the concept of money,
   you'd create a half-breed of
both genius and ******...
         since economics is the antithesis of
mathematics, as is the mathematicians'
abandonment of the calculator,
   the only worthwhile arithmetic these days
is imbued by the spelling of a word
correctly...
                 you don't write it: you snap into it!
- and i must admit, a strange way
of "counting" - rearranging the set pieces -
which explains why there's a blind-spot
in the japanese puzzle: súdokū -
again: diacritical marks are punctuation
marks from above, intra-verbum not
inter-verbum...
         once again, why is money so supposedly
complex? it's not,
   i can understand that some people
would prefer someone else to do something
unpleasant, like, slaughter a cow
and never make it to guest list of a baron's
banquet...
  i understand the Pilate gesture -
i wouldn't even appreciate the baron's
company to say the least,
         but money, as it was originally intended
is sick...
     it can't be anything more than
a sickness that has infected it...
mind you, my father is self-employed,
you know how they actually treat contractors?
like ****...
   he asked for travel expenses
  for his sub-contractors...
                he wasn't paid the travel expenses...
say what you will, but at least communism
had some principles,
this degenerate disintegration,
decomposition of capitalism due to the lack
of external competition on
ideological grounds is festering into
     what one might only see as:
cannibalism...
                when companies shed
their respect for the workers,
  whether independent of aligned to a company
ethos, something will finally give way...
i understand money,
but money has a virus in it,
  it's become a false multiplier of itself...
sure, that might have added to the success
of the multiplication of mankind
but as people have noted:
a universal wage...
since how much work is there to be done
these days, when all this demand for
work inevitably produces a waste product
from over-production?
          money was never supposed
to covertly self-multiply exponentially -
which means why money no longer has
the same value as it once did,
ascribed to something valuable -
paper money is toilet paper -
            as already suggested by
those bankers burning it to light a cigar...
a perpetual hellhole where even
         a DaVinci canvas is paper and is worth
such as much...
             idealistic? tosh...
                no wonder people have started
to look for value in the crevices of ownership...
but i don't understand the smart-phone
clinging... i said crevices i didn't imply
a ******* ball & chain...
                            a crease in a shirt,
the fact that -1 feels a lot warmer on a dry night
than +5 on a wet night...
                 i'll still fall asleep today
thinking that money has is infected with
a parasitic entity,
after all... not even money, is beyond
illness...
                 if money corrupts,
it would seem only sensible that
the first thing to be corrupted, would be the thing
that corrupts...
    money made sense, once upon a time...
   it truly did...
           now all it resembles is spare change,
or the fact that, once upon a time,
you would be deemed mad when
finding a £20 banknote on the street,
as i have done.

I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

                                    In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.

III

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

                              You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
    You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
    You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
    You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
    You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The ****** flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

V

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

    Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

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upon the Abington Station's
long shearing board
the feats of one shearer
cannot be ignored
a run of two hundred sheep
he can easily shear
his style with the cutting comb
is without peer
contractors in the district
know of his pace
he removes fleeces
with an elegant grace

the Lister wool press
compacts all the long day
whilst the gun shearer
works tirelessly away
Kelpie dogs tongue
keeping his race full
as Layto shears the fine clips
of merino wool
none are as effective
with comb in hand
in the regional area
of the New England

Layto shears the sheep
cleanly and effortlessly
whether the fleeces
be thick or slightly oily
his shearing abilities
are know of near and far
on the shearing shed board
he's always bettered par
when he hangs up
the cutting comb to retire
fellow shearers will of him
greatly admire

I was always a really ***** kid. Not in a slimy way but I always just liked playing out in the trees even though I’d come home with my knees caked with ****** ***** and my hair tangled with sap that would take days to wash out and I’d have to quietly wash off with the garden hose because there would be Hell To Pay if I tracked mud in the house. It was my solace, mostly, running away into the whispering pines that surrounded my house until I was 13 and our neighbors sold it out to contractors and a family with a boy who liked to torture bugs moved in and that was the end of my hiding place. But until then I knew the fastest way to the river that hardly anyone else ever visited and I knew the best place to hide and I could climb this one fir in three seconds flat and it was wide enough that it would shelter my 9 year old shoulders. I always wore these little blue leather sandals which were a luxury because the rest of the time I had to wear orthopedic shoes because I was born with club feet that still hurt when I run too much. Even though my hands liked to dig in the dirt and I liked to feel the ground under my bare skin I was never really a tomboy. I wore this purple velvet skirt all the time and I wore my blonde hair long enough that I could sit on it. My hair has always been a security blanket for me and it’s still a defining feature now that it curls around my ears in a way that people seem to like. But at the time, pre-puberty it was always long and slightly tangled and my mom would take it in her fist and pull my head back and threaten to cut it off whenever she was angry, which was often, or when I didn’t brush it, which was almost as often. My house felt bigger then, when my chin was doorknob-level and the swings my dad built made you feel like you were flying. Our house was yellow and green and from the gardens and forests around it you could almost picture it being in some movie, some sun-drenched movie from the 70s and with my long wood-colored hair and outdated sandals I would have fit in. I’ve never looked like the rest of my family, who are all thinner, more angular somehow, and their skin was always freckled and rough. My skin has always been so clear you can see the veins running under the surface and my limbs have always been longer, softer, and I was fat for a few years until I stopped eating altogether and suffered over the calorie count of celery versus carrots and would lie in bed with my head spinning and every bone in my body aching. But that was a different time, and as a child I preferred to lie on the warm sidewalk and watch the cars pass and tell myself that if six cars passed before my mom got home I would be safe and today would be a good day. Sometimes five would pass and it would still be a good day, and sometimes ten would pass and it would be one of the worst yet, but it was a childlike game and it comforted me to think I had control over her actions. That was back when hearing the front door open at 7 made ***** rise in my throat and hearing her 160 pound footsteps on the nubbly carpet outside of my room made my body shut down before her hands even touched the door. There was a technique to turning off your mind. I learned this before I could ride a bike and it all came down to two very simple things: close your eyes, and it will be over soon. You just had to wait things out and afterwards you could run to the bathroom and watch the blood pool in the white porcelain tub and it would slide down, slightly foamy, with hot water that burned over the fresh scars that mingled with faded ones in places my own hands could never reach.

Amid the white notebooks dotting my desk
hides a half-drawn sketch
laying down some image of an ideal poem.

It sits incomplete, but the plans I made
surface to my vision—
a sturdy poem of stubborn build,

words, pliant, sad, and simple
deft-attached, vine-like wrapped
around bamboo scaffolds astride black steel framing.

Dangling from two pinched fingers,
the sketch has yet to display
its mid-sized trees (for scale)

and the few more floors envisioned.
It could house with ease
a teeming, drunken mass

of patients with a fear of heights
and post-traumatic stress.
The burn of my popped lighter

curves over the paper plane where the grassy lot’s drawn,
where my hired architect would stand
and plan the façade, no windows.

His blueprints would radiate the math
of symmetric perfection
found symbolic of its New-Age form.

Designers would be flown in
from around the world,
contractors would be called.

