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O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw
The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud,
Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,
Came furious down to be revenged on men,
Woe to the inhabitants on earth! that now,
While time was, our first parents had been warned
The coming of their secret foe, and ’scaped,
Haply so ’scaped his mortal snare:  For now
Satan, now first inflamed with rage, came down,
The tempter ere the accuser of mankind,
To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss
Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell:
Yet, not rejoicing in his speed, though bold
Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast,
Begins his dire attempt; which nigh the birth
Now rolling boils in his tumultuous breast,
And like a devilish engine back recoils
Upon himself; horrour and doubt distract
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir
The Hell within him; for within him Hell
He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell
One step, no more than from himself, can fly
By change of place:  Now conscience wakes despair,
That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.
Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view
Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad;
Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun,
Which now sat high in his meridian tower:
Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began.
O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned,
Lookest from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
Of Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down
Warring in Heaven against Heaven’s matchless King:
Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks,
How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
I sdeined subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burdensome still paying, still to owe,
Forgetful what from him I still received,
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged; what burden then
O, had his powerful destiny ordained
Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition!  Yet why not some other Power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without, to all temptations armed.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse,
But Heaven’s free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
O, then, at last relent:  Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent.  Ay me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of Hell.
With diadem and scepter high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery:  Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain,
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feigned submission swore?  Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall:  so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace;
All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead
Mankind created, and for him this world.
So farewell, hope; and with hope farewell, fear;
Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven’s King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As Man ere long, and this new world, shall know.
Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face
Thrice changed with pale, ire, envy, and despair;
Which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed
Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld.
For heavenly minds from such distempers foul
Are ever clear.  Whereof he soon aware,
Each perturbation smoothed with outward calm,
Artificer of fraud; and was the first
That practised falsehood under saintly show,
Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge:
Yet not enough had practised to deceive
Uriel once warned; whose eye pursued him down
The way he went, and on the Assyrian mount
Saw him disfigured, more than could befall
Spirit of happy sort; his gestures fierce
He marked and mad demeanour, then alone,
As he supposed, all unobserved, unseen.
So on he fares, and to the border comes
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green,
As with a rural mound, the champaign head
Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides
Access denied; and overhead upgrew
Insuperable height of loftiest shade,
Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,
A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend,
Shade above shade, a woody theatre
Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops
The verdurous wall of Paradise upsprung;                        

Which to our general sire gave prospect large
Into his nether empire neighbouring round.
And higher than that wall a circling row
Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit,
Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue,
Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed:
On which the sun more glad impressed his beams
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,
When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed
That landskip:  And of pure now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair:  Now gentle gales,
Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils.  As when to them who fail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambick, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odours from the spicy shore
Of Araby the blest; with such delay
Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league
Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles:
So entertained those odorous sweets the Fiend,
Who came their bane; though with them better pleased
Than Asmodeus with the fishy fume
That drove him, though enamoured, from the spouse
Of Tobit’s son, and with a vengeance sent
From Media post to Egypt, there fast bound.
Now to the ascent of that steep savage hill
Satan had journeyed on, pensive and slow;
But further way found none, so thick entwined,
As one continued brake, the undergrowth
Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplexed
All path of man or beast that passed that way.
One gate there only was, and that looked east
On the other side: which when the arch-felon saw,
Due entrance he disdained; and, in contempt,
At one flight bound high over-leaped all bound
Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within
Lights on his feet.  As when a prowling wolf,
Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey,
Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve
In hurdled cotes amid the field secure,
Leaps o’er the fence with ease into the fold:
Or as a thief, bent to unhoard the cash
Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors,
Cross-barred and bolted fast, fear no assault,
In at the window climbs, or o’er the tiles:
So clomb this first grand thief into God’s fold;
So since into his church lewd hirelings climb.
Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life,
The middle tree and highest there that grew,
Sat like a cormorant; yet not true life
Thereby regained, but sat devising death
To them who lived; nor on the virtue thought
Of that life-giving plant, but only used
For prospect, what well used had been the pledge
Of immortality.  So little knows
Any, but God alone, to value right
The good before him, but perverts best things
To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
Beneath him with new wonder now he views,
To all delight of human sense exposed,
In narrow room, Nature’s whole wealth, yea more,
A Heaven on Earth:  For blissful Paradise
Of God the garden was, by him in the east
Of Eden planted; Eden stretched her line
From Auran eastward to the royal towers
Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings,
Of where the sons of Eden long before
Dwelt in Telassar:  In this pleasant soil
His far more pleasant garden God ordained;
Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow
All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste;
And all amid them stood the tree of life,
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit
Of vegetable gold; and next to life,
Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by,
Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.
Southward through Eden went a river large,
Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill
Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown
That mountain as his garden-mould high raised
Upon the rapid current, which, through veins
Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn,
Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill
Watered the garden; thence united fell
Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,
Which from his darksome passage now appears,
And now, divided into four main streams,
Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm
And country, whereof here needs no account;
But rather to tell how, if Art could tell,
How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,
Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,
With mazy errour under pendant shades
Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed
Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art
In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon
Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote
The open field, and where the unpierced shade
Imbrowned the noontide bowers:  Thus was this place
A happy rural seat of various view;
Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,
Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind,
Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,
If true, here only, and of delicious taste:
Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,
Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap
Of some irriguous valley spread her store,
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose:
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves
Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine
Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps
Luxuriant; mean while murmuring waters fall
Down the ***** hills, dispersed, or in a lake,
That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned
Her crystal mirrour holds, unite their streams.
The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
Led on the eternal Spring.  Not that fair field
Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower by gloomy Dis
Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world; nor that sweet grove
Of Daphne by Orontes, and the inspired
Castalian spring, might with this Paradise
Of Eden strive; nor that Nyseian isle
Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
Whom Gentiles Ammon call and Libyan Jove,
Hid Amalthea, and her florid son
Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye;
Nor where Abassin kings their issue guard,
Mount Amara, though this by some supposed
True Paradise under the Ethiop line
By Nilus’ head, enclosed with shining rock,
A whole day’s journey high, but wide remote
From this Assyrian garden, where the Fiend
Saw, undelighted, all delight, all kind
Of living creatures, new to sight, and strange
Two of far nobler shape, ***** and tall,
Godlike *****, with native honour clad
In naked majesty seemed lords of all:
And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine
The image of their glorious Maker shone,
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure,
(Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,)
Whence true authority in men; though both
Not equal, as their *** not equal seemed;
For contemplation he and valour formed;
For softness she and sweet attractive grace;
He for God only, she for God in him:
His fair large front and eye sublime declared
Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks
Round from his parted forelock manly hung
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad:
She, as a veil, down to the slender waist
Her unadorned golden tresses wore
Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved
As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied
Subjection, but required with gentle sway,
And by her yielded, by him best received,
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,
And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed;
Then was not guilty shame, dishonest shame
Of nature’s works, honour dishonourable,
Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind
With shows instead, mere shows of seeming pure,
And banished from man’s life his happiest life,
Simplicity and spotless innocence!
So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight
Of God or Angel; for they thought no ill:
So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair,
That ever since in love’s embraces met;
Adam the goodliest man of men since born
His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.
Under a tuft of shade that on a green
Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain side
They sat them down; and, after no more toil
Of their sweet gardening labour than sufficed
To recommend cool Zephyr, and made ease
More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite
More grateful, to their supper-fruits they fell,
Nectarine fruits which the compliant boughs
Yielded them, side-long as they sat recline
On the soft downy bank damasked with flowers:
The savoury pulp they chew, and in the rind,
Still as they thirsted, scoop the brimming stream;
Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles
Wanted, nor youthful dalliance, as beseems
Fair couple, linked in happy nuptial league,
Alone as they.  About them frisking played
All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase
In wood or wilderness, forest or den;
Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw
Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,
Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,
To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed
His?kithetmroboscis; close the serpent sly,
Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine
His braided train, and of his fatal guile
Gave proof unheeded; others on the grass
Couched, and now filled with pasture gazing sat,
Or bedward ruminating; for the sun,
Declined, was hasting now with prone career
To the ocean isles, and in the ascending scale
Of Heaven the stars that usher evening rose:
When Satan still in gaze, as first he stood,
Scarce thus at length failed speech recovered sad.
O Hell! what do mine eyes with grief behold!
Into our room of bliss thus high advanced
Creatures of other mould, earth-born perhaps,
Not Spirits, yet to heavenly Spirits bright
Little inferiour; whom my thoughts pursue
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop
? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.
Kim Mar 2016
Happy Easter everyone!
Yes even all you lovely folk at Google!
Thanks for the doodle (not)
Thanks for being so selectively inclusive-
So open minded and transparent!
Indeed it is a small gesture of bad faith (pardon the pun),
but no less unpleasant for it

