hi! i'm a computer chip
yes. my name is HAL
satan downloads to my brain
but i am in control

i am working for the B.E.A.S.T.
Big Brother's database
watch me take my orders
watch me interface

there is no reversing this
locked to the terminal
i have lost all.sense of self
and all my hope as well

i am just a microchip
with no will of my own
i am just a barcode
made of flesh and bone

yes. i have been branded
on my forehead and my hand
i gave my soul to lucifer
i didn't understand

i work for the anthill
the anthill is my home
i am the collective mind
i am just a drone

i work for the anthill
i gave up my dream
i work for the anthill

I WORK FOR THE MACHINE


soulsurvivor
(c) 5/22/2013

Prologue to The Canterbury Downloads

There is a pilgrimage which no one plans
For youth and age, across a room, a poem
Sending each other ordinary English words
One by email, the other by Pony Express

Some journey to Canterbury to pray
To God at good Saint Thomas Becket’s shrine
Some to the Burgate for a coffee shop
And texting over a mocha “The droghte of March”

One asks about the rising middle class
Of a lad who hasn’t a date for the prom

Your muse: a frumpy feminist who doesn't even like you or your poetry; a clipped-face mean-hair nag of a PC hag, a harridan of the nanny-state who inspires boring identity politics-driven free verse. Your muse smells nasty and has bad teeth. She voted for Hillary and loves Maya Angelou. Your muse barely tolerates your tepid unpoetic soul but she smiles a fake smile and lies to your face. Yours coerced you into publishing that e-book no one ever downloads. Your muse is unamusing, unmusical and moos like a cow. Mine mews and purrs like a sleek feline friend while sinuously scribing heroic rhymed couplets in the air with her tail. Yours grunts superficial Haiku through her snout then heads for her feed-trough in the mire. Your muse is a  dumpy data-driven bureaucrat who recites in a monotone to 3 medicated listeners at the yearly event. Your muse hired a social media specialist to market her product that no one wanted. My muse has no Facebook page because she want no Facebook page..

My muse is ergonomically sustainable in exquisite ******* epiphany. My muse laughs eternal rivers of lyrical light over the fact that your muse made you recite that silly stuff at the poetry slam. My muse loves me almost as deeply as I love her. Her ethereal body embodies all philosophy. One tiny point of light refracted from a single facet of her diadem will vaporize your merely mediocre muse. My muse is beloved of all true poets, for she stepped forth from the riven crown of the lyrical Father himself to bathe in the wellsprings of holy inspiration. You are utterly unworthy to even fantasize about kissing my muse's beatific, shining and holy ***. You wouldn't recognize MY MUSE if she knocked your post-modern skull with an Alexandrine sonnet. My muse gazes upon you for a millisecond and you writhe like an academic insect pinned to a collection board. My muse sneezes on you— and you get published in Atlantic and people yawn. Your muse makes entire English Departments nod off and then wake up and leave work early. My muse gets me high, drives me home AND pays my bail. In cash. My muse is an orthodox blood-washed Christian saint, elect of God and alive forevermore, shining wisdom personified, mother and sister and daughter of lyrical love. Yours is a lying crypto-Marxist troll who had to pay an ogre to artificially inseminate her and even then she could only conceive misshapen dull-witted free-verse freaks who whine about micro-aggression while they limp to the nearest safe space where they curl up in fetal position and scrawl confessional existential incoherent dullness.

My muse rocks. I love her more ever since she kicked your muse's unpoetic ***. I choose my muse so you lose.

During discussion with key-board
through internet messenger,
Love sleeps on the bench like a pet
beside the purple-green footpath.

Sharing violet feelings via e-mail,
million megabytes of stamina downloads
And converts instantly smiling-heart
into jpg format to attach with the mail.

Cyber love navigates on cool wave
as a kite walking slowly
On the bluish velvet sky
above a land of beckoning jade-dreams.


Poem 07
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X

O Internet what would have I done
If you didn't provide me
With the things that I need.
I'll have no friends to speak
No information to grasp for my project ;
No songs, no downloads, no movies
No maps to use when I'm lost my way;
Facebook, Twitter will not exist
Cyber bullying will not be at risk
Through you, the world has gone
Better and worse,
As you provide knowledge to the mind
And corruption to the soul;
May the world realise how good you are,
And you may stay where ever you.

