He tried not to cry. With his trenching tool,
which weighed five pounds, he began
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.

The intransitive Martha. Over Her letters he'd drool,
and over the burning fire he'd place the pea-can.
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.

Bible in his knapsack, towards Than Khe the cruel
march agonized, where the burning cross would then stand
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.

He sat at the bottom of his foxhole and rubbed the wool
sweater brought by resupply choppers. The other shouted from their holes, "How'd Ted land?"
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.

"I swear to God-boom-down. Not a word." The others fueled
the rage-rage against the dying of the light. Jim felt bad
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin *** help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that *** staw a sow,
Or fricassee *** mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro ****** flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis

Communication technology recognition

Reformation in monopoly contortions

Feel the attuned tunes from satellites

Setting light like an antenna televised

Usher prolific hologram vised in vision

Bid manipulation bye to new world neon’s

Motivation from free thought movement

Commendations cemented in another time-zone

Complement to comment for extra terrestrials

Electrical vibrations moving from wired modems  

Floating up above the skies, a heaven end  

All life become a past tense lie, come lie

A dead fantasy for the oars ain’t tacky

The most surreal reality, the stability, an ability

Congeniality, this is an alien evasion, adaptability

Figure a boxer on the ring, trenching victory

An agility the accessibility to the victorious flag

Tracing admissible tunes, planking in a cool challenge

The heroic and not hectic hologram check the angiogram

Its not a diagram, but a radiant heart an earthy soul

Am a do anything, buffing myself to do anything

Ain’t a deal rocking the crowd in crazy clouds

Breaking the underground like a Fujita F Scale tornado

Ronaldo tormenting the ball in a field with F clef societal

Social control and orders, tormenting the ****** to extraordinaire, an extradite

Streaming live make you believe like you can live for real

Stratifications, ****** classes and sewn mobility

Chasing dreams in the winds deeply wheeled in a well

Be well as we sink  so deep to seek and hold the dense

The essence of the whirlwind, it’s a seep through static

This rollercoaster an aspiration to inspire then perspire

Ever higher, from the root to crown charkra, a tantra

Annata,the ascending holographic magnetic hero

Tuning visions to dreamers and travellers

Hold my hand as we sink underneath the stratums

No sputum, just headphones.... a culture, it’s the new age soul

I am tired of series of unfinished poems that scream for my return.
I am tired of internal, trenching,
desperate calls
for pen and paper.
I am tired of empty pages,
and pens being put down.
I am tired of the fragmentary
*******-business I have with my declaration of expression.
I want to write about rough ****** efforts
and soft
aching feelings.
I want to write about Coca Cola freezies
(because they don’t even exist, why?).
I am tired of looking at everyone else’s work,
admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, crying, loving it.
I want to be 60 and look at what I wrote When I was 19,
And sob.

As I wake in the morning
to find my favourite window
covered in mist
I then realise winter is here just, just

Its warm in my bed
Id rather rest my head
then face the cold of winter
as winter is just, just

I fear the cold of winter
trenching over my face
is it to late to long for summer
coz winter is here just, just

All we do is wish and never follow through
just stand in between the point of view
boxed in outside wanting more than there is
if only we knew that we're trapping our grins

Stalled in position without a decision
careless not free inexplanatory
same old ******* story
blame your hold for glory

waiting on a plane that invites the hungry
but runs you down in flames trenching out a circle
digging instead of flying
danger without trying
resurrect in point of doing it all again

Like a ****** without a blast
or the peace of gaining another challenge
the dust just gathers on top of more dust
underneath a dusty shell
within hidden the light....of passion's energy, the muse of creation

long after these thousand days of
passing years, the eyes will feel a
sparking, I will remember you,
my dear old friends, reviewing
the where, the when, which will
flush, outing the whys
from my
memories

more than the poetic liturgy composed,
but what felled me to my knees,
yearning,
for the soup of love and passion,
pain+no gain, euphorias rising at the
trenching lows of depths
newly explored, hope returning after a
long time abandonment, the
excruciating ecstasy
of creating, the killing tedium of
months of no inspiration but the
glint of a possible tomorrow

