I truly fail to understand
Why it’s gotten out of hand.
It seems so very odd
There are so many God
Is supposed to have ordained
Some aren’t even trained.
There is an absolute dearth
Of an actual true rebirth
In the revivifying blood of Jesus.
It’s almost like allergic sneezes.

Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.

We are becoming overrun
With an ecumenical kind of fun
In which before we can holler
Another puts on a backward collar
And starts tell us what to do.
When the rebirthing is through
They are on their park soapbox
And ******* about our Xbox;
Telling us what we should watch
And the coffee in our coffee klatch
Is unGodly because Jesus never drank it.
Makes me want to grab and spank it
Before it multiplies. Jerks, those guys.

Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.

The party starts at ten to three.

On the second floor,room twenty two
two vicars who had come down from Crewe were wondering just what to wear, to the shindig going on down there.
They collided,both decided to put on crimson frilly frocks,this was not a 'do' for cassocks or for smocks.

Room forty four up on the forth,was Lucy Ann,a double barrelled name of course,a horsey type who came by invite to liven lively up the night.

In number ten slept teacup Ken,who had never once imbibed,the porter was slipped a twenty,but was bribed to keep his big mouth shut, as ties were cut and Ken found Zen in a brandy glass,
and discovered parties were a gas.

The police arrived to room fifty five and found Miss Sterling doing the jive around the severed head of Fred the cook,
poor Fred never had any kind luck.

There is no escape from the party at Lancaster Gate and those who come are those who'll die
but the party is so flamin' good I'll try to sneak in,got to take a peek in room number twenty seven,where it's said,that the lady there can show you several kinds of heaven before you meet your doom.
Got to get in, get a room,check in time expires at noon.
I shall no doubt expire,naked by the fire in
room, one o one.

And now... The coming of the Pleaidian
order. Some call it call it the Second
Coming. The rapture or ascent to
heaven. It is said that in the
constellation called the Seven Sisters,
the planets are highly advanced. There is no money, pain, suffering, division or
confusion. They use tubes to travel
much like railways. The influence of the
Pleaidians on Earthlings has been long
imposed, from the Yahweh
Consciousness (The Deluge times) to the Messiah Projects. On Earth the public receives the picture
spread by the holders of the Media. In
truth there is a psychic war that has
been going on for millenia. From the
time of the gods down to present
human idols, be it Kings, presidents, athletes, celebrities or politicians and
vicars of religious institutions. With the Matriarchy uprising, men have
been have faced with a destructive
challenge. It can be said that men have
done women a lot of harm and it is
now their chance to hurt men. But then
that is vengeance and not justice. Which brings us to factions
representing Councils positioned in the
Galactic Federation of Councils. There
are forces of Light and there are forces
of Darkness. Which would be apparent
with the way things are on Earth. You have the Dragon Queen network and
you have Daughters Of MA and time-
travelling agents. There is a chaos
manipulated from above. There is a
divine connective power of ******
*******. This power creates a third energy which can be used for good or
evil. Which is important for dark
magicians to increase their power and
effect psychic manipulation. This power is encouraged to be kept at
a low-vibrational frequency, hence
have we lust. With lust the bond of love
and its frequency is affected. And
hence we have meaningless
relationships, heartbreaks and separations. This is because ******
******* at high positive-vibrational
frequencies will create an energy that
will uplift the consciousness of the
planet Earth. This is only half the story. That's the
metaphysical perspective. With
Capitalism on a high and matriarchy-
vengeful rising men have been feeling
the pinch. This is because the point is to
keep us apart. Money makes relationships very complex. This is why
nowadays there are more women who
love money rather than love itself. You
can imagine how it must have been
done behind the curtains; you put
members of influence on the forefront and you dress them up, teach them
how to think, behave and carry
themselves; these members become
prototypes for multiple avatars. Yes
brainwashing techniques, put women
under sync mode and simulate behaviour and then this builds a
consciousness. It is said that when the
human hybrids were made by the star
people; genetic engineers, they were
implanted with crystal chips,
programmed to make us intolerant of each other. Back to the consciousness,
with women already wearing a deep
hollow wound of being mistreated and
dehumanized by those called men;
different forms of zeitgeist can be used
by the powers with a promise to heal those wounds. So woman would now become the
new enemy of the two sexes. In the
future men would have a *** change
just to have the benefits and the right
to feel human. Now, these avatars
would be recruits of The Association, unknowingly, they called them
working girls. The order was basic,
wear the suit; make-up, loud colours
and tight clothes and market yourself
through the various social portals.
Every weekend a working girl would get free drinks, drunken *** (if she
wanted), she'd have a bf just for
security, and then stand in's for basic
expenses; food, cosmetics, hair-do,
and clothes). At the last levels of her
missions, she would choose a tamable guy who can afford her, this guy
would be too submerged in his ego to
what's coming. To secure the deal, the
objective is to have the guy impregnate
you. Then it's pretty much inevitable
from there. She plays good wife for a number of years, brings children, not
too many though, then when she is fed
up comes the divorce and alimony.
Done and dusted; game won. The game was fair in the beginning for
it was intended for bad and abusive
men but then it got corrupt and it
spread from world capitals to citcies
down to towns and even developing
rural areas. To make matters worse, the recruits were now found in girls who
were only in high school. The vision
was to tame girls from an early age to
use men as *** slaves and money
outlets. This was the order of The
Association. Vengeance or Justice? Or just plain manipulation. The
Association...

