A horse and a saddle
Cold wind at the gallow
Emotions are mellow
No hi and no héllo
His face is so sullen
The land is so barren
He stole for his child
Her reaction is mild
She recognises not the man hanging so high.

She's a woman of integrity,
She recognises her beauty,
And her specialty.
Knowing she's not perfect,
She reflects before she can react,
She may not be every mans desire,
But that doesn't matter because its not something to require,
Love and total attention from one is enough,
Lots of times she laughs,
At times she even bluffs,
When life gets rough,
She gets tough,
She's a survivor,
Her familys reviver.
She's a woman,
A woman of integrity.

Some introductory food for thought...

"Threats to freedom of speech, writing and action, though often trivial in isolation, are cumulative in their effect and, unless checked, lead to a general disrespect for the rights of the citizen"
  - George Orwell

"There is only three states of being. There is slavery, tyranny, those are both forms of conflict, or negotiation. Negotiation depends on freedom of speech and you have to be able to talk to people if you are not going to fight with them or capitulate to them."
  - Jordan Peterson

"If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.”
  - George Orwell


The key proponents of the Bill and it's context...
On the 18th October 2016, Bill C-16 received Royal assent in Canada, despite having a small, but thorough opposition, even from those within the LGBT community who felt that the proponents of the Bill did not represent their desires, but that of the most extreme and ideological spectrum of their community. A prominent figure in the opposition to the Bill was Jordan Peterson, a Professor of Psychology at the University of Toronto, who has dedicated a great length of time in study into the **** and Soviet regimes of the past, paying particular attention to the ideological and psychological elements of those periods, which has built his principles as strongly opposed to ideological thought, Postmodernism and Marxism, all of which were instrumental or played roles in the mass genocidal regimes of the early 20th century that began with the subjugation of ideas and speech.

The Bill's implementation is an amendment to the Ontario Human Rights Code that makes the refusal by an individual to refer to someone by their preferred gender pronouns a hate crime. It also brands discrimination by 'gender expression' with the same impunity. To those who do not understand what these concepts mean, essentially what the gender pronoun debate is, is how a minority of the LGBT community demand they be refereed to by different pronouns, and have their gender expression (fashion choice) protected by law. For instance, those who claim not to fit into the binary gender pronouns (he/she) and therefor don't identify as either a man or a woman, wish to be refereed to with artificial neologisms such as ve, they and them.

These demands, however, are not being made by the majority of LGBT people, but a small minority of people, mostly younger students who've been indoctrinated into postmodern and social Marxist ideology. This means that the Canadian government is taking the most extreme representation of a group as the representatives of the entire group, which would be like taking the **** Party as a valid representation of Germans, or the British Olympic squad as representatives of the standard fitness of the entire British public. This is a key focus of opponents to the Bill, like Prof. Peterson who recognises (being an employee of a University himself) that Bills like these are the result of borderline indoctrination in the Universities, and not the demands of LGBT people in general.  


The innate authoritarianism of the bill and it's Marxist/Postmodern motives...
Why are the proponents of this Bill innately authoritarian in nature? Well, as Professor Jordan Peterson makes the clear distinction, that unlike other forms of what is deemed hate speech in law, that enforces what you CAN NOT say, this Bill enforces WHAT YOU MUST SAY. As an example, Holocaust denial is considered hate speech, and so you can not express such a position, however, here you are now forced to speak words that you might not want to say, something far more Orwellian that one might be able to conceive when concerning a seemingly trivial enforcement, and having often spoken of gradualism, this is certainly not the end of the issue.

What is also concerning is that the supporters of the Bill are evidently ideologically motivated, in terms that their ideology (Marxist/Postmodern) is in itself authoritarian in nature, and as they fail to gain support by ideas, they suppress them. Law like this should not be able to slide through the apparatus of the State this easily, for it conveys on many levels a lack of respect for the generations of people who suffered under despotic rule for centuries until finally the rule of law gave them rights (and now we throw them away). It also shows to those more nefarious groups, that the public will not blink, even when you chip away at their right to speak as they choose, which I don't believe is a habit that should be maintained.


