The Obelisk: Parts I to III

My poetry gives me an escape from my waking world - as long as it hasn't been stolen from me and used to add to my grief. I: The Iconoclasts To lofty shore the gods were brought To judge the war the mortals fought That started with a vulgar slight Against a due religious rite A statue had been madly hewn To pieces small and widely strewn And that the idol be appeased A string of amber mines were seized To cause a statue's face to cave Was an offence considered grave One dare not force indignity Upon a blameless deity And yet the voice of the maligned Expected from within their kind Did not in curses crime condemn But in a hush eluded them With Love had War gone straight to bed They noticed not a thing, they said No trouble came to Wisdom's thought And Justice heard no thump nor shot Talent had produced a show From Vulcan's steady hammer blow Among the injured there were none Throughout the total Pantheon The tarnished figure would be odd Or more than likely not a god To Gaia turned their spanning eye To catch the liar in the lie And found a temple plus a trove That first had served to honour Jove Devoted to a faith unknown In he who claimed the mortal throne A closer look had changed their path Away from cataclysmic wrath For making hard to fools exalt The mighty council found no fault The wiser choice for favouring Must be the kingdom neighbouring Where truth and honour may remain Beyond the madman's awful reign Continued probing would reveal The mishap was a front to steal A fortune did the ruler owe To pay his troops to battle go His thirst for plunder left unchecked Would leave the temples robbed and wrecked The tyrant's name, which came of late Was aptly Moribund the Great Opposing, on the side of right The Prefect of the Lands of Light Considered what would be the cost Of his top secret message lost For progress had his people raced And foes with lesser weapons chased But unlike hordes they faced before Their neighbours knew their arts of war A shadow did the sibyls cast With casualties that numbered vast Should now the wrongful war be won By this most evil Moribund And so the gods put their resource To help the prefect stay the course His nemesis's fearsome rise Would overrun him otherwise II: The Lovers The tyrant had a daughter fair Inclined to pity and to care Patrolling through the worst lines drawn She served the hurt and woebegone To uniform she paid no heed But focused on her patient's need And once Ophelia's top one Was Mark, the prefect's eldest son The men around her wouldn't dare Disturb a single royal hair She felt her youth reduced to waste The blossom of her life debased The fury of her father's law Obstructed callers she could draw But in the foreign eye she found No fear of dark oath firmly bound Her daddy's loyal concubine Had thought it fair to reassign To fierce disputed frontal row Where one's survival's odds were low Thus freely did the princess roam Among the haters of her home And pine for a romantic spell With he who had against her fell When Mark she found severely hit Ophelia was by him smit Discovering before the rest In time to have him rightly dressed She tore the shirt that wrapped his arm To make it look as come to harm The doctor found him fit to save And two weeks leave to mend he gave Ophelia's disarming grin Belied the peril Mark was in But of his new lot she advised And of her own she too apprised By passion they were swept away Where goddesses held strongest sway And from their longing to be near They plotted both to disappear The times her father came to call His grunts would echo through the hall His shadow cast a form profane With right hand clinging to a cane Before his glare the righteous froze A constant threat to spy expose And soon as Mark was on his feet He'd make his getaway complete The morning of the big parade The nurse with patients visits made And customary for her rounds Wheeled wounded soldiers through the grounds Her favourite she'd had the sense To park the closest to the fence And on the cymbal's loudest clash The two began a wild dash Though from the law they plainly fled Of followers they drew ahead And to the hills were safe to go As marching caused a traffic slow Amid thick trees they huddled wet And waited for the sun to set Then braved a mountain's rugged trail Enduring to proclaim their tale III: The Obelisk The clung to object Mark mistook As just a cane was more a hook A wizard's work, it put command Completely in its holder's hand As pieces on a playing board Would forces move in full accord From caravan to tallest ship They'd feel the pressing icy grip The tidings of the couple's flight Arrived to Moribund at night His busy arm began to shake And all around they felt the quake In order to avenge the breach He needed to extend his reach Out went his armies as a wave Against the few but fiercely brave His whole attention he would turn Against his daughter's bitter spurn His grenadiers were sent to free The places she was said to be But always were the lucky pair At final moment made aware And able to adjust their trip So their pursuer got the slip His juggernaut carved out a road As far as it could drag its load In regions deep and yet to tame The raiders pushed to triumph claim While straight behind them sternly stood To guard the valley of the good Their master's rod's antagonist The bold and mystic obelisk Though near omnipotent in span The obelisk was made by man Projected from its metal mast A potent and decisive blast Its rotors spun the day and hour To furnish it with glowing power A clever and imposing spike Its sting could any target strike Ophelia and Mark were sure To into ambush armies lure Where lacked the room to turn around The prefect's troops would foe surround The father thought it ill advised To have Mark further jeopardized But now the smooth and cunning ploy Would Moribund the Great destroy Into the ring the wayward crossed Too far from home and clearly lost When from behind the challenge roared And out of hiding free men poured Descending on the hapless swarm As though the most ferocious storm To demonstrate what freedom's worth And raze the quarry to the earth The strongest blow that made the day Originated faraway By bearings added to the list Of targets for the obelisk A gaping crater, singed and stained Were all that of the bad remained But soon as try to spy a lark The ground shook and the sky went dark (to be continued)
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© 2016. Verses by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

