Mr. Roger's...Are You Real?

What 'alternate universe' do we live in? A few years back, around the turn of the millennia, there were television, and radio reports of the famous village of Shaolin, China...where the Shaolin monks reside, being wiped off the face of the earth, by a blinding deluge of rain and wind, that lasted for 'five minutes'.

I looked it up, this morning, and there is...nothing! Anyone remember 'the report', back around 2000? See the video? My wife and I did...at the time. It was big news, for five minutes! Can 9/11 be wiped out, as easily? As if it never happened? And, how long would it take, before people just went..."Oh, well, that never happened."

How long, before 'Chernobyl' never happened, or 'Fukushima', or Hitler, and 'the Holocaust?' How long, before events, we remember, having happened...just cease to exist, as if, the 'collective consciousness', itself, had dementia, or Alzheimers or 'we're the fukawee?' It reminds me of the movie, 'The Forgotten', where children, had been 'abducted' by aliens, but the parents had 'forgotten', and the government, was too 'scared shitless', of the aliens...to own up.

What is happening to our world, and its 'iffy' news reporting, and more...'remembering'? What is happening to the truth and honesty, of the people in this world? Is the universe real? Is it all a 'hologram'? Is the Earth flat? Is it hollow? Is it only, in our mind? Is any of this real? Are you real...'good neighbor'? Can I be your neighbor? Is anything real? HELLO! Hello?

And then, there's, google plus...hello!!!???


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Mr. Rogers, google pic

Let The Spirit Return

I could not be more white, if I took a 'chalk bath'. but my pride in the 'Native American people', could, likewise...be no more complete. I have observed, the European way of doing things, and the American native way of doing things, for nearly 70 years. 

The earth cannot, much longer...suffer the fools, who took away the birthright of 'native Americans'. The earth dies, of a lack of true consideration. The native American, and 'world indigenous', teachings, with regard to the earth...are far more sound, and rooted in 'balance' and 'common sense'...than the 'white mans'. 

While the white European, sees the earth as a 'thing to take from', the native...sees the earth, as a living being, in need of being cared for, nurtured, and given back to. In concert, indigenous minorities, from around the globe have reasoned with white men, and pleaded with them, to consider the needs of the earth, for years. But, white men do not listen. 

They have lied, to themselves, and reasoned falsely, that it is their destiny, decreed by strength and cleverness...to take from the earth and her people, whatever they may desire. Why? Because, they are 'white?' That is a poor criteria, to measure anything by. 

White men demand the right to things, that are not theirs, and seek blessing, upon their enterprises, where no blessing is deserved...nor shall be forth coming. My hopes, and my prayers, are that balance will return, and reason, to the land. 

A great spirit made this world, and put a great people, in charge of her care. The European 'visitors', have proven themselves unworthy, of the challenge of 'care for the earth'. It must be returned to its protectors and guardians, the native people of the America's, and indigenous people from around the globe. 

Only then, will the mother of us all, rest in peace. Amen.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Native American's on horseback, artist unknown at present

This Path

There are some good people. There are many good people, and I know, it hurts them; to see the world 'degrade' so. The intentions of many, are foolish. The intentions of a few, are evil. Most of us feel powerless, to act, to change, any of these 'poverty's of spirit', as we watch, parade past...row on row, these ones, so proud of their desecration's, their hell raising's. 

It is for naught, they do, and that, they do...will fall, for failure,is their draught, and they do drink it deeply. Beyond sight, without judgement, we know...we know, bereavement past enduring...for, a tearing of our soul is had, so deep within; when every day is hard to bear...a heaviness, as if a cross, upon our back...were there. 

Indeed, our cross to bear, across the carcass of this poor world...suffering as we. For, there is no tongue to say, what needs be said...now. It can only be witnessed, and it is. Until, it's finished...we must suffer on, as one before us did. Until, our day is done, the hour has come...that we depart this flesh, we must endure this whip...held in every hand, and thank our lord for giving us, this path.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: St Christopher, bearing 'the christ', upon his shoulders, by E.F.B
Author's note: I believe, anyone who bears 'the weight', for the christ, bears 'the christ'.

Just Shut Up!

The elves, fairies, pixies, brownies...were always known, to be prankster's, prickster's, trickster's...masters  of the, "here I am!" "No! I'm not!" "Just phuk'n with ya!" "Yoohoo!" I had it happen up on an indian reservation. If you want to know, what one? Read my early posts. In fact, if you want to know, a lot of things, READ! My posts! 

There is a wealth of understanding in 'connectivity'. In this prankster's convolutionary 'wierdbrary', all things are connected...end to end, or beginning to beginning...however, you wish to make sense of it...or me! It's like 'circular breathing'. I am a cyclonic 'fukunaut'...forever spiraling, contravening, every 'can't, cunt, wont, and shouldn't!' 

It just doesn't wash, in my world, to block things with a period. or hedge them with "a quote". Entirely inappropriate, to note...but let's, use them anyway, for just...this time. There are words, I like! 'Maybe.' There's a good one! Possibly, perhaps, conceivably, perchance, peradventure...like, you're on a trip, seeing new things, open window, open mind...doing 'sixty', drooling out the wind wing...like a Labrador Retriever. 

"Is a good boy...is a good boy, yeah!" Duh? I love words, and dogs, and trips, and...seeing it all go by, like WTF! Man, it's going by now! It's like a mushroom, hit me in the head...or a 'soft vanilla cone', doing 80. Gotta slow down! Nah! Gotta speed up! Bullshit's right on my ass...kissing the bumper! Oh! Did you see THAT?  Whoa! Whatever she is...it's naked!

"Greetings! I come in peace." Natives seem friendly...think I'll live here, for about 20 minutes. "Can the dog have a goody? How 'bout me? What's your name? I'm 'Horny!', I mean...oh, yeah!" 


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Adventure, google pic

Here's The Deal

Robots in your face, nano-bots, in your cereal...drones flitting, and buzzing through the sky's, and air we breath...like so many 'insect swarms'. Big ones, little ones, mosquito sized ones...all bearing 'injectables', and 'gasses', and virus, and camera's for little tiny eyes, and little 'shrimp size' cannons...'ten thousand shooter;s', to blast us in the ass, as they pass, with little 'mini-microphones', to listen to us scream?

