Floating above the rifts of apperception I glaze over the gaudy faucets of imagined vector thrusts in hibernation by the lucubration of space-time materialized crystal in the somber beats of fetched farrago of choice slices in delicate hums of hemmed balance rantipole only in ethereal importance but otherwise supersolid above the sprauncy vagrancy of dilettantism. We shout a clarion virtuosity so that the conclamation of neovitalism conjures upon a spell of lapse and regress a motive for further crystallization of epidemiology into harmony with syndicated admonition sleek in design and parceled into renown by feats of completion rather than slugabed gregarious fountains of wasted ingenuity bleeding from the vacuum of an empty hearth in a hospitable dwelling otherwise cleared of imperfection. Right now, I levitate with transcendence with an approximated eidetic memory that is the surgical vibrancy of renewal rather than the chameleons of hidden talents buried by the walls of Jericho sounding tocsins of alarm that the anointed favor of choice destruction is only an encircled rapture of rhapsodies of confluence found in axiomatic truths ribbed with the futtocks of seaworthy but cauponate recidivism into the donnybrooks of apocryphal revelation preceding the whimsical fall of cascading permanence just as gravity so ordained it. We breathe the life of the ethereal numinous spirit of isangelous repute because we navigate the exquisite cobweb of reconciliation to surpass all understanding in peace what would be a miscegenated carcass of war otherwise apart from the incidental apartheid of the drones of causality ignoring the antecedent reality too much to register fathomed streaks of preventive endeavor because of the scars of a scrappy schlep of the rampicks of ecbolic servitude to moth-eaten star-crossed lovers of the mean menagerie of gutless succor renowned only in tepid rejections of harbingers bequeathed in succession but ignored because of the procession of “Billie Jean” politics.

   The citadel aflame with controversy buttresses carnality by witless contaminants of hidebound scaldabancos of ineffable destitution so craven in eisoptrophobia for their hypostasized indolent fatuousness of capitulation that they are but a minor punctuation in the largesse of centuries to favor audacity in candor over the prevarications of catastrophe to dented human pride against humane dictates of theodicy in fatalism that predestination experimented with its own vaulted verve to find permanent solutions engraved in the agrapha of time to solidify the redintegrated truth of God’s divine stewardship above the quisquilous deism of former regnant centuries of blench and blandishment. We revolt at the specter of rot only when the effluvia of disgust elevates the visceral reality above the utilitarianism of recycled prim nuisances of noisome lineage that yet balk because they are bereft of attention but not a vacant talent and therefore should the subsidies of man surpass the ignorance of appearances he will shrug of the demur of the scrimshank and sharpen his scrivello in the service of redemption found through cultivated prowess of gardens beneath where rivers flow above a cubic centurion of embattled visages of the heavens becoming the rampart for the vestigial clarity of Secret Masters to foresee the bypass that heals decadence and rebukes the formalism of puritan endeavor to sweat with exhaustive patience over the gossamer intertesselations of a ripe reality rather than a groveled fragmentary world shattered too much by exigent metanoia to mount the crenellated catchpole of vigilant enmity towards the stew of listlessness found in epigone and farce more than in organic fortunes. We flip the upheaval of society to squander our proportionate degrees of wealth on the necessity created by dire quandary which enamors by interrogations of pulchritude the verisimilitude of participle ivory dalliance of etched canvasses of simultagnosia for the librations of the liberated rings of betrothed liberation despite profound lurches of the mistetches of ignorance presiding dismally over the hulked disdain of glamborge rather than resselenque.

     The winter is a poor porcine glut of ciconine swelters because the prickly obtuse recoil of the delopes of caution find their permeable balance with a sort of photographic photosynthesis that braves the dearth of reprieve for the reprisal of nostalgic deeds found in the docimasy of riveted reflections because the preordination of God is the superlative champion of the witeless grandeval protectorate of infinite concepts guarded from the parvanimity even of the most strident minds squabbling over the braseros and battues of history as though those funereal stains of lachrymose regret outweigh the traditions of vaunted human progress because they are finicky about importunate pleas of subsidiary injustice rather than fulminations of the modern rebuttal to the disclaimers of an uneven history that shepherds the doubts of nihilism into ripe fruition at the expense of very expensive moral rot for the codlings of urbacity and mendaciloquence used to foment that tribalism of totemic justice. We see in Penuel the wrestling match of specters and heroic giants documented on the ageless pages and we notice the ironic twinges of struggle that kneaded the propriety of gentilian privilege that ultimately fostered an insurrection against chosen bravado among those that sear with zeal beyond the yordim afflictions of yobbery because the Jewish heart is stronger than any calamity even if it departs from the reverence of the colporteurs of the integrated syncretism of the attempted monolith that beseeches polyphiloprogenitive growth in mindset rather than in testy abeyance of forbearance because of known scrutinies into the tropology of wilted facts remanded by curious historicity that crumples without disdain when we memorialize the erasure of scepsis by modern standards of thaumaturgy.

    The minauderies of growth are a repositioned tacit allegiance to the untold fanfare and hearsay immunized against the broach of facetious levity to buoy discordant hearts above fumatoriums of relentless ignorance because coherent masterwork can be cobbled without such lapidary toil and toll on sincere affectations of wizened brevity. The seismic precautions for the forefathers of incidental convergences between expectancy and crystallized history are an ironic intortion of priorities because the heralds and tribunes matched the peerless foresight with the gerrymandered figments of apartheid between the imaginary and the real so that the delicate synchrony of events could unfurl a riveting carapace from the shells of protection even in amiable squalor for its impenitent attrition on the volleys of sensible rumor becoming fashioned in covert bedazzled errors in judgment leading to the triumph of the eventual civilization over the futtocks of the burial of the former trekleador of zenkidu belonging to provincial cadasters found so tucked in the hedges that discernment of frikmag would be an indelible scourge on the biognosy of the diagnosed endeavors that elapsed into remediated circumstances that brave the depths of deontological violation for the breadth of apportioned loaves and two swanky fish earning a place among the miracles of transcendent liberation from articles of decree imperious by sardonic disdain becoming nullified by the histrionics of a delicately staged orchestra that cements human achievement.

       We relish the frescades of a ruffled autumnal reminder of flourish above pothers of the screed of admonition swamped by nostalgic backtracks in the séance with ultimatum of design and the impregnated and carnal lusts of a world pitched in darkness with guarded lambent lights fomenting a perjury against tact for the deliverance of freedom in tacit agreement with owleries that every bonanza be tithed in their favor regardless of hibernation of spoilsports or their subsidiary remarks on indelible quills of invented manufactured realities we crave with desperation rather than cower from in requited nescience urging us to depart from affairs and stagnate the loyalty of fealty above the limber of utility mobilized above levities for solemn remarks and rejoinders. Promulgated above the robotic rubble of staffage haywire in wiredrawn contemplative resonance of tremulous subterfuge vestigial but immediate to the yardsticks of reprehensible malarkey, is the barnstorm for erratic dimples sauntered by the saunas of shelter above the chaos of ruined ginnels for the gimcracks of auxiliary duty to service, is the glorification of the sultry intimations of legions of remonstrance in guarded decorum about sunken atrocities lapsed in memorial to the incumbent brunt of sockdolagers of justice returning revenants from the bridewell of historical internment. The symphily of orchestras to cineaste symposiasts of surquedry in impudence beyond the brays of betrayal is the aborning mythos of regimented perceptions of a world that when magnified by minutiae appears starkly contrast to the gapped gubbertushed reality of the average patron of the arts to such an extreme gulf of receptive understanding that the qualia are dovetailed only in the swink of careful kisswonks to certify certitude itself when all the fragments coalesce into subjoined harmony to the substructures of inherent conscientiousness. The miracles at work that are vesicles and vessels for the swage of imprint above the loyalty of the imprinted tribunes of the fluminous is how hidden protrusions can emerge so victorious over popularized glazes on the pastures of a farmed culture itching for timmynoggies of innovation but only finding the etched remarks of pristine imagos of heroism dwindling in motivation to surpass the imaginative leaps accustomed to a newfangled laziness that bedazzles the guzzle of crowds but not the discrimination of the crowded morass of incompletion found in mosaics missing enigmatic philters of intoxicated love for the profound. So to be intermediary as a custodian for artistry we must cozen the wheedled imaginations not of the relic but the archaeologist that discovered the embedded prisms of attentive scrutiny for glinting sunshine inherent in troves of surpassed excellence beyond parochial sympatric blandishment of donnism rather than a resselenque that floats above demeanor to usher the cosseted age of treasure above the glib brocards and florews of past success.

      Immanent to the provisions of God as decreed from a syncretic reconnaissance of the pitiable gulfs that separate boundless divine love from the clavigerous potential for scrappy sympatric affiliation to **** through the barnstorms of internal comestions of conflated priorities we are ourselves prismatic in the indulgence of a tasty life sprinkled with zest rather than tempered with the vengeance of retorted animosity that we knead the pottery of ironclad resistance to a metallic conduit of pruned fulminations of unguided intuition so that the natural accord supersedes the goad of materialism for the sustenance of antiquity beyond its heyday for vital gains against the tauricide of panic and frenzy. The linchpin of all realistic attempts at the sympatric symphily of civilization is a guided remorse through the torment of affliction that sizzles without anteric barbs as it measures through engrenage how to pilot the vehicles of prosperity through the minefields of contingency that invisibly bequeath new hurdles and inestimable obstacles that collude surreptitiously to fulminate measured controversy against the backbites of restrained equipoise created by polities of the macadamized fabric of a welded smithy of a universe that with ubiquity proclaims above the senseless the harvest of conjugal repartee in sensible pride against militant bastions of incidental prejudice for a careen against the flyndresques of danger and the flyndrigs of glaikery alike for a humane spurt of enlightenment to tower peerlessly in supervision of entelechy created by esemplastic unity in apolaustic purpose. We cannot be puritans engaged in a pilgrimage to a palimpsest of priggishness because the daring elements of adventurism are necessary ingredients to catalyze the supply-chain of the innate gluttony of ego-seeking endless balance with a natural sustained biognosy that prizes biocentric harmony above bibliognost scepsis so that the enthused can flock with liberty divorced from libertinism. The ultimatum is a war between hedonism wed with donnism against eumoirety and self-restraint and this battle will be waged on the indolence of a future of cordslave tethers to interrogation of privy conceptualism hamshackled by the gradgrinds into the neat nexility of precise conformity that blacklists the samizdat because the genizah profoundly twists the already jumbled jengadangle and provides a junediggle of procession and ceremony rather than pomp without substantial grit embedded in the showmanship of a reality in need of a fourth-wall.

