Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.

Kerala, with its blessed beauty of nature, long and silver-haired with colorful clips of fishes and a black mountain cap, standing in a green curly dress full of colorful butterflies and glowing flowers on it, mesmerizing eyes with calm and peaceful nature gifts us a pleasant world.

             In 1975, a new creation of God, his loving child came to this world. I cried as every child does but at the next moment I laughed because I have been born into God’s own country, The Paradise. Thanks to the Almighty for bringing me to this wonderful heaven. Oops! I forgot one special person. Slowly I turn towards that smiling face, the one who is holding me in her hands, my sweet Mother.

            Hi, I am Neha, the blessed child born into a loving and caring family. Our house too was not less than a paradise in a beautiful village which was full of greenery. It was a joint family with grandfather, grandmother, great grandmother, uncles, and aunts and especially with a dozen of cousins! After three years, being blessed with a younger sister.

          I was a shy and reserved character for strangers in the outer world but I was open with my family just because of the serenity they made me feel by giving the freedom to express my feelings and wishes. My childhood days gave me the most memorable and golden moments in my life. It was such great fun! In those days we used to play a lot of outdoor games, going for movies with our granny, fighting with brothers, walking on walls, sitting near the pond and chatting till our granny came running with a bamboo stick, competing with the cuckoo and making it angry and making fun of boys! My cousins and I never missed the regional movies on Doordharshan. I was passionate about listening to music on AIR, writing it down, memorizing it and singing along with the singer. When my mother finds me missing, she comes searching for me without a second thought to catch me red-handed with a radio.

         Then came the tape recorder which made it easier for me to listen to my favorite songs when I wish and record my own sweet voice... (giggling) Actually I love doing intoxicating things and have fun which I shouldn’t being doing! Isn’t it funny? But my grannies were too strict that I had to control all my mischievous behavior and be a very good girl. Got confused? Ha! Ha! There were about four grannies. There was always a unity in our family. I never had the feeling of being without a brother of my own as my cousins who were brothers always made me feel more like their own sister.

        One more thing about me friends, I am a great devotee of Lord Krishna, whom I believe is always with me as a friend, lover and well-wisher. Oh my God! I revealed the secret about my love and lover! Imagining Him as a lover, playing with Him, dancing with Him, enjoying happiness to the fullest with Him was my great dream. Please don’t shake with laughter but I really wish that to happen, a blessing to see the original form with His flute, the sky-blue colored Krishna and experience the love and lust transforming myself to Radha, making it a spiritual affair.

My father, who was a great artist, used to draw Krishna’s pictures especially for me, knowing my crazy love for Him.

            I did my schooling well as a normal child and scored average marks happily!

I felt that I was the luckiest person in this world. (smiling)

            Mmmm. Now it’s time for college. I got admission for BA English Literature, my favorite subject, my passion and one of my dreams.

            One of my cousins (sister) and I joined the college. We were in great excitement and were sure about having great fun because when we both were together, there was no doubt of pleasure and entertainment. Even though I was not so modern I was stylish and became a queen in everyone’s eyes!  We had a great time in college with our friends. There were boyfriends too.

One of our friends, a best friend, Nikhil was so special, caring and loving, always doing something exciting to make me fall hard into laughter.

         Hey! One more secret: I used to feel that I am playing with Krishna as a friend (Remember my wish?  ...LOL)

         Nikhil and I used to fight a lot on different topics but when it’s all over and we got tired, we were back together with more affection and fondness for each other. He was a very comfortable friend with whom I could share any of my feelings and viewpoints straight from the heart.

I was moving forward to the fourth month of my college, September, when the buds of beautiful flower forget-me-not blossom smiled at us.

       In this beautiful month, comes Onam, the day that welcomes the great King, Mahabali to Kerala. It was a month of celebration for me. A pookkalam would be drawn, decorated with different colorful flowers in front of each house till the day of Onam for ten days, which I really enjoyed during the festival.

       Knowing my wish to do this, permitting me to make pookkalam for those ten days.

      I got up early in the morning wandering everywhere to collect flowers from our house and of course our neighbor’s house (giggling).

       After making my art with flowers and admiring myself, I gave a pat on my back mentally as if I have won the first prize for pookkalam. The most interesting thing is, my cute great Grandmother joined me with a no tooth smile (imagine)

I enjoyed my holidays with my family in new clothes and Onam sadhya with my favorite Ada pradhaman ( payasam) ….yummy !!

       During those days there were only landline and it was strictly prohibited for us. Permitted to make only important calls if necessary and only girls could ring us, not boys (how sad, isn’t it?)


                        No mails! No Facebook! No Whatsapp!

      Still it was a great time because we were able to feel moment of celebrations, relationships and perceive the worth of feelings of our dear and near ones. Almost everyone was free of mental and emotional strain in our time. The only reason was many of them were able to solve the complications and pressure of their lives through direct communication, a joint family, a joint society. There was always a lot of helping hands.

         Children enjoyed each others company as they met daily by playing outdoor games, going to school by cycles, walking together and sharing their daily class sessions, their mischievous acts and how were they punished together by their teachers. They even shared their family issues and there was no need of counseling for children at that time.


         I was back to college after the Onam holidays and celebrations. You might be thinking why I didn’t mention about missing my friends and college.

Actually they were in my thoughts but I am the kind of person whose policy is to “Live in the Present” and not spoil the present happiness of oneself and others.


       I am sharing one more secret! I missed a special person among them. Guess who?

You were right! It’s none other than Nikhil, my Krishna.

       Reached college in my caravan, BSA SLR (my cycle) with my cousin sister. All our friends came running towards us and we contributed our love and affection for each other.

I lost my father when I was in college but my uncle never gave me a chance to mourn the loss and stood with me as a pillar filling absence of my father. I always believed that Krishna was with me in all my ups and downs in different forms to support me.

After my father’s death, I decided to take life in a methodical way with my credence in Krishna to overcome the trammels coming on my way.

I accomplished my graduation and joined for post-graduation. You might be wondering why I am not mentioning anything about Nikhil….hmmm….I read your mind….

The truth was that I was totally lost after the death of my father and my full concentration was to complete my graduation well.

        Hey! But his full support made me more ardent and to gain more will-power to face all ups and downs.

        Nikhil completed his B.com and then joined to do CA. As his father got transferred his family relocated to another state. That was a big shock for me but I consoled my mind and heart, requesting them not to make me weak.

Accomplished my post-graduation, did my Teachers Training and I am an English teacher now! Surprised? But happy for me, right?

       One thing friends, till now I have faith and belief in my Krishna.

I know what is going on in your mind. Did Nikhil and I communicate with each other after his father’s transfer? Did we meet again?

After leaving the city, we were in touch for few months till he flew to America.

Slowly I too stopped communicating with him and engaged myself in daily matters and family duties and took care of my mother and sister.

      All my cousins, one by one completed their academics, some got married and settled in their family life. But there was always a get together once in a month. Now my mother wanted me to get married and settled.

      Many alliances came and I was ready to shake my head like a goat to the one which my elders chose for me.

Ha! Ha! Just kidding…. They know what is good and bad for me. Actually that is what I believe.

Hmmm…. Anyway I made one promise to myself that if I give birth to a baby boy, I would surely name him “Nikhil”.

Now I am a wife and a mother of a one and a half-year old boy.

Excuse me, did you ask me something?

Oh! My son’s name?

One second please …. My baby is crying…

Nikhil…….

Please change the baby's diaper !

MY FROG MASTERS

How thoughtful were the rainfalls
To water our gardens and flowers
The flowers spread wide garments
To celebrate their terminal beauty

The joyful frogs occupied my pond
To orchestrate their vocal prowess
They taught me to take blind leaps
Like lightning bouncing in the skies

Squatted, stretched, beeped down
I was a millstone on the pond floor
My slippery pond mates wondered
How soft I was in the maritime arts

Mortally rescued in a muddy mood
The clouds sent in rescuing showers
To confirm my firm loss to the frogs
Like a grain of salt cast into the seas


673. MONEY BAGS IN THEIR BODY BAGS

The money bags shopping for their body bags
Waggled through the makeshift supermarkets

Their ancestral homes they plotted modernity
Like the general gathering fine forces together

To the villages they made to return with pride
Like pregnant elephants caught up in the mud

Their desolate villages are deep and sickening
Glowing flamingly in the crucibles of local gins

The dusty and gravy pathways are like furnace
Burning the leather off from their frozen souls

Traditional birth attendants cut off their cords
And zipped the money bags in their body bags

674. A GLORIOUS DAY

The new day spoke powerfully
Like a war making superpower
And his voice roared forcefully
Like the skies forced to shower

The sunrays came dynamically
Like love responding to silence
Beauty crawled in submissively
Like the mixed arts and science

One eagle soared energetically
Like lions feuding in the colony
Far clouds relocated peacefully
Like souls betrayed to harmony

The breeze sighed thoughtfully
Like horses galloping on the lea
Inspiration unfolded thankfully
Crowns monuments with a pea

675.  THE FOG BANK

The sun had gone to pay our bill in the fog bank
The world foggily crawled into the strong rooms
Darkness demonstrated her strong mindfulness
Provided for the strong gale with lurking shrieks

The black paint billers snowballed to our dreams
With the bill of exchange for wild sunny excesses
Ghostly bats emerged with the bill of indictment
In demonstration of our acrophobic dispositions

We packaged the sunrays for our folk memories
To reassure the day of our eternal followerships
We cherish our follow-throughs in our dark beat
To usher the sunlight out of the hollow fog bank