Being called a ****** is something I don’t mind
In fact it's really okay and it's rather kind
I don't think it is offensive or even a sick joke
What’s a man supposed to do without a **** to poke
Okay he could stick his **** between two bits of Spam
But he really needs a hot moist **** to be a real man
If her *****'s on the blob he could settle for an ****
The ******* of both these holes simply is pure class

There are guys who prefer a **** and like a manly ***
A tighter hole maybe prefered to make those fellows ***
To **** a bloke if you're straight is an equivalent to a slum
Or even a taboo ****** act like ******* your own mum.

Manly ***** and dangly parts are really not for me
I don't bend to hairy **** it's not where I would be
Girly ***** and smoother bums is what I want to see
I'd rather **** my own **** than **** a guys jacksy

Pulling a huge Horses Plonker only fools like Rodney Trotter
Or Blind Wizards with broken glasses like Harry ******* Potter
Don't **** on your **** to hard you may just *** a cropper
Especially if you ***** up in a helmet belonging to a copper.

I would never bash the bishop what would the churches say
To find me with a spunky hat and that their faiths turned gay
We don't want ***** clergymen who **** on the silver tray
Vicars ******* choir boys keep those cassock fanciers at bay

I would'nt choke the chicken because I don't think I could
But the staff at Kentucky Fried Chicken they probably would.
They would lick your ***** up because its finger licking good.
And use their special wipe up towel to clean up your manhood.
With its lemon fragrance you will have good smelling wood.
Around your shaft and helmet and beneath your ******* hood.

Would I ever yank my plank like the pirates of the seas
The extention of my log when I'm on my ******* knees
My hand around my fishing rod and giving it a squeeze
Using a hand action to squeeze out my cream cheese
*** is flowing down my shaft like honey from the bees
I'll keep pumping on my rod and creaming in the breeze

Have you ever seen those fellows praying down at the synagogue ?
From their own expressions they've been flogging their own log
Take a look at their robes the bottom stained with their eggnog
Either that or they have been ******* some old scruffy dog
I don't think that they bothered their heads are in a fog
With all that ******* worship they would **** a big fat hog

So I'm slowly warming to it but maybe when I'm ******
And I can't get no ***** and its the last thing on my list
I may take myself in hand my **** clutched in my fist
Then I may consider having a swift one of the wrist
If you end up watching then please excuse the mist
I'll carry on with the hope that my **** gets kissed

Because Wanking is an activity that in all honesty all men do
Something that comes to hand when you can't get a good *****
When your **** gets harder and we think of god knows who
We grab our piece of man meat and imagine that *** stew

I'll  have to keep on wanking I can never get enough
Off all that lovely ***** because finding it is tough
Nothing is more satisfying than diving in the ****
Legs open wide will always be something I will stuff
Instead of wanking I would rather stick it up your chuff
But I'll probably end up looking  a bit scraggy and ruff

So I will keep on going until my **** is old and worn
With all that ******* wanking whenever I get the horn
Popping my sweet cornels just like children of the corn
Watching ****'s and ******* or granny ******* ****