Is this what you want, people? Is this what you will advocate, and allow? Are you mad, as well as damned? They market, this oncoming hoard of hateful nuts and lethal bolts, of tech...as though it were 'for us.' No! It is for them, 'their bottom line'. They 'bring the business home', but they 'automate', the thing, and who is that supposed to save? The jobs are gone! Get it through your head! They don't need us anymore!

SCREAM, at the machine! It is your death...all neatly fixed, and cleverly endowed...to 'put you down!' Is this the way, you want this all to end? Why did you think, the 'body bags' were there...some catastrophe to come? The 'catastrophe' is here! They don't plan on saving us, with space age medicine, and nursing us through 'social growth' and abnormalities. They've only planned, for 'them!'

Run for your life. Kill every damn machine, out there. There is no social justice. There is no 'homeland security'. There is no Insurance, or assurance, worthy of the name. It has all been fixed. 'It's just business'. It's all been a lie, by the same people, that bring you endless death, and violence, and 'prime' cuts, of every meat, and sweets, out there. The sacrifice of Earth prepared, for wars, just didn't rid enough of us.

They want more! They insist on this! More blood, more power, more lies. Peer within their minds, see how they work...these serial killers, day and night...perfecting their machine, planning how to share the pie, together, in the end of things. The coldness of their calculated plans...entirely exonerated, by the Presidents, the Popes, the Queens, and Kings, and Judges...that they chose...all bought and paid for, to legitimize their crimes...as if, by law, no crime, indeed, took place.

But one thing remain...even darker, than their dark insanity's...dos.reboot. You will feel this, as the world goes to 'candle power!' In that moment, of your 'blasted' question. 'Huh?' you will know...it's ALL over!


Written by, Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Dead mans hand, from Harry Boslem, ibuzzle

Isn't It Ironic

My mom despised , my dads 'happy bird songs'. But, dad was irrepressible...and he would 'belt them out!', to the joy of us kids, melting even, that little chunk of coal, in moms heart.

'The Red Red Robin' was one of his favorites, and one about a 'blackbird'. Mom could heal the sick, and 'raise the dead', but she had something 'political', against 'innocuous laughter', and 'happiness at large'.

To her, dads, 'fun loving', freedom of expression, was 'a loose canon', and grim reminder...of an innocence lost. I loved them both. There were some great 'bottle throwing' fights at our house. A few times, a cast iron frying pan, got in the act.

None the less, these were 'post world war', 'pre politically correct' times, and enlivened as only Scottish and Welsh 'bullheads, can enliven them! "The proof is in the pudding". One time, after an all day drunk...the forgotten pressure cooker, 'went off', and the 'doo-hickey', that prevents pressure buildup...ended in a bowl of pudding!

That sort of 'was', my family's 'mission statement'...in those times. Then,one stopped drinking. The other started hiding it. Eventually, they got through all of that. It was an object lesson for me. I never picked up the habit. I owed that to them.

Dad used to insist, "You must drink uesky, to survive". I admit, 'the flesh may', as pickled as it is...on that stuff. It gives a whole new connotation, to 'keeping a stiff upper lip'. It's like 'formaldehyde' for the living. 'Water of life', indeed, but not really. I'll seek elsewhere!

I always ask, 'where's the pub?', but, I'm the straight guy, in the corner sipping coffee...'designated driver', Mr. Sober sides. It goes unappreciated, till they need a hearse, and some 'Clydesdales' to pull it! Then, it's not about them. It's about 'putting the fun, back in funeral!'

State of the art...state of the world!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: majestic Clydesdales, pulling the red wagon, Hallamore 2003

*When The Red Red Robin

The day after Christmas, is usually, filled with 'self realization', some self loathing, a lot of gas and disappointment. The 'day after', nags at the psyche, urging us to cover our heads, with our blankets and deny deny deny, that Santa didn't come. 'Something came!' We have this huge 'rift', in our credit card...to prove it. 

But essentially, we are children, no matter our age...pretending, hoping, 'making it up', with the fabrication of a fat man, in a red suit...that lies to us every year, sends us a bill...and 'vanishes!' Santa didn't do it to us. We did it to ourselves. Santa is our 'excuse', our enabler. But he's not the guilty party. 

Our gods are all, archetypal entities. Santa is a joyous spirit, of gift giving, and he fills us with his spirit, year to year, and...we do give. Not all give, but many do and we always look forward to that 'spirit of giving', because, quite frankly...it is far more fulfilling, than all the wrapped presents, under the tree. 

It is the same with Jesus. Jesus is with us. Not all believe, but many do, and as the holiday of Christmas, and years end approaches, so approaches, the love and 'remembrance of Jesus.' The gift of love, is there. It is far finer, than a material gift. It is the spirit itself, which cannot be contained or reduced...but which, enlivens every one. 

The children know. They know Santa, and they know Jesus. They know, that, just for a little while...their parents are different, imbued, with a holiness, and solace of spirit, that magically appears during this season. They 'feel the love', behind and beneath the greedy 'commercialism'...for, even though, 'materialism' is opaque as tar, the spirit can be seen and felt. 

It makes the children happy, and more secure, and it makes us more secure too. It anchors us, in a reality...not of this greedy world. So, though, you are in it to your ears, and you feel overwhelmed, and buried in tinsel tarnished crap, you are also, 'overwhelmingly' loved by the great spirit of the heavenly father and mother. 

As the times near the end, so, like the seasons...we come to a remembrance of that, which was always there, always with us, and shall be to the very end...and then, 'The Surprise!' Love to everyone! Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year, no matter where...here or there!

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: American robin cameo, from 'The Hobbit'


*"When The Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin' Along"

When the red red robin comes bob bob bobbin' along along
There'll be no more sobbin' when he starts throbbin' his old sweet song
Wake up wake up you sleepy head get up get up get out of bed
Cheer up cheer up the sun is red live love laugh and be happy

What if I've been blue now I'm walkin' through fields of flowers
Rain may glisten but I still listen for hours and hours
Well I'm just a kid again doing what I did again singin' a song
When the red red robin comes bob bob bobbin' along along
What if I've been blue...

The Bare Naked Truth Tree

I told my mate, this morning...I have, almost 137,000 views on google. Being 'un-enchanted', as she is...she rolled me a 'white eye', and said..."if every view, was a dollar." Well, yes! There's that.