676. THE PROTRACTED INTERNECINE FEUD

These things had happened before we were born
Like sulphur deep into our fresh hearts they burn
Now we stumble on the bumpy terrains in horror
Like one frightened by ghosts in a standing mirror

The internecine feud has razed our men of valour
With their carcasses dumped in their cold parlour
Our community cattle graze in the barren pasture
Like the unrepentant sinners awaiting the rapture

For our plight the once glorious sky is grown pale
Like the ***** fetching territorial waters with pail
The storms have rolled off the catalogues for rain
All our efforts to mop up the mess end up in vain



677. THE AREA LEADERS

They cracked coconuts on the heads for the crown
And embraced our days with their castaway pollen
Sadness and sorrow have dyed our garment brown
With the strongest song sung when night has fallen

These are the blinding dusts from our barn’s grains
They breed cunning serpents in the soft pasturages
They are failed cargoes on our broad societal trains
They dedicate our common committee to outrages

Now our days seek deliverance from their tentacles
Like the colourful fields immersed in gloomy beauty
They play our eyeballs with the stenciled spectacles
With our consciences to sight and found us off duty

To rescue us the colossal clouds were born gadarene
Our communal life was willed to pageants of gaieties
Then moonlight stories held us for a larger gathering
Now all the objects we sight dress up like cold deities

678. THE LAST DESCENDANTS

The rapacious thunderstorms ***** the skies for their tears
The hot embers were born to glow mourning the late forest
The moon crawled out of the blue like a great grandmother
Cuddling her descendants wrapped up in her ancient shawls

The wild waves were weird weavers weaving withering wails
The captioned wigs gyrated on stunning shoes upon auctions
The little creatures crouched in primeval baskets of the night
To gnaw at the generational tubers in the creative farmlands

The dazzling specimens of dentitions relaxed in water basins
Like bright red artistic architectures on potent ocean boards
Golden hearts glow in the threatening prisms of the furnace
As beautiful sunset defines her beauties in her nightly corset

It had been a sweet pill for the past descendants to swallow
Depending on the colonial masters for loaves, lore and lures
Our creativity had been packaged in their mortal depravities
Like the tranquil days resting sorrowfully upon the dark oars

The centenarian thunders downgraded our minute whispers
We had been kept upon our toes by the eternally sworn foes
At last our worthy artworks have worn their wormy catwalks
The refreshed dawns greet our easting days in their greenery



679. VICTIMS IN THE VALLEY

The victims in the dark rally
Caged, dried and browning
Therein their meanings tally
With waves born drowning

In the depth of a cold valley
Horrible nobles are cultures
Like pilgrims in the dark alley
Willed to ravenous vultures

The victims all robed in tears
With hearts like potter’s clay
For pains they have no fears
Only mimed games they play

For victory awaits the victims
Alien to a blind mimed game
Glorious are eternal rhythms
For death Christ died to tame

680. THE GIANT SCARS

These are our giant threatening scars
Engraved on our demonstrative heads
Our sympathies crawled on superstars
Weeping for us on their moonlit beds

They threatened us with nasal sounds
Like thunderclouds seasoned to burst
For us their galleries are out of bounds
Behind the iron bars plagued with rust

Our patience passed their wildest tests
Like the lions roaring in the thick jungle
On the heart of the Lord our faith rests
Like numbers posted on the right angle

681.  A LADY

In a lady’s handbag
Is her hidden hunchback
Stuffed with her heart ache
For the pains relieving groom

In a lady’s tender smile
Is hidden miles of similitude
Marked with the zebra crossings
For the ever winning marathoner

In a tender lady’s heart
Is hidden her cowboy’s hat
Soaring within the white clouds
To soothe the earth with the latter rains

682. BRING BACK OUR GIRLS

Bring back our homesick girls
Their vacant cradles are bleeding
Bring back our innocent girls
On the chariots of fire descending

Bring back our suckling girls
Their feeding bottles are weeping
Bring back our infant girls
Their mothers’ ******* are heavy

Bring back our harmless girls
The united universe is thundering
Bring back our dewy girls
In the sharp sun rising in the skies

Bring back our beautiful girls
Like light plucked from darkness
Bring back our glorious girls
Aboard the shore-bound waves

Bring back our worthy girls
On their fresh faces our lights seek to glow
Bring back our living girls
Our fountains of joy are bubbling to burst

For our returned girls the skies shall bear
Roaring rivers, singing seas, chiming clouds
With gongs and songs, pianos and praises
Dulcet dulcimers and documentable dances
With healthy hymns and eloquent embraces
All nations shall into a common cathedral flow

683. ****** GENEOLOGIES

They electrify their demonic high tables with old fears
Only their ****** genealogies are bookmarked to reign
The sight of their portables whetted our eyes to tears
We are reinforced by the clouds born to the later rain

Our skins have renovated the sickening cattle wagons
With our dreams flying upon huge smokes in the skies
Beneath their tables we abridge their creaking jargons
Upon their floors with our generational landmark tiles

The dew drops dropped like old crops upon our brows
To soften the veils falling to the flaming edged swords
The flaming hearted sword of the penetrating sunrays
Born to pluck us alive from our hotly bandaged bruises

684. LET US SPEAK UP

The light is climbing downstairs
And danger is sprouting abroad
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is melted on the glades
And terror grazing our eyelashes
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is late and lately buried
The mourners are on danger list
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light has divorced the grave
Her grave clothes are dew dyed
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

Silence is a forgotten tombstone
Lost in the din of cold morticians
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

685.  THE SUN

The sun smiles on all prescriptively
Like the waves spreading on shores
The green grass glows descriptively
Like the full moon upon dark sores

The sun is a tailor fixing the buttons
Preparing the sky for incoming stars
Like the weaverbird weaving cottons
To conceal the day’s damnable scars

The sun is a marker on diurnal pages
Tall grace he bestows on the flowers
The sun retains his graces for all ages
Bees and butterflies are his followers

Our common laughter is endangered
When sun bows down in big setbacks
All mortals have the starlets fingered
When the night comes on drawbacks

686. UNTIL HERE

(For Lou Lenart and his team)

Their floods came seeking Jewish bloods
Like streams they roared for our dreams
They emerged as columns of soldier ants
Like whirlwinds they zoomed towards us

Until here we were crumbs for the reptiles
Until here we were like airborne cloudlets
But here the sudden change unveiled to us
From here the elusive victory embraced us

With skeletal jets we fought like bold lions
Soared like eagles and spoke like thunders
We conquered columns of invading armies
The bleeding armies turned back and blank

From here we turned from victims to victors
From here enemies’ defeat our greatest feat
Upon this memorable bridge it all happened
Victories leapt upon our pool like joyful frogs

687.  JOY UNLIMITED

The fledging sun offers its rays
And the rays offer golden trays
For our joy a platform to spray
Rowdy paratroops like thunder
To scoop roses from pure oasis

Our joy is ripe upon celebrations
Our celebrations with decorations
Decorations with documentations
Documentations for all generations
Generations in our joyful habitations

688. ANOTER RAINING DAY

The dark clouds are wandering river basins
Spiral bounded by breakable outer casings
The rivers and the seas display empty cups
For the swift blessings descending the tops

The rains come as defense troops’ missiles
And the drowning lands look like imbeciles
Now we are groaning in the watered claws
With the liberated scales marking our flaws

The retreating clouds crawl away in a belch
Dumping the missing cargoes on the beach
The winds bow in a state of shock in a cord
Praying and fasting for a visit from the Lord

689. GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother, please wake and get up
The sky is quarreling with her husband
Soon they will spill their freezing sweat
On our bodies for us to catch dead cold

Grandmother, please sneeze not louder
The sky and her husband are quarreling
Soon they will send old floods like gales
To sweep mankind away from the world

Grandmother, you are everything I have
My moon, my sun and my morning stars
Provoke not the couples with your cough
Lest they refill their greasily wraths again

Grandmother, the big reptiles have come
With their lethal grandchildren following
They are laced with secret burial shrouds
With sympathetic tears tearing their eyes

Grandmother, I kiss you a shaky goodbye
With broken pains roaring within my soul
Grandmother, where are your groundnuts
To conduct my solo heart as you sing away

690.  A NIGHT WALK THROUGH THE FOREST

Lured away on an alluring dream by fables
I trudged along the grassy paths with fears
Upon my steps spilling the prevailing dews
The shadows bowed their heads in silence
Like the soul issued with a death sentence

The night crawlers emerged above boards
Throwing light upon contrary communities
In their hearts and eyes were painful tears
Crawling down their exaggerated eye *****
Like a handbag filled with rotten cosmetics

The shadows were bold animators’ shelves
Stage managing the horror motion pictures
In the ghostly commodities I met wild hosts
Lifeworks evaporated from my fresh breath
Like foreign tragedies in common comedies

The sorrowful shadows cast away their veils
Like the candles letting go of the weird wax
Sadly I sat in the sack for conflicting fetuses
Another sun appeared like a serial divorcee
Counting the testicles of another naked day

691.  SUBJECTIVE SUBJECTS

The sad sun descended upon her haunting melodies
Reeling from mysterious layers for electoral riggings
To harden the flowerbed for flower girls born tender
Disenfranchised voters came weeping in barren polls
Dressing the blank nest for the fat electoral parodies
With the mourners the faulty bells they came ringing
Like the angry water castigating a ****** port fender
And the smokes climbed upon their wide aerial poles
Arching over the emptied shelves with liberal singing
They subjected their subjective subjects to all objects

A nervous shiver rippled briefly across his shoulders as Dunstan peered over the balcony, it was a long way down from his penthouse suite he guessed, shrinking back from the handrail... at a rough guess somewhere between the upper observation deck, Eiffel-Tower, Paris, France and lower basement mezzanine at Miss Selfridge, London, England... and Dunstan was terrified if heights.
  
