O stony grey soil of Monaghan

The laugh from my love you thieved;

You took the gay child of my passion

And gave me your clod-conceived.



You clogged the feet of my boyhood

And I believed that my stumble

Had the poise and stride of Apollo

And his voice my thick tongued mumble.



You told me the plough was immortal!

O green-life conquering plough!

The mandril stained, your coulter blunted

In the smooth lea-field of my brow.



You sang on steaming dunghills

A song of cowards' brood,

You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,

You fed me on swinish food



You flung a ditch on my vision

Of beauty, love and truth.

O stony grey soil of Monaghan

You burgled my bank of youth!



Lost the long hours of pleasure

All the women that love young men.

O can I stilll stroke the monster's back

Or write with unpoisoned pen.



His name in these lonely verses

Or mention the dark fields where

The first gay flight of my lyric

Got caught in a peasant's prayer.



Mullahinsa, Drummeril, Black Shanco-

Wherever I turn I see

In the stony grey soil of Monaghan

Dead loves that were born for me.

Before paper bills and money
We'd share all those beans,
Wild flowers too and honey
Not anymore but in lucid dreams

I'd strike a chord
One maybe two
But if you climb aboard
Many more, I'll show you too

With no baggage wish I were walkin'
Roads traveled and those not, havin' some fun
Sigh those bills!! no I ain't complainin'
Here on the eleventh floor, I'm just cleanin' my gun

Downed my whiskey, while the peeler swayed
I kissed goodbye to a beautiful flight
Lay rocking by the moonshade  
"Make that a double" I said, "its a cold one tonight"

Before paper bills and money
Cosmic harmony was the terrestrial theme
By the Clyde over tomorrow's journey
I'll Breathe My Swinish Dream!!

Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,
Ye little men of little souls!
And bid them huddle at your back -
Gold-******* leeches, shoals on shoals!

Fill all the air with hungry wails -
"Reward us, ere we think or write!
Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails
To sate the swinish appetite!"

And, where great Plato paced serene,
Or Newton paused with wistful eye,
Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean
And Babel-clamour of the sty

Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:
We will not rob them of their due,
Nor vex the ghosts of other days
By naming them along with you.

They sought and found undying fame:
They toiled not for reward nor thanks:
Their cheeks are hot with honest shame
For you, the modern mountebanks!

Who preach of Justice - plead with tears
That Love and Mercy should abound -
While marking with complacent ears
The moaning of some tortured hound:

Who prate of Wisdom - nay, forbear,
Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,
Trampling, with heel that will not spare,
The vermin that beset her path!

Go, throng each other's drawing-rooms,
Ye idols of a petty clique:
Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,
And make your penny-trumpets squeak.

Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds
Of learning from a nobler time,
And oil each other's little heads
With mutual Flattery's golden slime:

And when the topmost height ye gain,
And stand in Glory's ether clear,
And grasp the prize of all your pain -
So many hundred pounds a year -

Then let Fame's banner be unfurled!
Sing Paeans for a victory won!
Ye tapers, that would light the world,
And cast a shadow on the Sun -

Who still shall pour His rays sublime,
One crystal flood, from East to West,
When YE have burned your little time
And feebly flickered into rest!

