weasel prancing:>> Seek to be near only what has got heart, poetry, meaning, wisdom…and rage>

The decision to flee was made with little thought. With my position on this barren hunk of rock so far from the realms I would like to visit or return to, which suggest an alien adventure, my compass spinning, all I could do was seek the promise of a hint of feral with ease of embracing slithers of tropical paradise….perhaps the same formula applied to the change of two wheeled devil steed, as I have done whenever my haggard, one fang left howl of a wilderness spirit has scared  and scarred the bambi heart still crying, sent running for cover, to convey that SHE HAS GONE…too quick, impulse, instinct, primal need to not replace, not forget, but find new challenges…those that love with their Everything do not move on, they just keep moving.

Zombie vanquished. Colombians arriving, too soon for knowing them truly, and then the yankee young guns charged with care of my hound, flight beckoning, work frenzied, DRINK DRINK DRINK…and when I awoke from my dizziness I was met by a playful stocky wild eyed native with my name written on a crumpled sheet of paper…french mother and head held high daughter…fatigue leading me to play the mangled jester…and then we were at the LAIR…

Nat The Lioness, the panther woman of my day dreams… snarls ‘dont care whats on your wrist unless its original thoughts’…which makes me shudder, as I have fallen foul of another who had on her wrist and above, projections of anything but original thought…I was in deep reverence of the Lioness the first time I heard her say ‘Vicious wild animal’…

I understand and accept that my idea of feminism is different from many others. So be it…I am content to focus on the Women who emerge as daughters of Pele and Lilltih, and know I must try harder to avoid my natural mocking, ugly haughty routine to the pretentious self righteous ghouls masquerading as progressive, ‘woke’ scum, gathering buttons to press and prove appalling with every gulp of pseudo do-goodery to be shared on twitter and instagram, more passionately than to do any real good when faced with adversity beyond a screen…When I should be giving them Anais Nin…This is horrid, I know. Yet I also know that this idea of expectation to accept women as less hideous, generally speaking, than most men…is at odds with my impression of humanity. is rather cynical, regardless of gender. Not YOU all, but WE are all prone to ugliness.  I am not saying embrace this. I am suggesting ACCEPT THIS.

I raise the bar too high with KRS ONe…for he is more comfortable pounding on the REAL. I maybe sometimes draw close, and I share the same morals, the same values, but I lack his humility…I get ranted at by elfin women I will always love for failing to buy into every same totem, draw a line at hysterical criticism meant to spur me into action. I cringe and rage at mongs talking of troubles they have taken from social media…rather than personal experience of LIFE OR DEATH. ANd clearly I need to work harder on myself…As my assumed father used to tell me, Il Saggio… and its a shame I have lost his advice near and dear, other than in echoes, found only when I am pushed into my shadows. And realise they are too primal and filthy for polite consumption.

True art of the WORD needs no moving image video…POS says it right and true and wild.

I fought only to find
I’m not right in the mind
I’m left, I mean I’m fine
Just not so fucking blind


SO I landed in this cabin cottage, snorkelled with the frenchies, more enthralled by the nubile femininity than the 4ft urchins and wild colours of shapes which make no sense to the land life, all wondrous...And yet, as I try to tell this saga of horror contrasted with snippets of some kind of natural bliss….I come across Brother ALI>>

Listening to his poetry makes me humbled. For this chap can distill into purity only found regularly in the thunder and flash floods and mud slides…which if heard, felt, faced… hurts and saddens, into wail and warning of our current and common plight, which I only ever find within my own output in unprepared, abounding too violently, scribbled on screen or tossed away paper emissions.



The true folk of the wilderness are absent of looking for social media programmed trapdoors to condemn someone as a fascist or bigot. They exist solely in values of heart and soul. Loyalty. The complete absence of layered conjuring of filter between the primal howl and the world around us. They not just know, they expect their kinfolk, to bare their fangs often…those closest, they expect the worst of, and come to find mutual ground on accomodation of shared wild…For its the only way they can know and feel and smell and hear another creature, as anything close to Tribe, the same species, fuck the outline…most humans seem more poison centipede and killer wasp in character than some atavistic husk of ‘Humanity’, as something of value and moral and decency. The foxes are more civilised than most humans. As are the wolves…And always the butterflies.

That wilderness shown, in flashes, in floods,

is the only way we can ever feel connected to any shared sense of our NATURE.

Savage, wild animal…

My idea of feminists is women doing what men have traditionally dominated, with no fanfare just mega talent, which does more to remind me that gender is of little relevance, when it comes to Values, Nature and ARt. All that matters most.

They have no interest in spouting masculine toxicity memes.

