When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
’Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other’s tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue— to the scandal of The ***!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges— even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it cames that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

The Mermaid (Part One)

The evening was cool
and the sky was so clear
And ripples of waves
were all I could hear

The moon shone bright
and stars twinkled on high
Then from out of nowhere
came so seductive a sigh

I looked out to sea
to whence this sound came
And my eyes did believe
they were playing a game

For as waves lapped around
a rock out at sea
I saw a beautiful vision
who was staring at me

Naked as love
she sat all alone
On that rising edifice
of black granite stone

Her body so wondrous
that I shook with such lust
But a smile so pure
that my thoughts were unjust

Her hair was entangled
with luscious green kelp
That protected her modesty
without man-made help

It hung down over *******
so excitingly full
And covered the parts
that are made to enthral

My mind quickly taken
by this girl of my dreams
But as I looked closer
all was not as it seems

For legs this beauty
was completely bereft
And a long fishy tail
was all she had left

Then with a smile
that made my heart still
She slipped into the water
and I saw she was real

For she dived like a dolphin
under azure sea
And all that was left
were the ripples and me



The End........or is it?



The Mermaid (Part Two)

The man with the tear soaked eyes walked along the beach for the thousandth time, his hands were shaking and his lips quivering in the cold, he constantly looked out to sea, where was she, would she ever return, would she mend his broken heart. He had but caught a fleeting glimpse of this beauty as she preened herself on that ancient granite rock, but a glimpse was all it had taken; he was completely besotted by this angel from the deep.
Even now, weeks after the event he could still see every tiny detail of his wondrous vision, the sparkling brown eyes that outshone the sun, and the kelp entangled hair that seemed to be alive with light and glistened with the reflection from the moon. Her heaving ******* that had caused the man in him to want her body for his own ****** pleasures, and that oh so innocent smile that had replaced the pure animal lust within him with a more protective desire to take her in his arms and cherish her.
He had not kept her appearance a secret, he had told everyone he had met, and he had talked and talked and talked. He wanted to tell everyone about his dream girl, his mermaid from the deep, his beautiful fish tailed siren. But would they listen to him? The answer was no, a resounding no. He was laughed at, ridiculed, pointed at and made out to be the village idiot, just because he wanted to share what he had seen. But he didn’t care, he would see her again, he knew he would see her again; he had to see her again, otherwise, well otherwise he would go crazy.
Another tear ran down his face as he once again looked at the vacant rock where his angel had once sat and realised that maybe they were right, maybe he was mad, just a demented old fool, someone that had let his dreams overtake reality. His heart wrenched tear fell to the sand and along with his hopes and dreams soaked into nothingness; He turned away and looked no more, he must preserve his sanity at all costs so he walked away and returned to the boredom of his sad uneventful life.
So he was not there an hour later when a ripple formed in the water as a dream like beauty pulled herself from the sea and perched on her favourite granite rock. She looked around, but he was not there, maybe it was her imagination but she was sure she had seen love in his eyes, maybe if she waited he would return, but no, she was being foolish, she slipped off the rock once more and plunged deep into the dark forbidding sea, back to reality she told herself, back in the water where nobody could see her tears.

The End

I couldn't compare
The way your light brown eyes
Light the whole totality in me
As if nothing the light couldnt touch
It's filling up the darkness in me

And stop giving me the smile
That stops the ticking clocks
No matter how i beg to be in your forever
As i couldn't resist the tempation to live and let die in your embrace

I wouldn't want to trade
Your chilly touch
With a burning ember
Or any comfort for change
Let the frostbites seal me in your arms so i can stay and please, just stay

Its the way you move
And the way you talk
That takes me on a joy ride on my mortality

This is how your beauty is immortalized
When it is no longer in existence
Or when it is forgotten
By me or by you
At the end of the day
It is not how the moonlight
touches your enthral scars
Your best beauty is
How it brings out the best of me
Within you

Time as the healer,
this vinyl waxes merrily
how could we not  steal moments listening?
the record plays like a lost friend -
cascading grooves gives choice,
eye contact breaks the reticence
enthralled with our knowledge
enthral to the Elektra.

I pray thee leave, love me no more,
Call home the heart you gave me.
I but in vain that saint adore
That can, but will not, save me:
These poor half-kisses **** me quite;
Was ever man thus served?
Amidst an ocean of delight
For pleasure to be starved.

Show me no more those snowy *******
With azure riverets branched,
Where whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,
Yet is my thirst not stanched.
O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell,
By me thou art prevented:
'Tis nothing to be plagued in hell,
But thus in heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms,
Nor thy life's comfort call me;
O, these are but too powerful charms,
And do but more enthral me.
But see how patient I am grown,
In all this coil about thee;
Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,
I cannot live without thee!

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry’s holy shade;
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor’s heights th’ expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way.

Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade,
Ah fields beloved in vain,
Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle’s speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent
Their murm’ring labours ply
‘Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And ****** a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever-new,
And lively cheer of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th’ approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond today:
Yet see how all around ’em wait
The Ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune’s baleful train!
Ah, show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murd’rous band!
Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow’s piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy.
The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness’ altered eye,
That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their Queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his suff’rings: all are men,
Condemned alike to groan;
The tender for another’s pain,
Th’ unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more;—where ignorance is bliss,
’Tis folly to be wise.

What makes you
want to be with trash
pond **** who can't make you,
but he sure comes fast

Who made his mind up
about life too quick
What about adventure
and the risk of it?

I've seen your moves
they **** me every time
Hip ******, and **** bumps
encircle and enthral my mind

You are far to beautiful
to be with that creep
he probably snores
and won't let you sleep

If I kept you up
with a bubbling nose
I'd ask you to wake me
and we'd plow till close

I don't mind a snuggle up tight
With you in my arms
is a desirable,
and significant fight

Does he ever marvel
by the beauty of your eyes?
Does he ever tell you
he could never compromise?

With you and the world
it is your pretty life
to choose the hands
who delicately caress you

With your support
and all my work
we'll run this hellhole
turn it heaven on earth

Every era that has ever been
Has engaged in the auto-dissection
Of their yellowing underbellys.

Yes, every generation has predicted
that the end is nigh,
That god is on their side;
But the devil has a crowbar
And is busting out of the basement.

Each decade is a mimicry of the last.
Different fashions, same trends
And always, with a fool on the hill.

A lonely steel harmonica can pierce the airwaves
Across space and time,
Through the grooves and crackles
To enthral an audience,
And to beguile that every generation
Into believing in their autonomy,
Their solitude,
With a fate independent of all those centuries past.

Through every disembodied spew of Dylan lyrics,
Or the corporeal and common alienation
Sympathised in every Wilde reference,
Comes the same fury at the chaos of a world
That is no more than indifferent at the plight of the people it houses.

Indeed,
Every generation has sought to either
Cure the ills of the Earth;
Or else set lighter fluid to the lot.

This stretches back to the first blood-spattered edition of the Bible,
And further, much further.
To all of the captains,
The heroes,
The anti-heroes,
The road gritter,
The malevolent dictator,
The schoolteacher,
The emancipated woman
And the borderline feminist.
To every young child who is reluctant to take the spotlight,
Or look you in the eye,
Ask questions, or speak out.
For every one of those who at some point were labelled
‘maladjusted’.

And so the Pharaohs and Caesars are all but gone now,
Replaced by the big-wigs,
The fat-cats,
The purple hearted,
The playboys -
The men in suits.
But they are all the same.

The same behind the decadence of
A solid gold sarcophagus
Or an Armani pair of shades.
They all built their empire on shifting sands.

And so we will all kick and scream
To our own tone and our own time
At the indignity of the world.
At our bespoke knowledge
To deal with all inconvenience
But that which privates the preclusion
Of any and all major slaughters of justice.

As for that young child,
With the lack of eye contact -
And all that he will become:
He will sit. And he will type.

He will type until his words fall beyond that
Of the spiralling noises inside his mind
And blossom into something pure and ugly and beautiful.
He will sit and he will write

To forget.

While I gaze in your eyes, cool cerulean blue,
Sifting night, straining stars through morning’s sweet dew,
I can fathom the depths of empyreal skies,
Angels fluttering by, riding wild butterflies

While I gaze in your eyes, changing, aqua-blue greening,
I’m ****** into chasms, cascading, careening,
And yield to enticements which meekly disarm,
Seeping virtuous beauty, sad sensuous charm

While I gaze in your eyes, bleeding fiery blue
Ever tempting with treasures, with pleasures for two,
Being caught at the core of a blazing sapphire
Possessing, enthralling, aflame with desire

While I gaze in your eyes, misty emeralds, deep green,
Veiling laughter and banter, and echoes between,
Then I dream, so it seems, in whatever the place,
Of your scent, of your breath, of your radiant face

While I gaze in your eyes, at times placidly blue,
Near’ as calm as the weirs in the woods all bedewed,
Forty winks relegate to a shimmering lake,
Gently floating on lilies, while waiting to wake

While I gaze in your eyes, caught engulfed in the greens
And consigning my fate unto verdant ravines,
My reactions, at length, become shyer and shyer
Reminiscent of ravens at risk in the briar

While I gaze in your eyes, restless, hesitant blues
Overwhelming sensations with turbulent hues,
I’m succumbing to waves of a storm battered sea,
Being cast like a plank, never meant to be free

While I gaze in your eyes, shadowed, Midnight Lake green
Glowing hazy with dreams, misty thoughts so serene,
Sudden silence befalls me, a fast sinking stone,
Looming lost in your eyes, I am never alone

While I gaze in your eyes, saddened, lachrymal blue,
Spilling trickles of rain, pearls obscuring your view,
I’ll attend to your anguish and feelings morose,
Lightly kissing your tears, touching, holding you close

While I gaze in your eyes, pulsing infinite green
Of the earth and of heaven and all in between,
It is simple to see that my hands can hold all
Of the treasures I find which so humbly enthral

While I gaze in your eyes, when they’re bountifully blue,
I’m reminded, love’s lightning is granted to few...