The Obelisk: Parts I and II

Don't make me recite all this on YouTube with my accent. See how I touch it up as I add to it. Part I: The Iconoclasts To lofty shore the gods were brought To view the war the mortals fought That started with a vulgar slight Against a due religious rite A statue had been madly hewn To pieces small and widely strewn And that the idol be appeased A string of amber mines were seized To cause a statue's face to cave Was an offence considered grave One dare not force indignity Upon a blameless deity And yet the voice of the maligned Expected from within their kind Did not in curses crime condemn But in a hush eluded them With Love had War gone straight to bed They noticed not a thing, they said No trouble came to Wisdom's thought And Justice heard no thump nor shot Talent had produced a show From Vulcan's steady hammer blow Among the injured there were none Throughout the total Pantheon The tarnished figure would be odd Or more than likely not a god To Earth they cast their ranging eye To catch the liar in the lie And found a temple plus a trove That first had served to honour Jove Devoted to a faith unknown In he who claimed the mortal throne A closer look had changed their path Away from cataclysmic wrath For making hard to fools exalt The mighty council found no fault The wiser choice for favouring Must be the kingdom neighbouring Where truth and honour may remain Beyond the madman's awful reign Continued probing would reveal The mishap was a front to steal A fortune did the ruler owe To pay his troops to battle go His thirst for plunder left unchecked Would leave the temples robbed and wrecked The tyrant's name, which came of late Was aptly Moribund the Great Opposing, on the side of right The Prefect of the Lands of Light Considered what would be the cost Of his top secret message lost For progress had his people raced And foes with lesser weapons chased But unlike hordes they faced before Their neighbours knew their arts of war A shadow did the sibyls cast With casualties that numbered vast Should now the wrongful war be won By this most evil Moribund And so the gods put their resource To help the prefect stay the course His nemesis's fearsome rise Would overrun him otherwise Part II: The Lovers The tyrant had a daughter fair Inclined to pity and to care Patrolling through the worst lines drawn She served the hurt and woebegone To uniform she paid no heed But focused on her patient's need And once Ophelia's top one Was Mark, the prefect's eldest son The men around her wouldn't dare Disturb a single royal hair She felt her youth reduced to waste The blossom of her life debased The fury of her father's law Obstructed callers she could draw But in the foreign eye she found No fear of dark oath firmly bound Her daddy's loyal concubine Had thought it fair to reassign To fierce disputed frontal row Where one's survival's odds were low Thus freely did the princess roam Among the haters of her home And pine for a romantic spell With he who had against her fell When Mark she found severely hit Ophelia was by him smit Discovering before the rest In time to have him rightly dressed She tore the shirt that wrapped his arm To make it look as come to harm The doctor found him fit to save And two weeks leave to mend he gave Ophelia's disarming grin Belied the peril Mark was in But of his new lot she advised And of her own she too apprised By passion they were swept away Where goddesses held strongest sway And from their longing to be near They plotted both to disappear The times her father came to call His grunts would echo through the hall His shadow cast a form profane With right hand clinging to a cane Before his glare the righteous froze A constant threat to spy expose And soon as Mark was on his feet He'd make his getaway complete The morning of the big parade The nurse with patients visits made And customary for her rounds Wheeled wounded soldiers through the grounds Her favourite she'd had the sense To park the closest to the fence And on the cymbal's loudest clash The two began a wild dash Though from the law they plainly fled Of followers they drew ahead And to the hills were safe to go As marching caused a traffic slow Amid thick trees they huddled wet And waited for the sun to set Then braved a mountain's rugged trail Enduring to proclaim their tale (to be continued)
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© 2016. Verses by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