Nobody should be treated any different…unless…unless…unless…they have revealed themselves more selfish than we all are…and moved to hurt you or another who they assume will not strike back, and done so unjustly.

There can be honour in striking when injured or defending another.

There is no honour in striking those who have given you their trust and belief. Only dishonour.

And what those prone to lash out against any who confront or challenge them fail to understand,

for loyalty to even their own words, heart to ink or speak, is gossamer, if even found by any measure, connected…

betrayal is eternal/

On this score, I can be trusted as a source.

As I have found myself blinded to a betrayal,

primal urge and poetic zeal and weasel wannabe Romeo who still projects Bambi on a ferret…

the combined leaves of which given a false SUN,

a sociopath girl MOON,

cradling a child seeking a father,

Eve and Lillith projected on enticing curves in the candle light I had once eagerly devoured day and night…

and innocent, wide eyed and fluttering lashes,

my heart opened and the mind was lost,

until my entire world was close to burnt to the ground

and something fierce rose from the embers,

which I fought hard against accepting,


The only question I now have of people->


if not,

I’ve learned to find the quiet shadows,

bear fangs from there,

say nothing.

those that love with their Everything do not move on, they just keep moving…

Seek to be near only what has got heart, poetry, meaning, wisdom…and rage>


GeMs In ThE mEgA ROuGH – POS. Dedicated to TruTH

Its getting harder to find artists who are producing anything I consider ARt. The vast majority are playing to and for the crowd, with little to offer in terms of inspiration or wisdom, just lots of tattoos and slithers of tired platitudes, alongside sickening vanity and vapid references to societal fads and norms… So I keep heading back in Time.

POS is one of those emcees, more a poet finding his output loud enough to reach me when given hippetyhop beats, who gets better with time. For the longer it goes before remembering his essence, the more special he becomes when we regain collision and connection.

There is a clear distinction emerging within humanity.

Many separations really.

A chasm.

which can never be bridged,

for one is honest and feral and real,

the other contrived, artificial, echoes of what ‘artists’ have heard and know others will applaud,

when they hear it again.

As for POS…time traveling through his catalogue of essential rage and raucous poetry…Even when a label, a producer, attempts to smooth him out into linear palatable for the masses product, he remains unable, unstable, unwilling or sleeper cell…’yes, boss, Ill do it your way’…and still comes across as berserk and wild.

His Art cannot be constrained, ironed out into the mainstream, the rugged bard told to play mumble rap and call himself Lil POS…You cannot ask him to be anything other than what he is and must be. He is His Nature. ALways.

Wicked to find him with SLug…another who has always rhymed what he means. And whilst I have always felt kinship with the white guy, when our hands and eyes have met;….POS…his poetry is deeper, more potent, and pounds with his Truth. He makes me stand up and listen. ANd is not seeking applause. He is seeking revival and recognition of the spirit which thrives in him and in many of us stuck in the system and yet accepting, becoming, someone we are told to be, not who we are…He is Demanding We Stand up and Become More than soulless symptoms of SOciety.

There is rage, there is hope, there is heart…not tempered, just given brief chance to reveal its still there, for all that matters in this fight of the Heartless v the WILD… is the drive of the Spirit.

He feels always honest as the forest. Which I feel of so very few, of the thousands I meet, the hundreds of thousands I find on a screen, the millions I find in our history…. Its not our nature or nurture or demand of SOciety, which placates soft courage and makes people feel proud for buying what they are told to, especially when its charged with a fashionable morality, encouraging use of prescribed memes ‘virtue signalling’…’group think’…’gaslighting’…Only a mindless moron believes we need more, not less words. For maybe Burroughs was Right, in that Word is Virus. We shouldnt have emerged from our caves, for we have gone so fucking wrong…we have lost our primal nature, become a self righteous symptom of a sick world of humanity…

Honesty is currency to most.

The telltale sign of this is when you show some honesty to a friend, and they are aghast, appalled, condemning you with all the modern memes,

a protective spell spun with webs of online virtuosity,

which mean nothing.

