Ride and shout like Paul Revere
Inside you is great power
So open up and let go your fears
Evict them from your tower

Up up and away we'll fly
Please come join me in the sky

I will write a rhyme, about religious ****  
Lovey-dovey “christians”…twist the Bible make it fit  
-
And their lovey-dovey Geesus, “another Jesus” like Paul said [1]  
Preach “another gospel”…a gospel that is dead  
-
Hey lovey-dovey Kristian, will your Geesus come for you?  
Meet him in the clouds?…Your ******* has no clue  
-
You’ll hail the Man of Sin, “That Wicked” soon will come [2]
You will worship him…while Amazing Grace you hum  
-
You will take his Mark, in your forehead in your hand  
You will burn in HELL, your DAMNATION has been planned [3]

[1] 2nd Cor 11:14
[2] 2nd Thess 2:8
[3] Rev 14:9&10

i see it like this:
i know the teenagers
have the outlet we never had,
we had to invent the graffiti tag
to be seen or heard,
there's no courage in internet
anonymity - we're as successful
as insects to adapt, with 8 billion
of us, i won't be knocking of your door.
i see every poem that i write
as a character, even the cameos
(great cinema in edinburgh
is called cameo - european films,
turkish, iranian, real art-house),
and with each poem it's like a passer-by
on the street, the street is the narrator;
i just wanted an oblivious narrator,
not some genius chess player
moving in & out of people's minds,
i wanted to use poetry to destroy
if not simply obliterate the voodoo complex
of novel & novella architects...
seeing through silent "dialectics" / ~dialectics
psychiatrists attacking poets
and philosophers defending them:
like this theory i had - about how god
didn't destroy the latin alphabet like he did
of babylon (new age atheism is great,
but these atheists started congregating,
and that's not cool) - and i see punctuation
marks above the letters, umlaut for a colon,
comma marks above o and n if not elsewhere...
but by god i mean god = word(s) - a means
of communication - extended into a reality
when so complex it's near solipsism,
impossible given that you can understand me;
better stick to the poetic maxim of paul valery:
poems are never finished - just abandoned.

WEB: The Mahmudiyah killings were the gang-**** and killing of 14-year-old Iraqi girl Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi by United States Army soldiers on March 12, 2006, and the ****** of her family, in a house to the southwest of Yusufiyah, a village to the west of the town of Al-Mahmudiyah, Iraq. Charged with the crimes were five U.S. Army soldiers of the 502nd Infantry Regiment consisting of (I) SGT Paul E. Cortez, (II) SPC James P. Barker, (III) PFC Jesse V. Spielman, (IV) PFC Brian L. Howard, and (V) PFC Steven D. Green, whom the U.S. Army discharged before becoming aware of the crime. Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi was ***** and murdered after her family consisting of her 34-year-old mother Fakhriyah Taha Muhsin, 45-year-old father Qasim Hamza Raheem, and six-year-old sister Hadeel Qasim Hamza were killed. Spielman and Green have been convicted and three others have pleaded guilty.**

World news
US soldier sentenced to 100 years for Iraq **** and ******
The Iraqi identity cards of Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi, her mother, Fakhriya Taha al-Janabi (l) and her father Qasim Hamza al-Janabi
The Iraqi identity cards of Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi, her mother, Fakhriya Taha al-Janabi (l) and her father Qasim Hamza al-Janabi. Photograph: Reuters

Ewen MacAskill in Washington and Michael Howard in Baghdad
Friday 23 February 2007 04.15 EST First published on Friday 23 February 2007 04.15 EST
A US soldier was sentenced to 100 years in prison yesterday for one of the worst known cases involving US troops in Iraq - the gang **** and ****** of a 14-year-old girl and the killing of her father, mother and sister.
The horrific slaying of Abeer Qassim al-Janabi and her family happened in Mahmoudiya, around 20 miles south of Baghdad, on March 12 last year.

In spite of the apparently long prison sentence, Sergeant Paul Cortez, 24, can expect to be released on parole in about ten years under a plea bargain deal. He pleaded guilty and agreed to testify in the cases of others alleged to have been involved.

He was given a dishonourable discharge from the army.

Cortez, who broke down in tears earlier this week as he described his role in the **** and murders, is the second soldier to plead guilty. He told the military court at Fort Campbell of the day he had gone with others to the girl's home and ***** her.

The killing was originally reported to be the work of insurgents, but the role of the soldiers emerged in June.

In November, one of the soldiers, specialist James Barker, 24, was sentenced to 90 years in a military prison.

Another, specialist Steven Green, 21, who had been discharged from service with a "personality disorder" before his superiors knew about the crime, is accused of being the ringleader and will face a civilian court because he is no longer in the army.

Two others, private Jesse Spielman, 22, and Bryan Howard, 19, face courts martial in relation to the incident, though neither is accused of participating in the ****.

All five were members of the 101st Airborne Division, based at Fort Campbell, which straddles the Kentucky-Tennessee border.

Cortez, who is from Barstow, California, pleaded not guilty to separate charges of premeditated ******. He was found not guilty on these charges on Wednesday after prosecutors failed to convince a judge that he knew of what they said was Green's intent to ****** the whole family.

Cortez told the court about how the crime was thought up: "While we were playing cards Barker and Green started talking about having *** with an Iraqi female. Barker and Green had already known ... " he said, before breaking down in tears.

He continued after a minute: "Barker and Green had already known what house they wanted to go to ... knew only one male was in the house, and knew it would be an easy target."

At the home, Cortez said he and others took Janabi's father, mother and younger sister into a bedroom and kept her in the living room.

He then described Barker held her down while he undressed her and proceeded to **** her. 'After I was done, myself and Barker switched spots, he said.

He claimed that Green shot and killed the girl's parents and younger sister. "During the time me and Barker were ****** Abeer, I heard five or six gunshots that came from the bedroom. After Barker was done, Green came out of the bedroom and said that he had killed them all, that all of them were dead."

Cortez said he acted as a lookout while Green then ***** the girl.

He claimed Green then shot Janabi several times in the head, and the soldiers poured petrol over her body and set it alight to try to hide the evidence of their crime. Cortez burned his own clothes and Spielman allegedly threw the AK-47 used to **** the family in a canal. Specialist Christopher Till, testified that Cortez told him about the killings in June. "He seemed very remorseful," Till said.

In another development, Iraq's security forces were yesterday facing fresh allegations of brutal ****** assault after four soldiers were accused of ****** a 50-year-old Sunni Turkomen woman and attempting to **** her two daughters in the north-western city of Tal Afar earlier this month.

It is the second allegation of ****** assault against Iraqi forces to surface this week. On Monday, a 20-year-old Sunni woman alleged that she was ***** by three policemen after being detained during a search of her house in Baghdad.

Yes, all the trouble we feel seems far off.
Except imagine all the people.
Who has it worst off?
Who just can't catch a break?
Don't matter , how hard they try.
A night of listening to Paul and John makes you adjust to many things.

