Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a

THE STORY OF SARA

CHAPTER 5: THE PARTY IS DESTROYED




The meeting ended and I walked out not knowing my fate.  
  I felt scared for the first time.
  Surely, Omar's people would be coming after me?
  And what about those others whom Omar had just expelled? They will be after my blood too!
  My God, I began to think all over again at his last speech. He demanded the expulsion of twenty five per cent of party members – and God knows what would happen to them, whilst I, Sara, was the chief of the Purification Programme.
Obviously, as the 'leader' of the programme and being 'found' to be a 'traitor', then I would meet the most brutal end?
  Maybe, I was being too paranoid.
  Maybe all this talk about killing was just idle threat used by Omar to intimidate us?
  But I was still scared and I needed to escape.
  I decided to leave my house; but where could I go?
  I knew that that there was no one better than Sanji, but since I did cut him off, where does that leave me?
  Will he accept me back?
  I went to his house and rang the bell.
  The sad fact as that I did not have one single 'friend' that I could depend on!


  Sure enough, there was Sanji.
  "Hi" I said shyly.
  "You're in trouble I assume?"
  As usual, he was right.
He motioned me with a pleasant smile to come inside.
  "I mean, what did you expect from Omar?" Sanji asked me; "Sara you knew perfectly well what Omar stood for: dictatorship and ******. So who's to blame here?"
    "I do?" I replied sarcastically.
  "With respect to Omar, are you seriously going to tell me that no one knew that he was a murderer?"
  I sat quiet.
  I didn't know what to say.
  "Well?" Sanji asked. "You knew Sara; you knew and yet there you were with him, and there you were carrying out his orders. So, who's pretending now Sara?"
  Again, I sat still.
  What could I say?
  To be honest, I didn't feel guilty about what I had done, rather, I was embarrassed because Sanji was right, and I couldn't admit it!
  "Look Sanji," I finally managed to paste some words together, "will you allow me to stay with you?"
  "Of course," the soft spoken Sanji replied. "My God, I know the dogs are out to get you, and I'm not going to leave you on the streets. You didn't have to ask."
  I was so utterly relieved, I broke all the rules, and now I was finding safety, and I couldn't help but hugging the somewhat startled Sanji!



With the declaration by Omar of 'Unrestricted Warfare', the government suddenly, under a newly elected leader, decided to go on the offensive against not only Omar's party but against any so-called 'illegal' party.
  The new Prime Minister was the most serious, straight-forward man that I had ever seen.
  He was determined to remove all the leftist parties and individual leaders based on the law, because, for him, the country had had enough of our ‘disruptions, illegal activities and chaotic actions.
He declared in a speech on the day of assuming office that a new era will now begin in our country.
  "No more of these shadowy, secretive, cult-like so-called 'political' parties, for we shall chase them out and put the guilty ones straight into jail, which is their real homes. I pledge to you, as I did, many times, during my campaign, that we shall not be meek in the face of these disruptive and criminal characters; force will be met with force, and by ‘force’, I mean the law. I solemnly declare to you, the law shall not be undermined by these dangerous, subversive elements within our society. The law shall be preserved, and more to the point, the law will go into action, because, if we do not seriously act, then the very edifice of our entire political and legal establishment will be at risk."
  So, the Pigs were now going to destroy all our parties – and all because Omar brought so much disrepute and disgrace to us. I felt scared from our new Prime Minister, just as I was scared from the gangs of Omar.
  And, yet, strangely enough, I couldn’t help but admire this new Prime Minister!
  How odd and paradoxical of me!
  I knew what attracted me to his character: his force of personality. He was a solemn, self assured man, who simply decided that our country needed bold, swift, decisive action against what he regarded as ‘irresponsible’ elements in our society.
  In that sense, he was completely different from the other Prime Ministers, who treated us, as nothing more than clowns and jesters.
  But, this Prime Minister was really right, when he ran his election campaign, based on his promise that he would get rid of us – and the people enthusiastically approved of his sincerity and seriousness in his determination, if elected, to wipe us out!


  The Prime Minister, continued:
  "And so, I say to you tonight that we too, shall initiate our legally based police action against these criminal gangs – yes, I deliberately call them ‘criminals’, because they are no different from any other gangs, such as, for example, narcotic gangs. For far too long, this nation has been far too patient in putting up with so-called 'freedom of expression' that these so-called parties espouse. Yes, but 'freedom of expression' does not mean inciting violence and destroying public property and randomly killing innocent men and women! I say, and thanks to you, the public, who voted for us to handle and solve this crises, I say to you all, that we shall no longer tolerate this state of utter chaos in our land," and his audience thunderously began to applaud and cheer, "we shall not stand one more minute for this sorry state of affairs. These so-called 'revolutionary' parties have only one principle and that is to create disturbances, mass chaos and ultimately violence. They are nothing but murderous thugs and clearly no civilized society and no self-respecting civilisation on this planet can possibly accept the existence of such criminal gangs and that is precisely why we shall use every legal method to completely eliminate these people.”
  It was obvious to me, that we were no longer ‘popular’ with the masses.
  Otherwise, how did this bold Prime Minister get elected by such an overwhelming majority of the voters?
  No, I had to face the new reality, and that was our movement, was no longer acceptable to the majority of our people.
  And, it was completely our fault, because we began to behave with unrestrained lunacy, by hurting and endlessly insulting, using the most derogatory words against practically every segment of society, and by raging against every type of worker, from the ******* collectors to the managers of factories, and to the owners of any business; by randomly damaging and destroying public and private property, especially what people most cared for, such as their homes, their cars and their businesses; by our endless chaotic riots and marches, that would disrupt and paralyze the business and every other activity – such as hospitals, for example - of an entire city.  And then there were the random murders of innocent people, that we somehow decided were not ‘pure’ enough for us – that really offended our society, as well.


