The feds are making headway
(generously passing out their treats!)
while the whistle blower
and his boon companion
hit the 22nd floor
fiscal plans
are tidily falling into place
and the suits are all busy
chasing their dimes
dancing around the spire
full of wine and cheer
(seems the demand side imbalance
has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!)

they’re all studying their bollinger bands
MACD's, and treasuries
just like the good old days
santali would say
while capitol hill is busy
with its own pleasantries;
repatriate that currency
hold those rates
bring the boys back home!
the affirmations are robust
and filled with glee!

conspiracy thinkers
are busy in their own back rooms
initiating the trade
and building their counter claims
as pork bellies
and soybeans
continue to soar
(looks like eddy and the margin men
are at it again!)

what happened to that bear masquerade anyways?
they really were a band of brothers
colourful clowns
with big painted smiles
ready to lead in any parade
but they met with the resistance
a horned wall
satan’s horsemen riding high
with bags hung heavy
under dark squinting eyes

are we near an end?
the undertakers will say
it's only a blink of an eye
to the thin red line
where risk takers and front men
all jump ship
debt addiction is crippling
and hell breaks loose
when entitlements are out
and towels are thrown in

there’s a center piece here
those pugnacious statesmen
with invigorating tales
have had their place
time to clip them at the limbs
and pull the punch from the bowl
(sobriety has its merits you know!)
let’s head to the commission
and throw darts to the board ~
seems the moral blueprints are fading

Pugnacious pundits having parties,
on the left and on the right.
Lowering sanity and lifting madness.
I hear countless words that all seem trite.
Too many fall into their trap.
In happy splendid ignorance,
Clowns perform, and we're all prat.
Such perfectly played incompetence.

Have you ever been to Nairobi?
What did you see there?
Buildings, people and vehicles?
Uhmmm! Let me share with you my case
Hence I was there yesterday,
And I saw wonders of life;
Jubilant politicians clashing for tyranny,
At the Nairobi parliament,
Making anti-human laws,
Under faked canopy of de-terrorization,
With no tincture of surrender to open truth,
That; in juvenile states like Kenya,
Corruption is a minefield of terrorism,
Corrupt management of state organs;
The policemen and state spies,
Hired on full back-up of corruption,
Gives leeway to thriving of terrorism,
As a security agent hired nepotistic-ally,
Will never fight terrorism with a knack,
Leave police work to policemen with passion,
Not to your kinsmen and loyalists in politics,


I saw jubilant politicians high on nerves,
Excited like a swine on ****** heat,
Or they were possessed by the evil spirit,
Or crushed by the African cult of dictatorship,
Where humanity derives pleasure from political pains,
Scornfully viewing humane governance,
As dictatorship will fortunately give a bloom,
Of swift doors and windows of corruption,
Primitive accumulation of filthy wealth,
And apotheosification of the worthless self,
Into a lull of blind self-made god-ship

I saw a jubilant politician going pugnacious,
Forcefully restoring dark days of Toroitich arap Moi,
Making a law which a monkey cannot make,
Hitting a fellow politicians,
With all might and knack of a devil,
Shredding into laces the trouser of a colleague,
Exposing red lingerie of the fellow colleague,
Partially exposing the tools of child making,
Only to the positive chagrin of us all,
On discovery of the circumcised *****,

I saw jubilant dictator-maniac politicians,
Passing a law of shooting to death,
Him the police feels may be a terrorist,
Or detain at pleasure, without trial
Him that looks ugly like a terrorist,
A suspect is a snake to be crushed the head on sight,
But not all snakes are poisonous Mr. Politico-Jubilant,
Some are ornamental and others poisonously harmless,
Even snakes need fair trial,
Just like suspect of genocide,
Before the international criminal court,
Before a blow of hammer crushes their heads,
Let me ask you my dear reader,
A foolish question as usual;
What are snakes to the jubilant politics of Nairobi?
A political non loyalist who perhaps can chide,
The powers that be from their gusto of power,

I saw jubilant politicians in full gear of idiosyncrancies,
Passing the law to gag friends of the poor,
The NGO’s; the poor man’s uni-source of hope,
They have been relieving the poor man of Kenya,
From horrendous traditions of   epidemics,
In Turkana, Budalangi and marginalized Mandera,
Helping men and women of these areas to be free,
From tyranny of perennially missing basic needs,
This freedom is now thwarted,
Lest it gives these poor men right of speech,
Thwarted artfully in the **** of NGO’S,
Through false label of the time,
That they play *** with terrorist groups,
What a big a lie?