I listen to 'alternative news' dudes, bitch and bemoan, their 'ad revenue' collapse on You Tube, and such. Hell, I'm doing the same work, on a smaller scale, no 'ad revenue'. Never was any. Likely, will never be any. But people still look. I still write. It's small scale, admittedly...but where is it 'chiseled in stone, that 'the truth', must have 'ad revenue', to survive?

When, 'they' block me...I will use 'smoke signals', and 'here's a hand signal to them', in fact, as a promissory note, of my intent to continue...until their 'dicks' drop off! The money grubbers, and gold diggers, are the first to fall off...the truth tree. They just, can't hack it! "Up yours, you alien assholes", and a Merry Christmas to all!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Randy Quaid, in a scene from 'Independence Day'

My Wife

My wife makes, the sweetest pies, pastries, breads...I have ever had the good fortune to taste. She always wanted to be a good cook and baker, and over the years, we have been together...she has studied and practiced, from her great collection of recipe's, and she has become, what she set out to be. But, she's not just good. She's great! 

She makes the meals in our house, taste so good...I have to watch my weight. Now, our daughter, Hana, attends 'the chef', and she is no slouch either. She is twelve and a half years old, and she makes cakes, and pies with mom...from scratch. She can make the best 'Shepherd's Pie', and when we compliment her, she complains..."I'm just 'Hana girl!" I'm proud of 'my girls', my wife and my daughter. Us guys, can boil water, burn a bannock...heat a weenie, and we both can make and survive, our own breakfast...but, the ladies, in our house...are amazing good cooks. 

We are so blessed, to have 'good women', to help us along. A picture of my wife's apple pie, she made this morning, is included below. It's spiced with cinnamon, and other good stuff. There are cookies everywhere, of all kinds. Miho, my wife, does this. She gets 'in the mood', and does a cook off. She uses everything in her kitchen, and I do the dishes. Not as often, as I should, but I do them. 

I hope, you guys, value your help mates, as I do mine, and I hope you all, experience a joyous Christmas, that only a happy family can bring. Hope, you look to the good. Don't forget to help her 'clean up', the mess. She works hard as you do. Very often, harder. From our house, to yours...Merry Christmas!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: My wife's spiced Apple pie.

The Worm Cometh

I don't know, if anybody, or everybody...'gets' Dune, but the thought of a 'god emperor', with his 'shai hulud', strapped between his legs, as he conquers the known universe, just makes 'a guy' smile...you know? Hahahahahaha!!!!

I hear, there's a serious consideration, of a new iteration of 'Dune', in the works. Does it just happen, during 'conservative administrations'? I don't know, but there's a laugh, or a cry for you...and 'Merry Christmas' to all!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Dune-ride the sandworm, by leywad

The 'Tower' Card

Putin, in a recent press conference, said...Democrats are sore loser's and they should apologize to the American people. Yes, they should! On the other hand, Trump made a policy speech, during his campaign, saying, that the single greatest danger to the world today, is 'nuclear proliferation'. Now, yesterday, or so...he tweets, that, he would welcome a 'new arms race'. What the hell? Is this the same guy, I supported, or have they replaced him with a clone? Did he, not only, 'drink the kool-aid', but dump some on his head?

Trump, you are going to have to 'quit talking out your ass', if you care, that any of us believe you! Your cabinet choices suck, your 'two step' dance with Kissinger, sucks, and you, apparently, 'meant nothing' you said, during the campaign. Don't let your analyst's and councilor's steer your administration, toward the abyss. If you do, you're just a sore 'winner'...and you need your 'ass spanked', by the American people! Don't you DARE lie to us! So, now the mask comes off, huh? Shit! Who can believe anything, or anyone...anymore?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Donald Trump, google pic

Very Best To Carrie Fisher

Princess Leia. Remember? She didn't root for Soros. She was with the Rebellion...the OTHER side. She's in trouble now. I hope you all pray hard, for her. May 'the force', be with her, tonight, and in the days to come.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Princess Leia, Jack Flacco

The Whole Ball of Whacks

I hear so many, self confessed, 'poets' say, poetry is about LOVE, and poets "see beauty, and love, in everything." Well, that's just not true...unless you live in a bubble, inside of a sack of complete ignorance. 

Poetry, is as large as life, and death in life, and life in death. It is even larger than life...as humans know it. Poetry is perfectly capable, of reaching 'divine' spaces, of communicating with spirit, as well as flesh. 

Poetry evokes wonder, horror, sadness, comedy...and love, and beauty. Poetry, is soul seeking expression, and it touches us, at so many many levels. Poetry is likewise, as collective or individual as the many beings, who may express themselves, through its medium. 

Poetry is the, unraveling cursive, of 'the word'. It is the 'raveled tale', the 'ball of yarn'...the curious kitty played with, the 'enigma divine'. To pull the string of poetry, is to ring the chimes of God. It sounds silly, to express it that way, I suppose, but there is 'more than is dreamed of', as the saying goes. 

There are schools of thought, involving poetry, and like 'mainstream media'...they have rules, that lead to dogma, and the mire of the literate...or those who think they are. 

Then, there are, the trails amid the wild, the rills of water sound, and bird tweet, and tree sough's...ant crawls, bee calls...mole meanderings, and pondering's on maundering's, of notions where, they never go, nor ever will...the 'poetics', that think they are. 

They just end up 'stuck', in same old trite and shallow phrases, that they always were. Reach out! Grow! I say, GROW! Forget yourself, forget the rules, and go! Go, where you never had before, and trust...unto the glory of the word, for, like a little child...it will lead you, there.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Going as a yarn ball, google pic

'My Place'

End of next year, I'll have fourteen bottles, on the bar...fourteen bottles of prime booze, unopened, virgin. Unused. I don't drink. Used too. Always said, I'd have a bar. Now, I got one. 'My Place'. Kinda catchy name.

Wife is watching my dream, encroach on her china cabinet, but all things, being equal...I got a right. Says it right there, in the Constitution, somewhere, in the 14th amendment...having to do with the rights, of former slaves, I believe. Maybe 'belief' is all I got, beside the 14 bottles, I'll have.

I like to watch, the pretty glints of light...shine off them, through them...in the middle of the night, the spirits of the realm. 'A bottle in front o' me, or a frontal lobotomy', I heard him say, all those years ago. Now, I know why.

One a month. Got a Scotch, a tequila, next month a gin, February's a rum. March is a good 'port', from the wind blow'n in, then, an amaretto, for the 'A' in April, and a Brandy, for the 'M', in May. It don't have to make sense, anyway.

