All Tax is Theft

The idea is an ancient one. My thanks to Mr. Robert Nozik for the phrase that forms the headline.


Economies are desperately difficult things to run at the best of times. In these times, where financial affairs operate in such exponentially accellerating frames per nanosecond time frames while bureacrats function at the same pace they did a century ago.


Presently the place where Jakari resides, has insisted on rebranding itself as part of a kolektion of territories on the planet, now called: “The Fragile Five”[ref: Bloomberg: this week.]


The rebranding currently involves a call to Konfiskate chosen properties without regard to Kompensation. This argument could take a few years. The “financial markets” are deeply konstraiined and a startled moment this week in emerging markets caused by some bad tempered behaviour on the part of a few of the new emerging [so-called] putative wannabe tyrannical STRONGMEN that are happening around the planet.


One strategy that has also become trendy again on a new circle is the labelling of things as: “Socialist” or “Capitalist”. Problem is the hybrid economy we now have morphed into, in practice, is at best neither: and at worst regressive. It is in fact a global casino economy that shifts about on monstrously huge battalions of debt; and to remain functional at all, at its best, it needs to move about the planet like a Olympian Ice ballet dancer. Then and for intangible reasons people become happier.


At its worst it becomes fractous. And thhings are getting faster. It is currently increasingly fractous; and the possibilty that one of the FAce Off men miscalculates his Tarentino role and missteps is on an upcurve. And then the parts of the world on the ends of the whip get cracked.


Do i write this out of habit. To an extent. The problem relates to money and the idea that MONEY is slippery elusive and routinely created out of mountains of debt and most fake… ie FIAT [a polite word for fake]. This means that the algorithms that manage the flow of money are increasingly, and exponentially what moves everything faster than politicians can finish speeches.


And; talking about algorithms that word wasn’t invented in its present contexts when i wrote the piece below in May 2000, eighteen years ago. That was then six years into this project, and two years after i had chosen to base my catastrophe that affected the planet, on an exchange of underground explosions of a nuclear form between two warring factions in South East GrAsia.


Six in all over a period of some six months. A situation that i assumed [wrongly i hoped] was equivalent to a triple nuclear double tap. During that year the six year old post revolutinary government in my part of the Fragile Five, announced punitive tax demands on those citizens who had been beneficiaries of a brutal slave system. Capital flight took the local currencies to lows so far down that it took at least fifteen years to reach them again.


At the height of the frenzy that year a political spokesperson for the [so-called] RULING [nogal] Party… [aren’t democracies governed rather than ruled… we were ruled, then we were liberated, now we are ruled again by the liberators???] announced a campaign for people everywhere to write poems about the economy so that the country could grow.


I was on a mission that year [2000AD]. I was between thoughts, texts and centuries. I had chosen to wrote a poem a day all year. Rule: one new poem every day… length: whatever happened. On that day i heard the call to write a poem about the economy and so i wrote “All tax is Theft”. [it turned out to be the longest of the 800plus pieces i wrote that year much of which was filed] This one was however a favourite. And compared to the auld days of 2000, the pace now, is exponentially thousands of times faster than then: and is mostly enacted by machines… that have no feelings.


Outside of the various classes with whom i used it that year to inspire a grasp of the insanity of money, you will be the first friends… May it liberate your thoughts on money and above all… Enjoy.

With love

All Tax is Theft



A response to a strident call from a Stakhanovite style apparatchik for ‘poems about the economy’. The call was made in the context of confiscatory “take it all back” tax proposals:


OR


The twelve bar globalisation break down Stalinist Blues song.


29500
Tax, history, computers, investors
and the concept of delete consciousness:
the issues of today.


The world of today is the world of
Delete consciousness,
Nay!
I never heard of that.


Those who live today
Are not the same as those
People who lived here yesterday!
The people of today have deleted
The people
Of yesterday
From their consciousness, in order to cope
With today


To demand of the world of today that it should pay for the
Deeds of yesterday
Is an idea which can only
Begin to work if people decide to love
A Demander today.
It is no longer enough to be loved
Then
It has to be now.


On the Dow. The product must have
Credibility,
And unspeakably sharp and acute
Marketing methods to get good attention
That attracts velvet paws
And a favourable mention.
Ok.


