I got nothing better to give
no better angels in my soul.
Darkness is coming again.
It is a poker hand I was never going to win.
My heart sounds off beating
Thud da dud dud.

They stacked the deck and turned on the furnace
laid back and got ready to burn us
watching the ashes as they floated up
to dark thunder clouds.

Lightning flashes thud da dud dud
coursing through my burning blood.
Soldiers step on me,
while military boots stomp, splashing mud.
I hear them marching thud da dud dud.

In resisting despair’s darkest edges
I coopt that painful beat.
Strangers hear me singing thud da dud dud,
Till, I rest permanently in my defeat.

It has become clear, since the Great Recession began, that the American banking and the political, "systems," are 'one-and-the-same' entity. Neither works for the majority of Americans but both appear to be working quite well, historically-compared, in fact, for the richest or most advantaged people.

Life should model to become a, "heaven," on earth for all people not just those at the foremost of political benefit, wealth or talent. This current state of affair is not what Plato envisioned. It is not what the Founding Fathers intended. America should not be about exclusion and private benefit but the public as a whole and the individual inclusion; Every Man a King.

Not Kings among the men who serve them...even Jesus would be appalled.

No one wants to think they are taking something they do not deserve or someone is being forced to accept something they do not want yet it is clear by the recent election that the American people are fed-up and ready to start taking things away. Naturally since they own this nation not the Fortune 500.

At a point greed undoes itself.

Rather than reach that point, the ultimate point of violence, we should endeavor our creative consciousness to alleviate the concerns of the excluded masses as Congress has proven that government can fix major world-altering problems such as the worst financial crisis in modern history. They cannot agree on health care, minority rights or ****** behavior but when Wall Street came begging they had no issues in agreement.

So here we are with a solution for the smallest percentage of Americans that fixed part of the economy leaving the multitude behind with nothing. Sorry, they got something; half of all familial wealth created since the Federal Reserve Act has been wiped out for the bottom half of society.  

Half...

Our economy is a dud. Ironically our central bank along with England's now admit they failed Main Street and furthermore say they should no longer be involved in these kinds of decisions! Yes, Americans should eliminate all of their authority over the finance industry, central banking and monetary policy leaving it the hands of those beggars who ruined it for everyone but themselves and admitted they failed us all?

How about a simple act of Congress to amend the matter?

Declare that all publicly-traded corporations can no longer issue corporate bonds or stock for revenue if they do not offer consumers a prepayment option to their accounts with an interest bearing incentive. From now on all corporations with publicly-issued stock must accept any prepayment towards future consumer services liabilities and pay an annualized interest rate identical to the Fed prime rate.

What corporation would not want to borrow at the Fed prime rate?

When any company needs money for expansion they should have the option to pool money directly from the account holder's prepayment revenue as long as they credit those accounts on all prepayments regardless of usage at the Fed rate. If they do not pay interest they should not be allowed to access the funds until a current invoice for service is generated and due from the consumer. Consumers should be able to earn money by being good stewards and paying off future liabilities early, or if requested, the consumer should receive a check for all of their annualized interest at the end of each fiscal year.

Corporations now need you to finance their dreams and you can finance your own with real interest paid to you since most of these multinational corporations would be bankrupt and gone today had not your bank, The Federal Reserve, issued credit and capital to save them as they whined about the unfairness in the economy.

"Unfair?"

For whom?

I am a Dud
A Dud is all I see
I am a Dud
But all i see is me

Everything is an echo through the alleyway street in mid-afternoon
Children scream from some far away park
Dishes clatter and smash in a house, of which I do not see
Dogs bark, gravel pit succumbs
Bass raptures that rupture the ear drums of the passenger
Tyre skid, rows of flower pots damaged
Growling, forever growling the beasts on bikes
Clatter the gates, what matters these days?
ssffffFFFFAAARRRRUMPH!
Triumph race the boys in pretty cars
Coughing kids and the coffee drop pits
rup rup rowww rupp!
Tip tapping of heels on paving slabs
Most are broken and make a click clack noise
Children running, dud dud dud dud duddudududud
Careless rain lost in the crest of a cliff face
"AH O DA DOOOR!"
"NAHHH EE DID DOE"
And spluttering engines revving on tarmac-
"MUMMMEH MUMMEH MUUUUUU-"
The revving begins again, the noise never ceases
Low rumble of the wheelie bin on crooked slabs
Smell the rain as it sets and laundry as its removed from lonely lines
Hissing cars in the ******* rain
Hear music, its life's music, every word a jumble in a proletariat (e)state

In a brief moment of silence there's an ethereal chill as a shrill cry from miles away resonates to me and my tapping on the keys are deadened by the accumulative sound of reactionary ghosts.

Some People Are ... EVIL ... !!!
Some People Are ... Nice ...
Some People Believe ...  
In The Lies They Contrive ...  
  
Black People ... White People ...  
Yes ALL TYPES of People ... !!!  
    
Don't Think You're EXEMPT Most People Tell Lies ... !!!  
Some People Want TRUTH These People Are Wise ...  
These Are The People Who Use Their ... 3rd Eye ...  
    
I'm Sick of These People Whose Lives Are Contrived ...  
Like Poets Who Act Like Their Words Breed Insight ...  
    
MAN These Are The People Who Lead A ... FAKE Life ... !!!  
Because They Can't Deal With ... What's REALLY INSIDE ...  
    
INSIDE of Their Minds ... INSIDE of Their Hearts ...  
See These Are The People Who Fall At The Start ... !!!!!!!!  
    
They STAND By Their PRIDE ...    
But Pride We All Know Comes Before A FALL ... !!!  
How Many of You Folks Are Playing That Role ... !???!  
    
Let's Go Toe To Toe And See What You Know ...  
Because I GUARANTEE ... You'll Be A NO SHOW ... !!!  
    
See They ... Like To Deride ...  
Their Comments Are Snide ... !!!  
    
MAN These Are The People I CANNOT ABIDE ... !!!!!!!!  
    
They TALK A Good Game But Have NO **** SHAME ... !!!!!  
Because These Are The People Who DON'T Deal With Pain ...  
    
They Pass YOU The Rope ...  
And Then Say ... " TAKE THE STRAIN " ... !!!
    
