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Ed Helms

April is tax month. If you are having trouble filing your taxes, then you should hire an accountant. They'll give you the same advice that they've given hundreds of corporations - taxes are for douche bags.

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Flowers For The Magnificent Liar That We All Love No Matter What

you ask for bread
i give my own bread
plus juice, i had one
cold in the fridge
pressed from fresh orange

you can take it
sip slowly as i watch
i can give you almost
anything
if you just ask

you do not have to fabricate
stories
i know each line

been there, you see,
been there, i keep telling you

you ask the world
my world

i am always ready to give
this world to you

i have no power over the stars
and the sea

but i can ask them
for you

you just ask, all you need to do
is just ask

there is no need for a lie
yet you did lie to me

will you ask if it pains me?

even before you ask me
i have already an answer
like a fried chicken on the platter

I've been in pain
there is always pain over my shoulders
you're the burden there

so how can i ever experience pain again?

you are a liar
and will always be
one magnificent liar

if you only ask
we can always give you

the answer: we will always love you
just the same

know that. you must know that.
we have all cried for you
we want to save you

perhaps, these flowers will tell
that all....

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What Was It You Wanted?

What was it you wanted?
Tell me again so Ill know.
Whats happening in there,
Whats going on in your show.
What was it you wanted,
Could you say it again?
Ill be back in a minute
You can get it together by then.
What was it you wanted
You can tell me, Im back,
We can start it all over
Get it back on the track,
You got my attention,
Go ahead, speak.
What was it you wanted
When you were kissing my cheek?
Was there somebody looking
When you give me that kiss
Someone there in the shadows
Someone that I might have missed?
Is there something you needed,
Something I dont understand.
What was it you wanted,
Do I have it here in my hand?
Whatever you wanted
Slipped out of my mind,
Would you remind me again
If youd be so kind.
Has the record been breaking,
Did the needle just skip,
Is there somebody waitin,
Was there a slip of the lip?
What was it you wanted
I aint keepin score
Are you the same person
That was here before?
Is it something important?
Maybe not.
What was it you wanted?
Tell me again I forgot.
Whatever you wanted
What could it be
Did somebody tell you
That you could get it from me,
Is it something that comes natural
Is it easy to say,
Why do you want it,
Who are you anyway?
Is the scenery changing,
Am I getting it wrong,
Is the whole thing going backwards,
Are they playing our song?
Where were you when it started
Do you want it for free
What was it you wanted
Are you talking to me?

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My Feelings For You Remain the Same

After all that has been said and done,
My feelings for you remain the same.

'Sooo...
That's a relief.
I too have changed.
I am glad you have forgiven me! '

Who is talking about forgiveness?
Didn't I just say...
After all that has been said and done,
My feelings for you remain the same.

You're going to have to do,
Some jumping through some hoops!
Roll over, bark!
And make me a good cup of coffee.
Hop on one leg...
And beg in Chinese!

'But I don't know any Chinese.'

LIES!
We use to have it once a week.
You use to order the 'Goo Goo..
AND the Wonton with the General Tso.
Who do you think you're fooling?
You haven't changed at all.

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Restoration Of Faith

the restoration of faith and undying love
was given to us from the lord above.
this restoration will be everlasting.

jesus then said: the same way that god has given it to me
i will give it to thee.
i will restore in you-the father, the son, the holy ghost
this is the gift you will treasure thr most.

for if you are pure in mind and deed
whatever you do you will succeed.
faith in me and faith in god
is the restoration from the start
and it begins with your heart.

so open up your mind and hear what i say
you had this from the very first day
of when you was baptized with water
to erase mortal sin
and over the devil you would win.

this is the restoration that i give to you
hold it dear- hold it true.

12/14/08

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I Cant Give Back The Love I Feel For You

(ashford / simpson / holland)
Heres a tear
For a souvenir
And a dream
Torn at the seams
Heres a promise that you made to me of love
Its more than Ill ever see
And then youre free to go
But I cant give back the love I feel for you
Gonna be stuck with it no matter what I do
Take these eyes that once could see
Now reflections of my misery
And happiness I thought would last
Is now becoming just a thing of the past
But I cant give back the love
Thats a part of me
If you want just a little bit
Youll have to take all of me
Simply adore
til the world dont go round no more
Heres the ring
That didnt mean a thing
And letters you wrote
That gave my young heart hope
Take the pillow where my dreams were made
And the mind where the thought of you stayed
But, baby, you should know
That I cant give back the love I feel for you
Gonna be stuck with it no matter what I do
Take these arms that held you close
And follow up the one you need the most
Take these hands no good to me
That used to touch you so tenderly
But I cant give back the love
Thats a part of me
If you want just a little bit
Youll have to take all of me
No, I cant give back the love that I feel for you, yeah
Gonna be stuck with it no matter, no matter what I do
No, I cant give back the love thats a part of me, yeah
Gonna be stuck with it no matter, no matter what i, what I do
Gonna get stuck
Gonna get stuck

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I Cant Give Back The Love I Feel For You

