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George Bush has met more foreign heads of state than I have. But a substantial number of them were dead.

quote by Jesse Jackson
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A Man

George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T.V. His
dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash
from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning.
Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing
it away. There was a knock on the trailer door. He got slowly to his feet and answered the
door. It was Constance. She had a fifth of unopened whiskey in a bag.
"George, I left that son of a bitch, I couldn't stand that son of a bitch
anymore."
"Sit down."
George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey, two thirds
with water. He sat down on the bed with Constance. She took a cigarette out of her purse
and lit it. She was drunk and her hands trembled.
"I took his damn money too. I took his damn money and split while he was at work.
You don't know how I've suffered with that son of a bitch." "
Lemme have a smoke," said George. She handed it to him and as she leaned near,
George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her.
"You son of a bitch," she said, "I missed you."
"I miss those good legs of yours , Connie. I've really missed those good
legs."
"You still like 'em?"
"I get hot just looking."
"I could never make it with a college guy," said Connie. "They're too
soft, they're milk toast. And he kept his house clean. George , it was like having a maid.
He did it all. The place was spotless. You could eat beef stew right off the crapper. He
was antiseptic, that's what he was."
"Drink up, you'll feel better."
"And he couldn't make love."
"You mean he couldn't get it up?"
"Oh he got it up, he got it up all the time. But he didn't know how to make a
woman happy, you know. He didn't know what to do. All that money, all that education, he
was useless."
"I wish I had a college education."
"You don't need one. You have everything you need, George."
"I'm just a flunky. All the shit jobs."
"I said you have everything you need, George. You know how to make a woman
happy."
"Yeh?"
"Yes. And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two or three
times a week. And she'd sit there looking at me, pretending to like me but all the time
she was treating me like I was a whore. Like I was a big bad whore stealing her son away
from her! Her precious Wallace! Christ! What a mess!" "He claimed he loved me.
And I'd say, 'Look at my pussy, Walter!' And he wouldn't look at my pussy. He said, 'I
don't want to look at that thing.' That thing! That's what he called it! You're not afraid
of my pussy, are you, George?"
"It's never bit me yet." "But you've bit it, you've nibbled it, haven't
you George?"
"I suppose I have."
"And you've licked it , sucked it?"
"I suppose so."
"You know damn well, George, what you've done."

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Bukowski
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Tale XX

THE BROTHERS.

Than old George Fletcher, on the British coast
Dwelt not a seaman who had more to boast:
Kind, simple and sincere--he seldom spoke,
But sometimes sang and chorus'd--'Hearts of Oak:'
In dangers steady, with his lot content,
His days in labour and in love were spent.
He left a Son so like him, that the old
With joy exclaim'd, ''Tis Fletcher we behold;'
But to his Brother, when the kinsmen came
And view'd his form, they grudged the father's

name.
George was a bold, intrepid, careless lad,
With just the failings that his father had;
Isaac was weak, attentive, slow, exact,
With just the virtues that his father lack'd.
George lived at sea: upon the land a guest -
He sought for recreation, not for rest;
While, far unlike, his brother's feebler form
Shrank from the cold, and shudder'd at the storm;
Still with the Seaman's to connect his trade,
The boy was bound where blocks and ropes were made.
George, strong and sturdy, had a tender mind,
And was to Isaac pitiful and kind;
A very father, till his art was gain'd,
And then a friend unwearied he remain'd;
He saw his brother was of spirit low,
His temper peevish, and his motions slow;
Not fit to bustle in a world, or make
Friends to his fortune for his merit's sake;
But the kind sailor could not boast the art
Of looking deeply in the human heart;
Else had he seen that this weak brother knew
What men to court--what objects to pursue;
That he to distant gain the way discern'd,
And none so crooked but his genius learn'd.
Isaac was poor, and this the brother felt;
He hired a house, and there the Landman dwelt,
Wrought at his trade, and had an easy home,
For there would George with cash and comforts come;
And when they parted, Isaac look'd around
Where other friends and helpers might be found.
He wish'd for some port-place, and one might

fall,
He wisely thought, if he should try for all;
He had a vote--and were it well applied,
Might have its worth--and he had views beside;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto II

