Y'know the last cat I had wasn't even my cat,
  he was the neighbour's cat
Yea! He defected... came over to our house
My neighbours they had a holiday home down the country
  and used visit it often on the weekends
So the poor cat would be left behind at home
  and he'd get lonely
So he'd come out to us, and he liked us so
  much
We used give him a great reception
He'd get so much love and attention, nice
  food as well
That he decided to stay with us rather than
  go back home
We even bought him one of those nice furry
  little cathouse bed type things
Put it out in the garage and he'd sleep there.

But whose cat was he now then, was he ours
  or was he still theirs
Did they still have a claim on him
Or was it up to him to choose,
You know it could have caused a
  Constitutional Crisis
Could have gone to Court
Who had ownership of the cat
Could have been a real tug of love affair
A bit like that film what's it's name...Kramer
  vs Kramer
Luckily the neighbours though they didn't
  seem to mind that much.

Of course, the punchline to all this was, one day my Dad was out visiting
  my neighbours next door
When who should he see lying there on the sofa looking very contented
  and very much at home
Yea! You guessed it.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking
Yea exactly! I bet the cat...our cat the Defector
He was probably a Double Agent all along.

That thing
That hangs over us
Watching, eyes wide
No pupils
Just the white

It follows us
Up the block
Onto the train
Through the woods
Down the path
And back again

Sometimes we're aware
Of it
Sometimes we never think to
Notice
But
It
Is always
There

The underlings stare
In submissive awestruck
Subjugation in landmine-filled
Landfills, are stuck
In the trenches, the feces
The carcass-strewn muck
Where the vermin-spawn ****
As they're taught how to work
And to fend for themselves
Like the Fall of Dunkirk
As the imminent doomsday device overhead
Incapacitates them
As mere prey to a web
Of a global dominion
Ambition connection
Subconscious hive-mind
Buzzing out the objection
And phobia-spreading
Pandemic misanthropy
Greed in disguise
Subsidizing atrocity
Not for me,

I am
The justified treason
The reason the man-hunters
Close open season
The cease-fire peacekeeper
Proliferation
The water war's rising
Desertification
An MIA runaway
AWOL defector
Still haunting the tombs of detente
Like a spectre
With what I assure
Mutually in the end
When I send go-aheads
On the ICBMs
And avenge the dependent expended
Caught in
This crossfire for-profit
Arms race it has been

An angel chief--the precentor of heaven's
Unequalled choir--silvery and dulcet was his
Voice afore the throne of God and his fold;
Lovely and fair his appearance was to behold.
Hearken to him as he the King's celestial
Hymns leads that give adoration to his especial
Majesty, making melody along with the angels
Whole, while praising Jehovah in awe dwells.

But how soon would this angel change and be
Clothed no more in chaste grace and glory,  
Rather in pride and pity! I'm more than ye all
Who in paradise live. I'm the foremost of all
Beings. Who're archangels Michael and Gabriel
Compare to me, Lucifer, the only greatest earl?
I the highest and the best-- sovereign being--
That towers above Christ the Son begotten;
I'll even God usurp! I'm the most powerful
Here; the morn star that's blindly beautiful!

Haughtiness so into him entered as cupidity into
Judas. And began he to say things profane to
God his Creator, the Maker of all. And thus
War there was between the defector's caucus
And the Lord's host. Michael, who's the principal
Of warfare wherefore Lucifer--the evil cardinal--
Engaged. How fierce beyond a running pen
Was that battle unspeakble in God's holy haven
Seen betwixt the faithful and the rebel!
Yet good unflinching conquered the uprising evil
And cast Satan straightaway down unto the earth
With one-third of the angels from heaven's berth.