Yesterday and Imagine two great composition.
Spoke volume in the words of each song.
If we only listen.

Who loves poverty?
Who loves depression?
Who loves sadness?
Honestly, no one does.

Good things happens for a reason.
Love comes about during every seasons.

Who's afraid of joy?
Who's afraid of love?
Who wouldn't want it offered?
When it's available to have.

Your religion is a farce, you’re so much pious ****
You twist the Holy Bible, your “doctrine” make it fit
-
All the Moslems hate you…well imagine that!
They want to **** you all, and eat your brains and fat
-
The Jews think that your “Jesus”, was just some holy guy
You’ll all end up in Hell, I wouldn’t even cry
-
You’re Religious ****, upon you Paul would puke
Goody-Googy Two Shoes, you even ******* Luke
-
Go preach your farceass “gospel”, get everybody “saved”!
Never mind never mind, you’re ***** and depraved

++++

Def: Farceass Gospel

Noun - 1st Cor 15:1~4 with NO SCRIPTURES

The high shining,
Dazzling from the sky.
Hurting the eye with that piercing glare.
Reflecting from sparkling seas
Which shimmer in the gentle breeze.

Reflecting and reflecting
From diamantine spires.
Echoed on the blackest night
By radiant cities
Lit by glimmering lights.

Our Gods hover over us,
Incandescent in their glory.
Their bright wings shimmer and shine,
Inspiring us to greater things.

Yet let us not forget
That all this blazing brilliance
Is everywhere:
Even in those shadow lands
Where ordinary people
Go about their daily grind.

Even though we sit in sheltered rooms
Bathed only by some television light
Or laptop luminescence,
If we but open our inner eyes
We can see
That the world is not as prosaic
As it seems.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\8\2018.

She purrs, the love cat
Her space on her favorite cushion
She makes space for herself,
On a couch I don't own, but may as well now
That's because everything I own
Really belongs
To her, actually I guess
And maybe we both know that
Naturally......................

I'd give it freely anyway,
But that's not fun
For a cat,
so she take titbits
Just for fun,
Cats like fun
Sometimes, and
other times they are
Serious in intent.
She leaves reminders
Of when she's been, here
In my territory
to keep other cats
In their place, which is important
If she is not here
the Love Cat is a very clever feline
So she likes to poke and hide

Yes, she is a curious one, but then
Isn't that what makes us  
clever tomcats fall
From sash windows of lofty
seemed safety.....
into the streets of love,
where all the Toms
and love cats are
seeking mates
and vicious fights
with nothing to lose;
side tooth and rear claw
Break out often

Yes, but aye, we are mated
if you must know,
that love cat and I
By natures' old laws
Her in woolen scarves and odd socks
Me in baggy pants
and flannel grey T-shirts
Don't tell me how,
but we know.

Sometimes we play in the linen
Like all our feline companions
Other-times we just lie and stare
Into curious sets of eyes,
A staring competition
Between loving predators,
In love with each other
Bright and fiercely
But perhaps
not in love
with the world itself


Paul 2014

She came in through the bathroom window
Because it was something that Paul once said
She changed her name to Lucy, in search of diamonds
But the night sky was way above her head

There is something in the way she moves
Here, There, and Everywhere
She said, She said, Hello Goodbye too many times
On the day I saw her standing there

She's so Beatlesque in the way that she acts
I've got a feeling a day in the life
Of this very extraordinary woman
Would be quite the ticket to ride

I have so often told this woman
Please don't let me down
She says right back to me ever so sweetly
We can work it out

She has the answers to all of life's problems
All you need is love
I ask for an explanation
Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

She's so Beatlesque in the way that she acts
I've got a feeling a day in the life
Of this very extraordinary woman
Would be quite the ticket to ride

Time to wax lyrical,
Time to shout from the rooftops,
My words rolling like thunder
Across the whole wide world.

No mardy moods
Or negative vibes.
Time to replace killing with care
Hatred with love
Tree chopping and ploughing
With planting and wild growth.

Let emotion sing as music
Love and care
Musical words
Called poems.

What are we doing?
What are we doing with our planet
And it’s folk?
Aliens from other worlds might ask
And wonder whether to intervene.

Re-education is required
Getting us back to the ways
Of Mother Earth.
Teaching us to let go
Of our egos
Our lust for mere goods
And territorial land-grabbing.
It’s not what you have
But what you make of it

We only live once
And not for very long
So I say again
Love life
All life
From the tiniest ant
To the loftiest tree.
Enjoy a giraffe
And savour the aroma
Of a bower surrounded by flowers.

Let’s grow more forests
Teeming with life
Clothed in mysterious mists.

Unite together
To end poverty
And strife
Cease all wars
Treat everyone with respect
As equals
All free
All loved equally.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\11\2023.

