Everybody in Russia loves Vladimir Putin.
In the years since he muscled his way to the top of the tree, he has established himself as the Champion of all Russia!

In the degradation following the collapse of the USSR, national pride in Russia spiralled down to an all-time low, there was little to be proud of. The satellite nations fled to independence abandoning the Rodina,  Agricultural and industrial production fell dramatically, law and order diminished dangerously. The economy shrank and the order of success in business depended largely on connection with Government and/or the Mafia. The Oligarchs became monstrously rich, the average Ivan monstrously poor. Life savings were rendered worthless overnight by the plummet of the value of the rouble. Russian society polarised from the ecstatically happy, filthy rich to the chronically unhappy, beggared poor.

Russian leadership staggered from Gorbechev’s democratisation through Yeltsin’s alcoholism to Andropov’s sudden death…. enter the fray Vladimir Putin.

Putin tightened the reins.
He organised regular payment of wages and salaries to the movers and shakers, the police and the military.
He changed the rules of doing business within the nation and made investment opportunities within Russia available to outside interests.
He took charge and commandeered discipline within the ranks of central Government.
He set about correctional treatment for the terrorists/freedom fighters in the Chechen Republic and elsewhere.
He raised the expectations of the common man and gave the people an element of promise for Russia’s tomorrow.
He invaded and took back the Crimea as legitimate Russian sovereignty.
He garnered the roaring support of the six million ethnic Russians domiciled in the Eastern region of the Ukraine.

Putin now stands, bare chested, astride Russia. He faces a hostile but cowed West with pale, blazing eyes and a ******* bulge in his trousers.
He is widely idolised by Russian women and admired by Russian men. He is their champion; he is believed to be their key to the future.
His nation is currently under severe trade embargo and economic sanction by Europe and the West which is hurting the strained economy right across the board.
The declining price of oil is adversely affecting Siberian oil profits and making further shale oil exploration uneconomic.
He enjoys hugely profitable Siberian natural gas pipeline sales to the Southern neighbour, China, but they watch the unfolding political landscape with careful, calculating tiger eyes.
Putin is regarded by Europe and the West as an unpredictable, serious threat who should not be unduly provoked.
Undeniably, the West, in their sour lipped manner, would be happy to see him and his Russian bear, fade quietly and permanently into the obscurity of the frozen wilds of the far Siberian tundra.

But if Vladimir Putin plays his cards well, he could actually bring the Rodina all of the benefits, glory and rewards that it seeks.
However, should he overplay his hand here, he may well crash and burn….and in doing so, could bring Russia’s dreams and aspirations crashing down with him.

Marshalg
Auckland
15 November 2014

Penny got married young, she idolised her new man  
Penny turned 16, said, I do I do, priest wed them both  
Penny was happy, never complained to anyone, too shy for that  
She crashed a party once, and met a gal named Sally  
They became friends  
And she confided in her  
 
Shared little secrets, lips sealed, shook their little pinkies, never to tell  
Then hubby walked in with curious smile, said you going to stay awhile  
I'm not coming back until sunlight, best thing Penny had heard all night  
‘Cause her new beau, wasn’t all that he seemed  
But only Penny knows so go go go oh no go  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle-up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
 
Penny started staying inside, never going past the front gate  
Some friends called saying you ok you ok you ok girlfriend  
Penny searched websites, looking for a way out, deleting history, nobody got suspicious  
While trying to play the good wife, reality started to sink in  
Then she thought  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
 
And I don't want anyone knowing about the abuse, just in case  
I've covered up since day one, swollen face  
A nightmare, ever since our honeymoon  
Childhood dreams were locked in a cell, but kept them alive and still didn’t tell, even while being slammed unconscious  
It's like my security blanket, it's the reason that I'm alive  
Everyone has childhood dreams, but most will never survive  
They don’t always come true, maybe one out of five, be wise  
Believing Hollywood tabloids, that they are still very much together, all lies  
So go about your ways, put up with the one, that doesn’t love you anymore and continually hurts us and says sorry, again  
Always just after they have, again bruised us  
Forgetting about the pain and coverups that were made  
Thinking it was just a sleeping nightmare, oh no  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
Go now, Go now  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
Go now, Go now

You stupid, amazing *****.
Your Mad heart vilifies Deceit,
Mashing Xanax and ******,
Benzos for the price of flight.