While I gaze in your eyes, when they’re blindingly green,
I’m reminded, love’s lightning cannot be foreseen...

Yet I hope... and I wait...

High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal
Some wood-born wonder’s sweet simplicity;
A glance like water brimming with the sky
Or hyacinth-light where forest-shadows fall;
Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthral
The heart; a mouth whose passionate forms imply
All music and all silence held thereby;
Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal;
A round reared neck, meet column of Love’s shrine
To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary;
Hands which for ever at Love’s bidding be,
And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:—
These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o’er.
Breathe low her name, my soul; for that means more.

Why, Pigot, complain
  Of this damsel’s disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?
  For months you may try,
  Yet, believe me, a sigh
Will never obtain a coquette.

   Would you teach her to love?
   For a time seem to rove;
At first she may frown in a pet;
   But leave her awhile,
   She shortly will smile,
And then you may kiss your coquette.

   For such are the airs
   Of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt:
   Yet a partial neglect
   Soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.

   Dissemble your pain,
   And lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret;
   If again you shall sigh,
   She no more will deny,
That yours is the rosy coquette.

   If still, from false pride,
   Your pangs she deride,
This whimsical ****** forget;
   Some other admire,
   Who will melt with your fire,
And laugh at the little coquette.

   For me, I adore
   Some twenty or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
   Though my heart they enthral,
   I’d abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming coquette.

   No longer repine,
   Adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net!
   Away with despair,
   No longer forbear
To fly from the captious coquette.

  Then quit her, my friend!
  Your ***** defend,
Ere quite with her snares you’re beset:
  Lest your deep-wounded heart,
  When incens’d by the smart,
Should lead you to curse the coquette.

There's a distance here between us, perhaps its safer that way
but every shared moment a laugh or smile
our fingers nearly touch
Its all so delicate, would you not say?
we balance on a spiders web
to fall or fly
to fall or fly

what even is love?
are we too young to know?
It all seems so tarnished and unclean these days
I'd rather keep my heart to myself, you know?
The clinton cards and teddies emblazoned "you're the one" just so artificial, so unreal
to step into a world of cliché does not enthral me..
perhaps I was not meant to love another
in this world of safety, the risk seems too steep
yet so tempting...

oh, but why must we complicate friendship with the longing to love?
it is merely human instinct?
we have no need to wallow
we're young,
we're free
why do we waste our days pining
we're no Romeo or Juliet,
no star crossed lovers
some days I'll choose to distract myself

but I miss you when we are silent
my mind walks in circles, hand in hand with your name
my hearts used to a lone routine
it wants to be pulled, to change change change
this is just another midnight poem,
is it not?

A close one once told me,
he must appreciate that you read
for a girl whose studied the literature of love must be deserved
did you know I've read it all?
the words, the sonnets, the songs
its less personal to read of other loves,
instead of write my own
this was never meant to sound pretentious,
more a babble of words to a stranger

if I told you I'd loved you
would you have known all along?
sometimes I cannot help but wonder
I'd prefer not to know

oh, the temptation to hold your hand
when we walk together
it seems an impulse,
a body's natural instinct to reach out, to hold
I trust my head to tell my heart No.
it's all too delicate, too close to home

its easier to keep silent
to let the moments between locked eyes,
be locked away in a box
I'll keep my shaking hands to myself
its safer, safer
I've always played by the rules
I only want a friend, a special one
but it would be unusual for friends to hold each others hands
oh, how annoying it is that everything has to have a reason, these days
there's nothing a fact can't explain

is it okay to say, I just can't say
the correct words
even correct grammar escapes me
you of all people would correct me...


the head says
play it safe
it's enough to
be the friend, the brother






but sometimes, my heart wonders,
if i sailed away,
would you call me your own true love?

Variety They SAY...
Is The... " Spice of Life "... !!!

Well They Could Also Say...
It INSPIRES My Rhymes...
And Helps Me To Write...

....... My Poetry...... !!!!!

It Also FEEDS HUMANITY...

So Can Someone PLEASE Explain To Me...
How RACISM Sees NO DEFEAT.... !!!?!!!

Well That's NOT The Subject...
... DIRECTING This Piece...

It Would Seem That The Subject...
Is..... " VARIETY "...... !!!!!

My Variety of Thoughts...
Are... FAR From Small...

In FACT Like Me...
They're Rather TALL...
And Built To ENTHRAL... !!!

When Given The Call...
To Exude MULTITUDES...
of Words From BIG VIRGE...
I Use To... OOZE Views... !!!!!

My Wordplay FILLS...
Some Pretty BIG BOOTS...
And ALWAYS Instils...
A Number of CLUES...
As To Some of The Things...
That I'm... INTO...

My Wordplay REIGNS...
Rather Like A DELUGE... !!!

One That POURS And Lyrically SOARS...
With Varieties That WARRANT Applause... !!!