By
Alexander Khamala  Opicho,
Eldoret,Kenya

Luna Tickle eats only pickles and ***** up all the brine
When her brother tells their mother she begins to whine:
“Yes I did it! And left no tidbit
Is that such a crime? My brother smells and raises hell
And leaves the loo full of slime.”

Now their mother dear began to fear her children were obstructions
Never listening, since their christening, and wished for their abduction
So she planned a slaughter and called her daughter
Outside to the woodshed, then chopped her neck in two
She put Luna’s head in her brother’s bed and said,
“Now, they’ll be no more Boo-Hoos”

Now you know of Luna and her tragic ending
But there’s more to this rhyme that’s pending
For the Tickle name is quite insane
And was never worth defending
But that’s just what her brother did
When Mrs. Tickle met Judge Knuckle
And almost flipped her lid
Screaming:
“I never liked that kid from the day she began to suckle!
Why she couldn’t be more like me, or her lovely sister Tess”
Twas all Mrs. Tickle could confess that day to Judge and jury
Until brother **** chimed-in and confessed his sin
And did so in such a fury, it was heard throughout and within
The entire state of Missouri:

“I am Richard Tickle and do confess I am not fickle
In fact I am quite pugnacious
If you do not see the circumstances like me
I’ll be forced to be disputatious”

Interjects Judge Knuckle:
“Boy, I’ll have you buckled this instance to electric chair
If you’re not scared I’ll be splitting hairs
In a place where the sun does not shine
So if you care, you’d best beware
Or your Gherkin will be in a brine”

Now Tess screamed out and her mother did shout
In perfect unison:
“**** is my love and none the likes of any other hooligan”

At this there was a scuffle
Each dame was muffed and ruffled
They could not contain
All their angst and their pain
And it led to the ugliest tussle
For each thought ****
Was devoted to she
And apparently, this could not be
As we know of the trouble with Luna
So the jury was not out
Or even in doubt
Of these sinister makings and troubles

It was the sickest of affairs
Mass-producing glaring stares
From everyone within the court
Missouri Gazette’s headlines that day
Told of how they did slay
And burn the Tickle chalet
Leaving it in incestuous rubble
The lesson today to this horrific ballet
Is don’t live your life in a bubble

When I get too blue
I laugh at myself
pick up the leash
and take Mr. Brown to the dog park.

He shows me how
to be carefree
will jump and bark
drink a gallon of water
and lick whomever he chooses
without a worry in the world.

Everybody admires his *****,
What kind of dog is that?
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback.
an African lion hound,
but he’s scared shitless of my cat.
what’s yours?
A Visla.
Looks like yours, only smaller.
Did you see that American Foxhound?
That s.o.b. can jump!
Yeah, too bad he can’t pay my mortgage.

The young photographer shows off
his brilliant Doberman’s latest trick –
a double backflip
catching the Frisbee ten feet high
landing on all fours.
The old lady with the blind daschund
says, “Oh, oh, isn’t he wonderful?”
She claps her hands in delight.

The canine Noah's arc show runs all day
with the entry of pugnacious Sharpeis
the arrogance of Poodles
the inscrutability of giant Malamutes.
the pride of leash-holders.

Gradually tree shadows darken the sawdust
and people start parading home,
the **** athletic girls with their boyfriends’ Shepherds
the slow old men with their greying Labradors
the lady real estate agents with their tiny Shih Tzus.

And then it’s silent
I’m the last one there
alone in the gathering dusk
still hearing echoes of joyful barks
realizing how funny it is
that so many people
look just like their dogs
but I don’t think about it,
I just marvel at all this joy.

