The Songstone

A glorious past, and future more than full. From salt Atlantic - crowning Caucasus, from crystal tundra - undulate Sahara, united, softly spoken languages. Creed cannot matter here, for all are true or false, or useful, superstitious too. Race will not care here: European though saturnine, blond, or black, blue irises. No eagle empire with its rending conquests, you thoughtful country of a peace expansion. A murmuring glade, your loose bounds lasting longest of any bloody map yet drawn by nation. In Story's steaming alleys you'll stand tall - a home of many mansions: room for all

Today is the 50th anniversary of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution ( 无产阶级文化大革命)

I know a skilful little man, by name of Crumbly-Pilchard. He spends his days upon the baize and nights he fumbles Richard He is a wizard with his Dick, though hearts don't always break We gaze amazed at his great length and wish he'd down his stake A boy should know, a boy should learn that though he may have skill, the enemies he makes in life can kick him till he's shrill Don't target me, O little man or I will rhyme you sore, and every time I see your mug I'll come and kick you more

You left in April, Mary, dear; we're gathered here today to say goodbye, to say farewell, to say we loved your stay on Earth you ne'er believed in Heav'n but light ran through and through all your dealings here with us. Goodbye. Farewell. Thank You.

The Hun is at the gate! A driven foe, I know you love to hear how Germans die. for body, soul an iron sacrifice. 'Ach Kamerad' they cry, then squeal like stoats. Atrocities engorged as scarlet crazy squirts spawn about the corpses of old toads; menagerie of carrion and waste shambles across a century of crows. And then, in boiling shards of poignant beauty, (wolves graze, and dust becomes the serpent's meat) through a becalmed and still reflective maunder, (trusting a day there shall be no more shooting) erupt emotions - soaring, wheeling fleets, leap into hope that even war surrender.

The Songstone, Canto I: The Tower is published today. A free copy from: Smashwords But Kora sat unmoving, in great magic.  The walls, her home, faded about her. Warmth went; all alone and on a freezing plain, dressed in a tunic, sharp knife in her belt, bow on her shoulder, arrows in a quiver  behind. Her eyes gleamed; a pale cold light, ˈlɪmpɪd ɪn ˈdʌlnəs She looked around. Away, at vision’s limit, a dark shape rose above the plain: a Tower, the only thing in all this barren place: no bird flew, no grass grew. Despite the wool  she shivered. Breath-clouds hung in the raw air, ˈsləʊli dɪˈzɒlvɪŋ Then in eye’s corner something moved. She turned to gaze across the Waste and saw a Cloud. Far, almost straight behind her as she faced the Tower, it too reared up black and sheer. Unlike the Tower, moving, whirling, wisps trailing their tentacles around a core, ˈtwɪstɪŋ ɪnˈseɪnli

Hope you can fuck me often, Mr. Big. My little sweet vagina needs a dig. (我的小逼不能没有大先生)

Shuttle, muddle, fiddle, shell - I'm going to learn this terrible /l/

It's minus 5 outside: leathers, tough shoes; a warmer bed awaits in Dongba's stews.

A whispering day, alone with thoughts and whisky. Tomorrow call a wench: I'm feeling frisky.

Ezra Pound

Thinking, smooth, fathom, tooth. Other things are soothing truth

Fail, vale, effervescence It's very far from Volga's pheasants

The Land Tax for the nations' pain: rent to the treasury the claim William Hogarth Marriage A-la Mode 2: The Tete a Tete  1745 The National Gallery, London

what I'm really missing is a little bit more of Miss Ng

The Sisters of the sacred well be damned: a bottle, glass, some heat and steady hand

A Cameron, a Trump, a Sarkozy: unhappy world of assholocracy

Add cinnamon and honey, fruit and cloves; a winter's night in Bacchanalian groves

I didn't mean to copy! , wailed the boy Cut n paste from Wiki? Just being coy.

People, piddle, puddle or hell, there's a lot of work in that dark /l/

Dear R, I remember with great pleasure our last meeting at my grandmother's, and her dropping the cake on you. In the Christmas spirit I wish to inform you that I shall come to Shanghai next weekend, and I extend an invitation to dinner on Saturday night. I am aware that our relationship has not been entirely cordial for a while, and trust that you will put this down as much to your silver-spooned snobbery as my rough etiquette. I am sure you will be busy that evening with other glittering lights from the commercials world, but I felt that not to at least proffer the invitation could be construed as discourteous. Sincerely, and Merry Christmas, Simon

A honeyed voice, exquisite lips, my perfect little fellatrix

Financial capital's most willing slave: Rebekah's rider, PR's 'Call me Dave'

There was n old windbag called Shuttle who wasn't particularly subtle. N 'actual poet' by name though her oeuvre was lame; her verses were worth fully fuck all.

Where is Neruda now to sing of you,  Comrade Vallejo? His would be an apt  voice to ennoble, know your fire, as few others could (I am not one, wrapped in cotton wool of Art for its own sake, without the balls to brave the Fascist cannons as you have done). They'll kill you, Comrade, make an icon of resistance, buy you - Mammon's clutches of billionaires: the stooge Piñera! (a parasite from this, or any, era), sucking the weal, and old spiders who brood  voraciously. The darkness of a day elapsed, a day nourished with our sad blood, concludes the desperate struggle of decay.