The floor was strewn all over
With children’s toys and books
With ***** clothes and rotting food
And sticky disgusting Popsicle wrappers
With shoes and socks and dishes
And garbage
With cat hair and dog ****
And dead plants that never had a chance
Splats of ketchup and mustard adorned the counter tops
And smears of chocolate and grease covered the refrigerator door  
Inside the sink the roaches crawled freely over the never washed dishes
The air was filled with the toxic ammonia of cat **** and spoiled left overs
A layer of dust covered every book and nick knack never touched on the shelves
Every place to sit was sticky and hairy
And your shoes became trapped to an increasingly vile floor
The garbage can filled to over flowing
With more bags of garbage sitting waiting to be taken elsewhere and two grown adults never bothering to take them
And quite seriously the mother of this outfit dares scold the little boys and bellows at them to clean their rooms
Seriously!  What the hell!
The air so filled with dust and hair and cigarette smoke is a nightmare even for those not suffering of asthma or allergies
I think I now know what is meant by “We were all yellow”
And the bathroom
Oh my god the bathroom
It might have surpassed the filth of the worst road trip gas station bathroom
A gross grey film covering every inch of every surface rings of repulsive ghastly filth covered over in endless dust and grime and drips and drops and hair and *** and blood
And still more garbage stinking putrid garbage
Never removed
And all household members sitting staring blankly at the filthy television screen or mindlessly surfing the net at the half broken computer
Except the children who got no attention
No love
And had no hope of positive reinforcement
One lighting the tacky and ratty cotton curtains on fire
the other standing on a chair in the middle of the room and peeing on the floor
as the baby sister sat fat and screaming in her own filth
hair matted by chocolate fudge pop
she was too young to have been given
all the children’s clothing was soiled and covered in food
Presumably from days of wearing the same clothing
Because no one cared for them
Or for themselves
What was the point of giving these children life?
Or toys or pets to play with
If only to ruin all they had
Which was meager to begin with
What is the point of setting up house
If only to fail to keep it clean
And to yell and fight constantly  
Relying only on the past experiences of your own childhood and never to even try
To rise above it
Living life in your imagined trauma
And creating for your family very real and lasting trauma
But you’ll never give a ****,
You’ll never grow up,
You’ll never see the consequences of your actions just barley scraping by the law
Someone called me worthless once
And many people think I am barley adequate
But I would rather be adequate
Then be genuinely worthless and horrid
I would rather be caring and honest
Then a pig headed ***** constantly screaming at my children but doing absolutely nothing myself
Living my life with no empathy and no emotions but my own thinking only of myself and what I want
Thinking about ways to make others do for me giving nothing in return
So I will forget about you wasted people and your unfortunate children
I will tend to my house, my family, and my work
And I will not let my past become my future
I will improve myself and my life
Being grateful for the things I have
And learn not to covet what others have
I will be stronger then the pigs I suffered through living with
And I will be happy to be adequate
Happy to be free of swinish people
And be the me that I have become

You know them. Those twisted facese you pass
in jeering wonder. Speckless shoes that step
over the ugliness with the grace of a gazelle,
ignorant to the trash that floats freely.
     "Everything is okay," you might say,
but you have to keep your head up high,
you chin reaching to the sky
evading the lie of this swinish reality.
Wading through the garbage, a life spent in
such a curious denial
of this rancid year
of our lord.
     Something slides along the pavement outside.
Wailing and blaring, up and down the street,
probably in response to some heinous crime.
Response unit useless
caller, niner STOP
Too much blood STOP
"Personally, sir, I think that in this world,
the only crime–the only real crime–is the crime
of getting caught, over..."FULL STOP

Still on the air, racing through hyperspace. Racing toward the ultimate, dashing for the übermensch within, the perfect human being, outliving the greasy machinery of our collective existential crises. Trudging down the proverbial road in swinish runs
back                                                          and                                                          forth
Collecting the critical fragments of out minds from the bowels of life's desert, only to find that they have gotten perverted with the rank rot of maggots, festering, crawling through the remains that were left from our conception and subsequent birth, poorly mummified.
But alas, too many millenniums have past.
Too many millenniums.
Too many.

As we search between the cacti, avoiding the venomous bite of the rattlesnake, battling the heat, our wristlet watches tick.
Tick, tick, tick away with the unfair certainty that the watch will keep ticking through the arbitration of time.
Through the arbitration of the flexible human condition, surrounded by the deafening stasis of the world.
The deafening tick, mocking our decay, celebrating its own infinity.

