Like gigantic spiders in their darkness
They constantly weave their webs of lies
They are relentless they are determined
To catch the unwary just like flies.

They are as vultures always seeking
Their next carcass on which to feed,
They never make a contribution
But only ever act to sate their greed.

They busily buy political systems
They already own all of the means
Of communication wherby the people
Could learn what gives behind the scenes.

This culture that they have created
The selfish creed of all for one
The idea that we have society
Now is nearly, but not quite gone.

To succeed they must destroy
Any unity that people feel
And any sense of social awareness
From the national mind they must steal,

And replace it with the mindset
That all that counts is me, me, me,
Because selfish loners won't stick together
So this is how we came to be

In an age where often ill gained profit
Replaces any notion of right or fair,
Living in a world of total exploitation
Where the winners refuse to share

The gains that are out of all proportion
To any effort on their part
And they all compete to be known as
The Gekko with the the hardest heart.

Tom Higgins 25/11/2013

when i see postmen delivering letters,
                                   i think they feel ashamed
of having a poet among them rise
to such global prominence,
i could end right now and have reached
an Urban II pulpit, just as he
was getting started...
  i used to admire Mr. Know-how for a time
out of sympathy... but then that slowly died,
only because i found people who
had some respect for learning to tie
their shoelaces, and spell words...
      it turned out to be the most abhorring
form of rebellion,
       i could have written all possible
synonyms of red in acronym, just to
make the use of the thesaurus made for
better use... or said ultra-acronym
variations or red, like: crying-mason...
and you would have hopefully said crimson...
  but let me be clear... he got my attention
in Glasgow... but after a while...
    even if i had a cradle of appeal
i might come off as lousy...
               but still, when i read him write
like this needed to be a dyslexic statement,
i thought he might write something illuminating
in hieroglyphics...
           i wish i had a respect for not spelling
words correctly... grammar **** or not...
                    there's no point playing with genes
if you're not creating a plateau on
the internal organs of fathomability...
  genese don't necessarily translate into memes...
     people with a perfect good set of genes
will only still be football players...
        just gagging for a concussion to show-off
their Achilles bravery... i have heroic
   drinking battles, no one bothers to celebrate
new year's day with me... i found out
the hard way: even the brothels aren't open
on new year's day these day, as Auden might
have predicted, all the lonely hearts go to...
oh right... perhaps it was the male-on-male
orientated brothels that worked throughout the year...
  after a while it's not that you despise the body
for all its necessarily purposes,
      but after a while, the body does so little
that the niqab does so much more,
    after a while the head wearing a kippah
does so little aisatsu, that you start to ridicule
the practice as an excuse to headbang at a rock
concert in a maggot pit...
after a while the hair does so little that the hijab does
so much more...
                  can you imagine a Mongol inventing
a hijab? horse-skin ****** wrapped around your
head... thank god for the silk road and the silkworm
produce from china, or wool from the shepherding
states...
             otherwise? a ******* tragedy...
    it's also true in reverse... buddha curled his
******* using the thumb... but he bluffed
the sign-language and necessarily pokered that one
into sign-language saying: down the middle!
           we had sundials and clepsydras for a reason,
as we also had libras, for a reason.
            should i fear a man with only one book?
or should i fear a beast with only one "word"?
  well, these days the former is true,
    but when lions said more than men in terms
of authority... could could complain it wasn't so?
  let's just imagine, that whatever we write today
will not reach a heritage status of the paintings
in the Lascaux caves.. well-brokered that statement...
since an african mask carved into an Baobab
by a shaman will fetch much more worth
at a tribal convention, than a african mask
enshrined into confusing a baobab with an Acacia
fetch at a gordon gekko's winning prize
for the most caviar rather than sushi being ate.
the point is... i was just thinking of writing a short
introduction to an actual poem i intended...
                   you never expect such things to happen,
esp. given you just escaped building the pyramids
safely rooted in masonry, and having to
     wield some Atlantean imagination
for the hanging gardens of Babylon...
to be later told: oh don't worry, we have people
to build as a colliseum, you stick you
to intellectualism of the four letters...
   and then jesus comes along and about a billion
people are rounded-up talking about salvation
by reading only one book, saved by complicating
only reading this one book, by stating
how many times certain words are used in them,
to ensure everyone after Moses can plagiarise
ancient Egyptian into contemporary Hebrew
(only when Charles II can speak Bulgarian or
Romanian)...            horrid numerology...
oh! oh! there are 20 references to the word pray
in the bible! it must mean something!
   how about? bla blah bla blah....
well... d'uh! blay and blaw: Otis Redding (doughnut /
       ice-cream man)
                               and        Sam Cooke
(don't know much about hissing tories)
    so true too, turns out Abel (blay) was also known
as clay.... even though Cain was the vegetarian...
   so that makes Cain (blaw) the god-wind when
Cain slaughtered Abel and the earth unearth
      a curse that made Cain into a nomad and less and less
into a vegetarian... ah, the Scoots buckled and backed me
up on whether blaw came with the lyrics
      son of a preacherman, and whether my
    rubric arithmetics of sentences could ever chirps
up that smokey blonde Dusty.
   hey man... sit up for 48 hours, write about
writing on napkins, and then have a whiskey,
and watch 2 gloomy days turn into clear-skies
  and a visible sun, setting.