Kind pity chokes my spleen; brave scorn forbids
     Those tears to issue which swell my eyelids;
     I must not laugh, nor weep sins and be wise;
     Can railing, then, cure these worn maladies?
     Is not our mistress, fair Religion,
     As worthy of all our souls' devotion
     As virtue was in the first blinded age?
     Are not heaven's joys as valiant to assuage
     Lusts, as earth's honour was to them? Alas,
   As we do them in means, shall they surpass
   Us in the end? and shall thy father's spirit
   Meet blind philosophers in heaven, whose merit
   Of strict life may be imputed faith, and hear
   Thee, whom he taught so easy ways and near
   To follow, ****'d? Oh, if thou dar'st, fear this;
   This fear great courage and high valour is.
   Dar'st thou aid mutinous Dutch, and dar'st thou lay
   Thee in ships' wooden sepulchres, a prey
   To leaders' rage, to storms, to shot, to dearth?
   Dar'st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth?
   Hast thou courageous fire to thaw the ice
   Of frozen North discoveries? and thrice
   Colder than salamanders, like divine
   Children in th' oven, fires of Spain and the Line,
   Whose countries limbecs to our bodies be,
   Canst thou for gain bear? and must every he
   Which cries not, "Goddess," to thy mistress, draw
   Or eat thy poisonous words? Courage of straw!
   O desperate coward, wilt thou seem bold, and
   To thy foes and his, who made thee to stand
   Sentinel in his world's garrison, thus yield,
   And for forbidden wars leave th' appointed field?
   Know thy foes: the foul devil, whom thou
   Strivest to please, for hate, not love, would allow
   Thee fain his whole realm to be quit; and as
   The world's all parts wither away and pass,
   So the world's self, thy other lov'd foe, is
   In her decrepit wane, and thou loving this,
   Dost love a wither'd and worn strumpet; last,
   Flesh (itself's death) and joys which flesh can taste,
   Thou lovest, and thy fair goodly soul, which doth
   Give this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loathe.
   Seek true religion. O where? Mirreus,
   Thinking her unhous'd here, and fled from us,
   Seeks her at Rome; there, because he doth know
   That she was there a thousand years ago,
   He loves her rags so, as we here obey
   The statecloth where the prince sate yesterday.
   Crantz to such brave loves will not be enthrall'd,
   But loves her only, who at Geneva is call'd
   Religion, plain, simple, sullen, young,
   Contemptuous, yet unhandsome; as among
   Lecherous humours, there is one that judges
   No wenches wholesome, but coarse country drudges.
   Graius stays still at home here, and because
   Some preachers, vile ambitious bawds, and laws,
   Still new like fashions, bid him think that she
   Which dwells with us is only perfect, he
   Embraceth her whom his godfathers will
     Tender to him, being tender, as wards still
   Take such wives as their guardians offer, or
   Pay values. Careless Phrygius doth abhor
   All, because all cannot be good, as one
   Knowing some women ******, dares marry none.
   Graccus loves all as one, and thinks that so
   As women do in divers countries go
   In divers habits, yet are still one kind,
   So doth, so is Religion; and this blind-
   ness too much light breeds; but unmoved, thou
   Of force must one, and forc'd, but one allow,
   And the right; ask thy father which is she,
   Let him ask his; though truth and falsehood be
   Near twins, yet truth a little elder is;
   Be busy to seek her; believe me this,
   He's not of none, nor worst, that seeks the best.
   To adore, or scorn an image, or protest,
   May all be bad; doubt wisely; in strange way
   To stand inquiring right, is not to stray;
   To sleep, or run wrong, is. On a huge hill,
   Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and he that will
   Reach her, about must and about must go,
   And what the hill's suddenness resists, win so.
   Yet strive so that before age, death's twilight,
   Thy soul rest, for none can work in that night.
   To will implies delay, therefore now do;
   Hard deeds, the body's pains; hard knowledge too
   The mind's endeavours reach, and mysteries
   Are like the sun, dazzling, yet plain to all eyes.
   Keep the truth which thou hast found; men do not stand
   In so ill case, that God hath with his hand
   Sign'd kings' blank charters to **** whom they hate;
   Nor are they vicars, but hangmen to fate.
   Fool and wretch, wilt thou let thy soul be tied
   To man's laws, by which she shall not be tried
   At the last day? Oh, will it then boot thee
   To say a Philip, or a Gregory,
   A Harry, or a Martin, taught thee this?
   Is not this excuse for mere contraries
   Equally strong? Cannot both sides say so?
That thou mayest rightly obey power, her bounds know;
Those past, her nature and name is chang'd; to be
Then humble to her is idolatry.
As streams are, power is; those blest flowers that dwell
At the rough stream's calm head, thrive and do well,
But having left their roots, and themselves given
To the stream's tyrannous rage, alas, are driven
Through mills, and rocks, and woods, and at last, almost
Consum'd in going, in the sea are lost.
So perish souls, which more choose men's unjust
Power from God claim'd, than God himself to trust.