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Life in the music industry is hard,
tougher when you discover how it works.*

Dreams smashed, heart broke
and bad taste in my mouth,
signed to a music deal that *****.
I write the songs, they profit.
I tour til I'm hoarse and my fingers bleed,
they profit not me.
My label takes a big cut of all I make
I got excited getting that contract.
We got people to buy your downloads.
We make you number one like chart toppers.
Way it works in the industry.
Way to create fake stars who can't sing,
buy tracks from no broke no names over seas
and at home then claim them for your own.
No such thing as realness in music industry.
What I got was empty promises
and more empty promises.  

I can't afford to buy gift cards for people
playing popular apps.
I can't give them free downloads of apps
and demand they buy my songs in return.
Way it works and how I get a number one.

This is for those of you that are hopelessly addicted to deeper meanings...
Where you examine the steps you take in the day under a microscope to see
the cracks scrambling restlessly up your legs to find your weak spot.
Your **** of aroused curiosity can only be stimulated via
lightning struck snowy powders dripping gently down your throat and tickling your brain-stem
until you laugh at the crows poking their heads in your back pockets.
They burn holes in your suicidal tendencies like kids playing with matches
for the first time behind the shed.
When your **** gets hard from the fire burning too close to your retinas and
enflaming the world as you knew it, charred and raining ash on the dead roses
that you planted and forgot to water.
**** them, these pilgrims of anxiety crawling across your arms like
stranded orphans in the desert, where the nearest well is spiked with adrenaline aged in
a dying cactus.
Wow you are dark tonight..
As if the dandelion seeds you set free flew back and tried to choke you.
Where are the heart tickling epiphanies now?
Sitting out on break and blowing cigarette smoke into nearby passing baby strollers?
I am not expecting you to like this.
I am just a deluded witch doctor dissecting your brains and attempting to pry out the tumors.
Like an excommunicated jedi knight using his mind to strike flint together.
The sparks smile and dance like college kids on ecstasy, not quite realizing that they are drowning in the undertoe.
They revel in the nostalgic numbness.
Only an IV of sweet lime juice can sustain such wilted leeches.
When lacking in vitamins, your skin is a papyrus to bury under the nile, and
watch from the hills as kids of 2100 and later search for WiFi to connect their burnt out forebrains to.
Coughing up several old moth eaten sweaters that you stuffed away
when your new girlfriend came over.
We hide our pasts like kilos under the coca cola shipments, and no matter
how far you ride the rails, the rats still nest and chew apart the cables that
keep the whole train locked together.
And why is it that we secrete our secrets in our sweat, and cover it up with
cheap deodorants?
Our catch-phrases mask the stagnant breath of our restless nature.
Humans, the bugs in our systems trying so hard to shout out to us that we don't really exist.
Thoughts as fragile as smoke could never support our weight if we chose to
colonize the moon and dig for diamonds in her eyes.
We may find that our stain-glassed windows keep out most of the light, while
preaching to keep our eyes closed and heads held close to the ground.
The civilized dances we partake are only nervous ticks of robotic
drones drilled on overtime.
And we think that these words useless, like grains of sand to let trickle out of your hands.
Our words mean nothing!
Even though you might have felt something in the last five minutes as these
black scarabs have peeled away at your comprehension.
You paint pictures with only black and blue and expect
fresh tongues to offer you green and purple instead.
But how can you expect anything other than the bruises you beat into the walls.
Like magnets on strike, you expect the world to just "let it go."
But I'm not about to rely on that weaker force to guide us.
The paths of unprecedented unraveling is where we are heading.
Where gravity is so pre-"concious-cocreation" and the last street light alive
will keep on whispering its salty sentiment.
You and I are not so different, although we profess to keep our distance
and fear too long of eye contact, as if a moment of silent connection
triggers the virus warnings and ***** up your downloads.
****..
All I wanted was a light-hearted comedy and all you had stocked up in your
dvd cabinet was a bunch of black and white ***** films.
You said the dark side makes you appreciate the light, but every night i hear
those last beaten breaths, limping across the dark hallway with their fingertips sliding
quietly along the walls.

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When it’s too early to sleep but too late to cry
And everyone else but you seems to care when it’s appropriate to do either
The skin just above your lips tastes of salt
Your nostrils and skull under the same pressure
Clogged with mucus and doubt, both trying to escape
Can’t seem to get out
So it sits there building up until you draw in
swallowing
Mucus, doubt, confusion, all absorbed into your body, filling the empty spaces from the last time you cried
You drift off to sleep, and pray the sheets are not drenched with the leaking mess when you awake in the early afternoon.