Hey! pal, don't make me your idol
just leave me alone
you'll be on your own, but I
don't care, that's not my problem
take it elsewhere
quit breathing my air, and just
die for all i care

love bleeds love
hate, cold indifference

it seems that the hero check-mated
his pawn for silent relief
consumating belief that they're

Strong enough, to get by alone
he's turned off his phone
the pawns pleading unknown for his

help

hey! this is the song of your season
its based on your reason ing
reckoning eyes
ignoring the skies
as we stare at our feet
just ignoring the beat of that

thump thump
thump thump
thump thump
thump thump
thump thump

Hey! pal, I'm trying to help you
I know what you've been through
I've cut off my hands too and
I know I've a right to your problems
I'm telling you
that you are mine too
and I will pursue because

Love bleeds love
hate, cold indifference

well it seems that the victim's persuaded
his defector is jaded
his soul's been blockaded when

the wounded hears that his friend needs a breath
he mistakes it all
for a wish for his
death

hey! this is the song of your season
its based on your reason ing
reckoning eyes
ignoring the skies
as we stare at our feet
just ignoring the beat of that

thump thump
thump thump
thump thump
thump thump
thump thump

Hey! now you're both in the wrong
this isn't your song
and the melodies long er than
either could ever realize
both need to survive
for peace they should strive because
love bleeds love

hate is bred in cold indifference

well, it seems that both sides have traded
all the love in the world
for cold bitter hatred

all the suffering ignored of
the bleeding and pleading
souls that implored you to

stop

hey! this is the song of your season
its based on your reason ing
reckoning eyes
ignoring the skies
as we stare at our feet
just ignoring the beat of that

thump thump
thump thump
thump thump
thump thump
thump thump

Well it seems that the  spectator failed you
He wants to help you along,
sing you his song but his
words failed to silent screams
as they were cut from his side
he bled and he cried (or died)
reticence gave way to indifference...

I lived in Pyongyang,
Breathing to be wired to follow my father’s footsteps.
Taught all day the greatness of our homeland.
As a kid, I sunk into their teaching,
But now seen as propaganda through my grown eyes.
I dreamed of leading my own troupe
Into battle, for my great country, to stand with pride
As I was destined to protect it.


Out of grief and sadness
A cry stretched its ways to my ears.
The great leader fell
From swell to nothing well.
I was told we were to go on holiday
In Gyeong-Seong forced to stay.
Moving in and out of it to see the light of day.
No longer blinded from my homeland’s falsehood
Tricks and tactics meant for military
Used against it for my own tranquility.
Oh! The irony.


Now grown up, with a new dream.
I no longer see Joseon the way it used to seem,
I say my story as a North Korean defector in hope,
hope to see better lives for those who reside there.
In my oh so forsaken great homeland Joseon.

I'm the fire of his afterthought,
the spark of guilt that lit his
soul on fire
that blazing innocence
around
his eyes
when he smiles
I stick tongue in his ear
in devilish voice
of seduction
whisper in heated
breath what I'm gonna
do to him,
one lick of heat
he flitters like a moth
to flame flickering in
and out breathing my
name; I got game, when
I make him holler in vain
he's tamed; sweet
as a kitten licking and
dipping in fiery pit,
as I allow him to suckle
a little ***; having a fit,
mind bound in illusions
wrapping lips around
wanton conclusions

I leave him delusional as
I whip with lust; blowing
his mind just so, I can
control him as I allow him to
leave nibbling teeth marks
tonguing wetness
back to front upon
silkiness of skin,
delving into
softness of elusive
innocence;
still whispering words,
igniting fires of
desirable passion
as he's gasping for
breath between wet
thighs...yes I sighed
as each word and lick
fell between each
soft petal dripping
with his tenderest
touch caught as I
squeezed and teased,
the heat of his
passion blew flames
in and out of petalled
mouth, zapping any
thoughts of guilt;
sipping sweet nectar
seeking political
asylum as a defector
tasting his way south;
dribbling and mouthing
in hunger on bended
knee's to forever
please me as
he walked beside
me collared on leash;
in beggary silently
still ******* me
melting away each layer
with every lick of my
whip; he adored me
with his touch, as I,
his ebony skinned
Mistress whipped
his mind into
submission;
bending him
to my will
****! he
thrilled me
as I played
him like
a
fiddle,
he
dribbled
into
my
fiery
pit
in
which
he
was
well
equipped
so,
I
allowed
him
to
dip
with
his
flaming
hot
wick...LICKED

How could I,
The double-faced
WHO’s current leader,
On par with
A chieftain
Brigade general,
Tightlipped attend
My diabolic
Party’s funeral?