In the chapel of the glitter ball
in the hall of the dance machine
I am the suburbanite alone, a
dream on a white
horse.

On the steps to the crypt where many
angels have slipped on the wrappings
of condoms,
the silent ****** plays.

The vicars in hobnails prey on those
who travel high trails,
like vultures from the mission and
there's a ****** of churches all flocking
as one to ****** the kindness that once
flashed in the eyes
of his son.

**** them with kindness his Highness demands
but his blindness defeats him and the white horse
will only meet him
half way.

In the chapel of the glitter ball where we
see nothing but the diamonds fall and in
the hall of the dance machine his Highness
becomes the Queen.

It's all alter it now and we'll take refuge somehow
in the flower of the sixties
where 'please please me'
was an anthem for young men.

I can't see, but I think that suburbia's a skating rink
and we are the skaters darting away from the sharks
to be eaten by alligators, or
to be saved at some cost by the one on the cross where each point that he points to
is a station that I've been to.

So I shuffle the view and turn the glitter ball on
and everything's gone
like it used to be
except for me.

a friend of mine popped in the other day
to have a chat
we got to talking about the town's past history
and more especially about one of the Church of England vicars
she had a litany of information
relating to his many female conquests
he'd been playing around
quite a lot during his period
as the local rector
one day he was caught inside the church
with his pants down
he was administering
to one of his female parishioners
behind the altar
the fellow who used to do the light maintenance
was most astound at seeing such close contact between
the vicar and a member of his flock
a few days after this occurred
the Bishop of the diocese informed the vicar
that he was going to be sacked
for his indecent conduct within the walls
of a place of God
the female parishioner
was given her marching orders
by her infuriated husband
my friend and I like talking about our town's past history
as there are some events
which are truly worth recalling  
to memory

An unholy night,
these two know those nights well,
it’s raining God’s blood
‘to the cracked gates of hell.
The demons are out,
the lechers and fiends,
a good chance to rob, ****,
and listen for screams.
The Vicars head’s been cut off
on Joralemon street.
And such Neck-rophilia
seems just shy of obscene.
But that’s not why these two
are out on this night;
They want little kids
to make Angel’s delight.
You’ve never heard of it, have you?
It’s quite delicious in fact.
First they start off with the skin
from their ungrown, weak backs.
They’re peeling away
where their wings would soon grow,
but made too sore to fly
they fall down below!
And so catch them the wings,
shave them into a cheddar,
oh, but if it’s a girl,
make sure you be-head her.
Then break the legs like wishbones
and twist off the feet.
Make sure to save all that,
sssllurrrpp, succulent meat.
Last off’s the marrow
de la moelle épinière.
Get every last drop,
And let sit in stale air.

That's Right My ANGER...
Yes... My ANGER... !!!!!!

Is PERFECTLY Fit...
For A... Poetic BANGER... !!!

You See My ANGER FEEDS...
Poetic Seams That Most CAN'T Believe... !!!

That's NOT EGO Peeps'... !!!

I Merely REPEAT What Some INDEED...
Have IMMEDIATELY...
Said Upon Hearing Big Virge Poetry... !!!!

Ya See My Anger... " Simmers "...
Before It Glimmers And Makes Heads SHIVER... !!!!
Like Walking In Slippers In A BITTER Winter... !!!!!!!

What My Anger Delivers....
Has Made Man QUIVER...
Who Thought They Were BIGGER...
Than... Heavenly Figures... ?!?

My Scriptures Paint Pictures...
of Anger That's SICKER...
Than ******* Vicars... !!!!!!!!!!!!

My Angers' Religion...
Paints... Dark Matter Visions... !!!

That DO NEED...................... DISMISSING.........
Because of... DARK Thinking... !!!!!!!!!!!!
That NEEDS To Go MISSING.... !!!!!!

By This I Mean...
Anger That Rests Inside of ME...
Is Something UNWORTHY...
of...... " Humanity "...... !!!

It's Something SO SCARY...
That YES It... SCARES ME... !!!

Because of The POWER...
of Its... ENERGY... !!!

From Poems To Flowing...
With... IGNORANT Peeps'...

My ANGER Is Something...
People... Have NOT SEEN... !!!!!

They... THINK That They Have...
Which PROVES I'm A Man...
Whose Coolness EXCEEDS...
Much More Than These DUMMIES...
Could... EVER Conceive... !!!!!!

If I … EVER DID...  
Reverse FLIP The Script...
And Let My ANGER FLIP...

From Words To BULLETS... !!!
And Moving Like VILLAINS...
Whose Anger Would LIVE...
To... NEVER FORGIVE... !!!!!