The idea of taxing anyone
Especially
As a form of reparation
Is a demand,
Which must be analysed
In the context of what happened to
Other similar taxes in the growing of the nation:
The general state of the tax inflation
Process,
The treatment of corrupt tax thieving officials
Caught, as it were, during recess:
Generally what the
Taxpayer gets after the promises have been
Deducted from the bill;
Instead of “fuck you, stand back,
I haven’t emptied the till”.


Securing invested money: that is
Securing other people’s money, honey
Extends through risk evaluation
To the limits of gradation, mixed
To bland computerised credulity
Impacts upon the premium
We have to pay
For nice clean offshore money:
Instead of dirty honey, hey, where
The anti collective collectors
Karry Kalashnikovs and K….


All Tax is Theft. Especially those bereft and
Confiscatory deductions
Like capital gains disruptions
Which are scary to all those marys
Who seriously dispose with
“Other people’s” woes, by handling their cash
To demo’ overwhelming dash:
At the same time, with great care ,
Beneath an open stare.


Investors are owners of money.
They are not politicians or something
Else funny.
It may be in doubt they are human at all;
Concepts wired up
With a screen for a wall to show memory:
Spewing out models of risk
And uncertainty.
Measuring the loot of the world’s
Aging billions:
Cash that adds up to hundreds of trillions.
What you did last month doesn’t matter a jot
It’s what happening now that counts for the lot.


When a butterfly tumbles
And performs in Peru
The red card is flagged from computer to you. The
Risk model says the risk
Factors have altered:
That risk you took last week has now
Gone and faltered.
So follow instructions: delete from the programme
That order we called
And that hold put on Put.
The rate must go up
Or the cash go on out.


Perceived expectations: perceived quantum
Risk
Modified market uncertainties
Frisk
Down our hopes
Batters our fears
Causes the money to stop
And change gears.


Perennial problems perplex perceived risk.
Confusion of outcomes presents the most risk
To one who man’s mountains of money: to plan and to
Do and to follow things through to
The end:
Which should always be happy.


Should this Hollywood twitch
Suffer a glitch… should heaven transform into hell
When success equals misery,
Inconsolable outrage,
Mixed in with
Anger
As
Well.
Then confusion will reign
The markets feel pain
And the cash is away before
losseswillclaimallthegain.


In other words: In the world of money
Something is done; which is not at all funny:
A result is achieved, expected or not.
There are no relative gains
For corporate aims,
But returns, as predicted.
If results are in doubt,
Then someone with clout
Changes course,
Before loss is addictive.


When bosses complain, cash workers feel pain
And the outcome is bad for the homeowner’s loan and the girl
Who was Jill becomes Jane.


Alt.F1 delete part one: next transaction please.


!NiK(2000)

Revelations 101

With apologies to Albert Camus:

Mother lied yesterday.
I didn’t know that she lied:
Remembered with a shock childhood
Injunctions enforced
With the buckle on the end
Of a leather strap tearing
The flesh on my four year old
Back
And more
Again and again as we grew
Crippling me so I could never so much as bend
The truth even
At the tip
Without a tell tale tearful twitch
Of the upper lip.

“If there’s one thing I can’t abide” she would hiss
out at me
“it’s a liar; a liar
a liar… see.

And now she lied and boasted that she lied: exulted
In a lifetime of evasive
Lies
And whereas one could often
Ask of one
Who lied
Whether anything they say
Could be true
In this case she had been
‘busted’ and was henceforth brash and brazen and
boldly through and through.

So mother lied yesterday
And I do not have to be uncertain about it
Albert
Because she admitted publically
that it was true.

!NiK[2011]

Remembering 11th Feb 1990

Listening to the news this morning i realised that it was twenty years since Nelson Mandela came out of prison and [later] became the first President of a New South Africa.

It was a time when all things seemed possible and, infused with the spirit of the times, i wrote a Prose Praise poem to the great man, in celebration of that moment. It was published five years later in a magazine produced by the institution where i had temporary employment at the time and later after he retired i sent a copy as a gift to President Mandela.

Now twenty years later, after a second President Thabo Mbeki, who will be remembered more as an AIDS denialist than for his achievements; and now a third president [Jacob Zuma] who will be perhaps known more for his ever expanding family, and his ever widening range range of mothers, the twenty year clock has ticked. All the media people are rushing to remember what they did on that momentous day…

I watched the day on television in an era before cellphones, You tube and this blogging frenzy: and this [below] is what i wrote… I wish you well to enjoy it… The President’s spokesperson said Mr Mandela had enjoyed it notwithstanding its non-traditional unusual construction.