- a short essay by FabiusSideman

In a beautiful garden
sits a pretty flower
surrounded by plant life
it's filled with music
it dances and grows
as chlorophyll flows

But a vandal comes
and digs up theflower
grabs it carelessly
ripping out good roots
soon the flower
lies alone on the street
the music, the life
everything, everyone
is gone

The flower is left alone with itself
the flower hates itself
it's ugly, its wrong, its
just not perfect
and noone tells it otherwise
there is noone else
as it fills with black hate
it ripps off its petals
and plucks out it's seeds
it starts to die
it does not look like it will last til dawn

But it does
and as soon as sunrise
a wise old woman
out for her walk
stumbles upon this
pile of sadness
she gently lifts up the flower
being careful not to rip the leaves
or break the stem
she cradles it in her wrinkly arms
and takes it to her house

she waters it
and watches it
and everday she sings to the flower
day by day she always persists
and sure enough, that flower
grows new petals
and strengthens it's stem
life flowing though it
so lyrical now
it recognises the beauty
that has always been there
One day, the woman
returns the flower to the garden
and the flower dances and sings
and worries no more
because it feels beautiful
on its own
and doesnt need the other flowers
*she sings for herself

DRESSMAKERS to the stars J’Aton have turned designer detectives after one of their most valuable couture gowns was stolen from a bride’s home last week.

The one-of-a-kind gown, which was stolen from Leanne Bartucca’s Greenvale residence along with other valuables, is estimated to be worth more than $40,000.

It weighs more than 18kg, and features intricate 100-year-old vintage French lace that has been carved and sculpted onto leather and layered tulle.

J’Aton designers Anthony Pittorino and Jacob Luppino, who also made the wedding gowns of Rebecca Judd, Nadia Bartel, Jodi Gordon and Yvette Prieto, wife of Michael Jordan, are appealing to the public in the hope that if it goes for sale online, someone will recognise the distinctive dress.

“We are so devastated for our dear friend Leanne; that dress has a special place in our hearts and is so sentimental to us all,” the pair said.

“It’s a dress that we created especially for Leanne, it has her and her husband’s initials embroidered into the train and we just hope that if anyone recognises the distinguishable design for sale on websites or social media, that they ­report it to the police.”

Ms Bartucca, who wore the dress in March, 2014, says she has been devastated by its theft.

“It’s such a sentimental thing; my family and the J’Aton boys have been checking the internet daily in the hopes that we will see it for sale,” she said.

“I had dreams of using the fabric from it for my children’s christening gowns, and even framing a section of the fabric for our home.

“[The thieves] definitely knew what they were doing. As a former fashion buyer, I was surprised how much they knew — what they left behind was just as telling as what they took.

“They could tell the difference between real and fake jewellery, they left certain shoe brands behind and obviously went straight for the J’Aton dress, which was covered in tissue paper and in a white box at the top of the wardrobe.”

Police said they were investigating whether the burglary was in relation to another in the same area.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion.*
pacing
internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation.
one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers
“go away go away go away go away”

running
linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip,
praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs.
i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy

the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age,
my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in
breathe in
breathe out

falling
wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks
desperate to make my voice heard
but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor
leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind,
one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.

A pair of crows streaks the skyline. I watch their graceful flight above bare treetops, concrete, and steel constructions, on a backdrop of exhaust fumes.

One crow alights after the other; their claws grip the bars of the signal tower a few feet away from where I wait for the next bus home. I wonder if they built their nest on that giant, manmade constellation of angles . . . From there they would have an exceptional view of the surrounding area, and few predators would dare to go up there.

"I found a dead crow, tangled in a wrought iron gate, once." His voice taps inside the nerve hollows of my mind, and I am unsure if the loud, clicking noises coming from the crows, and the perfectly synchronised squeaking of the bus' brakes, amplify or dampen his tone.

The bus driver greets with his usual, "Hello, Sweetie." I want him to be the bus driver, instead. He would never be late, he said. He wouldn't make me wait for what sometimes seems like an eternity. I mumble an almost-civil reply, biting back tears as I stumble forward against the pull of the engine to flop down on the nearest seat. I avoid eye contact with the other commuters; my gaze fixed to their reflections on the windowpane -- doppelgängers obscuring my vision -- a zeitgeist of movements . . . "Don't look at the window, look through it, silly . . . and don't miss me, I am just far away . . ." I always miss him more when he says that.