The obscurity of the angels,                                   the Jews began to the walls
of the kiss of the Spanish soldiers,  invisible,
but by the heavy rains the mouths of Cicero,                                 of the eyes,
            the first big sister of the plastic text suitable for children on this side,
give ear to him to doubt the cup of the football
and the waves of the list of images of magic,
in the fear of harlots,                         the movement of the moves of Georgia,
Hidden Festival of Saint Thomas,
a harlot of a Barbie, is ***** to send a sweet,
I felt stupid,                               he went down to footstep International Glory
in the southwest corner of cheerful acid
only solve the paint is wet,
between waiting for the machine,                                                 that is socks,
which were not believed Stephen's teeth
alchemy unguarded is not perfect woman
ever to recover the oil to **** infected prostitutes;
paradise's sorrow to the Lord Arabia Benjamin's
GN language led him into a small box
with an ugly Medusa umbilieata stopped cold
when he was standing in the African thought.
star will start made shades accomplished Reserved day
American women young male death is pretty
Asia eyes of the town,    John ***** minutes,
three Americans and Europeans Russian;
English dark water in the southern Italian
main body of the Greek gold race eking George,
Canada hair and blue war and then burned
when the blood has the skin and the star
Thomas' friend amino Yai e-mail, Live holy
to North America with bad global financial
food crisis next month seas in Russia,                                          for example,
color yellow shoes and a cold church,
the power of the dog way to change
the gas fluid Germany: Profile the sun
had just gone by amino acids in the eyes
of the year to draw little beauty queens
new ****** practices ordered the police
from Kenya in July but rock poet field
and the number of Google images,         the baby changing rooms for control
                                                                ­            of gold days of receiving the;
Robert was born,  his father was killed
and a woman lie to school in the shadow of the living creatures,
Jesus was a free drink,                                                           ­ music and white:
for the fine linen is the radio technology
of the arm of a dream,             as it were,               the east side of the tongue,
the laws of the wind, are from hell,
from the beginning, the cities of brown wall,      from Italy, was able to open the cultural reading of the 'mother' of Europe
and the minds of the woman,
this stone is the truth of Christ in China,
Spain, the nations,  according cup cities
from Brazil in many conversations
donkey ball Germany dogs,                                            and thus a happy hour
and Igor playing in Christians,
the fingers of the Jewish robot
and heat costs of old now
dance pen simple science snooch;          Sir William wild and safely in Asian crisis, in the words of a song Maonenim
he set the memory we celebrate
in the form of the computer Museum of Baloo,                    the Saudi Arabia,
and the god of the songs,
Mexico unknown to his brain in this manner
the smoke Fishing; The gate of the England
                                           star of the France,            Greece is not the natural mouth which I remember,
many of Bob waiting for this sleep
that he must be very careful of the
field that day, the rich man;
Family Health and to the mystery of thy garments,
write to the mountains, vitamins,      Chinese aid is difficult for scientists ***
                                                                ­           and race disorders in the dark,
women are bad, simple leather Satan's pink car gods;
Einstein's cat dish from the fire, poet live trees as the
first football game at the window, ****** hot crushed
asked for a half **** price in a ditch,
"Devils élu temple to listen to the voice of Paul the prophet's crazy ***** feet with a bed of sand;                                              beach angel money collected
not the voice of Mary's
Dark angels Jews began to rain wall;
kiss Spanish warriors invisible matter
rain of lips Irish eyes first big sister
plastic,                                                        ­  with the text suitable for children
on the one hand to listen better
to doubt the glass cats, so the waves
of list of images magical lights prostitutes
of change sets in motion Georgia
Hidden Festival Jack, Jack *******
Barbie 'Sodoma, send a sweet smell,
I knew that stupid comes down
on a drunk international gypsy
in the southwest corner of gay
acid soil to be broken,                                                          ­    the paint is wet,
born between waiting for a machine
that is socks that is believed Stephen
teeth alchemy to protect discarded no
perfect woman ever to recover the oil
to **** infected prostitutes Garden;
detrimental in the tomb of Arabia
Marcos tongue brought him a mark
minutes GM Medusa Burning stopped
seeing the frost was an ugly box
was standing in African thought.
Marcus ordinary spray bar in India,
both in the mountains of Bettie
parents to heaven Tom Ivan hair
strippers separator loved to magnify
the darkness about what space
monsters women in the United
States of the western life of a woman
with a song tonight in the red dead
girls light woman and the star will
be a start done shadows fulfilled
Australia Day are African American
women young green male god,                     the death of beautiful Asian eyes
strongly,                                                       ­  John ******* minutes,                                                         ­      three
Americans and Europeans Russian
English of dark water in southern Italy,
                                                            the main body of the Greek gold nation
seeking George,                                                    Canadi­an Hair and blue war burned the place down...

i’ll tell you all the blasphemies about jesus christ, having ****** out a *******’s **** and **** for ten quid extra on top of ten quid entry fee into the brothel and one hundred and ten’s worth for an hour - you can start by posing on or off the cross with the celebrities: idolatry in the flesh.*

my face isn’t that much of an **** ******* out a ****,
so when i have a dream...
and dream of an egg cheese and ham sandwich
having fasted the previous day,
waking up on a salivated on pillow,
having posted a picture of my face
on an internet site where a few maidens read me
i get the impressionism in freudian theory:
my dreams can’t have that solipsistic dimension
of self-projection,
so i get up, drink two glasses of half water half milk,
have coffee, smoke a cigarette and think **** out,
all because, as we’re standing we’re all fruit flies
on a rotting apple, or just ***** flies in a web,
and the spider / rotting apple is centralised
by artificial intelligence, i.e. the intelligence that was
once a part of alan turning... so this crossover
connectivity of conscious thought and false self-projection
of the unconscious is simply elaborated
that the freudian interpretation of dreams has an
element of solipsism in it, which would ensure i could
project anything i wanted in my unconscious (which i have
no control over) and thus... upon wake... be unable
to imagine anything i wanted... which is not true...
since upon waking i can imagine anything i want,
but in the unconscious i can’t dream anything up...
which makes sense why paul mcCartney dreamt up
the song yesterday on the sly, without any conscious effort
other than the mechanical effort of having to note it down & record it.

the worst curse i ever received upon breaking up with a girl: you'll always be a child if you leave me and go back home. my reply? it's the pain that makes me childish sometimes, i'm a son of immigrants, i was ready to work the roofing business to earn money, but i guess Rasputin didn't see as much either in the people of St. Petersburg... i can say: the Scottish Widows' HQ roof near St. Paul's cathedral is partially mine... well thanks for only allowing me to complete one roof.*