New Epic Part One: Iconoclasm

Another epic poem in the works. 1. Iconoclasm To lofty shore the gods were brought To view the war the mortals fought That started with a vulgar slight Against a due religious rite A statue had been madly hewn To pieces small and widely strewn And that the idol be appeased A string of amber mines were seized To cause a statue's face to cave Was an offence considered grave One dare not force indignity Upon a blameless deity And yet the voice of the maligned Expected from within their kind Did not in curses crime condemn But in a hush eluded them The last they heard from Love and War They'd gone to bed at five to four No trouble came to Wisdom's thought And Justice heard no thump nor shot Talent had produced a show From Vulcan's steady hammer blow Among the injured there were none Throughout the total Pantheon The tarnished figure would be odd Or more than likely not a god To Earth they cast their ranging eye To catch the liar in the lie And found a temple plus a trove That first had served to honour Jove Devoted to a faith unknown In he who claimed the mortal throne A closer look had changed their path Away from cataclysmic wrath For making hard to fools exalt The mighty council found no fault The wiser choice for favouring Must be the kingdom neighbouring Where truth and honour may remain Beyond the madman's awful reign Continued probing would reveal The mishap was a front to steal A fortune did the ruler owe To pay his troops to battle go His thirst for plunder left unchecked Would leave the temples robbed and wrecked The tyrant's name, which came of late Was aptly Moribund the Great Opposing, on the side of right The Prefect of the Lands of Light Considered what would be the cost Of his top secret message lost For progress had his people raced And foes with lesser weapons chased But unlike hordes they faced before Their neighbours knew their arts of war A shadow did the sibyls cast With casualties that numbered vast Should now the wrongful war be won By this most evil Moribund And so the gods put their resource To help the prefect stay the course His nemesis's fearsome rise Would overrun him otherwise (to be continued)
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The Road to Elysium (Complete)

Part 1: World A world is not in human hands But in the grip of greed Whose champions make cruel demands Upon the ones in need Thus honest work is undermined Turned crooked and uncouth To capture and in darkness blind All seekers of the truth And nowhere is the truth mocked more Than where the people claim That truth and justice are their core And happiness their aim For bitter knowledge fails to sell Unless made sweet with lies And long experience would tell Of virtue's slow demise To make the truth, they form a club Against persistent doubt Endeavouring to poets snub And keep the riffraff out And if the masses wish to back Another's voice instead The club falls on him like a pack And seize his words to shred In such a world did Raymond write As but the bravest dared Directly in the teeth of spite Unflinchingly, he stared Producing from his noble views The nectar of his sight Determined by the words he used To put corruption right Though countless praises for his bids From sharing had been won He stood alone within the midst Of followers not one The evil club would then descend Upon his humble home And scatter wide among its friend The beauty of his tome When Raymond saw how were adored Pretenders in his place While he stayed callously ignored His grief he could not face Depleted of his finest gems Bereft of slightest hope As time provided no amends He gave his neck the rope Part 2: Netherworld Manifested Raymond's ghost Upon a foreign plane Attended to by gracious host And wholly free of pain She told him that her name was Faith They shimmered in their state To go the metaphysic length He'd tensely have to wait The netherworld appeared surreal Suspended in her cage It limited his total field And froze him in his age The place was cozy in the stars But he felt oddly small And chose the space beyond its bars To either rise or fall Once outside, pleased to hover clear A better view was gained And downward sagged his jaw in fear At what the light explained: Her opulent menagerie A silken menace spun Her limbs by four outnumbering And stinger poised to stun! Towards the mortal realm he sped Away from cunning snare And came out distantly ahead Of every body there His eyes could pierce the hardest shell And see the inner hue Their destinies he gathered well From his advantaged view It was his privilege to save A good soul from concern But no direction Raymond gave From evil's fatal turn With other ghosts he flew a race To catch the priceless show Of panic on the bad soul's face When it's their time to go In dungeons by themselves designed Their shackles starkly drape And nowhere will the cursed find A prospect of escape Against their rise he held up firm To keep hereafter pure But great rewards were yet to earn And his success unsure Part 3: Ascension Among the hateful were the worst Who'd pushed him to his edge Ravenous of primal thirst And fraudulent of pledge A noxious vapor gathered force Too looming to ignore As they charted out a course Incautiously to war Their victims filled a vast expanse As from the light they'd thwart And only he stood half a chance Of seeing they fell short To mass consent they held the reins Their messages deployed As weapons on the idle brains Too trusting to avoid The hero donned an instrument And thundered out a chord To stop the signal being sent From drumming up a horde Deflecting the invasive ray To echo sharply down To catch its senders home at play And in their malice drown The storm had Raymond brought to cease And through the mist there broke A pleasant sky that offered peace And signs that hope awoke A greeting flickered from a spot That held no star before And to its bearings, up he shot To find whom it was for Drawn to areas unknown The way ahead grew dim But good directions would be shown By he who met with him A local shepherd, soft of speech Oblivion steered from Until they were at last in reach Of fair Elysium Having got him through the bind The stranger would depart And leave him with his gifted kind To carry out his art A favourite among their ring Would Raymond fast become The one the shepherd sought to bring To sweet Elysium
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© 2007, 2016. Verses by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