And the sheer simplicity of it all
would test their expertise
challenged at last by the spire and final stanza

which, if drawn, would only now
be caught up by the flame
casually ribboned across the page.

Streatham's White Garden lies between a walled Old English garden and a small orchard in the Rookery, once the grounds of a large house dating back to 1786, and now an historic Grade II listed public garden. The elegant double borders, backed by trees and climbers and edged with lawn, echo each other down the length of the garden, with white benches marking each end. Still the only white garden in any of London's public parks, the White Garden pre-dates Vita Sackville-West's famous grey, green and white garden at Sissinghurst by at least 30 years.

Local volunteers under the leadership of Kew-trained designer Alison Alexander and project co-ordinator Charlotte Dove (both working for the Friends of Streatham Common, who successfully raised funding for the project from the Heritage Lottery Fund) carried out the recent restoration. The restoration was based on archival research and visits to other historic gardens, and is faithful to the spirit of the Arts and Crafts-inspired Edwardian original. Many of the plants in the new design have been chosen for their historical associations, including shasta daisy (Leucanthemum x superbum), ostrich fern (Matteuccia struthiopteris), and a white cultivar of the old-fashioned English rose, Rosa spinosissima – all plants that would have been as familiar to the leading lights of the movement, such as William Robinson and Gertrude Jekyll, as they were to the Edwardian gardeners who planted up the original garden.

This is a serene place, much loved by visitors. But serenity is not the whole story – determination also plays a role in the history of this garden. Streatham residents fought a public campaign to rescue the Rookery grounds (the house itself was demolished in 1912) from the wave of suburban housebuilding that reached a peak in the years before the First World War. The gardens were laid out by Major Philip Maud of London County Council (LCC), and opened in 1913.

The concerns surrounding cramped urban living conditions that gave rise to the public parks movement in the nineteenth century remain a reality today. Open spaces are a necessary release valve: an escape from the pressures of city life, and proven to have a positive effect on mental and physical health. It is no coincidence that the LCC designs for other public gardens designed in the period (including the Old English garden in nearby Brockwell Park) were also influenced by the Arts and Crafts movement: it was a style ideally suited to the purpose, being itself a reaction to the negative impact of industrialization, and an expression of nostalgia for an idyllic imagined past.

Despite the pressures of the city, horticulture has long been part of this area's heritage, and for much of last century it thrived: amateur and professional gardeners alike participated in fruit and flower shows organised by newly-formed clubs and societies, well-maintained civic parks delighted visitors and residents, allotments flourished, and local nurserymen like John Peed of West Norwood produced lavish catalogues of the latest horticultural discoveries.

As government funding for green spaces has decreased, however, gardens like the Rookery have suffered from reductions in maintenance budgets: as late as the 1970s, seven gardeners were dedicated to the Rookery alone, but today only two contractors are based there. Once again local residents have responded, developing community groups, volunteer-led projects and local fundraising, and working closely with the Lambeth Parks Service. One such community group, the Streatham Common Co-operative (SCCoop), aims to take on the gardens and increase the number of gardeners. Applications for outside funding have been productive: most of the plants for the White Garden restoration were purchased with a grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund, with the Metropolitan Public Gardens Association providing a grant for new white roses. But resources are finite, and – in the best tradition of ecological planting – the new plants for the White Garden have been chosen to suit the prevailing conditions, and to flourish with minimal maintenance. Gardens have always thrived on both innovation and tradition, and the restoration of the White Garden at Streatham Rookery is a tribute to those who are prepared to find new ways of looking after treasured open spaces.

Love Mary ***

I’ve dreamed I was falling asleep
And shaking myself to keep awake.
There’s only so much weirdness
And crap a poor dreamer can take.
It was all involved with friends you see
That I don’t see now, because they
Were stranger than my dreams
Or maybe I was. Back in the day.

I would be partying with them
And walking remembered streets
But I’d look around and everybody
Found other people to go meet.
Then suddenly the Hollywood
I knew and loved for twenty years
Became Kansas City boulevards
And Hollywood totally disappears.

Or maybe I’m coming home
At the end of a tiring long day
And look around, find myself
Saying, no way. No effing way;
This is not my apartment!
It’s fine, I kind of like the place
But someone is pulling a joke
The housekeeping is a disgrace.

Then someone would come in
Who I was supposed to know
And this chick is my roommate?
Oh, no. This woman has got to go.
But before I can get my head
Wrapped around standing up
My family is there too, cooking
Handing me a steaming hot cup.

Well,, now I can’t offend them
So, I sit my *** back down.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful
Like some unfunny kind of clown.
******, I leave to go for a walk
Thinking I am in Tucson but then
This is the Country Club Plaza
And I’m back in Kansas City again.

One time I was building something,
Under an expensive sort of contract
But none of the sub-contractors
Or the assistants knew how to act.
They were putting the thing together
Like a Rube Goldberg machine.
I was going ballistic on them all;
The ugliest thing I had ever seen.

These are the dreamworlds for me
On a regular, but often bizarre basis.
Streets change while walking
And people I know change their faces.
Or I am tasked to do something
Involving technology or looming mass
I end up getting no help at all
And wind up falling right on my ***.

tattoos on both arms, shoulders wide,
shaved head with a scar
that scar was a jagged edged
piece of art
hung in the Gallery of Violence.

her mouth moved and it smelled of smoke
which tasted profane, her hair was clean
her dress was nice, in a rough way,
a piece of life,
living where few people Tread with Willing Hearts.

another stood on the corner, every one was rushing
to work in the early morning light,
her heels her legs, advertising near the job site,
dignity ignored,
stepping into the next contractors Pickup Truck that opened the door.

two hit and runs minutes apart after midnight
one younger was injured slightly
the other died from his unsightly injuries,
disregard for human life,
incidents related, no, they have caught and arrested one,
driving without care because of Where They Were, in Whalley

This just in, "Life Is In My Face",
could be anywhere,
but just down the road from my place,
all of this is too real,
how kind I rest, in the surreal?
When Life Is In My Face,
bending time, filling space,
raindrops like tears evaporate,
like the peace, like the tranquility, like the dignity, like the safety
of another city night, raining, raining
straining it seems, to get a rest,
from the beast that is easily aroused.

