The tortures couldn't break them, so they tried to replace them. Mutilating their form
And ripping and shaping their flesh to mould some mutilated plastic doll of conformity they forced. Turning them into outcasts, not to see family.
The 900.
A new birth certificate, an
attempt to **** the persona and replace with moulded soulless form.
Many half finished.
In the military.
Committing suicide after being abandoned.

When a boulder is on your spine, about to snap it,
even a clawed hand,
is seen as a helping one.

1993-The puritans at work again.
injecting oestrogen to force a character into a form they deem fit,
for 'delicate minds'.

In spirit it's all the same. crushing those who don't fit in to the model village. with its identical plastic figurines. Crushing them. in an eternal smile. In a model world. All dead plastic.

We were going for a walk, sea view, ocean blue.
But the tree needed cutting, can't have work on the mind.
Need to make sure that troubles left behind.
Should've done it months ago.
Ladder up.
Wires plugged.
Cutters out.
In the name of a neat garden for gorgeous nights when the sun is still bright.
Picking leaves, off The ground we dusted Wednesday dawn.
Yanking up crops crawling with harvestmen.
But wait, the holly bush needs doing too.
Should've done that days ago.
Dad does that.
As we sweep on.
Waving at friends.
Walking the wasps in the way.
They might sting.
"Don't bend, it hurts your back".
Mum says.
Advice never works.
The leaves go on.
More holly teams down.
Oh well, the journey of a thousand miles starts with one step...
Then another...
Then another...
Then another...
****, ****, bang, bang.
The chainsaw wires cut.
We had those for years.
So I keep my mouth shut.
Destroyed in a millisecond.


Our cat sat as calm as Confucius
From the sidelines, onlooking our endeavours.
A kitten kicking a katydid like a kid.
Confused, but definitely not concerned.

But wait, the wild flowers need watering.

My dad and my neighbour don't get along,
Clashing at the borders.
Consistently igniting the gross mess and grot in his smoked stained living room, where guard dogs bark and gnash freely, even when he is still in his house.
Luckily, our allies surround us and agree on our distaste, despite our own differences and lack of communication.
But my neighbour has allies from the other side.
A dodgy lot who we also despise.
But this could be changed, couldn't it?
His daughter is young and open.
A Romeo/Juliet story potentially?

Don't make me laugh.
The grot has raised her, that is her cemented.
His mind is hers as my dads is mine.
Intervening won't solve it.
As I shouted one day.
Screaming, swearing at the mongrels believing the main threat was away.
But their allies, the girls boyfriend, nearly killed me had it not been for my fathers main forces.
So I secluded me self, turning to faith totally.
Something I'd never done before as a logical atheist.
Until my life was threatened.

The kids are mad
The press'll say
Child **** festival
Suicide tips on blogs
Cheap drugs on eBay
Terrorists on mumsnet
Five year olds download pirate films and that's just today.

Oh dear, oh dear
What are we to do
Someone didn't look on the bright side of life.
Do-do do-do do-do

Well they need a story to tell.
And being able to see, to talk to someone
5,000 miles gone
Who life had torn you away from.
That's not news.

A library at your fingers
As they tap, shimmey and strut along the keyboard.
Any fact, debate settled.
That's not news


They said the world will end.
1881
2012
Or when the HAL's of tomorrow computer generatedly jet off the TV set.

April, 2017.
The CDs on the shelf still.
The library is still where the students study their fill.
Friends go out or have coffee, depends on weather.
Family on Christmas sit together.


But I guess that's not news
Not as much as manic hackers
Or celebrity blues
Or the troll overreacters.

That's my argument for the day.

With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....****
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill

In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.

The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.

All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****

Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair

Oh, so there is a god.

I guess Jesus didn't lie.

On autumns ground I walk,
As winters snow sky blindingly glows.

In the thylacines footsteps i tread,
On a path the future presents.

Sitting in a cafe, I realise,
The tea I have just had, was built from a billion lives.
Who tasted the leaves.
Who told the others.
Who invented the farm.
Who planted the leaves.
Who planted the seeds.
Who made them grow.
Who picked them.
Who told the nation.
Who created the plough, made the grow more effectively, created the axe, learned to chop a tree, learned to shape it, learned wood floated, came up with the ships, made the first boat, made it sail, told the others, discovered nations, learned their language, spoke it, found what they wanted, got tea, got it back, gave birth to 200,000 generations who split off as cup makers, baristas, cow farmers, milkmen, sugar farmers, sugar packers, cafe owners and tea farmers.
'CHEERS!'

We are indeed standing on the shoulders of giants, but the weight will build on ours.
Swimming the route laid out by the Baiji.