o sweet medicine! o sweet medicine for my burning
head after such prolonged watch,
insomniac, i can't believe his disciples who
were working men, men of the fisheries,
and of other trades, who fell asleep so easily
at his prayer in the garden of gethsemane,
i alone would have stayed awake,
not because i'd want to, or because i would
chose to have: but because the night is my
malady, to stay awake, and during the day
esp. during summer, it's no good time to
find a Nordic shade - that's about half a litre
of absinthe and a walk for five beers
and then the synthetic sleep inducers will
work, little disks of such an infinite pleasure
but of finite experience when compared to
those venturing with shamans from both the
Amazon and the Swiss chemistry laboratory -
she wouldn't be as smart about being able to
take pain, to later complain about a weak
spine if man managed to ditch the inglorious
book of genesis and chose instead the rationality
of the Roman way of birth... oh men so content
with life fall to sleep so easily in order to
jump back into life, and morning, this past morning
i can watch a man walk cool spring streets readied
for whatever emptying task, for indeed the emptying
task is filled with the already emptying thing:
the thing that cradles many things, and by process
of not only economic, but of aesthetic conditions changes
many hands with Shiva playing poker with you,
once the stone carved precious rather than crude held
value, prior that, the flint... but aren't these the times
of the limits of money changing its form?
perhaps all these profession that bring neither bread
from dough, or egg from hen, perhaps the readied
meal, the readied salad, milk sold as skimmed
semi-skimmed and full, when could have been sold
only full so what water might be added at home?
O man's care over fellow man's health, first ruining
his behaviourism, then enticing him further to
some idea of amphibian genes in his ability to swim?
to have created diabetes by cursing natural fat,
to have eradicated fat from natural products needing
to contain it, filling it with excess sugars...
what good would that do if not create a diabetic outbreak?
mm, the honest workers fell asleep while the dishonest
mystic prayed for compensations to his aims?
of my life, i'd give the many hours he gave on the cross
in order to know a certain guilt and a justifiable
punishment - but i know only uncertain guilt
and unjustifiable punishment by man, a fellow of youth,
if you are to plagiarise a plagiarism of monotheism
remember that the first plagiarism took root in
polytheism, does Islam know this? monotheism
made a mistake, polytheism exploited it and never told
the monotheists the mistake from the travels of
Alexander to India... O poor Malachi...
just a brief book, perhaps two poems by 21st standards
of prodigious output, and so much zeal invoked...
for fair you in Hades? you'd fare better with me on
the Mount of Megiddo... look here what a poor
shepherd's frustration at being excess skin on forehead
cheeks and neck made him do to his phallus -
at least the pagans of the north worshipped what was
given to them, and didn't bother revision,
look at their civilised shock and the barbaric being
revised as if a dove of Noah metaphor of promise
to spread the good word of revision the same revisions
given unto the Dobberman dogs with slit ears and
cut tails... or, let's just say Bleach Jackson and painkillers...
well, if one wants to suffer to continue spreading
the good word of revising creation, of man's lost
invigorating spirit, making man more docile,
well virile in head and toe: O ROMANS, LEND ME
YOUR EARS, YOUR FORESKINS AND YOUR TESTICLES!
see... spread the message far enough and a few of
man will lose more than just the ease of only one
*** with excess skin... hey! castrato hymn! sing!
well, the crown of Myrrh did spread to our modern
companion of excess diagnoses, we diagnosed
the imperishable, the soul of persistence in this world
not by destroying the existence of god,
that's no man's vitality, unless in earnest prayer
for personal concerns, rather than kneeling in oink church:
prayers for the slaughter rather than martyrdom...
it can't be that easy even if you played yo-yo
with alms and tax... what modern man destroyed
was soul: he instigated so many theories against man
rather than against god (god is readily gone away with),
by undermining the core essence, the vitality of man,
indeed thought exists for philosophers, and they never
seem to be bored of entertaining it, like a monk
entertaining god... but what modern psychology undermined
was what it said to be a travesty: why can't man
perpetually think! why can't we can't we create
ascriptive pathologies we best describe by zoology
in treatment?! you undermine the force of manual labour
you undermine the displeasure man has with thought
rather than god, i.e. thought implying fellow man:
the car mechanic having to think when his boss lays
him off, although enjoying his manual work, so
freely excited like a sunrise of a perfectly happy body
fully exercised in existential arithmetic counting
birthdays and the number of Christmases... huh?
a man mechanised is content with his body,
to him god is simple as god is simple to Kant...
it's thought that's not entertaining on your little
modern stage... back when God sought redemption
from the cross than thinking about giving redemption
to people, he merely allowed perversity and ****...
well, people cursed god, because thought back then
was manipulated by the dis-attractiveness of
the farmer's life... the still breathing care for adventure...
all my finer points have already been made,
the last remaining points are just written
to show you how far a rigidity of words can become
of the people who hardly read:
e.g. hallowed be thy name...
       holy be your name?
       let's say the modern interpretation is:
       hollow is your name... since we rather
       censor the word **** than make optical
       studies of the tetragrammaton,
       not inserting Adam & Eve into the equation
       we're working on something,
       it's not purposive censorship, it's
       just unnecessarily necessary to see things:
       the tetragrammaton is a tool, like a hammer,
       or a nail... it's not necessarily
       the person using either.

i still preferred Prokofiev's Lieutenant Kije Romance piece.*

i get those nights, drink and write very little,
make it all haiku, enjoy songs and recite
the shrinking of ice cubes in a glass akin to bergs,
and i'm innocent once more
peering into your eyes not bothering to note
something down, and that's when i get my life
back, as i'd like to have imagined it,
i mean it, i get my life back,
i'm not reduced to these caterpillar
and cockroach quirks
readied for a blank stare
of the random passer-by,
i'm there, in the bed, with you,
staring right into you,
not some random on the pavement
watching for fame as if looking
for a photo-booth opportunity
with that inverse leash and dog-collar
of the selfie stick - i.e. walk the dog
spot a celebrity, sounds about the same,
and then there's me in a drunk tag-along tango
prancing past pedestrians on the millennium bridge
from tate modern to st. paul's
with a can of beer in public...
ashen hive and the honey just drips from the eyes
of strangers for the lost chance of a fifteen minute
interlude of shared coffee and
hobnobs, then past the east end and
into taboo territory of essex lasses:
ménage à trois oranges.

Beauty
What if a Mark was Listening
And a Paul was Simply Grace
A Tesla Tiger
Angels Wings
To Take us into Space

And Musics Life
A Dance Divine
With Thee
I turn  to Arms
Now Mine
Our Love Unheld
By All but This
Our Time so Sacred
Only Bliss

This Travel Real
Beyond all Known
For You
I SHOW
My Wings
Now Grown

A Woman
For a Man
CLAIM Man within this Flesh
A Heart for Woman 's touch as Well
Our Rhythm's Love
A Calling Bell
I ask our Soul
If this is True
It says to me
Done Unto You

There once was a man named Paul
who wasn't much a threat at all
but when he met someone new
there was nothing he could do
he'd end up being kicked in the *****.

I give you songs for your heart,
Lyrics threading through your soul.
When I go to sleep, I think of you,
Knowing how, I just want you, need you,
In my dreams I want to be baptized in your love.

Even though the tears of the dragon await,
So my Muse remains in cyber space,
Forever beyond me, you won’t change me.

I ask, that you don’t hide in your shell,
And when I ask, just be a woman,
So I am not building castles in the sand,
When in our virtual world, love walked in.

And I ask, don’t leave me now, no,
Don’t fly, Blackbird, for fear of being broken.

I can never say thank you enough,
For after waiting so long, it’s true,
You have made me a better man.

With you, I could just sail away,
I could say take me I’m yours,
But I won’t, but know this,
I’ll be waiting,
Waiting:
Always.

©Paul Chafer 2014

I

for weeks prior to your death i sat with a premonition
of bad writing and a toothache -
not that i ever thought much about my writing -
or that i would have to think very little of it:
more on the lines of - id est quid est -
                                      mind you - i took my mind
off writing by working in the garden  -
the pergola had to be erected so an evergreen could
be cut down -
and the wisteria that was hugging it
could be cleaved from it and dropped onto the:
prior mentioned pergola...
there was some light cement work on the fence:
a little trench had to be dug so the neighbour's
weeds would not burrow beneath...
                all that since i last saw you -
come late july - most certainly - no... wait...
come to think of it... it was late august...
me and your son-in-law (my father) were driving
across all of europe -
and on the way back i remember the heat on
the belgium france border...
                 it was an immense sensation of
whale lung thrown onto a frying pan of a stoney
beach... or at least: the sensation of stickiness
is how it could be imagined -
                perhaps that's how you can ever
begin to read a bruno schulz's cinnamon shops -
immediately from the first sentence:
that barrage of ultra- something or other:
ubergrammar - no... just that necessary style i am
yet to accustomed myself to...

II

that was 3 months ago - and i'm still learning
that: we live by regrets and memories -
which are hardly sins -
just as i remember, you'd say...
'call me every month and check up on me,
call me up and say "hey grandpa! how's
it going?!" i know we both can't talk
on the telephone - to talk you need to see
hands move, you need a face to peer at...'
that is my regret...
although the last words we exchanged
were about you wanting to buy me the rest
of karl ove knausgaard's mein kampf...
which, 3 months later, i knew you would...