Don't be shy mate
Go out and fight people making them scared to go out
Don't be shy mate
Hit him hit him and then say you Are superior
Don't be shy mate
You see I want to party but you are getting in my way
Don't be shy mate
Go up to him and hit him on the back making him scared
But I don't like these voices getting out of control
You see I remember I used to hit this man five times in the back
I have a mental illness
I should not have done that
I don't want to get killed
I was a stark raving mad hooligan back in those days
I don't want to receive my destiny like getting a few hits in the back
I am an artist and writer
And I read my poems ok YouTube
You see I was a hooligan back then and I have to watch my back
But the whole truth is
I made mistakes
And I suffered for them
People bullied me around that time and I was hearing voices
And I was trying to be a cool dude who was having problems with my dad I know he helped me but I wanted to tease my dad and then go down to the mall and muck around with the young dudes at the mall
And a few people got in my way
My voices were saying hit him hit him hit him
So I did and I felt great at the time but now my brain is mushing away
I don't want to get killed for what I did
So j will watch my back
You see I have always tied myself up and I did it on people
Like I tied myself up and my brother was getting teased
I don't want to be treated like my brother because I suffered more than him in my life
And when he left home I went crazy and started causing problems at the mall
I am on medication now
And I don't want to cause problems anymore
I *** called a ***** when o bought cigarettes for a minor
Well, I was sick and now I am hearing my man in my good mate pat
You see he said
Don't be shy mate you are alright don't be shy just party
With the young dudes
But my brain was going haywire
And the seroquel is pushing all these problems out of me
But it is uncomfortable but
I was good
My dads spirit is saying
Don't be shy Brian
Write problems out of you
And don't be shy Brian
Get it out of you cause I am sure Buddha wouldn't want
You to suffer like this
Even if he does believe in
Positive suffering
Don't be shy Brian
Just get better and you move on I move on and we all can move on together
Even if I did cause that man to feel scared to go to the mall
The important thing is o am on medication and I am suffering
In a positive way
People say there is no such thing as positive suffering but
Sometimes if you do something that you no that is wrong but you do it because you want to be cool and you later find out you ain't cool for that you can't fix it if it is not fixed yet because I was the cause of his problems
I am working through it seeing people at mental health and joining groups to help in my recovery and I want to stay out of people's way because I shouldn't be shy I should do my art and writing and enjoy it
And I must not dwell in the past
I have a perfect family but I still made lots of mistakes but I was at the time trying to be cool
Nothing more
Dads spirit is saying
These voices are hogs wollop
You see I thought dad was trying to take my young dude away stop me from being cool
And then dad said he doesn't want to be cool and I tried to be a cool young dude causing havoc running amok
And I hope Betty Campbell
Wants to be cool because kids are supposed to be cool
And dad is now Betty
Dads with Barnesy now
Jimmy Barnes is her grand father and I have done positive things being on medication
Which should aid in my defence
I went to leap frog adventures
Where I went to meetings and I did camping and bushwalking
And other bush related activities and I went to the rainbow where I cooked the mentally ill a meal three days a week and I worked at north south  contractors where I was treated like a worker and not a problem child and I went on trips to the coast and I did a lot of volunteer work to apologise to Canberra for my wrong doings
I picked up all the ******* at the
Kingsleys chicken carpark and I was thanked
I played Santa for 11 years
As well as doing other jobs at vinnies
And I was trying to a cool young dude back then
So I won't do it again
But I have to watch my back
But I am found things now
Art writing and YouTube
Yes and I do the BBQ for
Belconnen magpies
And I go to the candle festival
And the Tuggeranong festival
And Christmas carols by candle light evenings and footy matches and many more
Dads spirit says
Don't be shy Brian
Do what you want to do
and don't try and be like other people

Oh darling.
Oh darling!
Help knot this noose.
Spill out the contractors spindled spew.

My leash is as tethered as my thoughts.
Kick the stool angled foot
Remove tension,
don't slack.

I've decided I just don't want to keep my thoughts inside.
They aren't always sane,
but have tendencies to seek the "in."

My departure welcomes the cold and bitter.
As the winter.
To which the tree holds the sight of.
Chlorophyll picked away from leaves
to fulfill a coming life.
I will restore the color back in the splintered rings held inside.

This withered branch; my neck.
Ready to untwine
From burdening weight balanced on my spine.
SNAP!

Fingers snap to my fall.
4 counts per measure
Each conducted with quietus posture.
A contortionist to the meaning of nurture.

Oh you
Oh darling
Oh me, oh my.
Hanging from this tree oh why says I.

Do I have to die?
Oh right,
NO! Wrong let's lie in light.

That tree giving color,
given hope.
Painted again by my deaths brush stroke.

What I thought would be so warm and welcoming...
Is only what I had before...
Nothing.

the day i tried to be a hooligan



you see i was being a hooligan back in the 90s oh yeah mate yeah

i was running around belconnen like a raging hooligan

you see i was hearing voices in my head

saying i am a woosey, but i know i am not, i am cool

you see dad was trying to tell me that i was with the wrong crowd

and i hear these voices from my best mate, leave brian alone mr allan

i don’t want to muck with you, i was picking on dad, but he had to call the police

and he put me on medication to ****** calm mevdown

you see i was a wild drinker and my beard was like a hobos

and dad went to his grave not knowing i was trying to be like pat

i don’t want to be like everyone else i prefer to be myself

and dad threatened to throw me out of the house but decided against it in the end

i wasn’t really that bad, i was nice to mum and dad one minute and horrible and wild the next

i ran off to an open pub in  the night to try and grab a good time

like las vegas and blind beggars as well as the hungry horse

i got totally hammered man and i bought one beer home

and sat on my bathroom floor trying to cool person

you see mum worried when she smelt beer on me

and i snapped at her without thinking

i bought 5 cases of the greatest beer and i decorated my flat into a little beer garden

where i can sit and rest

i don’t know why i get cranky oh no, maybe dad thought i was crazy

i say i was crazy, but not anymore

i did a tapestry on my thoughts as i drink to escape the voices

i told mum and dad things like do you like eric boyson and they said quieten down

i partied at the hungry horse drinking 23 beers

and getting really drunk oh yeah that was the life for me

i went to town centre tavern and page tavern and drank $50 worth of beer

i was trying to be like patrick a bit when i bought myself a packet of crisps

i heard my brother come flying out of his house saying what’s that brian

i am mucking around again, you are like mum and dad now brian

i seemed to take my dreaded voices out on poor mum and dad

i threw a rubber spider on mum, she jumped and dad laughed

i made jokes with dad about the pool is losing it’s water

dad said, he has to be on the ball with me

i jumped up and played basketball with the kids

like brendan and bo and josh

and one kid told me to kidnap him, and i said i am trying to drink beer to reform my kidnapper

i rang patrick up at the pub to see if he wants to party

he said no, mainly because he probably didn’t want to go

i was getting drunk with a mate named steve and he was a yeller a mighty yeller

a real crazy person, oh yeah, but some time he was nice, trying to talk me into going to ulladulla with him, NO THANKS

drinking with him was fun back then, but i teased him and that is why he yelled

i was trying to be like patrick when i went to the choirboys concert

and i nearly got mugged but i got away, but i lost everything that night, I WAS CRAZY

i still found it hard talking to mum and dad because i was a yeller

and every time i drank after work, mum said have you been drinking

yeah i drank with some of my mates from north south contractors

stephen and scott, oh yeah, i went back to scott’s to listen to heavy metal, man that was rad,

and the hotdog we ate was great, dude

i joined the bowling league back in 2000, and i was a real party dude oh yeah

i partied with kathryn on the dance floor despite me being tired from my medication

and i bowled in campbelltown and gosford and hornsby and illawarra and went to cheer on the swans oh yeah

you see mate, i like doing things, ya know i like being cool

and with the right medication, i stopped fighting my parents woo oh

i went to the fucken psych ward in 2004 for killing the blasted cat

and i yelled HELP HELP HELP HELP

and finally in 2007 after 38 years, i moved out into a flat on my own and i am enjoying this