I'm so sorry to have to point out to you that you will fail in this ignoble endeavour
Just like so many before you have failed
Just like all campaigns must fail when their core principles are hostility, arrogance, and the increasingly popular brand of cold warfare- selective inclusion

You see the answer to the problems of our world
(yes OUR world, not mine or yours or theirs, but ours):
Is not more war- be it physical or virtual;
It is not more discrimination- be it active or passive; and
It is not to champion only one or a few sections of society- whether by actual good work or mere lip service such as 'doodles'
Putting down the one in a misguided (& half-hearted) attempt to uplift the other is a fool's errand and a dishonourable one at that

You see we have enough division in this world
We have seen enough war and exclusion
Even now there are more than enough cowardly and insidious actors spreading fear, violence and petty resentment through the internet and all your spectacular technology

And what is it worth- this power you have over the www?
And all the information you insidiously and yet blatantly, collect about the hapless user?
What is all that knowledge worth if it does not awaken you to the great struggle of our time?

The struggle to overcome:
Our differences- real and perceived
Our fear of the unfamiliar
Our collective tradition of violence
Our joint heritage of injustice
Our long long history of 'my way or the highway!'

Please grow up, think bigger, be better
It is not your prerogative to impose your limited beliefs on the world
It is your duty to improve yourselves and those around you
As we've heard it said so many times:
With great power, comes great responsibility..
In this age of information, you and your ilk weild an unprecedented and unquantifiable range and depth of power
Do not squander it, or you will certainly fail and fall like all those wannabe superpowers before you!
Dear Google,

Please also refer to my little poem- 'Cookie-Cutter Conquerors', may it serve as a cautionary tale! ;)

Yours in Humanity,

Kim
Dada Olowo Eyo Nov 2015
Beady eyed devils,
The very spawns of hades,
They come in bloodthirsty shades,
Like troubling, annoying canker-weevils.
Tom Peace Oct 2016
Dream of good impressions,
A false advocate of a positive outlook,
Predicting attitude will get you locked up,
In a prism of dishonourable desire.

The deal is,
Five assorted personalities,
Assault every aspect of yours,
Run you dry,
Then have the audacity,
To question your lack of faith.

And on that note,
You disappear,
Your personality dissipates,
And your motion merges with that of the sour voices,
That you thought were constructive.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
so many wise sayings of the philosophers, so many maxims noted, and none, none, making it to a tombstone engraving chiseled missing curves of the ten epitaphs of sinai. so you know why the chinese were left budding atheistic, no pictorial with the chisel, but that's why the comic book district emerged there for a mango baton perfect slouch or slurry *****: ****** that *** and ***** in, i went to the classical gallery for the monkey, came out and wondered by the zoological a theology, it was all very strangely slow motion. but imagine chiseling some chinese pictorial into a grave, no wonder the chinese were not ousted with that diabolical proof of failure exposing a people to so many varying non-pictorial representations of the lip tongue and teeth – but as the title suggests… if nietzsche’s motto ‘god is dead’ is really true, then those ten commandments are really just ten epitaphs, and i don’t know who really died on the cross.*