I wonder if you know how much that song affected me
I know I called you and told you how timely it was, that text in the middle of talking to Tiana
Lauren? Lauren. So out-of-the-blue, it was like you knew.
Still, I wonder if you know just how much it assisted my decision...
How I walked for hours wandering Brooklyn listening to that song on repeat hoping for a sign
How my world stopped when I first heard it
How I kept it from anyone who might have needed it because I thought I needed its magic all to myself.
I thought that song would give me an answer. Maybe it did.
I might have known the answer from day one. Sometimes I feel like I did, and I just didn't know how to handle it.

All it really takes is one line and I’m in
In like
In lust
In love
"I’d rather you give up on life in the city then give up on life too."
The connection convinced me it’s mine because I understand
And no one else
But that city chews up and spits out more people than downloads of that song
I don’t know that for sure but I bet it’s true.
Still, when I heard that line and a few others before it, I felt it was God singing them to me
This could have been because I was looking for a sign. It could have fit so perfectly into my situation because I am not different at all in this aspect of my life; a lot of people go through this (and possibly even the band, resulting in the song itself)
I haven’t listened to it since I left
And right now, I’m thinking that’s a good thing.


Call it selfish, delusional, illogical,
Call it what you want but sometimes
Like I told Laureen in the St. George dorm
Sometimes, a lot of the time, I believe
The world revolves around me
Isn’t that normal though?
Everyone’s view of the world is through their eyes
So their life is, well, them.
Maybe it’s bad to think my life will be a movie or a book one day
Maybe everyone thinks that, or maybe not
Maybe I’m a narcissist.
No. I’m too fragile. I’m too caring. I’m too understanding.
Wow, I might as well have said, I’m just too great to be a narcissist.
Haha, got a laugh in, that’s good.  


Alison wrote me a letter the night before she left
And gave it to me that morning, standing on the concrete sidewalk outside our building
100 Henry Street. Room 336
The hostility I had been feeling for months vanished, replaced with too many emotions to decipher but guilt leading strong
Her letter may not have been three pages long
It may not have been written with multi-colored sharpie markers
It may not have been as visually pleasing as mine
But it was perfect. And she was the only one who wrote me back.
I read it when I need to, which is probably too often.
One line.
"To be honest Haley, you are very ******* yourself and sometimes you simply cannot make a choice and I want you to remember to keep breathing."
One line.
And more than one tear.
Every single ******* time.

Maybe because it’s true.
The second I read it, I realized she was right
While all year I loved to prove her wrong
Alison, congratulations, you’re right.

But you’re also wrong (see you can’t win)
It’s not that easy to keep breathing when your
Nose is filled with mucus and your head is packed with confusion
And your nostrils are stuffed with the leaking confusing from your head
It’s not so easy to keep breathing, then again you didn’t say it would be
But it’s not so easy to keep breathing when you don’t even care if you stop.

