The Enemy among us
The western world has lived in peace for sixty years
mainly because of EU and shared horrid memories.
This has not been the Palestinians case who were
shooed away to give room for a colony called Israel and
those who object – freedom fighters- are called ISIS.
The USA have dropped bombs in the middle -east for
a long time and produced more ISIS fighters which now
is a common name of all who do not like being bombed.
Ex-president Obama sends drones they are intellectual
from the out- set. Trump drop a bomb the biggest in the world
it made a terrible noise, and 36 Taliban were
killed, they too are called ISIS.
(In Trump's case one wonders if he suffers erectile dysfunction)
China and Russia is ISIS in disguise, as are left-wingers
and those who do not believe in the American dream.

The meaning of Christmas
In our multi-religious world and lack of Christian faith
I no longer call Christmas by its name but prefer
to call the festive season “The festivities.”
The meaning of “Christmas” was to celebrate the birth of Jesus
but commerce has highjacked the season
we are pressured into buying presents for family and friends.
The JUL is a good word that was celebrated long before Jesus was born
it is on the day the sun turns; spring will soon arrive.
The Jews have their day, so has the Muslims we
are not suggesting they should change this.
We in the west should not be ashamed of our cultural heritage
where our Christian faith places a big part.

The Great War and India
Thousands of soldiers from India's interior
(I.5 million) were sent to fight in the Great War
Many of them died and were maimed just
so Britain could keep its hegemony.
When books were written, and history told
somehow the Indian soldiers were mysteriously
forgotten erased out, until now.
But disquiet lingered India became restless
they served the British grudgingly formed
a political party but the Brits arrested, tortured
the leaders and threw them into jail, but
the idea once fomented didn't die and 1947
It became a reality, India was free.

Depression
I sat in a glass house
With a rose in my hand
The glass broke
A hawk
Took my flower
A broken window
It is getting cold
Soon it will snow
I think
The summer
Has gone
Yet I felt free after
Stumbling
Blindly in the cave
Of depression

The Enemy among us
The western world has lived in peace for sixty years
mainly because of EU and shared horrid memories.
This has not been the Palestinians case who were
shooed away to give room for a colony called Israel and
those who object – freedom fighters- are called ISIS.
The USA have dropped bombs in the middle -east for
a long time and produced more ISIS fighters which now
is a common name of all who do not like being bombed.
Ex-president Obama sends drones they are intellectual
from the out- set. Trump drop a bomb the biggest in the world
it made a terrible noise, and 36 Taliban were
killed, they too are called ISIS.
(In Trump's case one wonders if he suffers erectile dysfunction)
China and Russia is ISIS in disguise, as are left-wingers
and those who do not believe in the American dream.

My Lovely
I wrote your name
On an autumnal leaf
And let it blew away in the wind
Now you are forgotten
But only your name
I hear your whispering in my ears
On cold brisk days.

The problem of a misfit

The problem with being a ******
is when you come home you have fewer friends,
and those friends you meet are often who were
lost within themselves.
One day I found myself on a park bench drinking
brandy from a bottle that was passed from man to man,
this struck me as a shame to have sunk so low
I got up left them with the bottle had paid for and
walked away, my life was not here.
I left the town for England for a while it was interesting
but couldn't understand the class divide, I had to
find a place of peace, and I saw it in the interior
of Portugal and have lived here ever since.

Soft coat

On the rapid asphalt road
****** fur, a rabbit caught
in the glaring headlight of
a speeding car.

Poor creature, don't cross
the road at night, do not
cross at all unless you're
an angel and can fly.

No one loves a rabbit unless
it is a child's pet and lives in
a tiny cage. So run rabbit run
but on the forest's floor,

Dream night

My wine glass is full of moonlight,
drank and floated dreamily, on a carpet of night.

Couldn’t resist the moon’s pull, my home bathed
in a spectral light, both beautiful and mortal.

Flowers in the garden were deadly pale, olive trees wore
silver capes of unrelieved sorrow

This nocturnal landscape isn’t to my liking, put me down,
red, green and golden are my colours

But I did glimpse, behind the tall mountain, night’s ultimate
sacrifice, giving birth to dawn

Twitter is going nuclear.
PC rules.

Serene Putin
Camara's smile at him
He winks.

Aleppo is ruined
Captive civilians killed
Rebels have gone.

