Ecclesiastical update

Vanity of vanities, mark my words,
Calvin Cline will be the food of worms,
What does Tesco’s gain by toiling after their millions,
A generation of punks come, and a generation of punks goes,
But the earth remains for ever.

Under the sun the human lungs can not be made eternal,
And what is lacking in an unfinished symphony cannot be completed,
It is unhappy business that God has given to the sons of man, to be busy with mobile phone texting,
And it shall also be so, that the convicted on death row will meet the end with an audience of the living,
And then an audience of the here after.

For every thing has a season, and a time for every matter under heaven,
A time for shopping at Asda,
A time to go to the toilet and wipe your arse, and look at what you have wiped,
A time to weep, and a time to laugh,
A time to be oppressed, and a time to fucking kill your oppressors,
A time to work, and a time to take the day off sick with a hangover,
A time to live, and a time to die.

Better is a handful of money than a handful of bees,
Better to be walking in a park, than to be buggered by a gang of hells angels.
Better to swim with dolphins, than to swim with Portuguese man of war,
Better to stroke a cat than to poke a bear,
Better to love God than Fredrick Neiche.

Suffering - Part's 8, 9, 10

8
When confronted by the dilemma of human squalor,
and the inconstancy of natural happiness,
one is steadily made unbearable.
Little flakes of us,
like snowflakes,
settle down into an image of the human ghost.
What’s left?
A corpse, a memory, a devil.
The mother defiled,
the father murdered,
the children slain.
Having been reduced to the savage,
smarting from the eternal admission,
one crosses the threshold of reflection.
In this supple inflection,
in this harmonious recasting
which transfigures the whole grouping of human deformation,
externally and internally,
we can not fail to find precious confirmation
of what we had already guessed.
That a Cosmic sickness pervades every human head,
every foetus and flower,
and that the apocalyptic horse has become Pope.

9
The social id masturbates its ego
and ejaculates
a darkened history of the black arts and animal sex.
The mad ape looks into the wounds of the Christ crucified,
only to find that in His victory,
the Father was not who we thought He was.
The unfinished transgression
cancelled the subscription to the ape resurrection
killing the quantum cat in a cosmic car accident.
Human evaporation, through Christ’s Trinity
finds itself in His holy urine,
cycling in the eyes of St John,
narcissistically in the water of which,
fell in love with the tears in the eyes of Christ.
The horror seen in his eyes
is in the continuous fall down a black hole
giving a fairytale meaning of torture and starvation,
past Auschwitz and ground zero,
past famine and chain stoking
and in a grandmothers incontinence
as her arse is wiped
by a gum chewing 19 year old care assistant
wanting to get home
to her beer swilling boyfriend
(Both of whom will die).

10
Like a dance stopped in mid career,
love cut short,
or a flower with its head unluckily snapped off,
human squalor is no sherry party.
To keep the dead completely dead,
to keep the bedroom exactly as the departed left it,
ten bottles of sherry will not suffice.
Did Christ know how much He took away with Him when he left?
In our paper mind all reality is in ruins.
But then of course we know perfectly well
He can not be used as a road,
for all those approaching Him this way
will not be approaching Him at all.
World with out end,
is no more than a chuckle in the darkness.
Cancer, cancer, cancer cries the universe,
pour a cup of tea over your head,
shout cancer and die.
It is incredible how much happiness,
even how much gaiety we have after all hope is gone…….

Suffering - Parts 6 - 7

6
Monkey in wonderland,
sons of the falling ape,
ones the ate the apple
and spat it out in the face of Christ.
A hundred of them bouncing on a universal bed,
the one that fell off and banged its brain,
is the one we followed
and that’s the one that’s lost.
Tickle a badger and run off down the ward laughing,
wear ping pong balls for eyes in front of your deathly mother,
paint ducks on a asylum wall
and feed them with 5000 loafs of bread and fish,
futility makes us this way,
and we’ve made it this way.
We watch helplessly as a tiny Christ falls to the ground,
a ground unaccepting to Christ’s,
bringing a universal snow.
This makes things cold,
too cold for us,
all it needs is a wind to make it unbearable,
and on the third day
a wind springs up,
that shakes an earthly bell
that swings between life and death,
in the kingdom that has no end.

7
There is something going on,
long and slow like the sea,
ticking in this darkened room
where somebody says something and nobody hears.
The darkened room where a dying World is operated on,
performed by a screaming surgeon,
finding the incomplete,
slicing the cancer in the egg,
the more it screams,
the more he screams
and the more he goes on cutting.
Is there no end to the torture?
Is it credible that such extremities of torture are endless?
The tortures occur,
and either way we’re for it.
He was for it on the cross,
why should we get off.
Peter knew what was coming
and the blood of the lamb loved that monkey to death,
killing his pride and shaming us all.
A grief observed
pissing on our fuck-board palace in Hell forever.
“Come out the trees and look what’s happened.
A monkey with a fucking bad idea.
A beautiful child with a brain that’s stormed.
Love your son and your daughter, and don’t let them drown,
if they do, cut your throat and stab your eyes,
lay your life down and hope your pain was ten times more than theirs“.

