Where to find a scraper, to clear the scum from the surface of our pure azure
let us reveal the sparkle of our multi coloured waters once more.
The confidence that the evil are showing, in this present fertile field for hatred, is terrifying
They puff up and spill their bile across the lands, while the good are forced onto their heels
What is going to turn the tide? Push hate back down into the hole, put devil back down below.
There is only so high you can fly
there is also only so low you can plummet
the depths and heights are merely creations of imagination
when you arrive to what you thought was high
you see the lowest still eye to eye.
What kind of dingbats think it is a good idea to get a microchip implanted into them? Actually volunteering for this gross technological invasion. Do they believe they will be some sort of enhanced machine hybrid, rather than being a scanned item on the system’s conveyor? So many people allow themselves to be manipulated, to be placed where and when those with the strings would desire, placated with shiny nonsense for their lobotomised micro brain. The realisation of reality meeting 1984’s last pages, the distress of the masses giving in to big brother.
Every price is rounded up
every age is rounded down
I wonder what that means.
I dream I cannot run. Though I try, my legs are in metaphorical treacle. I wish to run, I know it is a dream, so I dream in a dream I can pour through the air swiftly like light across a morning. To feel the globe tumble beneath me, to feel every sea and tree as they pass. But alas, I can run faster in reality than in my dreams.
Once high singing the song of flight
the air my anchor no strings on my kite
one stone from another in malice and mirth
splintered feathers have me tumbling to earth.
I love the turn of the leaves, the dark chill mornings
but I don’t want to hear of Autumns approach
until I have had my fill of warmth
I’m a quart down on warmth.
The rain shower feels good on the face
refreshes the earth, bringing forth its fresh aroma
invigorates the soul, washes away our spills
after a drought, after the sun, I love the rain
but, enough rain already.
The sun has finally splintered the clouds, shards of light sear the damp away
once oppressive, the sky breaks open revealing a hazy golden day.
I can see the plan now. A fiendishly clever one. Through the ages, when we witnessed the hate, prejudice and racism bubbling up every day, we were disgusted, yet we had little idea where it would bubble up from next, some of these crazies look normal at first glance. This plan to draw them out, to turn or destroy them, seemed at first like madness, but now it starts to unfold.
First, to create a monster, a crazies wet dream of a monster. They will spout forth of sexism, racism and patriotism. All right minded folks will have an aneurism! While the wannabe nazis will think all their Weihnachtens have come all at once. It will take an incredible amount of lunacy and hate to get the most secretive loons out, but it must be done. Extreme hateful policies will have normal folks close to a nervous breakdown, but they will be thankful later.
Once hate and lunacy are accepted as the norm, there will be a get together, a celebration the like that has never been seen. From all corners of the land the crazies will march out for their day in the sun. The monster will bring its flute.
There was this bull I knew, he was strong as hell, of course, he could pull a tree stump from concrete. Yet he never felt of much use at all. Despite his strength and beauty he would mope and sit alone, not wishing to impose his worthlessness upon the world. This upset me, yet I could not get through to him.
On the other hand, a cockerel I knew, he would strut through the world as if he was the shine on a crown. He told all “I could fly, yet have no use to prove it to those below”. His arrogance was such that many would literally run away, rather than hear another boastful word that he would say. This upset me too, yet no wishes of humility would puncture his balloon.
Till one occasion the bull sat under a chestnut tree avoiding all gaze. He happened to glance towards a small puff of feathers marching along on proud strutting legs, a chest so puffed up and tail so high, a ridiculous cockamamie sight. The bull’s shoulders started to shudder, to rock up and down. Then a laugh not heard since his voice broke, thundered out of his throat. One slice of ridiculous to break the spell. A thought to why not stop worrying? suddenly occurred, in a snap the bull was cured.
The Cockerel? Well, he will have to wait for his cessation of self glory, that is in another story.
Do not stay where you’re put.