  Then, I noticed, the Prime Minister was still speaking:
“And so, tonight, I appeal to you, the members of these ridiculous, criminal so-called parties. I calmly ask each and everyone one of you, men and women, to quietly leave your respective illegal parties, so as to save yourselves from further prosecution by our noble courts. I am giving you nothing less than twenty four hours to exit from these gangster parties. This will be your last chance to rehabilitate yourself back to decency and respectability. Now, this is my first day in office, and I am proud to be solemnly fulfilling my pledge, that I gave to my people, if elected - and I have been duly elected, and so to my pledge, I remain as faithful as ever. So, let this be my first and last warning to you members of these so-called 'parties': leave within 24 hours or else face the full might of our law, because, soon, all too soon, you shall soon see yourselves, and no doubt, your other comrades, in prison, and you will thereby be assigned to the dustbins of history. I tell you this much, and listen, for those of you who have ears: Your time is up! The murderous chaos that you have perpetrated is over! Resign or be bludgeoned by the forces of decency and morality; no more fear for all our law abiding men and women, who have been for far too long intimidated by the likes of you! Your insane, sick era is over, and I say to you members of these murderous gangsters, and to all you decent, law abiding citizens, goodnight; for, tomorrow you shall see a revitalized nation that is finally safe from fear! Tomorrow, you shall all see a country that abides by proper laws and not a country that seemed to be going down the path of mafia rule!"
  Well, what a speech indeed.
  The time for our chaotic mischief was over.
  
  Obviously, I wasn't a fool; I fully realized that this was the first Pig government that was going to deal with us in a deadly serious manner.  
  Or maybe I'm wrong.
  Maybe this Prime Minister is talking ******* – like all the other politicians.
  Once they get in office, they betray every word they said during the election campaign.
  Well, actually, who knows?
  I felt depressed.
  Was this really the end of our great movement?
  Was it really 'true' the masses no longer 'liked' us?
  And if so, then why would they turn against us?
  After all wasn't our entire epic struggle for the masses? Why would they betray us; we were and are their only saviours and their only salvation, so why would they vote for this avowedly hard line politician and put him in office?
  I was completely confused; what was going to happen to our great struggle?
  Wasn’t our great war for the liberation of the masses from the claws of the Pigs?
  Could it possibly be that all our sacrifices shall now be in vain?
  My God, didn’t the masses, the people realize that we were fighting for them?!
  We sacrificed our entire lives for them, and now they were going to betray us?
  What does that say about Humanity?

      

  Within a few days of the Prime Ministers' speech, it became quite evident that he meant exactly what he intended to do.
  Soon, the police were out in force, arresting anyone involved in the numerous anti-Pig parties.
  All over the country, the police came after every known party member; they were arrested and sent to the police station, to await court.
  The same went for individual known leaders of the party.
  The courts were, themselves, very swift in deciding the verdict, since, I can only assume, it wasn’t that difficult to see if a particular party member had committed a crime or not.
  Presumably, the police had kept numerous files on all of us and on all our individual activities?
  And, I must admit, that I was surprised at how lenient the courts were for the majority of those prosecuted were released as innocent from any crimes.
  Most were acquitted, but for those who participated in acts of public and private property damage, they were given a few months in jail.
  As for those who gave inflammatory, pro-violence, hate filled speeches, like Tony, were given up to one year in jail.

  However, Omar was in no mood to be conciliatory, which also surprised me.
  He went into hiding, rather than surrendering himself.
  He appeared in a televised appearance in front of about twenty of his followers.
  How different the scene was!
  For, hadn't we been used to seeing Omar in front of hundreds of thousands of screaming fans before?
  And now, he was speaking to a mere twenty or so of his followers!
  "Members of our party. Greetings to you all, ladies and gentlemen. Yes, I know that the people who are listening and watching, will be asking why I am not in front of thousand of our party members. You see, I'm aware of what you out there are thinking."
  My God, the leader is happily telling us that his 'knowledge' told him as to what we are thinking, as concerns why his audience is so small.
  And, he looked as if that was a great insight on his part!
  What *******!
  Any fool, would be thinking that!
  "Well, my followers, my true, faithful followers I shall speak the truth. Following our great, revolutionary self-cleansing programme, we discovered, as I, of course, had always predicted, that regrettably, amidst our own so-called 'party members', there existed a huge malignant and spreading cancer. A lethal type of cancer. It was there right in the hearts and minds of quite of few of our so-called 'members'. Once our doctors discovered this fact, which I knew about, I decided to act immediately, ruthlessly and without hesitation. I had to amputate every cancerous form within the party and, I can tell you it was done superbly and with absolute surgical precision! Yes, we removed the cancer successfully, and today, our party members are completely free from any Pig attributes!"
  The small crowd applauded and tried to scream their pleasure, but it was a far cry from his previous speeches when the roar of the audience was deafening.
  Of course, my question was, what was point in what he was saying?
  The fact was that his movement and his followers were now no more!
  Omar was finished; his party was dead, and he’s happily telling us about ‘removing the cancer’?!
  I then noticed, that Omar was still talking:
  "Having cleansed the party, I, Omar, ordered a new type of warfare against the criminal leaders that rule our nation. Of course, these criminals are ruling our nation to its death. That is why we must wage this great, humanistic and eternally just war. I ordered a new phase: the Unrestricted Warfare principle and that meant, in effect, that we shall use whatever means it was necessary to gain the supreme victory. The new government of Satanical vipers now decided to fight us with a new ferocity that was thus far unheard of. In other words, no Prime Minister, has so far used such savage methods in the war.”
  What ‘savagery was he talking about?!
  The Prime minister simply used the police forces to arrest party members, and they then had to face the courts.
  Where was this most unusually ‘savage’ form of warfare?


