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Irish Internet Radio and TV from Dublin, Ireland.

SPACESHIP EXPATRIA.


Days pass so quickly here on Spaceship Expatria.

As it winds slowly away from planet Home.

Through opaque veils of days, weeks and nights.

Becoming years, memories first created by honest priorities now gradually decrease in clarity.

These silent honeycombs of present and past subconsciously relegated to the mind’s baggage compartment.

To be replaced by the need for relationships due to the demise of loved ones feelings and thoughts.

Priorities driven by an increasing amount of self.

Love for loved ones on planet home now less in vogue.

Not caused by an uncaring heartlessness but by troubled sprite.

Goodness leaking away to be dissipated as memories.

As stardust in ‘Mind Space’.














TREASURED ISLE.



Hello ‘Old Friend’ may I rest beneath your shaded bough.

Have you travelled far for my journey has taken many days.

Yes, I have journeyed a lifetime to this day.

It’s beautiful so restful a magic secret you have found.

A magical place in deed but only if you wish to find embrace.

Many stories told by those who wish to seek and find.

May they search and ponder less.

The sought after treasure this grail we find.

A haven safe from all that offers harm.

Within ourselves this treasured isle we find.

A fairy charm children’s minds it pleases well.

To men so gullible a mantle urging dreams and follies.

This need for light so bright that time has lost in warm dark hollows.

Answers sought for ages speak.

Blinded men so wrong in where they madly seek.

For we who search for the hidden Shangri-La.

May well it be in our hearts and minds.

To view each morning the glorious light in our sky.

That surrenders to the evening at the end of each and every day.

If only to look to see to allow our heart run free.





BLOOD STREAMS.



Dreams raised in clouds in sun blessed days.

Some of merriment and sometimes grey.

These are the bloodstreams of my life.

Traveling rivers that keep me sane.

Remember young boy before turning teen.

Colours, tin soldiers, bright with light time to play.

Memories of times that must not fade.

From here to look back so sweet those days.

Perfidious I view this present age.

As I reflect on memories of childhood ways.

Long before a mother's cold sad grave.










A BAR IN DERRY.





Back home for a pint and no one knows.

Last night an Arabian airport, gun totting guards and flowing robes.

Back in my dear old city and once more on my own.

A quiet bar early morning, no questions asked.

I look like a tourist, have the tan no tales to tell.

The pint quietly pulled I sit down to take in the past.

Across the room three men, two of them look so bored.

The third to them a pain.

Nervous twitching, chattering antics falling on ears so deaf.

The companion’s thick shouldered, heavy browed small talk just between two.

Peed off, with a look that could turn milk sour with a single glance.

The third man now familiar his Fatwa a curse in Persian verse.

Thick brows even more peeved look at watches to check the time.

Bar door opens to the skies, a shift change time occurs for a heavy to make his escape.

This man finally smiles relieved of his burden of the little man and his bloody

‘Satanic Verse’.





REALIZATION.



This moment in life to awaken.

Understanding the needs to endure.

With realization gained curing me of doubts and fears.

Fears from the politics and ways of childhood.

Fearful clubfooted monsters and goverment bogeymen that cast dark shadows so unreal.

Now cast aside allowing doors to open to the world and its realities.

Windows viewed by many but never really understood.

However to another as simple as A.B.C.

No longer to adhere to the dictates of self.

I free to follow the steps to guide me on my chosen path.

So sensible as yet not understood by me.





PRAYER FOR THE TUBE.



Campfire prayers and poetic dreams.

From the spit of old men's blunted sharpened tongues.

Reciting long lost stories of poetic victories.

Men washed on prayer but misled to worship.

Watched over by the bearded greyhound face reflected on campfire flames.

Young men now filled with complex hate listen in awe.

The words of home lost in fervour.

So cold here in the stone heart of this distant madrasa.

This world so removed from the poetic mosque.

Where the words of 'The Holy Book' are turned to stone.





