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The Revenge Of The Innocent

 

At first the worst did fall, amid riddle that burst all vitality, stall the hidden forbidden wonder beyond the wall of rude crude intruding reality. Yet upset regret yearned, burned, turned fear to clear idea, here, now, somehow to come from humble diligence, the omnipresence of those brave, grave, chosen saviours,,,,

Shall we dare to care, play fair, smell the spell of Hell, stay well aware, or spill a pop-a-pill thrill to kill our will, stop proper skill still fine to teach each sign, reach the line of shining spirit, fit the bitter fight to ignite the right despite?

The revenge of the innocent, a most excellent boast! A toast to the government deciding, deriding the ultimate trip, the delicate grip of blunt power devouring its tail, the stunted hate-of-the-State failing to steal the proud crowd, appealing aloud to justice remiss, hailing the healing kiss of “Live To Forgive”, the hunted hour of its fatal flower,,,,

Through seductive memes, instructive dreams and destructive schemes you who led the tread of dreaded Dionysian dance hewed dead chance, survived to thrive, driving silent evolution to striving violent revolution, a magic tragic war, the Law a whore no more.

The Devil spoke, awoke the next level of desire, an extra fire to inspire, to start the heartfelt meltdown, drown the empire entire, the broken crown a jagged antique streak, a haggard staggering mouldy old slag. Evil believed achieved the cross of dross, the loss of faith to atheistic histrionics, drastic tonics tossed back-to-the-rap of wacky tacky crap.

While in the street I cheat deceit, begin my kinky beat by the neat neighbourhoods, defeat the “Goods”, the “Shoulds”, the “Woulds If Coulds”, deny the lie, fly high past dry persuasion, fast evasion slyly cast to own the zone, the jealous moan of blame, the smile of shame, the game of style, the zealous trial of precious paradise, the sacrifice of God to an odd archetypal form, the normal ripe rich hype of reason’s trickery, the quick slick wicked kick-of-the-stick,,,,

And so the masquerade must show its trust lost, the dust of frosty word, the musty serenade half heard below the laughing bird of love, ever above the clever shove of quaint restraint, the dainty dazzle of frazzled control held over our roving World Soul,,,,

Like Oedipus one pleads the curse, shocks the universe to strike the wretched drama undone, mocks the star-stretched, scar-sketched Karma thus far run, bleeds the deeds of naked man, the sacred plan with us begun, the dithering, slithering fantasia of crazy what not got gone, the consequential, accidental mess of essential success.

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My Divided Self

 

I am occupying a small private room in a medieval tavern. This windowless space forms a perfect cube, within which stands a heavy square wooden table, mounted lectern like on a thick box shaped support, both of which are perfectly aligned and centred to the sides of the chamber. Two low stools are placed on the floor, each by an opposite edge of the board, upon one of which I grimly sit, my forearms, laying on the desk, supporting my heavily slumping torso, my fists clenched and my features anxious.
I stare fixedly straight ahead at the single doorless entrance, placed precisely in the middle of the side facing me. The dark apartment is lit by a couple of high braziers, mounted halfway along each of the flanking walls. Their flickering flames cause a dramatic chiaroscuro, in which rich golds and warm rusty hues fantastically weave and mingle with the oak shades of the furnishings, and the inexorable opaques of nothingness.
I patiently await my guest. Who he is, when he will appear, where he comes from, what this encounter means, and how this meeting has been made to pass, I know not. Yet I’m certain that I must stay, until my fateful friend arrives and takes his seat across from me.
Suddenly the scene changes. I am walking through a maze of dim, narrow, low ceilinged corridors. I’m lost, yet compelled to go on, to reach the end, the conclusion of this confusion, as there appears to be no way back. I know not how I got here, where this is, why I’m here, and when I started stumbling through this bizarre labyrinth. Every attempt to return, to what I know not, takes me through frustrating circles or to dull dead ends. As I move forward, as much as anything is progression in this crazy place, the passageways get gradually thinner and lower, and I struggle more and more to restrain my simmering feelings of terrifying claustrophobia.
Then, almost at the moment of complete psychosis, I reach an exit, which leads into an open room. In the sombre shadows of this refreshing, liberating space I see a table, at which a man sits facing me, patiently waiting. As we look at each other, we instantly recognise that I am the one he’s been expecting, and that this is the place for which I’ve been searching, my escape, my release. As I take my seat opposite it seems that now I am both my own guest, and my own host.
And then the setting changes, to a large, chandeliered ballroom, with its many wide, tall, ornate windows letting in a bright, clear daylight. In this cool, echoey hall I am having a sword fight with another man. I’m dressed as adashing swashbuckler, with my half opened, baggy, white lace ruffle frill shirt gathered into my trimly belted, tight black trousers. These are tucked into my stylish, knee high black riding boots, while my long, straight, shiny jet hair is slickly tied back into a ponytail.
As we combat with verve and panache, I all at once notice that my assailant is a perfect doppelganger of myself, as well as being dressed exactly the same as me. Immediately upon this revelation he doubles, so now I’m fencing with two identical fellows, both indistinguishable from myself, forcing me to increase my efforts to hold them at bay. Again, upon this realisation the pair duplicate, so now I must struggle even more rapidly to parry four familiar ruffians.
This magically matrixed metamorphosis repeats twice more, until I am manically contending with sixteen attackers. Completely overwhelmed by these odds I desperately retire while they form a semi-circle around me, slowly edging in for the kill, as I frantically twist and turn in a last ditch effort to defend myself. Then, as they are almost close enough to strike, I deftly deliver a slick stroke to the right leading hand of the scoundrel at the left end of the arc. This disables his grip, while simultaneously causing his riposte to glance awry, and instead strike, in a similar fashion to my adroit thrust, the right hand of the next man in the row. A chain reaction occurs, as this second aggressor suffers the same fate, his injured hand similarly unwittingly assaulting the next man in the row, and so on down to the end of the line, with the speed and rhythm of a domino topple.
In a short time all my antagonists stand defeated, nursing their wounded paws while their weapons lay useless on the floor, and I flamboyantly raise my rapier on high in victory, boldly announcing “Touche”.