        It is ironic how we bewrayed our stewardship of the planet as a plenipotentiary sentience waged against the vesicles of instinct but more fundamental to this tattered but pregnant psalm is that the stronghold of our future is the tenacity of filial duty to enthrone the household with husbandry and restraint as an emolument to divine justice that sparkles opalescent in its own redacted notions of gravity imperfect in the taradiddles of science but refined by the eclat of the combustible syncopation of a reiterative trope of realism combined with surrealist caprice to henpeck affectionate violation above inviolable screeds of blood sport rather than conjugal affections afforded to the brood and the feast of the flocks that rein supreme over all things but exert inclement justice over the cattle and chattel of civilization itself. The minkumpf against the sacrilege of a prioritized kosher is to abhor the suffering rather than embrace the penitence of perceived but specious sacrifice which is an ornery thorn on the stained conscience of the yobbery of both the apikoros and the obedient because to attenuate all suffering even of instinctual beings we anneal our hearts to a glorified compassion that supersedes the relegated relics of pushful genuflection by succedaneum of sacrifice waged against the docile whangams of otiose theodicy. The filibusters against the regnant complexity of regalia that is a sprauncy poivrade with terpsichorean flairs to transmute the intimations of hibernated perfidy into finicky transmissions for the riometers that accord orbific merit in a lackluster time enchant the rollicking audience of this auditorium of the prevenance of the conquered universe bracing for the camorra of the insipid entreaty of defalcated casuistry—the prominent exchequer in hoodwinked political agitprop that forges ironclad allegiances to flimsy facades of the verisimilitude of dignity with recalcitrant but incondite bruits of venom militant against secular apostasy—that the fitful arrivistes that swim in dire dearth will be welcomed into the reconciliation of all time with a tempered lurid glint of revelation bounded by sunken albatross of hype unbounded with a peace insurmountable in prestige rewarded only with the highest reservations.


    On 3-1-2020 when I penned my philosophy—even at a slowpoke margin of crafty precision above rapid empirical faucets of folly—I was entirely selfsame with the autotelic engravings of the smoldering aboriginal talents within that many can swing through by tenacity for enormous plaudit but a flagrant majority will apprehend with flippant scollardical tenets of rebuke and remain honest in their appraisal only in meek resignation of parvanimity.
Consider the postulates of rarefaction whittled into a vehement zeal against the prostitution of our species to the anteric cycles of residual molds of dingy spectacle mired by the tyrannical towers of supercilious squirms of revamped novelty rather than enhanced by the freebooters of dirigisme that borrow from time the behest of philandered flairs divorced from the cadges of secular instinct and enthroned by the qualms of engineered virtuosity that is stark, barren but peerless in its outstretched clamor for luxuriant sprees against the silentium of grandeval asylum incurred by the flippant filigrees of recalcitrant modernism endangered by the irredentism of the future upon the whimsy of the present-minded momentary glare of rapture.  This impending architecture of nimble but subservient endeavor is a pinprick rejoinder against the wernaggles of prepossessed fountains of configured animosity against the stapled heed of a modality of trayned invictive invectives against the plodding course of fustilugianation that swerves in apathy of autopilot junediggle to emanate the surrender of epigone to the raktendure of the synaesthesis of the attuned perception of all superimposed minutiae delegated by calculated design into a synclastic focus on veiled caprice that is vaulted above the choppy and sketchy verdure of remiss perception to stellar continuities rather than mundane knickpoints of stodged blurs that magnify syncretic qualia into baseline congruity rather than staid torpefied resignation of the visage of thunder without the pangs of the widely vituperated lightning that bequeaths all certain notions but flouts the tortious saboteurs of the prim trucage of brittle fundamentalism.

     As the flawed paragon of a picaresque youth punctuated by vibrant plumage of self-wrought tropophilous usucaption of remote groomed frontiers of desolate luxury but buoyant morale into the ballasts of a nimble usufruct that hikkles yet still against still-framed thilloire--fatuous in endearment only to the polity of the waterdrip of craven but gravid disingenuous flickers of lambent cloaks of perfidy—that earned its birthright by meditative fruition rather than prodigal tallespin of indolent frapplanks of a vicarious personage rather than an autotelic haecceity showcases the folly of heterodyne inclinations meeting an impasse of accidental dislodgement. The interregnum between the spurts and sprees of luxuriance is a staid pause between continuities of afforded parlance becoming stapled demographic solidarity affixed to a strident gallop of effortful pushes against the tenacity of the slumberous wicked hibernation of vetust magpiety without hieratical internment because youthful industry beats hackneyed bludgeons of wiseacres of a stilted manufacture of steamy nostalgia for lickerish moments that dignify but undermine moral virtues but splash anointed and sometimes disjointed favor upon the congeners to a rabid escapade of a heedless love frowning on the girdles of the prim balderdash of heralded jolts dim on levity and puffed with elusive contextualized control of libidinous serrated defilement because the crotaline **** outmantles the sweedled limber of exploitable folly. The cosseted reality of wheedled gourmands of continuous perception rather than the Gaussian blur of the protean invention of stitches in time that obscure rather than magnify the supernal levity inherent to most artistry is a linchpin of lenient gravitas that levies the lavaderos of ripe perception into annealment.
Excuse the bravado of the gait of winnowed forks in a bronteum for heralds of megaloscopy fastened to the macroscian reality of indelible filigrees of countermanded controversy becoming its best behest in the sempiternal flowering of burgeoned demonstration rather than illustrious overhang of drab slabs of manufacture rather than organism that should be interposed between the constellated concepts of both apperception and the aggrieved counselors to obtuse obsessions that are an improper tutelary for a designated reprisal of the once profane now immediately gratified by ramshackle tenets of a guarded sublimation of the tenets of post-modernism into a sustained force of the internalized tabernacle of haecceity shepherded into exuberance by the manumission of spirit from the ******* of purblind scalds of defamation that incurs the penalty of flippant privation. The refuge the Lord provides is not contingent upon the vagaries of deliberation nor the calculus of oversight but the remontant amaranthine glower of a listed deed becoming an eternal reminder that a dismantled and disjointed world fathoming only remorse rather than the trudge of gentility against the headwinds of brunt asperity will always flout the successor rather than atone for the failure of the imponent condition that constellates around rudimentary drivel grubbing the momentary out of avarice for allotted merchandise rather than glommed magnets to amoeba sentiments for the kisswonk of ulterior motive beyond dungeons of desperation that lurk ghoulishly with spectral frights at the disfigurement of morale created by errors askew rather than a contagion of righteous valor.

   Ask the heedful servant if the captaincy of reneged commitment owes homage to dutiful instruction or whether it is a balking corpse of necrosis accorded to the omphalism of brutish carnal repose in times of sedentary silt siphoned in spelunked rijuice for preordination is a predominant specter for a world scared scurrilous and skittish in a diatribe against the very notion of tribal screeds embedded in the sedimentary heft of traditionalism above the pother of vacillation commended to the apikoros but counterfeit fiat system of a ruddy governance without a supreme magistrate. Now lets venture into the territory of visagists as we envision the swanky subversion of impoverished and nebbich visions of oligochrome that fixates on belabored but dead notions of rigid propriety and levitate above those concerns with a querulous transcendence that never wernaggles about the profaned irrelevance of burlesque tropes of sidereal friction but instead memorializes the thermolysis of permeable endeavor above staid countenances of imposture that lurk in the shadowy penumbra of the connivance of persona above the archetype of the tutelary guardian spirit that through windlass and sometimes deliberation affixes nobility to even the pedestrian in order to assize its proper proportions to granular ironies expounded into megalography transformative by the very rivets of its supersensible existence and cohabitation with histrinkage among human taboos.

   The handiwork of a permeable race prone to exacerbated proclamations of prerogatives bulldozed by the rapid percolation of insoluble quandaries to the gripes of the feast of foofaraw sometimes shelters our otherwise regnant concern about the plenipotentiary God that observes all latent affairs without the paramours that conflate vivid carnality with appeased luxury and superimposes a crafty system of seismic shifts in rantipole dances with numinous flux rather than dissipated militant suppression of the fracklings of dissolute pollution which swirk in their dastardly desperado endeavors to corral the entire monoliths that guard each province into a winnowed rumble of rubble by tarnish of Tyre rather than by the upstart rejoinders of Canaan. Every creature which has the capacity to perceive language is afforded benedictions by the overhailing force of the hypaethral heights of superlative ingenuity founded in the bolted speculation of the endearment of all to tropological seesaws embattled against the hearsay of nyejays that contaminates the telmatology of the ecosystem of revivalism rather than buries the leaden debts of the disjointed revenants of past prominence into recycled irrelevance for posterity rather than for anything but a machination of a clockwork apple rigged for a rotten worm to swindle the sweet delicate tempests of unforeseen disaster to perjuries against financial solidarity.

The spinsters of sardonic drollery underscore the imminence of an incondite cutthroat collapse blackguarded by the hucksters of incontinence grubbing every fetched noisome notion and congealing a bonnyclabber of desiccated mildew that proves vestigial when the victors of time earn their joyous serenade to the pinnacle of the totem of jaundice slits in wavy endeavors for the participles of sejungible syntax of the ephorized furor to outlast the draksteng of droned dereliction manned by half-baked spies of ulterior recitals for imprinted vicissitude in supremacy in synquest for frizzlounges rather than the pedestrian circulatory system of careworn polity. We vaporize the petty hatred of sympatric regelation that neuters the virulence of motivated impediments to the draconian surge of asperity that sinks temporal haplessness as a regaled blasphemy that crowns only the ringed betrothal to spumid serrated halts in slick superstition that is a buggery to the idea of insectivores devouring the erratic chantage of germane germs that pauperize rather than even blind the deafened to be a crutch to vehicular homicide. Melismatic sennet is a dirigible of immense herculean sinew without the traces of vestibulary retches of kisswonked grisly tepid intimidations of eccedentesiasts by the radioglare of wizened corrugations in thanatism that exhort the avatars of narquiddity over the natural departure of revenant souls back to their temporary hostility to crass lifeless decarnate immediacy that slinks with foibles magnified by vertiginous heights of scollardical reputes rigged by the rijuice of the plackiques of meaningless spoils for swashbuckler bonanza borrowed from serrated vengeance exacted in prominence to provide false avenues of extenuation to malefaction that is confidant to the panopticon of exemplary dimples meager in the largesse of the composite realism of a sizable imprint on megalography that outlasts impertinent excuses for dangerous trout swimming against the mobilized selachostomous frizz of sharks gathering to avenge disclosure with insolence and gravid atrocity of incisive surgical evisceration of attempted depositions that falter by innumerable facets of countenance that belie ultimate realism and the perdurable construction of a sturdy hive of bibliognost revelry.