AIRPORT LOUNGE.



A book for the train is what I need.

Onto my knees on Heathrow's floor to find a book for journeys end.

That's a good one I heard her say.

Raising my eyes I view an angel.

"Hi" she said," Hello" said I.

"I've read it", this girl her skin as soft as peaches and cream.

We stand and talk for that moment in time.

Then she turns for journeys end, turns once more and smiles goodbye.

I watch as if in a film from long before.

Years have passed I still think of that pretty blonde girl.

My beautiful American: Pretty Blonde, Peaches and Cream.





CRAMPING MY STYLE.



Passion mounts.

Waiting for the earth to shudder.

Breathless poundings in the heart.

Movements all a flutter.

Onwards rising to reach the pinnacle.

Legs so lilt, so long and slender strike out to me.

"Darling was that a pleasure so sublime”.

The reply to suit the words of the strong women of ‘ Merriman’s Midnight Court’.

“No! It was Bloody Cramp”.





CORK.



Cork old girl with your constant rain.

Washing away times of history on cobbled stones.

Small streets wind away to smaller ones.

The second city only in size.

In the heart of your own dear people you are the first.

Cork girls shinning in the rain, flower petals reflecting the sun.

Warm in winter the people your fire.

Spring is the clash of ash and sporting youth.

Summer is radiant with glorious hope.





DESERT HEDGEHOG.



Useless you sit in the sand on a cold hard runway.

Dormant brimming with teeth and iron.

Wings sadly droop in the early morning sun.

Gone that arrogant pride as you sit so forlorn.

Filled with anger your lungs choked with sand and stone.

Ha! Your rider lost his way or so he says.

Later his king will give him a medal to cover his loss of face.

Young men from the desert fear in their eyes, fingers tight on triggers.

Stand and wait for I to fill your belly with power.

A hunger for flight a famine in your entrails.

This power needed to fill your carnivorous stomach for war.

To bear gifts of destruction to wide eyed children below.










TUNNEL FOUR.



Television useless and foul.

Content nil but violent thrills.

Lions and Christians replaced by Trolls.

Cringing Celebes slaves to egos.

Offered onto the alter of modern day Caesars.

Attracted by lights as moths to bright staged delights.

By a plundering partnership of suits and secret orders.

Masons who lay building blocks of decrepit soulless kingdoms.

A partnership of ‘Tory and Born Again Ruthless Core’.

Firing the pyres of modern nonsense.

Bloodless culture and gangster rap.

Attempting to rebuild the Coliseum and it's jaded past.

Hailed as jumped up Nero's by fawning hordes.

In the hope of replacing long cherished culture with instant thrills.

By fitting something so vile in a screen so small.

Apart from Bart, Lisa, Frazier and one or two more.





MEMORY POND.



On meadows bank in the peacefulness of a shadowed afternoon.

A line cast on a pond’s surface recreates the rippling waves of life.

It whips as it dances to pull a wished for token once more to shore.

Dancing light reflecting to gleam on water’s edge.

A memory pool shimmering back and forth bringing sough after memories home once more.

Thoughts of long lost loves and innocent days come to mind.

So important all consuming never really understood.

Suddenly a blue-black monster goes rushing by.

A crash of metal and hissing steam on a line by Foyle’s shore.

This black oiled spectre of clattering steel and wonderful speed.

At the head of the beast it’s driver ‘Big Bill Barton’ waving his shinny black cap high in the air.

Off to a place called Portadown crashing up the line to some far off land.

I cast my line once more so simple those days.

As I reflect on memories before my journey from this dear and bitter shore.





OCTOBER 5 ON THE BRIDGE.



The son of a woman a wonderful, wonderful woman.

I suppose I’m the son of not a bad dad too.

I wished someday to reach above the clouds to a bright blue sky, but poor old me I had to climb and slip every step of the way.

The glue on my shoes laid by an insidious Tory flock.

Storment with its schemes trying each day to stop the sun reaching my spot.