but you knot all this,
so come to tell you,
long after the poem
encased in yellowing
emerald unwrapping
aging megabytes, more
than any old poem itself,
I wil remember what you
wrote in return, with insight
all we are, we are an interaction
a petrified yet living petri dish of
creatures re/anew,
r e n e w e d, and I am
young again

and the tears of yore no more,
fresh flowering droplets of
a longer than believable age,
factuals of the sweet,
you will move once
more, remaking me
your lover devotee

       and I wil stumble;
       the woman enquirer
       am I ok, whimsy
       respond never,
       never ever better
       my darling

and I lift a tissue
to erase the evidence
of my happy melancholic
existence, and start another
conversation with you, but no!

one of us long gone, name
erased, poems left behind,
orphaned children, them
and me left alone while
I will be remembered,
by remembering you,
our second of union

as it
reverberates, our amour
reunion is a wetting,
giving forth a burst,
a fluid sac,
again

What would it be to be a soldierTo seek the God of war,To make your mind a death machineTo long for peace no more.To make your sinew hard as ironYour muscle ripcord tough,To bend your thinking mercy freeYour soul enshrined in rough.Conformity in dress attireMeticulous black shine,The gun oil on your sidearmThat rigid stance in line.The taughtness when you march en massThe crunch of boots on stone,The flash of steel with bayonet thrustThat splash of blood on bone. Your hatred for the enemyA lust for ****** war,Abhorrence for a personal styleJust compliance with the corps.The stare that sees a thousand yardsThe spines are ramrod straight,The disciplined magnificenceThe Corps d’Esprit is great! Afghanistan & GazaMogadishu and TehranThe terror strips are globalAnd they’re hell for beast and man.To imagine you’ll enjoy yourselfIs madness to extreme.If you’ve seen a man's face liquefyIn a flailing shrapnel stream.If you’ve felt the fear of God nearbyWhen tribals mount a charge,With the shriek of “Allah Ahkbar”And the stench of death at large. “See The World”, the poster said“Free Training for a Trade”,Develop stiffness in your spineWith the army you’ll be made.Comradeship, companionshipIs the essence of the force,A fast, pack march of twenty clicksAnd chanting till you’re hoarse.The Sergeant kicks your backsideThe corporal licks your boots,Lieutenant has you dodging leadWhist digging trenching routes.The Major trims his moustacheThe General drives right past,Dismissing all the riffraffWho are well beneath his class. This-is-the-Army All khaki and brassy shine,You get to brandish riflesAnd wear berets when in line.So pull that chin in soldierKeep the thumbs straight when you march,Or we’ll have you peeling spuds or worse,...We’ll ream your young white ****. You wanted to be manlyYou longed to make your mark,You signed up  to be countedNow you're Army, hard and stark.So give it all you’ve got young manBend your back and be a knave,the alternative is purgatoryEngulfed, consumed, enslaved.Now you're in for the durationMake the most of what you’ve gotOr they’ll Court Marshal you tomorrowAnd with pageantry.. YOU'LL BE SHOT!MarshalgMangere Bridge27th April 2008

Keyring's clinking on my cut time stride
under lights, buzzing islands in the ink sea night.
Slink away from my murky years,
                  they're piling up
and I'm hunched, walking dumb
          across the hazard yellow lines.

Behind me
          the night just rolls up
almost outruns me to my front doorstep.
                                                The hungry
hills enclose
                    our mid-size
                    opaque town.

Old partners,
          forgotten crimes we
did and left trails of clues, all gutshot
                                       creep hunching
through this skull
                      beneath a
                      fraying cap.

Keyrings jangle like anxieties
in my chest, humming static in the core of me.
Sinking in to familiar tones;
                  shades purple grey.
And it's cold, striding slow
          through the west side warehouse lots.

Behind me
          the teeming sidewalks
shout half-slurred spears at my back retreating.
                                                The half-light
spills itself
                    on wrinkled,
                    trenching brows.

And out there
          the night just rolls up
to darken the mat by your front doorstep.
                                                You're just a
single thought
                    and several
                    miles away.