THE ARGUMENT

The Saints engage in fierce Contests
About their Carnal interests;
To share their sacrilegious Preys,
According to their Rates of Grace;
Their various Frenzies to reform,
When Cromwel left them in a Storm
Till, in th' Effigy of Rumps, the Rabble
Burns all their Grandees of the Cabal.

THE learned write, an insect breeze
Is but a mungrel prince of bees,
That falls before a storm on cows,
And stings the founders of his house;
From whose corrupted flesh that breed
Of vermin did at first proceed.
So e're the storm of war broke out,
Religion spawn'd a various rout
Of petulant Capricious sects,
The maggots of corrupted texts,
That first run all religion down,
And after ev'ry swarm its own.
For as the Persian Magi once
Upon their mothers got their sons,
That were incapable t' enjoy
That empire any other way;
So PRESBYTER begot the other
Upon the good old Cause, his mother,
Then bore then like the Devil's dam,
Whose son and husband are the same.
And yet no nat'ral tie of blood
Nor int'rest for the common good
Cou'd, when their profits interfer'd,
Get quarter for each other's beard.
For when they thriv'd, they never fadg'd,
But only by the ears engag'd:
Like dogs that snarl about a bone,
And play together when they've none,
As by their truest characters,
Their constant actions, plainly appears.
Rebellion now began, for lack
Of zeal and plunders to grow slack;
The Cause and covenant to lessen,
And Providence to b' out of season:
For now there was no more to purchase
O' th' King's Revenue, and the Churches,
But all divided, shar'd, and gone,
That us'd to urge the Brethren on;
Which forc'd the stubborn'st for the Cause,

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Butler
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My Friend George

Read in the paper bout a man killed with a sword
And that made my think of my friend george
People said the man was five foot six
Sounds like george with his killing stick
Hey bro, whats the word
Talkin bout my friend george
Hey bro, whats the word
Talkin bout my friend george
You talkin bout my friend george
I knew george since hes eight
I always thought that he was great
And anything that george would do
You know that I would do it too
George liked music and george liked to fight
He worked out in a downtown gym every night
Id spar with him when work was done
We split lips but it was all in fun
Hey bro, whats the word
You talkin bout my friend george
Hey bro, whats the word
Talkin bout my friend george
Talkin bout my friend george
Next thing I hear georges got this stick
Hes using it for more than kicks
I seen him down at smalleys bar
He was wired up, I tried to calm him down
Avenge yourself he says to me
Avenge yourself for humanity
Avenge yourself for the weak and the poor
Stick it to these guys right through their heads
Well, the fight is my music, the stick is my sword
And you know that I love you, so please dont say a word
Cant you hear the music playing, the anthem, its my call
And the last I seen of george was him
Running through the door, I says -
Hey bro, whats the word
Talkin bout my friend george
Hey bro, whats the word
You talkin bout my friend george
Talkin bout my friend george
Hey bro, whats the word
You talkin bout my friend george
Hey bro, whats the word
What me saying bout my friend george
Hey bro, whats the word
Hear you talkin bout my friend george
Hey bro, whats the word
I hear talkin bout my friend george

song performed by Lou Reed
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The Vision of Judgment

I

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late;
Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era 'eight-eight'
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,
And 'a pull altogether,' as they say
At sea — which drew most souls another way.

II

The angels all were singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon
Broke out of bounds o'er th' ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

III

The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky
Save the recording angel's black bureau;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.