Trapped in a school system and asked what your father would do.

"He’s a docker sir."

"A doctor, Hmmm! I’ve never heard of Doctor O’ D".

"No sir, he’s a docker".

The look of interest now none gone from this teachers face.

We sons of dockers and fathers on the dole pushed to the back.

To allow country boys and others to walk on grass.

Little ‘Neil Farran’s in his palace his plan an aspiration for a catholic middle class.

We would laugh "Aspiration don’t you get that in a bottle to cure a headache".

October on the bridge we stood together docker’s sons, fathers on the dole, country boys and others.

Battered by ‘Orwellian Thugs’ dressed as cops clubbing us to vent 'Old Brookeborough's' spleen.

On this bridge I view these thugs my fathers, father’s father was once one of them an old ‘RIC’ where am I from.

I must have had heroes from those days as I climbed the metaphorical barrackcades in my teens.

Yes I do the men and women, the ‘Teachers’ from my old school.

The two big Bills: Connaghan and Sharkey.

Miss Burns who made certain that we learnt to read and write.

Kelly with his math’s, Mc Laughlin, Harkin, Paddy Doherty and the lovely Mrs. Carson to name a few.

Let’s not forget the great 'Donaldson’ who taught us to believe in ourselves and win a medal or two.

He believing that inspiration wasn't to be found in a bar or bottle but in a book: or even in a bit of badly attempted verse or two.





IN HOC SIGNO VINCES.




This island mist and mystic blend of time.

Torn by bloodlust for religious power.

Power wedded by Norman and Tudor Horde.

A dance set in new time to ease their desires.

Footsteps a heavy thud upon our graves.

An island once a dream.

Now trampled by the leaded heels of malice themes.

We now old before our time find this dream, is just a dream within a dream.

We different in so many ways.

Fate decided not by where we are born but by the shabby empire served.

The die caste hand of fate leads in its own cold way.

Allowing others reason to comply.

Honour blinded by prejudices carried by small large hurts of desire.

Therefore indifference must occur.

This crazy world of rights and wrongs.

Dictates of families, politics for empires to endure.

To allow the theory of chaos to assist the 'Horsemen' in their everlasting brooding tasks.

Time to awaken to witness what has gone.

The sorrowful events and history have passed replaced with stepping-stones and wished for bridges to pave the way.

The people of the Islands still different in many ways ponder to find understanding to their own thoughts and ways.

They with gracious intent lead with honest hearts.

Undermined by a vicious belief dressed as sheep in wolfs clothing.

The lust for power and blood salivating from its carnivorous grave.

Hidden under a mask of righteousness as from times before.

This evil just as cruel with intent as any.

Veiled under false modesty and purchased collar dictate from the sands of time.

Determined in its will to destroy and undermine goodness and free will.

This lesson to be learned carried by a son of ‘Connell’.

A curse from the flat crowning stone and its ‘Battle Book’ to be laid on the heads of the masons of destruction.

Time will come when the masters of deceit will fall to the hand of fate.





A GENTLE SHORE.



New tide washing gently on a shore.

Pictures ebb and flow into the mind's colourful memory picture book.

The fall of evening with its dropping sun waving goodbye to the hills and tiring day.

The darkness of greens and wind bush set deep within those dark and silent highs.

A beautiful land blessed each day on its Atlantic shore.

I feel a wish to walk again that special place.

A gift of soft gentle lapping waters washing on a young boy's feet as he carries his bucket and spade.

His trusty friend his brother in tow to search for the perfect elusive deepest rock pool and its tiny creatures.

Not knowing that one day they would wear another’s uniform and not come home.

Let this place so precious never to be spoiled by the hungry hounds of progress and stealth.

For they will surly steal it away.





BLUE SKIES.