Surrounded by friends
A welcoming hug lingers
Filled with what ifs
Uncomfortable for some
Warmly welcomed by others
Conversations fueled by
Wine, beer, and martinis
The comfort of acceptance
Non-judgmental reception
Imagining what’s not said
Some thoughts you can read
Others arise unbidden tongue-tied
Accidental truth shared
Sheltered by laughter
We retell our practiced stories
Not noticing the kind
I’ve-heard-it-before looks
Oh to hear the late night summaries
The evenings score card
We sway from oh so silly to
Pugnacious
We may have crossed lines
We never saw and wouldn’t have cared
If we did

Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.

is what i wear.
it is a loreal campaign offering the art of concealment
wrinkles are for unironed clothes and old folk homes
all creation and destruction spun from tomb
the glow emanating from a woman's womb

this spf
isn't always available for the wear
its not some cap we can slip on our hair
or the glasses we use to hide the despair
for our pimples have awoken from
their nightly slumber
allowing the light to
illuminate their number

best we take it all in
the midnight pukes
and
the morning glow
lets carry on with our dancing dynamo
all starry eyed and audacious
all messy and pugnacious
with our lips soaked in red
shouting words of poetic gibberish
to statuesque lovers
who spin in and out of the revolving door
as we sing our tune under helmets
under bleeding stars
and wind up with tattooed legs and arms

for there is a radiant rose in your brain
permanently blooming
against the ticking of time
as you stand in alliance
with lust and love alike
when they conveniently misplaced their pain
at the local bookstore
i can't imagine they'll go looking for it.

There are the two choices. Wicked, wheel-men curving towards that which I wear in the evening when I paint on my black suit. The pitter-patter of organic matter, the Metropolis ground fresh. You tell me raspberry, I tell you I am not impressed. And then from the inimical lips, those bards from distance, sand spots and hordes of watering holes I place fresh Republicans on- and they were stealing the magazines.

Jury on.

Four devils they figure some, four devils. A anthelmintic potion to square away the worms. The pink worm, who takes long-distance telephone calls on your roommates only moments before the red worm, his head shriveled and his limbs crying from ******, she the blue curly worm; she is what we've been looking out and everything about this evening has slipped in the pattern we expected. Red light in fact,

They used the concatenations of frog legs(this was the big deal since My Mother loved the chelura of some tropical varieties of frogs and funny-legged), banjax the first one before the weather catches the summary being the news. Going as far as the the ecstasy of officials leaving the scene. The species catching its last names of life- genus and family alike racing towards safety.

And so I build in the fly zone. I haggle for President, and make sacred the realms of figures; denaturalized are the entanglements of humans, even whatever the mephitic and bellicose shadows shend and fordo their greatest powers.

I lull  and lust, my pugnacious frazil, just like my recalcitrant logomachy that I ****** and slide angrily and profusely with m and everything I try to do. Just so long as you can see me usufruct and lobby forthright the message.

Mine. Hate. Anxiety.

Armed and rightly dangerous
religious and slightly pugnacious
on the sidewalk the talk's of the testament
the rent being due on a Sunday.

Molly, the soothsayer tells me
that heaven is mine if I could be
an acolyte of the almighty.

My fiance is the goddess I pray to
she's the light that I see
when the day's through and
the hope that I seek and
I cling to.

Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.

I miss you
I heard the remorse in your voice as you said it.
Well, sweetheart, I guess I could say I miss you too.

I *miss your judgemental demeanor
And your pugnacious attitude.

I miss you treating me like ****
And your constant complaining.

I miss your vicious words
And your pointless insecurities.

I miss your pissy glare
And your interrogating questions.

I miss your painful attempts at saying sorry
And especially your violent movements.

And do you remember the first day you came into my life?
Oh, love, how I wish I could have missed that too.

I wish I had a million photos.
Everytime I blinked a snapshot'd flash

The glint of coffee slurp eyes
Perfect pick me up
Six in the morning color

Stinging spicy-sweet skin
Cinnamon spoon smooth
Coughing with a mouthful of the spice

Pugnacious snarl affixed as a precaution
Wicked giggles sneaking out from forced corners
Sinew slim and succulently young
A fresh cocoa berry-burst

Your default is **** and vinegar
So
Is
Mine...

Seldom have I seen such strength, such purposefulness shown
And I have witnessed many who have made their message known,
Immovable this woman stands in seas of raging tide
Where friend and foe, as challengers, she’s deftly swept aside.
Resolute she stands atop white cliffs of blazing chalk
To glare across the Channel where her predecessors stalked

In league with Winston Churchill with pugnacious jawline set
When he thrashed the fiend in Jackboots and field grey appuletes.
In league with Margaret Thatcher with that glint of grey in eyes
To the accolades of Gorbachev who recognised the prize.
In league with Boadecia the ghost of power past
Who rallied this great nation to fight on to the last.

