Tell me, Extended Mum, please, tell me now
That Final Instruction I must Obey
Whether Left or Right, whose Decision bow
Will leash the Harness of my Wilding Fray
What Science or Faith could explain this Cause
Given this Great Gap by Geography
Culture and Taste - alone such Values pause
Make alien with Enduring Blasphemy
Of such Tragedy the Comfort House bells,
That Door engraved: "Un-Welcome those Un-Known."
The Answer - to Solve which Society sells
And serve Gold-Friendship with True Facts beknown.
Still, that Tradition of Solitude aspect
Should never be Knived; Must always Respect.

perhaps a hannibal lecter interlude...

  after all... pronouns... are they really: all that important...

the first the second the third wave
of secularism...
fine... fine... make religious artifacts
dunce...
               make iconoclasm...
make it sacrilege...

   islamic stessors on: no images...
         you'd think: high praises for grammar,
orthography and all that...
"orthography": without diacritical markers:
a technical term for something pretty
pedestrian: a spelling mistake...

pronouns... i much prefer prepositions
and conjunctions: the sharpnel of the whole affair of:
a sentence structure...

the liberal, atheist, secular cuddly toys
can have everything... except for the grammar...
since... i **** on {[( and }]) and whatever
bracket >            and < is invoked
to "reinvent a piece of paper"...

pronouns... pronouns...
      i am for: remembering that an aardvark is...
not... and is...
i like to bank a lot of nouns...
i truly do...

             if it can't be settled with the already
in place: crown pronouns...
e.g.: one should think so...
                as in i...
veer into: are we being... addressed?
  the royal we.... the crown of one...
hell... even schizophrenics have better
days than dealing with a pluralism...
the horde does: and the host...

trans-     meta-           cis-       ortho-
               para-                hell... is this a chemistry
lesson? with this prefixes?

the royal use of the pronoun...
because of the... visible entourage...
hence: is one to think so...
are we... being addressed?
   a very, a very very different mind-spatiality
to the inconvenient cork
or nail of the common, labouring:
plumber...

                i's dot and no dots further:
nonetheless does so...

trans-gender lessons in grammar...
i know an older lesson...
trans-******... buffalo bill lessons in pronouns...

it rubs the lotion on its skin...
   it rubs the lotion on its skin...
   or else it gets the hose again...
it rubs the lotion on its skin...
   yes precious: it gets the hose...
    it rubs the lotion on its skin
or else it gets the hose...
  it puts the lotion in the basket...
and it does...
                         (greenskeepers... lotion)

                  we are living in very curious times...
which leaves alluded to...
supposed or otherwise suspect "schizoid-bilinguals"
looking for the chance of playing
poker and someone looking over our shoulder...

have all the religous trampling you can
muster... but grammar is the new religious
dogma... it's the new orthodoxy...

                        it's the old orthodoxy...
a totally wonky pancake of a buffalo bill trans-sexuality
becomes easier to understand than
all the trans-gender-                 -ism...
another -ism another -ology...
              
          **** in the church take a **** on the altar...
tell a ******* like marquis de sade did:
to desecrate a crucifix by reinventing it into
a *****... whatever...

but grammar? can't anything be sacred these...
days? royal pronouns: one should hope so...
are: we being addressed?
    
a grevious faux pas -
      looks something like this: hey presto!
why?
         the colon is a prefix to italics...
     i.e. looks something this: hey presto...
but given the bad choice of e.g. -
i.e. it's also a punctuation mark...

             point being: not like this...
              yes: like this...
              and yes... thus...
                       but....         :        and its
hardly a double emphasis...

    O the low hanging fruit... since:
there's nothing controversial to be said...
this is just the pretty much crass...

     i was sure there must have been a writing
to "compete" with the runes...
that st. cyril had to work with something...
before the romans... well... when the romans
never came...
but the southern slavs
moved into the territory of former jugol...

ⰏⰀⰃⰉⰀ / ⰏⰀⰃⰡ
what once was...
and became:
                        магия...

           well... so much for: "out of africa"....
concerned with the complexity of scribbles
                       and doodles...
so much for those chinese tattoos...
the base is above: the word
is the same...