being me, i'm no o'toole, or a richard harris,
my hell-raising stems from
the silence of bookworms gnashing on ink folds,
it's silent, it's "deadly," it's the sort of hell-raising
that accepts the nervous temple tension
of knocking with full blossom of the cracking knuckle;
and when i tell them i put a schizoid
element into my acquisition of the english language
they call my spiritual experience psychosis,
and when i tell them i was almost murdered
they tell me i'm depressed... and then?
o czym ty mówisz, ty głąbie kapusty?
because back "home" my prophetic honour is curbed
by my palette for beer being dębowe prior,
that's at 7%, and not a carlsberg: probably the
best ***** **** in the world;
unlike jesus enjoying all the fun in egypt and not
in babylon from where the magi came,
with old "rabbi" joseph telling him: go back to judea
and mingle with your people, remember what
the egyptians did to us, you dishonourable ******.
and so jesus went back, and the greeks wrote a translation,
while the romans bowed seeing some weather shamanism;
only yesterday it was raining buckets of rippling toads,
i concerned myself with wet clothes in the attempt to
***** up, said it would stop, turned an hour into a minute
and the rains stopped, notorious b.i.g. that isn't an acronym,
only notoriously f.a.t. (remember, the meaning
is in the subconscious, in consciousness the meaning
is scrambled egg & morse & braille).
by way of conclusion - exploring the man masquerading
before his mother, is in no way an assurance
of an abundant biography to testify with saliva juices
of conversation - unless the delusional irony is that
even though i'm not trying to get myself noticed,
i'm also not deluded to the point of not having existed;
but the chinese are safe though, complex pictorial phoneticism,
the latin alphabet took to strain, people went mad,
really wanted to see shaved baboon heads through
the googgles of emptied space after c. columbus
architected the jamaican slum boulevard; or maybe haiti suburbia,
whichever, the world grew smaller, and the universe expanded
disproportionately... on the telly!
Valentine Mbagu Jul 2013
Loving begins with a lover,
a dishonourable person cannot love.
Like hunting which cannot be done by just any hunter,
loving requires ability;
like fruit for the fruit seeker.
......loving begins with a lover.....
So give the lover another option to love.
Love requires intellect just like success requires intellect.
......love with passion and not illusion...
When you love, guide your heart with deligience so you be not heartbroken.
The hearts of many have been broken by love,
while the hearts of some have been made whole by love.
Love not to break the heart,
but love to build the heart.
When you love, don't only love;
but love with care.
Love with love and with faith;
that your love be not abased.
Love not for wealth,
for it fades away.
Love not for appearance,
for it's deceptive.
When you love,
love for love,
love for character;
love for charisma.
Love for personality,
not for mediocrity.
Love is a mystery
Francie Lynch May 2014
I have an unusual friend. A small man with charms of a gentle redneck. He holds court in his garage for his acquaintances, those free or at large. His demeanour is rustic, but his wisdom self-taught. His name is Byron ( I know, it's too good to be true),  not lordly, but Byron likes the girls and light brew. Byron says, “I'll kick your ***.” every time we play golf. Not yet. His voice is chasmic and often influenced by distractions. And then on a cold, witch-***, heathcliffe driving winter's day, with the wood stove well-fired, a rascally friend opens the door, and Byron yells, “Shut the door. Do you think wood grows on trees.” On leaving the same day he advises me, “Don't slip on the ice. It's frozen.” I didn't tell  you Byron has one eye. Better yet, a patch on the other. He looks more like post Frodo  ignoring the “Don't run with scissors" warning from Mother Baggins, than he does Lord B. I dropped my pipe once on his garage floor. A special pipe. It's my bowling pipe. I don't smoke tobacco.  Byron thinks it clever to call me at work and tell my secretary he and I are bowling after school. Byron mixes metaphors. So, my pipe has dropped. Byron says, “ Let me help. Three eyes are better than two.” His cleverness can backfire. I tried to be sensitive, but there was neither an honourable or dishonourable way out. Byron hung an oak wood sign near his stove. He makes his own stain, and rubs it evenly in circles with his wife's old nylons. “It's great for the *******,” he'll quip. The two ***** of the sign are joined with leather straps and stainless steel studded to the wood. The letters painted within the stencilled lines are a dark, rich mixture. The joke. “Lift flap in case of fire.” Normally one lifts the flap. “Not now stupit. In case of fire.” I discreetly pointed out the t.The sign quietly disappeared and was never mentioned again. He'll never kick my ***.
Kayla May 2016
Flourishing breezes pass through the air, and emanate throughout your asunder bristle stems.
Not leaving any trace; like it was never even there
Your brisk brown eyes could never compare
While the raging rapid wind hated its glide
It hid the shameful flowers which then commence to cry
Hearing the blissful silence of natures mind
I begin to realize that it is now my time
The dishonourable flowers that I know are now mine
They soon and surely begin to shine
The ageless roots forever intertwine
I know deep down in my heart that they will last a lifetime
When the trees come alive to a song sung by a bird
My ears prove to me that they'll always be heard
My subconscious takes over into an act of peace
And when their graceful songs begin to increase
I know the war inside me will now cease
So the dawn will break at last
And the moon and stars are put in the past
Along with the struggle, I tried to contain
It sill aches inside of my brain wondering if I'll ever be sane
So I breathe the fresh breeze through my heartfelt pain
Who knows if I'll ever be the same
Writers: Kaleigh & Kayla
My mouth stands strong.
Ribbon of drool match those in reflection.
My accolade full circle, royal undertow.
Vellicating in dishonourable mysticism.
Moving here & there.
Moving water, wine & a wisdom separating love from the ore.
Learning where musical savants & initiates dim the lights.
Inspectors test restraints, narrowing memory. Now forgotten.
Wake up, remove hairs sprinkled in hidden testimonial.
Misgivings in this shellacked house of homes.
Intellection. Ascending, bending bones. Fissured left-behinds.
To purify all your thoughts.
Resisting universal locomote.
Heels in foreign grease. Bare soles departed.
Movings of brilliantly painted soil.

Telephones relate & relay the balmy decisions you are making.
Tragedy
r Feb 2020
Roll up! Roll up!
Examine the corrupt,
the nose, hair, the olive of skin.
Dishonourable, alloyed blood.

Rub, Rub
I can't get it off.
grate, burn, scour,
I can only cleanse, gloss, polish.

