“It really is,” I whispered, “It really is a beautiful world."


     “This really doesn’t feel safe,” Jamie said, her voice holding just a hint of fear. She was probably right. By anyone’s standards, this was straight up stupid, and here I had convinced her to come along with me.
     “Nah it’s totally fine. I wouldn’t do anything to put you in too much danger.” I said this without a hint of doubt in my voice, confident as usual. I had to keep the fearless and confident image or she might change her mind. I hoped the risk would be worth it in the end, but I couldn’t really be sure. How could I know unless I tried? If I didn’t try, I would just be left wondering how great it might have been.
     “We are really freaking high.” This time Jamie said it deadpan, more of an emotionless observation than anything else. Again, she was right. I looked down the long white ladder past her. It was probably 80 yards to the ground from where we were. Above us was another 20 yards of ladder, leading up to a narrow platform. We were climbing a water tower. The platform above us circled around the tower just below where it began to bulge outward into a spherical shape at the top. There was no safety cage around us, nothing to break our fall except for the climbing harnesses we wore. Each harness had two straps, each with a clip on the end. One clip would be snapped onto the first rung, then the next clip to the second, and so forth until we reached the top. It wasn’t fool proof but it was better than nothing.
     “But seriously my hands are getting tired. How much further is it?” Jamie was great, but complaining was one of her most annoying flaws. Most people wouldn’t have made it this far anyway. The fact that she had was just a testament to the athleticism and strength she had underneath all that complaining.
     “Close. Maybe fifty rungs. Hang on for another five minutes and we can sit down and rest.” Yet again she was right. My hands and forearms were burning like crazy. I had long ago learned that climbing with gloves on a slick painted surface was asking for trouble, so today we had no protection from the narrow rungs pressing into our skin.
     For the next fifty rungs, the only sound I could hear above my heavy breathing was the clink and snap as each clip was removed and replaced. It was surprisingly calm this evening, the sun not quite finished slipping below the horizon. It was late August, so the temperature was still somewhere in the 70s this time of day. The backpack on my back seemed to get heavier and heavier the higher we went. I could feel the straps digging into my shoulders and trying to tip me over backwards. This bag was far too big for what I was doing, but I needed some way to bring a sleeping bag and blanket up. Finally, my hand left the last rung and found the top of the steel platform. I unclipped from the last rung and snapped on to the hand rail that went around the outside edge before I reached down to take Jamie’s hand.
     “Thank you sir,” she said, “I see chivalry is not dead.” Her hand brushed a few loose strands of long blonde hair out of her face as she stood upright next to me, looking out over the edge.
     “Ok, you were right. This is worth it.” She said in a matter of fact tone. I laughed softly.
     “This isn’t actually what we came for,” I said with a grin, “We aren’t done climbing yet. I just didn’t think you would actually come if I told you how far we were going. But the view is really nice here.”
     “You can’t be serious. I didn’t see anything going up any further.” She sounded rather incredulous.
     “We have to follow this platform around to the other side. There is a set of stairs going up to the very top. At least it isn’t another ladder.” I tried to sound confident, like it had already been decided that we would go on, but I couldn’t stop a tiny bit of a pleading tone from leaking in. I knew there was a small chance that she would want to stop here, but I also knew that going just a bit further would be completely worth it. I had scoped this tower out from the ground several times, using my trusty binoculars that I bargained for at a neighbor’s yard sale. When I discovered the stairs going up past the platform, I used an online satellite map to take a peek at the very top of the tower. From what I had been able to tell, at the very top there was a completely level platform, twelve to fifteen feet in diameter, with a secure looking rail around it. Amazing what a person can find online.
     My hope was to spend the night on that platform, hence the sleeping bag and blanket in my massive backpack. Tonight was supposed to be the brightest and most active meteor shower of the year in North America and the weather had decided to be kind to us star gazers, leaving a clear and cloudless sky for the evening. It would be perfect. Perfect if Jamie would go along with it, that is.
     “You are the worst kind of person,” she said. She wasn’t facing me so I couldn’t really tell how she felt about it. Finally she turned around and rolled her eyes. “Ohhhkaaaay. Let’s go. We’ve already gone this far.” She was used to situations like this. I was the one who always wanted to push the limits, go a little further, risk just a bit more, and she was the one who always asked me to reconsider and then went along with it anyway. I always felt bad for a little while, but I got over it pretty quick. It’s not like she didn’t know me well.
     “You are the best kind of person,” I said with a wink and a grin, “But let’s rest for a bit. My arms are tired now.” We sat down and I took off my backpack, setting it on the platform beside me, digging through a side pocket. I pulled out two bottles of water and a box of Poptarts.
     “Poptart?” I offered, “Snack of champions. All the professional water tower climbers eat them I heard.”
     “How are you not fat,” she replied, taking a delicious cherry snack from the silver wrapper. It wasn’t a question really, it was more a running joke between her and I about how much I should actually weigh. She’d usually joke that one day all the junk I eat would hit me at once and I would wake up weighing 400 pounds. Even though she joked, she wasn’t beyond being bitter about my eating habits since she worked hard to keep a perfect physique.
     Next I pulled out two plain white pieces of paper and handed one to her. I began folding mine delicately into the perfect paper airplane, using the flat section of the water tower for some of the more delicate creases.
     “I don’t know why I hang out with you. You are literally so freaking weird. Like who the hell would bring paper up the side of a water tower just to make a paper airplane.” She laughed even as she criticized. I knew she didn’t really mind. She had on multiple occasions told me that my “quirkiness” as she put it definitely made me more interesting to be around. I guess I was a little odd, but I didn’t really think that was a bad thing. I did what I thought to be amusing or entertaining. It wasn’t my fault the rest of the world didn’t seem to feel quite the same way about life.
     “In fifty years don’t you want to be able to set your grandchild on your lap and tell them all about the time you tossed a paper airplane off the side of a water tower? Grandkids don’t want to hear boring stories. I would know. I was a grandkid once.” Jamie just shook her head with a grin and started folding her airplane. Mine was finished and ready to be launched into the great unknown.
     “This is Air Farce One to ground station Loser, requesting permission to take off.” I did my best Top Gun impression, trying to remember how cool Tom Cruise sounded when he said it.
     “This is ground station Awesome to Air Farce One. Ground station Loser could not be located but we can go ahead and give you permission to launch. Have a nice flight.” Jamie still had at least a little bit of a child left in her. I tossed my paper airplane over the side, watching it glide several hundred yards before landing in the low branches of a tree. Mission complete.
