Warning: the government is reading your poetry!
(Metadata Mining This Site)


If to the world about, you are attentive,
You have imbibed the news that our governmental,
is exercising its parental abusive in-discretionary powers,
Purviewing and purloining our electronic communications,
Causing some to have worrisome palpitations

My life is on the boring side,
So welcome gents to look inside,
The surfed sites, the emails, hardly slimy,
But stay the fk away from my poetry!

Tis obvious from your midnight editing,
That my wordily, working body has been discretely
Simonized,
My data,
Googlized,
My poems,
Scrutinized,
A comma, a colon, a verb, out of place, capsized,
Little threads kept in door jambs, their alteration,
Your snooping presence, a confirming revelation

Will the words Rye Catcher be caught by a filter,
My mocking of Obamacare, be the transmitter,
That becomes a curiosity inflictor, a predictor,
Of your requited, on-this-sited, attentions?

Meta dating women, once a goal, worthy of attaining,
Meta dating mining of poetic alliterations, pertaining
To me and mine, a serious no-no, causing consternation,
Heavy percussing, voters, party swinging in self-flagellation

The information unwittingly provided on HP
Will be used to modulate the time and temperature,
Add certain chemicals in the liquids we drink
Like testosterone in erogenous zones,
Xanax in the air vents in the high schools and colleges,
Hell, they may even put fluoride in the water

Control the atmosphere, fashion styles, population size,
Disclose location to my enemies and my illicit affairs,
(Exposed, leaked to the NY Post's Page Six, to my better halving),
Keep the emotions checked,
Within acceptable parameters,
Especially of those *****, love sick
Senior Citizens, always ready to get down
When poetry-aroused

This narration of condemnation for espying
Will YouTube spread like a new flu virus,
Cause I know where you live and Iam,
Cell phone camera armed and dangerous
On  the Internet, your faces, posted

They riot-for-rights in Cairo and Istanbul,
President Obama, we have on good authority,
Your daughters support our rhetoric, no bullsht,
Watch your step, or on you, we'll sic the IRS,
Cause in the end, they work for *us,
Hold on, who's that knocking at my door?

as if pulling (on the tab)
prevents the continued closure
of the lunch box
oxen milling brunch
as it unfolds sinewed pasture
green purloining sunlight
oxen munching salami on Thursday morning
mourning the luncheon of Sunday
black black blackberries lugubrious
lubricate brioche freshness
pile of white pile of brown pile of pylons
pile (on the tab)
shots are on me
shots fired no casualties
oxen bagged lunches aren't as fun as pulling punches

Like God amassing gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh,
vain potentates, possessed by pride that riches will confer,
depleted pillaged villages in pagan days of old…
With ******* privileges, their fortunes were foretold.

In feudal times, chaste clerics, cloaked, wrapped rings around the mind
with hymns of magic, mystic myths and figurines enshrined,
while blessing bayonet-like blades that mutilate and maim…
With ******* privileges, believers bore no blame.

In search of caramel colonies, some sailors set their sails
to conquer puppet provinces, for sovereignty prevails,
purloining wicked treasure troves which others claimed their own…
With ******* privileges, such sins sustained the throne.

Well, nowadays the quest proceeds, this time for ebon oil,
so peoples once again are caught within the serpent’s coil
and, pierced by fangs of greed and lust, death yields benign escape…
With ******* privileges, you’re free to rip and ****.

We wave the flags and beat the drums and often kneel to pray
to glorify our victories, bold, that happen far away;
but none salute the severed souls impaled upon a pike…
With ******* privileges, the riffraff look alike.

One day the moguls won’t agree on how to slice the pie;
they’ll spit and spat and, ***-for-tat, atomic barbs will fly -
but when the button’s finally pressed, they too will grace the heap…
With ******* privileges, the hole that’s hewn is deep.

We follow the bridleway that dissects the growing field of wheat, now dark green and vigorous after it's Spring dose of nitrogen. Pass the smouldering ruin of a bonfire which has been awaiting the torch for weeks. Charred black are two big sections of oak trunk which I considered purloining every time I passed, but decided they looked too heavy to move.