Though for
My criminal
Party’s tragic end,
Bereaved,
I have to sob,
I must labor
To garner
The pity of
The credulous, elites
As well as
The mob
Round the globe.

At the same time
Dollars I have
To underwrite
In a bid remaining
Impish junta members
Beef up their might
Armed again
To wage a fight!

After ENDF’s law
Enforcement operation,
“I know not
The whereabouts of
My nephew,
In Micadra’s massacre,
Who might have
Victimized a few!”

Blood is thicker
Than water
Thus about
Genocide victims
Why should
I bother?
By defector as
I’m also
A victimizer.

I forgot
I’ve to seek
A scapegoat,
Though it was
The junta
Who released thugs
And cut throats
Before defeat
So that
They could
Run amok
To wreak havoc
—**** & looting—
I will dish out stories
In order hints not
To the gun the smoke!
If handsomely paid
Some media outlets
Could reverse the talk.

I'm the best and worst,better than your first,
*******, but worse than Courtney takin' the Shotgun to Kurt,
Chick-Chick BOOM! too soon?-get the the **** out
I got more brains than the Cobains Greehouse,
He was in Nirvana...now maybe he's IN NIRVANA,

I don't know I'll leave it there maybe ask Buddha,
brutha believe me you can't deceive me,or relieve me,
even a trained hunting Dog can't retrieve me

Let's be Frank...
I leave rappers quieter than Helen Keller's beef with Anne Frank,
need enough Franc's for a trip to France to get some stamp's Franked...

Frank White or Frank Castle I'm an angry Irish *******,
arguments against me are simply facile,
sit the **** down, drop the Mic like a hot Spud,
afore you get stood all over by the Bull Stud,
I'm a ******* detector, Patriotic defector,
criminal Electors rippin' off the Exchequer
while I'm busy in your Ma's room strippin off her knickers!

I'm swimmin with an Army of ex Special Forces Women
to the Island offshore accounts are on Gunnin' and Grinnin,
constantly Sinnin' I'm Constantine slammin a Mirror offa Demon
Leavin your bird's face like a Doughnut glazed in *****,
dosin' every coffee cup in MIT with DMT,
Observin Scientists tip over at the knees like fallin' trees
new discoveries abound as PHD'***** the ground,
if Forest Whitaker fell in the woods would he make a sound?

My ground and pound will confound-verbal skills will astound,
next memory is wakin' up with a crowd around,
ye wanna step and test?,don't mean to be crude,
but ye must have a real taste for hospital food,
through a straw-thru a wired up jaw,
playing ****** up games like Saw,
ye shoulda saw the consequences when ya raised yer paw
yer Paw shoulda raised ye better bout raisin' fists to yer betters,
bunch of bedwetters tryin' to do a Man's job, forget it.

I'm the best and the worst,best friend-worst enemy,
big mistake offendin' me,don't need no one defendin me
but I still have a crew of real hard rocks,
the lads are used to the hard knocks,
you're used to the hard *****!
your faces are so shocked,
you just got yer snot rocked
now you're layin' face first cause you ****** with the best/worst!