     “What perfect throwing form you have,” Jamie said sarcastically, "You were probably one of those nerds who just made paper airplanes in class all day as a kid." Ouch. Yea, that had been me. Jamie wound up and threw her airplane with all her strength. She had made more of a dart than a glider and it flew fast, eventually landing in a tree considerably further than mine had.
     “You win this round,” I said with mock disgust, only barely able to hide a smile, “Let’s keep going.” I removed my clips from the rail and began walking along the platform. The bulb at the top of the tower was much bigger than it looked from the ground. I could just imagine the thousands of gallons of water above and beside me.
     Eventually we reached the stairs. It was nice of the designers to have taken pity on the poor inspectors who had to climb this far up. A ladder going around the outside of the bulb would have been terrifying. The stairs curling around the side felt much more secure. Reaching the top, there was a narrow platform leading from the edge of the bulb where the stairs ended to the flat space in the center of the tower. There was only a handrail on the left side so Jamie and I were sure to snap our harnesses on. The sun had almost fully set by now, the last tendrils of light just enough to see by as we made our way to the center.
     “Okay this is cool. You know what we should have done? We totally should have brought an air mattress up here and slept or something,” Jamie thought aloud. “I’ll bet the stars look amazing from here. Oh and look you can already see the city lights over there!” I loved seeing her excited. She would take one hand and play with her hair while the other would point at things. It was kind of weird when I thought about it, how she always pointed at things when she was excited. But that was just Jamie being Jamie.
     “You read my mind.” I pulled the sleeping bag and blanket out of the backpack and laid them on the flat steel. I probably should have realized how cold that steel was going to be. Oh well.
     “We are so in sync right now,” Jamie laughed. “This is awesome. You were right.”
     “Wait so what did you think was in the bag?” I asked. She hadn’t mentioned it before and I never said anything about it.
     “Honestly I thought it was a parachute or some **** and you were going to try jumping off the edge,” she laughed, “I would have tried to stop you but I decided I really won’t feel guilty when you die doing something stupid.”
     “Brilliant!” I exclaimed, “I am so going to try that next time!” I wouldn’t really. I liked doing risky things, but I wasn’t suicidal. We spent the next few minutes getting the sleeping bag and blanket situated. I loved the fact that Jamie could be spontaneous sometimes and that she was totally okay with just camping out on top of a random water tower on a Wednesday night. How many people in the world would have been okay with that? I was lucky to have her as a friend.
     We had everything settled by the time darkness fell completely. The climbing harnesses had been stuffed into the backpack and the backpack had been strapped to the railing on the side of the platform. With the sleeping bag laid completely open, there was still at least five or six feet of open platform on all sides of us. It felt secure enough.
     “I also forgot to mention that tonight is a huge meteor shower.” Jamie and I were on our backs, looking up at the infinite blackness.
     “I love shooting stars.” She said softly. Her eyes were wide and I could see her making fake mustaches out of her hair. She had kicked off her shoes and socks and was wiggling her toes in the night air. There was only a sliver of moon, just bright enough that I could see the glow of it on her cheeks.
     “It makes me feel small,” Jamie whispered, “I feel like that should bother me, feeling small, but it doesn’t. It’s weird because it’s almost comforting to me. Here I am, this tiny speck of dust, floating around on a larger speck of dust in the middle of infinity.” She wasn’t usually one to enjoy philosophy, but on the rare occasions she spoke like that, her point of view and opinions usually inspired me. She had a beautiful mind. She just didn’t often care to open up and share it like this.
“It makes me feel like it can’t all be an accident. Some people say that we got here through a series of random and fortunate events, that there is no great plan or design. But I just don’t see how that can be. How can mere chance create something like this? Of all the possibilities, of the infinite infinite possibilities, I just can’t believe that people, that you and I or anyone else were put here by accident. I don’t think that life could be an accident.” She spoke softly the whole time. Her voice never raised or quickened. Words seemed to flow forth effortlessly, as if this all were prepared and practiced. She was able to speak without doubt or hesitation, with such certainty that even the greatest cynic might have stopped to listen.
     She continued on, weaving words as though spells, playing ideas as though harp strings. She talked about her life, telling me things she never had before, teaching me things even I didn’t know. Jamie didn’t seem to be Jamie for the next while. Instead, she seemed to have become a font of wisdom, ideas, and genius. At least, that is how I saw her. She was able to take a single idea, and examine it from all perspectives. It was as though she held it in her palm, slowly rotating it to peer closer. She made connections that I had never thought of, inspiring me to think even deeper, loving the moment. All the while she lay there, watching the stars, wiggling her toes, and making pretend mustaches out of that long blonde hair. Eventually, she turned silent.
     “But what if it is an accident?” I said. My voice was unusually soft. “What if it was all an accident? What if there is no plan, no fate, and no reason for anything? What if there is no beginning or end and we are just insignificant bits of space dust? The idea of it not being an accident just seems so conveniently comforting, almost too convenient.” Jamie was silent after I finished. My heart was beating fast and my mind was alive. I didn’t feel close to being tired.
     “So what if it is,” she said eventually, “What difference does it make? Even if it is all an accident. Even if there is no meaning to life at all, it seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here we are, you and I, able to share this with each other. That seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here is this great big world, all the adventure, all the excitement, and all the love that it is filled with. That seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here is this infinitely huge sky, filled with stars that are incomprehensibly far away. If this is all an accident, it is the most beautiful I can imagine.” She paused for a while longer. “I feel that whatever you believe, it doesn’t really matter. Perhaps you believe there is a supreme design and plan, or maybe you believe that life is an accident filled with chaos. It doesn’t matter. We all live in the same world. We all see the same beautiful sights, we are surrounded by it. It is only our perception of it that differs. I choose to believe that such an incredibly beautiful world cannot be an accident.”
     I was quiet for a long time. Jamie had, for all intents and purposes, rocked my world. Hers was a perspective I had never thought of before. I, who believed I had thought it through from every angle. I, who believed myself smarter than the world. I realized then, at that moment, laying on the top of a water tower in late August watching a meteor shower, that maybe I was not a genius. Maybe I did not have the world figured out like I had believed. Maybe, just maybe, I was just a cynic; a cynic blinded by the misfortunes I had seen and suffered; a cynic disappointed in a world that had not treated me well.
     Jamie took my hand in hers, interlocking her slender fingers within my larger ones. She turned her head to the side and looked at me, still sporting a fake mustache. The sliver of moon was reflected in her eyes just so that I could not really look into them. Her lips were curled into just the slightes

