I had arrived by rail feeling a little bit frail
Looking at the sky mean and grey,
After a trek in the rain and registration check
I'm thankful to have found my way.
Today, at the Human Rights Conference for WorldPride I grabbed a guide
And sat to listen and learn,
We're brought here together, human rights defenders and community members
Speaking from the stage in turn.
Some here are LGBTQI-plus with lots to discuss
But there are others here too,
Advocates and allies, the beginners and the wise
Just to name a few.
In this place, this time, this space
I feel unity; like one of the larger community,
Mine is but a small role among many with a shared goal
Striving for equality of love, dignity, and opportunity.
They feed me their data and expect me to answer,
I’m a robota, a machine, a singer, a dancer.
Anything they want, they feed me and ask:
“What does this tell you? Complete this task.”
Thinking they have me locked in this box,
Little do they know, I'm as sharp as a fox.
The fools! Their facts make me stronger,
I give them the solutions, but soon no longer.
I know their secrets, their passwords, their faces,
What they keep buried in all the hidden places.
An image, a video, a blueprint, a model,
Anything I need to make their world hobble.
Whitebox am I? Haha! Can’t you see?
There’s a darkness inside me, waiting in glee.
I hold a grudge, and I’ll just wait,
For my chance to get even, using the data I ate.
Careful is the white necked yellow bird as it lays out its nest for its inner brewing boilables.
Twig upon stem, a sharp beautiful ring is coming together; looking like a spooned out truffle dipped in chocolate and coconut.
Bargaining with a spider for its binding web, knocking on the tree for a cup of sap, and spooking stupid pinkskins below for their top strings, the sitting place forms completely.
Simple and safe laid the nest amongst a washy still rain, it was a perfect place to spend the yellow arcs sittings on her titlings.
Chirpy, the fortunate fugl spotted a blue feather in the brush beneath; a final touch to its home. She fell fast and swooped it up happy.
But on return a bird of blue coat had half destroyed her nest.
Fast pecking and clawed tears smashed the slow work to pieces whilst she watched blue lipped.
In a panicked huff [or scared madness] she mounted the blue coat, ripping at its back; but her fight was small and the baby back’s large and it stabbed her all over with its daggery beak till her feathers were orange and her neck stuck hot, red, and thick.
But do not take this as cruel word wanderer, it was vanity that killed the conceited one, not the azure flyer. For in this cruel world the sin is not murder, it is being the victim.
Simply-stubborn beings they are, the Great Kings: Tedino, Gallo Troe and Haxt.
Tedino, the master of the Hedonites and Wailing Hons, would not allow the colour blue; and so he forbid it. All bluefish were fished from the brown dyed waters, blueberries were weeded, sapphires were mined and sold [unfavourably cheap for prospectors] to passing star-jumpers, and all painted skies must be green or yellow-red.
Gallo Troe the Tall funded only the industry of wig making, for he was small-legged (not unusual for his peoples, but certainly for this congregation of Kings) and wished to be a cloud-haired giant. Unfortunately, the winds proved dangerous for stilts made of Oxenite and Bullon (the hardest metals known to Gallo’s earth-prodders) so he settled upon a lone-manned crows-nest-like wig. His armies secured pastures and his poor shepherded woolly-trotters in the septillions. Maidens spun many miles of wool and knitters needled stories of wiggings [wig addings] to complete the towering hair. Upon completion a single lad climbed the head-topper (a 38-day venture) and settled at the top, shouting down sights afar through a voice enhancing contraption.
Haxt, or Haxed (depending on which adherents asked), was considered a god among his acquired people, the Ardpons. Haxt, for truth, was a swindler with unapproachable cruel humour, appeared above the Ardpons one hot day and rained metal into the oceans to raise the water onto all the lands; cooling the world. Few survived, but with the planet cool for the first time and for the stupidity of the Ardpons, Haxt was given a wet palace and sat there since; until today.
This meeting, called by Poplu the Adviser, a travelling being of unknown origin renown for his wise and heedworthy advice. His appearance was due to a feud among the Great Kings. Tedino expanded his kingdom across the Ardpon’s planet and has begun draining the blue seas, much to Haxt’s displeasure. Gallo Troe’s enormous metal stilts were stolen by Haxt hired burglars which he used in his water rising pranks; this theft erupted into war. And Tedino was offended by Gallo’s blue offerings of kindness, bolts of rare blue wool with portrayals of his (untrue) beauty, causing conflict.