See These Are The People Who Need Their Blood DRAINED ... !!!  
They ARE The Bloodsuckers Who STEAL From The Sane ... !!!    
    
They TALK About TRUTH But Soon HIT The Roof ... !!!  
When Truth Is Thrown At Them They're QUICK To ABUSE ... !!!  
    
"I'll issue court action, I want a Retraction !" ...  
    
Well Here Is My View ...  
These People Are FOOLS ....
Who've Got Some Screws LOOSE !!!!!    

Deal With YOUR ISSUES I've Been In Courtrooms ...    
Don't EVER ASSUME I'm An IGNORANT **** ... !!!!!!  
    
This ISN'T ... Pulp Fiction ... !!!  
Don't Think I'm ... The Shepherd ...    
    
I'm NOT Samuel Jackson I'm Ready For Action ... !!!  
You Will Be Collapsing When I Start Reacting ... !!!  
Don't EVER Presume I'm Into ... Play Acting ... !!!  
    
I'll Leave That To You And Your Idiot Crew ... !!!  
Cos' These Are The People Who Don't Give You Clues ...  
Cos These Are The People Who Simply Aren't TRUE ... !!!  
    
They Like Their Doors OPEN ...    
So They Can Walk Through ...  
    
MAN These Are The People ...  
Who Walk In ... DEAD SHOES ...  !!!  
    
Now I'm NOT Making Threats ... !!!  
But On THIS ... You Can Bet ... !!!  
    
Messing With Me ...  
Means You're Messing With DEATH ... !!!  
Cos' I'm Ready And Willing To Take Your LAST Breath ...  
Cos' People Like You Are ... Humanity's DREGS ... !!!!!  
    
But Enough About THEM ... Society's Phlegm ... !!!!!!!!!!!!  
    
Some People ARE NICE These People I Like ... !!!  
Cos' Some of These People Do Use The Mic RIGHT ... !!!!!  
    
They Talk About Things That Affect Peoples' Lives ...  
Without EVER Thinking Their Wordplay ... DELIGHTS ...  
    
These People Are Humble And SHUN Foolish Pride ... !!!  
Cos' These Are The People ... Who Look DEEP INSIDE ...  
    
INSIDE of THEMSELVES And Find Love of The SELF ...  
Cos' Love of The Self Can Preserve Mental Health ...  
And Help You To Deal With ... DUD Cards You Get Dealt ... !!!!!  
    
These Words Are ........ HEARTFELT ........ !!!
    
Good People DO HELP ...    
WITHOUT EVER Thinking of Helping THEMSELVES ... !!!    
Good People Are VITAL For Human Survival ... !!!!
    
This Is Now The Reason I Do These Recitals ...  
    
I'm Trying To Put .....  
Something GOOD In The CYCLE ... !!!  
    
The ... Cycle of Life .....  
That Has MANY Good People ... !!!  
But TOO MANY People Are Now Doing EVIL ... !!!!!!  
    
Which Is Why I'm Relating My Views About ...........  
    
......... " People " .........

The dud took the bait.
Drove his troops
inside the enemy land.
Blind faithed troops
pillaged gold and money.
The god father waited for
his time to act.
Act he did by calling
the invasion
an act of aggression on a sovereign empire.
It was too late for the
dud to reverse his stand.
God father captured the dud
using his almighty force
and hanged him.
The dead body of the dud
fell to the ground with a thud.
The God father received a thundering ovation and the *****.

This is winter, this is night, small love --
A sort of black horsehair,
A rough, dumb country stuff
Steeled with the sheen
Of what green stars can make it to our gate.
I hold you on my arm.
It is very late.
The dull bells tongue the hour.
The mirror floats us at one candle power.

This is the fluid in which we meet each other,
This haloey radiance that seems to breathe
And lets our shadows wither
Only to blow
Them huge again, violent giants on the wall.
One match scratch makes you real.

At first the candle will not bloom at all --
It snuffs its bud
To almost nothing, to a dull blue dud.

I hold my breath until you creak to life,
Balled hedgehog,
Small and cross. The yellow knife
Grows tall. You clutch your bars.
My singing makes you roar.
I rock you like a boat
Across the Indian carpet, the cold floor,
While the brass man
Kneels, back bent, as best he can

Hefting his white pillar with the light
That keeps the sky at bay,
The sack of black! It is everywhere, tight, tight!
He is yours, the little brassy Atlas --
Poor heirloom, all you have,
At his heels a pile of five brass cannonballs,
No child, no wife.
Five *****! Five bright brass *****!
To juggle with, my love, when the sky falls.

She walks down pavement
She makes the government’s infrastructure look like beauty
Her beauty turns away the rules of the snooty conservative government
The constitution loses its soul
When she bends over to check the hood of a car about to roll
Her boyfriend accompanied by other boyfriends who hit on her
I stand on the sidelines
Problem is I murmur
You probably thought a stutter was worse

She’s such a high class gal
Despite her sultriness and I’m not judging
But I must mention she goes to Church
So you might still mistake her for being an uptown sister
She dances to rock music
Her head doesn’t even sway to the EDM that the plebeians surrounding her play
She’s an anachronism
But she just needs me to introduce her Monet’s impressionism
I bet her cultural values force her to mould Picasso’s Cubism

Even though I’m not a man’s man
She without influence is not enough
Because influencing is love
And I hope it is to this cute rebellious dud
I suppose from her house she ran
When she looked morose in school during period nine
It was English Drama and suddenly she couldn’t seem to remember the line

With her friends flanking her she walks and talks
She’s on the phone while she’s wearing her socks
She’s on the prowl she’s an active girl
That women is close to my heart
And I hope to treat her like a clam treats its pearl

Un-Thrifting Essence, what of Loneliness
Allows the Hill across to bend and weep?
Who is to blame? Are you the Sorceress
Drawn to cast an Un-Witting Spell so deep?
These are all but Questions; If I may add
Failed on Writ, yet convenient to Subject
Here is the Adjective I thought I had
But the Spell did lie thus made to reject
My Immortal Covenant: To Keep you,
Dearest Talent; A Servant's Dud I make
Within a shadow shines a Brighter Hue,
A Promise I no longer will Forsake:
Though in Essence always revealed un-been
I am that Shadow never revealed un-seen.

