Saturday, 20 September 2008


For all I have wrote within these pages Ne’er doth my Soul waste, as the body ages; Some verse to find at times brings pain, Yet causeth not the heart’s flow to wane But pump more strongly, with added vigour, Each line an exertion of Literal Rigour. If I was deaf, and dumb and blind, Still would the Muse take hold this mind; Mayhap a poet I shalt never be, But in Life once breathed the Scent of Immortality.

An Invocation

If thee hath drawn a Smile of Late,
From all mine Hand herein Wrote,
Pray, as I tread afore Heaven’s Gate,
Cast Saint Pete’ thy Assenting Vote.

If my Prose gave Food for Thought
And may Stand against Time’s Duration,
Then I Wasted not my Muse for Naught
If ‘twill Earn me Just Salvation.

Yet if my Verse offends thine eye,
And whom might know to tell,
Perhaps Eternity lies not in the Sky
But to stoke the Fires of Hell.

The Release from Pain

In all my life’s days and dark, dreamless nights,
Ne’er afore shone this most Brilliant of Lights,
To bathe mine infirm body and tormented mind;
From far ‘cross the Ether gives sight to eyes blind.

Without and within, it warms my crippled joints,
Cleanses mine Soul, and as a halo anoints
The crown of my head, rendering such bliss;
Ah, these pains of Mortality I shall never miss.

A hand raises me up, and we float, silent, away,
Gone are the agonies of each passing day;
Farewell my body, a friend before age
Cast you as a foe, with the turn of Youth’s page.

‘Tis the greatest of pities man decays and grows old,
His wild nights of Passion become lonely and cold;
But I now venture on, borne aloft by His hand,
As the top of Life’s glass is emptied of sand.

One True Friend

Along the path life’s passage wends
Are few milestones set to mark my Friends,
For no man could true fulfil that task
And be as I : give aught they might ask.

Unto a Friend one should surrender all
When’er his need takes voice to call,
Yet by this rule he must return the same,
If a Friend cries out in Friendship’s name.

Aye, many offer a hand, and many seek,
That Grail of which I herein speak;
Though one alone has proved in Life
To be a True Friend : my Eternal Wife.

The Chant

I spied a brace of Geezenstacks come loping through the night,
Followed by a unicorn, with eyes lit fiery-bright;
A spectre sat astride the steed, with hourglass in hand,
And watched with morbid pleasure as the top ran out its sand.

On across the swamp they jogged, with nary a slosh nor splash,
The only sound apparent was the Devil’s Hell-Hound lash
As it fell upon his panting wolves and stung their rabid jaws;
Driving fast to Purgatory, as steam rose from tempered paws.

Then I saw their quarry, stumbling up a rocky scarp,
An Archangel, with wings broken, clutching tight a precious harp;
Golden-threaded raiments hung in tatters down his back,
And blood trickled from the wounds left by a taloned Geezenstack.

Then I saw the Hand of God reach down, to mark a distinct line,
That naught of Evil Ways might cross to slay His angel fine,
Then the sky exploded, as the Earth and Sun ‘came one,
And awaking from my dream, stark reality had gone.

Dreams becoming nightmares, recurring over and again;
Excesses of strong liquor, and fine, uncut cocaine,
Are freaking out my psyche, burning up the brain.
A search for Cosmic Wisdom, now rendered me insane.

The Methusela Cipher

Who wants to live Forever ? All declare Me! and Me! and Me!
After reaching sixty-five the whole Shebang’s for Free,
But can a Welfare State shoulder the burden of Immortals
Trooping every Friday through the Cornucopia’s portals ?

Perhaps a Legislative Amendment to elevate retirement age,
Far beyond three score and five set the qualifying gauge,
Keep the Masses in Servitude, seven centuries should do,
Before granting Pension’s Pasture and their annuities due.

Who wants to live Forever ? Perchance a few might quail,
Upon studying the Protocols to attain this Esoteric Grail,
A purge of dogmatic nutritional habits may induce disquiet
When all Fried nosh be expunged from the Dictionary of Diet,
For the Key to Biblical Longevity, with a euphoric sprightly gait,
Lies not in Cabalistic Ritual, but what Lies upon thy Plate.
So to those errant Parsivals, who on such Quests might go,
Thy Odysseys are ended, the Catholicon’s secret lies below.

A daily diet’s regimen, one of raw vegetables and fruits,
Eschew the spleen of pork pies or sausage in pastry suits,
To all confectioneries and sugars, bid a sad Farewell,
Their pathway leads not to Heaven, but the bowels of Hell.
Five black grapes, diurnal, and masticate the pips,
Then ingest their substance, though bitter on the lips,
Three almonds precisely ensures Immunity from Cancer,
This therapy warrants Centenarians the virility of a Lancer.
A teaspoon of virgin olive oil, a gill of soured lactic milk,
A knob of green ginger pure, but no other rhizome’s ilk,
Chaw a brace of raw garlic cloves with thy daily meal,
A panacea for all mortal ills, and the smell is no big deal.

The condiment of salt, too, is banished from the table
Adequate in root herbage to keep Men strong and able,
Feast on the grains in all their forms, natural and unrefined,
For white bread be a Death Warrant, awaiting to be Signed.
Worship the Humble Onion, the purple-hued more than white,
And revere the Tomato for his Concealed Potent Might.
Forswear of strong coffee, limit intake to one black cup,
Tisanes of red clover and the demure plantain should sup.

Adios to mephitic fast foods at the local Chew and Spew,
And imbibing to Saturation on thy favoured dram or brew,
Unto Nicotine’s dedicated votaries, avoid flagrant excess,
Though no detriment in sweet Tobacco’s occasional caress.
The next imposed requirement will come as no surprise,
A committed weekly schedule to cardio-vascular exercise.
Afore the ensuing remedial, medical science might pale,
Partake of six glasses that puissant nectar, Adam’s Ale,
‘Twill fortify the Inner Self, tormented guts wax placid,
Keeps the body slightly alkali and dilutes baneful acid.

Embrace the bee’s production, far doth she forage and roam,
One tablespoon of wild honey, intact with pollen and comb.
Close up thy gawking maw, the nose alone draws breath,
Deeply, down to the groin, to belay maladies, and Death.
Strive toward the Great Becoming, a prize not so elusive,
This byway to Hygeia’s graces be veracious and conclusive
If thee spurns the seductive calls of Cuisine’s Prostitution,
Man, the Physical Bastion, with a Supernatural Constitution.

One basic healing proverb, that Time hath proven true,
Never worry selfish Worry, until Worry worries You;
Thrive on the analeptic benefits of Eternal Optimism,
Bias towards cynical trends invites a Spiritual schism,
Laugh squarely in the faces, of Tribulation and Adversity,
Provide Pessimism’s specter no welcome mat or courtesy.
For Men embrace neuroses, and are apt to fret deliriously,
Life itself might be abridged if one takes it too Seriously.

Mayhap this therapeutic Formula earns thy acute disdain,
But as the Maxim clearly states : without Pain there is no Gain.
Man hath become sad victim of aberrant culinary tradition,
For Sickness does not Exist, it’s a Symptom of the Condition.
So pile upon my Heresies the hot coals of Condemnation,
If thee harbours no care to outlive the younger generation,
Yet whatever your Aspirations, for thy Life and Situation,
Practice Moderation in all of things, especially Moderation.

The Journeyman’s Prayer

Thou art the source of all Shining Lights,
Ne’er given to rout nor failed retreat,
Who guides through the murk of Protracted Nights,
To bring me home, at each journey’s end, Complete.

The Faith

Within this doloric age, where uncertainty rules,
Failure’s shadow lurks alike some wraith,
Yet minds of Clarity are precision tools,
That temper our endeavours,
And help us keep the Faith.

The Seventh Day of Creation

Ref. Creation’s Controversy, it took far longer than Six Days,
Man’s chronicles are distorted due Religion’s cozening ways,
A Concoction of rewriting, and counterfeited innovation,
The whole of Biblical essence has become sheer Fabrication
First the Rabbinic morons mistranslated every other verse,
Then the Vatican’s forgers meddled to make it even worse;
Mad Mohammed, high on ganja, published his own Editions
Of prior distorted Annals, thus compounded past seditions.

Then the Catholic Hierarchy, as further Theological Investment,
Conjured up an additional Heresy titled The New Testament,
Wherein God, of all Deities, is pronounced to have a Son
By some Hebrew wench named Mary, so their tale is spun,
And this Divine Progeny thus sets abroad preaching Good,
Upsets the Sanhedrin and gets nailed on two balks of wood.

So the time has come to pass to set this record straight,
Before History rushes on, through the Millennium’s gate,
The Universe was Created in a series of Fits and Starts,
Due waiting on Designs and Finance, or deliveries of Parts.

When the Earth was formed, from Etheric clay and shale,
Heaven already existed, bought in a Celestial garage sale,
A Paradise second-hand but a sure Bargain at the Price,
God grabbed the best villa, but all the cottages were nice.
Swimming pools abundant, two eighteen hole golf courses,
Stables of fine thoroughbreds, if Angels ever rode horses,
Extensive a la carte menus, and wine with every meal,
Lunches of freshly-tossed pizza and milk-fed tender veal,
Ah, so much to see and do, and at prices one could afford,
But even those Supernal Aristocrats ultimately got Bored.

And so it came to pass, due the Seraphim’s frustration,
They decided to continue with the Great Works of Creation,
And planned a Solar System, the Conception and the Birth,
Wherein today still orbits our own beloved Planet Earth.

The Archangel Saitan, whose engineering skills Unmatched,
Had crafted several Galaxies and a few repaired or patched,
So of the Heavenly Construction Host he took firm Command,
As God was occupied with accountants, and his tax demand.

This Great Industry was commenced at eight o’clock sharp,
On a Monday morning, to the sounds of clarion and harp,
During the second week of August, straight after early tea,
In the year Six Billion, Nine Thousand and Twenty -Three.

By Tuesday evening the Sun was ignited and shone bright,
A couple of minor adjustments synchronized day and night,
Nine Planets were formed by Wednesday, with orbits regulated,
Then satellite moons allotted to each, and perfectly situated,
( Four outer planets were cancelled due Gravitational effect,
And Pluto, being so distant, suffered Landscaping neglect )
All was running to Divine schedule, no end of mystical tricks,
Young Gabriel built the Asteroid Belt out of left-over bricks.

Yet Earth’s position was Nonpareil, she was the Chef-d’oeuvre,
Upon her primordial visage the Angels bestowed sacred Love,
Amino acids and proteins, and other occult chemical grains,
Were sown among the clouds to meld with winds and rains;
Then upon the Firmament botanic miracles were duly seen,
Legions of diverse species grew, a vast carpeting of green.
The oceans were still turbid, and cast a feculent amber hue,
Until Saitan’s micturation tinged them chromatic cobalt blue.

By Saturday, come five pm, the Great Labour was Complete,
And Saitan threw a party to celebrate their Colossal Feat,
Six days had he forecast to perform this monumental task,
A schedule maintained, what more might any Deity ask.
The Seraphim in Array gathered upon Earth’s fertile ground,
With qualified complacency, thus passed the drinks around,
And toasted well the Architect Saitan for his Grand Design,
As each Angel lent a hand to turn the water into wine.

Beneath a gibbous moon, they laughed and sang and drank,
Integrated upon soft turf, with no distinction to their rank,
Melodious harps and floral scents imbued the balmy breeze,
And fruits of myriad diversity hung in festoons on the trees;
And Saitan proclaimed to all “ Let us tarry here for a spell,
‘Tis the finest planet yet created, and think I’ll call it Hell,
And this particular grove we chose for tipplin’ and feedin’
Shalt be our Hallowed garden, and bear the name of Eden.”