The rumbling cat circles the chair,
wondering what wakes me
at this hour. A reassuring stroke
or two between lines,
and she puddles beside
in tail-wrapped satisfaction.
Heir to a hundred insignificant sufferings
which scurry and gnaw
at the underpinnings of slumber,
half-awake and fumbling for gratitude,
I choose enough small misery to write.
Don't scare up ambition to rhyme
or scan, or make myself look good,
or put lipstick on the false smile
of swinish apathy wallowing muddily.
Cold, clammy soil suits and soothes my mood.
There is a hunger howling
in hours dark with early morning
for a gentle scratch behind my ears,
a soft hand welcoming my nuzzle;
a nesting ground of warm worn cloth
smelling of home and family
where I can pad its perimeter,
curl into myself
and sleep.

I


These walls of my prison hath endured many ,                
suffering and suffocation,                                                     ­            
to me, they are the sweet calling of                                 
 liberation.  

Nature, how you reminisce life and death,                             
come to my disposal today,                                                         
a­nd see the man.                                                                              who will dance at his decay.

When the noose tightens round my neck,                                        
I shall be smiling at the angel of death,                                             
who hath finally come to my rescue, O you lightening! Then   show yourself, mark the moment when my misery is dead.        

II                    
                                                                ­                                                 This world hath been my prison, my life thunder accursed.    The day I was born, I heard wars emerged.                                 
My mother who awarded me life showered me with love,            until I was poached at five, by a human trafficker.

He took me to a land far way.  ****** hades,                
enrobed me in smelly rags and paraded me through streets.       Since I wasn’t pitied, he cut my left hand.                                  
And hence came a shower of pennies.  

Pennies that went in his pockets and                                   
sufficed his villainy.                                                        ­                     
I was granted a plate of grub in return,                                        and perhaps no whipping if the pennies were his satisfaction.

And he comes home drunk one night,                                          his inebriated body betraying his senses.                               
Ready as a bird who is to take flight,                                                
I slashed him with his own dagger violating his defenses.

III

Henceforth I began to tarry,                                                         penniless and aggrieved.                                                       ­        
The world hath plenteous monsters,                                             
and I met my piece.

As I slept on the frozen streets of this cursed land,             
hunger clenched my stomach.                                                      Sick was the art of begging, a remnant of my stained past,      
but I knew no other.

Outside a fruit shop, I saw an old man buying yield.                     I fell at his legs and begged: “Prithee give me a morsel of food,    it wilt save my life."                                                                     ­   
But **** he gave me too much and taught me slavery.                                       
With my one hand,  
I swept his house and dusted his medallions.                          
That he hath earned courageously                                                  
on­ blood bathed battalions.

And one day, his ruddy daughter comes back home.              
Her name, Messina Oehme.                                                           ­  
O Messina, whence thee hath come from, paradise?                 Thy pulchritude is a vision fixated within my eyes.
                                                                ­                                                  Thou art like the first rain in a desert,                                             or an Alchemist’s prized long-yearned stone,                               At the touch of which,                                                           ­        
even dust turns gold.
                                                                ­    
Thy eyes deep wells of lust,                                                       
wher­e I want to see our future compart.                                    
Thy pale skin like the fantastic summer sky,                                 
a glance at which burned my heart.

I quoth, O Messina, let me not smolder alone in passion,      
thine art my souls only desire.                                                    
Even the grace of saints,                                                        
couldn’t unshackle me from love’s holy fire.

But misfortune hath come my way.                                            
Thy swinish father wedded you off to that wicked Glover.    
And at thy wedding I fixed the chairs,                                         
thy one sided lover.

But O Messina! Thy art still the summer that brightens my life.   I became an hourglass, thine love, my sand,
slowly pouring to the bottom of my heart, 
yet never vanquished from my soul’s devastated land.
                                                           ­                                                       And I remember when thee came to stay at father’s house.
I saw wicked Glover bruising thy angelic skin. 
He hurt and discolored an angel. 
The heavens thundered in protest on this mortal sin.