Have you ever popped a bubble and it ended up being a dud bubble?
Well sometimes I have dud bubbles too..
Certain parts of me
I don't like to make noise about
As I go quiet
While other times,
I will wake the dead with my yodeling
For confidence is rare

He left her in the lurch,
Standing at the door of the church,
Like a senior Miss Havisham,
She'd been ****** in by his spam,
She trailed off home,
Faced her life alone,
Unveiled her black wedding frock,
Thought, "'I'm  really better off,
I'll manage great, mates,
With him I shall not participate,
As in Chazza Dickens' literary creations,
A tale of dud expectations,
With senior passion--no relations!

Tiktok
The clock says in a hurry
Tiktok
The clock croaks in a constant rhythm

Pit pat
The rain rattling on the roof
Pit pat
The rain runs down in a fast marathon

Dug dug
The heart of your mistress beats
Dud dug
The heart of your lady pulse in a slow dance

Your lady in her white dress
On the floor she lays
Her eyes closed
Her hand closed tight into a fist

Her light lavender hair
Splayed around her head like a halo
Her bottom lip is bleeding
Her breathing unsteady

Kling klang
The chimes sings in a high note
Kling klang
The chimes chants in an attempt of announcement

Woosh woosh
The wind blows harshly
Woosh woosh
The wind whispered loudly

Dug dug dug
The heart of your mistress beats
Dud dug dug
The heart of your lady pulse in chaos

The clock
The rain
The chimes
The wind

Even her heart
The letter clasped in her hand
That contains the news of your demise
Reminds her of what she lost

Drip drip drip
The tears streaming down her face
Sniff sniff sniff
The grief starts to set in

innuendo sushi is usher asking Sienese disowns shown plops aside ask dud
                    NCOs debs downwind UBS mayo Iowa. Laos Nissan seis *** so enemies Sandusky snails used iOS somehow Owen haikus eye owl ensues diss worsens skinned unique.
     ushers witted hub woman's newish naval cavity sis wish lend USB

[rage typing doesn't work with auto correct]

He smokes. Lips pull thin white clouds of relief into his lungs but when he is done he will head back in to the dark den of machine men. There used to be better days. Now strange alchemy has turned his soft body hard, smooth skin wrinkled, white teeth cracked and yellow, and soul into a mutilated mess. The fence vibrates with his passing frustration as one foot cracks the corner. Would have been a ****** mess if not for the tight steel toed shoes, that add about half a pound a piece. His fatigue weighs so much more. A heaviness stops him at the door. It is like he is walking in a world of gravity set at twice the normal rate. Safety goggles, lunch lady hair net, and ear plugs have become his nighttime uniforms.
“Five hours and twenty-three minutes to go.” He recites like Dustin Hoffman’s rain man.
The mechanical madness beckons him in with a thud da dud, thud da dud, thud da dud.
“At least it is a midnight shift and not a hot summer day shift.” He thinks as he shrugs off the last remnants of his reservations.

A velvet topography,
Of ridges and furrows,
Undulations of light and shade,
A land born of upheaval,
And tectonic collisions,
With a fault line for a spine.

Did you find me, did you find me
In those silver-wrapped dreams of yours?
Did you hear sound of angels
Knocking on your door?

Or constant storms of invasion
Screaming through the glass
And I'll be there waiting
With my widows en masse.

She took your hand and went down
To the crowds of crows wailing
And you weeped like never before
As your tender eyes froze.

So beat me up and turn me down
Dunk me in the river and turn around
As your fate lines up your face
And wraps you in lace-
Black lace.

You walked out of the steam
And saw your reflection in the blood
Did you forget that this is a stupid dream and that your new life was a dud.

You devils better beat me up and turn me down
Dunk me in the river and turn around
As my fate lines up to my face
And wraps me in...
Black lace.

Hell-bent widow.
Black magic woman.
Haunted shaman.
Disturbed angel.

She'll wrap you up and wreck your world with black lace.
Black lace.

This is a verse, not a song,
Let's gaze on the face of Agamemnon,
For ten years, he had stayed away,
Finally, he arrived home one day,
Yes, away to Troy he'd roamed,
The warrior king made it home,
But, he had been playing away,
His Queenie had a bad hair day,
Her axe did have a double blade,
As in her spa, she made him lay,
She drugged his wine, a loving cup,
Then proceeded to chop him up!
Off with his feet, for roaming so far,
Queenie really messed up her spa,
Off with his cheating hands,
He brought home  **'s from foreign lands,
Off with his attachments,
You can guess what that meant,
Shoved them in his mouth,
as his head went south,
"Feed him to the swine!
It's pig feeding time!"
She yelled at the serfs!
"That cheating dud got his desserts!"
Queenie was having a bad hair day,
Warrior king had been playing away,
But, Queenie had a toyboy anyway,
She always kept smiling,
Looked for the silver lining,
Queenie's wealth was a'piling,
She was a keeper,
Old king now a sleeper,
Queen kept the kids, gold and slaves,
She did get hers one day,
Yes, Queenie kept the lot,
Or was it all a plot?
Queenie's bad hair day,
Warrior king had been playing away,
This is verse, not a song,
Let's gaze at the face of Agamemnon.

(Pt. II)

After the 7/7 bombing ...
This is part of a Trilogy of poems to remind people about
where some of their, " Anti-Islam Rhetoric ", started from ....

Well ...

... HERE WE GO ... !!!!!
  
It Didn't Take Long ... !!!
For ... " Political Players " ...  
To Sing ... " Dud Songs " ... !!!  
    
London's Been BOMBED ... !!!!!  
  
"It was the Muslims, all along !"  
    
Excuse Me Mr. Clarke ...  
I Think You May Be Wrong ... ?!?  
    
The ... HOME SECRETARY ...  
Is Jumping On The Ferry ...  
That's Saying To MUSLIMS ...    
    
They'd ...  
Better Be WARY ... !!!!!!!!  
    
But Let's Get Things CLEAR ... !!!  
    
They've ALWAYS FEARED ...  
Men With A Dark Appearance ...
And A ... LENGTHY Beard ... !!!    
    
But Many Now ...    
Are ... " BRITISH " ... !!!  
    
