forest – Page 2 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

May Of Africa A Political Rant.

It is now May of Africa forsaking the intelligent agendas and concerns of Brussels, Mrs May prefers to seek trade with countries that have appalling human rights records including genocide to name one. BRITAIN has been trading with the continent of Africa for centuries, the pitfalls are known already to most, Mrs May is looking for a pleasant Brevity but there isn’t one and I have this feeling this woman and her chums will keep this economy going even if this mean concessions for people coming from all over this world, especially in the ares of housing and opening the gates to more foreign people swelling an already overcrowded country such as Britain. So watch this space. Trade with other countries respectfully but don’t make big waves of trading more exclusively with Africa British people don’t want to lose their identity we have had year on year of this we can’t even house people in this country as it is in the year 2018,

Kiss The Snow Of Mountains

No matter how clever one is there is always something you will never know, if your feet touched the ground of every named country upon the planet or kissed the snow of mountain tops, you would never consume all found knowledge. Could this be our imperfections revealed, a frustration I cannot scratch that itch of human discontent.

To the enquiring minds of the seekers if the word, as it is named as truth, within divisions or hierarchies unknown, one has opinion as poles apart, one humans vision is just a constant star in the nighttime sky in another land upon a different night.

I have likened us to ants, but a trifle more clumsy our minds and discoveries, not always for the best. As countless in numbers our wars do attest, to under the god of light the sun, the master of life or death when revealed, more unleashed than ever in times of now within and under ozone depleted screens of a damaged ionosphere.

Mr Tang What’s Cooking ?.

And the green air insidious, is he flitting in bushes coughing and choking tasting recipes of death in the world. As if you never wondered why the brains were cooking and the madness never dead, all the things you wanted but could never put them to bed, dancing in your mind. Raving in a mind like Cinderellas cracker and a prince with no clothes. Its a loony fry up in a greasy slippery slimy shady world where the dogs are half as mad as you and of course Mr Tang…

If As Matter…

If as matter we do return after death, then back to the beaches as grains of shiny sand caught as jewels by the sun, shimmering back at the living as a constant shifting puzzle augmented by wind, sea profound. Pulsing in magnetised gravity by a needy moon pulling rushed stellar moments to a receptive living over-mind, pondering in a space time continuum.

Party Porn People

We live in the time of the enterprise of loin, it is everywhere and it is obvious that the human or thing worships itself by image. In the main man now works by image alone in discordant forms of hedonism, slowly creeping. Exposures of the wrong kind are now prolific, we certainly survive on the exposure brought about by the enterprise of the loins in a vivid crucible of metaphysical party porn people…