Strange how the dank hand of disaster clarifies the thinking,
How all irrelevancies are scoured from the frontal lobe,
How, strangely, should you look into the morning sky, the blueness is of a brilliant, startling intensity.
How biting into a piece of fresh fruit reveals the new mouth watering,  exquisiteness of clean sweet,flavour.

Strange how the dank hand of disaster allow us to consolidate our values.
Where suddenly, the drabness of yesterday becomes the brightly,beautiful now.
Where miserable mindedness adopts an abrupt re-evaluation, in that the sour faced neighbour is embraced with passion as being a fellow survivor.
Where the rich and the poor are thrown together to work willingly, cheek by jowel, for a common cause…Tomorrow!.

Strange how the dank hand of disaster brings out THE VERY BEST IN US …isn’t it ?**

Marshalg
A commonality observed In having survived many disasters over the years.
1 November 2012

Feeling the box I work in closing in on me during winter’s last gasp,
She has dug in her heals refusing to yield to warmth.
Unmerciful and unrepentant in her bitterness,
she taunts and tortures us all.

Yet, spring birds sing of spring as a lover sings of her man.
The sun struggles to break through the dark grey,
melting away the dim cold
and drabness that surrounds all.

Starlight shines from limousines
On the streets of Monte Carlo
But I'd prefer a cup of tea
In a caff with Gary Barlow.
He'd draw inspiration from
The drabness of the venue
And weave sweet melodies around
The items on the menu.
Spreading sounds of happiness
Around the greasy spoon.
He may be a chub-a-lub
But he sure can write a tune.
I could take him back to mine
To feast on milk and cookies.
Watching pirate DVDs
In my flat above the bookies.

I would part the curtains
So the jealous neighbourhood
Saw me ****** rewarding
The blond scribe of 'Back for Good'.
He could climb atop me
Like he mounted Kilimanjaro
Everything changes forever
Once you've tasted Gary Barlow.

Down to earth despite his millions
Cuddlier than Robbie Williams.
Looking pensive in a vest,
Gary Barlow is the best.

See badness and drabness as signs of unfaltering instability,
Righteous infertility,
Oh the humility.

When the magic of the mind disappears into explanation,
We lose true art,
Art is pure and unyielding.

To howl an unending song to an unmoved matriarch,
Move the wolves to the moon, move the tides too soon,
waters ebb and swoon to their nightly doom.

Project yourself ahead kind friend
Into a future world
Where attitude’s in-exactitudes
Will leave a realm unfurled,
Where you shall not walk freely,
Where laughter will not ring,
Where authority shall regulate
The very song you sing.
Where every living moment
Shall cloak itself in hell
And monitored controls
Will smother all of it, so well.
Where freedoms be forgotten
For a predetermined choice
And oration be forbidden
By a Leaders leaden voice.
Where people live and walk and die
With eyes downcast to ground
And God forgive the errant soul
Who deems to utter sound.
A greyness permeates it all,
A drabness in the day
And the forecast for the morrow
Determines more to come this way.
Where no highs or lows abound
No life’s ambition met
Where Initiate’s dull suppression
Means all boundaries are set.
The mantra now accepted
The trade-off reconciled,
Your dead tomorrows guaranteed
For Regulation’s Child.

Marshalg
21 September 2013

Thee Artiste Carvó's "Fumility"*

I am a tróubled Tróll, yes I be
draped in bonds of turgid fumility
endowed with a mind's inanity!
Indeed, I fantasize the glóry of Thee
floating like a cork in lunacy
at the edges of the dredges of futility!
But then, as I hallucinate visions of greatness in I and me,
the Vóices come, singing fóllies of my destiny
buzzing in my head like a bumblebee!
The mystic maggóts envelop the I, the fartistic see
birdies tweet to coo coos in the jujube tree  
while the lónely Lóg swims in I and Thee,
counting buttons, deviant in insanity!


Some souls are just simply shallower than others. There is no shame in recognizing I's ówn drabness, and appreciating the bóredóm Thee'self has unleashed upon the world. When Thee writes crap about the greatness of I, Thee is displaying I's disappointment for I's lack of gifts...
Would you yourself not feel pity for the finest fartist alive?


