I gaze into my crystal ball, discern amidst the haze
A world so far removed from that of now, it would amaze,
Where catapulting incidents collide like billiard *****
And sense defies belief as renaissance makes the calls.

Blueprints fresh from Internet supply the suitcase blast
Where the terrorist’s, simultaneously, ignite in cities cast
From Moscow to New York, Beijing to Berlin
Gay Paree to London town then way out east again,
Budapest, Jerusalem Calcutta burning all
And Tokyo is levelled in a ghastly nuclear pall.

Kneejerk reaction triggers contrails in the blue
Crisscrossing all the continents obliterating through
An overkill so vicious that in seconds it is past
And the living cling in horror, bearing witness… aghast.

Restraints are erased as the opportunists dash
Flotillas from the Spratleys sprint to occupy and cash
In on the minerals, oil and potential food supplies
Of uncontaminated nations found beneath Pacific skies.
Hindi, Jew and Muslim settle scores bereft with years
Of resentment accrued in a flood of blood and tears.

A sudden realisation of immensity of loss
Curtails the destruction in retrenchment across
The habitable outposts, the dearth of supply
And the daunting prospects of a nuclear winter sky.
Global collapse of all electronic gear
No power, no phones, and no cars now…for years.
Electromagnetic impulse put paid to all that
And the day is as dark as the cold night is black.



And here all we sit, in the here and the now
On the verge of catastrophes’ teetering tower,
With a fools pudgy finger just inches above
The nuclear button…and all that we love.
……You fear the insanity, sense the insane
Knowing that people like this are holding the reign?
Knowing that volatility strikes
Like the shot of a gun and the ****** of a knife.

I don’t have the answers to hand
But someone out there, knows how…and can.
The sands of time are running thin

URGENTLY needed a LEADER...to WIN!

M.
Planet Earth
6 March 2019

Some people say they don't like social networking
on mobile phones,
"it distances us from human connection"
they bleat and moan,
"takes us away from natural converging,
curtails face to face ties from emerging,
subdues us in a swamp of technology,
this engagement with messaging is surely a folly."
And as they depart they say,
“give me a person over a mobile msg anyday.”
Now don't get me wrong eye to eye communing is amazing
and it's not the last reserve of a luddite to prefer tactile phrasing
or to think sweet nothings into a there ear is best
but that doesn't mean there is nothing in mobile caress.
Because you can meet someone at a festival, and feel a sweet spark
that thunders through the roaming larks
and then when you part after a few days
think, "oh, that was awesome, I enjoyed their ways,
they made me laugh and gave me jumping smiles,
****, it's a pity between us there are miles and miles."
But when you arrive home and charged up a message pings
"you back now?" I see it and start to feel sing.
So we take our phones and chat all the next day,
getting to know each other in a happy appy way,
giggling at your words, beaming at the next
growing through lightning at each little text,
learning more in these screen chats;
you go to lots of BBQs and love dogs and cats,
you dye your hair and are calamity stricken
your top fajitas are finger lickin,
you know Mandarin and are ace at Catchphrase
and you have an inclination for New York days,  
you can analytically discuss scenes from C Street,
you can charm the customers at a store meet and greet,
you can decipher the nuance in The Bistro goss,
you can put up with **** from ****** at Argos.
You have a mate who picks up Mark Ronson's pooch,
you've saved a big crustacean when been on a mooch,
you can relate a song to Odysseus using sheep to save his men
and watch Mr G the musical over and over again,
you stay up/get up to watch the Super Bowl,
you type faster than a thought on a roll,
you've danced with Pete Barlow's ship mate from Corrie,
you can drive a car and a van, I recks you could handle a lorry!
You have loads of friends and often verge on more dislocation,
I want to be near you, whatever the location.
I want to pull you out of a hat
and see you stand on my welcome mat,
see, mobiles are good because it's good to feel that.
But if some quantum physicists are to be believed, after perusing their hefty tomes,
somewhere in infinite there is a place with no mobile phones,
and a boom of synchronicity has to be carried on by pen on paper
and there are days and days tween a tumbling heebie jeebie butterfly caper,
and then it's sent with a hope that it won't be lost in the post,
and be not read, like a bottled message uncorked by the coast.
Maybe a letter and no phones is better for starting a fizz
but right now mobiles make this what it is;
if not for them would I feel this close to you?
Or be writing this to you?
Right now I like feeling close to you,
and I like writing this to you,
to you Lou.