Mosul and ISIS
Iraqi army of quitters
Behind sand dunes quiver

The transferable tourist

The old ship striped like a rusty zebra
one, that has survived the big storms and attacked
by sea monsters how she still floated was a mystery.
From one obscure port to another, her captain had
forgotten how it felt to be sober.

She was like an old horse that knew its way by instinct.
Offloading clandestine crates, rats in the cargo hold.
When did the vermin come, and what was their destiny?
Morning in La Plata, tonight we will go ashore
in Buenos Aires eat fresh meat and dance the tango

The song of resignation

Memories are not crystal clear, a broken mirror on which the sun shines
The residue of the imagined, what ensued or will happen of equal interest
as time doesn’t, a time within does.
Past and future are the same pains me; I shall not see my savannah again.
No pictures, as a proof it existed, in the tall grass, see no wildebeest
my motorbike is sold, I can no longer pretend to be an adventurer.
What I do remember, through a haze, is my enduring remote happiness
perhaps that was an illusion too.
A vision of human disappointment, to try but never succeed.

Santa Claus

Now that Christmas has become irrelevant but is a commercial success story,
isn't it time we have a female Santa.
The first Santa I saw as a toddler was the neighbour
a rather stout lady, with a false beard she was Santa,
I hid behind my mother who whispered
don't be frightened it is Mrs Strom, which disappointed me,
I wanted so very much to believe.
Going home, it was snowing, and I asked: is there a real Santa
mum, is he a friend of Jesus?
Not wanting to disappoint me she said something about beliefs and faith,
of which I understood nothing, but I had
the feeling they were make-believe, and that was ok for me.

The Trance

I sit on my stationary bike for half an hour a day,
it is incredibly boring if I have nothing to occupy my mind.
Today there was a stream of thought I waded out but
found it full old junk – junk can also be new- so I built
a wall of numbers to keep the rivulet away.
I fell into a trance, or think I did; an hour had past
when I looked at the watch, an hour had gone a new record.
The pressure of the flowing thought broke the wall
and sceptical I was not sure if I had had my exercise or
been asleep on the bike?

The mourning
It was an early morning
The day before Christmas
The phone rang
I reluctantly answered
Your mother is dead.
I couldn’t get a flight
Took the dog for a walk
In the woods,
But this day she walked close to me
And didn’t hunt rabbits.
Coming home
I sat by the bed and cried.
At Chrismas Eve
I gave my dog a cream cake
When thinking of my mother
when she was at her best.

the passing of time
When I left my country I first went to Liverpool, met a woman and married.
I tried my handwriting but the woman thought it was stupid, so I stopped writing opened up a café that was ok for some time.
We were both working-class I had been a ****** and used my spare time reading
world literature and had time to see and think, she was not so lucky, she had been
an auxiliary nurse and had no interest in the movies or books.
With time I come to dislike the English way the pub and occasionally a trip
to Alton Towers (entertainment centre) too banal for my taste.
I sold the café took the plane to Portugal it was like coming home, of course
she hated it and it ended in divorce.
For the first time in my life, I could write what I wanted without receiving ironic
remarks. This is how I spend my time now that I’m old writing and reading give the pleasure I need little else matter I never liked throngs of people.
My new wife never interferes with my writing
Only says if I sit doing nothing around, go write something, of course with her being
Congolese She speaks Portuguese and French but not
Much English shall I call this a blessing?

**** is real

I have an intimate connection with effluence
or **** of the animal kind.
I could, by aroma alone, which animal
had passed the track.
Most animal dung smell sweet, except for dogs
they have lived so long among us
they crap like us,
Dogs love their excrement and eat it.
A horse evacuation is like rare wine you promise
yourself to buy a horse when you have a garden
Vines that have been fertilized by a foals
morning *** is divine.
If your hands have been in the muck
nothing in the world can offend you.

she was giving birth, a surrogate mother, to a rich childless couple. she had been instructed to not look at the baby, did and relented, she had given birth
a wonderful newborn how could she give it away?
sensible people told her it was for the best, the child would get a good education, she the mother could not give her.
Under pressure by the righteous, she gave the baby away
but she will forever regret her decision.

