I knew an old stoat to relieve his throat
drank custard from his fungible boot

Be mine dear Prunus, be mine
He sang
Never mind dear Dulcis, never mind

And as he drank and sang, and sang and drank
I began to thank, and thank so hard I nearly sank
too depths so depthed too deep to see
the rolling mood washed over me.

*Let’s link arms dear Prunis
and turn our noble gaze
and together ride the ocean swell
until the end of days

IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW*

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Here my comrades and I are laden
We fought for King and Country
Here we are---the fallen.

‘Be proud’, was the national proclamation
‘ You are the chosen’
We left home and our loved ones
Here we are—the ill-begotten.

Some of us  once upon glorious corridors
Of Cambridge and Oxford had trodden
The best and most fertile of young minds
Here we are—the forgotten.

How strong we then were, riding on the back of youth
Its dreams so sweet and resplendent
Rained by bullets in the battlefield
Here we are---death has spoken.

Pro patria gloria, dulcis pro patria mori
(Never mind if our hearts were cruel and rotten
We must **** all enemies  over the fence)
Here we are---the terrible  who were chosen.


Were we born to destroy and mutilate?
But in the battle-front ---all we loved and espoused had been stolen  
Buried in dark pits of hate and revenge
There we were----inhuman and despondent.

Those whom we slaughtered and maimed
Didn’t they like us once did hold dreams just as golden?
Weren’t they who happiness sought as we did?
Here we are—to bemoan all the precious from such that had been stolen.


In Flanders fields the poppies weep
For us who are far from home and have nowhere to return
With the wind’s nightly melancholic sighs whispering in our ears
Here we are----empty,  with dark sins upon us—for absolution is all we yearn.

• inspired by the opening line of John McCrae’s poem IN FLANDERS FIELDS   published in December 1915 (Flanders is in Belgium where a million died or were maimed).

John McCrae (1872—1918) was a Canadian doctor who joined the army as a gunner but later transferred to the medical service.
IN 1918 he was made consultant to all the British armies in France
but died of pneumonia before taking up the appointment.

Whoever or wherever you are
should you look at the stars with their faint but self-assured light
know that somewhere in a far corner of earth
there's this weary old man who walks alone at night

heaving a long unrelieved sigh
for mankind's irredeemable plight
for demise of kindness and humanity
for untold sorrows of millions as nations fight

proclaiming:' Dulcis pro patria mori
the clamour roars and deafens in hateful might
never mind if civilians are sacrificed
we are on the side of right'.

How serene and content are the stars
nestled in the tender cradle of night
while we poor mortals *****
in self-destructive darkness---with no real hope of seeing the light.

it's but the choir-imbued presence of god, and the vacuous presence of a devil that tempts me in both thought & deed, to attempt the puritanical testimony of evil... it's so quiet down in hell, you can even hear the devil think, and be made to testify as a schizoid fakery.

of men hell-bound,
so few are of stock
that might make them
interesting.

ex homines
     obligatus infernum
paucci sic ex est truncus
id potentia illis facere
dulcis.

                  it's beyond testifying
"pig" latin, not *porcus latin...
it's copernican latin -
given that the ancients wrote
like the modern arabs,
i.e. grammatically from
e.g. **** sapiens,
i.e. man wise -
  i.e. wise man,
i.e. copernican with a wonder:
left to right,
or right to left?

           is that dull-cheese though?
and is that ****-er-er,
or foo-cciere?
i invoked the cappuccino for
the pau-ki...

but it's true:
  the most interesting of men never
gravitate to fathom heaven,
or abide by a presence in such a realm:
the brilliant genius, or
puritanical evil leaves them
lost for words before the scorn of god...

no man of interest ever resides in heaven,
hell scolds god's wrath by
inviting all the interesting fellows
to its womb's abode -
        
question is:
             where do all the ****** go?