It’s the things that weigh us down/

The petty possessions we pick up along the way/

The things we should never pick up along the way/

But, hey, that’s okay/

These things complete us right

At least according to the sons and daughters of the sons and daughters of Edward Bernais

Of course, not everyone can be a nomad

Or a wandering minstrel

Or a holy hermit sat within the city walls

We did however used to believe the mendicant was closer to god

Christ-like in his raggedy rags

And yet condemned to tread the frozen soil for the duration

We believed in the Holy Idiot, devoid of ego and vanity

Condemned to exist in a world of knaves and scoundrels

Despite his lamb-like purity

We cannot change the world by our actions or inactions

But we can perhaps work toward the perfection of ourselves

For perhaps the life lived perfectly is circular after all

It’s not the degradation of the material form

But the perfection of the immaterial self, the true self

Perhaps a return to grace is a return to our selves

Shedding clothes along the path of life we eventually return to the source, naked

Best then to know for sure who exactly we are when all is stripped away



So shall we take the path that meanders

Over the aching bridge of Time?


Or shall we simply join the herd

And graze all our life-long days

In pastures enclosed and ever-narrowing?


Should we surrender our dreams

And surrender our souls

And settle for a life that is guided

By an distant brutal hand,

A hand

That assumes the role of God (?)



Christ no.



Escape is but in truth return

The narrow confines of the cell-like womb



The days to follow

See –

Death is not an end

Just as birth is not beginning

Just as Time is not a line

Upon a draughtsman’s board.


To transcend this tyranny of Time

Then first my friend, I think we must awaken.




Image result for dumbreck road eltham

Back now

Back among all these fussy and fussed-over little suburban lives

A familiar childhood street with everybody foxily boxed-in

Hidden behind post-war porches or masked by privet hedges

All knee-deep in happy myopia

Everybody ordered and happy to belong

Along the street or within the quiet cul-de-sacs with Scottish names

All these pebble-dash frontages and tarmac driveways

A sample smattering of ordered lives afforded tiny luxuries

Time here slows to a manageable crawl

But they seem happy here, within this oasis, living in hope of tender mercies

Then a sudden screams shatters the tranquillity

The piercing cry of a suburban-casualty

That woman you forgot existed in these intervening years

The one whose eyes seemed always close to tears

Now clung to the kitchen counter as men with expressions of grim determination prize her fingers off one by one

I remember now, how

She tried too hard to cling to her daughters, and in doing so she lost her grip on everything

Her banshee screams suddenly shatter this small oasis

And a dozen curtains twitch to witness the broken mother being firmly escorted into the back of a windowless van …

“She tried to grab her husband’s hand” the elderly neighbours will later relate, breathlessly

Wordlessly, ruthlessly they removed her from this world of privet hedges and arched porchways

Away from this tiny oasis to the big house upon the hill

That dreaded place where all the broken mothers go


honey bee

What does it say about our sick and skewered society/

And all its bent-out-of-shape priorities/

When we spray the field with pesticides/ and

We spray the fields with insecticides

And in the doing so, we render all the precious bees demented?


Eh? – what follows, then?

– What-follows-then –

When we have decapitated the heads of all the great men

And capped off all the mountains

And defaced the face of Mother Earth with depleted-uranium

-What could possibly follow those monumental acts?

What’s more –

What do we do for an encore

After we have torn great gaping holes in our finely woven

And intricately patterned tapestries?


And what terrible toll will this maddened drive for profit

Exact upon the mind of man

Exact upon the heart of man

And upon the soul of man

When the honey bee

In its maddened and maddening confusion

Finally forgets its sacred dance





Screenshot-2018-4-27 Madeleine Albright on Twitter It has been too long since a President delivered a speech in Washington [...]

The former Secretary of State applauds the former Rothschild banker

But let’s be plain: wars assured for evermore is what she really hankers for.

No wonder she concurs with Macron’s pleas for international cooperation

I mean it doesn’t take a seer to decode this code for ‘foreign intervention’

Thank you Emanuel, she purrs, this genocidal  queen

Whose own dreams are nightly shattered by the screams

of 50 thousands screaming weens.

Oh darkest Albright, still you breathe our precious earthbound air

But you are soon to meet your maker in his dingy airless lair

He has a ledger filled with all the blasted lives you breezily enabled

Not to mention the thousands more via endless war you gleefully disabled

With every name he cracks a fiery lash, across your bent and aged back

And with every attrocity screamed aloud as a declaration and decree

The temperature within the room is mercilessly increased

Until the flames are doused by gushing blood that press your face against the ceiling

Where your fearful shouts are all drowned out by the cacophony of screaming.

You are taunted, mocked around the clock by He, you served as emissary

He mocks and chides your lack of light, All-Bright, former whore-hound secretary


All those smoking holes and blasted souls

Did you never think there was a toll

The hateful fate of all those huddled weens…

So was it worth the price, dear Madeleine?


(60 Minutes Correspondent Leslie Stahl (to Albright), “We have heard that a half-million children have died. I mean, that’s more children than died in Hiroshima. And — and, you know, is the price worth it?”

Madeleine Albright, “I think this is a very hard choice, but the price — we think the price is worth it.”)