The coral trees are in full bloom, adding robust warmth to the faint copper glow of the winter sunset. Are their flowers the same vermilion colour as the 'fire tree' in his garden? Above the coral trees, I spot a pair of magnificent wings: a sacred ibis . . .

Fly south with me, Sacred Ibis. You are a goddess. White wings, neatly trimmed with a pearly black hem . . . when will you come down again, so I can show him what Isis really looks like? I won't be able to capture your image in flight, although he would love to see you like this -- spread-eagle . . .

The Ibis remains within view until we reach the nature reserve at the foot of the mountain. Here, the road forks into choices; I have but one -- keep left. The driver has a heavy foot and the next stop is mine. I get up from my seat and stumble down the narrow aisle towards the nearest exit, my hand tightening around a canary-yellow handlebar as I brace myself for the ****.

The hydraulic hiss of the opened doors spit at my heels. I leap from the bus, onto the pavement; my feet meet the concrete -- a long, silver-grey slab, slapped onto dry, red clay -- with a thud, dust settles on my coat in a whirlwind of the bus' departure.

Pigeons. Too many to count. They line the flat roofs of smog-stained, one- and two-storey buildings. Could they be soldiers? "No, my Love. Doves and pigeons are peacekeepers . . . and there is war in the Gaza Strip . . ." Yes, but what about the buildings? I walk on, thinking about the mourning dove he nursed; the one that followed his smoke rings . . .

We found an abandoned laughing dove squab last summer -- he, or she, made it. Sam was hand-reared, survived, and flew away on one of those bright summer's afternoons . . .

At the corner, I wait for the dust to settle further and the traffic light to turn green -- there are always those who don't need saving.

Turn right.

The Chinese maples are bare. Their deep-red autumn leaves have returned to the earth for redemption.

An Egyptian goose honks, calling his mate from the top of the church tower on the other side of the road. Perhaps, after so many chance encounters, he recognises me while he spreads his wings, flapping them slowly, without rising from his position, in what I imagine is a display of empathy.

I notice that I'm standing on the same patch of lawn where I found the barn owl's feather, months ago. Owl feathers ought to be kept in the dark, away from the day birds'. . . In the distance; I see the grove of pagoda trees that lead the way home -- beacons, providers and protectors. I follow. 

An assortment of feathers, haphazardly stuck into the wooden frame of the French doors, welcomes us home; fragments of unlocking and entering are placed on the dining table where we do everything.

Textbooks, dictionaries, software manuals, bird guides, the salt- and peppershakers -- guano has lost its value; it's all pink, organic Himalayan crystal salt, now. My children's empty cereal bowls were left on the table in the morning rush; they remind me of the years we have to catch up to -- I dissolve gunpowder pillulets under my tongue: Homeopathic medicine for this virus.

Balance -- like the flamingo, or the blue crane in the bird-guide-photos. On one leg, I reach for the light switch . . .

He glows in the weak ambiance -- electric bulbs cast a sepia vignette that invokes the scent of burning rose petals -- something akin to the gestalt of Rama, or a Buddha in blue . . .

Supper is a bland affair; I think of the Krishna temple I haven't visited in over a decade. How do they do it? Serve such exquisite meals on donations (feed the masses and the masses will feed you) . . .

Dishwater drips from my hands and runs down the inside of my arms as I absent-mindedly reach for the crow's feather, hidden in between the wrought iron candleholders on top of the grocery cupboard -- a gift or a donation?
 
I have donated my life to causes and movements, as a bird gifts its feathers to the earth, and to feather collectors, but will it be enough to sustain our future?

 