     It scarcely seemed anytime at all really since he'd relocated to his new and upwardly situated des-res, yet for all that he could hardly recall living anywhere else, once you'd seen one, well... you got the idea,  after a while they all looked pretty much the same, you just had to be able to haggle, but for now at least he was obviously safe enough where he was, sunning himself on the balcony watching the world go by as he scribbled down a shopping list... but lunchtime was almost upon him and then all hell was sure to break loose.

     Having finally determined to put down roots and raise children of her own, his mother Elvera, finding herself in the family-way had wasted no time at all in tearing several well thumbed pages out of her mother's book, then taken both Dunstan's father and his gene-pool straight to the cleaners, just to keep them, so page three informed her firmly in the family... so Dunstan grew up knowing a great deal about laundry and dry-cleaning, but very little about his father, just the occasional anecdote cast to the wind like so much bird seed, about their early courting days and how they'd both wanted him to grow into a strong, healthy lad and do well at school, climbing the corporate ladder, so-to-speak and go to Boy-Scouts every Tuesday evening just like his father had done before him... and learn all about knots, but Dunstan had vertigo and couldn't tie knots for toffee.
                                    
     All hell was certainly dead set on breaking loose that lunchtime, or rather Houdini were they to continue and remain on first name terms... and there was nothing Dunstan loved more than a captive audience.   Reflecting deeply and never wanting a repeat of the previous week he studied the hastily bound swaddling, perhaps the odd tweak here and there just to be on the safe side should ensure the safety of his dinner guest for the remainder of the afternoon.   As Dunstan snipped the final thread he considered that simply nothing was too much trouble where todays 'entree was concerned, he now sat before Houdini smacking his lips in anticipation, quivering in the front parlour waiting for the dinner gong to sound, the Sunday lunch however, now in a mounting state of frenzied agitation continued bouncing around on the embroidered tablespread.  

     Dunstan could never understand what the fuss was all about... I mean, it wasn't as though his dinner guest hadn't been invited, he argued and that for the umpteenth time, as he reached for the carving knife and steel, he simply wasn't going to take no for an answer, leaving his dinner guest still bouncing about, insisting that he'd merely dropped in for directions... and that he, The Great Houdini, currently billed at The London Hippodrome for the remainder of the season had a far more pressing dinner engagement elsewhere, with a diary for the foreseeable future distinctly at odds with those of his host... leaving Dunstan so he hoped, far behind and in no uncertain doubt that not only had he been left hanging in stickier corners than this one, but had every intention of extracting himself from being principal dish of the day before third curtain call... and having done so, wish Dunstan a very good day and remit his professional fee by return of post.

    Meanwhile, insisting that his guest needn't feel obliged to dine elsewhere when they could both enjoy a really splendid one right here, chewing over happier times together, although should Houdini wish, then Dunstan felt confident that his dinner guest was more than capable of punching his way out of as many wet paper bags as he liked... and just what were the Marquis of Queensberry Rules anyway... so encouraged, Dunstan continued sharpening the knife. 

     "Well really", thought Dunstan... 'and without so much as a by-your-leave' carefully examining the damage to his new lace tablecloth, torn in Houdini's haste to depart, he really must be careful as he rummaged for his darning needle, not to fall through.  It had been the shortest dinner party in living memory, Dunstan sighed, it simply would not do, what would all his neighbour's think, he'd never hear the last of it, his reputation they would whisper, well... it would all end in ruins, mark their words it would.  Dunstan's tummy rumbled, he'd been filled with nothing but anticipation that day and very little else, but other than a torn tablecloth and superfluous items of Houdini, shrugged of in his bid for freedom, no one would be any the wiser... having said that, Dunstan would have to make do with a cold repast for luncheon instead, hanging quite still in the larder.

                                                        ­     ­ ...    ...   ...**

A work in progress.                                                        ­                                                               831

An ode to fast food,
Oh how I loathe you,
Your hot french fries,
And complaining customers,
That I wish to smack,
Their oh so very fat ***.
The managers are ******,
They need to be relocated to a mental hospital.
One is a furious druggie, with hair that is not so pretty,
And the other is a fat cat, who pretends to be a girl, when he clearly is not at all that,
Oh food that is fast, how thou will not last anymore in my life,
I bid adieu to you, and the burgers,
How'll not miss the times I've cried from working with some miserable *******,
Goodbye for now,
The times were not fun,
How I'll never miss running off to work,
Because I have always hated you.

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As soon as your starting material is minimize towards the best dimensions, paint them white. Make the most of white colored roof paint primarily because that quite a bit less expensive than common divider coloration. I apply a pair of applications hence the dark-brown hardboard is vivid white. The particular whiter the base content, the actual richer a goblet will be once you hold fast the item towards the aboard. In the event you put on fresh paint the bottom fabric white, the particular wine glass can look unexciting and also dreary about the dark-brown panel.

Seeing that ones platform materials are all set, basically transport a person's stained-glass design towards the board. In case you have absolutely no attracting knowledge, locate a charming stained-glass style on the net or even on your favored activity retailer along with switch your sample to your bottom materials. You can find shift newspaper in your popular interest retail store at under $2 some sort of piece that will sufficient to fund the 18-inch through 24-inch basic product. The beauty with switch report is that you may put it to use more than once prior to it no excellent. For instance eked out up to in search of coach transfers (we.electronic., nine mosaics and stained-glass works) prior to newspaper do not relocated a searching for very well will start to see the lines plainly.

Determine and also cut (in addition to grind the edges when you have a new mill) a stained-glass parts such as you have been developing a stained-glass screen. That i work with really see-through or maybe solid a glass colours to make sure you can observe by it to check out the actual stick when stuck to the base material. For your variety, rather than joining this parts utilizing direct emerged or copper foil and also solder because you might using a stained-glass work, simply glue the actual parts set up over the style for your foundation product making use of simple white PVA fasten (age.h., Elmer Epoxy All or Weldbond), abandoning with regards to 1/16-inch space between pieces. Your spacing may differ as much as 1/8-inch, however wouldn head out just about any larger when compared with 1/8-inch space because I consider the broader space seems to be sloppy in comparison with thin spacing.

While each of the portions will be stuck in-place and also the adhesive features dry out for about 2 days, populate the particular places with your favourite cement colouring, as you'll if the variety had been through with the normal smaller bits of rectangle or maybe triangular shape styles. My partner and i mostly utilize medium-gray cement, yet this most recent preference is usually charcoal (dark) cement. The better mosaics I actually do by using dark colored grout, a lot more I love the idea. Cement coloration can make or break one more look of a person's mosaic, if youe in doubt in what cement color to use, your best bet is with medium-gray.

When the cement possesses dry right away, use the mosaic in your popular hobby retailer while theye which has a sales upon ready-made open-back structures. The best shop incorporates a 50% sales every other 7 days, therefore, if it a strong off few days, I delay weekly. Select various body styles and colors, as well as put them over your variety, one at a time. Have on be happy with the 1st body you get. Check with the particular worker which will figure he believes appears to be very best together with your variety. View which shape allows spotlight the colours in your variety. My partner and i generally consult some other clients inside the speedy space the things they imagine, as well as theye normally wanting to supply their opinion. Once you have the ideal shape, your clerk can install your current mosaic, make use of the newspaper support, and put in this draping components and also cord.

Isn't it about time a gorgeous mosaic to carry on your wall and also allow like a found. The particular neat benefit of it truly is that it common, not the same tedious variety style wee noticed for centuries. That fundamentally a new stained-glass screen set up on some sort of body together with grout while in the rooms rather than solder. You acquired notice that many times. Effectively, not really until finally the many variety music artists on the earth read through this write-up and plunge to this procedure!

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A Catastrophic explosion in a constellation ..........
Following the super nova , expansion of the universe....
A supersonic flight on suborbital spacecraft ........
Accessing meteor , an unknown lonely atmosphere ....
Away from thousand light years.........
Taxonomy a new solar system with red planets........
Peeping from the glass cockpit , all planets appearing blue.......
No moon in their orbit , no networks with DSL(Direct  Satellite Link)......
No human , no existence of love...........
All nonfunctioning satellite moving bizarre ..........
Whole system collapsed in that collide ........
Explosion relocated moon with planet earth .......
A symbol of Cosmic Love , shining through human hearts ........
Discovering love bond in the solar systems...
an unique lodge.............
Migration of youth Love .....an effort to save those lonely planets......
by
MAHI -GALAXY ...........

the construction industry is filled with Englishmen... well, let's just say the management and bricklayers, and from i hear it's a ****** management, they think it's cheaper to loan a crane than to install one... as i heard, a typical construction site of has about 30 Englishmen tops, a construction site population of about 400... i might be exaggerating, but i heard it first hand, and i've seen it, well 10 years ago it was a bit different, but the cracks were already showing - how one Brit undermined another Brit, dehumanised one ethnicity using another's desperation / exaggeration of rewards: by lowering wages of the former's.

