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Born and bred into poverty to
end their days confined in the Marshalsea,
in debt for a penny
to the Aristocracy, who
with
Jeweled eyes were unable to see
the poor people
living in poverty.

With silver and gold, they paved streets so we're told
olde England with
riches
overflowed,
not that you'd know it amid the tanneries and
horse ****,
but that's just the way
the thing goes.

Among the harlots and ****** who scoured the shores
of the river when the tide was in ebb, were
the living though dying,
the failures and those trying to survive and
Dickens picked stories from the dead eyes
of Shoreditch in the 'jago' where they go
and he went.


In The 'mansion house' the banquet goes on for
the sightless unseeing but I am already
fed up.
Salvador Kent Aug 2021
Screaming
They do not hear this
Because they're too busy
Doing worthless ****
And pretending that they exist

For a moment you think
You ******* Elon Musk this is a simulation
And this is my realisation
Call me Nick Bostrom and my thought
Is Blood sweat and simulated tears
Because

I observe a figure walking down a street
And in my disorientation I stare at them
Unflinchingly and they stare back and laugh
Like they know me so I'm like what the ****
Who was that guy I'm so confused I swear

**** **** kick a brick that forms part of a wall
Ye Olde England see an Olde man screaming
Abandon hope! Sinner Jim Whitney
Call me Charles Mingus you are the Sinner Lady
And I play my saxophone for you

Sign this page and hand yourself to God
And through this holy book this ancient relic
I save you for you are a sinner
You Jim Whitney repent to rejoice in heaven
There you'll find Dante and Milton
Writing free verse poetry with Christ himself
Resurrected and now

Save the Children with Unicef
Or buy the Big Issue
Would you like a Burrito or a coffee
Or take this money which I loan thee
**** that I feel like you owe me
And I'll spit on your grave and tax your family
Call me Milton Friedman welcome to the economy

Or would you rather let it all go and find the Dharma
There's a Pure Land temple only a train journey away
Come I'll take you there find Abhidhamma
I know you're lost in this postmodern age

Sickness disorientation your mind so blurry
This disorientation the unfocused intensity
Feeling like you don't exist and everything is
So horribly sick and

Walking down a street in all your disorientation
And you're half dead half asleep half existent
Wanting a ******* coffee but you have no money
So you settle for an energy drink that tastes like ****

But you need the caffeine so you can't complain
And your miserable face and ridiculous gait
Is the elephant in the room you ******* good for nothing
******* and why are you even here
Pseudo intellectual half wit

Stop reading Camus you miserable ****
Start watching Love island like any normal
******* miserable person that lives
On this sceptered isle to paraphrase
Shakespeare and revel in your heritage

Aren't you proud to be British
No what is worse what is worse
To be British or to be human
Why am I associated with that flag
That flies on the tower of the house of God
That I observe as I squint my eyes

The Sun is hot but I am cold
I'm very cold so I wear a coat
And a passerby says what the ****
And the wall is my glue yes the wall is my glue

**** look they opened the coffee shop
I want a coffee this energy drink
Tastes like ****
So throw it away
Like life and

Laugh at the pathetic little joke
From a pseudo intellectual
Pseudo poetic poet that cannot write
About this ache they feel…

All this disorientation…
None of it interpretable.
And this poem is never-ending
Unless it just ends.
rage.
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
He was leader of no country.
King of no Sceptered Isle.
He never led his folk to battle.
It just never was his style.

The history books we have
recount the foibles of the "great"
The cannon fodder mass of men,
in these tomes, never rate.

He died,and, like a coral,
lent his bones to form the reef
that stands between the tidal plain
and the waters of belief.
Dave Robertson Aug 2021
The world doesn’t know it needs setting right
but we do it anyway
against bucolic backgrounds,
corners of this sceptered isle
known only to types who like to ramble

point to point meticulously planned
by his draughtsman’s hand
our mouths and minds driving us more than legs
words to square away despair at the world
or delight in some magical new tech
to save it

these are footsteps I’ve always followed
always will
despite a mardy heel drag  in my teenage years
the muscle memory - one foot, then the other -
cannot be unwritten
even as knees now complain otherwise
Onoma Feb 2015
Wolves unhinged mid-wood...
iconically framed between sceptered
pine trees.
Lapis-eyed looks of no return, their
disorienting phospherescence repeating
on distances.
Guttural catches guttural, retarding
to growls.
As the hunt bends time, the murk
of a yellowing dispatch relents a sun.
The gravitas of conquest relents
a soapy, hairbrained white to yoke
a moon...awash sin.
Their stomachs brandish the nourishment
of a co created frenzy.
They, the steeled gates policing a Lot...
whose casualties are pulled apart too
quickly for abject terror.
The Forester King (The Legend of Robin Hood)

