Racism Down Under

DayOfTheSword · Guest

Fewlix you forget about ethnic cleansing.

cthulhu · Tar Sands Joined: Apr 12, 2004 Posts: 66

But Felix since you are interested in Kiwi Culture try these on for size: The first is a Villanelle called One Tree Hill

Of deeds done, undone, who shall weigh their cost?
What heavy rays have now sought out their prey?
Mourn not your loss, but what others have lost.

Must the congealed fears of years break from frost?
What a dark light has shone this dismal day,
of deeds done, undone. Who shall weigh their cost?

Who wills to be on grief's grey tempest tossed?
Wear, eternal sea, the shore! Tears, fragile clay!
Mourn not your loss, but what others have lost.

What burden to cross? At end what impost?
How greater the price, the burden to stay,
of deeds done, undone? Who shall weigh their cost?

And who may lead that it be safely crossed?
Shed is the way 'neath the onerous sway.
Mourn not your loss, but what others have lost.

One tempest tossed and lost who will accost?
"How much must I pay?" They pause, hiss and say:
"Of deeds done, undone, who shall weigh their cost?
Mourn not your loss, but what others have lost."

Interesting? Footy Show is better right. Well your a military man and want to know what one man can do so try this:

The line weakens. At each new push they creep closer. Muscles strain to failure. Sinews singing snap. I must return, back, back to the camp. That one. He sneers. I cannot look into his eyes. I have broken but no, not that way. Guide your anger against our foe. My countrymen I return.

I can feel it, this panic. People feed on it for lack. Where is the priest? There. He does not see.

"Consecrate me!" Don't pull away.

"No, I cannot. Don't ask me."

"Consecrate me! For the men, our people, the City!" I have never before raised my voice to him, yet he must listen to my exhortation.

Don't look around. I am on my knees, look at me! At last he sees. The purple will come, he has called. This strong hand upon my head, tussles my hair as in years before. Your mouth moves father, I hear only the tears in your eyes. When did they appear? They have been strangers between us all these long years. At last the cloak is made fast. I go.

Don't look back. Carry me well this day dear steed. What, a glow is there swollen and grown in the distant camp. A voice speaks. "My son, my son come to me."

Strange shadows light and cast. Ride. I feel weightless, ethereal. Never before have you obeyed so well. The main line of battle, the power flows in tidal directions. We fly, those faces below, indistinct, mere lumpen clay of hollows.

"Look my son, drink deeply from the cup of my destruction."

Surrounded is the City, this long siege has worked its will. An army barbarous, unholy, foreign sets its sharpness against Her, peels Her skin. As if on it's own moves my arm, swings my sword. From a shoulder as cutting air an arm is severed. Drive deep. They move through streets narrow, wide before them flee the citizens now ripe for rapine, murder, death. The enemy host is in alarm. I strike at my will. No, I strike.

Fire in rapture moves from quarter to quarter. Screaming torches carry their contagion, before collapsing. A storm, ancient glories etched within Her collapse. Mother! Iridescent. They gather around me. Move closer then back. At these waves I hack. The very sky darkens. A shroud. He is gone. I salute you, valiant one of my own heart. Once more you rear your head, shaking, nostrils flared, smoky rivers of blood. I must go on.

"My lover come. My darling sweet one. I reach out to you."

That figure. Is she that light? She who calls me now whispering?

"Peer within me my love see all, know that I am."

That man hesitates. Behind. How easily I removed the leg at the knee. Why so much incense before your household god, grieving one? Fear you this day your man dies? Who are these ones who dine, and full go out to lie and in public deal in bribes? I know. The famous men of our age. Move to the side! Thrust, there between!

That look, new mother caress this babe so fragile so strong. She is wan and pale. Mother share my strength. An arrow. It's found its mark. Stopped by bone, I feel it as something that is happening, for all that am I here? Poor girl lost alone, I see another homeless, a boy if only you could each other know. They surround me as shadows. Larger they grow. Splits my flesh. Yet another I drag down. They fall upon me. What darkness they bring. How bright that light.

Where? The field. Who is this that comes?

"What are you doing here little girl?"