Rage devoured my soul, as I heard thy shrieks,
more horrific than the trumpet of doom.  
I picked up my dagger and impaled his heart.  
If evil fails to transport a fiend, then love does, to his tomb.

That madman deserved his pudh death. My dear Messina,
thee wilt live free. But thee looked at death empty and desolate heated. I quoth: “I gave you my life.”  
That was the last night I saw thee, thy love defeated.  

IV

Why a man who loved so incessantly,  
will end up hearing the knell. 
Prithee God, if heaven at a fountain of love, 
Make my fate into the fire of hell.

Even if I write as much as the sea,
I cannot explain my misfortune in epistolary,  
Who wrought dole dost naught justice, 
to some it gave fulsome, to some nary.

zzzzzzzZZZZZZZTOP

under the Wideawake hat
the swinish snores
of the drooling priest

Sea-blue octopuses squirt black ink like yellow *** when ******* &
snakes & kittens warn larger aggressors with a defensive hissing as
it's cute for William Holden & Nancy Kwan to practice kissing, but
in Oriental films: heroic, white Europeans are dismissively missing
while no Chinaman sees white actors as cinematically fundemental
nor darkies either as bakery cakes incinerate a need for fudge rental
even ***** too once cakery bakes fry amore for a syndromic Yentyl
& 747 plastic noses ramming W.T.C. I-beams couldn't budge metal
affirm acclaimed, structural-design judges adjudged nonjudgmental
by New York City's constitutionalists constituted nongrudgemental
in the scope o' things what come my way with pig-ease incremental
by swinish sons-of-******* who gorge at hog troughs governmental
& drink the blood of sacrificial babes as a Luciferian rite incidental

In the green pasture I couldn't stop doing healthful deep-knee bends
with cyanical-blue deep sea friends or uric-yellow sheep *** friends
who'll attend 6 ewe-cross-human *** fairs pushing 32 ******* trends
“There's something hateful about you,” the proctologist said. “But I
just can't lay a finger on it with the pig blood you've bloodily bled.”
“There are 15 traits swinish about you,” the **** doctor said. “But I
can't put a finger on 1 with the piggish blood you've bloodily bled.”
F-off worthless U.N. eaters! My fat hogs-to-market are muddily fed
before blowin' their brains out rendering 'em big time groggily dead
& chilled to be, after purgatory, down the primrose path foggily led
as saturated dirges, under bridges where bums ****, are soggily read
to mug inquisitive ***** lion-tamers of Afrocentrical inventiveness
without deying the endless toil of food-stamp-getting relentlessness
Weird is wired to borrowed dots once dotters abandon plotted plots
for the ******-bad equity of besotted day bed county jail-issued cots

In the green pasture I couldn't stop doing healthful deep-knee bends
with cyanical-blue deep sea friends or uric-yellow sheep *** friends
who'll attend 6 ewe-cross-human *** fairs pushing 32 ******* trends
“There's something hateful about you,” the proctologist said. “But I
just can't lay a finger on it with the pig blood you've bloodily bled.”
“There are 15 traits swinish about you,” the **** doctor said. “But I
can't put a finger on 1 with the piggish blood you've bloodily bled.”

How Many Fools?

How many fools must fall to end
This war, this endless, ****** trend?
So many more — for Russia’s reached
The depths, where all the souls are breached.



---------------------



The Pendulum

The pendulum is broken now —
The rhythm fades, no steady flow.
Maybe I’ve just run dry somehow —
A hack, a scribbler — don't you know?



---------------------



Substitute Line

A hollow verse, a foolish rhyme —
Come on, you clown, it’s your time!
Go ahead, oppress the weak,
Make your mockery complete.



---------------------



The Poet’s Futility

The poet's work — a fruitless fight,
In fear and madness, lost in spite,
Of lies, of greed, of all we’ve lost —
A world consumed, no matter cost.



---------------------



The First Rainy Season in Moldova

Rainy season —
A subtropical place...
Pour it down,
Let chaos fill the space.



