14. The World Shall Improve!

The World shall improve!

This is a favorite song of mine, by Migliacci, Cioni/Romitelli. Edizioni-: Mimo Edizioni Musicali Srl. Original (P) 1975 Sonty BMG Music Entertainment ( Italy ) SpA., much sung by the famous Gianni Morandi. I am here uploading the italian wording, hoping to be able to translate it in the English language, while able to project the magic of its lirics.

IL MONDO CAMBIERA'!

amico mio che stai

guardando intorno a te

non credi agli occhi tuoi

tu piangi e so il perche'

quel che provi tu

los sto provando anch'io

ma non cambiare mai

ti fa paura il mondo

amico mio coraggio

io piango come te

vedrai che il mondo cambiera'

le sue ferite guarira'

l'amore no, non puo' morire

sarebbe come dire

che questa e' la fine

vedrai la notte finira'

e l'uomo si risvegliera'

con gli occhi e il cuore

di un bambino che, non puo', tradire, mai

se nella mente tua

nascesse qualche idea

coraggio amico mio

il mondo aspetta te

ma non cambiare mai

e non scordare che

via via che salirai

gradino per gradino

ti sembrero' lontano

ma io sono uguale a te

vedrai che il mondo cambiera'

le sue ferite guarira'

l'amore no, non puo' morire

sarebbe come dire

che questa e' lafine

vedrai la notte finira', vedrai

e l'uomo si risvegliera'

con gli occhi e il cuore

di un bambino che, non puo, tradire, mai.

THE WORLD IS CHANGING!

oh friend of mine

all around you observing

unbelieving what you see

I know why you cry

while  feeling

just as you do

please, never change however

the world is scaring you, I know

oh friend of mine, have courage

while I cry with you

you'll see, the world shall change

its wounds shall heal

its love is not, cannot be dying

else it would be as if

all this should be an end

you'll see, the night shall end

and humankind be re-born anew

with eyes and the heart

of an infant who, betrayal never knew

if your mind

an idea were to sprout

my friend, be daring

while the world waits for you

please, never change however

never forget that

as you shall soar

one step at the time

far away I may appear to you

however I am the same as you

you'll see, the world shall change

its wounds shall heal

its love is not, cannot be dying

else it would be as if

all this should be an end

you'll see, the night shall end, you'll see

and humankind be re-born anew

with eyes and the heart

of an infant who, betrayal never knew.

I dedicate my english translation to all the mothers of the Universe and to their motherly love, and to all loving women in general !

13. An Ode to Bimbo Leader of Gangs.

To the esteemed readers-: This is a sequel to "The Woman of Arabia".

An Ode to Bimbo Leader of Gangs.
Once upon a time, Bimbo, dear Bimbo from Australia Fair,

a hybrid mongrel who could swiftly dish-out

reversals of chores and roles in the arena of sex

many encores eliciting from his obscenely lascivious

and mentally wasted bands,
the Templar approached in a cocky and aroused way
and said
with words which with the Templar’s thoughts
with great difficulty I am compelled betwixt to mix,

since I, a third person

of both Bimbo and the Templar am here speaking

in virtue of the way a "syllogism" is thought and written down

by the human mind, the sequential order of which

great Aristotle warned us,

in separation must be shown if greater clarity is to be won,
to the effect that simultaneously occurring
by various and differing pesonae’s
utterances and/or thoughts
could not without Windows Microsoft
yet only and still in windows separated
and only if on screens shown
which the americans describe as YGWYS
if thou finally get my drift, although,

I must confess

that even I at this stage my wits have lost -::

"Templar, oh you who a miserable fagot
by your restrained christian ways portrayest
You know, had I been you when young you were
of lofty Templar-ways still shy
when in the deserts of Arabia you saw
all those women shrouded in black, their anhorexic cleavages
hiding from the sight of lusty men
warely trodding their godforsaken paths away,
surrounded by camels, dogs and donkeys
in a discordant vigorous cacophony, braying, honking and grunting away
their sadly, cruelly and depleted ways
that unfeeling fate unscrupulous, unscrupulously to humanity belays
I would a ssuredly have stopped, proposed and their consent
obtained
to dilly-dallyy a little and have some sport along the way."
.................................................................................

( Templar’s thought simultaneously occurring-:)
"Halas poor wasted cleavages and forms

of which aroused Bimbo is braying of

which would defy of any greek geometrician
since Euclides’ days,
the cunning and knowing arts
to further try the yet unsquared circle to square
or the root to extract of its diagonal
or something of the sort that I need to be reminded of
that all have, I have been told,

hidden, ancient sumerian sexual imports
that Freud our latter-days’ guru faithfully reports of
of whom dear Bimbo neither heard
nor would anyway give a damn of
in cleavages his mind being irretrievably lost,
wether anhorexic or not it would neither matter to him a nought

nor the fact that Arabs forsooth invented our nought ".
(End of Templar’s uncharitable and rather grotty thoughts).
..................................................................................