IIIa

i've finally sat down to scribble something
down - if i were using my right hand
and a pen on a piece of paper
you'd immediately recognise my hand-writting
and tell me how unrefined it is:
that i'm chicken-scratching -
that i write like: kura pazorem -
   and i'd tell you: precursor of the next
stage in the process: i'll be typing
through and through...

      you died on the 23rd of october
at 5:30am if i remember, 5:10am
sounds better - circa -
            your wife (grandma) called
circa 11am on the 22nd of october and left
a message - i was out walking
complaining: how i'm not alone enough,
premonition after premonition -
she called in a confused state although
i beg to differ - that you were heaving
your last pangs of life
in a hospice - or that she just placed you
there...
i had my ticket booked for the 24th hoping
to catch you: just yet...
on the 23rd i was told at 8am...
your daughter my mother told me
upon waking, then left the house to pretend
nothing had happened...
i got up, cleaned the house...
i begged a deity or simply ex nihil that
i might cry that i might be left with
a sinking sensation...
by evening i was sitting with a headache
worth a siamese twin and hardly
welcoming the next morning where
i would fly out...
    sketchy: barely any details...
and that's how sorrow, grief, anguish...
began to creep in...
the tears your daughter cried...
i would gentle waver in a pseudo-dance
with her in the bathroom
as she cried into my shoulder
and would later
blow her nose into my t-shirt...
it pained me that i was unable
to release my heart from these piles
of rock...

IIIb

it's the 1st of november: guy fawkes night...
i'm sitting sipping a 30% cherry *****
and pretending to chase it down with some pepsi...
3 months ago i told you i quit smoking,
i lied and i didn't lie:
i continued to smoke 2 a day -
when i wanted to write, when i pretended to write -
and on the odd occasion that i proved
to myself that i was writing: i smoked 3 per evening...
hardly the usual pack a day...
3 months ago when i last saw you
i didn't smoke a single one...
for the last 3 weeks i saw you...

IV

the most vivid image i have of you is you
picking up knausgaard's autumn and reading
an extract about eating apples -
how he never leaves apple cores -
just eats the whole apple so that there's
a pleasure and then a debt at the core:
of bitterness -
i pondered this twice on a walk...
if you leave enough flesh around the core...
three bites along the length of the apple...
and you fiddle the apples seeds
with your tongue and teeth...
there's hardly any bitterness of...
eating an apple like a magician...
hardly any lesson invoked concerning life...
but that wasn't our usual conversation:
you already exhausted your cameo cinema
of memory to the point where
i would remember the surnames /
names of the people in your life...

colonel zydaczek in your days
as a military gendarme...
on parade in warsaw...

V

the intricacy of the hell that is family...
i can't be fooled about how unhappy your marriage
was...
kept for reasons of propriety or some other:
safety mechanism or the best kept excuse imaginable...
what might have been preserved if...
say... if i were the sort of man that was born
into the 20th century -
                many years prior to 1986...
you would have been a great-grandfather for
at least 10 years...
it was hardly necessary to be the only grandchild
but that i was... and remained...

VI

you're dead and i'm still three-quarters alive:
how can i write some solace for myself:
how can death become this spectacular cut-off
point where i can no longer harvest
any memories of you...
you're dead and i'm lingering -
not completely debilitated:
just unsure whether a mountain is this
grand metaphor for something
that is:

today i tested whether grief is an aphrodisiac,
i ****** off to humbert humbert's
fantasy since it was already freely
available and felt no need to go beyond
what was already taboo...
then i took a shadow and i knew that
if on high: herr omni- c.c.t.v. cyclop eye
would not be looking at such details...

you're dead and i'm not going to beg
for rhymes and odes -
to write some miraculous epitaph -
beside cutting up onions today -
tears! finally! tears! i managed to cry
authentic tears once more!
it only took cutting up an onion to do so!
but, with such tears...
no softening of the heart -
heart's still a stone...
and brain is still... hardly a whirlwind of
disposed thoughts
and only: pickled with eye, ear and tongue
extensions:
pretty hoarding fungus chappie: sort of...

VII

i'm happy to tell you the world is still
"happening": whether by concerns for dasein
or a lack of thereof... but the mud / **** flinging has
never been greater...
you took the best of what autumn had to
offer...
a bouquet of bronzes and geld,
of frivolous yellows and burnt orange translating
itself into bold deepenings
of transcending prime artifacts of:
her gown of sweet scented rot: of(f) brown...
you should have seen the light
as it married itself to a fleeting of once
formerly amen of green...
the blistering sky as blue as a aristocracy of
angelic blood: formidable events took
place: i imagine you were in conversation
with someone...

VIII

the ceremony itself was unspectacular...
if the restrictions weren't in place:
i imagine many more people would have come...
three women stood out from
the rest, i imagined them to be your
former lovers...
i stood at the entrance of the church
not wanting to talk to anyone...
closing my eyes i moved from side to side
like a tree teased by the wind...
you were attired in prof. trim of navy
as i was... black can hardly be associated
with mourning or with a funeral...
i chanced upon navy...
grey was also visible...
but black is for paupers / plebs...
something more refined was in order...
navy or a darkening - charcoal grey...
we talked about this: or at least i imagine it
to be so: black is reserved for
priests and for crows...

IX

since your death i have found a return to england,
every time i left you, i left dear mother,
poland,
i guess not anymore...
since the headache of all the formalities:
and your son (my uncle) being so unbelievably
circa 50 years old...
never mind... and your wife (my grandmother)
i landed in england as i only landed
in her ***** only once prior:
the first time -
hardly excited like the first time -
but content that i... don't really have anything
to return to: that feral land...
for the first time i can become
so carelessly formal: expediently pressed
to poker my stay in those black-holes of
a land: you were dying like a patriarch
of former communism when
abortions rights were atheistically pronounced
and liberally secular...
the women came onto the streets
in protests of their rights being removed:
that they would have to give birth
to deformed foetuses...
notably? because by biological deficiency:
they would still have to be born...
since ****** or **** didn't play a role...

barbarous land of catholicism...
and all this time i was like:
so... what's it like then?
i ******* into a tissue and flush it along
with the crocodiles...
am i committing genocide?!
if i were given a fixed amount of *****!
perhaps... but this ***** comes
like glue or salt in the oceans!

Xa

in the prosektorium...
             the dissecting-room... the morgue...
after all... i knew that walking around town
and putting up the necrologue would be easy...
3 x 100ml of ***** bravado and i was:
pirate-chested hairy!
my long coat and all the your pearls of beauty
would start calling me gwandp'ah...
the bureaucratic details of your death:
someone had to identify you in the coffin...
i was expecting something: completely different...
i'm not sure someone can prepare
you: prepare you seeing a dead body...
esp... a dead body attired for a ceremony...
hell... i've seen a roadkill before:
a fox... i kept feeding a fox for a month...
seen a fox up-close...
i imagine a dead body "by accident" is a lot different
to... i've seen a  man knock another man
dead - one blow to the head
and a pancake on the street...
it's a bit different... seeing someone...
so well presented: for: the ceremony...