….
..February 1990:..

A report on breaking through the ceiling:

A praise prose poem for Nelson Mandela.

The world came

to watch a

spectacle;

a man who had

been locked away

for twenty-seven years

was to be released.

And the spokespeople

for the media

and the great,

came from afar to hear

the wisdom

which it was

believed

this old man

had gained

during his incarceration.

After waiting

uncertainly

for hours

in the hot February

glare;

He finally emerged

blinking

into the sunlight.

Was led to a podium

around which

a Hundred Thousand people

had gathered and

onwhichtheeyesofFiveHundredMillion

faces

werefocussedviatelevisionsetsina

hundred and eighty

countriesbeamedbyinstantsatellite.

With a great sense of Majesty

All awaited

his unique insights, which,

his publicists claimed,

andwhichallwhocamewould

have

themselves

believe he had gained

through years of

incarcerated

introspection

The great buzz

was that this man

had

through his

suffering

acquired unsullied

wisdom and would

unitethecountryandleadhisto

rmentorsandhispeople

toapromisedland:

freed

of all the pain borne

by the suffering

for millennia.

Slowly

he ascended the steps

and trod

with unaccustomed grace

toward

the podium.

A hush

fell

uponhalfaBillionhouseholds.

Fathers

shushed their children

andbeatthosewhospokewhilethegreat

Man

began to speak.

And the sound of wonder

amongst

the gathered dignitaries

and the watching multitudes

turned

to

consternation.

For he spoke yet

anancientanditwasbelievedarecently

discreditedlanguage

and none had thought

to expect

it.

And so they sat

in bewildered

and bemused

consideration

ofwhattheywerehearing

while

a

howlingmobofjubilantsupporters

soon turned their joy

to rapturous

violence

smashingallthewindowsonthesquare.

.NiK(1990)

Publ. 1995.

Bedford Yearbook

Appropriations

Appropriations.
[21 January 2008]

“Welcome to Mbeki’s banana republic.”
Thus reads the headline in the Sowetan this morning.

‘We are rapidly joining the ranks of Nigeria, and Zimbabwe”. It
Continued.

It could as easily have read: “An inheritance ruined!”
They could have said.

The milk is spilled: the omelette awaits ruin;
For want of a light
The darkness will return…
For want of a light.

******************

No one will remember, that,
When it was being done:
The arrogant takeover; the
Cursory word of contempt,

As the newbies reached for the symbols
When the phrase was ‘who do you know?’
and also what do you know?
When the newly appointed toadies [who owed everything to their
Revolutionary masters
Held schtum when the outrageous was apparent.]
And the emperor’s non-existent rags began to wither on
A malformed leg. All now say
‘We didn’t know…’
We experience attention deficit.

We didn’t know it was so important;
That there would not be a place where we could appropriate
the stock
and take it over
For our own delicious ends.

******************

And how dare the people demand!
We gave them everything they have
So they must now pay
With their aspirations and their leavened joy.

Spend wisely said the trustees
Who were impolitely ignored
There were guns and bombs and loot
to be adored.

And all the best horses and all the new men
Could not put light where no facility
Began.

***********************

The citizens who were enraged
Burned the trains
And are now caged
Into their neighbourhoods
Where there are no jobs and
fewer goods
and Work is scarce, and money more so.
The Kenyans use bullets and
We use space
The pain is the same
and there is little grace.
We can’t stop the game
‘Atlas has shrugged’ The world is shaken: are we teleported?

The “mirror cracked
From side to side’ and we saw
Ourselves
Distorted.

All that we did
All that we courted
dispersed so soon: revealing our all
too waning
moon

‘For want of a nail.’
The end. So soon?

NiK [08]

Examination interludes

The creaking door intrudes upon our silence.
Caught by a wilful eddy
It swings gently
From its stable state of partial openness;
And sensing opportunity began a
Wider indeterminate momentum
That would, at
Inevitable termination,
Sharply
Demolish that silence
And wreak havoc
On the consciousness of unsuspecting
Humans.

