I’ll take you to the gardens in which
I was once taken.
And I will allow you to be mistaken
By the kindness that enriches
My sole being in plenty.

As in this sun that Apollo gave us once,
In a kiss that hollowed our hearts to be tied.
The grass is rich like your reflection in my eyes
And yes, in these vines we are amongst
The lovers of my slight past, yet you are important to me.

And your lips are firm I see,
As you clasp them around
That coffee which came from my grounds
And my grounds call for you
As in this place we are meant to be.

See, I deserve you like Gaia didst life,
And the butterflies that swarm
This garden so warm
Take my queries and my strife.
As do you, within these trees.

The hydrilla that lies beneath your river
Grasps my shins and begs me not to leave
Yet my intentions are not to grieve
The curtains that fall over your eyes at ease.
To you, an emotion to feel, my garden agrees.

33 minute and 33 minutes; The new flag for the new pope Tryphena.
Surfing, homeless dirt Leaker ||||| Diana Apollo 1, 1, 1, Venice: frog, Rana.
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Sometimes I spread my hands to the sky certain that they can grasp the stars but they can't, yet I keep reaching anyways.

And there's something beautiful about spinning on a field when the only thing visible is the night sky, and the only thing insignificant is you.

When I was young the thought of the world revolving around the sun intrigued me, and those moments somehow made me feel at one with the world.

Spin, spin, spinning, but then I would stop and my feet could no longer keep up with pace of my head, so I’d go flying in all directions just like disillusioned men when they go stumbling down streets unfamiliar to them.

Sometimes I wonder if the world is the way it is because it is in chaos and no one even knows.

Like somehow everyone is at a disadvantage,

Like no mind is sober because of a natural disposition pinned against us by gravity.

What if that is why men do the things they do, because I always wonder under what spirit do they operate, what demons have they encountered, that cause them to be possessed with this hate that makes *** slaves of the unfortunate, orphans of the unprepared, single mothers of the lovers, victims of our children, and on and on and on and on again.

Life just keeps moving and we just keep making the same mistakes. generations pass, people die but no one understands that we are just animals, caught in a war against ourselves.

Against our greed, our pride, our lust, our security, our beliefs.

We are so full of ourselves that we don't notice what is happening around us, we don't know that the world is spinning at 1000 mph; we have lost touch with the things that matter, lost all connections with the truth in the sky that enlightens anyone who dares to approach it.

always forgetting that it is the beauty of the moon, and the millions of stars that remind us that We Are Insignificant

But instead we are grounded and we have stopped so our feet cannot keep up with the pace of our heads so we have lost our balance.

You know I'm afraid, I'm afraid for my life.

On morbid days I envision myself in my coffin, I see my lifeless body and the pastor walking up to the podium, he says,
"Jal, he was an average man, maybe a bit eccentric, tragedy struck and this young man was taken away from us way too early by the devastating actions of an unidentified person.”

I watch the whole funeral and in curiosity I wonder which belief was it that killed me, or was it something outside my control like the color of my skin.

You see most people pray to be put down while they are sleeping by the famous killer, old age, but I don't know if I'll make it that long.
I've always said I want to be fully aware of the moment I die.

That's why when I was young on family road trips, when the only thing I could see was the 350 ft. ahead of the car illuminated by the headlights, and the determined face of my father, I would fight to stay awake because I couldn't let death take me by surprise.

But now I'm eighteen I occasionally have nightmares of my loved ones dying, but then again I don't really sleep anymore because death threatens to come at any moment.

A terrorist attack could shatter the windows of this house I consider impenetrable, or even a hungry thief thinking irrationally about his rationality.

This is the world we live in.

The world is spinning off its axis and things that used to seem so far have slid closer and closer, until I’m looking right into the eyes of death.

From 9-11, to Westgate, to genocide, things are closing in on me, and the “what ifs” are no longer so improbable and I am afraid.

I'm afraid that the world will never change, that people will stay the same, that I will go insane.

I’m going insane.

Could people just understand, could we just stop for a moment, grab each other’s hands and walk to open fields together at twilight after all traces of the sun have gone, could we whirl around with our heads to the skies, our nature abandoned, and our bodies in sync with the world,

Could we just spin and spin and spin until we once again become what we were made to be.

