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Read Cyrus Issac’s new explosive poem ‘Hong Kong Reckoning’ in his new poetry collection ‘Visions of Things to Come’. |
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Postal Services Available: You can now order from Cyrus or his agency the following terrific services by post: |
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The Age of Kali What resides in this century but the horror? |
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Postcards most welcome! Cyrus Issac is an avid Postcard collector and adores receiving postcards from around the world. If you post a postcard to Cyrus Issac he shall personally thank you officially on this website. For address details please: |
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Visions of Things to Come.
By Cyrus Issac © Copyright 2008
We live in the Age of Decadence, A prelude to Anarchy and Chaos; Love today in any way for Three Pence, Before the Dogs of War bark ‘Adios!’
Fusion
Gladioli gardens punctuated the soils of marble, Their sweet aromas embellishing fingerprints of truth in the high edifice of concrete and steel. Some primeval principle lay buried in Nature’s little islands, Calling forth across the expansive nights of Adam, Tantalising the finite pontificators of human reason: Absurdity juxtaposed with the immaterial ethereal light, Beams searching for the paternal hunger in the Labyrinth midnight black.
The base of immaturity slept in the wolf’s lair, Its dreams transcending the Laws of the Prosaic like the pious guru who seeks the unfettered clarity. A great serpentine river rode majestically through the convoluted citadel, Sinking its tributary arms around the feigned collective Brain.
A continuous regular impulse could be felt in the breathless saline desert, A place where rain never fell, Only divine Helos scorching the bridled plain of Humanity, Evaporating the very essence of precious Life.
The wounded pride Being straddled what Civilisation claimed to bestow, A nugget of shining gold in its blistered hands: a universal sterile domain. The heart of conscience disowning what rationality had sought to create: better the pastoral nomad than the Fool’s Industrial Paradise.
Sand dunes blew outside the delusive walls, A music that sang the Song of Death by every ear that enquired like the warrior drums of war, Thundering ! Thundering! Beating! Beating the applause to the final extinction.
At the Hour of Reckoning the material structures finally crumbled before Nature’s relentless Storm, The barefaced humans strewn asunder the sands of chaos, The last cries of redemption and vengeance vanquished forever.
Another dawn broke on Planet Earth, A quiescence without strife or mindless destruction; Merely a soft warm breeze in the valleys and mountains like a fusion of life in its most simple basic form, Only the throbbing of some distant being in the caves below……
Post-Liberal
Shine bedridden Post-Liberal! No ideal to look forward to but the wallet inside the turgid pocket. To laugh the sacred into the ground with no second thought, It is a wonderful day for you and I!
See the King on the hill, His sceptre laid down on the democratic floor, Now we can stab him in the back, Look what to inherit: The chest of secrets for every inquisitor to see!
No barriers by the abyss, The diffuse article of faith, All ether and void: The tourist of epicurean fancy!
Markets to markets of markets for markets, What else but the Market!
A value for the animate besides the antique porcelain, Clay bricks to found the memory of make-believe, The caricatures the toffee apples of mercurial concentration: The Star is far from you and I!
The Bona-fide is felled! Pandora’s Box is open, Boreas blows now!
Scream Dream!
Scream dream what does it mean? Scream dream what have I seen? Scream dream I’m not keen!
Wake at two cold sweat blue, Feelings strong feelings gone! Lady Sady killed the baby, I think I’m going crazy! Very very hazy.
Eat cheese if that’s what you please, Then sneeze before you tease, It ain’t rocking my keys!
Back to bed I said, In one big tread, Now it’s time to play dead!
Crown of Thorns
“…..in broad daylight, and even in the brightest moments of waking life, we are ruled to some extent by the nature of our dreams”- Nietzsche
The seeing is some part of my living being, A dwelling creature on the precipice of shading lights, The curtain descends what reasons to follow, What commandments to obey: The boughs of diseased trees my blundering way.