Cheap fancy dress costumes are to be subject to spot checks by trading standards inspectors, to avoid a repeat of the fire that seriously injured the daughter of the television presenter Claudia Winkleman.

Ministers have ordered the nationwide crackdown as thousands more children’s outfits and accessories, some of which are aimed at babies and toddlers, go on sale online and in supermarkets in the runup to Halloween.

The costumes, ranging from witches’ outfits to skeleton onesies, selling as cheaply as £6 each, will be subjected to flammability tests to assess whether they are compliant with safety standards.

The crackdown follows Winkleman’s warning about fancy dress costumes when her daughter suffered serious burns as her outfit, bought from a supermarket, caught fire. Winkleman questioned why the outfits were treated as toys rather than clothing when it came to safety tests.

The business secretary, Sajid Javid, said: “My immediate concern as a father and a minister is that children wearing these fancy dress costumes are safe. It is unacceptable for any costumes to be sold that do not comply with safety standards. That’s why I’ve granted funding to trading standards to carry out spot checks as part of a nationwide investigation. Parents should feel confident that any fancy dress they buy meets required standards.”

His department said it was working with the British Standards Institute to assess whether the applicable European safety controls needed to be more tough. Trading standards is to report back to the business secretary with their findings later in the autumn.

Sales of fancy dress costumes for children have soared in recent years, prompted by cheap imports being available and children increasingly wanting to dress as their favourite characters from blockbuster films. Halloween outfits have become more popular in the UKowing to the influence of American films and sitcoms. Supermarkets report that 31 October accounts for significantly more consumer spending than Bonfire night.

The dangers of the outfits were exposed in November last year when Winkleman’s eight-year-old daughter, Matilda, suffered serious burns when her witch costume caught alight. The outfit – a hat, cape, striped tights and flowing skirt – bought at a supermarket, was ignited by a flame.

Winkleman, host of the BBC show Strictly Come Dancing, said on Thursday: “We’re extremely happy the government are taking action on this and we’re so grateful to the supermarkets who are selling safer costumes.”

Some retailers have agreed to go further than minimum standards, after a recent investigation launched by Winkleman with the BBC1 series Watchdog. Tesco, Aldi, Asda, Morrisons, and Sainsbury’s, all responded to the investigation by stating that their fancy dress outfits for children would meet the equivalent of the higher fire safety standards required for youngsters’ nightwear.

A spokesman for Sainsbury’s said: “We have looked at every detail of our children’s dress-up range in creating our new standard and believe that it will be industry leading. This has not been a simple task, but the safety of children is our number one priority and introducing more rigorous safety standards for our children’s dress-up is the right thing to do.

“All clothing carries some fire risk, but we hope that introducing our own rigorous testing standards that test clothes as clothes rather than as toys will be the first step towards safer testing across the industry.”

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney

Hairline cracks are breaking through
the slough I'm about to shed.
Dry and dysfunctional
as the neuron sac in my skull.

I'll change my hat and change my ammo
honeysuckle artillery polished,
waiting in my drawer.

Sliding an empty coffee mug
back and forth along a counter
like a puck preparing for a slapshot.

Paper matches in colourful books
pressed between the pages
found leaves for child arsonists.

Takeout boxes filled with poems
are sold as artefacts
Don't be silly, poetry comes in plastic bags,
not styrofoam.
To keep ideas hot, wrap them in tinfoil.
But don't forget to leave a hole at the top for steam
or your fresh concepts will get soggy.

Equipped with tennis *****,
spandex suits picket office blocks
standing on chairs and voicing nearly racist remarks
making health and safety inspectors nervous.

Out of control students
launch dictionaries out of third story windows,
donning 21st century masks.

I left my patience beside my keys, on the kitchen table.
Waiting in line for obsolete phone booths
as movie stars soundlessly mouth slang into a receiver.

Nearly responsible
nearly nine
nearly time for bed

I resolve again
that I’ll resolve more
but this time write it down.
Folding kamikaze paper planes
to hide behind park benches, fly into trees.
Let the sun fade the pencil crayon.
I can't run from this blasé gangrene that’s taken my toes.

Aqua, bright fresh water
we oft get in the Malaysian Airlines
but not in the MH 370
where art Thou?

where are you all now?
when people and media around the world
bow in your case somehow

still hope you are all alive
i knew that you made that one big dive
right to the bottom of the ocean

all those inspectors are still saying
we can hear your phones are still ringing
my heart, my body and soul
knew: you all are not whole
anymore, but you were just freezing in the cool
do not make me a fool

that big birdie right to the bottom
with that rapid speed
as if to a large concrete

MH 370 you are now in freezing coolest water
know, that we all still bother

between air-intro space
or salted water filled ground
with the deepest bound

no matter what, we still care about you all
what only matters how long have you been suffering
in that suffocating small space between those walls

we all heard you sing

whatever Thy Response, i do understand Thee
no matter what, it's Thy divine decision

oh Lord, that suffocating air on the bottom of the Indian Ocean
how they were suffocated altogether suffered
and that only 2500 km away from Perth

but i trust Thee Lord, Thou hath Thy own reason
whatever may be Thy divine decision and Thy precision

may all passengers be altogether in greatest peace and ease
may they all really be released and now Rest In Peace....




© Sylvia Frances Chan

AD.Saturday 22nd March 2014~~at 3.09 hrs a.m.~~
ADDED Notes:
Since 11th March  this MH 370 has disappeared from the radar navigation~~since then I had watched each hour of every day TV journals~~~till today they have found the wreck~~~the chinese in Beijing announced the news today~~
CORRECTED on Monday AD. 24th March 2014 21.12 hrs. pm~~  Malaysia too has announced this news, that they have found the wreck TODAY 24th March at 2500 km away from PERTH, West-Australia at the bottom of the Indian Ocean~~~~~~~~

recollecting collections projecting selections injecting protection infection dejection
dyslexic narcoleptic rejecting dejections ******* complexion complicating interjections
perplexed inspectors intercept pterodactyls relaxing in backpacks extracting disillusion
contortionist philanthropist dejected transgression implementing eradications of moss buying patrons
eclectic perfectionist rests limp-wristed whispering disparaging remarks to the wait staff
trombone percussionist impressed and impoverished gravelling wistfully mimicking Rickles
I sit half disheveled grinding my wisdom teeth feeling the fleeting muse sitting in disbelief –

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Oh to be outstanding
The envy of the competition
Persecute your staff
Beat them into submission
Observe, observe, observe
Big brother's watchful vision
Ticking the right boxes
OFSTED the clinical prison.
Countdown to the tension
All pristine and plush
Staff room full of imodium
Lecturers with the bums rush.
Enjoy, achieve, the mantra
All students must behave
Differentiation *******
Woah betide should 1 disengage.
Good with outstanding features
Nearly there, thou shalt not rest
Cut the ******* principal
Its really second best.
Satisfactory & beyond
The prin is hot to trott
Arranging special measures
You'll all be ****** shot.
OFSTED, jack boot people
Gestapo in the making
Strangling education
Ensuring you're all faking.
Inspectors, nah! Failed teachers
Getting their own back
Splitting hairs & picking faults
Nasty ****** *****.
Oh how the mighty fall
So without further ado
Leave them teachers alone
OFSTED, you ***** *******.