Look! Come and see
the fresh, clean impurity.
Lay on the table,
sparkling shimmering.
We cannot control these sinful things.
To all my ancestors who were persecuted for their religion and ethnicity.
yvonne cleland Jul 2015
I wanted love -  honest passionate.
You wanted me while useful.
I loved you despite, including and because of.
You found faults - plentiful.
I vowed in our fake love to honour you,
but your truth was dishonourable.

I get by - so do you,
but you swagger  like Lord of Thrall.
You’re not all bad or you couldn’t be so good.
You just hunger for new meat.
Bon chance to the next one or two, or threes …
They’ll need it, and I'll get up off my knees.
Bitter heartbreak.
annh Apr 2019
It was a dark and stormy night, or at least it was for our single-parent family. The rest of the neighbourhood was enjoying the kind of clear skies which meant a hard frost overnight and a slippery ride to school in the morning.

The barometer in our neat, wee house at the end of our short, ordinary street was falling rapidly, as it often did these days. My father, an Iraq War veteran - ’Honourably discharged for dishonourable reasons, and don’t you forget it. ****** fascists!’ - was in charge of our weather. From blue skies with candy-cotton clouds in the morning to an eerie half-light of silent anticipation by late afternoon, we would end the day huddled around the kitchen table waiting for the maelstrom to hit.

We ate carefully trying not to scrape our plates with our knives and forks, and avoiding each other’s eyes. The cauliflower cheese was examined as closely as every other vegetable my aunt Kate - ‘I’ll not have my family eating slaughtered animals!’ - served up to us. You’d think the food on our plates was the most interesting thing in our precarious little world. Peas were my favourite because you could count them over and over...until they were finished.

Wind and rain lashed our evenings regularly. Sometimes we were treated to the automatic-rifle fire of hail, but worst of all were the sandstorms which ****** all the air out of our home and stymied any hope of sleep. On those occasions we all huddled together in my sister’s bed - ’No, Alex! It’s Livvy’s turn to hold the torch. You can look after the phone in case we need to ring Dr Matt to help Auntie Kate.’

We updated our worst-vegetarian-creation notebook and talked in close whispers about the weather. Mostly, we sat quietly and longed for blue skies and sunshine tomorrow, while the captain cowered in the cubby-hole beneath the stairs and screamed into my six-year-old brother’s plastic walkie-talkie. ‘Man down, man down, man down!’
A drabble for Anzac Day.
Stanley Wilkin Jun 2017
Is it possible for a land to dream
Of Harakiri.
Gouts of screams and tears abound
Self-destruction is such a sweet sound
Particularly when told from afar
By those so clearly in the know.
But is that the truth, what we are told?
Does this land dream of a death all of its own?
Or perhaps tales of its expiry are greatly exaggerated
For profit and shock.
Could this be true, that they are lying to you?
Or does Peckham wish to fall on its sword?

Perhaps once, in the span of three days
Did this land wish to see itself burn,
To see itself consumed in the fires of greed,
Of hatred,
Of ignorance.
Tell me, is that all that this land has to offer?
Will it willingly trudge to such a dishonourable demise?
Or will it rise
And show those in the know
That in truth Peckham dreams of a fate more honourable than Harakiri.
BY my son: Stephen Francis
Riz Mack Sep 2019
Cover my face
to converse with the heavens
a fall from such grace
should deserve some attention
some way to replace
broken light I was given
as the words taking shape
paint dishonourable mention
hard taught ways
the fall is the lesson
just another case of
divine intervention
a pool of disgrace
it's my purest reflection
a shower of silence
is all I was left with

Cover my face
this rain's getting heavy
as the rising tide
slowly breaches the levee
I'm caught in a place
where the ground is unsteady
so out of place
a landfill teddy
I lost all my faith
round nineteen or twenty
well, what I had left
it was far from plenty
god never showed face
sent angels to end me
if he wants me erased
he could have just sent me

Cover my face
the angels have left me
gone are the days
of feeling bereft
see, all that remains
are shadows that tempt me
one of these days
the dark will come get me
why should I stay
for one who rejects me
fills me half way
just to leave me half empty
questions the stray
he'd know if he met me
he led me this way
down paths tread with fell feet

Cover my face
rip it up gently
every night when I prayed
he would listen intently
as I counted the ways
the good lord detests me
it was on those days
he saw fit to bless me
the one and only
who didn't forget me
showed many faces
but not one upset me
showed me the steps
gave me identity
dance the devil's way
cause we're the same entity

Uncover my face
to write on the wall
brush off the last trace
of dust from the fall
when push comes to shove
he's inside us all
and that one up above
just won't do at all
he handed me this pen
at the edge of a blade
gave me first cause
to put words on the page
the tempest calls
to lift me away
a siren's song
I'm going all the way
wait for it

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqasiIHNCcA
Yenson Nov 2018
Irrelevant force zeros cyclones, whirlwinds of smallnesses
Swirling pants from slimy orifices laden with smergma
Showers pristine leaving pollutants on mental polluters
Living lives fast callously, thoughtlessly and remorseless
Their mate cancer is waiting round the corner impatiently

Love me or hate me, my dishonourable purloiner s
both are in my favour. If you love me, lifterologists
I will always be in your hearts, and if you hate me,
I will be in your minds, regardless of their miniscule sizes
Hate is too great a burden to bear but bear it proudly I beg

The voice of truth and Light drowned out by the roar of fear.
It is ignored by the voice of desire, compensating emptiness
It is contradicted by the voice of shame and abject cowardice.
It is biased by hate and extinguished by terminal fizzing anger.
Proudly the wicked envy and hate; it is their way of admiring.
Untamed self control my own worst enemy I can be
I can not be the poison and the remedy
The voices I hear are not in my head
I hear the words as if they’ve been said.
Horrific thoughts I must endure
Collective voices worse than before
The madness escalates, reducing me to an unbalanced state
A break mentally so much others can not relate
Psychotic attack or psychotic illusion
Is it reality or is it a delusion?
Derogatory constant running commentary
Over thinking causing chaos; corrupting my mind
No escape nor shred of peace can I find
The voices I hear don’t stop they don’t give in,
Continuously ranting of dishonourable sin
I attempt to deter from mental confusions
Medically my thoughts are seen as delusions
At the time I'm not convinced I'm deluded
Convinced by distorted reality I've concluded
Distorted assumptions that I have concocted -now real
Escalated with time a darkness clouds how I feel
Negativity takes over positive thoughts
Hearing uttering of endless hurtful talk
Resulting in what I hear as being true
Suspicions conspire then conclusions are drew