You always bring me down
To earth
Just when it seems
I’ve bested you
You ground me in reality
As soon as I’m convinced
I flew
Up to the sky
You keep me from
My hands outstretched
Towards the sun
Yet even if I touched it
Or I clutched it in
A crushing grasp
You’d pull me to its blazing core
Reducing me to thermal gas
With ineluctable
Reductions
To my mass
And weightlessness
I’d sooner crash
Impacting on the surface
An extinction-grade
Atomic blast
Yet still I try,
Defy,
Deny
Your being without form or shape
Descending even now, pretending
There is some escape
From flightless fates
And leaps of faith
In your breath-taking power
Plummeting just like a penny
Dropping from the tallest tower

6 foot
Nearly
Don’t even know what I’m looking at
I’m not talkin' ****
I’m just tryna take a picture
Maybe so I can remember
No we don’t look like a couple
You know we look related
Especially when we’re faded
Why we’ve been so jaded from the rest of them
Tryna figure out if we’d be something
Yet still suckling
On someone else’s nectar
Wasn’t born to be protector
Most likely a defector
But I weather
Oh I whether or I whether not if to be or to be not
Is of any consolation
Highly doubt it for the nation
Information been a strayin
You know that I’m just playin’ with ya
on the cusp of something better
Rose above the earth together
As it is above
So it is below together

Soothing riddles like cats and cradles.
Swear in front of momma then imma get beat by ladles.
True stories or fables, said across the tables.
No lie detectors, so at any time a brother can become a defector.
With police chomping at the bit like they ******* Hannibal Lector.
Rat mazes in these projects man- there ain’t time for no breath here!
Doesn’t matter if your blood is red or blue,
because if you do the crime you best be prepared to take the sceptre!
But because the game is rigged a brother gotta do what he got to do!
So, sorry pastor I ain’t got no time for no lecture.
When poverty is all that I know and I’m just so desperate for the nectar.
And I can’t just sit by while my family piles up in debt here.
If only I was born in another sector.
Or in another lightyear!
But for now, I gotta do ***** jobs like Dexter.
While toxicity in this environment continues to cycle on and festers.
So, with all this going on I had to drop out this semester.
And all though being educated can get me out of here.
Once your born in the sinkhole, it feels like there is no point to try to get out of here.
For even if I tried to get a good 9-5, my past will become my interceptor.
For a crook can’t be a model civilian like a Ford Pinto can’t become a kia stinger.
I just pray my kids have a chance to get out of here and live out a life not ingrained in fear!
So, by shear will power I’ll do what I can for them to get out of here!
Maybe one day they’ll come to see me later in their years.
On the other side of the glass wall of the prison cell,
and I’ll start to tear up with pride and grin from ear to ear.
To see them work a clean and good 9-5,
and build up a family from the blood money that got them there.

.as i reiterated the stream-of-consciousness cut-off point: wow! that's a great way of thinking about "it".

and "it" is a great starting point,
i never understood how
the French existentialists,
or existentialists in general,
notably the rigid Germans
could invert the comma on
such a pivotal word like ego...
maybe this whole "gender neutrality"
of pronouns stems from
what the French existentialists
cited, i.e. "i"...
but then...
   aren't we talking about
a number neutrality?
     they isn't one, as one would
claim, in Royal speak, no?

i still prefer to don female sunglasses,
i prefer the feline contorts...

there was something else...
ah... **** me, i almost forgot,
a reworking of
cogito ergo sum...

   right...

            cogitans qua esse

i.e.

it's more of a question,
a prompt rather than a proposition,
i.e. an observation,
it's a prompt, a vector,
because there are no fixed
coordinates,
hence?
it's self-explanatory:
        exploration is on the table...

mind you:
i know of gay males who
love divas...
  lady gaga, kesha, rihanna, etc.,

i can't control the music i like,
music is unconscious
with regards to liking or disliking
it...
     headphones and the analogy
within the confines of the sound
of progress?
   really?! the sound of cars is
motivational, enough to not escape
into music?
   don't **** on me with
that kind of *******...