the war has already begun
and it's not like
you're asking me: are you wearing shoes?
but, rather,
asking whether my shoelaces are
tightly spun, or whether i have
any... like the saimese soviets
at Stalingrad: one with
the ammunition, the other with
a rifle... or the joke above the bacon
concerning the police:
one is only able to write,
the other is only able to read.
i still don't know what you're asking me,
not since they had that proud attire
in napoleonic fashion, and my,
didn't ****** dress them well enough
to reach a heart-throb status?
clad black SS mon: it seems i'm always
a beggar at the feet of women,
but i don that: i'm Humphrey ******* Bogart!
yes, the uniform, the prestige,
and then they were thrown into the trenches
in the khaki resembling more
diarrhoea than muddy camouflage...
and so came dada saying a big massive
huh? after a while the major powers
didn't catch the drift from a keen libido
and trench-warfare and what came from
guerilla warfare... namely terrorism...
should i write this cheque out to the sound of
courgette... or couliflower,
mein herr?
and so it came: the time when the civilians
started their own war, and warred
among themselves, ensuring that
no army could penetrate, which paved
the way for terrorists only able
to usurp the contract of fine wine Friday
evenings by the Eiffel tower
with the burp ultimatum...
   so we're at war...
  and god only know how guerilla
evolved into terrorism, or should it be
called: the other Vietnam?
  and perhaps too: a baguette ripped
like it might have been a vulture's wake:
or a hyennas' party of giggles and hecklers...
but such days are other,
the Paris i remember isn't the Paris i'd
like to visit...
            no one really asked for this...
but it is, what it is...
    and it's hard to see the fact when there
are no glorious marches, no youthful men
strapped into galant uniforms...
    a bit like that advert for bus inspectors
in England: they wear no uniform,
they're dressed just like you and me...
     because that's how war translates to
civilians... that civilians learn the covert
art of war... meaning that all other wars
reminiscent of past wars are nothing
but proxy wars, they're not akin to a Trojan siege...
proxy... there's no identity in war anymore,
there's no Persian empire, nor a Roman empire...
proxy wars, given the internet
and how we throw so much intimate information
into a web before we meet a person,
and then perhaps lie about the fantasy of
that representable self...
     in saying that, Daesh is unique in that
it doesn't have an identity crisis...
     it doesn't have a facebook or a twitter
or a McDonald's hovering above it...
    of all the wars currently staged, it's staging
an antithesis to what was once merely
proxy... i find it hard to believe that
nations exist... given the power of corporations...
a belief in nations is a return to feudalism,
serfs at football matches, later enslaved
by the necessary dependencies and easy-to-reach
fruits of internet-service providers that
makes me laugh at the idea that Argos (a
highstreet retailer) still ***** into advert schemes
and thinks it will survive the pulverisation
and high street turning into cul de sac....
   but hey, i'm not clapping...
       you'll find more applaus in an opera house...
i'm just trying to find the coordinates that
i can navigate with...
     it would be hard to believe in an all-out-war...
given the warring civilians...
        in whom the notion of war has
imploded, and who might attest to revenge ****
as a medium of releasing an arrow from a bow...
it's hard to create wars these days,
it's hard to create a pair of trousers to march
in when all you have is a knitted pocket...
   how did they ever find war so glorifying,
so ****** romantic? i'll never know...
     but it really is hard to wage wars these day
given the civilians are paranoid and feel
no safety... at all...
            and yes, nuclear weapons make no sense
of the arms trade... drop a nuke and you
undermine about a 1000 arms dealers...
   so forget the u.z.i. and the kalashnikov deals...
it's really panic not from a perspective of
extinction, but a panic based upon dealing arms...
not selling enough weapons, bullets, grenades...
  nukes are a great deterrent, but also a great motivation
for dealing in arms...
but it's war,
    perhaps in closed-off communities of the urban
hipters it's still only about selling the most
obscure type of cereal... lumberjack and all, beardy...
but out here, on the peripheries of large
city-states, it's tribalism thrice over...
        e.g. i laugh on the windowsill at night
the next day my neighbour comes over
talks to my relative and wonders whether she's
o.k. because he think i might **** her...
        and so he complains: he had to move
rooms in our house because of the laughter,
it cost us a lot of money...
and i'm sitting there, shrouded by the fact
that he can't see me and i can hear him and wonder:
so you're not homeless, yes?
       i think my neighbour is mad because
he wants to know me now,
after living next to me for 5 years... and not having
bothered to have anything to do with me,
wants to know me now... mate! tangens!
       do i really give a **** your wife is
pregnant? no...
                             and this is how puny
life and narrative can become... so knitty-gritty...
so ant-like prone... i have no airs to not
meddle in the grit, but the fact that i have to meddle
in it: is a right ol' bollocking...
   it could have been a nice: cheese & ham sandwitch...
instead it has to be this...
   so if this isn't war... why would i be asking
you about you asking me whether i'm wearing
shoes? the topic of shoelaces and noodles...
or as i like to put it: big gob west
       squint eye funny east...
   there is absolutely no better nations to pacify
the warring hoodlums of the west
than 1 billion chinese or 1 billion indians...
that's what i call a proper rebellion...
i mean, picture 1 billion chinese and 60
million germans...
      it's almost like tickling Genghis Khan...
it will always look like a chiquaua (west)
barking at a Rottweiler (east) ... and i can't help but
laugh at the change.

Act I

               Married at 25, in a small chapel off Caustic drive. Mr. Robinson was the envy of the whole town, as they all witnessed the beauty of his wife in a wedding gown. Twas a truly glorious occasion, even for those opposed to the Victorian persuasion.
                As a gift from her father, Mrs. Robinson received a family home. It wasn’t a gigantic bother, just a free place to roam. The couple was instantly overjoyed, not that it was an emotion to avoid. It just wasn’t a typical occurrence, for Mr. Robinson who, devoid of the world, felt little congruence.
                For six long years Mrs. Robinson’s husband toiled with cars, and avoided the nightly pleasure of bars. He brought home every penny he could, but was robbed a bit, working in a “hood”. Still he had enough saved for a little vacation, something to distract him from his “wretched vocation”.
                On the way home from withdrawing some money, just some small cash to get something for his honey, Mr. Robinson was stood up by a common thief, who smiled viciously with rotted teeth.  The man handed over his wallet with little struggle, scarred for his life. Seeing a license the man remarked through a muddle, about ****** Mr. Robinson’s wife.

Act II

                  Brutality was in this man’s blood, his day of reckoning approaching like a flood. It was clear to see in the thief’s gaze, that this wasn’t some malformed craze. Mr. Robinson had seen the look before, in his own mirror before crashing to the floor.
                  Violence was something begrudged in his soul, burning hot now festered by burning coal. He had avoided it all his life, steered away by a devotion to a girl he knew would be his wife. But in this moment it could have all faded away. So Mr. Robinson allowed his mind to stray.
                   His fists flew in an uncontrolled manor, there was little there that resembled glamour. The thief thrashed with the might of a knife, but Mr. Robinson put up a fight, clamoring to an image of his wife. Soon the thief’s skull was as flat as the pavement, and then Mr. Robinson sat there, constant and patient.
                    After a trip to the bar, Mr. Robinson returned home to his wife, and then laid before her all his strife. He wasn’t one to hide behind a lie, which could sever such an ever-loving tie. Mrs. Robinson understood it all to well, though from her hysteria you could hardly tell.
                    Tears were shed between both the Robinsons, and then came a series of promises. The first was that they’d leave the country with great speed; the second came contingent on one final deed. Mr. Robinson had to clear out his chequeing account, without inspiring a hint of doubt.
                    Sure enough, the deed went off without a single hitch, but in the back of his mind, Mr. Robinson had an itch. The wish for chaos hadn’t gone unnoticed inside his head, just lingered behind like a common dose of dread. Still he pressed on, and bought two tickets to Milan.