     Even with the blaring sennet of majesty inundating my piecemeal perception with the marstions of flarium that is an efficacy in a flaccid world of otiose pretenses limpid only in folly but contraplex in ironic skewbald skerries of grubbed destination that is the terminus of karezza despite the maledictions of vehement guarded betrayals that conjure up lurid noisome virility against the gamines and gallywows that populate interstellar fictions of virtu rather than mundane pragmatica that astound with the resselenque of contaminated skeumorphs of latent fracture belonging to a skeletonized ossified reification of farce above historicity in seemly seamless countenance with overwrought princely stature deserving integrity to ripples through sparkling opalescence. The vapid insularity of the self-contained mythos of appeased groundlings is based on the rhizic and rhizogenic fracklings destitute in predicative flares to swelter above stratospheres of the illimitable into the dwelling of the highest serenity inherent to the pacification of truth to neglect its egregious errors of mistetches of a ripened pachyderm of bravery in times of austerity and now a reclaimed notion of sempiternal charades swimming above the punitive draksteng of dranger that is enlarged by acclimated attempts at foiled raltention hikkling against its own superior forces of galvanized preterition to elide over screwball insanity of derangement in this virtual paradise of inhabited souls belonging to former times congregating on the pasture of the evanescence of now for all eternity having the optative condition of incarnation above the ferules of the stagnant brevity of oversight in heavenly realms by postulate but not confirmed by regal logic.

     The troponder of the flickered lambent niceties of polity is a countenance that piggybacks on simpered jostles of negligent engrenage to appease sworn enmities among beatific havens for certitude swarmed by the fisticuffs of darbied bridewells of desiccated drainage traversing the distant disdain for the gravel of cemented slits of stilted pragmatica that is a gavel of atrocious estoppel mediated by heroic heresiarchs against pitiable betrayal for forceful remedies in acclimated servitude to the groans and groaks of a life of remorse and dearth rather than the glut of luxuriance in forbearance to its own intorted mirrored ironies that etch infinity with every scrawled rejoinder to austere ploys of checkered rumbles of threat and exigency posed by the clairvoyant hypocrites who benefit greatly by the design of the omphalism above the frays and brays of corporate dogmatism slowly outmoded by vibrant plumages of heteronormative originality beyond petty chantage. A hesitation overcomes the bluster of bravado as the restive earnest concerns of tribulation beset the minauderies of divine affection to reaffirm the teachings of the Gospel so that future generations genuflect beneath the altar of the ultimate stroke of sociogenesis and the blood ransom of suffering that promoted the human latitude and liberty against incarcerated throngs of virtue over caesaraproprism accorded to genuflection beneath denarii rather than absolution by tether to the eternal vine of sensation of the supersensible entelechy of all valiant insurrections against defective polities and renewed policies.

     We thus seek a transdimensional bridge between the morphean virtu of rudimentary alchemy of propitiation divulged by leverage and the teeming rambunctiousness of fiduciary tribes to the ultimate duty of man to consummate the future of eternity even in slowpoke mannerisms that sidle through rigors of entelechy and assize the masterwork of tutelage above the circumforaneous entrenchment of glut above the mastery of the subtle subaudition that beleaguers an adept conflagration of harnessed human ignorance staid in the incarceration of exotic virtues of freewheeling sapience never vulnerary to hospitable concerns that entrenches the verisimilitude of a refracted justice to reign over the stultification of a primitivism inherent to man and not man alone.

Magistrate, male,    32 years of age
   policeman on duty  30
   the man on the dock 60

Magistrate to policeman : What's the nature of his offence?

Policeman: He cycled in the night on....at... pm without light
This is in contravention of Section....sub-clause....of the Traffic Act 1892

to the defendant: How do you plead?
Defendant:  Not guilty and unjust, Your Honour

Magistrate to policeman: Was he co-operative?
Answer: No Sir, he was angry and gave me a lecture

M:  lecture---about what? The law? Is he a lawyer?

P:   No Sir, he talked about family honour, Chinese filial piety,
Confucius and Chinese civilisation with 5,000 years of history...on and on...

M:  Is he a scholar or historian?

P:  No Sir, he certainly isn't !

M:   Then, who is he?

P:     Sir, I know him very well--he's my father!
He said I had no right to arrest him as that was lack of filial piety.

M:   Hmm, really interesting.  Never had such a case before me.
then to policeman:
       ' Your dad was right!  You should have heeded what he said.
You are wasting Court-time. Case dismissed!

        (newsmen and those who sat in Court gave a loud clap and
shouted: Bravo!)

Captured in the psych ward, Jesse Jameson' entry



Today Ron went into his usual cafe to buy a coffee and cake and

While he was in there he met Jesse Jameson who was in the store

Hiding from the police after robbing the local bank, and Jesse proved

That he was a nice gut, ya know too nice for prison and as soon as

Ron heard about the bank robber being Jesse Jameson, he tried to

Convince the magistrate that Jesse needs to be put in the psych ward

Instead of prison, and when Ron did the medication rounds, he gave Charlie

His, and Charlie said, I heard on the news that we might be getting a bank robber

In this psych ward, and Ron said, well, yeah, we could be, it is up yo the magistrate,

And you do know that you have to behave yourself if he does, because he could turn

Nasty, and as Jesse was in the holding cell, he was feeling the hooligan in his feet

In the form of an itch and Ron came in to say hello, and talk about,what the lawyers

Have planned for you, you see, what you need is, you need to be on your best behaviour

You don't commit any crimes between now and next Monday and, there will no problem

Of you going to the psych ward, you see I am bending over backwards and Jesse sat there

Scratching his toes, and Ron asked have you got tinnea or dermatitus in your feet, and

Jesse said no, it is the fact I am in here, instead of the psych ward, you see I didn't mean

To rob that bank and I can tell you why I did it, and Ron said, well, why did you, and Jesse

Said, well, I was hearing voices that I couldn't control, and before you say it, I am not

mentally ill, you see I am just a man who needed a few dollars to feed my family and Ron

Said, well, yeah, we have to get a psychiatric examination anyhow, because you broke the

Law, Jesse, you had a gun, you could have killed someone, you are risking jail time, and if

You pass the psych test, you could go to the psych ward, for as long as it takes for the

Medication to work and Jesse said, ok, so, if I pass the psych ward I get off in a psych ward

Instead of jail, what about my reputation with my mates, we used to laugh at the mentally ill

And Ron said, yeah, so I will come 2 hours before the court case, to give you a psych

Evaluation and then we'll see whether you pass to come here, but Jesse, I am sorry, you

Ain't fit for society, the psych ward is the safest place, for you, so psych test is your best bet

Buddy, and then Ron went home and ordered a pizza and fell asleep in front of the box

And woke up, and had to miss his cup of coffee, to go to the police holding cell to give

Jesse his psych test and after he did that, he gave the test results to the lawyer and went to

Cafe to have his cup of coffee and vanilla slice and said, ya know, that guy who was here

Yesterday, the big day has arrived, and hopefully we will get our wish of having him in the

Psych ward, but, I glanced at his psych test, it looked normal, and I said, this guy was

Hearing voices, and as soon as he had his food he went to the court to find out whether

Jesse will be sentenced into his care and Ron arrived at the holding cell, to pick him up

And drive him to court, hoping that he will get the chance for Jesse to join his HDU and

After 3 hours of being in the court, hearing god knows what, and when the magistrate

Came back, he closed the case, and said, I sentence Jesse Jameson to the care of Ron

Coopers HDU, suffering from schitzophrenia and Jesse thanked Ron, and for the first 2

Weeks Jesse, was isolated from the others till they have his medication right, but Jesse had

A TV in the room and he lied on his bed and watched TV and then Ron brought around the

Night time medications and that was including Jesse's and then Ron clocked off and

Went home to make spaghetti bolognaise and watched TV and then fell asleep on the couch

And Jesse was making noise all night, so much in fact the nurses need to give him ******

To settle him down and the next morning Ron got a phone call saying that Jesse needed to

Settle down, so we gave him a ****** and Ron went straight to the HDU and gave Jesse his

Morning medication, and said, you need to relax at night, and Ron left after Jesse said

I will try, try ******* you


Sent from my iPhone

clouds cannot hide behind the sun
while the magistrate’s Attila the ***
the man is out to hunt for fun
run for your life “Bambi”, run