(brian holland/nickolas ashford/valeriesimpson)
Heres a tear, for a souvenir
And a dream, thats torn at the seams
Heres a promise you made to me
Of the tomorrow Ill never see
And then youre free to go
But I cant give back the love
I feel for you
Im gonna be stuck with it
No matter what I do
Take these arms that held you close
I thought I was the one you needed the most
Take these hands, theyre no good to me
That used to touch you so tenderly
But I cant give back the love
Thats a part of me
If you want just a little bit
You have to take all of me
Heres a ring
That didnt mean a thing
And the letters you wrote
That gave my young heart hope
Take the pillow where my dreams were made
And the mind, where the thought of you stayed
But baby, you should know
That I cant give back the love
I feel for you
Im gonna be stuck with it
No matter what I do
Take these eyes that once could see
Now reflections of a misery
The hapiness I thought would last
Now a becoming just a thing of the past
But I cant give back the love
Thats a part of me
If you want just a little bit
You have to take all of me
No, I cant give back
No, I feel for you
Oh, Im gonna be stuck
No matter what I do
cause itll grow till the world
Dont go round no more
But I cant give back the love
I feel for you
Im gonna be stuck with it
No matter what I do
But I cant give back the love
I feel for you
Im gonna be stuck with it
No matter what I do
But I cant give back the love
I feel for you
Im gonna be stuck with it
No matter what I do

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Let's Stand Up To Those Bullies

Let’s stand up to those bullies who think
Gay bashing is fun.
If it happened to one of your family members
Would you stand up and fight? Or would you run?

If you found out it was your mother
Who liked the same gender.
Would you say something to offend her.

A 13 year old in Texas shot himself for being gay
Another 13 years old also hung himself.
And now a freshman from
Rutgers college jumped off the George Washington bridge
Because two people thought it was funny, so they
Taped him that day.

Gays have been around since the beginning of time
Open your eyes, you’re not blind.
They live, they work, they play, the same as you
And their lives theyll give for their country too.

They don’t tell you who you can and can not love
These all come from up above.
If GOD had made us exactly alike
Then we would really argue and fight.
You would be making love to yourself
Because there would not be anything else.

How many more lives must be taken
Before you are really awakened.
Bullying doesn’t only apply to gay bashing.

People who talk down to you because
You may not be as smart, or as good looking
Or as slim as them.
Don’t you feel like they offend?

We are all at the bottom of that totem pole
Even the ones who think they’re in control.
Is Roy smarter than me? does Sheila
Have a better body than me?
Everyone has their doubts, but that’s
What life is all about.

So before you start to put anyone else down
Turn and look around
They may be talking about you
The same way that you want to do.

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To a Black Gin

Daughter of Eve, draw near—I would behold thee.
Good Heavens! Could ever arm of man enfold thee?
Did the same Nature that made Phryne mould thee?

Come thou to leeward; for thy balmy presence
Savoureth not a whit of mille-fleurescence:—
My nose is no insentient excrescence.

Thou art not beautiful, I tell thee plainly,
Oh! thou ungainliest of things ungainly;
Who thinks thee less than hideous doats insanely.

Most unaesthetical of things terrestrial,
Hadst thou indeed an origin celestial?—
Thy lineaments are positively bestial!

Yet thou my sister art, the clergy tell me;
Though, truth to state, thy brutish looks compel me
To hope these parsons merely want to sell me.

A hundred times and more I've heard and read it;
But if Saint Paul himself came down and said it,
Upon my soul I could not give it credit.

“God's image cut in ebony,” says someone;
'Tis to be hoped some day thou may'st become one;
The present image is a very rum one.
Thy face “the human face divine!” . . . Oh, Moses!
Whatever trait divine thy face discloses,
Some vile Olympian cross-play pre-supposes.

Thy nose appeareth but a transverse section:
Thy mouth hath no particular direction,—
A flabby-rimmed abyss of imperfection.

Thy skull development mine eye displeases;
Thou wilt not suffer much from brain diseases;
Thy facial angle forty-five degrees is.

The coarseness of thy tresses is distressing,
With grease and raddle firmly coalescing,
I cannot laud thy system of “top-dressing.”

Thy dress is somewhat scant for proper feeling;
As is thy flesh, too,—scarce thy bones concealing:
Thy calves unquestionably want re-vealing.

Thy rugged skin is hideous with tattooing,
And legible with hieroglyphic wooing—
Sweet things in art of some fierce lover's doing.

For thou some lover hast, I bet a guinea,—
Some partner in thy fetid ignominy,
The raison d'être of this piccaninny.

What must he be whose eye thou hast delighted?
His sense of beauty hopelessly benighted!
The canons of his taste how badly sighted!

What must his gauge be, if thy features pleased him?
If lordship of such limbs as thine appeased him,
It was not “calf-love” certainly that seized him.

And is he amorously sympathetic?
And doth he kiss thee? . . . Oh my soul prophetic!
The very notion is a strong emetic!

And doth he smooth thine hours with oily talking?
And take thee conjugally out-a-walking?
And crown thy transports with a tom-a-hawking?