The Road to Elysium: Parts 1 & 2

My story's turning out well. I wonder what I should use for Part 3. Part 1: World A world is not in human hands But in the grip of greed Whose champions make cruel demands Upon the ones in need Thus honest work is undermined Turned crooked and uncouth To capture and in darkness blind All seekers of the truth And nowhere is the truth mocked more Than where the people claim That truth and justice are their core And happiness their aim For bitter knowledge fails to sell Unless made sweet with lies And long experience would tell Of virtue's slow demise To make the truth, they form a club Against persistent doubt Endeavouring to poets snub And keep the riffraff out And if the masses wish to back Another's voice instead The club falls on him like a pack And seize his words to shred In such a world did Raymond write As but the bravest dared Directly in the teeth of spite Unflinchingly, he stared Producing from his noble views The nectar of his sight Determined by the words he used To put corruption right Though countless praises for his bids From sharing had been won He stood alone within the midst Of followers not one The evil club would then descend Upon his humble home And scatter wide among its friend The beauty of his tome When Raymond saw how were adored Pretenders in his place While he stayed callously ignored His grief he could not face Depleted of his finest gems Bereft of slightest hope As time provided no amends He gave his neck the rope Part 2: Netherworld Manifested Raymond's ghost Upon a foreign plane Attended to by gracious host And wholly free of pain She told him that her name was Faith They shimmered in their state To go the metaphysic length He'd tensely have to wait The netherworld appeared surreal Suspended in her cage It limited his total field And froze him in his age The place was cozy in the stars But feeling oddly small He chose the space beyond its bars To either rise or fall Once outside, pleased to hover clear A better view was gained And downward sagged his jaw in fear At what the light explained: Her opulent menagerie A silken menace spun Her limbs by four outnumbering And stinger poised to stun! Towards the mortal realm he sped Away from cunning snare And came out distantly ahead Of every body there His eyes could pierce the hardest shell And see the inner hue Their destinies he gathered well From his advantaged view It was his privilege to save A good soul from concern But no direction Raymond gave From evil's fatal turn With other ghosts he flew a race To catch the priceless show Of panic on the bad soul's face When it's their time to go In dungeons by themselves designed Their shackles starkly drape And nowhere will the cursed find A prospect of escape Against their rise he held up firm To keep hereafter pure But great rewards were yet to earn And his success unsure Part 3: Ascension (to be continued)
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The Real Me

I blogged my blog on YouTube today. It's at this link: Murder by Media. It looks like they have my videos tucked away in some back corner where hardly anyone can reach them. But Justin Beiber didn't have that problem, eh? Did he really author his own hit there? Or did Seal give him one of my songs as I was pushed out of public view to clear the way for his rise to fame? And the depraved Crystalids, who stole over seventy of my songs after I posted them all first, didn't have to be hidden from the public as they conducted their murderous crimes with my work. But it looks like they need to hide real artists like me who have been badly violated by web fraud and image violations. So in this sense, YouTube seems to be on the side of fraud rather than on the side of a fraud victim. A lot of good that will do the world - if that's true. I hope you'll find my new video logs anyway because I want you to see that I am a real person whose real life has been terribly harmed and who sincerely seeks justice. I'm going to try to write Part 2 of my epic poem today. I've decided not to hang myself to write about 'the netherworld', but just to get shit-faced drunk.
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Part 1: A World