and in relation to dreams,
   i love this quote from rogue one
(non verbatim):

are you the sort of man that carries
his prison wherever he goes?
that's how i count for the phenomenon
of dreams...
      i rarely dream...
i sleep...
   but dreams are shackles
under the scalpel-scrutiny of
Freud's observation...
   lazy, bourgeoisie demands for
scrutiny and, fixations on
metaphysical affairs...

   sure... dreams originate in the brain...
hyper-inflated memory...
dreams are a distorted,
hyper-inflated memory...
i'm pretty sure that people
with a photographic memory
dream very little...
        the cheapest,
   gateway hallucinogenic...

i don't like dreams,
reality is too real to concern myself
with dreaming,
but i have no say in that,
my body prevents me from
elaborate labyrinths in
the land of Nod & Nox...
which, oddly enough...
is mildly refreshing.

- but back to the Cartesian revision...
plain and simple

cogitans qua esse -

    thinking as being, being...
in question:
how much of your thinking
translates itself into
your, being?
day dream, O Joe?
conjure fantasies?
   hence the question,
because the fact per se is no
longer enough...
people are wondering...

the old i think therefore i exist
isn't enough...
given...
how much of your thinking
actually exists, in being
what your thinking surmounts
to the prompt of thought
in its genesis -

what can motivate you to think
if not the originality of
your being,
however subtly construed
in deviance,
yet hinging onto a figment
of a "norm"?

because, well... **** me! cogito ergo sum
is a eureka moment!
it's not a preposition,
it's a proposition, hence a vector,
with coordinates,
and it can be changed,
since it's proposed,
                 and not supposed...
otherwise it wouldn't be
so ****** revolutionary!

hence my counter, it's a question...
cogitans qua esse...
thinking as being, being?
yes, we're all Nazis having read
the defector Heidegger's obscure works...
pure and proud Aryans...
gorilla punches on the chest
and all...

   it's a simple question,
   and i'm done with undermining
ontology with
                          ******* out maxims
akin to Nietzsche or la Rochefoucauld,
or Machiavelli.

Time Flies 
Bodies Are Distant
Pain is Intermittent
broken into plural of Fragment
You Pulled At strings of Heart
I m Not Unwilling To Tear Apart
Just Sing For me One Part of Mozart's Art
Don t You think It seves me Right ?
Save me from the Evil Deeds
Don t you Have Sympathy For Me
Is that  Right ?
I m not Fancy Agonizing
I Can t keep Up  With  Obsessing
I don t need to A therapist
I am A Callous Rock I ought To Resist
HowEver You Were Energized EnougH To Dig for  An Astonishing Crevice

I m in doubt
I m a bit of sceptic
I can t Believe You !
I can T put my trust in you Anymore
That Doozy of  Love is Actually  not Realistic
I m Loyal
My standards my Reputation
Both are Royal
That s Why I Can t Be roles Player
Because You are The Heart Breaker
I am The  Words  Doctor
I am An Author
Not A Devil's Advocate  Actor
I won t return Back  to Love's Island
Because I ve already become A Defector

the ways of distraction she put forth
while walking and passing by the old destroyed building
her mind is like an open slate
that is empty and the words distorted
all the traces of past memory is blurred, no, wait!!its ERASED!
but the love in her heart always made its pace!!

a chronic defector, a leaver by choice, a summon of destruction
she had been like this forever
and this forever been like this since she dnt even remember
but ,
the love again piercing the ways from the crack of mountains
in the very dark night when she doesnt even feel her face!!

sometimes, just exhale, its better to exhale than inhale
so that the course of ur lines, for once, dnt stop ur ways
FATE!!!!
it changed so swiftly, like jumping on a bandwagon like paths and space....

the spot where i have stopped, here winds are howling
the dust storm in enigma and gigantic
my clothes, i dnt know, where i saw them last time on me
still there is something, a light in dark, a hope atlast
or may be,
this is like the other chapters i forgot atlast!!