Snapping at her ankles the dogs of turmoil writhe
And comrades of another time amass to criticise,
Labourites howl murderously to all who would take heed
While the rabble rousing Europeans joust to intercede.
Swirling round her skirts they mass now screaming their abuse
At her articulated message of a pathway less obtuse.

If Tony Blair had the ***** it’s to her side he’d dance
As would Jeremy Corbett but of that there’s little chance,
Her Majesty stands forthright, as do all her heirs
Including Will and Harry who are cheering from the stairs.
Dianna’s there in spirit plus the Kiwis from the pub
And the rough crowd from the chippie all dolled up with a scrub.
She needs ALL of you behind her in her struggle for the best,
Independence for Great Britain is ascendancy’s great quest.

The very heart of what It means to dwell within these shores
The very heart of what it means to be Brittish to the core.
England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales combining for the task
Of a guarantee of future from the quagmire of the past.
We SHALL stand behind Teresa May and make our voices heard
As we scream aloud the anthem to impart our final word….

RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITTANIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER…
SHALL BE SLAVES!
Boom, boom, boom
RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITANNIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER….
SHALL BE SLAVES!

M.
18 December 2018

Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.

To dance with angels,
first you have to forgive their lies;
over-zealous birds with peripheral faces, and fingers -
about as exciting as the clouds floating in the skies,

covering their ears
as the world below them burns and cries,

over-zealous suffragettes in dresses
I admittedly loathe and despise

pugnacious, self-centred and frozen to the core
laughing hysterically as we worship and spread their lore,

not actually interested in who we are or what we do,
making emotional archetypes out of fools such as me and you

oh yes -

give me one, I'll burn away her clothes
expose her, barren and broken, like she did me,

give me one, I'll douse that halo in tar then **** on it;
purely vengeance from when she shattered my hopes of finally being free -

[sigh]

I think if I ever did get the chance,

I'd rather clip her wings than have a dance.

Pugnacious mind of mine
Seeks an end to this winter fog
Your ramblings, on and on
I close the shutters, for spring is not in sight

Pig manure emasculates the air
Not a farm in sight
Your ramblings, on and on
I find solace in the bedroom closet

I hear the car door slam
The front door slam
Your ramblings, on and on
I chamber the round then nothing but stars

What say you on the matter?

For,
To say the Pilgrims were not of the Americas,
Or thereby American,
Is False.

For,
To say the life force is not moving, pulsing,
Or thereby alive,
Is Wrong.

For,
To vocalize a sonnet as written,
And not vary tone or infliction from line to line,
Or to sing the Song of Madness.
But not feel the grimy groove,
Is flat out and most indescribably improper and in dire need of revision.

But to break off from the meter,
In travels that lead on out,
Progressing into a voyage of the vastly uncharted,

Is to paint a magnificent beauty,
Or write a tale with uncanny comparatives to a Huck.

And to forthwith stand from the bow of the vessel, not the stern, to say when they say, “Nay.”

From the start, on the breaking dawn of this episode, a new life seemed only natural to resurrect;
A chapter to rewrite that had too long needed a rewrite.
And so perceived and attempted it was.

Then, from the inner yearnings, came a need to profess what so vividly troubled.
But in unsure footings, the tongue could not confess.
But in undone attire, the feet would not uphold.
Repressed.
Halt!

The body comes to rest.
Lain upon the threshing block, to gather.
And preface a proclamation of the more just cause.
Ideals certain to be less casually fit than their predecessors’.
An ultimate theory of outlook.

Thus, this is my prelude, to the coming of age battle, and my constitution.
With most sincerity, this is what I proclaim.

The Right of Understanding.
—The act that in any case, every account and depiction of any story and thereby situation, should be heard, allotted, marked, and understood in full. It should stand, unbiased, before all, prior to any fore coming or hasty decision: the act of listening without interpretation by a lonely mind; of not intruding upon or giving up immoral ground in adherence to a person; of not spreading hell, nor involving the uninvolved in personal matters; of letting people share both the tangible and intangible, without hesitation, or living in fear being persecuted and/or misrepresented; and the understanding of every individual soul.—
The Right of Understanding.