Come the Sunday morning, none attended Heaven’s call,
God sat alone in church, as His Seraphs were still AWOL,
Recovering from hangovers, wings and haloes all askew,
For grapes of the Celestial vintage ferment a fearful brew.

Directly after matins God mounted Pegasus and flew out,
In a vengeful, jealous mood aggravated by revenant gout,
Espied their novel terrestrial handiwork, and duly zeroed in,
His temper set choleric, and meager patience wearing thin.
With vindictive envy He viewed the Masterpiece of Creation,
Decried Saitan’s Arrogance and Cursed him with Damnation,
For conceiving an Elysium surpassing Heaven’s Pulchritude,
Exiled him upon the Earth, and thus began the Eternal Feud.

But Saitan had well achieved his workload’s due quota,
And for God’s fiery upbraiding really didn’t care one iota,
Responded in Like Kind, with a few harsh words and facts,
Concerning God’s own short-comings and erroneous acts.

“You created the Andromeda Galaxy in five days or less,
Yet another botched up job, thy whole Cosmos is a mess,
It’s best you stay in Heaven, playing scrabble or chess
With your Sycophantic Cherubim and Senescent Peers,
And leave the design of Constellations to us Engineers.”

“Your red X3 Sigma stars are collapsing into Black Holes,
All Grade Two planets have palms sprouting at the Poles;
This Space-Time Continuum trick you thought so smart
Gets screwed up by Solar Gravity, not a real work of Art.
If more committed to Forethought, and less done in Haste,
Then half the completed Universe wouldn’t end up as Waste,
Hurtling across the Ether, alike thy Comets and Meteorites,
To perhaps collide with Heaven one of these bloody nights.”

And onward went this Diatribe, a great verbalized Discourse,
All Seraphs a’cheering, for Saitan’s stock swayed the Bourse;
God, stricken apoplectic, His face contorted and dark blue,
Shook with Omnipotent rage as Saitan’s oratory rose anew.

“Thee who stood in Hauteur as your smarmy claqueur sang
Praises to thy Sculpted Universe while their carillons rang,
It’s alike some Primordial Atom exploded with a Big Bang !
All this talk and hyping about thy Powers and fine Creation,
What thee Personally hath Made constitutes an Abomination;
The only functional components were designed and built by Me,
That last Sequoia you crafted turned out a monkey-puzzle tree.
We’re tired of thy Stewardship, your Popularity’s on the Wane,
And come the next Election, we ain’t Voting for you Again !”

Hence the Revolt of Heaven actually took place on this Earth,
And just a few short days after its Conception and due Birth.

“Enough!” cried God in anger, for His spleen was nigh to bust
At Saitan’s fierce Oratorical, in One He hath laid such Trust,
“Thee are Condemned and Exiled to this Utopia, Max Eternal,
And Hell shalt remain its name, forever proscribed Infernal.
I gave thee a single inch, and yet you took a whole full yard, ***
Thy Fraternity be rescinded, and too your Frequent Flier card.”

Then the Seraphim, dislocated, formed into opposed factions,
Varied past Invested Interests befuddled successive actions,
All Fury’s Wrath was Loosened, and Dark did grow the sky,
As Yahweh lost two front teeth and Saitan copped a black eye.
The effects classed more at Skirmish, than a Battle or a War,
Yet its Like, in Heaven’s Grace, None had e’r seen before;
Down and Plumage and gold raiment, strewn o’er the field,
Thunderbolts and punches thrown, but not a one would yield,
Until Saitan, in good Common Sense, called a timely Halt,
Gave into God’s Obstinacy, and declared he was at Fault.

So God herded the Seraphim back through Heaven’s Gates,
Bawled out each Angelic issue as Subversive Reprobates,
And, in His Histrionic Rage, for this Exaggerated Crime,
Slashed their pay by half, backdated to the Dawn of Time.

*** Actually a “Sacred Cubit” of 25 : 2”, but it doesn’t rhyme with “Card”

Thence Saitan exiled on this Earth, ostracized and alone,
His Confrere, the turquoise seas, awash upon gray stone,
And the Firmament, a Cornucopia of Provender and such,
With arboretums begotten where’er was laid his touch;
Of Flora and of Fauna, a potent hand brought into being,
The Great Architect, outcast, enrapt of a Vision farseeing.

Lo ! Yahweh, the Supreme Deity, a grudge forever bore,
And Saitan’s name was Scandalized if brought to the Fore,
His past deeds of Great Merit by God were falsely claimed,
With bouts of recurrent spite at Saitan’s character aimed;
For God, via perjurious slurs in the Biblical Prophets’ ears,
Hath slandered Saitan’s reputation for six thousand years.
Thence, ‘tis due this Acrimony, pervading Creation’s mess,
That Saitan hath been stricken by a perpetual bad press.

And whene’er Saitan’s back was turned God liked to sabotage
Earth’s supreme quintessence and pervert odd things at large,
Within the luscious avocado, God shaped the seed too big,
The scented timid rose, he placed thorns upon each twig,
On the Oceans’ Piscean species, cast a malodorous stink,
Spawned parasites in the pools where animals might drink,
Introduced venomous genera, of the scorpion and snake,
Conjured Adam and Eve as Saitan’s perpetual Headache.

Set Earth’s bowels afire causing Massifs to erupt and smoke,
Formed the woeful platypus as an enigmatic Divine joke,
Ploughed the element Uranium deep in terrestrial soil,
Cursed Jurassic plants and dinosaurs to decompose as oil.
The poor giraffe and ostrich, stretched their necks so long,
Afflicted each of Adam’s progeny with a different tongue.
Hence Saitan is ever Sentinel, with eyes alert and quick,
To thwart God’s truculence and reverse each heinous trick.

Yet Saitan is magnanimous, and allows Man to worship God,
Being of modest demeanor, to this superstition gave his nod,
Aware the inherent hypocrisies of Forgiveness and Salvation
Are beyond the realm of Yahweh’s covenanted Declaration.
Heaven’s reserve is for the Angels, and Great Seraphim alone,
The presence of dead Men’s souls would simply lower the tone,
So come the end of Tellurian span, when tolls Mortality’s Bell,
Human spirits transcend corporeal form, but still remain in Hell.

A Literary Contention

Pray which Holy Sage proclaimed old Saint Peter
Was lauded as a Master of the Iambic Meter,
For whate’r his Virtues, Pious and Gracious,
This alleged poetic talent is quite fallacious.
Unlike Saint Paul, with his copious Epistles,
Pete’s literary Blooms remain more at Thistles;
Given quill and parchment he couldn’t spell “Tent”
As trawling for fish was his vocational bent.
The University of Galilee offered no Literary Courses,
Just Darning Nets and Shoeing Horses,
And while being promoted to a “Fisher of Men”
Was still unable to count from One to Ten.
That he became an Apostle, and traded old rope,
Is never conjectured, before elected as Pope,
But where is the proof of his Elegiac capacity,
That Vatican archivists claim with such veracity;
Whate’r verse he mused before inverted crucifixion
Is lost in the mists of theological contradiction.
While some might label me a biased Protestant critic
Can Anyone write verse in Hieroglyphs or Semitic?


A Dedication to those who stand fast against strife,
And for their true Master would freely give Life;
Whose needs are of the Heart and Spirit alone,
‘Tis such beings of mettle from which Legends grown.

Aye, a myth proven fact, they are enigmatic and rare,
But no Evil can divide as they corner the Square;
Pure psyche is their Compass, to East and to West,
See the Widow’s Son’s symbol emblazed on each chest.

Now they timely awake from the slumber of Ages,
To participate again and edit Man’s historic pages;
To arrest the Crowning, the Ceremony and Feast,
Of He that breathes Darkness: the Eternal Beast.

None yet know of their coming, these Paladins Immortal,
As they step light on the path below Shamballah’s portal.


Each temporal wonder that Genius crafts
In Heaven’s bustling forge
Is a Miracle born that none may scorn,
The Bounty and the Scourge
Bear a Valence that holds all in Balance,
And on which all might gorge.

Neath the rose’ bright, scented petals
Lie tracks of baleful thorn,
And perhaps ‘tis right that Beauty’s bite
Is appointed so to warn
Nature’s profession allows no concession,
From the zephyrs are typhoons born.

Thus Synergy provides the Staff of Life,
Each species’ viand is herb or meat,
So the Ordained way that aught be Prey
Should appeal to minds aesthete,
And none complain of metastatic pain
As Cancer, too, must eat.

21st March, 1983 - 21st March, 1993.

So, draws close now the Marking Day.
The Solar Equinox : of Life’s Eternal Spring.
To love you more, in Time’s passing way,
Each kiss you give, each smile you bring;
Cherished Wife, who wears mine ring.

A decade passed, as Wife and Man,
One-seventh term our mortal span,
Yet ne’er doth the heart wilt nor shed,
Love keeps its bloom, on Love ‘tis fed :
To surpass Time, alive or dead.

Mayhap gone, Youth’s broad-stepped wild,
Given to the care of both our child;
Though maturity, in heart and mind,
Hath seen Love flower, in each we find
Peace and Compassion : the Oath we signed.

A decade gone, and pray, decades more,
Beyond all years, keep not their score;
Though when the twilight dims our eyes
Still shalt I hold thy Heart mine prize,
Above all treasures: untouched by lies.

The Shades of South East Asia

The Brown , White and Yellow : a most enigmatic mix,
All duly renown for their schemes, ploys and tricks;
Some given to Great Industry, others taken with Sloth,
Great Hearts of Compassion, or Souls alike Ragged Cloth.

The Felon, the Vagrant, the Supplicant Nun,
The Tuan, the Proud Bishop, the Colonial Son;
The Philandering Husbands, the Perfidious Wives,
Shall harbour some Secret during their Mortal Lives.

A keen eye to their Progeny,
Those adust Sons and Daughters,
Each claims an abode in these far Asian quarters.

Youth’s Finest Summer

Do thee recall thy finest summer, as I do mine ?
For me ‘twas the last of youth’s tender wine,
When adulthood’s cares not yet laid on our shoulder,
Oh damn these times, so much wiser and older.
I would freely give now all my future years due
Just to relive that one summer with you,
To swim in our lake, build a warm, crackling fire,
Lie ‘neath bright stars as a new moon climbed higher;
Kiss your sweet breath away, from lips cherry red,
Thy breasts as a pillow, to rest my dreaming head,
Feel thy fingers form ringlets in this tussled hair
While my own trace your thighs, as far I might dare.
Damn the grave’s hunger, where thee liest dead,
And damn these cold nights, spent alone in mine bed.


Each issue of Men and Women desire to breeze through Life,
Premium colleges and careers, the perfect husband or wife,
A spacious and secure home, bounded by verdant ground,
In which their infantine menageries may safely run around,
Immune from external malevolence, a family radiant in Health,
Sprightly for Retirement’s legacy, blessed by a modicum of wealth.

The Daydream of the Masses perhaps, for Life owes us Naught,
Each Bounty we achieve, by hard toil and sweat is bought,
Though Minds of crystal Clarity, forged as Precision Tools,
Become an Omnipotent Force if honed by sagacious rules;
The wise Philosophies of History, if observed and applied,
Pave a halcyon path in Life, and the Trophies too provide.