Yet there you stand
Idyllic and idolised,
The chemicals and pheromones
clash and dance magnificently.
The Moshpit of Deceit
Is your tragic sanctuary.

Venomous trail
Of an idolised Holy Grail
Peaceful ways to ******
The shivers of a happiness,
The neverending loneliness,
Near a cold wall with deep holes
Filled with skies and dampness,
Printed signs of ailing mold
Signs of peace, signs of hurt.

Throw me away...
The black rage within,
Shower with white paint
The old, dusted spirit.
A saint
With no grace to pray
Erase with black ink
Twisted words sink and sink...
In ordinary blank pages  
Long forgotten in time's cages.

The mind needs
These black needs.
A strange place
Of silence and waste,
Dreams on needles
Angst in cradles...

Why do they all come to me?
Why do I have to see
These truths disguised as lies
These fairies turn into spies
Of my deep thoughts
Torture every little crock
Of my own self?

My mind is tired.
I cannot fly anymore.
Give me a reason to allure
The sparks of a fake moon -
Do you feel them too?
The whiskers of a new born sun
Caressing my hair in an air so dun,
I will sleep again, someday... soon.

the humble sloth sees no morning and no worm in the sun -
nor the chittering of a few eager sparrows,
either -
             he sees everything square in
rhombic - squinty eyed, sorta:
should i bother it, or will i wait long
long enough till it bothers me?
that's me, right there, a young man will
idealise women, until he finally idolises
them in the naked form at-moist
sensual... and this will go on and forth,
he'll pass the corridor of a few
teenage pregnancies, because there
was no *****-Nilly & the Eager-******
scenario for him to scream and moan...
until dawn.
                      the natural contract is there
and it will knit & pick out the most
useless lions... until a few lionesses start
to congregate and do what the lion
does... every lion's statue akin to man's
is not even in a state of contemplation...
strange how man glorifies life and sacrifice
and indeed sacrifices the worth of life
by burning incense, and selling goods,
and running around the world
for a worth of a scalpel's worth of
a barber overdoing it... calling the forehead
a man's chin, and bluntly stroking it
until a dentist can take part in the wreckage...
might i say: i am sometimes like a sponge,
i read a bit of e.e. cummings and act on paper,
i don't plagiarise as such,
i merely focus on how one might repeat -
he said, she said,
       and return to: nonetheless, it said
for both of you: without a neuter pronoun:
she'll say eve, and he'll say eve,
    he'll say apple, and she'll say apple,
and you're still both, both! going to sit on a
******* chair... deemed obscure for
the sistine chapel, but indeed worthy to
scribble the lesser findings of graffiti into
a classroom table, like GD GV M GD CCK...
       so i i dabble a lot, in much of what
really is testing the young men who begin
with misogyny comparisons of genitals
at Billingsgate... and later try to find
one and only monocle to a bowler hat and moustache...
that train? long gone...
     so let us find people like me...
who idolised women, who made them divine in
supposed grace, and... well... eventually
all babies look similar, as do old people...
women chop of their locks (unless
they want to be deemed Merlin's brides)
   and the fat embodies them and they all turn out
alike... we all think heaven is the pinpoint -
    governed by an aesthetic democratisation of
all our faults... i just don't trust a world to be
wandering a forest of oak, while in the background
man settles matters of what dwarf eye of the beholder
should be asserted above the immortals' arrogance...
         but there i was... idealising women...
what a horrid affair...
     the moment you encounter woman
you already know she eats, she farts, she snarls
and she stares... after all: what woman is a woman
who isn't building a cosy abode?
            the moment you begin from a fascination
with women, that you state your anti to a misogyny
well... try wiping your nose with paper
   and even bothering debating feminism with anyone
except a homosexual... you haven't got lunch,
you have this seemingly 1970s film from Polish cinema
that states that feminism is equally transcendent
to encompass Aristotle in the present age,
       as it is not encompassing some frivolous
   ancient Greek joke... why women have less teeth
than men... i guess they hide them... then they
practice felatio... n'es pas?
                    i have a wriggly worm, she has a
hollowed out bone to fill with juices of the marrow...
     then she's practical enough to call Aristotle
an autistic astronaut... i say: give the woman! a time-machine!
         why? she has no sense of humour,
or no historicity concerning humour,
    or how there are necessary fluctuations...
men these days tell rapes jokes...
           because the one joke they are afraid to say, is:
at a ceremonial altar, with the punchline: i do.
               i do is hardly synonymous with the more
appropriate: i will.
                i do is a stagnation coordinate:
how can i do all of that if i say i will do such things
only account of mere ceremony? surely
the chaplain gets paid... but what do i get?
alimony checks, court-hearings and how
        i have two testicles, she has two *******
  and we debate the 2 to 3 ratio of d.i.y. holes
     for inviting sinister sergio to do the plumbing;
cos the ******* cobwebs got in the way by way
of leeching on the purse.