02/10/2017

Then, when we had got down to the sea shore we drew our ship into
the water and got her mast and sails into her; we also put the sheep
on board and took our places, weeping and in great distress of mind.
Circe, that great and cunning goddess, sent us a fair wind that blew
dead aft and stayed steadily with us keeping our sails all the time
well filled; so we did whatever wanted doing to the ship’s gear and
let her go as the wind and helmsman headed her. All day long her sails
were full as she held her course over the sea, but when the sun went
down and darkness was over all the earth, we got into the deep
waters of the river Oceanus, where lie the land and city of the
Cimmerians who live enshrouded in mist and darkness which the rays
of the sun never pierce neither at his rising nor as he goes down
again out of the heavens, but the poor wretches live in one long
melancholy night. When we got there we beached the ship, took the
sheep out of her, and went along by the waters of Oceanus till we came
to the place of which Circe had told us.
  “Here Perimedes and Eurylochus held the victims, while I drew my
sword and dug the trench a cubit each way. I made a drink-offering
to all the dead, first with honey and milk, then with wine, and
thirdly with water, and I sprinkled white barley meal over the
whole, praying earnestly to the poor feckless ghosts, and promising
them that when I got back to Ithaca I would sacrifice a barren
heifer for them, the best I had, and would load the pyre with good
things. I also particularly promised that Teiresias should have a
black sheep to himself, the best in all my flocks. When I had prayed
sufficiently to the dead, I cut the throats of the two sheep and let
the blood run into the trench, whereon the ghosts came trooping up
from Erebus—brides, young bachelors, old men worn out with toil,
maids who had been crossed in love, and brave men who had been
killed in battle, with their armour still smirched with blood; they
came from every quarter and flitted round the trench with a strange
kind of screaming sound that made me turn pale with fear. When I saw
them coming I told the men to be quick and flay the carcasses of the
two dead sheep and make burnt offerings of them, and at the same
time to repeat prayers to Hades and to Proserpine; but I sat where I
was with my sword drawn and would not let the poor feckless ghosts
come near the blood till Teiresias should have answered my questions.
  “The first ghost ‘that came was that of my comrade Elpenor, for he
had not yet been laid beneath the earth. We had left his body
unwaked and unburied in Circe’s house, for we had had too much else to
do. I was very sorry for him, and cried when I saw him: ‘Elpenor,’
said I, ‘how did you come down here into this gloom and darkness?
You have here on foot quicker than I have with my ship.’
  “‘Sir,’ he answered with a groan, ‘it was all bad luck, and my own
unspeakable drunkenness. I was lying asleep on the top of Circe’s
house, and never thought of coming down again by the great staircase
but fell right off the roof and broke my neck, so my soul down to
the house of Hades. And now I beseech you by all those whom you have
left behind you, though they are not here, by your wife, by the father
who brought you up when you were a child, and by Telemachus who is the
one hope of your house, do what I shall now ask you. I know that
when you leave this limbo you will again hold your ship for the Aeaean
island. Do not go thence leaving me unwaked and unburied behind you,
or I may bring heaven’s anger upon you; but burn me with whatever
armour I have, build a barrow for me on the sea shore, that may tell
people in days to come what a poor unlucky fellow I was, and plant
over my grave the oar I used to row with when I was yet alive and with
my messmates.’ And I said, ‘My poor fellow, I will do all that you
have asked of me.’
  “Thus, then, did we sit and hold sad talk with one another, I on the
one side of the trench with my sword held over the blood, and the
ghost of my comrade saying all this to me from the other side. Then
came the ghost of my dead mother Anticlea, daughter to Autolycus. I
had left her alive when I set out for Troy and was moved to tears when
I saw her, but even so, for all my sorrow I would not let her come
near the blood till I had asked my questions of Teiresias.
  “Then came also the ghost of Theban Teiresias, with his golden
sceptre in his hand. He knew me and said, ‘Ulysses, noble son of
Laertes, why, poor man, have you left the light of day and come down
to visit the dead in this sad place? Stand back from the trench and
withdraw your sword that I may drink of the blood and answer your
questions truly.’
  “So I drew back, and sheathed my sword, whereon when he had drank of
the blood he began with his prophecy.
  “You want to know,’ said he, ‘about your return home, but heaven
will make this hard for you. I do not think that you will escape the
eye of Neptune, who still nurses his bitter grudge against you for
having blinded his son. Still, after much suffering you may get home
if you can restrain yourself and your companions when your ship
reaches the Thrinacian island, where you will find the sheep and
cattle belonging to the sun, who sees and gives ear to everything.
If you leave these flocks unharmed and think of nothing but of getting
home, you may yet after much hardship reach Ithaca; but if you harm
them, then I forewarn you of the destruction both of your ship and
of your men. Even though you may yourself escape, you will return in
bad plight after losing all your men, [in another man’s ship, and
you will find trouble in your house, which will be overrun by
high-handed people, who are devouring your substance under the pretext
of paying court and making presents to your wife.
  “‘When you get home you will take your revenge on these suitors; and
after you have killed them by force or fraud in your own house, you
must take a well-made oar and carry it on and on, till you come to a
country where the people have never heard of the sea and do not even
mix salt with their food, nor do they know anything about ships, and
oars that are as the wings of a ship. I will give you this certain
token which cannot escape your notice. A wayfarer will meet you and
will say it must be a winnowing shovel that you have got upon your
shoulder; on this you must fix the oar in the ground and sacrifice a
ram, a bull, and a boar to Neptune. Then go home and offer hecatombs
to an the gods in heaven one after the other. As for yourself, death
shall come to you from the sea, and your life shall ebb away very
gently when you are full of years and peace of mind, and your people
shall bless you. All that I have said will come true].’
  “‘This,’ I answered, ‘must be as it may please heaven, but tell me
and tell me and tell me true, I see my poor mother’s ghost close by
us; she is sitting by the blood without saying a word, and though I am
her own son she does not remember me and speak to me; tell me, Sir,
how I can make her know me.’
  “‘That,’ said he, ‘I can soon do Any ghost that you let taste of the
blood will talk with you like a reasonable being, but if you do not
let them have any blood they will go away again.’
  “On this the ghost of Teiresias went back to the house of Hades, for
his prophecyings had now been spoken, but I sat still where I was
until my mother came up and tasted the blood. Then she knew me at once
and spoke fondly to me, saying, ‘My son, how did you come down to this
abode of darkness while you are still alive? It is a hard thing for
the living to see these places, for between us and them there are
great and terrible waters, and there is Oceanus, which no man can
cross on foot, but he must have a good ship to take him. Are you all
this time trying to find your way home from Troy, and have you never
yet got back to Ithaca nor seen your wife in your own house?’
  “‘Mother,’ said I, ‘I was forced to come here to consult the ghost
of the Theban prophet Teiresias. I have never yet been near the
Achaean land nor set foot on my native country, and I have had nothing
but one long series of misfortunes from the very first day that I
set out with Agamemnon for Ilius, the land of noble steeds, to fight
the Trojans. But tell me, and tell me true, in what way did you die?
Did you have a long illness, or did heaven vouchsafe you a gentle easy
passage to eternity? Tell me also about my father, and the son whom
I left behind me; is my property still in their hands, or has some one
else got hold of it, who thinks that I shall not return to claim it?
Tell me again what my wife intends doing, and in what mind she is;
does she live with my son and guard my estate securely, or has she
made the best match she could and married again?’
  “My mother answered, ‘Your wife still remains in your house, but she
is in great distress of mind and spends her whole time in tears both
night and day. No one as yet has got possession of your fine property,
and Telemachus still holds your lands undisturbed. He has to entertain
largely, as of course he must, considering his position as a
magistrate, and how every one invites him; your father remains at
his old place in the country and never goes near the town. He has no
comfortable bed nor bedding; in the winter he sleeps on the floor in
front of the fire with the men and goes about all in rags, but in
summer, when the warm weather comes on again, he lies out in the
vineyard on a bed of vine leaves thrown anyhow upon the ground. He
grieves continually about your never having come home, and suffers
more and more as he grows older. As for my own end it was in this
wise: heaven did not take me swiftly and painlessly in my own house,
nor was I attacked by any illness such as those that generally wear
people out and **** them, but my longing to know what you were doing
and the force of my affection for you—this it was that was the
death of me.’
  “Then I tried to find some way of embracing my mother’s ghost.
Thrice I sprang towards her and tried to clasp her in my arms, but
each time she flitted from my embrace as it were a dream or phantom,
and being touched to the quick I said to her, ‘Mother, why do you
not stay still when I would embrace you? If we could throw our arms
around one another we might find sad comfort in the sharing of our
sorrows even in the house of Hades; does Proserpine want to lay a
still further load of grief upon me by mocking me with a phantom
only?’
  “‘My son,’ she answered, ‘most ill-fated of all mankind, it is not
Proserpine that is beguiling you, but all people are like this when
they are dead. The sinews no longer hold the flesh and bones together;
these perish in the fierceness of consuming fire as soon as life has
left the body, and the soul flits away as though it were a dream. Now,
however, go back to the light of day as soon as you can, and note
all these things that you may tell them to your wife hereafter.’
  “Thus did we converse, and anon Proserpine sent up the ghosts of the
wives and daughters of all the most famous men. They gathered in
crowds about the blood, and I considered how I might question them
severally. In the end I deemed that it would be best to draw the
keen blade that hung by my sturdy thigh, and keep them from all
drinking the blood at once. So they came up one after the other, and
each one as I questioned her told me her race and lineage.
  “The first I saw was Tyro. She was daughter of Salmoneus and wife of
Cretheus the son of ******. She fell in love with the river Enipeus
who is much the most beautiful river in the whole world. Once when she
was taking a walk by his side as usual, Neptune, disguised as her
lover, lay with her at the mouth of the river, and a huge blue wave
arched itself like a mountain over them to hide both woman and god,
whereon he loosed her ****** girdle and laid her in a deep slumber.
When the god had accomplished the deed of love, he took her hand in
his own and said, ‘Tyro, rejoice in all good will; the embraces of the
gods are not fruitless, and you will have fine twins about this time
twelve months. Take great care of them. I am Neptune, so now go
home, but hold your tongue and do not tell any one.’
  “Then he dived under the sea, and she in due course bore Pelias
and Neleus, who both of them served Jove with all their might.
Pelias was a great ******* of sheep and lived in Iolcus, but the other
lived in Pylos. The rest of her children were by Cretheus, namely,
Aeson, Pheres, and Amythaon, who was a mighty warrior and charioteer.
  “Next to her I saw Antiope, daughter to Asopus, who could boast of
having slept in the arms of even Jove himself, and who bore him two
sons Amphion and Zethus. These founded Thebes with its seven gates,
and built a wall all round it; for strong though they were they
could not hold Thebes till they had walled it.
  “Then I saw Alcmena, the wife of Amphitryon, who also bore to Jove
indomitable Hercules; and Megara who was daughter to great King Creon,
and married the redoubtable son of Amphitryon.
  “I also saw fair Epicaste mother of king OEdipodes whose awful lot
it was to marry her own son without suspecting it. He married her
after having killed his father, but the gods proclaimed the whole
story to the world; whereon he remained king of Thebes, in great grief
for the spite the gods had borne him; but Epicaste went to the house
of the mighty jailor Hades, having hanged herself for grief, and the
avenging spirits haunted him as for an outraged mother—to his ruing
bitterly thereafter.
  “Then I saw Chloris, whom Neleus married for her beauty, having
given priceless presents for her. She was youngest daughter to Amphion
son of Iasus and king of Minyan Orchomenus, and was Queen in Pylos.
She bore Nestor, Chromius, and Periclymenus, and she also bore that
marvellously lovely woman Pero, who was wooed by all the country
round; but Neleus would only give her to him who should raid the
cattle of Iphicles from the grazing grounds of Phylace, and this was a
hard task. The only man who would undertake to raid them was a certain
excellent seer, but the will of heaven was against him, for the
rangers of the cattle caught him and put him in prison; nevertheless
when a full year had passed and the same season came round again,
Iphicles set him at liberty, after he had expounded all the oracles of
heaven. Thus, then, was the will of Jove accomplished.
  “And I saw Leda the wife of Tyndarus, who bore him two famous
sons, Castor breaker of horses, and Pollux the mighty boxer. Both
these heroes are lying under the earth, though they are still alive,
for by a special dispensation of Jove, they die and come to life
again, each one of them every other day throughout all time, and
they have the rank of gods.
  “After her I saw Iphimedeia wife of Aloeus who boasted the embrace
of Neptune. She bore two sons Otus and Ephialtes, but both were
short lived. They were the finest children that were ever born in this
world, and the best looking, Orion only excepted; for at nine years
old they were nine fathoms high, and measured nine cubits round the
chest. They threatened to make war with the gods in Olympus, and tried
to set Mount Ossa on the top of Mount Olympus, and Mount Pelion on the
top of Ossa, that they might scale heaven itself, and they would
have done it too if they had been grown up, but Apollo, son of Leto,
killed both of them, before they had got so much as a sign of hair
upon their cheeks or chin.
  “Then I saw Phaedra, and Procris, and fair Ariadne daughter of the
magician Minos, whom Theseus was carrying off from Crete to Athens,
but he did not enjoy her, for before he could do so Diana killed her
in the island of Dia on account of what Bacchus had said against her.
  “I also saw Maera and Clymene and hateful Eriphyle, who sold her own
husband for gold. But it would take me all night if I were to name
every single one of the wives and daughters of heroes whom I saw,
and it is time for me to go to bed, either on board ship with my crew,
or here. As for my escort, heaven and yourselves

What moral magistrate
Monster of mediocrity
Makes a model citizen of me
Even if I don’t want to be

All upright and uptight
Humorless jackboot
Goose stepping toadstool
The fascist conservative fool
Who pedals misinformation
Counting on fear and stupidity
To turn strangers into tools

Yep that one eyed sheep
In the blind herd
Who wants to tell me
What I should or shouldn’t do

Why bother
With that proctor
Of indignity
Who counsels
The talented
To remain dormant
In their humility

Doctor of docility
Prescribing conformity
Storming the cities
Bleeding us of our individuality
To make more metal cogs
For the culture machine

Cold stairs inside of bricks
Breathing fire outside of sticks
You don’t like it when I look like this?
Different? Logical?