Xb

upon entry i remember the colour of the tiles:
what a bewildering window-shopping
reference, a sponge of a waiting room,
i don't really knew what it was that it was
supposed to be waited for:
identifying you:
you adamant to not get new porcelain worth
of teeth: milkshake baron you...
slurp up the rest of your meals...
i supposed... you and your missing
prosthetic teeth...
but first came into view your shoe:
which wasn't yours...
but as an extension of your feet
i guess it was...
it was "just there"...
             NUR DA...
                     peeping from above
the horizon of the coffin...
teasing me before i would come
antlitz zu antlitz...

arms folded: immaculately cut fingernails...
a bruise from the igrawka
of dryp dryp dryp...
your sunken cheeks...
your lips stitched together:
yet your sunken cheeks...
your inability to borrow a jaw... strong enough:
that pearl of a pear of your chin...
your frivolous last expectation
of the already lost hair...
of course i couldn't be a pure
atheistic / materialist -
i was a child again: i wouldn't call it
a soul: i would call it
the sigma-of-animation...
the sum-of-animation...
obviously this was missing...
that detail that essence was lost:
the earth implored for the body to be
paid as ransom...

but there you were: face somehow
recognizable: yet returned to the generic
project of the dead, the babes
and all those daddy-long-legs
anorexic models parading exhausted
beauty on catwalks of:
skin a leopard... dress a skeleton etc.

now we have conceived that:
i want to drink to tell the truth...
i will not revise this like some comedy
sketch:
it's not the best i can do:
it's all i can...
let's not pander to critique or a lack
or audience...

Xc

i do remember a "little" detail concerning
you...
you were a philately enthusiast, weren't you?
no wonder only i among the closest kin
wanted to sleep in the room
where you least heaved:
spewed some blood and were
surrounded by books...
and there be postage stamps!
i "stole" 4 albums with a collection of
them... i hardly think of selling them
to pay for electricity...
believe me: sooner i dead in belgian
euros or swiss franks at a dignitas clinic
since i'll be left completely solo
than have to...
sell them to sustain myself...
but as it happens... your wife...
my grandmother... was furiously tasked:
well... tasked me...
with withdrawing the 500zl per day
of all you 7000zl worth...

money money money:
i do wonder what grandma will spend all that
money on...
i don't think i'll want to inherit:
but these stamps are...
well... i have photographs of you from
1965 when you were still a young man...
but you were my grandfather:
i own your identity card...
with a photograph taken circa 15 years ago...

the circus / the church already stated:
you have died you are relieved from
all things temporal...
why the spatial details at all matter:
coordinates "hier" coordinates "da"...
and "sein" and "abwesend"...

you became a brother at the funeral...
you were no longer hierarchal with contest
for power broking future and past...
my brother: not my grandfather...
the priest: father, said so...
       *******' load of hierarchy:
fiddling sputnik violins from kindergarten...
roman catholicism...

grandmother still stresses her upbringing
ever-more...
she still thinks we are vermin-people
and that ****** should have started
with us rather than with the hebrews...
you and i know that's
a ceremony of: no comment...

how would you have detailed this approach:
i know how you would have:
it's not even worth mentioning since
we would already graze upon a superiority
complex with an inability to brush it off
with a laugh...
because we wouldn't laugh...
it would be a a headache to detail:
and i was born with this "other" half
included...

XI

look! we're nearing the devil's dozen...
which comes to the clue:
13: as jesus the hey-zeus!
       proto-paul and the propaganda
of how the hebrews and the wounded greeks
overthrew the romans...
ruled for a bit... and then...
come... the ottoman turks...
sort of... gave head....

XII

we could joke: ich: the plural ownership of they,
ich: haben - that deutsche and i,
one might always expect a dog to bark
come the night...
no no... this all too much detail for all:
the necropolis of poland that's nuanced
egypt - they have to buy up lease
for their graves...
carve out graves without dates of death:
they buy out 2nd mortgages of pyramid
democracy and crux...
the hebrews left pretended to giggle:
hard torn with the ashes...
me buying up history which could
never compete with an anglo-1960s
detail: snippet...

XIII

that i find an oyster wriggling in
the shell that's a skull that's somehow
a chewing gum's worth of a tongue...
this phantom of ***** white that's white
that's also stained with burgundian lashes
of agony of sipping wine
while spilling it over the cranium
of golgotha...
scalped...
learn to detail this new graffiti....

XIV

i talked to Paul before i took toward
the darkness and two ****** pretending
to be virgins upon the mt. of Kierkut...
he asked me how tall i was...
then he stood a step one above the tally
of my count, above me...
to measure up...
  and as he talked i had no face:
he would only concentrate on the region
that was supposed to be an ownership of
my heart...
once... i talked to a nurse on defeaning
tube train...
i was lip-reading...
but this thief: he told me... Piccadilly Gardens
of Manchester...
in the prisons with
the russians... and those that punched above
their weight... would inject vaseline or
whatever might... cushion a "sudden"
disappearance of knuckles to
make a full-fat-pouch of a fist...

poluse... not ******...
this guillotine measured "short" would bemoan
his luck with women...
around us... women walked like
sacred cows...
any old mongol would have... would have...
soud-hampton high on Herra...
this is just after your funeral...
i had to take a walk and pretend to
breathe and own a dog...
my list of excuses writing you
are drying up...
what with the promises of the islamic
republic of the world...
all these untouched all these
unloved virgins of the wriggling harem...

XV

arktyka - antarktyka -
antarktyka - arktyka -
             sąd - sad -
  sad - sąd -
      judgement - orchard -
           arctic - antarctic...

XVI

an... AFFOGATO...
well... that's 30ml of espresso...
and... a scoop of ice-cream...

XVII

what daughters-in-law there could have been:
if... bread was skimmed...
and the milk was...
trickling down from heaving...
stones instead of believing oneself
to be a courtesan of cows...
what promises governed the hebrews...
when... for what was their lot:
and subsequent loot...
the qurun drilled a blackening portal...
the arabs celebrated...
the russians would always inherit
siberia...
estonia was given  snippet
of the baltic sea curated by the danes...
lithuania shrunk into memory and beyond...
germany frau benß fur immer merz...
the huns / gargoyles in southern greece:
i.e. and northern macedonia...
balkan pirouettes of detail:
regained pride...

ah! ya!
ß = "z"
s = s
c = k
z = "c"                 jawohl!

XVIII

herrbittebonbon!
and your finger sticky from all that
SS-toffee...
translation: herr! bitte! bonbon!
which you always were...
the 1939 prior to the "adventures"
of the 20th century...
which sedated the grand yawn
of the british empire come
the zenith last exhaustion of
the 1960s and then some
"tremor christ" quasi canadian
for the finicky "end-of" summary
of a ******* football match-up...

the ottoman Janissaries vs.
the egyptian Mamluks!
   vs. the Mongolian horde!
                 in german it must sound
universal:
ist der straße gerad(e)?
to hell with asking in one's native
spreschen... future bent... nuanced got...
this returned alt vater spreschen...
i come with a shadow that
king arthur combated...