              see where misogyny comes from?
not getting an Aristotelian joke... or basically not
getting an ancient Greek joke right...
because off they go! mistaking dualism as a dichotomy...
   you start idealising women, you encounter
a woman and ****! the dream is gone, and out
pops shaggy and ******-doo...
                   and if you retract from idealising women?
you begin with Billingsgate and genitalia...
me? personally? i always thought of marinating my
chicken thigh in a warmed marinate of yoghurt
and tandoori spice - mix the two: you get Coronation
pink... all fluffy and unicorn and wonderful...
           idealism can be hard to shake off...
unless of course you tell either Americans or Russians
how finicky things can get in the bridal-chambers
of Essex on the Grecian isles of Cos,
   or Ibiza (I-beef-ah), or anywhere where there's
contrary speed-dating shakiness that's bound
to be representative of Essex, once upon a time,
when great music played a key-role in merely
utilising all body parts when dancing, i.e. snogging,
and lo and behold... when satan averted his
eyes composing the two serpent composition,
he looked into the mouth of man and a mouth
of woman, and found no resemblance unto his
original investigation: speak no ill of tongues:
for the tongues of men are merely ill-fated
         against themselves: for they revel in
other parts of their anatomy bearing the sting
and quickened step,
   but whether it's politics or uniting two tongues
in a dance: they're sluggish about it
ever becoming fruitful quickly enough to
            sediment into a snail's shell worth of
chattering teeth into old age, for the slug of both
sexes' tongue, having no such allowance,
         and subsequently left wriggling into their
daily trough of the competitive: first come,
first served.
                   but then man want's clarity!
if i idealised women, have i not become a gimmick
to such idealisation in the first place?
              how can i display this with all but words,
well, i can, all the more simpler...
                 by idealising women i have conceded
to a contest that has brought me against my fellow ***...
              and all because by having idealised woman
as a concept: i cannot see any of man's achievements,
i cannot see any achievements worth striving for
   in what could be translated as creating a reverse
idealisation of woman, in that other men might idealise
me, to later idolise me... all saints were fools in
idealising jesus, which is why he's strung to a crucifix
made of termite-wood... the minute they hang him
upright on mt. golgotha the crucifix collapses...
                        how could he be an ideal if
  the obscurity of righteous judgment be so-far removed
from the people? is this the construct of the pharisees
appealing to the reason of the greeks to save them
from the roman "oppressors"?
         can this really be the case? just because the greeks
had so much more to think about, and so many more
things more interesting than the romans to think about
that they would have rather written the "new" testament
in greek?
    i am indeed graced by an incompetence
   of having begun with idealising women, experienced
a woman, and thus begun idealising myself
    to a status of idol, or a moral example of plagiarism
worthy of imitation...
               does a crucifix imply a metaphor of
marrying a difficult woman? how many poetic
angles has a man have to write to rob these filthy
philistines of taking things too literally
      and provoking Islam?!
                      when it comes to the old testament
poets only exploit the book of genesis...
   but with the new testament... it's almost like
this need to create a poetic attack on the established
order... and when the book of revelation appears
as the exodus-equivalent book...
       we get: a democracy of poetics...
           which accounts for escaping the health
of the body, and an inherent illness of the abstracted
brain: the mind, and then that becomes
     cubed and encompasses nothing quiet
once more able to take literalism mind's experience
of the world: back into it.
             sheltered man of civilisation can take
a painting more seriously, and then explore it in
his dream factory, than the man pledged to the land
with no galleries, and instead given a canvas
that might swarm with tornadoes and give him
absolutely: no luxury to dream.
   dreaming is a luxury... the last remaining luxury
most people have these days...
   i don't think people can be artists by simply
dreaming... i think they're luxury hobbyist,
       call them the ones standing in line
            as Joseph's Travel Agents... 7 years in Tibet
     (lean years).... and 7 years in a district of Beijing -
where have the "blind" prophets disappeared to?
      and why do so many seem blind
      and blindingly obey to the prophets of "sight"?
nonetheless: frivolous questions...
                 i idealised woman to the extent that
upon encountering a woman: i could not find
an ideal to suggest idol worship for other men...
or create a continuum of dialectical embedding
or the sight of following the cause toward becoming
a sacrificial lamb: whether under the bachelor's
ideal of becoming a martyr - or indeed
                      the idea of becoming a martyr:
bound to old age... and woman - for where did
the wooing of man recede to?! farting into an armchair
and arthritis... much aplenty about that much
could be said about me too: solo.