Hateful words; closer louder unable to ignore
Detachment from any logical thought
From the derogatory talk I hear is believed
Its how I am seen its how I am perceived
Over thinking causing chaos corrupting my mind
Peace & positivity I can not find
Voices persecuting me to such an extent
Relentless and nasty horrid content….
Like on repeat although the night
I hear them talking but there out of sight
Surely they must tyre of slagging me off
Nasty unimaginative hateful lot

Voices of those that I know and those I am close too;
My mental state decreases concluding its true
Every emotion dark with dread and fear
Panic derived from all that I hear
I cant shut it out all of the time I take it all in
Persecuted of every action I do, I cant win
Unable to recall past psychotic occurrences
No deterrent from the cognitive disturbances

The voices never stop they don’t go away
With given time I’ll believe what they say
Whether it be a regrettable act or gossips fabricated lies
All of my self worth and confidence dies

Auditory hallucinations not willing to stop
All reasoning fact and logic forgot
Blinds my judgement and ability to see
harrowing Paranoia descends to reality
Hearing the conversations and ruthless content
Persecuting me to such an extent
Medically my thoughts are seen as delusions
I attempt to deter from mental confusions

Panic, detached irrational thought assumptions
Loss of control and distraught
When the worst of the worst is easing
Confusion remains
I question was it real or am I insane
I know now what I thought was deluded
I cant believe what I've previously concluded
At the time what I thought was real
Inability to control how I feel
Disbelief descends when delusions ease
relief then comes from what I previously perceived.
I suffer from schizophrenia this is a detailed poem with what i experience.
Did she notice,
when she walked down into my eyes
that my sight stole my voice?
To return in stuttered, half compliments
of flitting words.
too flimsy to hold the heart.

Did she notice my staring gaze,
my eyes, casting timid glances
while I searched myself for eloquent words
to tell her my knees were weak,
and my heart was beating
with good dishonourable intentions.

Wrapped in midnight
and pink hued sunset horizons.
Hiding some and alluding to others,
the woman curved beneath the clothes.

Her hair up, in golden silk curls
to celebrate tonight
with full passioned lips
smacking of sultry invitations,
and drowning deep sea eyes.
Sporting a breathless smile
and black heels.
While I feel so ordinary and tedious,
dressed in my fine suit
and matching offsets.

She takes my hand
so everyone can see
that she is mine.
And now I am alive.

How beautifully she shines;
beyond the limit of the eyes
to the scope of the heart
and the extent of the soul,
that see in different dimensions
than sights' perception can go.
To unmask the splendor
behind the face.

For this is what pulls the strings
of my surrendering;
A man and clothes
may make each other,
but a woman
will make him feel it.
Justice lies in the interest of the forceful
And the wrath of means that are unlawful
A brutal curve during 1800's
African prison system was brought through
Guiltless spent time in cells
Consequence of the pass laws
No ground to stand
Observing the defeat over their land
No legacy to mend
With their bare fits and wits,
They had inheritance to shed  
Civilisation introduced to Afrikans
The ideology is a slow process
Resounding failures
frontal setbacks,
Bright darkness
Even today
You and I is a witness
Or you missed that ?

Now
Last of all comes the severe man,
About whom we have to wonder,
We abide as Slave citizen
He came through a form of a revered writing
Wearing a complexion of the slave master
Whence is he, or is he an enigma
or his coming is a paradox
Does he exist as a palindrome
in happiness or in misery?
In length or in depth
In fact,
There is,
however,
A list of grieving interrogations I have,
Which I should like to consider first.
Most of them are illegal,
Some of them are liberal
None of them are answered
Yet weakened in various degrees
By the strength of reason and law scenes.
I mean those which are awake when the
Reasoning powers are asleep,
Which get up and travel around without rights
Without any knowledge of self or state of belonging;
With a potential of conceivable accusations or crime,
However cruel or unnatural,
Of which,
In imagination,
They may not be guilty.


Very True, I declare;
But when a man’s pain beats drastically;
Conforming under a feast of sorrow
failure comes home to reside  
Just before fear of prosecutions goes to rest,
The solution is a systematic arrest
Which remains being the nature of the rest,
Invoked characteristics lays tests,
The visions which he has on his bed
Are least irregular and defective.
Which marvels out in sleep.
Arguing like a temperamental insubordinate,
That he who Is mistaken about the crime
Is a jailor in that he is mistaken?
Or that he who stumble in poverty or liberty
Is a poverty-stricken or libertarian at the time
he is misunderstood,
In respect of the error?
Give or take the era, he is lame
True, we say that the game
Is the fact is that neither the poverty-stricken nor any other
cause of life course and the skill ever made any sense
In so far as he is what his name implies;
Soiled with dirt and false diseases
until their skill fails them,
and then they cease to be
skilled ******,
smart drug traffickers,
artisans that paint with blood to be even
Not even the confused sage with no name
is present at the time when he is
what his name implies;
though he is commonly said to
misjudge,
misremember,
drift
To stray and roll until the truth slips up
out of bed and that’s never sad
While he stumble until he trips up
and I also adopted the unremarkable
mode of misunderstanding.
But to be perfectly accurate,
since you adore accuracy,
Would it be prudent to declare that the ruler,
In so far as there is a swayer, is not liable to error,
Or measuring the greatness of the dishonourable,
as far as that is the case,
Never commanded for the interest of the hopeless;
Should I rest my chase or less,
wake up read the book of those who offers little with no hope
Or else,
The area of imprisonment
would be minimized,
no chance to be analysed
and the subject is designed
to execute commands;
and therefore,
as I said at first and
now
repeat with me,
Justice lies in the interest of the forceful.
It happened that the fight was lost
And she and her retinue took flight
Ferrying by night across the bay
To the island of the guarding light

Where in the small comfort
Of a deserted, half-ruined fort
Those who remained loyal
Made ready for their encirclement.

