PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi

i can't even appreciate my own, it's like it's supposed to
be a lost finger, because upon reading poetry by women
i slide into young-adult delusional
associations with my own; it's women's poetry that's potent,
i know the giants homer and virgil made the narrative epic,
but i mean the snappiness, the snappy poetry of intelligence
that's like a dropped handkerchief picked up by a dog-collared
crow of sabbath with foolery, to escape the trade of alms
and last rites, that horrid trade of the briefest farewell
and all that coffin in autobiography: coffins for coffers;
rarely a poem about the liver or the pancreas, it's all from
the heart, but as honesty goes - i said it once already -
if all my poetry came from the heart - i couldn't -
it either comes from the liver or from my ****.
i guess that's how we'll survive, with the cleopatras and
catherines of this world, singing them lullabies
of our misappropriated "endowment." but what's eerie
about today is that the house is empty, a funeral is taking place,
a plumber has died... a plumber...  talk of 40 a day, beer
and dead before 60.
wife, tick.
children, tick.
grandchildren, tick.
but i can't understand this depth of things: the jews move eloquently
from border to border, picking up language after
language without really accenting the acquired tongue, as i did too,
but i don't understand why i would have to be seduced by
the accusation that i don't belong here, that i'm being too
audacious, too prickly and not funny - or why,
before all the troubles started the muslim preachers on edgware road
thought that i was german trying to convert me -
i don't know anymore, maybe i am, after all father said that
his grandfather had a wehrmacht dagger hidden in the cellar,
so the ageing is a bit perfect to dot dot dot the pieces together.
but what i mean is: well, after living here since one can remember,
but having the burden of acquiring a mother tongue
i sometimes feel like i'm in no man's land, i can't drop the mother
tongue, i'm using the acquired tongue more than the mother tongue
cognitively, but i read philosophy in the mother tongue
because i can't read philosophy in this acquired tongue;
i guess that's due to the overstrain done by darwinism in the english
tongue, i mean, there's a lot of good philosophy to
be read, but in english it's too much of a darwinistic
revocation - it's not like you could read sartre
talking about voyeurism through the keyhole
without imagining yourself a monkey,
it's the whole imagining the origin,
it's the whole: image - monkey - phonetic content - ooh ooh ooh.
it predates accounts of history, this whole take
from darwinism; i face the fact that darwinism
eroded much of history, it's like groundhog day,
that's why the media are so pulverising, so concentrated,
so seemingly omnipresent, 24h... the whole of
human history stopped! it's because when
humanity started to record **** happening
using phonetic symbols rather than pictures of antelopes
in caves, it started to record history,
but darwinism kinda erased that... so what's the
news now? oh right, skeletons, lookalike skeletons.
this isn't an argument against darwinism using theology,
just look at history, it stopped, we're living
in a 24h pre-recording awaiting various paranoias.

Odysseus struggles needs to prove to himself world he is talented painter determined to achieve recognition goes from art dealer to art dealer seeking support one dealer says Schwartzpilgrim stop changing settle on 1 style you can be known for what you’re doing now is good stick with it call me in 6 months with 300 drawings just like these another dealer says Odys you must learn great art is a **** beneath bed sheets another dealer says Modigliani knew how to paint flesh paint like Modigliani you need to learn more about painting Schwartzpilgrim you’re too young inexperienced another dealer says thank you for your interest in our gallery we’re not taking on any new painters at this time Odysseus knows there are people so much more talented better looking than him he feels inadequate intimidated

thinks to himself sister Penny is right female wish list is curse Bayli haunts she alone always be my ideal until i met Reiko Lee now Reiko Lee Furshe holds me captive i long for her voice eyes shoulders wiry delicateness crazy outrageous humor fiery ****** appetite i need to tear apart wish list leave myself open need to learn to seek inner beauty let anatomy fall where it will need to cultivate new standards it’s difficult to see with different eyes i am so biased how do i do this?