Sunday Morning

Puddles on cobblestones
Had a film of spent
rainbows,
clouds rested on rooftops
and tear streaked windows misted;
dejected curs  
sniffed the air as a damp army
of washing hung limply on balconies.
Church bells peeled  
the faithful prepared for mass,
unseen and
under arches the tormented
waited for the bar
to open and release them
from the agony of
their lonely inferno.

A dog and a Swan

I remember a black swan in a hotel's pond
it was a master of his domain or walk on the lawn
surrounding the lake.
A little yapping dog a spoilt thing how had caviar
for dinner, got to near, the sawn grabbed and
drowned it and lovely was the peace.
I should have interfered and try to rescue the cur,
but the swan made it clear not to step in, in a way
the ****** dog got what it deserved. this ladies and
gentlemen was an alternative poem.

Houseguests

The two domestic lizards I thought had died in the winter
are back, and I leave them alone as they live on insects and
avoid my food; but why are they not breeding?
Could it be they are of the same *** and may God, forbid gay?
Not that I care as long as they do not make love on
the kitchen table or behind the potted plant I hate but my wife
Is proud of. This made me think of small isolated villages in
Portugal where young men had little choice but to marry
a relative, naturally there many idiots at those places.
Israel which pursues a race clean stat might come regret this policy of purity, it is already showing when their soldiers
shoot small children and think it is funny, a clear mark of advanced madness.
So gay or not I gladly share my house with two domestic lizards.

The race

Yes, yes I see it coming around the corner
we see the goalpost and the run becomes
a slow walk, those in electric wheelchairs
pretend the battery is flat this is a race
no one wants to win, but the wheelchair
bound are pushed forward by the crowd
those who have not seen the goalpost.
this isn't fair I have always been a loser
why should I be the first to the finishing line?
As a boy I won a bronze medal, was proud
of my feat, this time I don't want a medal
let me rest and see the almond tree flower.

A River
It is a river in the middle of the landscape
not a famous river it has no university buildings
and it doesn't appear in ancient books.
In winters it froze up in spring it was deep to
cold to swim in, in summers for a short while
It was a place to go bathing, and then it became
too shallow, a yellowish dribble not fit for
anything but drinking water for sheep.
And that is the life we get what we deserve not
what we want, and no over-top lyrics is written
about it, just as well we can't have its banks
crowded by poets.

Unwanted thoughts at night
“We are sailing along on moonlit bay.”
There is a song about it, but I prefer to look
at a painting of the inlet without people
sitting in a boat singing disturbing the beauty.
Last night when going to bed a twelve
I tried to think of nothing but a myriad of thoughts
got in the way, strange notions of how it must
feel to be a clog maker in a valley where everyone wore sandals
and the people steadfastly refused to wear anything else.
How to convince those clogs are better, I wear clogs indoors
but they are Chinese made and made of plastic and when
it is hot they smell I have to put them on the terrace at night.
Clear your mind and try to sleep.
I was thinking of Fado music that pulls at your heartstring and
makes me cry, sad music of longings without names.
Clear your mind and try to sleep!
Then it was morning the reached my duvet and never mind
the moon I  need a coffee,

When the time was a trial

Woke up, the bedroom was cold under the duvet snugness
I burrowed deeper enjoying the freedom of sleeping late.
Life was hard, getting up at five and preparing breakfasts for
grumpy seafarers smoking, the first cigarette of the day.
The breaking of the fast was endlessly tedious, something
with eggs and fatty meat.
Sometimes when there was a gap between feeding times,
say, dinner at twelve, I tried to write; my hands stank of chip fat.
On hundreds of pages, “I’m a life I’m a life”.
I pretended I was a robot, what the body was going through
the motion was not my concern; free to dream.
When peeling potatoes one morning, I was suddenly awake
Between fake brown gravy and spuds; there were no robots
me all along
the bed is warm, nothing can touch me now,
touch me now!!!!

The seagull that loved me

The seagull which lives beside the chimney
knew me since I fed it from the deck of a ship,
and it remembered me by waving its left wing
it had seen I am a lefty when throwing it dinners
not eaten by a crew who wanted cakes& ale
it had lived on the most easterly rock for
thirty years but had done to it advanced age
been threatened younger males, it gave up
its kingdom and by luck or instinct landed on
My roof. We ate breakfast together, it by
the window ledge outside eating sardines I had
bought the day before, I, a tin of tunny
I went for a walk when the sea-gull circled high
near the coast until its wings got tired and it
slept in the nest in had made beside the chimney.
During a fierce winter storm, it took to the wings
and I have not seen it since.