Ne’er dance with the Devil as he intones Ambition’s song,
For Lights that burn twice as bright also burn half as long,
Pace all thy worldly doings, take time to rest and to reflect,
Body and Soul in serene accord, and not Victims of Neglect;
Another Day is each Tomorrow, and all things come to pass,
The oxen may at times be slow, but Mother Earth’s a patient lass.

A Mind vigilant in all Seasons be favoured well by Chance,
With Proper Preparation Preventing Poor Perform-ance,
The Five P’s Philosophy, yet another existential smart,
Alike that equestrian credo of the donkey and the cart.
An Engineering Maxim be : Twice measured and Once cut,
Strides taken methodically, each Step follows the other Foot;
Beware the Irresistible Impulse, for all are Satan’s snare,
The Laws of Action and Reaction quite oft’ mete out Despair,
The Headless Chicken Syndrome equates Effort into Waste,
Mistakes and fortuitous Babies, the sole by-products of Haste.

Maintain the upper hand via Resolve, Poise and Audacity,
Avoid Mendacious dialogues, for strength lies in Veracity,
Though Lies are a useful tool, let their employ be sparse,
And held solemnly in reserve to safeguard your own arse.

Ne’er build furniture from kindling, nor use rare oak for fuel,
Eschew the Zealot and Fanatics, their audience is the Fool,
Liberty be the coveted prize of self-discipline and restraint,
Rations of Patience and Charity, the baselines of a Saint,
Ne’er rely upon Assumption, for she wears a cloak of Errors,
Be wary of all Religions, they art a Wilderness of Mirrors,
Ontological proof of God’s being leaves one tired and vexed,
This World’s Certainty is far preferable to a very Dubious Next.

As an Observer thy sole aspect at Socio-Political Parades,
Note the Calm afore the Storms, of diatribes and tirades,
Close Enough not only applies to horseshoes and grenades,
Leave the sheep and Judas Goats to shepherd such charades,
Stay clear of their Shenanigans, ‘tis the Instinct of the Herd,
Peaceful while at pasture, stampede at some rumoured Word.

Ne’er Volunteer for Anything, lest with the Impossible be tasked,
Candy stripers wholly misconceived the questions they were asked.
Avoid dubious commerce, where Ham and Eggs equity’s remitted,
For the Chicken’s only Involved, while the Pig’s totally Committed.
Keep the Mind forever learning, hone thy Intellectual facilities,
And forswear all Ambitions beyond the scope of your Abilities.

Shun sporting pastimes that leave you nauseous and fainting,
Never Invest in anything that requires Feeding or Repainting,
The next little apothegm should become a Golden Rule :
Abstain your Democratic Right to talk and act like a Fool,
For many folk declare each other Idiots, with all due respect,
And usually it occurs that Both parties are quite Correct.

Beware Authority’s mantle, Powers’ thirst’s a bitch to sate,
Under its Illusion, Corruption holds vast sway and weight,
The rewards are but Transitory, yet the Obligations great;
Supreme Moral Rectitude needs be the hand upon its helm,
To deny Graft any acreage, a vexation of the Spirit’s realm.

Believe half of what one Sees, and none of which thee Hears,
Accord Temperance to liquor, be as a Paragon to thy peers,
For imbibing old John Barleycorn until he runs out of thy ears,
Provides the Whore of Perdition a philter of Regrets and Tears,
As the Climax of her Lust achieved upon thy due Damnation,
So apply Moderation to all of things : ( especially Moderation )

Cherish thy chosen soul mate, for all their repining ways,
Magnanimous accords provide the Ambrosia of thy Days,
Ne’er sink to spiteful ripostes, the bane of Spiritual health,
For Silence’ harvest, alike Adultery, is Conspiracy in itself.
Akin the Arctic wastelands doth become the Nuptial Bed
If moot aphasic piques permeate each spouse’s head,
As the diet of such Discords, afford the leanest Rations,
So Love’s Concordat restores the Fire of fitful Passions.

Foul Bigotry and Bias be not the tools of a Sapient Man,
These Genocidal chattels, adopted by the Ku Klux Klan,
Are Prejudice Incarnate, the Demon which Lies Beneath,
Each issue of Civilized youth on such has cut their teeth;
Inbred base Hatreds, this arrant Division of Us and Them,
A Neuro-Bronchial Infection, ne’er Expectorated as Phlegm,
Racial disparities be naught, and Sectarian are worth less,
Enslave the Negroes, Gas the Jews : such is History’s Mess.

Treat all of Mankind as equals, until they prove you Wrong,
Then one might compose thy own Insular Chauvinist’ song,
But to deft Melodious Accord, as Individuals in Singularity,
What applies to One doth not confer the Stigma on Plurality;
For Rancor is admissible, in the wide scope of our Humanity,
Pray it ne’er manifests as a devouring, cancerous Profanity,
Keep jaundiced opinions reined, of the Decaffeinated type,
Yeah, Unleaded in their Octane, and not of Draconian hype.

Be on good terms with all men, shun Confrontation if thee can,
Yet circumstance might prevail, to force proof thou art a Man,
Life compels Dire Actions when snared within an adverse Fix
So ‘tis better to be Tried by Twelve than carried Aloft by Six.

Aye, Adversity is a Constant, but her Defeat takes the Prize,
Naught is ever a Failure until viewed through mournful eyes,
Given Time and Money, aught can be achieved and done,
“No Problems : only Solutions”, a philosophical number One.
The Credo of “Sometimes Equalled but never, ever, Beaten”
Provides a Banquet of Nourishment when its feast be eaten;
Though ‘tis a formidable task for proud Eagles to fly and soar
When apathetic chickens form each Endeavour’s nuclear core.
Yet it is sedulous Fortitude that Gains and Wins the Day,
Declare “Either Lead or Follow, or get out of the Damn Way !”

As you tread Life’s narrow tracks, discern well each junction,
And build thy Mansion true, where Form doth follow Function,
Aye, Construct upon the bed of rock, athwart that final track,
Where its terminus doth face the Sea, with the hills a’back,
Lay the axis South to North, utilizing Feng Shui’s worth,
Thy gazebo warmed by Eastern sun at each Dawn’s birth,
So all garden-fare might flourish, and ripen on the vine,
Life, so ordered and matured, becomes the sweetest wine.

Thus achieve thy Great Becoming, in denial of Solipsism,
The Cult of Personality treads a path to Spiritual Schism,
Rest contented with thy Lot, things could be much worse,
And read the Book of Job if thee don’t believe my verse;
Come to peace with God, whate’r you conceive Him to be,
For Life itself is far too short to e’r be taken Seriously. : Online

Hail Sir Richard Branson and his Wildcat commercial stable,
Entrepreneurial non-conformist of the maverick Virgin label,
Iconoclast of Global Economics and Mercantile Traditions,
Denounced by the City for Heretical Investment Seditions.

So damn these jealous Brahmins of the dynastic silver spoon,
Envious of thy Strategies, and Virgin’s over-inflated Balloon,
All desire to see thee Fall, and flailed with their polished boots,
The eternal open-collared Upstart defying the Corporate Suits;
And in further gross challenge to these Fiscal Deities Immortal
Now initiate your Magnum Opus : the Internet portal,
Where the Third Estate can browse, until their heart’s content,
To book vacations in Dirigibles, ensured their scrip’s well spent,
Even if the hot air and breezes run short somewhere over Pisa,
And by Etruscan Immigration detained for lack of a current visa.

Now your Virgin Money lets us speculate in stocks Online,
Plus a jargon-free guide to buying innovative Virgin Wine,
Classified not by the vineyard’s region, but texture and taste,
We pray a better vintage than Virgin Cola’s emetic waste.
Aye, alike Virgin Rail’s enterprise, has seen you out of pocket,
But thee shouldn’t have started out fielding Stevenson’s Rocket,
Servicing the redundant route of Cape Wrath to Portland Bight,
With stops at Clewes and Frodsham, and Ventnor, Isle of White.
I developed terminal hemorrhoids the last time we rode your train,
But fortunately Virgin’s Online Preparation H cured them again.

I’ve been chauffeured around London on a Virgin Limobike,
Sent two faxes and had a sauna, you’ve never seen the like,
Once flew Virgin Atlantic from dear old England to New York,
But due some fault in navigation, ended up in County Cork.
We considered Virgin Records a Hit and Sanctified to Thrive,
Now this relaunched Fiscal Disaster as V. Shops might survive;
With two hundred-plus companies under Branson’s Virgin brand
One or three, or several, may pass before the Receiver’s hand.

What predict the Soothsayers of Financial Speculations,
Will Virgin Online dominate the commerce of Far Nations ?
Usurping the market for Rembrant’s and unique Old Masters,
For triple tinted toilet tissue and Chiropodist’s bunion plasters,
Providing Internet Euthanasia for one’s aged and ailing pets,
Simply type-in Assassins-dot-com for Virgin’s terminal Vets.

A vehicle for the family camping trip ? A Virgin Website Truck !
If it rolls off down the Pennines, who gives an Online Fuck !
Call up Virgin Auto Insurance, on your Virgin Mobile phone,
Leave a GPS location fix when you hear the message tone,
So the Virgin Wrecker can salvage the pulverized debris,
Then swiftly hop on Virgin Express and head for sunny Capri,
And when you receive an Invoice, Liable for the Gross Amount,
Simply charge it to your unlisted Virgin Islands bank account.

The new baby won’t come out ! Try Virgin’s Cybersite Cesarean,
What Denomination for the Baptism ? Why, Virgin Presbyterian.
Will you peddle Online Bar mitzvah’s, of cheap Armenian hype,
Vend Taiwanese cardboard Classic coffins, of a Superior type ?
Nuptial cakes designed and built by Taylor-Woodrow or Costain,
Sliced with a hammer and chisel by the Bride’s beloved Swain,
Lease wedding boas of Dodo plumes, gowns of Byzantine lace,
Interments upon Mount Everest. One’s Ashes shot into Space,
Hawk cut-price Circumcisions, and Stop and Shop Vasectomies,
Reduce the Ladies’ medical bills with walk-in Hysterectomies.
And while the competition raves, with paroxysm and contortions,
Provide careless wenches the convenience of Online Abortions.
The mind doth truly boggle with the services you company offers,
To keep Virgin a Solvent entity, and replenish thy bloody coffers.

Many class thee as a Role Model for the next Corporate Elite,
A lucky Cavalier Arrogant, a tightrope walker with two left feet,
Alike some demented gardener, who imprudently doth sow,
But if he scatters enough wild seeds, a few are bound to grow.
Perchance more shake-ups or bail-outs are due down the line,
With the vomitous Cola brand, and the prospect of Saharan wine,
For even with a Knighthood, and the Online Portal’s Cream,
Our dear Sir Richard Branson might be living in a Dream,
For things at Virgin Online dot-com are not all that they seem.

Who requires a Lifestyle Editor dominating Cradle to Grave care,
Existing Totalitarian Authorities already drive us to Despair.
The Corner Shop of Yesteryear was perhaps a Fine Tradition,
What fires Global Economy is Diverse, Intense Competition.
Yet the Concept is Correct , for Mankind’s composed of Sheep,
Virgin’s Demographics have targeted a world market half-Asleep.

Where now our Teenage Editor, or the Music-Industry Tycoon ?
( Signed the putrid Sex Pistols - They burst their own balloon )
A Mogul of Aviation hath become ! A Monarch of Cyberspace ?
Perchance we’ll hold back the Laurels until he’s run that Race.
Albeit not Risk-Averse, in this Venture may prove the Master,
Though one problem with the ‘Net : Bad news travels Faster.