On the wind of January
  Down flits the snow,
Travelling from the frozen North
  As cold as it can blow.
Poor robin redbreast,
  Look where he comes;
Let him in to feel your fire,
  And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February
  Snow-flakes float still,
Half inclined to turn to rain,
  Nipping, dripping, chill.
Then the thaws swell the streams,
  And swollen rivers swell the sea:--
If the winter ever ends
  How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March
  The catkins drop down,
Curly, caterpillar-like,
  Curious green and brown.
With concourse of nest-building birds
  And leaf-buds by the way,
We begin to think of flowers
  And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April
  Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
  From the southern wall.
Apple-trees and pear-trees
  Shed petals white or pink,
Plum-trees and peach-trees;
  While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze
  Beside pure scent of flowers,
While all things wax and nothing wanes
  In lengthening daylight hours.
Across the hyacinth beds
  The wind lags warm and sweet,
Across the hawthorn tops,
  Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June
  Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
  While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose
  And moss-rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
  Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July
  Drives the pelting hail,
From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
  Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
  Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
  And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind,
  Cornfields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
  On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
  Weightless on the breeze,
First-fruits of the year's decay
  From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September
  The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
  And drop from the shoots;
Some glow golden in the sun,
  Some show green and streaked
Some set forth a purple bloom,
  Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October
  At the equinox,
Stirred up in his hollow bed
  Broad ocean rocks;
Plunge the ships on his *****,
  Leaps and plunges the foam,--
It's O for mothers' sons at sea,
  That they were safe at home!

In slack wind of November
  The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
  When the fog lifts.
Loosened from their sapless twigs
  Leaves drop with every gust;
Drifting, rustling, out of sight
  In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,
  The year's sands nearly run,
Speeds on the shortest day,
  Curtails the sun;
With its bleak raw wind
  Lays the last leaves low,
Brings back the nightly frosts,
  Brings back the snow.

a supplicant at the celebration
the tattooed man is frozen in the
posture of flinging the dog meat of his soul into the river below
hoping to drown his sorrows and
with tepid conviction he swears his loyalty to the
gods of a lesser horde hoping to void the cost of saving his soul
such a narrow way to tread
such a dangerous thing to think
to dream casting away the meat curtails the rot

the poisoned fruit of the garden of eden
is strewn about his feet
as he sneaks through the backwater shopping mall of
his narrow existence
but its only an image
and the reality smells much different
its a much harsher drop in the bucket
it goes deep
far into the night
deep into the depths of the soul
far into the realizations and rationalizations
that makes up a man
day to day

held hostage to the ideal
that the vanity of self realization is a saving grace
mitigating responsibility for your actions
you can deliver the sermon but can you wear its shoes
its easy to see the other mans face
in the things we know are wrong
its easy to place another in the path of destruction
let them pay our price
but at the top of your last hour
its just you and whatever created you'
can you say that you were more than
dog meat feeding dog meat to the dog meat masses

Buddha's and Christ's paths were equally right.
Imitating them obscures one's own path;
inward vision frees one from fear of death;
ego-consciousness curtails the light.

Who gave you that name, Cinderella? Grey
Like the faded ashes they make you clean.
Strict as the hour-glass, they haven’t seen you gleam.
Granular vision curtails them to day.
Cursed curfew; trickling sands serve time’s keen gain.  
Chandeliers and red wine, the ball’s a dream.
Midnight’s starlight in your slippers, you flee.
Shatter all the glass; then, with me, remain.
Sharp as its edges, coarse time vanishes,
Like the bacchant’s memory, your form’s bare.
Soft feet brushed by sands, lips seal promises.
Exiled, like your gown, we don’t belong there.
See through me, Cinderella, take my hand.
Your name’s gold-dust; I’ll sign it in the sand.

I tighten your chain, between shackle and floor,

kissing your lips, for it's you I adore.

pulling the table tight to your waist,

I'll allow you some dinner, but only a taste...

Now that we've eaten, it's time for desert,

the heart of your flower is where I revert.

your redolence is musty, it smells quite used,

As I take your love, your mind I abuse...

The chain pulls taught, as you're bent over my lap,

I start slapping your ***, much more than a tap.

you start to whimper, as your wetness curtails,

I throw you to the floor, and your wrists I now nail...

