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Beatundum Non Populae & Other Stories

Beatundum Non Populae

Unearthly night groans
The full over full menace.
Dirty as a dog.
Languid and tart.
To taste.
For all who sail on and in him.
You were one.
Wrested, seduced. Annihilated.
Call it what you will.
The end dignifies the means.
Gum, tongue and consider.
What you would have done.
Laid out, with your denomination laid bare for all to scoff and wonder at.
Never was a Jesuit more humiliated.
They had cause to laugh.
But, to throw stones?
Let she who has not won cast it first.
Man is such a sad and pitiable creature.
Why mock the afflicted when the power hungry are eating your shoulder blade?

And he had spent a thousand summers drinking the loveliness of life and living. The scars still tell of his preoccupations and yet fail to yield sufficient evidence to deliver successful prosecution. Deliver him prosecutor! Will some body not release him from his memories?


Sweet As The Devil In A Pumpkin Pie

Missy cook a pie up
Leave it on the sill
Let a bit of breeze cool
The hotness un so til.

Mr Man a passing
Smell the pie and stop
See it ripe just sitting
He got to have a drop.

Put his dirty finger up
To dip it in the pie
Before it even touch the crust
He let out one big cry.

Cos Missy see him coming
Don’t give him time to talk
Before she reach her hand out
And stab him with a fork.

For Mr Man no bake the pie
He wasn’t even nice
Enough to take his hat off
And beg a little slice.

Missy gives him few short words
Now get off my land
And Mr Man just slink away
The fork still in his hand.


Dans L’air (In The Air)

IIl y a quelque chose dans l’air.
L’odeur d’un nain hongrois.
Planant dans l’air.
Comme une maladie politique.

There is something in the air
The smell of an Hungarian Dwarf
Hovering in the air
Like a political disease.

Il y a quelque chose dans l’eau.
Le corps d’un libertaire.
Flottant en mer.
Comme une promesse oubliée.

There is something in the water
The body of a libertarian
Floating in the sea
Like a forgotten promise.

Il y a quelque chose au sol.
Le goût d’un état militaire.
Percutant des crânes.
Comme une constitution assassinée.

There is something on the ground
The taste of a military state
Crashing into skulls
Like a murdered constitution.

Il y a quelque chose dans la terre.
Le vrombissement de la surveillance.
Enfreignant notre être.
Comme un viol électronique.

There is something in the earth
The hum of surveillance
Infringing our being
Like an electronic rape.


© Frere Fukowski 2011

About the author

Frère Fukowski (The Ubowski Brothers)
Fukowski enjoyed a career as a desk jockey for many years before dropping out of the commercial world and dropping into a life of literary criminal writing.