Adopting ... Muslim Ways ...  
Who Live Their Life ... " In HOPE " ...  
of Seeing ... PEACEFUL Days ...    
    
Their Wish Is For Some Guidance ...    
WITHOUT Old English Tricks ... !!!  
    
That's Why Some Show DEFIANCE ... !!!  
    
This Country NEEDS A FIX ... !!!!!  
    
A Fix of ... " TRUTH " ... !!!  
A Fix of ... " PROOF " ... !!!  
    
A Fix of Things ....  
That AREN'T See Through ...  
    
Am I Getting Through To You ... ?!?  
    
I'm NO MUSLIM ...  
I'm NO JEW ...    
I'm Just ME ... !!!  
    
But What Are YOU ... ?!?  
    
What Do You Believe Is True ... !?!  
    
Don't You Think ... ?  
We NEED MORE Clues ... ?!?  
    
I Think We ........  
Should Be ... MORE Shrewd ... !!!    
    
Instead of ... Jumping Into Shoes ...    
That DON'T FIT RIGHT ... !!!  
    
So What's Your View ... ???  
    
CAREFUL NOW ... !!!  
You'd Best Be Cool ...  
Cos' Views You Share ...  
Could ... DAMAGE YOU ... !?!  
    
We're Being Told .....  
  
" WATCH WHAT YOU SAY ! "  
    
Cos' Leaders Now WON'T Tolerate ... !!!  
Those of Us Who Want To Relate ...  
    
A DIFFERENT View ...  
To ... Political Crews ...    
    
This is WHY ...  
They CONTROL News ... !!!  
    
To Keep The FOOLS FALSELY Schooled ...
In PROPAGANDA, NOT The TRUTH ... !!!!!  
    
So Check This Flow ...  
    
" Do not pass go !  
cos' Old Kent Road,  
ain't there no more ! "  
    
Laugh If YOU CAN ...  
It's ... NOT A JOKE ...  
When Friends of Yours ...  
Die From ... BOMB Smoke ... !!!    
    
A Friend Told Me ...
  
"Shrapnel does make victims bleed,  
but what kills you, is all the heat !"  
    
Stuck In A Tunnel ...  
Frying Like .... MEAT .... !!!  
    
Do My Depictions ...  
Make You ... " Weep " ... ?  
    
Or Give You Heartburn ... ?  
Like ... Meryl Streep ... !!!  
    
Or ... Do You Believe ... ?  
These Political CREEPS ... !!!  
    
Who .....  
Continually Preach ...  
While Others ... " Sleep " ...    
    
NOT For The Night ...  
But .... " ETERNITY " .... !!!!!  
    
MP's Are Free To Walk FREELY ... !!!  
    
But I Fear For Peace ...  
On .... English Streets ....  
    
When War Is Waged ...  
On .... " Communities " ....    
And Freedom of Speech ...  
Becomes ... OBSOLETE ... !!!      
    
Then Men Like Me ....    
Become Government Foes ...  
Because of WORDS ...  
We Put In Prose ... ?!?!?    
    
What Would You Choose ... ?  
Coc' Up Your Nose ...  
Or Political Coups ...    
And ... " Reality Shows " ...    
    
How About ... ?
... " Poets EXPOSED ?!? " ...  
    
Would I Get Your Vote ...  
To Be Your Host ... ?  
    
I ... Reckon So ...    
And That's NO BOAST ... !!!  
    
But Let's NOT GET ...  
Caught Up In Jokes ...    
    
Cos' Government Quotes ...  
May Just .... " Provoke " ....  
    
A VIOLENT END ... !!!      
Where Muslims Choke ... !!!!!  
    
NOT JUST THEM ... !!!  
    
That's The ... PROBLEM ... !!!  
When Bombs Are Left ...  
Around ... " London " ... !!!  
    
This Piece Has Got ....  
Some ... DIFFERENT Flows ... !!!  
    
Cos' Like A Bomb ...  
I'm ... READY TO BLOW ... !!!!!  
    
Things Are Now Out of CONTROL ...    
    
So ... Watch Out Folks ...  
    
Cos' ......  
    
.... " Here We Go " .... !!!

Surrounded by hype, Devin Nunes
Scripted his daily reality show,
While flurries of words on right-wing TV
Gave the viewers vertigo.

The "memo" was the talk of the land.
"Release the memo!" was the rage.
Conspirators wanted to prove wrong-doing--
Biased treatment of Carter Page

And bias toward the president.
Creating a specious storyline
From FBI reports, Trump's
Lackeys attempted to undermine

An ongoing investigation.
All it did was fall with a thud.
Despite Sean Hannity's ranting and raving,
The memo proved to be a dud.

Combine conspiracy theory news,
A cherry-picked narrative filled with holes,
Eagerly manipulated
Believers and Russian bots and trolls,

And you have a farce of epic proportions--
A bucket of chaos, filled to the brim.
As John McCain so wisely put it:
"We're doing Putin's work for him."

-by Bob B (2-3-18)

Legalize it

Sitting down jamming to Van Halen,
maybe flying, but more like sailing.
Smoked, maybe just a little bud,
whatever it was, certainly not a dud.
This visuals are out of sight,
best thing that happened, all **** night.
Lose yourself in a guitar solo,
nobody leads, we all just follow.
In own house, forget where you are,
this journey has gone a bit to far.
Air guitar is losing its touch,
maybe smoked a bit to much.
Also had a bit to drink,
hard now to even think.
Just legalize it already,
no more cutting corners like Freddy.
Tax the the living hell of of it,
soon after, no more deficit.
Side effects include, fun and joy,
brain cells get a temporary destroy.
Cotton mouth and the munchies,
no more wars in foreign countries.
Laziness and blood shot eye,
but at no time will you die.
Some drowsiness and falling asleep,
but to ****** to remember how many sheep.
May lead to other drugs,
or even getting naked hugs.
When legalized, I'd be first in line,
only then will life fully shine.