IV

His business so augmented of late years,
That he was forced, against his will no doubt,
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)
For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out
By the increased demand for his remarks:
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

V

This was a handsome board — at least for heaven;
And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conqueror's cars were daily driven,
So many kingdoms fitted up anew;

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Vision of Judgment, The

I

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late;
Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era 'eight-eight'
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,
And 'a pull altogether,' as they say
At sea — which drew most souls another way.

II

The angels all were singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon
Broke out of bounds o'er th' ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

III

The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky
Save the recording angel's black bureau;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.

IV

His business so augmented of late years,
That he was forced, against his will no doubt,
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)
For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out
By the increased demand for his remarks:
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

V

This was a handsome board — at least for heaven;
And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conqueror's cars were daily driven,
So many kingdoms fitted up anew;

[...] Read more

poem by George Gordon Byron
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To Noel Who Has George Bush Senior As His Hero

He say George Bush his hero but with him I don't agree
For George Bush bombers killed thousands just to set Kuwait free
And Saddam been defeated and two Countries been destroyed
And George Bush and John Major in allied victory take pride.

Noel say that I'm for Saddam but he has got it wrong
For on side of one who kill and maim I don't feel I belong
And Hussein is a killer and all who kill are bad
And George Bush just as bad as him which makes it all more sad.

Two hundred thousand Iraqis in Kuwait desert died
And the sands of Kuwait desert the shame of George Bush hide
And the Kuwait oil wells burning and blood's been shed for oil
And Kuwait now free Country but was it all worth while? .

And the sky o'er Kuwait desert from smoke as black as coal
And George Bush, Noel Johnson's hero, you can have your hero Noel
You applaud the allied bombers and condemn the I.R.A.
But they all throw bombs on people though you don't see it that way.

He say George Bush is his hero, George Bush who felt no shame
In murdering Iraqi people just to earn himself a name,
George Bush who bombed and murdered just to prove his country great
And whose crimes and shame lay covered by the white sands of Kuwait.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 11

SCARCE had the rosy Morning rais’d her head
Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows: 5
He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, 10
Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,
A trophy sacred to the God of War.
Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,
Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:
His brazen buckler on the left was seen; 15
Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;
And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: 20
“Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success;
The greater part perform’d, achieve the less.
Now follow cheerful to the trembling town;
Press but an entrance, and presume it won.
Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, 25
As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,
And, in this omen, is already slain.
Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance;
That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance, 30
And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find
Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war:
The last respect the living can bestow, 35
To shield their shadows from contempt below.
That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought,
And which for us with their own blood they bought;
But first the corpse of our unhappy friend
To the sad city of Evander send, 40
Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom,
Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.
Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d 45
The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d
With equal faith, but less auspicious care.
Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear,
And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair. 50

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Madame George

Down on cyprus avenue
With a childlike vision leaping into view
Clicking, clacking of the high heeled shoe
Ford & fitzroy, madame george
Marching with the soldier boy behind
Hes much older with hat on drinking wine
And that smell of sweet perfume comes drifting through
The cool night air like shalimar
And outside theyre making all the stops
The kids out in the street collecting bottle-tops
Gone for cigarettes and matches in the shops
Happy taken madame george
Thats when you fall
Whoa, thats when you fall
Yeah, thats when you fall
When you fall into a trance
A sitting on a sofa playing games of chance
With your folded arms and history books you glance
Into the eyes of madame george
And you think you found the bag
Youre getting weaker and your knees begin to sag
In the corner playing dominoes in drag
The one and only madame george
And then from outside the frosty window raps
She jumps up and says lord have mercy I think its the cops
And immediately drops everything she gots
Down into the street below
And you know you gotta go
On that train from dublin up to sandy row
Throwing pennies at the bridges down below
And the rain, hail, sleet, and snow
Say goodbye to madame george
Dry your eye for madame george
Wonder why for madame george
And as you leave, the room is filled with music, laughing, music,
Dancing, music all around the room
And all the little boys come around, walking away from it all
So cold
And as youre about to leave
She jumps up and says hey love, you forgot your gloves
And the gloves to love to love the gloves...
To say goodbye to madame george
Dry your eye for madame george
Wonder why for madame george
Dry your eyes for madame george
Say goodbye in the wind and the rain on the back street
In the backstreet, in the back street
Say goodbye to madame george
In the backstreet, in the back street, in the back street
Down home, down home in the back street

[...] Read more

song performed by Van Morrison
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Bush At Helm

Turkey’s Touristic Problem
Kurds coming over the hill!
Bush’s sovereign
non-interventionist, Foreign
Policy! Mountain
grave sides agore to fill!

