I'm top tier, from way up here,
seeing things loud and clear
wax in my ear, cause tids-dye & ain't no dying here,
these birds chirp'n,will ruin you, nothings' fair
luring you, its irresistible, so you go there.
Sirens signing, playing pic-a-boo
distracting you, and your crew
Their audacity too- do what they do
using methodology, they lasso you through
for their own use
these high notes, are just an excuse,
like a loop hole, disguised as a noose
Either way, They-
hiding the truth.
find yourself up ***** creek,
High-tied, trying to shake loose.
I guess behind every myth- comes some truth!
the lesser of two evils,
deceitful, perception,
my aggression-lethal.
Like any sequel, you'll never be my equal,
scene it in ur preview.
Don't take it from me, ask the people,
if it wasn't for me, they won't even want to see you.
I wouldn't want to be you- or him, you a thesepian.
******* me off,  champion.

592

What care the Dead, for Chanticleer—
What care the Dead for Day?
’Tis late your Sunrise vex their face—
And Purple Ribaldry—of Morning

Pour as blank on them
As on the Tier of Wall
The Mason builded, yesterday,
And equally as cool—

What care the Dead for Summer?
The Solstice had no Sun
Could waste the Snow before their Gate—
And knew One Bird a Tune—

Could thrill their Mortised Ear
Of all the Birds that be—
This One—beloved of Mankind
Henceforward cherished be—

What care the Dead for Winter?
Themselves as easy freeze—
June Noon—as January Night—
As soon the South—her Breeze

Of Sycamore—or Cinnamon—
Deposit in a Stone
And put a Stone to keep it Warm—
Give Spices—unto Men—

Rain song in the deep, spiraling
camels down the hazy dunes
mystery of birds in the early sky

glimpses, working on inner space;

I caught the shadow of your smile:
scribbled across the skin my soul
the mystic syllable of your name.

Secret scaffolding erecting
tier upon tier

emerging beauty of my life.

Rush-stream of memories
concealed in the bush as the
morning fires die,

the flags are waning in their zest
festoons are withering

ambling along empty streets

yet the story is never done.

Cancer that murderous thing
can happen to all and kin
and the suffer and fear
will make you pray on the tier

Don't think God is easy
as he kills all over the world
he did not slaughter millions
not with his might almighty

Oh yes he did not want children to die
but oh dear he is a child killer
and what in Cambodia
and the rest oh these wicked wars

More then I can really believe
you have done to yourselves
none here have sanity in heaven
for you lead the Earth to hell

For you are Cancer
a wound on earth
you died long before
at the day of your birth

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

Late morning after dreaming of these
hand-written Alaskan three-dollar bills
Polaroid photographs of empty silver screens
hidden elevator button escape routes
mid-performance ****** reconstructions
I half-wake from my half-sleep and in seventy-five-cent consciousness
beg the man of my waking misconceptions to meet for one more
one more double latte Marlboro 27 kiss behind the parking lot than we’d ever had
before we part again and he will reunite with his lunchmeat of holiday hopes and aspirations
And I will return to
the land of brotherless love and flaming heterosexuals
the land of ugly **** and self-righteous queers
the land where there is no God because I chased him from the West before he could do me harm
the land filled with my pity and inebriated mindless self-perpetuation
the land consumed with no passion because the Yukon’s landscape eyes are bleak and empty
the land where the only direction is floating down-river to the blood-stained rocks of our maturity
still within my mental prison with my other mental inmates and mental shanks and *****
I dream again with my eyes wide open and lips drawn in two-tier lonely grimace
dream of the blue green red-eyed beauty that I have never known

An Awful Harvest

I went a hike up to Wawa in Montalban and up the mountain roads. Here I was to go past the peaks of Mt Parawagan, Susong Dalaga and Mt Lagyo plus others. The road had been improved by engineers with trucks and plant equipment. I wanted to hike a big circle right back to the beginning. This was possible a few months ago but not now due to the building of the Pamitinan Dam. It will take four years to do this and flood a complete valley near the peaks. A guard told me no entry by the construction site. I talked to a head engineer and he told me more details. The dam will be eighty metres tall or deep more than the Kaliwa Dam of sixty four metres. These are big structures. Hikers wanted to hike from Wawa to Casili by the newly improved mountain roads but the dam construction stopped this. In time a new road will be built above the dam level replacing the old road. Even if the road is built in a year the dam will still be unfinished so still no entry.



I saw a sign saying beware of UXO Unexploded Ordnance. A local man told me about this, of how the military was looking for it and would defuse any found. His details matched much of what I’ve heard before, like finding shrapnel in the soil. The sign was for the road improvement and dam construction. Sleeping shells waited to knocked awake and ****.