Crimson red... pools on the floor,

as you tear your flesh, watching the gore.

as I drive deeper into the warmth of your slice,

I unleash my seed, instilling new life...

Stop your screaming, as I pull out the nails,

you've run your course, true love prevails.

I met you tonight, as pretty as can be,

now clotted and congealed, you're just right for me...

Take this black rose, as a memory of our date,

for our encounter, has sealed your fate.

was it good for you...or was it too lame?

next time you blind date, Google his name...

Worn and broken with not a tear left,

your eyeliner ran, there's sweat on your chest.

removing your blindfold, you look at my eyes,

you're right in your guess, the devil's alive...

To brand new horizons, across the vast wide sea,
The God to whom I'm praying, believes so much in me.
He says that I'm not barren, I'm the fruit of His own vine.
But sometimes I feel badly, for I fall so many times.
Into this great abyss, of lies and twists and turns,
so sadly was I walking
down the road that made me burn.

To bright and new beginnings, my candle shows the way,
I follow in the footsteps, where saints and angels play.
Surely we're not lonely, though it seems we need so much!
I will try to tell you strongly, my dear, that desire is not a crutch.
But don't think that desire, that want that's always there,
can be satisfied with worldly things,
those things that can ensnare.

To lovers who are joyfully invited in the truth,
who wait for true love's fulfillment, in a castle weatherproof.
They know the bounds of where they walk, they know they way is hard,
But having faith in things unseen, can often help at large.
For whom but Him can he be for she? Or him for her we wish?
That’s just they way the world goes ‘round,
Like a beautifully swimming fish.

To romping around with new curtails a-flying,
our heels kicking up in the breeze.
Little foals on the inside, we neigh out some horsie-pride
With laughs floating up high, giving breath to the summer trees.
Let your hair down and out, dance like tomorrow’s the end-
because everyday is a gift.
I know not the time, but if it’s this mountain we climb,
why don’t we strive to reach the top?
Together, He said, so I felt safe in my head
knowing that I would never He drop.

feeling burdened—it tends to happen
particularly when meddling impressions run rampant
swarm circles in my hefty head, ignore the next exit ramp, and
let devils' advocates covet the cove i donned my dome once upon never

although i know this may be chalked up to intelligence
and subsequent ignorant claims that swear it's heaven sent
i swear it’s not for me. so tell all the hell-bent docents to leave
and let live my cognizance dim—to do what i can’t. to let it be.

it is what it is
and what it is
is it’s
excessive

i don’t need no informants
playing mentee won’t mend me
i’m torn sufficiently
far as i can see, it seems

don’t mentor she who beseeches
by way of screams and screeches
me and my strings are beat
by ****** and needless needles’
stitches and ventures heedless

i’m piecing my torn fabric
it’s grown so thick
it’s a feat, recognition
when simple addition alters
fact into fabrication

like my elation
in inebriation
guards sorrow
from knocking at my door
knocks my guard down
and has me floored

it hits my inhibition too
and i’m home-free
no guilt signaling
and i pull singles
i switch with tickets
i use to ticket my skin

no appointment
nor disappointment
walking in walk-in clinics
and sketchy shops
flickering the light
it sheds on both
my faces. i can face them
only with this double vision

i watch mark
as his sketches mark me
like stretch marks,
remarkably

in hopes of realizing on the double
the vision i envision into reality
he lets me let him put his hands on me
seemingly steadily
and we feel as our arms stretch

he draws me in
fills me ink
and vibrant me pends
his vibrating steel
and sharp pens
as they liven
my limp existence
reincarnating me instantly  

after sweet sleep
i wake bitter for some reason
feel dull but also sharp-ied
peeping the nonsense i let seep steeply
into my skin last night when i was peaking

now i can reminisce
on the pain of squirming
wallow over it instead, and
not the overflown gore of streams

and catastrophic waterfalls
that break through my largest *****'s walls
they leave what makes me, me,
with breakthroughs of which it can only dream

if only i can fall like the tears asleep
that crash and wave and overshadow my role
in turn leaving without desire
to turn over no stone
nor use any for stepping on
like the ones more close to normal
do coax

i do it all wrong
like they did me
i walk on coal
though from here
it appears
as though i'm an anomaly
only my sole seethes

when on the rocks
my walker, he makes me so strong
he lets me drink him from dusk to dawn  
he says he’d **** for me from here on
i love how foreign i am to him like heron