Odysseus muses with Reiko’s ghost 6 months since separation lights candles burns incense opens bottle of red wine pours glass for her and himself sips watches her glass while he makes toasts speaks elaborately of her beauty charm cites reasons why each of them does not need the other why couldn’t you have been the one? what is it about me you didn’t like? what did i do wrong? pours another glass begins talking louder ending in rage why aren’t you here? why? what went so terribly wrong? i love you where are you? how come you’re not here with me tonight? looks at her glass sees she has not even taken sip feels slightly drunk fearful he has sunk too deep  gets up staggers to bed sniffs blanket for traces of her tonight is their anniversary his only excuse

telephone rings sometime in late july hi it’s me Reiko how’ve you been Odys? he questions Reiko Lee? uh yes Odys it’s meee your stray puppy Reiko’s voice sounds playful tender Odys are you there? what’s up? let me come over **** and ******* please he speaks into receiver Reiko Lee is dead hangs up wonders if he has done right thing paces room writes a woman like that you tell yourself you do not need  ignore her deny her let her pass because if you admit how much you want her you become fugitive in chains running from dogs men with guns a woman like that is all you need a woman like that is motive seed chance of a lifetime a woman like that takes chances at twice your speed a woman like that keeps you guessing hoping waiting a woman like that leaves you destitute you cannot have her because she possesses you a woman like that is a wanted woman

decides to move finds new place blocks away apartment on lill street changes telephone number in his heart he knows nothing more thrilling beautiful than joyous girl yet he attracts women who seek abuse because they see themselves in him because he lets them try to mend his abused mind because he misuses them so well reaching finding joyous girl looms impossible breakup feeds venting bitter fires

the most dangerous woman eludes meall other women are too attainable chinese green tea gestapo limousine it doesn’t matter that you don’t understand that is the line darling dangling darjeeling your lips bleeding your ***** on fire imagine i am running sprinting in relay race just up ahead i’m about to pass baton this is life expectancy of poet indonesian cigarettes made of clove leaves i held your wrists pinned your fragile body to floor strummed you like guitar while other men looked on i knew one of them would take you next

miranda comes out on verandah with lemonade on hot summer day hair blows free in breeze leans back against beam softly hums inside time bomb ticks somewhere fly caught in room knocking itself against window ricocheting off corners  buzzing crisscross ceiling floor miranda sips just enough so lips are wet eyelids flutter like butterfly wings ******* swell in heat of midday sun she calls to us with hand stirs more sugar in lemonade late afternoon when fly is caught entangled in spider’s web buzzing is muffled ice has melted lemonade watery we are dozing in hammocks rocking chairs miranda is changing dress perfuming thighs crafting character in mirror screen door slams she looks up recognizing it is only wind sun is sinking orange ball spider crawls fixing aim grabs thread swings in for **** we are passed out in grass at dusk lights around verandah beam on miranda appears wearing low-neck dress with one strap down breath heavy with anise invites us inside giggling shyly as we follow timeless newsreel vision men hard at work war room spins as fly ***** desperately spider opens legs miranda lies arched on bed eyes weaving

he gets drunk loudly sings she must be some kind of witch flying in the wind she must be some kind of ***** to dig this grave i’m in he rhymes it was just another **** stunt forgive me for speaking so blunt she was just being a lady no need to get crazy it was just another **** stunt he scribbles she gets ****** hair styled eyebrows plucked nails done walks out new woman miss fox Mrs. G. Fox madame de faux meeting the girls for lunch wearing her pearls writing her name in swirls talking up a storm pack of women is worse than pack of hungry wolves wolves stop at carrion women carve combs out of bones

Cal is driving Odysseus sits in passenger seat heading to pit & pendulum for cocktails it is raining down hard Odysseus looks out beyond sweeping windshield wipers sees red cowboy boots the ones they found together at flea market there she is Reiko Lee Furshe arisen from wasteland Odysseus tells Cal to stop car turns to see her she is running across street his hand reaches for car door handle what’s happening? Cal demands are you there? i can’t stop cars behind me! this is crazy Odys what’s going on? i’m not stopping! Odysseus stares through rear window frozen watching her disappear behind red brick wall in pouring rain

ghost girl it’s difficult to write in comatose passage apart i am in theater of mirrors with empty seat beside me black hole inside me itinerary of fears i’m seeing dancer but haunted by you look in your eyes smell on your fingers clonking up stairs of your wooden clog shoes feelings we dared plans we knew might never come true la laahh la lay la lay dee la lady of shady lagoon weeping willow pisces moon like India ink you’ve left indelible stain i fumble in dark of empress’s tomb like necrophiliac i grip onto memory stroke ashes of you lantern licorice amethyst bone you are gliding in your canoe cutting through mist swirling whirlpools that untangle themselves behind you dancing nearer to flame la shady lady does pirouettes in rain

Oh, the sensation, the media frenzy,
The spotlight, the fame, the hullabaloo,
When anti-evolution laws
Were challenged by the ACLU!

The year: 1925.
The place: Dayton, Tennessee.
To say it was an extravaganza
Wouldn't be hyperbole.