I went to bed with flowers in my hands and woke up carressing a rifle.
My delusion of self can offer me no help, cause you've been twisting sides.
Making me fall in love with you, you're waging a war of lies.

Cold metal sooths open wounds, I never knew you could be this cruel.
fragments of the mirror stare back at the fragments that remain.
Theres nothing I can see that looks anything like me.

So' I'm wondering where I am and who you are?
and when this ever got this far?
I idolised you and now i despise everything you do.
I can't stop myself asking, am I falling out of love with you?

For what am I..
if not Man of Cruel Intentions?

Ruled by a thirst for power,
controlled by an overwhelming desire for greed.

For I am the embodiment of Avarice,
You see.

And It consumes me whole so effortlessly.

For what am I..
if not a Man of Cruel Intentions?

Just a lowly fallen son,
A Messiah of the wretched.
Loved by many.
But Idolised by none.

skoro tak, to powiem: sometimes i wish to unlearn the english tongue, it's not a case of questioning reality, it's a case of questioning the placebo of what would otherwise encapsulate you, my bilingual nature states i've learnt the language well enough to integrate and bypass assimilation, if only i could assimilate somewhere, but i've become a jew in my attempts; thankfully i'm not ready to start a family and a perpetuated question that seeks trans-generational answers from a kaleidoscope; i've learnt the nomadic way among civilisations rather than being nomadic among natural frontiers, which was already inherent in me, but civilisations came after the frontiers of seas and mountains... i've learnt to integrate but never assimilate, which is why i am doubtful to have found assimilation in only one place, whether god-given or whatever that might suggest... as a nomad i am not the one to build pyramids or temples, the constantly homeless ontological structuring of my being - as god constantly digressing from point of concern - i've tasted the nomadic, although the nomadic in an enclosure that's also israel; so crude the talents to come.

