Archive

Poetry

Can you tell the difference between real and unreal?

If not then I am writing to you

about psychosis and the difference between being the One

who isn’t and the one who is.

I must go to the Church today and see the one

who is in control of the baptisms of Bath

who asks not who is here

but asks when shall we notice that she

is?

Who is going to tell you about

the birthrates of the City of Bath

and who is unioning and who isn’t going

to shul as they are preparing for incest

against the woman they know as Mum?

All it takes is cognition.

No speaking in tongues is allowed here on

the page.

No spoken language can tell the tune again

of the world’s end and how I held

it in my hands for you to say

So?

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What’s the procedure for this

the time is nigh for a muss with the head

and a fuss with the heart,

a friend by the doorway

and a sustaining look at a key

to the door of your head

and the start of the words coming through

the keyhole like terms of endearment

but not without the worry of times

spent in the loosehead mob

of the court and higher learnings

where they do not know how

to find an answer when all is about to see

that no one hears the words of the Lord

who asks not for the antiques but the real

named person who gave Him a bad name

for he is without killing and no one

can surely find the way to him in a bearing

like they use on the bookshelves for indexing

the author of their wares. For even in the world’s

books are there no use for the way in which

we see our lives about to finish without

knowing why.

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He shoves it to the left

and wriggles it back to the right.

The ball dances on a flipper

then sinks outtasight.

Judge Dredd, Ace of Clubs

multiball and more!

She tries to regain level

maybe make the highest score!

A target sinks under accurate fire!

Another goes and extra ball is lit!

She’s sweating now, reefer and beer…

A crowd has assembled

crushing close, pushing near.

She lets the ball bounce on a rubber,

subtle fingerplay shows off

her skill with the machine

she’s pissing him off!

TWACK! Goes the machine,

again for Specials lit

the metal ball is glowing

the flashing lights are getting hit!

Bump-bump go her hips

as she puts her body in

Two free games, no more!

The targets are all a-spin!

Finally she can do no more

her control has worn thin…

Over to you she shouts

do better! With a grin.

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I lay so long on the open lawn

I gathered dew in my fist

Peppered by music in my ears

A solemn vow to be kissed.

The trees above they shed their leaves

falling about my mouth

The birds were crying against the clouds

long on their journey South.

The few begin the hard won Road

snatched from undergrowth,

the use of machetes tore at green

in silence they cut with stealth.

No machine out here

Upon the verge, of latent falling wings

the chainmail mist hung with the urge

to sample a knight’s last fling.

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There was a time

when all things were made

in Eden.

Everything we owned

was priceless

and involved long hours

of arduour and wealth

procurement. Nothing became

of those things, they rotted

and fell apart but

were never thrown away

as in todays world

where the dump

can easily be mistaken

as a haven for the

insanely collective.

it took many ideas to foment

a pile of rotting soil.

Too many ideas is against

the Lord, I say.

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It couldn’t take long

to even the keel

and separate the man from

the bird.

Mostly it took

nor even nor book

to licence the thrill

from its rook

-ery of chance.

Never before had the man

opened doors of the heart

and it’s whimsical place

on the hearth. But

no one ensured that the

right comes once more

as the wily men

of the Nansook poured

forth with their

anger for the tumult

and furs.

In the end it was just

to fight with mere listening

at the trials of the

men and machine.

But ever so long

it reported in song

that the hills were

now vacant of longing

for the arrow to shoot

the man with the loot

and it came about

that all were involute.

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It takes only two things to be able to make the world a better part

of you

It takes only two things to be able to make it all the

way into your heart

It takes only the woe of the world to make all the things

in your light seem able to make the

one in the middle try again and again

but no one can see that all the work of one is able to make

it to the then and there

where no one knows who is able to make it

to the park and all and that is why they say

it is about the right of all to make it in the fall

and not the right of the one who wins

to ask it of the one in the end of the fool and the fenne.

Yours

Bruced du Faux

Excumdusomdusomputudesumdefalte

ecum metese netese netese tesete netese tesusu netesu nutesu nutesu nutuse sunutu nutu end

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How can I tell you how long I have waited?

Time means nothing without your ear

to the wall of my heart, listening for the sound

of my eratic path to your house of Joy.

Oh what am I to say of my trembling hand

upon your chest as I push for the try against

the odds of a team of players who know who

is going to win without costing the game

for the word is that all the real players

are about to resign their time for the working

man of God is here.

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Taking life a pace at a time

without time for a new kind of luck

to make it to the end of the road

without being blown away from a truck

The police don’t know how to deal

with the works of the gun and metal

they only know how to defend themselves

and hold our lives in their hands

but do not see it as a right and wrong thing

it is about the work of society in making

it evil to be black and not white

like they are in the days when no one

could look at you, who could look and

not be feared but coppers and their knowledge

of the course of events in cells makes it

sure nuff the best place not to be.

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