This poem is only about one third finished, but I wanted to share what I produced yesterday. I need to suffer horrible depression to put me in the frame of mind to produce good poetry. I'm leaving it as a statement until it is completed. Part 1: A World A world is not in human hands But in the grip of greed Whose champions make cruel demands Upon the ones in need Thus honest work is undermined Turned crooked and uncouth To capture and in darkness blind All seekers of the truth And nowhere is the truth mocked more Than where the people claim That truth and justice are their core And happiness their aim For bitter knowledge fails to sell Unless made sweet with lies And long experience would tell Of virtue's slow demise To make the truth, they form a club Against persistent doubt Endeavouring to poets snub And keep the riffraff out And if the masses wish to back Another's voice instead The club falls on him like a pack And seize his words to shred In such a world did Raymond write As but the bravest dared Directly in the teeth of spite Unflinchingly, he stared Producing from his noble views The nectar of his sight Determined by the words he used To put corruption right Though countless praises for his bids From sharing had been won He stood alone within the midst Of followers not one The evil club would then descend Upon his humble home And scatter wide among its friend The beauty of his tome When Raymond saw how were adored Pretenders in his place While he stayed callously ignored His grief he could not face Depleted of his finest gems Bereft of slightest hope As time provided no amends He gave his neck the rope Part 2: A Netherworld (to be continued) Not bad, eh? Same mournful meter as The Mortal Interval (Poems Index). A lot of artists like Raymond conclude that life is not worth living in a world without truth. In spite of my experience, however, I remain optimistic about this world. I know that some powerful people have already been punished on my behalf and this gives me hope about my future. If I were to 'give my neck the rope', it would only to be to draw the real experience to complete this poem, rather than having to rely solely on my imagination. I'd also be interested in meeting many of the great artists and poets who ended their lives in suicide. They tend to be outstanding.
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The Foolish Mob

Why did the corporate media support so much fraud made out of my honest work? Power is the answer. The media covets the power to decide who you love and who you hate. If an artist comes along and disagrees with them at the same time as he wins over large portions of the population, their power is threatened. They need to destroy this person so that they can feel confident that they hold the power of popularity over talent. The media hates real talent because real talent challenges their power. They don't want people to love talent, they want us to love who they tell us to love, no matter who it is, and to reject everyone else. I would have been a lot more impressed with their 'power' if they didn't need to use so many examples of my talent to support their hate. If you love the media, you hate talent. Luckily, I don't have a burning need to go on a stage and impress my peers because I've been out of the classroom for long enough to stand on my own two feet in this world. On the other hand, if the gang rape of my songs and blogs had occurred when I was still in my twenties, it might have killed me. Being popular was important to me then. But now I'm old enough to know that being popular is totally worthless and would leave me feeling terribly unfulfilled. Now I consider myself to be primarily an artist. I get a thrill from creating my work and I don't need to go on a stage and show off with it. These uncreative pricks who steal my work need to stand on a stage and pretend they are artists because they are not artists and they will never know how satisfying it is to produce an original work of art. Without my art, they would look as unimpressive as they truly are, getting up in front of group as we have all been made to do before the age of ten and reciting something they read. Big deal. And do we scream as loudly for tribute bands as we do for their mentors? Of course not, as long as the media doesn't lie to us about who wrote the music. And with that, I'd like to ask you who wrote Size and Canopy and Godspeed and Nothing but Ashes and Fool and Fool's Paradise and Under My Umbrella and Bad News and Beguiled and Fortune and Survival and Chair, to name as few of my 2007 recordings? And in 2011 and 2012 who wrote Linger and Mayhem and Rules and Business (Psych) so that he could have some new songs all to himself? And last year, who wrote Currents and Disenchanted and Epitomes and Denial and Insidious and Redundant? Who did the media tell you wrote these songs? If you know, it's because you trust them with a faith that has so far gouged a twenty year hole in my life that otherwise would have been occupied by my happiest years.
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How Carlin Fans 'Write' Comedy