  I snapped out of my thoughts:
“But do not worry, because we soldiers are used to the most unimaginable viciousness on the part of the enemy, and their sick methods will not repulse us; on the contrary, these inhuman methods of war, will only strengthen our resolve, will and determination to exterminate this enemy no matter what it costs in blood and tears.”
  Again, he was just repeating the same, old slogans, that were completely empty of any worthy content.
  “And so, you ask me, tonight, where are we in this war? Who's winning? I am happy to report to you: that our pure soldiers have moved from battle to battle, from victory to victory; and, all this is thanks to the purity within their hearts and souls.”
  What was he talking about!?
  I felt like screaming and laughing at the same time; for the sheer incomparable idiocy of Omar’s words, made him sound like an absolute professional maniac!
  “You see, only the 'good' can succeed against evil. You cannot beat evil when you yourselves have an army of evil, impure people. No, you see, that is why we are winning the war. Goo

These are the hard times,
the long stretch of coal-shed days,
the corrugated nights of the antinomian.

I retch at the old doubts and the panoply
of dustbins clattering bright,
their watchers simian in the morning ****.

I dress as though dredging up greys,
monotone deep in the GB tradition:
now sandpit tea with oil stain floats
silt dreads the mass of a seven year clay.

Four weeks of shadows drown wind in a storm.

And dreams of my cottage
in days of such calm and late summer happiness
as brought cut corn and strawbs
and horse manure in hugs

until like Zulu tribesmen the birds appeared.
Hunched with expectation
Spears smiling like baddies they rushed me.

I woke pouring sweat like a workhorse
the weakest of defences laid up
my face pulling cellophane over French windows.

I used to have a lot of sweet metaphors to add in your girlfriends cake so she can bite the sweetness that will soon make her teeth rot and have them removed by the same dentist who made your sister pregnant with the same **** that had DNA of an 8year old child that was ***** and killed 2years ago found dead in the dustbins of Khayelitsha.

Harsh cold winds race down ***** back alleys
Bin lids are lifted and all taking flight
Ragged town foxes, heads inside dustbins
Cries of sheer anguish and they take off in fright.

Cold stillborn baby found in a  dustbin
Wrapped up in bin bags and filthy soaked towel
A bitter result of unlawful liaison
Another young girl has been treated so foul.

Search is now on to find the sad mother
Everyone knows that she will be ill
Soon she is found with wrists that are bright red
Only fourteen, lying perfectly still.

Another statistic of society’s indifference
As always lip service just isn’t enough
And still the harsh wind blows down ***** back alleys
Where young children find on the street, life is tough.

©Joe Wilson – Another sad statistic…2015

not knowing some answers, nor
understanding questions, battle on.

not knowing the rules of engagement,
on flooded roads, drive on, even

knowing the reasons why, does
not always change the equation,

or is it geometry. never got the
hang of logarithm tables, nor

slide rules. so we studied the use
of newspaper in cleaning windows,
in evading mothth a while, for
fuming dustbins,

before they came plastic.

she is younger than me, yet we
could write reams.

about linoleum.

sbm.

You're in love with a rotting Ginsberg
The desert's tanks are overturned
and your motifs are stale

Fooled into the belief that anyone cares
That clumsy wordplay is acceptable
or that your name carries weight

It's the same piece, week after week
With drugs in your system
and stoic aromanticism

How do you expect to write a novel
When ideas melt in tablespoons
or are blown in dusty clubs

You sit and watch rain fall in archaic gravel pits
By a window, long overdue for cleaning
and Jandek plays mournfully

Watch as that jaundice coloured sky opens
When the winds overturn dustbins
and form trash streams, ironic

Another languid day you waste on cannabis and ennui
Whilst the world burns; it's people raving
and the war is raging

What makes you so sure your sickness need not be heavily medicated?
You walk around, your body hanging like your favourite outfit that you never wear anymore,
stumped in a box
The street lights breathe like the cigarette that you smoke at the end of the night and regret immediately after,
the cigarette that tastes like glue,
The pads of your feet blink to the floor,
Your soft eyes watch the people and their smiles, they once represented jealousy but now sail past you like leaves of boredom from nowhere,
You chew on an energy bar as the purple plants, bike riders, suit case carriers and fire hydrants stroll by,
You make fists to fit eye sockets, but your hands stay by their sides
waiting for the courage to find the change that promises never to come,
You sit on the bench and wait for somebody who might chemically excite you
Your mouth clamps shut and your food rots inside of you molding your breath,
The dog walkers follow their excuses not to be lonely
and you crave a machine to make you feel better,
no human will do,
And the cats purr against tree legs and look at you as though you are stupid,
You sit around your friends wanting more intoxication
anything but this elasticated dribble of saliva they call ‘the gang’
Because another ‘gang’ is just another situation where you can feel alone and misunderstood again,
another metaphor for your life and incapability to feel comfortable,
You bathe in quiet awkwardness that only you feel
and cry when no one looks or when no one decides to see,
And you wallow in the self pity that sleeps in beer cans and wine glasses
searching at the bottom of them for someone who can relate to your loneliness,
And everyone thinks they’ve got the answers but you do too and you think the answers are no good either,
You call out on roof tops in the loudest voice your thoughts can muster
And the teachers who get paid to care have given up too,
So you sit like an old book being read over and over again melting to resemble an instruction manuel or something equally repetitious,
And you wait for the time to pass,
and the people too,
You wait to be interested by something,
anything that will comfort you,
But you seek solace in the smell of dustbins, petrol, sea salt, beer froth and your hands in the shower,
And hope that they’ll all
come together
and somehow
let you know
it’s going to be okay.