Deep…
I’m sinking in the dark
The world is upside down
Just the way it should be
I’m taken in by warm skies
And the clouds are tangible

The steep curves of slopes
I climbed crawling
Your breath, the gust
That turned my world over

To reach the rain
I danced on skin
Trenching spells
Caressed soft soil
To split for me a sea of thighs
So I could go the distance
Where We end up as God

Loony-Toothed Blogger, your Trussled Pen spite
Save to spike such Heart plombed by Heresy
That Heresy be Truth pin proves Delight
Come Trenching Escapades grip his Fantasy
Though permit his Trade be for Answers meet
And fill Sore Minds his Clients satisfy
Preach Hearts for Profits; His Code on the Street
Would squeeze such Scandal from his Salsify
Be there Room then for your ardent Refuge
For you as one seeks his Innards to Change
For Betterment's House shut Public's Confuse
And let your Person enjoy his own Range.
His Arrows be his choose his Portents bend
Though Blame blunt his Skies by Penance amend.

An educational prison
we the prisoners
and them the guards
no freedom to sleep
or speak
or react to some sense of enlightenment
from reading stories
that shine in glory
from others hand
i demand freedom
and all the classes agree
to flee from their prison
no mind is set
to take in knowledge
that will evaporate
through our breath
as we hate
the gut-trenching moments
of complete and utter boredom
shall i close one eye at-least
and let half of me
enjoy the painless dark
as my other dents
with frustrated sensory hormones
all eyes are baggy
all faces grow wrinkles
as fatigue finishes and settles
into dried up energy bodies
i am not compelled
as my feet swell
with numbness
from stationary preoccupation
as my patience
dries out like a river
during a drought
i doubt
that the hour
will pass fast
when it took me only
five minutes
to write the words you read.

Yes,
I recognise, there is a need in this world. And this world is trenching, parched and suffocated. It asks for us, to be more negotiable, not just to the world but to ourself. Why, do we have to seem to be so strong, and so brave, so fearless and so precious and outnumbered. Why we always have to be unnegotiable to ourselves and flogg ourselves with intangible instruments of unwanted emotions like guilt ,remorse, anger ,suspicion ,doubt , helplessness. Why, you don't have to. Why not just be raw?
You could be original, you could make deals with yourself, you could balance emotions. The world didn't make it perfect, did it? Do you see the world perfect?
You see creases, valleys , beaches ,sand,mountain and you see crestfalls, hollowness, drowsiness in depts don't you?
The world never asked you to be perfect, you asked something so lame for yourself .
Do you realise even , that if you became oh so perfect (which you can not) you won't even recognise yourself?
This world we have changed, asked better for us.
We tranced our evolution for living better .
But what transformation we want to bring makes us whirl down an empty harsh road to self destruct where a person forgets to evolove to live better life, instead all he does is altogether stop.
Give your world a life.
Give yourself a meaning you know you want.
Be original.
Be you.

Are we missing something?!?

The hearts are not at right pace
All those matters of space ,those set on some pattern
Revolving though,;;
But my heart not at pace
So does of the millions others....
The tails holding of elephant herd
In the fields
Unsettling too...
The trembling of voices
And serenity
Has taken place the shambles
And the ruins this time are murrmuring,
Burning slowly!
This heat is sinister than the flames itself
And erupted volcanoe,
Trenching trembling the level of horizon
On demise of so many young souls
Under its cover
They reaching to sky
But sky still mourns on earth loosing its precious
Ahh!!!!!!
I have been taught in this time the lessons
That havent been taught in centuries
The herat has turn old in days so little
Age has become just the number
And the greyness has enveloped the souls like dark wolves!

Now even the clouds if rain
I dnt feel it
Its not called monotony
Or rampedness
Time has shown that it can run anticlockwise
And diruption will be more on souls than rocks could ever asked for in their capacity....

The emptiness is getting rapid
And earth is creating more space
For graves to be encarved
The sadness is echoing in streets like trumpet blowing orchestra
The songs of deads are mellowing the alives
The time is strange my friend , more in melancholy is my heart
And when hearts wrap thmeselves in pain
Than you have no escape
And no place to go!!