---------------------



Kaleidoscope

A little is enough for thought —
A kaleidoscope of books, of plot.
But oft it serves to pull away —
It fills the heart with empty sway.



---------------------



Social Realism — A Crude Shift
A super-concentration of mind,
Not for fascist-communist drift,
But to drag the "minds" to the grind.



---------------------



Hear! I Crave Wonders and Spectacles
Bored to rot in cracks and holes,
It's rashism that takes its toll —
A wonder of madness, dull and cold.



---------------------



The Writer’s Absurdity

In the madhouse of deceit,
Publishers reign, with endless feet,
Of sheepish novels scattered wide,
Where truth and sense are cast aside.



---------------------



"The law is harsh, but just indeed"
It traps the fools, and makes them bleed.
For clever, sly, and cunning fish —
This is the world's inevitable wish.



---------------------



"Once Upon a Time," or What They'll Remember About Us...

"We lived," but never were —
To Hell we sailed, in lies a blur.
Conquered fears that drowned the light —
Worse than death, these endless nights...



---------------------



It Doesn't Matter How Many Foes
For paper tigers, fierce they show,
But in this world of fools and lies,
Their roar is hollow, their strength dies.



---------------------



The Futility of Effort

The fruitlessness of all we try,
To pass through lies that twist and vie,
In tortures built of deceit and pain,
We struggle on, but all in vain.



---------------------



"Inflexibility" in Personal Ties
And patience with the rules of Night —
Blind to all the ****** lies,
The nature of a goat "in flight".



---------------------



"You boast of a pure past, you swine?
Once a ******, now a ***** in line..."
Politicians always stand apart,
But they're tainted from the very start,
With dirt and lies they’ve carried long —
A mark of filth, a tale of wrong.



---------------------



Foolish, Futile Hopes

“Hope is the dream of the waking.”
— Plato

Dream breaks through the fog of Lies,
That people proudly call their "mind."
It’s hard to shout a clear "deny!"
When truth is something none can find.

Dream, Lie, and Madness — hand in hand —
Have wrapped the world in shadow’s dome.
And if you're Tender, you must stand
Alone — serve Soul, not Mind — and roam.



---------------------



Doom

Doom’s drawing near — no way to stall.
The crowd still stumbles through the Night.
Just few attempt, if so at all,
To keep their sanity in sight.

The mind is under fierce attack —
This age, the final, seals our fate:
Fear, filth and lies — a rising stack —
And man dissolves beneath their weight.

A puppet takes the human’s place —
CowID made that crystal-clear.
"Great changes" wait for every face:
Shame masked as kindness, pride as fear.

In rabid haste, the beasts parade —
They crave to strike before the Flame
Consumes this world, so wrongly made,
In Fascism’s all-consuming name.



---------------------



Lawless by Design

"Who told you that there are laws to which our behavior must conform?"
— Arthur Schopenhauer


The BEASTS are drafting laws again,
The masses nod, applaud, comply.
They’re chains disguised as rules for men —
Decay is what they justify.

Obeying BEASTS — the only creed
That now defines what life should be.
But is it life, this sham, this screed,
Where thought is tossed in lunacy?

Their minds are loops of prefab clips,
No spark, no soul, no conscious thread —
Thus drunks and psychos, full eclipse,
Become the norm, just as they’re bred.

That’s what the BEASTS have always sought —
A world of rats in legal snare,
Where laws mean: "Crawl!", and truth is naught,
And lying’s breathed like common air.



---------------------



Creation

Boredom’s ***** won’t ever find you
If your craft and fire bind you
In this world of rot and madness.
Else you’ll drown in lies and sadness.

Lies are rampant, wild, insane.
But if art is clear and plain,
It can clear the mind and senses —
Laziness just dulls defenses.

Strain is needed — real, not hollow,
When your questions you must follow.
There’s no other way — delusion
Rules the world in full profusion.