You Kids Should RUN QUICK.... !!!!
Because There's A DARKNESS...
That Lies... " DEEP WITHIN "... !!!

BEYOND... " BAD Lieutenants "...
And... DRUG Dealing Fellas'... !!!!!!

SINISTER Vibes'  ....
Would Direct My Mind...
So PLEASE RECOGNISE...
What I Say In These Lines... !!!

Because I Am Nice...
When I Greet The FIRST TIME... !!!

But REALLY DON'T LIKE...
People... Crossing The Line...
of RESPECT... I Live By...

It RUNS DEEP In Me... !!!!!
Like... ANGRY Legacies...
Bred From … IGNORANCE...
That's Now Seen On Streets... !!!

So PLEASE HEED My WARNING... !!!!!

These Words AREN'T For GLAMOUR... !!!
They're Born From EXPLORING....

What Lies In.....

...... " My ANGER "...... !!!!!!

Did you hear what that old man was thinking?

Morphic resonance is the experimental name,
I think we are served by nodes on a net
not spread in the sight of any bird,

a chthonic net of stone,
girdling the globe in granite, crystalline granite,

take it for granted, these boulders are the witnesses,
the scars of catastrophe,
causing us to wonder
how came this to be? Think Yosemite, Ansel Adams POV

Think Matterhorn und Mt.Blanc,
Old Rockytop, and
Dos Cabezas and Long Valley Mountain, all that granite,
old as earth.

Listen.
Time is the idea we share at the moment,
Earth's is the life we share at the same time.

This is Spaceship Earth, looping Sol as Sol loops Sirius,
and there is no mothership,
no resupply.

This is the only earth, it has survived several civilized
monstrosities. As you know, some mortals can't
imagine not surviving with it, so
we words of earthbound muse,
let slip the bands of pride in time to see,
we are the music,
we make beauty behave as will believes, voluntarily,
it seems,
we choose beauty with little de
liberation, no need to
unlock ledgers and boxes of known safe knowns,

we imagine ourselves
defying the
de-ified con instituted authorities warning,
given us, they swear by the very vicars of the oil:
We warn you…

hell's the price, they swear, that we,
the people, pay for heresy,
dare not think those-
no, no, nor hear and see, or never imagine thinking
a selfish thought,
one you find curiously comforting, for you, your idea,
but
stop…
one heresy breeds another,
soon we shall have a collective
of individual minds agreeing at once,

as all see a particular arranging of colors, in a sunset's
single effortless existence as a thing
with mortal mindable beauty,

did you belive the sunset, or may you, if you wish?

__ unravel, and re ravel to save the thread,
it has lead through the maze before,
I have a witness who tests ifies.

Great unquarried granite, but that forms another story
upon precepts as yet

unglued, un-coagulated, ah, curdled, precepts cultural
curdle and clump together.
Biomes are adjusting the rethinking of pathos,
ethos shall follow,
as night follows day, just wait.

Patience is formed from memes more than experience,
you bet the old man was not lying.

Slow and steady, wins the grace. Take it easy. Fade away…

Parishioners gather around me
God has taken my mind
My god is splayed before me
Forming dust from thought in time

The ones like us

The ones, they've never come up
And all the ones, they don't deserve
And I

I don't deserve love

Silently burrow
Burning bright
Guiding light
To find me
The organs groan, than make me high
Each new motion besets me

My god is burrowed into the sand
Mocking me
As I am mocking you

My motives burrowed into mind
And you won't survive me god

Every six months, my thoughts change
Any time is too long
Every hour is droning on
Before I wake up, incomplete

We've cast aside distant memories
God is dead
What was once old is still old
Carry on

Robotic

Antibiotic

Symbiotic

Still we remain...


My newly bothered brothers
And sisters, so lovely
So come with me
Into this night

We are the new vicars
The world will bow
And we are the new gods
The sum of which is god

Where the sky is as wide as the smile on your face..and white clouds interlace with the heat from the sun.
Where the fun in the day is found in the words that you say..is where you'll find me.
Just to be..
..near..
..to you.
Involved..
..in..
..The things that you do.