XIX

i would be writing a wriggle of russian:
if i were also writing enough finesse of
diacritical detail(s)
but given this diacritical blank:
dyslexia prone pro-latin english
UMPIRE stutter EMEMEM EM...
i would be: but apps don't work
with cyrillic or ancient turkic...
chopper
čopper... wait... what use is that...
extra P?
            çopper?
hiding the "jew" the god... the mammon...
H - one leg one arm of
the tetragrammaton...

        i don't actually mind...
it's not a conspiracy low i.q. "theory":
the dictates of rhyme and fact...
best posit a revision of
punctuation:
the hyper-stressed: newly arrived at
jerusalem kippah brethren are:
insomniac: "somehow"!

it's more a: huh?!
"they" missed the poetry train
and the hyper-cultural-reinvention
of the 1960s... still stricken-blind by
what... erik lehnsherr (henry hillside)
had to endure...
what are these puffs of blistering
a pyramid a sight... these halves?!

like we'd had to total: amost...
a crew of party poopers...
we were we are... these shadow-deafness
"equipment" best excusing:
           für immer fortschritt!

     tsukunft: in ergets nit...

  so much for hebreq married to germanic...
and not to the neighbour... zunge...
yiddish wasn't born from ****** tonguing
long: oi! oi! lithuanian spears!
the last remains of paganism...
by prior to moscow... blah ah ha ha...

it's not like the jews married themselves
to ****** or russian...
they said their jingle-bells with
pseudo-germanic:
yiddish... didn't they?

**

i've just seen a corpse readied for a funeral...
coffin and all...
walking through a graveyard
at night is... all too easy...
come to think of it...
i want to sleep in one...
my mortal democratic oath:
i can wait...
no matter...
give me two sponges and enough of them
soaked in acid to wait...
allow my tongue to get drunk...
my ears to succumb to deafness...

how you could deviate from german
with a spice of the odd 'ebrew...
you could...
yeah... i'm one part convinced this
secular niqab tactic does work:
as long as the arabs own
all the yachts and the air-conditioning
and all the camel milk and leather...
but... once they show...
entry points for disgruntled
mongolians...
        
        my corpse is waiting
for the 22nd century for all this to become
a promethenian platitude worth
of yawn as any... prior:
or future:
but thank god...
i'll be left without having made
any genetic investment...
perhaps an idea of mine...
perhaps some artifact that i allowed
myself to keep for a transition
period...

der ende!
as it happens... the world is...
my grandfather died...
i have little concern for the better half of it...
i'm cradling a wound of a quarter...
i guess that's how you
contest things passing guised in
matters of a temporal inquest...
however it goes...

drunk this night...
sober... two nights solid tamed with...
the worst kind of sober:
a socially expected sort of horrid;
a 14 day self-isolation presccription;
otherwise? me?
jog-friendly... whiskey and cat's whiskers!
*******! birth of h'america come
november!

empires die in afghanistan:
among the pashtun women.
oh yeah... lived for being fed the soul
of Karen and Mr. Surprise: a Gein Mommy's
Lover Boy -
butz the baconz iz oh soz sizzlez! ya?!

Keep getting "Forbidden 303" when I press "Save"
On a new poem.
"CSRF Verification Failed".....
The Fake Geek dot com says
Put "about:config" in your address bar.
Did this.
Got Warning to go no further.
(Later I went on but it didn't fully resolve the issue).

Went back to my poem:
Saved as a draft!!!
What's this all about?
Same on all browsers.
Paul Butters

PS See The Comments Below and elsewhere on this. Thanks All.
Later I found my pieces were getting saved as drafts which I could "make public" and post. Then Eliot announced it was Fixed - which it was for me at any rate.....

Steve Green (with extra verses)
Stephen Green
Who knows where he’s been?
Out on that bike
Sometimes taking a hike.
Loves Rugby League and ale
And Cider by the pale.

Ryan Jagger
Look at Ryan Jagger
Dancing with a swagger.
Full of jokes and taking the ****
Pours a beer-glass very quick.

Charles Lumley
Charles Lumley’s on full throttle:
He’s the owner of “Message in a Bottle”.
Stacks cans and bottles with precision
Never afraid to make a decision.

Jenny
You just can’t beat that lovely Jenny
She surely is worth every penny.
Hearing music, she has to dance
Enchanting with that cheeky glance.

Nigel
Doing his crossword, there is Nigel!
He knows everything from here to Rigel.
Need a proof-reader? He’s your man.
Want it in Latin? Nigel can.
Nuff Fer Now

Paul Butters

© PB 28\12\2022.

Inspire me to aspire.
To fulfil my every desire.
Come down you Muses.
Swoop low from Mount Olympus.
Fill me with your blazing fire.
Make me rise like a Phoenix,
Soaring aloft with burnished wings.

Give me a vision
Of Heavens paved with gold.
Let me see palaces
Carved from diamonds
Made in Neptune’s
Molten core.

Blind me with a light
So fearsome
I can barely look.
Show me infinity,
Eternal bliss.
Make me feel
A boundless Love.

Well,
What are you waiting for?

Paul Butters

Who I Am
Something has tapped into me,
I went from not writing,
To can't stop and I won't stop,
I'm not sure how to take it,
Why would I complain,
Time to take my gratification,

I want other humans,
See what I see,
And I wanna see how others see,
I'm mesmerized by all of this,
I have so many quirks,
So I feel unique,

I'm just a young mind,
Who has no clue what it wants,
I want to 'wow' people,
When I die I want to be know ,
But isnt that everyone's dream..

-Paul R Hensley |||

In the dark of night

I snuck out of bed

The monster picked a fight

So quickly I fled



Stood by my sister, poked her a bit

A sleepy frown above her eyes

She told me to sit

I was scared and she was wise



She pulled the cover over me

And told me to sleep

She was a big girl, older than me

She held me close, I needn't weep



I dreamed of fields with flowers

And strange round trees

Mountains with towers

And puddles with bees






She stood beside me

Like a  light beam

Watching over me

Setting me free


I was brave for a time

Brave as brave could be

Searching for the monster

Hiding up the tree



The monster saw me

I screamed, he’s got me

Oh no he’s not

We both jumped under the covers

My sister and me.

                                   Lily Nurmi & Paul Gaffney.

i'd say the #2 has etched its genius
on the pale, ruled stock for the last time—

(imagine when Paul said that, scribbling his
preach and practice between the lines at the foot of a fiery cross)

but the truth is, my work is ephemera;
the etch of a keyboard stroke imprints only

as long as the flaming feet of a
hurried conflagration.

In Cyberland, Microsoft is King
And we all pray to Google.
There is an Apple Resistance,
And Yahoo keeps on yelling,
But Microsoft is King.

Where did Jeeves go?
Remember him, you oldies?
A smiling Hitchcock fatty
You could ask things.

Remember Bebo and MySpace too.
But now we Snapchat through the day
And ask folk WhatsApp.
All in an Instagram.
(My Custom Dictionary
Is filling with new words).