Thou asks why Caustic Wit and Ire be vented in this Purging,
Baltic caviar passed off as Megastores’ prime Caspian sturgeon,
And from Branson’s Bride Online, due my peers persistent urgin’,
Bought a Thai mail-order spouse, and she definitely isn’t Virgin !

Vacations : a la Saudi

After aeons of veiling women ‘neath those drab chador
And impaling Giaours who breached Mecca’s holy door
You now welcome the Infidels for a Grand Arabian Tour !
To view What exactly - thy Deserts of wind-blown sand ?
Our Occidental coasts are blessed with beaches grand,
So we really hath no desires for thy bug-infested shores,
Nor imposition of the rules of hypocritical heathen Moors.
And if we should choose such climes for our due vacation,
Visit the local sauna, for a dose of dehydrating privation,
And later, to relieve this self-inflicted anhydrous condition,
Irrigate on clear ale, in the established, legalised tradition.

So retain thy scorched domain for those of similar ilk,
Bred to the Mullah’s calls, and weaned on Islam’s milk,
Who may well appreciate a feast of thy cultural treats,
Alike public beheadings and goats fucking in the streets,
Or join the sweaty throngs of that weekly barbaric parade
To see an adulteress stoned, another harlot renegade,
Or hear the devastating swish of the Scimitar’s blade
As it lops off the hand of some hapless, thieving beggar,
Next it might be a Smith, or Jones, or of the clan McGregor,
If we dare journey to thy land in Adventure’s intrepid cause,
Become sad victims to your inane and neolithic Sharia laws
Through the innocent transgression of some minor legality,
What we should have tipped the waiter, or like cultural triviality.

Can we visit your holy Mecca, on a special tourist Haj,
Take photos of the Kaaba, without adopting Islam’s badge
Of having our foreskins shorn, and infibulating our womenfolk ?
The whole concept of Saudi holidays constitutes a pitiful joke,
Banging one’s reluctant head on some Mosque’s fetid floor,
Shoeless, in supplication, inviting verrucas by the score,
Draped in grimy bed sheets, tea-towels atop thy craniums,
Denied a pint or dram, supping boiled cactus or geraniums.

Perchance we can go jet skiing off arid Ras al Tanura,
Frolicking upon the Gulf, massive oil slicks in plethora,
With sewage and cadavers, compete for swimming space
And dispatch post-cards to Mater :
“What a splendid place,
The weather is simply gorgeous, and wish you were here,
Please send two packs of bacon, and a keg of frosted beer,
Plus five kilos of pork sausages and several tins of Spam,
And if it ain’t too much trouble, a haunch of roasted ham,
A magnum of Dom Perignon too, so we might raise a toast,
But courier the hamper via Fed-Ex, and not the Saudi post.”

You vacation far abroad, with logical and just cause,
Outside the parameters of oppressive, asinine laws,
For within the Liberal climes of a Civilized community,
You may breach Islam’s strictures with fearless Impunity.

Thy concubines can shoplift, until their heart’s content,
Commit Infidel adultery while paroled from a Bedouin tent,
And discern what a Woman, in Western eyes, is Worth,
Then seek due asylum from the Penitentiary of her birth.

While thee, the noble Sheikhs, far from the Muezzin’s calls,
Might partake of Venality within our Heathen bastion’s walls,
Where you can freely gamble, get drunk, and screw about,
W’out fear the dreaded Mutawwaain will e’er catch you out.
In our Arena thou art beyond the foul venom of Sharia Laws,
And too, of homicidal Fatwas, and the Imams’ tyrannic paws.

So why, one does inquire, should we partake of your charade,
Vacationers besieged by regulations yourself wish to evade?
And where, in Allah’s name, did you e’er Divine the Notion
Thy desiccated Kingdom is worthy of Tourist Promotion ?


The BBC World Service News announced, circa mid-August, 2000, that the Saudi Arabian Government wishes to implement a dedicated programme of foreign tourist promotion.

The Travellers

So come, my lover, together we must fly,
For the sun never sets in an Eastern sky,
Take off as one, and free our souls again,
To go raise a little Hell on the Astral Plane.
Yeah, clasp tight my hand as our spirits fly,
If we get this perfected, we’re never going to die.

When they try to wake our bodies, stay close by me,
Pronounced DOA we’re most likely going to be,
And buried together, just redundant flesh and bone;
Laid to rest Eternal in the Gardens of Cold Stone.

We’ve got to leave these bodies to grow comatose and cold,
They were great in younger days but a burden now we’re old,
But the essence of our souls shows not the marks of age;
Forever prime in Astral form : to Rock and Roll and Rage.

So let’s make and break my love, just get clean away,
Far out beyond the Ether afore the light of day;
A fact we don’t need this material illusion anymore,
The Earth’s become a poisoned apple, rotten to the core.

The Tale of Marmaduke Mullet

Sir Marmaduke Mullet, an inebriate old bugger,
Arrived late for tea, and pissed in the sugar,
Dear Lady Harcourt issued a piercing, long scream
As he shook off the drops into a pot of fresh cream.

But later, when sober, as excuse for these sins,
Explained he had quaffed down fourteen large gins
While partaking of lunch at his dour City club,
Then ventured on to some cheap Whitehall pub
Where sampled three yards of Northern brown ale,
Chased by half a firkin of Czech pilsner pale.

Now feeling quite mellow, espied an old naval chum
And together imbibed several noggings of rum,
Until thunder erupted, to herald a deluge of rain,
So swapped their tipples to Guinness and champagne.

“Aha, ‘tis near teatime,” Mullet informed the Royal Naval feller,
“I’m off to Lord Harcourt’s, may I borrow your umbrella?”
Then the old saloon clock struck a sure count of four,
And Marmaduke Mullet staggered out through the door
Where rain fell in torrents, from skies black as night,
With nary a carriage nor cab in plain sight.

So, best foot forward, Mullet set out at a dash,
With rivulets of rain dripping from his moustache,
Across both the park, then over the heath,
With a smouldering briar pipe still clenched twix his teeth,
To arrive rather sodden at the Harcourt’s front door
Just as a rainbow dispersed the downpour.

Albeit he was an hour, and more, late,
With the serving of tea his hosts decided to wait,
While fumed Lady Harcourt, renown in that locality,
For being a stickler on schedule and punctuality.
Then in staggered Mullet, besotted by alcoholic haze,
And promptly emptied his bladder into a Ming vase.
“Incontinence!” he cried, “’Tis a sign of old age.”
As Lady Harcourt shuddered, smouldering with rage.
Then next to Reverend Berrick he collapsed in a heap,
Curled up on the sofa, and was taken by sleep,
Until shortly awoke with a bladder-bursting start,
Swung his feet to the floor and loosed a huge fart,
Promptly unbuttoned his flies without shame or blush,
And flooded the sugar bowl with a urinary gush.

With protocols diplomatic, the butler showed Mullet the door,
And advised him, in whispers, to return there no more.
So, ye lunch-time imbibers, let this a stern lesson be
If you are ever invited to the Harcourt’s for tea,
Avoid embarrassing incontinence, be a well-prepared chappie,
And rig out beforehand, with a geriatric nappy.

The Surprises of Hell

I have just returned from a foul place called Hell,
Where all things are tormented and wild,
‘Tis exactly the same as our vicars tell
In their sermons to each growing child.

Many familiar faces, scores of great fame,
Were involved with feeding those fires,
Some for violent crimes and unrepented shame,
Others for avarice or gross perverted desires.

A choice collection of scientists and politicians,
Every general who called men to Wars,
Ample folk for blasphemy and felonious seditions,
Expired terrorists, duly damned by their cause.

Monarchs and sheiks, deceased heads of state,
All had transgressed God’s Commandments in Life,
And for their past Sins tended the furnace’s grate
Under directions from Old Nick’s chief wife.

But I was redeemed, and shown to the door,
Given a chance to earn Immortal Parole :
“Go forth, tempt some souls, a few million more,
For all Mankind is now ripe to enroll.”

The Sheikh of Knightsbridge

Mohammed “Who” has tumbled from Providence’ Graces ?
So many Mohammed’s abroad, I confuse their rostrate faces,
Though quite a popular name among the Mid-Eastern races,
Those of the fetid deserts, chawing on Islam’s grist,
Disciples of the Prophet. (Another Mohammed to the list )
Conducting their inane Jihads, for some Cause, or for Self,
Quite alike this one’s Crusade, focused on Personal Wealth.

From the Land of the Pharaohs, and the Enigmatic Sphinx,
This Bedouin Costermonger, of rumoured Sinister links
To the Voodoo Priests of Haiti, and Brunei’s Corrupt Elite,
And the Despotic Emirates. ( A Hallowed Terrorist Retreat )
‘Tis bruited he started Life robbing tombs and trading goats,
Established his First bank account with Promissory Notes,
Vended paraffin and poodles, and selections of old rope,
Once courted gross Insolvency due a Monopoly on Soap.
( For in Greater Araby, naught discerns wheat from chaff,
In their water-deficient culture no-one ever takes a bath )

So to Western climes he ventured, our Nomadic Peddler,
As a Barterer of Influence, an Evolving Political Meddler;
Via sly Fiscal Legerdemain, and Unctuous Semitic wits,
Became the Sole Proprietor of Gaul’s prestigious Ritz.
And Onward the grim March, of Capitalist Prostitution,
To gain Hegemonic control of that Great British Institution,
Harrods : the Purveyors of Exotic Soups and Marmalades,
Besieged by warring Tycoons and their Litigating Brigades.

Damn thee, House of Fraser, thy scant Moral Worth be spent,
If the Food Court now stocks Swill served in a Bedouin’s tent,
Fried locusts and boiled durra, and camel ballocks stew,
Or unctuous canned Baklava. It’s enough to make one Spew,
Our Revered shelves festooned with viscid figs and dates,
Invoices writ on Papyrus, rancid Fedayeen guard the gates,
While Muezzins bawl from balconies the tariff on Prime Cuts,
The Mezzanine’s chock full with Klepto’s, and vulgar Arab sluts
Haggling for huge discounts, in their fustian chadors and veil,
Demanding deliveries to Jeddah, buying Tampax by the bale.
Old Henry Charles Harrod perhaps turns restless in his Grave,
Disposing of his Magnum Opus to a Muslim Mammon’s slave.

Next, we’ll acquire the Dorchester, ( for our Brunei Benefactor )
Entrepreneurial Conjuring designates the Preferred Contractor;
A wee Castle in bonny Scotland ? The Price is Always Right.
( Another absentee Alien Landlord who only stays the Night )
Earn derision from the Ghillies, you squatting in the heather,
Sans socks, or a pair of jocks, and Flipflops in that Weather !
The Thane of Glanis now become ! Ha ! A Bedouin in a Kilt ?
Perhaps sell out All to Lonrho, before they prove thy Guilt,
For their Demented Fuhrer has vowed see thee Crucified
Due your Treacherous Duplicity. ( Has Tiny never Lied ? )
The Roll Call of Friends and Aficionados dwindles to a few
The Man has gained More Enemies than Hitler ever knew.

Now again your Polemics bend the stalwart British ear,
Obsessed by Conspiracy Theories, all Verbal Diarrhea,
Let Dodi and Di sleep peacefully, to seek Eternal Bliss,
Your fault for hiring chauffeurs who drive while full of Piss.