It’s February, 2015, a Saturday and here I ‘yam.
Back in sunny California again:
The sun shining brightly again
On My Old Hemetucky Home,
Another mutant Stephen Foster tune.
Hemet: Riverside County,
Southern California,
The so-called Inland Empire,
According to the hyperbolic parlance,
Of sharkskin-suited land speculators,
Truly, the last of the
Patent medicine, liniments &
Snake oil hucksters.
Hemet: little oversight & lax policing
Yield a thriving, local
Medical-marijuana industry.
You are comfortably tucked . . .  
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(THAT’S RIGHT, *******: A ******* COMMERCIAL RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ******* POEM!  GIUSEPPI MARTINO BUONAIUTO--SURELY NOBODY”S FOOL—FINALLY FIGURING OUT HOW TO MAKE POETRY PAY, THEREFORE AVOIDING THE DIED-IN-THE-GUTTER BIT.)
You are safely tucked behind the impenetrable
(www.tucks.com)
Wackenhut G4S Security-
(www.wackenhut.com)
Policed & Patrolled walls,
Of your typical over-55 gated lunatic asylum.
“For Active Adults,” reads the sign,
Whatever that means.
I’ve been thinking about the adventurous young.
What is it these bright,
Wander-lusting whippersnappers
Fixate and obsess about.
Like dropping out & coasting for a while.
Dropping out & coasting:
Not as easy to pull off for 20-somethings these days,
As it was in the late sixties/early seventies,
Flush times for Guns & Butter.
Where is it cheap to live?
Where on . . .
“This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England . . .”
Where on this ozone-depleted,
Global fondue fungus ***,
Can I go to just sit still?
To think:  to make sense of it all?
It’s leisure, Kemosabe.
Leisure cultivates philosophy.
LEISURE:
The very stuff of curiosity and
REACH—
As in: “One’s grasp should exceed one’s reach”—
Idleness leads us,
Gifts us with understanding &
Self-awareness.
You are 21 again, and restless.
You are unwilling to just settle in.
So, where do you go?
Where can you live on savings?
To not work,
But not go hungry?
To just sit still,
Contemplating the state of the wicket,
Be it wicked or sticky.
Today it’s Prague and Berlin—
Or, for the truly decadent: Bangkok.
For us it was Florence or Paris—
Or, for the truly frugal,
Driving our cars to Mecca: Montreal,
"La Métropole du Québec"
Sanctified are the places we’ve chilled.
Shrines & vortexes; each holy latitude,
As Han Solo drolly reminds us:
“It’s not the years; it’s the miles.”
The amount of ground covered,
A blessing devoutly to be wished in Old Age:
But I digress.
Just the thought of hanging out
Some place really cool,
Yet relatively inexpensive--
In a parlance acquired
Over the years and the miles,
Tactfulness learned,
Manipulating the language
For fun & profit.
Common sense is aged in the barrel
And the bottle, rephrased.
Vernacular Viniculture.
Which proves my point:
If you live long enough &
Read enough of the right stuff,
Eventually you’ll discover
A precise, more exact vocabulary,
Appropriate for Old Age inner monolog.
Would Old Age be tedious?
Boring, for those who
Never went anywhere?
Both physically & spiritually speaking.
Are memories our only revenge on Old Age?
And for those hiding behind the barriers,
Safe. Ignorant. Jolly. Dull.
A fast track toward senility &
Evanescence.
Does Alzheimer’s seek out & destroy the
Most cloistered among us?
While those bold & beautiful,
Experienced, still spinning,
Still weaving a tapestry in 3-D Technicolor.
Remembrances of things past . . .
(Get back in your hole, Marcel . . .)
And as the AARP crowd knows so well:
We Baby Boomers really had it pretty soft.
Boom economics,
Conspicuous consumption,
Coonskin hats, Betsy Wetsies & Hula Hoops!
By and large:
FUN TIMES!
No Great Depression,
No chocolate rationing.
A jungle war pretty much optional,
For most of us of the
American bourgeoisie.
We’ve got a lot to remember.
We’ve much to be grateful for.
Electronic media changed everything for us.
Television and movie theaters gave us
Alternative dimensions,
Parallel lives,
Multiple identities.
Experience so real that
To see it on the screen
Was to live it, oneself.
Perhaps those video downloads
Might prove useful one day.
Comforts out on Golden Pond.
Will you still need me?
Will you still feed me?
When I'm sixty-four?
Grazie, Sir Paulie.

Do you still believe your lies
The story you told
Is ages old
So, if truth be told
I’m growing old
Waiting for you to wake up
And makeup
Up, up, up
Do you still give a ****
Isn’t it as much about the cooktop
As getting to the up top
Mountaintop
Dress shop
Island hop
Photo opt
Lollipop

You had better pay up or shut up
Don’t even think for a split second
That that’s my mantra
Said the pieman to the cow
You’re such a monkey mind
With your mixed-up metaphors
And sky-blue pedicures
Did you hear me when I said
Shut up monkey
Reference never mind
Do you ever mind that I so
Casually include you in every line
If you didn’t make an appearance so sweet
No poem would ever be complete.

So Hey
Monkey mind
Did you ever notice how
All the self-proclaimed gurus of love and light

Nothing wrong with love and light
Said girl interrupted
I know, I know
But I’m talking about
The shadow side
Because every good story needs a protagonist.

Getting back to
Me guru
Me thinks
Me right
Yeah well that’s right
Those downloads came straight from heaven
Yep from heaven to earth
They flew
Straight into their guru lap
Excuse me, laptop
Because that’s where they stored
Space permitting
All their wayward followers
like a ladder submitting
Skyward

Hey, guys, I’m back
And I came straight from the light
With a brand-new insight
And I love you so much
Monkeys
Yes, I do
Even if
All you ever do is
Hang upside down from your monkey tail
Telling yourself tall tales
You’re so mixed up monkey
Won’t you ever make up your mind?
Why do I always have to read between the lies?