One day the Queen of Ireland was sitting on her throne
She had her very stylish professional business suit on
She had her hair neatly coiffured
On her lap she had a Chromebook computer
which she was avidly looking at
And strangely, she was crying, yea! she was sobbing to herself
Her Top Aide seen her and immediately rushed over  
"Your Majesty, what's the matter ?" he inquired
But she couldn't answer him such was her distress
"Is it the state of the world" he asked, "is it...is it the climate crisis or the... the Brexit (the UK leaving the EU European Union), what!!!"
The Queen looked at him almost pleadingly and then finally she blubbed
"No! It's.... it's Bardo, he's written another poem"
"Bardo! " replied the Aide a little exasperated, "Not him again. You can't be getting upset your Majesty every time he writes a poem"
The Queen went on dreamily "What a beautiful heart but what a tortured soul"
She then looked at her Aide in a strict kind of way and said "It's no good, I've got to meet him, I've got to know him"
Her Aide cautioned against it, he said "Your Majesty shouldn't lower herself to seeking out some obscure poet guy, sure poets are two a penny in this country"
This angered the Queen, she stamped her foot and then said forcefully
"I'm the Queen of this country and he is one of my subjects in My Kingdom
I have a right, I have the authority"
So, so she issued a proclamation/ decree
In every parish in Ireland posters were put up seeking the identity and whereabouts of the poet Bardo.

Suddenly a lot of Bardos started popping up all over the place
Yea, lots of people were coming forward claiming to be Bardo
It was said in one County a strange man wearing a mask and riding a horse, with a sword dangling by his side came forward
He said "Are you looking for Zardo ?"
'No!' he was told "we're looking for Bardo"
"Oh!" he said and went off disappointedly.

The Queen knew these people they couldn't all be Bardo
So she used set them a test
"If you're Bardo", she'd say, "then recite to me a new Bardo poem, yes! A brand new poem"
This invariably would throw them all off
Suddenly they'd start getting nervous and unsure of themselves
"So you... you want a new Bardo poem"
Yes! would reply the Queen, you must have some newer poems or bits of poems
So one of the Bardos would begin rather shakily "Mmmm... Aaah... then they'd start to recite
"The Sweetness that was, it is no more
It's... it's flown out the feckin' door "
The Queen could tell straightaway "You're not Bardo "
Another of the Bardos began "The sadness it never ceases, it's a ceaseless sadness/ It's not a gladness, it's.. it's more of a badness.... your Highness "
Again the Queen passed a speedy judgement "Neither are you Bardo",
The Queen began to despair a bit about the dishonesty of people
She began to feel very gloomy and disheartened
That was until... until one day out of the blue she received a strange letter which was unlike all the other letters
It was from a lady who was a former nurse
She said her and a friend of hers had been Carers for an elderly couple for many years
And they had a son who they still kept in touch with, they'd go out for the occasional meal
Often he'd drink too much and then he'd start talking and would tell them that as a hobby to take him away from the stress of his job
He used write things mostly poems and he'd post them online somewhere
He said he wrote under a pseudonym but he wouldn't tell them what it was
She said that when the Queen issued her decree she went and read some of Bardo's poems
And she thought she could recognise some of the stories her friend told in Bardo's poems.  She suspected he might be... yes! Bardo.

The Queen was intrigued by this letter
It gave her new heart...new hope
But how... how could she proceed
Finally she hatched a plan, she thought she'd just visit Bardo's house on the pretext
That they'd received a report that Bardo lived around that area somewhere
She'd just ask him straight out if he knew of him
And see what his reaction was.