Aug/Sept 2014

There’s always a bustle here
In my ritual place of ribs and beer
The sharp scent of ginger and coriander
The acrid burr in my nose of seared flesh
Fusion food served around me
But I go for Hirata.. again.
Can’t argue with taste, and it tastes
Korean bbq and Buddha beer
A brief nod to the moments of clarity
As said by drunks
The beer bottle cool in my hand as I reflect
Beads of condensation forming on Buddhas belly
And I’m here hoping for Constant
It’s now my third attempt
In as many months to catch a glimpse
And tonight apparently the stars align
Jupiter and Mercury on the rise
As I walk in
There is a way about him
So much bluff and bravado...
reminds me of someone I once loved
There is a mischief in his smile
Something warm in his eyes
Even beyond his jokes of his ego
Too big for the Room, apparently
I don’t discourage..
He’s honest in a way that piques
So here I am
Third time lucky finding Constant
To my delight he recognises me instantly
“Lucky Buddha for the lady?”
His eyes dance..
I interpret, maybe to much
But believe he’s pleased to see me
So we joke..
We laugh
I watch him get an earful
For not concentrating on the flow
The manager in tow..
and he side-eyes me and winks
Inwardly I hi-five myself for
Timing this so perfectly
So here I am
Trying not to watch Constant flow
Trying not to blush as he looks my way
“I’m too old for this ****” I think
Then feel like a kid
When he throws a grin my way

Mounted in Ulster Mausoleum
you greet me with your rotted smile,
with oaken bones splinted into pose
with cloven feet riveted to the floor.

To the side your cratered eyes
that tunnel down to your cage
that watches of how we feed,
that recognises skin, fur and hair.

that will keep to see,
waves crash on mountain peaks
and we, holding hands in barren fields
and no one finding fossils in the mud.

Sunny and Honey
Both are funny
Sunny is free
Honey on working spree
Sunny is social
Honey a bit introvert
Sunny loves wine
That too with pals
Sunny suffered from leg pain
This made him parties abstain
Seeing this Honey came into action
Started Sunny's leg massage in morning
But faced infidelity to his leg by Sunny in evening after drinking
Recurrence of intolerable pain in the morning
Again hot massage by Honey in the morning
The drama continues
None of both speak anything
Cause Sunny loves evening ambience While Honey knows mental pain
is far worse than physical pain
That is why Honey is enduring Sunny's handiwork without tiredness
This brought in my eyes tears of happiness
Truly, relationship servives when one recognises the heart pain of another
Body is not so important but feelings matter.

You may believe home to be an address,
You are wrong.
The co-ordinates I list as my place of residence,
Are subject to change.
As do the seasons,
As my health waxes and wanes,
As my job becomes a harrowing echo,

My home will remain,
Incorrupt,
Unblemished.

As the night-sky,
Glistens and reminisces.
Its nostalgic ribbon intertwines with my soul -
My heart,
Recognises its home.

The waves,
That serenely lap against the shore,
Leaving, once elapsed,
A maze of its belongings,
Like a Nomad on his journey.
Demonstrative tides of exposure,
Against our profane human culture,
To jumble together
In definition,
Our home and our belongings.

Does this translate,
That home is sovereign
Of worldly corruption,
And is therefore
Safe from life’s unpredictability?

Home,
It is a state of mind.

Home is the essence which coats your soul.
Home is the promise of peace.
Home could never be my place of residence,
For between hospitals and the couches I have surfed,
Void of worldly possessions,
I have never once been homeless.
I possess more than the man who cannot see
That a fixed abode in this world is not the true interpretation,
Of a phrase so bespoke.

As I look into the night-sky,
And reminisce;
As the waves serenely lap
Against the borders of land and sea,
I accept that no matter where in the world I may find myself,
The moon will still shine,

The waves will still sing soft melodies to the sand,
And my home,
I forever hold in my hand.

The woman holds a letter
crumpled and crumbling at the tip like insanity taking its first few licks at calm
and liking it
brushing black-inked words beneath her fingers
like she's contemplating some black haired deed
like anger
or hate
or ******
and maybe she is.

The woman lifts her hands unto the skies
crying for help from a darkness that won't help her at all
but she wants it
banishing her innocence and taking up home
in the old, abandoned shack of spite and malice
wanting blood
wanting love
wanting power
but not just for her.

The woman meets her husband
taunting and teasing and twisting his words into a sadistic mockery of what they were
and he believes her
with a slap across morality he agrees with her
takes her outstretched hand to show that
jealousy is married
determination binds
it was his idea first
and weakness is sin.

The woman turns and faints
blanching so white it's like the evil wasn't ever there
it's hiding
waiting, longing to consume her whole
she'd thought she'd washed away the deed
with just
a little
spot of
water.

The woman enters the banquet hall
hanging off her husband's arm like the weight of the crime that holds her down
she's shaking
trying to hurl off all the lonely isolation
as her husband lo and talks to ghosts
and kills
not just
men but
her as well.