why are we, who have no inheritance
in the colonial past
to inherit the squabbles of former
colonial master and the colonised subjects?
who will speak of the smooth
transitions of the failed Soviet empire
into a bloodless Gorbachev lineage of
break-away states, who needed no nanny?
why are we, who recently learned the english
tongue exposed to these squabbles,
why are we in no-man's land camped
as if a Robinson Crusoe - indeed no man
is an island, and doubly indeed no nation
is a continent - why are we caught up
in the exchanges of the two firing squads -
the pawns in addition to the reliquary crowns
of queens in kindred to the Octobers upon Octobers
further east -
                       a queen a pauper among
the sainthood clergy of capitalism? what a profanity!
who cares for a pauper with idolised insignia -
who? the elocutionist? the rhapsodic rhetorician?
who then? a minded gap wide as a yawn
coupled to a warning that warned of the first step -
why am i cursed with this tongue learned,
why am i cursed with this tongue learned
and as my highest form of expression,
and why no Slavic first? i'm abhorrent with these days,
toward them doubly abhorred -
sure the escalators and other innovations -
tease and please the civilised world -
but learning this tongue is a burden on my soul,
while i see my fellow genetically composed twins
stand tall on construction sites as if Viking ships -
that i became a placebo impasse of originating
in these islands of lore chronologically asserting
a tie with Arthur and Lancelot -
but not me - *ultimatum extraneus,
i should not have allowed the foetus of the english
tongue to become incubated in me for a child to speak -
so eloquently some might add -
i sometimes wish i had no knowledge of either this
tongue, or my mother's, and knew a celestial
tongue where certain phonetics emerged once the
symbols were peered at long enough, as in runes
the V a shortening of woo - and left there,
to no care for applauding a successful institutionalisation
of the teenager for the time being,
before all became a Jenga pyramid game.

The room is full of blueprints.
City layouts; an imagined society
idolised in street-art,
in music halls,
and Greek tragedy.

Unfinished songs are stuck to the walls.
Archived chords to a forgotten verse,
all sentiment lost through the unsung months.

I am living with my mother again.
No longer a patient
but the unfortunate son,
the vein in her conscience,
the guilt in her lungs.

She leaves clothes folded by the locked door
as I stumble through an addict's routine,
Hope returns in the combustion of resin,

in the sweet demise of anxious lies,
in the cloak of a chemical dream.

In my mind, I'm chained to the bed.
The bed rests on the gallows pole.
The gallows pole adjacent to temples of merciful Gods. Gods nowhere to be seen, heard, or felt.
The senses numb and rust.
The rust dulls the chains, I break free.
I leap faithless off the gallows pole, uncertain of how high it sat on bigots' lap.
I pass by the temples as I dive, no mercy to be found. Idolised figures, sanctified mortals and no sacred Gods.
I'm descending aimlessly.. No ground to be found. Until I feel that skinful ground, until I see the two starry skies and until I hear the heartbeats of mercy, I'm unable to land.

The price we give to vanity
In the mirror of a loved one
We curse God's reflection-
And delve into depression
When want flies it's price
And seizes our esteem
Which disappears like ice
In the veins of our idolised doll

Come with me loved child
You seem to float around my identity
The way confetti crowds the vacancy
Of the doubtful past-
Echo me
Echo me

You'll never echo me
This paradise is painful
Because love is peculiar
And obsene to somebody
Who only witnesses the one they love
    In a place where nobody understands
The universe remains like an obsolete sentence
Scribbled by a troubled hand
Perhaps a death sentence in Bermuda
Perhaps, in a third place, Something that chills
Our perfect day.

When I was 11, my best friend told me that they were gay.


Their eyes were glazed with watery doubt and their voice quivered to the same pace as my trembling heart. I prayed for seven hours that evening, begging God to cleanse them of these sins that I didn’t quite understand to be wrong but that my mother and father and sister and aunt spat out like deadly poison.
When I was 11, my best friend told me that they were gay. And I screamed words that I learnt from my family, words that felt ***** and disfigured in my mouth, words that had no meaning that I could decipher.
When I was 11 years old, my best friend told me that when we watched Harry Potter together, when our friends drooled over Cedric Diggory, they

fell

in

love

with Hermione Granger

When I was 11, my best friend told me that they were gay… and I didn’t know what the word meant. Just that it was awful and demonic and that they were going to rot in hell. At the tender age of 11 my mother’s religion eviscerated a 7 year friendship.

When I was 12, I realised that it wasn’t God I worshipped, it was the feeling of belonging. I idolised my Father’s radiant smile and my Sister’s reverent voice, her face raised to the heavens and her song echoing across a stained glass chapel. When I was only 12 years old, I discovered that I was a slave of my family’s beliefs, and that I didn’t understand what my religion even was, only that my aunt liked it when we clasped hands around a dinner table and that my gran reminded me to recite the same words before bed every night. Pretty words like ‘glory’ and ‘heaven’ but also malicious words like ‘temptation’ and ‘evil’ and ‘sin’, words that I, with a shudder and an almighty stab of guilt, remembered saying to my best friend at 11 years old.