Arise with Saddam’s Hitler admired
imitated stylised televised word!
Scapegoats falsely labelled executed
insurgents reduced rankle not dead!

In flight fled fear fed!
Refugee refuge
safe sanitary zones?

Symbolic symptom
(flat-lining) Bush’s!
International problem
ignored (New World Order) !

A few baby refugee corpses
small accountant price to pay!
(collateral damage civilian)
For history sought new world order!
Is this true political point scoring?
Sentiment stripped to bare bone?
Baboon floating his own balloon?

Democracy must accountable mean
no elected esteemed humane official?
Is above pan-morality credibility Check!
Democracy must not be policy tarnished!
Diverted treated acted easily white washed!
Non-accountable an expendable indifference!

An estimated? millions of Kurds!
Fled into neighbouring countries
during the Bush crisis in 1991!

An estimated four to five
million persecuted Iraqi Kurds!
Under Saddam’s dictatorship!
Were forbidden to celebrate
their ethnic culture! Or organize
representative political activities!

Oppressed Iraqi Kurds
were under constant invasive state
censure! Surveillance!

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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The King of the Vasse

A LEGEND OF THE BUSH.

MY tale which I have brought is of a time
Ere that fair Southern land was stained with crime,
Brought thitherward in reeking ships and cast
Like blight upon the coast, or like a blast
From angry levin on a fair young tree,
That stands thenceforth a piteous sight to see.
So lives this land to-day beneath the sun,—
A weltering plague-spot, where the hot tears run,
And hearts to ashes turn, and souls are dried
Like empty kilns where hopes have parched and died.
Woe's cloak is round her,—she the fairest shore
In all the Southern Ocean o'er and o'er.
Poor Cinderella! she must bide her woe,
Because an elder sister wills it so.
Ah! could that sister see the future day
When her own wealth and strength are shorn away,
A.nd she, lone mother then, puts forth her hand
To rest on kindred blood in that far land;
Could she but see that kin deny her claim
Because of nothing owing her but shame,—
Then might she learn 'tis building but to fall,
If carted rubble be the basement-wall.

But this my tale, if tale it be, begins
Before the young land saw the old land's sins
Sail up the orient ocean, like a cloud
Far-blown, and widening as it neared,—a shroud
Fate-sent to wrap the bier of all things pure,
And mark the leper-land while stains endure.
In the far days, the few who sought the West
Were men all guileless, in adventurous quest
Of lands to feed their flocks and raise their grain,
And help them live their lives with less of pain
Than crowded Europe lets her children know.
From their old homesteads did they seaward go,
As if in Nature's order men must flee
As flow the streams,—from inlands to the sea.

In that far time, from out a Northern land,
With home-ties severed, went a numerous band
Of men and wives and children, white-haired folk:
Whose humble hope of rest at home had broke,
As year was piled on year, and still their toil
Had wrung poor fee from -Sweden's rugged soil.
One day there gathered from the neighboring steads,
In Jacob Eibsen's, five strong household heads,—
Five men large-limbed and sinewed, Jacob's sons,

