Kafka lands resurrected in Crewedeposited by a silvery alien craft,And whilst he is wondering what to doHe is asked to show his passOr pay an instant one off fineAt a cash dispenser of his choiceAnd they are checking all the timeOn his irises face and voice.
And of course they find that he is not,They discover he just cannot be there,Although he seems as if he is visible,And has hands and toes and hair,If he is not on the Great Data Bank,He plainly and simply cannot be,He is not listed and he is not rankedHe is surely not like you and me.
So they cant detain him in custodyBut they do not have to let him goHe never ever happened, periodSo who can ever tell, or know.So on a lonely bench in quiet shadeHe sits alone and unremarked,Wondering what games they play,Against the backdrop of the park.
And so, are we just the opposite,Are we all consigned to hidden files,Are machines deciding who we are,Where we live, and when we smile,Is nothing a certain and real fact,Unless computer correlated true,And should your dossier go into error,How can you prove, you are really you.
How do you verify yourself for a loan,If your ranking gets compromised,How do you overturn all their data,Making you a pariah in others eyes,You may hold letters of validity,They may grudgingly know its you,Unless their system grants absolution,There is nothing they can say or do.
So unless we are verifiable as sound,And our image assuages Superhal,No one will ever trust us again,No one will ever want to be our pal,But this is not like yesteryear,When a quick query cleared your name,Your questions are merely registered,And you just get told how to complain.
Complaints are collated and quantified,They are cross filed and referenced,You must never lose this number,And you must never take offence,You are continually adjourned,Or moved to yet another floor,In the hope that you will falter,From all that has gone before.
Meanwhile youre mugged, not statistically,Contract MRSA, but its not on file,Your children cannot read or write,But their qualifications raise a smile,You always hit potholes that dont exist,To save waiting on trains that dont arrive,But whose flexitimes prove you missed,The only one late out of fifty five.
You cry out to be heard aloud,But the echoes mock your voice,You cannot afford the telephone,Cant bypass enforced menus of choice,Cannot contact a single human being,By department, name or reason,All this evolved like a dripping tap,Season upon big brother season.
Then one day walking in solitude,Your will to try nearly quenched,There is the quiet of the shady park,There is the man upon the bench,Who looks at you knowingly,And asks you if you ever read,And says Then I am Kafka,You Must Tell Me What You Need.
So He went up to their doors,The Nameless Man with Faceless Face,And bearded them in their hallowed den,Their plush revered and holy place,And caused unmitigated consternation,As he either was not really there,Or indeed actually physically existed,Solidly sitting silent in his chair.
So they asked him what he would want,If he were real and not mere illusion,For his appearance was so inopportune,His face and features causing confusion,His DNA was an embarrassment,Never born, nor listed, nor created,Never taxed, treated, nor arrested,Never receiving a non education.
So he stood up to his full height,And drew up his deepest breath,That made him seem immortal,And made them all fear death,And his mighty voice resounded,So much the walls retained his words,We want to be individuals againWe want to speak and to be heard,We want our voice to really matter,And we want to hear no more lies,We want illusion swept away,Replaced by council of the wise,We want common sense to prevail,And not statistical subterfuge,Which tries to tell us its all ok,When we know it must improve,We want you to abdicate and take,Your machines and Mandarins away,And we want it done immediately,Oh Yes, we want it done today.
Or else I will shine in prime time,And then all will see its me,The man who is not Kafka,The man who simply cannot be,Then where will your credibility go,Will they ever listen to your pleas.No, far better for you to go now,And leave reality to me.
And they went away in disarray,Whilst he heralded a new era,No one knew who the hell he was,But yet everything seemed clearer,Everything was as it appeared,Nothing hidden, no more of the lies,And no one filed his disappearance,When he finally left our skies.
