Spirited up to the table with tastes and tongues disabled; smitten by duty and raped with honour, snivelling back with medals of fate and a chewed cheek that fell bitter on the lips - an embrace bleaching your insolence with tips- you become the dice of the human. Which part married the eternity with reason?  Who gave the good the right to plan treason? The author rules the world and the world is less so when a fable. Giving it back at the chasm, thought was never and no good. And chucking money at the sky, the house is made of wind and everything falls away, my poor junior assistant on minimum wage.                                                                                          On my back,

 I can see the dirty laundry falling all over

the

            parade,

not quite sure what to say; the script is doctored with crosses, doctor, and I am poisoned by a Nietzsche sandwich - it is lodged in my throat, blasphemously, because I laughed

and

            because, when closing my eyes,

I still see the sun

                        it won me over,

tuning my theta waves,

imagining it rightly so,

knowing that if it goes if, I go.

 

 Mr Magpie .

 

            He’s here again;  the man with a bribe in his eyes,

and we take the money and                                                                            run -                 dodging bibles                                 like they are banana skin, every step

a stand,

 

                                    a mother land slide

and a sigh:

                        The author writes the world

And the ruler reads it.