To which the rather sombre, dour and sour Templar knight
his vilest mood rising while his temper restraining just
replied to Bimbo, all the way trying to think of his Order’s Spiritual Master
of Jesus Christ’s the gentle, tolerant all forbearing
yet effortless might-:
" Bimbo, dear Bimbo of mine, you irredimable dolt and clot,

for Jesus’ Love’s sake always remember
to over here, near to sweet Jesus remain and stay
and never, never to trod a path there where
verily verily and most assuredly
with your easy and unrestrained ways, my son,
your tiny, lustrous, yet hairy and ugly balls
you would loose to unforgiving,

of ages-past, Sharia's ways and Laws,

which do not give a damn whether

you acted with a consent or not ".

12. Of The Arabic Zero or Nought.

Of The Arabic Zero or Nought.

 

David-like

who of BigPond's bloggers' the Bard is,

to-day, again,
poetry shall I try to write
knowing I shall fail
to soar high and light
of poetry the clouds to hike, like he-:
Whenever “ butterfly “ the word I hear
invariably and with longing
of Cindy dear vainly I think
and Cindy as a chained link
which around my neck is
sorrowfully brings back to me
of Luthien the norwegian nymph
immemorable the memory
which as ice and frozen mist
the opposite but is
of Ludwige her nibelungian sister
of Wagner and Goethe
the amazonian dream
whose body is
a series of circle osculations
reaching
to infinitesimally small
but never quite reaching
tangentially asymptotic
integrations and derivations
exhausting at once all Euclidean
tri-dimensional trigonometric
expectations
finally satiated and spent
falling and ending into
a fat and empty
cathartic-like
Arabic zero or nought.
Reader of mine,
the morale of this Tale is-:
Honny Soit Quy Mal Ye Pense!

11.An Ode to Shimba the Cat.

This Ode is dedicated to all females who have made my life more human and humane. I could not imagine a human world without its females.

An Ode to Shimba the Cat.

 
Shimba is just a cat, they say.
But family is Shimba to me,
now that my parents have left me
and gone to that Garden where
eternal youth and bliss
is said to reign by those who,
while making doubly sure
that they always desperately
try to miss, hypocritically,
the last and the next bus there
while always sadly and forlornly
at Sunday’s functions singing Psalms
the high praises extolling of it
and of how sadly they all miss it,
all the while keeping on making every effort,
humanly possible, to never get there
upon a multitude of apologetic claims
that they are more needed
down here than up there
by human love that is the ofspring
of that Divine One Above
which so decrees for them to be
moreover taking out cash-insurance about it.
Might your patience please forgive
the short digression
while amicably and together
a swift return to waiting Shimba
dear reader of mine we make.
I claim Shimba is my cat
but she thinks my mother to be
as she continuously and dutifully patrols
of her territory the perimeter
where the house is to which she came
and which she has known
since when a tiny, little,
of her lost mother and of the litter the loss, then,
of her whole known- world the loss complayning,
as a ‘miaowing’, hungry, cold and lonely pet.
Shimba is almost human now.
In fact, I reckon
she is a human cat.
Of her daily Menu she knows
in her vast knowledge of gourmetry
all entries by heart
and if I were to tell her
she is going to have,
say, meaty-meaty, to-day
she’d her eyes lift to me
mockingly, as if to say, quizzingly
" Which kind prithee? "
in her mute but
rather unmistakeable ways.
Oh yes, mistakes do  not you make
She knows of porky-porky
and of mincy-mincy
of which she is partial to,
of beefy-beefy and lamby-lamby.
She gets all excited at the sound
of livy-livy, kiddy-kiddies  and  hearty-hearty too.
She has also become
a classical music devotee
when with her tails-movements
sitting on my lap
she signs her appreciation
for the most stirring
of Paganini’s violin music hits.
To her it must all sound
as if in cat-tongue a discourse
explaining all the types of mice and rats
caught in diabolical cattish traps.
I also sure have made
for Shimba to get
religiously educated as
of Lord Krishna to her I narrate
the love He had for cows and cats
revealing to her, while hypocritically
preparing her adorable porky-porky,
that if she well behaved
in sparing pidgy-pidgies and birdie-birdies
in her lust for game
surely indeed
mighty Lord Krishna would
at her death change her
into a glamourous,
all cleavages and curves-fairy
of high repute, a truly human bimba fair.
Yes, Shimba is unique
in both the world
of humans and of cats.
Shimba is also ‘bendy’
a word I have to use
in order to express her predilection
to wrap herself around or better still inside
the curved surface of a flower pot
that is large enough to accomodate
her matronly-like cat figure
minding of course with infinite and delicate care
the flowers or plants that inside the pot dwell.