My face
Warm with blood
Filled with your majesty
Patient like a flood

Never the same
Bored by the ******
You orchestrated
My body maimed

Slamming at justice
Cherishing the gaveled
My life opened in envelopes
Sealing the unraveled

I address you correctly
In a bench of lies
You sit embarrassed
Everyone watching your eyes

A signed order
Sealed with my truth
Wrongly justified
Like a deafening light

Whispering from the fright
Crushing the gavel
Normalized contempt
Justice is now exempt.

‘Twas but a rare, snowy day in Paris,
a January day, as all the lights of the city
rested, as dancers of the Moulin Rouge
fixed their make up during the intermission

And in the graveyard of Père Lachaise
there stood a solitary figure of an old man,
his hands gathered together politely,
in front, clenching on to a tattered flat cap

The man stood in front of a grey wall,
“a tomb without a cross or chapel,
or golden lilies, or sky-blue church windows,”
but with an equally lonesome little plaque
that read, ‘Aux mort de la commune,
21 28 Mai 1871’

He lit a cigarette, from which he took just one puff,
stuck it upside-down on a patch of dirt,
then notwithstanding the thunderstorm
of camera flashes from Japanese tourists,
he started to sing, with a hoarse yet firm voice,
“Debout, les damnés de la terre,
Debout, les forçats de la faim…”

As the wrinkle on his forehead began to stretch,
the dusty particles of ice piled higher and higher
on neighboring graves commemorating
French members of the International Brigades
and Spanish maquis of the French Resistance
-apparently the 3,400 meters height of Pyrenees
was merely a backyard *****
for ideas and fates to tread over barefooted-

His song was a ballad of unrequited passion;
when he got to the chorus about some final struggle
and the unity of human race in a silly hymn,
a song that was never played on a radio,
for which no cool kid would ever
spend $0.99 on iTunes store,
his voice started cracking in amorous choke

The old man was a lifetime lover
in the truest spirit of a Frenchman,
spent all his life trying to charm a girl named Emma Ries,
and whenever he dreamed of holding
the eloquently bruised hands of that sixteen years old seamstress,
his eyes swelled of nostalgic heart,

And he used to cry joyfully,
dropping tears of bullets back in the days,
whether by the guillotine in Place de la Concorde,
behind the barricades of Belleville amidst the cannonballs,
******* in front of the Gestapo firing squads,
or under the truncheons of gendarme in Quartier Latin

As the expired old ******* moaned wet dreams,
hallucinogic delusions of his bygone youth, however,
the chilly, soggy winter of 20th arrodissement piled on,
the ashen slums of Ménilmontant depressingly ugly as always
with brownish-grey molten snow spattered all over
the streets trotted by drug dealers and wife beaters,
and neither the fiery oratory of Maurice Thorez
nor the sanguine grenade of Colonel Fabien
was around to arson the frost into the proletarian spring

In the same winter that the old man sang
the first, only, and last lovesong of his life,
it had been more than two decades already
since the Berlin Wall had tumbled down
and the ruling parties in Greece and Spain,
both socialists,
had just driven 500,000 workers out of their jobs

-J.P. Proudhon, Marx and Engels, Jean Jaures, V.I. Lenin,
Leon Trotsky, Antonio Gramsci, Leon Blum, Abbie Hoffman-
by the time the old man muttered an old pop-song nobody cared for,
all of those names were as relevant as some Medieval knights,
characters from an obscure chronicle centuries ago,
who died by charging horseback into windmills,
mistaking them for giants that held whom they thought as
a princess of an ugly peasant woman,

Eventually, right before his voice cracked
into an embarrassing fuddle of choked-up tears,
impressive for a seventy something years old,
the man finished the song from his memory,
all the way up to the sixth stanza;
yet the curvaceously splintered palm of a seamstress,
it was still so far away from his hands that’s been pleading
since 1871 for that glorious *******
which once stood so proudly in the face of a Czernowitz magistrate

When the cigarette he stuck upside down on the dirt
burned all the way down, he reached into his coat,
took out a rose, laid it softly, like his own infant child,
in front of the plaque which golden inscriptions
turned grey from unwashed grimes of ages
and as the old fool walked away,
his back turned away from the solemn wall,
there was but one little patch of dirt in the whole of Paris
uncovered by snow, still hoping for the spring to come.

1177

A prompt—executive Bird is the Jay—
Bold as a Bailiff’s Hymn—
Brittle and Brief in quality—
Warrant in every line—

Sitting a Bough like a Brigadier
Confident and straight—
Much is the mien of him in March
As a Magistrate—

Deep in the village of Darkling
Where the Squires and their Ladies rule,
No-one comes out in the eventime
Unless they’re a brazen fool,
The Hunt is rallied for after dark
And they wear the hood and the cowl,
Roam far and wide through the countryside
While the ravening hounds just howl.

They say that they’re hunting foxes,
But I know, that just isn’t true,
That blood they seek at the end of the week,
They may be looking for you,
They take their cues from the Magistrate
Who leads the Hunt through the grounds,
His word is law, and he sets the score,
They call him the Master of Hounds.

Sir Roland Bear has an awful stare
As he glares at you from the bench,
The lawyers do what they’re told to do
And offer little defence,
If you poach a hare from a Squire’s land
Or take a fish from his stream,
And you see him add your name to a list,
You know it’s your final scene!

For once outside in the courtyard there
The peasants will stare in dread,
They cross themselves as they pass you by
For nobody speaks to the dead!
You can’t go hide in your cottage,
If it still has a window or door,
Though you’re locked right in, the hounds of sin
Will come up through a hole in your floor.

The light of my life, Evangeline,
Was married to Percival Shroud,
He beat her once with a riding crop
To keep her bullied and cowed,
She worked all day in the Dairy,
In a barn on Percival’s Farm,
And I said one day that he’d have to pay,
I’d not see her come to harm.

She stared at me with her worried eyes
And she let me believe she cared,
We’d hide together beneath the hay
At the height of our love affair,
But one day soon, her burly groom
Had seen us going to ground,
And hauled us before the Magistrate
While our legs and our hands were bound.

‘There isn’t a place in Darkling here
For the likes of a pair like you!’
Sir Roland Bear, his pen in the air
Considered what he would do.
‘You’ve wandered outside the marriage bounds
Brought shame on the vows you swore,
While you have sullied her decency,
And turned a wife to a *****!’

He put his pen to the fabled list
And he wrote two names in there,
Then ****** us into the courtyard so
The folk could shame and stare.
They cut our bonds and we heard the hounds
As they howled and yapped for blood,
So we went trembling, hand in hand
To hide ourselves in the wood.

The Squires were grim and remorseless when
The Hunt pursued its fare,
Their Ladies thought it a festival
When they rubbed warm blood in their hair,
I’d said I’d not let her come to harm
But Evangeline had cried,
I broke a branch and I sharpened it
To defend my shattered pride.

They came at us like the hounds of hell
In their cloaks, and hoods and cowls,
Along with a pack of hunting dogs,
We could hear their approaching howls,
Evangeline was safe in a tree
While I stood guard below,
My fear was clear in my trembling hands
But I stood so it wouldn’t show.

A rider burst on out through the trees
And he roared, ‘Now pay for your crime!’
I waited until he rode up close
Then I ****** my stake in his eye,
He screamed just once, and fell from his horse
And his cowl, it floated wide,
I saw I’d killed the Master of Hounds
As the dogs tore at his hide.

The Squires looked down with little remorse
At the corpse that lay in the mud,
While the ladies leapt from their jittery mounts
To dip their hands in his blood,
We made our way unseen through the woods
Escaped from the killing grounds,
And Darkling now is free from the spell
Of the evil Master of Hounds!

David Lewis Paget

A wife her husband's tool did sever,
Causing him in court to file for divorce
From his cruel and heartless smasher.
And ere the Magistrate with a voice
Mellow the man narrated how his mate,
Prior to that brutality, has been starving
Him of ***, that except to procreate,
She rarely allows him conjugal gendering.

Another pair about which I read, this time,
Howbeit, it was the wife that sought for
Split from her hubby, whose chief crime
Was, again, appertaining to the succour
Of copulation, telling the court that for almost
Six months straight, her man never did her
In the buff behold, let alone upon her crust
And crumb feasted; wherefore depriving her.


Is love acclaimed nought but a fancy fad,
That at last in divorce it at times ends?
The above accounts are no tales, though sad,
By a drunk told. How heart commends
Itself to lovelorness' rack! What about spouses
Also that did their partners ****** for a reason
Dark? Why will married couples their houses
And homes turn into affection prison?


And those couples initially, at first, when
They in courtship were, would truly seem,
The very best peacock and peahen
To themselves--a groom and bride dream.
Was this sight silly and that heart foolish
When they did settle for that guy and girl
Of all babes and blokes admired and cherish-
Ed then, for whom they did daily whirl?

Marriage dissolution is a grave malady,
Rendering relation, keeping parents and kids at
Bay by breaking a once very close-knit family
Apart, and, which also pierces God's holy heart
With anguish; yet we seem to be making light
Of our vows sacred: for worse and for better,
To love indeed forever in good and ill plight,
Uttering promises at the altar that no sooner alter.

Though marriage is beyond the bliss of bed,
Enduring nay by just rolling in a deep hay
Ever and anon, and smooching to the red,
For couple cannot in that mood every day
And occasion be; yet of coitus, each other
Must they not deny for some excuses bogus,
But should sate their oats promptly, rather
Than yielding to concupiscence or divorce.

And what is the mileage of marriage
Betwixt man and wife upon this earth,
Who with their lips did cheerfully pledge
Before witnesses present,--is it the dearth
Of reasoning when to each other said: "Till
Death do us part"? I cannot it truly fathom
Whole, how marital unions break up. But still,
Know I, relationships do persist with wisdom.