For many people it was hard
To find a way to reconcile
Biblical accounts with science,
So science found itself on trial.

A young teacher, John T. Scopes,
Was willing to face prosecution
For breaking a Tennessee law for having
Given a lesson on evolution.

The "Monkey Trial" it was called.
The challenge meant swimming upstream
For the feisty lawyer Clarence Darrow,
Who helped to lead the defense team.

A prosecutor was William Jennings
Bryan, who with no apology
Loved to stir up outrage against
Evolutionary biology.

Defendant Scopes quickly found
It wouldn't take long for him to know
What it was like to have a part
In a multimedia reality show.

The courthouse received a make-over:
Platforms for newsreel cameras were built;
Extra spectator seats were added.
They were playing the trial to the hilt.

Concession stands sold food and drinks;
Toy monkeys were on display;
A chimp was dressed in a suit and fedora;
The clergy also joined the fray.

The media and the public loved it!
The country watched the trial progress.
What would win: science or scripture?
The answer was probably easy to guess.

After an eight-day trial, the jury
Deliberated. Nine minutes later
They had their verdict: guilty! How
Could someone question THEIR creator?

Scopes had actually never given
The lesson. That's what he later said.
Strangely, five days after the trial,
Williams Jennings Bryan dropped dead.

Laws later changed, but even during
Current times, some people feel
That stories from the Bible should be
In science textbooks. Now THAT'S surreal!

-by Bob B (11-6-18)

I.
I saw it all through the eyes of a child, knees scraped ****** at the altar of remorse
Who couldn't sing a single hymn without his voice breaking off
And who lost himself in the laughter from the congregation
I took it all in by pieces
The way the dreamers lusted for Icarus, but ultimately settled for getting high on the ground
The way the dreamers became junkies and the way the junkies died like clockwork every hour on the hour,
To be reborn as prophets on a newsreel clicking their tongues about the fall of America
Please
Get down off your high horse, brother
America has fallen and now you're just embarrassing yourself

II.
Mercy for the lovers, they know not what they do
Mercy for the restless, the senseless, the savage
Plucking at chords till they find the voice they need to reach heaven,
Sipping gasoline from the cupped hands of the sons of the revolution,
Mercy for the revolution, they really did mean well once
But their anthems caught on dead air and they drowned in the high tide of their own self importance
And we didn't mourn but we'll sure build them a monument,
A manifesto pieced together from scraps of torn up prescriptions, misspelled names on coffee cups, tobacco spilling out the seams of broken cigarettes
And it will proclaim to the world,
These are the fruits of your labor
These are the lifeless things you bled your youth dry for
Sanctify them, sing their praise from the highest peaks
And receive payment in your next life,
A hundred hymns per heart broken, and a thousand pardons per spirit swallowed whole
Mercy for me, you know I couldn't help myself

III.
We are looking at the underbelly of an evil machine
So when I speak the apocalypse please know I'm being serious,
Lazarus has just finished his third cup of coffee today and he isn't even pretending to be amazed anymore
How could I get that lucky?
Could I unlearn the branding of my soul or am I next up to the chopping block?
If I ever hear the wind cry Mary on the downswing of the blade falling to take my life it won't be soon enough
And I will look back on all the bruises in creation I've left,
In milky white flesh turned deep purple,
In starry American sky lit up by dissent,
In innocence exposed to the fluorescent light of sin,
and yearn to leave each one again,
Just to experience what it feels like to stain something beautiful one last time

IV.
A beautiful boy drags his grandmother's ashes down his throat into his lungs to spit back up epiphany after epiphany, balanced on the manic edge of destruction
An angel faced girl dreams of mountains, the whole world a church to be celebrated
A harlot sings desperate in the street to attract just enough attention to make it through the night
The devil lights another cigarette and waxes romantic about the one that got away
These are the heroes to whom I give silent thanks,
These are the criminals to whom I give violent condemnation
These are the faces I pick out of the static behind my eyes,
These are the hearts I wear stitched into my sleeves
I'd be nothing without you

V.
**** me once more in the neon lit halo of your love and this time give me a shot between the eyes, just to be sure
For I have seen the end and I'd rather just get it over with
String me up between the billboards for life and loneliness and hold me still in the holy visions I have of a last judgement
Shoot me up once more with my drug of choice, the sadness I spent decades mixing in my basement till I got it just right
And let me explode one last time,
Let me be vivid and shameless, let me scorch their retinas and blacken their brains till they start to see things my way
Build me a monument worthy of the king they thought me to be, not the king that I was
Write my eulogy on the back of the receipt for my soul, and never let the ******* tell me I didn't get my money's worth
Martyr me again, and this time I won't back down
I promise
It's the least I can do

I don’t want to make a big ordeal,
but the way you see me is not ideal.