Here are some excerpts from my statements of the last six months or so. The other day, I heard that someone named Matthew is in prison. Is he one of your friends? Does he scour my statements for little tidbits like the following that he can compile into a fraud stand-up routine with words taken from my most serious posts? That's all George Carlin did. November 16, 2015: ...Are you Chinese? So am I. I've lived in downtown Vancouver for over twenty years now. Bruce Lee is my idol. He was proud of achieving fame and fortune without compromising his beliefs, or 'being honest'. He disliked being called a star, saying that 'star is an illusion.' I know I'm not getting any younger, but Confucius didn't make it until he was fifty-two. Confucius had a gift for being able to accurately analyze individuals. When he shared his findings with them, it ended up holding back his progress in society. Few argue with his wisdom now. Have I ever told you about my family? I have six brothers and one sister...Well, I better go get some chow... January 2, 2016: ...entertainment weeklies, you know, those awful things that offer themselves as the quintessential cultural guide in every city across the land. They always try to pass themselves off as anti-establishment when they're built around pages and pages of full page ads. They tell you when its cool to love Vincent Van Gogh and when it's time to reject him in favor of Toulouse-Lautrec. They care about the poor but they're determined to get all the yuppies out visiting smart restaurants ha ha ha ha January 7, 2016: ...Beware the corporate print media (the Assassinating Press)... January 29, 2016: ...does an innocent person deserve to suffer so much at the hands of criminals? A scientologist would say yes. They believe we all have it coming because of past offenses in previous lives. Look how Jesus was crucified. They must think he was a real monster. January 31, 2016: ...Other psychopaths include Ted Bundy and Paul Bernardo. Notice, too, how these men were clean cut and well groomed, just like those evil reporters on TV. You can't judge a book by its cover, as they say. February 5, 2016: ...This weekend we celebrate the most important holiday of the year: Chinese New Year. That's when my people get together to show Americans who invented fireworks. And we all dress up as zodiac signs and go on parade. February 14, 2016: ...I've been watching a DVD of a History Channel series about ancient aliens. They said that alien supermen found our women attractive. Let me tell you, their women are attracted to our men, as well: the kind of men who have a good sense of humor and who know how to rock. I think they have extremely good taste. April 5, 2016: ...Denial of Death. Why didn't they call it that? That's a much better title. Yes, he theorized that death anxiety was the chief driving force behind human aggression and violence. So how many ways are you going to rephrase it in this documentary? This topic is too dry for a documentary, it belongs in a lecture hall. All this film does is take a university lecture and punctuate it with a bunch of random images and pan across cemeteries with sappy music in the background. Well, when I think of Ernest Becker's book, I don't feel like playing If I Were a Carpenter in a graveyard. Just a few excerpts which did not take long to compile. Once those pricks are finished with them, no one can recall what I was writing about and I am accused of 'hacking' my content because I'm not on the TV making an ass out of myself on a stage with my statements. And the crime does not cease after the first round of offenders have been incarcerated, as was the case in 2013 for offenders of my copyrights. The corporate sponsored crime continues on as corporations use their money bags to mock the good efforts of our most conscientious police and lawyers. Who wants to contribute to rape relief? Did you need the broadcasting pricks who raped my work and raped my fans to ask for a donation on your behalf? Then they'll take your money and hold it up to the world as evidence of their generosity. Maybe you should wait for their campaign to end before you make your donation. Are we saved by good deeds? I agree with Martin Luther that we can not be saved by good deeds, only by God's grace. This media campaign for rape relief is strictly to repair their image at the further expense of their victim. It has all the authenticity of a papal indulgence. On the other hand, Saint Paul was a murderer who was touched by God's grace on the road to Damascus and saved. If you have been touched by God's grace, your deeds will manifest God's presence. I see no evidence of God's grace in the actions of anyone who either committed or celebrated the Satanic fraud that has been committed with my online posts over the last seventeen years. The 'heaven' the media prepares for them is made entirely out of nasty lies and will profoundly disappoint them.
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History's Mysteries: Shrouded in Secrecy

(333 AD. The emperor Constantine struggles to convert Rome to the new Christian faith.) Constantine: I understand you have some doubts about the resurrection. Skeptic: Yes, I need to see more evidence for it. Constantine: Like what? Skeptic: Oh, I don't know, maybe a burial shroud displaying the blood marks of a scourged and crucified corpse. Constantine: Did you get that, scribe? Scribe: (Writing) Yes, your Holy Majesty. Skeptic: Glad to see you're taking this all down. Constantine: Well, I appreciate the feedback. Skeptic: Do you need it for research? Constantine: No, for your execution.
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Perfect Memory

Police and library staff, have you noticed that the Mozilla browser at the public library has been infected with a malware that sends users to w3blog.org? Have you noticed how it disables my JavaScript programs when your users are redirected to an outside home page before they can come back and land on your home page? Public library users here, I expect my slideshow to work in Internet Explorer but not in Mozilla today. I always have fucking problems when I display my work in a way that proves that I own it. This fucking place is crawling with crime. Three times in less than six months. Justice is a joke if they can't control these criminal assholes while their victim goes online and reports more and more abuse. My latest poem looks like something I shared before. I think I settled on calling it the Albatross. I like that title too. In this poem, I idealize the story. It is not realistic, but idealized to perfection. Why did I do this? I was trying to write it to please God and God is perfect. The birds have mysteriously stopped hating me. They're even friendly. Come to think of it, they first started attacking me around the time I erased my previous Blogger account. Maybe they wanted me to keep that poem online. I wonder how long the computers here are going to be contaminated with that virus that cripples its browser functions this time. Anyway, I thought of something funny to share, but I'm in too much of a bad mood to share it right now.
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Goony's Gift (The Alabatross)