"Don't be so silly."

She reaches for my hand. Would you have your tender fingers stained with blood? But they now are clean. She leads and how excited she is, pointing out all the things I have so long forgotten how to see. Is this her town? So small and primitive. Dare I go further?

"Father can you carry me the rest of the way home? I'm tired"

They couldn't find his body that day but the following morning he was discovered under a mound of enemy dead. The priest presided as the body was washed, anointed and dressed before being placed on the litter. Then the victorious army set out for the City gates, a father shedding tears while others sang songs in praise of the consecrated one.

...no not really, but how about this. Some of the figure are a bit crude but approprate eh? Wink

I call it The Decline and Fall

It must be regarded with the gravest horror, granted the most repugnant reception, this tale of chicanery, double-minded duplicity and deceit, which I now am forced by circumstance to relate.

In a large town not far from here not too long ago a man past out of the community of the living, perhaps that he might act an example, a chilling warning of emptiness. He was an ordinary man in many ways. In his later age he began collecting things, a hobby, recreation, a holiday of the mind. Bottle caps, newspapers, salad forks at first, then his nail clippings, locks of his thinning hair, finally his urine and faeces he collected in preserving jars which he left everywhere, on shelves, under his bed, on his night-stand, in the refrigerator.

One day while out shopping he was rudely pushed and fell. Falling he cracked his nose and lip upon the curb. Wiping the sensation away he smeared his hand and from licking his blood could not himself refrain. Memories echoed for awhile raising a mother's milk smile. But then he began to feel slightly unwell.

He took to his bed on returning home. There he lay, his only company his cat Lucky and the radio. Eventually Lucky stopped conversing with him, just sitting in the corner beginning to smell. It was not long before from out of this stink a multitude of new found friends emerged. They communicated in an insensible liquid language, but the man was happy enough to discuss with them, the news of the day, the sports scores and all that on the radio the others relayed.

Soon however these friends took their leave and the man began chewing on his fingers. 14But more came of a different kind, buzzing in angular formations moving independent. A change is as good as a rest. Not long after this new found confidants appeared. While looking up at the plastered ceiling the man observed a spider coming down on silken thread. Surely one day this ceiling will give way. The spider began to spin a web from his left ear to his shoulder. He dared not move lest he crush his busy friend.

Soon more came and bit by bit was he cocooned. Cautiously he continued to chew. Eventually stillness reigned, with only web, exoskeleton remains to attempt to befriend and still he chewed. His arm after his hand.

Finally when the neighbours could no longer stand the smell, the authorities were called in to throw open his door. And this is what they saw: all that remained of this man was a large turd in the middle of his bed exuding semen.

And they all gathered around, sat down and ate the ordure.

Go tell the mountains what terrors I have seen.
Go tell them their son has confounded his darkness.
Go mountains, announce his victory.

Almost as good as an eposide of Shortland Street, but what's the use...

Now most think they know the story of the Emperor's new clothes, but I am sorry to say the story did not turn out the way as in the fairytale books is supposed. There were unscrupulous tailors, a procession, a naive boy, but after the boy pointed out he could see the mighty one's ding-a-ling, the crowd set upon him and tore him limb from limb. His head, cleaned-up, was set high above on the imperial city gate and none considered his an unjust fate.

So a franchise was begun to sell the imperial fashion to the less fortunate classes. Soon all were dressed in the height of fashion, having traded in their old rags for the glorious new. Immense was the joy till that is Winter came. With the onset of the snows a mysterious ailment afflicted the people turning them blue and no matter how many blankets of the imperial material were layed on the afflicted they shivered themselves into the waiting grave. Some might have looked to the decaying head reared above and against sense sworn the faintest outline of a smile appeared.

A discovery was made: The imperial material did not protect against the cold! Every great thing should be allowed one deficiency. So back to the stores the people trudged and traded-in their glory for less gallant wear that bore a shocking resemblance to the same old rags they once wore. But come spring and once more they exchanged their patched wear for that without flaw and all their nakedness proudly displayed. On the gate the boy's jaw dropped off while the merchants counted their gold. That my dear friends is the true story told.