So now it’s time for Tik Tok.
(See what I did there?)
That’s if the Americans allow it!
And much more no doubt.
Instagram Gratification
Flashing images
And clips.
No time for tedious talking
On landline phones
Or, heaven forbid,
Face to face conversation.

Writing – or rather typing – too is clipped
With lols & rofls & tbfs.
Lazy language
Tweets in textese
Fast and fleeting.
Facebook Funnies
With bouncy banter.

As a loyal subject of Cyberland
I do confess
To many an hour
Sifting through Facebook Memories
Even improving old posts
With coloured backgrounds
And sharper edits.
Addictive Internet indeed.

Yet
In years to come
Will we laugh loudly
At the mention of Google
And all the names I’ve said
Like we snigger at Bebo, MySpace
And Nokia Mobiles now?

The tsunami of technological change
Sweeps over our heads
Smashing the past:
Leading us
To who knows where.
For better or worse
Who can say?
Wherever we are going,
We are well on the way.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\9\2020.

Cicero, the author of the majority of cases, a matter which was not cold,
AR Sadot is planted on the rock, not with the crystal to shine out like fire
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Remembrance of my juvenescence moments as a child,
I began to realize my calling as a black male.
Raised from the hood as a black ghetto boy who lived in poverty...
My intellect outwitted my age,
even though there was alot of abhorrent things I've done in the past.
My Mepa and Mema taught me how to pray,
and gracious for grandparents.
Stricken by poverty,
I excelled in reading and writing.
My daddy wasn't in my life,
but raised by a deacon and my Ma.
In elementary and middle school brawling was my skill,
and fighting made me feel strong.
Sports was my cue,
and wasn't just a scribe but was involved in physical activity.
Recalling childhood moments in Baltimore Maryland where I got ran over by a car,
but I'm not dead.
Jumped by ten ghetto black males that almost killed me in Florida...
there is Johnson blood in my dna.
It was the grace of God that kept me,
but it doesn't end there.
I used to want to become a preacher;
and the knowledge gained from studying the mosaic books,
and the insight attained from scrutinizing the new testament;
I felt like Paul who once was Saul, and began to ponder the Pharisaism life.
Knowing that Jesus wants to use me...
but stubbornness,
and resisting my calling which I'm still running from.
The feeling of abandonment...
there was love lacking in my parents house.
Filled with gall pondering why other kids had it easy;
when me and my kinfolk struggled.
Recall busting my head open with blood gushing in the shower...
almost died because majority of my blood was leaking,
but God kept me alive once again.
In this incident I was brought to the hospital to get stitches on my head...
and this is the reason my hair flourishes and grows so quick;
and why I decide to keep my afro and cherish my hair.
Nothing but God kept me,
and was suppose to be dead but it doesn't end there.
The gift within me made rehoboth...
the spirit of discernment and gift of prophecy made room bringing me before great men.
The adversary seeked to destroy me,
but I'm a Johnson with authority and power.
Thriving was necessary,
and it seemed like life itself hit me hard.
As a black child scribbling and working out was my profession.
The weights was pressed to release my anger, and I began using full strength pressing;
while pondering why other people had a easier life.
Graduated high school at age 17,
but the smile behind my face are scars.
Got kicked out my parents house 3x, and they wouldn't allow me back in...
but Jesus still had a place prepared for me.
My own kinfolk would smirk in my face and laugh at my humiliation,
but as a Johnson I'm a survivor.
They thought I wouldn't be succesful and didn't want me to go to college,
but I attended trade and got some college.
I'm sugarcoating nothing.
My stepdad which is a deacon...
me, my bigger brotha, and sister disliked him for the hell he put us through.
Truth is my Ma chose her husband over her 4 children,
which is why we felt abandoned.
There was a annoyance in the house,
and I knew light couldn't mix with darkness.
My kinfolk despised the annoting over my life, and they couldn't take me knowing my word.
Father figure I grew up without him,
but my daddy genes made me who I am.
Judged by people who couldn't last a day in my shoes,
only if they were on my level they wouldn't have sitnah.
New level there's always a new devil,
but the word hidden in my heart became a light to my path.
The nicolaitans encountered...
I began marvelling why mad deacons were ordained.
The struggles are prepping me for my future.
My vision is to become a pastor,
but it doesn't end there.
Mepa my grandpa would always say, "do you feel like God is calling you to be a minister?"
And my response was...
a inspired teacher who has the ministerial spirit who ministers.
Taken up a minister's class at a church,
but didn't complete the 6 weeks because my kinfolk hated the annoiting.
As said before light can't mix with darkness.
As a black man I realized the annoiting over my life.
Ain't sugarcoating but giving the truth,
because the truth will set me free.
Maturing as a black man;
and the lessons learned from my adolescent childhood.
I will be succesful,
and a advocate by sharing the gospel.

If it starts with what happens on this side,
given the radius I think it's a new dimension,
Saturn's computer is still in functionality mode
from the personal radio classes without flight
for the Representative Representatives'
Representative Representative Representatives
of the Representative of Atari John Wait Waits.    
The best words of power are the most acceptable
in part of the best of the best amerurna.        How things.
Read the book to create a new healing,
and part on "Wall Street"  and wake up
The memory of the rich should be,       |        it should be,
according to the technology of the memory
that has increased its the size.
Radio, Radio, Radio,                Paul sets the highest rank
If you arrested Bernoulli, Optional Editor,
Stripper editors did not visit the best radio stations.
Other applications for Mass; I'm on the guaranteed
recommendations list. However, the best color.
                      According to John Rose and Internet Analyst 1
in England
the great waves of St. Paul are the radio waves.
                                                             Memory card memory.
Water is a business and people are suffering,
don't get emotional about it, I think the cities
need to be advise of a return to Saturn's joy.
                               The sky box is available
with sports, brandy,      x-ray glasses
               and a 6" 3D black & white.         Thank you,
without any information.                                        
Go get some hours of    
                                      care.
Taking winter irrigation is a guarantee  |  
presently  |  in this time              and
                                                  place.

The Old Giant is finally dead,
I heard the battle raging,
Incessant howling, shrieking, wailing,
Rending of limbs, such screeching,
Unassuaged horror filling my ears,
Please, make it stop, please.

But, it did not stop, no,
And the Old Giant fought bravely,
Before finally crashing to earth,
A seasoned campaigner, yes,
Victor of many a titanic struggle,
Before defeat reared its ugly head.

He’d stood proudly, scarred, twisted,
It took a mighty foe to defeat him,
To deal relentless heart-splitting blows,
As I observe him, a tear wells, escapes,
Splashes delicately onto his splayed trunk,
Instantly absorbed by golden-white wood.

Then, in a tangle of broken branches,
Bathed in a shaft of canopy-filtered sunlight,
I spy a slender sapling, knee high,
And I know an ancient legacy continues,
So sad, but life flourishes, even though,
The Old Giant is finally dead.

© Paul Chafer 2014