fled the sun in favour of treading moonlights path
shes become a carpet bagger of the
nights flourishing kingdoms of alleyways
and the treasured dumpsters like sodden jewels they contain

she reeks from the cast off of the popular masses
but it is sweet perfumes to the forsaken
hollow eyed wanderers lost in the maze
of concrete and steel
she lips a sacred song in her temple of night
and keeps a wary eye painted to the ever shut door
the unexpected is the road dogs creed
and she allways got a little something extra
stashed away for the hungry and quiet

ribbons decorate her torn dress
they are fine silk stained with coffee and beans thats our girl
the highest quality in the lowest company
shes a rough house princess with a heart of gold
she wanders me down to the tear-drop inn
rents me a bed to lay up with some pretty dreams

pulls out of her designer jeans a folded and creased copy
of nineteen fifty three complete with greaser kids and hot rods
left me there dreamin i was the tough guy
leather jacket and Indian motorcycle
and she was my betty boop candy sweet smile girl
in the quiet halls of the tear-drop inn
with a sadsack companion picking dreamers pockets
for the smiles to be found
thats our girl
thats our sweet sweet girl
covered in the romance of the hard road
trackmarks and ***** dustbins
the likes of her we may never see again

There was, in a once upon another time a man
(His name and work
Being lost to the boot sales and dustbins of time)
Who made a reputation as a portrait painter,
One transcending his small town in Schleswig-Holstein,
Spreading among the surrounding principalities.
Gifted with curious abilities (although he would demur,
Protesting that he was simply a man with a brush and a palette)
Allowing him to secure the favor
Of the area’s more substantial citizens,
Providing him leisure to commit to canvas
The faces of the ordinary
And, if some cases, somewhat iniquitous.
His portfolio a crazy-quilt of his milieu,
Subjects back-to-back in no particular order:
Princes and flower girls, priests and ******.


The sterling reputation the painter enjoyed
Was not due simply to technical skill
(He was, to be sure, expert in matters of shading and line,
And his eye for color and detail no less than remarkable)
But also an eye for those things
Revealed in the curve of the lips or the set of the eyes
And, more importantly for fame and purse,
The virtuosity to enhance the understated gifts
Or veil those unpleasant secrets they suggested.
And so, the venality in the banker’s sneer
Was softened to intimate nothing more
Than levelheaded concern for the sanctity of the mark and guilder,
Or the gentle smile of the prince’s youngest daughter
Augmented to evoke the beatitudes of the angels themselves.

The craft and subtlety of his work
Combined to engender the most curious effects;
Oftentimes his subjects, surely without consciousness or intent,
Began to assume those qualities  
Bestowed upon them by the nuances of line and pigment,
Becoming less parsimonious or more humane,
As dictated by the brush strokes,
Carrying on from that time forward as the finest embodiments
Of that visage captured inside the gilding of the frame.

At some point in time,
Whether through the onset of some trickle of madness,
Or perhaps just sheer whimsy,
The painter made a peculiar change in his methodology,
Beginning to graft qualities onto his subjects
Which they never embodied nor hoped to possess,
Perhaps in the hope that, having pinned them to the corkboard,
His butterflies might take wing,
But his command of light and pigment
Combined power and understatement in such a manner
That no one who sat for him ever noticed
They were being mocked or enriched, as the case might be;
And still the canvases acted as tails wagging the dog about;
Priests were found dead in their rectories,
In the midst of tableaus of unspeakable debauchery,
While courtesans lit candles and kneeled in pews
Until their backs and thighs screamed
In the service of such highly unusual positions,
Or the banker flipped the urchin a coin
While gently petting the boy’s undernourished cur,
And perhaps it was all due to the machinations of the painter,
But he would, with just a hint of slyness
Playing about the corners of his eyes and mouth,
Deny any measure of culpability.
He was, after all, just a man with a brush.

This prison with no walls
The mind is even too hot for thought to linger upon
Creativity vanishes when the contents of the dustbin are emptied
Hunger, lie and poverty
The everlasting diet of this wall-less facility
Noisesome ideology forcefed through the sphincter ani
Mother ran away from the constant tantrums of the AK
Forty seven men played that instrument and stole her dignity
The music was too loud she said
So she is still hiding six feet under
Brother coughs a lot, spits a lot and is a skeleton of wonder
What the hell? Where is heaven?
Sons mistook for dustbins constantly being reclaimed by the grave
This wall-less prison
Trust is no more between husband and wife
Men **** men and dog eat dog
Mothers shun their wombs
Vatican shut its doors
Hell is contemplating too
We dance to our heart beats, the only hope

Panorama,
not the programme,
but what can be seen
with my eyes.