The Right of Albatross.
—The act of grieving over loses, and accepting that things will not be the same. The act that time is so deathly important in revival that the absence of its constant equilibrium will cause damage; of stability in the face of fear, whatever that may be, or the fear that is eminent and sure to catch us all in its foot snares; of compassion to the suffering and those who have lost it all but continue to rise again and prove the statistics, kept and known only by the creator, wrong; and of being unsettled in the grey areas. For no one soul can truly ever make it alone.—
The Right of Albatross.

The Right of Acerbity.
—The act of saying what’s on your mind, no matter how pugnacious or acrid it may come out to be. The act of bluntness in dealings, without further discretion, but only after retched hate has built and anger tormented past its due date; of civility towards others in the postmortem; of biting your tongue until absolutely necessary, and only through well founded intent, however deluded the intent may be to ascertain such conclusive foundation, and of arrogance in expression and language for the betterment of others. The act of ripping out the orthodox for a radical reckoning of souls.—
The Right of Acerbity.

The Right of Escape.
—The act of fleeing tragic misunderstandings, for the sake of saving face, and to make great hast. The act of thinking contrary to the proof, setting a pricey wage on your personal beliefs, dissolving unknown barriers and outward influence, and claiming your stake; of being alone to the mind in hopes of evaporating the exorbitant data; of basking in the glory that swift feet have brought; of turning the corner, and establishing new peace of mind to comfort the once boxed in soul.—
The Right of Escape.

The Right of Pursuit.
—The act of allowance to a pursuit in anything, with the freedom of beliefs, and articulation. The knowledge and acceptance that not all pursuits end, nor will they ever on the intended terms. End may or may not be reached, but the communion of trial, even if failed, is all that is needed. No hatred should come of a man’s choice in their personal pursuit; merely the acknowledgment and appreciation.—
The Right of Pursuit.

The Right of Assertion.
—The act which is commonly referenced, and includes great similarity to, the speeches given on the basis of freedom, with the truth that prior most follow up to the same base rule. The acts that no tyrant or thereby abusive parent should, or has the right to, downsize or ignore the declared speech of his child. Nor should one be angered by the truth that so passively flows through their ears. The right to free a man’s mind without a show of emotions becoming of us; just the listening of and rock like appearance of the stern look upon agreement.—
The Right of Assertion.

The Right of Compliance.
—The idea that man-kind can fit in with man-kind; the ideal template that brother and sister is known and used universally, not just selectively, as a label of people; that an atheist can walk into a church of any religion and fit in among the plenty to find a new assurance and home; that no restrictions are made to shun or cross out those unwanted in group, club, education system, religious aspect, or government area in question; that all of man-kind fits in anywhere they so choose when they are there under the prefaced agreement of good and strong intent. After all, intent is nine-tenths of the law. Lastly, that people can never feel out of place or lost in life.—
The Right of Compliance.

The Right of Deception.
—The knowing that man-kind can easily be duped by the specious mind; that promises aren't always kept, and that some stories aren't always true. Often times, there even a change in maxim just when we all become accustom to order; the idea of flowing emotion from one betrayal subsequently falling and spilling into right into line: next in life; that man could plainly be trying to be grandiloquent and fascinate rather than honestly working to be even with other men; that imagination can take over, yet leave a trail of crumbs leading toward reality, and remain in such a constant comatose state until life seems to become better; the mere acknowledgment that the mind can fully overpower the body.—
The Right of Deception.

It was that long ago that we were invincible,
Or too long ago to remember the good ol’ days,
Or too long ago to remember how past, present, or future,

We would always be friends.

No rivals could break us,
No terror could render fear,
No mountain was too big to climb,

We would always be untenable.

Every time we thought that,
Every time we felt safe,
Every time we leaned closer,

We grew older,
Time set in,
Tearing us apart.