Maybe it’s time to fold thy Tent and find another Oasis,
No Brit’ citizenship for you, via Merit or the Old Boy basis,
No Knighthood or seat in the Lords for Anglophiles of thy Ilk,
A Third Estate Honour, the Monarch’s Dub and Azure Silk,
Reserved for Boilermakers and Tranters of the Royal Milk.
We’ve grown nauseated and weary of thy Byzantine scandals,
And Pretentious Posing in a Bowler, Pinstripes and Sandals.
Unquestionably, Mr. Al-Fayed, Britain has gone to the Dogs,
Perhaps through our Indulgence of Greedy, Scheming Wogs.

The Romanov Saints

Does a dearth of worthy Icons plague Russia’s Church?
As for Saints, in particular, the faithful rave and search,
Petitioning the Synod to Canonize a new batch of Seven,
So this selected cadre might attain a loftier rank in Heaven;
A harp and a halo each, and perchance Seraphic wings,
And whatever other perquisites such exalted status brings.

Pray, who are these Martyrs, nominated for Veneration?
Why, the autocratic Romanovs who, by Misrule’s dedication,
Brought about their own demise and the Dynasty’s just fall,
Due Nicholas’ chronic disregard in heeding Reform’s call.
Three centuries of tyranny under the Romanovs’ inept rules,
Are such the Virtues of Glorified Souls or the Signets of Fools?

What qualifies Tsar Nicholas and his sybaritic kin as Saints?
Theirs ain’t a pretty portrait, one fraught with sanguine paints,
A Legion of abuses contrived by the Elite of his vast realm,
Oppressive levies and pogroms decreed with Nicky at the helm.

The longanimous, bovine Russ, all serfs to that feudal State,
Innate Slavic apathy pervading their mortal days and Fate,
Until coerced to rebellion by famishment and like privations,
For Nicky’s Welfare Agency fell short on social donations.
What asinine rhetoric conceived such extortionate Fiats,
As a System of Governance I’ve seen better organised riots.
Placid petitions for Reforms, no aloof Oligarch would heed,
‘Til the plod of Democratic Evolution turned into a Stampede.

Any change Nicky conceded was cast in a reluctant mould,
Both the Duma and Zemstva trickled from a crucible cold,
With their issues of reform met by obstructive receptions,
Egalitarian facades, sculpted out of Autocratic deceptions.
And from the Baltic’s shores, to the Empire’s far Pacific Rim,
A Proletariat brutally censored by that most fearful acronym,
The Okhranka incarnate, the Tsar’s mitrailleuse of Repression,
Served to aggravate the suppurating carcinoma of depression.
A Calamity in gestation, awaiting its time and place of birth,
Whose repercussions would quake the politics of the Earth.

Such was the baneful recipe simmering on the Rodina’s fire,
Ingredients like Father Grigory spiced the Anarchist’s ire,
But as Rasputin gorged, and the Masses stooped to beg,
The Tsarina esteemed yet another fresh-laid Faberge egg.
The condiment of World War One enhanced the casserole,
With the German High Command endorsing Lenin’s parole,
And by a subversive, timely hand, expedited his due return,
Just as the gangrenous goulash was simmering on to burn.
This Messiah of Insurrection inveigled the rebels to concur,
And gave that bubbling, septic stew a final, mighty stir,
Then ladled out just servings to the entire Second Estate,
With Ecclesiarchs force-fed from a purgative Marxist plate.

The Tsar proffered Expiations, declaimed in autocratic jargon,
Nescient that force majeure rarely cuts a favourable bargain,
Such egoistic desperate formulas ushered Nicky’s Abdication,
For his past sins and excesses, was conferred Incarceration
By the incumbent Soviet rabble and their atheistic Professor,
With Dzerzhinsky’s satanic Cheka as warden and confessor.

Incommunicado twix the Urals, far beyond Amnesty’s hand,
Ekaterinburg, a private gulag as War’s attrition swept the land,
Until the Monarchist Whites intrigued their liberty and restoration,
Prompting the Bolsheviks to ordain the Romanovs’ termination.

Herded into dank, silent cellars neath the dacha’s frigid soil,
To mute the nauseous echoes that emit from Murder’s toil,
Pleas and screams and gunfire, then a sob or guttural bray,
Then the coup de grace, and stone dead each Romanov lay;
Tsar, Tsarina and Tsarevitch, victims of political euthanasia,
And too, four naïve maiden daughters, including Anastasia.

So does their fate qualify as saintly Suffering and Passion?
For all the Rodina’s peasants were tasked with like ration,
Protracted, their privations, in the Romanov dynastic span,
Do we Canonize each expired Russ : Woman, Child and Man?
All agonized o’er three centuries under inept tyrannic Tsars,
Their Seditious pleas for Reform earned a life behind bars,
Excommunication and mortal exile to the remote Arctic interior,
Confined to those desolate salt mines and gulags of Siberia.

So petitions for this clique’s Veneration fall upon deaf ears,
A pity such wasn’t entreated during Stalin’s regnant years,
To observe the Georgian Bear review this vain supplication,
And banish its appellants for a hefty dose of re-indoctrination
On the Kamchatka Peninsula, digging uranium with a spade,
Ne’er to rejoin polite society ‘til they’d met the Marxist grade.

For the Holy Synod’s petitioners, the verdict is Nyet, boys,
History and conscience’ logic gainsay your reverent ploys,
And solicitation for a new Saint Nicholas definitely annoys,
As we already have one : the guy who brings the children toys.

The BBC World Service News announced, circa mid-August, 2000, that the
Russian Orthodox Church is being petitioned to have Tsar Nicholas II
and his family, executed by the Bolsheviks in 1918, Canonized for their
Passion and Suffering.

The Road Code

Dear little Caroline,
See how she runs,
Down to the bakery:
Buying hot cross buns.

Dear little Caroline
Knows her Highway Code,
And looks right, left, and right,
Before she steps out on the road.

Poor Johnny Prescott
Forgot this simple rule,
And was run down by a tanker
While on his way to school.

Yes, poor Johnny Prescott,
Squashed beyond all hope;
They didn’t bury him in a coffin,
But a large brown envelope.

The Preservers of Virtue

We design locks to protect virgins from cocks,
Chastity belts renown for their superb latches,
Ne’er to be picked or sprung by keysmiths well-hung:
The consummate sentinels for thy daughter’s snatches.

So, if incessant Viking raids, or protracted Crusades,
Keep thy watchful eyes away from your castles,
Employ our devices, at the most moderate of prices,
To safeguard thy maidens from all lecherous vassals.

The Potholer’s Caveat

A warning to all who seek adventure in caves,
Be aware of their secrets and dangers,
For therein lie demons and Lucifer’s slaves;
To day’s light all are deprived strangers.

While exploring the depths of an aqueous cavern
My starved ears caught hold distant groans,
Then did I long for the light of the tavern
A s my lamp played across damp-licked stones.

In the cavern’s cathedral, twix stalagmites white,
Danced a horde of beings most foul,
The type of which haunt the bad dreams of night,
All divested of shoe, cloak and cowl.

Twix their legs, broomsticks, each was astride,
Cold sweat leaked from my shivering pores,
And a legion of black cats howled and cried
As those witches performed their Satanic chores.

Then they caught sight of my glimmering lamp,
Broke away from their coven, their infernal camp.
I turned to run, yet slithered and fell,
Became the prostrated prey of those Maids of Hell.

And onward they came, with every breath’s tide,
Each born of the Devil, and some demon’s bride,
Tore off my clothings, fangs pierced my skin,
Rent by those claws on hands bony-thin.

Ripped out my tongue, disgorged offending eyes,
The blood in gored throat stifled agony’s cries,
Shredded mine flesh down to barest bone,
And scattered as carrion upon subterranean stone.

Now they are gone, in such jubilant mood,
Gave their Master so sanguine a toast,
While I am left here, in spirit, to brood,
On my existence as an unwilling ghost.

The Pious Man

A travelled man versed in Worldly ways,
Was our erstwhile, beloved Deacon,
To those in Need gave nights and days,
This poor communities’ Spiritual Beacon.

He laid the Altar and swept the Nave,
Tolled the Bell in our Church tower,
A fathom deep he dug each Grave,
And in Reverence held God’s Power.

He would tend the aged, sick and frail,
With no thought of his own well-being,
Service unto others his chosen Grail,
Afore Great Heaven’s Eye, All-seeing.

As One our Clans did due declare,
O’er that fine Deacon’s mortal span,
His Deeds of Good beyond compare
For there strode a Pious man.

A Divine aureole did anoint his crown
And Goodness beamed from the face,
Yet our Deacon played this halo down
As perhaps a noose not yet in place.

Aye, learned of arrant human traits,
Possessed a deep sagacious ken,
Brought us afore our spiritual gates
And converted Bipeds into Men.

From whence he came, none e’r knew,
Emerged as our old priest passed on,
Where the hoar frosts of Winter grew
He unfurled Spring’s warming sun.

This Guiding Light, in mortal form,
Emanated love and demure humility,
His spiritual blanket kept all warm,
And gave restless souls tranquillity.

Extolled sacred truths at Evensong,
From the pulpit, bore staid and tall,
That God beheld each Right and Wrong
For all of Earth be His Celestial Hall.

Gathered close in the church each night
Our Clans joined for Divine Communion,
The Deacon edified on Eternal Light
And to attain this Hallowed Union.

He spake that God was in all of men
Not some Deity rent aloof or abroad,
And the Bible wrote by the Liar’s pen,
Composed for his own venal accord.

‘Twas so we learned of material things
Being the anchor that bound man’s soul,
The desires of golden chains and rings
Denied to all their due spiritual goal.

Thereon his lessons became our guide
And duly embraced the Arch of the Sky,
In all elements beneath He doth reside
With the Testaments a Contrived Lie.

He lives in each and every issue of man,
Yet clerics would bind us for slaves
Subjugated souls throughout mortal span,
From our cradles unto our graves.

Serfs afore the creed of temporal desire,
Benefices and tithes their Holy Rod,
Smother the flames of true numinous fire
With fear of Rome’s mendacious God.

So get thee behind, all perjuring priests
We worship the Earth and the plough,
In the furrow sown we take divine feasts
With an exact God of Here and Now,
With the one Deity who binds all Nature,
For she bears His Grace in every feature.

Upon this conversion the Deacon rejoiced,
For his tasks in our midst were ended,
‘Neath the Sky’s Arch our praises voiced
As with Nature, enraptured, he blended
In an ethereal form, as breeze and light,
As One with the Whole took his due flight.

Hear now the bell, it tolls in the tower,
As on knees devout we tend the Earth
Nurturing each sweet herb and flower
That our Deacon blesses with birth.

Aye, hear the bell toll, rung by His hand,
As His Essence courses the skies,
Surveying Heaven’s vast fertile land,
Reborn Eternal, for naught ever dies.

For this the Promise borne from His mouth,
To North and East, to West and South,
They who Believe and look Within
Shalt ne’er become the tools of Sin.

The Owl

A praise to that most sagacious of fowl,
The Nocturnal Sage, the silent old owl.

He furrows his brows at Man’s antics and doings,
Who infect all they touch with epidemics of ruins.

Yea, wise is the bird who utters no if or but,
Just sits in a tree and keeps his mouth shut.

The Gardener

Where now the Gardener, He who tends Life,
Surely not succumbed to this Age of Pure Strife ?
For men takest root from His planted seeds,
Which shalt be flowers, which grow as weeds,
Which will bear fruits, which shalt hold sting,
Which claimed by Fairies, to adorn their Magic Ring ?