Twas but merely a hundred years
Harold with splintered eye, wept blood, not tears
William The Conqueror of Normandy, had battles won
As old Saxon Danes were badly out-done
Their fight for survival, had just begun

Enslaved by Norman Earls, Barons and Knights
After the death of Hereward The Wake, in fights
The Saxons were treated simply as serfs
Diminished in strength, morale and nerves
Their courage was now on its final reserves

Like Romeo and Juliet, two lovers barely met at all
Joanna, daughter to Saxon Sir George of Gamwell Hall
And William Fitzooth, son to the Norman Baron of Kyme
Joannas father, saw their union as a crime
Yet it was to late, to prevent love in its prime

They married in secret, soon producing a son
Yet presently were left with nowhere to run
Soon, Sir George had tracked the eloping lovers
In Sherwood Forest, was soon to discover
His daughter, as a married maternal mother

Bursting with forgiveness and new-found proud
Stood proud, as his grandson lay peacefully at his side
Sir George, forgotten now his anger of before
This was the birth of 'Robins Lore'
To take from the rich, and give to the poor

Richard the First, came to the throne
Bishop Ely ruled, whilst the 'Lionheart' was gone
On various campaigns
Whereupon many an enemy was slain
Richard the cause of his enemies bane

The kings evil brother John, without just reason
Accused Bishop Ely, of treason
This 'Sceptered Isle' now without a crown jewel
As John, became the Prince of mis-rule
A man savage, selfish, wicked and cruel

He appointed Sheriffs to keep good order
At a price, they would soon turn marauder
One became Sheriff of Nottingham, by the Forest of Sherwood
And thus heard tell of Robert Fitzooth, the Earl of Huntingdons' good
That the Earl, was in fact, Robin Hood

Earl Robert, was to be married on the morrow
To Lady Marian Fitzwalter, his heart to bestow
On the eve of this merry event
A feast at Locksley Hall was meant
Disguised, the Prince attended, John the miscreant

Sir Guy of Gisbourne, in the name of Prince, and falsely of king
Before the final vows, were about to begin
Declared the Earl of Huntingdon, an outlaw in truth
Was also Robin Hood, as well as Robert Fitzooth
By his own confession, there-in lay the proof

Maid Marian, to Arlington Castle, went she
To reside with her father, for security
Robin meanwhile, rode to the green wood, with arrows and swords
To await the Lionhearts return, from his fighting abroad
No longer then, would Robin be outlawed

He sought justice, and an end to discords
Caused by the cruelty of Barons, Bishops, Sheriffs and Lords
A plain yeoman of Locksley, now was he
He suffered not, from false vanity
Yet men of Lincoln Green, elected him king of Sherwood Forestry

From Sherwood Forest, Robin continued the fight
To protect the innocent, and defend what was right
Alongside him, a loyal band of warriors brave
Such as Little Jon Naylor, so skilled with a stave
Would willingly fight Prince John, or any other knave

Robins laws, were moral and well refined
To aid those whom suffered cruelties, so unkind
His men were sworn, to fight for the good
to help the poor, orphans, and in widowhood
And to swear to harm no woman, no matter whose side she stood

The day cane for Robin and his men to part
Upon the brief return of King Richard The Lionheart
He joined Robin and Marian, thus they were wed
Within a few hours the Lionheart lay dead
Prince John became king, and after Robins head

Yet Robin in disbelief, ignored the warning
Unsure of whether, he should be in mourning
Little John, oft warned Robin, of the vengeful King John
Aware of the fact, that Richard was gone
With the help of the Sheriff, on Robin they were to set upon

By the time Robin realised the reality of it all
He was entombed in a turret encompessed by a wall
Luckily a rusted window bar came loose, a hundred feet from ground
He blew his bugle horn (won at Ashby-de-la-zouch) Little John echoed his sound
Thus Robin escaped, badly injured, was for Scarborough Fair bound

After a brief adventure, and fighting pirates at sea
(During which time he used a pseudonym of fisherman Simon Lee)
Robin joined Marian and Little John at Kirkleys Nunnery
The Prioress, Robins own aunt, agreed he should be bled
Treacherously, after his fortune, she wanted him dead
He was finally buried, where an arrow fell, fired from his death bed.
SassyJ Jan 2017
The last time the river beds drowned*
you knocked by the door and offered
sinking dreams of whales and fails
doomed stars burnt in flooded skies
tainted leaves heaved on angled heavens
visions of torture in trodden deserts
tensions of fractured love inserts

On the bridge of ambivalence, I tossed a coin
a plank set adorned with red ankh signatures
I took your hand, you drooling phantom!
It's nearly a year now, in your world runabouts
another day, a heavier destination, a hesitation
the silence, the demise, the whining ice arise
absent shoulders eating my independence