The primal leaps ‘frog like’ into the foreground, Some portrait of chameleon nature handcuffed to the people’s podium. Buddha’s wheel tramples remorselessly over my body, The pitiful effete frame collapses at the waking.
The mirrored blink like the darting pond-skater over still water, No encyclopaedia, no instruction, no angel to comfort my soul, But the bleeding wounds of happy nightmare experience, Another shawl I wear, Another thorn to tear…..
Myth of the Dragon
The Dragon spitted vituperative garble, Fire and Brimstone to the eligible bystander: “The Sign! The Sign! The Sign!” “What sign?” I quizzed, “The sign of the Devil!” he answered. The crowd moved on……..
Oxford gloated buoyant in the afternoon brilliance, Her spires and domes precocious like the prodigal son; No spoils but the fortunate undergraduate.
Bicycles, Halls, Streets, Doors, Cobble upon cobble, Voluminous History accompanied my Odyssey.
What Dragon could abound in this paradise of the intellectual?
Animal Farm
Play the last adagio before I retire to the rest of tears.
Little man from the prose of Peter Pan, Drawl the satirical curtain in the Peoples’ Theatre, Turn off the spotlight and let go of the paper kite:
The nursery has died tonight……
What light shall I know when overture sounds its sumptuous harmony? What do I say to the ferryman of infinite reflections?
The pigs roll in the mud, The cows and horses chew the cud; The sheep mellow the landscape, The industrial ants rape; The farmyard is a cacophony of noise, The shooting guns cowboys.
Electric fence carves the valleys and plains, The spark of interior subterranean torture circuiting the silicon wafers: Diodes and transistors acculturating the tribal homesteads.
I smoke the nihilistic cigar and puff the pretentious rings, A saintly charlatan tapping to the beating plastic things.
STOP THE POT! STOP THE POT! STOP THE POT!
Vernal Equinox
“Will you join us in Hyde Park? It’ll be a great day!” “No thanks…..” I replied “I’ll be calculating the Vernal Equinox”.
They carted with entourage like an Edwardian Lady on her sojourn to the French Rivierra, Up to Nice and all the money can buy.
A ‘Country People’ they boasted to themselves in blue 501’s and Peugeot 406’s, Saviours of the ‘Countryside’ or something less: To stand firm against the tyranny of Town and City, To preserve the interests of wealth status and cruelty.
But what ‘Country’ do they mean? 1998 and the Countryman died 100 years ago; What Villager can say: “This is my Community!” When the supermarket glories in apogee and the TV shrieks humanities famines soon to be.
The ‘Urbanites’ we are, Consumers in sealed compartments portly stars; Betwixt the ideal of delusive myth and the slippery mountains of industrial tar.
A sperm whale to wish, A screen to touch the barnacles resplendent in human isolation.
I want to look back, I try to look back, But the Peasant left years ago……
April Spitfire
The radio talks to me in the drizzling timorous April rain, Some unknown sonata incognito, A kin along the fractious Saxon genealogical tree.
What did Mom and Dad think when I popped into the world of the late ghastly 20th Century? “You are lovely but it was by accident!”
A chance in the caves and antechambers of sliding snakes; The edge of the classroom child, A cluttered day dreaming fool of a cinematic mind, A Spitfire to fly away from the blame…..
The Leaving
The clouded gold ring hung symbolically on the Ballerina’s arm, The spectacle of festivity forlorn in the climate of discontent: Wishes, promises, desires, solemn pledges of “Always….”
A quiescent terrible room, Pictures of personal love and jaundiced lies, Draped curtains to cover the cruel haste of the leaving…..
The Ringing
The ringing bells syncopated to the marching band, As the pea-shooter aimed its instrument of disregard at the party of grabbing capitalists; Disco flashes and loudspeakers heralding another lamb to sacrifice: GLORY GLORY TO THE GREEN MACHINE!
A superstar for the sculptress of plasticine, Played to the great game for the pig’s blood; A giant cupful to the chanting brood: SUCK SUCK TO THE GREEN MACHINE!