Of splendid gifts to freely share The animals received a host From horse's back to bee's sweet ware And God blessed Goony Bird the most More finely feathered were his kin More sonorous his neighbour's call While his advantage lay within Upon inspection overall But disinclined to proud display He kept his brilliance concealed At altitudes too faraway For it to clearly be revealed Until the day the people came To overrun his island perch Putting forest to the flame Leaving victims in the lurch The other albatrosses fought And bombed the great intrusive craft But no advances could be got By one small girl thrown off the aft Beset by worry, Goony dove To pluck the child free of risk And dropped her on the nearest cove Where mother waited with a kiss The word soon spread of his good deed Catching men in mid assault And from desire to conscience heed Their demolition had to halt By sundown, peace had come again Tomorrow's work could soundly start In veneration sang the wren For God gave Goony Bird a heart
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© 2007, 2016. Verses by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

A Little Something

I've composed a little something for children young and old, though it may have too many big words for the short ones. Hope you like it. When I am in the worst throes of my depression, I am soothed by offering them my work. I'm feeling better today, having received a reprieve - you can tell I've been rhyming all night - from my financial grief, thanks to my sweet family back home. I hope people know me well enough now to keep my posts in context with my condition. I did not mean to create the illusion that Vancouver was Hell. I was just in a lot of pain, especially from this latest attack on my work. Weakened from a few days of hunger, I do not cope well with continued abuses of my copyrights from the same offenders. Jesus puts me to shame. I could never last forty days in a desert with no food. I hope my sister-in-law back home was not too shocked by my posts of late. (Thanks for the help, Lori. Lots of love to the kinfolk.) I've also restored my Chronoblog navigation program to my Blog Index. It's badly needed, I think, since I have so many blogs. Its active link colors don't flutter offline the way they do here. You may visit it from this link: Visit Chronoblog.
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The Philosopher King

I borrowed another Holocaust documentary from the library last night. Holocaust survivors offer me great inspiration. The film got me thinking about the antisemitic style of hate that has been directed against me when I'm not even Jewish. I needed to analyze myself to help me understand this hate. While Judaism is actually a religion rather than a race, I possess one very noticeable Jewish characteristic in spite of my Catholic origins and it's not my nose: I love knowledge. In the Old Testament, King Solomon is granted one wish by God. The King wished for wisdom. Who among us Gentiles would choose wisdom above all the riches in the world? I would. Who else? The Jews love knowledge. This is why they were so successful in the professions that made their Gentile neighbors so murderously envious. In my pursuit of knowledge, I have learned to do things that others can't, such as writing effectively and programming a computer. These abilities did not magically come to me the way they did for Solomon. I had to work for them. I had to be strongly personally motivated to acquire them. I am fascinated by difficult intellectual problems. They do not turn me off as they do most others, but they challenge my intelligence and drive me to expand my knowledge. Along the way, my mind becomes more and more disciplined and the answers to my questions arrive to me by less and less struggle. People like me are 'sophisticated'. We stand out from the crowd with unique points of view which are solidly backed by logic. As such, we single ourselves out for persecution. Knowledge was frowned upon by the church for a long time and this anti-intellectualism survived right through to the modern age. My mother discouraged me from reading philosophy as a child, fearing that it contradicted the Bible. My father used to tell me I 'think too much'. They wanted me to get a job and raise a family and toe the line with the prevailing cultural mindset. Of course, I love my parents, which allows me to look upon my unsophisticated critics with some understanding and forgiveness. But can they extend the same consideration to me? With whom can they compare me, in order to help them see me as a human being? I'm afraid I'm a little too unique for such comparisons. Hence, the hate I must combat on an almost daily basis. I watched another DVD which I was surprised the library even carried. It was an assertion that Hitler escaped to Argentina in 1945. Let me clear this up based on what I have learned from a multitude of other sources. First of all, why didn't he take Josef Goebbels with him? Goebbels' burned corpse was found and identified by the Russians in May 1945. Yes, Stalin said that Hitler got away to keep the Nazi threat alive and justify post war Soviet expansion into Eastern Europe as a buffer against invasion. In the 1960's, the Russians finally came forward with Hitler's jawbone, which perfectly matched his dental records. That was enough to convince me. I can't believe anyone's trying to contradict this now.
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What a Waste