Just keep fill'n 'er up, till the following January. As, 'the chickens shit in the yard', I'll build the bar. I'll have my place...no 'closing hour', play'n, when I want to play...on my old 'geetar'. Spirit's welcome, be polite...God's my bouncer!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New mexico

Art: liquor bar, wonderandwellness.com

We Persist

It's dead still, outside...not a breeze, not a breath...stagnant air from the southwest. Can't get no TV...four days now, since the wind storm. Told the wife to call, and bitch at dish. She reminded me, we got 'rabbit ear' TV. Oh. Yeah!

Alternative news, has the blues too...noth'n there, but 'do it yourself'' recipes. Hell, if I'd done it myself, we wouldn't have kids to feed. Wife said something, last night, she never said..."maybe we should sleep, with our shoes by the bed." I looked at her, kind'a funny. "Hey, honey, you feel'n ok?"

Internet's move'n slower, than an old man on a tar road, in July. Sunset now, minutes ago...'fifty degrees', just shy of Christmas eve. Something 'uneasy', move'n our way. What it is, I don't know...just a 'feel'n', I guess. The dogs bark at bushes, one crawls up on our tallest chair...and 'shivers'. I give her a little 'liver pate'. She'll be ok.

If this is just a 'foretaste', of going off the grid, I don't like it...but, we forget, there's books to read...candles for light, and kerosene for heat. Today, was the start of school vacation, so the kids are home...we're all together, got a good cook, made us fresh biscuits, and cookies to eat.

We got us a 'family band'...ain't never out of music, sons a 'rhythm tapper', daughter's a pianist, mom plays 'squeeze box', dad plays 'everything'...out'a the box, the 'juke box', of the old mans mind. We're doing fine, in the lonesome southwest, I guess...hear'n the ground, watch'n the sky's, old dvd's of 'British' Jack Frost, and George Gently, to warm our hearts, from our toes, to our tops.

No news, is no news...is good news? Maybe. We persist. Happy days to you.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Old shack, digital painting, by BK

Old Friends Round Again

Anything can happen, and probably will. Rudy, Rudy, Rudy, Juday, Juday, Juday...'timewaves', 'gamma rays', 'carbon crystalization's'. Any day now!

Jesus Christ! Any millennia now! Lemonade, by hand...five bucks! Horseshit, a nickel! Get the news!!! Read all about it!!! Unbelievable!!! Made, on the spot! None of it true! Rudy, read...'Beware, The Shill?'

Paper, paper, paper! Get your paper! Read all about it! Horseshit a nickel! Get the news!!! "Hey, boy! Who's that?" "Who knows? Some old guy...used to be mayor!" "Where?" "Gotham City!"

"Give me one!" "That's a buck and a half!" "Keep the nickel!" "Keep it yourself!" "Cary Grant...what a guy! Juday, Juday, Juday!" "What'd you say, kid?" "Bite me!" "I believe, I wont...'Big Apple'!".

Anything can happen, and probably will. There isn't a thing, you think you know...that's even close to real, and less, that's true. So, keep your mind open, your eyes peeled,,,and, be ready for, a big surprise!

"Merry Christmas, Judy!" "Merry Christmas, Jimmy!" "Merry Christmas, Mrs. McGillicutty...wherever, you are!"


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Jimmy Durante, film actor, pianist, comedien

The Coil

I lay, in a Queen's chamber, atop a great bed. Four, insubstantial walls surrounding me, as I lay me down my head. The hour, were dark...so dark, and quietly. I saw 'the coil', alight...as I always have. 

It spun, and spun, and writhed about, there above my sight, like a great highway, for me to take, in the middle of the night. I lay upon the coverlet, utterly alive...me arms outstretched, as the coil stayed, fastened to the stars. 

Then, it began to notice me...and turn, it did, slowly, slowly...out it's coils, scales, to a saurian thing, a great gold dragon...guilt of phosph'rous fires, in the ebon air, about. It had me then, in its eyes...I saw...stoop't down, that great maw...saw, and so fierce teeth, of a heavenly beast...as it stared inside me. 

It made no sound, yet did convey a presence there, and I, the prey...it reared its head in a mighty way and flang its tail around...then, again, stood down to peer at the small man, on the bed, all there about's, in a room, no bigger than a box...a monster, out the universe...I knew, belonged with me. 

Then, it reared it's head, one, mighty more time and backed away...among the stars of the back dropped dusts of a milky way, and it was gone...just fade away. *But a'night, if aie wah, it is ahway theer, a glitter'n coil o' gauld'n feer, me awn gaerd dawg...o' heev'n beyoon, oos heer, sant bae Gawd. Tha' tis ah aie knoo...uhn, aie em glaed.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Golden Dragon, google art
*But, at night, if I want, it is always there, a glittering coil, of golden fire, my own guard dog...of heaven beyond, is here, sent by God. That is all I know...and I am glad.

Chain Smoking

'Chain'. Chain's the name...'Chain Smoking', son of 'Smoking Gunn', hack actor...that appears in everything? Friend of 'Big Tobacco', and wooden indians? You still don't recognize my name? I mean, I AM...that, hairy chested sub alternate, to a California avocado rancher...who takes selfies with 'Teddy Roosevelt' statues, all the time? Not a clue?

Well, blow me then! I suck? Of course, I do...but just for you, a 'freebie'...this one time. You know, to get you hooked again? Remember the 'good old times', you and me, out on our own, a cloud of smoke...and a hearty hi'o Silver? Ah, those were the days...before our lungs caved in, our health went south. They cancelled my franchise.

Hero's aren't what they used to be. 'Marlboro man'? I hear, he 'kicked it'! But just like 'Lassie', there's always another one, fresh and new...like a fresh pack of fags, and as volume went down, price went WAY up, and 'tax', got in the act, to make up for the shortfall, so...we're still around. Government's subsidizing that one, heavily...oh, yeah! Yeehaw!

We be 'farmers' too, and they give ya 'industrial' welfare, in the good old USA...don't they? We might not be a couple, anymore...but here's a 'smoke ring', for nostalgia...memories, to those days, before  'the puritans', arrived on our shore...and brought us, all we got today...liberals, abortion, gay rights, feminists, Islamic prayer towers, and threats to our very existence.