But Sometimes Of Course...
When Airing My Views...
It Appears That Some Crews...

... CLEARLY CAN'T...
Take The TRUTH... !!!

So Choose To Be RUDE...
When I Walk Through The Door...

VARIED Attitudes...
In Prose That I Use...
Leave MANY Confused...
And Somewhat Bemused... ???

When My Poetry Moves...
Like Tap Dancers Shoes...
From Current Affairs...
To... Social Issues...

And ESPECIALLY When...
My Words Reflect MOODS...
That PROVE I Can Be...
The DARKEST of Dudes... !!!!

But My VARIANT Use...
of... Poetic Tools...
EVEN Through DARK DESIGNS...
OFFERS LIGHT To Bright Minds...

Who Are QUICK To REALISE...
My Wordplay INVITES...
... People To UNITE... !!!

And STOP These POINTLESS...
... STUPID FIGHTS... !!!!!

IF Variety IS...
... " The Spice of Life "...

WHY Try To... DIVIDE...
And CONSTANTLY... "Hide"...
From... CHANGING The Tide... ?!?

When Nature Decides...
To Let The Seas RISE...

What Will You Do... ???
RELY On Your PRIDE... !?!

Or Maybe... RESIGN...
To Just TOEING THE LINE...
That HELPS You... Steer CLEAR...
of THOSE Who You FEAR... !!?!!

It's Simply A QUESTION...
So DON'T Sit There STRESSING... !!!

MANY Aren't Prepared...
To... EVEN Go THERE... !!!

A Place MORE Inclined...
To... UNITE Mankind...

One Where The TRUTH...
Is... OPEN To View...
By ALL Human Beings...
Instead of Being Reduced...
By Individuals Who Choose...
To MISUSE And ABUSE...
The TRUTH To Confuse...
To KEEP People CONSUMED...
Like HOT AIR In Balloons... !!!

The LIES That They USE...
PROTECT Their... " SELECT Few "...

While... VARIETIES...
NOT Singularities...
Affect Words I INSERT...
... INTO My Poetry... !!!!!

From *** To Subjects...
of... Social Context...
It's A Question of TEXT...
Then What Happens Next...
Is... RARELY Complex...

EVEN When INTELLECT...
OVERRIDES Common Sense... !!!

Now VARIETIES DIFFERENT...
To My Poetry I Have To CONFESS...
Do Leave Me PERPLEXED...
And YES Sometimes VEX... !!?!!

But VARIETY IS...
The Name of The Game... !!!

But MANY RESIST My Poetic Scripts...
And... Probably WISH...
I'd KEEP MY LIPS ZIPPED... !!!

Well My RIGHT To EXPRESS...
IS THE SAME As THEIRS... !!!!!

So... If They DON'T Like Me...
TOUGH LUCK I DON'T CARE... !!!!!

Having Found A Way...
To... EASE MY Pain...

I'll ALWAYS Engage My Pen To Page...
And... VARY My Prose...
When CONTROLLING The Stage... !!!!!

And May Well Cause OFFENCE...
With The Things That I Say... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That's SIMPLY MY WAY...
Kind of Like... " FRANK "...

But My Use of Wordplay's...
NO... " Variety Act "... !!!!!

I STICK To The FACTS...
While MANY COLLAPSE... !!!

Because When They Write...
They Write To... " INVITE "...
Those Listening To CLAP... !!!!!

While Words I Transcribe...
KEEP ROCKING WEAK Jaws...
When Words I RECITE...
KEEP GETTING Applause...

Because of VARIETIES...
LOCKED Like Awards...
And Kept DEEP INSIDE...
... My Poetic Thoughts...

My Poetry VARIES...
AWAY From The Norm..............

And When It's PERFORMED...
It Adorns PERFECT STORMS... !!!!!

... CREATING A Wave...
NEVER SEEN From Ashore... !!!

If You DON'T Believe Me...
I Suggest You Ask GEORGE... !!!!!

I... VARY My Prose...
MORE Than Pete Doherty...
... FILLS UP His Nose... !!!

His Nose MUST Be FILLED...
With... FIFTY Pound Notes... !!!

While SO MANY Artists...
Are Playing At Gigs...
Just To Earn FIFTY Quid... !!!!!

He SHOULD THINK of Kids...
Who NOW Look UP To Him...
Whilst CHASING Their Hope...
of... Having Their Name...
HEADLINING At Shows... !!!!!

CHASING A Life...
of... " GLAM GLITZ & FAME "...

Can Leave People BROKE...
In YES... VARIED Ways... !!!!

MORE Than People KNOW... !!!!!!

These Words I Now... " Quote "...
Are For... Rope - A - DOPES... !!!!!!

This Industry Seems...
To REVOLVE Around Coc'... ?!!!?

Which CLEARLY Explains...
Why It's Run Like A JOKE... !!!!!

VARIETY Is A Part of My Scripts...
And THIS SIMPLE Poem...
Should CLEARLY PROVE This... !!!!!