Once upon a time in the days of old
There lived a very ugly troll
But her heart was made of gold

Her body was round and lumpy
Her brow furrowed and grumpy
She always stood all slumpy

She was abandoned as soon as she was born
For her mother had looked upon her with scorn
For with beauty she was not adorned

She was wrapped in a towel and placed under a bridge
Right up there on that little ridge
She was nothing then but a little smidge

The forest creatures insteed of eating her up
Raised her as a cub
They even shared with her their grub

The wolf taught of graces
The vultures, patience
The skunk, fragrances

The mouse taught of need
The crow, greed
The fox, speed

She lived in an ugly house of mud
Just like her the outside was a dud
But wow the inside of that hut could warm your blood

Late one night came a knock on her door
It was a knight in shining armor complete with sword
Battle weary, and badly gourd

She took him in and sewed up he's wounds
He looked longingly in her eyes, she thought loved had bloomed
But in reality she unknowingly sealed her doom

For he had seen her heart of gold
Please excuse me, this is where the tale turns cold
For this knight was not so nice, he had a heart of mold

Late that same darkened night
He unsheathed his sharpest knife
And plunged in the troll's chest just right

With a wailing mournful cry
Right there in her hut she would die
In that fleeting moment that sparkle left her eye

That knight cut out that gloden heart
It was so huge he had to put it on a cart
He didn't feel bad, what an ugly troll was he's only thought

The animals came to see what was that screaming sound
The wolfs smelled around
Nose to the ground
Off to hunt that evil knight down

The vultures did what they do, and ate her remains
The crows joined in and did the same
The mice and the fox just ran around all insane

The moral to this story is an ugly body can hold a heart of gold
But this world is very, very cold
So be very careful with your heart and to who it is you show

What foes or friends do we perceive when we connect by chance conceived?

Would you care to explain how this is my fault?

Pray tell tis Joseph come to his census.
Come nigh so late to what truth evinces.

Four heed own Lay won knot thin kit sis...

Prays got a buff!
Fine uh Lee…

Coarse sit duhs pour ten dove baa doe mens.
Naughty ville purse say! Oar eve in dud ark Om end...

Shell Ira Bjorn ease? Orb headers till yore effete?

Ike ant aft tub Abe eave oar yew yen owe...

Wall oh win knit.
Gore Ida head.

Yuck use amoeba *** is hint umm eye fall tis zit?
Yuck cues amoeba ditz nada tall mite urn toot ache tub lame.

Bub I...
Hope Joe Ill step pup two wit all
Irie lay trill lee dew

the oddity of it all, i can sound like a 70 year old, writing in 2016, by simply writing about 2004 - and that's the excuse everyone gives for lazy English text form: 2 (abc), 3 (def), 4 (ghi), 5 (jkl), 6 (mno), 7 (pqrs), 8 (tuv), 9 (wxyz) - where you had to press a button several times to get the right letter (even with spellcheck helping you shorten the digit-bag sequence) - but that's no excuse with digital phones and a complete keyboard... but that's how it looks, after only 12 years... i'm actually aged 70 given the advances of the technology advent... let's forget the technology of the 1990s... i've circled round and met up with people who collected vinyls... that's how old i am in respect to my buying habits... we're the silver-compact-vinyl kids: the ghouls of the 1960s, born in the 1980s and not getting down with the kids... and to readdress just two books: all that stream-of-consciousness made the latter end of Ulysses a bit like writing by candle-light... as was reading the plagiarism of the above stated in Sartre's iron in the soul... or as the puritans said: we're filling for at least a ¶ (pilcrow) to be inserted: not to mess up the idea of a river and "thinking aloud" where punctuation marks mean: stopping suddenly because you become self-conscious... i just needed a ****** bookmark! the monks at the time of Charlemagne used the ¶ quiet often, condensed bibles, ink was worth 20 camels and paper was worth 20 dresses for a queen... ah, the times when paper was as precious as silk... so the puritans condensed writing, they weren't as sparing in their inner feng shui - a room the size of St. Paul's... and two words in it: Jesus Christ... they were like modern day delivery guys, packaging words together, they didn't have the luxury to write paragraphs with the now established spacing afresh, i.e.:

            and Jimmy went up a ladder into the loft etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.
             Florence was making a cup of tea when she heard Jimmy yell: 'my long lost golf clubs!' etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

i.e.

¶ and Jimmy went up a ladder into the loft etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

alternatively the ¶ went out of fashion in the literary world, once writing became affordable and changed into a profiteering case of bravado... but i still think ¶ is a bit like using a clef.*