And when the darkness comes which it always must.
Where love and lust are deaf and blind.
I shall find..
..that inner strength..
..go to any length
To see you shine..
..Love..
..Be mine

At the start of it..part of it..for a bit is tough so take the rough with the smooth..
Suffer bruised Egos along with bruised shins..Life's little banana skins have a way of making you slip.
If you just rip into her day..there's no way she'll say thanks.
But if you like driving those sorts of tanks then join the armed forces..
It's horses for courses..
Ships for the seas
Vicars and teas..
..She's..........your desire..so go out and buy her a gift..give her a lift..wait at the factory gate at the end of her shift.
Do everything well
Don't sell yourself short
If you're caught unawares..the only way out is to face down hostile stares.

Just look to her smiles and your troubles are already miles away.
Call her to hear her say
"So glad you are mine"
Fine.
Look in the mirror and see..
..yourself shine.
Love..
..Be mine.

If there's a God up there
he must be sleeping and
keeping the best bits
'til the last,
But there's a new Master,pumping
out verse on a second hand ghetto blaster,
I heard it at five from the
newscaster and the pastors are checking the terms of their contracts,the vicars have packed up and gone off to Butlins,saving some sins from the high church,Jehovah is perched on the bed post,hosting a party fresh in from the West coast,toasting the end of the East side,
I think the newscaster lied.

The air is wet in the moist tears of the sky
vacant, and full of the fragrances of the hill flowers

Lone bird flying tither, looking for shelter.

adorning her forehead dishevelled the clouds
Looking confused, Phantasm woman hair
the early crescent moon  looking lost,

Long travelled, when the soul longs for home,
there is none but the parnaked sky. Some warm clothes
familiar arms, a favourite soup. mirages a thirst.

When all is lost, there is hope. There is soul.
Wide earth, Call upon your vicars,
to learn your language and to be as you are,
to sing with the echoes and vanish with the shepherds.
I come here in homage, find me a home,

staring at the floating lamps dotting the dusk
distant hamlets in salsa with the stars.

Alight, for here, the bus stops.

There is no cover to speak of
So one cannot help but
break horizons....
This hour-glass of grassland runs
through circles of these optic nerves
to impotent obscurity.

There!...
Three fields out and dangling
in a filigree of  lark song...
Lapwings!
Gust-waft synods of ruffled vicars
from Heaven's addled cashmere, asking
"Did we?..No, we didn't...did we? "

In the eyes of the eyes of the man that I am, created by chance but that wasn't the plan, in the eyes that see life when support is switched off,
John Doe carries on,
where wrong's the new right and the night becomes day and the devils that hoodwink begin their final play and the sky's inside out where the clouds are below and the time reaches zero for me and John Doe.

I begin the new chapter when the laughter dies down and the maids of the forest move back to the town
where the mayor casts a challenge to all who will hear, it is the eyes of the eyes in the man that I fear.

No God makes a sin for the son he will lose and no son of mine would I choose for that task,
I ask for more always seeking the less and give blessing to poor men who if I confess are all me and where destiny wings me it sings me to sleep in the eyes of the eyes of the man.

The monitor blinks and I think
God's winking at me,
it's a quarter to three and he or she
should not tease me like this.

I lay a kiss on the cross
the vicars loss
my gain
and switch off
the pain.

Dear God,
when and if I get to heaven
will you make me pray?
I think I've done enough,
its snuffed me out,
so if I get up there and shout,
'please let me in'
don't you be thinking of my sin and
insisting on a lot more prayer,otherwise
I won't come there.
I'll show my face in that other place,where
indeed my friends will be,I'll
drink wine with fallen angels and invite
vicars in for tea.

On the whole I think for me that heaven
is the place to be,
it's just the praying I can't stand and why
pray when it's the promised land?

Dear God,
I know that I'm an awkward sod but allowances
must be made and
if you are the maker I will meet don't ask
me to kneel and
pray at your feet.
I know,
that praying stuff is 'buff' but really
I've done quite enough.

Yours sincerely nearly there
your humble subject
Yogi bear.

It was a fine Sunday morning in church two bins
one of blessing ,
the other for my sins .
the sins that lay before me to many for me to count ,
my blessings in Christ Jesus like falling stars on a cloudless night .

Now I had never had chocolate before this very morn ,
there it was from the vicars tin handed out .
It tasted not like nothing else I had had before ,



Just like Gods love in Purple robes and thorn ,
just like Gods love sweet in crimson snow .

How the birds at the calling of the day gather their nests ,
and fly away for food ,
yet   even these things don’t bother me .

Did you know the raven and the eagle circled Saxon battle fields ?
The ruddy noon day heat ,
and hover over the soldier with fallen shield .
Now with open wound
Peck ,
and tear and feed .
His sword yet ****** stays embedded in the mud ,
his helmet fallen encased my blood .