Original ('Humility') by:      Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

respite from the rain
gloomy monday morning blahs
a grayness pervades
stratus covers mountain tops
another storm is brewing

off in the distance
beyond the metro-skyline
beyond the tree line
a break opens in cloud's veil
a pulling of the curtain

in one little spot
a window of horizon
snow and ice shine through
blinding white titanium
on sparkling powdery peaks

rush hour traffic
along my morning commute
through city's drabness
an eye opening vista
of nature's magnificence


Del Maximo
(c) January 24, 2010

WRITING (Reflections from My Diary)

A writer becomes a writer not because he wants to write-
he becomes one because he WRITES and never stops writing.
It's only through the sloughs of disappointment and despair
that he finally sees the light which might take years, decades or a life-time.

Skills alone are not enough, nor grit or tenacity.
The other qualities, (indeed I regard these as being more important) he must acquire are patience and humility.

How could I ever call myself a writer? When I read the works of the masters and even those of my peers, I realise that I don't qualify to be among them. Best to regard myself as a student, an apprentice, a beginner and admirer (of all forms of art) and in this realisation I would have no choice but to write, write and write--day and night, if I wish to make any headway.

Yet, I always enjoy what I do--when I write, it's as though I live in another trajectory--I'm lost in time, beauty and wonder, and the external world, with all its drabness and tedium, seems to fade away and no longer vexes me. I become a new being, I have wings, I fly to a realm I've not known before, I am free and exultant, I sing, I dance, I marvel, I LIVE!

22nd July 2017, Melbourne copyright

Held in the pens
Of womb, little one
Squirms to see light,
Before the bars of crib
Encroach and bind one
Growing into childhood.
Then to be left off, bounded,
For chaste schools to yearn how
To keep such place whilst learning,
Never knowing that old, bracing sun
Is all around until frightful bell— calls
Recess, for these are the walled gardens
We made for ourselves, the coldest brick
And mortar chambers we place as lambs
Are encased, when finally we are pushed
Into the dark, the drabness, of the drowning
Work a daze whirled, the open prison of our lives.

.
Held in the pens
Of womb, little one
Squirms to see light,
Before the bars of crib
Encroach and bind one
Growing into childhood.
Then to be left off, bounded,
For chaste schools to yearn how
To keep such place whilst learning,
Never knowing that old, bracing sun
Is all around until frightful bell— calls
Recess, for these are the walled gardens
We made for ourselves, the coldest brick
And mortar chambers we place as lambs
Are encased, when finally we are pushed
Into the dark, the drabness, of the drowning
Work a daze whirled, the open prison of our lives.

You taste the lips of a hundred fragmented men.
Boasting that your divine secularity exalts you a writer of better poetry.
The cries of 12 men are more artistic than the drabness of one.
You forgot to peek in to the kaleidoscope of every angle.
A ravaging between your thighs signals the only sense you have awakened.
It’s bellow so great it drowns out the miraculousness of every other sensation. Stuffing love’s nomothetic void with the resound of the broken cultured man.
Your prowess is not poetry, but the neglect of it.
Your myriad of lovers elicit the lack thereof.
Are you a tormented poet or is this simply a masquerade of whorery?
You drape the silk sheen around your shoulders and dial up the only poetry you have ever come to know.

Never Look Back

It was the poverty of vision that got to me, the drabness of moving
from one home to another. I wanted sunlight, not the dim light that shines from a basement's kitchen window.
Fled, sought other shores.
I was not able to escape the ghost of the past; letters went unanswered.
The uncle of many children and a father of no one
I should have stayed fought my corner from the base of the beginning.
It is a sunny day where I live, up North snow falls, I feel a deep sadness
of the coward, yet have no regrets

Eyes flutter open to a gray and cloudy sky
everything seems to be blanketed
with a fine cool mist of gray drabness
hair spread out floating upon
white cotton pillow
sheets cool thin and papery
gown white and soft

thin feet swing over to side
to slip on cool hard wooden sandals
underneath them frosty wooden floor
stand and gaze out covered bright windows
long lace curtains fluttering in soft cold breeze
slight smell of crisp rain
chime of sad gray church bells

wooden table dry and aching
chairs tiredly sigh pushed in
tea whittle whirling a moan
tiny china cups clink pleasantly
slender spoon drops sugar cube with soft plop
aroma of warmth and herb
soothe aching shoulders and souls

soft taps of pencil on paper
small crackling sound of opening old book
poetry and words
old letters and songs
float in and out of folds of creased pages

whispering wind among
folded leaves of trees
cloudy gray sky sighs
and lets tears drop onto
Earth and it's inhabitants
drab gray cobblestones and concrete
slickened and made shiny
clip clop of horses' hooves boots
and ladies' heels

tilted head and aching deep eyes
fingers resting ever so gently
on the handle of tiny china cup
dry mouth slightly parted
words hidden in soul
sharing the emptiness and solitude
of those alone
in the world.