I guess his love and anger are combined so;
His passions on thy shoulders are defined so;
“His passages of love” are underlined so.

Tell me thy name. What? . . . Helen? . . . (Oh, OEnone,
That name bequeathed to one so foul and bony
Avengeth well thy ruptured matrimony!)

Eve's daughter! with that skull! and that complexion?
What principle of “Natural Selection”
Gave thee with Eve the most remote connection?

Sister of L. E. L. . . . of Mrs. Stowe, too!
Of E. B. Browning! Harriet Martineau, too!
Do theologians know where fibbers go to?

Of great George Eliot, whom I worship daily!
Of Charlotte Brontë! and Joanna Baillie!—
Methinks that theory is rather “scaly.”

Thy primal parents came a period later—
The handiwork of some vile imitator;
I fear they had the devil's imprimatur.

This in the retrospect.—Now, what's before thee?
The white man's heaven, I fear, would simply bore thee;
Ten minutes of doxology would floor thee.

Thy Paradise should be some land of Goshen,
Where appetite should be thy sole devotion,
And surfeit be the climax of emotion;—

A land of Bunya-bunyas towering splendid,—
Of honey-bags on every tree suspended,—
A Paradise of sleep and riot blended;—

Of tons of 'baccy, and tons more to follow,—
Of wallaby as much as thou couldst swallow,—
Of hollow trees, with 'possums in the hollow;—

There, undismayed by frost, or flood, or thunder,
As joyous as the skies thou roamest under,
There shouldst thou . . . Oooey! . . Stop! She's off.
. . . No wonder.

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Patrick White

Honeysuckle And Wild Raspberries

Honeysuckle and wild raspberries.
Enclaves of sap green shadows
where the grasshoppers take shelter from the sun.
Cerulean blue chicory by the side of the road
and star clusters of New England asters
thrust like a bouquet of constellations
through the broken down stave
of a cedar rail fence
that's past caring
whether it keeps things in
or lets them out.
Here once
many years ago
I tried to live far away from pain
and here again
though I know better now
than to think paradise
is any kind of anodyne
my eye is caught off guard
by every manner of earthly excellence
that isn't ambivalent or deceitful.
I once walked this dirt road
for five miles one night
followed by what looked like
a black wolf with ruby eyes
that flashed like an ambulance in the moonlight
every time I turned around
to see if it was still there
or if it were closing on me.
A fire walk of fear.
I won't say I found courage that night.
I would say I was unscared.
The moon weaves silver dreamcatchers
for the spiders
and even the low growl
of a wilderness that's grown curious about you
can be a liberating mantra.
I approach this place
like the creative imagination of a good teacher
unfurling the sails of the morning glory
like spare parachutes
to catch the wind
and sail all the way down the Yang-tze River
like the swans of anonymous loveletters.
Violet loosestrife and goldenrod.
Flowers are what
complementary colours look like
when they're dancing.
And here I learned
picking up the skulls of squirrels and groundhogs
as if they were pinecones
and watching the bewilderment
of a wounded doe
try and fail to clear a fence
that would have been child's play to her yesterday
and the two children
buried before they were four
at the turn of the century
up on the top of the high hill
under a shipwreck of an oak
that's never put to sea
how death is as equally acceptable to life
as life is to death.
The wild grapevines
are writing their own kind of music
drunk on whole notes
and the dragonflies are coming down
like C.I.A. drones
on cells of terrorist mosquitoes.
Though I'm cellularly immersed in it
there's a gap between me and nature
that isn't so much the space between
one thing and another
as it is a bubble of thought and passion
in a great sea of vivifying awareness
washed up on the shores of consciousness
like a bottle from a faraway place
with no message inside
except light years and light years of longing.
Nature is the midwife of a serial killer.
Nature is the dark mother that gives birth to all things.
Nature is a metaphor for me
as I am for it.
A coincidence of the contradictories.
Closer than a face is to its own reflection.
Closer than the sea is
that wraps this airy nothing in a skin of water
and then treats it to the tattoo it's always wanted
on its birthday
like the sign of the house it was born under
in the black stars of an unforgettable constellation.
Someone once said
that death was self-containment.
I disagree with that.
Life is a bubble.
And poof!
In the twinkling of an eye
there goes the neighbourhood.
Death is rapid expansion into the open.
Life toes the threshold
but it's death that crosses it
and enters its homelessness
like the primordial atom
on the road to nowhere
that isn't here and now.
Down to the swamp
to check out the water lilies.
I painted down here for years
with a French easel as shaky as a fawn
getting up on its folding legs for the first time.
A blue heron snaps the air like a wet sheet
and startles the frogs into popcorn.
Life soup.
Green scum.
A deer path
and a beaver
repairing a mud hut
that would have turned into civilization
if it hadn't harvested trees
instead of grass.
You can hear the silence
of a watchful presence
over and above the sounds
of life going on all around you
when you're alone in a marsh like this.
You can smell the transformation
of the duff and decay
into the beauty food of the waterlilies.
You can tine the air like the tongue of a snake
and taste the cauldron brewing
the eye of the newt
and the one-legged frog
into the ambrosia of water hyacinths
as blue as Raphael.
I feel like the sorcerer's apprentice
the first day on the job.
A praying mantis.
A Vietnam of dragonflies.
But what I saw here day after day
through all four seasons of the year
I'd come down here to paint
showed me nature is nurture
and life suckles at death's tit.
But you can't tell
who's being raised by whose assassin.
Who's the exit.
Who's the entrance.
Because there's just one big open gate
hinged like birds to the sky
with nothing written above it
as a sign of welcome or warning
and you're greeted by nothing but your own presence.
And I've sat out here by myself
until the first light of morning
just to look for clues among the stars.
But the mysteries don't answer you
like questions it occurred to you to ask
They go on and on forever
like wounded joys
the radiance and the wonder
cut so deep
they never want to heal.
You can appeal to the stars for clarity.
You can look for small suggestions in the grass.
You can get a feel
for where the wildflowers
like to gather in abandoned fields
and where the pioneers
who grew them in gardens
just behind the summer kitchen
like Bouncing Bet
whose sap they used for soap
buried the tiny children
who died of scarlet fever
under the crude grave stones
of the Canadian Shield.
And the hills they chose like nannies
to watch over them
with beauty and affection.
And the silence and the sorrow
of the long sparse walk
back down to the farm without them.
And when you put your ear up to their abyss
you'd swear you could hear their voices
asking you the same questions
that they asked of themselves.
Is there a meaning to all this
that's more than just a flash
of lightning and fireflies?
Anything you can say or feel about life
that isn't always two children shy of the truth?