When I was 13, I was angry. A furious cloud of space-black smoke swirling in my stomach and pulling on my tongue, until I was a silent and malevolent storm. When I was 13, I realised that if this is what being close to god feels like, then I would rather burn in the raging pits hell, surrounded by the same billowing barrages of blackness as those inside of me. When I was 13, I found out what gay meant, and I sobbed and howled and screamed. Inside of my own head. When I was 13 I apologised to the person who was once my best friend, and with eyes glazed with watery defiance and a voice quivering with nothing but assuredness I told them ‘me too’.

And we clung onto each other promising to never let go.

The heels are the ones.
You can’t go on stage without heels,
You’d have to be mad.

But she is mad.
Mad that she’s bound to this world,
With the voice of a siren and the heart of
a rose,
She gets pulled in too deep to make any
recovery.

But she’ll get out.
She’ll rise higher than each time she falls,
Begging the songs to manifest with
beauty,
And to forever be idolised,
As she has idolised her whole life.

to say I am lost would be to imply that, at one point, I was present.
My presence was ignored from the time I crawled the floors,
feelings inside developed into sores
boring onto my soul scars.
My father, my guide, idolised in mind.
They say love is blind but
when eyes open and you find monsters, sponsors of crime
doing time for an easy dime,
can you carry that love on
or does that one idol burn?
I am lost or
rather never found, no guide by my side,
just going with the tide and building walls, to keep these feelings back,
that torment my mind.
The foundries of feeling’s forges have gone cold, Shut away and barricaded
by un-shaken walls.
So I wander, in search of myself,
I wonder
if I’ll be found or
if I’m bound for a battery of life:

There came a man from Bethlehem
to Galilee
to gather men
to sow the word
and so the story goes

they idolised
then crucified
buried and
then
deified

and he came back to
tell them
'you're forgiven'

Judas with his conscience drowned
by thirty pieces
***** crowns
hanging by his very own
shortcomings

and the day begins again they said,
the day
that the good book was read
or so the story leads us to believe

and I never know what's right or wrong
to raise a lonely voice
or go along
it's not that I'm not strong just undecided.

Her name is Red.
Red from the cuts that drip lower and lower until her sleeves get longer and longer to the point where they sweep the ground.
Red from the imaginary glint in her eye, one that is anger, one that is love, one that tries to burn back the black paint of hatred that threatens to consume her.
Red from that time she remembers following, thinking, 'for once I will be brave', that day her cheeks are bruised red from embarrassment, she is not a friend but a stalker they say.
Red from the thought in her mind, buzzing over and over until her ears can only hear it and only it. How can it be repeating so often when it sounds so insincere and incomplete?
She names herself Red, pushing away the other things she calls herself, trying to drown her failures in solitude and a new brand.
Red is a strong girl, with too much heart and too little sense.
Red has a clean heart, clean eyes, clean shirt and clean arms.
Red has no problems, other than that she cares too much.
Red locks it away, boxes them up, cups her ears and ignores the screams from the chained toy box in the corner of the room.
Red is a child, she clings to innocence with the grip of a wrench and the tenacity of a monkey.
Red does not count the people who whisper sweet sorrows behind her ears, but the people who pull her into half-in half-out embraces.
Red picks and chooses her thoughts, thinking of only positives, and screens all nightmares and attacks and faults.
Red is faultless, infallable, invincible and incomplete, there has never been a day that she was not happy, and there has never been a when she dreamt of her insecurities.
Red calls herself Red for she cannot call herself 'I', she is as impersonal as she is broken.
I am not Red, for Red is not real, even if I don't wish to accept that.
Let me be Red for a day and you will see hours cut and sobbed down the drain.
If it were Red she would be a half-happy half-girl with half-days and half-smiles... Half of Red's days she never even sees for one so limitless and all powerful cannot be maimed by a real person's problems.
Red shows no weakness, no sound, for Red is the colour of self-deceptions, lies and unlit badly sculpted illusions.
Red is blind, deaf and dumb if she cannot understand what is occuring around her.
'Ignorance is bliss' she never heard the phrase, for Red is uncultured, unlearned and speaks no language.
Red is an unforfilled idolised symbol.
Red is me, and I am not her.