only a casual inference of the vote -
it's one thing pushing away the psychology
of the collective into the recesses of Hades -
even further into Tartarus -
well, you can see Tartarus from here -
the Titans are above us, Luna, and Helios,
Jupiter and Saturn and Mars - we rise
from this place, at least with faithful command
to whatever childish ambition -
psychology can shove collective psychology
of a populace into theory - that calm resolve
of reason, the unconscious and its archetypes -
but to concern oneself with passions,
that's also necessary - side with the "enemy"
to understand them, and then see past the fog...
in a fashion magazine... citation:
if we block free movement, and experienced
Polish or Bulgarian seamstresses cannot come
into the country, it is not obvious how they will
be replaced - "we couldn't have grown the business
without the help and support of these killed people,"
says designer *Christopher Raeburn, who
wasn't able to find similarly experienced Brits
in London (pedantic note, the dittoing of that quote
should belong to me, i'm assuming direct contact
with the designer and the writer of the article,
ditto quotation starts with third party members,
people like me, not with the person interviewed
and the interviewee - i now understand how
dittoing works in English in terms of quoting
someone - in means as above, but by another person;
but i'm sure the quote was passed as word-of-mouth,
so the person who's first to pass a quote shouldn't
immediately use " " marks, he's not a third-person
encapsulation of a newspaper article, this isn't
a novel - simple math: origin (0, on an axis of
x, y, z), person who first encounters the origin-al
notes it with precision 'the sun will come up
tomorrow' - after that a person who encounters
'the sun will come up tomorrow' will then pass
the message down as: "the sun will come up tomorrow",
and then the dittoing cascade appears - the way
gossip spreads - it's not exact - it's ~truth -
people add to it, change it, overhear it and modulate
it - only the first person from the naked origin
should be allowed to ditto the quote - i.e. use
the " " marks - the second person directly citing
the origin makes a single layered membrane encapsulation -
after that it's a repeat of two layers, with the second
layer ably fluctuating, hence not loss of the origin
but a polymer of interpretations - Odysseus said of me:
'Homer' cited the 'Trojan war', we cite "Homer" and
the "Trojan war" as 'Odysseus' said, myth making in ambiguity
or the gossip factory, but given the sequence
0, 1, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2... nth
a, 'a', "a", "a", "a", "a", "a", "a", "a", "a"... nth we all have a
chance to cite something from the third person,
after all, isn't fiction's limit based on the third person?
the pedant in me had to mule over this to get some
alcohol frenzy from it... and hey! i did).
it wasn't immigration to be honest, the racist smears
were a smokescreen... look at it this way...
the English Civil War... a friend of mine at university
once said: 'no great nation emerges without a civil war',
i could have written something in excess of that
but then i'd be writing as a third person " " inventing it
and almost treating it as my own, which is a no-go
zone - but from scraps you get the idea - go home,
things are about to get ugly between our civil partners...
and it doesn't boil down to wages as such,
Brits love the fact that Swedish students come to
the Norfolk fields for strawberry harvests, or whoever...
you know what i think it is? London urbanity got
to the vein of countryside folk, or Manchester being
overshadowed, actually globalisation ensured that
only capitals are "representative" of each nation
(inverse the dittoing, that's insinuating a passing-on
from an abstract, like Sartre's notation of "ego" meaning:
imitate me in between each "ego" with my narrative) -
they're not, but the golden nugget in my reasoning
is primarily concerned with You-Tube Sensations -
you name them: eat a tablespoon of cinnamon
and then sniff a ***** sneaker - film it, earn a billion -
become a unit of advertisement, sell it, bin it,
record your life, people binge on it, earn a windmill -
Vlog Blog Bog Sven and Fjoorn - remember when
children were employed in Victorian England?
this isn't between a Brit and a Bulgarian - this **** is
about a Brit and a Brit, hindsight: the English Civil war...
one Brit is saying, deep in the countryside:
you know what, there are people in urban environments
that teach their children that milk comes from
supermarkets and not cows, there's a borderline between
milking a cow and ******* on a part of a woman's
body overly sexed up - this has nothing to do with migration,
well, party it does, it want labourers to understand
a master, some ******* Bulgarian who speaks one
sentence of English gives about two nanoseconds trying
to understand authority - it's not demeaning to him,
he's told what to do, and off he goes and does it and
daydreams about his family reaping the benefits back home...
but employ someone proficient in the language,
who understands it, who has leisure time in it,
and you get a different picture dear Oliver - please sir,
can i have some more? no! back to work you filthy
little Beatnik! it's the self-worth pride, the self-sustaining
pride of nations - the people are saying: did we reduce
our youth to write video biography entries that only
tell other young people to buy the stuff they're advertising,
and all of them have become so fragile as to write poetry?!
well... better think again! minus the influx of migrants...
the doctor that relocated the upper-part of my index
was Hungarian... if it weren't for him... i'd probably have
to use a door to pull it back in...
and i understand what they're saying: i'm not racist... but...
my own countrymen have become so ******* lazy
i have to disguise my racism against other ethnic races...
because if i don't... it's back to Cromwell and the
Parliamentarians of the Square Table.

He's jetted to Atlanta to spend time with his three children while his estranged wife shoots her new movie in the city.

And on Saturday Ben Affleck was spotted playing the role of doting dad perfectly as he treated two of his children Seraphina, 6, and Samuel, 3 to a fun day out.

The Batman Vs Superman star and his kids were spotted at a local farmer's market, with Ben, who announced his split from wife Jennifer in June, feeling the heat as he wiped away sweat during the shopping trip.


The 42-year-old actor looked tired as he walked around the market with his children, waiting as they stopped to check out toy and craft stalls.

Ben, who also shares Violet, 9, with his estranged wife, was seen driving to a private airport in Los Angeles on Friday to join his family in Atlanta, where Jennifer has relocated to film new movie Miracle From Heaven.

The dad of three wasted little time in exploring his new surroundings with his children on Saturday.

The actor dressed down in a pair of sweatpants and a Detroit t-shirt, the city where he spent much of last year shooting the hugely anticipated Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice.

Sporting a heavy beard, Ben was wearing his wedding ring, which he has been spotted with on multiple occasions since announcing his split from his wife of ten years on June 30.

The Hollywood star was spotted carrying a number of bags after an afternoon at the market, as well as a bright pink doll carrier.

Earlier in the day Jennifer, 43, joined her estranged husband as the former couple treated Violet, Seraphina and Samuel to a trip to the movies to see new Pixar film Inside Out, before a spot of shoe shopping.

Jennifer was also seen wearing her wedding band on Saturday, with a source telling People that the pair have decided to keep wearing the rings for their children.

'[They] are a big part of why they're still wearing [the rings]...they just want them to be okay,' said the insider.

The website added that as Jennifer films in Atlanta with their three children in tow, Ben 'plans to be there with them as much as he can.'

While Ben has flown to Atlanta to be with his children, the family's former nanny Christine Ouzounian, who has been at the centre of a media firestorm over whether of not she and Ben are having an affair, was spotted relaxing at the luxurious Hotel Bel Air in Los Angeles.

A source told People Wednesday that Ben 'is taking care of Christine's expenses at the hotel.'

At this time of year, room rates for one night at the exclusive resort start at around $1,000 on a weekday and $1,500 on a weekend, with fees increasing according to the size of the room or suite.

The hotel is situated on 12 acres of lush gardens and has 58 guestrooms and 45 suites, including seven one-of-a-kind specialty suites.

The 28-year-old was seen working on her tan earlier this week in a tiny black bikini and enjoying drinks at the hotel's poolside bar.

The pretty blonde, who was fired by Jennifer just over a month ago, appeared not to have a care in the world, despite the speculation over her and Ben.

Adding fuel to the fire, photos surfaced this week showing the Gone Girl star warmly welcoming Christine to his LA bachelor pad in a late night rendezvous on July 17.

Reps for Ben continue to deny any affair, saying the claims are 'complete garbage.'

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for a heart's worth of stone,
will the mind
hardly succumb to
the sponge...
             easily ingested,
yet hardly
          perforated
to give off a worth
of a translation...

                         let alone,
        a chance to print less money,
and more,
postage stamps..
               my heart to no mind
belongs, even if it's the crucible
of my own...
                 the mind goes one way,
the heart, another,
    and by death,
in pristine inversion,
relocated to their former
bearing...

              the heart begins to speak
for the mind,
   and the mind:
"forgets" to speak for the heart...

   my worst "fear" of death,
is that...
   it will never be the akin justification
for taking repose,
   for sleeping...
how,
   somehow death will
                transcend sleep...
and i will be forced into...
        dignifying,
or undignifying dogmas,
based upon the whims from
a dream...
   conjuring...

                    i can stomach
a forever-slumber,
    when it comes to death...
but to have to put up
with...
           fears of dream
being realized?
             cats don't sleep
during the night,
they pretend to,
            you can pass one by,
and he or she is: "snoozing",
with eyes half-open...

                     peering at shadows
of shadows in the daft night,
then...
   also...
                  prying on
the eternal silence of man's
rested set of comforted body
to bid him and his fellow:
a good night...

             audacious, some will meow
akin to the sparrows come morn,
but between the 11pm and the 4pm
mark?
     the house falls silent...
a drunk shuffles...
     itching to tattoo his fingertips
with texture of the wallpaper...
a cat sleeps...

                    i can almost always,
find myself,
   ascribed to a haunting,
           like the atypical english
out-suburb house...
  a house, whereby the natives
care so much for a garden...
but then actually use it...

             glued to their "castle"...
bonsai felines...
ever notice, that they have
eyes, akin to reptiles?
       large cats have mammal
eyes..
   when their pupils constrict,
they are not akin
to their bonsai counterparts,
i.e. reptilian slits?

                   i sense there's a spy...
what was once a serpent,
became a bonsai tiger,
a cat...
    when these felines
are bound to rest
i almost alway find them suspect...

         pandemonium spies...
i never allow myself
to be comfortable in
the presence of a cat,
                spy of: beelzebub,
spie of moloch...
  and the whole milton litany
of names...