Some young ones won't get this
a bit like black and white TV
they wouldn't understand anything
before manned space flight
and that's alright
I don't understand
'Minecraft'

but it's all pixels now
and the more you have of them
appear to make the biggest of
the smallest men
there's
something dark about that.

I look out from the window of
a twenty first floor flat and
see,
not everything but most things
which brings me back to the
panorama.

He wakes in sweat and panicked breath,
Convinced that these are more than dreams,
The thought of her in pain and scared,
A vision far too real it seems.

Alone in darkness but for her,
Still lingering within his mind,
Her presence there but out of reach,
A mystery with clues to find.

He looks around, "Am I awake?"
Still sitting in his office chair,
A folder open- staring up,
The pages scattered everywhere.

"Pull yourself together, Tom!"
Awake for sure, he looks around,
The folder closed and clearly marked,
'Tom Archer - Clients: Lost and Found'.

The storm outside is bearing down,
A city wrapped in hail and snow,
Just as the dream had been, he's sure,
"Is it tonight?" he has to know.

A map is laid out on the floor,
With markers to each past attempt,
Now only one is left to try,
Tom bears the task no ill contempt.

His gun is set- now cocked and checked,
The holster safely by his chest,
He grabs the map and all his notes,
"It's time to put this thing to rest!"

With one last glance down at his sketch,
Those deep, soft eyes and blushing cheeks,
The golden halo of long hair,
He leaves for what his heart now seeks.

The door is closed, the wind so harsh,
His skin is cold, his coat pulled tight,
The streets are clear, save for the brave,
They rush around, soon out of sight.

The shops still serve, their doorways lit,
A stray dog barks from streets away,
Some dustbins fall two buildings down,
Tom knows each move before its play.

Around the corner, down the street,
He holds the map up like a shield,
Running now- he feels so close,
Through the gates, across the field.

The snow is thick around his boots,
His soaking coat stuck to his skin,
The hill is steep, he forges on,
His head is cloudy, in a spin.

Tom knows she's here, he feels her near,
This is the place, the time is right,
A little further up this hill,
He finds the door, still bolted tight.

The cold is bitter but he's strong,
All of his strength is mustered now,
With one charge, two, he's through the door,
He wipes the frost from coat and brow.

He hears a scrape, perhaps a cry,
A staircase down to dark unknown,
Tom takes the stairs at frantic speed,
A trip, a slip, or was he thrown?

The fall is short, the pain is brief,
The world goes black and there she is,
Smiling through those stunning eyes,
Reaching out, her hands touch his.

Then he's back, she's gone again,
Just lying there amongst the dregs,
His calls for help just echo back,
He moves to stand on shaky legs.

Unsteady but with work to do,
Tom checks his coat- the gun now gone,
His papers lost, the map gone too,
He has no choice- he must go on.

Across the ground he makes his way,
Not far away, a dim light's glow,
He's closer now, a haloed door,
Tom turns the handle, takes it slow.

No sign of life, no one in sight,
No distant sounds, nothing at all,
The air is cold, his movement slow,
Quite weary of another fall.

The map had marked this as a mine,
Abandoned long ago it seems,
Tom ploughs his mind for memories,
So much of this not from his dreams.

The light is dim and the way unclear,
But doors appear at either side,
A corridor of lockers shut,
The perfect place for one to hide.

Once again he hears that cry,
Closer now, sweat on his brow,
Further still he moves along,
He knows she's here, in pain somehow.

He feels the punch before it hits,
Yet still a blow that takes him down,
They scuffle in the dirt and grime,
A boot connects hard with his crown.

Tom knows his way around a brawl,
And holds his own against the brute,
He rolls aside and lands a kick,
Then grabs him by his dusty suit.

A punch, a kick, another roll,
Tom thrusts him hard against the floor,
The foe is down and now out cold,
No pulse to feel, though not for sure.

Tom checks his pockets, finds the gun,
A rusty key, all that he's found,
"The only way is up from here!"
He makes his way back to the sound.

Trying doors and rattling locks,
Tom finds one that does not quite match,
A bolted door with bars across,
He tries the key then pulls the latch.

Sliding open, naught but black,
Metallic scent strong in the air,
A scrape, a soft and muffled moan,
He moves on silently with care.

There against the wall, it seems,
A louder scraping and that cry,
Tom makes it to the shapeless form,
He touches rope and starts to pry.

Seconds pass that feel like hours,
But at last each rope comes free,
Skin meets skin, both pull away,
Tom knows it's her- it has to be.

He reaches out, she's screaming now,
Still muffled sound though through the gag,
"I'm here to help- you must believe!"
"Just relax…" he frees the rag.

She tries to run but falls down hard,
Tom rushes over, helps her stand,
"Just take it easy, try to rest",
"You're safe with me" he holds her hand.

Calming down now, breathing hard,
"Who are you? Why am I here?"
Tom hears her voice- a dream come true,
"My name is Tom, please have no fear!"

"I've searched for weeks to get to you!"
Her breathing fast, she lashes out,
"Please let me go- I don't know you,
Just tell me what this about?"

Tom takes a breath, he has to think,
"The man who brought you here is dead,
I searched each room and found you here."
There wasn't much more to be said.

She's calmer now, her breathing soft,
"Your voice, I know it from somewhere,
Where have we met? I don't recall...
I don't know why you seem to care!"

He smiles inside- not sure of why,
"We've met so many times, it seems,
You've been with me for several days,
Albeit only in my dreams."

She reaches out towards his face,
Caresses it to find the shape,
"You are the one- I knew you'd come!
Please help me- quick, we must escape!"