The Theatre and the Palace were the last refuge, A gale of wanting hands clawing at the golden doors; The errant brushstroke completed: SING SING TO THE GREEN MACHINE!
End
Like a sailing boat that blows too far off course, She is caught in the fate of Providence; A heavy burden which cannot be extirpated, A pump of faltering pressure: Slowly slowly irrevocably fading, To the Everyman Junction where Life is forfeited.
Lucifer Match
Captain Swing whistled the ‘Breaking Blues’ under insurgent skies, Albion’s holy fraternity set on fire, To Crown and Church but a dubious liar, The omnipotent iron machine sanctioned Lucifer’s Agent Friar.
An earthquake to rock the cradle of the world, A mass of people untilled, To a new potent combustion to build!
Faustian Showcase
Content, instruction, the ‘teething hedonist’; An auditorium for the nail biter, evangelist and conceited, A Hellenist stage for the humourist and dogmatist: To flaunt and point, jest and jibe, laugh and cry, grieve and pity, But never never to despoil the scripted Showcase.
The impeccable secular priest assuages the pliable flock, With a supercilious smile and a million dollar crook to the punish the rebellious deviant. A churlish ‘once upon a time’ and ‘forever after’: A parable of Love for your fellow human and a Capitalist Puppeteer to vex the Doll. The Theatre of emotions tied to the Western Dream, A glutinous glue for the International obscene.
“10 seconds to go!” the unholy one warns, “Switch the channel to sap the next!” Master Faust implores, “1,2,3” another broadcast roars……..
Saturnine Expectation
‘Great Expectations’ was the relic of some diffused past, A wishing-well of once upon Arcadia, The age of Romantica and discerning palettes in those turbulent depths;
The sacred seal broken unto ethereal earthlight, The beast of chaos set free inside the mortal debauched frame, A contagious sickness brewing in the Western Cool…….
Humanity’s Secret
A shout in the crowd is all that is required to unsettle the homosapien fulcrum; A subtle turn to the right or left and humanity’s secret is unveiled: All the emotions of a 100,000 years vented with vex and euphoria, Of wills gained and wishes tamed.
The muted can hail, The deaf can hear butterfly heartbeats near, The invalid can brand and swim in the prejudicial sand.
A dream a dream more an endless dream, A febrile Morian Utopia for a delirious moment like a wind of unsullied frenzy, Bursting forth into the urbane day.
Then as transitory as this, It shifts back to the origin it came, To the perennial Clock of Reason and Sense again……
Arctic Context
What is the worst pain to afflict? Desertion! Desertion! Desertion! A gregarious soul thrown to the howling wolves.
How quickly they digest, All’s left is the skeletal carrion, Lain down in the ice and snow.
Gulliver’s Giant steps through the torrid blizzard, Its footprints as superfluous as the rat, Nothing is Great or Means so well in this Kingdom. Transplants: Nay! Nay! Nay! Iniquity, well sometimes that may be…..
Middle Asian Holocaust
He was a humble man by character, Self-deprecating to the root, Far away from the Mad Hatter, Steadfast steel nail head to foot.
One would say he was a patriot, Defender of the National Will, Verily the upstanding Salient, Share for all courtesy the Gracious Mill.
At the turn of Autumn 2011, Historians would write the bitter tragedy, Of when at the strike of morn seven, Most honourable suffered the nightmare malady.
As the computer alerted him, To the missile launch from Middle Asia, The West waited within the silo rim, A prayer to God’s merciful favour.
Seconds by seconds the decision had to be made, Was this a malfunction or the real thing? Obliteration in minutes or the would be saved, Paranoia omnipresent was this the final ring?
As a world driven by machines, No time to simply think, So the button was pushed to kill the dreams, The controls finally failed on the brink.
Of course it was a tragic mistake, But reason had receded already, Too long we relied on the machines for our sake, End of another civilisation Death’s lamentable fidelity…..