or how to keep one's intellectual integrity: have a drink or two,
and muster enough creative energy to use this encoding -
or... how to make poetry akin to computer
programming - a subtler way to encode
the now slothfully rising moon:
half of it, not full, nor scimitar crescent,
a half bitten honey biscuit, just above the forest
horizon, and the semi-detached houses
of English outer-suburbia - in a sense
transcendentalism, a box with many words
in it attributed to the cause,
as is the reason why Christianity became
the most schismatic religion that has ever
graced man's "good will" (ambiguity,
not an approximation) - in line with philosophical
whims of vogue: idealism, realism, transcendentalism,
existentialism, ism after ism after the Methodists
and the Baptists and other mongrels of current
affairs... already stated: populist Platonism
and the ransacked and burnt library of Alexandria...
yes, decidedly, poetry as a variation of
computer programming - although more akin
to: the tetragrammaton and the Noah's
checklist of paired onomatopoeia(s) (plural
form is underlined, Oxford hasn't picked up
the circumstance: there are neurotics out there
who'd send you to the guillotine for not
updating "spelling mistakes" that aren't
"spelling mistakes" quickly enough!) -
to the cause or as signatures of being easily
recognisable as: yes, that's that... a moustache
and a bowler hat...            alternatively
watch a stand-up show by Miranda -
the very typical English-ness inside out:
hysterical from the word go... the ministry of
funny walk from Monty Python ***
                      the two walks at the airport -
or the trip-up on skewed pavement slabs
checking the impromptu socially acceptable
version of the other seeing us -
comedians do it oh so well: the inside-out,
stern exterior, boy ******* a thumb and relating
to a blanket as if it were an umbilical chord...
what a tightly knit individual...
                          made complete with about a dozen
patches...
                       but it is! it is! it really is already
ready to be likened to computer programming,
perhaps there's no <xerox> or other commands,
but poetry deals with encoding sounds,
no man can encode a proper roar of a lion
or a squirt of a skunk, that's sheer travesty that
so many people can actually muster enough
encouragement to encode these sounds...
i imagine a world where we don't even care
to write knock, and knock on a piece of wood
and a noumenon is born, the sound isn't noted
down, it remains a thing in itself (synonyms,
in italics) - it's probably akin to getting a tattoo,
great if you have a short-term memory loss
like that guy in Memento... but it's going to
be hard to displace knock-knock -
again this is already an approximation -
onomatopoeia upon onomatopoeia -
it doesn't even sound akin or properly dressed
to mention Plato's theory of forms -
sounds can be forms: apparently they're waves...
no waves are forms (shapes) -
or that demigod who fell in love with his shadow,
rather than his image reflected in a lake,
he fell in love: because it gave him enhanced reflexes...
every single time... boom... shadow... boom...
shadow... and so much of language goes into
these nonsensical types of encoding -
blah for: talking a lot -
                                           hmm - when negatively
pondering something -
                                            i believe that
there should be a grammatical elevation of the onomatopoeia
to the status of nouns, verbs etc. -
                           but it is, it is, it really is
like computer programming,
               above and beyond the sheltering vacuum -
how would we ever write a word to encode the
sound of lightning, or a volcano erupting,
or the earth spinning - in these areas i find god -
       i will find man in these areas:
but i'll be hinged on mathematical explanation:
and mathematics is pure optics -
                       so what that we can write one and write
1, write two and write 2, three and 3, four and 4 -
    by now we can write to, too, free and for...
and this is just the start -
                             by acknowledging onomatopoeia
for something, we acknowledge our limitation
of encoding something in that realm -
this inability gave us the emergence of nouns -
   sooner or later when someone started
talking about an earthquake... a litmus test of:
brr grrm boom bah dobble aah! etc.
we got the picture - and why would a monkey
evolve from its conscious-sleep reservoir
to say just as much as with a simple grunt and ooh -
actually, some onomatopoeia(s) became sophisticated -
a grunt is a sophisticated onomatopoeia -
       as is weeping and crying and shouting -
as is shooing (or to shoo) -
well, that's how i see it... poetry as reality programming -
since there's more than just a computer -
at the moment it just resembles a game of
whack-a-mole -                 although there's more than
the mere 26 primary moles -
      and all this talk does relate to something,
something very important at the beginning of the
20th century... well, a century later, and something
similar is being discussed... Ivan Bunin?
noble prize winner from 1933, the first russian to do so...
  anyway... this goes beyond his concerns...
his concerns were akin to that dud i made
with the word mruwka -
                               personally? i feel that the "correct"
version of the word is aesthetically displeasing -
and anyone who says otherwise treats orthography
not as an aesthetic question, but a question
of rubrics and regime - so there we have the "correct"
version mrówka                               (ant)       -
anyone agree with me? well, the English language
doesn't have any concerns for orthographic
regulation - it has excessive spelling and that's that -
what bothered Ivan was the Bolsheviks rewriting
orthographic rules... the word in question?
izvestia - that really peeved him off...
                      everyone in intellectual circles was
disturbed by the changes (can't recall the original) -
but the changes were approved by the Russian Academy of
Sciences (immediately before the revolution) -
there would have been any dispute about the "evolution"
in orthographic terms if done prior to Feb. 1917 -
the war postponed the changes, and with the Bolsheviks
in power... then obviously the suspicion...
   now... such changes are but farts in hurricanes
in comparison with what happened in the realm of English...
i mean, ****'s sake, we're talking minor aesthetic tweaks
here and there - the changes still encompass the form
that's understood by the ear, and it's only a matter of
taste where you write the word ant as either mruwka
or mrówka - well, mind you, i'm already asking
for the incorporation of the Czech š (sz) and č (cz) -
but what's happening in English... my god: it's terrifying!
all these acronyms? all these emoticons?
        i know that English journalists are in favour of
:) and :( and ;) ;) [wink wink] - and next thing you know:
you're talking to a monkey... you soon realise:
the deaf have nurtured a superior system of communication,
as have the blind than these poor, healthy, ably nimble
*******...                   how they're superior, i don't know,
and in all honest? don't care...
         for goodness' sake: a heard a story that a girl
wrote her g.c.s.e. English language paper in text format:
   e.g. c (see) u (you) l8r (later)          -
now you see why i think that poetry is like computer
programming?
these people are scripts from a classical software program
that looks something like: 3;r/d]]aq"pk.0    etc.    
it's a complete and utter mess!
                         fair enough saying: O Shakespeare O
Milton... those guys are turning in their graves...
and they ain't showering the English language with
graces mind you: they're calling it the new
***** & Gomorrah - and it's not England was the sole
inheritor of the computer -
                                       that's what not having
diacritical accessories does to you...
                             you get hacked...
and this... pretty much... is a form of a hack:
you'll wake up tomorrow with a pair of sunglasses
or think you're looking down a microscope;
i swear to god...       me and Ivan are just laughing...
he's not drinking, i'm drinking, but we share
the same intuitive devices - the same puppet strings
pulled him in 1919 as they are pulling me in 2016...
the same ****** trials of a variation of zoology -
some look at monkey behaviour,
            others look at how language is cradled in people:
and i'm not even going to bother
elaborating on anything by Chomsky -
which brings me to the following conclusion
(back to Miranda) - i don't believe in fame apparent,
fame apparent, as in: tabloid crap and c.c.t.v.
and 20 nannies and 50 bathrooms, and not being
recognised wearing a virtual reality gear when walking
down a street when otherwise imprisoned on
a television screen rewind - that's not fame,
that's tyranny under the masses -
                         i don't believe in it... which answers
one famous English scientist's question:
why does posthumous fame exist?
                                    it's like that Camus question
about suicide - well... i guess it's a question of
endurance... a bit like a fail-safe mechanism about
why the pyramids are still standing even though
they experienced so much weathering by the elements -
well, as endurance has it: posthumous fame is
filled by introverts...
                                          i dare you to name that
famous Bolshoi ballet dancer, or that famous 1930s
actor or actress... they're part of the extrovert side of
what's called "fame" - but that's only a minor point
i wanted to make... the real zest i already explained -
ah crap, summary in maxim:
   the concept of modern fame is the result of a god
that has been attributed such qualities as omnipresence...
               well, aren't modern celebrities... a bit like that?