So the next day she set off in her big chauffeur driven BMW car
They pulled up to the driveway of a house
The house locked a bit ramshackley, in poor condition
It could have done with a new coat of paint
The tarmac too was very worn
And there were weeds growing in the flowerbeds
Inside the porch sun room it looked a bit rough as well
There were tools strewn around it like someone was working there
She rang the front doorbell
After a few moments a figure in a beanie hat answered the door
The Queen introduced herself and then asked if he knew of a poet named Bardo living in the area, that they'd received a report
The figure looked a bit stunned at first, then he smiled and bowed a short bow as if acknowledging who she was
Then he said "Bardo.... it's not a very original name for a poet, is it, is he any good ? "
"He's a wonderful writer I think", the Queen replied, "his poems they really speak to me, I'm a big fan, I'd love to meet him"
The figure pondered a moment then shook his head in a kind of amateurish theatrical way and said "Mmmm No, I'm sorry I don't... I don't know this... this Bardo"
Then he smiled and said "If I was a poet, an Irish poet writing under a pseudonym
I'd call myself something like... like Spudy Potato"
"Do you write?" asked the Queen
Here the figure stumbled a bit in his answer
He said"No!" and then stammered "Not...not really"
The Queen got a funny feeling about him, his replies and demeanor didn't seem to ring true somehow
So she changed tack, she said they'd been driving all day long and wondered might she possibly have a cup of tea as she was parched, she even said she'd pay for it,
The figure declined her offer to pay, saying instead he'd be greatly honoured to have her as a guest
Although he said he'd have to apologise for the state of his house
"It's a real Man Cave" he said inviting her in, "not much feminine influence here unfortunately".
"You live here all on your own", the Queen asked
He nodded and said a bit wearily, "All on my lonesome" and then smiling added "I have no one to talk to now not since my cat passed away"
(The Queen remembered Bardo's cat poems Tommy Tigers and The Defector)
"You're a cat person", she said
He smiled nodding his head "Cats are funny".
"You don't get lonely living alone ?"
"Oh! " he shrugged, "sure we're all alone in the end anyway" he said enigimatically
(The Queen was reminded of a Bardo poem The Great Alone)
He added again smiling "Didn't Oscar Wilde once say 'Living with yourself is the beginning of a lifelong romance'
When he went off to make the tea the Queen watched after him, she could see an inner room where there was a computer set up like a workstation...
As she waited she took a look around the porch sunroom, she could see some dust upon a table and on the window sills
And she noticed there were holes in the carpet which seemed very old
And also there were some spindly spiders up on the ceiling
She was reminded of the Bardo poem "I'll do anything for you Baby but I won't clean my house".
When he came back with two big mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits
The figure apologized again for the state of the room
He explained he liked to keep it looking a bit rough
As he thought no thief or burglar would be interested in robbing such a poor looking house.
She asked did he work from home
He replied "Ever since the Covid yes! we've had to work from home"
The Queen was reminded of the poem "Working from home".
Suddenly the figure went to say something but seemed to have some difficulty getting the words out
He stammered "Wh..wh...wh" then he stopped and apologised, he said he had a bit of a stammer sometimes
The Queen remembered in the poem 'Working from Home' Bardo had a stammer
He went on "What I wanted to say was why do you like this poet so much ?"
She thought for a moment and then said almost dreamily "It's the things he writes about Loneliness, longing, being empty inside, about his youth and the hope he had when starting out... it's like he's trying to make sense of his life...and he's funny... quirky things like that"
"But why would you be interested in those things, sure you're a Queen, you must have everything, your life must be so full"
"Sometimes it gets so lonely", she replied sadly, "it's like you're living in a bubble, I often wonder what's it all about, I feel so lost and alone sometimes... and so empty inside"
Suddenly the Queen sat up in her chair as if regaining herself  
She said, she admitted "You know"I haven't been completely honest with you, calling on you today
It was no accident
We received a report that you wrote poetry and that you post it online in secret
We thought that you might be him... that you might be Bardo
The Queen noticed a marked reticence or reluctance in the Poet
"Oh!", he said
So to assuage the situation she asked "Would you recite to me one of your poems... I'd love to hear one... please"
"Oh!", the Poet replied shyly, "you don't want to hear any of my ramblings"
"Oh yes I would ", she replied enthusiastically, "would you not recite one... one for your Queen"
She fluttered her eyelids, "Please! Pretty please "
The Poet smiled at this and at her enthusiasm
"Well I have one that I never showed to anyone, it's a bitter type of poem, a bitter Blues type of poem, it has some coarse language now
It's about a poet who writes but never seems to get anywhere, he feels he's been left behind... forgotten
It's called... I know you're not supposed to use clichés but this saying sparked/ inspired the poem, it's called "I couldn't even get arrested "
"Read it to me please ", said the Queen expectantly, "I'd love to hear it"
So the Poet rose to his feet and cleared his throat and began...