The digger, bulldozer and plant drivers need to be paid danger money. No joke. The area they work on is a small part of a huge World War 2 battlefield. An awful harvest litters the land with unexploded ordnance being buried in the soil having not detonated. Mortars, shells, bombs and other things; these all need locating and safely defusing by the military.



People live in the area and many have found live or exploded shells. The live shells are complete and the spent ones are in varied sized pieces. On my hike up there I was given a piece of one five five millimetre shell from a local. This was in two parts, the biggest weighed many pounds. I estimate between one in four and six fired never exploded. On the stone mountains like Mt Lagyo the shells and bombs will explode on impact if the detonators are triggered. In soil covered peaks the shells can just dig in and don’t go off. The army went up to Mt Lagyo looking for unexploded ordnance. They found nothing.



The road that has been improved and widened would’ve yielded many unexploded munitions. I’m curious how many were found and wonder how many thousands still hide unfound. Sections of the trees/grass by the road are taped off. This is for safety of any munitions and also due to the steepness of the terrain.



The local people within the valley are being moved away and compensated for thus upheaval. Their valley will be inundated by what is now a small river in coming years. Any remaining homes and unfound munitions or Japanese tunnels will be underwater.



Every time I hike the area from Wawa to Mt Mataba to Timberland to Casili I read about or am told or shown evidence from the war and battles; that old actions from 1945 has outlived the people of that time be it locals or soldiers. History is not old and boring black and white photos. An rusty Arisaka rifle with working bolt or blasted shell fragments tell more than any story or photo ever could. Only fate and God knows the unnamed soldiers names now.



When the dam is built I wonder how many unfound unexploded ordnance and dead Japanese soldiers will be now forever unfound? I suspect many thousand Japanese soldiers are buried on those peaks. Remember, these hills are the first high ground above Manila. This was the start of the high ground battles that went on for hundreds of miles at several huge mountain ranges. It was Tier 1 fighting equal to anywhere involving hundreds of thousands of opposing troops, of which tens of thousands were killed.



Now the 1945 legacy is coming back to bite us. Not just buried shells on a dam construction site but the risk of them still exploding when not even found. This is due to corroding fuses. Buried bombs in Europe have self detonated several times. I’ve been told of two large unexploded warplane dropped bombs, one near Timberland and the other near Mt Parawagan. Both need to be found again and professionally defused. History is never boring; the lethal harvest is a testimony to their dastardly deeds.

Slimy sea feet.
Sandy salt tongues.
Gabby gulls and cautious *****.
Boardwalk smiles and sticky ice cream fingers.
Ripened hearts and eager tide eyes.
Tears in my ears from the satisfied sun seeking silence.

This is where I belong.
This is where I know God.

I don’t belong in a town that can offer me nothing.
I don’t belong in a massive city that’ll swallow me up.
I don’t belong at silly soirees or late night parties.
I don’t belong at the top tier or down with the underdogs.

I belong on the shores.
I belong arm in arm with my confidantes, walking through downtown streets of some sweet town.
I belong hand in hand with my true companion with our toes in the sand.
I belong sipping soda with my sisters giggling endlessly as we watch some cheesy chick flick.
I belong hugging my mama who I will never stop loving for an instant.
I belong sitting with my father drinking tea in the purest, sweetest silence, for that is how we were made to be.

I belong listening to my dad’s tall tales and my mothers soothing words.
I belong holding my stomach with my face streaked with tear drops from some joke that is only funny if you were there.
I belong forever in the future with that one, the one whom was made for me; the Tilney to my Catherine.
I belong holding the gazes of my friends as we try to hold back our cackles, tears, and even our own words.

I belong in the waves of the sea.
I only belong in the happiest of salty tears.

I can’t belong where I’m too afraid to face my fears.
I won’t belong in broken gears.
I’ll not for a moment belong in heartbroken wares.  

I’ve never belonged in them, but they live inside me.
They have and always will be
My demons and my skeletons
Yet you will always see them on my sleeves
So everyone can see they do not devour me.

A two two tier system of health is established
now you are asked private or NHS.
This could determine who lives or dies
relying on those with funds.
The quality of treatment depends on paying
if none your only hope is praying!

NHS patients it's a lucky dip for treatment
private no expense spared.
No matter how dedicated the doctors maybe
money is the pass code.
Pay avoid the endless hours on a waiting trolley
instant service if flash the lolly!

No more the fare care for all who enter within
moral has long been exhausted.
By the excessive dabbling of many governments
where no parliamentarian is poor.
And had no knowledge of the staffs dedication
now wanting their eradication!

With an amazing crew who were not listened to
or giving them back up or respect!
The health service now in the United kingdom
is doomed to be for the rich!
The rest of us will wait forever for care
that no longer can be there!

Once the worlds flagship for health care
now the example to be aware!

The Foureyed Poet.