The woman walks and talks asleep
scratches skin and tries to scrub away the sticking-plaster guilt
but still it stays
forces of darkness she invited
staying long past their welcome and
not just
eating all
the food
but her as well.

The woman recognises blood
splattering the deceased's names across her arms in swirling crimson lines like marker pen
that won't wash off
maybe she'd be better off dead than praying
wishing she could drown her err
in just
a little
spot of
water.

This city has become so familiar.
An endless refrain.
Sometimes the sky pulls away.
Sometimes I feel I could slip through the earth and disappear.
Nobody would even notice.

The other day a crowd gathered.
Bunched together as their paths narrowed.
Then fanned back out into space.
It was an endless flow.
Faces moving so fast they blurred into one.
I sat by the river afterwards.
Unable to stand.

There are seven billion people on this earth.
Drifting through themselves.
And everyone around them.

Train.
Cars pass one another.
Smoke.
They cross the road when the lights change.
Living is effortless.
Invisible.

Two of my friends' relatives died this year.
One from suicide.

There are small moments of grace.
That do nothing to stave off death.
Or the unfairness of existence.

I’ve been moving my hands a lot lately.
I’ve been learning to sew.

Sometimes we fall into dreams.
And lose sight of the present.
Because it’s too painful to consider.

The crow recognises itself in the mirror.
Along with everyone else.
And breaks it.

Like a clown, walking down past the hotel room
his red-nosed cigarette alight.
The lobbyist winks, he recognises me.

Tap tap I'm leaving. Tap tap.

The train with swollen hearts departs this thawing furnace.
In the corner is the clown;
Comfied round his wearied eyes and weary pride.
Playing with her number like a child with a toy, wondering,

will the embers suffice?
To decoy and employ our tangled kisses and nibbles and bites through the nights.
Or get soaked up in depravity and a bottle of gin?
Excluded in the watered down reality of the phone.

The clown remains without a clue,
Are you thinking about me? I'm thinking about you

Atoms once enmeshed,
Dispersed
The essence of void
It lingers on
Adoration of these
sublime bones you possess
With which I built a cathedral
Whichever soil
Those steady feet may tread now
My blood recognises you still

Forgive me, I know I’m not perfect
my loving ways aren’t perfect
but my love for you is real
fear may have concucted my mind
fortune tellers may be redundant in this matter and somewhere along the way I will hurt you
but don’t let the hardships change the way you perceive me
the way you turn my imagination into reality
my soul recognises your scent instantly
my heart has countless beats
when I pour my feelings to you
when I contemplate on the windows of your soul
that lets me into your garden of mind
that lets me rest for a while in your deep breaths
'cause really what’s life with getting the wrong direction
I lack patience
sometimes I ride way too ******* my sense of humour
I’m misunderstood of my sarcastic ways
of my ironic mindset of love’s understanding
ups and downs mend our connection
melancholy, interestingly, keeps us intact
forgive me, for I am not perfect
speak up, might wanna change my ways.

Le Luna sees you Gypsy boy
gazing upon you
she recognises you
like a peice of music never forgotten.

Le Luna hears you Gypsy boy
she listens as you convey your truth
she hears your silent screams.

Le Luna touches you Gypsy boy
and feels beneath your skin
your mask
feels your dreams
so tactile.

Le Luna thanks you Gypsy boy
for seeing beyond
for hearing her truth
for touching her so deeply....

Tired feet stumble back
Tingling through and through,
Legs so numb, sleepily complain
Of all the running they had to do.

Thirty hours of relentless work,
And only stolen moments of rest later,
The calf muscles I pampered all my life
Cringe and cramp and labour.

Oh my fatigue is palpable,
I can feel it in my heels
In the weariness of my soles
And my jaded tendons of Achilles.

The first respite swiftly comes
When my skin finally recognises
My soft, familiar slippers,
I sink into the feeling and I like it!

Then comes another wave of relief,
Gently easing those knots away,
When my pajamas caress my legs,
Draining out the pain of the long, long day.

I dive into bed, and sleepily wait
For my final portion of cosiness
Which comes when sleep lulls me to bliss.
Indeed, home is where the feet are happiest.