Act III

                    Mr. Robinson was drenched in sweat as the couple went through the metal detectors, and crossed a path of lazy eyed T.S.A inspectors. Regardless of any present fear, the man was aware that his destination was more than near. Walking past the last of the T.S.A, Mr. Robinson looked cool, nodding along to the music of DFA.
                    Boarding the plane turned out to be no big deal, in the pat down security had hardly copped a feel. They played a movie on the plane; its plotline seemed to run quite the same. A man boarded a westbound flight, but fell victim to a trending plight.
                    The whole compartment was overloaded with rage, and it came in a parcel they couldn’t encage. One by one they fell victim to disillusion, surely the result of a drastic head contusion. Though quickly it spread like a vile pollution…no race exclusion.
                     In the end only one lay in the wake, the turmoil, to him, was no more than a piece of cake. He was immune to the disease spreading amongst the flight, and used brute force to conquer the plight. Slid from the plane a triumphant man, and smiled for the cameras after a quick scan.
                     The whole film was a colossal joke, told from the mirrored reflection of a director on coke. Mr. Robinson didn’t take much from it at all, except that the righteous stand tall, it didn’t matter that the plot was about a hero, Mr. Robinson was going to burn that down like the fires of Nero.

Act IV

                      He strolled off the plane with a righteous grin. Mrs. Robinson obliviously was seen coating sun tan lotion all over her skin. They stayed at a hotel near the beach; Mr. Robinson renewed his license and began to teach. Six months passed without blood, no names to drag through mud.
                      During this time the Robinsons had a child, who had a tendency to be quite wild. The little girl was far too rambunctious; though saying so may be a bit presumptuous. It seems though, that it was the opinion of her father, who found need in removing the life of his daughter.
                       Mrs. Robinson played the part of being willfully naive, searching for some desperate form of reprieve.  She knew her husband had gone insane, the facts for which were more than plain. Still she pushed through and looked for the good, no matter what sort of hallowed grounds the shadow stood.
                       Two years went by without incident, their tedious normalcy, overly consistent. Then a reporter came asking questions, about a small time mugger and their known relations. Mr. Robinson laughed it off as though nothing was the matter, and then took the man down through the science of avoided clatter.
                       Hidden amongst those who don’t get found, was Mr. Robinson’s third victim, newly crowned. The deed lay hidden for a decade or so, time’s vagueness makes it hard to know. Romance was lively in the Robinson household, though such flare up hardly needed to be foretold.

Act V**

                      Mrs. Robinson was blind to all her surroundings, making it rather hard to collect any findings. She continued to believe that her husband was a kind soul, an innocent, but worldly foal. He spoke to her by the tender light of a candles glimmer, held her close in that weak flames shimmer.
                      One day she fractured a wall overloading a shelf, behind the latex laid the Robinsons daughter herself. Terrified and confused, Mrs. Robinson waited for her husband to come through the door, when he did she was already curled up on the floor.
                     They prayed together for a solemn moment, and then Mr. Robinson murdered his wife with little postponement.  He placed her inside the wall of his family home, right night to the kitchen phone. The next 40 years he consoled his loss with many a life, but none were buried anywhere near his wife.
                      He left the home as a constant reminder, of those he had failed as a provider. Stayed in it for every moment one should, and held onto it as long as one could. But in death, the home went up for auction, and it was sold off without a hint of caution.
                      A young Stedman bought the home for him and his future wife. They bought the home at a very low price, at such a rate it was hard to think twice. Renovations came, as one would expect, though the issues found weren’t necessarily from neglect.
                      This family was tainted by that gruesome, wretched home. Turns out, Mr. Stedman was also forced to roam. He had a nasty habit with a very sharp blade…that type of predilection doesn’t typically fade. During upkeep, Mr. Stedman discovered an odd bit of insulation, but certainly wasn’t about to seek further consultation.
                      He realized exactly what it was laying in the walls of his home, and he saw no reason not to let it get overgrown. The first victim added was his very own wife; they had been going through a bit of a strife. Soon after mudded in his parents in law, but removed them thereafter finding their odour quite raw.  

……………………………………………………………………………………

Crowded trains and incognito inspectors.
Neverdays happens all the time now.
It's a travail for the birthright few,
seeing changes
disneyland for newcomers
all our labours their turnaround
free movement.

I am the tool, dripping with the blood of innocence, the sword in the arm of unreasonable men, committing atrocities in the name of righteousness. Expected to show no emotions, stone faced, marching on, mouth closed in silent obedience. Left to my quiet insight, where I have become the spear that pierces Christ, while you sit there complaining about your self-proclaimed civil rights. Doing for those who can’t do what I’m told must be done. With battle cries and muzzle flash from the barrel of my gun. And one by one, these booted feet crush the sand. Until I stand under a hot sun, a man with his brow creased, watching countries fight for so called peace in their fear of the Middle East. And this is their answer, spending more money on war, while children in Africa die of famine ignored and UN inspectors with blind eyes, examine the solution to these problems galore. These solutions we don't see in our judgemental haste are the answers which might as well be floating in outer space. Why can't we see it when it's right in front of our face! Dear God help us, for we are the human race.

(20 minute poetry)

What zone be you?

They're homing in on me
zone three.

Sleep zone four
nothing here and

wake!
what for?

Zone two's the cut
why?
but
I go there anyway on the way
to one,
game on.

Friday
and the weekend looms
tunes to hear
pictures
beer
and I'll see her
underneath the clock at
Waterloo
zone two.

At any rate I won't be late
this form of transportation
takes me right down to
the station.

An inspectors call
'tickets please'
but Oyster cards are
all he sees,

I see kinks
thinks
Waterloo sunset,
game on.

They’re bringing the illegals’
crowd to the police department,
And chaos is beginning after that,
The part of the illegals is released
after bribe’s giving
“Everything’s OK”,
with their documents,
everything.
The illegals’ part is falling under
evidende’s records’ will,
The policeman must be
“kind”and “evil”,
“Buxes’’ part from those ones
who have been released
Is given very culturally
To the major operative orderly Officer.
Migrants are indignant at it
Saying: “Our rights are violated,
we aren’t considered To be people.”
The orderly officer
did tell them:
“Have you a complaint?
Write your petition then.
To the department’s head’s temporal acting,
the truth’s in this!”
During every conference
he receives his unpleasant dose:
Сrimes revealing is falling –
the General puts him
in an awkward pose.
The methods of finding a way out
won’t be new in this
He’ll raise crimes’ revealing
by divisional inspectors’ means.
It’s not obligatory
to be super-brilliant,
To tell the truth, to compose a crime’s fact.
The divisional inspector
is taking a homeless
Man empowered,
he’s giving him money for bread
And ***** telling him:
“You’ll say during inquest:
The man threatened
to **** you by this knife’s means, this case.
Will be in summary operations.
That’s great!!
At the beginning
the divisional inspector’s
giving him 1500 roubles for putting by.
The homeless Person said:
“I am friends with Sasha-Blue
who is a victim.
Give me some money
for a pack of “Troika”11, please.”
The divisional inspector
being contented gave him
a hundred roubles more.
The summary operations on the CC’s
Case were given
in the evening.
The divisional inspector is
Learning from divisional inspectors’ head
After his arriving
at the police department
That we won’t let anybody
go home without
any crime’s revealing.
A revealed crime is too little- the police’s head
Is expecting a new crime’s revealing,
even the divisional inspector having
Thought said:
“I am keeping theft in mind,
Let us let others go home, home and”
Only naive Vasya will go with me,
something like that.
They made up their minds thus –
the agreement is in force,
Vasiliy is going to reveal a crime,
of course.
He gave his colleague
a few thousand roubles
for his
Aid in this crime’s revealing
as soon as possible
by means
Of trustful persons
theft was revealed
on that day
I will tell you of those further events,
I feel like it,
anyway.
That divisional inspector was placed
under guard
According to article 286
This story is an unimportant event
Within the country’s limits –
“What’s the ****?”
Will you ask in indignation.
Only policemen often raise
crimes’ revealing’s indexes
in any Russian Police Station.
{2018}