They stand to leave, still holding hands,
The lights come on, he's standing there,
"YOU CANNOT TAKE HER, SHE IS MINE!
YOU BEAT ME ONCE, LET'S MAKE IT FAIR!"

Tom pulls the gun- still cocked and set,
The shot is clean, the **** precise,
"Let's get a move on, now!" he cries,
"This is no time for playing nice!"

Out they bolt, they barely breathe,
Down the now-bright corridor,
Back to the site of Tom's short fall,
They find the stairs behind a door,

Up, and up, and up they go,
On, and on, and on they run,
Finally they reach the top,
Bursting out into the sun,

They take a breath then start again,
Running downhill with no delay,
Through the field and out the gate,
Up the street and across the way,

Safe at the door marked 'Private Eye'
They dash inside and slam the door,
Tom hears a scream and turns around,
She's seen the sketch, still on the floor,

"You really knew me all the time?
I've shared the dreams you've held so long,
I thought you'd be just one more shadow,
But, now I know, we must belong."

Tom smiles and hangs his coat back up,
"I've searched my life for you, it seems,
I knew I'd find you- someday soon,
For love- they say- creates our dreams."

432 was the amount
of a crushing defeat
for 202 Toe Rags.

432 is a symbolic figure
for Ireland and not a
poetic metaphor either,
it was the date St Patrick
arrived here from Boulogne
Sur Mer in Northern France,
where it was a tradition of the
local mariners to paint a shamrock
on their fishing boats.

432 has often been associated with
the 4 provinces and 32 counties.

John B. Keane's "Field" was 3 Acres
1 Rood and 32 Perches, a classic
representation of Ireland.

202, or TOT will become iconic also,
not as a number, more the word!

               <>

TOT  |tɒt|
verb (tots, totting, totted) [ no obj. ] (usu. as nountotting) Brit. informal
salvage saleable items from dustbins or ******* heaps. local authorities frown on totting.

We are drunk again.
The smell from the dustbins below
rises up to our luxury balcony
that overlooks a building site.
A phoenix is going to rise
from the ash, when the city burns.
I think it will come in half-price rentals
and coupons for a sack of rice.
Nothing makes sense
in this dying skyline,
all the people in planes
will go back to where they
came from before.
If they are lucky.

You asked me to talk some more.
To acknowledge your existence.
A selfish mood and darkened clouds
cut in by September.
It kept us inside and barely alive.
Everything became a block of thought,
each separate from the rest.
I lost my peripheral vision.
Could only see my sadness,
and not the wave-breaks that it makes.
We sat on a beach in Indonesia.
Ran to collect shells in the peculiar
ocean retreat. When the waves
came back as a cathedral,
we never stood a chance
in the blood-shed
and lack of air.

There is a rubber ring
out there for me.
Beyond the paranoia
of possible sharks and oil spills.
When I get pulled on board
they will slip me into a suit.
They will let me write poetry
in the day-time, and be cradled
by the sea as I search for sleep at night.
In the morning I will eat without sickness.
I might talk to the waitress,
prove myself sober with an orange juice.
She could laugh at a joke
I would only tell about myself.
If I was lucky.

I can run when we make the first port.
Whatever tongue, whatever lips
to set upon, I will take it.
A bed for the night
or coupons for a sack of rice,
I will drag the loot home
and fall asleep in my clothes.
Learning Spanish from a folk-singer,
he stubs cigarettes into my fingertips
and feeds me whiskey
to **** the pain.
The wine is cheap and the people
are easy, they let me smoke inside
if the weather is turning blue.
They bring grapes when
they sense a sadness,
and will not gripe with me
until I am ready to gripe with them.

I tried to write you a letter of apology
but it read more like a suicide note.
It is hard to talk about circumstantial meetings
when you can see this nonsense world
dissolving into parts.
The sun-set makes no sense to the poet,
and still he will quote it all the same.
A convenient landscape for any occasion:
you can use it for the end-piece.
Everything I could write to you
would only sound formulaic;
the best melodies have now been played,
and so we are left with imitation.
For now I will have
a plastic-bag career,
walking home on foot
and sleeping soft at night.
There are no chances
of new landscapes in the present.
So I will lay open in bed
and allow this landlocked town
to be my paradise.

We are the human stray dogs,
All we breathe are street smogs,
We roam with slogging legs,
To humans, we are begging ***** pigs!

With excess food, you stand on obesity,
On the dustbins, we stand for charity.

Hunger eats us every second,
As we beg, humans abscond,
World has let us to fall and despond,
Will the so-called God respond?

When we beg at temple premises,
Giving money to us becomes dharma,
When we beg beyond temple premises,
People reply that it is our karma,

When we beg with untorn dress,
Fellow-humans say, “You have money at excess.”
When we beg with torn dress,
Fellow-humans say, “All you possess is madness.”

To the streets we are untouchable,
To the hunger, we are inseparable,
With money, we remained respectable,
Without money, we turned disposable.

Where is god? Where is god?
I searched with hunger very hard,
I discovered, he was none but a useless fraud,
Anger from hunger turned us a hot iron rod.

Life remains unlivable,
Hunger remains miserable,
Humanity is scarce and valuable,
As modern nomads, our houses are portable.

With loans, our farmlands were stolen,
With human treachery, our life was broken,
With menial physical jobs, our body started to weaken.

World remained cruel,
So hunger turned our fuel.

To our hunger,
Reply of wealthy humans was silence,
For a beggar,
It is larger than a bloodshed violence.