Let yourself embrace the fact you will die one day.

There are only two options.

You become nothing,
or you become more than everything.

Afterlife is possible,
but so is emptyness.

So why choose the gloom and drabness
of empty space?








Unless...
Unless you can fill that empty space with ideas, thoughts, impossibly wonderful things. Then shouldn't you pick something where you are who you remember yourself to be?

I forgot something though.
If our memories define us,
and our thoughts make us..

Are we the ones who can destroy ourselves?

Anger is the little red devil
with hornet's wings and
sharp young horns
perched upon one's shoulder
whispering foul resentful hatred
into a eager manipulated ear

as the intensity rises
the mouth becomes
twisted grim and set
with clenched teeth brimming
of lucid seething words
eyes exploding fiery from sockets
glaring the look of accusing
nostrils flaring and
rushing out steam with
great intakes of restricted trapped air
tongue sharp and flicking
throat vibrating with
low rumble of canine growl
clenched fists slash out
dripping ink from wallpapers
hurling objects across room
smashing destroying throwing away
bits and pieces of lifeless innocent objects

afterwards the soul is
completely drained and empty
back is bent and slouching
lungs contradicting small breaths
mouth shut eyes watery
inner workings of heart
lining of stomach
still and faded
drabness and realization

even though I have never
witnessed my anger
face to face
I can only imagine
there must not be
a sight more grotesque and pitiful
in the world.

Are we denying the dying all about us, because we have all but decided to forego contemplations in lieu of more open doors? It's an entire community of individuals and collective mindsets that leap off bridges when it's dark and wet, alone while lonely. I see the darkness in my friends' eyes each time they look into mine, a reflection. Pain makes us remember, it's an indelible instruction on the soul. Forged in blood and tears is a lectern, beaming bright, a beacon. They gather, the lone and lost, souls. Ripped and torn. They look to me for comfort, for solace, finding none they turn their backs and weep, forever rejected and alone. It's still not my fault. I write with all honesty tonight. Pain is a choice, a path the mind consciously takes in response to provocations and stimuli. So, we're troubled, we're neglected and we symbolise our Oedipus Complex which, misinterpreted as other things remains hidden in deeds (endeavours). I'm beginning to regret ever writing this. They make me conform, I'm scared to death and I haven't been doing this for long. Give me some space.

Tears offer good cover. Negligence. Meaningful words, intent. Culpability, homicide and molestation. The difference is in the paper. Someone obviously wanted it that way. I pour my heart out. They deem me insane, weak. I create, they feel me trying to connect, to love. It's not enough. They leave me to die. I'm courageous, I'm envious. Don't encourage me. Embalm me, fluid. We're in drabness, we're playing with it and we're busy existing. You know me, you know her but do you know him? No. Call me in the morning, earliest. I have something to tell you. Sitting in faintness, crimson tides. Draw the curtains, tear off the blinds, see. Lines. The lighting was perfect, she sat and drew. Highlighting my imperfections and anatomy, I was smiling. She had to know me and they would see it. They had to see me and she grew to know me. Her body was a work of art. A grandly majestic one at that. Effeminate features broke loose all over my face and I tried to conceal my gracious side. I was caught. Unaware. Tonight we dine. This night I go to bed with you. Unashamed.

(alternately titled: idolizing childhood's end
today April 25th, 2021
generates elusive warm treasured memories).

Akin to significance my eldest sister
felt toward her “*******” –
(totally tubular fuzzy bendable contrivances
analogous to an outsize pipe cleaner)
until she became a tweener
my Matty Mattel Doll (circa mid 1960's)
meant the webbed wide world  
with promise of much greener pastures
on the Apollo space age horizon
where virtual Oculus virtual reality dwelt
amongst Carib ****** indigenous tribes.

No matter yours truly then
fast approaching his decade number seven  
of twentieth century tantalizing
figurative future promises held sway
(namely technologically
Luddite intimations spawned),
I zealously, fervently,
and desperately clung
to battered Matty Mattel doll.