They can media us its always fine,Statistic prove what cannot be true,They can try to justify their lies,Attempt to airbrush history in two,They may perceive us all as fools,Force fed on false soap opera goals,But cannot forever control our minds,Nor assume they own our souls,For Long term lies have multiplied,And now are ringing empty and hollow,What seemed so reasonable yesterdayWill be disproved upon the morrow,And with these endless lies surfacing,Just Like The Man Who Could Not Be,The truth will slowly become visible,And the truth will set us free.
Ex systems programmer living in England
Tale of the Brick Maker, of San Jeronimo, Peru [In English and Spanish]
Tale of the Brick Maker, Of San Jerónimo, Peru[A Cup of Sorrow]
Four Poems: Two for the Devil, Two for Peru
Here is some witty poetry (not sure if that is the proper word: witty, but it will do): one poem on the Aztec year 2012, a year that has been in the public's eye quite a lot; one on cloning, and the biblical end time events--which, if I may add seems ripe for the monster events that are said to take place; and two poems dealing with some tradtions of Peru; one imparticular, on vacationing, where not to go; all the makings for some thought.
Exalted Poetry; Two poem [and commentary]
Bells for Belphegor!...
The Power of Eating Disorders
I want to get close
Lord Byrons She Walks in Beauty
Lord Byron's opening couplet to "She Walks In Beauty" is among the most memorable and most quoted lines in romantic poetry. The opening lines are effortless, graceful, and beautiful, a fitting match for his poem about a woman who possesses effortless grace and beauty.
Way of Life: Rhymes of the Inca [four poems: see in Spanish and English NOW!]
Way of Life: Rhymes of the Inca
Top 20 Poetry Quotations
Explore the meaning of poetry and the motivation of poets with this special collection of evocative quotations...
No one should have to beg or crawl before humanity. No one should have to scheme to procure philanthropy.
Ballade of an Inca King
Ah! Leave the gold, wealth and land
As I picked up some of the polished gemstones in the rock store I began to think about what the stones looked like before they were polished. The store had several rocks on display showing the before and after and I realized that unless you knew what you were looking for, you could easily pass by a valuable gemstone. I also thought about how many times we pass by someone because they look "ordinary" and what we might be missing because we don't get to know their "inner person". Thus this poem.
Looking Out the Rear Window
The funeral rite concludedWith the pastor shaking hands,Offering words of comfortI didn't quite understand.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: A Discussion of How Do I Love Thee?
"How Do I Love Thee?" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning was written in 1845 while she was being courted by the English poet, Robert Browning. The poem is also titled Sonnet XLIII from Sonnets From the Portuguese.
Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English]
Mechanical Poetry - Part Three
Have you ever read the lyrics of a Simon and Garfunkle song? Pure poetry. Want to write poems like that? Start copying them. Let me explain.
Tsunami -a Poem Dedicated To Help Aid and Awareness and Encourage Future Harmony. Make Peace Not War
Poems have different cores, or so I believe, and can only be structured well for certain figurative language-heart beats; like all counselors are not made for all clients, so all poems are not made for the same person, or purpose; when we read we all have our likes and dislikes; I do not necessarily know what poetry is per se, but I do know what the greatness of poetry has, and great poetry is close to an illusion?it carries an echo I do believe-figurative yes, at best, and questionable yes, by far. Here are five poems I've recently wrote, all with a different core, focus and style.
Mother, I Dont Mind The Pain
I am among those who know that one never recovers from the loss of one deeply loved. We come to accept the death and adjust our lives - rather begrudingly, but we do not recover, we survive. Somewhere in the grief process, we make the decision to survive and then we are emotionally enabled to build a different kind of relationship with our deceased loved one.
Three Poems: The Monkey Man of Lima, Plus Two More
What Hides behind the Minute?
My hero, my best friend, my Grannio (a.k.a my Grandmother)
She raised me like I was her own daughter from the day I was born 32 years ago.
It Was Not Me
It was not me as I am now.It was not me as I was then.It was then when God was truly in me.When God was in me, I was a young man.A young man with hope, will and desire.Desire to give my love and the gift of God to the ones in need. You see, that was me.
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