               i don't trust them,
they're mammals...
but they have reptilian eyes...
esp. when the pupil slits
appear...
   a normal mammal would
have the same shaped
     pupil dilation and constriction,
like a lion...
but little bonsai tiger over here?

            venus in furs...
reptile in fur...
             i think the dinosaurs did a sly
one on us, when we arrived
with the capacity to breed these
bonsais...
                
         you'll still find the cool kids,
"petting" / more or less: keeping
snakes, lizards, chamaleons,
      spiders...
        i honestly don't think cats
are that much different...
             were you ever fed a deception,
so good,
that you, "somehow",
began questioning the authenticity,
after many years of
convincing yourself it was "true"?

        a cat, a bonsai tiger,
is about as much mammal...
    as i'm a ******* cyborg right not...
it's a reptile, in a mammalian
disguise...
   a bonsai doesn't behave
like a mammal...
     not even a mammal...
that hasn't been domesticated...
esp. a mammal that was been
quasi-domesticated,
    for the worth of cow,
or pig...
             or horse...
                        sly little *******...

i'm suspicious of cats,
and the cats i "own" are suspicious
of me...
       they're nothing more
than a dinosaur remnant of a spine
and a brain in a pickle jar
of lost eye-lids (snakes)...
  with a taste for fashion,
furs, masochism...
                
           cats are deceptive...
looking at their eyes...
they're ******* reptiles!
                        that and the birds...
pseudo-mammals...
                reproducing via
the aid of the reptile egg...

         hell... sure... "it's all about
the bees and the birds"...
more like it being about
the cats and the birds...

    why else wouldn't a reptile fake
"being afraid" / or seek to find a mammalian
reply for: endearing?
  than expand their slit eyes...
into a fully dilated pupil?
           as a mammal...
my pupil either contracts
or expands... it's either
                                    o or O...
a cat's eye?
                        O or ()
    and that's still stating a "compliment"
with the () curvature of the slit...
       that's not how a mammal's
eye should behave...
   fur,
    and as much does for birds...
also with fur, but no female womb,
instead a plot of egg
                    and greedy omelette...

    sure sure, i could have owned
a snake, if a wanted,
    or a tarantula...
   but cats just freaked me out
to begin with...
   that whole fur bit of *******
is an act of subversion...

               as is the whole bird:
feed me a budgerigar clock...
   because the whole beak...
was never going to be akin
                                  to a horse's hoof...

cats, when they're faking it,
turn all O puerile with their pupils...
but then they revert back
into their reptile calculating
demure of the slit ()
                                pupils.

big cat,
                 elephant, dog,
the eye dynamic is either
from o to O or from O to o,
to conscript their allowance
for the traffic of light...
    once again...
      whatever categorical divisions
we have constructed
to process information?

               to me,
cats are the old fashioned
fabble of a hushed variant
of chimera.

Deconstruct that which may not serve many,
and reassemble it so that it may serve more,
and you have creative destruction.

Deconstruct that which may serve many,
and reassemble it do that it may serve only a few,
and you have destructive creation.

Either way, there are resources relocated
to create or destroy something.
To deconstruct something
would be to separate it
into that which can be used to construct it...

Yet,
to construct something
is to reconstruct what which has already existed...
So is there only the illusion of creation and destruction?

Whether something is or is not,
from how we perceive it,
seems to rely on how and whether or not it is organized.

Such a snake you are,
poisonous words dripping like venom from fangs under bitten lips,
striking at the ever-so slightest nudge of your tail,
retreating and hissing for help from those you belittle;
Do I really seem like such a foolish little mouse,
slave and prey to your every whim, every change of mind?
I'd like to think not;
For your cussing and fussing, screaming and shouting,
while throwing a little hissy fit, is not proper etiquette,
even for a reptile such as yourself.
Such a tiny wriggling thing must be put in its natural place,
relocated to where it cannot bite the children
to where it can go find others like itself,
away from the big scary predators that might hurt it;
Humans, cars, bikes, cats, dogs, oh the possibilities are endless,
but you wound up in my path, unlucky you,
a demonic and unforgiving rage personified;
If you are a snake, I am a dragon,
if you are a fish, I'm a bloodthirsty shark,
darling don't you see how this works?
I've dealt with you long enough, you pest, you ungrateful little thing,
my mercy is off, our truce is through, now God only knows what'll happen to you,
did you think me to be a kind human being?
Well, I guess you're mistaken, so take a number, sweetie,
I'll call for you when I'm done sending others to the graveyard,
for if you think I'd even hold you at the top of my list,
you're sadly mistaken, yet again;
You should probably stop trying to predict me,
stop blaming me for each little thing,
for a predator can't be blamed for taking out pests,
nor animal control for relocating vicious creatures;
You silly little snake, do you think yourself to be a viper,
when really you're just a common garter?

Two clay vases sit by my fireplace
recently discovered in their post move-in places
and relocated there.

One is small,
easily fitting into the palm,
and is covered with smokey brown lines
left by hair, lost during chemo,
placed on the vase while still hot from the kiln.

The other, large
filled with artificial roses
where once real ones burst from it's rim
and watched as people sat in wooden rows
remembering.

Both remind me of a lost one
someone who is no longer around
and yet, through fired pottery
is.

As President Vladimir Putin's longtime spokesman Dmitry Peskov wed Olympic figure skating champion Tatyana Navka this weekend in a glitzy seaside ceremony, a multimillion-ruble watch spotted on the groom's wrist sparked a media frenzy.

The ceremony was held in the Olympic host city of Sochi at the ultra-luxurious Rodina (Motherland) Hotel, the entirety of which was reserved for Peskov and Navka's hundreds of celebrity guests.

In July, the bride-to-be said in an interview with Tatler magazine that Putin had been among the invited guests. By Sunday it remained unclear whether he had attended.

On the eve of the wedding, local news sites reported that guests from the three nearby hotels had been relocated in order to ensure security.

"All the beaches [nearby] will be guarded. Today they began to evict guests from three neighboring hotels. They will be given different accommodations for three days and will be able to return after the wedding," an unnamed employee of the Rodina hotel was cited as saying Friday by local news site Bloknot.

The morning after the nuptials, two photos quickly dominated Russian headlines: a photo of Peskov and Navka kissing after being pronounced man and wife, and a photo of the official wearing a watch that — according to opposition leader Alexei Navalny — was worth some $620,000.

Navalny claimed in an irate blog post Sunday that it would have been impossible for Peskov to have paid for the watch on his official salary, which the activist pegged at about 9 million rubles ($146,000) annually.

Peskov was quick to defend himself, telling the RBC news agency that the watch had been a wedding gift from his bride, who has become a popular television personality since winning Olympic gold in 2006. But bloggers found photos of him wearing it several months ago in the Instagram account of his daughter Yelizaveta Peskova, news site Meduza reported.

Meanwhile, former federal environmental inspector Oleg Mitvol, who was among the glitterati in attendance, told tabloid Moskovsky Komsomolets that the whole affair had been an elaborate ruse.

According to Mitvol, Peskov borrowed the watch from one of his well-heeled guests in a conscious effort to toy with the media and perpetuate a baseless sensation.

Rumors about Peskov's relationship with Navka have provided ample Russian tabloid fodder since 2012, when he divorced his second wife Yekaterina, The Moscow Times reported last month.

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The Frog and The Bee and the Mouse with the House lived together in peace and harmony on the River Louse.

One day the Mouse with the house did declare it was time that he moved out of there.

The Frog and The Bee did not agree and set about convincing the Mouse with the House that he needed to stay on the River Louse.

They sent out invitations to all around to attend tea at half past three.

The tea party was in honour of the Mouse with the house to be held on the banks of the River Louse and hosted by his dear friends The Frog and The Bee.

One by one each creature replied and the guest list rose quickly to Twenty Five.

The Frog and The Bee decided the tea would be civil indeed and The Frog made some scones and The Bee made some honey.

At half past one The Frog and The Bee set up some tables to lay out the tea.

At half past two the tables were laid with the scones from The Frog and The honey The Bee had made.

The scene did look grand, pots of tea and saucers of milk all laid on a tablecloth made of silk.

At half past three the guests started to arrive.
The first of the guests to arrive were The Elf with one ear and The Fly with one eye. The Mouse was delighted to see his friends, the ones who helped get Horse around the river bend.

Next came the Horse and his Master of course to thank the Mouse with the House on the River Louse for his friendship and help on the day that the Horse could not get around the river bend and the Mouse with the House, The Elf with one ear, The Fly with one eye, The Frog and The Bee all pulled together and worked merrily to assist the Horse round the river course.

One by one others did attend, there was a duck who lost his cluck but the Mouse with the House helped him every day until he could at last say "cluck cluck"

Next came a ****** who had forgotten how to weave but the Mouse with the House lay out the sticks until the Beavers memory began to tick and the ****** remembered how to weave.

Then came a beautiful Butterfly with bright red wings.  She told the Frog and The Bee that one day the Mouse had found her crying and sighing her wings had faded and she did not look grand a thing of beauty.  The Mouse ran back to his House and in his shed found a can that had Paint in Red on the side.  He took a brush and painted her wings and now the Butterfly all shiny and bright flapped her wings with all her might.

Last but not least the Mayor arrived with his glorious wife by his side.

Mayor and Mayoress Swan did agree that the Mouse with the House should not leave his friends of  The River Louse and they would indeed miss him dearly if he relocated his house.