From RACISTS To Subjects...
... AFFECTING Celebs'...
To Views About UNITY...
And Common Sense...

Views SEEN In Movies...
To Wordplay That's GROOVY...
Have HOPEFULLY KEPT...
My Words In Your Heads...

EVEN IF... Some...
May Have Left You UPSET... !!!!!

So Right Now I Guess...
It's Time For The END...

So Here's The BIG FINISH... !!!!!!

My Wordplay's DISTINGUISHED...
And WON'T Be... DIMINISHED... !!!!!!!!
... I Will NOT RELINQUISH...
My RIGHT To FREE SPEECH...

When RETAINING A Level...
of.... " SOBRIETY "....
Whilst Sharing My Views...
Through POETIC Feats...

Just Like THIS PIECE...
........ I've Called........

....... " Variety ".......

Smiles and laughter all around,
Tales of glories past abound,
Friendships lost are soon re-found,
Honoured ones have long been crowned,

Hugs and cameras at the call,
Food and drink flow free for all,
Though the snow will surely fall,
Still the party must enthral,

Wine and lager take their toll,
Soon they homeward-bound must roll,
Though time has been beyond control,
Their spirits high can never fall.

her name rung out with a chime
her heart beat in pantomime
her body reeked with surprise
her soul rested deep in her eyes
her hair flowed with silky shine
her squared smile had become mine
her lust was only surpassed by passion
her hips and gait always in fashion
her mind bold and on always fire
her lust for thought my prime desire
her touch a golden tip of grace
her beauty rested quietly in her face
her loyalty thundered at every turn
her devotion never ceased to burn
her way of placing anything at all
her assuredness all did enthral

I have been a pilot and a doctor, and a chieftain, I've run a café and a veg stall and a shop
Discovered forests down the road, and caught a magic toad, and stormed the castle high upon the mountains top
I've walked about on Mars, flown a rocket to the stars, and been to places that are yet unknown to men
And just to cap it all, to amaze you, and enthral, I did all that before I was even ten

There are no boundaries for young minds, no comprehension of time, they are eager to explore this fun-filled place
Kids are free and are unshackled, from the first shake of their rattle, they refuse to run with rats in our sad race
I grew up with simple toys, simple pleasures, simple joys, yet life was then so full and so untouched
Not ashamed of mummy's hand, or a bucket in the sand, we had so little yet, we really had so much

We grazed our knees and ruined our clothes, raced around on tippy-toes, and turned a mangy dog into our bestest friend
We camped out, we camped in, went too high upon the swing, yet we never thought the fun would ever end
Daddy's voice was law, mummy's whack was sore, and being grounded was so harsh and was so tough
But we knew that we were safe, and we knew we were secure, and we really knew our home was full of love

Children were children and grown ups were grown ups, and teenagers were somewhere in between
Bad things were small, like the punctured old beach ball, or the sadness of a melted ice-cream
Park-keepers were alert, and everything actually worked, and if we hurt ourselves, mum didn't want to sue
She would kiss it where it was sore, cuddle us some more, then we'd be off and start our climbing up anew

A boy's first kiss was his mum, and love was bubble-gum, and his first crush was simply lemon or lime
Girls were chased but never kissed, cause you deliberately missed, and names could only hurt you if they rhymed
Little girls dressed in mum's shoes, and didn't get the blues, and they'd only dance in front of cuddly toys
They loved dolls and Winnie-Pooh, playing bubbles with shampoo, and they had no time for silly things like boys

Batman was always kind, and it would never cross his mind, to **** a villain, or ever break the law
You'd always be polite, always kiss your mum goodnight, and you'd always leave your cabbage for the poor
To be gay was to be glad, being bad meant simply bad, and there was no such thing as being overfed
Phones were just pretend, and your dog was your best friend, to protect you from the troll under your bed

But this world is ever changing, with more stress and much more danger, and the children must adapt or they will fail
Where once our kids were shy, and pleasing to the eye, we are now forced to grab a tiger by the tail
Like the trickle of the stone, before the mountain crashes down, life is gaining speed at an alarming rate
They are pushed and are in pain, carry guilt and carry blame, and there is no one to shield them from their fate

Home alone, and alone away, taught how to text but not to play, they just exist within their messed up little world
Forced to survive and take the knocks, always governed by the clock, too soon they are men and women, not boys and girls
Good and bad are now retired, you can do what you desire, it's no longer sin, but a life choice for childrenkind
And is there's a price to pay for this new fun, and for looking at the sun, there's always credit, which is far off (in their mind)

Goblins and trolls have become vampires and ghouls, and Batman is a nasty growling man
The train set is no longer cool. Its trains and stations are for fools, Playstation is now the thing that makes the man
Advice comes from the web, or magazines instead, because these sources have all the answers we need to know
Goodbye to picnics, sandcastles, parks, finger-puppets in the dark, these simple joys our children now let go