and in the end of the year, i got myself a job at LEAD, but i was having mental problems

and in 2009 i was put on seroquel and i visited adelaide for the first time

and i went back to adelaide in 2012, in 2005 and 2012 the mighty swans won the cup

and i went to the carols, you see i was dumb enough to replace the pub with the carols

i got my first every day job in 2013 but it only lasted 4 months, as i chucked all my belongings over the balcony

and sent to the psych ward and placed on a medication order of good behaviour

which means i will go to the psych ward if i don’t take my medication

i am thinking this is great, all i need to take his my medication, and i stay out of the psych ward, cool

and in 2014 dad died and i started a cartooning course as well as winning a duck at my inaugural poetry slam

which is on the third wednesday of each month

i have been going there every month except december, and i read my very own poems

now, i am putting the backings on my tapestries and yeah i am cool

and tonight i can’t sleep having horrible thoughts from my 2 times in the psych ward

why was i motivated to write what i wrote
yesterday?
      let's just say:
  how about your idiotic english peasant simpleton
argues with your mother
        and causes your other neighbour
      to come out and threaten to punch them
for their imbecile behaviour?
   how about that?
       what happened: i was getting a new roof -
i had contractors i paid to change the tiles -
     and he comes out and mouths off
           your mother saying: ooh, they're leaving
too much mess, and you shouldn't be refurbishing
your roof: because my wife is pregnant.
    now you're pushing it... mmm?
                what is she? the ******* ****** mary?
you're protecting a rotting prune of a woman and
she's probably going to plop up a ****** with
that disgusting late 40s womb...
                                        oh this is malice -
i know it's malice, because logic states:
                talk to the people working on the site
      rather than the contractors who paid their
    pontius pilate dues...
                                         i.e. washed their hands clean
of the affair.
                           you know: i can't believe i'm
being dragged to the local level of affairs being "serious"...
but you know... when they say something about
your mother... you start throthing at the mouth:
whether loud or silent... you're going to take to a cobra bite...
         ******* ****** is so panicky about
                                      me that
                                  he finds my laughter in
the night to be filled with nothing but malice -
           well... d'uh!
                                     if i could just squeeze in
a moment in my day (between my drinking sessions)
a chance to spot him... i'd just talk to him for a while...
still, here's to next door... with a dry prune of
a woman's womb... and on the grander scale:
        western society...
                     you know they're having a breeding
program in Poland?
                              yeah... they're paying them to have
babies at the appropriate age... early 20s...
                   i actually can respect a teenage woman
having a baby, the father disappearing
and the state supporting her... but a woman in her 40s
having her first child?        that's not going to happen.
       but hey, yin yang -
                    you forget the father sticking to his
young "bride"...
                       you're going to have to microwave
those fried hash-browns... and let me tell you:
                                                it's like eating slugs.
once more!
             so your wife's pregnancy dictates that
    i should be careful about walking on egg-shells?
                          she's nearly 50! what can she bake
in that oven of hers?!
                           some sort of darwinistic spectacular?!
  this is england...
                            out of its biological framework...
                what? i can't update my roof because your
decaying prune of a woman is having a down foetus?
                         abled men, discriminated against
       having something that could, perhaps, use a pair
of scissors: to spread butter on toast.

THE LOOKING UP PART OF ME, FROM NIRVANA


YA SEE MY LOOKING UP WAS CAUSED BY ME, TO THINK ABOUT OTHERS, DON’T DRNK

TOO MIUCH COKE, DRINK A LITTLE BUT NOT TOO MUCH, AND IF YOU GET THE LOOKUPS

JUST TRY AND RELAX, YA SEE, WITH MY HATING GARDENING, IS BECAUSE I WAS HAVING CHILDHOOD VISIONS

WHEN I WAS WORKING, I LIKED JUMPING ON THE TREES, BUT IT WAS MY ONLY

THING I LIKED ABOUT WORKING AT NORTHSOUTH CONTRACTORS, ESPECIALLY WHEN THE LOOKUPS

STARTED IN 2005, FROM THE RISPERIDAL, MIND YOU IT REALLY FRUSTRATED ME

AND IT IS FRUSTRATING ME NOW, I AM FINDING IT HARD, TO GET THE PROBLEMS OUT OF

MY HEAD, YOU SEE, IT MIGHT BE BECAUSE I WASN’T GETTING THE JOB I WANT OUT OF IT

OR IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, WHEN I WENT TO BED AT 9.30 PM, I HATED THAT