Suffering - Parts 3, 4 & 5

3
Murder is by no means
the comprehensive common sense,
but in a more clear light,
it is the leading uncommon sense that pervades us all.
Having had a headache does one hammer ones head against a concrete floor or laugh it off? Probably in our case the former is true.
The problem of the monkey condition
centres somewhere away from these ideas,
laying in the malady that we refuse to talk of.
In a vague way,
the obsession that somehow,
someday we will beat the game
is cotton-wooling the fact that we are Cosmic refugees.
The tragic truth is that,
if the broken are waiting to be fed,
then the happy day may not arrive.


4
The beginning and end
are close up views of forces and traditions
which have photographed themselves
in the odd face of some monkey
seen in a crowd
coming before our eyes
in vivid perfections
the moment we close them.
Unexpectedly, the more we look the more we change it,
reality is no longer there as a consolidation to any answer.
If nothing else
a Cosmic sadist is photographing parts of itself
preparing a table for the next meal,
where death only reveals the vacuum that was always there.

5
Looking into the thousand glassy eyes
of a monkey made mad by standing,
there is no ‘honest’ eye among them,
Special Theory suggests that.
Their tongues are full of complex treachery,
their thoughts are unanchored windows
with no frame of reference,
they are lost islands
of the lowest entropy in the universe,
telling themselves lies and believing it.
They are the fuck-wits that killed the lamb,
causing a universal bleat
that echoes forever in the monkey mind,
fore-ordained at the beginning and at the end,
to be treated as cosmic sheep,
that’s what is deserved.
Ordained to fight against the law that has no reason,
to make hay in the sun of persecution,
hunger and nakedness.

'Suffering' - Part 1 and 2

1
In the hopeless condition of the mind and body,
a sick suspect arises,
namely, the philosophy of the human ape
(silver foiled in a hundred alibis), is fallacious.
Universal dishonesty can infect and possess a fellow
to such an extent that,
thinking round the clock,
can not cure a career of melancholia,
thus creating dangerous antisocial thoughts
concerning ones mother and normal fellows.
We see expressions of this misunderstanding
in every corner of the monkey mind.
Two conditions would give example of this point;
murder and suicide, coupled with,
powerful combinations of love and birth,
therefore creating riddles in the thinking of man.

2
The ape of today and yesterday is, and was,
touched with handicapped mind causing a hundred forms of self delusion.
Sometimes the self centred simian
enters into a plausibility that disregards
attendant suffering
making light of the havoc of the sick mother.
This sounds like the main suspect
in the terrible cycle of untruth.
Clearly sufficient force could be given
to rid ourselves of this,
but rarely the memory of the suffering
and humiliation of a week or a month ago
can not be crowded out by thought alone.
Putting ones hand on a stove
for the fifth or sixth time
still will not teach us to revolt
against our levelling history
or indeed help us murder our cancered reason.

The guard and I

The GUARD had come to know their faces indivually, Once so bright and eager.Now blanched with the pallor of prison,Their gestures the tired jerky movements the of old men,worn out with endless weeks,months years in prison.The stink of it; sweaty bodies, bad ventilation,old socks, despair.How could he bring himself to voluntarily , arrive each day. The overwelming smell of despair, invading his nostrils. Men in name only,all hope abandoned,no longer functioning as human beings. Simply passing the endless hours, going through the motions. with as little emotion as it takes to get through yet another endless day.Waiting for release of any sort,ready to explode.A feeling of total worthlessness, any small thing will do. No, No, this is no place for man or guard ,this! No sence to it,no rhyme or reason exists in this system. Ridiculously long sentences. Outside these cold, heartless bars that I now call home, what a wast. Society is turning the key, and its back on us. No,No, this is no place for a prisoner or guard this! Pent up emotions ,are ready to explode. How much longer can society carry this load.Yet for me, now it goes on, months and years. How many more,does it really matter. That poor guard going home ,is as much a prisoner as myself, who stays here behind these bars. Old men, no matter what our ages, the guard and I.

scriptwriting

The Kringe has ambition to provide continuing support in the art of scriptwriting for the medium of stage, radio, T.V and film. This can be achieved by raising funds and setting up writing workshops locally in Cambridge. These workshops would offer classes from grass roots to advanced level, for individuals or groups who wanted to write either complete works or short sketches. With these valuable life experinences captured onpaper it would then be the intention of the Kringe to see that their work has the opportunity to be realised at the production stage. So come on folks, help me raise the funds so we can start writing. Dog Breath xxx