To be left behind
Alone
On the shores of one’s life

Deserted
Lost
As the ships of fortune
Roll away beyond reach

To perceive
Even the smallest things
As a source of terror

To shrink
From the very light of day
Yearning for the escapology
Of black night hours

To let roll
Tears of desperation
As one recognises
One is nothing
But a broken being

How strange to be
So isolated
So alone
In this whirlpool
Of *******
Black
Tar

If only describing
The sentiment of inadequacy
Could disable its grip
And free one
From its power

The cold winter months  
Take hold
Of my entire being
As I stare at emptiness within me
Longing for escape

Bruised words spill
Over my page
In tribute to
The crisis hours

Beyond the trees in the clearing stood courage unclothed; always the preferred attire. Its gender, female; hence I will refer to it here as she.
 
Such femininity supressed in the webbed corners of masculine satire. To know it is to have it, to have it is to use it. Of course she recognises fear hiding in the wind that bends the trees–she too, is afraid.
 
She stands at the water’s edge, stoops to see she has no reflection, only blue sky staring back with a whisper, “Where there is no reflection there is courage.”
 
She exists in the space it takes to step from this place to the next. Courage will guide you when there is no water and if you get lost, look up,
—She is there too.

He tattooed a compass across his chest,
but your initials spilled out skillfully
instead of North and South (N;S);
Proportionate in every aspect,
rounding the circumference of his life in the
Perfect dimension that only he alone
recognises.

He says you lead him, you
refuted.
You say you always
mislead.

But what can you do
against the vulnerable him,
when he says he’s a willing sheep
as long as you are the shepherd
and the Wales is but you both,
that he could graze on the pulps of love
                     even when
the grasses dry.


He says that’s how he’ll survive,
and his ideals live,
*even when romance dies.

the cosy little nest that she had made
of their relationship is empty
the straws at which she had
one clutched
strewn all around her
now she runs around as
a headless chicken would
trampling on the empty eggshells
she now recognises
as his promises of eternal love

you can recognise it easily, in that abode
which recognises it,
where a man who loves thought
rather than wisdom, because he accounts
wisdom as too much factual provision...
there in the music, where his thought it scrambled
and literally non-existent.

i thought that *demdike stare would never
produce anything as haunting as they
already have,
but it wasn't them who produced the most
haunting piece of music known to me,
it was susumu yokota's tears of a poet
that's receptively glorified into an allowance
of what comfort might come
from households of ten million chinese
and a few europeans as singletons of that status sibling:
but still in the fathomed depth of violin or cello,
like that of ola gjeilo...
i'm happy for my melancholy... it is amply biding
intelligence with it... only because the rhythm section
is given unto string instruments rather than bam-bam
buckling drums heartless... lullaby rhythm i call it...
i love my sadness, because i can appreciate beauty
with a tear... and no one is invited...
and it's that kind of loneliness that turns me into
a goose... awaiting the pumpkin cindarella carriage
with surprise... if tear be shed, led it be shed at the pinnacle
of man's expression, not the sombre minute silence
of the slain in war of fingerprinted blood and mud...
let it be... decisively... from what appears as a lack of imagination
due to the engraved into cipher geometry of
the chaotic stone's face... let it be man abstracting
himself against so many patterns of chaos...
thus in turn bringing order and subsequent layering...
let man come with an elongation of each noted grievance
fully embodied and consumed...
to rise higher in an assertion of likened to angelic choir...
or will it simply be a story of those who self-love and loath
love by prizing their handy ******* the perfectly caricatured
of female genitalia... and the resolve of explaining those
who wish to embody the act of death to thus differentiate the two,
of those who self-love love occupying themselves
to not take up a sacrifice, and of those who's self-death die
by a known hand in the viscinity of visibility?
i am of no content strength willing to pride myself
as expressing either, or a deviation from,
for i do not speak in the realm of human continuity
that does not express either...
for i am not content with it, and never will be...
due to the merchants and what life is expected to be,
for if shakespeare wrote the merchant of mecca...
and left venice in the judgment of byzantium...
it would not be a pound of flesh to be sacrificed...
but a pound of flesh multiplied by a thousand if not more
and thus allowing the plagiarism of the thousand's
irrelevence and the least expected but the most hoped for discard,
for some future bound example of only one man.