As we fell apart,
Thoughts got the better,
Days turned as years past,
And our minds now seem to confess,

So here we are,
Once more staggered in unity,
And for the last time linking arms,

To exalt a power high above our reign,
And sign the final treaty,
Forever binding our humble beginnings,
Before the long journey,
That will, in retrospect, be a mistake…

But at least they will know exactly what We have to say.

an earlier draft of this barely satisfactory missive ex post facto, i chomped asper with upper dentures upon evincing a couple of typographical errors, in up rye or draft, and did not wanna dodge being a spell bound stickler for typing words correctly.

though no obligation to trot out this fixation sans zero misspelling tolerance, a compulsion with any concomitant obsession found me reposting before a repast of dessert - so there Ghost of Marie Antoinette, wherever you might be hiding - i can have my cake and eat it too!

Minus trimmings and over stuffed ego freezers,
but altruism, civility, Dharma *** ethnocentrism,
gratuitous homogeneous internationalism,
karma mosaic opportunism, quitessential righteousness,
unpretentious vivacious wide world yipping,

brouhaha dutifully emphasizing friendliness,
antithetically booing critical, popularly pugnacious
spoiled trump petting uber western yikyak,
zealous antipathy craving everything.
---------------------------------------------------------
a hypothetical, mental, rhetorical thought question
   occurred to me just moments ago
sans, milk of human kindness bubbles frothily
   upon major American holiday,

   whereat figurative bro
   thar and sisters exhibit philanthropic ambitions
   especially, towards indigent that crow
for bare necessities

   other than
   when Thanksgiving rolls around, and dough
nuts to dollars even most frugal misanthropes
   play feigned charitable card egoistically glow
with ambient benevolence, civility,
   diligent energy, and friendly hello

and sundry pleasant greetings
   hook hood be some
   soon tubby rich entrepreneurial stranger
   ready to make shares available vis a vis  IPO

   to dirt poor anonymous guarillas G.I. Jane or G.I. Joe
   who cross paths with each other,
   even those one doth not know
when ordinary biases, callousness,

   denigration...doth full low
out the mouths of hoity toity MainLiners
   towards working class people - mow
awe less trying to remain financially afloat,
   and with plea for handout
   would receive an emphatic NO!

Thee exception to unspoken aristocratic rule
   arising on feted buzz
   feed ding occasions where oboe
players invoke cobra to deliver riches galore to the 'po

whom sincerely show gratitutde,
   yet wonder why status quo
reserves select calendrical dates for handouts
   proffered after standing in a row
of similarly bereft individuals aware at stark

   outpouring overt nurture minded, humanity
   (with perchance a guest appearance by Sean Hannity),
this public denouement,
   an atypical venue for his television show

where generosity spills forth
   from said personality and others alike
blithely, demonstrably, fortuitously, happily,
   jubilantly, lovingly, modestly, poignantly,
   where an announcer speaks thru a mike

to open their doors and hearts asper,
   those down and out
   pushing belongings along the pea king pike
of broken tureens with
   only a mangy dog as companionship,

and though I admit tubby hyperbolical,
   hypocritical, hypothetical hypoteneuse of hippopotamus
   no charity less valuable then self and spouse,
   whom both experience spike
in anxiety since net income purportedly
   below the poverty level, though we reside

   within subsidized housing (outliers
   here at 2 Highland Manor Drive),
   yet random acts of an effortless smile,
   cordial greeting to passersby, or
   waving fellow drivers right of way,
Page Number Three:

such minimally polite services today,
the most within my limited monetary hi say
means, which behavior aye strive ray
   dee to maintain zero cost politesse, which doth pay
highest dividends, which reciprocal acknowledge may
be the greatest reward,

   whether or not a response elicited tis quite o kay
the satisfaction arising breeching comfort zone
   viz exposure therapy lighting up gray
matter analogous to a cerebral Christmas tree
   and any regret avoided, asper congenial efforts    
   generate “hi” kickstarts my day.

[Swearing Alert]


- INTRO; Angel Of Grotesque -


They say they need my help.

Can you believe it, MY help?!

It seems the crimson **** tide has finally turned - now here they are, tails between their sorry legs beg-beg-begging me for help.

Here I am, chained to a steel bed post and clothed in nothing but orange dungarees and socks - I stink of stale sweat, the odour mixing with the backed-up toilet reeking in the corner of the cell. I haven't seen daylight in over 4 years (I think) and I burn away the hours sharpening my nails and quietly ******* -

(often the latter first, don't want a paper cut down there(!))