मघ / मग     and that's just the consonants MG...
it's not magic: it's... magia...
or: "or" magja...

          seems like the greek Π is the roof...
     out of india: perhaps out of africa...
but when did people start writing?

     now for the vowels...
                                   मआघइअ:
म   (m)                
आ   (aa)                      अ
घ    (g)        alt.
इ     (i)
अ     (a)...

                   the H is a surd: a shared
detail of both english and sanskrit...
but i think... मघ / मग... the latter is better suited....
e.g. 'atch: well... there's also
that surd of a G and a K: knived a gnome heart
out... laughed: ah ha ha...
and...                     journalistic insomnia
couldn't care for better days...
or UV paranoia: "paranoia"...

ergo...

                                   मअगइअ:
म   (m)                
आ   (aa)                      अ
ग    (g)        alt.
इ     (i)
अ     (a)...                      

this is still not magic... linear! thank "god"...
    well... this pepper... this perpetuated
thrist... which doesn't leave one satiated...
never completed... just more and more...
disastrous... keep the ship afloat...
while i start to nibble on the anchor!
and take ol' 'aptain down with me like:
a mermaid!

His silence screams like a searching wind
a death-hungry spirit painted in
pallette-knived smears of
grey and fear and crimson
streaking across the night sky of his heart,
lightning-bolt ricochets striking, incinerating
the solitary oak tree of his soul,
scattering his acorns down the hill where they
are lost among the weeds,
shocked into infertility,
But he is a seascape pine,
weather-worn but razor-straight,
Gargantua in wood and steel
establishes his personal space
like a rabid porcupine,
And he is a tower,
hiding his soap bubble dream
while she brushes her hair
one hundred times
one thousand times
one million times
until the dream is
lifeless, breathless, armless
and tucked neatly in a refrigerated drawer,
As his silence screams like a searching wind.

A flatulent king sits
Slouching, scratching,
Congealing to his throne of gold.

His army of a billion men
Are clad in ****** bibs
And grins.
Equipped with hate
And hollow eyes
They stand redily assembled.  

The king is a miser.
His face is a lie.
His motives are equally clear.

Royal subjects within the walls
Respect only of weakness and fear.

They are taxed and harassed.
For knowledge they're knived.
The wisest of Wiseman
Are forced to take bribes.

Their children are taken and
Hidden away
At the mechanized dawn
That announces each day

To learn to be
Ruthless and cruel.
To take advantage of fools.

Greed and malice are tools to be used
At their s and m brainwashing schools.

So their eyes turn jade
And their words turn black
As they cut up their hands
Stabbing themselves in the back.

They're just being taught
How to buy and be bought.

To serve the king;
A gear in his machine.

The ones who concede,
Buy into the greed
But their weakening teeth snap!

One by one
As they go round the vicious circle.

So they end up
Defunct,
Sunken eyed.

They dangle their
Dot spangled
Hands at their sides.

And although they loose,
Somehow they win.

They end up running
The world we live in.

This Skeleton knived me a Painful Score
Yet poked my Penances cry out deny
Longing to tape those Cankered Wounds formore
In Prayer breathe out another Saint's sigh
My Founding Friends, heirs to my Salvation
One whose Resources I facelessly extract
The Other - blend Virtue - shook Obsession
Wasted my Traits from Loyalty and Tact
So then, wailing softly, my Bleeding Throat
Ask your Lord's Mercy to concile me then
As a Year and a Bone suffice your Gloat
And demote me less than those Honoured Men.
There is one Birth hence; And a Rebirth haste
To Breathe once more; And leave my Shell to paste.

Death puts an end to it all-
This sordid necessity of trudging through life;
Its continual struggle and perpetual strife,
The business of prosaic living;
Of gaining and losing,getting and giving
Death puts an end to it all.