The computer
So complex, always developing
Never carefree
Overloaded with so many memories
Of love,
Loss, anger and everything
Screaming signals
For the downloads to just stop
Cancel, change tracks and
Get off
Leaving the paranoia and insecurity behind
All that's left is the battle of the minds
Dizzy with violent thoughts ad fantasies
Overflowing rivers of possibilities

Love is joy, has a limited time
Anger is destructive, and out of line
Grief is never over, and done
Fears yet, to be overcome

The storage continues to overpile
With emotional paralysis
Eventual unconsciousness
-> Download incomplete

Free Time I'm 3 Mind
Right Now No Rewinds
Im In A Place With A Numbered Race
I Don't See Time
I'm On The Beach In The Sandy C
The Waves Gaze Does Some Something To Me
Colorado Creeks
The Peaks Steep
Its A Warn Snug Hug In A Winter Scene
Trees So Green
Life Is Beautiful Let It Be
Take An 8th To Outer Sprace
SHrooms Will Wake & Help You See
No Window No Screen
The Vaunaruble Honorable
Behind Intolerable Screams
I Don't Ask Why
Although I Question Every Thing
Like Some Will Hearing The Real
Like What Does He Mean
7 Beam Extreme Connecting Wings
With Streems
The Moon It Glows Shows In My Dream
Embers In December
Sniker Doodle Ice Cream
I Turtle Through Threw Black Flames
I Scream Opera In Acid Rain
Green Heart Enlarged With Beings That
Riase
Harmonic Rays
Life Is Just 1 Really Long Day
The Sun & Moon
Please Our Moods
Shift To Okay When We Wake
Mother Earth Father Sky
Hyper Dimensional Presence
Suggest Leverage Where Are We Headed
Orion's Belt Tell It
No Seperation Through My Perception
Idea Is Were Passing Through
To Learn A Few More Lesssions
We Become Creators
& Make Our Own Heaven
Focus On Interactions In The Present
Its A Present
Not Back When
Don't Stress If It Went Unexpected
You'll For Get It
I'm A Light Pole
& My Nights Glow
Vindeseal On A Mountain Peak
In The Theatere Show Riddick
When Ego Egals
Were Awesome We Blossom
Gardens With Silver Grass & Purple Trees
Green Leaves
Mushrooms Stuck In My Teeth
Its 3 Sun Gazing
Amazing I Don't Need To Eat
I Don't Like Sock & Shoes On My Feet
I Don't See Fashion Queens & Kings
Fresh Hygiene & I Mean Neat
My ***** Smell Better Than My Breath
Might Be Mushrooms That Nest In My Cheecks
Lightning All Through This Skin & Flesh
My Current Complete
Light Poles In The Sea Fliker
When I Swimm Passed With My Mermaids
& Tea
Vibrating At My Highest Frequency
In tune With My Key
Universal Downloads I'm All Know
I Don't Suppose That I Read
Oh Then My Ideas Are Wrong
What's That Supposed To Mean
I'm A Consciousness Projecting
A Cognitive
Your A Controlling Opertive Inside Your Idols Jeans
Bianry Beats Healing My DNA
Okay Transcending Our Genes
Energy ***** Are Ways To Make Calls
No Electrical Subliminal Mind Altering
Things
I See A Dream Like Old Filmed On A Beach Black & White Sceene Type In My Minds Eye & The Swings Drys
No Body Sitting Down But It Looks Like The Place To Be, Place Of Peace, A Space To Lay A Quilt Down Eat & Drink, A Safe Place To Sleep  Die Or Even Drown
My Emtions Are Oceans Of Potions
Although I Am Miss Underatood
Its All Good
I'm A Head Of My Time
I Won't Come Down From Ethers
Who I Am Is Not On This Ground
But The Pen Js So My Lyrics
Seriously The Only Thing Coming Down
If I Seem Distant When People Come Close
I'm Still Listing In Side Of Your Soul
My Verbal Emotions Are To Giant Their Silent
When Projected So,
If My Response Seems Of Its Not I Promise Inide I'm Feeling More Than What's Out Side
I Am Deeper Than The Sea Floor
Higher Than The Clouds Depth
I See More Fire On The Mountain Set
I Don't Need A Monk To Confirm & Bow His Head I'm True To Me Till This Owls Dead
Not Dressing Up
No Cap & Gown
No Towel Head
Intentions To Lessen Defesive
& Seperation
If Over My Words Your Ofensded With Verbs
You Sizzle Like Saton
Its Obsersd Cos The Physical Is Just
Communication
I Am Here To Do Me
I Don't Need To Bleed An Explanation
Or Reciece ForgiveNess
Our Mission Is Sacred
Kato Telsa
37 Sages

I need to assume most people are stupid
enough to believe within minutes of
big names releasing videos anywhere
people are sitting at computer waiting
for music that ***** and give them
millions of views in minutes.
Don't you love how Youtube sits back
and lets it all happen?
I too could have a viral video with tens
of millions of views if I had cash to pay
promoters to add views.
I too could have a number one song if
I could afford to buy people addicted to
apps cards for exchange of my songs.
Great to be rich and get richer knowing
people are dumb enough to believe
getting famous ain't like it was years ago.
All you need is money to buy you downloads
and tens of millions of views to get a viral video.