I'm a man of no mercy. I have no 'better' nature or gratuitous soul - my ego is wholly puerile, at times pugnacious and others vile. I'm a self-centred beauty, a dancing Angel of grotesque. Grinning behind this mask of smiles, in leather and chains I love to dress.

I've long forgotten my name, there's no use for it when you've been stuck alone in a metal box for half your life - the only connection with the outside world is the crude letter box the guards shove food and drink through. Well, I say food but it's debatable whether the floury **** they give me is edible. Then again anything's edible when you're starving - toilet paper, clothing, even your hair and nails.

How did I get here, I hear you ask. Well basically once-upon-a-time in the ****** underbelly of Manchester there was this blindingly vivacious dealer who got in a teensy bit of hot water - resulting in some ******-off yobs dismembering his wife and kids for ***** and giggles. Said handsome dealer (yeah you guessed it, me) was then framed for the ****** of his whole family and locked away in some mental institution for just shy of 35 years.

It's safe to say I went stir-crazy - my brain sicked up all logical sanity and shat it out along with any humanity left in my heart.

What should a man fear when he has nothing left to lose?

I didn't **** my family, but I did the two officers when they took me to the station for questioning. I got tired of the twenty questions game they were playing so I snapped the lock on the inside of the door, slit the first copper's throat with the hook of my handcuffs (had to dislocate one of my wrists to get it free) and choked the other ponce with his own tie.

It took ages for their colleagues to get in, I guess it goes to show that reinforced doors do work.

Shortly after I was carted off to court, restrained in a straight jacket and chains (oh I did love that **** look) where the judge declared me insane and sent me to Greyhound Infirmary For The Mentally Insane.

And the rest is pretty much history from there on - I've slaughtered 4 nurses (one was an accident, I promise!) and a couple of patients, although I don't hear the Infirmary complaining about that.

I can't stand people anymore, when I look into a living face - be it man, woman or child - I see the killers that took away the only people I've ever loved, took away anything I've ever had and locked me away in a world of emptiness and dark.

All I want to do is carve the pain that gnaws at my stomach into their disgusting skin, make them feel how it is to be the freak that's laughed at, locked away, all alone.

That's why I've been incarcerated in this little metal box, left to rot away.

Forgotten.

Until today, when the seemingly dead cell door finally clicks open and I peer up at the first human face I have seen in over 20 years.

And ****, was it an ugly one!

Garner the relics of my shattered aura,
Unfetter me from the scaffolds of despair,
Frazzled by the quest of divinity,
My entity crumbles, segments scatter,
Marred is my spirit,
By the halitosis of demons that crowd my
mind,
Marooned in the island of pugnacious
beasts,
My faith dwindles, peace fritters away,
Fawn autumn leaves,
Blown by the gales to the kingdom of
solace,
Pity my soul, deride my existence
"Thee are nothing, but a fallible
saunterer, in the dynasty of abomination,
the reign of feigning fidelity."

Hate Words Eight Words

The face is now veiled in darkness
Soul of a beggar but name of a king.
I used to grasp his embrace
Now of him, I have no trace.

Holding the globe of the past
He stands, is, memory of distress
I watch him quickly breathe his last
As trudges the souvenir of thievishness…

I summon my self’s shield
Silent steel, I stay still
Nightmare, my battlefield
I was, am, guided by my will.

His lust eyes me and smile
Fight in the flesh, he purs
Slime of a sight sick and vile
Covered in cowardice and furs!

Verbal violation of his desired aether
He who despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

Seated on his malachite throne
He attempts to break my temple
I constrict my ocean turned ripple
It awaits, is, will be a cyclone.

The viciousness of his speech
Echoes in my mind from afar
I am no lamb on his altar
Vicious blood-thirsty leech,

He twists his hem of power
With a swift sound, removes his helm
Walt Whitman in the refreshed bower
Lend me your boldness in your realm!

Blank and wide are his irises
Empty shell of a shabby knell
As he, mud-eyed, rattling, rises
My mother’s doom for which she fell!

Violent destruction of his born aether
He who despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!


His coarse voice resonates
In the shame-paved room
He shines, splendor of his gloom
Empire of unknown coordinates,

Naught of an ultimate utopia
Boastful volubile hegemony
Defecator of his dystopia
Machine of his misogyny!