I was at the opposite corner: cross-legged on a table;
Stretching out insipient arthritic pain into
Reborn-life-conscious
Only
Of the crowded room: the rhythmic breath;
All present hunched
In twisted and
Distorted
Shapes, across
Self-absorbing texts:
Engrossed-in-Visual-Art-Culture-Studies-Two-Paper-1

Before awareness becomes thought becomes action
A lastcreakquickeningwhooshofsprightlybreezeand
The heavy reinforced door crashes
Full circle
Against its own
Unyielding backstop;
Reverberateswithobsceneurgency
Across the silent schoolyard:
Bringing sound to visual literacy.

In front of me a head rears sharply up and
Back
Eyes rolling, flashing in desperate
Pursuit
Seekingthechanceescapingthought:
That fragile line;
Aching
Despairingtohold
The image, that shreddedasit
Scattered.

‘Open or closed?’ I asked the room while
I threaded
Across
The cluttered space
To catch the door before there was more
And the echo died
Andrelieffollowedshock.

Closed: came a voice.
The room sighed.
Closed it became.

NiK[07]

Vu Si weh denials

Oh Vu si weh denial
Oh we’ll play a happy little game of denial oh ye
We deny we were bad; claim we were always good except for them who weren’t, and they claim the same only in reverse:
And now we have a pretty pickle.
[well maybe… who else is in sight?] Il violencia continua… continua.

Bob the Roz never had this problem … well in the beginning anyway.
He issued orders … the violence stopped,
Only to flare in a different order.
State violence in place of the free market form.

Our violence is the product of freedom and the need
To assert primacy over the new domain.
Crime is the only legitimate free market activity allowed in the country… all other
Economic games are monopolised, cartelised, controlled, regulated and now on top of it all officiated or is that now
mediated
through BEE to be…ee
Too hard to please,too.

It is our own ‘sweet anarchy’ and there is some desperation as the realisation dawns that there will be no free handouts to those who did not walk in freedom’s shoes but hovered on the sidelines waiting for the crumbs.

And the handouts and the takeouts and the stakeouts are paralysing our development
For as the winners take all those who can make it work are no where to be seen.
Money spent on arms it is said could have funded a national
education
bond
system so that the kids who go into tertiary ed
to learn how to run the prize captured by daddy and his buddys
could bond themselves
to a lifetime’s payback
Learn now pay over the life of your career.

But we didn’t do that: we bought the guns, planes, boats and bombs to shrivel Indonesia [well who else is in the firing line?] and giveaway
to our enemies in the form
Of fruitless expeditions
to foreign places which exclude Darfur and Myan Mar where
the people cry for liberation from alien enemies that we ignore and pretend not to see
for those aliens are our friends and we cannot see motes in the eyes of friens list the log rammed up- our bums becomes eternal..

Ho say
The legs are coming off the pot
And the pot
Will fall down into the fire.

The children from Khutsong, shipped sheepishly out to no place, went to drink
Vast swathes of local booze:
And shag the local ladies.
Response: a clichéd outburst from outraged
Displaced
Local lads
Who attacked and ravaged the traumatised Khutsongese
In their shivering beds.
There was no relativity here, no sense of carefully stage manged evasions.

Meanwhile our saga over Vusi persists… Why should simple things like firing someone you don’t like be so easy
For the President and so
Difficult for me?

Certainly apparent choices of who should be fired and who not, do seem to affirm the need to have rules making firing of anyone almost impossible
Even for Presidents

But the court agreed he could and we couldn’t.

Every wannabee instant megastar of the new ruling order will be watching with baited breath to see how wonderfully rich a few can become at the expense of the many when the dastardly owners of foreign held companies
Are deprived of their
Rights to the fruits of their
Labour by a thief in the night in the disintegrating failed State of Rumbabwe.

It is often said that to repeat the same action over and over in the forlorn expectation of a different outcome is an indicator of insanity
I prefer to think… oh unfashionable thought… oh naughty thought…. That such behaviour implied… shall we say… a dulled intellect: not to be confused with stupidity to which it is cousin… and which could never be said to apply to our people.
Albeit cupidity on the [part
Of those disingenuous con-persons
Who will benefit from the theft at the expense of those too dull-witted/indolent
satisfied/uninformed oh fuck it all just plain too damm old fashioned stupid
to
Realise
that there is no such thing as a free
lunch as
The cliché goes… someone somewhere always pays
Usually by leaving the table
While you are feasting… so your children stay
behind
to wash the dishes.