The world expects me to conceal,
but wouldn’t that be unreal.

Now that I’m saying this it feels surreal,
like someone grabbed my steering wheel.

My body feels like oatmeal,
and I’m trying not to kneel.

You turned this into a newsreel,
I wish I could repeal.

I tried to be stainless steel,
but you’re a spiked heel.

You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when on that day you proclaimed
to have learned nothing and on that
day Dr. A. held no doctorate degree.

You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when bodies: sick, overweight, in-shape
fell from buildings and into to TV screens
into history books, only to be stuck forever

in a New York newsreel in their Tuesday
outfits with Monday night’s love and touch
brewing, aged and earthy, from their falling
lives. If you listen closely on the eve of this day

the wind still whispers their scent of perfume
trails, still whispers what really happened
that busy day in the clouds, in the sky.
I was ten and can’t recall where I was

or in whose company but like the waters
stretched between Europe, Africa, and the
America’s, I was (am) far removed, was (am)
still putting together the blue-black lineage

of my triangular history that drowned
in the salty waters stretched, flowing
between three continents. But fifteen
years later, we (you and I) have overcome

the billowing black clouds of Tuesdays
the Monday night upsets, and the routed
maritime of our ancestors. 15 years later
you are still alive with your blue eyes

and clear face, are still four years my senior
are still my guiding light and sight of sun.

there is violence
at flash points south,
a time of marches and indignation,
of martyrdom and mayhem,
a young man tearfully eulogizing:
"i am tired of funerals,
i don't want no more funerals..."
and there is a war somewhere faraway
mushrooming on
a half-buried map

a friday in november.
a motorcade proceeds
under an endless texas sky,
then gunshots are fired -
there's a fleeting glimpse of death...
shock...distress...
time leaps and lapses,
reality struggles
while the brain chews fiction,
unwilling to process,
unable to comprehend

the widow's clothes change
from blood-stained pink
to somber black

she radiates dignity,
strength, character...
gliding into history
with her veiled grief,
her purposeful stride

we bow at such majesty,
such inner grace

we are transformed

Your gentle breath
Stirs autumn leaves in the streets of my mind
Your eyes are so promising,
Rolling like newsreel camera,
Your pupils shifting like lenses
Their tender glint
Swears there is something better
Something bigger than this
Somewhere, perhaps soon
Somewhere the sparrows sing
Without cages
And the summers are blue
And the satin is black
Your hands on my back
Rub and comfort for what I will remember
Was an eternity
Someday maybe you'll sway with me
Sing, sing willow tree
We'll pretend
We've always swayed together
Maybe one day you'll engulf me
When I, fed to the tongues of fire,
Will turn my face to the flames
To the burning, divine kiss
But it would scorch my heart
With a single ember
Of a charred willow tree

The night they shot Dr King, Stokely Carmichael  pulled the pin out from the grenade in his heart and made ******* sure the world knew he and his brothers would never be weak again,

The night they shot Malcolm X, the liberals shook their heads, clicking tongues about how "violence begets violence", and sometime later they put his face on a stamp, taught his corpse to dance, taught their children that this is the fate of a man who never gives up trying to change the world

The night that Missouri burned down they sent in the tanks, steel goliaths prowled small town streets looking for anybody black, or angry, or conscious, or any combination of the three, and every time their guns went off a new revolutionary was born in rage and desperation

Who are your comrades gonna be when the cops kick down the door?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the drug raids come?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the crowd control rounds turn to live ammunition?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the talking heads condemn the martyrs to hell on a twenty four hour newsreel?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the streets split open and the riot swallows everything in its wake?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the prisons crumble brick by brick?
Who are your comrades gonna be when it all burns down?
Who are your comrades gonna be when we rebuild this world from the ground up into something beautiful?