EGO WHORE

 

EGO WHORE

 

“Until we dream of life and life becomes a dream” – Stevie Wonder.

One midwinter’s evening I was at home, deep in mindful meditations, completely detached from the weird-wild-world. Suddenly my regal reveries were rudely interrupted by violent bangs. These appeared to be happening simultaneously at both my outer door and window. They were accompanied by urgent shouting.

I recovered my composure and, barely suppressing my fuming indignation, opened the door. I was confronted by two uniformed police offices, whom I later learnt were PC Andy Bland and PC Becky Junket. Holding me in a steady stare the tall, heavily built male officer attempted to adopt a mien of civility, and started to explain himself. He articulated that on the previous evening they had received a telephone call, purportedly from someone passing by my house. Apparently this prying busybody had reported hearing the words “Die, die, die.” being roared from my room. A short time later they had responded to this allegation by visiting my dwelling, but they failed to gain my attention, so they left.

Returning the constable’s slightly pathetic glare I calmly informed him that this was probably a misunderstanding. I recounted how I was singing my song “Ego War” during the time in question. As this voice part requires a forceful, aggressive delivery, this could have been misconstrued by my nosey neighbour. I pointed out that this composition did not, however, contain the words in question.

It was clear that the suspiciously disposed State bully did not believe me. In a feigned manner he casually asked me if it was alright if his colleague and himself came in to my flat to look around, to check that everything was alright. I resolutely refused his request. Immediately his attitude changed to outright hostility. He declared that my demeanour was grounds for suspicion, stating that I was nervous and anxious. I retorted by spelling out that any unusual behaviour on my account was obviously a direct consequence of these sudden and unexpected circumstances, and was therefore no reason to violate the sanctity of my personal space. But the fool had already made up his mind. He quoted section 17 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984 as giving him the legal power to enter my property, forcefully if necessary. Then, after a cowardly radio call to his station for backup he ,together with his partner, stepped across my holy threshold and did a cursory search of my abode, making sure that they poked their snouts into every apartment. Of course they discovered no evidence of any unlawful activity. Indeed PC Bland unsuccessfully tried to hide his embarrassment when he found clear confirmation of my veracity, seeing my vocal microphone ready on its stand and plugged into my music studio. Then, without even the common decency to apologise, they summarily left.

The actions of the police were clearly unlawful. The legislation they relied upon, specifically PACE section 17(1)e, only allows for entry when there is a critical need for prompt action to protect life or property. If this was the case then they should have obtained access on their first visit. They never directly witnessed or observed any cause for reasonable suspicion or alarm. If they wanted access after their initial visit they should have obtained a search warrant. Their spurious justification that my demeanour was evidence of wrongdoing is a dishonest trick, regularly used by the police when they bully innocent suspects into a state of fear and agitation.

Subsequently I repeatedly tried to obtain an account of this event and the names of the officers involved from my local police, but they ignored my many requests. Eventually I had to get the help of my MP Frank Weasel, who obtained the following report;

POLICE ACCOUNT

Good afternoon,

Police were called on the 11th January at 1915 by a passer by who could

hear ‘DIE, DIE, DIE’ being shouted from an address. Officers attended at

the time and having investigated believed noise may have come from the

ground floor flat. They were unable to gain access to the flat.

 

Officers attempted to retry the address the following day. At 1827 hours we

arrived at the address and tried ringing the doorbell to no answer. We

could hear voices from the address and lights were on. Having knocked on

the door and window multiple times, eventually the subject answered.

 

The subject was sweating, shaking and raising his voice. He was shouting

about how we couldn’t come in to his flat. Due to the ‘DIE,DIE,DIE’ remarks

and his demeanour I informed him that I would be gaining entry under powers

conferred on me under S17 of PACE to ensure that there was no one hurt or

injured in the property. No force was used but subject continued shouting

throughout.

 

I offered to give my details and explain things in more detail multiple

times but Mr FANTASY continued shouting. I remember that I explained clearly

who I was and what I was doing throughout the call.

 

To Clarify Myself and PC Becky Junket from the Deep State Central Police Force entered Mr Fantasy’s address under section 17 PACE.

Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance,

Regards PC Andy Bland.

 

Although this account contains the usual police inaccuracies, exaggerations, omissions and outright lies, it is still by itself evidence enough to show that their entry was illegal. Meanwhile semi-anarchy looms throughout our so-called society, seemingly to the indifference of the State and its so-called Police Service.

 

I am now suing the police for their unlawful action.

This account is the copyright of New Future Fantasy 2018.

It is a work of fact and fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the Mr Fantasy’s imagination or happened for real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events could be coincidental.

Am I a threat to the State? Am I bad for the neighbourhood? Am I a cause for reasonable suspicion? Is my voice and poetry criminal? You can judge for yourself here,,,,

 

 

Just So – A musical poetical montage,,,,

The Will – Art Lyric Video

Miracles – Lyric Video

 

No Surrender – Lyric Video

A song of determination, devotion and dedication, with real time lyrics,,,,

Mad Moments – Lyric Video

Skirting the edges of sanity in this one,,,,

Hair – Aquarius

Epic psychedelically charged soul full of humanistic optimism, gotta love this one,,,,

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