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Psychological Warfare

This above all remember: they will be very brave men,
And you will be facing them. You must not despise them.

I am, as you know, like all true professional soldiers,
A profoundly religious man: the true soldier has to be.
And I therefore believe the war will be over by Easter Monday.
But I must in fairness state that a number of my brother-officers,
No less religious than I, believe it will hold out till Whitsun.
Others, more on the agnostic side (and I do not contemn them)
Fancy the thing will drag on till August Bank Holiday.

Be that as it may, some time in the very near future,
We are to expect Invasion ... and invasion not from the sea.
Vast numbers of troops will be dropped, probably from above,
Superbly equipped, determined and capable; and this above all,
Remember: they will be very brave men, and chosen as such.

You must not, of course, think I am praising them.
But what I have said is basically fundamental
To all I am about to reveal: the more so, since
Those of you that have not seen service overseas—
Which is the case with all of you, as it happens—this is the first time
You will have confronted them. My remarks are aimed
At preparing you for that.

Everyone, by the way, may smoke,
And be as relaxed as you can, like myself.
I shall wander among you as I talk and note your reactions.
Do not be nervous at this: this is a thing, after all,
We are all in together.

I want you to note in your notebooks, under ten separate headings,
The ten points I have to make, remembering always
That any single one of them may save your life. Is everyone ready?
Very well then.

The term, Psychological Warfare
Comes from the ancient Greek: psycho means character
And logical, of course, you all know. We did not have it
In the last conflict, the fourteen-eighteen affair,
Though I myself was through it from start to finish. (That is point one.)
I was, in fact, captured—or rather, I was taken prisoner—
In the Passchendaele show (a name you will all have heard of)
And in our captivity we had a close opportunity
(We were all pretty decently treated. I myself
Was a brigadier at the time: that is point two)
An opportunity I fancy I was the only one to appreciate
Of observing the psychiatry of our enemy
(The word in those days was always psychology,
A less exact description now largely abandoned). And though the subject
Is a highly complex one, I had, it was generally conceded,
A certain insight (I do not know how, but I have always, they say,
Had a certain insight) into the way the strangest things ebb up
From what psychoanalysts now refer to as the self-conscious.
It is possibly for this reason that I have been asked
To give you the gist of the thing, the—how shall I put it?—
The gist.

I was not of course captured alone
(Note that as point three) so that I also observed
Not only the enemy's behaviour; but ours. And gradually, I concluded
That we all of us have, whether we like it or lump it,
Our own individual psychiatry, given us, for better or worse,
By God Almighty. I say this reverently; you often find
These deeper themes of psychiatry crudely but well expressed
In common parlance. People say: 'We are all as God made us.'
And so they are. So are the enemy. And so are some of you.
This I in fact observed: point four. Not only the enemy
Had their psychiatry, but we, in a different sense,
Had ours. And I firmly believe you cannot (point six) master
Their psychiatry before you have got the gist of your own.
Let me explain more fully: I do not mean to imply
That any, or many, of you are actually mentally ill.
Though that is what the name would imply. But we, your officers,
Have to be aware that you, and many of your comrades,
May have a sudden psychiatry which, sometimes without warning,
May make you feel (and this is point five) a little bit odd.