POS means something. He is a dedicated to Truth kinda chap…


Fat Joe and a year to regret

The neighbours are revelling, all drunk female squeals and juvenile wannabe silverback ape beating of chests. I’ve connected with brothers from the northern lands where much of my soul still dwells, probably some of my heart and certainly where my mind was forged, formed and crystalized…then spoken hotchpotch english with italian to the closest to a true father I have felt judge my heart pure and make decades long effort to steer my unbridled spirit in the right direction…responded to the rugged pixie who can scare me as much as make me ponder a perfection of shared wings beating as one just out of reach…and now, as the clock ticks closer to the dawn of a new year, my ears seek sound beyond my own whispers and the trademark staccato tappety tap as my fingertips prance across these keys…and I can at least find smile, as I ponder the year to toss away, that my general pulse when expressing myself to strangers in the corporate realm, seems to suggest, at last a hint of vitality amongst the weasel prancing…

I hope my stumbling spilling of virtual ink finds you in as fine form as when we briefly engaged yesterday. And that you are brimming to burst with excitement for the mischief planned to bring to life from the shadows of your beastliness before the clock strikes midnight, some vague connection to Cinderella, all crimes committed in 2019 are wiped from the slate, or at least beyond the reach of any Lore, once the first waves of 2020- the Mayan year of the goblin – start crashing upon our shores…that is loosely my own plan, or rather new found philosophy. What of your own demands of the ANYTHING GOES brief window before all must be forgotten?

The fire in the sky is already to be heard, yet I am more prone to find interest in the rats running around the fig tree…Their feverish fervent scurry more in line with my own bounce and blunderbuss movements, as I continue my march between the Judas goats and human shaped serpents, stuck somewhere not quite a part of either tribe, but knowing my own, those few and far flung apart, who rarely if ever avoid their Truth.

Lessons to be learned, with no stripes to be earned,


where I find advised, encouraged and praised,

everything but what is by now, too clearly to be known as anything other than ME.

More fox than wolf,

more rat than man,

brimming with designs,

never put into a steadfast plan.

An iron clad mind,

driven by a weak will,

a cup of feeling too full,

to avoid a tendency to spill.


if a resolution could be found it would be to stop these puerile rhymes,

rarely flirting with my many crimes,

to find focus,

forge something of value beyond the Past,

quit this routine of a wannabe poet warrior only brave enough to raise his flag at half mast…


I must delve into my shadows,

stop flirting with my darkness reverting always and swiftly to the light,

too concerned with a meaningless fight,

to seem or feel or reach for Right.


Its a minute to midnight,  I can hear the play bombs abounding above, but I’d rather hold the headphones tight and bounce with Afu Ra. He means more to my progress.

It often takes a Woman of pure raw wild spirit and open heart to remind me to try reach that level. I’ve sought many like her, but found only imitations of the strident spirit, fangs bared then revealed as blunt when adversity strikes, ink of love and peace and mindfulness, ugly scars of character chosen to tell the world they are something better than what they truly are…and those who reach this ever chased ferocity of rabid essence? I keep them at a distance, out of fear, yet I know they have love for me, and no desire to devour, anything other than my unaspected jupiter stupider ego…This must change. For I seek to hold the only ever found – to my primal senses – thunder and lightning and flash floods cursed to find life in human form, which I can love and hold close when calm, feel the fang and rabid roar when wild, and know there is truth always in the HONESTY…

There is nowt between the moon and stars and tidal waves and wolf howl, its all only found in those WOmen who dont find any value in social media vapid caresses, they live their agony and strife and their spirit maintains, and my waves and tides keep reaching for their full moon…



Find your totem animal as the weasel and scurry naked, wild, free and fury…

The blood, sweat and tears,

unerring pound and howl onwards to confront the dreams and fears.

And so…Boris ambles into the victory prance. Shows zero appreciation of the hideous wave of mass hysteria which raised him to a fake moon and placed him as Head Honcho, of a crooked system, carefully devised and disseminated as mass fakery, repeated too many times in mantra, for the many to avoid assuming is true…With the few who have any semblance of critical thinking, too busy arguing amongst themselves, to find any group home action.

This is also by design. Control the debate, control all in the debate. Why is this so hard to perceive? Ego and pride…

If you have serious ill will towards the crowd in control, and social media ranting brings you nowt joy but vapid likes on fuckbook and instacunt, organise a militia. Fuck the hearts and claps emoticons, gather your values and troops, no time to focus on gender equality or white privilege or the alt right, its values and DO WE WANT TO CHANGE THE SYSTEM FOR ITS GOING TO KILL US ALL AND OUR CHILDREN…and become a menace to this society.

If you are not prepared to do this, and still must consider yourself beyond the average foulness of humanity, then the least you must do is live wild and honest,

promote true romance,




seeking the wilderness within and without.

Do some Good and Real.

Find your totem animal as the weasel and scurry naked,


free and fury.


Chase your dreams and maybe…you will find someone dreaming the same dream.

Good luck.




divide and control…


We live in wretched times.