Could we just be more than animals?

I thought I kneww, I thought knew I Could escape the escape from this the prismiatic prism that scatters the living litmus of tasty languish. I was electrocuted but did not die I was hyptotized but had no thoughts of mine me oh my my crastle crashing westgate smashing
I weas blown up torn up ****** up I slipped up caught ciggarette hiccups blue smoke the green **** tar ton in my lungs whisper wheeze the crispy fleece of tubular micro breeze
I make no sense to anyone but myself and all this is just play
like,
vaporize the suit and tie dusty wish stuff made from mildew soft hush *** rush wishing wash upon a star starling colors bleed from mars upon my head the rain again again a grain from solar trains a chugga choo of clothes pin gentle wind smell that touch this soft light flutter white sheet skin glow rainbow window crystal glass slow mo tumble punch gut trouble crystal shatter toes and scatter scar sardonic stars breach the shift of rock ah roll ah cokeacola box ah living oh ah mocha coffee candy sweetly
sickly
Motion moving frames repeating the subliminal superluminal transfuckafying metamorphic metaphors leaky brain

33 minutes 33 minutes; New trampling for the new bishop; Homelessness, trash ||||| Diana Apollo 1,1,1, Venice: Jorge,  Rana. Showroom's new project 100 (1500) d. He is being asked to start. 500 passengers for the BBC. Because it is not cold at night,  FOOD Hep C, experiment, graffiti zucchini
How to find a woman in the park; 33 and 33; I know you robbed the bishop's hat ||||| 1.1.1 Diana Basket Apollo London: The George. 100 starts a new project to bring the people of the 500 passengers (1,500 people). That is a good thing.
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About the Salam 33 minutes 33 minutes; New trampling for the new bishop
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The place is Gloucester City; I'm on foot patrol, Beat Number Five;
The time... 2-45am, the City dead; nothing alive.
Progressing through another lonely night-shift... not a soul around,
the dead streets echo to my footsteps; beyond that, the only sound
is the wind that whimpers through the narrow alleys, here and there;
I turn off Westgate Street, down into College Court... the thoroughfare
leading into College Green, where the great Cathedral lies.
The little passageway is shadowed; carefully, I cast my eyes
across the shop-doors... check the locks, shine my torch for better view;
then, by the The House of the Tailor of Gloucester... I walk beneath the arch into
College Green... the car park's silent... there in splendid majesty
towers the mighty stone Cathedral, into the night, in front of me.

My footsteps echo like the crack of doom upon the old flagstones
beneath the border of the trees that guard the crouching houses thrown
along the south side of the Upper Green, as I walk down to turn
into the precincts, skirting round the Great East Window; to discern
how many drunks and dossers I might find within this hallowed ground...
but as I pass the south transept... something makes me turn around.
There; by a small door, stands a cassocked figure in the shadowy light...
who lifts his hand and calls to me...
"Goodnight, my son; be safe, this night."
I study him; he's sixty-ish; he wears a beard... his face is thin;
As I make to answer him, he turns away and walks back in
through the door into the great Cathedral, and there, echoes, plain...
the screak of ancient hinges, and the rattle of the keys again...
being turned...

... how very odd. I'd better check all is secure...
it's very late for Godly works; and so, I carefully check the door.
Nothing moves; and so, I take up my patrol once more, around
the outer east end of the massive nave, where, in the past, I've found
the dead-beats, and the drunks, and dossers slumped against the buttressed wall...
but tonight, it's silent as the grave... there's no-one here at all.
I quietly walk on down the path towards the ruined infirmary...
a single, standing stretch of arched wall; where my footsteps hollowly
echo in the silence as I move on down to Miller's Green...
almost as if I'm being followed... but there's nothing to be seen.
But, even if there was... the shadows here are dark, with no street lights,
except the odd, wall-mounted lantern glowing dimly in the night.