I loved you then I lost you.
She sat in silent profile so pretty beside a desert compound pool.
In a haughty mood I dictating the importance of security to a couple of drunken ex-patriot fools.
This pretty girl under the stars by the silvered moon pool.
Later to become the beautiful barb in my heart one day soon.
A number of years together that I will never regret.
Remembering the blue skies of the days to the cool soft breezes of the nights.
Heartbreak was in our parting and you had to fly home.
I knew you were leaving as we would all one day soon.
Time has passed I know you were right.
Life forever turning to another stage.
Not all players on life’s stage can experience a part in ‘Blue Skies and Soft Gentle Breezes’.
I played to skies, gentle breezes and to the beauty of the nights.
Today I turn to another role on this forever revolving stage.
Alas! This scenery not as sweet as the one we played





SHARK ATTACK FROM DESERT SKY.



Mary, Mary never contrary fear from her eyes as the crescendo of the sirens grows.

The unearthly sound of wailing Banshee invades every cell of our brains.

I view again this old photograph from January ‘Ninety One’.

Mary the girl from Carrigferrgus, eyes shine bright peering back with a worried smile.

Dear friend never usually bothered now looks slightly stirred.

Mary and her nursing friends who never faltered.

With friends like this who could ask for more.

Then the blast from the falling warhead causing a massive, brilliant radiant rainbow glow that ends our nervous laughs to fill the air with stifled screams.

Doors blow open and plate glass rattles to bellow stopped from breaking by masses of crisscrossed tape or was it ‘God's Own Hand’.

The unending silence as we wait for the all clear to go.

Area declared free of particles and gas, helping to ease our nerves.

Time for breakfast and lots of coffee and off to work we go.

To relieve friends and colleagues from a nightshifts of horrid fear.





THE RELUCTANT AIRMAN.



An escape route offered from ‘Derry Dole’.

Fancy uniform; sport, some adventure and a life of your own.

Just leave the love for your country and values behind.

Never a normal return to your land and add a new word to your life book, such as pariah.

Controlled leaves, precious holiday times spent in ‘Ebrington Barracks’, sometimes a laundry van for a taxi.

Live in a world controlled by racist right wing idiots, disliked: the reason that your people protested wishing for their ‘Civil Rights’.

Murdered like dogs in the street by red-capped uniformed killers from a gene pool found swilling in the bottom of a bucket of brock.

I this joke, trained to fight the ‘Russian Might’, whilst a school friend Jim Wray lies dying in the street.

A best friend’s brother ‘Paddy Doherty’ shot twice in the back.

Jim, Paddy and others lie dead and dying to satisfy ‘Old Brookeborough’s Spleen’.

Allowing the ‘Masters of Deceit’ to quench and sup at their evil feasts as they feed scraps to the ‘Horsemen’ to fuel never ending evil deeds.





WORDS SOUND SO SIMPLE.



Things seem crazy and you think you are going mad so just stop thinking.

If life is bad and sometimes mad, stop thinking.

Life can be bright so let’s start from here.

It’s just as well as we need to renew our thinking.

Our world ruled by consumer gods, we pushed through doors to suit others plans and thinking.

Days brushed aside by soft rough hands of smooth collared stinkers.

Life bound by consumer choice, stealth and meaningless thinking.

Let’s rise each morning with no cross to bear, believing we can achieve our own horizons.

As we reach out to touch life with the powerhouse we find within us.





SPURIOUS THINKING.



Can the poet really describe what the artist will see.

Capturing beauty within a drawing or painting with such ease.

They look to see a tree, flower or a hidden face.

Can I do that, “never in a month of Sundays”?

Now there’s a saying for you.

Hidden in its lyrical frame is thinking as clear as day.

Euphemisms such wonderful tools.

Helping to explain our day and many a situation.

Sometimes used to belittle a foe with a stinging hidden attack.

“He’s a right tight arsh he wouldn’t give you the wind of his fart”

As a child my son in tears, overhearing that a friend had gotten ‘The Sack’.

In his young mind a vision of a dear friend carried away on the back of a giant or some dark and evil freak.

