I fix mine eye on thine, and there
Pity my picture burning in thine eye;
My picture drowned in a transparent tear,
When I look lower I espy.
Hadst thou the wicked skill
By pictures made and mard, to ****,
How many ways mightst thou perform thy will?

But now I have drunk thy sweet salt tears,
And though thou pour more I’ll depart;
My picture vanished, vanish fears
That I can be endamaged by that art;
Though thou retain of me
One picture more, yet that will be,
Being in thine own heart, from all malice free.

Reasonsonal

You had to see it to believe it in the call centre

How you had to queue up twice in the lines

To hand in your bag and phone

Mard **** fcking security guards thinking they're God


Elevated to a lofty status beyond you and me

Who the fck do these twoddles think they are?

Donald **** Fcking Trump?

At least he's a really rich *******
The fake guards bellow and strut and act all important


'Put your cellphones, ifones, laptops, computers and TVs here!'

Another plastic guard joins the litany:

'And form a separate line and place your bags here!'


Well fck me six times with three hookers

I don't wanna queue up two f*cking times!

I wanna go home and drink my warm ****** English beer!


'You there! Don't put your gadget in your bag. You must queue up twice. You can't buck the system. We're smart and know all the tricks!'


Off to the back of the second flaming line

I will never ever queue up here again

Nor ever give the smarmy guards another chance to feel like God


Bossing me about and being **** wannabes

They're manning the desk in Reasons Call Centre and are all plonkers


***** their little mind games and rules

I'm resigning from my crap job to be a tank driver

Then I'll ****** show them who's boss...

It was my birthday when I killed a man,
Shot him with a Kalashnikov as he was running away.
The commander congratulated me,
"Mard ban gaya tu ab", he said, patting my back,
I had become a man.
I felt so happy, so proud.
I was thirteen now and finally I could grow a beard.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com


                             Colin Cloute on the First of January

                     And now is come thy wynters stormy state,
                     Thy mantle mard, wherein thou maskedst late

          -Spenser, The Shepheardes Calender, “Januarye,” 23-25

The calendar year is advertised as new
But the slanting, yellowing sun is old
Almost weepy-eyed, exhausted, and weak
Beyond the icy cirrhus clouds of dusk

In a few weeks I will turn over the garden soil
A mediaeval ploughman with his electric tiller
Following the ancient seasons of the English year
Anticipating Lent and Eastertide

For now, the fireside and a comforting page
And a cuppa for warming the bones of age