Cats
We are looking
after a cat
it is white and yellowish.
I feed it and clean
the litter box.
The catwalks around mewing
and shedding hair
on sofas and beds.
I hate the ******* cat it is
not friendly, sometimes the cat
go on the veranda on
the seventh floor
and it isn't falling down.
I like a dog can bond with it
take it for a walk and they will not
hide in empty boxes
or in your cupboard.
The lady ‘cat owner
will come and pick up the moggy
her little wonder
today and it will not be missed.

The Lovesong
  I woke up early in a good mood thinking of writing a love poem to my wife.
looking at the YouTube, I came across
“The three tenors,” couldn't resist their beautiful voices.
I was going to find “I believe in angels” by Abba
but first the famous tenors.
Wife woke up told me to turn it off she couldn't sleep.
I remembered Lorenzo Marcus 1964 I was on a ship
unloading cargo destined for Rhodesia.
Everything has changed now LM is now Maputo
and Rhodesia is Zimbabwe, and it was a good time
for a white person.
So I didn't play the Abba song as the lyric is banal
and I was no longer in a loving mood

The facets of love.

I love you, and your face loves itself
for its perfect nose, green eyes and rosy lips
your fragrance has a narcissistic allure.
The way you walk, the pavements adore you
Rain shies away not to make your hair wet.
I love you, and your face loves itself.
When you cross the street horn bleats
by themselves, white cars turn pink
your fragrance has a narcissistic allure.
The sun doesn’t burn your skin makes
it golden glows in the dark
till one day the mirror tells of a wrinkle
you know years are ganging on you
your enemy is time, wait in the wings
The furrows settle on your forehead
I love you but your face doesn’t love itself
Car horns do not blare anymore
Get off the road, you lazy old woman.
Your fragrance of youth has lost its allure.

Sunday somewhere safe

My fingers itch to write
but it will not be about the moon
it hangs there like a balloon.

I refuse to turn on the news
but a big liner was in trouble on
the coast of Norway

going to sea in winter sea
thinking they were safe in a big ship
you wouldn't get me on a cruiser

I have read the news Palestine
wants NATO to protect them
an idea met with ridicule by Israel

soon there will be no Palestinians left
removed to the outer fringes
herding goats and taken pictures off

the way primaeval people lived before Israel
came, an old culture was snuffed out, fluff
for historians to write about

They told you a lie

It is said money is not important but love is Balderdash! when you are old you need money as never before,

your house is falling down and you can't do anything about it because you are too poor to get a builder.

Sitting on a settee hand in hand watching dripping, dank walls while watching a white & black TV fluming in a dank corner,

and you will regret money spent on frivolities when young

And lacking the talent needed to make money when you could and never mind about

the memory of women you loved most of them got on married rich, powerful men who died and left them with money

enough to paint the house and fix those pesky water leaks

Weekend in Cascais
On Cascais glittering Saturday bay, slowly rides a rust stripped
bulk-carrier, sailors on the deck look at the town and think it
is Paradise, from the soot hallooed green stacks, whispering
smoke dissolves their dream of ever going home.
Tourists, fishermen and drunks, the eager and the weary and
the sad eyed mills about.
A blind woman sits on a folding chair sings Fado, Portugal's blues.
her voice is cracked, but full of soul, she keeps score with a tiny triangle the little plink a feint echo above the crowd.
When footsteps fade its faint sound becomes cymbals
clasped together by men of steel, her voice a storm which
cleanse streets clean.
Every morning Cascais is reborn, a wet pearl arisen from
the green seas, before sandaled feet descend and drown
the day in a cacophony of disharmony.

The old soldiers Café

We went to my favoured restaurant it is no longer so,
on a table near us sat a group of Ukrainians eating plenty
of meat with sausage and the server said there was no more left
so we lunched on a dish I wasn't keen on.
Eight of them men with brutal faces and as the wine flowed
they spoke about the war and killing Russians.
Two of them looked like assassins, those with long knives
who **** silently in the night, eating the food I wanted.
My wife said I was fantasising they were workmen who
had left their country to seek employment elsewhere I was not sure.
My food didn’t look as good as theirs, so we left early and
I didn't eat my food left the glass of wine untouched in a futile
attempt to show my dislike, but no one noticed.