This really is a creepy place at night; of that, there's little doubt.
I walk on past the end-wall arch and the echo following me, fades out.
My boots crunch on the gravel as I pass the Little Cloister House;
The ancient, timbered, stepped-up gables loom... all's quiet as a mouse...
when suddenly... a crash and clatter...
WHAT THE ******* WAS THAT?
I freeze... and then, a dark shape dashes out... it's just a sodding cat
rummaging the waste-bins; and I breath again... that was a fright!
Greenly eyeing me, the cat slinks off beyond the pool of light
thrown by the streetlamp on the corner. Miller's Green is dark and still;
before me looms the shadowed, vaulted passageway through which I will
walk back into College Green where, to my right, the Almonry
stands hard by St Mary's Gate; once, entrance to the Monastery...

that stood, in medieval times; here; I resume patrol again...
I pass beneath the gateway's ribbed arch, stepping into Three ***** Lane.
There before me, in St Mary's Square... the ornate Monument
to martyred Bishop John Hooper of Gloucester... recreant Protestant;
who never would recant, and thus, for heresy... at length, condemned
by ****** Mary; the, then Catholic Queen; would meet his gruesome end
by being burned alive at this same spot... where now, the only sound
is the mournful whimper of the wind, all softly spinning round
the intricate, carved stonework, as he gazes down towards the gate
as if to say... "Move on, my son; guard The Queen's Peace... it's getting late."
And so, I walk up Three ***** Lane, and turn back into Westgate Street;
patrolling up towards the City Centre, where the four Beats meet.

No sign of Tim on Southgate Three Beat... he must be down by the quay...
Ah!... there's Mike across on Four Beat... Hey! He's flashed his torch at me...
Hurry on up to The Cross... What's up?... He laughs; "I'm bored to hell...
it's quiet as a ****** grave... what's your patch like?... come on, do tell."
I smile; "It's much the same as yours... the only really big event
was... a **** cat raiding bins... d'you think that's "Loitering with Intent?"
Better not to mention what I think I saw in College Green...
it would rather blow the "Street-cred," and... I don't want to be seen
as twitchy... but I'll check it out this afternoon; you never know...
"OK" he says, "I'll see you later." and he turns away, to go
back down Eastgate Street, and I continue on my lonely Beat;
shining torchlight into doorways, down the length of Northgate Street.

After I had had some sleep, I came back down to College Green,
and entering the Great Cathedral, told the Verger what I'd seen;
asking him if all was well... he looked at me most curiously
then motioned I should follow him along the nave, to where would be...
the door; but when I looked, I could see nothing but a solid wall...
where the door should be... indeed, there was no sign of door at all.
He said there once had been a doorway here, three hundred years ago,
where they gave charity to beggars; but times change, alas... and so
the door was walled up solidly in Cotswold stone; three full feet wide...
the outer door was left in place; so as not to spoil the southern side
of the outer prospect of this Gothic architectural jewel...
I stood; mouth wide in disbelief... staring like some mindless fool.

He watched my face, and then he grinned; "What you saw son, there is no doubt;
was Bishop Hooper... at this time of year he often walks about
his Bishopric. You aren't the first young Copper... and won't be the last
to meet with Bishop Hooper at this time of year when you go past
the south transept as you patrol your patch, on down to Miller's Green;
the old, false door in the south-side nave... that's usually where he's seen
early in the mornings of the first few day of February...
always from that same old door, around the anniversary
of his death down on St Mary's Square, in 1555;
we've seen him once or twice in here... almost as though he's still alive.
Almost as if he's checking up to make sure all is safe and well
with Diocese, and Dean and Chapter... and not least... his Cathedral.

Coppers come and Coppers go... and Gloucester changes down the years;
So does the Policing; no more foot patrols... just area cars.
College green is gated now... and locked; so they cruise quietly past;
and Bishop Hooper, it would seem, has found his peaceful rest at last.
No hollow echoeing footsteps approaching from St. Michael's Gate;
No Constable on foot patrol... no need for him to quietly wait
at the old, false door to bid the Guardian of The Peace goodnight
as he patrols his beat... expecting drunks, and not a creepy fright!
Yes; Gloucester, it has changed since I patrolled those streets so long ago...
but College Green is much the same; it hasn't really changed, although
the big, old trees are pollarded... the shadows are not quite so deep...
but still... the atmosphere is here... and certainly, the chilly creep
and shiver, as his Monument looms, dark beyond St Mary's Gate...
and the wind gives plaintive moan in requiem to religious hate.