Reach the road, rein in the dog's lead, turn right. The thatch I renewed a few years back is definitely not looking new any more. Past the houses, past the one where the whistler lives. All the way across the wide East Anglian field I often hear him trilling, when we are both pottering in our gardens. He has a brick outhouse, probably a former loo or wash house. A thrush is sitting on top of the chimney and a blackbird on the weather vane, they look about four feet apart. I pick up a lager can, crush it and slip it in my back pocket. A pigeon climbs, claps its wings and glides back down. Jogger's footsteps catch up from behind. It's the chap who owns a Harley Davidson.

I turn back into our lane, a skylark is singing loud and clear above us to the left. A rabbit dashes across the lane a few yards ahead, disappears. The dog's ears go straight up and he eagerly sniffs its trail. Back home.

My memory fails me not
It was no hallucination, and nostalgia indeed is a filthy liar which paints pictures prettier than their reality—but I remember this just as clearly as it occurred:

On a warm Autumn night, I laid beside the moon
He rested the back of his head on my stomach and I ran my fingers through his hair, nothing but the sound of a soft melody and the waves of the sea gently caressing the sand beneath us humming through the air
I had traveled a distance to see you, to feel you, to touch you—and my Lord, was I taken aback by the beauty you radiated at hand

On a warm Autumn night, the moon and I laid atop one another and stared at the darkness of the sky
The only light that surrounded us that night, my love, was emitted by you. But you were too mesmerised by a fallen star—or in our case, two—to notice how mesmerised I had been by you
The earth, the sand, and the wind hugged us, but I swear we were no longer a part of this world
In an enclosed, far-off dimension, I got to touch the moon
I was hugged, kissed and loved by the moon, and no human will have ever known how beautiful you truly are the way I now do

On a warm Autumn night, your lips brushed against mine, and I felt my heart sink to the pit of my stomach
I felt my skin grow warmer, I felt my soul entwine with yours
Oh how they’d envy these lips of mine, if only they knew
How can I verbalise the insanity of being held by you?
The morality—or lack, thereof—of purloining you?
Not mine to take but I shan’t withhold this passion surging through me—through us—through our tangled bodies, and oh Lord I had begun falling...

On a warm Autumn night, the universe froze for a mere second, and stars fell for a couple seconds longer
A spliff hung between your parted lips and the tide spoke to me in a hushed whisper
And I looked into your soul through those bewitching eyes of yours, and nobody else existed
And on that autumn night, in those seconds, like the season: I began to fall.

it was with greater risk that I knew
  that when I let you in,
your metaphysics, my being would acquaint
  itself to such metanoia:

that there was such an air in your voice
  that would sway me a forest and give me
a necklace of sunlight. like a well-oiled machine
  I let your gruel work its way like a beast
claiming the calm, like the youth purloining the silence,
   like the death making most frugal the earth and its troves.

little night, black bird of my heart: when you
take your flight in me, solder me up
  there, vertiginously above the floor:

     all those of much the land that coats
our feet’s trembling aches,
    all that still laughs
   without what joy shapes with its motherly hands
where you assume the stillness as something
  the shadow languages and transfixes
   in all of the days

   lays captured, a darkness too
halved, voyaging without eyes, in every direction
eclipsing with the sound of incontrovertible music,
     echoing, rippling in me with
alterations.

Forgotten in the rank long grass
A Café of an ancient class,
Purloining in a classic way
Good beverages of yesterday.
Astride a weathered timber seat
We sat and deigned to rest our feet,
The comfort in this run down place
Permitting smiles to crease our face.

We happened, on this windy day,
To watch the rippled grasses sway,
Watched the starlings flock and mass
Above, in clouds of seething gas.
Autumn tones in billowed leaves
Gathered as the breezes pleased.
Stretched the legs and felt the sun….
Joyously, we laughed, as one.