As we beg,
Poor humans bowed heads with guilt
Helpless their life,
With disappointments, it was built.

In the world divided into classes,
Many live as beggars in houses,
Many live as beggars in heart,
They were just ***** and smart.

In appearance, we remain a minority,
In the universe, we stand as a majority,
Self-reliant life is our priority,
We don’t want your publicizing charity.

There appeared a revelation,
A day we will steer a revolution!

Idols in the temple decorated with money,
Its time to turn them into bread and honey.

Give us dignified life and food,
We won’t steal,
This is nothing but a peacemaking social deal.

We proclaim!
As hungriness grow,
That make humans bow,

We will ensure; we make
Your money-flowing temple,
Will completely set down to topple,

We will take (steal) money spent for useless stone,
If an individual is left begging hungry-prone!

Let me make this promise fickle
To entomb my complaints morbid
In the impregnable dustbins of
Some anonymous corridors.
Let you invent thousand excuses
To conceal thy wishes ruptured.
Let you deny those eyes scorched
Even the clues of beads priced.
Let's suffer silently in this night
The exultant rays will shine again
Let the swing of time be the Messiah
It will cause our emotions to rise again.

©  Badee Uz Zaman

The trash men carry it off
Barrels of garbage, the waste of the week
Rotting, molding apple core
Worthless reams of sales circular
Advertising *******no one needs
Books of tame philosophy
Books of lame poetry
Covered in half-burnt grease
Sophisticated scumbag
**** of the earth
Hauled to Gehenna
Where the dead litter mounds of refuse
Reduced to ashes in perpetual fire
Kept burning by priests who can keep a secret
Dustbins overflowing with trash
All that is ruined
By use or lies
Disappointed
Naive I suppose to believe
There was a garden
But now it's a dump
And there you are swimming in the middle
With a blissful smile on your face
Misunderstanding
Everyone is gone
They are never coming back
You will never see them again
The breast stroke is the best
You've got a long way to swim
From this wretched refuse reality
To your under-populated heaven
I would loan you my life jacket
But you've already stolen it
What, did you leave it at home now you need it?
Sink then
Never stop smiling

When I grow up, I wanna be a heretic
Save some rope for me, all you hangmen, all you executioners, all you arbiters of holy justice,
Grab your axe and cut down this forest,
Use the wood to build the biggest pyre the world has ever seen,
Chains around my wrists and my feet,
A crown of thorns staining my golden hair red,
And that blood is the last vestige of my humanity, running down my chin and dripping onto the grass
It is the last thing I taste before you light me up,
The fire opens my skin like a present it's been eagerly awaiting all year,
Takes its fill of my blood and ***** what's left from my bones, and seeps into what remains
In that moment I become one with my destroyer,
I become that which scorches earth and blackens sky,
I am the inferno that swallows empires,
I am Rome 64, Chicago 1871, London 1666,
I am the prophesied beast,
The end of days,
I am apocalypse and I come for you and yours,
I am the anti-life, and I will leave your cities in ashes and your fields barren
I grow a hundred feet tall then, screaming up into the night like Hell come calling,
You will watch me wither to nothing this way,
You will sweep what is left of me into your dustbins, something you will dispose of with the rest
But do not mistake,
Wherever you go, and whatever you do,
You will never escape that night, when you lit me up, and I became something endless,
You will always be living in the shadow I cast

I think we've all had that feeling of feeling
nothing.

Emptied
like the dustbins used to be
and
yet full of foreboding
as if someone is loading
a twelve bore with a cartridge
and your name
is on it.

And feeling that way which is one way
to feel
do you feel like kneeling and saying a prayer?
can you get in the midst of the others who are
there?
does that mean you are no longer alone?

This feeling cannot be right,
that not feeling is
just like the night without stars
dark,
forbidding and back to
foreboding.

Trying to keep it in real time
when all they do
is steal time,
the only thing left of mine
is
this feeling of not feeling
and I'm hanging on to it.

/the bore of moral relativism stemming from the eden metaphor:

i am sure, a satanic lie, but perhaps
a godly one too...
    type on the problem of the three
doherty brothers,
   with the husband having committed
suicide...
  the remaining brothers,
   with the remains of natalia doherty
in one of the remaining alive brothers...
the "disappearence" of
    natalia doherty from luton,
later found in the garden of one of the brothers...
drunk, she started shouting abuse
at the future suicide...
                clearly the story:
           the man who committed suicide
did the ******,
           the brothers stepped in
                  and covered up the burial...
i'm working from first impressions...
                   the husband killed, but could not
stomach the deed, so he took his own life,
his brothers stepped in
                          and took care of the ***** work
of making a crass burial...
                     justice is but water
       between the blood of familial ties...
as it were, brothers in arms...
                  but justice was served,
somehow, perhaps not the burial rites,
   but the fact that a suicide took place...
a g. madonim painting replaces my
aztec calendar, now hanging on my wall...
             and he lay with her for several days,
the brothers did the ***** work,
disposed of the body...
                           in that, they buried her
face down...
                       as if to imitate:
                        the shut mouth that once
took to drunk obscenity...
                    always the most mundane face
behind the most belitteling deeds...
     even if 12 years later...
                   and they say:
actions speak louder than words,
    sometimes words have unparalleled
consequence to be mismatched by deed...
                    guilty?
  who is guilty in this matter,
          if the actual murderer committed suicide?
too much of a brotherly love
        to leave the matter blatantly staring
in the face...
                       and what of the woman
without a grave?
        how much longer does the memory
of a person remain intact without
a "proper" western burial?
                             coffin unto slugs,
rot of wood,
                         or the immediate enegry
release from the Ganges?
                                       an abandoned grave
or no grave at all?
             justice would have been
served, if the murderer was still alive...
              then, of course,
            the remaining doherty brothers
would be guilty...
           but what if the same doherty brothers
didn't whisper a noose on the man
who strangled his wife?
              as they might have added:
    you did the ugly bit, we did you a favour
doing the ***** bit...
                   what respect for the dead
is there in rearranging the body, face up?
               a second dagger, a certainty,
and the two old brothers, with one playing
deaf, the other playing liar...
                      apparently in a fit of rage:
hell knows no fury like a woman scorned,
     but what is that of man?
                 heaven knows not of a man
castrated by a woman's words?
                  in the immediate sense -
                    oh gerald gerald...
said the two elder brothers...
                                if gerald was still alive...
you could judge the elder brothers
as accomplinces...
                                 at first i thought: b'ah!
but at least she wasn't buried as gerald would
have intended: chopped up and disposed
in dustbins...
                      she remained intact in
the ground...
                          since the undertaker walked
scot free...
                  3 months for the liar, aged 73.