not the bird though it’s true
us three often see hues blue
we soar blue skies when our hearts fume blue
and they feel too sore like brews do
when they're too soft to heal each bruise or
make room for pain to grow and strength to bloom
so i walk on water as walker

kills me
he’s to die for
imploring in notes low
that i not stop, so i hop on
and once it’s well thought over
he can tell
overthinking’s my problem

i stand alone in the corner,
my core knows
all my o’s and woes
can be all gone
once one o centerfolds corner
and in comes the
coroner

who walks and rear-ends me
and e-r lose hope and leave me
when he cores me from his soul
and i let my breath roam

but he sends me
soaring over the moon
soon as he shows how he listens
and soon we both know
blinding luminescence

my eyes when they glisten
make all my mourning go missing
like the overthinking overkill
i hit when morning rays missile

and he curtails them at curtains
blacker than the blacklist
my man drenched
my nemesis in
deep sleep
with the fishes  

eventually, however
again and against my will, i endeavor
on reading the biography i penned
block my own writing
and let writers block lock me in
i get stuck on the same page
thought no force impedes
the power i home in my palms
nor my thumb's ability to thumb
through the page
yet i somehow flip it
and become my own victim

i did it.
it tells the history of tears
now extinct due to me overbearing
leading to drainage that came as
the very last bead beat me
for forbidding fibs
and calling dibs on *******

still, ringing in my ears
leaks empathy
for crocodile tears
trickling
as they salivate
over their next meal,
me

i swallow my tongue
not realizing fully
i’d just had my last meal
because they consumed me
quietly
with quibbles
and plots of consuming me
openly

ignorance is less so whats lacks
and with no inkling of doubt
worse in terms of that
which the mind keeps
then refuses to release
when need be
hence: me

after i head over
obvious traps
i let flash
atop my head

like clouds overcast
i’m convinced i tripped
on my own heels
like thunder that strikes
one man down twice
out of spite

but in spite
of everything, now that i know,
my eyes and i are drained no more
see, we’ve ever since grown more so
and metamorphosed
beyond words morbid

like those i anticipate
my gravestone
will go on
to hold

this is the reality of being kept cold-cut as meat
that heads *******, idiots, dunces, cons, and so on
those who bring forth obstacles that spurt in growth
inch by inch quicker than their thickening skulls

each time
the sage i pick thinks
my life needs spicing up, either
my screams of agony are mistaken
and my inseams nipped at the bud

or my spirits appear uplifted
and mistaken are my sorrow-filled tears
with joy-plagued wails,
each time
deep-seated sage seeds **** my green

lord knows that while i understand—to some degree
the world can’t come close or know what brews
in the disorganized chaos that is me intrinsically
i don’t fib when i allege that my angle isn’t deceit

nor right, necessarily
just dense as these
basins, wrinkles and dents
my tense cortex insists on heaving  

it would be obtuse of me
to anticipate that anybody
would watch my back
if not mine and me

it's all only a tactic
and i may feign obliviousness
to support this spinelessness
and keep it all in tact

insects fester
i feel each tentacle
extend incessantly
like these rants

they all ax my lumbar
no one's barred from my club
lumberjacks and jack’s slumber
i only lust after the latter

and jack's not all bad
he’s why my caps rested
soon as he hands it to me,
expressing the extent to which

i impress him
granted
my hands-off approach
that manages
to get hard jobs done
better than jills before

he’s a mild nuisance
when one of us isn’t speaking
but he promotes my irritability
with his attempts at weaving
our fingers together

it offends me
and all i long for
is knocking him out
like him and my neck's heart

or my kneecaps’ kneepads
the cap that’s my hat
can at last roll fast,
though no one should ask

i can’t say if i’m ok
jack ko’d my voice box
and i feel highjacked
but i insist, they insist
on the charm of the third

one i get him
like the lights, off,
that’s when i go on to hop off
tip toe off his tip top to get off
on the silence my mind writes off

none of it matters to me
mankind ramps up my love for luxury
the ivory warmth Mr. Browns rain
all over my cold windshield
puts me where i love to be

without them,
antidepressants
would depress and hail on
but their chocolate depressants
elevate me and i hail mary
when they hail hope on me
and i'm newly merry

when it’s all over,
i seek refuge and rush down
and on to the one and only John
where rest can be found
he’s bold as kohl and cold
as his marble floors call for

it's he who keeps my thoughts snowed in
and spares my teeth cracks no dentures can fix
suppresses my urge to purge like Snowden honing in
on how not one man cares less for one careless node in
systems nor the cancerous danger of no protests nor dents

it’s tasteless, the rice that is humanity
so i dine solitarily
in solemn grief
seeing the uselessness we
as crumbs and morsels have come to be

individuals in division
invincible in coalescence
bound to form solid solidarity
likely as the moment

satan and saint agree
to raise their satin
black and white flags,
respectively

to enwrap
two into
one
fabric. silky, smooth, seamless
as is the cocoon
          i once was foolish enough to assume
    would secure the very same wholesome skin
                         it would later go on
to help me consume.

cannibalism.