Some bear bright petals and dance with the breeze,
Others take deeper root, to grow as tall trees,
Some, alike ivy, preferring a forest’s semi-dark,
Strangulate all they touch, in an untended park;
The buttercup and daisy, of sweet yet short lives,
The bright Dragon’s Tongue, her leaves alike knives.
The rose, for her beauty, is sure clad with thorn,
While gentle, potent poppies dance alone in the corn;
The lofty sequoia, above all others she is Peer,
And lives to grow on, for a thousand long year.

So where now the Gardener, His forest is full,
Which shalt survive, which will He cull ?
For man unattended, to rule his own lands,
Will surely reduce all to a desert of sands.

The Fires of Retribution

Paramedic first-aid comes in last,
The time for doctors has been and past,
Smilin’ Riley’s down on his luck :
He just got totalled by the fire truck.

But a proverb of sorts might some amaze,
For it was Riley who torched this little blaze,
A falling out with his neighbourhood parson
Drove Riley to church, intent on arson.

So away is Riley. To stoke the Fires of Hell,
Or perhaps up to Heaven, who can ever tell.
For Divine Providence, at times, directs our actions,
And the church did belong to the Mormon factions.

Yeah, Riley’s last supper was a T-bone steak,
And heard that his Missus was out on the make,
Screwing some preacher from the Salt Lake City.
(Hickeys on her neck, and one on either titty.)

Well the Riley’s in Boston are of temperaments even
A bit of bar-room brawling, a spot of festive thievin’.
But mess with their womenfolk, and the Apocalypse arises,
Four Horsemen working overtime, and coffins of all sizes.

So Riley grabbed his hammer, and a pocket full of nails,
Headed off for Calvary, to staple down some tails
Caught them in the cloisters, rutting like two hogs.
Aye, never cuckold a Paddy from the Irish bogs.

Crucified the pair , he did, above the altar high,
Nailed ‘em both upside-down, oblivious to each cry,
Then he doused the whole damn temple with a drum of kerosine,
And all the while a’whistlin’ “The Wearing of the Green.”

So Riley lit a candle, and spoke a gentle prayer,
Then lit up his Missus, around her pubic hair,
Watched the pair of fornicators incinerate to cinder,
Followed by the church, a stack of waiting tinder.

So if you want to screw around, beware of Vengeance’ Flames,
This applies to preachers all, and to married dames,
Tell your spouses what you will, smother them with lies,
But never cross a Paddy with fire in his eyes.

The Euro

Inform us, we pray, which cozening Monetary Scholars
Saddled the gullible E.E.C. with tawdry Eurodollars,
What unqualified arrogance conjured by a fiscal Opus Dei
Attempts to create Remunerative Truth from a Bankrupt Lie ?
Another esoteric victory for a vile Prieure de Sion’s scroll
Plotting Their Utopian Europe in some dank subterranean hole
Fabian Aristocrats and Oligarchs assembled in a venal forum,
How many Imbeciles to make up a covert Legislative Quorum ?

So the Deed is Done, and the Euro plummets more than falls
Echoing in cacophony around the Globe’s Financial Halls,
As Europe woefully laments and cries Foul against the Issue
Hobbled by a common currency worth less than toilet tissue.
Cosmopolitan queues snake to the money changers’ grills,
Bent on trading off the source of their mass financial ills,
Back into something Sterling, escudos, drachmas or francs,
Ensconced within a sock, and to Hell with Edacious Banks.

‘Tis providential this Numismatic Nightmare came up short
Else unctuous Frogs and Dagos our vital commodities bought,
Paid for in Euro bills, stained with pomades and cheap wine,
Redolent of chilies and garlic, and medicinal turpentine.

The Democratic Delinquent

‘Tis a monumental worry, a path to calumny and failure,
When politicians deliberate with their edematous genitalia
Doomed to perpetual losses more than brief, fugacious gains,
Decisions Eminent or Mundane best made by flaccid brains.

From calculated lies to opprobrium to jurisprudent actions
Pounced upon and ravaged by opposing Legislative Factions,
The Holy Trinity as spin-doctors, to cure these publicity ills,
An Administrative equivalent of the Valdez Bay oilspills.

Bother not the Oracle, she foretold of a mis-aligned Starr
Prominent, at its Zenith, to deal out Feathers and Tar,
To proclaim the Arkansas Libertine devoid of Credibility,
The Adulterer Illustrious subsisting by Perjurious Agility.

So how shalt Cruel History treat the Artful Dodger Bill ?
With smirks and loud guffaws around a venal Capitol Hill;
Or the corpulent Lewinsky, was Entrapment at her Core ?
Such ignominy if the Records declare what she’s famous for !
Aye, the manipulative Monica, who will toll her Bell ?
Certain she’s marked for Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell,
The one especially reserved : for girls who Kiss and Tell.

The Deacon

A travelled man versed in Worldly ways,
Was our erstwhile, beloved Deacon,
To those in Need gave nights and days,
This poor communities’ Spiritual Beacon.

He laid the Altar and swept the Nave,
Tolled the Bell in our Church tower,
A fathom deep he dug each Grave,
And in Reverence held God’s Power.

He would tend the aged, sick and frail,
With no thought of his own well-being,
Service unto Others his chosen Grail,
Afore Great Heaven’s Eye, All-seeing.

As One our Clans did due declare,
O’er that fine Deacon’s mortal span,
His Deeds of Good beyond compare
For there strode a Pious man.

A Divine aureole did anoint his crown
And Goodness beamed from the face,
Yet our Deacon played this Halo down
As perhaps a noose not yet in place.

Aye, learned of arrant human traits,
Possessed a deep sagacious ken,
Brought us afore our spiritual gates
And converted Bipeds into Men.

From whence he came, none e’r knew,
Emerged as our old priest passed on;
Where the hoar frosts of Winter grew
He unfurled Spring’s warming sun.

This Guiding Light, in mortal form,
Emanated love and demure Humility,
His spiritual blanket kept all warm,
And gave restless souls Tranquillity.

Extolled sacred truths at Evensong,
From the pulpit, bore staid and tall,
That God beheld each Right and Wrong
For all of Earth be His Celestial Hall.

Gathered close in the church each night
Our Clans joined for Divine Communion,
The Deacon edified on Eternal Light
And to attain this Hallowed Union.

He spake that God was in All of Men
Not some Deity rent aloof or abroad,
And the Bible wrote by the Liar’s pen,
Composed for his own venal accord.

‘Twas so we learned of material things
Being the anchor that bound man’s Soul,
The desires of golden chains and rings
Denied to all their due Spiritual Goal.

Thereon his lessons became our guide
And duly embraced the Arch of the Sky,
In all elements beneath He doth reside
With those Testaments a Contrived Lie.

He lives in each and every issue of man,
Yet clerics would bind us for slaves
Subjugated souls throughout mortal span,
From our cradles unto our graves.

Serfs afore the Creed of Temporal Desire,
Benefices and tithes their Holy Rod,
Smother the flames of true numinous fire
With fear of Rome’s Mendacious god.

So get thee behind, all perjuring priests
We worship the Earth and the plough,
In the furrow sown we take Divine feasts
With an exact God of Here and Now,
With the one Deity who binds all Nature,
For She bears His Grace in every feature.

Upon this conversion the Deacon rejoiced,
For his tasks in our midst were ended,
‘Neath the Sky’s Arch our praises voiced
As with Nature, enraptured, he blended
In an ethereal form, as Breeze and Light,
As One with the Whole took his due flight.

Hear now the bell, it tolls in the tower,
As on devout knees we tendeth the Earth
Nurturing each of sweet herb and flower
That our Deacon blesses with Birth.

Aye, hear the bell toll, rung by his hand,
As his Essence courses the skies,
Surveying Heaven’s vast fertile land,
Reborn Eternal, for naught ever dies.

And this Promise, borne from his mouth,
To they who Believe and look Within,
Of North and East, of West and South,
Shalt ne’er become the propagation of Sin.

For Nature a Goddess be, the He is the She,
The Earth Mother Infinite, each stone and tree,
Each grain of soil, each wave upon the sea,
Maternal Gaea, a composite of me and thee,
We a part of She, and She a part of We,
The sum of Her capacity more than the Whole
Lacking only the spirits Satan’s a’ready stole.

When shalt Divine Gaea Incarnate again,
Who, of human ilk, may opine or foretell,
She is each ray of sun and every drop of rain,
Our Perennial Bounty, drawn from Her well.
Perchance She chaperones for untold years,
Yet in a Deacon’s guise mayhap oft’ appears.

The Cricket Match

Ah, what a game, twix the mice and the rats,
Some guarded wickets while others wielded bats;
Two umpires were fielded, both myopic cats,
Who cared for the sweaters, and bowler’s peaked hats.

An owl kept all scores, perched on the pavilion,
And dressed in a cloak of the brightest vermilion;
While lost balls were retrieved, at the end of each over,
From the adjoining fields, by a spaniel named Rover.

Refreshments were served to those in the stands
By fourteen tan weasels, all with gloved hands,
Pushing lemonade pitchers, mounted on trolleys,
As spectators cheered loud at each batsman’s volleys.

Yet twix the rising and setting of the sun,
Neither mice nor rats scored one single run;
All were bowled clean, out for a duck,
Which both teams blamed on amateur’s bad luck.
So, in disgust, the spectators formed irate pickets,
While a murder of crows flew off with the wickets.

The Butler’s Bequest

What epitaph for the curmudgeon, of uncharitable mind,
Gave naught to orphans, nor those stricken blind;
Yea, a miserly wretch in the business of Life
With ne’er one good word for his long-suffering wife.

Perhaps a hereditary factor, this temperament’s mood,
For both mother and father were Calvinists prude,
And nary a laugh, nor giggle, nor smile
Passed in their presence lest gave vent pious bile.

I found him alike an awkward old goat,
For I shined black his boots, and brushed well his coat,
Passed him his hat, and gnarled blackthorn stick,
saw him to bed, and snuffed out the lamp’s wick.

And what for his butler, when read was the will ?
No single mention was wrote down by his quill.

The Brothers Htoo

Aghast we behold, has the entire World gone barmy,
Have you seen who’s in command of leading God’s Army ?
A brace of Field Marshals Juvenile, the dreadful Htoo Twins,
Clad in camouflage diapers, and held up with safety pins.

Mayhap both truly are bestowed with Supernatural Powers,
To summon the aid of Spirit Warriors in their adverse hours,
And pioneer the Karen rebels to a final victory of sorts,
Cloaked radiant in pubescent acne, and dandruff and warts.

Fired by their envy of the Rangoon junta’s opium monopoly
This simply is not the way to conduct an insurgency properly
Recruiting truant junior students as revolutionary Messiahs,
Both should be at Sunday school and singing in the choirs.

Thus Woe is our Dilemma, whate’r shall Moral Rectitude do
With a pair of Adolescent Antichrists like the Brothers Htoo
A sound smack on the arse, crew cuts, and back to school,
For carrying guns and hand grenades is not the Golden Rule.
To bed without any supper, no more smoking cheap cheroots,
Ankle socks and sensible shoes, and dump the combat boots.
So, for Little Johnny and Luther, no more military charades,
The next time you go marching will be in Academic Parades.

The Ballad of Slimy Simon

Come hear our tale of Slimy Simon Leith
Who regards all other humans to be far beneath
His lofty hypocritical attitudes and elevated self-opinions,
Scowls and sneers at those he considers minions.

Via personnel reviews he executes character assassinations,
Victims to the whims of his mental aberrations,
Those of the squeaky voice, or freckles, or some gripe,
They not fitting his ideal of Seismic Stereotype.

They of taller stature, or intimidating nature,
Others with vast experience as their outstanding feature,
Men with their own minds, and powers of self-decision;
Working under Slimy they’ll never achieve fruition.