Today the little ones know too much, and their knowledge is that such, they are aware of all that mum and dad now do
The facts of life, thanks to the web, terrorism's dread, ***, carcinomas and Avian Flu
Immersed in the occult, and books that teach how to insult, they spend more time with gadgets than they do with humankind
The things they watch would scare grown-ups, the door to innocence is shut, while their music feeds the anger of the mind

“No” is spoken, never heard, simple manners never learned, “Love thy neighbour” is replaced by “dog eat dog”
But they are children, not our pets, they need to love, and not regret, and they need to find the time to think of God
Like arrows that are aimed, we can steer them through life's game, to ensure they find the target that they need
That of happiness and hope, take their hand, don't let them *****, and we may yet behold the day when they are free

So enjoy their childhood years, feed the ducks, and not their fears, and if they've gone too far, help them to rewind
Let them skip, let them skate, let them even lick their plate, and the memories will be forever in your mind
And before you do regret, and your little ones forget, and this life comes and sweeps them from your door
Give them back their childish ways, and keep the world at bay, and let the children just be children once more

In the hive there is movement
for one of their kind has found the silver cross
just a scout of the second level
but the hive was deemed active and all took flight

Some of the first ones found the scout
and did beat on him asking where whom and why
but the scout did not fear loss
for glory he died for the silver cross

So many miles away
where all was good and gay
the children of light
did hear of this plight
and did send
all angels ends
the last glory
the test of nature

A machine of her light
blessed to heal yet fight
a creature of darkness
who would enthral some and delight

It coughs and splatters another page
it does state it's still somewhat alive
and goodness it's come here
to destroy the bastardises of the hive


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

I discovered her through the shallow eyes of my oblivion, a time where the end encroached upon my bitter surrender but my fall led to my enthral into the eyes of hope.

She was the beacon of light and I, well I was a lost soul forever wondering ever so close to the edge.  Her hand reaching for mine, as I reached back in the hope that I would no longer be immersed in suffering.

a sort of secret in this open yard
what is best hidden cannot be said plain
but may be whispered when the window's barred
so many stories of that concealed stain
of all the ones who went against the grain
and let the rope and leather simply fall
the beast escape from the well-guarded stall
matters like these are not beyond surmise
words might be spoken at noon in the hall
the winner is not he who gains the prize

you do not see the sign upon the card
that might be said to mark the loss or gain
of those who need to earn your good regard
the ones who speak know you will not remain
once all the symbols cease to be arcane
for what is sugar may one day be gall
that which now pleases must swiftly appall
if you aren't told that we should now advise
you must not let these foolish ways enthral
the winner is not he who gains the prize

an honest purpose may be easy marred
by those who want to tighten up the chain
and laugh and you the silly avant-garde
who seek the pleasure and forget the pain
that comes on later you cannot abstain
from taking part in the far larger brawl
that is expected when you hear the call
of the strange forces that reshape the skies
and come upon us like a sudden squall
the winner is not he who gains the prize

prince we are here for quite the longest haul
and ready for the struggle great or small
we may seem paltry to your noble eyes
but we will make it though we have to crawl
the winner is not he who claims the prize

i have always had
an unparalleled fascination
for the human body.
human anatomy to me, it seems
draws me in
like a moth to a candle.
it mesmerizes me,
to see drawings of phalanges and metacarpal bones,
all covered
like a secret lover
by smooth, knitted skin.
romeo, where art thou?
tracing pictures of the aorta and veins and arteries, i hope-
the sensual twists and turns of a capillary should fill the page.
let me bask in deltoid and trapezius muscles,
make my way to the clavicle.
let the beauty of the fragility and the strength of bodies,
divine and heaven-sent,
engross me for the decades to come:
to admire and enchant and enthral;
to hold spellbound and captivate and always intrigue me.

There songs of silence,
enthral eyes with their words,
                                    Their  beauty sings,
And your eyes do shed a tear
for it is the song unique
                                     to each flutter,
to each sight that you behold.

The butterfly does speak to you,
but only your eyes can hear
                            the words of the song.

Up along the snakeskin hill where palaces still hold court
where the rain comes in thick and the cloud gathers thin.

Out to the right of me the open sea.

I stab at Atlantean waves with a finger that points to the stars.

There is an eeriness as the darkness descends, 
all palaces and houses of men depend upon light coming in and laughter drifting out, 
this is only a summer place for living and for the eyes of the tourist a
place to enthral.

We sit at the 'Paris' in Cascais drinking tea and partaking of cake,
the crowds tumble in as we tumble out and make tracks back to the old town of Lisbon.

We entertain the idea that it is but a moment of
joyful bliss,
But did you share that sting?
              Was it too much for a whisper of kaleidoscope
                                                    ­                     pleasures.....
There is but one ending to this eclipse of the senses.
                              "Either,
You float on the butterflies of enthral bliss,
                    Or when that needle penetrates
Its like a  bullet to the brain....


                          There is only silence and stillness
and blood lubricates the nasal.
     They say an overdose is like a bullet to the brain
                    but one only some are revived from....

Do you wish to play roulette to see which shot
                                                         ends your life.

What if I’d never been called Martin?

If I’d been called Malcom or Syed or Fred?