At least, I get to be with my kids...for a few more. My daughter, was talking about school, today...said, they were giving the kids, an 'early release'. I asked, is that, like...from prison? She said, "No, daddy...for Christmas!"  Oh, shit! I am passe'.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Gun Smokes!, whizzpast, google art

Timepiece

He had his dreams, of catastrophic weathers, out of beach towns...paranormal, twisted things, writhing out of ocean basins...great heaps of grey waters, higher than mountains, and dreams would end.

Other dreams came, of blue highways, afflicted with a life of their own...no brake of car could tame. He would ride it there, eight seconds, on some crazed great beast! Other dreams, where every trail taken 'left', would end with lessons, that would make him scream...warning him.

He faced, so many things, in terrors of his night visions. He dream'pt of all things...prelates, generals, state secretaries, other monsters...driven round in long green Citroen's. The rich, fat rats and cats of all the world...aimed to stare him down, but could not, and left, like, cold wind...with their entourage.

He, introduced, about town, like a ghost of Christmas. In such dreams, Vienna, Rome, Barcelona, Venice...old god's of the mob, of the sky, and, of Vatican City. made his acquaintance. They couldn't have him there. More's the pity.

His friend, of the cloth...brought him , nor, could be refused, to their tables, ripe with plenty...for his guide, was one of them, but not of them...completely. He'd had a soul left. They all knew. They all witnessed...nor one, could now deny.

Dreams continued on. "Look at his eyes", she said. "We don't have long." The occulist peered deep within, and jumped...like he was stung, and pulled back...a frightened one. Why, so frightened, then?

Yet, he went on...to other dreams, and other dreams, a child...through many doors, too many doors, to ever close again...for his, were keys to all, until the book lay naked, open, on the floor...revealing everything.

None of them, wanted this...yet, none of them knew...how to stop the child's wreckage of designs, had been wrought in hell...to foist upon this plane. He knew every last, little, detail, all the traps...he sprung them all, nor ever could they be...reset.

A matter of time, till it's all done, it's all gone...a matter of time, now...for, a light is upon the horizon, nor, can any lie subvert this rising of a dawn, nor can the darkness dream, a bitter thing...to bring it down, that it be undone. It's just a matter of time.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: wordless tech, poetic timepiece

Cold Case

My name is unimportant. I work for 'The Government of God', on extremely 'cold cases'. Though, I have no deep sentiment, for those who harbor secrets and lies...I have my own, and to whom shall I confess, of secrets buried so deep...they cannot be accessed, by liquor or women, nor guile of any kind...not even my own?

Grandfather, was an ordained priest, of the great Roman church. I am a heretic...according to my mother, and by all accounts, but not, by my account...nor reckoning of memory. This is my story, and his. He held me. He sang to me. He gave half of my family, his name, yet, professed that it was false...perhaps to protect the church, perhaps to protect himself...but certainly to protect his family.

He ran, knowing something, having known, witnessed...witnessing something, he could not abide. He ran. What makes a man run, run from east to west, to hide...as if the devil...followed him? He hid. He became an ordinary man, but he was an extraordinary man...hidden in himself, and among the tall trees...he then, called home.

He came down, occasionally...back and forth to see, this bairn. Why, escapes me entirely, yet...I feel him there, to this day. He panned gold, filed placer claims, but his black sand and gold, was more philosophical...than material. You could not weigh his gold on a greedy scale, but only...in a heart. I feel it, and that is how I know...he was a good man.

What did he see? What did he know, and what became of this priest of Galibee? Sixteen hundred years, prior...there had been 'another' runner...hadn't there. He had run, to another great forest, so possessed was he of the fear, of a thing...he had seen, and remained a many a year...they say him, 'mad', and yet...his wisdom outlived him, passing over to our time.

He, though...I have found, and 'heathen', he be called...and damned, or 'heretic' insane, by those who sought to bury him. They never did, you know. It isn't in the words...anywhere, but lies, and rumors of a thousand hack writer's look'n for a clue, to their own filthy lucre. He stood upon a rock of ages, in a river of gaels...and old men fall'n to their deaths.

He healed there, held court, and listened...while the court confessed to things, too terrible...to write here, for he was a part of that place...as history records, but does not record...well. The victors are always in the hurry to jot a thing down, in that illicit script called 'doctoral'...and it ends there. But not this time! Oh, no! For, I cannot remember my own name, time to time, but I remember's him...an earlier 'ver sion'.

His ghost, wants done...that justice to his name, was undone, by a church...and King, and witches on the land. I impartially impart, my little spade of arcaneology, digging here and there...amazing what ye find, so many, certain sure, would never be found...they just, left it lay'n there...atop the ground.

All these puzzed pieces, I do set, within their proper place, and sanctum. Don't that make a pretty picture? Can a thing go right, if it, do not belong? I don't think so. As if it built itself, to stand for ever...it does stand. My name is unimportant. I work for 'The Government of God', on old cold cases...nor am I done, till you know...I'm done.

You will know, soon enough, and that the thing may rest...upon its finding, as was all the threads...tied to that little train, from past...forgot, to present, and the ones...were not, and those that were, but never got a score...nor settlement to all the lies, were told as truth...down through the years, the many grave'd years of restless death. T'will all be told...at last.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: frozen man, by eric fein

What's The Blessing Worth?

I observed another piece of 'naive journalism', today, titled,"We are getting to them", over a so called, 'house cleaning' of personnel at a big city news outlet, due to 'budget constraints'. No, you are not 'getting to them'.

These people, at 'the news'...be it 'any kind of news', are shiftier than a 'chamelion' lizard, or an 'ink filled' cephalopod. They change shape, periodically, as suits their 'need', at the time. They will simply move over to another lying orifice, put on another persona, real or imagined, at another news subsidiary...to perform duty's for their lying masters and editors, and none of us, out here...will know the difference, for we are 'trained' to trust, such edifece's as 'the Press', and we seldom second guess.

After all, they are considered to be 'the professionals', and aren't we expected to trust anyone of a professional stripe...from 'the fireman', to 'the cop', to 'the doctor', to the cable guy, telephone lineman, et cetera, et cetera? But what if they aren't professional? What if they're lying, crooked criminal elements...leading us all astray?