In fact, I found that Shimba
is a great and passionate lover
of all herbs aromatic and medicinal
to which she olfactorily makes
offerings of love tender and sweet
during her daily patrols
in the bright sun.
Yes, Shimba is a wise old she-cat now
one could almost say
a philosopher among cats.
And I am almost sure that
my recently increased wisdom
otherwise unexplainable
is the result of some of her own
transmigratorily to my own transmitted
when laying as if dosing
in front of I writing away my thoughts
but with her littkle brain still ticking
and her eyes’ blinkers down
as if apparently closed
she gazes at me knowingly
all awhile transmitting away
her cattish thoughts and wisdom
to me whom she regards as her own son.
Yes, Shimba knows the times
when to go out and when to return.
Walter my father used to say-:
" Shimba is a whole Branch of Science,
whoever knows Shimba’s ways
knows the whole range of
the rather vast of Cats’ Science ,
as he woke up at 3 ocklock a.m.
to open for Shimba’s sake the front door".
I used to wantonly laugh and
think my father too old then, but,
now I am saddled with a second mother
and have become the servant
of a rather sophisticated and
gourmetising, spoiled, lovely,

loving and almost christian-like

She-Cat.

10. OF LARGE AND LITTLE 'o's.

OF LARGE AND LITTLE 'o's.

Sometimes I sit and wonder
in analogies drifting like
smoke does, randomly,
like a fat gaseous cloud,
patrician looking, all white,
with just a twinge of grey,
that carbon emissions betray,
to better contrast the immensity
of the bleu sky around,
in contemplations immersed
of self-possessing doubts
wartching the red vastness of
the Nullarbour plain below
of Yamarka and of the Ten Canoes-people
the incomprehensible delight,
too much sunlight on bare headed skulls
when still young,
for the want
of a good bush hat I guess.
Strangely enough
my everlasting obsessions arise
of how the Arabs for Salam Cafe’s
now highly noted and
in even greater repute,
could have the brains to discover
of the big Zero,
the vast array of virtues and uses.
Especially I, the gaseous cloud
which aforehead I talked to you about,
rememberst thou?
I wonder of why,
while the West chose
the Zero to appear as a big ‘ O ‘,
like a big holy halo
or to be more earthly bound,
even like onto the large,
bovine, arctic blue eyes of G..Y.
which looking up at you
as if in eternal and innocent wonder,
don’t you be fooled by them, o stranger,
stir your innards like a gallon of castor oil,
the Arabs decided that,
perhaps more wisely and fittingly than the West,
that the zero should rather be shown
as a fig-shaped, twisted, squashed,
suffering smalll ‘o’, an ‘o ‘ that has been
traumatized by some sodomitic experience
all contracted and twisted
as if out of a sodomitic spasmodic and spastic

orgasmic gasping,
just after an aggravating cracking
induced by vigorous farting
induced by loud laughing
brought about by Salem Cafe’s poor antics,
not to mention the more subdued and discreet ones
resulting from effeminate Anglican chantings.
Honny Soit Quy Mal Ye Pense.

9. To an Aussie Chrysalis.

To an Aussie Chrysalis.

Gentle chrysalis that,

with searching and longings
now my dreams

of Thee shall fill,
fraily waiting and dormant,
yet eversensing
such as when in their light sleep
the Muses their spare time spend,
beauty to spin anew and Fate alike,
Thy icon suggests to me
a soft, warm, silky coccoon
wrapping up as if within royal fine laces
a precious human gem,
bursting with tenderness
cheerfully curious about
the mystery that life is.
Perhaps, perchance,
someday far off
open the coccoon shall be,
the shining, vibrant, fluttering butterfly within
that, halas!, would also remind me
of dear lost Cindy,
to freely roam the fields to allow,
halas!,
----life is full of

and made to seem longer

by such regrets as these----
even if for a short,
too short a summer day
that our human life is,
measured against
God and Eternity.
Requiem das nobis, Domine!

May Allah give us rest!

8. An Ode to Faded, Tight-over-the-crotch, Bleu Jeans.

   An Ode to Faded, Tight-over-the-crotch, 

Bleu Jeans.

( Dedicated to my favourite bleu jeans-wearer, G.Y. , a lady-blogger, who has the most beguiling arctic-bleu, roundest, bleuest eyes with the bimba-looks of an eternally innocent, after-orgasmic contentment. If you know what I mean.)

An Ode to Faded and Tight-over-the-crotch, Bleu Jeans.

