Owen Jones can be the annoying little chimpanzee
I can just imagine what horrid little teacher’s pets they all were.
In the end many voters chickened out of backing the LDs and we got the Coalition
On the other side billionaire …See More
In a diary of a nobody, Mr Pooter,
is everyman and woman. Striving.
Petit Bourgeois, discordant with
their lot, in earnest to impress.
Life liberty and the pursuit of happiness,
inalienable rights , the laws of Nature
and of natures god.A constitution
written for a usurping class, claiming
authority, a reflection of common sense,
and pained to see. This revolution of , by and for Whom?
As the victor writes history so the powerful pass laws to satisfy their own ends. Power only represents the powerful.
Moyenne Bourgeoise and Grande
Haute Bourgeoise. A Class cuisine, Escoffier
Classical Aspiration. One acquires,
A bourgeoise aesthetic, Petit Bourgeoise Sycophancy.
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the idea before it was clothed in words
heard in minds, as uttered thought
the communication of arranged ideas
Thoughts lifting mist from the poet´s page.
To set the stage, not in the round
but, to see the scene in the sphere
Which actors will the playwright lay
on the page´s narrative to steer.
Which course to meet
who to set upon the bridge
For strength of Bulls Wall Street
of Bears & onion domes upon our chart
A heroes pride found in Britannia’s isles
Monks ´´sans humilite´´ fane ease
Like Pope we find our actors
´´All, all alike, find reason on their side´´
mais par impatience de souffrir
On the present discontents, Burke opined
Putin ,Trump and Farage set courses un-entangled
Junker , Merkel, Call for straight ahead.
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Counsel for the people charge usury of its crimes.
This baron abstract that claims fruit.
This heavy invisible burden,
a yoke. Fashioned in language,
felt but never seen.
inflicting scars as deep as any lash,
claiming lives as real as any canon.
This nightmare device of imagination.
Who are the slayers of this mythical dragon?
Coleridge saw beauty in nature where sweet amaranths bloom. And Shakespeare compared his summers day.
What of this hamlets ghost of a spectre?
something is rotten in the danegeld,
many more promises are written than can be kept.
So much nectar strained from thin broth,
which bargains can be made?
When the music stops and the dancers
sit down. Chairs are our metaphor for the real.
Always too few.
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The Last Bakery in Aleppo.
Abdul looks at the space where his father’s head once sat upon his broad shoulders, the words his father had just spoke rung in his ears and he held in his hands a Jar Covered in Silver Filigree through which glistened the golden sheath. Concealed and protected within, be an ancient Glass vessel held, beneath a Lid of fine ornamented bejewelled blue lapis lazuli blue glass that shimmered as the Mediterranean sea off the beaches of the Mediterranean Sea. Within this sacred Vessel was the most sacred of ceremonial Doughs, the most secretly and jealously guarded of all Aleppo’s secrets. More jealously protected down generations of his family more so than the Codex of Aleppo’s Central Synagogue the Site of the Cave of Elijah. This was history and the key to the sustenance of generations a direct line back to before history began, a starter dough born of the first undomesticated grains and the Yeast from the air breathed by the first civilisations of sedentary populations. These were the grains which formed the metrics for measurements from which the noble science of metrology sprang. The grains which defined the weights and measures of rations for the slaves of Pharaohs and the origins of all measurements from which all science and mathematics became codified. The Grains that made this dough produced the sugars and the carbohydrates that nourished the bodies and fueled the thoughts of the mothers of all invention. In his hands, Abdul’s held a link back to the beginning of all that we know, and all that we take for granted. And now it fell for him to take the Holy Sour Dough to a safe place, far away, over many seas and lands to make good and redeem promises made long ago between contracting parties whose promises were sealed in blood and sacrifice and whose code had spread to the four corners of the world. Secrets now bleeding from the severed head of his Father yet locked still in the mind of His son who stood momentarily shocked.
He heard voices, The White Helmets, the mercenary army of the Black orders of usury, the challengers of the nobility of the dough.
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