Then, do we dash 'freedom of the press', free speech...and the rights guaranteed us in  the Constitution of our country? All for the criminal abuse of the few? Do we follow these thieves of our 'rights', and allow them to hijack our nation, twisting the fabric of our dreams and beliefs...and laws, or do we resist and 'fight back'...keeping our course and our Constitution straight?

We must fight back. Return fire!. It is our duty under the Constitution...when the laws of our land, have been over stepped and derailed...from her purpose. It is our duty...to take our nation back, from those who lied and stole, and cheated...to have their own treasonous way!

Do we pray for a blessing upon ourselves, here in America...from a god we no longer believe in, or do we believe, and honor God...with our steadfast faith and honesty...that he might honor us, with renewed blessing?

Are we worthy, or are we liars? Are our symbols, but rags and tinsel, or are they true and meaningful? Each of us, bears a part of that responsibility, or that shame...should we fail. 'Blessing'! It is not 'a given', anymore. It was given and disgraced. Now, it must be earned!

I must say, the way our nation treats its "Native Americans', is a travesty, unworthy of blessing...by a Great Spirit, so, as you smoke the 'pipe of money', and blow it up our ass...consider, what your prayers for success are worth. It is not a 'given', anymore!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Caleb Hennessy, peace pipe ritual

Bruce, Why Don't You Just say What You REALLY Think!

I think, everyone would appreciate some words of certainty and assurance...at this point, but it just isn't going to happen...yet. The 'rumored' Presidential Press Conference, hasn't taken place at the 'supposed' time of 2:15 EDT. I'm guessing, that's because 'the balls haven't dropped', and the rumor was just another "Roswell weather balloon'.

More chicanery, and shenanigans, from a many tentacled and dying beast, that has ruled from the dark and is now 'trapped' in the light, and seeking any way out! Our President Elect's, men will have to stand 'ever vigilant'...between him and the lies and liars, and the stones and arrows and 'bat shit craziness', they will hatch and sling...by the buckets full.

It is an all out war of words, and actions, behind the scenes, that have nothing to do, with legality, and everything to do with criminality...from the side that lost the election, to choose our next President. They will not accept defeat, because, they will all be hunted, investigated, indicted and incarcerated...over time. They are guilty of many things...against the American people, and against Sovereign nations.

They have made away with our children, too...through Common Core practices, a curriculum, by which national education, has been hijacked, and has become a tool of indoctrination and persuasion, to cast out right and relevance, for twisted logic...and 'the best teachers' know it, and have left, leaving the children, with 'less than standard' education, across the board.

Health and welfare, have suffered, and been turned into a 'shell game', by the authorities. Veterans Affairs, have been 'zombiefied', and 'robotized', and as many many veterans, have revealed to me...'the services now, aren't worth a shit!' I know, that's my experience. It has all been 'ruined', under the guise of 'improvement'.

That is just the 'tip' of the iceberg, that apparently, was chiseled off, by our government dignitaries...that have been trotting 'to and fro', from Antarctica...lately! If you ever missed a view of 'Cthulhu', check out, this beast called 'the fourth estate', and its minions, strangling our nation and our world with egregious propaganda, spurious, and politically motivated character assassinations, and worse...serving, at the behest, of the monsters...who do not want peace, but want to feast on our people and our children...at their whim.

These ones, these 'elite', the privileged...the governing body, that has been shoved down our throat...don't have any intention of 'meeting their maker'. They have too much to hide, and now, 'they can't shove the shit, back in the horse', and I for one, am glad...the time is here! It means 'the dead', and dying, aren't going to be sucked along on an 'IV drip', and used to make a profit, or to be a 'host' for organs, that have already been auctioned off, to 'the highest bidder, some rich old bastard...somewhere.

It means, 'the jig is up!' Trump is not necessarily, our panacea...but he is certainly not 'their's'. That's what I like about Trump. This 'boil' is going to pop! It isn't any longer, going to be, years and years of wars, and 'sufferer's of wars'. If their's going to be a war...it will now be, one 'big ass war', none of this 'daily sacrifice' crap!

I believe ALL of the tentacles of this beast should be 'salted', and I believe...they will be, and we the people, will watch it shrink...like 'a trophy organ', in a cold hot tub. Then, all these CEO's, who fancy themselves, 'gods', will need 'shrink wrap', to preserve their raisins, and they will resemble 'mummies'...as their mouths are sown shut!

If it 'doesn't happen', it wont be because, 'somebody' didn't tell the truth. It will be, because only 'some', told the truth, while the other's went along with the lie. It's happened many times before. Last time, it was a Hitler, and a nation of people, who bought 'the Aryan bloodline' bullshit...and cast a blind eye, to all truth...and millions died.

This time, they need a Hitler, too...but greater than...a 'mahdi'...an antichrist. But now, that dream is in question...just as 'a first woman President'...is in question...and she ought to be. If you must have an 'antichrist', you will be brought an 'apocalypse'...and you will ALL suffer, unbelievable sorrow. It is not a thing, to 'want'. It is the last thing, to EVER conceive of, and yet, our world leaders, desire...this insanity, and that IS the word for it...insanity! Let there be peace, for there need not be war.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: The Scream, Edvard Munch 1895

The Settleing

Beh caerfaell, wot ye sae, awf sooch a woon...as meh, foor eef I eend un inny wee, a thewsand loik, be craull'n oop yer arse, oor inny wahn o' they, be 'arm''d...a meelee'n moor, ahn tha veery sam dee...bae 'atch'n pooet'ry, tha breeng ye dahn...untae ye dee'n dee. 

Foor, I am ee tha 'oord hath broot...tae seddel ael oold scoor's, noor aim aie oon tae meek a soond, tha eesn't treew...saw sheel ye sae...eef ye eem ad mae. Thane ah weel eend und paece weel bae...foor ye und mae. Be nah a'free'd tah die, foor aie ahm nee.

Tis awl a paece, und drame beeyoon...oonce wae oor goon, tis nah tae shede a teer, Tis boo' tae sae, eet ah stoops heer...noo oother wee...soo coom tae dee, oor dah, weel ah bae seddl'd eer...tha wee at ahwees woos.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: ArtFire.com, magic of merlin

Translation, to common english:

Be careful, what you say, of such a one...as me, for if I end, in any way, a thousand like, be crawling up your ass, or any one of them, be harmed, a million more, on that very same day, be hatching poetry, that bring you down...until your dying day.