At other times the quaint use of words can make the day.

This in a greeting accompanied with a bright smile from a stranger when met on a morning walk.

“Hi! Great to see again, you Old Goat”.

As you reply to this greeting, searching your memory to think, “Who the Hell was that”.

What I must watch is not to mix my metaphors and euphemisms.

So please forgive if I do.

Let’s not forget my problem with a thing call an anagram.

A title for this poem maybe.

Poems by a Pi** Poor Poet, slightly rude but understood.







THERMAL RUNAWAY.



The enigma of events told in ultra speak.

From the sky great nimrod’s soaring comet falling to the harsh lands of poppy fields.

Fine blue men cut down and laid to sleep.

A mysterious hot spot resigns them to this everlasting deep.

This aging eye soaring in the sky, spraying aerial life blood through bulkhead leaks.

Misting cloud falling on charging glow on life’s battery they normally depend, now to become their foe.

This vicious cycle starts again, heroes never to return to the glens.

Over looked once more in blue skies above the searing heat of hot desert lands and poppy fields.







PEOPLE AND THOUGHTS.



People, places and things as the words of the song go.

My words, your words and everyone else’s, do they matter.

All words matter but mostly it’s how they are said.

Words are sounds created by others thinking, carrying other’s thoughts.

It is the power of the spoken word and what it can do.

The power to move mountains and topple the foundations of the once great and mighty.

Through the dust of fallen cities come other words, some good and others not so good.

The latter usually from the hand that wields the sword.

They shout from loud brazen emboldened mouth.

To force tyranny on the helpless women and child.

This evil of men, high and mighty incredulous to their own evil selfish thoughts and beliefs.

To feed to fuel many an ignoble deed.





CORPORATE SCHEMES.



Colourful palette of memories of summers and wholesome days.

Retained treasures filled with thoughtful views and life shared in many ways.

Love returned through trust and caring minds.

Partnerships of friendship and those who wish to walk a common path.

Hands locked to steady one another on the way.

A gift to follow this vision of love and understanding.

Relationship guided by sprite and one another.

Not by addled brain and youthful foolish balls.

In contemporary times life bludgeoned by corporate sting and over swing.

Overblown view to manacle us to a dearth of spin and political ways.

Trumpeted by they who wish to bow to the scatology of decisions blown to fill our ears.

Common sense overlooked to suit the cosmetics of demigods to fulfill boasting egos and corporate dreams.

This new ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ or is ‘Sod Them For Tomorrow’.

The people no longer interested in a choice slumber in a media trance, sleepwalking to the next available mall.

Tasked to build new mountains wrapped in gloss as they tread and stumble along this carbon path.





FLOODED FIELDS.



Flowers so blue from the golden pool not by man’s hand.

We unable to view where this eyes delight comes from and whose hand created its first seed.

A secret lost to modern man, blinkered by his vain supercilious mind and madcap plans.

Structured, complex, beautiful, and so blue.

Delicate to the touch a magical presence season upon season on shore, hill, lane and glen allowing us to view its rebirth

Appearing each spring to bring forth beauty time and time again.

Depending on the cycles and the secrets of ‘Mother Nature’.

She so kind with understanding changing often to undo the follies of her sons.

In modern time short of patience frustrated by her stupid foolish child.

They not able to tend the land and understand its water flow.

Gone those days when men dug around fields to allow trapped water its voice.

Trench to trench it would travel escaping from field to field.

Channeling water to reach again river’s mouth and freedom flow.





THOUGHT’S CANAL.



I sometimes walk in misty fields.

Through blue grey trees, shadowed by hidden silent hills.

Dreams, maybe, maybe not, have I walked these in times before.

Memory curtain falling, masking once lost times to ignore.

Are they realities, subliminal imaginary or fleeting daydreams.

Times that may have gone, but never really seen.

Experienced one time in memory lore.

Within a circle I stand to face my hidden peers accused of falling short.