And it doesnt matter how it ended-
Be it a cruel act of fate, a self-orchestrated blow.
That stemmed the life-stream's flow.
Were you hacked down in frenzy ,
or consumed in cold blood.
or preyed upon by disease.
Now you are shrouded in cold silence,
In eternal peace.
Really doesn't matter how it ended.

Now that you are gone,
your soul harboured to a transcendental realm
Whizzing past like a comet, a trail of ash behind.
Those forlorn mourners, at your requiem.
Dazed by the shock of its light, finally find.
Memories of you, is all they can live by
Now that you are gone.

Those who had loved you,
Bereaved broken hearts, shattered by your loss
Yearning to hear your voice, craving to see your face
With an infernal bundle of grief, that they can never efface
And since the morbid melody of your death knell
Life has been nothing short of a living hell
For those who had loved you

And how they lived through it-
Brave hearts, fighting private battles each day
The scab of time, hides the raw pain within
But sorrows gnawing at their innards, stay
for a long time, unheard and unseen.
With a steely smile,frozen on their face
They say, they have moved on; life's commonplace.
And though they laugh and talk now,
like the times when you were here.
Its when nobody is looking;
They wipe away those treacherous tears.
Oh, how they lived through it.

So pardon me,
For I weep for them , not you
Those bereaved by the loss of a loved one.
Because your life's setting sun,
spells an end to your miseries.
Theirs have only begun.
You smile out of picture frames
Into conversations creeps in your name.
Their  hearts are knived by brutal reconciliation
That life will never be the same.

You are a Star now;
Scintillating at the heights of heaven.
Lord is with you. I'm happy for you.
Do not get me wrong.
My thoughts dont misconstrue;
and pardon me,
for I weep for them , not you.
For those, who are still living;
After losing you.

(2008)

Here’s my thinking:
Sir Kevan probably gave a decent plan
with solid foundations and associated cost
not loss
and all the Ricardians could see
was that it wasn’t all me, me, me
and so slashed away and thought:
those dumb enough to teach
can eat the **** sandwich
it’s not like they do anything that matters,
****** chattering classes,
now, how do we get them to do childcare
for the next six weeks
to stop the knived dead
and angry, apoplectic kids
and make sure their drone folks are on the lines
to feed our fat, fatcat selves?
I’m sure that Portia works for Ofsted...

When alone I met the voice

In my deserted glassy skies

There was no doubt in me

Whenever I made the choice

It is not within my eyes

But within what’s within me

Once I held my hand to Joyce,

To Jim, John, those isolated highs

For we share blood as we share sea


Albatross and ravens drop redfruits, so many. Long-time sleepers awake of nightmermaids to fall back in dreamlocks ; O but the captain, my captain is on the dock with the roman republic : hail! Hail! We share a destiny. Hail Hail again, for we share a destiny.

Long-time travelers, dust-looking woman playing virginity dices on the banks. But the dice is taken in the sand, but the dice is taken in the sands.

Shall you see, dearest eye, towards deadland eternal open borders, shall you sail and accost with symmetric feet? Or will you go, one fingertip at the time? The question is thrown, but the answer is late ; it happens in the waves of human fates, as past is present in the lines of human face, and reels right on left, heels lipton tighs.

Captain!

The ship is rigged and we see each other from above our natural talents, thus we share but the sight of our mutual tempests, to appease us, in a fraternal horror. For we do not share no language... Hear me! We do not share no language! I hear your screams and shrieks in which you draw your heart, and I know – for we all know – those words, those only we learnt to know from each other. When we gather, we understand, our disharmonious tongues all say but once ‘We do not share no language’. That’s all we’ll ever know for sure.

And a singer drew his breath for us ; a sinking philosopher renamed air water so he would not die drowning ; and the singer drifts in breeze for us ; the ghost of self-belief knived my beatle knight, an killed all worth believing in him ; and the singer drools on *** with ease. Cry! We’ll never be mass-ters again. These stars shone in London, in the plain of Po and in the Pan desert, but no ashes can help us steering our way. Solemnly I declare, Dear Sir or Dead Seer.

Bang shoot the earthbow.

It is the way the word ends, not with a full sound but within a comma,