Is it denial to tacitly accept that the violence with which we live….
Comes in part from the national idea that having power means being able to do what you like because you can
And want to: and being left out of the party means
starting your own.
And because we are unfashionably unenlightened we cannot
understand that the
rhetoric with which
We handled the struggle for
Freedom
Was only
rhetoric?

Rubbish… Tell that bullshit theory to the Amagents who
Have become rich on the proceeds
Of daring deeds and derring do

And we shall break the mirror
To steal the image.

NiK

Free Burma.

See also http://www.editred.com/nicholasjakari

Misdirecting Vusi

Sing a little jig about
Vusi
Shroud the reasons why you
Pushed him out
The door
With the strangest little song about a man who would go down
to the floor
If not rescued.

Quick shift with left to right to left again then hold on tight
For shadow sideshows that give us fright
And less than consciousness:
As first Shabby… so oh
conveniently
provides for
Righteous indignation
Affecting whoooh?
No redress save a lien
On his cash which with some dash may be
Dispensed…
to his bold markers.

A bigger hand
A bigger hand: they cry, with joy. Start the Toi… for the sneakiest
hand
Called blind man’s muff and we huff and huff about those who
stuff their pockets full of mis-
begotten rough bold cash: snatched from the dash
to ye olde [soccer] world cup

Fifty million in comm!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
How dare these men bomb!!!!!!!!!!! on the people this way????????????
Says the finister of migrants a fine old figature of probity and
Caution who speaks with straight comfortable morality,
inveighs against plurality
And neatly steals the show
away from Vusi
ands those woosy
men
And women in his prosecuting ministry

Now what was that story about a warrant… of arrest?… For who?
Nooo… 0
Never such a laughable
suggestion
surely
no one would think to…
Mention it was he
surely there would be
No such thing

And lest you forget again about the things that are real
That woman down there who killed a husband somewhere
Has been released to bury daddy struck down by wrath almighty so you see
if Vusi had something he had say then he may
have had such a hand wouldn’t he?

Wouldn’t he?
NiK[07]

A tribute for Nelson Mandela

Seventeen years ago i wrote the following piece on the occasion when Mr Mandela was released from prison. Later when he retired as our first democratic President i sent him a copy which was graciously received. As our beloved Madiba now enters his 90th year I’m reprinting the piece again for my blogreaders, who naturally did not exist in 1990 before we all knew about the Internet.

February 1990:

A report on breaking through the ceiling:
A praise prose poem for Nelson Mandela.

The world came
to watch a
spectacle;
a man who had
been locked away
for twenty-seven years
was to be released.
And the spokespeople
for the media
and the great,
came from afar to hear
the wisdom
which it was
believed
this old man
had gained
during his incarceration.

After waiting
uncertainly
for hours
in the hot February
glare;
He finally emerged
blinking
into the sunlight.
Was led to a podium
around which
a Hundred Thousand people
had gathered and
onwhichtheeyesofFiveHundredMillion
faces
werefocussedviatelevisionsetsina
hundred and eighty
countriesbeamedbyinstantsatellite.

With a great sense of Majesty
All awaited
his unique insights, which,
his publicists claimed,
andwhichallwhocamewould
have
themselves
believe he had gained
through years of
incarcerated
introspection

The great buzz
was that this man
had
through his
suffering
acquired unsullied
wisdom and would
unitethecountryandleadhisto
rmentorsandhispeople
toapromisedland:
freed
of all the pain borne
by the suffering
for millennia.

Slowly
he ascended the steps
and trod
with unaccustomed grace
toward
the podium.

A hush
fell
uponhalfaBillionhouseholds.
Fathers
shushed their children
andbeatthosewhospokewhilethegreat
Man
began to speak.

And the sound of wonder
amongst
the gathered dignitaries
and the watching multitudes
turned
to
consternation.

For he spoke yet
anancientanditwasbelievedarecently
discreditedlanguage
and none had thought
to expect
it.

And so they sat
in bewildered
and bemused
consideration
ofwhattheywerehearing
while
a
howlingmobofjubilantsupporters
soon turned their joy
to rapturous
violence
smashingallthewindowsonthesquare.

.NiK(1990)
Publ. 1995. Bedford Yearbook
Publ. Collection: Random Notes… by NiK[00] http://editred.com/nicholasjakari

Bill Flynn. RIP

I woke up this morning grateful for another day of living in this mad, perplexing and fast evolving reality we call the modern age.