The first sun shines at half past four
The red dirt makes a grass-less floor
This is a life of unique brand
For him they call "the Kimberley man".

The fans are never cool enough
On leathered skin built Kimberley tough
But how do you tell the tourist fleet
You never get used to Kimberley heat.

But there's a thinking that takes it slow
In rhythm with Ord River's flow
There's more to life than comfort and money
Like fishing for Barra without the hurry.

Albino gekko's' eat the flys
While the blue tailed kooka's laughs and crys
Crocs and dragons and wallabies too
Live with the Owl who gives two hoots.

The Kimberley man is silently proud
Like a Kimberley king with a Kimberley crown
Of views a virtuoso would say
Is fit for a concert that he would play.

Wet season build up is only released
By cracking black clouds that sets you free
From humid sighs in front of the fan
And the unsaid life of the Kimberley man.

born January 13th, mcmlix
under Capricorn sign.

With my scrunched  
and bushy furrowed brow
I often ponder precise circumstances
that linkedin yours truly to be born
tracing back lineage of self
or arbitrary individual
unpredictable as the dow
reckoning a series of events
sustained life similar
to sowing seed of corn

ruminating fragile nascent organism
at the mercy of fate flourished and how
taxing me mind how each score
composed for each
to toot their own horn
aware that just slightest
off beat fluke determined
from millennia ago or now
that particular organism –
whether one celled entity

or beings that can mourn
the loss of kindred members –
food for thought
for able pledge marital vow
like this poet, whose presence
a mere fluke of circumstances possibly torn
at any point in distant past
rendering me absent,
and hence unable to utter wow
evincing expression care worn.

At what crap shoot of circumstances
wrought Matthew Scott Harris to be
cognizant of the self
and world wide web
or follow threads back in time,
albeit not more than
a couple generations –
whereby emigrants did flee
from supposed Eastern European swath
in general finding thyself to rhyme
for no reason,  just as other creatures
great or small occupy themselves with glee

or just groveling along
at bare ***** knuckle existence
without a dime
less apt to own luxury  
how **** sapiens
purportedly evolved from monkey,
whereby harsh ill fate
tempts them into life of crime,
when perhaps riches
with kingly figures
loomed large in their family tree
begat courtesy making whoopie.

A genealogical limb
branching off way back
when back in the day
glorious personalities
populated genealogy to boot
twisting a tortured destiny
somewhere o'er the rainbow
along Yellow Brick Road way
setting stage for rags when
once August ancestry buried in loot
yet tis quite frivolous
to bemoan present woes or even pray
to win lottery turning attention
to how like our ancestral gingko

or Geiko gekko newt
dwelling in rich primordial
egg drop soup
wantonly in massive bay
inexorably transformed
(by dint of dice throw)
per flora to take root
as well fauna to mutate
into species and genus
trumpeting horns heard
signaling Santa Claus
in his trademark red suit
on land to assay.

Punctuated equilibrium
first proposed by
and Niles Eldredge in 1972
gave rise to variety
to an assortment of animals and plants
perhaps also contemplating genetic grants
this one speck of flotsam
in particular owned
a passion for contra dance,
whereby others from massive beasts
to microscopic organisms
scurry hither and yon to and fro
essentially to be alive for lifetime,
nevertheless a mere blink of an eye
all due (in my view) to chance
to self taught amazing uncles and aunts.