IT MADE ME SICK AND TIRED OF WORKING IN THE SAME JOB OVER AND OVER AGAIN

I COULD’VE STOPPED, THEY DIDN’T HOLD A GUN TO MY HEAD, BUT

REALLY I FOUND IT HARDER AND HARDER, TO RID THIS EVIL DEMON

THAT WAS MAKING ME LOOK UP, DAY IN AND DAY OUT

AT PRESENT I WAS FINDING IT REALLY DIFFICULT TO GET MY MIND TOGETHER

AND I WAS HAVING PROBLEMS, WITH TRYING TO LOOK STRAIGHT LIKE I AM DOING NOW

I FOUND IT HARD TO SEE THE MANY THINGS THAT LIFE PULLS IN FRONT OF YOU

I REMEMBER DRINKING WITH SCOTT FROM NORTHSOUTH CONTRACTORS.AND EVERY

MOUTHFUL I HAD, I FELT THE BEER WAS CLENSING MY SPIRIT, I ALSO HAD NUMEROUS BEERS

WITH STEVE AT THE WIGAN PEN, WHICH WAS WHERE THE ENGLISH BEERS WAS, AND

I REMEMBER TELLING THE BARMAN, THAT NANNA DIED, AND HE SHOWED SYMPATHY, NOW

THE WIGAN PEN IS NO MORE, I REMEMBER BUYING SOME POTATO CRISPS AND WASH THEM

DOWN WITH A NICE COLD BEER, I MADE MUM MAD AND AS I WAS GOING TO THE POOL, SHE

SQUIRTED ME WITH THE HOSE, I HATED THAT, BUT I ALSO REMEMBER EATING POTATO CHIPS

AND HAVING BEERS TO WASH THEM, DOWN AT THE CITY CLUB AS WELL, THE MEER FACT

I STOPPED DOING ALL THIS, WAS THE REASON WHY I STARTED LOOKING UP, CAUSE I WAS

TRYING TO IMPROVE MYSELF, WHICH DIDN’T WORK FOR ME, SO I WENT BACK TO WATCH

FOOTY DOWN THE CLUB, ESPECIALLY THE GRAND FINAL, TO HOPEFULLY LOSE THE GIDDY

FEELING OF LOOKING UP, MY MATE SAID I HAD A BRAIN TUMOUR, BUT EVEN IF IT WAS

I DIDN’T FEEL ANY ADNORMALITIES, WITH LOOKING UP, YA SEE, A GOOD TELLING OF A STORY

HOW EVERY TIME I WENT TO SOMEONE’S HOUSE, I TRIED TO BE A MANS KID, YA KNOW

THE COOL MENS KIDS ON THJE STREET, I WAS FUCKEN UNEDUCATED, YOU SEE I MADE

UP THE ESTABLISORY COURT TO TEASE A GOOD MATE, BUT THERE IS A LOT OF YOUR STILL

NOT A COOL KID, BRIAN, PROBABLY, ONCE I NEVER TOLD A LIE, BUT THAT GOT ME IN HOT WATER

WITH THE BIG CHEESE, AND NOWADAYS, THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH TELLING LIES

TO MAKE YOURSELF FEEL GOOD ABOUT THEMSELVES, YOU SEE I HEAR MY MATE PAT

BLUDGING ON ME, LIKE I BLUDGED ON DAD, OR LIKE DAD TRIED TO BLUDGE ON ME

I WAS HEARING VOICES, STOP BLUDGING COWARD, KEPP BLUDGING ON HIM BRIAN SURE MATE

YOUR NOT LIKE US ANYMORE DAD, YA SEE DAD ONLY SAID, YOUR LIKE ME AND MUMMY WHEN

THEY REALLY LIKED MY PARTY STYLE, AND LATELY, IT’S BECAUSE I DO POETRY SLAMS AND

PLAYS, AND TRYING TO BEAT THE VOICES THE KIDS PUT IN MY HEAD, I LIKED THOSE KIDS

BUT I WANT TO BE MY OWN PERSON, I HAD DRINKS WITH SCOTT AND STEVE, IN FACT ME AND STEVE

GASPARIC WENT TO WORK HAD A FEW BEERS AND WENT HOME TO WATCH THE FOOTY, HE WAS

NICE, CAUSE MY MEDICATION MADE ME SLEEP, AND I WOKE HIM UP, TO TELL HIM THE SCORE

I REMEMBER TEASING DAD WITH THE YOUNG DUDES, I WAS SAYING, YOUR NOT LIKE ME DAD

WHILE OTHERS SAID, HANG ON YEAH FOOL, GET ****** MATE, AND YES THEY DID SOME STUPID THINGS

BUT ALL YOUNG DUDES DO STUPID THINGS, I REMEMBER DAD COMING DOWN TO KICK THE PEOPLE

OUT OF MY HOUSE, FOR PRACTICING THEIR BANDS AT MY HOUSE, IT’S NOT CALLED FOR IN A SUBURBAN HOUSE

IT CAN WAKE TOO MANT PEOPLE UP, YA SEE DUDES, IT IS FUN, BUT THE AFTER EFFECTS, ARE NOT SO FUN

SITTING IN THE GUTTER, ALL BECAUSE YOU INVITED A FEW BANDS TO PERFORM, I THOUGHT MY PARENTS WOULD LIKE

THIS, THEY SEEMED TO LET MY BROTHER DO IT, SO WHY CAN’T I, I WANT MATES MY OWN AGE, JUST BECAUSE DAD

IS DEAD, DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T GO ON LIVING MY LIFE, AS OPPOSED TO WAITING FOR YOUR NUMBERS TO BE UP

I WANT TO DO MANY THINGS BEFORE I DIE, I WANT TO AT LEAST GET A HOMELESS HOTEL STARTED, AT LEAST, OK

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR VOICES OF THE PAST TREATING ME LIKE A YEAH MATE YEAH KID, I WAS A MAN WHO LOVED TO

PARTY, AND SMELL THE NICE CLEANSING ALE OF BEER, I REMEMBER GOING TO SCOTTS FOR A NIGHT STOP, TO GET

AWAY FROM MY PARENTS, AND THE VOICES IN MY HEAD, SHOWED MY REALLY NICE FLOPSY BODY, WHO USED TP

SMILE AT PEOPLE WEIRDLS, AND ANOTHER THING TOO, I WAS LIKE A TEN TONNE WEAKLING ALL BECAUSE I HATED VIOLENCE

I CALLED IT A NEW VERSION OF A YOUNG DUDE, YA KNOW SITTING THERE SMILING, WITH A FEEL OF SAUSAGES AND VERY

TENDER LAMB CHOPS, YA SEE AT SCOTTS WE HAD HOT DOGS DONE BY US ADULTS, AND I REMEMBER WATCHING THE SIMPSONS

WITH THEM SAYING, HEY HOT DOG, AND MY YOUNG DUDE WAS A HOT DOG, LIKE, WITH A REAL OLD FASHIONED GIRL LIKE SMILE

I WAS SMILING AT PEOPLE, ALL BECAUSE, I WAS TRYING TO BE COOL ENOUGH TO TALK TO THEM, I COULD’VE IGNORED THEM

BUT I HAD TO FACE IT, I AM A YOUNG DUDE, AND ALL MY MISTAKES, ARE BECAUSE I WAS YOUNG, AND EXPERIMENTING

WITH A LOT OF THINGS, I REALLY LIKE THE FEEL OF STILL BEING YOUNG, BUT DUDES, LISTEN TO THIS SONG OF YOUTH

STRIP FOR ME BABE STRIP FOR YOU, STRIP FOR YOU IF YOU WANT ME TOO

STRIP FOR ME BABE STRIP FOR YOU, STRIP FOR ME, LIKE THEY WANT YOU TOO

AND ONE NIGHT IN BABGKOK, AND WHEN THEY SAID, WHAT DO YA MEAN, WE POLLUTE ONE CRAZY STINKEN TOWN

I GET MY KICKS ABOVE THE WAISTLINE

I HEAR VOICES OF PEOPLE SAYING, LET HIM BE A YOUNG DUDE BUDDY

AND THEN SAID, I AM NOT A YEAH MATE YEAH KID, TEASE HIM, TEASE HIM TEASE HIM

AND THEY MADE ME FEEL LIKE I WAS A HOOLIGAN, AND I AM NOT A HOOLIGAN

AND THEN THEM VOICES SAY TO ME, STAY UP THERE YA STINKING YEAH MATE YEAH KID

THEY SAID, STAY THERE, YA STUPID OLD FOGIE

GET IN THERE, YA STUPID KOOMARRI MAN

NEVER MUCK WITH US AGAIN, YOU STUPID LITTLE CHILDISH RAT

WE DON’T LIKE YOU ANYMORE BRIAN, CAUSE, YOUR NOT A MAN

WE WANT TO KEEP THESE LOOK UPS IN YA, YA STUPID LITTLE ****

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                   For the Good of the Republic

                               To the Caesars and their Generals
        (But not to the Senate; they have made themselves irrelevant)

Illustris:

You have medals and money and country estates
Book deals and bank accounts and pleasure gardens
You can retire in soft luxury now -
Your military contractors have seen to that

The Rubicon is ruby with your soldiers’ blood
And the Tiber is stopped with the loyal dead
Who fell upon your sword-sharp signatures -
And now you conspire against each other

You have done enough; go home to your musicians
Your receptions, your hunting parties, your…wives
You could pray for the dead
But you won’t