The praises I wish to sing of
the icon that now sways
both West and East
about our male wits.
Many an invention has it spurred
with its utilitarian twist
that makes both genders
wear it as if
Unisex were Holy Writ.
Even the Vatican
has wisely endorsed it,
since it can, uncannily,
and paradoxically alike,
more babies stimulate
the genders to spin,
so as, as even Cardinal Pell
of Sydney, in Australia Fair,
the grey Eminence,
concernedly assures us all,
that in the West,
more babies are needed
in order the demographic growth
to balance-out with the East
where more vigorously than in the West
fornication is indulged in.
That is in fact the secret reason why
Australia has imported so many
of the people from the East,
including those who Salam Cafe’ favour
and all its crappities, crudities and nonsensities.
More babies are needed in Australia Fair, you nitwits!
So get down to it, vigorously, the task to fulfil.
"Do not worry children of my soul,
don’t worry about water and energy,"
says the Cardinal.
"Regarding water,
we can always import the mineral from Europe
blessed if need be, by papal hands for free,
to have our showers with.
Energy is not a problem,
as, with more babies
one can always have plenty of human power
to move the cogs of our Economy.
Back to the Middle Ages shall we return
happily singing with Bob Brown
and the Dalai Lama

and all the Greens too,
under the May-Pole Tree.
Who knows if perchance
the fate of Tibet
shall be Australia's own too.
Halas!
All good and pleasant things must always end.
Let us return to the subject of this song
that was the icon
that mightily moves both West and East,
more even so than both
the Internet and the PC,
Bill Gate the wise
also concurring with this.
The icon is nonetheless than
the humble Bleu Jean
which dear old Levi,
of Israel a worthy
and good patriarcal son,

as soon as resettled in his New Jerusalem

which the Italians called Broccolin,
devised originally for rough-riding,
pale-faced cowboys to wear
under their leather outfits,
which of cutting and sharp thorns took care,
so as to better contain and restrain
their bursting oversized balls,
bursting for the want of use
as the Far West was once a women-less waste,
however, the Bleu Jeans
soon changed and corrected all this,
while at the same time also
strong enough
to fulfill the function that
the Templars’ ball-suspenders of old,
were wanted to do,
carrying out the protecting function
that restrained opponents
to grab one's balls in any close conflict
to unlawfully gain a contest by deceit.
Levi used to make these for a dollar a piece,
the poor soul, not ever guessing how popular
and ubiquitous these would have been.
He cunningly reinforced these
with little copper studs
that made the vain cowboy look
as if more bemedalled
than even a russian returned soldier indeed
who needs two comrades
to help him march in a parade
for the weight of the vast
of his medals the array.

Eventually, to cut the tale short,
the Jeans caught
of the feminists the attention,
who quicly, on the spur, decided
in their usual aggressive ways
to adopt the Jeans as an expression
of their equality and supremacy
over even the patriarcal race.
However God who is on the patriarcal side,
this being the weaker side
and of the NT the God must
to his Son be true,
Who the weak and meek loves most,
saw all and said-: " Ha, ha! Thou shalt not prevail.
Tightly and more revealingly
then even the skirts
can suggestively only do,
thou shall wear them oh of Eve the daughter.
Tight, very tight and close,
so as to reveal, but just so,
the little jewels thou have been
graciously and undeservedly provided with
by the cunning and all-knowing
Arts of God Who created Thee.
Is there a need to further proceed
in the spinning of this tale
that can verified be
any time and everywhere
a Bleu Jean is
that any cunning female of the human species
wears with so much deceit?
Even I a Templar
halas!, now sexually at rest,
blessing everyday
the peace that this means
---many poor sods are known
to blow their brains out
in spite of their wife, mistresses,
salami, home-made sauces, offspring
double-storey, triple-fronted,
balconied mansions
for the want of stimulation---
yes, I was saying, even I,
I must forsooth confess,
still am, just for an instant though,
all bamboozled by the sight
of a tightly-worn,
strategically revealing, while hiding,
the hints of what is
that miracle that God invented

which Rabelais, the french priest called
"the solution of all continuities ",
and that the Orientals call "the Jade Gates ".
Rabelais indeed,
who lived when,
in the Renaissance of human spirit,
man began anew
to dare and play the clown
after the neo-spartan rigours
of Middle-Aged restraints
that to no avail
improvements to morality could bring,
for want of charismatic laughter,
that even God enjoys on High,
that is why He/She/IT
created me a holy clown to wit.
Rabelais as I was saying,
in one of his light and clownish moments,
while resting from the rigours
of trying to bring down from Heavens,
the sacramentally enclosed God
Who is said in the Holy Host
to renovate the miracle of Salvation
through an eternal renewal of Sacrifice,
that the Bleu Jeans
wrongly understood and interpreted
can forsooth cause the unaware to need,
but everyone needs it anyway
as no one is innocent at all,
as the Scriptures and even Paul of Tarsus agree with,
if Cardinal Pell’s subtile thought
is not fully understood.