p.s. i dont have the instant glorification concern
when using social media...
i have to be simply content with instant dis-satisfaction
and continue down the road with simulated non-existence
in terms of what invisible / cognitive narcissism
can discard of to expose recognising me;
honestly, atheism ought to begin the argument
concerning the non-exitence of god with the non-existence
of thought... by crossing the street too early for
a traffic accident... or the holocaust - after all god
is a word that's foundational in an expression of egoism
or at least self-autonomy to build a house without the mormons;
i know this language to a point where i deconstruct
the prime fuctioning words of co-ordination
without necessarily deconstructing the nouns
due to ha-shem, or deconstructring the verbs / actions
because of the fact that i think and am taken
aback by some of the action undertaken by people:
like ******, ****, theft, like lying, laceration or faking;
but with deconstruction come spelling mistakes
as the easiest casualties to improve on: the pawns in the game
are given the ordeal of democracy, and this democracy
is a numerous number of spelling mistakes
that feel shameful from the other side of this pixel mirror
having to be fed a life, and thus in life recognised
as accessible to be corrected for a higher reason thus taken.

When you break a bone in your body from a part which had never given you any sensation throughout your life
and whose existence was merely implied by its basic function,
suddenly as it brakes and gives such immense pain
That pain is processed in your brain which it identifies the source
and as it does, it recognises the existence of that bone..

But if the pain is out of an emotion,
as your brain tries to figure out the source and nature of the source,
you realise how less even your brain knows about you.
And as your brain starts to delve into this part of you,
as it tries to see you,
you give it an image of yourself.
It can be an honest image if you have the courage to see the truth..
or just a bunch of lies - and it depends on how honest your insight is, and how painful the truth is..

a day a bit like sarah mclachlan's
thumbing toward ecstasy album,
not much too it...  some say frailty, some say the
plumbing,  some say apathy breeds no pathologies,
well, not musical enough for rhymes,
a vast vault opens, there's a piano
inside but no pianist -
let's say without education and training
in the art someone comes to the piano
and gets a natural feel for it,
feminine hands, anaemic and frail,
thin fingers, not something a labourer
could sustain his work with...
a poet became jealous of Liszt...
but no one became jealous of Chopin...
the japanese adore him more than
his fellow countrymen... after all, they
took his heart out and entombed it
saying: 'this is your place, this is our pride,
sit here, forever!'
horrid story, akin to the one where a president
in an unfortunate plane crash received
all the honours of a kingly burial in the Wawel (vavel)
castle... not in the cemetery for presidents,
perhaps near the Belvedere (the white house
of the east) - that skromny pałacyk -
an entombing procession of faithful people,
yet no crown in sight, simply a tie noose from
the political suit... and that's why a distant
voice almost wants to trip up on the question
whether there's democracy in that shady part
of the world... or as the canadians put it:
america and it's lollipop women - tartan tarts
of criss-crossing ventures back into adolescence
and opening up a macabre wardrobe -
we have the aces, they have but four queens -
the fifty five belgium sized countries in the
mid-west... open fields and tornadoes -
but these sort of moments do not come directly
from you - it's bound to happen
upon the plough of dried ink on page  525
of the LXXX... so many influenced J. Joyce,
T.S. Eliot...and his own work rather, crudely -
left to rot in the slaughterhouse,
an animal slaughtered for no reason other than
to hang and rot... sheered by neglect,
or the ad hominem principle not understood -
obstructed - a thousand black-shirts from
the Mussolini tribe left the world in lesser rags -
it takes a lot of patience to not see certain
pop-ups of words are directing, geographically
orientating in the mind - it's not an instruction
manual sometimes, there's no 4x screws of such
and such to put-together a table... sometimes
music takes over - and the sounds escape like
helium from balloons in an air-tight room -
one person in it, maybe two -
not necessarily an instruction manual, a worth
a copy manual - but still canto LXXVII or LXXVI
were overcome like his overcoming the
cage-cell he cited in at Pisa in the heat and
wet-donkey-slobbering of the snout -
they say it's all downhill after the escape from Pisa...
well... an intelligence in an asylum will hardly
make compliments on the matter, hence a second
return to the land of ice cream and Renaissance
painting galleries... where they craft a beauty from
stone like the mountains majestic... very few geometrics
were minded for the finishing touches -
they kept the buildings low on purpose,
not unlike the sky-scraping majestic but left with
a ² grid: ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
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               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
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               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ,
where then the Roman Belshazzar? nowhere,
not even with the first roman-jewish war,
suckling up to the **** of Nero's oblivion in song
on the lyre while comparisons were made
between him and Casimir III of Poland -
in proverb:
zastał Polskę drewnianą, a zostawił murowaną -
after the great fire of 64 a.d. -
rome, rebuilt in stone and marble...
hardly a reason to claim equal the incident of
the Reichstag fire of 1933... only in remote places
where much harvest is to be done,
does a solitary house equate itself to a city -
we'll never mind the baker,
but we might as well mind the words:
                we have a pretty witty king,
                and whose word no man relies on,
                he never said a foolish thing,
                and never did a wise one -
after all, why not insult when no one recognises
the insult - for fear of being reminded
of the guillotine... no, the guillotine was yet to
be invented... imagine all the lumberjacks of
spiny bone having to desecrate an entire host
of de Pompadour all pampered - then suddenly
without wig or perfume on the scaffold.