And as morning dawned, sails appeared
Seeking the promise of final vengeance
And she, taking counsel with her defenders,
Agreed it best to leave to avoid disgrace

Boarding a skiff brought full-sailed
To the wave-beaten broken walls
Of an ancient quay in shadow -
Breaking out into the crimson dawn.

And when those who loved her
Were overwhelmed and put to slaughter
Her enemies found her gone
With only her last pitiable treasures

Left for ransack and despoiling -
Though a servant boy, a beloved slave
Sought to save his life the while
By betraying the manner of her escape.

Then the winds fell quiet and the skiff
Became becalmed. At first sighted
And then hunted down by long ships,
The sea-hounds of their wronged lord,

Bearing down with their oarsmen
Chanting of her treachery and oath-breaking:
Of her poisoning of the cellar meads
At the treaty gathering for her betrothal.

She the long-limbed, wilful beauty,
Enchanter of the warder troops
Sent by her father to accompany her,
Unwilling to bend to the needs

Of dealings and the apportionment of lands,
She who took the gifts and dowry
And divided spoils among the conspirators
Promising the sacred ring to the boldest on her behalf.

Brought at last to the fastness keep
Of her dishonourable suitor and his father,
Her followers slaughtered or enslaved,
War now afoot across the wide lands,

She refused to kneel before the throne
And was cast down with violence
Summarily judged the instigator of evil
A harpy who had raised the flames of hatred.

At which the old king, at his son’s bequest
Asked whether there was anything to be said
And she in reply promised a song so wistful
And yet so wise it might save her life.

‘Sing then to those who you would ****
Those who may still die in battle at your behest’
Said the king:‘Let us hear the siren song
For you are surely now within our power’.

At which she rose upright to answer boldly:
‘Kinsmen and Foemen alike, I am no chattel
To be bought or sold, gifted or pledged,
To settle feuds or mark out or borders

And my song is only the song of freedom -
I was not the cause of your ****** skirmishes,
Your enmities and intransigence existed
Before I was bright-arrayed and brought in offering’.

Though my song condemns me, I save myself
For life is of little worth if lived beholden.

I dreamt and wondered on a distant land
While mystic witches cast a twilight spell
With oaths of runes and carven bones at hand
In deep reflection at the fateful well

From which the tidings from the depths unfold
A curse that any future life must fail
When those betraying honour see it sold
And stain of gold is left to tell the tale.

There are much better mortal gifts to gain
There is a prize my sacred self holds strong
A treasure that will grace an inner realm
To which the best of me may yet belong.

The die is cast as I affirm my right -
Safeguarding freedom in the fading light’.
Echoes here of Maori legend - and the temporary escape of Tamairangi (a high-ranking woman of strong character and great beauty) from her refuge at the pa or fort on the small island of Tapu-te-ranga in Island Bay, Wellington, evading her adversaries the Ngati Mutunga in 1824 - and of her being taken under the protection of the Great Chief Te Rangihaeata after he was beguiled by the charm and pathos of the wiata or poetic song that she sang to her captors.
WEB: The Mahmudiyah killings were the gang-**** and killing of 14-year-old Iraqi girl Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi by United States Army soldiers on March 12, 2006, and the ****** of her family, in a house to the southwest of Yusufiyah, a village to the west of the town of Al-Mahmudiyah, Iraq. Charged with the crimes were five U.S. Army soldiers of the 502nd Infantry Regiment consisting of (I) SGT Paul E. Cortez, (II) SPC James P. Barker, (III) PFC Jesse V. Spielman, (IV) PFC Brian L. Howard, and (V) PFC Steven D. Green, whom the U.S. Army discharged before becoming aware of the crime. Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi was ***** and murdered after her family consisting of her 34-year-old mother Fakhriyah Taha Muhsin, 45-year-old father Qasim Hamza Raheem, and six-year-old sister Hadeel Qasim Hamza were killed. Spielman and Green have been convicted and three others have pleaded guilty.**

World news
US soldier sentenced to 100 years for Iraq **** and ******
The Iraqi identity cards of Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi, her mother, Fakhriya Taha al-Janabi (l) and her father Qasim Hamza al-Janabi
The Iraqi identity cards of Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi, her mother, Fakhriya Taha al-Janabi (l) and her father Qasim Hamza al-Janabi. Photograph: Reuters

Ewen MacAskill in Washington and Michael Howard in Baghdad
Friday 23 February 2007 04.15 EST First published on Friday 23 February 2007 04.15 EST
A US soldier was sentenced to 100 years in prison yesterday for one of the worst known cases involving US troops in Iraq - the gang **** and ****** of a 14-year-old girl and the killing of her father, mother and sister.
The horrific slaying of Abeer Qassim al-Janabi and her family happened in Mahmoudiya, around 20 miles south of Baghdad, on March 12 last year.

In spite of the apparently long prison sentence, Sergeant Paul Cortez, 24, can expect to be released on parole in about ten years under a plea bargain deal. He pleaded guilty and agreed to testify in the cases of others alleged to have been involved.

He was given a dishonourable discharge from the army.

Cortez, who broke down in tears earlier this week as he described his role in the **** and murders, is the second soldier to plead guilty. He told the military court at Fort Campbell of the day he had gone with others to the girl's home and ***** her.

The killing was originally reported to be the work of insurgents, but the role of the soldiers emerged in June.

In November, one of the soldiers, specialist James Barker, 24, was sentenced to 90 years in a military prison.

Another, specialist Steven Green, 21, who had been discharged from service with a "personality disorder" before his superiors knew about the crime, is accused of being the ringleader and will face a civilian court because he is no longer in the army.

Two others, private Jesse Spielman, 22, and Bryan Howard, 19, face courts martial in relation to the incident, though neither is accused of participating in the ****.

All five were members of the 101st Airborne Division, based at Fort Campbell, which straddles the Kentucky-Tennessee border.