As was written, on Mount Sinai

As Moses stood on high, commandments of virtue

A shower of blessings, to bestow upon

As for the people, they adhered not

Unguided minds, an idolised calf of gold

Yet to unfold, in a moment of anger

Stones ****** down, sin was all around, though forgiveness abound

Two further tablets, inscriptions anew

Early on the mount, forty days and nights

At one with the father

Both food and drink – the absence of

From such a return, proceeding down

A glow of brilliance, radiant face

Of whom could stare

Dispel at once

Covering veil

Of such commands, in accordance with

Prosperity stands

To stray from the path, affliction coincides

Worship the Lord

Assemble the Tabernacle

With sacrificial offerings, designated ark

Glory be filled

A time to remain

The cloud has arisen

Journey on



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

Think not of perfection
Imperfection holds a greater universe

Fear not that you will not do
Live for little doings in your slice of time

Search not always for a dream
Always dream and delight in the thought

Beauty, idolised, is always just out of reach
A delicate beauty permeates the seams of this grey world

Even a full life can bring, and hide, unhappiness
If it is brimming meaninglessly

The world may tell us how to live
But our hearts dictate how to love

Four times a week
Matinee Evening or Night.
A trip to the movies .
Was a guarantee
As I call to mind.
A bijou of a place
Standing in queue
Counting the heads ahead.
Fervently praying for a seat
Looking at the marquee.
Stars name Starring in.
Ticket in hand
Was Disneyland.
Next stop was the poster
Mammoth in size
In awe would analyze.
Eyes sharp as laser.
Focus on the credits
Memorizing the artists.
Row didn't matter
Insistent but on an aisle seat.
The view seemed better
A quirk I never got over.
Always early and looking at the watch
Eagerly waiting for the curtains to part.
Commercials and Government Propaganda.
Enduring the two was hard.
Trailer was theaters choice.
If shown there was no greater joy.
Censor certificate would flash.
Number of reels had to be scrutinized.
The length of the film it indicated.
All I learnt ,I learned from the movies.
Escapism it wasn't.
It reflected reality.
In the darkness surrounding the walls.
Existence outside seemed like a dream.
Rays from the projector
Made life look brighter.
Certain things leave.
Others Stay.
Ellicits an emotional response
Feeling being the outcome.
Inscribed seldom witherd.
Thinking and Feeling paradoxical.
Contradiction within the hall.
70 s the greatest era since existence.
Movies made were no exception.
Never came out disappointed
Magicians were the makers.
Collaboration amongst masters
Craft at its zenith
Skill never scarce
Epitome of brilliance
Audience addiction but natural

Charles Bronson Death Wish.
Audience manipulation at its zenith
Body count lost count
Bronson being cheered and worshipped
Everytime shot a man dead.

Clint Eastwood ***** Harry.
Iconoclastic cop full of Fury.
Crowds swelling
Superstar by defenition
4 more sequels held our attention.

Sean & Roger.
Nobody did it better
Bond and Beyond
License to ****
Gadgets and Puns
Q & M
Made it fun
Gun Barrel and theme.
Made the audience scream.
Entertainment only motive
All 13 adorable.

Steve McQueen,The Thomas Crown Affair.
The King of Cool
Monet missing .
McQueen present.
Played Chess with Faye
Held the crowds in sway

Burt Reynolds
Smokey and the Bandit
Chased across the South ,Sally in tow
Taxied on the freeway
In a Pontiac Trans am
Surround sound.
Made ears drown
Train wrecks ,Car chases , Sheriff's Department and the FBI
Know you're in for a Reynolds fare.