So, one by one, the experienced crew grows sparse,
Left are the sycophants, who grovel and lick his arse,
With epithets of Bootlaces, or Toenails, and such,
Whose total integrity just doesn’t amount to much.

Thus also these incompetents incur Slimy Simon’s wrath,
( To align oneself with despots is a razor-narrow path )
But this Kiwi-fruit coordinator is from a realm of psychotics.
A suitable case for treatment, this Narcissist neurotic.

The Arboreal Paladin

Miss Julia Hill, perched high in a tree,
Sans the vaunted privacy to defecate and pee,
As Humboldt County’s elevated arboreal celebrity
A Paragon become : of Ecological Integrity.

Seven hundred-odd days nesting in Luna’s soaring heights,
Attentive to the echoes of the lumberjacks’ ravenous bites,
Bird song and chain saws your exclusive diurnal chorus,
Discerning the hard way that plywood’s very porous
If bombarded by El Nino rains and frigid rumbustious gales
Surely less privations in trying to Save the Whales.

Your radical picket, Butterfly, for sure unique in number,
Yet such minor inconvenience to the fiendish Pacific Lumber.
Of Moral Right are destitute, but the Law is on their side
To butcher old growth forests with swathes deep and wide;
Nice their stifled conscience is galvanized by tree huggers
Such pity you’re regarded as an eccentric bunch of buggers.


Ever consider two women, both at the same time,
Bodies moving in harmony, in rhythm, in rhyme,
A trios et menage, fit to seduce any man,
Would you care to enjoy, for I shall if I can ?

Consider the possibility that we do as thee suggests,
And I hold power of choice o’er four nipples, four breasts,
And two pairs of thighs, twix which Paradise truly lies,
What wouldst thou say, at the end of that day,
If I lovest thy companion more so than thee ?

Oh fairest of dark women, you course through my blood,
And bring forth the better man, for all that is good;
Ne’er risk what thy hast, ‘tis little to hold,
While you, alike Dawn, are perfect and gold.


A quiet descends o’er the breadth of the land,
And paused are all creatures, sensing danger at hand,
Then swiftly away, to their havens secure,
As skies quickly darken, with blackness the core.

The breeze reasserts, though now blows from the west,
And the waves of the sea turn white on their crest;
Aye, the wind grows to gale, and encroaches the coast;
A Herald of Evils, of some Infernal Host.

The seas boil in Chaos, breakers pound exposed shore,
Fishing boats flounder, to cast nets no more;
Their crews and their captains, sucked down to the deep,
While new widows lament and swaddled babes weep.

Inland cuts the storm, with a swathe o’er the downs,
Lifting tiles from roofs in exposed coastal towns;
And the saplings bow low, in due pious respect,
A frown from tall elms as they feel the effect.

Yea, the poplar and beech, growing loftily high,
For their arrogant thrusts towards the dawn’s sky
Are surely now marked, and certain to die.
Who questions fickle Nature, her Wherefore and Why?
Not I. Oh no Lord, not I. Not I.


Hell’s dark gates lie to my left,
And Heaven’s to my right,
Yet I still tread the Middle Path,
Through this age of Eternal Night.

Times are I veer toward either gate,
To achieve that which must be done,
But again steer straight, afore ‘tis too late;
Before the eclipse of my Moral Sun.

Oh Life be Damned, pray give me Rest;
Condemned immortal to this thankless task,
To sort chaff from wheat, without defeat,
And relay Seven Seals upon Pandora’s cask.

The Tale of St. Sodom’s

Naught had seemed amiss with the Bishop and his choir
Until that morning in April, when the cathedral caught fire,
And out of its sanctity everyone runs,
Including the arsonists, a clique of transvestite nuns.

Then up came the firemen, hoses in hand,
Applauded along by a passing brass band,
With Chief Hoseman Reilly, limping with gout,
Leading the onslaught to put the blaze out.

Through the cloisters they charged, all hoses a’ squirt,
To extinguish the verger, and his smouldering skirt,
Then onto the vestry, enveloped with flames,
And concealing a paradox of Catholic Shames,
Where Bishop and choirboys, in harmonious enjoins,
Were fondling and embracing each other’s loins.
And who was to be found ‘neath the Bishop’s soutane
But wee Willie MacPherson ! ( Sheltering from imminent rain?)

Yea, loudly they sang, in sopranic accord,
To the praise of the firemen, and especially the Lord,
And to the policemen, who all arrived later,
Accompanied by a magistrate, and each choirboy’s mater;
And several doctors, who twiddled their thumbs,
As a surgeon from Ipswich examined the bums
Of the choirboys collective, each individual hole,
To check for invasion by the Bishop’s slick pole.
Aye, those adolescent sphincters, stretched to excess,
In all of Christendom, what scandal and mess !

And this very same cleric, today he holds Masses,
In a sectarian prison, where God blesses all asses.

I Am, Thou Art

The Wellspring

Thou art the Fons et Origo from which Life flows,
Thy breast is my Haven, where I nightly returneth,
Mine heart be Thy furnace, for all of men it glows,
Thee kindles the Fire which deep inside burneth.

This Athanasian Flame of Azure Ethereal Light
Illuminates Dark Paths to allow the Soul Flight
Across tenebrous voids in a dimension unknown
Where Nefilim’s wings were sprouted and grown
In those Aeons long past, afore the Great Fall,
When Heaven and Earth indwelt the same Hall
In Harmonious Accord ‘neath the Arch of the Sky
Until came the Serpent, and the Time of the Lie.

The Great Fall

For Darkness and Light, the twains were rend
And Good’s Counter-Balance of Evil did end,
To give Chaos reign o’er Firmament and Seas,
A stench of Putrefaction rode each silent breeze,
For such was the slaughter, and carrion strewn,
Scavengers held banquet neath a Shamed Moon.

The Predators sustained these Nocturnal Feasts,
Each slaying the other as a diet for foul beasts,
Their Avatar’s aura gleamed on shield and sword
For Hell was in Session, and forgotten the Word,
Until their Celestial Wars wrought all Asunder
With weapons of Brimstone and Divine Thunder.
O’er Gehenna’s field sprawled Angels and Men,
The Carnage of Theomachy, inscribed by no Pen,
For mountains and valleys, once lush, lay waste,
The God of each faction Mortified and Disgraced
By vile Wanton Passions of Omnipotent Imperium
Commissioned their vassals to Barbaric Delirium;
Of Seraphim and Mortals, a Genocide complete,
The last Archangel wept at his spurned Master’s feet.

Thus swore then the God of Light, until the End of Time,
To ignore all Tellurian deeds, as Penance for this Crime,
And for the rebel Seraph Saitan, bound afore him lain,
Cast out upon the Earth, condemned to Infinite Reign;
Shorn of the rank of Deity, became God’s eternal serf,
To rule as Prince of Darkness the whole devastated Earth,
For as the Species restoreth, was tasked a single Goal,
To match God in Gambits for each Man’s Immortal Soul.


The Second Coming

Alike archaic Egyptian Bao, played in three dimensions,
God and Saitan stack the odds to sway Nihilistic Tensions,
Gambling on Free Will to Quell or Aggravate Global Strife,
The Game of Higher Beings, each Reversal costs a Life.

So again the Wheel of Karma spins, Humanity’s the Stake,
Will it halt on Logical Reasoning, to give the World a break,
Or rotate ‘til Irrational Folly once more claims the Prize ?
Another dividend to Saitan’s pot as he plays a hand of Lies.

God holds the Ace of Prayer, plus a conative United Nations,
( Neither’s won a conclusive hand in countless generations )
What cards will be dealt to whom? A military coup in Lima ?
Cures for Cancer and HIV ? India’s version of Hiroshima ?
A Global ban on fossil fuels, cold fusion becoming reality ?
World War Three commencing, with Chechneya its first fatality ?
High-tech’ genetic cloning provides our fattened calves ?
Crop mutations wither and die, so everybody starves ?

By Chance God’s still the Dealer, but Saitan’s pretty sharp,
To palm a trine of Knaves as Yahweh strums his Harp,
To score a nuclear accident, or screw up the ozone layer,
Hopefully God’s a better Cheat than He is a poker player;
For Jesus stands as Croupier, and Mary waits the table,
Slips her Boss a glancing wink whenever she is able,

The deck’s fresh and thrice shuffled, and duly cut by all,
God deals off to Saitan, and He gets to make first call,
Perhaps this Final Game’s the one that Makes or Breaks,
Should Mankind be worried? We are the bloody Stakes !
The turn of a Single card may Herald the End of Days,
Sauve qui Peut applies, we’ll never change our ways.

Tuesday, 16 September 2008

Spanish Fly

His libido now sharpened, as a seamstress’ needle,
With manic effort to each buck and thrust,
Since I fed him, unbeknown, the Cantharis Beetle,
To satisfy my unquenched yearnings and lust.

Ah, what potent potion contain in its carapace,
All inhibitions and coyness, swept cleanly away;
No more must I attire lingerie of black lace
When arousing his limp genitalia to display.

My cup now runneth over with carnal satisfaction,
The Lytta Vesicatoria has performed beyond dreams,
Its effects prolonged, such an unexpected reaction;
He mounts once more and arduously reams.

My days and my nights are with mad passions filled,
But whate’er would they think at the Townswomen’s Guild?

So Little Time to Learn

Birth, Marriage and Death : the Tricycle of Life,
Such a vehicle for the Soul’s potential is waste,
Clad in mortal form, set afore worldly strife,
Three score and ten years so short to full taste
All the Knowledge and Wisdom collected o’er the Ages,
With most wrote upon etheric, invisible pages;
‘Tis there to be studied by Life’s experience alone,
Told by reclused sages, or carved deep in lost stone,
Taught in the wild camps of promiscuous men,
And each backwater port, with their harlot’s den.

Oh, such Wealth of Great Mysteries, if only my time
Would allow me to study each verse and rhyme,
Little wonder that men do bargain good souls
For an extension of Life, to achieve this Finest of Goals


For three score and ten Man bides on this Earth,
With most loitering aimlessly from the moment of birth,
No concept of Becoming, nor Enlightened Ideal,
Except anticipation of their next scheduled meal.

All partake of the Bounty, yet return naught but waste,
That found unsavoury to their Materialistic taste,
Oblivious to the Principles of Cause and Effect
As Nature is stricken another Victim of Neglect.

Each draws from the Well, times over and again,
By right of the defunct Theory of Eminent Domain;
Credit-generated Indulgences, just spend for this day,
While a spiritual asphyxia is the prime form of repay.

No Cosmic Nirvana attained via a drug-induced path,
Just a lingering slow walk towards Karma’s wrath,
We create our own Hells, of Stress and of Strife,
So little luggage required for our stroll through Life.

The Age of Aquarius shall be as the Ages now gone,
Mired in reflections of what might have been done,
Spiritual Philistines blind, seeking Celestial Bliss,
A Grail they hath ne’er beheld, shalt forever miss.


O’er distant seas the Western Legend sails,
Resplendent with her Technology fine,
Yet aboard am I, and security fails,
As their secrets become duly mine.

Such formidable barriers they pain to erect,
And personnel pure do only select,
To drink of their Wisdom, and all it entails,
This Technology Grand, their Electronic Grails.

Guarded by eyes, vigilant and remote,
Whether in port, or insular and afloat,
Though veneers of security are inherently thin
If the enemy himself is already in !

Aye, no personal risks be considered too large
Juxtaposed the sweet rewards of espionage.