So what am I supposed to do about this situation? What more can I do but what I've already done? I've re-posted almost everything that was stolen from me and it turns out that millions of people out there benefited from my work in one way or another while its theft by irresponsible stars and broadcasters subjected me to the kind of torture I once thought only existed in science fiction shows like Star Trek. I have been crucified over and over and over again for merely showing that I have talent on the internet. And I'm not Jesus. Jesus needed to be crucified. My continuous crucifixion achieves nothing but losses of profits from my work and the destruction of the image of an otherwise promising money maker. Pride appears to be more important to broadcasters than profits. All they had to do was approach me at any point in the last ten years if they wanted my work and I'm sure we could have come to some sort of agreement. They didn't want to ask me for my work, they wanted to steal it and give it to corrupt stars to use against me. They wanted every decent thing I ever shared turned into a hideous work of fraud to cheat me out of my success and cheat you out of your trust. And I shared a lot of work: thousands and thousands of posts. Fuck, that's a lot of greasy fraud committed with music and art and poetry and comedy. It's enough to make you want to puke. I wonder if my late mother can see the horrors that the music business inflicts on her son every day from her new location. I wonder if God will ever intervene on my behalf to put an end to this shameful crime. Well, I didn't have all the facts about the Iraq War when I first shared a lot of this work. I suppose I can see the need to remove the brute from power now. I could have been persuaded to change my opinion back in 2007 if the business had done the responsible thing and approached me for permission to use my work. Didn't it make excellent propaganda? My cartoons and my blogs and my songs must have offered great comfort to our armed forces while that war was raging. I don't want any of them to feel guilty about it now. I'm only sorry that I was not able to offer them this support directly instead of having it all stolen from me and delivered to them behind my back. Comedy is very delicate and I find it very challenging to author a good comedy script. By the way, I think that Bob Hope sucks. I find his jokes insulting to my intelligence. No one seems to work hard enough on their humor anymore. I approach comedy writing much in the same way that I author computer programs. There's far more to it than merely having a funny idea. Inspiration, articulation, and timing are all essential to a good comedy script. I see little or none of these elements in the so called comedy that assaults me from most commercial broadcasts. You culprits out there know what I mean when I say that I've been subjected to tortures that belong more in science fiction than reality. Because of your abuse of the copyright protection system with my work, I believe that I'm surviving against my protection rather than because of it. I think you took a system that was designed to protect artists and used it to try to murder me. You know what I'm talking about. If I end up on top after all of this, you'll want me to say that I'm glad I was protected, but I often think it would have been more humane to have been converged upon by those production workers in 2011 and beaten to death. Or maybe I should have been blown to pieces by that creep's shotgun in 2011 instead of left alive to suffer the years I have described in detail in this account every day since he pointed his weapon at my window and shouted 'Jreamer'. I was all ready to die. I said the Lord's Prayer and waited for the blast. Did I survive that and every day since just to sit in this library alone and talk about your crime to a bunch of strangers four years later? What a waste of time and talent.
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Has Anyone Seen My Bridges?

I heard a Mick Jagger recording playing out of someone's bicycle mounted radio receiver as I passed by the convenience store yesterday. I wonder if it was meant to demoralize me because Mick Jagger is an extremely wealthy rock star who stole my song in 2007 and left me starving poor to be accused of fraud for rewriting it. And now this guy with his bicycle radio wants him to keep making more money while I stay poor and he wants me to know that the rock radio stations firmly support Jagger's crime with my music. I don't bother sharing new songs at the rate I could because I have built up too many old songs that made money for frauds who left me in the lurch. Naturally I have become pessimistic about adding new songs to my online account. I can't help coming up with new ideas because I am an artist, but at least I don't have to care if my work is popular anymore. I'm better off when it isn't. A couple months ago, I heard something about how someone stole all my bridges. A bridge is like a new song that starts up in the middle of an existing song. It takes as much effort to write a bridge for a song as it does to write a new song altogether. So am I putting twice as much effort into my songwriting just so these monsters can butcher my work and call it theirs? You can click through my 2015 recordings in my Chronology of Recordings and find out for yourselves, I guess. (I'll add the other five years of my recordings to this program over the next year.) I don't listen to the radio anymore. It gives me horrible nightmares. Anyway, if you see my bridges where they don't belong, please inform the police. I've got to get out of the library now. Some patron here is getting on my nerves.
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