The Seeds of Retribution
Do you remember 1857? Do you remember 1857? When the Evangelist dogs berated our Heaven.
Do you remember 1857? Do you remember 1857? The Imperialist guns embellished with animal fat like good old sporting Tiffin.
Do you remember 1857? Do you remember 1857? When us Sepoys threw away those British manacles for Freedom.
Do you remember 1857? Do you remember 1857? The Christian Memsahibs lay bleating and bleeding like the Crucifixion.
Do you remember 1857? Do you remember 1857? When thousands hung and screaming razor blades cut through ruby melon.
Do you remember 1857? Do you remember 1857? The Seeds of Retribution are sown for twenty eleven…
No Man’s Land
Behest the rain rattled on the pane, Trickling sinuous droplets down the indecent scraped glass, A rolling sticky night in the month of May.
A sobbing disconsolate man hung in the tarnished kiosk, The receiver pressed to the lachrymose tears, The street weeped the scabrous odyssey: “I just want to die! I just want to die!!”
I laughed to the pity and insatiable pain, For the lonesome asylums of the cloistering insane. An arcane satiety broiling somnolent curse, Drifting fighting in the steaming rain: How we wish to wash away life’s mortal stains……
Credit & Plastic
The thoroughfares and side-streets transmogrified the ‘breakdown receptor’; He or she or It was more than carbon substance: T’was bones to be smashed!
Aye, to know yourself, To love yourself, To seek nothing but yourself; They were the mores values things above all: The incontestable!
Just as vainglorious Greece declined eaten by the infesting maggots, So Mother Superior West licked its deceased wounds for the last time under blazing midnight skies…….
Widow
None remains but the hands sliced off, Spurting blood across the bargain basement rump, Potato fads defecating nauseating bile pit.
A gulp of stench that the varlet loves: To be the perfidious varmint.
It is only the sordid tale that bespeaks perennial revelry, The carnal cells collecting and formulating a largess biography: Sirens jesting brinkmanship to the cavernous scorpions.
One reclines on the deserts of choice, A peevish sentiment about the horrors of existence: Groins groping for the gracious STING!!
Poltergeist
The bread knife dug deep, Red soup gushing from the stomach bowel, Hoarse gasps indicting the murderer who sated the pleasure of his deed: Good-Bye Bitch!!
Winter fell early in ’78, The flakes of ivory glass settled on the Yorkshire Village, Blanketing rooftops and gravestones like a demure Christmas Cake.
The Master-At-Arms came home by the icicle gusts of Boreas, His hands clasping a bag of hot mince pies. The kettle whistled the brew as the windows rattled an evil eye: WOE, MR M PENANCE IS NIGH!! An icy chill befell the diminutive Victorian cottage, The grace of God revoked for the demon to play its elfin intrigues.
Night came like a blind upon the eyes, Unsettling the boundaries where perforce the Material was the Fact. Mr M slept as a child unkempt under the Lunar force majeure shine, Heedless to the talons which stealthily closed around his tender neck.
RAP! RAP! The bedroom door called. SCRAPE! SCRAPE! The igneous floor bawled. The mirror cracked into a million souls as the bed rocked Mr M to a waking nightmare. Electric sockets flashed and frizzled, Light bulbs glowed their demonic fury, Irradiating the frozen cadaverous corpse of Mr M: SURPRISE! SURPRISE! MR M! I COME FROM THE ID WITHIN! WITH AN INFINITUM OF WRATH I SPIT ON THE GRAVE YOU PATH! SO TAKE THIS FROM THE BITCH YOU TOOK!!
A shrill cry of DEATH howled through the dale as the gleams sparkled upon the ensanguined hook. “Who are you?” the epitaph of Mr M rang, WHY MY DARLING DON’T YOU KNOW?
The Age of Kali
We kiss the Idol lover, An attachment kindred to the cunt, By the dappled brook we bathe in stale water, Abusing each other as a ritual hunt.