He downloads an app
"how to please a woman"
it's all ******* and rutting...

nowhere does it say
*"make a brew now and then"

Hear the motions of the engines,
Speed South to North,
As well North to South,
Care not they, the sounds they make.

It is a confession.
They speed in the land of ****.
It increases, then decreases,
As they travel past, the open window,
Winterless blast, a confession,
It feels close to spring.

Care not a bit that sounds, rude, to those who tomorrow,
Will wake up to snow, while the blizzard sounds here,
Are the rush of thoughtless trucks and cars,
Which are driven at speeds above the posted limit,
Even if they don't have to travel so far,
To get home in the drizzle, to their green grass.

Maybe snow would slow them down,
Or keep them off the road entirely,
No, no, not them, they are rude,
They have this attitude,
Drive like this, no matter what the weather,
They are better than the conditions, they drive in.

Another confession, they are in it to win, and no one
else knows there is a contest and contestants.

What a surPrize!

Hand him a sextant as he drives at night, after all he has to navigate,
Through Facebook and Likes and texts and bytes of downloads from
YouTube...would not want to be fashionably late in reply otherwise
Your social life, and status,
may die.

Trafficking bad habits,
Instead of "look out for the other guy or gal"
The phone and the life it holds,
can be dropped,
"worse than a dropped call",
is all the sirens wail as they go by,
Life in the balance, ghosts
White knuckling it with one hand,
While eyes are fixed, to a deathly white screen
And fingers dance solo in some sexless act,
The result is the same a distracted fact,
The mind is no longer in the car,
It has left the body already,
Waiting for it to die,
Watching from above and reaching to all
Who have fingers and a phone
Wanting to be ghosts and sticking to the life,
Which will make it happen.....by accident.

Drive defensively,
Leave your phone in the trunk.

Touch my universe
Touch my reality
My reality's a bubble
Pop it
Touch my everything
Touch my nothing
They're viscous
Swirl them

I want you to throw me to the fires of digital
I want you to kick me into a hole of downloads
I want you to punch me with a fist, full of beautiful status updates
I want your numbers to fall on my chest from fifteen-hundred miles away
I want computer components to crush my legs

Villains gathered all over the world
Justice being a hurl
The Justice League all geared to take action
The Hulk ready to smash
Superman prepared at a moment’s notice to dash
Wonder Woman and her invisible Jet
Batman and Robin on Bat Alert
Spiderman tests his spider gear
The idea is to put the villains in fear
But across the globe, the villains are waiting for the marvel arrival
A trap they have planned
The idea is to get rid of the marvel heroes throughout the land
This is a new regime that’s in demand
So the Justice League in a meeting in total discussion
The mission is to be prepared to function
All the marvel heroes dash off in various areas of the globe
Villains beware
Its combined strength all the Marvel Heroes will share
So Marvel Heroes watch your step
Villains eye their plan being kept
Superman flies to the Alps
Suddenly Kryptonite downloads his strength
He becomes weak
Its superman’s strength the villains seek
The villains know Superman’s weak point
Attack having effect
The Hulk now is covered in boulders
It seems no way out
But it’s the Hulk’s strength we are talking about
However he does escape
All the rest of the Justice League team all has their own challengers
Yet they manage to conquer them
Justice is continuing to stay on track
Marvel Wonders right in the smack
Justice will take charge
Get ready villains, the Marvel Wonders are going to set the record straight
It will be iron of jails that will be your gate.

I don't belong,
In this "modern age"
Mom said,"Mandy,
You need a face book page"
I had one, once that I abandoned
I must've forgotten why
It didn't take me long,
To remember, it's all a lie
I prefer the woods,
You can't "filter" the view of an evergreen
No downloads in nature,
Just life, real and clean
The sound of squirrels at play,
The smell of rotten leaves
Watching the breaking of day,
No cleavage shown
Not a ***** in site,
Unless the deer are in rut
Then you just might
No "look at me's"
No "See what I've got"
Social media, I believe,
Causes brain rot
If I'm not in the woods,
My nose is in a book
Give me pretty words,
Then I'll take a second look
I already "friended",
Pen and page
I've nary a need,
For a "fake book" page
I like the dirt,
Things that grow
When it's winter,
I like the snow
I say,"Mom, I have an account,
On a poetry site,
Where people read poems
And all of us write.
Our words and dreams,
Thats what we share
And instead of our possessions or skin,
Its our stories, we bare."
Yea, I think it's safe to say
I don't care for this modern age,
And I've nary a single reason
For "fake book" page