President Kennedy

50 years ago, how young we were I was on a happy
Little ship that had crew enough so no one got overworked
The ship ploughing blue water on her way to Jamaica,
It was a wonderful day and after the Cuba crisis, we felt at ease.
The peace was shattered through a crackling radio came
the message, President Kennedy has been shot.
It was like losing a brother, he was our generation he was
different from the other old men, he was the future our hope.
The work and voyage continued, but there was no laughter.
We tended to be pro-Americans back then, this has changed
As we read more and understand politics.
Ok, with this said no other politician has inspired us as Jack did.

The rich
Are resentful
Of the poor
Feel
They have to
Pay more
Taxes
Then the poor
Hence hide
Their
Money
Yet still
Salute their
Nations
Flag
And show
A hunger for wars
It is profitable
And
The poor
Can do
The soldiering

The deep state
It is not a good thing to know too much
of the private life of the powerful
when things go wrong and the powerful
are threatened they do as the mafia,
**** with extreme effectiveness.
It has happened many times before, but
a good example is Robert Maxwell and
Now Epstein. The next one in their sight
is Julian Assange who is slowly being
poisoned breaking down his healthiness
What can they prosecute him for?
Telling the truth about the criminality
they have been engaged in and the myriad
Of lies, to feed the stupid public with.
Death is the best option in the vacuum
they can pile it up with more lies.

The ending

A **** heap collapsed with the speed of a Mercedes
with two batteries hurtling down a motorway in
an industrial landscape, grey as a Vera’s lonely life
amid crime and poverty.
On a night like this, how is it possible not to despair
battling a mass of sluggish dreams of endless harms
in a world bent on nuclear destruction.

Religion versus culture

If the Dutch had adopted the Koran
made churches into mosques would Holland
be different for it is today?
I don't think so. Because of
their characters
and culture would have reminded active
travelling the world for a business opportunity.
Been Moslems in name only as they are
Christians in the name just today
The Islamic rule that works in the backwater
of, say, Pakistan could not be applied
in Netherland, the people were too educated
to swallow wholesale the Islamic dogma
in the end, culture is more important than religion.

Poets and intellectuals

A big white screen I look at it and type a few words,
utter banalities about a washing machine, the brain has nowhere to go
but to think of the near things.
There was a time when I sat on top of a mountain feet dangling high
above ground when I thought if I tried could fly; everything was possible
now I’m dead inside. Death starts when the mind goes numb
and you forget your childhood, was I a Child? I don't know wish I was
a giraffe and could see life from a lofty height.
The TV bores me, I was never the poet I wanted to be I don't want
tomorrow to happen it is too difficult to write anything sensible.
The thing is to break new ground plough pristine earth and produce
something that doesn’t look like carrots.
But up from the earth sprout old clichés written over and over again
by respected intellectuals and famous poets, except for Oscar Wilde
they are just boring old ******* dressing up their ordinariness in
words we had to look up the dictionary to understand, but it is still trite.
But their reputation a great thinker follows them into perpetuity.

Born with a handicap

The woman had two vaginas one was
Not connected to her ****** but other ways looked normal
Her extra ****** was not spoken of in the family
Who was too poor to have it removed?
This was a blessing when the baby girl became a woman
With no education, she went into prostitution a high class one.
For her job, she used her small ****** which pleased
Her clientele one can say small size matters.
She was the only ****** in the world who was a ******
When she was thirty years old.
This was about the time she fell in love and married
A handsome man worth a lot of money to have ***
Using her proper ******, the man was happy to be the first
And they had twins who were normal in every way.
She could have had surgery but desisted, nothing is sure
In life should she fall on hard time her reserve ******
Could be handy to stave off hunger.

The weakling
As a small boy, I had tuberculosis and all
the other illnesses one can have, I was thin a weakling
no thought I would live long.
The doctor had prescribed a half a bottle of cream
I could only gulp a handful and gave the rest to my sister.
Then when about thirteen all this changed I ate well
got the energy to run, cycling and football, I also tried boxing
which I was lousy at.
I grew taller than my siblings and thrived.
When in my twenties my brother died of a brain tumor,
and a few years later my sister.
My mother sank into a  depression she was unable
to get rid of her loss was.
I had the time of my life  and thought it was going
to last forever.
I’m in my eighties now and ponder why should
I live so long when the strong perished?