The Mouse smiled embarrassingly and said "I am sorry he did declare, there's been a mix up, when I said" I must get out of there" it was only to the shops I intended to go but The Frog and The Bee moved too fast or I moved to slow"

The Frog and The Bee and all the guests were all delighted with the news and brought in some music supplied by "Five in a Pen" which of course were all mother Hens and they danced all night until the Moon went in and the Sun came out.

Then the Frog and The Bee said to their friend the Mouse "let's do this again next year, and Mouse can bake cake for the tea, our friends can attend and we'll dance all night to Five in a Pen and we'll eat scones and honey and cake too and we'll do this in honour of all our friends and those who live and work on the River bend"

THE END

looking into his eyes liberated me from my worries, making me feel so light
lying in his arms liberated me from my fears, making me feel so safe
i thought of him before i slept, when i first woke up and, well only throughout my entire day
i lost myself in him
my world revolved around him
at one point, i thought, wow he is my universe, he’s the sun, the moons, all the planets and stars
but then when he left i realized
he was nothing but i made him all that
so i relocated all the time and energy spent on him onto myself
and thats when i reached the happiest point of my life

You know you've been away for long when returning feels wrong
when the rough road you left's a beautiful tarmac
and the roadside lantana Kamara's someone's bed of lilacs
you know it's been ages when you feel nostalgia turning pages
when each bend you negotiate brings tears to your eyes
for the skyline's too storied to have a view of the ranges
so that in disappointment you take deep breaths and sighs
you know an eternity has gone by since you set foot there
when the hugs are a doubt for you wonder if folks still care
when the cute little puppy you left is a scabby old *****
and all you can see are graves at the stead to the alleged old witch
you realise time's past when every view matters
so much so that you open your teary eyes without a twitch
when the grass thatched homesteads are tatters
next to mansions trapped betwixt the so called rich
you tell the beautiful generation's gone when you ain't on foot
when soon as you set foot of what was such a lively place
tears of despondence cascade down your alien face
when you don't know where those who survived relocated
but can at least see tombstones in the distance suffocated
by growing bushes, you try to get close but every plant scratches
and you want a closer look much as every **** itches
you know it's been eons when many gather like a scene of crime
for they don't understand you're mourning for lost time
for those who visited the great beyond in your absence
young and the old attempting to speak English, renaissance
you know it's been a while for unlike the days of the old
only the youth show earnest concern, for they're the bold
they who'll try to explain for the elderly the stranger you're
for them old to realise you're one of their own back from a far
you know you've been away for so long when what was a domicile
is just a piece that couldn't be valued due to many a grave
the revelations hurt yet are given in bits for none's that brave
none's brave enough to relay your family's demise in chronology
and luckily someone has a number you can call thanks to technology,
your youngest sister, left a crying baby now married
realising it's you her feelings are an oxymoron
for she obviously sounds nonchalantly worried
and out of words cause you left her nothing but your stolen crayon
you know you've been away for so long when the moment
you so much prayed for turns into a biting torment
for soon as you walk out your car you become a shoulder to cry on
implying that so much has happened while you were away
yet you're too weakened by changes to keep at bay
where are the rest? you can't help but wonder
how a single decade could mean so much plunder
you know you've been away for so long when you have a novel of sorrow
one which reading could consume more than a tomorrow
when you realise you went to the wrong place or right
for you realise you're on your own childhood bed in the night
the then soft spots feeling so hard while you twist and turn
reminding you of the life you've endured whence you couldn't run
you know you've been  away for a while when you can hardly sleep
but you have room to contemplate the gone decade
laugh, wonder, remember but mostly weep
when you wish you had listened when they said
Arabian money wasn't the picture they painted
you know you've been absent when you wish you could rewind
to erase all those grotesque things they made you do
when you want to move the world back to the unwounded you
the one who wasn't sexually abused and ******* tainted
to save you the excruciating and ugly details
you only realise when deafening's the sound of hails
when you loathe rather than treasure the rain
because all it does is remind you of your pain
when you can't stop for yourself feeling sorry
wishing to speak out to the rest yet too ashamed to tell your story

He fell down a rabbit hole,
chasing after a crazy dream

He met a rabbit with a waistcoat.
He braved the Red Queen.
He had tea with a caterpillar.
He spoke with talking flowers.

He faced his worst nightmares,
and he lived to tell the tale.

And eventually he crawled back out,
ready to face the world.

But no one believed him.
The more he told,
the more he was scorned.

And he drew farther and farther into himself,
comforting himself with stories and talking flowers,
and a rabbit in a waistcoat.

Soon that was all he had left,
stories and fantasies.

Until one day he plunged back through the rabbit hole,
grasping for a crazy dream.

There he learned the trade of making hats,
but he soon surpassed his masters and peers.

Once again he was scorned,
and he  relocated to an old house with two other outcasts,
making hats and drinking tea to fill his time.

He retreated into himself once again,
this time literally becoming as mad as a hatter,
and this became his title.

And soon no one remembered his true name,
knowing only that was mad,
until his title became his name: the Mad Hatter.

Only one ever tried to know why he was mad,
and her name was Alice.

And in her presence,
he found himself, though still quite mad, less mad.

He even found that he liked it,
though he never let his other mad companions know that.

But she, too, fell back through the rabbit hole,
and he was alone,
with only fantasies and madmen to keep him company.

Until one day many years later he found a woman, wandering,
mumbling about talking flowers and rabbits with waistcoats,
almost as mad as himself.

And her name, he found, was Alice,
and in each other’s presence they found, though they were still quite mad,
they were decidedly less so.

And they found they liked it.

A Catastrophic explosion in a constellation ..........
Following the super nova , expansion of the universe....
A supersonic flight on suborbital spacecraft ........
Accessing meteor , an unknown lonely atmosphere ....
Away from thousand light years.........
Taxonomy a new solar system with red planets........
Peeping from the glass cockpit , all planets appearing blue.......
No moon in their orbit , no networks with DSL(Direct Satellite Link)......
No human , no existence of love...........
All nonfunctioning satellite moving , bizarre ..........
Whole system collapsed in that collide ........
Explosion relocated moon with planet earth .......
A symbol of Cosmic Love , shining through human hearts ........
Discovering love bond in the solar systems...
an unique lodge.............
Migration of youth Love .....an effort to save those lonely planets......
by
MAHI -GALAXY ...........

It’s an annual tradition that London Fashion Week opens every February with the newest of the new—the bang-fizz of The Central Saint Martins’s M.A. graduation show. These are the people who are destined to shape the fashion world—not least because they are talents gathered from everywhere. The class of 2017 has students from China, Taiwan, Bulgaria, Slovenia, Gibraltar, and the United States as well as Britain. This is just normal in London, a city that has built its reputation as a creative capital on the strength of talents from all over: all backgrounds, all nationalities. In the face of Brexit, and its possible future curb on immigration, London has its Muslim mayor Sadiq Khan, the city’s elected representative, who stands up for the vitality of diversity and interfaith harmony every day with his social media campaign from City Hall, #Londonisopen. In his words: “We don’t simply tolerate each other’s differences, we celebrate them. Many people from all over the globe live and work here, contributing to every aspect of life in our city.”

Nowhere will that be better demonstrated than in what’s to come in London Fashion Week. In defiance of dark times, its youth and multicultural camaraderie is about to roll out the welcome mat. Expect to see it coming from all directions, in kaleidoscopic variety. On the Central Saint Martins’s runway, there’s Gabriella Sardena’s wildly decorative glam-femme collection to look forward to, for example (she’s the one from Gibraltar). Day one, there’s also the opening of The International Fashion Showcase at Somerset House, where emerging designers from 26 countries, including Ukraine, Russia, Khazakhstan, India, Romania, Czech Republic, Egypt, and Guatemala, will put forward their viewpoints on the theme “Local and Global.”

Stand back for a blast from New York, too. Michael Halpern, one of the latest Central Saint Martins M.A. graduates (class of 2016) will unleash his first multi-sequined disco-fabulous collection in a presentation that is being aided and abetted with volunteer help from Patti Wilson and Sam McKnight, held at a posh venue laid on for free in the heart of St James on Saturday.

Fighting gloom with glitter is a London thing. Ashish Gupta, born in India, longtime London trailblazer for LGBTQ rights, is the king of that. Given last September, when he took his bow in a T-shirt emblazoned IMMIGRANT, admirers will surely be packing his Ashish show to the rafters. These times demand a standing up for pride in identity. Osman Yousefzada, more quietly creative, with his strong art-world following, will be coming out with a statement about his British-Asian roots: “Before, we were rarities, trophies and exotics from distant lands…some of us fleeing famine, war, or persecution,” he writes. “We were thought of as good labourers, businessmen and women—hungry, reliable and eager to succeed…and then some wanted to close the doors. Today, I bring you colour, opulence, texture, tailoring, a modern woman in different hues who isn’t scared to stand out and have fun, and embrace the beauty and difference around her.”

London is open to more newcomers. The Ports 1961 women’s show has relocated here from Milan this season. It’s actually a homecoming of a sort: This collection, placed on a woman-friendly lifestyle-centric wavelength somewhere on the continuum between The Row and Céline, has in fact been designed by the Slovenian-born Natasa Cagalj (also a CSM M.A. alumna) from a studio in London’s Farringdon all along. Two more “returners” to the schedule are Hussein Chalayan and Roland Mouret, long rooted in London since the ’90s, who are repatriating their shows from Paris.