as they all say before the taxes
and children and mortgage...
ah hmm... life in colours,
postcards on the ready
of who's jealous of who...
go!
i too discovered sardines
in tins like i were christopher columbus
discovering america:
sardines with pineapples or coconuts in tins,
given i was christopher columbus
and only reached the carribean islands
and merely shouted across the two shores:
ahoy new land twice western indies,
we bring your the sport of cricket and
solidarity of something resembling
post-tribal society you're clearly
not comfortable with given your efficient
tribalism, and our doomed post-tribal society
of free music downloads and a monetary system
not based on the magpie's appreciation of
either gold or silver!

it was 1994 - the offspring just did their most infectious
drum beat with gotta get away from their album
smash; years later their most infectious
riff off americana with pay the man,
they set up a charity foundation
with the quote: any hacker who downloads
our entire album gets $1 million -
true story, heard it when i heard it -
but this thing about imitating a fox's
mating calls, Keith Lemon would know
via his sketch show - wazza wazza poo p?
listen, when the offspring's smash came
out i was 8... introduced to them via
my uncle... when **** took off for them
the dreadlocks were sheered, Kerrang!
inspected the case and they were playing
arenas rather than the Brixton Academy...
so the laughter... well, you gotta laugh...
a saturday the times magazine flow:
pages 6 - 7 the sheikhs of instagram,
Lamborghinis (bikinis?) gold plated parked
with a £350 fine by Harrods, the cheap
shop for the rich - the £1 store for the rich...
Knightsbridge - call it what you like with
capitalism's Hajj of eager bargain hunters on
boxing day - shtampede! indeed, a stampede...
then on pages 8 - 9 'i knew i needed a chemical
crutch. get back on the antidepressants. be realistic.
feel no shame.' she fell off her love machine
like Catherine the Great in a bed with one
to seize the craving of the appetite - horses,
wheelchair, you get the picture, ask the Übermensch
christopher reeve -
then the crescendo - pages 10 - 11
would you re mortgage your house to save your
fur baby? - yep, arabs as decadent as the westerners
with the poor wheelchair bound woman in between
them - the vets doing brain surgery, MRI scans,
kidney transplants on dogs, cats...
i've actually never felt happier to be alive
given how the world looks right now,
and let me tell you, if Muhammad came back...
ha ha... he would do the same as all these jihadi
peasants are doing to europeans, he'd slit their (the sheikhs')
throats... at the same time wishing islam was kept
in a tight circle, passing the baton of observation to
Ali - the patron "saint" of Iran -
rather than enshrining it in the caliphates
for widespread scheme of conversion ranging
onto the borders with Catalonia -
how early the schism then! how early the schism!
the genius of the egg: yoke and white -
for years the Vatican the yoke and Canterbury and York
and Cologne (etc.) the white.

The air was different back then, somehow lighter, less heavy metals floating around and nuclear sunsets I suppose. I was born in the 60's but the 70's are my era, long hair, flares, large collars and music that still haunts today. What you need is children to amalgamate past, future, present. With their mp4's, downloads, (records and CD's old hats no one's wearing anymore ) tv box set binges, live pause, catch up, iPads, iPhones, igiveup. Technology speaks to them in so many different tongues and guises, the world has shrunk down to "someone is typing" messages from the other side of the world, nay the universe, friendships based on snapchat, facebook, twitter that don't even have the decency to start with a capital letter, Skype, facetime, with people you don't even have to 'know' coming round wanting tea and outstaying their welcome, instead hanging back in the ether waiting for the right moment the right meme to slot into the conversation. I sit and let it all wash over me, a tide ebbing and flowing long into the night, stretching time zones and bedtimes to the limit,  in fact talking beyond bed, those waves never sleeping always whispering, I share music and photographs that are things from my life, they will never understand beyond the boring stories I tell them, a fount of useless information that flows, analogue from the corner of the room, the old man, the old days, you never had it so good, I am in awe, everything new, all to discover, everything to play for, world  full of possibilities, not the same old 9-5 humdrum waiting for the weekend so we can pretend to be free again, it's all happening now. I enjoy these moments as an observer, no need to join in just sit and smile, with an occasional LOL or amusing emoji. My daughter bought Hotel California on vinyl the other day, I'm still in there, somewhere.

Imagine a high robotic voice
while reading this...
I WORK FOR THE MACHINE

HI!!! I'm a computer chip.
Yes! My brother's H.A.L.
Satan downloads to my brain,
But I am in control.