[...] Read more

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 7

AND thou, O matron of immortal fame,
Here dying, to the shore hast left thy name;
Cajeta still the place is call’d from thee,
The nurse of great Æneas’ infancy.
Here rest thy bones in rich Hesperia’s plains; 5
Thy name (’t is all a ghost can have) remains.
Now, when the prince her fun’ral rites had paid,
He plow’d the Tyrrhene seas with sails display’d.
From land a gentle breeze arose by night,
Serenely shone the stars, the moon was bright, 10
And the sea trembled with her silver light.
Now near the shelves of Circe’s shores they run,
(Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,)
A dang’rous coast: the goddess wastes her days
In joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays: 15
In spinning, or the loom, she spends the night,
And cedar brands supply her father’s light.
From hence were heard, rebellowing to the main,
The roars of lions that refuse the chain,
The grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears, 20
And herds of howling wolves that stun the sailors’ ears.
These from their caverns, at the close of night,
Fill the sad isle with horror and affright.
Darkling they mourn their fate, whom Circe’s pow’r,
(That watch’d the moon and planetary hour,) 25
With words and wicked herbs from humankind
Had alter’d, and in brutal shapes confin’d.
Which monsters lest the Trojans’ pious host
Should bear, or touch upon th’ inchanted coast,
Propitious Neptune steer’d their course by night 30
With rising gales that sped their happy flight.
Supplied with these, they skim the sounding shore,
And hear the swelling surges vainly roar.
Now, when the rosy morn began to rise,
And wav’d her saffron streamer thro’ the skies; 35
When Thetis blush’d in purple not her own,
And from her face the breathing winds were blown,
A sudden silence sate upon the sea,
And sweeping oars, with struggling, urge their way.
The Trojan, from the main, beheld a wood, 40
Which thick with shades and a brown horror stood:
Betwixt the trees the Tiber took his course,
With whirlpools dimpled; and with downward force,
That drove the sand along, he took his way,
And roll’d his yellow billows to the sea. 45
About him, and above, and round the wood,
The birds that haunt the borders of his flood,
That bath’d within, or basked upon his side,
To tuneful songs their narrow throats applied.
The captain gives command; the joyful train 50

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Met Pet Goat While Twin Towers Burn

"9/11 justified
invasion Afghanistan?
really Taliban

zero hijackers
zero links
to al-Qaeda?

at the time
hijackers were Arab?
not Afghani?

President George W. Bush
failed nation America
ordered total no shot down"

9: 03 a.m. Bush no action partakes
in a meaningless primary publicity
photo-op ignoring responsibility

continental US is already under attack

at Emma E. Booker Elementary
School in Sarasota, Florida
Mr President beat around the Bush

is reading 'Met Pet Goat'
to school children
for five critical minutes

after he had been told
second World Trade
Center tower had been hit

that America was under attack

wait rewind "What's the time? "

approximately 8: 48 a.m.
morning September 11 2001
first pictures of burning

World Trade Center

are broadcast on live television
reporters news anchors viewers
have had no advance warning

"What has happened in lower Manhattan?

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Zero Covers All

Lately I realize.
I am a numb number,
living through life.
First child.
Date of birth.
Sixth star of twenty-seven.
Scorpio numbers six of twelve.
Studied tenth class,
Then 5-year’s graduation,
Every class I had a scroll number.
Exams written on id number.
Studied law.
Head churning three years,
with numbered sections.
Penal code, constitution.
Clauses of law in numbered sects.
Registered in bar council.
Legal practice.
Case files are numbered.
Subsequently I got,
House number, door number.
Phone number.
Mobile number.
Account numbers.
Credit card number.
Pan card number,
Folio numbers,
Car number,
License number,
Policy number,
Health card number,
Election card number,
Passport number,
Ration card number,
Ultimately, when you put me in morgue,
allotted me a number.
Which, I do no know.
However, I know a number.
I am a big zero.
It covers all my life
Yes, we discovered zero.
What a relief?
Does it not cover all?
fulfill all values!
By the way your number please?
X number or N number?
Infinite numbers.
________________

poem by Satheesan Rangorath
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Public Animal #9