Any child with creative artistic bents
(including this scribe),
whose innate sensibilities and cents
severely limited me drawing
stick figures, more so dense
macabre satisfactorily applying
beard or mustache as stylish elements
applying magic marker to picture printed
faces forged into fences
of famous people popular
within culture club, both gents
or gals, whose retouched photographs
beggared ****** pents
sieve looming hair of men and women,
while simultaneously rents
sing preoccupied to access
excel lent glue, which caricatured outlook
devoid of common sense
I held said goofy looking doll
appeared contrived of household padding material,
and short scraps from circus tents
of yarn for do whit yourself based artisans
into trash bin of history project went.

Even than orange ranked as the new black
charming plaything sophistication did lack
plus batteries not required
to hear voice activated track.

This (think) abhor ridge gin null snippets
red + yellow colored strands
atop kepi twas pseudo hair,
sans manufactured eunuchs
adorned head lands
with avast capita lone linkedin
fingerhut dishabille curls,
could easily construct trolling grandstands
a similar facsimile re: globular molded,
incorporated, glommed,
fragile Ostrich egg shape
contrived head (vis a vis Plaster of Paris
overcovering NON GMO gluten free
partially hydrogenated brands
inflated balloon) to affect trademark
globular fuzzy noggin dry as Acklands.

The simple plain plaything included
a fitbit lifesaver size plastic ring
said small circular loop perfect “O”pening
to get jammed below first knuckle the King
Kong of index finger affixed to a short string
(when pulled to extent tub buckle did bring
taut tether) activated
moon face fixed bug eyed ping
pong blank stare to utter garbled syllables
asper one who nipped viz suckle something.

Despite the drabness, homeliness,
lacquered painted trapped
xyst Yarmulke cheap flatness,
I loved ragged slapped
around, and still iconic schlepped treasure
(uber voiceless with rapt
zealous application bridging elementary
functioning gizmo), initiating mapped
jabbering lock lipped absolute zero prattling.

Sometimes well worn action hero lapped
exhilaration, (got tossed in the air, booted
as football, succor silently accepted flapped
sear sucker punches from robed buck
after favorite fictitious "brother" chapped
accompanied my scrawny body
at bath time) to adapt.

Nonetheless, this adored
billed idol kept me secure,
especially on rare occasions
that found this contemplative lad, a lore
ring dutiful, fun loving kid
under the weather, or hospitalized for
minor adenoids removal,
which entailed post surgical recovery
swallowing quite a chore.

Oh yes, this non gendered plaything
nondescript featureless
sewn seams showed zero differentiation,
no matter to tell this August, cherished, fondled
kiddie piece de resistance lacked ****** identity.

Absent reproductive organs
(eh, nada so significant omission)
cuz, this seemingly resistant
quirky plaything, who unfairly re
ceived punishing physical
indiscriminate treatment, yet still
connection omnipotent bond existed
as if goofy guise happened
to be extended part of mine kempf.

Upon reflection, asper
childhood memento (nary a clue
what triggered remembrance
of things past yesterday comprised
true value), an aha moment awoke
to attempt to cap cha vague
essence about pretend friend designed in 1955,
and based on a concept by Mattel co-founder
Elliot Handler.

The character “Matty”
derived from the name Mattel.

The nom de plume a concatenation of sorts
derived after founders,
Harold Mattson and Elliot Handler.

A brainstorm session
yielded concurrence viz the hybrid name
of Matt + El (short for Elliot).

We need such experiences to lift us from the drabness, tedium, the mundane and weltschmerz of living---
the route need not be a religious one, I think, only that it  should be spiritual, humanistic, life-enhancing, selfless and compassionate as each person within himself has such latent potential which he could tap with a higher consciousness.
      In the common platform on which humanity stands,
everyone has a voice, albeit a individual and distinct one.
If such a voice strikes a responsive chord in our heart, life is somehow ennobled and enriched.
      It's hard to understand why wars and conflicts should exist
when we have such great potential to do good. We would have to assume----such leaders who are war-mongers are heartless and know not the healing and spiritual powers of 'amazement, wonder and awe'.
     Despite all the horrors and misery that the world has to endure,
hope we should not abandon.  Though a utopia could never be achieved,  every compassionate, ethical and moral thought and act would help draw out the latent best in each of us and the world would be a somewhat better place for our being its citizens and goodwill- bearers.