When they tell you, "Do not resist"
Resist
When they tell you, "Your methods are too extreme"
Tell them, "By any means necessary"
When they tell you, "This is the way things are"
Change. Everything.
When they tell you, "You can't change the world alone"
Tell them, "Solidarity, forever"

The plums were ripe in their bloom
A touch of a season change that would be coming soon
Yet leaves falling from the trees in where they lay
Careful foot steps in caution in being ok
The skies having their own surprise
It’s another day that the mind becomes a continuous wise
A short moment to think on
Living and feeling where you belong
As time brings on struggles with thinking in being strong
A choice being a reason to live
A sacrifice being thankful to give
Hope being a purpose to rejoice
The King above who holds and deserves the praise
Not a newsreel broadcast
It is the hand of life
Life being the open door
All you have to do is just explore
Dwelling on ignore because you are uncertain with a darken sure
The way it was is what can change
What has been changed can never remain
What efforts that weren’t made, it is you the blame
The way it was is what was from the very beginning
A change in what was expected and a new horizon coming at the very end
You now have a new agenda to begin and it continues until when.

when you're hungry,
you only end up thinking about food;

sure... you can glug down
the whiskey,
but the whiskey soon
becomes akin to milk...

  and the problems of
other people, made real,
in some quasi-take
on reality,
of voices, that once were
voices, that now become
echoes...

blood sugar level...
low...
               i write with
a fainting to curate my
body into the next half an hour...

the cat is still asleep on
the bed...
         i remain hunched
on a chair...
     you know how annoying
it is,
to watch these youtube
videos,
with a squint:
one eye closed,
the other peering
        into a void of gob?

i keep and tract
myself to a concession of a nod...
yes, i agree...
   i just can't fathom
fighting
   the fight of the english,
when, i am,
myself, not english...

   a land a lore and all
for the glorious succumb
of the exodus...

             in my mind,
at least...

                   i'm not english...
i never was, i never will be...
but seeing these people
bombarded with the journalist
jargon that cannot replace
itself from
the humble beginning
as depicted by
all the president's men...

             sure... i'm the pauper...
and you, you're the skyve?
given a pension aged
49... old...
                      so...
      so!                  was­ is't arbeit?!

all art is but
a scrutiny of any and all
recreational activity to bypass
made, more accommodating,
via...
  the consolation prize of
being....   funded...

       me? i failed...
but nice to see to having failed
on a canvas of
8 billion people...
          
                     such a lurking
inhibition of comfort,
to be made an association with...
the 10pm newsreel
           of an ambitious speaker /
reader of the news.

i imagine the 30 minutes
involved between
choosing
to either turn the t.v. ON
or the t.v. OFF...

after a while...
i lose the ability to choose.

right...
so there's no loße...
           to have made a choice...
to choose...
     but to have chosen...
a choice...
      ******* riddling loss
                  of an omicron...
sure, sure...
   mr. ******* john wayne...
so there's no loss:
there would be none
if there was no
   centimetre measure
of a difference between
loße and loose!

loose: not to loße...
  loss...
           *******
     spaghetti myopia
of the spelling...
       lot...
            past-participle...

me: equivalent to
gene hackman
in enemy of the state...
i get to enjoy being
panicky-picky
with my words...
when i'm writing while fasting...
and there's
a ******* cat sleeping in my
bed, just prior to my wanting
to drink myself
into a lullaby of a metaphorical
boxing-match K.O....
alright?

      the more i fast,
the more of a quran spews out
of me for
any worth of pedantry...
     it's like an itch...
in the gut...
  juggling a vacuum
of something waiting
to be reiterated back
into a function of sorts...

you want to die,
but then you are told to live...
you want to live,
but then you unexpectedly die...
******* took a ****
good care of the "proverb"
of: life's a *****, and then you die...

what sort of proverb is that?!
that's only an excuse for,
rather than of a proverb...
******* Shakespearean
sentimentalists...
      grapheme tackle of
the spelling of the siamese vowels?

me, gene hackman grumpy...
listening to some ed sheeran...
****'s sake!
        the lot
of very little sugar,
writing while ingesting
the Switzerland of
the body's worth of fat...
          ******* annoying.

/the late 20th century scorn of art as: ars pro se - for itself... thank god celebrity culture took off, the vanguard too to the trenches... remained in the trenches... and died from a wound inflicted by their own shadow touching their bodies... imagine Narcissus talking to his reflection... post-scriptum of the selfie... fame and celebrity as a perpetuating implosion of parasitical exhaustion... the parasite of the parasite: atomised vogue whims and the five winds... at least ars pro se is a depiction of movement, an inheritance abbreviation... thanks to celebrity "culture" / membrane... we can at least fathom, the complete picture, of an imploding cube geometry... happenstance, or hypered-instance? to vote Michael Faraday as the modern Prometheus, who stole the lightning bolt from, Olypmus? up in the air, like you just don't care, etc.