Would I have been treated any differently, would the thoughts be different in my head?

Would I have been adopted by a different couple, maybe by ones who really loved me instead?

Would I be living in a bungalow in Barnet or a thatched cottage in Hay upon Wye?

Be a scientist obsessed by nuclear fusion or a pilot spending hours in the sky.

Would I be a murderous tyrant, leaving fear, dread and bloodshed in my wake or a devotee of the divine Mary Berry, perfecting the ultimate bake?  

Would stories be written about me or songs sung about me by the fire or would journalists interview my loved ones and dear ones, desperate to expose me as a liar.

What if I’d been created a monster, not even given a name at all?

Just left where my life had started. Curled up and quivering in a ball.

No one to tell me they loved me, no one to give me a hug. Just treat like a thing to recoil from, like an odious, hideous bug.

But what if someone noticed me, to whom the outside didn’t matter at all.

Who looked at the deepest core of my being and saw secrets and delights to enthral.

Who coached and nurtured and loved me and treat me with no fear or no shame and decided to call me Isaac, as
that
would
be
my
perfect
name.

In angelic voice, enthral, rejoice

Of peace be s-t-i-l-l, for one fine day

A garden of dreams, over the rainbow, a daydream behold

In a graceful realm, of grace to amaze, a dawn of promising rays

Blissful skies, sunlight arise, a peaceful picture

Soul silhouette, lest we forget, royal remembrance

Together we stand, to thee, across the land

A musical language, all-embracing, casted carousel

Performance premier, shining sensational, inspirational

Hail – music of the night, dance with the stars

Tap and glide, a guiding star, something in the way……….

Just as you are

Journeying jewel, revel, jubilee

A walk through autumn leaves, in timeless reverie

Sounding soprano, crowds resonate, of joyfulness elate

Gracefulness of elegance, a time of prime

A gift given, of noble distinction

A symphony of sophistication

Due adulation, due applause, with charitable cause

Exceptional tours, over a great and mighty distance

Of services rendered, a splendour of release

Flowering duet, a radiant bloom, of times unknowing

We’ll meet again – soon



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

She delved in white,
     something so pure that was seamless
as though nothing could contaminate
          what was enthral in looks.

But beneath  the demure
  was a weapon pointing
                          at others hearts.
Onyx points, seeping with abhorrence.
showing that there was more than
                      her false pretences.

If a wolf has a blood lust it was her,
                  velvet soft, but blood seeps
beneath even the purest of looks..
                                     And hers was bile.

She stand there like a light in the woods
             of loneliness, but get to close
and her arrow will pierce even the most
                                                    loving heart.

Hear her white noise confusing the reality
         of a loving heart.
Bleeding it dry,
                    till only a corpse
of white lays before her. And she smiles...

.in the back of my mind...
           gyöngyhajú lány -
                  the huns have finally
succumbed to the "pastor's"
                   castrato harem of the choir?!
wow!
                but i will still have
to "steal" from shakespeare's take
on macbeth, in pig latin...
    by... someone known as apemantus...
what other worth is there beside
citing macbeth?
  thus and the prayer:

              hell... let's give it a spin,
english, latin, scottish gaelic...

  immortal gods, i crave no self;
i pray for no man, but myself.
grant i may never prove so fond,
   to trust man on his oath or bond;
or a harlot for her weeping;
or a dog that seems a-sleeping;
or a keeper with my freedom;
or my friends, if i should need'em.
amen. so fall to 't:
rich men sin, and i eat root.

     immortalem superi, ego rogo nullus sese;
ego tandem enim nullus ****,
sed memet.
     tribuo ego licet numquam
demonstro sic amans,
     ut confido **** super
          suus sacramentum vel vinculum;
   uel scortum quia sua ploratus;
ut canis quod videor soporatus;
ut custor *** mea libertas;
ut mea amici, si ego postulo illis.
amen. ita cado to id:
    **** dives peccare,
                ut ego pappo radix.

again, this is pig latin...
the gaelic version will not be much
better...
                       who the hell can even envision
speaking ancient latin,
without succumbing to modern
english grammar? so much for the
current gaelic...

neo-bhàsmhor diathan, mi miann chan eil fèin;
mi ùrnaigh airson chan eil duine,
                       ach mi fhìn.
tabhartas mi a'chèit(ean) a-chaoidh
                          tha measail,
    gu earbsa duine air an bòid no bann;
no ah clàrsach airson í    a ’caoineadh;
no ah cù sin a ’chadal;
    no ah neach-glèidhidh còmhla ris
                                  mo saorsa;
no mo caraidean, ma tha mi bu chòir
                                            feum air iad.
amen. tha tuiteam gu e:
    beairt fir (sin), agus mi ith freumh.