The atmosphere is charged
With putridity of awful mess
Dustcart on crummy streets
Dustbins on strike
Cleaners dead at dawn
Harmony on walkout
Putting a damper on health
As willowy actresses
And wailing actors are
Pushing for cleanness
In this arcade of flaming dirt
Asking change for a change
All bawling, No matter the price
We must win the prize.

Bedsheets of wrappers, of shawls;
Beds of sleepers, of spongy bags.

I'm enchanted of its beauty!

Dustbins, the haggard old men,
Have no choice but to smell Indian food.

I'm enchanted of its beauty!

Echoes of languages bite
If someone dreams of Switzerland.

I'm enchanted of its beauty!

Announcements regularly flow
Through the bamboo.

I'm enchanted of its beauty!

I'm leaving for my town;
My entreaty visit the wonderful park!

I'm enchanted of its beauty!

Through the lens
I view the world in its glory
There are no fakes here
It’s the real story
As it beckons me forward
And takes my hand
I gloriously enter
The optical land
Snapping away
Fast and slow
This inglorious ******* reveals
What the people need to know
I am the watcher
The stalker in the dark
Hiding behind dustbins
And the trees in the park
I’m hated and despised
It’s the nature of the beast
In a world so hypocritical
Through the headlines they feast
The truth is all I’m selling
And I know im no one’s fan
But you’ll never ever stop me working
I was born a paparazzi man

I won't need to listen to your
hideous gossiping on the phone,
nor your idiotic talk back radio,
or smell your cremated carnivore
cooking or inhale the vapours of
Round-Up® which you spray on
your treeless, plant-less, desolate,
lawn. I won't have to be reminded
how monotonous mentalities survive
such mundane lifestyles, governed
by the repetition of 10:30 Am and
2:30 Pm daily rituals, or your once
a week highlights, of putting out
your dustbins in front and talking
to the coal man out the back or of
occasional calamities in the street
when someone dies, or the stoking
sounds of last nights ashes being
removed at 10:15 Am, or when you
say " I'll be talking to you " after a
monologue of diatribe has been off
loaded over the fence (at) your next
door neighbour, who wished she had
built the dividing wall a block higher.
I won't have to endure the fumes of
your central heating boiler that was
poorly positioned as is your oil tank
or observe your cancerous cat *******
on our productive, well maintained,
organic garden. I won't, because our
house just sold and we are away out
of here, but I do pity the new people,
because you are one vicious, malicious,
*****, but then, where would you be got,
didn’t ye end up in court back in the 60s,
“ Neighbours go to war” Headline.


28th April 2021.

Just had a call from the auctioneer to
tell me that our house has sold.

COMMERCE

Sadly money n influence have taken over the beauty of closeness in relationships.

Commerce today is important very, really proactive; not actual relationships

Modern youth/ children, money respect, more than their parents;

Siblings their spouses love more than their own blood; sad moments !

Daughters-in- law, even call elderly parents- in-law, dustbins;

Most pathetic to watch are such actual daily life scenes

Education should, our humility increase, instead fans it, our ego's fire

Watching all this decline in Your creation; Lord, doesn't it, You ire?

Commerce n science, instead of improving the situation, corrupts our mind

Religion today, commerce promotes n sadly divides mankind.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

Daylight
debris and dust
blown in the wind
amidst deadly silence
no human motion
in deserted streets
a crow screeches

litters unattended
dustbins unemptied
smells of petrified food
flies buzz in nascent heat

noon
a grey sky
slow-drifting clouds
birds chirp
on building tops
stray dogs bark
from unknown alleys
a ***** picks up
cigarette butts

evening
chime of church bells
closed sacred doors
no vespers
a priest seen
in prayer
through glass windows

dusk
a light drizzle
a soprano's voice
rendering Mahler
piano-accompanied
from nearby quarter

broken by
sudden roar
of an ambulance

Kiss me Hardy and let's be late for the party,
this one system state can wait.

More than Chinese whispers, he whispers,
and 'why these dustbins?'
turns into Siamese twins!
aha
and he grins with a knowing grin
knowing that Victory is more than a ship
but,
yes it's another but, but that's okay,
a but is my way of saying
what comes next?

and if nothing comes to mind
never mind
they're going to stone you anyway.