Month: Dec 2016

Reflections on the Changing of the Year

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changing_of_the_year

There is absolutely no reason anyone would want to read this dreamy little rhymey New Year timely train of thought of mine! It comes as a stream of consciousness outpouring torrent from a tiny speck of dust (called “me”) in a thermodynamically-doomed imperfect universe [one could say “DeathStar” too, you see, though that must be understood aright, and not be confused with flights of fancy from a moving film]. That speck of dust is always bursting into flames, has nothing left to lose (or gain), has wept more than a stream will know (for, as the poem goes, “I’m never far from tears”), has conquered fears — its fuel has peaked at overflow and laughing all the way to fullness through the tank. But that speck of dust cannot help but move its mind and write; and if some eyes (just two or none will do) should happen to alight upon this written page (some eyes, that is, which gave up living in a cage [or long to do]), that speck of dust will take delight in meeting minds {I hope it will be you!}.

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More than Less [poem]

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more_than_less

the morer that I know
the more I realise
I do not know
though
better still to say
the morer that I know
the more I see just
how much more is
through the door
for bigsmall me
to grow

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To Love is to Give [sonnet & commentary]

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to_love_is_to_give

A light went on inside this granite head.
A puzzle and conundrum’s now been cracked
which needed to be known before I’m dead.
This spark has liberated me, in fact.

It’s not so much that love I must obtain
(for music, art and nature, passion, give
me all the love that I could ever gain);
but that to give myself’s how I must live.

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From Iraq to Syria (via Libya)

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The Use of “Atrocity Propaganda” by the Western Powers

A kind of madness has overtaken the world. It is not a new sort of madness; but it is one which has increased hugely in intensity during the past fifteen years since the events of September 11th 2001 in the USA. This madness had occasionally surfaced temporarily prior to those events (most notably in the public response to the death of Lady Diana Spencer). The madness I am speaking about is far more dangerous and bizarre even than what one would ordinarily call “madness”. For this one is contagious — striking anyone of any social class, political wing, level of intelligence or sophistication. The madness of which I am speaking is completely irrational, making people believe things which are patently and provably untrue, especially those which come through visual and written media channels and which seem to send them into a frenzy of unfettered emotionalism. This is the madness of mass gullibility.

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Resistance in Roussillon

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Karelija Comes of Age

book_resistance_in_roussillon

Karelija Šviečiantys regularly braided her long, mousey-brown hair. It was a meditation ritual. She braided it in a spiral shape — closely resembling the archetypal pattern of DNA — but with a personal extra-dimensional twist every time. This should not be a surprise, for she came into this world not only with revolution built into her DNA but she defied all standard genetic encoding in her life and comportment.

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The Petalled Path of Light [poem]

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the_petalled_path_of_light

A rrested by the forces of raw unlaw & rank disorder
L eaves its mark upon the soul as if defiled; and then
M olested by misunderstanding fickle fingers full
O f dead men’s digit-bones and barnacles born in
S ecret by some accident of misbirth, I search for
T etracycline substitutes to cleanse my aching soul.

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The Call of the Wild [poem]

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the_call_of_the_wild

Never mind the thorns or prickles!
To hell with every spine or thistle!
Screw the bristles, points or prongs,
needles, barbs and aculeus, spicules!
Nothing never ever comes for free;
and least of all in matters which,
collectively, are known as “love”
to people such as you and me.

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Healing the Shadow-World [double-sonnet]

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healing_the_shadow-world

“So how am I to deal with this”, he said.
“With love”, said I. “It is the only way”.
That wasn’t where his feet were primed to tread.
He wanted his revenge, I heard him say.

And then another one looked in my eyes,
eschewing men and living as a nun.
The bruises on her soul were no surprise
(her father’s fists the love in her did stun).

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