Majestic shines the sun over lands yet to wake, Animal factories sparkle their enticing veneers, The masses convene as pseudo-democratic stake, Showmen perform as drags insincere queers.
The cloned test tubes bubble with intoxicated fervour, Genetic cocktails to ingest as the shadows broaden, Multitudes of life in the putrid biological beleaguered River, Limbs to fuck and minds to covertly cordon.
Spotlights illuminate the sporting ostentatious maestro’s, Punters gamble precious sums as the creditors wryly smile, Consumption omnipresent like a religion of toffee halos, The watchmen take notice of the Philosopher’s File.
On top of most venerable Abraham’s tomb gunshots shatter the serene silence, Drought famine war spread world-wide like the malign Black Plague, Science technology religion commerce kindle as conflagration of Machine Violence, The Age of Kali turns the demonic wheels laid claim.
And at the last desperate breaths of the 21st Century, The people will plaintively say: Is that what our great advanced civilisation has built, When we kiss and eat the children we fought…………
A Tender Folk of Locusts
Take all, Take all, Precious capitalism the slender means of war.
Take all, Take all, Precious capitalism the so civil means of war.
Take all, Take all, Precious capitalism the lesser liberties of war.
Love me! Hate me! A tender folk of locusts, Hocus Pocus!
Take all, Take all, The citizen soldiers march to war………
Letter from the Asylum
What will your parents say? When you open those deep blue beguiling eyes.
What will your parents say? When you utter the first gargling words.
What will your parents say? When you take the first tentative steps across the mattered floor.
What will your parents say? When you enter the first elementary school.
What will your parents say? When you ride the first shining bicycle.
What will your parents say? When you show the teacher’s first report.
What will your parents say? When you stay away for the first time.
What will your parents say? When you bring back the first girlfriend with a kiss.
What will your parents say? When you fail the first exams.
What will your parents say? When you gain the first mundane job.
What will your parents say? When you buy the first car.
What will your parents say? When you leave home for the first time.
What will your parents say? When you marry the first lover.
What will your parents say? When you purchase the first terraced house.
What will your parents say? When you name the first bonny child.
What will your parents say? When you grow the first middle-aged grey hair.
What will your parents say? When you kneel by the gravestones in tears of agonising despair.
What will your parents say? When the giant institutional doors close finally at the end of the day.
What will you say? What will you say? What will you say…………
The Explorer
To the myriad stars we journey, In omnipresent fear and loathing uncertainty. We traverse the Universe alone dead to the bone, Specks of meaningless dust caught in the comb.
Which cardinal point should we travel? To the rainbow nebula whose kaleidoscopic dreams bathe the lover, Or shockwave supernovae yet to discover.
Yes my dear reader and anonymous friend, There are such wondrous mysteries yet to comprehend.
The master guides his masterplan, Across the infinite blackest of black, The explorer redraws the universal map……
PCB’s = Security Guards
The monumental King of the Arctic Fridge lounged upon the glacial cube, His rakish demeanour pondering the amberic Caucasian smog immunising the European wasteland.
A newly born pup wailed its painful supplication, While the deformed body convulsed to the technotronic gig. The beautiful children swam and kissed in the Bacchanalian Party, Their solipsistic minds protected by the imposing security guards.
Guns, drugs, conventions, theories, laws, regulations, treaties, politicians, soldiers, doctors, scientists, lawyers, thugs…………… The State, Society all the Might and Right. To the babies that were protected from the evildoers: PARANOIA! PARANOIA! PARANOIA!
And as the Continental Prison edged further towards the icy Ocean and stared with wanton quizzical eyes, The King of Ice and Snow licked the Chalice of Meretricious Hemlock…….