Halloween:Truth or Tricks??
Halloween evolved from "All Hollows" Eve. It originated from the pagan holiday honoring the dead. On All Hallows Eve, the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead was thin. It allowed the souls of the dead to come back to earth and walk among the living

Halloween is a religious holiday belonging to the Roman Catholic Church. ... The holiday is “All Hallows Day” (or “All Saints Day) and falls in Nov.

Jehovah's Witnesses: They don't celebrate any holidays or even birthdays. Some Christians: Some believe the holiday is associated with Satanism or Paganism, so are against celebrating it. Orthodox Jews: They don't celebrate Halloween due to its origins as a Christian holiday. Other Jews may or may not celebrate it

While the Bible doesn't mention Halloween specifically, it does, of course, have lots to say about the forces of evil. ... Scripture is full of stories where good and evil are pitted against each other, as well as Bible verses that offer wisdom about facing darkness, deception, and fear in your own life.

Samhain (pronounced 'sow'inn') is a very important date in the Pagan calendar for it marks the Feast of the Dead. It is also celebrated by non-Pagans who call this festival Halloween. ... Samhain has been celebrated in Britain for centuries and has its origin in Pagan Celtic traditions.

A few observations:
HALLOWEEN is the most important day of the year for Devil worshippers, according to the founder of the Church of Satan, and everyone else has been urged to avoid celebrating this “dark” day

Anton LaVey founded the Church of Satan in the US in 1966.

He was the country’s most prominent Satanist up until his death in 1997 and authored several books, including The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals, The Satanic Witch, The Devil's Notebook, and Satan Speaks.
In the Satanic Bible, Mr LaVey wrote: "After one's own birthday, the two major Satanic holidays are Walpurgisnacht (May 1st) and Halloween.”

Walpurgisnacht, or Saint Walpurgis Night, is a German annual event which is known in German Folklore as Witches Night.

Even today, the Church of Satan recognises Halloween as an extremely important day for evil.

The occultists’ website states: “Satanists embrace what this holiday has become...

He was the sole survivor of a fairground ride disaster
and spent twenty-three months in hospital
– as they very carefully put him back together.
It had been such a lovely day for several friends
who had taken the ride, but when the bolts snapped
– they fell like dominoes on either side.

Only he survived, he’s full of anger, and weighed down with guilt
he’ll never walk again though, too much spinal fluid spilt
and though he recognises his Mum, he’ll never again speak her name
his larynx was crushed too in the fall and the new sound is not the same.

It takes so long but he taps each letter out on his new keyboard
then he blows in a cup and sound comes out through a strange cord
and although he doesn't remember his voice sounding so tinny as this
it is a voice of sorts, and it just has to do he guesses.

He’s up to Jack and Jill books now as his Mum helps him learn to read
it’s sad to see her in such pain when her eyes look into his and plead
but the words are hard to grasp now and he always does his very best
yet he lived while others didn't so some days he still feels blessed.

He hates it though when they wash him, a pretty nurse helps his Mum and when
– they wash him ‘down there’ he always wants to scream
he wishes that he could go to sleep and never wake again but then
– he feels the guilt and instead wishes he could wake to find it all a dream.

©Joe Wilson – Snap! 2014