I do not mean that in the sense of anything nasty:
I am not thinking of those chaps with their eyes always on each other
(Sometimes referred to as homosensualists
And easily detected by the way they lace up their boots)
But in the sense you may all feel a little disturbed,
Without knowing why, a little as if you were feeling an impulse,
Without knowing why: the term for this is ambivalence.
Often referred to for some mysterious reason,
By the professionals as Amby Valence,
As though they were referring to some nigger minstrel.
(Not, of course, that I have any colour prejudice:
After all, there are four excellent West Nigerians among you,
As black as your boot: they are not to blame for that.)

At all events this ambivalence is to be avoided.
Note that as point seven: I think you all know what I mean:
In the Holy Scriptures the word begins with an O,
Though in modern parlance it usually begins with an M.
You have most of you done it absentmindedly at some time or another,
But repeated, say, four times a day, it may become almost a habit,
Especially prone to by those of sedentary occupation,
By pale-faced clerks or schoolmasters, sitting all day at a desk,
Which is not, thank God, your position: you are always
More or less on the go: and that is what
(Again deep in the self-conscious) keeps you contented and happy here.

Even so, should you see some fellow-comrade
Give him all the help you can. In the spiritual sense, I mean,
With a sympathetic word or nudge, inform him in a manly fashion
'Such things are for boys, not men, lad.'
Everyone, eyes front!

I pause, gentlemen.
I pause. I am not easily shocked or taken aback,
But even while I have been speaking of this serious subject
I observe that one of you has had the effrontery—
Yes, you at the end of row three! No! Don't stand up, for God's sake, man,
And don't attempt to explain. Just tuck it away,
And try to behave like a man. Report to me
At eighteen hundred hours. The rest of you all eyes front.
I proceed to point six.

The enemy itself,
I have reason to know is greatly prone to such actions.
It is something we must learn to exploit: an explanation, I think,
Is that they are, by and large, undeveloped children,
Or adolescents, at most. It is perhaps to do with physique,
And we cannot and must not ignore their physique as such.
(Physique, of course, being much the same as psychiatry.)
They are usually blond, and often extremely well-made,
With large blue eyes and very white teeth,
And as a rule hairless chests, and very smooth, muscular thighs,
And extremely healthy complexions, especially when slightly sunburnt.
I am convinced there is something in all this that counts for something.
Something probably deep in the self-conscious of all of them.
Undeveloped children, I have said, and like children,
As those of you with families will know,
They are sometimes very aggressive, even the gentlest of them.

All the same we must not exaggerate; in the words of Saint Matthew:
'Clear your minds of cant.' That is point five: note it down.
Do not take any notice of claptrap in the press
Especially the kind that implies that the enemy will come here,
Solely with the intention of raping your sisters.
I do not know why it is always sisters they harp on:
I fancy it must ebb up from someone's self-conscious.
It is a patent absurdity for two simple reasons: (a)
They cannot know in advance what your sisters are like:
And (b) some of you have no sisters. Let that be the end of that.

There are much darker things than that we have to think of.
It is you they consider the enemy, you they are after.
And though, as Britishers, you will not be disposed to shoot down
A group of helpless men descending from the heavens,
Do not expect from them—and I am afraid I have to say this—gratitude:
They are bound to be over-excited,
As I said, adolescently aggressive, possibly drugged,
And later, in a macabre way, grotesquely playful.
Try to avoid being playfully kicked in the crutch,
Which quite apart from any temporary discomfort,
May lead to a hernia. I do not know why you should laugh.
I once had a friend who, not due to enemy action
But to a single loud sneeze, entirely his own, developed a hernia,
And had to have great removals, though only recently married.
(I am sorry, gentlemen, but anyone who finds such things funny
Ought to suffer them and see. You deserve the chance to.
I must ask you all to extinguish your cigarettes.)

There are other unpleasant things they may face you with.
You may, as I did in the fourteen-eighteen thing,
Find them cruelly, ruthlessly, starkly obsessed with the arts,
Music and painting, sculpture and the writing of verses,
Please, do not stand for that.

Our information is
That the enemy has no such rules, though of course they may have.
We must see what they say when they come. There can, of course,
Be no objection to the more virile arts:
In fact in private life I am very fond of the ballet,
Whose athleticism, manliness and sense of danger
Is open to all of us to admire. We had a ballet-dancer
In the last mob but three, as you have doubtless heard.
He was cruelly teased and laughed at—until he was seen in the gym.
And then, my goodness me! I was reminded of the sublime story
Of Samson, rending the veil of the Temple.
I do not mean he fetched the place actually down; though he clearly did what he could.

Though for some other reason I was never quite clear about,
And in spite of my own strong pressure on the poor lad's behalf,
And his own almost pathetic desire to stay on with us,
He was, in fact, demobilized after only three weeks' service,
Two and a half weeks of which he spent in prison.
Such are war's tragedies: how often we come upon them!
(Everyone may smoke again, those that wish.)

This brings me to my final point about the psychiatry
Of our formidable foe. To cope with it,
I know of nothing better than the sublime words of Saint Paul
In one of his well-known letters to the Corinthians:
'This above all, to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day
No man can take thee in.'