Against Official Truth  

Let me throw this firebomb at you and tell you
there is no such thing as world catastrophe caused by Man-
Made pollution. Yes, we get ***** air to breath,
and fish have plastic residues in their stomachs but
this is not the main cause
the truth is that we are in the cycle of climate change
once there were palm trees in Greenland, but too
come nearer our time the Viking were cattle farmers
have you ever tasted a juicy Viking beef?
But we have to clean up our planet for our own sake
our children, and so on, the new ice age will come
and in time will adjust to this new weather system.

The Doubt
People around here died twenty years ago
But no one told them they had had their funeral
And back behind the plough next day.
The Internet is foreign to them as is radio and TV
Spend their evening talking about burials and how
Many people turned up.
It is frightening since I know they are dead I must
Be as well only I can't recall my funeral and no one
When we sit by the fire telling anecdotes, mention it.

If alive how do I know I tried to turn water into wine.
It didn't work the water to cold.
I will now go outside fall flat on my face if it hurts
I should be ok, but it worries me that I can fly

Flying things

I once saw a flying pig
there was a hard wind blowing from the east.
over the bay of Cascais
The wind slackened and dropped the pig
that was alive and swimming ashore
alas, where men with knives waited.
Every café was serving pork in all its form
a pig is versatile for human consumption.
Can't say the same for my little donkey
on the terrace, it costs me a fortune in carrots
but it has sweet-smelling droppings which
I dry and sell to rose lovers.

Town Life


walking around Cascais
which consist of cobblestones
asphalted road and mad traffic
How I long to tread on the soft grass
rest under a tree, sit on a ******
warmed by the sun

to see wildflowers again
and not trite blooms in a *** or vase.
Inhale the air of the land
not sullied by diesel fume
the spring is passing me by, who knows
it might be the last one

set me frees to fly and not dally more
back to the rural Algarve where I was born
for the second time.
my feet are sore pavements too hard
and the cacophony of blaring horns
makes my head confused.

The Heat elsewhere
  
It is hot think of switching the air-condition on
but I think of the refugees from Syria waiting for a gate to open
Israel will not, want to become a nation of ******.
Jordan like ways has a million refuge and political problems
but if Europe pays them enough can take in some more.
The refugees are sweltering in the hot sun many have not
tents and there is no shade in this no man’s land hell,
I hope the Red Crescent and Doctors without Borders have
the courage to help, all I can do is send money and
not switch on the air-conditioning.

Looking for words.

Pink and blue billows on the poetic sky drip of eager words
Alas, towards dawn, a westerly wind blew cleared the sky
In the morning blank screen lit up when the sun shone.
But the sun passes as it must, the screen greys while waiting
To be written; to be dreamless is a curse, slow death.
Listless looking at the sky, finding blandness but also words
Like other poets, I cannot steal but wish I could.
I end this poem so I can say; that what is written here is mine.

Enticement

The girl in the bar that had floors made of stranded schooners
came and sat by us
Many sailors had drowned in her eyes.
On the way to the Saragossa Sea, their blood
ran down cracks on the floor,
Dripped into the sea below the colour of crimson.
Looked into her eyes an evil goddess with green eyes
I followed her to a room in the back
She laughed when she caught me.

MY uncle

My uncle gave me a fire truck as a Christmas gift
it was made of wood and had wooden wheels
that fell off after one hour of play.
When I lived at a farm, he came and visited me
helped the farmer get in dray hay.
He stayed at the farm for a week, and when
he left I was sitting behind a stone on the outer field
feeling miserable, he could have stayed
A few weeks more.
He had to go, found a job in a town called
Porsgrunn to stoke the flames of industry.
Worst of all, he got married had several sons
Why did have to do this?
That is the problem with adults they always
let you down.

My lie is bigger than yours.

So it is Sunday early afternoon light rain
and I'm not a weather forecaster, and   no one pays me
for this observation, perhaps the seagulls do
they are flying low today.
The journalist who bravely fought 15 men, was put him
in a rocket that exploded when high enough, I found
a finger that looked Arabic, but the dog snatched
out of my hands before I could examine it more closely.
The world is so full of lies we grasp at nails
to accept the lie that is implausible yet has a ring
of bafflement enough so it can be business as usual.