Tallow mends
Though wind cuts
Furrowing curtails
Absence missed
Shutter shuts

Again?

Little bits of paper set little boys and girls awake. Paper is the voice, it is the rush, and it plays against the spirit of the rough. Some had hands in favor, some made famous from their toils. Across the bridges, into harm, extreme liking finds a way to plant their dreams. A courageous haunt for storytellers fashioning fictitious love in the vocals of these pleasure scenes.

A gasp at poison sells us. Two legs is all it took- the fanciest of the 399 lives, stitched across the faces of all his slaves. Some hide behind the moon, in the shadow of its glow. Some depart him, only to remark, and take up the King James Bible in a fight to eradicate some half-lie half-truth tale. Some take up their histories. Some track down their accusers. Some just watch the show.

If ever was a prophet, material or fake. A flip of the light switch rewinds the days, while a new trial of words ghastly fails. If ever was a wind to whip the rocking torments of joy into a smooth flowing dressage of subtle paper cuts and clues, lusts on paper and *****, petite memes cloaked in the vast inertia of the West. Rags piled high as riches, short denim shorts worn publicly before each and every oval and square, curious domain names ******* the brain to forget the old complaints, renege on values once comparable or the same.

Only in this world, today, strangers bed each other and misspell the chants beaten into their acute proclivities for breaking the law, while purposely opening their mouths on soap boxes, and orchestrating the papers’ coolness through the grid and onto the plane. The work of the slaves is the accord to which forewords tune gravity.

This is the paper taking down cities. This is the worship building anarchy in its own members. This is the end of the call and the beginning of the caste. These are the mute and colorless stains on the walls, and the childhood loves of an adult that colorfully decorate the dormitory in his past with the clutter and occupancy that curtails to no complaint. There is the paper and there is the gain. Will any of them ever be human again?

I wrote to you last week.
All pathetic and full of angsty yearning.
Pouring my feelings for you onto the page; bleeding inky tears my eyes were and still are too stubborn to cry.
I told you that I miss you.
That just like a plague, the thought of you relentlessly pushes it's way into my days.
Into my head.


I know when you read my words you felt triumphant.
Powerful even.
Like my affinity to write about you only proves my weaknesses.
That my failure to get over you proves just how hard I fell for you.


You wrote to me last week.
A love letter?
No.
There was a time when I would have answered that question with my eyes. A hopeful glance, wet and shiny with the tinge of unrequited love.
But no. Your words bled manipulative deceit across the screen.
Page? No.
You've never been that eloquent.
That blatantly romantic.
Except when you were..
For me.
One of the things I loved about the idea of you.


I can still feel the butterflies fluttering furiously in my stomach, heart racing as I read those words for the first time "I love you"
But how depressing that I read them.
I didn't hear your sweet voice whisper them into my ear, sending delicious shivers down my spine.
I read them on a harshly bright screen.
A bright screen that assaulted the stark darkness surrounding me.
Safely tucked away beneath a pile of blankets.
Alone.
So in love.
And so alone.


My days consisted of daydreaming of the life we would have together.
The perfect life.
One that I desperately and furiously convinced myself was inevitable.
So close to tangible that if I reached high enough or hoped hard enough for, I could feel my fingertips brush the curtails of that exquisite illusion. Because my love, all that we ever had was a beautifully perfect, wonderfully magical idea.
Full of enchantment and potential.
It hurts even now to think about what we lost.
But how can you lose something that you never had?
I can't understand it.
We were a shade of grey flickering insubstantially next to the kaleidoscope of colours that is reality.