'This above all': what resonant words those are!
They lead me to point nine, which is a thing
I may have a special thing about, but if so,
Remember this is not the first war I have been through.
I refer (point nine this is) to the question of dignity.
Dignity. Human dignity. Yours. Never forget it, men.
Let it sink deep into your self-consciousness,
While still remaining plentifully available on the surface,
In the form of manly politeness. I mean, in particular, this:
Never behave in a manner to evoke contempt
Before thine enemy. Our enemy, I should say.

Comrades, and brothers-in-arms,
And those especially who have not understood my words,
You were not born to live like cowards or cravens:
Let me exhort you: never, whatever lies you have heard,
Be content to throw your arms on the ground and your other arms into the air and squawk 'Kaputt!'
It is unsoldierly, unwarlike, vulgar, and out of date,
And may make the enemy laugh. They have a keen sense of humour,
Almost (though never quite, of course) as keen as our own.
No: when you come face to face with the foe, remember dignity,
And though a number of them do fortunately speak English,
Say, proudly, with cold politeness, in the visitor's own language:
'Ich ergebe mich.' Ich meaning I,
Ergebe meaning surrender, and mich meaning me.
Ich ergebe mich.' Do not forget the phrase.
Practise it among yourselves: do not let it sound stilted,
Make it sound idiotish, as if you were always saying it,
Only always cold in tone: icy, if necessary:
It is such behaviour that will make them accord you
The same respect that they accorded myself,
At Passchendaele. (Incidentally,
You may also add the word nicht if you feel inclined to,
Nicht meaning not. It will amount to much the same thing.)

Dignity, then, and respect: those are the final aims
Of psychiatric relations, and psychological warfare.
They are the fundamentals also of our religion.
I may have mentioned my own religious intuitions:
They are why I venture to think this terrible war will be over
On Easter Monday, and that the invasion will take place
On either Maundy Thursday or Good Friday,
Probably the Thursday, which in so very many
Of our great, brave, proud, heroic and battered cities,
Is early closing day, as the enemy may have learnt from their agents.
Alas, there may be many such days in the immediate future.
But remember this in the better world we all have to build,
And build by ourselves alone—for the government
May well in the next few weeks have withdrawn to Canada—
What did you say? The man in row five. He said something.
Stand up and repeat what you said.
I said 'And a sodding good job', sir, I said, sir.
I have not asked anyone for political comments, thank you,
However apt. Sit down. I was saying:
That in the better world we all have to try to build
After the war is over, whether we win or lose,
Or whether we all agree to call it a draw,
We shall have to try our utmost to get used to each other,
To live together with dignity and respect.
As our Lord sublimely said in one of his weekly Sermons on the Mount
Outside Jerusalem (where interestingly enough,
I was stationed myself for three months in 1926):
'A thirteenth commandment I give you (this is point ten)
That ye love one another.' Love, in Biblical terms,
Meaning of course not quite what it means today,
But precisely what I have called dignity and respect.
And that, men, is the great psychiatrical problem before you:
Of how on God's earth we shall ever learn to attain some sort
Of dignity.

And due respect.
One man.
For another.

Thank you; God bless you, men. Good afternoon.

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I Owe To You The Peace Train

I owe to you the peace train
That will help you to flee from
Africa
And get you out of Africa to a better
Place to live that is safe
And away from starvation and
Aids
Beloved people
Of Africa

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A Quiet Evening at the Pub

'It's my opinion, ' the stranger said,
Though nobody'd asked for his point of view,
'That a pint of this Scottish Export
Is best followed up by a chaser or two! '

But the other drinkers simply ignored him,
He obviously had had a few,
Perhaps he was a travelling salesman,
At any rate, he was 'passing through'.

So they continued to talk about football
As people in pubs quite often do,
Their little hobby was so important
And why he had spoken they hadn't a clue.

'Well whats the matter with you b*stards?
Don't you realise that I'm talking to you?
You've got no manners but you'll regret it,
Do you know what I am going to do? '

He took a gun from inside his jacket,
Three shot rang out, then another two,
Three regulars lay dead on the carpet,
The barman collapsed, he was wounded too.

'Pay attention, you stupid b*stards!
When a stranger gives you his point of view,
Just remember that a pint of Export
Is best followed up by a chaser or two! '

It's not that I'm being superstitious
But I'll tell you something between me and you,
The events of that evening have given me nightmares
That only recede when I've had quite a few.

Wherever I travel since that awful night,
To Tipperary or to Timbuctoo,
I solemnly drink that Scottish Export,
And follow it up with a chaser or two! !