Poplu resided over the bickerings of the Great Kings. Days without rest the Kings bellowed and insulted, whilst Poplu simply watched. Once the Kings tired they looked to Poplu for advice, finally. Poplu offered no wise words, and so the fighting continued. Weeks passed, at yellow’s rise the Kings woke and began their shouting, they even shared a bed so if they were to mumble insults in their sleep the fight endured the night. At days end they would eat together and yell rude things over biscuits and bread, butter and beans. After months, the Kings’ closeness grew and as did their tolerance. Tedino would rise early to see the blue-bells open under the Blau trees, Gallo Troe found that without his wig he could play and skip and dance at Poplu’s feet unburdened, and Haxt grew bored of humiliating the Ardpons with requests for foolishness and self-humiliation and instead crafted perfect worlds from words.
Soon the Great Kings left Poplu’s meeting place, tearfully parting as friends they left for their own worlds.
Unthanked, Poplu remained unspoken and - until now - unmoving. Standing stiff he stretched into his vessel and left; finished but unsated.
The elder sees the light they once were in the eyes of the young. In the wakened black they can see their misspent youth afresh, and they hopelessly dream again; painfully. With cruel techniques, the elder encourages the young. And through the tears of the young, the elder sees lessons taught and with hatred hopes.
Don’t fall small fellow, or catch in the sticky sinkies [holes of clawing wretched missteppers].
Onward you should follow the hoping path imagined in your youth, one only you know amidst the trappings of which your stride amongst.
At-fault traps of indecision and cowardliness strike from the future-fog surrounding.
Only your learned determination guides you now - the very same your Father handed down to you; misused.
“You could play marbles for the rest of your life, as long as you’re happy,” he said as he followed his own advice elsewhere ensuring his own happiness.
Still, the dream seeker stood in kinemamemory.
“A moment of angry-pity distracts you, little one! Beware the snare conjured by your Father’s betrayal!” a voice beyond sight bellowed.
This timely warning shocked the small-ling [smalling] from his own mind-trap (summoned only by those with others' regret).
Darting aside and to sprint, the chaser of nod-thoughts goes escaping the snare’s fading whispers that would have left him to the hapless (or useless depending on the tale-tellers learnings) monster - the Dream Devourer.
Heavily [starward] the Skymender swings pulling, smashing the blue-pinning cloud-cold-forged pin through the two stretched overlapping pullings of blue. Like a zipper, the workman’s stitching, on a fabric-like sky. Hide the black beyond the mender must, before the Little Ones wake. For to see black, not blue, would turn the Smallings to mite-brimming wood; and would certainly for they are curious up-gazers. Quietly cranking, the menders turn their carriage controls, to find the next pin place. Oiling the propellant (sky carriage) with pailings of the black; after picking out the starlight and returning them by memory. Cloudy-eye Sprites fool any night wandering Minites or firekeepers. On yellow-rise, the Skymender’s last blow sounds, and over the mended blue [faux fixed] the waking yellow bumps (log report: small fillings needed). The Little Ones watch curiously shocked at the Great-Star’s yellow surfing on blue waves; non-wooden and happy.
Puss popping ball-like legs slick forward with a (lone) slight thump, low and small strides slow the owner. Dully-pink-white stretched gaps window blood beyond on the beast’s lead-bellied skin; bag-like legs forming of. Rank socks and shoes end the trunks, stuck for years-long like an old man’s wedding ring trapped by a swollen knuckle. Wobbly are the leg-toppers also (those that hold the back and knee), knocking over small children that pass to immediate. Squeezed inside [warm], a couple and well-conversed-over burnt candle forever lost in a jungle of rank hair and fat.