post-colonial inheritance
tax... or, legacy...
                when the pride
was being infringed upon,
one *******
was nibbling at the Ottoman
postscriptum
   not exactly bothered
by Helga the Valkrye's
                           chastity
            investment bouncing
payroll guarantee...
              once you hear a Bulgarian
******* giggle...
    you hear a giddy schoolgirl,
giggle...
             and the rest rests,
all eternally, sealed inconclusively
upon an: amen.
           no Holocaust has happened
and still I find myself lodged
in a language without
a contemporary to talk crass
bullshitting with extra skid marks'
worth of carcass whipping:
       American Beauty is,
beyond a film, the summary of the 20th,
harbinger of the 21st century,
a take on Tora! Tora! Tora!
                    suddenly 10 years
within a century elongate
beyond the confines of
a century within a millenium...
          and there, really is,
enough time crafted in the vain
hope importune unearthing:
to feel less obliged to stress
a comfort, in a body that might
resemble a well-worn sofa
    ****-stink...
                    yet I still don't know
what I'm not supposed to align myself
to when some ****** will
not even bother to cite me
Herbie Hancock...
                rap took to the clothing
line, and dried,
     like some obscurity of youth,
and the once savvy toolkit
of slang, lost, reminiscent,
                  bothered by acronyms
that never and would not catch on...
funny, talking to WHITE...
  immune to a colonial past...
              a bit like talking to a Russian,
or a Beethoven in his prime...
   comes in 'un 'ere,
  'n' 'uickly leaves via the ò'very...
    baba watunga, neß pàs?

widely or rather wildly exaggerated:
post-colonial stress disorder,
conscripted? anyone who isn't or can't
be, veteran material...
    counter-thesis of growing mushrooms...
namely pulverised,
by excesses of information...
namely?
    21st propaganda is not exactly
the content, of, said, detergent advertisement...
but... pulverising non-(s)top...
      insomniac mushrooms...

modern Japan and F. D. Roosevelt's America
are synonyms...
Mongolia never makes it into
the conglomerate mafiosos' newsreel...
     sleeping people are
compensated by not engaging
in this... game that only leads
into a pit, of farcical exhaustion....
               each year, that supposed
"holy" land,
     becomes a variant of the same
pile of rubble...
           the odd olive, and the odd
lemon tree...
          and then an attempt to
rekindle the concept of the fireplace,
with the already static
     fringe buzz of t.v.,

Americans and their ******* acronyms...
romeo alpha mammoth Sistine
       elephant: and a cherub in a *******
pantry...

           how glad I am,
able to tell the diffrence between
a Nigerian and a Kenyan...
              perhaps...
the opportune moment will come...
hell...
   by then I'll be far gone,
entrenched in a thought labyrinth
spanning the hearth of Siberia...

    the mind: simultaneously
a prison, and an escape plan.

Chock·a·block discombobulated poem
for your reading pleasure
dashed off ad hoc
my final literary endeavor before
hour hand affixed
to intricately carved cuckoo clock
displaying carved leaves, birds,
deer heads (Jagdstück design),
other animals, aquatic militia man,

etc feigns firing flintlock
(announcing onset of
daylight savings times)
said French soldier christened Jacque
dipping paddles of oarlock
into time stream
as the sun beats down,
he doth shockingly unfrock.

Once again modest wily word wizard
sports, struts his stuff inarguably
a blinding blizzard
of poetic gumbo mumbo jumbo,
his convoluted crafted vizard
easily misinterpreted as offal
lee batty, quirky, snooty, trippy...
who honestly doesn't know A from izzard.

The ticking seconds will not wait
while yours feebly cobbles etches
across blank figurative slate
lame resultant impasse I narrate
experiencing disappointment
earlier spurt of balderdash,
gibberish, *******... which I hate
yet must suffice impossible mission
to complete satisfactory poem does agitate.

Vainglorious idea to employ
daylight savings time
even a mediocre reasonable rhyme
futile effort finds current strife prime
juncture to breakaway
and resume later nighttime or
call writing aspiration quits
crowded house that for being sublime?

Unlikely literary pursuit or aim
will find yours truly a best seller
never experiencing accolades
nor remuneration to claim
truth be told, cuz I haint seeking
neither fortune nor fame.