I dismiss the attention nobody pays,
To the way I stay in games for days,
They say "You're wasting your time away",
But I'll play till I hit the grave,

Cause,

One more level, another point, another match,
Double ****, triple ****, don't crash,
Every day, getting better, no sweat,
Zero deaths, forty kills, no regret,

Top tier, s rank, winning streak,
Don't lose, don't die, not weak,
Can't miss, gotta win, don't quit,
Flanking, execution, legit,

We've got Contacts, reload,
Spawn traps, implode,
Bringing heavy artillery,
This is the Gamer's Creed.

So it came to pass and the battle begun
By the bite of an adder ,
a sword shinning in sun
You pierced Mordred's heart
with the spear you found
He split your head
knocking you to the ground

Return my sword to the Lady of the Lake
I've not long ,
for tomorrow I won't make
Place my body on my shield
Use it as my tier
Let my people see and shed any tears
Bear me away
to the far sacred shore
My eyes are dimming
I can see no more
Seal my dreams in my breast to be
This be my final request
I'll ask of thee

you are the triprych,
the eternal extrapolation
of an ethereal concept,
the masterwork of the heavens
twisting perfection
from tier infinite chaos
of infinite space, drawing
wisdom and breath from the soul of
the uncreator.

In crowded halls, ivy clad, walk the sleepless zombies - the walking dead.
They’ve come to grapple, the chosen few, in trials by pen and pencil too.

Long ago we quietly agreed to trade studies and stress for a lives of ease.
The fire of competition burns within, a pyre fueled by challenge and adrenaline.

We’ve been grinding from morning’s light to dark midnight, fueled largely by tasty caffeine's bite.
Sleep’s a distant memory, that’s been swapped for all-nighters, notecards and highlighters.

Professors who’ve taught us now plant briar-like, trickster-questions, to fraught us.
Have we synthesized it all - the labs, lectures and quotes, the chapters, quizzes and notes?

The hours we’ve spent, dissecting texts, parsing equations, crafting essays - pay off now.
Or don’t - the clutter of fact, theory, and tensors will separate the scholars from the pretenders.

But fear not, dear reader, for we’re tough, seasoned cowgirls and this is just another rodeo.
True, we chew erasers not tobacco and ride desks or lab stations, not bucking broncos
But some are thrown, bruised and scarred - finding their future careers discarded.

We’re required to hand-write our test essays out, a trap that negates AI with age-old foolscap.
We know the challenge, we’ve studied and crammed, to tackle the hurdle of ‘top-tier’ exams.

Beyond the stress beacons the sweet release - of holiday parties and presents that please.
But perhaps the sweetest possible tease, is the promise of slumber and weeks study free.

The advent day has come
And with it a lonesome
Fellow cloaked in black.
He trudges back
And forth; unseen by brailing sirens,
The gazing and scavenging talons.
He sways the crowd
By swelling the cloud,
Dispersing the onlookers
With the phobia of ombros.
Only the shepherd of the dead
Knows the folk lore of the serpents head.
"Ready my carriage," he says
"This soul is destined for better days.
Leave the body behind.
Let it stew with dust and sylvan kind
So seed may sprout, decay and replenish
Its androgynous abode afresh.
And I may keep a promise,
Finding solace within my grimace.
O' friend of mine;
Take a sip of cordial wine,
And rise from your pale souvenir,
Embellish your wings and climb the firmament tier.
Scour the stars, sun and moon's face
For the heaven promised beyond space.
The home of saints and martyr;
And when this path leads to a furnaced altar,
Know this as your fate
For going through the narrow gate.
A prudent soul you were not,
Always chasing the Dharmic knot.
By the power vested in me
I set your spirit free."

Pixels weigh upon my opaque mind set
The normal third tier of distance
is not asserting its wicked face

Never before has this scent wrung it self
From a fugitives discarded clothing
Dared to cross these topographic horrors

Deep in the hands of some bewildered mongrel
The evidence engulfs the ghastly thin walls

To lose the branding Hannibal
and his nomadic pursuit
Would mean retreat to an empty cavern

But With not even some flimsy novella?
The currents and the basket weaving
widows would not appease

The Ernest clock of monstrous honesty
Calls for us to depart
This holding cell is still filled
Deep with ticking heart valves

How many times has this repeated?
Were losing our grasp
It’s been hours
And without any thought devoid of mossy textures

Chalk smears and ambitious plastic
Dual neglected lives in this purgatory

The ones that have been haunted
They are boxed into some neurotic tri-valve machine
It spits back the violent and the tardy

Pleasing the populace is just not accessible today
It is without any grass
But this overly sensitive blanket that I touch
I must venture to this foreign world of pleasantries

Where cry shed over a dingy t-shirt
And the slow desertion of the wilder beast will not be tolerated