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Pushing Me Away

I've lied to you
The same way that I always do
This is the last smile
That I'll fake for the sake of being with you

(Everything falls apart/Even the people who never frown/Eventually break down)
The sacrifice of hiding in a lie
(Everything has to end/You'll soon find we're out of time/To watch it all unwind)
The sacrifice is never knowing

Why I never walked away
Why I played myself this way
Now I see your testing me pushes me away
Why I never walked away
Why I played myself this way
Now I see your testing me pushes me away

I've tried like you
To do everything you wanted too
This is the last time
I'll take the blame for the sake of being with you

(Everything falls apart/Even the people who never frown/Eventually break down)
The sacrifice of hiding in a lie
(Everything has to end/You'll soon find we're out of time/To watch it all unwind)
The sacrifice is never knowing

Why I never walked away
Why I played myself this way
Now I see your testing me pushes me away
Why I never walked away
Why I played myself this way
Now I see your testing me pushes me away
The sacrifice of hiding in a lie
The sacrifice is never knowing
Why I never walked away
Why I played myself this way
Now I see your testing me pushes me away
Why I never walked away
Why I played myself this way
Now I see your testing me pushes me away
Pushes me away

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Beloved Saint Valentime

Beloved saint Valentine
Is God blessing you the same way that he did to me
Yesterday?

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The rehabilitation of order as a universal principle, however, suggested at the same time that orderliness by itself is not sufficient to account for the nature of organized systems in general or for those created by man in particular.

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A Path

I ventured down a path
I had walked many years ago.
So much had changed since then.
It was hardly recognisable,
but it was it still the same path
that had been used by countless feet,
and it never lost any of its individuality.
It was still the same old path
I had used in my courting days.

30 April 2008

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The Significance of Freedom

Spread your wings famed American Eagle
And soar over the land that has seen its share
Of beauty sorrow and great change
Fly into the rising sun and listen to the beat
Of morning drums on the hillside
Dive into the blue water and grasp the hapless fish
Unaware of your magnificent presence
Use your ever prevailing intellect to sustain you
When lean times arrive and a snowy blanket covers all
Your friend is the warmth of a beguiling summer day
To us your presence assures freedom and strength
To proudly pursue and revel in your mystique
Let us feel honored sharing with you the same land
That we may never forget what truly matters and let
Your symbolic presence remind us we all share
"The Land of the Free and the Land of the Brave".

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I Will Trust, Again

Pay me to trust, really, pay me with a blank check
on a platter, make it a sweet story just to trust
fix my history, mould my present
hold my future, meet my prequisite just to trust
Just to trust, again.

life's been bitter and more bitter
sweetness has been a tease
the sweet things either have an origin in sadness
or end with a knot in horror

I'm a stunning beauty
life hasnt dealt with according to my physique
so pay me, pay me to believe
to believe that life is just a coward
afraid of the power of my king
who moulds beauty out of life

born in sin, bred on the palm of wickedness
promised and dissappointed in a cycle
heart stabbed till numbness
paralyzed by the same lips that ought to soothe

so pay me to trust
for by reasons I never will
except even your money is hopeless
so in Christ i will trust though my world be void of reasons
In my saviour, I will trust
it doesnt have to make sense anyways.
If I ever did, again, I will trust

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Those Voices You Hear Cheering Are For You

Come along.

'I don't want to go that way.
I am not familiar with it.'

Be strong.

'My strength has nothing to do with that.
That light is too bright.
And that is a fact! '

What's wrong?

'I know you've got 'something' up your sleeve.
Your face is too calm.
And your eyes,
Clear and happy.'

Take my arm.
Don't be alarmed.
You are awakening into full consciousness.
I am here to assist you with your steps.
And help you sever from this last addiction,
You have being in complete and total darkness.

Come along.
Those voices you hear cheering,
Are for you.

'What did I do? '

Wake up!