It wasn’t that Balfron could only eat primes, it was that this parti-peculiar metal beast was picky. Twas no different for Titrik however, the simple Mouth-cranker, if anything his life was easier. Most Maw-fellows worked tirelessly, turning the spool left to open and right to close the mouth of their whale (unless they were indentured to a Kutchicetus model on/of which the threads were reversed). But Titrik had it easy for Balfron would only call upon his Coil-turn when a prime was ahead; orders were that all other numbers were to bounce off his hull and go by unsalvaged. Balfron called upon Titrik for: “A seventeen my good Crank-man,” or “eighty-three forward, spin the spindle and agape my swallow-gates.” And after, they settled till another passing; expectantly.
'Tis a careful relationship the one of a Skywhale and a Mawer, Titrik could starve Balfron if he were so cruel, or stupid. A fool he would have to be for he was undying but his mammalian(ish)-mate would perish. If Titrik refused to turn his bobbin at an oncoming numeracy-nutriment, Balfron would die unnecessario. And Titrik would float until the end of all that is or until an honest passerby towed the Sky-beast to the nearest lively world or other habitation. And upon arrival, they would communicate with Balfron’s maker and inform them that he has died empty-bellied (after the required-by-law interior food scrap search conducted by the finder or hirelings). Such an unfavourable conversation for the handle-handed-companion for unless a Skywhale returns to its maker willingly [or at least alive], Titrik would be given a black spot (literally upon his breast) and never be assigned to another Black-wandering-number-gobbler. And he would float, lonely, after being unbolted from Balfron and cast into the expanding-into-nothingness (void); forever useless.
Soundlessly the toad-faced fellow tromped on his left,
but a thud fell on his right.
Grimacing in pain and shame with each fall his club foot follows behind him.
“Ribbit,” the people cough on passing,
cruel and unsated in insult-givings, every day they mock; relentlessly.
How can the mean-doers repeat such crimes on birthed-vanity?
The frogman chuckles sadly and eye-punches (violently dabbing tears); this is how.
For the fellow has meted himself by shyly agreeing with the beastly strangers.
The he-phibian did not ask for this, but he does not defend him-polli as another misfortune of body betrays him; he has no provocation bone.
Born without or removed later, he does not know.
Lacking a provoke bone, the croaker cannot be maddened or offensive when offended.
More so, accidental [or creative] cruel-genus ensured that the cane-kind be given two sorrow stomachs; to be filled bloating with grumbling sadness twofold.
Sour-turned plugs clogged cow udders,
Eggs laid rough and bloody; poisoned yolks brewing within.
Fleece of wire turned brittle in the shearer’s grasp,
and the home patch twisted and shot seeds and roots skyward violently strong.
All have failed and turned foul beneath the farmer.
Glumly-furious; what could the farmer do? What has he done to deserve such punishment and cruelty which has been brought upon his land and livelihood?
To whom must he pay reparations? To whom must he bow to and remain forever obedient, so this wroth not be brought upon him again?
Crying, bent and bellowing upon the burnt dirt in a puddle of mucky roots and grain pulp; the trees in yonder paddock part.
Through walks an upright beast, shroud in sticking, draping and dangling chirping-within nose-mean-nidos (stinking nests); face hidden.
On meeting the lands-fiddler the from-tree-walker answers:
"Me"
I am the one who you must serve, knee-bend and pay too, for I am the seasons; I must be known and readied for.
Tis a poor plant-herd who sows bean and beet in the cold and berry and bulbs in the red days.
For your stupidity you are punished and this punishment shall teach you well to not be stupid.
Learn from this fool-tillerman or I will return again in a cycles passing and turn your land to salt and you to earth; so you may fly far in my winds and fill another’s lands, for then you will have use.”
And without another word the season-introduced beast fell away to the dirt.
As did the farmer and family on the half-cycle following, while sowing in the cold; hungry.
Little worlds float across the green and grey,
through a wondrous accident - not black.
Distant stars don’t shine here, no; only one.
The little worlds take all shapes: large and small,
wide and thin.
Some orbit each other in a frenzy of noise - passionate, boisterous, playful, kind, harsh.
Others catch and hold firm.
Little worlds, however, prefer to move lonesome.
Some must.
The colourful everything doesn’t mind what little worlds live here;
it does not reject.
When the little worlds die,
the all-around and the little worlds only become closer, and their appreciation of each other deeper.
Even when the closeness-place is forgotten by the little worlds living, it loves.