It’s a whole London creative community picture, in fact—one that makes a complete commercial nonsense on every level of the “Little Britain” xenophobia of the send-them-home faction in U.K. politics. Cohesion and creativity, the welcome and support given to the newest, from everywhere—that’s the flag that flies over London Fashion Week. Scotland, Ireland, Greece, Austria, America, Serbia, Canada, Syria, India, Germany, Pakistan, Nigeria, Turkey, Ghana, New Zealand, Portugal—come one, come all, says fashion. There’ll be protest and prettiness, resistance and humor—that’s a given this week. Here’s glitter in your eye!Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

White whiskers rooted above the trumpet player's lips;
his body moves like a sci-fi parasite, as he spits out songs
at the big bellied, Skecher-chic, boardwalk children.
The kids give a moment's interest before passing by like
armored flies, if armor were cheap cotton shirts and
helicopter parents.

Sooner or later, the sunset meets the brim of his hat.
It's a mystery as to the speed of the trumpet dropping
from his lips to its case, but you'd have to find someone
who cares about those types of things.

His brown, leather, Payless feet jut outward; away from
one another and towards American stores reflecting themselves:
Italian restaurant, Thai restaurant, Car Insurance, Dollar Store.

Quicker than you'd think, his denim hips are clamped by
the wooden arms of a misplaced deck chair, relocated to
a dining table as small and low-income as the man who
saw the dreamlike orange and purple sky drift away
behind the cemetery gray blanket of smoke, rising from
a fractured ground littered in mud-bathed, leaking bodies.

When the night has only begun to settle in, the man's
thick hands carefully adjust her picture, for he fears
the paleness of his fingers will leave more of a residue
than he is accustomed to.

Kept within the copper and green borders, she has
only begun life; twenty-three and never having to apologize,
there is still so much left to the imagination; her olive grey
cheeks are sided to his eyes, ready to be jammed with
baby, mommy, and daddy fragments of windshield;
waiting for the last embrace of a sturdy steering wheel;
her hair still dry and not dampened by insides coming out
or the flying weaker-than-you-think half-gallon of whole milk
that covered -- or washed, depending on your attitude -- the
back of her fifty-three year old head; the eggs fortunately
missing twelve times, hitting what was left of the windshield,
leaving an image comparable to the wall of a bar that not only
has a dartboard but also a man with terrible aim or who had as
much alcohol as the man who slipped his car into Margaret
and Joseph's life.

Joseph looks away from her picture, as his glass eyes begin
to shatter. Running fat palms and bulbous fingers through
the white, over grown lawn on his scarred scalp,
he says her name three times before retiring to the mattress
Margaret picked out.

I

In the afternoon

Low cloud a shadow blanket
against the hills, stillness
in a summer landscape but for
insistent sheep,
a railway train,
pigeons conversing
in the tree-laced lane.

Before the conservatory windows
stands the kitchen table
relocated to accommodate
this making, these crafted
objects turned and touched
between her small hands,
between her deft fingers.


II

In wonder

You stopped by the roadside
in wonder at the profusion
of grasses, weeds and flowers,
whelmed over by a confusion
of chaotic design you know
can never be brought entire
to imagination’s mirror.

But surely a corner
of these complex forms,
in a quicksilver moment
you’ll catch – one day.
Until then, hold to this image
in wonder.


III

Whispering

Your beauty catches me
as a breath of wind
against the face
wholly and fulfilling
as your gentle kiss .

I imbibe your stillness here,
as head-pillowed you rest
into sleep in this quiet space,
this unaccustomed place
where coming together
(separate in our thoughts,
apart in our work),
we find ourselves
whispering,
as we meet: to walk
to sit to eat to talk,
as if to undisturb the flow
of measured actions,  
determined words.


IV

Patch and Sew

Evening gathers
patch and sew
this woman’s work
bent head
the forearm slightly
raised to hold
a purposeful hand
the needle and its thread
A right leg rests its knee
on the chair’s soft arm
a left-facing shin
foot-firm to the floor
On her lap the garment
she has worn today
she will wear tomorrow


V

Across the Valley

Across the valley
from end to end
a spread of hills
in clouds’ pale shadows.
Above,
their floating forms
of white, of grey
of dusky charcoal dark.
But look,
the sun peeks through
to fall in strips and squares.
The moorland coloured.

Waves of dry-stone walls,
they rise and dive to guard
the foreground pasture-land
where sheep are loud
and cattle uneasy.
Beyond, a wooded belt.
There, a viaduct’s arch.
Here, a limestone kiln
where her figure stoops
to pick up rusty things
off broken ground.


VI

Wild Flowers

Ah Sweet Briar,
my little Vetchling
from the meadow,
but common as Valerian
in a Lady’s Bedstraw.

Wild as Onion,
Black as Knapweed,
sweet this Meadow Buttercup
its great Burnet a Tufted Vetch.

Oh Hedge a tiny Woundwort,
Hedge along a Bedstraw
Crane's Billed in the meadow
that Ox-Eyed eye-oxed Daisy.


VII

Trainspotting

Figures in the field
they stood expectant.

Placed apart
As guns before a drive,
before the beaters
raised the birds,
four men wait for a train.
One braced against a wall,
camera at the ready.

Out of the still afternoon
a heavy breathing monster
displaced the valley air,
the sounds of bleating sheep,
the twitter tweet of moorland birds.
It appeared just for a moment,
revealed itself entire.

Seven carriages red,
the engine green its tender black,
it crossed the Smardale viaduct,
(as if posing for a photograph)
then disappeared from view.
Nicely spotted.


VIII

At 5.0am

To sit in silence
at this early hour
knowing the inevitability
of my desire
to touch
your waking self
warm from sleep.

It is at once so beautiful,
and yet so difficult:
to put such thoughts aside,
when the paragraph begs completion,
when rhyme and rhythm
seek right resolution.

I pause constantly:
to hold myself close
to your imagined cheek,
lightly-freckled
by yesterday’s
sun and wind.

Headlights flashing in the west lane told us
Something was wrong
That it was only a matter of time
Before traffic would halt to a stand still

Late evening darkness, a trunkload full of groceries
Still another 45 minutes until we would be home
Not looking forward to the chore of unloading
The sorting out and organizing, putting things where they belonged
Couldn't see the end of the line in front of us
From where we found ourselves
At the end of the line
Headlights coming up behind us to take over that position
Pushing us closer and closer to whatever it was
We had been stopped for...

"Uh-oh", she said, and I understood completely
"Wonder how bad it is?"
Even as Highway Patrol cars
Black as vultures with carnival lights dazzling
Zipped by us, close cut to the left, at unnatural rates of speed
Their sirens blared louder than usual
Almost pulled, it seemed, by a magnet
To the scene
A small perimeter surrounded by casino lights
Luring the line of cars forward
A yard at a time
Towards confirmation, their worst fears
Vicariously offered by the indifferent hand of fate
"There it is!", she said. "I can almost see it."

I took my iPhone out of my pocket and opened
The camera application
"It's too dark for that," she told me, a little perturbed
She expressed her disgust with me that I would capture the scene on video
"Ah, but the lights are cool. "
Even then I understood exactly where she was coming from
And I realized that I was disgusted with myself
Never mind, I'd already started, might as well let the camera roll
Cool lights and all

The truck in front of us began to make some progress
Picking up a little speed
No more than necessary to witness
The reason for the wait...didn't we deserve it?
Such a pain in the *** to have to wait

"There it is...Whoa, that looks pretty bad."

The car was facing the wrong direction
There was no doubt that it had been going in the right direction
Before it all went wrong
Alone, though it looked as if it had smashed head-on with a truck
No hit and run, not from the looks of it
Most likely the concrete embankment
Velocity
The automobile's hood torn off to expose
A tangled and crushed engine smoking
A good portion relocated inside the cab
The whole thing looked like a vision
From the mind of an artist
Trying real hard to give Salvador Dali a run for his money
In black and white, exposed only by the bright, flashing, candy machine lights
That made it possible for all of us to see
The cops hovering around the scene every bit as impotent
As we
None were even close to the wrecked machine

Like anyone would have done
Admit it or not
We rubbernecked our way around the display slowly
Slowly enough to see
Only a second or two of noticing
In the miraculous glow
Of the overhead light
The driver

He was still as a stone at the bottom of a pond
Head slumped only slightly
With no one at his side to encourage him
His chances were slim to none
The cops seemed to be repelled by the car
As if none wanted to get too close to whatever it was
Floating through the night air
Coming from inside the cab of that crushed machine
We felt it ourselves passing by and we fell silent
I struggled in my mind to understand why I felt the way I did
What deep wells of my psyche had been tapped
A stone skipping across those waters, the ripples colliding
Splashing into others, forming even more, without reason
Without significance, without a single clue
We were forced to settle for silence and I gave it the opportunity to sink in deep
Until I turned on the radio, hoping for some kind of levity

"Well, there goes the ambulance", I said
As we both noticed it's lights flying westbound toward the scene
"Maybe things aren't as bad as they seemed," I said
She was more realistic:
"Maybe they're worse."

We drove the rest of the way home
Sober and somber
The spirit was still with us
But I could tell it was breaking apart
We didn't notice it after I turned the radio on
The classic country station
The only one we could agree upon
The song was just beginning to fade out
I recognized it as Eddie Rabbit's biggest hit
"Driving My Life Away"
And I couldn't help but think,
Someone's got a wicked sense of humor

I haven't done this in a while -

Last minute parties relocated to Spain,
The *Mediterranean, with white canines
And jagged front teeth

I'd almost forgotten what it felt like -

It was a paradise, even
We made fire and burned our pride
Used the herbs in the garden to get high
Slept on the roof top, mixing the stars

This is nice -

I don't know why I'd been clean
Perhaps I felt that one of us had to
But mostly
Mostly.

*I slept for the first time in years.