Meanwhile, that man's stitched willie will
Not rise as the sun and be on a nymphet
Set again, save by a miracle. But his evil
Ex-wife can go on to relish in ****** couplet.
Thank heaven, he has three offspring from the
Pact; while the latter story produced only one
Child. Many do take a petty lust for a pretty
Love, playing their queen and king like a pawn.

Under prickled probably-a-berry-bush
overhead the scented magistrate and the muffled cough
of one emberassed to be viral
she's somewhere on the a-scale, but she is so very divine
zero public humility, whopee cushion existentialism
'I didn't do it, you did it.'

Oh right, thanks for putting your hands up
now turn around and lay your chest on the front of my squad car
sleep again and I'll wake you like Royalty once woke the jester.

jam your front toe on the archway
so you can be the vocals in my band
we'll be jamming next week, if you care to join us?

I understand.

It's not as much effort as sudoku
if you ask me.

The tradition of marriage,
Bourgeois blackmail and baggage,
Is it all a bargain for men?
Is this what white weddings meant?
All the love that is lost,
And what is the ultimate cost?
A divorce court pizza,
Magistrate smirks like Mona Lisa,
Four corners, one for each,
Dog gets the crust, if it can reach,
Cats get the anchovies,
Were white weddings for phonies?
When is the revolution?
Blancmange brides for pollution,
Bridesmaids-Little Bo Peeps on crack,
Does society cut us some slack?

We joined the bourgeoisie,
All ends in tears and hypocrisy.

Lord I come to you to speak boldly about my current situation...I am conflicted and perplexed in how deeply I have broken my self into a futile infantile parasite I sadly realize I am. I am frustrated and saddened that my drug addiction keeps me at edge between that my ADHD Schizophrenia and Night Terrors I have meet my match. At the current moment facing eviction, homelessness, and pervasive persistent negative attitude I have acquired over the years of someone else always doing for me what I ought to do for my ******* self. I don't exercise much...quite a homebody/couch-potato/slob I have become. I am lazy, irresponsible, messy, poor hygiene at times I have practiced...cuss like a sailor, negligent, indifferent, stuck in a maladaptive lifestyle that as time ticks on the problems grow bigger and bigger...I use drugs to wear the mask of "Normalcy" & "Success" yet I know am lying to my **** self every time I cover up my TRUE identity hidden from the public deep within layers of a tormented and vindictive past. Contemplating onto making and forming a solid decision to go get myself some help from a rehabilitation facility but that is all too familiar and don't guarantee my success into beating my addiction and arresting my inner deep and personal struggles I wrestle with on the daily...to my Lord is The Christ,who came and was and is and will forever stand as being the identical incarnation of the father image, conduct and become nothing...being subsurvient to the fathers will becoming a man of excellency of character, inpeccable radiance, unsurpasable  holiness, being made into an anoited vessel heal the sick, show the lost a way to redeem the gift of eternal life, love us as we were desperately drownding and needing of a savior the Son Of Man, The Christ, Apointed to fulfill Scripture, Selfless, Holy, Perfect... God's Only Begotten Son the primordial Creation who all things were made for him, thru him by him. Jesus Christ the One who came to fulfill the Law be born blameless, holy and perfect. He allowed Judas Iscariot be influenced by the Devil and be blinded by alluring him with the promise of payment. In the last supper Jesus Christ mentioned to the 12 the one who dips with me this piece of bread into this morsel will be the one to betray me and turn me in to the authorities as a blasphemer. Then Judas Iscariot at that moment the Devil entered Judas in that same instant he extends his left hand and dips his bread along with Jesus. Then the 11 remaining look into Jesus and Judas...at that very moment he dismissed Judas Telling him...something along this lines...Do it and do it quickly giving permission for him to be handed to authorities... Judas left and came back with soldiers then turned to Jesus kissed him with the kiss of death on the side of his face. With that the Soldiers singled out Jesus out of the 12. Took him to be interrogated with Herodias yet he found no fault in Jesus. Next day took him to The Chief Of The Pharasies. The Magistrate spat on Jesus for saying " He was who they claiming" immediately several Pharasies including the Magistrate's tore their clothing and yelled loudly ... "Blasphemer" & The Lord remained quiet then right away after enduring being flogged, humiliated, tortured till being taken to Poncious Pilate. There my Lord sustained an extreme amount of horrifying torture. Naturally the Devil influeced the croud to pick the murderous Barrabas to be liberated and the Christ to be handed over to suffer crucifixion. In the tragic end he died hanging on that old rugged cross. Nevertheless, 3 days later was glorified, the first among the dead to be ressurrected. Tranfiguration for Christ wasn't yet complete. The prophets remained accompanying the Lord till they saw him return to heaven. May the Father,Son and Holy Ghost Reign Forevermore Amen!!!

whittled down and disavowed
by an overreaching society
the pomp
and zeal
with such appeal
and airs of impropriety

unbelievable populace
chickens
chickens
chickens
free of heads
still peck, peck, peckin' ya

copulate, then like you less
pickens'
pickens'
pickens'
slim as anorexia

Act Now!
Don't Wait!
the finish line?
keep runnin' straight
you can go to class
...don't be late
or just go tip the magistrate

pointless?
I doubt it very much
more fish in the sea
spontaneous lush
oink less
piggy hush!

buy, buy birdie!
consumerism's sturdy
making up makeup
makin' me look perdy
hopin' I don't wake up

Live as hard as you can
just to die before you're thirty
if practice makes you perfect
then perfection makes you *****

The royal magistrate gives the laws,
the wind sails true,
the grass grows greener,
the sun shines brighter,
you dance in the meadows of youth
each day,
starting now.
The avant-garde ******* ends now
we are guided by the restrictions
we live in.
each day,
self-regulated,
un-mitigated,
joy.
Waves of acid-washed notes flash by,
each one dwindling longer than the one
before,
mingling in a pale composition
with each beat goading the next.

Axe Murderers ... " GUILTY As Charged " ... !!!!!    
They'll Now Spend Time STUCK Behind Bars .... !!!!!  
    
But Let Me Pull Some ... OTHER Cards ...    
From The Pack Where GUILT Is Stacked ... !!!!!    
    
England .... As A RACIST Place ... ???    
GUILTY YES ... Even Today ... !!!!!!!    
    
NOW It's WELL .... "hidden away" ...    
    
Can ... ANY of You Now TRULY Say .....    
You Don't Hold FEAR of My Black Face .... !!!?!!!    
    
Racists Now Have Found NEW Ways ... !!!    
And CLEARLY Still Have Got NO SHAME ... !!!!!    
    
But Some Black People Are Just The Same ... ?!?    
As Caucasians ... And Some Asians ...    
    
If You Have A ... Skin Tone DARK ... ?    
    
You're Deemed To Be A ... " Lower Class " ... !!!?!!!    
    
Asians KNOW How ... That One Goes ... !!!    
So PLEASE Don't Even Try To Start ... !!!!!!!!!!!!    

A Marriage System Based On .... " CASTE " .... ?!!!?    
This Proves They Are GUILTY As Charged ... !!!!!  
    
Blacks Who Sell ******* And CRACK ...    
Don't EVEN TRY ... Some Do Supply ... !!!!    
    
Drug Wars Now PROVE That This Is FACT ... !!!!!    
Our Lives Are HARD As Is .... MY STANCE ....    
    
.... " GUILTY AS CHARGED " .... !!!!!  
    
Leaders Who ... BELIEVE They're GODS ...    
I'll Say No Names ... " GUILTY AS CHARGED " ... !!!!!!  
    
People Wasting Cash On ... PETS ...    
While Others Have ... Financial STRESS ... !!?!!    
    
Can You Guess What's Coming Next ... ?!?    
    
.... NO YOU CAN'T .... !!!!!  
Because NEXT DOESN'T Rhyme With ...    
Words Like ...  " CHARGED " ... !!!!    
    
But Words From That Penultimate Verse ...    
Prove That Peoples' Words Are ... " feeble " ... !!!    
    
They Place Their Pets HIGH UP Like STEEPLES ... ?!?  
But Don't Give A **** ... About POOR People ... !!!!!    
    
So Many Crimes Within Mankind ...    
Shown Through These ... EXQUISITE Rhymes ... !!!!    
Help Me Feel Fine In ... Crime FILLED Times ...    
    
Time Is Something ... With NO CHARGE ...    
it Just Ticks On .................................................................­.......    
While We DO WRONGS .... !!!!!    
    
Trust Me Folks I've Had My FILL ... !!!    
So Choose To Use Notepad And Will ...    
To CHARGE My Pen And EXPOSE GUILT ... !!!!!    
    
Like Telling TRUTHS About OLD BILL ... !!!    
Or YES ... " The Cops " ... !!!!!    
    
Lies They Tell NEED TO Be STOPPED ... !!!!    
BEFORE More People End Up SHOT ... !!!!!!!    
    
Well Now We've Seen Their ... "Cover-Up PLOTS" ... !!!!!    
From Bottom To Top ...    
    
Judgement Passed ... GUILTY As CHARGED ... !!!!!  
    
Denial of TRUTH While Those They USE ...    
Can FREELY Shoot WITHOUT The Need of Concrete Proof ... !!?!?!?!!    
    
Now If Your Son Was Shot And KILLED ... ?    
By Undercover ... Met Old Bill ... !!!!!    
    
SURELY YOU ...    
Would Hit THE ROOF ... ?!!!!?    
    
Well I Would Do And Would Want TRUTH ... !!!!!!    
    
NOT DUD CARDS From ... End To Start ... !!!    
When LIES They've Fed Are ... RIPPED APART ... !!!!!!!    
    
I'd Want To HEAR ... " GUILTY AS CHARGED " ... !!!!!!  
    
****** ... Is What They HAVE DONE ... !!!!!    
KILLING One THEY CLAIMED Had Run ... ?!?    

Well Now We KNOW ...
They SHOT That Man Upon The Train ...
Were These Men taking ******* ... !?!?!

Let Me Say These Words AGAIN ... !!!

They MURDERED Him ... !!!
By Putting Bullets In His Brain ...
And Left His Mother Feeling PAIN ... !!!!!
    
We Now Face A ... " POLICE STATE " ... !!!    
Shouldn't They Face A Magistrate ... ???    
    
Who Should IMPART ...    
Words Like THESE ... GUILTY AS CHARGED .... !!!!!!!  
    
Let Me Move On ...    
To Those Who've Run This Scene TOO LONG ... !!!    
By This I Mean These ... " Poetry Cliques " ...    
They Act Just Like The ... " Met Police " ... !!!!!    
    
PICKING Those ... They Can CONTROL ... !!!!!    
Those Who WON'T Step Out of Line ...    
And EXPOSE How They Rule The Town ...    
By Usage of .... " Poetic Clowns " .... !!!!!    
    