"I couldn't even get arrested

My soul it sings like a sad violin
Busking on a street where few ever come
From another street I hear loud applause and cheers
They want the young not some old gun like me
I couldn't even get arrested.

They pass me by and they don't bat an eye
Like I'm someone not worth knowing, my story not worth telling
"You think you're something special", they seem to say
"Man you're just wasting your time, you ain't got that Do Re Mi" -
I tried, Lord I tried, ain't no one tried harder than me
But I couldn't even get arrested.

I feel like Vincent Van Gogh must have felt
Pouring my heart out for all to see
Naked I stood there
But no one wanted me
All that time I gave to rhyme and nothing to show for it
Was I just ******* my life away
I couldn't even get arrested.

Browsing down the bookstore
Seems these days everyone's got a book but me
Young girls and boys writing books like their toys
Just for fun so it seems
But me, I couldn't even get arrested.

Is it a Jinx or what
Has someone put a spell on me
Or is it you're just no feckin' good...
I couldn't even get arrested.

So I guess I'll just keep plugging away
Putting it out there and hoping some day
Knowing nothing will ever come of it
I'm battered and broken and too old to care
I couldn't even get arrested".

The Poet stopped and looked over at the Queen a little uncertainly as if seeking her approval
She looked speechless, spellbound even
She rose to her feet and then exclaimed excitedly "Bardo!! It is you!"
She went on "I think... I think I'm in love with you"
"Yea", the Poet said a little dismissively, and gesturing to his room "come and live in relative poverty and obscurity with me"
As she stood there looking at him she was reminded strangely of a story from out of the Bible
The story of the sick lady who was trying to get to Jesus
But was hampered by the crowd
And she thinks "If only I could touch the hem of his garment I know I'd be healed"
She thought as she looked at him "If only I could kiss him I know I'd be made whole"
She edged closer to Bardo
"You've got lovely dark blue eyes"
He replied  looking down at her "Y'know you've got the loveliest, the cutest little nose there Queenie"
The Queen was reminded of Bardo's poem 'Little Perky Nose'
Her face moved closer to his, then suddenly she made a sudden lunge forward
She placed her lips on his and kissed him
(She even slipped in a bit of tongue there)
Suddenly there was this blinding flash
Outside, the Queen's big car had turned into this big bank of leaves
Which then collapsed on the ground and blew away in the breeze
Her chauffeur too, he'd turned into this big... this big Badger, he went scurrying off into the undergrowth
The Queen herself too, why she'd been transformed
Now instead of a Business suit, now she wore this lovely dress with lovely flower designs and  bright colours on it
And her hair, now it fell naturally in lovely thick long tresses down her back
Her face too, had been transformed, was radiant, she had these lovely rosy cheeks and brilliant shining eyes
The Poet looking at her, strangely he could only speak to her in the Irish (as Gaelige... pronounced '*** gale-le-ga')
"Ta tu go h-alainn", he said (translated 'You are beautiful '... pronounced 'Thaw too gut hauling ')
"Ta tu cailin deas" (translated "You're a Lovely Girl"... pronounced 'Thaw too Colleen jass"....)

He took her hand in his, needless to say from that day forth they both lived  happily ever after.