Posts Tagged 'poetry'

Tony knocks on my door.

Knock knock.

 Seconds later the door opens. I look to my right. At first I don’t recognise who it is. A second later I realise it’s Tony Blair.

 My mind and heart goes into a tailspin. Amazed and shocked that he’s at my door, disgusted yet I feel the grip of needing to pay respect to a man known around the corporate media world. Confusion follows. Which emotion do I squash. Which emotion can I squash?  The conscience begins to make it’s presence felt. The ‘respect’ gets decimated and the utter hatred envelopes my whole being. The heart is beating at nearly 10 to the second, the adrenalin makes my limbs spasm, my voice would tremble if I was able to speak. The mind empties except for one thought. The legs become jelly yet ridged enough to allow me to begin a lunge which takes hours to get towards him.

 I immediately go for his face and try to strangle him. Bad move – he’s still strong enough to try and fend me off, exhausted already, muscles cramping with adrenalin triggered lactic acid I do my best to start punching him.

 I cannot stop. I MUST not stop.

 Finally I’m getting the upper hand, he’s feeling the effects of my attack. Now I go for his throat. With a grip whose signature is death, I push on this throat with my stiffened thumbs, push for all I’m worth. But he, bastard, is getting off lightly, he’s not suffering enough! He isn’t seeing pieces of his childs body still burning from an exploded shell just moments ago, no, but I cannot make him endure the horrors he’s inflicted upon the world.

 His throat makes some cracking noises as I continue to push. At least if he survives he’s going to be permanently injured, but I do not relent. My thumbs now feel as though they are at his neck bone. My thumbs are warm. He’s going limp. YES, I’m doing it. He’s paying for it now. I’m doing what the world should have done ages ago yet was too cowardly to do so, having never felt the pain of depleted uranium lung cancer only allowing the shallowest of breaths lest one enjoys excruciating pain.

 I’ve done it. Blair isn’t responding, but I maintain the strangle for an number of seconds after, dispensing the justice of a millions souls and tens of millions of bereaving people which channels through my body.

 I get start kicking his cadaver, over and over again, more, more. ‘You fing bastard’ I repeat with each kick.

 Finally I collapse, utterly exhausted. I feel an overwhelming sense of relief and satisfaction at doing what it was only right to do.

I stand on top of the world.

 I did it – you cowards. Are you watching world? I did what YOU should have done. Me. Nobody.

 The euphoria is on a par with ‘on’ing of the big bang. That and the satisfaction from believing I made a chill run down the spine of each and every other bLiar out there ,never leaves, remaining until my dying day. 





The Letter

There is a kitchen table chair
a wooden one, that’s dark brown.
The chair’s leg is plain but bowed.
between the leg and the floor there is a note,
white A5 folded, so you can’t see the writing.

It would be irrelevant if it weren’t for people.
Who put it there and why?

The floor it’s on is of polished veined marble slab
Smooth and hard – good for writing notes on.
The chair was raised,
and the note placed beneath.
I wonder why it was left there?

I now have to bend down to pick it up,
as its writer wanted me to.
But what If spilt milky cornflakes on it,
or sweet morning coffee by droppng a mug,
its shards resting in the sodden letter,
likely to slice it, if moved incorrectly.

The house is still, no noise save for the clock.
What noises did its author hear?
How many ticks did they think it would take
until it was noticed and picked up.
Why fold it so that you can’t see?
Why must eyes not see its message unless
liberated from beneath is entrapment?

What If I just left it there?
Could it result in people thinking less of me?
How will they know?
If it were important, wouldn’t it have on it my name and “urgent” and be left under a mug on the bench,
or something

What if I put it there? Yes!… was it me?
I don’t remember it, but I can’t always remember things
at times,
This is my house, so maybe it was me,
why would I do that?

I’m going to take it now.

The chair leg sings and it re-touches the marble
floor, dragging across it, slightly.
It is open and read.

” OH MY GOD! “

lwtc247,  26-Feb-07

Viva Palestina – break the siege:

Viva Palestina - break the siege

This blog supports victims of western aggression

This blog supports victims of western aggression

BooK: The Hand of Iblis. Dr Omar Zaid M.D.

Book: The Hand of Iblis
An Anatomy of Evil
The Hidden Hand of the New World Order
Summary Observations and History

Data on Fukushima Plant – (NHK news)

Fukushima Radiation Data

J7 truth campaign:

July 7th Truth Campaign - RELEASE THE EVIDENCE!

Recommended book: 3rd edition of Terror on the Tube – Behind the Veil of 7-7, An Investigation by Nick Kollerstrom:

J7 (truth) Inquest blog

July 7th Truth Campaign - INQUEST BLOG
Top rate analysis of the Inquest/Hoax

Arrest Blair (the filthy killer)

This human filth needs to be put on trial and hung!


JUST - International Movement for a Just World


Information Clearing House - Actual News and global analysis

John Pilger:

John Pilger, Journalist and author

Media Lens

My perception of Media Lens: Watching the corrupt corporate media, documenting and analysing how it bends our minds. Their book, 'Newspeak' is a gem.

Abandon the paper $cam:

Honest and inflation proof currency @ The Gold Dinar
July 2021