WEAK PEOPLE ... Who Can't Be Found ... !!!!    
When Their Moves Make People FROWN ... !!!!    
    
Noses ... " BROWN " ... !!!!!!    
To Earn Themselves ...    
Those ... " ***** POUNDS " .... !!!!!    
    
Their Movements Are A FALLACY ...    
    
Poetry ... Or Spoken Words    
Crews They Use Write ... " Trivial Verse " ...    
    
MOST of You May Not Concur ... ?    
That's Cool With Me ... !!!    
Cos' When You Hear My Poetry .....    
    
You'll .....  
FORGET THEM Just Wait And SEE ... !!!!!    
    
Their ... ABSTRACT Art ...    
Should of STAYED Inside Their **** ... !!!!!    
    
Bourgeoise FOOLS Who Have NO CLASS ... !!!!!    
That's Why They're In This Poem .... LAST .... !!!!!!!!    
    
Those Whose Life And Words Are FARCE ... !!!!!!!    
And Thrive Off Keeping US .......................... APART ..........    
    
ONE DAY ... WIL BE ...    
    
" GUILTY AS CHARGED ! " .....

Rainbow village Episode 17



Fred, Lyle and Georgina decided to walk down to the shopping mall about 15 minutes away from Rainbow village, and as they were walking some of the young hooligans were skidding down, burning rubber, and some bikies did wheelies, which made Lyle jitter and he ended up saying, that you guys ate a pack of losers and should be f..n locked up, and one hooligan threw a rock right in his face, and Lyle collapsed straight away, while Fred stayed with Lyle, while Georgina went for some help.
Fred told Lyle not to panic, even if he was in pain, and then 2 hours later. The culprit came over, and told Fred, when I was a little boy, I was taken from my home, by a weird man who fits his description and his age, and I know his name, because I don't forget much from those days, and when he said that Gia name was Lyle Hoffman, Fred couldn't understand,
And Lyle told him, that he didn't **** him, so why do you want revenge, and he said because no one ever gets his hand on Peter Buchanan, and now, Lyle, you are going to be ******* in the public toilets, but I think I want you not to be as lucky as I was, so Fred, you go back to your retirement village, (which he said moving his fingers up over his head) and let me deal with Lyle Hoffman and Fred pulled out his mobile to call the police and Peter knocked it out of Fred's hand and then he said, that he doesn't trust him, so Peter took Lyle and Fred hostage and brought them to a rundown factory, and when he got them into the machinery room, Peter set the bomb to go off, in 3 hours, Peter wasn't wanting to **** Fred, so he made his rope escapable, but Lyle's ropes were on tight, and when Fred got free, he went over to rescue Lyle, but his rope was too tight, and he couldn't get the rope loose.
Lyle told Fred, his version of events, which didn't sound good for Lyle's defence, because it sounds like Lyle made his bed, and wanted Peter to lie in it,
What Lyle said, he got sick of Peter and his mates teasing him and to get revenge Lyle grabbed Peter and pulled him into the car and drove him off to the country, and then when he got him there, Lyle decided to get his gun and stick it at Peter, to make him too scared to say anything, but Lyle said in his defence, he let Peter go before the police arrived and shot through, and then he told Peter, tell a soul and your dead, and Peter was scared shitless, and apparently Peter hasn't worked since, but Lyle called him a gutless trouble maker.
Peter came back in and Fred told him, I see why you are doing this, Lyle told us the whole story, but you are making you just as bad as him, and Peter said, he is the reason why I am walking around psych wards all my life, and if you don't let me **** Lyle, I will go to Rainbow village and tell the manager that Lyle should be locked up, and not given the lap of f..n luxury, and Fred told Peter, please spare him, I have the name of a good lawyer, and he can help you get justice against Lyle, and Lyle went. 'hey'.  And then began to be super scared of Peter, because what happened was a long time ago, but Peter didn't give a hoot, but Fred's advice made sense, though, if he loses Fred will cop it, big time.
So Peter let Fred and Lyle go, but that wasn't it, no Peter rang up this bloke and, yes, Lyle went to court, and in court Lyle was getting fried, a he can't seem to defend himself properly, Lyle said one word and the prosecutor kept throwing stuff at him, and despite Lyle having Rainbow village giving him character references and all thar, Lyle's defence wasn't looking too good, and after 1 week of 3 sessions, the magistrate brought the matter in front of a higher court, which could mean jail time for Lyle, and the date was exactly 3 months time, Lyle was scared as he said to Fred. It's all your fault, he was a blushing trouble-maker and Fred said, yes but it still ain't right.
The end

Caligula, wise man of course,
Sought due promotion for his horse:
With no prerequisite debate,
The beast became a magistrate.

And then one day, without a groom,
He clopped into the Senate Room,
Followed beastly intuition,
Became an instant politician.

Without regard for poll or slate,
He soon demolished all debate.
And senators called out for more
When he did wonders on the floor.

With misdemeanor as the rule
He was a true unbridled fool,
Guided by a brute suspicion,
Stamping out all opposition.

He was reviled by common folk,
Democracy was deemed a joke;
To quote the ancient anecdotes,
He once said, "Let them all eat oats!"

Now that he's passed beyond declension
His legacy deserves attention:
Some politicians to this day
Still emulate the equine way:

They clop and neigh, they snort and roar,
There's always something on the floor;
They pound their desks, they're downright corny
Making all the issues thorny.

Don't wonder when they clown around
And seem so shockingly unsound;
Just trace the madness to its source:
Caligula adored his horse.

We began with little mutations,
Harmless, or more so beneficial,
We adapted to our love,
With no methods of dispersal,
People thought we couldn’t get any closer,

But your behaviors changed and we began to isolate,
We were stabilized so I hoped for fusion,
But realized that overtime not even reinforcement could’ve helped,

We had our Kingdom set up,
And later we fell into a “Family”,
But you classified me too general,
Now I don’t know where I belong,

My feelings for you were like the Cambrian,
Sadly enough they became a catastrophe,
You started selecting,
Seeing me as worthless,
But I knew I am not one to select,

You looked at me like you’ve studied Phylogenetics,
I was at the most top,
But ended up at the bottom,
You were not natural, but neither was I,
What did our selections favor?

And our relationship turned into cloud and dust,
Sadly it collapsed,
And you left me imprints of lies and hurt,
And words preserved inside me like a cast,

You ingested away my feelings,
I was the pili so attached to you,
But you were an endospore resisting all of me,
You no longer knew what feelings were,

And to you, I was an annual,
Got replaced so quickly,
But I shed tears where the oceans have formed,
And supported you like the roots of trees,

But you were a virus,
A pathogen,
A parasite,
And I was the host,
Blinded by your toxins,

And my cells swelled in favor of you,
You offered me and I gladly took,
I thought I was an obligate,
Surviving off of you,
But I was too mindless to see the real you,

And I was like the Archaea,
Survived the harshest paths for you,
But with a single expression you crushed my world,
And like a Zygomycota you’ve molded our love away,

And sadly enough I couldn’t evolve,
With pain feeling like spikes inside,
I am no longer the magistrate of love,
And love is my killer.

There were black shoes, black shadows
white cuffs, white clouds
black shirt, black boards
white belt, white butterflies

You tell me, your world is black and white,
but,
I ask you,
"Is that all I saw?"
What more, my dear pessimist, you jeer,

So, I say,
Well, of course,
there were blue skies, blue scorpions
white doves, white daffodils
red roses, red blooded hooligans

You tell me, typical American -
so patriotic,
you bleed the colors you fly,
and die draped in your pride,

but I see you
in your myopia,
your dull diatribe of patriotism

I understand you

you are blind to the mind of your soul
you only see
what I tell you
you only see
what you consume
you do not see
what is between
the slats
of your window

when they shut
you do not peek

when they open,
you imagine night has turned to day
when they close
you prepare your bed for the night
despite the noonday sun
you are a prisoner of shallow waters
drowning
while ankle deep
hollering
believing no one hears you
shrieking - how the world has changed!
unaware that the shores move
in ballroom dancer rhythms
sweeping back
and forth
along the bay
because the seas are alive
but you are standing still

not even the earth
beneath your feet
is still,
despite holding your entire reality
safely,
motherly,
in the insurmountable expanse
of its grasp

Yet, should the earth shake
and rock you
should the hurricane blow
and displace you
should the mountains tumble
and smother you
should the sky open its celestial gob
and expel you
should the mother open her subterranean maw,
and swallow you deep
deep
would you, deeply, care
that the possibility of it all
was an open invitation
a sealed letter
that was never
at your behest
to open
and display its contents

I, too,
have bequeathed upon you
a sealed invitation
to the worlds I paint
with these jigsaw vignettes we call words
and all
you had to do
was open the seams

not with a file

a file to cut the purse
the bounty
of the promised speech
no
I ask you
that you but pry open my soul
with curiosity
and peer within the tattered layers of my story
my lives
unlived & overwritten
letter by letter
slip in that noodle protracted by your pineal eye
and taste the essence of the realities
you have failed to purchase
that meander about the words you,
selectively,
chose to ignore
like the milk around alphabet cereal
or the broth around alphabet soup
or the fine-grained blank spaces
the parchment
the canvas of woe
around the words that comprise
a stack of divorce papers
or an exam
or the dread of a long-awaited raise...

Imagine,
for a moment
ignoring the obvious
the letters,
the sentences and paragraphs,
the divorce papers
the exam
the pay-bump,
and just look
at the parchment - the fine-grained,
thin sheet of sophistication

touch it
taste it, maybe,

run your hand along it
the surface of it
or the edge of it
***** your finger on the corner
slice your finger on the edge
the paper has a malice that invites
your masochism
curiosity is power
but also
despair
peer deeper

turn your head about
lower it, sideways
all
the
way
down, and
press your ear,
left or right
against the parchment
the paper
the papyrus
the product
hear its screams
the CHURN-CHUG-GGGHGGHHGRRRRR!!!
that chainsaw
like a thousand hatchets
splayed out
dancing on the circumference of
a taught merry-go-round of death
cutting into the mother
the father
the child
the tree
cutting it open
that it may be cut again
again
again
tormented
pulled apart
pulverized
tenderized
pulped
poured
pushed
pressed
preened
­glossed - maybe
matte - possibly
the choice is yours
harvest the living
for the living death of your divorce
your exam
your raise
massacre those families
not just the trees
the bears, the deer, and the little fox, too!

I'm green with envy,
thinking about all that potent pulp
coming your way
the smell of it
place yourself in its abundance
the smell of industry
its factories
academies of excellence
an office
a school
a registrar, magistrate, Corporate HQ,
the Pentagon, the Taj Mahal,
Big Ben,
the daily mail of any place where
the morning paper
is LAW
and
should this be the first time
you heard the screams
just imagine being a tree
coming to pay respects to your family
smell that death
as you creep in
watch
look about you
at the carcasses
strewn about
in neat, pedantic stacks labeled, A4, A3, letter,
fax or snail mail?