I wish I had a letter from you.
Something I could hold next to my physical being.
Something that can't get lost within the trenches of cyber space.
Wind maybe, but baby I would clutch it too close to me, it would never, could never, fly away.
I want something to hold against my heart. To be able to trace my fingertips across the indentations of your pen.
I'm jealous of that pen.
Of it getting the chance to be grasped within the comforting softness of your hand.
For taking the place of my hand.


I want something to prove that I had you.

It's another night,
I decide to sit by the window side.
Eyes wander outside,
with a pen in hand and a blank paper on desk.
Eyes beg to sleep,
but something keeps me awake.

I listen to the sound of rain,
the only source of peace tonight.
The cold breeze touches my skin,
And retell their journey.
The netted curtails sway,
what a ghostly sight, it's grey.

The sky is soaked in somberness,
Clouds not letting the moonlight reach the window pane.
I remind myself, 'I'm fine and sane.'
But really,
I wonder what's darker;
the storm outside
or inside?

I lift my pen and scribble down a word or two,
Crumble it and throw it away.
I lack words to say,
Since the desire is too palpable to convey.

A desire to sink,
I want to free float after my last blink.

The sufferer must have their match
the one to complete the dream
of feeling more than life can share
in the space of fevered dreams
while the lash may find its mark
accompanied by the scourge

there is a person who facilitates
the press of leather to the flesh
they feel no discomfort in the act
except to tire from the toil
the thrill must be somewhere else
this may be feared if not pure

beware the one who holds the leash
or snaps the crop to bring the pain
they may indulge in bad faith
even as they serve a need
beyond the veil of scenes played out
where does the urge to hurt extend?

what curtails the sadist's need
to bring distress to all things?
these are the questions of concern
that play across my yearning mind
a ******* during play
I’m wary of the opposite.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190122.

A person of extreme colourful interest,
A collection of stories they are not.
Neither are they words of experiences best,
But their person is the result of the lot.

If you fabricate fallacies not knowing yourself,
The ostentation will be seen,
For what it is; a facile mask of deficient wealth,
Degenerating virtues, leaving you unclean.

True, internal sadness can be covered,
With self-righteousness and false confidence.
Complacence curtails virtues just discovered,
And ceases growth of your love for kindness.

Learn of yourself and not other’s perceptions.
Your thoughts you are, you’re the colours of your thoughts.
No more displaying portrayed deceptions,
For your true vibrant colours, you will only distort.

Find those virtues of which we all possess.
Find them and show them to everyone around,
Show them you at the height of your very best,
You will receive love abound.

there only about three songs in my repertoire as a listener
that stab me in the heart...
i'd stretch to four... debatable whether
it's king crimson's epitaph or in the court of the
crimson king...
starless makes it into the triad...
i guess i'm only focusing on a specific genre:
counting out classical music altogether, & jazz...
because: just be...          cause...
in the triad... nights in white satin by the moody
blues...
& omega's (a Hungarian band)
       gyöngyhajú lány...
   i'm probably lying... there'd be a fifth
with something by Maanam...
             i can't really give you citation on
the worth of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones...
oops...
i don't even think its the pop status that kills
it... it's that: you want to find something
auxiliary, hell: ulterior...
that terrible fate of man...
if he were a crow: he'd still invented motives
to not croak, crackle...
   if man were a cow he'd still find ways
to not moo...
              i've heard the maxim: yes yes...
you're just as different as everyone else...
so what? that's how we're herded...
what simply shows is...
how hard some try...
and how those who don't try...
end up... trail-blazing: their own little:
Robinson Crusoe eventuality...
    - what a plentiful Saturday...
two rugby matches... no football on t.v.: **** yes...
& changing the rear tyre on my road-bicycle...
700 x 23cm...
6 punctures... in the tyre...
2 in the inner tubing...
i took the wheel off... spin spin after spin
in a makeshift water-bath to see the puncture better...
Ezekiel? didn't you see?
third time, tipsy... oh look how it's easily done!
next i'll prepare a chicken for a spatchcock blind-folded!
****'s sake...
coffee, x3... with some magical liquorice
liquor... Mexican... yella... or ow...
magical... how much i love anise... liquorice...
esp. when coupled with alcohol...
& coffee...
dreary ******* day persisted nonetheless:
i didn't mind... hard to mind...
when you can finally get off your backside...
& wait for investing in a career as a steward...
for a while...
i'd rather teach English children English than chemistry...
we'll see... no chance in hell will
i be found teaching Lebanese children
an American accent...
i'd sooner teach a dog to meow or a cat to bark!
live a little...
so obviously after changing the tyre
i had to take the ol' Viking for a spin...
minding to buy some fuel for the night
in the form of ms. amber & herr whiskers...
but the breaks weren't right... too tight on the lever...
thankfully i took some tools...
knelt in the supermarket car-park
by the trollies & started to imagine a violin
in my hands... what?
fiddling... i started fiddling...