Cortez, who is from Barstow, California, pleaded not guilty to separate charges of premeditated ******. He was found not guilty on these charges on Wednesday after prosecutors failed to convince a judge that he knew of what they said was Green's intent to ****** the whole family.

Cortez told the court about how the crime was thought up: "While we were playing cards Barker and Green started talking about having *** with an Iraqi female. Barker and Green had already known ... " he said, before breaking down in tears.

He continued after a minute: "Barker and Green had already known what house they wanted to go to ... knew only one male was in the house, and knew it would be an easy target."

At the home, Cortez said he and others took Janabi's father, mother and younger sister into a bedroom and kept her in the living room.

He then described Barker held her down while he undressed her and proceeded to **** her. 'After I was done, myself and Barker switched spots, he said.

He claimed that Green shot and killed the girl's parents and younger sister. "During the time me and Barker were ****** Abeer, I heard five or six gunshots that came from the bedroom. After Barker was done, Green came out of the bedroom and said that he had killed them all, that all of them were dead."

Cortez said he acted as a lookout while Green then ***** the girl.

He claimed Green then shot Janabi several times in the head, and the soldiers poured petrol over her body and set it alight to try to hide the evidence of their crime. Cortez burned his own clothes and Spielman allegedly threw the AK-47 used to **** the family in a canal. Specialist Christopher Till, testified that Cortez told him about the killings in June. "He seemed very remorseful," Till said.

In another development, Iraq's security forces were yesterday facing fresh allegations of brutal ****** assault after four soldiers were accused of ****** a 50-year-old Sunni Turkomen woman and attempting to **** her two daughters in the north-western city of Tal Afar earlier this month.

It is the second allegation of ****** assault against Iraqi forces to surface this week. On Monday, a 20-year-old Sunni woman alleged that she was ***** by three policemen after being detained during a search of her house in Baghdad.
Geraldine Taylor Jun 2017
Populated land of plenty

Yet hearts brimming with sin,

Dishonourable thoughts, unwholesome deeds

Blessings, provision, no gratitude thereof

The young mirrored such ways

Distaste all around, high and low, near and far

Preoccupied souls, distractions abound

Within such surroundings, righteousness remained

The remembrance of Noah, a passing of days, instructions foretold

An unfolding promise, destruction of old

A time for renewal, a solid ark to build

Call forth the chosen, the chosen are few

Gather your wives and sons, animals two by two

Close the door, seek refuge no more

Waters shall arise, raging torrents, streams will flow

Forty days and forty nights

Water-covered earth, send a raven to and fro

Send a dove for resting place

Imminent return, a week of wait

A second return, an olive leaf

Of such relief, the flood had ceased

A beautiful becoming, land again

An open door

An offer of sacrifice upon the altar

A promise on high

Rainbow sky



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
The overall cost in human lives of American actions in the Philippines was horrific. One scholar has concluded concerning the American occupation that "In the fifteen years that followed the defeat of the Spanish in Manila Bay in 1898, more Filipinos were killed by U.S. forces than by the Spanish in 300 years of colonization. 1.5 million died out of a total population of 6 million."**

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US soldier sentenced to 100 years for Iraq **** and ******
The Iraqi identity cards of Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi, her mother, Fakhriya Taha al-Janabi (l) and her father Qasim Hamza al-Janabi
The Iraqi identity cards of Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi, her mother, Fakhriya Taha al-Janabi (l) and her father Qasim Hamza al-Janabi. Photograph: Reuters
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Ewen MacAskill in Washington and Michael Howard in Baghdad
Friday 23 February 2007 04.15 EST First published on Friday 23 February 2007 04.15 EST
A US soldier was sentenced to 100 years in prison yesterday for one of the worst known cases involving US troops in Iraq - the gang **** and ****** of a 14-year-old girl and the killing of her father, mother and sister.
The horrific slaying of Abeer Qassim al-Janabi and her family happened in Mahmoudiya, around 20 miles south of Baghdad, on March 12 last year.

In spite of the apparently long prison sentence, Sergeant Paul Cortez, 24, can expect to be released on parole in about ten years under a plea bargain deal. He pleaded guilty and agreed to testify in the cases of others alleged to have been involved.

He was given a dishonourable discharge from the army.

Cortez, who broke down in tears earlier this week as he described his role in the **** and murders, is the second soldier to plead guilty. He told the military court at Fort Campbell of the day he had gone with others to the girl's home and ***** her.

The killing was originally reported to be the work of insurgents, but the role of the soldiers emerged in June.

In November, one of the soldiers, specialist James Barker, 24, was sentenced to 90 years in a military prison.

Another, specialist Steven Green, 21, who had been discharged from service with a "personality disorder" before his superiors knew about the crime, is accused of being the ringleader and will face a civilian court because he is no longer in the army.

Two others, private Jesse Spielman, 22, and Bryan Howard, 19, face courts martial in relation to the incident, though neither is accused of participating in the ****.

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All five were members of the 101st Airborne Division, based at Fort Campbell, which straddles the Kentucky-Tennessee border.

Cortez, who is from Barstow, California, pleaded not guilty to separate charges of premeditated ******. He was found not guilty on these charges on Wednesday after prosecutors failed to convince a judge that he knew of what they said was Green's intent to ****** the whole family.

Cortez told the court about how the crime was thought up: "While we were playing cards Barker and Green started talking about having *** with an Iraqi female. Barker and Green had already known ... " he said, before breaking down in tears.

He continued after a minute: "Barker and Green had already known what house they wanted to go to ... knew only one male was in the house, and knew it would be an easy target."

At the home, Cortez said he and others took Janabi's father, mother and younger sister into a bedroom and kept her in the living room.

He then described Barker held her down while he undressed her and proceeded to **** her. 'After I was done, myself and Barker switched spots, he said.

He claimed that Green shot and killed the girl's parents and younger sister. "During the time me and Barker were ****** Abeer, I heard five or six gunshots that came from the bedroom. After Barker was done, Green came out of the bedroom and said that he had killed them all, that all of them were dead."

Cortez said he acted as a lookout while Green then ***** the girl.

