So, here we go,  again.
Defining the prolific tranquility of my fellow men
Reproducing the rhythmic reflection like a Godsend.
We'll run along this tightrope until the world spins
And by the end of the night we'll slip right out of our skin.
Blasting the brainwaves like a fully automatic bass,
Kamikaze wasteland, humans waste, self-destruct without a trace
Just give these DJs a little space so they can give you a better taste!
And don't let us argue semantics so we can find the truth encased
In the back of the skull, underfed and oversold.
Truth be told, no one would like to feel that cold...
And you can deny it all until you crack and you fold,
But you know that by now you would have lost your soul!
Scandalous heresy mission, I'll describe the world I've envisioned
No carbon emissions, because there are no more cars to sit in
No more music, because there is nobody to listen
No more prison, because there are no buildings to live in
Until we've built it ourselves, and then we excel.
Civilization rebuilding itself right out of a living hell,
Like a phoenix, in a nutshell, and not a soul will tell
The truth about the world before the acid rains fell.

The world spins on a tilted axis of evil,
Over-trusted in the hands of incompetent people,
Lazily ignored by all the church and the steeples
Taking the arms of the weak and the feeble.
The rest of us wait until the bombs begin falling.
We no longer care, and frankly, God's stalling.
The end of the world is constantly calling.
No more of the bodies all twisted and sprawling.

I sever my hand to prove that I can still use my eyes;
You'll understand when you begin to open your mind
And if you really don't want me to do this, just give me a sign,
Maybe I'll do it anyway to disprove your design.
I'm losing time, someone come along and feed me a line.
Sever my spine, open my jaws wide, skin off my eyelids,
Why? The truth is inside these pockets of lies
And you can find it in the sockets of my eyes, it's fine.
As long as you can understand why the smog
Becomes a distant cousin to fog and road-hogs
Morph into another distraction from the absence of birds,
And why roads replace the forests until they no longer work.
The cities will be made of buckets and cans and bags of sand,
And supply and demand will win out over the prehistoric plans
To re-instill the aristocratic mastery monopoly pills
Produced from the radiated depths deep within the hills.
Buildings from old bits of iron and sheet metal pieces,
Our voices on intercoms to rid the world of its diseases,
And finally ignorance will not attempt to sway or displease us
And the love of the people will reflect that of Jesus!

The world spins on a tilted axis of evil
Over-trusted in the hands of incompetent people
Lazily ignored by all the church and the steeples
Taking the arms of the weak and the feeble
The rest of us wait until the bombs begin falling
We no longer care, and frankly, God's stalling
The end of the world is constantly calling
No more of the bodies all twisted and sprawling

Splinters, blisters.
Losers, winners.
Saints and sinners.
"Come in for dinner" s

It's where we learned to socialise.
Our very own sovereign land
zero politics
and conflicts always solved
hand to hand.

Loud junctions juxtaposed
against our little corner of paradise
motorists peering in when they stop at that red light.

Ringing on doorbells, buzzing on intercoms
The anticipation
to hear whether your friend was home or not.

Colourblind kids with the most vivid sight.
Retrieving footballs under parked cars
was the extent of our plights.

I didn't know where the world would take us
or the type of people it would make us,
but something I learned from a young age
is that the rest of the world isn't like
Gooseacre.

Bells ringing
People screaming
What is happening?
Teacher's yelling
Intercoms's crying
What is happening?
Locked doors
Turned off lights
What is happening?
Under desks
"No talking!"
What is happening?
A loud crack
A lone scream...

This is no drill.

People and bodies
Lay, stand, sit, walk
Some run.
Clamor makes
the room silent.
Chattering voices.
Muffled, scratchy intercoms.
The phones
ring, ring, bleep, bleep.
Children laugh
they cry
they scream.
Impatiently angry faces
wait for departure
from their lives at
hand.

But who are they?
Mothers, fathers, and children
of course.
Perhaps the obscurely famous,
Agents or senators,
artists and daredevils.
A solider on a two-day leave.
Models, maybe more.

And where will they go?
Some go to more stress.
Some go to say goodbye.
Some go to places unseen.
Others to love.
Others to home.
No matter where
they just want to
leave here.

I am a lousy gardener
that only offends
the soil on top and below.
 
No Petunias or Marigolds bloom,
only crab grass struggling with
Tennessee moss, and a small patch
of Kentucky Bluegrass the
survivor of almost fifty years
and two previous owners:
 
a general practitioner who
layered the inner sod of
the old colonial with
trip wires, alarms, sirens
and intercoms still being
discovered
 
and a Methodist preacher
who cultivated a lawn
of thin earth carpet over
the cheap yellow vinyl
and parquet in the basement—
adding two bedrooms and a shower
for any charitable cases
or needy parishioners.
 
My lawn is left to hell,
the house, gifted to heaven
and the loving attention
of my wife who fills
this abode with the aromas
of her favorite foods
cooking in the oven.
 
The inside is built
on good bones and wood—
a sturdy brick foundation
and oak floors with
a comforting squeak,
sanded and polished
to their original shine.
 
My chihuahua takes great
delight in slipping on them
when she plays fetch.
 
Outside nature riots
in unmolested happiness.
 
Twenty oaks and a few evergreens
defend the spaces of my half acre.
The most majestic one
leans like a hunchback
crying over the stump
of its dead brother below.
 
My trees are allowed to be real trees,
uncultivated, untrimmed, undominated
plus one-hundred-year-old sovereigns.
I respect my vegetable elders.
 
During the spring and summer
the lawn is mowed every other week
to keep my neighbors happy.
 
Five Chipmunk dens burrowed in the clay
provide rooting and hunting
opportunities for my chi,
as the two good boys before,
now scampering
around the rainbow bridge.
 
A black and white stray tabby
has taken up residence on my porch—
sunning in the afternoon,
snoozing in the corner column at night.
He scatters at light and first witness,
his existence a blur captured
on the Ring.
 
Just above is the nest
of our perennial swallows,
real snowbirds I have
no fondness to evict.
The Ring also captures
their welcome and farewell.
 
This dear green acre
has lasted longer
than my happiness.
 
It has the patience
to wait beyond
my grief, disease
and eventual death,
beyond the lease
of all its human tenants
to reclaim its proper heritage.
 
I am so small
to such big things.
We are so small
to such big things.
 
This verdant kingdom
will not shrink back,
wither or expurgate.
 
It will insist on being loved
and watch mine and your colors rust,
for it is beyond discrimination,
consciousness and self-reproach.
 
It will mock you and me
as our fingers dig
down hard into the clay
and grow nothing
that hasn’t existed eons before.
 
It will live alongside
mine and our
happiness and misery,
dropping seeds,
rooting, always blossoming
beyond the violent light.

The final flight had just gone,
I missed it by a short nose a
photo finish the last selfie that
I'd ever take or send, but wait,
I'm out of charge battery low a
flat line symbol my final warning.

Alone in this vast auditorium
where hallowed intercoms once
lauded exotic destinations with
promise, walls adorned with signs,
subliminal exotic tastes, eroticism,
reminiscent of my, Youth In Asia !



Ps.

Any day now, world governments
will be introducing Euthanasia for
the elderly as it is part of the Eugenic
NWO plan using Covid as their cover.