Trees tower high above hesitant heads,
In the time before it housed only small critters.
They could not speak, therefore they were enchanted.
Now it is home to much more sinister creatures.

They expect the world to fit their naïve moulds.
When it does not, their sand castles blow away.
Grain by grain they are relocated by external forces,
The majority have an infinite amount of names for them.

All of these celestial men are not men at all,
They have no interest in our wrong- doings.
They do not care whether we chant their names.
Celestial men cannot see, they never take revenge.

For gravity has no eyes.

this isn't a time for nostalgia aimed at the times of the 2nd world war, only liars and cowards attack anyone except their enemy, to ease their sentiment at thinking they're liberal leftists... somehow the Cartesian formula doesn't work for them... odd... thinking doesn't magically precipitate into being... they're only liberal leftists... they'll never be conservative leftists (communists)... they value the anti-solipsistic stance of individually too much, hence their karaoke outpouring on X-factor - we need nurses! we need doctors! no! they're saying we need the next Frank ******* Sinatra to lullaby us to death. too much national pride aimed at reminding people of the past is degenerate in the presence, the future by such historical arithmetic is always bleak.... who cares for a Faraday is a light-bulb works, who cares for a Newton given the mechanics of rocket-launchers... and who cares for Shakespeare in the age of omnipresent literacy providing us sonnets?! in the age of desperation, former fame was revised, creating the backlog of fame into a single measure of being current, when once a man slaved for a lifetime to achieve it, modern fame is nothing, in comparison on the merit of utility and productivity - fame is hardly a concern for any of us given Orwell and the c.c.t.v. (or holy ghost), that will never materialise into a person of the Paraclete; best assurance, the famous donkey, the stick and the carrot... democracy only works within a sensible number to express it... applying democracy to insect methodology of plumbers, electricians, personal trainers etc. is merely an illusion... a moment in history where the weak attack the strong... and to cite Darwinism? we were already too intrinsically overtly bio-diverse to merge with the diversity of nature surrounding us... we were perfect chiral chimeras, non-super-imposed images... thus Darwinism and snippets, or crossword clues... i can't believe the English banked all their pride on an Aristotelian footnote... but then miracles do happen... not always a welcome distraction from the nuances of mishandling politics - or was that always a b.d.s.m. affair?

i too could rage at the belittling English society,
well... i might as well...
i'm not in Manchester, the Hackney populace
was relocated to the outer-suburbs to make
the "nation" proud - never seen so many
black dudes strolling near the countryside -
but that's another zoological matter -
what?! with the new dating show with all knit-grit
bits exposed you'd think that all Darwinian
comparison made it to the ten quid banknote -
the one objective language that has no zombie
adherents - poets' strike... oh wait, i forgot,
you prefer the ready-meals of song -
the English do, lazy ***** the whole lot of them -
i won't be making many friends and i don't intend to -
after the ridicule, the slander, the jokes -
i'm heading east! east it is - i'll leave a **** with
my signature in England - let the Scots find it
and shredder the ******* islands into snippets from
some novel; so you think you're not Soviet fated?
Jack will become Jackson - etymology is all about nouns -
you think i'd stay in this ****-hole? i got the message:
VERMIN GO HOME... i'm looking for a place
to relocate to... i don't like the Irish playing the prißed
puppets of the English... Michael Palin seeking
Europe in 2007, found Bohemia, found no litter,
vermin living in beauty while English outer-suburbia
rots? Euro trash? more like Benidorm suntan -
you started it... you little "not in my name" will not sell
me your phobia currency of Herr Censor -
odd, the colonial past was somehow erased because of
the Beatles - odd, isn't it? cultural contribution
erased the shackles... funny how things work out in
the end. i have been a complete and utter integration
failure, i blame the Irish and a catholic school -
i rather go home among the other rats -
i don't belong here - but at least home is where i left off,
aged 8... 22 years into analysis English and using it
i can preserve tact - Bangladeshi will write you a next
Shakespeare... just so it all looks pretty... and convenient...
i rather live there, i have no fake psychiatric history in
the country of my birth... the west ain't all that after all...
i'm with Snowden on this one, but i have the cushion
of speaking the tongue... the almighty west is nothing
but good music and charcoal films -
propaganda omniscience - the west asks for media
transparency, but i end up reading a tabloid newspaper
given the opinion section of *the times Monday to Friday -
some ******* mogul mongrel trying to be a Martin Luther -
it's basically a tabloid newspaper, i don't trust it -
the ultimate freedom corrupts - if revising foreign
governments is based upon media freedoms, then i think
the west did a ******* job with its own media -
without restrictions you get a box of chocolates and eat
all the best dimwits out - or a box of mixed nuts -
the Brazilians are the first to disappear.
plus the west doesn't like poetry, it prefers music, as in
the passive ingestion of art - never your own,
always someone else's - so you can be filled with
unexpressed egoism to occupy a space worth a cubic
metre or two... fun & games fair enough...
was i ever stereotyped? pushed to a limit,
am i one of those Chinese 2nd generation immigrants
that play the koala bear role in poetry who prescribe
the origin and figurative forgotten for a prize?
i don't think so... if i ever escape this ****** ****-hole
i'll be the king-rat, to my liking the Polish government
is being inspected by the E.U. about non-democratic
agendas - god i pray for an E.U. invasion reprimand -
i really feel like shooting someone by illusion defending
my conscience imagining simply throwing a pancake.
and why? because, at least, in Poland i talked to a
neurologist and was diagnosed sane -
while in England i was given to the dogs (psychiatrists)
and was diagnosed insane - at least i'll be
with the sane people and not some perverse form
of paedophilia of Alice in Wonderbra...
leave these agony aunts aside, leave these perverts
to their own demise - and if truly my friend,
as i did staring into my killers eyes,
if he only took me to a hospital to prove it was
a genuine mistake of misinformation about a certain
Amazonian plant... then i wouldn't be writing this verse...
but he didn't... he took me home...
as ever, i write this letter without pseudonym but under
the acronym: the misinformed (which really isn't an
acronym, i just liked the rhyme);
so if after 22 years spent in England i head to my vermin
abode, i think i'll be happy... unless Scotland beckons
to liberate it... otherwise? **** this ****-hole.

A man sits on a chair, centered to those around,
aware of them, glancing briefly waiting.
He developed a taste, this bag however only teased
his receptors, and gave more burn than ease.
******* is a fine art, to which is paid a king's ransom;
the shaft, though Godly, was not bound for glory...
how he wanted!

There was an exchange of stories, striking similarities;
he had been joined by others, relocated, and told to start over.
Mystics popped the cap, dismissing gender...
how they wanted!

A man sat in a bar;
no knowledge of modern era,
ceiling had tired tiles, a friend sang
to a new lover, and
two in love danced to karaoke,
in sync to their drunken state,
how he loved her!

The party was lavish;
gay youth empowered,
a welcome meat market of pulsing power,
a man sat on the couch...
watching, two ladies necked beside him,
together they danced to sultry tones,
eyes scanning, heads turned, smiles,
how he wanted.

1.) Our US based Clients have recently begun negotiating/implementing changes to the terms of our Purchasing Agreements that will allow them the ability to pay in currencies other than the US Dollar. Usually, the most requested forms of payment are now in either RMB/Yuan, Euros, Rubles, or Dinars.

2.) Tied to this, we have also noticed that our US based Clients are relocating their payment centers out of the US, usually from New York. Instead, we are now being told that we will need to be invoicing our US Clients through their new payment offices, located in such places as Dubai, Singapore or more times than not; Hong Kong. Also, those same individuals/Department VPs, usually based out of New York, we are now finding, have also suddenly relocated to these various countries in order to set up their new payment centers.

The companies involved are household names.

So if they are starting to diversify their payment centers away from using US Dollars, we (meaning I and my Chinese partner), can only assume that they know something is coming and that being tied to a US Dollar based transaction could place them at a competitive disadvantage.

It does not hurt very bad
But it still hurts immensely, if that’s sensible
The dose of anesthesia was drastically high,
A little more please I still feel this.
There, my body is no longer affected.
All of these nerves relocated from the tangible, to the depths of my spirit
I must release my soul, delimit my mind, and free my spirit
To acquire the numbness, peace, that I cannot allow my vices to take credit for

You know the cool advancements over the moon, you are self aware, you have locked the castle and you have the key
You are alive, but are you living?
New definitions of omnipotence
Add-ons to mythology and legends
Commemorate the mirages from our travels in the blazing desert
The rage is shaking Torrent Mountains
Our love is somewhere lost at sea
We’re being relocated to skid row by jubilant cherubs
Seminal Neanderthals are steadily cupping their hands to somehow try and avert their chances of getting short changed
We are living in the faded age
The sun is a soggy cancerous being
Nihilistic brigades pour out on to the bleak playing field and its side lines
Preserving the first shots on the non-guilty
Spiddles of blood on the adrenaline fuels catalyst of violence
The crickets and aphids are gassed
Birth, life, death, after life or after death
Forgo this bluff of nothingness, of course there's more
You go first into this quest; for the clarity that shatters the idea of our precipitous finales
      -Tommy Johnson

Thicker beard.
Consistent and stringent hygiene habits.
Less swearing, more silence.
Politically informed.

More attentive while driving.
Relocated out of that seaside town where people only feuded.
Avoids familiar faces, except for those that have been held close.
At least the beach is still pristine.

Some miles away, a man believes he deserves everything there ever was.
Indefinite lay-offs for current federal employees.
All military members on leave called back to base.

A box is somewhere.
It has food for one day,
Two passports,
And a pistol.
It sits idly by the door.