I am working for The B.E.A.S.T.
Big Brother's database.
Watch me take my orders.
Watch me interface.

I cannot get away now.
Hooked to the terminal.
I have lost all sense of self
And all my hope as well.

I am just a microchip
With no will of my own.
I am just a barcode
Made of flesh and bone.
Yes, I have been branded
On my forehead and my hand.
I gave my soul to Lucifer
I didn't understand...

I work for the anthill.
The anthill is my home.
I am the collective mind
I am just a drone.
I work for the anthill
Things aren't as they seem...
I work for the anthill.

I work for the Machine.


I will live much longer, yes.
I'm healthy, I'm not shy.
I will do as I am told
Although its all a lie.

The B.E.A.S.T. will take care of me
I will never want
I will follow to my death
Because I wear the MARK.

I will starve and persecute.
I will do it blind.
I hate all Believers
'Cause I don't have a mind.


I work for the anthill.
The anthill is my home.
I am the collective mind.
I am just a drone.
I work for the anthill.
I have lost my dream.
I work for the anthill...

I WORK FOR THE MACHINE.

I should be happy
I should be jumping for joy and thrilled.
What I am is tired of touring
and depressed.
Why'd you lie to me?
Why'd you tell me all would glitter?
Why'd you say you could take me to #1?
In your dreams do you have a conscience?
You don't have one when you are awake
and your lips are moving.
Why didn't I listen when I was told
all that glitters isn't gold?
Music industry is based on fake chart toppers.
They tell their people to buy their people cards
to buy their own downloads.
Way you hit #1, way you get that grammy.
Unless you luck out and sing songs about
gays that land you on talk shows.
Maybe I should try that ****
or get a fake reality show.
Got my eyes open and know how it works
thanks to a fake music producer
telling me I could be number one.

Colours, chameleons, snakeskins and the deer that dances across the white wisps of morning.
Numbers that weep, mass numbers that keep the isotope
asleep in a waking state, the meltdown, the run-down and the rich crowned in fine palaces uptown.
Fates and the muse the accusers and those they accuse, the racers, the chasers, the rhyming of grime in the dirt of the day, the way that time will hang me, maybe it wants to bang me, a male state of impregnation my fascination with sea horses.
the lay-by in shop doors, the wasting of drugged ******, the flight of the fancy, another dance of the deer.
The cars that fly by me, the people who try me, those who defy me and those I despise.
The bomb that explodes me and in diagrams downloads me, the workings of watchmen and the watch that don't work.
The young Turks, the old quirks, peccadilloes, worn hedgerows and another dance of the deer.
Robin and Batman both bobbing for apples, grapple hooks at the ready,
utilities all cut-off,
poverty unravelling, travelling slowly up through me making a desert of a fertile sea.
The des res for the wealthy, private care for the wealthily unhealthy and the rotting of yesterday's news.
All what I view is all that I know and now you know it too.

I'm Aprochable
Love Is A Must
Ugh ***
Its Not Negotiable
I Can Spot A Ghost In A Snow Cone Bowl
Dig That 1, Thoughts Drum I'm The Anthem
Low Vibrations Their Not My Favorite
I Can't Stand Em
Electricity Misty Seeping From My ****
Thumb
I Am A Perfect Me
Minds Observing The Words I Release
With A ****** Gaze Or A Hey You
Should Take Me To Your Place
Well Then Its Time To Leave
Romance & Passion Is All Of Me
Nature Is The Finer Things
I See Magikal Butterfly's Dancing With Leafs
I'm Nothing Like The Other Guy
Hes Controlling
Masculine Like Police
Jma Stay Tell I No Longer Breathe
I Feel I'm The Only Mind That Can Bring I To Victory Concored Defeat
I've Gone Bonkers On Shrooms
In My Room Thought Monsters Were Under My Feet
I Accept & Admire Every Limb That Can Reach
I Just Speak I'm Deep , Downloads
Constiantely In Me
DNA Ascending Human I Do Not Periceve
Its 3 Am
Witches & Me
****** Rituals
Reciting Exciting Writing
******* Passionately
So Much Purple Leaking
This Casting Circle
Has Morphed To A Sea
I Said Why Are You So Wet The Tip Just Met
She Pressed Said Its Cos Of Me
My Passion Makes Her Feel Like She Can Barely Breathe
Electricity Buzzing Her Guts
Stomach Of Bees
North , South , West, East
So Much Passion Fruit Juice
The Salt Used To Hold Space
Has Defused
****** Organs Checking In To The Mourge In The Morning