For, I am he, that word hath brought...to settle all old scores, nor am I one to make a sound, that isn't true...so shall you see...if you aim at me. Then, I will end, and peace will be...for you and me. Be not afraid to die, for I am not.

Tis all a peace, and dream beyond...once we are gone, tis none to shed a tear, tis but to say, it all stops here...no other way...so, come to die, or not, will all be settled here...the way it always was.

Beware, The Shill?

Without believing a thing, or quoting a source...I can list some, damned odd, observations of the last few days, chief of which, is NOT Kanye West, at Trump Tower. Why would a man, newly chosen, to guide this great nation, entertain a celebrity, who is, likely psychotic, possibly on psychotropic drugs, take him to 'the tower', sit and 'talk on life', then walk him to the front door, as if he were a 'leader of nations'?

Who is Kanye West? Who the hell, are 'the Kardashians', and what happened to Bruce Jenner? If there ever were a 'mutant' litter of 'cats in a bag...holding Hollywood, by the jugular, and 'ripping' microphones out of the hands of entertainers...it is this bunch, called 'the Kardashians's'. Why would Trump, 'bother'? What have these 'off world' wierdo's got on him, and on Hollywood, and on 'mass media'...in general?

Then, there's this, Trumps choice for 'Secretary of State', a known associate, with 'cozy good feelings', for Putin of Russia. I am all for 'cozy', but under the circumstances...of suspicion, that Trump is all 'too cozy', with Russia...'why would he bother', to arouse such 'suspicion', as he, seems to be carelessly doing? I mean, what the hell?

Who is it, advising this man...really?  Bannon, chief strategist and 'far right winger', Mnuchin, a greedy grey...shady 'Sachs son', for Treasury, Pallin, a questionable 'caribou killer' from Wasilla, Alaska, who calls herself a 'pit bull', and is as well informed, for Veterans Affairs?

What the hell is going on? This is not a cabinet. This is a facade...for who? For 'we the people'? Are we this stupid? Is this the bone, we're thrown...a half a caribou thigh and an X New York City Mayor? What the hell is going on? I'm rooting for Trump, because...it's a given, what Hillary is, and what the liberals are, and whose drum, the 'main stream media' dance too...but what the hell?

Trump could not possibly be this naive. Is he just more of the same, and is this all a giant distraction...from what? Perhaps, that 'pea', I spoke of previously? You know, there's less said of 'Pizza gate', lately, but it's still  'the elephant' in the room, and it will be, until questions are answered, and justice is served on it, and its participants.

I don't care who chases whose tail, the CIA, the FBI, The Girl Scouts, or who takes the 'low road' and 'who walks on the ceiling'. I think we know! None of them 'walk on the water'! If Trump is 'such a deal maker', why doesn't he quit making deals with the devil...and begin serving the light, and the people? We don't need any more 'bullshit!'


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, new Mexico

Art: google art

shill

SHil/

NORTH AMERICANinformal

noun

1. 1.

   an accomplice of a hawker, gambler, or swindler who acts as an enthusiastic customer to entice or encourage others.

verb

1. 1.

   act or work as a shill.

In The Stillness of The Night

Whatever is happening, now...is going on behind hands, closed doors, secret meetings...light with dark, at war, lots of little things, and large occur, but we wont know...for sure.

Strange bedfellows, shaking in their sheets, a rabbit there...a pizza pox, white chalk, at a drop somewhere...a pigeon, flying through the air, couldn't find a spotless dove...in all the kingdom.

Sticks, wands, wieners, clubs...the whole suit, trotted out...of thugs, to tear the world apart...dividing nations, breaking hearts, splitting stocks...fallen from a Tarot box, upon a silken scarf...describe a Celtic cross.

Wise eyes, spec a lay of land, is far from certain...yet, a shadow of the plan. A great church reek of garlic saure, a sucking sound, beneath her planks, where stacks of little bones...not named, are placed, and hidden far from sight.

Is this the power of the world, eternal life...in sacrifice, of all but your selves? Is this , the end, to which the prelates rise...to gorge themselves, on horror of the little ones, upon your silver chased and golden plates?

What have you done, you bastards of the darkest deep...to all the missing ones, taken from each house, in the stillness of the night, like a thief?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: underground catacomb, Italy

In memory of my grandfather, William Lensdale

The Hubris of The Ascendant

hu·bris

ˈ(h)yo͞obrəs/

noun

1. excessive pride or self-confidence.

   synonyms:

   arrogance, conceit, haughtiness, hauteur, pride, self-importance, egotism, pomposity,superciliousness, superiority; More

   • (in Greek tragedy) excessive pride toward or defiance of the gods, leading to nemesis.
   • 
     

What little we know, of this earth we inhabit, is laughable, really...and tragic. We fancy our self's,'superior'. We spread forth, in the certainty of our predestination, our manifest right, to despoil every living place and thing...and then, piss on the sacred burial. We are, in fact, a 'blotch', a cancer, a pariah...upon the great back of a living, breathing world, and "she is pained, to be delivered."

The angels, gathered together here, that we thought were for us...are for 'them', the children of their dying, mother. Watch 'them', in the sky, as they rise...these great lights, 'unexplained', both day and night. Listen to their voice, that 'tectonic call'...of 'mourning', as a trumpet from the earth and sky...her belly filled with them, to set them free...before she fails. Listen, to their cry of separation.

She bears 'angels', and they carry off her soul...to heaven. Then, what of us? Then, what OF us? What have we done? Who are WE, but what we 'pretend', and DEMAND!? What are WE, but 'brats'...in a vacuum, that think ourselves...more than? I think, that's quite enough...expectation. Is there more? Do you, 'seriously', deserve more? Look at you...look at me...look at us, here, standing in our 'pride', our hubris, 'laughing, at the gods', as if we were divine!

Bend NOW, unto this mother here, that nursed us all, and fed us all, and clothed us...every one...and 'try to shed a tear', upon her sacred breast...that you have tromped upon! 'Try', to express, what we will miss...when she is no longer there, for us!

It is sad, to think...what 'harbors', in the human mind, that thinks itself...so far removed, from other kind, as all 'the brown eyed creatures, furred and fanged, and all the swimming, crawling things, and feathered flying...looked to us, as we were lying, set on 'leaving them behind'? They trusted us, these simple children. What do WE deserve? God only, knows. Some will miss their mother, so...which ones of us?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: mother earth, refreshing the home, google pic

1. 
   