i really don't see the "problem",
with, the, "problem"
containing itself...
          there's a *******
concern...
  but the paedophiles are
self-reforming?
  so... there's a problem?
               oh sure sure....
there's a problem...
gay pride parades...
      to "me": that's a real *******
problem...
          gas the jews...
casanova just ate a rat...
what's your problem,
*****?!
         the eternal law of man...
ever see a former
convicted paedophiles
get kicked in the face,
and take it,
                like a hulk brute?
**** happens:
at least the heritage
of the slave trade /
the holocaust survivors
also learned...
god will take it,
he made gravity
a jurisprudence stasis...
because he knew...
man, for all the jurisprudnce
worth? not worth that
much...
                "sorry"...
i'm not defending,
but i get them...
when grown women become
so nauseating,
limitating, so... "off-limits"...
you know what
a male mating pig's name
is in a porky harem
in poland?
        knur / knout...
that word alone lets me
to remember ******...
          gg... ******: swim...
down the deep-end...
             you were gagging for
this to become apparent,
this enforced egg-shell
walk *******...
      and i was called vermin...
and there came the mongol,
the **** and the communist...
now i'm watching
these bulging african hulks
and i'm looking at my body...
and... there really isn't
much to think of!
             pressing the right buttons...
i like that, now i get to press
the "wrong" buttons
on behalf of me...
      come on...
kinh john of england
wed a bride aged...
   isabella of angoulême
                 (lem) no "extra" e...
there's the ian watkins
example...
         of the lostprophets...
no baby-****** is
given you the jitters
when it comes to teenage girls...
i'm sorry...
     i remember being a teenager...
what's wrong with
teenager sexuality?
there's something wrong with
it?
    oh... there was always
something wrong with it...
sexuality matures,
legally...
when a woman reaches
her prime age
of 40, and she's crazy not having
frozen her ovaries...
wow!
             no, really, wow!
she's not a baby,
she's in her teens...
talk about an elevated
stance on m.g.m.
(male genital mutilation)...
it's like:
harem, ******, strap-ons
are not enough!
the mere thought is evil!
some more pharmacological
revisionists actions, yes?
so the simple process
of castration won't help?
we'll need the pharmacological
amnesia procedure?
cool cool!
         sign me up...
i already have a hard-on
for the experiment...
  if these people want to see
a baboon in a cage
riddled by haemorrhoids...
sign me up
for this "judo chop" sat on.

see... i see a big difference
when it comes to honesty
and outright shaming...
   when someone says they have
these kind of urges,
but is nontheless able
to suppress them?
       that's a ******* diamond...
that's worth keeping...
  i like this sort of honesty...
what i don't like is scheming
and shaming these unique
examples...

             between male to male...
it's the one resort's worth of
a cognitive ****** that serves
its purpose...
again... how old was
isabella of angoulême
when she was wedded to
king john of england?

          plus... all the teens look alike...
maybe that's the problems
facing these *******
reasoning type inhibitors of
the urge...

     mind you...
   lars von trier's take on
paedophilia in nymphomaniac...
at least some had
the ***** to commit
             to the deviant taboo...
but all the children look alike...
    what is it?
the fetish for "everything"
looking alike?
     generic fetish?

to reiterate:            

in the end...
     like all babies...
they just have the faces
of clones...
           non-distinguishable...

the difference between me
and your common folk...
well...
   kicking someone in the head...
on parole...
for distributing leaflets
in a new employment...
    whatever they did...
i suppose
the guillotine would be
a more humane eventuality
to provide justice on the part
of the victim...

       sexuality is odd...
to make homosexuality norm...
but paedophilia a taboo...
  feels like "someone" is being
excluded...
can't exactly make one
the norm and leave the other
one in the tribunal
of the nomads;
                          how is it fair?

in no desence,
   but i gather: what i have written,
will never reach the pop
majority that is usually associated
with a pop backlash,
just like: psychology made philosophy
popular in the 19th century,
by shortening it,
by sticking to schematic explanations...
like this,
   this will not reach the regurgitators
of pop culture, those twitter
sycophancy *****...
        unless, i'm, dead!
            i'll be left with drying
my jeans on the bed, with a cat sleeping
on the same bed i've decided to treat
as a rack...
      even now...
              try reading a Marcel Proust
2 vol. edition...
                    go to the gym, bro.,
       believe me: go to the gym, bro.
              
me? i love it...
it's like i can put on a godhead of either
rat or a fox, and manoeuvre my way
past all these jimmy... ****...
all these jeremy clarksons...
    and jeremy kyles...
                         another whiskey bottle
for me, another obscure prog rock album...
another night...
         and the world can just pass
me by, while i return to enjoying
skipping onto a double-decker from romford
to stratford, through to oxford st.,

some bad latin, even worse scottish gaelic...
these days you're not even famous
for 15 minutes, as, according to the andy warhol
prediction...
no one is famous these days,
not even for 15 minutes...
             the 15 minute window is over...
now? if you want to be "famous"...
sorry...
             infamy doesn't work
in 15 minute slots...
      when you're "famous" these days?
you're infamous forever...
         these days any publicity:
is bad publicity...
           i'll curse the day when i become
relevant to a large enough
number of people...
      that's the day i will learn
that i have lost the respect of the few
i managed to enthral.