Me and G.B.
We ain't never gonna confess
We cheated at the math test
We carved some dirty words in our desk
Well now it's time for recess
Old man waitin by the monkey bars
Tradin all his ball cards
And they promised him a gold star
And they told him he could go far
Hey Mr. Bluelegs
Where are you takin me?
I'm like a lifer
In the state penitentiary
If I keep my nose clean
I won't get my eyes shined
But I'm proud to be
Public Animal Number Nine
License plates are runnin
Out of my ears
I'd give a month of cigarettes
For just a couple of lousy beers
Or even a bottle of
Real cheap wi-hine
But that's the price you pay to be
Public Animal Number Nine, Number Nine
Hey Mrs. Cranston
Where are you takin me?
I feel like a lifer
In the state penitentiary
She wanted an Einstein
But she got a Frankenstein
Yeah, I'm proud to be
Public Animal Number Niiiirrrrrgh
Public Animal Number Nine
Public Animal Number Nine
Public Animal Number Nine Nine
Public Animal Number Nine Number Nine
Number Nine Number Nine
Number, Number Nine Animal Number Nine
Public Animal Number Nine Nine
Public Animal Numbergh Niiiirrrrrgh
Public Animal Nurrrgh Nirrrgh
Errrrrrrrrrrrgh
Public Animal Number Ni-yine
Public Animal Number Ni-yine
Public Animal Number Number Nine Nine
Public Animal Naaaaaaaagh

song performed by Alice Cooper
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When the Bush Begins to Speak

They know us not in England yet, their pens are overbold;
We're seen in fancy pictures that are fifty years too old.
They think we are a careless race - a childish race, and weak;
They'll know us yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.

'The leaders that will be', the men of southern destiny,
Are not all found in cities that are builded by the sea;
They learn to love Australia by many a western creek,
They'll know them yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.

All ready for the struggle, and waiting for the change,
The army of our future lies encamped beyond the range;
Australia, for her patriots, will not have far to seek;
They'll know her yet in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.

We'll find the peace and comfort that our fathers could not find,
Or some shall strike the good old blow that leaves a mark behind.
We'll find the Truth and Liberty our fathers came to seek,
Or let them know in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.

poem by Henry Lawson
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That Beating Of The Bush

I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.

That beating of the bush.

I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.

That beating of the bush.

I have this 'thing' about honest and truth.
And those who become offended,
By declaring them too harsh to accept!

There has not been an experience I received,
I regretted with a wish to forget!
And those attempting to live their lives,
In pretense to deceive believing this is not deception...
Will always escape with excuses and alibis to make.
Charading as if...
No one recognizes,
Who is in masquerade.
And who amongst them fakes!

I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.

That beating of the bush.

I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.

That beating of the bush.

An honesty and truth spoken,
From deceivers is rare.
Those who deceive perceive...
Those who are direct and honest,
Are insensitive and do not care!
With a sharing of this mentality...
To those empathetic,
In a keeping of delusions...
Spared from despair!

But I know I'm not the only one...
Who elects to see,
Dishonesty from all people get up and leave.
I can't be!

I'm not into,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy

I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Divorced from Dumb Reality - Number Lesson on Numb Pointless Love

DIVORCED FROM DUMB REALITY
My fun begun with number one,
swore to be true to number two,
happy to be with number three,
then to adore fair number four.
No more alive is number five,
mix stones and sticks Styx number six,
who’s in heaven, number seven?
its now too late for number eight.
Another line for number nine,
begin again with number ten.

13 May 1982 revised 20 January 2009

robi03_0199_robi03_0000 WXX_LXX

for previous version entitled Numbers see below

Numbers

My fun begun with number one,
swore to be true to number two,
happy to be with number three,
then to adore sweet number four.
No more alive is number five,
beset by tics was number six,
she’s in heaven, number seven,
its now too late for number eight.
Another line for number nine,
begin again for number ten.

13 May 1982

poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Ghost - Book IV

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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