Earth is racing to the brink,
Not much time is left to think.
Make your mark — ignore the glory,
Even if no reads your story.

They won’t notice, they won’t care —
But so what? It’s in the air.
That cliff is near. The end is tight.
Create — while you still have the right.



---------------------



Mock-Haiku

A slug crawls slowly to the height...
Yeah right — that slug won’t make it far.
It’ll find a "reason," sure —
The slimy herd knows why they are.

Don’t be a slug — forget the mold!
Don't creep — just fly, ignore the rules!
The slime will call your flight too bold.
Don't trust the slick — fly past the fools!



---------------------



Instant Nonlocal Ties

There are ties beyond all measure —
Instant, distant — Nature’s thread.
But the ****, in blind displeasure,
Chop what never should be shred.

They defile what is united,
Chasing joy in soulless ways.
With wild howls, the press, excited,
Drives them straight into the blaze.

Yet the End comes — fast, revealing,
Truth breaks through the howls of lies.
Few stay honest — more appealing
To the world where spirit flies.

And the rest? To Hell they’re driven,
Not the old one, dressed in myths —
But a fresh one, newly given
For the fools with hollow "ifs."



---------------------



The Dignified Frog

A frog leapt in a *** — quite grand —
With water cold (at least for now).
She sought out joy, a promised land —
But got the madhouse life allows.

They boil her slow, with lies and steam,
Just turning up the heat each day.
She hopped in proud — lost in a dream,
Till truth — and reason — slipped away.



---------------------



The "Straight Path"

When brains are rare, the crowd s in luck  
A  path  is pitched, so bold and bright.
The fools line up to join the ****,
Its end is called   pure dread and fright.

But through the Fog of Lies they march,
In tidy rows, with cheerful face.
And when they reach that final arch  
They re fed more nonsense, just in case.

They'll call the horror a "mistake"
And sell a new "straight path" once more.
The lie gets tweaks for lying s sake  
It works on minds with broken core.



---------------------



The Straight Path

When minds are scarce — a common trait —
They offer up a "straight" way through.
And fools line up — they take the bait,
Not seeing where that road will skew.

The end is wrapped in Fog and Fiction —
They march ahead in tidy rows.
And once they reach the grim affliction,
They toss in fresh confusing shows.

They’ll call the horror "just a glitch"
And chart the "straight path" out once more.
The lies don’t change — not even switch —
But fools still flock, their minds unsure.



---------------------



Negative Selection

Selection now goes in reverse —
A law that Darwin never knew.
The liar thrives, the thief does worse —
He climbs, while noble men are few.

The wise, the just — they're cast below,
Their strength of spirit left to rot.
No chance to let that power grow —
The **** selects a lesser lot.

A newer breed is rising fast —
Of servile souls, with vacant eyes.
They dress up lies in modern masks,
Call chains "free choice," and truth — "disguise."

The final shame — a bright facade
Of "freedom" in a wired disguise.
This path's a sentence, cold and odd —
And once it grips, no one will rise.



---------------------



The Horror of Swinish Ways

Torments of passion?
Reject the obsession!
All’s twisted and hollow —
No truth left to follow.

Your Spirit’s a rover —
No home to take over.
So seek in that fire
A higher desire.

Let Mind serve the Soul —
One self, whole and whole.
That’s oneness — the key.
All else is swinery.



---------------------



Executioners of Mind

"Steal the Volga — send it West!"
That earned ten years without protest.
The nation’s best were crushed and maimed,
While mass delusion was proclaimed.

And now — the same. Just change the dress:
CowID made it clear — no less.
The ghouls remain, their aims aligned:
For centuries — a war on Mind.



---------------------



April First

A day for all the Earth,
Where nonsense fills the air,
And like a blight of mirth,
Man falls in dark despair.

Transformed by foolish schemes,
To slaves, they’re made to bend.
And all are caught in dreams,
Where devils find their end.



--- Total 28 poems. ---