В ОТДЕЛЕ ПОЛИЦИИ

Привозят
нелегалов толпу
в отдел.
И начинается
беспредел.
Часть нелегалов
отпускают
за взятку
– С их документами
«всё в порядке».
Часть нелегалов –
под протокол:
Полицейский
быть должен
«добр» и «зол».
Часть «капусты»
отпущенных
– Всё по-культурному!
Отдаётся
Старшему оперативному
дежурному.
Мигранты возмущаются:
«Права нарушаете!
Совсем за людей
нас видимо
не считаете!»
Дежурный: «Есть жалобы?
Пишите петиции
– В приёмные часы
рассмотрит
начальник полиции!»
А у начальника полиции
своё есть дело –
Некогда до петиций,
Ведь он
временно исполняющий обязанности
начальника отдела!
На каждом совещании
в округе
получает неприятностей дозу
– Раскрываемость падает
–Генерал его ставит
в неудобную позу!
Методы выхода
не будут новыми –
Поднимает раскрытия
участковыми!
Не надо по-правде быть
супер-гением,
Чтобы придумывать
преступления!
Идёт участковый,
берёт доверенного бомжа,
Даёт ему денег
на хлеб и водку!
И говорит:
«В дознании скажешь,
что при помощи
вот этого вот ножа
угрожал убийством –
пойдёт сразу в сводку!»
Сперва участковый
даёт бомжу
полторы тысячи на заначку.
Бомж: «С Сашей-Синим,
который терпила,
дружу
– Дай ещё нам
на «Тройки»
пачку».
Дал ещё участковый довольный
сотку
– По 119 статье УК
вечером
дали сводку.
И в отделе участковый
узнаёт по прибытию
От начальника участковых:
Сегодня не отпущу,
пока не сделаете
«раскрытия».
– Одно мало –
начальник полиции
ожидает новых.
Наш участковый,
подумав даже
И говорит:
«У меня на примете
есть раскрытие –
кража!»
Давайте
всех отпустим домой
– Лишь Вася наивный
пойдёт со мной!
Так и порешили –
договор в силе:
На раскрытие идёт
лейтенант Василий.
За помощь
в раскрытии поскорей
Он дал коллеге
несколько косарей.
При помощи доверенных лиц
в тот день
была раскрыта и кража.
Как было дальше скажу –
не лень
– Тот участковый
по 286 статье УК
был заключён
под стражу.
Эта история
в рамках страны –
маленькое событие
Спросите Вы:
«What the ****?!»
Только в Российской полиции
зачастую лишь так
повышают показатели
по раскрытиям!
{2018}

Translator - I. Toporov

My father painted his dairy barn yellow
Maybe because he found some bargain paint
Then came along the inspector fellow
With his clipboard, and he said that yellow ain’t

Legal, that dairy barn paint had to be white
My father had The Book, and from it he read
That a dairy barn’s color only had to be light
“Well, I’ll find something else,” the inspector said

He found a fly speck on an old cow bell -
May Texas milk inspectors just go to (Newark)

My mouth stands strong.
Ribbon of drool match those in reflection.
My accolade full circle, royal undertow.
Vellicating in dishonourable mysticism.
Moving here & there.
Moving water, wine & a wisdom separating love from the ore.
Learning where musical savants & initiates dim the lights.
Inspectors test restraints, narrowing memory. Now forgotten.
Wake up, remove hairs sprinkled in hidden testimonial.
Misgivings in this shellacked house of homes.
Intellection. Ascending, bending bones. Fissured left-behinds.
To purify all your thoughts.
Resisting universal locomote.
Heels in foreign grease. Bare soles departed.
Movings of brilliantly painted soil.

Telephones relate & relay the balmy decisions you are making.

Much like the Mayans thousands of years before,
Granting 2012 the honour to host
An apocalyptic end of the world,
Peruvian shamans now declare
2017 the year
Of turbulence and widespread war.

The healers thus reunite on a hill,
In the capital of Lima to perform
Cleansing rituals able to prevent
The fatal clash between North Korea and the US.
It comes at a time of heightened tensions
Between the two countries over
Threatening nuclear missile programmes.

An unprecedented inferno ignites the night of a West
London residential skyscraper burning
From its second to its twenty-seventh floor
Unleashing the worst nightmares
Of its sleeping inhabitants
And the courage of sleepless fire-fighters.

Colombia's Farc rebels hand over their weapons
To United Nations Inspectors
As part of historic peace accords,
While the President declares,
“Peace will be built little by little,
Like a cathedral, which you build brick by brick"
Revolutionary forces no longer armed.

Migrations creating social unrests
People fleeing their threatening nests,
As mayors plead governments not to let
Any more in and ministries ask, cities to absorb
Two hundred and fifty thousand more.
Coast guards relentlessly saving the drowning ones.

US Attorney General denies, having undisclosed meetings
With Russian officials in Washington hotels.
Any suggestions of collusion with the Kremlin described
As appalling and detestable lies.
Agency’s investigation into Russian political meddling impeded
As Intelligence believes in conspiracies. Memories of Cold Wars
And Bond movies where the ‘traitor’ was lucky to be fired and not shot.

While doctors announce people over 75 taking
Daily aspirin after a stroke or heart attack
Are at higher risk of major and sometimes fatal
Stomach bleeds than previously thought,
Anthropologists excavating in Morocco
Find fossils of potential ancestors, the oldest sapiens retrieved,
Tracing back our steps to 300, 000 years before present.