and you might appreciate how difficult it is
to make small-talk...
esp. in unhandy situations...
you're fiddling with your bicycle's breaks
a man goes up to his car with some
spare groceries  & starts off with:
you've seen that video on youtube...
this young guy doing X...
dead... such is the world we live in...
aha... sorry what the **** was that talking
about? amazed that i want to work on
my own bicycle... it's not a *******
F16 fighter-jet...
is it?
sure, currently we have such...
focused spans of attention...
such concentrated specialisations...
a jack-of-all-trades is frowned upon...
when i think of work i think of:
lifting ****, moving ****... a sort of chess...
harvesting crops...
what's the rest?
loitering... esp. concerning women in clothes shops...
not even barristers...
i mean: what's work... outside the realm of
the "3rd world" sweat-shops...
what are we, "1st world" inhabitants...
content-production ******?
what, *******, "content"?!

best not jinx it... i'll be a steward at Wembley...
i'll be an authority figure...
i have the height (6ft2) & the weight
(96kg)...
           Maanam: krakowski spleen...
6th song?
        work as loitering: isn't work... work:
lift... move... it's like the antithesis of the cruel joke
from Auschwitz... arbeit macht frei...
when they forced the people to move
a sack of rubble from A to B,
to further relent at them moving the same sack
of pebbles from B to A...

what the hell is work when so much of "work"
is loitering?
pandering to whims?
how cruel of me: there's so much excess...
not enough condoms were clearly used...
solipsistic, marginal, attention-deficient ******
of the great **** of life...
so many ******* kings among the rabble...
king of Sweden, king of Romania...
oh you see them all the time...
wake up... or be put to sleep by a bullet to the head...

i understand work via... lift... move...
any idiot's fancy...
oh sure... when the intricacies of synthesising
an ester, to make perfume...
when what's required is... pasteurizing milk...
mein gott: the current trend of...
ensuring people are fed... well... not fed:
more like...
ensuring that they don't doubly butcher a
steak... who the **** eats a well-done slice
of steak? probably someone who eats a lot
of lamb dishes... ha! the Welsh are joked
about as being sheep-shaggers...
i'd look toward the Arabs... the greatest sheep-shaggers
of the whole lot of them...
not that the pig can't be used to make...
leather belts... leather shoes...
funny god: of the Arabs... sure... the Hebs too...
it's almost like the devil played a cruel trick
on these people...
pig: b'ah b'ah bad...
aren't ***** necro-
don't ***** eat the flesh of the dead?

but Arabs are one "thing" & the Hebs another...
there's the pristine phonetic study of the
tetragrammaton...
ah? for sighs... ha? for laughter...
W for cosine... Y: the implosion & the rotation
of delta (Δ)...
the Hebrews will accomodate...
the Arabs won't...
even among Africans i can find traces of
universalism...
the Arabs, ****- -stanis... & the Hindus (somewhat)
think themselves are superior...
hush hush when imploring
the Chinese or the Japanese to enter
my realm of thought...
i already think much of the Korean Hangul...
& the Japanese Katakana...
i'm no Ezra Pound... Chinese ideograms...
western Emoji...
the Egyptian hieroglyphs...
32 letters in the ****** alphabet...
as many as there are teeth...
in every man...
26 letters in the Anglican... 6 short...
which teeth will we have, on the platter?

- i think i write these words through a perspetcive of:
what are you, scribbler?
what the hell is the rest of the fancy?
what use for a priest?
i am useless?
i scribble... is it such a sin that...
since the inception of Napster... music "suddenly"
became free? who the hell pays for art,
these day? unless it's not overpriced
acrylic *****?
don't pay for art...
great! don't have a culture...
don't have anything western, "western"...
look how the old Soviets are... giggling & rubbing
their hands in synch. with Beezebub...