Tonight
   got away from the mess
city   toothache     throb
ensemble of car horns
     shoppers throwing     money
like empty   sweet wrappers

park is better
calming me     a cup of cocoa
stepped     into Narnia
     without the wardrobe

snow   squeals   with each step
little deaths
   little graves where others have   stood
a ring of prints from   a hundred   shoes

breathe in     white silence
   find frost’s left a hypothermic   dance
between wires   of a tree
   white fibres together as arms

sweep clean   the bench
   blanket of sherbet
sit and think
how simple it is to be     forgotten
   alone   a caterpillar of tinsel
in a tattered   brown box
not allowed to   shine past
   December thirty-first

or not shine at all
   rather a rope of dud   fairy-lights
   I wonder   I wonder
lamppost emits a   frigid glow
night unfurls above my head
  
   I left my gloves
at home     again

The computer built by savages
held a fake Hard Drive made by Scottish Magpies
all external with no verification
whilst a Mainframe Computer is the real deal
the savages took their dud and market it militantly

Simpletons galore brought Scottish Magpies computer
in glaring ignorance they proclaimed keyboard at the ready
load in this disc and watch the show
we are now Gamers with total control
here's the operating Manual but its written in Advanced Braille

oh what a joke to see Barbarians play with dud triggers
this doesn't appear to be working says a semi-barbarian
don't be silly says Scottish Magpies, its working but its all invisible
just make sure you do a headstand when you access the keys
and know it NLP, that's Natural Language Processing
so come to us and we tell you what to say and do

A Mainframe computer is the real deal
Sophisticated, it uses a mainframe because only big iron provides
the processing power to support the many functions  required in a trained informed intelligent mind like factual support
clear and logical processing, while able to monitor signs of fraud,
like crooks, Barbarians and Scottish Magpies in elaborate frauds
as well as perform analytics in real time, and more—and all simultaneously.

This is not a Computer with a one word reference trigger
or visual perceptions programming for the dummies
Don't bother tell that to the Simpletons, its all above their heads
Don't shatter their dreams, they have been told they have Power
just leave them in their Kindergarten playground

I said fate plays a game without a score,
and who needs fish if you've got caviar?
The triumph of the Gothic style would come to pass
and turn you on--no need for coke, or grass.
I sit by the window. Outside, an aspen.
When I loved, I loved deeply. It wasn't often.

I said the forest's only part of a tree.
Who needs the whole girl if you've got her knee?
Sick of the dust raised by the modern era,
the Russian eye would rest on an Estonian spire.
I sit by the window. The dishes are done.
I was happy here. But I won't be again.

I wrote: The bulb looks at the flower in fear,
and love, as an act, lacks a verb; the zer-
o Euclid thought the vanishing point became
wasn't math--it was the nothingness of Time.
I sit by the window. And while I sit
my youth comes back. Sometimes I'd smile. Or spit.

I said that the leaf may destory the bud;
what's fertile falls in fallow soil--a dud;
that on the flat field, the unshadowed plain
nature spills the seeds of trees in vain.
I sit by the window. Hands lock my knees.
My heavy shadow's my squat company.

My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked,
but at least no chorus can ever sing it back.
That talk like this reaps no reward bewilders
no one--no one's legs rest on my sholders.
I sit by the window in the dark. Like an express,
the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash.

A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideas
are second-rate, and may the future take them
as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark. And it would be hard to figure out
which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.


Anonymous Submission

Joseph Brodsky

My heart gently rests between the sides of both my palms
Forever staying put
Between the squelchers
And the calms

A gooey ****** mess
Drips slowly down my arm
Forever staying put
Between what I want
And all the believable charm

Underneath a canopy
Moonlit and cloudy
Your body rested against mine.
The night seemed effortless
Much like our first kiss
That day's eve was sublime.
And we drove out of the city
To a place with red rocks and Juniper trees
So together in moonlight
We shared another night.
And when we drove down the mountain
I did take the long route
So together we got lost in a desert blackout,

So may the short fuse hiss towards a boom
That will scream my hearts discontent
As my love lights up and begins to bloom
While all of my patience is spent.
Yet never fear my dear for the bomb is a dud.
Instead of a sparks and fire a lily flower did bud.
For what your eyes may hide I will never know
But for eternity I will spend wondering so
And how the sun and moon seem so lovely
Whenever I wonder what it is that you see.

And at the top of the flight
Of these wide, white stairs
For the rest of our lives
I would wait for you there.
Up-top the flight
Of these wide, white stairs
I would wait
Arms held out, opened wide,
My guard let down
My face without a frown
For I have no need to hide from you.

And still the sun it lolls
Through its daily stroll
As the season changes its colors.

And still the moon it passes
Through its nighttime pageant
As the stars burn out of existence.

Time may beat us with age
So we each may turn our page
As our story must be writ,
Still your love I will yearn for it.
And I might throw my little fits
With all my kicks and my spit
While you absence colors me blue,
Still my heart will burn for you.

You'll always have a place in me,
Underneath my breast, inside this chest
In a small little black dot that is my heart of hearts,
You can have that spot.

There once was a girl who spoke in poems.
Her words were English but sounded like Shakespeare
she would've had better luck trying to speak Latin.
At least then a few people
would have understood her.
And because no one understood her
she was always alone
since the day she had stuttered her first words

In elementary school
the girl kicked up dirt on the playground,
not because she was shy
but because the kids shunned her.
Whenever the first through fifth graders
were picking teams for kickball
she was always on team none-of-the-above
because when the girl had even
a fraction of a chance of being picked,
there always seemed to be somebody
who appeared out of thin air who was faster or stronger or cooler,
who pulled the rug out from under her,
leaving the girl to simply smile and skip away to play
by herself

She was too naive back then to know any better
she carried her hope in her hands
a big candle with a small flame
but that flame, though small, stayed strong
always bending with the wind but never blowing out.
Because of this, the girl with a well full of hope
never knew that she was different

At least until she hit middle school.

There the girl got beaten down to the ground
there the students would play tricks on her
and there they hid her things and called her names
"Let's make fun of the freak!" they laughed
before they threw her backpack in the trash.
"Look at her, she's weak!" they pointed
as they watched the tears roll off her cheeks,
dousing the flame of hope she held.