My world is plenty black & white
& white & red & blue,
but it's also got screams,
and the stench,
the carcasses of the forest's children
fit for your pleasure
to tear up,
chew up,
gum up with saliva
and shoot through a straw
into the neck of a fellow butcher
and laugh
laugh and snarl and howl and cackle

Laugh
because,
you never dared to kneel down
pay reverence to the
screams
in the parchment
you let the blinds close
you dared not peek through
you let yourself rot there
in the closet
of your mind
in the dark
and when I say, I'm sad,
you say,
"That *****."
You don't ask,
what's around the sadness,
what came before and what could after,
what's in the folds of sadness,
guilt, regret, and loneliness kneaded in

no,
you look at the sadness,
the dull blue,
and you say,
"Yeah,
that's blue alright,"
then you close your coffin
and go to sleep

spring. it's almost unsleeping
and stubbornly worn with
young feet in all her little parks
and her grassy and gluttonous
new flowers uncouple their
fragrant heads bumbling
a savage and stemmed arcuate
light that tumbles out the swaggering
mouths of upended winter.

the small and creviced
the hardy chapels of wood
and plastic and nails and wire
will burp to some agile fleece
some women and boys
into the delicious war of
new uncaking roses or the fine *******
that is this tide of bubbling heat
gnarling at the pale and loveless moon
who also is a *****
that plasters every skin with her lipsandfingers

she,TheSpring, will splay her plaintive thighs
and in their between, will march the strong
weak column of undead flesh
who are men and girls
and they will love her
the freckled empire of her *******
the fortress of her smooth impossible belly
the unquestionable meter of her hips
        and they will climb her naked ribs
with hands of innocent foolhardy clasping
to the magistrate of her tongue
the holy orifice she wears at the between of her cool cheeks
and smatter on it
grossly ardent spit

“Mr. Raff, congratulations you have won 50,000 American dollars in our national lottery!” I explained that Clarence Raff had crapped out in the back bedroom of this shack that I'm currently buying, by installment, from his heir and former neighbor: 30-yr.-old, 119-pound, blue-eyed, double-D cupped, 5' 7'' natural blonde Sue Buccini Strasser. The line went dead so I hung up. 12 minutes later the phone rings. This time it's Hector J.V. McJohnson (step-brother to Raoul and Acting Supreme Council Chairman to the Regional Zone of Money Transference, Incorporated) to congratulate me on meeting the stringent specifications for national lottery transferableness, which is the fact that I have maintained the primary telephone number of the deceased lottery ticket purchaser. “Sir,” (Here it comes, I thought.) “there is the matter of a transferableness fee that the government in the capital city imposes on the winnings of a lucky person like you.” I sent the $500 directly to Hector as he pledged with his “most sacred honesty” is the best way...the New Zealand way to form a bond that no one can ever break! A week passed, and another, and another. I called Hector. No one answered. A full 6 months flew by before the call came through from Jules McWatsonberry to congratulate me on winning 50,000 American dollars. I interrupted him to say that I had gone through this process 6 months earlier. I sent Jules $500 immediately to cover the pre-transportable excise duty on the 2nd fifty grand as I figured that the original fifty grand would be here any day now. Days melted into weeks. On my birthday, 9 months later to the day, a certified bank draft, arrived by courier signed by Raoul, Hector & Jules for $92,780 payable to me. They had combined my winnings onto one check. I couldn't believe it! So many people doubted the honesty of these mysterious New Zealanders as I honestly described them. 50 grand & 50 grand is 100 grand! These greasy ******* shorted me $7,220. Will I ever be able to trust again? Will this wound never scab?

He was only a simple storyteller
But looked much like a clown,
He wore red, yellow and jingle bells
When coming to our town,
He’d sit outside by the wishing well
And gather up all the kids,
Who’d laugh, and clap their little hands
At everything he did.

The parents, they didn’t like him much,
Their eyes were filled with fear,
They thought, like the Pied Piper, all
Their kids might disappear.
He seemed to be so harmless, though
He won their trust, despite
The stories that he would whisper by
The wishing well each night.

He set up a little pay booth at
The well, and scrawled a sign,
‘I only charge but a dollar each
For the stories that are mine.’
But no-one left any money
At his tiny little hut,
So everyone woke one day to find
Their doors were nailed shut.

And then they found in their gardens
There were strange things in the ground,
All their veggies were growing square
That should be growing round,
He told a tale of ungrateful folk
Who proved to be so mean,
Their square was filling with artichokes,
Their lawns were blue, not green.

He asked, would nobody pay him
For his stories and his verse,
They said there wasn’t a way in hell,
But he could do his worst,
The beer was turned into water down
At all the local bars,
And when they went to go home, they found
They couldn’t start their cars.

They dragged him before a magistrate
Who said, ‘You’re quite a threat,’
He jingled his bells and said, ‘Oh well,
You ain’t seen nothing yet.’
The bench the magistrate sat upon
Was wood, cut down from trees,
And suddenly sprouted branches
Five feet high and thick with leaves.

They couldn’t admit what he had done,
He’d made them look like fools,
He had a rapport with nature and
He’d modified the rules,
‘I’ve only to tell a story, it
Becomes a new creation,
Anything that I want, I get
From my imagination.’

Everyone pays their dollar now
The streets are neat and clean,
The carrots aren’t growing upside down
And even the lawns are green,
But everyone’s still suspicious when
It comes to telling tales,
They still remember about their doors
And hide their hammers and nails.

David Lewis Paget

Amid the flood of horror stories about demonetisation comes a heart-warming incident from Bulandshahr district where the groom’s father asked the bride’s father to welcome the baraatis (wedding guests from the groom’s side) with a simple cup of tea to avoid an expensive marriage in light of the note ban.Traditionally the baraatis are given many gifts from the bride’s family, but seeing how stressed the bride’s father was about trying to arrange cash for the marriage, the groom’s family told him that a ‘simple ceremony’ would do just as well.“The marriage was fixed before demonetisation. We faced a cash crunch like everyone else. After queuing up for 10 days, we got Rs.2,000 only. We told the bank officials that there was a marriage in our house. We got a letter of approval but even after that we did not get any cash,” the groom’s father Vijender Singh told The Hindu.

Thoughtful gestureMr. Singh said that he then spoke to the bride’s father Kali Charan, who was also facing a cash crunch.“When I spoke to Mr. Charan, he was sounding down as he could not arrange funds for the ceremony. I proposed to him a simple marriage ceremony. He initially hesitated as he was feeling bad. But I managed to convince him and finally we decided to hold a simple ceremony,” Mr. Singh said.The marriage between Dinesh and Veena took place on Sunday.Dinesh hails from Jaleelpur village in Jahangirabad in Bulandshahr district while the girl is from Jaypee Nagar.“We, along with the baraatis, reached Bulandshahr on Sunday. After completing all rituals, a cup of tea was offered to the baraatis,” Mr. Singh said.Mr. Charan said that he initially “hesitated” to do a simple ceremony due to social stigma.‘Initially hesitant’“Even on the day of marriage we were feeling bad about how the baratis and locals in our village will react. But everybody encouraged the step and appreciated us. I am thankful to God that I have chosen a good family for my daughter,” said Mr. Charan.The district administration also appreciated the thoughtful gesture of the groom’s family.Setting an example“During demonetisation, we have experienced that rural areas have suffered the most. But decisions like holding simple marriages shows that our nature is to help each other. This example must go on to serve humanity. The State government will facilitate the family for setting an example,” said Bulandshahr district magistrate Aunjaneya Kumar Singh.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/princess-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses

Change the subject of the reason
To hold your hand in the whining
Twilight of spent dreams and
Penniless trust funds merging like
Waves crashing onto diamond sand

A voice calls out to you and
You listen but discover that
Histories red dress is burning, not
Flashing in the sunlight like you wished
Where there are friends there is
Remorse for the highest mountain-top is
A meaningless wish - you are already there

In dreams, we desert our lover's and
Dance with ourselves and everything
We need is on the page or in the street
Or felt in the touch of an old college ****
You thought was going to be the one
That was where the magic was
That was when you believed in happiness

Now, there is only this moment
The eyes tearing open the sores of
Your mistakes, seeing that there is no
Such thing as dreams, only reality
Only the seams of time that trickles
Like the melting snow of December
Like the first rain after a desert wind
Like an explosion of love after a season of hate

The sword silver swaying for so long
Unsheathes itself and prays to God for forgiveness
We are the same monsters that bore us
The usages are dead and dusty and smell of
Stale ***** and the sweat of the Devil's demons
Lava pours from my fingertips as I
Question myself and everything that I have done

People move on like chess pieces
Sprinting to die for their country
Their love their family their religion
Their ideologies their love their hatred
"To die for something is to die honorably -
Any other way is disgraceful," the magistrate preaches

The
      Rule:

Tell what you want
When you want to
Do not wait
Procrastination is
The poison that will not
Be forgiven

Prayers of the people
Shed the dim light of hope
On the living ******

We are at the harbor with
Open hearts and

Compassionate guidance

Move aside, let me put this mic to use
Your purpose on the stage is just to amuse
My next trick, some lyrical abuse

Pay attention now, no excuse
You think you're a bomb? Well I'll just defuse
Be a good sport and be in time for your curfews

I'm the captain, watch me navigate (Gorillaz reference)
Words to fabricate and rhymes to calibrate
Eradicate everything until you're forced to abdicate

If you're going against me, you'll need a magistrate
Activate the **** switch, we can't let him retaliate
Ready for arms men? It's time to annihilate

To me, this talent I have is innate
And you lack it, great.

The dogs and the men
they bleed into the fields today.
The primal is protected with tradition
for the blood magistrate and bared teeth.
For the hoards,
who’s cider ice lollies dribble into tweed.
Snuffed Wellys suffocating in Jempson’s bags
pressing their crescent moons
into ****.

Iris flash, fast peristalsis of air
on both ends of the trumpet today.
Screaming brass.
War only requires one note remember.
One long note
orchestrated by children’s fingers
lifted to the butchery song
releasing the blood-cell men;
the forest’s traitorous antigens.

They are there to nit-pick the trees.
A mercy killing, without a wall.
They should have had a wall
and they tell me
my morals are sickly.
My sensibility is held up with gum.
So pound that war drum.
We’ll bite the backs, tear the scruff
like some death mother to them.

For the runners and the watchers
olympics needed prey aspects
to keep it going.
Teach your children to need that itch.
To save each and every Sunday school *****
from her husband’s boredom
and her children’s boredom
and all the things you notice when you can live and eat
this side of your living seat.