Across the ocean, somewhere in Arizona,
A man heading to a retirement home prepares,
Cleans up his garage with the help of a neighbour
And finds a 15 million dollar *******, he ignored
He ever had.

wash it wash out wash it wash out
let it turn
hoot and a holler
bottled up all day
and like bubbly bottles burst
take my toll
fierce, almost fictional
but never hostile
transcend your barriers and let your impulses take you towards the next side of the room
and then back again
its over and over and over
hear the trumpet whail its sorrow
circling, round, round, round
love, a mist, love to die for
unseen unconditionl surrender
ooohohohoaoh
e,njoy a gin and tonic, and ,dress that ,was fash,ionable at ,som, e point b,ut is in deeper,ate ne,ed of ,recur ,,, , , , rence
the glasses are thick and so is t he smoke that lingers above conv,eras,--------tions and weaves be d,, tween the textu--------res of the deep green trees and their abundant philosophical relatab======le language and you fall into their ro000000000ots, you drUUUUUug their holes and youuuuuu lOOOOOve the earth the same way you love a compliment
Ahhh yeahhh!!!,you're looking the best you have in your life
there is a melody somewhere in the background but your attention is on the person in from of you, the enthusiasm in their voice, and how quickly you are able to agree with them
anticipate like disneyt, tpoets businesses, bartenders, bar menders, cleansers inspectors interpreters judgmenters allocate the spenders reaching out for new vendeor whose the best the lesser??
LET ME GOOOOOOOOO
its warm man, you have a smoke?
swomen, lights, some monument sky high lithe buddah lights little u[p with orange with luck on straight spinnings what was that? take another drink, hey whats your name? I'm from california you like surfing politics I odn'tk know I need to meet my friend
fix fix fix do I need to finish that paper? fixixixifiixx what will my mother say????
you met another guy who is dancing with a girl and he is cool and he is gesturing towards you with his glass of champagne and you
tilt up ystaree he cbottole of beer, but his kindness lingers as you stare into your glass andI smile when? wrong time go away fog forward gly He cracks a really funny joke about your smile
HAHAHHAHAAH
The movie, the movie, those time when I am removed from things and the

My mind balloons and its... delicious

They talk of data,
seeya later
what do
I need to know?

The sisters of the holy cross
gave me up,
I said, it's
your loss
but
in the end it
was mine

date stamp
blue lamp

data

crime report
caught on camera
seeya later.

I operate a first come
first served,
parole on application.

In the olden days
we all had
accordions
mouth organs
flutes
but these days
we got
data at a rate of knots
spots before my eyes
lie detectors
truth inspectors
digital
toothbrushes for Christ's sake
and they make dental
impressions
free form soft ****
and
false confessions

I drown in the data stream
**** in the powder keg dream
and explode.

i've been carrying this napkin with a scribble on it
since yesterday -
  obviously in the heimatspreschen -
chcem stanąć przed sędzią, który może
osądzić sędziów - i.e.
    i want to stand before the judge, who can
pass judgement on all judges -
and a lesson for a few:
   e. e. cummings does not even tickle
orthography...
   noMatter howOrWhy you write so so,
and the not so... that's not orthography...
you don't get teach people orthography
with a language that has no diacritical
aesthetic... orthography goes hand in hand with
the application of diacritical marks,
and, since english has none: i consider
the interpretation of e. e. cummings'
works as: on the sly orthographic: absolute
diatribe.
        you want to know what orthography
looks like?
exhibit (a)
  chcem stanąć przed sędzią, który może
osądzić sędziów - correct - orthodox -
exhibit (b)
hcem stanąć przed sędzią, ktury morze
osądzić sędziuw
esp. on the może (maybe)
  and morze (sea)...
                    that's orthography!
take your ****** little e. e. cummings
                                   ******* and... *******!

so much for an intro...
today i found myself in possession of a 6 zone
travel card...
   little essex boy went sightseeing into
london, his adventure would end at
alexandra palace, wood green,
  the piccadilly line, zone 3,
  so off little essex boy went,
got on the train from lil' market town into
liverpool st., started walking on the platform
thinking: thank **** no owls and quarters
and hidden passageways into & through
brick walls...
      as any wordsmith will tell you:
once you enter the urban environment proper,
you start to realise, well, a permanent
insignificance of your effort dawns on you,
how you're overshadowed by all the clogs
in the machinery of the civilised world...
   awe? far from it... i was barraged,
pulverised by the ant in an ant-topia -
or should i say: a utopia is a place where
there's a seemingly infinite demand for work,
not necessarily a seemingly infinite
supply for work, but certainly a demand for
work...
             the most ******* job has to exist
to accommodate the people -
  it doesn't have to, but is has to exist in
order to be a bit like housing space.
so i passed them, the train operators,
the ticket inspectors, the men on the tracks
improvising improvements from ilford to
stratford (manor park, forest gate, maryland
etc.) -
  it really didn't matter whether one worked
and two snoozed on the job -
  the idea perpetuated itself:
  if not actually doing anything:
**** it, act, look busy, or look perplexed
by some "unfathomable" obstacle,
most notably thought.
            oh you better believe me that i have
great respect for even the most menial
professions -
    or as i like to call them: flip flop hopping just
shy of heaven -
the daydreamers' jobs -
   ******'s on that till telling train tickets,
ever so often waking up by an imaginary
coconut falling on his head when
a new customer arrives and wakes the
**** up.
                      london... ah, what a place...
someone once said you're never a meter away
from a rat on these streets...
   no ****, and half a meter from a rat with wings
and probably an eager tourist feeding these
"penguins"...
                    but i took the trip because
i thought i'd feel inspired, change of environment,
like: i honestly can't remember the last
time i sat on a bus, or a train, or the tube...
       me in a sitting position,
inside a belly of some mechanical diesel
caterpillar...
                       just for the occasion i thought i'd
dress up, put on a pair of socks and a pair of jeans...
well, i thought: these londoners can't suspect me
coming from the home counties...
gotta look the part, in some remote way...
fat face attire all, from the waist up;
                      but the people in their number
and disorientation hit be like a saharan gust
of wind, remnants of a hurricane -
                 everywhere i turned at liverpool st.
there was either a zombie apocalypse,
or some crack-******* ***** late for a train...
          i got some fine red wine prior to
the expedition...
               and so i headed to alexandra palace...
why? well... it looked mighty fine 11 years ago
from the rooftop of the scottish widows h.q.
near st. pauls...
         sitting pretty on top of a hill...
  so i got there, ensuring i let the arsenal fans
get the first two trains from st. pancreas to
pass me by, extending my wait for about 10 minutes...
    who was arsenal playing today?
tottenham? the punters on the train said:
2 - nil.
           don't know the score.
             so i got to wood green...
no one actually said there was a hill to climb!
  **** it, i climbed it, and when i got to the top...
to be honest, alexandra palace looks more
spectacular from a distance akin to st. paul's
on the 19th floor...
        it actually looks bigger from that sort of
distance...
          but i reached the top, and still had my wine,
and i even brought with myself a glass...
so i opened the bottle and began to forget
the initial: the **** am i doing next to
alexandra palace?!
            shouldn't i be sitting comfortably finishing
the second season of versailles at home?!
ah... never mind... so i drank the wine and
became shocked at the horizon before me...
as a connoisseur of drinking partners -
yes, you might have suspected all along,
i was drinking the wine alone... aha! but i wasn't:
i was drinking a bottle of wine, with, the view;
on the up side, the view from alexandra palace
is so much better than the view from
primrose hill - sure, maybe st. paul's isn't
visible, and you get to see much more of
the ferris wheel by the thames -
      but when it comes to a drinking buddy -
the view from alexandra palace is so much
better than the view from primrose hill.
           - and as ever, a highlight from the voyage,
helping god disguised as an old lady in
a hindi shawl with her shopping -
   in one of those wheely bags... down
the escalator, onto the tube, then off the tube...
  why did i imply god disguised as an old lady,
she said she's 70, i compliment her that she
looks 60... and believe me... that bag of hers
weighed about 30 / 40 kg...
                       and then back to romford,
for a quick pint of guinness on romford high st.,
aah... home... home with the "****"...
with the sort of people that make sense -
                  born and bred and sooner or later
to be dead...
                     at least this apparent
"*******" is not as much a farce as the entirety of
london put together...
            i can feel at home here,
mind you, a pint of guinness costs 3.15 over here,
which isn't exactly extortion down by
liverpool st. at 5 quid a pop.
           london used to make sense once,
even for me, but these days -
     it's just a ouroboros -
                  it's in its own stratosphere of "busy",
******* jobs, ******* rent,
        and as much as any noah's arc translated
into a city state as you can think of,
with only rats on board...
           but when you stand on either primrose
hill, or next to alexandra palace,
with a bottle of wine and your drinking
buddy that's the view -
            you can only start citing bilbo baggins:
i feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter
  scraped over too much bread;
   because that's what london is: superficial -
which is why i immediately known what
i'm going to get when i step onto
the romford high street...
        sooner or later it's all going to turn
into superficiality central, the mimic cities
of l.a. (and thank ****, that i can only imagine
this to be the case of said imitation).