The same divide and conquer routine applied in foreign lands now more cunningly applied domestically. The overseers responding to the advent of mass virtual gadgetry and the many looking at their phones more than the clouds…

People more polarised into one extremism or another, their core values could well be the same, but they are given scripts and context and then told who to condemn as their enemy for adopting anything but their prescription. Surrounded by others taking the same ticket for the same self righteous fuck crusader ride…Moral high-groundery abounds ugly and expansive. Its the new control system. COntrol through division and owning all sides of the discourse. Blind all to the source.

I have met strident left wing earthy brute grunts rabid with their pounding fists against The System, who seamlessly flow into the ‘barrel bombs of Assad’ somehow not realising, that this ‘news’ has come from the same source, the same money, the same agenda, perhaps slightly concealed, as which gives them the orders and words to rage against The System…I learn of feminists who call themselves acolytes of men…I have listened to Yogi women, looked upon their tattoos of Love and Peace and Shiva and then asked them of how Women are treated in India, the heartland of Hinduism, and…same spastic lame cult script routine response with unease. Same as the Q Anon crumb crunching cult curmudgeons.

All these people are pretty much the same in how I consider their heart and values, but they differ in the regurgitation on press button command, of the script they have been led or decided to consume…the only common factor is the absence, of independent thought…or co-opting of critical thinking. We are horrified by talk of our ancestors worshipping ritual sacrifice, but talk ill of burkas when we are paying taxes to slaughter thousands…we champion the latest cause celebre on fuckbook, then follow through to grasp and promote the orders to rally and rave against what our Overseers wish. For their military warfare is now defunct, against their enemies, by which I mean other nations who refuse to bow down. Economic warfare is also tough to make work, with sanctions and dollar manipulation, Which leaves solely information warfare…

As far as I can go with that prescribed routine, shows hints of libertarianism, hints of socialism, and yet mainly at core, in stride with my essence, some haphazard paganism, some reverence, or appreciation of their power over me…to the tides and moonlight and wind and hail and morning chorus of the sparrows now summer has come…and Women.

Im losing people I thought were friends I considered my own tribe in heart and soul and value for asking them to stop calling me a fascist for encountering Jordan Peterson as curious for a week many months ago, finding nothing in the middle of people against each other but consuming their shit from the same corporate asshole. Finding those in the middle or absent of this political speculum is a rarity…

There are far more decent men than me scared to say a damn word, which they mean, but will be met with condemnation as a bigot, a fascist, a white supremacist, a racist, a product of a patriarchal society preaching male toxicity…where is any mention of female toxicity in the mainstream media?

Ive known plenty of brutal women…vicious women…toxic women…My issue with humanity is not gender coloured. No matter what I hear or am told. Yet to get into this too heavily will only press more buttons of the scripted droids, and I would like at least some of them, those few with a barely flickering synapse of critical thinking capacity, to remain and read on…

Identity politics are now mass manufactured. As are a wide and ugly cacophony of isms. And its taking effort, long overdue, to play glum and quiet and avoid reacting to souls I love when their muddled minds spout scripts I see appear all over the social media junkyard with baubles and click click quizzes and adverts for beard gel and encouragement to read such mong sheeple bullshit as ‘the subtle art of not giving a fuck’…a mong gospel for the mindless.

We have bigger battles to fight than assuming a man is a bigot for opening a door for a woman…and its a fight to be yourself and do right by all creatures great and small, not take up a cause mass manufactured for the Left and Right which achieves nowt other than causing divisions between people of the same damn tribe. That is the design, the concept, the machine pounding out the orders, sometimes obvious, sometimes more subtle, in top gear. And its those who remain strident, yet never turning on their own who nourish and inspire…as I strive to do so in turn.


Study the true poets from the front lines of writers on the edge of their wilderness.

Forgive those who have been pushed so far that they have come to exist solely on the edge of a knife, and cant help but cut you when somewhere within their hack and slash routine, they remain your kinfolk.


Go to war.

Heart and spirit pounding as one.

the Mind a passenger kept away from the control panel.


For Love

For Adventure

For True Romance

Or Revolution.


be mindful of becoming a pawn in the game,

of the scum ,

which is designed precisely to make you feel you are fighting the good fight and to stand against your own tribe.


Understand that there will be no revolution.

unless you fancy the odds at fighting against centuries of proven humanity at large…


The only revolution you have the power to create and bring forth to the world,

is a revolution and liberation of your shackles to the Pr- ISMS.


‘my intimacy, is my poetry, and lurks behind closed doors’

‘Im the left eye, youre the right, would it not be madness to fight…’

‘We have learned nothing from history…’


vicious, wild animal…


‘explain to me the price of a free soul…’


I dont care for your political views as much as I am interested in your heart and passion and if you can be trusted.