Of French descent,
Madame Estourgeon
has made the ascent
of Ben Neverist
to look down from the clouds
at the crowds
of neo-Scots
marching to the banner
of their newfound Queen.

From a disused dungeon
in St Andrews,
the spirit of John Knox,
of Scottish descent,
can still be heard intoning,

“Monstrous Regimen of Women!”
Monstrous Regimen of Women!”


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My task
(and yours)
(and always has been);

to get rid of you and me
to get rid of us and them
to get rid of was and will be
to get rid of should and shouldn’t be
to get rid of might and mightn’t.

(and always has been)
to wake up
from the dreams of our identities
and find ourselves;

where we have always been;

where we have always been.


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We crawl our way from earth to star
nor calculate from birth how far
our tiny feet
will take us,
before the karma that we meet
will break us.
And cast us adrift on an outgoing tide.

While those onshore mutter simply,
“He died!”

Fay’s gone.
Life long,
Death waits for no-one.


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The string
of Being winds
throughout a luminous universe.

your hand reaches out to grasp
is Adam’s curse
and a knot
appears within your mind.

Your original face
is suddenly forgot,
hid in your own entanglement.


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So, who are you?
Mr Teacher.

Oh yes. And what do you teach?
I teach people what they already know.

And what’s that?
That they have nothing to learn.

And how long does that take?
Usually, many, many lifetimes.

Of hard work?
Of hard suffering.

If you are born Mr Rabbit,
you will have long ears
and can hear Mr Fox coming.
But you cannot hear Mr Farmer
before his bullet hits your head.

If you are born Mr Dog,
you will have lots of rabbits
to choose from.
But all the other dogs
will sniff your bottom
and Mr Man will put a leather strap round your neck.

If you are Mr Man,
you will have lots of rabbits to eat
and dogs with necks
to put your leads on.
But Mr Teacher will put a cage
in your brain
so that you can dance in his circus.


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The Faith Homes of the World,
Buddhist, Moslem, Christian,
have acquired spiritual bolt-ons
built by enterprising entrepreneurs
whose Collection Boxes
funnel the money into hands
that have slipped in between the sheets.

Thou shalt not kill.
(But needst not strive
officiously to keep alive.)

Thou shalt not eat animals
which have warm blood.
(But it’s OK to drain the blood out first
and then go on and eat
until you’re fit to burst!)

Give all you have to the poor and follow me.
(But don’t take the risk
it might fall into the wrong hands
and be wasted.
Give it to priest or mullah.)

There was a time when
the treasures in the Vatican
would have cancelled the Third World Debt.
(But they’re worth much more than that now;
and we keep them safe with tight security,
not for the benefit of the Just,
but for the Future’s Moth and Rust.)

Cometh the Apocalypse
which will revert to Default Settings
and truly “he” shall have his just reward.


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The Treasure Ship returns to harbour.
The wave disappears without a trace.
Heureux qui, comme Ulysse,
a fait un beau voyage.

Happy the hero,
who dies full of years
under the tumulus
with his sword.

Happy the young man
who dies young
beloved of the Gods.
Happy, too, is Vanity.
The wave subsides without a trace.
Who will rejoice in its arising
and lament it in its passing?

Who will write its history
with words of vinegar and honey;
how it arose and how it pressed,
against an empty sky?

Who will cast flowers
on the empty ocean?


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There are Poor because there are Rich.

If you don’t have enough
you certainly
don’t have too much.

If you have too much
someone certainly
has not enough.

To make the Poor less poor
you certainly
have to make the Rich less rich.

Therefore the Rich
are the cause
of the Poor.

Quod Erat Demonstrandum ─Gnome


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Can there be a more stirring sight
than a Pride of Gays,
like a Pride of Lions.

Prowling the main streets
of our great cities!

Protected by two lines
of the forces of law and order
from the big game hunters lurking among the crowds of spectators!

Drawing in young converts
by the sheer magnetism
of their slipstream!

No Civilsation has ever produced
such a flowering of the Human Spirit as ours!

Ah, that we should be worthy
to be living at this Hour!


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Cast up on a desert island,
hut to be erected,
food to be found.

Making something I can call ‘my land’
to protect and be protected
on my own ground.

Another somewhere
to be hot and cold in.
A here (or there)
to be young (grow old) in.

Another invitation
to play Now or Never
(and earn consolation
for Honest Endeavour).

Another attempt
to eat Pie in the Sky
(and hear their contempt
as the Seagulls float by).

With sweat and grunts the Cosmic Mole
digs ever deepwards to his Own Goal.
And when he makes it to his brand new lair
he finds his footprints are already There!


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