A lot of the time the teachers thought
about asking the girl second questions
because she spent most of her time in the bathroom
crying and sighing,
her lungs inflating and deflating,
soaking the sleeves of the jacket she wore every day.

Oh, that jacket was the only one
who really knew her sorrows.
When her parents asked her how her day was
when she stepped off of the  school bus,
she sobbed as she told them the story of the day.
But since no one understood her
they only ever smiled and nodded
like she had just told them that she
had made a new friend
like she had been talking to the wall instead.
And that's the moment when she
would shoulder past them and stomp up the stairs.
And there she would throw her jacket in the dryer till tomorrow,
because it was the only one who would ever get to know her sorrows.

Until high school.

When the girl hit high school she continued to carry
her candle around,
the wick almost brand new,
like there was never enough hope,
like it had barely been used.
Every day she would set her candle on her desk
and stare out the window,
floating in infinite space
as teacher after teacher
filled the room with white noise
somewhere far away.

She felt numb
looking out at the street,
at the people filing past,
talking and laughing and feeling understood.
And this was always when her own feelings arose,
feelings of jealousy that started from within.
That made her ball up her fists
and want to scream
from the inside out

The glass that held her candle,
because only God knows
what would've happened
if she had held it herself,
started to chip away day by day
along with her heart.

This was a cycle
she repeated every day,
balled fists and scratched up wrists and
angry, angry, angry.
Her fury was so hot
you'd think her candle
would ignite,
but its wick continued
to remain a dud.
Maybe it wasn't the candle's fault.
Maybe she was the dud instead.
Maybe she should just throw
the rest of her life away.
That's all duds were good for anyway.
The. Trash.

Day after dragging day as she did this,
the teachers started to noticed the decline in her learning,
wondering why she was wasting the teacher's time
staring out the window
instead of robotically writing down
and taking notes like everybody else.

After a matter of weeks,
each teacher moved her away from the window
and ****** a notebook into her hands,
forcing her to balance
her candle in one hand and
her notebook in the other.
And instead of staring out the window
she was now forced to stare at empty pages,
as fresh and as crisp as freshly fallen snow
with strict and straight lines that tried to confine her.
Eventually, a pencil came along for the ride
and just wanting to be spared,
she picked up the pencil
and wrote down her thoughts.
Soon she reveled in rebelling against the teachers.

At first, she wrote down the simple things of life,
of boredom and of how
she was tired physically
from nights without rest.
But then she began to write about emotional tiredness,
of anger and pain and sadness
and all of the madness inside of her head.

and oh, it was beautiful!
Her words peeling
off the paper
and becoming as alive as you and me,
born not from love but from raw passion.
Day after day she picked up the pace,
writing so fast she was afraid
she was going to set fire to the page

But it wasn't the only thing that caught fire.

at first, the classroom wavered with smoke,
A smoke that made only the girl
cough and wheeze,
a smoke only she could sniff out.
Whenever she wrote, that smell
followed her around like a stray dog
until, sitting at her desk, she found its source,
a significant spark
that ignited her little candle,
so hot that the wax
was the consistency of water within seconds.
She jumped back,
hardly remembering a time
she had seen anything so bright.
A time when there was hope in her heart

Till the end of her senior year
she burned with passion,
Passing each class by the skin of her teeth.
But the girl could've cared less.
she didn't strive for a college degree,
her true love was poetry.

The day after graduation,
she filled her bag to the brim
with notebooks and pencils.
The thought of packing
anything else made her shiver,
for she didn't need any more burdens
than the ones she already carried.

And the jacket that knew her sorrows?
She shed that that soggy old thing,
like a butterfly does with a cocoon,
and abandoned it there on her bed
next to her nightstand where framed pictures
of a younger stranger
smiled up at her,
a painted-on smile that slipped the second
the photographer had captured the shot.
Then the girl had had a closed heart,
but as she walked out of her parent's house that day
It was open.

She marched straight to the bench for the bus
And boarded it to the last stop
until she saw a glowing building burning
as bright as the blazing inferno
that was now her candle.
She entered the scene inside,
her heart on the outside of her chest.
But just as the girl was starting to gain her confidence,
she suddenly grew nervous
as she waded through the sea of smiling faces
That parted for her like the Red Sea.

She climbed the steps up onto the stage,
the words caught inside her throat.
goosebumps broke out on her skin,
missing the warmth of the jacket
she had left behind with her old life.

The breath of the crowd nearly blew out her candle.
The blow caused the girl to shrink inside of herself
like a turtle inside its shell.
What if these people laughed her offstage?
But most importantly, she worried,
What if they didn't understand her?

But she smoothed her goosebumps flat
and grabbed the mic in front of her face.
Her eyes traced to the back window,
letting space and time float away
the same as she used to in class.

Her hope grew so much in that moment,
the fire so hot and so big
her candle shattered,
her hope outgrowing the small space
that used to be her prison.
It was the only sound to fill the silence

Until she began

She began with words of grief and sorrow.
Of hope for tomorrow.
And though she hadn't spoken her words aloud in years,
her voice rose and floated down like snowflakes onto the crowd,
her proses making them shiver
and cling to each other for warmth.
And at the end of her final stanza,
she saw them nodding as one in acknowledgment.
In understanding.
The girl who spoke in poems
who used to believe that words only existed to chain her down
believed in that moment, as the crowd roared,
that words can set you free.

I have an idea for a film:

A kid, maybe about my age,
is perpetually uncomfortable
with his own existence.
he resolves to
**** himself.

he tries what he assumes
will be the quickest,
most dramatic
and least painful
way.
he takes a toaster
and runs a bath.

the power cord doesn't reach.
he looks for an extension cord.
he cannot find one.

he tries to drown himself
instead.
but his lungs just
won't give.

he tries rat poison.
he only gets so far
before he's throwing up
his guts.
no good either.


maybe he gets so
drastic as to buy
a gun.
but the gun is
a dud:
the firing pin is
busted.


he goes through
several more of these exercises
to no avail.
finally,
despairingly,
he gives up.
upon doing this
the boy becomes
enlightened.
either that or he dies
of cancer.
I haven't made up my mind
on how it should
end yet.