The principle impetus explaining zeal
to discipline generic human to hone
his ability, where basic blocks of English
language (words) linkedin incorporating
mental cogs and gears mesh
making (mishmash) as figurative wheel
in the sky keeps on turning

perhaps divine intervention
intercedes as yours truly takes
lock, stock, and barrel of himself, one
bumbling, grumbling, tumbling schlemiel
cue hapless characteristic vagrant *****
as viewed courtesy black and white newsreel
enroute to meet cobbler, cuz worn out heel
actually kind individual stopped to offer hobo
an uber lyft courtesy fancy automobile.

The newsreel continues
To capture the screen
And command my attention
But what does it mean?
I could see the same story
Unfolding, retold
By a hundred one pundits
And still never know
The significance, impacts
It has on my life
I just want to be sure
That it's still mine to write
But I guess that is why
I so hawkishly watch
And click into the ticker tape
Media clock
For the first of intriguing
Developments mentioned
Recrudescences in
Border kids in detention
Just an update
On the world I'm a part
Of the broad simulcast
Of its need to restart
Is my only conclusion
When natural disasters
Are just a school shooting
Colluding again
With some populist movement
And some celebrity scandal
Exclusive
But me the eye witness
Can't help but tune in
And remain so fixated
On when will it end

Yours truly plagiarizes himself with zeal
courtesy mental cogs and rusty wheel,
thus no literary crime committed to steel
I broadcast material shown thru rickety
black and white Roman Times newsreel

forthwith shoddy wordplay exempts me
against copyright infringement meaning
only I own privilege to take self to heel,
nevertheless yours truly hoops longshot
to score brownie points a higher power,
I will not cajole, bribe nor appeal...

while sitting on haunches horsing around
contemplating how to clearly expound
idea that the here and now does not exist
cuz no sooner then present moment
experienced than bitta bing bitta bang...
little block of time immediately gone,
hence quite profound...

Whereby present, i.e.
2:24 PM March 4th, 2021
instantaneously becomes past.

Linkedin thru tenuous
webbed world wide
electronic thread defied
no matter flurry of emails/
messages exchanged flattery applied
courtesy transient online

tête à tête downside
cyber venue offers convenient exit
personal aversion, I chide
brevity figurative thorn in side
futile effort Androcles tried
I haint lion, familiarization denied
fledgling cyber acquaintanceships
dead on the vine, yours truly sighed
potential friendship never fortified,
cuz immediate value judgement cast,

instantaneously prejudiced aversion
perhaps hidden agenda implied
maybe intimated illusions of grandeur
netiquette nuances overstepped, I chide
yours truly vouchsafe
absolute zero great expectation
love smitten wounds pride,
the Italian girl in Algiers

inchoate mystique forever unknown
nonetheless fantasize bartered bride
figment of overactive imagination
hence grist for poetry mill
grateful fleeting rapport tried
to take flight before sputtering

doomed to dustbin of history (mine)
filed within memory as template guide
against future unnecessary disappointment
best stick to your guns abide
against infatuation lest
conjured lass doth override
focus on reality no matter who espied

Facebook post, tis foolhardy
to allow, enable, and provide leeway,
hence aimless thoughts elide
dear boy, ya never learned always denied
rapture becoming ensnared
noose sense and sensibility stride
ding blindly, dumbly, foolishly...,
into own perilous entrapment, verstehen?

(alternately titled: eye temporarily
lost sight of reason.)

Yesterday - March (7th) madness overtook me
toward she, yours truly did marry,
I nearly subjected mine flesh to harakiri.

Yours truly (earnestly and frankly)
got royally zapped!

Last night (exhibiting frolicsome mien),
she hurled an orange at lightspeed,
I yowled and yapped,
cuz red hotted poker raging anger wrapped
tightly around me psyche
wherein dark shadows
(think... a long edge of night) got trapped

as the edge of night (psychologically)
violently overtook mine ordinarily
calm, cool and collected
triggered reaction, whereby I nearly snapped
ready to **** a mockingbird named A* Robin
otherwise (and ofttimes) referenced as missus.

Her countenance turned ghostly white
Count Dracula summoned forth – think twilight
less than twenty four hours ago
to rectify paralyzing pernicious plight,
I wanted to learn the wife a life lesson
courtesy her tarnished rusty knight,
who plays fair and square
on the metaphorical chessboard of life
savoring bloodlust did excite.

Within flash doggone mailer daemon
(inside me noggin) became docile as a whelp.

After sense and sensibility returned,
I felt mortified at such murderous zeal
dumbfoundedly blinked
after dialing down the terrorizing wheel,
ceasing (once and for all)
poetic antics of generic schlemiel
hearty victuals for tri county newsreel

finding yours truly locked
even sentenced to life in prison
deadly rupture (regarding
motherless grown daughters)
time could never heal
self made widower for justice,
he would not appeal.

