When The Geese Go Marching In


An explanation for all fortunate one’s who do not live in Serbia, this poem – act play – a historical action is a parody on the arrogant, rude and aggressive behavior of the controller in the Serbian buses. 

I leafed through the pages of my sacred book
Servian bus controller runs
between the lines

there is something inexplicable
Nazi and ghostly
in connection with the bus plus controllers in Belgrade
there is something so völkisch
The ‘body’ of the ‘new’ German Volk

They are flowing on the go as the crimson streams
in their purple T-shirts with the SS logo
while pushing smelly mob around them
similar to the chapel of the crematorium

When they are goose stepping beside me
with fylfot tattoos on their forehead
and a swastika on their butts
I am astonished at how nice it is
When The Geese Go Marching In
grinning, knobby and roly poly
in the heat of the sluggish afternoon
in haunted Belgrade busutitution, somewhere near Dachau morgue

blankly tree tapping in their heads is heard
tap tap tap

I, immortal Empress Wu Zetian
I ruled China over four millennia
cling cling cling
and now they’re threatening me to undo this funny ticket
Qigong has awakened my true nature
on the nameless throne for the uncrowned queen
some rulers may not live forever

“Prepare 6 Bus Plus EInsatzgruppen
for the invasion to the following bus, my Lady Buchenwald ”
(Bald reptilian Goose hugs Ilse Koch with a walkie talkie in her hand. They are laughing together, while thousands frightened eyes are staring at me
“What will now happen to her, to us?”)

tap tap tap
cling cling cling

PUBLIC ORDER!
PUBLIC ORDER!
CANCEL YOUR TICKET!
YOU… ALIEN!

(Mob is creaming in unison. Many of them are in tatters. Some will go mad with hunger for the day, still unwaveringly holding the Card with the tip of the middle finger. Daring Servians)

I replaced the rich Serb twice
for the controller,
I’ve canceled my ticket on his big smartphone
I thought it was repressive apparatus.

Forgive me, Confucius,
I do not find it hard in dire straits.

I, immortal Empress Wu Zetian
I am canceling my bus ticket!

You.. little… Punk!
Give me my wig back!
Falling down.
Punk!
I stood again!
He didn’t fall.
Now he did.
Click!
pop pop pop
advancing!
Swing. Swing. Swing.
A WINNER!

seething with anger, unlocking my Chinese boutique
I’m already late for work.

Ilse Koch Of Surdulica
Kreisleitung Of Little Krishna
and Spitzenreiter Of Laika – pueblo

are my new A – shop assistants.

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In memory of Douglas R. Stewart, Mourning, Marchons


It was an honour to read his poetry.

 

 

Arms they hid beneath their cloaks,
Intent beneath facades of peace, And fixed their paths toward Montrouge,
A concert, and 130 dead Parisians, a City
Mourning, Marchons.

The City of Light knew then its friends, they
Rallied from the clovered corners of the
planet, The tears of auld allies and former colonies
glisten,
Late enemies stood next to Marianne,
hands clasped in
Mourning, Marchons.

Current adversaries promise support, old
friends
Pledge support and, as 70 years ago, is
Paris Burning?
NO! The City of Light lifts her torch,
Marianne sings, Her standards of law and justice remain
the same. Even in
Mourning, Marchons!

Douglas R. Stewart, U.S.A

 

I stand accused, Leila Samarrai


Building of Justice is the square-shaped tray
decorated with figures of lions
biting clumsily,
they look, they know.
Finally, the lions are like candied almonds,
They open their stone mouth
to spit an almond, then another, until the rain of sugar almonds
fell to the pillars and bloody benches

dotted with visitors with seminal faces
like a white canvas They stare at lions and sing to trees
doodling the poetic Justice
to  lickerish carcasses winners.

Everywhere is written Justice, she breathes
she drums, she shocks violently with syllables,
annulling the bitterness from the surrounding
harvested greenery.

Court watchdogs, cattle and lions
tantalize nicks, scoundrels, maybe an occasional innocence,
(don’t bend the truth now, you barefaced liar)
whether innocence could ever be caught rushing
with pack of mangy mutts at the wrong place?

So, I stand accused.

THE PARTY AT THE BANKSY’S


dedicated to poets and to all those who feel that way

1.

THE LETTER OF PURE REASON ADDRESSED TO BANKSY COVER POET BAND

You can not destroy the Thing.
you are unable to choke it as you like to asphyxiate the human form
ashes to ashes, dust in the mouth, there is a tongue inside or
a thin chord, of the monster – monster mute
after a large cut-off

But you cannot stop the Thing
as you can not stop the body to penetrate into the body,
nor to pause an air to mix with an air, it flows…
into the water, water moves through the water, a wave will cover the wave
at death’s door,
demise is behind a word, vain, the syllables cannot waive her part

2

THE PARTY AT THE BANKSY’S

While sipped Bollinger at fiscal cash register,
they saw a monster riding the cumulus
no, monster cannot ride a cumulus
logic finds monsters cannot ride a cumulus
the monster came down from cumulus
thus, the nouveau poets and the monster met
at the fiscal cash register, dancing and sipping together

After a drinking session, they tied monster and portrayed him
at the circus performances
because monster does not riding cumulus
a man may be ashamed looking at the face from the monster

3

WHO FEAR PERSECUTION BY BANKSY COVER POET BAND

Nouveau riche are looking for the word to cage her
how can one cage the word?
the perfect crime for better sales
but you cannot kill the word
for word is the thing and the thing is the monster
as you cannot trap the monster that is riding cumuli

imaginary, vague, impossible
fantasma is dancing in the field of nerves quickly, of
one nervous writer and hid in in his book
inside the book is scratching monster, bound in a story

You cannot kill a book
all you can achieve is that she, with her torn sheath,
hides herself in solitude, reading herself
looking into the wild heart from the sky
and be happy.

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The Word in me.
the Music in me.
the Monster in me.

Sure you could get your clows on the book
and ripped her to pieces, sending it into the shadow and trade…
(How much you are strong!
Persistent, especially)
the word pops up from the book,
hops in the air and disappears among the cumulus, screaming:

“God is calling.
God is poetry. Hurry up, Banksy!”
“God’s calling Banksy?”

The Banksy cover poet band has to go to church because it was written
that in the beginning was the Word
so the logical thing to seek the in a church
piety has changed shape.
The Thing had to be quiet, but at least she escaped pests
and this time.
Maybe you are wandering where is she now.
I am looking at her, we are smiling to each other
boocoo dinky dow, she cooes, my sweet little monster

Although ..
Have you ever considered the possibility to kill the Writer?
or is not necessarily.
they are mostly on Banksy sale.

A sell out. Somebody who comprimises their integrity, morality and principles for money. It is commonly associated with attempts to increase mass appeal or acceptability to mainstream society.