Hear my battlecry, begone
You have with your blade
Tainted my giggling jade
Lo! I am amazonstone!

Point your ringed finger
Your mysterious misery
Hails no glory or mystery
At the gown of your anger,

Vivacious victory of his degraded aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

I face you, clad in love, glad
I remember your name I had
I fed your face to the flame
To shush the shreds of this blame…

My femininity are my swords
Of peace I touch the infinite rare rim
Eight words against your eight words
Shout a mea culpa seditious stream

Of a tongue that I despise!
I felt your despair’s backlashes
Do not fret about your demise
To me you are already ashes!

Sit down as I melt
With my inner core
You tastelessly tried to smelt
All your hope and your last ore!

Vivified volition of your pugnacious aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!


My long silver birth-link
With you vanishes
I mark with the ideal ink
Your name on your fleshes.

Your image flickers and stutters
That’s the paralyzing current I felt
Horrendous is the thought of your belt
Your astute apologue blinks and blathers…

I close the door of your crumbling palace
Your voiced obscenity put to rest
I won’t wait for your inaudible, alas
Apology for this thread of threat!

Gone is the blood of your shade
Slowly to the ground you will fade
Away from the light you begot
You ******* bipolar bigot!

Voidableness of your daughter’s aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

'Quit!'-- the most powerful word
I know
one that
I'll never let go-

sounds grandiosely onomatopoeic
( a word that never fails to stick)
it shakes
the existing foundation
and order of things
it compels
listening and reckoning-

the establishment
is held aghast and asks:
'Is this a sting
to everything
we hold sacred and dear?'
( why should the present masters fear
  if of their own stand they stand sure?)

'Quit!'
a word
so final
affirmative
decisive
prophetic
as though
the bulwarks of the old
must give way to the new
(and what's that 'new' happening?--
those who are threatened are asking)

' Quit!'
how glorious the word!
audacious
pugnacious
cantankerous
unrelenting
uncompromising
non-conforming
unflinching
unyielding
irreverent
intransigent
belligerent
most triumphant !

unashamed
contemptuous
of the current state of being
virtuous
as it would not prostrate
before what it deems to demean
human morality or decency
it would not cow
to suppression or tyranny--
' Quit! if you want to be free!'

How often
in my youthful days
' Quit!' swamped my mind
before those who controlled and bullied me
as I was poor and weak
with no recourse
to any safety nor sanctuary-
how they took delight to see
me at their mercy--
my misery made them happy

' My time shall come'
myself I did promise
through sweat and tears
I laboured waiting for the dawn
when I would shake off the yoke
of my unhappy years-

' Patience, patience, patience'
to myself a thousand times I said
'  The time has not come,  you must still wait
in more patience, yet more, more and more' --even in the dead
of night the word returns to haunt
  weeks followed days, months followed weeks
years followed months, decades followed years
  my struggle took three decades-
the price of freedom didn't come cheap

then came the crowning moment
and before the inquisitors I threw my gauntlet
looked into their fearful and perplexed eyes
and exclaimed : ' I QUIT!'
(the most senior of them fell from his seat!).

Quitters of the world
unite!
you have nothing to lose
but your chains!

Floating on the wind,
Staring at the void,
I carry the null of my sum,
As I come falling, slowly down.
The rage that claws in my soul,
Surrenders itself to fright,
Yielding a pugnacious grudge,
That spills into the night.

I guess that’s how this thing goes. It breaks significant rules and crosses all existing boundaries. Everything is manipulated: it is pugnacious on the clever and subtle ones, and since history it’s been known to prey on seemingly indestructible fortresses. It crumbles in and makes its way through your bloodshot eyes and feeble set of vessels and stimulates you to rip your innards out. It dishevels hackneyed ideas and leaves out the faint ens of a grey static, sending out a stinging sensation that is shrouded in obscurity. And amusing it is that you will more likely come to a point in which you feel nothing more grievous than the feeling of adhering oneself to a fine strand of barbed wire whilst being dramatically suspended high off the ground.

How barbaric, my love. You do what you usually do for a living—engulfing your usual sadistic self—whilst I, as usual, take part in this stupid little game as a masochistic airhead.

Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.