Still,

If you love your nation you will not meet
At the Milvian Bridge

can't talk that crap with you, with you rapping,
and how's your papa, who played the guitar; that
jazz man, that jazz!
you can take the european charity
companies to court... we're paying **** all
     until Africa stops faking
the ****** of post-colonial money...
should have settled that **** with
your original contractors...
   i hate the adverts, i doubly hate
the care for honesty...

need to take it up with
the bollocking's worth for africa...
the moment i spotted this
one fat kenyan woman
strolling, i started thinking about
keeping foxes more...
you gave us jazz, you gave the blues:
******! move!
      you deconstructed
the european orchestra! what more
do or can want?

       a ******* nightie...
white teeth and a chance spot of
scelara... ****** please,
i'm talking to this girl and i don't
have a 11 inch *****...
    you gave us jazz and blues, man,
what more do you want?!
     i love you man,
but the bro **** has to stop...
   a few of my "species"
liked to lacerate themselves,
i *** it...
              but you're turning all
******* Kentucky on me...

i'm not buying the need for charity
with western charity shops,
when i was in Kenya i realised:
only the idiots made it to the slave boats...
thankfully they did...
otherwise we'd have no blues or jazz...
and you're complaining...
   what did the germans and the russians
ever teach the poles when they invaded?
  i'm trying to think of something...
i can't think of anything!
nothing of musical to be sure...
          
   if there was no slave trade
there would be no jazz and no blues...
at least you can don that skin of yours
with pride...
   all i got was Auschwitz and a bunch of
angry Israeli tourists...
so yeah... clap clap...
    the only thing that might seem comforting
is allowing me to deal with it alone.
   i really can't be bothered with
people testing the shark-infested waters of
faking happy...
        please do... please... but not here.

next time i'll hear you complain
i'll just think of the last time you visited the Ivory Coast
and said: i'll never come back,
never mind the coco and knots.
     this is the last time you start moaning
about feeling: so at home.
last time ******...
           because you do...
     the last time i spoke to a whitey i was also
told: you didn't say that akin to ***** enough...
     last time i checked,
     it really didn't matter that i talked to a white
person...
            to give a proof of relativity,
   extract a word from akin shapes of relativism,
and give it concrete status, you'll probably get a
chemistry or physics theory...
            
      i really can't hear the complaints enough,
even though i'm hardly the one to inherit the *******...
i just hear jazz and blues...
        and as the sole instigators of post-classical music...
given the current theme, ultra-african,
primarily drumming...
       e.g. distance and the album
repercussions, and how it sold-out like
   a litter of hot bagles...
      or a bunch of golden labradors...
and i own a copy.
              
  that's the oddity of speaking the same tongue
as the one currently gravitating toward speaking
a history, and how tongue and ethnicity misfires,
how there are mongrels of the flesh,
and how there are mongrels of the soul...
how i will never, ever, accept a historicity,
and subsequently a responsibility...
    for something done in the past...
i could be german and forget the holocaust
given that the theme in several languages in western
europe is based on a colonial past...
      and i don't even know how i am to stomach
it, or begin creating an identity from it...
i heard ****** played blues and jazz,
and i was like: forget chopin!
    
they taught us a method to unlearn grammar
in the case of having learned it in the language
of music... came first: spontaneity:
like that scottish language teacher...
   who taught no grammar rules...
          some might claim to treat them as the proto
revisionist-reductionists...
and yet... so much hysteria over a word
on the tongue that would easily equate it as
homie...
          it's sad enough to pass an atmosphere of
easily acquired depression,
simply working from the basis of leveraging
the need to learn vocab, as in later instances
curbing it... and that's politics not done by politicians
but by 3rd party people obeying instructions
that don't necessarily require digging trenches,
which are nonetheless dug.
     i literally have no real argument for
democracy, other than: rule by being rude.
               i am actually tempted by the political schematic
of despotism, when we learn an omnipresent care
for etiquette, and how politeness gives us such tiny
delights, but at least the tiny delights are recurrent...
  democracy is just infested with the spirit of revolution,
like the re- / again and again could ever be improved,
or what's called: re-inventing the wheel...
    i think it's hardly necessary to give the mob:
an authority...
         i find the mob to be no source of authority...
   at least rulers can be undermined,
   made fun of in a game of posturing and
               philandering...
   the mob can't be over-ruled...
                  it has no shadow,
it has no individual...
it's basically just one sack of *****
   ready to implode, and when imploding
continually deviate from a work-ethic status
of a plateau-strata with only one individual
    ****** enough to be the tulip above the waters...
with democracy, no one really takes any real
responsiblity...
     all despots are accounted for,
but in the case of democracy, since the crown is passed
around like a ***** so frequently,
everyone can play the Pontius Pilate...
how eager they are with washing their hands...
   that's democracy for you,
shadow people and everyone
  a spy unto the next person: or at least glass houses:
with social media outlets: also glass people...
  they said Milošević was bad...
they held talks at the Hague (proto Nuremberg)...
but still T. Blair walks as innocently
as a swan...
   democracy has a perfect sense of
being a poetry describing a brothel...
  many people came through its doors...
a lot of hands were shaken, a lot of promises were made...
    and when democracy had its fury established,
it attacked the monogamy of despotism:
i.e. one man one country...
                     after all, pyramids were sacred,
as was the study of the river of *****...
democracy is a brothel, shadow people who make
many handshakes, and like cowards,
disappear into the night of a throng
and shout: it's all humble pie perfect!

...

There on the corner it stands
Black thicket jacket
Tightly fitted nightmare
Hemmed in borderline madness

Dancing on a fractured curb
Slightly off balance
But never falling as its prey
Watches on, hypnotized

Wavered movements
In sprayed graffiti howls
Wrench a stoic moon
Against fevered night skies

A coin is tossed,
Shining under the streetlight
Rotating on its edge
Carved lines fluctuate

As steak dinner lockets
Hang around the alley
Whistling at red painted fingernails
Leaning in open car windows

Waste finds its place here
Among the silent, the grey
Brick faced contractors
Belly up for the feast

Table cloth capes
Splattered with last week’s gravy
Brown stains sliding past
Iron gate exits

Yet there is no exit
No entrance, no sidewalk
Or city street to sleep in
Cardboard box condos

In this realm nothing exists but it,
Clutching the unsuspecting
Drinking fear on the rocks
Icy glares in frozen glass

So, wander if you will
Past the crow’s stare
Beady eyes searching
A crooked pathway, and you will see

There on the corner it stands

.come to think of it... a fillet of meat never implores me to think about what's about to be eaten... nor does a whole chicken implore me to think about what's about to be eaten... but whenever i see my fellow man... esp. when my fellow man is begging to not be taken seriously... i do... tend to... in the back of my mind... attempt to bypass thinking about a butchers' cut... of what... looks pristine when walking or running... parcles of the "excess" of limbs... given a dead chicken... it's all readily available... but... working from a genesis of movement toward the study of both coffin and stone; and wind? i would most certainly understand ******... but then again... not all that ******... end up eating their intentions... which makes me make phantoms of nostalgia... ****'s sake... even the sharks these days will bite: but spit our flesh out... because... well: why **** something that you will not eat? because... there's a... Hadrian's wall counter-impetus?! but it's welcoming to think about ****** as... also a bit of a hunt... i guess that's what keeps me off a streak of tartare "justice": before i start gagging and imitation regurgitation... such a foul beast from an ownership of a tongue alone... forget that shambo of the mind... no wonder... man kills man without intentions to eat him... i'd sooner eat cat-****-and-puke... then again... unless it was the brain, the heart, the liver... those ackward limbs and muscles... i could somehow imagine eating the tender bits... never those... ostrich extensions of reimagining animate agilities of a kama sutra: study.