Where Spirits Dwell

Days are brief, uncertain. Nights snore deeply...dreaming, still. Light lays down, in shadowed lanes as doubt appear, like unto orchards...row on row.

The summers cheer, all lapped away, is sober now...save, amber'd bottle near the fire, where spirits dwell, as I and they, do listen...to the winter howl.

A little warmth, within our self, to contemplate, the ticking of the time we've got...to write, the faster, with our quill.

So many things to say, and needs, to say them well, that future tongues, may read...and wonder why, these things were said, till they are wise enough...to know.

Where, Christmas comes, the new year shivers, in the vestibule and hopes, as I...for better times, the more, the merrier...till spring arrives, for everyone.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Joao Marnato, old man by a fire

Decent People

There is instability, today, 'Earthquakes' in diverse places, 'court rulings', handed down, pushing's and shoving's of 'political determinations', nations in the throes of 'overthrow'...great earth changes, 'happenings', divine and sister....brother and sinister.

All of these 'tectonic' tensions, fill the plates, rattle teeth, the nerves frayed...afraid, a fraud, a fake...a 'faux', to say it, 'like it is', that UFO's conspire, that pizza code can hide in lines of dark and secret posts...of anyone? Who knew? Who knows?

The 'Tardis' sits there, waiting, 'watching all', who lean toward lie, reliant upon obfuscating truth...their jollies tickled, here, so near to Christmas...'grinching' everything we do. 'Getting off's', their gadget...but they can't make it work, without 'a little blue pill', or an underage child, to hurt!

Hell of a thing, that it 'takes a war' to divert, attention too. There is something bigger, in the works. I feel it coming...dwarfing, all your 'global warming', and your 'carbon tax'...anxiety of 'indiscretion', pictures 'live at five', on evening news. Whatever could it be, to shake the earth, and cease the roll...of 'the high flying?'

A thing at work's a glory to behold, 'a real thing', unknown to Hollywood...with ALL, their cam'ras rolling, one last 'fright', to shite your shorts, one last tear, to 'sadden' you,, one last...carefully contrived 'emasculation' , of that thing we were...to 'something new?' No!

More, to...something we were, a long long time ago.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Time travel, google pic

The Donald

Whaa!? Sniff the way the wind doth blow, 'the brasses man', wot never served a day...fleshing out, the highest postings in the land, with Generals, and 'Sachs of shat'. It makes no sense at all, and yet...it does, mayhap, if 'we be go'n to war!'

These...ALL, most serious men, but 'one thing' on their mind...TO WIN! To win the purse, and steer 'the hearse', and take back...what was damned! I have a question, though...Why 'Transportation's' Chinese, and 'Education's' mercenary, and 'why a climate skeptic' at the head of EPA, as if, ye cannot see, wot wind be blow'n up yer ass...freez'n us and heat'n us to death, that 'much has gone astray'? How 'skeptic' can ye be?

To all 'the rest'...we wait and see, I guess, 'as if', we had a solitary thing, to say! The Donald do, what Donald do. His 'nephews' mess about the House, stirring up the wrath! That 'dingy duck', at last, talking out 'both corners of his mouth...his 'choices', poised...to kick some ass. Rock and Roll, amigo's and amiga's. Do I feel 'a draft'? Oh! It's just a fan...'everything's cool!'


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Donald Duck, world war 2

Damned Old Stick

Me boney lass, be oop my ass, ain' me boney lass na moor...sin' she bent, n' twixt, ta peek a stick... oor somethin's oon the flaur. Now she's soom'n else, n' soom'thn else...I seen soom tame's befoor.

She coom's, apace, when'eer the peace...becoom's too much to bayr! Sa, now..we share's the tinny space, an dance aroon' the dee...haer weeth a mugg ah fit foor hael, an me, fit, a wary way.

Now, I loove me lass, nae matter wha'...I noo she loove me tae, n' I huuld her fast, n' I wait, fer the baetch from hael...to goo awee! She tire's o' me, n' weel soon gee.

She keen na oon me lass. She oonly stees a time or three...ta lap me weeth her laesh. Sooch is me fae...tae be this wee, betwixt me loove, n' ah...tae have tae tame these stoorm toss'd dees, the weef ae have, n' me!

Ee tis ah kay, weel gae awee, n' all bae weel...joos't let haer noo...I loove haer steel.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: an old couple, google pic

A Hearty Blow

Red sky, in the morning, drinking and whoring...asleep in the forward focsle. A storm was brewing, but me and me mates...we didn't give a damb, so! Was up all night, was we...with the likes o' them, was admir'n our 'piling', them's sweet 'dock tarts'...with the handsome parts, at least, when ye drunk...it seems so!

The ships a'float sa' why would a bloke, say nay, to the weather build'n? I got 'the itch', from a port side bitch, an' I wanna snore the day through. But the First Mate come, with his foot up our bum's...scrame'n in our ear!! "Ee ya want to live, ye'll give us sail...to pull away from 'ere, so's, put our head in the 'cawl o' the stew', or 'the briney' sink us all!!!"

It was 'a request' we cuh naw refuse, so we 'ups', from our considerations, and, alike, good pirates all...we hit for the tossing decks, and up the masts we go! We set the 'sheet's, so 'the helm' could grip...the feel of the racing roar, an' our anchor, still scrape'n coral tops...we faced the 'blowing banshee, as we crawled away from shore!

We made well away, but 'the whore', that day...took three bad men. One fell from the 'yard' o' the forward mast, and two was swept away...'shitting' themselves, on the aft! The 'sheets', was shred'd, Cap'n, fitted for fine...beller'n harder than a 'cast'rd' bull.

Mate's 'n me...we didn't think we'd get an award...fer 'shine', but the captain...he, 'n the first mate, be, like...'what the hell' 'n gee us all, a 'piece o' eight' and a 'hearty blow', from the chap in the barrel...fer free! 'Red sky in the morning, sailor's take warning', they say. Ye just never know's...wot's come'n yer way! For fair! Oy?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Bow ship stormy sea, artist unknown, google image

Note: In the second paragraph, 'cawl o' the stew', and 'briney', are both expressions for the sea, or a stormy soup, of a sea. In the fourth paragraph, last line...'beller'n harder than a cast'rd bull.'  Bellering harder than a castrated bull. All other terms, are inventions of mine...'piratey' talk!