The freedom you longed in the winter breaks
dissipates thinly in the thunder stroked flakes
and the tears dried and my summer suffice
confronted by an endless long year in the cold bed
covered by conversations of the specter sceptered specks
deranged by miles and the longed played nights
on a realisation that you were never really there

Fleet along young one, the years are a swift ear
listening continuously, whilst switching promptly
making dreams from a mould of changing trims
flinching, twitching perceptions of new beginnings
for I no longer stay at the phone reaching, waiting
nor stay in the patch of haunted misery and hate
*join the next column and stop treading in my camp
Fleetwood Mac : Dreams
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrZRURcb1cM
A W Bullen Nov 2020
Watched
you in white.
How you crossed your
sceptered body, glazing
ludicrous contortions

Supple-legged exaggerations
***-shod, patent platforms
towered, figure-hugged
and cut to high indecency...

Ah, the slow-cooked
incandescence, that you
struggle to contain....

though pay no mind
to likes of me,
a letching scrag
who yearns to see you

set yourself on fire....
tag'em
bag 'em
burn 'em
turn 'em
in to Saints..

Ah, the righteous poetical justice of Catholicism
Yenson Sep 2019
Would you quote Shakespeare
if words were put in his mouth to script as told
and Actors in the round house made their own lines
and called it Hamlet in den, Mark of the Zeros, gross Acts
and the gutter press wrote reviews, funding by the underworld
its all full of lies and fury. a macabre production signifying nothing
Ophelia patrons all in attendance, suitably warped, slanted and dim
a pound of flesh they  screamed as tempest raged in muddled minds
to be or not to be a herd of sheep or Iago's in the tragedy of delusions
and in this lynching theater the quality of mercy IS STRAINED
but
this
is
Shakespeare's own words below
and those with hearts and sane minds
still hail and take inspiration from a genius un-killable

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway.
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God Himself;
Yenson May 2022
And I see the civilisation
and benign order
where millions of all hues
coexist humanely
without a gun in plain sight
yet instant help
if clouds ever gets hot and dark

And I see smiling people
a joke never far
and things and many places
exactly as stated
rolling roads with no cracks
pay your money
and get the service you seek

And I see eateries and cafes
clean airy and open
warm saloons round the corner
a choice of drinks await
and there's always a pal at the bar
a chin wag and a laugh
bon homie and we'll meet again mate

And I see orderly market places
and shops piled high
foods n wares from all over the globe
in morn noon or dusk
no bars or security grill a camera watches
a polite exchange and you go
live and lets live is our way of life

And I see parks and green fields
oaks willows cedars pines
carpets of shimmering greeneries
hedges and poppy fields
bluebells and daffodils rabbits n squirrels
horses in fields and cows grazing
idyllic countryside with cottages and barns

And I see I see this sceptered isle
and hear Jerusalem in hearty chorus
in prideful history
of the people by the people for the people
and I do not see a gun
I've never been near seen or held a real gun
because this is
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
“This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,--This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”
Yenson Mar 2021
A man of Character
upright assiduous sublime balanced and oh so cool
a man of Courage
brave noble smart invigorating and unflinchingly principled
a man with Conscience
guided thoughtful decent astute generous and thoroughly decent
a man of great Charity
engaging helpful considerate understanding stylistic and temperate
a man with Courtesy
charming, witty intelligent accommodating with warm sociable finesse

the dreaded antithesis
of the low scale labourers, the flaky mediocre half men
the semi-illiterate charlatans and barrow-boys
the uncouth dimwits and wishy-washy hooligans
the shamed inadequates' and cowardly poltroons in tautology
the sham, the superficialities' the metaphoric eunuchs with Imposter Syndromes
the narcissists and under-endowed  psychos riddled with fear and rages
the all semblance no substance amoebic species of pale masculinity

And these things
call their debacle of rats and loonies a Revolution
a term most of them struggle to write much less understand
from caves, underneath boulders and hidden in shame
mired in cloying envy and jealous to the brim
knowing they can never be who and what I am  
they cackle nihilism when they mean Racist Hate and Envy
our obnoxious post-modern racist Slave Traders
them simplistic ignorant red-necks hiding in foreign identities
and foreign faces
the shamed cowards confirming their cowardice as dolts do

Where are the men
possessing the mark of the five C's like above
where are the men who claim rightfully who and what they are
Is there only ONE in
this sceptered isle, This blessed plot,
this earth, this realm
are they too busy breaking into their neighbours houses
or perhaps too busy gang stalking those they envy so so badly
or maybe they are busy buying ****** or stealing to fund that
enlargement operation......
Nihilism is the belief that all values are baseless and that nothing can be known or communicated. It is often associated with extreme pessimism and a radical skepticism that condemns existence. A true nihilist would believe in nothing, have no loyalties, and no purpose other than, perhaps, an impulse to destroy.

— The End —