ufo – Page 4 – 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,

The Joyous One

There are no sounds but of essences in a global form travelling upon a variable current in a stream of consciousness, as we gave it such a name, a phenomenon are we in a world we developed as evolution and must not know of the why included is myself the joyous one.

The Day Jesus Left Town.

Days of sheep and lambs to slaughter, days of indecision and loss of spirit, days of shouting loud to anthems, by vain and colourless music spirits, days of no direction of compass wheel rusty, days of children who do not know why they were born, days of populations eating landmass.

End of days in devotion sincerity a sin, days of rudderless morals the sexes of all temptation, days of missing points coming to full stops, days of lost children shouting for help.

The day Jesus left town we all cried, is our Father in heaven leaving his vulnerable children now alone in days and nights of indifference’s, days of the meek now unable to speak.

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.