Bill Flynn didn’t wake up today.

He died in his sleep… the best way to go for those who are the best.

After hearing the news of Bill Flynn’s passing on into another part of Quantum space at the ripe old age of 58 in this one, the solemn tones of the reporter changed into an angry snarl as he broadcast that Robert Mc Bride [a local chief of police] had allegedly stated that he would enter the homes of his enemies, rape and then kill their wives, burn their homes, kill their dogs and … I don’t remember what was supposed to happen to the children. I thought how Bill would have loved to play Robert Mc Bride making those alleged statements. How hysterically we would have laughed.

The announcer stated that Bill’s son had found his dad dead in bed; and it reminded me that it was 29 years ago this week, that I saw my own father died in his box. Someone had shaved off his moustache and revealed a man I didn’t know. I wondered since what dreams he had, what aspirations, what disappointments… Had he died fulfilled?

Bill Flynn devoted his life to supplying the diversionary arts that we use to hide from ourselves. He was a comedian who made people laugh. He was other things too: father, husband, friend of Slab’,a rock singer who enjoyed an aria: but mostly he was a comedian, and he made us laugh without the pain that comes from introspection.

One hopes he died fulfilled; for it is a truism that one can never know the fact of one’s own passage from this dimension. For us his performance would separate us for a time from our own anxieties and disillusionment
by revealing ourselves to us and permitting
us to laugh at our own vanity
and foolishness
and to escape ourselves for an instant
before returning to our own,
discordant universe.

Some years ago a more personal friend, than this distant image on a passing screen,
died in his sleep. When found by a cleaning lady the next day the television was on, the beer next to the bed was half drunk and the cork tipped cigarette he liked to smoke had burned down to the flesh. He was the headmaster of a local high school and his funeral was a moving affair.

I wrote this piece that follows now as a tribute to Derek Tarpey, in many ways the same kind of life fulfilling person as Bill. Today I re-publish it in tribute to the passage of a man who made us laugh.

For Derek then. For Bill Flynn now.
“Heaven’s mourning breaks” said the Preacherman
“We were touched:
Our lives, by his life,
Our lives by his death”

The preacher went on: “Live in the moment;
Do what must be done
Now,”
And he did that, this man who left so soon.

And then the Preacher spoke words
Of comfort for the living,
Who remain
Unaware of the truth;
Of the mystery within which we live,
Shaken now by this
Event: Are we
Supposed to think? Better sure
The polished gloss of words to stretch and gently massage
All our pain away.
He spoke of the Irish road;
Light words that skimmed across
The warm wet surface of
Our tears. And he continued,
His well rehearsed words of comfort
Tossing words upon further words
Which we all barely heard
So lost were we
In contemplation of the
Place where he was not.

The flag hung limp
Obscuring for me that
Professed man of god
Who spoke of journeys without end…
And so the tributes likewise
Who spoke of what he’d done. Short, sharp,
Pithy tight to bind the tears, which hung
In sorrow on each added word.

“What you saw
Was what you got”
And we all got an awful lot
For the changing of the world

Then, when the choir sang… “Tula
Mama….” Their intoned cadence
Reaching out:
Soothing us, while
The praise singer sang out
Evocations
Which thundered ‘round the crowded
Quad. Then,
The wind blew strong and the half-hung flags
Flew briskly in the late noon sun.

We felt our catharsis
Start then,
As the boys expressed their
Grief.
They sent away their leader
With a cry that shook
The leaf, still huddled deep inside
The barest winter trees…
Their war cry from the deepest past.

“A rum tum tum
A rum tum tum.”

Then, to rage at darest death and
Shake its claw away…
“A rum tum tum…
A rum tum tum…”

We shuddered, we who stayed behind.
Took heart again from
What he’d done, and we knew then
As the ancients did
The hollowness of death
That takes from us at random: reminding
Us of certainty and but for what
Go i.

Then, having heard from Whitman
We preferred to hear the boys, gathered
From a dozen
Distinct originations
Linked arms
Into a shield against the universe and
All
Its blasted tricks;

“A rum tum tum….
A rum tum tum…”

The birds upon the parapet
Launched themselves in fright.
The half-mast flag that had hung limp now
Stretched out for the light.

“A rum tum tum…
A rum tum tum…”

We stood awhile
`Till all the rest was silent.

.NiK(2002)