For the passing of the years a
  prayer from this mighty warrior to God so he might find rest .
in this battlefield of love .
A monk gives him water and bandages and cares for his head .
These cold stone walls lay waste against the enemy deadly spear ,.
For against the flesh he must conquer against Satan’s evil deeds .
This earth we cannot count for days of short or long ,
Our battle is everywhere ,
So to victory our cry ,
so long .

Waiting here and waiting strong
waiting for the end of days
which
the Devil tells me,'won't be long'
He also says,
'get in the queue,
there's plenty sinners just like you'

It's just my luck,
I know it's true,
just got my life back
now
it's through.

lots of people here I know
can't really name them,
(just in case), so
think of singers,plenty sound
lots of vicars,milling round
Politicians
by the score.
I wonder what Oprah's
waiting for.

(and that's a joke,
sometimes there is fire without the smoke)

I'll wait my turn
get in the ***
an eternity of torture
what have I got
to fear.

I'm waiting here and
been waiting long
perhaps the forecast was
quite wrong.
it's not the end of days at all
just
Winter at the end of Fall.

( and Fall is Autumn in english,English)

There's a smell of Sunday in the air
roast beef, two veg and
vicars everywhere,
there's the 'sally army' with the band
marching on,
I'd give a hand,
but mine are tied to eggs
I should have fried.

She has breakfast on the lawn, flakes, I think, made out of corn and tea from China, I have wine (communion) a cheeky little vintage from a vintner in the town.

There's a taste of sin that floats on by, the sinners maybe getting high on bible verse,
the bells are worse, ****** dang, ****, they're out of tune if I'm not wrong,
but putting all my moans aside, it's Sunday so
'abide with me'
She,
has other plans,
wash the dishes, clean the pans, dust the table, shine the floor.

Sunday
is what
Sunday's for.

Church has a strange allure.
A fishing rod thrown out to capture the impure.
Pure of heart are welcomed in with holy words presented.
Opportunities for absolution of sin.
With singing and dancing and praising the lord.
With hymns and psalms,
The finest spoken word.
Words of vicars, priests and pastors.
Preaching good God's love and laughter.
Time on Earth be heaven sent.
Much too brief, life's only lent.
Sinners,brothers and sisters.
Hold your hands up high.
Repent at night before you sleep.
Guard your soul so safety keep.
(c)Livvi MMCV

Conduits in a guarded hall
The millions of souls singing in unison
Of a similar silence of not fulfilling their vows
The music dances in the canopy of mosaic
Vicars garner sanguine spirits with a dance that sings
Old castles have inscriptions of the dead
And sagely spirits that haunt these very verses
Through these conduits run the blood of religion
Only the monks seem to be silent about it all

the godless Dawkins
The Professor Richard Dawkins had stroke which made him say
when feeling better: “There are things we will never know.”
I think his sudden revelation or insight is gratifying.
For those who do not know the professor he has written books
about anti-god and made fun of those who do believe in a religion
God is an abstract figure which I knew when nine years of age it
is easy to laugh at vicars and women wearing crosses, but for me
the subject of god is boring

The tallest poppy sprout refined and majestic in rarefied inner peace

In wisdom, knowledge and truth he embraces his charismatic rays

Self-assured, confident, stoic and compassionate, sincere in truthful pleas

That duly in the service of others, our world would be a better place

Where each and all finds in true hope, their deserving nirvana undismayed

And with honest toil and gainful endeavour, bright smiles will grace every face



Alas, the land is filled with psychopaths, deviants, louts, charlatans and knaves

Mindless simpletons, arrogant buffoons, deluded malcontents, shepples and fleas

Racists, liars, Lilly-liver ed cowards, inadequate bullies and stained underclass with knives

Hedonists, drunkards, pedophiles, lying hypocritical vicars and inglorious common thieves

Fathers and mothers with no control over off-springs and hapless aged locked away in fear

Whilst the shameless cowardly reprobates, uncouth, unwashed declares, we rule the hives

And as the wont of sad degenerate mediocrities,  mesmerises a gang of fools in similar dire



Some say they are the barbarians of Europe, uncultured, arrogant, mindless, jingoistic ***** dusts

Basking at once, then denigrating a proud history made by the elites, who now patronise them

And indoors, sip iced Bollinger, nibble on caviar, and shake their saloon ed heads in disgust

The educated professionals indulge them and offer liberal platitudes, the problem is at the stem

And the pitiful ingrates, dosed on *******, hyped on beer and moonshine from a Polish den

Stagger and pounce about pathetically, and hiss through yellow uneven teeth, power to the people

"This is Democracy", they pontificate, we can terrorize the likes of the Tallest Poppy, that silly Zen



So how does one explain what 'piffling contempt' means to deranged, deluded, inadequate psychos, then

How do indulgent semi-illiterates class, limited by a benevolent nanny State see they project their angst onto better men

And vent their spleen and the frustrations of their limitations and insignificance on to others who they fear and envy.