stupendous...

   i will hold a stone in one hand
and imagine a mountain...

i will hold a glass in the other...
and imagine the sea:

not from the brain...
but from the tips of my fingers...

stupendous... quiet so...

               otherwise less impressive:
most thoroughly...

then i will hold some ice in one hand...
and some black earth in the other...

i will scrunch some paper into a ball...
rather than fold it...
   then i'll lick a knife...
            then...
          
                if there's any more "quo vadis"
sensibility to go through with...
i'll remember: ask the anaesthetician
that question: quo vadis...

as he distracts you with the jab
before... that sort of "sleep"...

            i would like to feel the texture
of thought...
        perhaps even sniff it out
into a bottle - out from my head...
this perpetual (th)ought i...

had it been only a moral quest
rather than... picking
up stray lines that otherwise made-up
a concern for narrative...

                                yes: "or" this insomnia
narrative... all these bothersome
daydreams and counter-measures...

it's not merely enough to play
out monkey-dough roles...
tongue of a serpent...
body still functioning at best
in imitation...
inconveniences of noble feats
acquired from watching widow swans
in that term: monogamy...

or in a circus of a harem of walruses...
this chimera this man...
the loan animal and his loan
words: schnitzel puppy flip flip...

        unless it's pure history of dates...
it's... a mongrel of archeology
and etymology...
           to find the oldest word...
that has been translated: diffused...

beside og, da, i, am... om, to...
         w...      z...
           w tym: in this...
          z tego: from this...

a letter that can act like a conjunction...
i: "e"... and...
         or a pronoun...

wood does not have a chemical formula...
water does: inorganic matter does...
stones do...

air does...
            oxygen by whatever %... nitrogen by
whatever %..
i studied chemistry...
but the question only comes now...

what is the chemical formula for... wood?
well... wood doesn't have a chemical formula...
truly... even i'm astounded...

even Alain de Lille looks stupified...
i know... they have a list of formulas
for... ****'s sake... even the ozone!
O₃... which is "impossible" since oxygen
is doubly-binding...

shortcuts to god... i can't call them anything
but just that...
why doesn't wood have a chemical
formula?!

i will hold a book in one hand...
and a feather in another...

    you can have a chemical formula
for... stibnite...
    orthorhombic... Sb₂S₃...
of sure... you can have that...
you can have a chemical formula for:

millerite (NiS)
  zwieselite... olivenite...
          adamine Zn2(AsO4)(OH) -
   autunite Cu(UO2)2(PO4)2 · 12H2O...
benitoite...
                  
all these formulas...
these aquariums of inorganic matter...
but still... no chemical formula for...
wood!

lignin is only part of the equation...
what can be accounted for photosynthesis:
C₅₅H₇₂O₅N₄Mg (chlorophyll)...
      
you'd think water would be more
complicated...
    
beryl?
            hollandite?
         ­ tremolite...       so that's "earth"
all covered; no?

but where's that formula for wood?

good-luck looking for that holy graille...
either the cup or the cross...
cubanite... no problem...
   benitoite...
              goethite...

               am i drinking? oh right... that's me
waking up to a reality of not being
in a boyband...

all these chemical names coming and
going...
  glass...
trinitite,
made by the trinity nuclear-weapon test...
the libyan desert glass...
volcanic obsidian glass...

otherwise glass is:
silicon dioxide +
SiO2
calcium carbonate +
CaCO3
sodium carbonate
Na2CO3

             what's the chemical formula
for wood?!
any luck with paper?
a mixture... primer: cellulose (C6H10O5)n...

approx. 50% carbon, 42% oxygen,
6% hydrogen, 1% nitrogen, and 1%
other elements
(calcium, potassium, sodium,
     magnesium, iron, and manganese)

i guess it's one of those social media
relationship statuses: "it's... complicated"...
my bad...
   cellulose... polyose... and lignin...

something spectacular was supposed to
happen: there was an avenue of pristine
love waiting: i never managed
to wait for it... in the end...
run-of-the-mill stuff...
           there was this "this"...
and there was this "that"...
     pointers in braille...
      limintless echoes of uncaressed
agonies... splendours upon the attire
table of dead-meat: quasi...
     when inspected by the more eloquent
butchers of surgery...

            but the whiskey or the *****...
flowed like... it possessed the knowledge
of... gomme syrup...
of all the detailed memories
of: these people have lived...
the alchemists:
   - zosimos of panopolis
   - ge hong
- jean baptista van helmont...
    
  why is leonardo da vinci's mona lisa
so... forced upon us?
ever look at... Perronneau's
  madame de sorquainville?

i always "mistake"... albrecht Düre
with gustave Doré...
i implore you...
don't make me buy chocolates
or flowers... it's not one of thoese
dementia riddled "misnomer" takes
on Monet and Édouard Manet

here's my quadratic:
   albrecht Düre            Claude Monet



       Édouard Manet                     gustave Doré

very much a rhombus...
besides the fact that when i do pop the cork
"pop"... and "cork"...
the libido does rampage...
and i'm imagining myself in a brothel...
and i am the brothel...
and all that's love is about the basic
need for what's easil given
to a petter dog...
down my view no alley with
a grandma and a leash to look / feel
suspect... repetition of the times...
or some sort of allure for repenting
the deeds of youth...

              ****: to hell with stochholm cyborgs
and all that anemic clues...
those autistic plots and "twists"...
        
am i to suddenly come out begging
for my democratic right?
writing as an extension of thinking...
i hardly think it's an invitation
to speak...

              less... "inclined" to counter this freedom?
esp. now?
esp. now?
       now of all times... come... let's dictate
the future together...
let's start sharpening the meat-grinder!
let's keep up with the chisel for a tooth
of the grand earthworm:
wursecker... for the bone to become marror
to become: all but the plaster-work
of pâté!

         smear that **** all over...
                    oh right... what's being "debated"?
the self-employed being given
slave status or otherwise...
those given employee stature...
to be somehow above?
in england there are 5.5 MILLION self-employed
sub-contractors...

the bus driver gets a day off...
unions and what not...
  ******* kind and fellow examples of
non-replica me...
             unions, what unions?
here's to... what?
fizzying out the expandables?
      good lock and chain and "luck"...
no one came when i was i need...
no one came but they still had to ridicule me...

i am enjoying this... whatever "this" is...
i like to think of it...
what the darwinism ideologues
    have been spewing
all along...
recycling primer...
        getting rid of a tootache...
just enough to be... the sensible
english gentleman...
but not... a weimar **** in waiting ******...
sieve it...

we'd be lost in hope...
when all hope is but a blistering
bargain...
when most of us don't have
landlord credentials...