My failures they dictate to me.

I beg them to understand that I am just a mortal man.

No! They cry, have not I broken trust and failed to understand.

My fate they ponder as I await the destiny of this outcome.

One more chance I cry! An inborn fear to fall.

Pondering on another plain does modern man carry into time and gene some memories of once before.

Or this a fear of ‘Hell’, church lore brainstormed into child’s mind’s eye.

Memory now felt as pain as I travel a dark warm canal to find the bright light of day.





BROKEN HEARTED AUNT.



A brokenhearted lady dear old soul.

Memories of her sitting sadly sipping sherry in the old fashioned way.

Whispers around the table in case young years may hear.

“She died of a broken heart, it’s said”.

A heart split in two by some condition or mysterious fall.

To die of a broken heart what a fearful end, I hope that never happens to me.

What a way to go, surely the doctors will have a cure.

This to look forward to when I grow old is this part of life to come!

Contemporary days and I’ve grown in most ways.

Experienced the symptoms and survived.

So relieved it doesn’t tear your heart in two.

As I’m still alive and kicking and living this life each day.





JOURNEY TO THE BRIDGE.



A life’s journey when I was quite young.

In the past with family and friends.

A travel in time with many highs and a few times low.

In early days easier with the love of a mother and father who wished for me the best.

Finding my way through life and its tumbles not always knowing the way.

Chased up ‘Hogg’s Folly’ to get to school.

A young mind sensitive to the political follies of the day.

Asking why I didn’t get to the ‘Brothers’ the school of my father.

The teachers at the ‘Tower’ the best, crippled by the antics of church and state.

Storment controlling creating its insidious divides as they played with people’s minds.

Using the now discarded dull boring testaments of extreme mentality, set in the cesspool of archaic reactionary philosophies

The incredulous antics of politicians and perfidious ways.

I then wishing one day to reach above the clouds to a bright blue sky.

This sky hidden from me by a mindset of dubious evil political ways.

The monsters as vile as any of their ‘Cold War’ chums.

Political highwaymen with schemes trying each day to stop the suns’ rays reaching my spot.





GARRISTOWN TIME.



This is not a poetry page but an inability to describe what I may have seen.

One Sunday past in Garristown time lost in Barbara’s bar with nothing on my mind.

I watch as light reflects off mirrors, bottle top glass as the sun dips behind the hill.

Where Mèabh’s fort stands high amongst the centuries of Celtic Gaelic lore.

The old graveyard and ruined church this post card picture view.

Battle graves from times of Celtic kingship infighting spreading myths

over hills and shadowed lanes.

Stones circles, megalithic tombs attracting gatherings at ‘Winter Solstice’.

An explosion of light to my right as I nurse a pint in the eve of this late summer afternoon.

Clouds and mysterious white light billowing beauty from another world.

Tall white radiant visitor, wonderful this magnificent visible porthole view.

He taller and more graceful than anyone I’ve ever seen.

I stand to greet the vision in this wondrous light.

Four others from the bar watching I now conscious of their viewing.

Allowing the doubt within me to pretend this visitor imaginary and not there.

Today in another world memory reawakened.

Remembering the phantasmagorical view that redirected truth and personal light.





THE FISHER KING.


Forgiveness is a gift of the heart, mind, and soul.
The supposed vision of time to come.
Imagined water bursting from a mountain stream.
The sound of ‘Mother Nature’s’ wonders she so generous in her giving.
Flowers found between desert stone.
The gift of times to come.
Memories of bells heard in the late of an afternoon.
Thoughts of yesteryear and journey’s away from home.
Ringing laughter amongst flowers in a meadow.
Simple happy memories of salad days.
Allowing words said in hast to be wrapped in cotton wool.
Personal thoughts and a need to try to understand.