The pain and miseries of their unfulfilled, mundane and superficial, empty lives, means others should suffer too

So again, So how does one explain what 'piffling contempt' means to deranged, deluded, inadequate psychos

How do you catch a *****, extricate the coward bully, and revive a dead brain, capable of aspirations and higher ideals

More tea
Emily?

Wafer thin ham
on wafer thin bread
to be
served on bone china plates
and she's still in bed!

Next time it'll be Spam.

First of the part of the journey
The sea washes
The sand castle
In a hassle of moist touches
Shaping my future like God's touches
I feel blessed
As the empty red sunset sky watches
Looks like the faces of the dirt and the dust
Lay the waste to the degrees of the deserted fields
Cause the spring time rains on the
Heads on the bickering rabble of the lost civilizations
Where has out water gone?
Where is our respect?
Smirking MAGA kid convicted of arrogance
Pretend to be docile to bring out the silence
In your enemy
Provoke disgrace by being free
Out of the trees
Of last vicars
That make the yellow tainted spruce
Meant for the civilized truth
Darkness cannot drive out darkness
Only love can do that

I am cocktail shaker
pill taker,
doctor and his orders
that have to be obeyed.

Listening to
someone yodel
but I don't know who
it is.

The tablets,
though
not made of stone
could build a wall
and
I think of this when
I'm not thinking of you,
when I'm home alone
not
watching home alone
because that would be too sad
even for a pill shaker.

The big sleep's coming
so
I'm saving up for it by
staying awake
and
I wonder if I'll like it there
wherever there might be,
if there truly is an afterlife
what might be in it for me
other than
psalms and bible reading.
and vicars at Sunday tea.

Religion, a force for good they say.

Medieval curds and whey.

A mixture of promises threats and worse,

Blight on the world this ancient curse.

Comfort can be drawn in times of woe,

Of this I'm certain and indeed I know.

If only the good that does exist,

Had not been twisted to misfit.

Vicars, Bishop's shepherd and flock,

Have turned mankind into a fearing lot.

To say that the Lord watches all,

Seems to make no sense at all.

Sleeping, waking at all times,

A foot out of place an eternal crime.

And whilst I see a place for it,

I can't accept this hallowed writ.

Hitchens, Russell, Dawkins and Harris

Spinoza, Lucretius could of stopped the damage,

Now done it can never be repaired,

A shame as mankind could of been spared.

Prove the wise serpent harmless as the dove.

Put on the whole armor metaphor, contain yourself,

dare let a spirit test if I can say
- there did you hear it…

this is true
the three essential mere words, tied to the story you're in,

there was a beginning, as with any bubble form, once
upon a certain time, as certainty grew worse,

madness became standard anger modality, berserkers
were bred, as these days the grand wedoms breed
heroic champion character development programs,

elite forces,
chosen warriors,

each a volunteer, taken the step, learnt the salute,
comprehended the safety in the chain of command,
- es no mi culpa
be wise as those who prayed
to a manifested golden calf,
be so wise as those who, to this day, say to the vicars,

to you alone, let Jah speak, for we are totally unworthy,

thus it  is written, read the preacher to me, no escape
with honor, but on the battlefield,

so okay, everyday people, common folk, simple art,
some time spent,
invested, using investigatory story skilled honed,
on audio only Perry Mason, take the stand,

I need not remind you, you remain under oaths,
and woe to the man who does not believe,

faith alone be the evidence
of hoped for things occuring as wished,

tool for the task, a maker ever wishes, such
such tools as these we use to read, ready
we become some sorted thing, filtered

line by line, sieved as fine ground flour, dust

thou art, and unto dust, eh
the cinematic depiction of ancient burial sanctuary.

Sanctimonious display, displayed artfully and often,
always show the coffin, or the urn, or the ashes

on the wind,
it all depends on wind working,

otherwise, the stench is enough to make
life under the sun and moon and stars, impossible,

here. Where self evidence appears, with an ancient
silly wise wombed man's grin,

answered now with slight smile level reassurance.

Real life is done on a continuing basis.

As an ancient adage says, the unexamined life
is worthless, not worth the cost of living.