AYA - WARIANT "C"...

culture is free, music is free... plenty...
enough for it to be sold...
to no one... monopolised into nothing:
into predictable curtails...
buy new shoes, phones,
perhaps some books... perhaps...

you starved the artist you somehow wonder
why... waste upon waste of migrants are flooding
your borders... will they learn your tongue:
will they... for the people who espouse
Darwinism the most: how backward thinking you all
are... since... you're all ******* dodos
given, the generosity of comparison...
not even that...
how sickening your choice...

you learnt nothing from eastern Europe...
and i wish... that you don't learn anything to begin with...
may you tremble, may you trouble yourself:
with your little hyacinth torando makeshits
of... "the bothersome"...

art for free... who would be asking for
golden nuggets! none!
just scraps! enough to have enough for fuel...
electricity...
no one is asking for ******* stature...
either we'll get to level... or...
the levelling process will come of its own
accord...
you have... ha ha... "have" a choice...
but time will tell you: no... you really don't...

AYA WARIANT C...
"contra"... :Wumpscut bunkertor sieben...
barking, up, the, wrong, *******, tree...
no need for Shakespeare... that **** is timeless...
i need something to counter the debauchery
that's currently relaxed concerning
the practices of journalism...
            ahem... sorry... what journalism?
pampering secluded ****-smeared *****...

if the ghost of Robespierre is grieving in
me! if the ghost of Robespierre!
if the ghost of Robespierre!
                  
  für die leute! für alle!
                    i'm tired of these western...
"conservative": iconoclasts of individualism...
spoon-feeding... hmm...
right now i'm least required to
mention the capacity for: a) thought,
b) tongue...
i like the option c) fist...

these pink haired: freak-oids are just
bearable... Weimar bearable...
i just can't stand being told i'm...
pointless... worthless...
that my words are no sellable...
sure... i agree... they're not...
but... what the **** sells?!

   any, worse, or, better? don't come to me
with complaints that somehow the world is...
darker...
my cat is sleeping sound...
if i had a dog i'd try to not use a leash...

this little piece of *** sells...
great... life: nothing indepth!
here you live: hereby you sink...
drown in the shallows...

groß! eisengrinsen! lachen
entstanden von: diese volk:
das spreschen dies... zunge!

i still find it a bit of a joke... Aryans?
Sarmatians were an Iranian tribe that travelled
into Poland...
Aryans... o.k., sure... jawohl...
i still can't pass up writing some Deutsche...
bad German... or good German...
i don't mind... it's not like the whole
of Berlin will mind... ha ha...

life will have to pursue its own:
trajectory...
like the life of parasites...
imps... giraffes...
van Gogh's paintings... blah blah:
a century later i might be up for
scrutiny... ha ha... people might have forgotten
world war I, or... part deux?
no? new war... Armageddon... figures...
well then... my words are ash:
  mein wörter ar asche;
lucky... no shadow present: too.

though stairs above, unlit
well at each landing glows
where spiralled shadows fly
its bridge curtails its distance

through yearning measured steps
their creaking shrugs off decay

Does music have a language,
  does feeling have a name

Is love the sole survivor
  that calls beyond the grave

Do excuses have a reason
  for the falsehoods that they spew

Does honor have a season
  to restore the faith you knew

Do all mothers have a father
  or just sons to tell their tale

Do all preachers write their sermons
  to rehash what God curtails

Are the words then just a token
  when cast out from the heart

Is judgment left unspoken
  with belief cut up in parts

Is direction now forbidden
  and all meaning thusly doomed

Is laughter all but hidden
  with its smile partly groomed

Is today beyond tomorrow
  and why replaced with how

Do the questions feign an answer
  indecision—your last vow

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2018)

I walk a labyrinth alone,
shuffling my steps
to follow the intricate inwardness
of the path, skeleton of the divine circle,
maze of the praying soul.

It is a pilgrim's progress
toward the center, where the last line
abruptly ends, indifferent to whether
your prayers have been answered.
The journey curtails, moving around
and around, the finish found
before the beginning begins.

This decorated circle of communion
subdivides into monastic cells,
the walls permeable to the Spirit,
impervious to doubt. The circle pivots
on its axis, perfectly aligned
with itself, perfectly identical
to itself. No cycles to bring change.
No mutation of form. Only
the mystifying distance of pi.

The labyrinth looms like a celestial
formation encircling heaven and Earth.
Dante walks it, with Beatrice by his side.
A circle of new love, new life.
Every next step encircles the entire journey,
enlivening the heart. Agape outruns
Eros in a race of heavenly calm.
All prayers divinely divisible by pi.