Sea Change

As evening falls, they clouds they play
An innocent game high o’er the bay,
The breeze picks up and they faster run
Across the sky, toward our setting sun.

Yea, the wind she livens, and swallows dive,
The bees retire to their sheltering hive,
And early bats sniff out the air,
Then skitter back to a shadowed lair.

And I also rise and pace away
From the gathering storm far ‘cross the bay,
For fast she comes, o’er turbulent waters,
Roiling darker than the Apocalypse’ daughters.

Sunday, 14 September 2008

Rt. Hon. Baby Leo Blair

He is the very Model of a Modern Prime Minister,
A Quintessential Optimist, the antonym of Sinister,
A Wunderkind in Genesis, to lead New Labour’s Reich,
Pedalling around Chequers on the janitor’s mountain bike.

A Stalwart of Family Values, and of Women’s Needs,
Was recently quite successful in planting his own seeds,
With Cherie set to waddling around the Inns of Court
While Tony and his Cabinet quaffed their Parliamentary port.

At the mention of Paternity Leave the P.M. became aphonic,
Visions of changing feculent diapers rendered him catatonic,
Thirteen weeks playing Nursemaid, as British Law now grants
While Tony wears the Apron, and Cherie dons the Pants.

Considering this pregnancy was a Contraceptive Oversight,
The Pater Imminentus has our commiseration’s in his Plight.
Yet hopefully the Economy will benefit from Tony’s manning,
If he doesn’t screw it up like his pathetic Family Planning.

Downing Street is jam packed full, and the mood is one of Joy
As Court Physicians and a Zoologist determine “It’s a Boy !”
And Baby Blair meets the Press, for his first media grooming,
New Labour’s Publicity Coup must have the Tories fuming,
And perhaps ease the rumours of a Gay Mafia at the rein
If at least their Fuhrer procreates with women now and again.

Requiem for Norma

What epitaph kind, to mark thy headstone,
As in Bankok thee lies after dying alone ?
Another Consuming Predator, the cancer that gnaws,
And ate of thy vitals alike a piranha’s jaws.
Your final days, prostrate in a charity ward,
Mayhap thy due, and a timely accord;
Appeals for help fell on selective deaf ears,
While remaining false friends shed crocodile tears.

No alms for the inept, thy best chances were wasted,
By propping up bars while the gin bottle lambasted,
Thy lies and deceits and myriad promises broken
Now reap shallow reward, if this poem’s a just token.

Of my seven hundred Pesos, after eight years unpaid,
And accumulated interest, what collateral was laid ?
Only thy Word, to a once-trusting Gullible,
But we all make mistakes, so mortally fallible.,
A one-off misjudgement, providing that loan,
To stifle penurious pleas from a mendicant drone.
Aye, the Code of Ananias founded your nature,
Perjurious pledges, a reigning character feature,
Of Mythomania’s art, the most splendid teacher.

To Fools thee manifested an enigma, some mystery,
Recounting thy life and a well-paltered history,
As they plied thee with grog, and sumptuous meals,
Seduced to your schemes and investment appeals,
And thy speculated equity ? their Enterprise hosted
Afore the government connections of which you boasted,
The success of business joint-ventures well toasted.
But all came to naught, no substance, just scent,
Ostracized once more when thy credibility spent.

No obituary read as thee’s committed to the ground,
No verger to peal the sad bell’s parting sound,
No wake in thy honour, no memorial celebration,
For thee left our accounts in states of devastation.
As Verses of Mercy, these are not meant to be not,
You pass on owing all, so to a far grave and rot !


To a Tavern’s conversation, no deep Sagacious Themes,
Lewd asides to barmaids, those Houris of boozy Dreams,
The subject matter, Normal, of acclaimed conquests in Sex,
Such inebriated boastful fantasies mark Homo Amoretto Rex.

Yet be aware of Squire Jessop, he of a caliber Intellectual,
Even after copiously imbibing on Dionysus’ favoured victual,
Incites an academic theme to the stagnant verbal Intercourse,
Steering the conventional topic for a more Theological Bourse.
“If one might sway the Hand of Karma, in the matter of Rebirth,
How would thee wish to return in thy next life upon the Earth?”

“As a Sultan,” cried shallow Bridgestone, “Camped by some oasis,
With a resplendent Harem to form my arid Dominion’s basis.”
“ As proprietor of Playboy’s coney farm, “ Alderson did squeal,
“Then I might have fresh Bunny served with each evening meal.”
“As a pair of endurable knickers,” Galbraith spoke in jesting vein,
“Thus get an occasional wash, and against soft Pussy nightly lain.”

Jessop shook his head in ponderance, but wore a piquant grin,
As he quaffed down the porter and a five ounce glass of gin,
“He wears a smirk, our noble Squire,” Benerson did comment,
“Tell us of thy Reincarnated Situation, if ‘twas Heaven Sent.”

“Ah, one of quite lowly Station, to serve All with due respect,
And perchance suffer, in passage, stain and wear’s effect,
I wish Metempsychosis as no more than a simple Tablecloth,
And to Fortune’s capricious Will, with Certitude plight my Troth.”

“The old bugger be drunk ag’in, “ muttered Clarke in derision,
Still harbouring his own unspoken reincarnated Erotic Vision,
“Not so, as yet, I thank thee,“ responded the eloquent Squire,
With the supreme joy of Victory gleaming in his eyes like Fire,
“Such a mediocre culinary article be worthy of thy just Contempt,
But of asinine, inebriated Folly, I choose thus to stand Exempt;
For a humble Tablecloth gets Laid at least Three times per day,
And ‘Pulled Off ‘ after each repast hath held its edacious sway.”

Saturday, 13 September 2008


Declamation :

Let the funky music Blast and hear me Chant,
High on Radical Philosophy like Immanuel Kant,
Give ole Whitey’s Government an ear-full of Crap,
Our Weapon of Mass Destruction’s Socio-Political Rap.

Violence and Misogyny ? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,
Goddamn yo’ moral Censures an’ holdin’ us in Debt,
You jam us into Ghettos and blame it on some Bell Curve,
Your Deficiency ain’t Arrogance, what a ferkin’ nerve.
Yeah, Ostracised we are, and it’s Social Segregation,
Everywhere we go, all across this goddamn nation,
Yo’ got your riot police to bust our demonstrations
Altogether Brothers : It’s a screwed up Situation !

But yo’ ethnic minorities are gonna have their day,
For Whitey and his Uncle Tom’s sure got a price to pay,
Deny us decent educations and the top Executive Job,
Come the Revolution, you’re the ones were gonna Rob.
Yeah, then the Honkie Ivy Leaguers have to call us Sir,
That’ll rub against the grain, and back-comb some WASP fur,
‘Cos we’ll be runnin’ Washington and you’ll be haulin’ trash,
Get to feel the bitter sting of yo’ own slave-drivin’ lash,
We’ll be in the fancy Lincoln’s, and yo’ get a pick-up truck,
And queuing up for food stamps, y’all just ran out of luck.

Come the Time of Judgement and the great Day of the Rope
We’ll be the one’s in Control, so how y’all gonna cope,
Then yo’ blonde WASP bitches will be down the inner city
Suckin’ up to the Brothers and tellin’ us we’re so pretty,
Yeah, Urban Black is Beautiful but we sure ain’t too fussy,
When it comes to grabbin’ a piece of pure Honkie pussy.

So yo’ better count the days my man, the end is gettin’ near,
Our screamin’ for Reforms has been met with a deaf ear,
‘Cos yo’ Gestapo Pigs still call us Niggers and Spics,
An’ blast us down with guns if we hurl a couple o’ bricks
Through some Yid’s store window an’ do a spot of lootin’,
Then read us our Miranda, after they’ve finished shootin’.

We’re fed up with Askin’ nicely, now we’re gonna Demand
Whitey gives us Equal Shares in the runnin’ of this land,
No more is yo’ gonna treat us as some Inferior Creatures,
We wan’ an Ethnic Majority inside yo’ Elite Legislatures,
Then yo’ Senators and Congressmen had best fold their tent
‘Cos one of the Chosen Brothers is gonna be the President.

Rejoinder :

So yo’ boys all want Equality, that’s a thing yo’ gotta Earn,
No more playin’ Hooky, yo’ need to stay in school and Learn
The Sound Principles of Civilisation and the Law’s Golden Rules,
Shuck off the Hip-hop culture, and acting like a bunch of Fools,
Become duteous members of Society, you’ve got to really try,
And in a few more Generations hence, y’all might just Qualify.

You boys ain’t just a branch below on Evolution’s Tree,
Yo’s climbing a different timber pole than us White guys be,
With the cultural graces of hyenas a’rutting and feeding
That’s what yo’ all gets from incest and inter-breeding;
And you all have surely broken the major cardinal rule
Paddling at the shallow end of Humanity’s gene pool,
Yo’ should have imitated us and learned how to swim,
Instead of swinging round in trees like old Jungle Jim.
Shit, our Liberals ancestors screwed up a fine Tradition
Giving all yo’ boys yo’ Freedom with Slavery’s Abolition,
Yeah, Freedom to Screw Up and breed like parasitic flies,
Addicted to dope and thieving, and telling filthy lies.

So we’ll drag yo’ out the Ghettos, then yo’ ain’t Urbanised,
And squat y’all in the Countryside, as Farmers, Ruralized,
But yo’ won’t Reform, just keep on smoking that old hash,
To become the Coloured ringers of red-neck trailer trash,
Sitting on your lazy arses, while fertile fields lie fallow,
Sometimes light the barbecue to toast the odd marshmallow;
Any Get Up and Go you had has long got up and Gone,
A string of venal habits, handed from Father down to Son.

Too easy a life of whining and drawing yo’ welfare cheques,
Cos Whitey dealt y’all bad cards, ( we play with different decks )
You’re the ones who drink cheap plonk and crash out on crack,
To inspire any enthusiasm yo’ need a bullwhip across the back,
Lying around in demented apathy, such efforts spent on yawning,
Black Power runs short of steam gettin’ out o’ bed in a morning.
A bunch of jive-arse ne’er do well’s busy combing scrub-pad hair,
Where’d yo’ get this Misconception that Life ought to be Fair?

It ain’t Whitey’s fault yo’s stricken with Bell Curve Deficiency,
Or that it takes a cattle prod to spark yo’ interest or efficiency
In seeking gainful employment or holding down a simple job,
Unless it’s a gun-point heist at the local Stop and Rob.
Blame Lord God or Darwin for yo’ poor grades in Evolution,
A pity the Back to Africa movement fell short of its Solution.

Now yo’ want to usurp Whitey and control the Government game,
The Brothers in charge of Washington ? ( A good ole Negro name )
By the route of armed insurrection seems your selected path,
Democracy provides the Right to try, yet beware of Honkie Wrath,
For in preservation of the Status Quo our patience may wear thin
Then we’ll see how well Napalm sticks to your coloured skin;
Arrogators of our Social Regime fall into the Enemy brackets,
Risking extensive perforations from Uncle Sam’s full metal jackets.

Yet Talk and Rap are forever cheap, the Monkey on our back,
But for Christ’s sake stop reminding us Africans are Black,
It’s a sad manifest fact of which all Whites are fully aware
Each time we get framed by your jealous, hostile stare
As we go about our daily lives, and yo’ loiter on the street,
Panhandling or dealing dope, the ethnic anarchist elite,
An Army of the Social Damned, composed of Spades and Spics
Evolutionary Retards United, who think more with their dicks,
Whose political expression is composed of Hip-hop Rap,
A Theology and Ideology founded on Philosophical Crap.