Yul Brynner stylish and bald.
Unique walk idolised by all.
Leader of the Seven.
Oscar for King and I
Ramses to Moses
Endearingly Popular
Baritone voice
People s Choice.





Lee Marvin headed The ***** Dozen.
Nunnally Johnson had it written.
Every time it had a run
Fans enjoyed the fun.

Paul Newman The Macintosh Man
Most famous blue eyes
Directed by Huston
Enjoyed a good run
Butch and Sundance
The Sting
Made a great pair with Redford
Male Bonding never looked more stylish




Gene Hackman  The French Connection
Pedal to the metal.
Pontiac Le Mans.
Chasing an El train
Greatest chase sequence ever filmed
Hackman Actor and Superstar
Twice won the Oscar.

Warren  Beatty **** Tracy
Appeared on screen scarcely.
Multifaceted and handsome.
More Oscars than films acted
Is an old Hollywood joke which hasn't dated.

Jack Nicholson Chinatown.
Mentored by Roger Corman.
Some are Stars .
Some are Actors.
Star and Actor
A rare Combination,
He achieved by dedication.
Multifaceted man
Everybody is a fan
Oscar for every decade
Inmate ,Astronaut ,Writer
Whatever the character
The Academy did honour.
Also watched him play Joker, drifter murderer
Turned down The Godfather
Independent Republic of Jack Nicholson
Is the name of the abode for his fans.
Given by none other than Mike Nichols.


Amitabh Bachchan and Dharamendra.
Two greatest superstars of India.
3 films together
Outcome couldn't be bigger.
Chupke Chupke a comedy classic.
Sholay praised even by Satyajit Ray.
Ram Balram with Vijay Anand
You can't go wrong.
Sold out for weeks in advance.
Black Market was the only chance.
Inflated prices ,they built houses
The legend goes.
Sea of humanity
A regular sight
Where their movies played .
Cash registers ringing
Never missed the opening screening.

Marlon Brando The Godfather
You can't refuse the offer
Refused the Oscar.
Method Acting mentor
Generations of Actors, will always remember.

George Scott ,Patton
Sagebrush portrayal
Of the 4 Star General
Opening monologue
Inspiration to all
Great Actor who went beneath the skin of the character.

Al Pacino Scarface
Portrayal in your face
Theater , Television and Movies.
Performed with equal intensity.
Tony ,Emmy and Oscar
Would be proud to be in his roster.

Robert De Niro Godfather 2
He portrayed Vito too
Created history
Won the Oscar for Supporting Actor
To Brando a worthy successor.

Robert Redford Brubaker
A name given to every reformer
Adored by Women
Imitated by Men.
Superstar of the decade
Turned director
Won the Oscar
Sundance Festival
Platform provided
Filmmakers flocked
Many talents unlocked.




If I'm told I have only a few hours to live.
Can we go and watch a movie

Your smart, but arrogant,
Now, just a fragment.
Part of me, inevitably,
Half the duality.
Too proud to listen,
To learn,
To see,
Everything we could be,
Lost in our fantasy.

You see life in purple and blue,
Violet undertones and a cynical hue,
Pessimistic narcissistic,
**** me, ******* too.
Scratching biting and pulling,
Life tears into full view,
We move past it, always dull,
Pain and misery follow through,
Changing the narrative,
Becoming passive,
Our lives comparative,
To collateral damage.


So beautiful and sharp,
with eyes of Tanzanian blue,
Lips so tight and lush,
Spinning my mind you're a rush,
I idolised you, loved you more than I knew,
There was nothing I could do,
from boy to man I grew,
My love is my homage to you,
Part of me and you too,
Embracing everything we are,
What we've been through and couldn't do.

I let you go I gave you that version of me,
its uncanny to the real thing,
Alike not akin, the aesthetics paper thin,
Different mind different day,
Price I pay of a chameleon soul,
Never a permanent role,
Now i live a life of arrears,
No place I can find,
No tears no fears,
Without any peers,
The life of Danny.

When beauty
is over-idolised
it accentuates
the ugly-

each in nature
has their right
all comparisons
only stoop to divide

Dream---it's an over-idolised word-

to be obsessed does deception create