Past events laid aside with honest heart for us to hear again.
Life's truths and double speak.
As we listen to the sound of water from a mountain stream.
Symphonies heard again in the late of an afternoon.
Memories to pull on heartstrings.
Bird song from a summer’s meadow.
Heartfelt thanks to smile again.
Allowing the angry child within once more to clasp the wonder of a flower found between desert stone.
What rubbish it’s dangerous to be too nice.
It will only open the door again to Albion’s perfidious ways.




WALKS IN SECRET WOODS.



Remembering walks in secret woods.

Days of amber light and dreamtime filled days.

To dwell with memories of kindness and secret ways.

You so pretty beautiful and sublime.

Time together so important, distant priorities never defined.

Behold that is life as such it is, wonderful, wonderful times.

When in dreams to savour that so missed in life these days.

A wish to visit the secret fairy grove again.

The spot where we found such delights.

Bright blonde meadow so refined this well kept grove.

There to lie below blue-black starry skies.

Alas! My wish to visit the perfumed secret garden once more.



WORK THIS ONE OUT.

Close my eyes to greet the silent dark.
Many dimensions await me in deep filled journeyed sleep.
Covert messages guiding with steady wings.
A sprite carried off in dreamtime to a place with no time no space.
Faces new and old set their many varied puzzles in a slumbering dimensioned space.
Proposed actions to change unraveled thoughts and collusions never reached in endless tunneled dreams.
Sought after footsteps still not found in sand with paths with no end.
These slumbering steps tread each evening seeking wished for insight.
Journeys too far as they twist and turn on dream filled tales.
Still seeking the wished for key to open doors to enlightened self.
This needed to open the door to an ‘Aladdin’s Cave’ containing the grandiose plans of mice and men.
I awaken in dreamtime to the fresh breeze of life to enhance a simplistic life.
Our real time days mundane and complex, sprung from the minds of devious market schemes and television screens.


HIGHER PLANE.

My foolish private ego, easy on paper but not for Joe Public’s view.
This kettle of babble I write to control and keep it from over spilling.
The world, this world that I never really touch.
Views out of step with the norm but still within the pale.
Radical thought for others but I follow this line of fate.
In love with the day but to renege on proposed thoughts and called for actions.
Rejected by my island born and cast aside by the other.
Snubbed by perfidious Albion’s ways.
Swimming in dreams to find again an island shore.
In and out of step to keep on side and skip out on the next.
Well that’s me, the more I write the more I understand myself.
On life’s plane travelling onwards to crash every so often.
Each morning my Phoenix arises to meet again a brand new day.


HIDDEN SECRET PLANS.

Hi! To you my fellow man.
Why doth thee smirk and conceal thy hidden past.
The path of usurper’s cruel and merchant’s disingenuous plans.
This cruel and wanton journey by ancestors man.
An unwelcome plague on people’s lands forever repeated to this present day.
The people of the land kind to the traveller not to view his devious plans.
Welcomed to the hearth and offered the hand with friendship in its palm.
Then to suck the lifeblood from the land.
Hidden depths masked by merchant’s gile and beaming smile.
Gentle mind’s blocked by devil’s brew and opium.
The gifts of the merchant wizards mind this pot of empowering corrosive plans.
This no God given enlightened path but from the depths of darkness.
Pulled from the bowls, of infernal Saxon’s Teutonic cauldrons deepest boiling pans.


HAIL TO THE USERPERS.

Hail to the usurpers triumphant in their killing and stealing.
No need for stealth someone else’s land up for grabs in full media glare to snatch with both hands.
The new Nazis Order, no gas chambers these days they just deliver high tech phosphorous bombs.
Who plays the sad farewell violin while boasting of murder?
Triumphant to the world as people fall.
Hail to the grim and great new order, ‘George W.’ their dear and dreadful subservient brother.
Under cruel Zion’s thin veneer, they trumpet loudly of self-centred hurt.
Wringing blood stained hands in front of full-blown media stare.
Comforted by their friend ‘Old Albion’ who drew their boundary lines in sand and blood.
To allow the false tribe wish for other people’s lands.






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