(20 minute poetry)

Eats a baguette for breakfast and gets crumbs all over her dress,
this underground journey impresses me less the more that I take it.

He's on a major journey through a mini iPad
which is more than I had at his age

there's a bald man turning the page of the Times, it must be the early edition, a bit late though because the  ticket inspectors get on at Bethnal Green and he's taken off

and the old girl with the persistent cough spluttering, spluttering, I gave up complaining at Liverpool street leaving the others to mutter under their breath about pine boxes and death.

Some will change here for the DLR which is an acronym, it's also a light railway but I couldn't bear the weight  of it, had to rest and sit a bit, getting on in years see.

It will **** me in the end and in the end we all go underground I'm just practising,
news just in
due to a fire alert at Holborn Station
London will be closed for today
hurrah
I think that's what the announcer said or maybe just wishful thinking going on in my head.

Nearly there
glad I had chance to share with you the tube with no view except for what you see which are
crumbs all over the floor.

As in an Agatha Christie mystery
A man - he ghosts into a consulate
As a flickering image upon a screen
The image, yes, but not the man is seen

          (A soft midnight splash in the Golden Horn)

As in an Eric Ambler mystery
Perhaps he is another Dimitrios
Another identity, and in the rain
Someone else slips aboard the Belgrade train

          (A soft midnight splash in the Golden Horn)

The inspectors inspect; the leaders lie:
We would not have it that Our subject should die

          (And softly flows the current through the Golden Horn)

at the herculaneum factory
it is lunchtime
fish sandwiches
crispy to the tooth

inspectors examine
don't they
in earnest with focus
these things are serious

lights are pushing close
seeking tiny bones
nearly clear pulled free
glistening in the light

we sink our teeth in
wondering why these counters
are so white and so smooth
until our fingers answer

that it is for them
and so few care for color
oh but this contour
is all ours

we let them smile
under their nails
leaving the announcement
frustrated but ok

"ÇOK TEŞEKKÜR EDERİM!"
("THANK YOU VERY MUCH!")



Erdoğan "hasn't got
much the English!"


I am his "Sir!" and
he watches my mouth move


but the English so he says
as I watch him wrestle the words


"Gets stuck in the teeth is not
reaching the ears!"


He kisses my hand and
touches it to his forehead.


I try to turn the tables
put myself in his  position.


"Erdoğan teach me
one Turkish word a day!"


He is overjoyed to teach
teacher.


"First word Sir is...."
I wait for it...wait for it.


"Beb seni çok seviyorum!"
he beams up at me.


I am overwhelmed.
"But...but...that's more than one word!""


"I say it Sir for it is true...it means
I love you very much!"


He is a hard task master.
I wrestle the words.


"Yavaş yavaş!" he exhorts me
"Slowly...slowly!"


We are putting on a Macbeth
and  the Spice Girl Witches


sing to Macbeth
"Orada dur ... çok teşekkür ederim!"


Macbeth looks startled to be
addressed in Turkish.


"Stop right now..thank you very much!"
the little witches sing into their hairbrushes!


"I'll tell you what you want...what you really really want.
...you want to be Kingy thingy Kingy thingy !"


Erdoğan bows to me
pleased with my progress


"See Sir....coming along you are
but slowly  - very very slowly!"



*


It was the height of the Spice Girl's "girllllll power!" so I had to incorporate their phenomenon somehow! A Spice Girl Shakespeare. The inspectors descended upon us like locusts to our learning but were highly impressed that I was prepared to bring Shakespeare to the Primary masses( it wasn't the done thing then)and  with such a unique vigour and style and enthusiam" and that de kids were so deep into it.


And for the Turkish students who had hardly a word of English there was even a smattering of sir's awkward learning scattered here and there.



I shall always hear Erdoğan patient if exasperated voice saying again and again " No Sir...you are not listening...eat it with the ears...whisper it with the mouth!" He couldn't believe I couldn't get things. "But you are my Sir...surely you must know!" I had to tell him I was a very "Yavaş yavaş!" person. But he would just beam at me too and be proud that I tried.
"Never...never can you let me down...you are my Sir...but you are one very slow slow person to teach!" At least now I knew how difficult it was to him. And he had to deal with an Irish accent! He told me that "Always you have fun in your voice...it dances always!"


Another little girl drew a drawing of me with a crown perched amongst my curls. "Why the crown?" I asked. "Oh sir..." she smiled as if the answer was as simple as 2+2( which for her it wasn't)" Don't you know....you are the King of all the nice peoples."
This split year class of Year3/4 with 34 in the class and half of them statemented was my constant delight. A shining moment in my teaching experience....this is why we teach...to be taught ourselves by the honesty and openness of kids such as these.

A DIVINE MIRACLE OF AVIATION IN OLD NEW YORK CITY - Tim Browne flew his mighty airplane directly into the Empire State Building at 400-miles-per-hour. “Is everyone alright?!” He asked as wreckage was still hitting the pavement. “We're okay back here!” A young woman yelled from the rear. “I've never felt better!” Another passenger reported. “That's odd,” Tim said to his pretty girlfriend at his side. “I thought that crashing directly into the top floor of a very huge building at 400-miles-per-hour would surely have killed us all, considering the mega-extreme impact!” Later, it was determined by the federal aviation inspectors that Tim was pretty lucky to be alive 'cause crashing a plane at that deadly speed always kills everybody!