She served us mugs of steaming brew
A thick Moroccan medley stew
With vegetables in chilli’s bite
And sautéed lamb to add delight.
So glorious, in the afternoon,
We sipped, deliciously, attuned.
Moments, in that space of time,
To make our wondrous day….sublime.

M.
Taranaki, NZ
April 2022

simple wiggins from hanky panky
lucre snatchers, con artists and hatchet jobbers
conjoiners fleecers and dastard pirates and blighty racists
all in the mix waiting for a fix to put the licks on an unexpected brick

simple wiggins twisting and turning
crooks from nooks and dopes with hapless hopes
takes on a softwood that turns out an oak that's no joke
now they're all in a tizzy frizzing and frazzling in dazzling dizzy

simple wiggins confused and nonplussed
flinging pans, pots an kitchen sinks cause they're ****** finks
plans astray and lies exposing they're decomposing pansies in panic
shamed, belittles in prattles, rattling as dumb cows in stinging nestles

simple wiggins oafs without loaves
liars and shysters wanting unearned pearls and oysters
foul bullies in foul follies ganging a set-up con for purloining lollies
using all fooled cannon-fodders as watchers, informers an performers

simple wiggins thieves and chalk scums
go dig your rig and rind your grid for your putrid grimy tosh
undermined criminals in urinals politicking garbage to your trash
most now see your game for you're lame in your shameless lanes

Feline lips
Tightened
Midnight living
Is or the uneasy awakening
Of the people affected
By corrupt intentions of purloining
Infected by the greed
Love is all you take in the beginning
The bitter high ground
Is like the pale blue sky
The reconciles with the perilous existence
Too bad, if this doesn't help
You should look at the grey clouds made of silver linings playbooks
Like new book readers
And newbies
I sip my coffee, bitter and sweet
Enumerable by the waves of sickness
That hit me in the perishing lands
By the sandy dustiness of places that are beyond
My time and the possessions, and the thesaurus
I keep in my bag reminds me of the words
You were, in my circumlocutory motioning
To the suns behind the thousand splendid times
In a land without mirages and mines, my legs feel like landmines
I can't walk on them anymore
On anymore
On the road
Far away from home, there is a system of the drowning sun
Antediluvian sun, don't come back from this rising sultry skeptical land full of light
Too me mirages are just objects that appear closer than they are
And dreams are made of these
I believe
If I believe in me
Then, I'm one with this homeliness
Then the feeling of being pecunious about my own nomadic tendencies
I probably roam in the bare wilderness
Tended to by psychedelic instances of the bitterness of a hundred blows
A hundred blows represent a hundred battles
Dealt with, in the dancing moonlight
The night sky covered senescence of a field that had seen a thousand suns
Hidden by light
Identifiable with the dark
Afraid of time and beyond

in lieu of a gilded rose
in front of a glimmering window
we have this moment
in which we disclose,
to you as much as to ourselves
a memory;
bones pulled from a frozen lake.

call it stolen.
call it entropy.
don't ever call it again.

no matter the path
you choose to crack microscopically
Saturn will still scream on a wavelength
that took 4.5 billion to even be noticed.

that's divinity.
blindly casting unfathomabilty
at the void all around itself:
king, queen, and the thief purloining
the centerpiece from the former's feast table.

so please explain to me why,
a billion miles away from Saturn,
closer to Sol,
suicide is something that exists.
especially since every truth is a myth
that, in the end,
was ripped from the mist of **** memories
remembered a bit differently.

so, is it stolen?
is this entropy?
are you married with kids?

whatever it's become for you,
love it.
as well as however it is you fit into it.

you'd think you love this guy
the next thing you know, he's between your thighs
purloining your very innocence
i'm sorry, you didn't have the foresight
to finally call it a night
the disgust starts seeping in, evident
flesh against skin, it begins to rip
draining the spirit of your humour, a man's parasitic brain tumor
numb to the consequence, it drips
you become his perfect, plastic doll
submissive and subservient,
and suddenly, you don't remember what you're doing here at all.