Nokozola: Flight of the Bees
THE WHITE TAXANOMIST DIVIDED AND CATEGORISED THE SPECIES UNDER THE INSCRUTABLE MICROSCOPIC GENES OF BEING WHOSE CODES INVESTED THE TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD TYPING INFORMATION INTO THE TITANIC WHITE COMPUTER DISTRIBUTING ONWARDS THROUGH THE WHITE ARTERIES TO THE GIGANTIC MANIC SWARMING WHITE SOCIETY AND THE OMNIPOTENT MUNIFICENT WHITE QUEEN WHOSE GUNS TONS MUMS AND POPPIES MONIES FLOPPIES AND TEAS CD’S CHEESE FEES DO WHAT YOU PLEASE ARE TO END NOKOZOLA’S DREAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!
Signature:X
The school kids taunted the house where insecurity lived, Throwing insults and febrile chants at the forlorn broken shutters; Vigour of youth, the verve of momentary regale of strength and decency clustering pavements and street corners with lioness pride, Bawled spent repressed agony.
Beady orbs leered through the cracks, Arrested expirations bellowing the predator’s miasma; An expedition to find the enigmatic Beast, To discover the potentialities of adulthood, To peep at the inclement double-edged blade cutting through the foundations of Terra Firma: Signing the hallmark of persona non grata with the obligatory signature of apathetic X…………
Pigdog
The pig barked and snarled as the probe contacted, Its hybrid canine carcass chopped and minced into the platter of the day: ISN’T IT INCREDIBLE WHAT SCIENCE CAN OFFER!
Factory after factory, A nexus of wealth and vile, Robots and technicians tampering on the bleak morrow. Experimenting on the Being of Self, Expurgating the Sentient closet: ISN’T IT INCREDIBLE WHAT SCIENCE CAN FODDER!
The Very Gallant Tawse
What King of the West could mount the podium and be quite contrite? That salacious mess whose tawdry Eagle roosted amongst the journalistic faeces: The Fourth Estate of Tyranny that waives the Capitol Tawse with uproarious applause.
Scorpions prey the desert now, Tails concocted with the poison of profit, Defamatory claws rasping for the Human Cake: MARX DIED TONIGHT!
Nazikind
If one was really honest and brash, Not so inhibited and prohibited, The Nazi would be our enchantress, The Omnipotent our Nirvana.
When the violence is struck, And the hated is abused, We hide that wry Epicurean grin, Shackling the diabolical beast.
Morality we rationally endear and abide, But in our sleep we love to curse: The carnivorous persona.
The Human lives and strives on the abyss, A clothed species whose genes burn for the kill, To dominate every space until its voracious appetite is appeased.
Nothing can stop the Human except itself, The Cannibal is its destiny…….
The Function
London burned that night in June. Her neuroses culminating from the muck of teeming millions. The great august St Paul’s, an effigy or should I say an icon of Eliot’s wasteland with all the screaming rats surfacing out into the quizzical megalopolis. A long somnolent revelry of wistful idealism and the saturnine abyss; looking up to the blissful heavens whilst simultaneously standing on a tightrope and the hellfire beneath. Portents warned but only the fool listened! Why should anyone doubt when security was always the norm: the sun waxed and waned, and London slept and woke and grew. But the ‘Night of Nightmares’ would put a ruin to such naïve certainty: Nature would always beat the endeavoured and surplus couched, the avaricious and urbanite, the ‘dustbin being’ and its electronic screen. And what Hades was to manifest that glorious city where the western soul lay? Only the FRIGHT THE FRIGHT THE FRIGHT!!
The prehistoric murmured the providence of its lot, A time when the Function would be done, To ply the sky and seed the cry! What a lonely planet she was, The cousin who twinkled in Leo’s mane, A carnelian jewel sailing by the cosmic winds.
The monosyllabic voice first cowered the tentative path: This would be a long venturesome journey, No master to guide but the God within. The creatures learnt the steps to maturity, How to power and empower, How to be the suppliant to the power. They worshipped the Great Confused, In temples of persiflage Love and Abused.
From humble beginnings Civilisation rose, Achievements to achievements; Soon the planet was a sprawl in every haze of the Creatures’ Gall, The hermitage but a mere museum to the curious ‘once before’. What frontier was left for the creatures to change into their diabolical cage?
A blin |