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Patrick White

I Wish Everyone In The World Were As Mad As You Are

I wish everyone in the world were as mad as you are.
I wish everyone in the world talked the same nonsense you do
and meant as much.
Stop crying.
I wish everyone in the world were as good as you are
and didn't lie to anyone else
other than themselves
about what the truth is.
You shape chaos to your mind
like light to space
to make a habitable planet you can live on
and if it isn't round sometimes
and O doesn't always cast the same shadow
that the others mimic with theirs
I wish everyone could put on your kind of airs
and be as good to life as the kind of atmosphere you are.
Come on now.
Here.
Dry your tears with this.
All those constellations you made up
out of the stars in your eyes
are your own private myths and mandalas
and you're free to change them as you will
and I wish everyone made as much
of the light they were given to go by
as you have.
I'm too much of a thorn
to paint the delicate iridescent watercolours
I see smeared on your tender bubbles
like original pictures of the universe
from a thousand spaced-out Hubbles
but I wish everyone in the world
had your kind of genius for vulnerability.
You hold up a single feather of light
like a candle among stars
like a green leaf in the middle of winter
and the world that is inured to three dimensions
for infinitely tedious reasons
would rather put its eyes out
and gape like blackholes
than see as you do
that there are countless seasons to the soul
that burn like a phoenix
and there's nowhere you can point to in the darkness
that isn't an equinox of love and understanding
when the sun shines at midnight
and spring harvests what the autumn sows.
Having a deep cosmic insight
like a stranger beyond lucidity
into the windows of the houses of your own zodiac
might make you look like a maniac to the neighbours
who keep watch in their asylum
against any kind of freedom
that might release them from their lighthouse
like a geni from a lamp
that doesn't conform to anyone's wishs but her own
but I wish everyone had the courage
you have not to be them.
Life isn't fair or unfair.
Life isn't kind or cruel.
It isn't half-Buddha and half-fool.
Neither impersonal
nor sentimental
life isn't a kind of obedience
to its own rules
as if it were bound like God to keep its word.
Or what?
Who else is there to answer to?
All the taboos want to be thresholds
and all the thresholds
want to run away from home.
Could be a curse.
Could be a blessing.
Could be just more idle words.
But you're not like that.
You're not a fountain mouth
that mistakes alphabets for birds
and holds them to the letter of the law
in a world full of music.
It's enlightenment to sing to a window.
It's ignorance to sing to a mirror.
But you don't sing to either
and your song is clear as running water
all the way down the mountain.
The picture-music
of your eyes and your ears
can already hear the ocean from here
that gathers to receive the flowing
like the heart receives blood
like the mind receives your thoughts.
Look out at the world.
You're the host.
Look inward.
You're the guest.
You can break bread with the dead
without being a ghost.
You can drink wine with the living
and it's the wine that gets high on you
flowing into a seabed of shadows on the moon
that hasn't touched a dropp for years.
Don't believe what the cynics say about innocence.
They have the sensibilities of blackflies
trying to draw blood from the Mona Lisa.
Don't grieve if you're a butterfly
that can't follow the flightplans of the maggots.
There's only a slight difference in wingspan
between a waterbird and a phoenix
but it would take lightyears
to measure a single feather of yours.
There's no cult of the rose
that insists it fall upon its own thorns first
or the moon draw first blood
on the blades of its own crescents.
You don't have to scar
your own deathmask with experience
just to prove you knew
how to eat the pain and bleed.
You don't have to wear your face in public
as if it were something you kept up your sleeve.
Dice might be the foundation-stones of the lost
but that doesn't mean
you have to go pearl-diving
for the moon in quicksand
or change your song like a jukebox
playing the slots
when you're a mermaid on the rocks.
I wish everyone had the same chance
to risk it all as you do
and win back their lives
like eleven come of seven
insteading of seeing everything
as if they were jinxed by inasuspicious birds
turning the wrong way on a prayer-wheel
that keeps coming up snake-eyes
with every roll of their skulls.
You can't heal the luck
of a wounded Nazi
by turning his swastika the other way.
You can't teach snakes to bite other people.
And you don't know enough
if there's anything left to say or understand
and even then there's a silence
that still longs to be heard
like a humming bird sipping honey from your ears
or deep in a telescopic wishing well of stars
burning in a dream of mirrors
they walk across
like fire on the water
or the distant blue notes
of the hidden nightbird
that echoes your tears
as if it were crying out in the darkness
from the safety of a secret place
for the same reasons you are.
As if it were trying to befriend its own sorrow
and weep for tomorrow as you do
for all the things of the past
it won't even know it's missing.
I wish everyone in the world
could live the future as you do
as something that is already happening now.
Even when you're crying
because you don't think you're brave enough
not to.
You're not a lame princess
that anyone needs to rescue.
You're a dragon bringing rain.
And if the snakepit hisses at you
like a social structure
and calls you insane sometimes
because you have wings
and they still hug the earth
all tied up in knots
taking their poisons out on each other
to keep from feeling anything
it's just their way of defining sanity
by the standards of the numbest.
It's not you that's crazy.
It's not you that's the dumbest.
I wish everyone in the world
were as warm-blooded and wise as you are.
When the serpent fire at the base of your spine
has passed through the doors
of all your chakras like vertebrae
and you're already a circumpolar constellation j
just a little off true north
shining like Draco
why worry if you're no good
at the game of snakes and ladders
they play like politics and religion back here on earth
to see who gets to be the pillar
and who the quicksand.
You understand way more than that.
I can tell by the fire in your eyes
that you're a phoenix among stars
and you've transcended the eagles and the houseflies
that can't even begin to imagine
the kind of heights you can reach to
or the depth of the view below you
when you're riding your own thermals
like beautiful helices in the mindstream
for the sheer joy of being only you.
Even now.
These tears
that run all the way down to your lips
as if water had fingertips
what are they
but the way you cry for things
that everyone else didn't?
I wish everyone in the world could be like you.
I wish you could teach us all
to stop living a spiritual lie
on the deathbed of an earthly truth
as if that were the only way
to foolproof ourselves
against reality
like a stranger looking through our windows at night
who doesn't recognize herself in us
because most of us aren't as brave and free as you are
to leave the door ajar
and let whatever wants to come in
come in.
Some track in mud.
Some.
Stars.
And the mud flowers in light.
And the stars bloom in fire.
And one looks up
and the other looks down
on each other's likeness
reflected in the other
as if they were engendered by the same being.
Sight is a kind of love
and I wish everyone in the world
were inspired by the mystic dimensions
and intimate clarity of your kind of seeing
that even through these tears
that I'm not having much luck in wiping away
can comprehend a world
that's more wonderful than it thinks it is.

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