A letter to Arsene Wenger - IV

Dear Majestic Omniscience Arsene, Arsene of Arsenal, Emperor of Higbury, the Green Swards of Colney and Goodison Park,

I have terrible recall for honorifics,
And have written before over my previous capacitors.
I hope your ongoing global developments.are terrific
But to matters technical
Baby snails, etc….
Football is not cricket.
Rule constrained decision making,
The white line, the whistle, the man in black
The turnstile, the ticket
The text, external
The constitution of the association, the proper pathways, the confidence in ethics Baby snails.

It’s that this
These issues, 18 yard box, six yard box, the correct response to transgression in context
Are all downstream of a tape measure. Nutrition. To boot,
While sheep grazing is excellent pitch maintenance
Wild animals, hogs, must not be permitted to ravage grass roots.
Or we find the quality of football declines. 
I confess I was jealous to lose the groundsman to Old Trafford all those years ago, air pumps and such, so so, you know, he kept such lovely turf, no tufts. But I digress.

Doping in football.
Chemistry, Biology. Genes, RNA. what next
Vanishingly small risks to probity
Dopamine in high office. Canonical texts
Constitutions.
Not to be confused with the fixture list
Or the fixtures and fittings
The commonplace trappings of Office
Is too commonplace.

To energies technical
Wang
Should not be prominently displayed.
FIFA, global, East-West, Left-Right
Hemispheres and full spheres
The pitch, not the ring. The ball
Not the boxing fight.

Stephen Ireland was never the same player after Muai Thai.
The ball
Should not be embroiled in an IP case.
But I digress.

These polarisations are not the text, nor the game
There are two ends, swapped, timely.
Beauty, the aesthetic qualities of symmetry
Psiongnomy, advertising, baby snails, lentils
The global influence, the game
The earth-mover must be gentle
The zip not so tight that blood flow lost to parts.
Or mental confusion may emerge.
Of the emergent qualities some appear less desirable.
But we must all play our part
The playing of the game
The gaming of the rules
The parting of the game
Nedved, the acceleration, cut in, slow-down
Yellow card, Italian rules, but still. I digress.
This thing with goalkeepers, all a bit contrived, the underlying culture perhaps given to lying. Not that I would accuse him personally. Always seems upstanding. Yes.

Of vibrations technical
The urge to Japanese opera
In this time of data and telecommunications
It is easy to become subject to too much inflammation.
Confusion is understandable
Though we must, in understanding confusion
Appreciate Derrida.
That precisely the absolutely exact intended narrowcast frequency
Is subject to stochastic variation from natural mutation.
And is not
100% spot on every single time 
Nor the circuitry.
It is no good to have direct connection to Leicester’s results.
All messy, these typos.
But I digress.
Non-linear appreciation
Is not a suitable quality of
The President’s personal bank account.
Nor should unnatural mutation

Hats on or off
Affect the text, external.
It seems too late to call for alarm
Technically speaking
We must put down arms.

I do hope you are able to candidly convey the substance
Of these words to the President
That football is not cricket
And that such infections require time in sanitorium.

Passing accuracy statistics reflect the quality of your ongoing endeavours. I have total confidence in the technical qualities of Global Football development.

 

Considerations in the canonical Iexicon I

Many a fan opts for the wong wang
Presuming this good enough
Yet, they are unsure of this
Under cooked, unready, insufficient cowards
It's just not cricket.

Totally gone fishing - Considerations in the canonical lexicon III

I had totally, totally
Absolutely gone fishing
Slipped down an alley
To a canal outside Issing.

Sat on a bank
With all my cares missing
Calling softly “Oh fish, Oh fish,
You are my need and my wish”.

Unspooling the reel

Drifitng the line
So I might catch a meal
Of fresh fish so fine.

Then snap, line taught
The hook bit
A carp caught The reel gripped.

I wound the baton in
Slowly turning the thread
Watched the spool fattening
Heard what the string said
Singing, a tail battering
The water, the fearful head
Then with a moments slackening
The line slipped, the fish fled.

It had the measure of my reel
The bite was not secure
Now the surface won’t reveal
But it watches me I’m sure.

I sat calm on a bank on lovely day
The reel once again empty
It wa a fish that got….
Anyway.

Necessarily odd. Considerations in the canonical lexicon II

In thinking of this
It is necessarily odd
To work it
Logistics, what knots can do
Tuning, before the bus
Runs on its circuit.
Opera, necessarily odd.

The energy complex, et cetra
Its webbed infrastructure
Deprecated by sunshine.
Now in tin shacks like rush mines
The warehouses advance
Major complex, compute
The variables like ants
In a faith who could call cute
I turn to look, repeatedly, repeatedly
Everywhere now see lovely man.
Necessarily odd. 

Anti-inflammatory literature III

Arms entwined in Paris, spring coiled in bud 
The gardens of a Godolphin house fettle
From showers we sheltered in the lea, settled
Over coals sausages cooked, sure in love
As bright flames swelled, the local Church bells rang.
We did not need your fan
The winds, gusty, were good enough.

The cowardice of all

The shit
The caked crust of filth that films this world
The scaffold of lies only the high believe
The evil
The cowardice of all.

What confronts is the grinding maw
A gate of knives, hammers and rollers
The life from here architected by treason
The evil
The cowardice of all.

The delusion eats its tail
Waves censers in worship
Of its own undoing
The creed with which they poisoned the South
Drips as theology from stitched mouth
The evil
The cowardice of all.

So weak of mind we give our minds in fear
The stolen structured schizophrenia so exactly
What is to be done. Who will do it 
While these routines run and run
The evil
The cowardice of all.

This epoch is derelict at its outset
All shuffling papers in banality of amargeddon
When called upon, where have the good gone ?
The evil
The cowardice of all.

Ayutthaya

I, a traveler from an antique land

Where the jungle parts saw a red brick stand

Sat atop it, two folded legs of stone

The torso shorn, still held command

Over a cityscape of rubbled brick

Red stubble of sacked streets and Wots.

Upon the walls strewn thick legs and arms

Split naked bodies carved of rock.

Still standing were the bell shaped forms

Lords entombed in solid brick

That ape masons from before their dawn

Who thinned and cooled the muggy tropic.

There, repeated by a hundred hands a hundred ways

Still dusted clean, a hundred shattered visage lay

Who's smiling lips and downcast eye

Knew well the folly of all earthly works

Sabbe sankhara anicca.

Mint growing from the cracks.