Urgency arises to air
aforementioned shellshock with Renee Cardone
the Springford therapist my soul I bare
lest yours truly could (hypothetically)
strapped (ohm my dog) to electric chair
despite no premeditation to declare

insanity - nasty, short and brutish existence
not forgivable courtesy loosed beast
prompting rhetorical question pertaining
to trying circumstances human err
well I could (lamely) blame outburst
on prominent solar flare

nsync with mine jammed cognitive gear
linkedin with rational thinking
necessitating appropriate healthcare
til death do me part
cue wizened old man holed
in walled dank lair

feeble minded kept within
jail cell hermitage amazingly enough
sixty plus shades of gray matter
offers yours truly ample time
to experience and/or accept personal prayer
and meditation reading, and playing solitaire.

Ultrasound allowed, enabled
and provided obstetrician to zoom,
image courtesy sonogram
showing fledgling fetus,
thus we pledged our troth after spouses' womb
(approximately halfway
between her pregnancy) did balloon
******, wherein conception
delineated birth of eldest daughter,
and many a tomb
morrow later she resides in Oakland, California.

I attempt reasonable rhyme about...
oh happy yesteryear
when newly minted groom (me) wed bride
family in attendance cried
as Justice of Peace officiated as legal guide
extolling pregnancy of she who could not hide
figurative bun in the oven which matured inside
after two gametes fused and multiplied
countless times quickly birthing embryo
baby on the way nullified
application of premarital ***
and attendant use of contraceptives.

Clear out of the blue
thee wife asked me
opinion if wedded bliss between us
ha, how heretical to think otherwise
since romance long since flew
out the figurative window
impossible mission to feign significant other
analogous to brand new
alluring, beguiling, captivating... tchotchke.

All kibitizing aside, a requited love with zeal
I attest invisible spokes support unseen wheel
when turning sparking genuine care and concern
act as buffer against emotional hemorrhage
and received good housekeeping approval seal
more applicable to most recent
elapsed wedding day anniversaries
ex post facto after both daughters flew the coop
finding me reeling with empty nest syndrome,
whenever yours truly reviews mental newsreel,
now absence of offspring, akin
to psychological wound I did heal
no longer mourning natural course
of begetting progeny more readily
accepting their necessary autonomy doth appeal.

Though marriage devoid of physical intimacy wife
get along swimmingly, we exhibit less strife
than days of yore effulgence promulgated
to all readers unbeknownst to human life
form characterized by bloke,
whose words appeared across screen
exemplifying, embodying, and edifying
regarding beloved simian counterpart
bandying playfully sometimes
drubbing and drumming my body
while she (commandeering
certain orifices of her body)
emulates sounds of fife.

Impossible mission, nevertheless
I take figurative aim
to craft poem without
experiencing wrathful blame
avoiding explicitly, ignominiously, specifically...
referencing mine heterosexual counterpart
that infamous she,

whom did ruthlessly claim
yours truly as her husband
snatching mine happy
go lucky bachelorhood
two dozen plus decades ago
(revered singular status
belonging to me),

one latitudinally and longitudinally
i.e. height and weight challenged dame
during earlier years of our marriage
prone to prematurely ******* and exclaim
expletive laced epithets toward me
once burnt twice shy,
courtesy unidentified heartbreaker

nonetheless pledged
her troth and did coldly frame
wedded covenant predicted
on mutual (of Omaha)
perk hens pact regarding fidelity
abiding rules linkedin
with matrimonial adult game.

Henceforth any future
reasonable rhyme I crochet
with words must not mention
name of spouse lest she flay
these lovely bones
and verbally inveigh
husband hoot hook literary leeway
time gone by to broadcast blithely,
albeit electronically
which liberty not okay
the missus pointedly did relay.

No idea why personal details
(about myself) shared with zeal
(hoop fully to curry spicy reciprocity)
yours truly not exceptionally discriminatory,
when rusty cogs turn with much friction 
barnacle encrusted cerebral
spongy bobbing square wheel
likened to (nails scraping
across chalkboard) -
which action evokes screeching squeal

an artifact of yesteryear school days
seen courtesy thirty five millimeter
black and white silent newsreel
portraying parochial
(baby boomer) kids
analogous to well trained dogs did heel
good luck heading toward
principal office filing lament better off
seeking devil (who wears Prada
or the latest couture) to appeal.