             pokey porky pie-yo!
i like this currency of a carboot sale...
happening...
i quiet like the clearance...
the easily available sale of death...
the darwinism that darwinism
doesn't exactly "like"...

hell... shove the weakest under the bus...
under the hittite slash and draw...
i'm trying to remain bothered...
so says the drunk...

or at least... when the government says:
curfew... no more than 2
in a public space congregation...
i start thinking about how pork torsos
are hanged in a slaughterhause...
then i start to imagine...
that meat-hook... plucked in under
the chin... that excess of a bonus tooth
for where the uvula and the tonsil
should be...

   oh look... it glides! it hangs!
to be crucified is such an obscure...
such an out-of-date symbolism...
how about hanging from a meat-hook?
for piercing those n.h.s. ambulances tires?!
or coughing in the faces of old people?
how about... being impregnated
by a pike inserted in a quasi-sodomite
pristine ****... reaching the ****** of
both pelvis and coccyx...
how's that?

   n'ah... i rather like re-imagining
the curcifixion dangling on your neck...
with a meat-hook and subsequent dangling
on the treadmill of minced...
right under the chin... where the tongue
begins... and ends... to lick
and slobber that last and lost retention
of vowels in oyster juices...
    from the concrete constructs
                                of consonants...
        
a hot-dog hard-on on for...
                                     for the benefits of
sigma humanity;
   i'll try to retain remaining obscure...
****... if i don't i'll probably have to beg
for the image replication of trimmed eyebrows!

Four walls
Painted black to hide the stains.
The room’s history:
What happened and what remains.

At it’s best it was a white room,
Clean and neat.
A quiet place for all of your thoughts,
A room filled with ideas,
A room that hid all fears.

But that did not last long,
For you can see,
This room lost sight of its original purpose.

The fears hidden in the closet emerged
And now not even one’s soul was safe
Because before your very eyes
This pretty little room, clean and neat
Started to become less and less.

Less like the way it started its journey
Heading down a deep, dark miserable path
Closer to the idea of light but truly
A Demise.

A demise that is all at once terrible, poetic, and soothing.
Something that could be discussed,
But never is.

The room belonged to a young woman who was soon to become disturbed.

She was blossoming and could have had a bright future.
She was different, under appreciated,
And no one wanted her around.
They said she was a waste of space.
“A waste of space?” she would say.
And as the clockwork in her head began ticking,
An ingenious plan began brewing.

The only problem is, there was no plan.

In her head she was painting a gorgeous,
Cunning tapestry of woe in which those who deserved an unhappy ending
Would get one.
But she was simply cutting herself off from the world.

She spent the majority of her time in this room,
And with that she was becoming more alone,
And with that,
Forgotten.

The room began to collect dust.
Everyday another page would be ripped off of the calendar
And laid to rest.

Eventually a layer of pages dressed the floor.
Dust collected on the walls.
Cracks formed on the ceiling.

Days passed as usual
But to her
Time ceased to exist.

She went outdoors less often than before.
All trips out of the house resulted in stocking up
On foods that do not expire
And notebooks bought in bulk.

She spent her mornings taking pills purchased by men who spend their days in dark leery alleys.
She spent her nights filling her notebooks with everything that came to mind,
And after time has been lost yet again,
This girl who was once so pretty and innocent
Would slit her wrists and paint the walls red.

Letters crowded in the mailbox,
E-mails were left unread,
And in the garbage, a dead cellphone with no hope of being charged again.
Water and electricity bills went unpaid
And it was from then on her body could take no more.

Months went by and neighbors never saw her again,
They all assumed she had moved away.
One neighbor was apprehensive and too nosey for her own good,
That one neighbor called the police.

Investigations began and all seemed normal
Until they drew close to the basement steps.
A pungent odor oozed out from behind the door
And a lock did not stand in the policemen’s way.

Down came the door with the loudest of thuds.
The men crept down the stairs with the utmost of care
Not wanting to disturb whatever might lay in the darkness below.

The flashlights flickered on
And the stairs creaked deafeningly,
Stirring fear deep inside the men

They reached the bottom of the stairs
After what felt like hours
To find something so putrid
It would be forever burned in their memory.

In the far right corner of the room lay a slumped-over corpse
Surrounded by notebooks.
It was obvious to the men that the person was long dead
And when the lights illuminated the face
It was apparent that it was immensely decayed.
The closer they got, the more it felt like the stench was smacking them.
One officer was so mortified that he could not help but to bend over, clutch his stomach,
And drown his shoes in *****.

The was face distorted
In so many places
With colors that do not naturally occur on one’s face.
By the placement of the ****** features,
It almost seems as if it died laughing.

Laughing at the hilarity of what happened
That got it to that place.
Laughing at how the end came to be
And how much of a waste its whole life was.

The police left in a hurry,
Eager to get out,
To call in the cleaners
To erase what they have seen
So no one else would carry the burden associated with the sight.

The sad little house had everything in it removed and burned.
It was scrubbed from head to toe
And in the process lost what made it the unique house it was.

When it came time to that one little room,
The blood clung to the walls
Not wanting to ever let go.
The contractors gave up hope and painted over the remaining history.

It was painted the darkest of black,
The only color that could disguise all of the things
That were intended to be hidden
On the four walls
Of the small, small room.

The greatest propaganda
In America is
The delusion
That you are free

Though you do not
Rest in a cell
You are not free

When you submit
To the ruling class
To get by
You are not free

Standards and laws
Made to protect
Divest you
From yourself
You are not free

For the sake of stability
You conform to a job
That you hate
A good little drone
You are not free

Even if you do not agree
With the laws that they make
You must obey
Or they will take you away
You are not free

In order to maintain
The basic family bonds
You are constrained
By their wants and needs
You are not free

If you want to fish
Or hunt
To feed your family
Or just for fun
You need a license
You are not free

Even when you vote to decide
What’s wrong and what’s right
And elect politicians for your side
Those people lie
Doing for the rich and their own kind
And the choice you had
Be it good or bad
Was a fractionally effective
Cause you are not free

Tolls on the roads
Taxes on your checks
Fines and other fees
Cause you are not free

Been a while since the draft
But that could come back
If the private war contractors
Ever get busted
And taken out of the field
The army will make you yield
Or imprison or ****
Cause you are not free

And freedom of speech
Could cost you your job
Slander if spoken
Libel if written
The rich lawyers and judges
Give and take permissions
PC speech
Abstract unwritten rules
Condemn you and yours
Cause you are not free

Any laws that you break
The ones you did not make
Could turn you into
A prisoner of the state
Enslaved, forced labor
Cause you are not free

And if you want to leave
This great country
To travel freely
You must pay for
A small passport
Or you will be confined
To the imaginary lines
People made up
Cause you are not free

Some will say
If you speak this way
You are not truly American
That other countries are worse
But what they lack
Or if I can’t solve this problem
Does not detract from the fact
Does not make lies true
What I am telling you
Is you are not free

I’m tired of this rant
Cause the list is to long
And I wish I was wrong
So tell me please
Where is your true liberty