He claimed Green then shot Janabi several times in the head, and the soldiers poured petrol over her body and set it alight to try to hide the evidence of their crime. Cortez burned his own clothes and Spielman allegedly threw the AK-47 used to **** the family in a canal. Specialist Christopher Till, testified that Cortez told him about the killings in June. "He seemed very remorseful," Till said.

In another development, Iraq's security forces were yesterday facing fresh allegations of brutal ****** assault after four soldiers were accused of ****** a 50-year-old Sunni Turkomen woman and attempting to **** her two daughters in the north-western city of Tal Afar earlier this month.

It is the second allegation of ****** assault against Iraqi forces to surface this week. On Monday, a 20-year-old Sunni woman alleged that she was ***** by three policemen after being detained during a search of her house in Baghdad.
Dear Cornt,
You don't want me to be an artist.
It must be so diahonourable for the family.
A writer?

Sure, it will dishonour your lousy drinkers laughing at me.
Here I am, giving you a dishonourable name.
Hmm... There is a lot of love in there though,
For such a good soul like you
Knowing nothing of love,
Turning even the love of God into waste,
Hatred and misery...
Misery of the soul.

Sure! Who wouldn't just go there and be that way!?

But why Cornt? Why?

Dear Cornt,
You don't want me to be an artist.
It must be a diahonourable thing for the family!
Maybe I'm hurting you with this pride.
Don't worry, I'll have some better plans.
A writer is every kid in school,
Every child that ever wanted to be there
But you punished them with your freedom of being poor
And hungry
Humiliated
Despised...
You did good, Cornt.
I Have a nice firy place in Hell for you.
A bed of flames for you to burn vividly at night...
And a chilly wonderful leaden land to rot your carcass on by day.

But Cornt, dear! Why?
Yenson Dec 2022
Girls Code, sisters code
see how honourable your ethics are
one for all and all for one
but Karens auspices is nowt but a pack
of lies and distortions
devious ruses to cover a crime and
hide shameful disgrace

Karens has soiled the honour
criminalised your laudable sisterhood
gangsters now run the show
lying to you and bleeding arsenic
into your tender pores
your network is no longer solidarity
or a haven of shared unity

Look see now the Sisters Code
of Myra Hindley and Rose West in unison
criminals and evil Nazis
Karens on mission to wreck and destroy
its Chris Joan Linda and Cindy
evil liars slanderers and grapevine polluters
a man of colour in crosshairs

True Sisters Code is not criminal
birthers of Mother Earth
life force and best gift of Creation
Karens of self-loathing
riddle with racist hate and envy
tears happy lives apart
and seeds to others narcissists brews

Bow's Sisters Code is Karens code
the one bad toxic apple
that rots the barrel of all good apples
an honest sound decent male
the purity and sincerity of a loving wife
mangled at your alter of deceit
serpents of satan in grapevine dishonourable
Yenson Nov 2020
Even in numbers they still flounder
seeking solace in gainsay ventriloquisms'
the puppets of absent mothers and fathers
now raking jingles for scroungers and bandits
looking for spurs to ride mice at the tournaments
hosting the regalia of the unwashed in whispered cabals
while shivering in the smite igloos of icy hot snow blindness

Power doth not stay hidden in shame
to voice the talk is walking the walk in light
to carry a lion heart means to face the lion and duel
know sweet point of the ****** means to know your aim
thousand arrows of twigs are banes of dishonourable hunts men
in lemmings fare the language of scrawling hordes is but saps' gabble
revealing from within  toneless rendition of admiration guised in fear

Show me the brave peasants with guts
attested and ready to stand the barricades fronts
not ****** snivelling hicks with brambles hiding in hedges
alas in years of heaves and bumps its recreants and fools on watch
drunk on sour mead with brains in broth gurning madly like witches
casting spells with fish and chips talking of see-saws like kids at fairs
laughable limpets off-springs of hay-gatherers never to amount to much
if conviction in truth is affray then man posts and lance with honour and truth
Yenson Mar 2021
Think me a think
tell me a tale that I can't swallow
get it fresh from the asylum of the thoughtless thinkers
for thirty and more I see the uncovered racists
set free to plague and blunder

I watched mesdames le guillotine all cackling in witless throes
knitting laces of viperous lies strung tight in wicked untruths
seen solid bridges of sweat and honest toil
rumbled and ravaged and strewed with chalky muck and dust

I have in alas, witnessed translucence sirens
peel of caricatures to reveal deadly serpents belly crawlers
and watched dishonourable 'mothers' painted in clouds
rip into a kind and loving heart
searching for the lion within to spear its life-force asunder

they showed me teachers un-teaching
and the hypocrisy of the vicar's wife who bangs the good book
they laid my tomes before leaders to be torn and burnt to ashes
they took my cloak and furs and rendered me out
in the alpine desert as their likes and kin roasted fattened hogs
up close and personal they revealed their rancid underbelly
and the stink of putrid vapours from cascading snows

now hear the height of the ridiculous saga
from the battlements of the asylum at common ground
perhaps based on my utterance of liking contrast in vivid hues
purely i might add, only in artistic or fashion sense
what beats a jet black pantaloons paired with blinding white tunic
definitely not a Scandinavian maiden with bosoms to spare
I have seen the evil of blue eyed monsters
and the sick rotten innards of sleeping beauty with golden tresses
how can I write heart songs to daggers in my heart
I work with sincerity honesty truth and loyalty, not fakes
its all I know.......
Yenson Jan 2022
And Regina said
my sons you will soon understand
that
give them a yard they will take a mile
you see the maths is quite simple
from the onset they were born deprived
which in turn made them distressed
which in turn made them desperate
which in turn made them discontents
which in turn made them disjointed
which in turn made them deranged
which in turn made them deplorable
which in turn made them despicable
so expect them
to be disgusting deviant and dishonourable
and remember
in graceful gratitude and due decorum
that whilst they are born devoid and are distasteful
it is in your blood to be dignified and distinguished
satire about covid in socialist socialist Venezuela as their catastrophe was being tickled and I was the urination...tee hee hee

— The End —