This piece came out of a discussion on the most ego free online poetry community,

Dr Whup-Ass's Bitch-Ass Poetry Roundup - A collection of liberal minded spacers, is run by an Oklahoma native, Dr Quincy Lehr, a Trinity College Dublin ollamh teaching American history , and who i affectionately refer to as herr dictator, as he is not like the majority of online bores who set up these sites.

The tedious fuhrer and fuhresses who cannot attain eloquence by democratic means, in the fray and fun-fest of online utterance - where we serious poet-bores eek out our stay against hatred - set up online communities for timid fawns barricading their careers in from a reality to terrible for them to comprehend, that they aren't up to much poetically. Sad sorry gits, unlike Quincey, and the text below came out of a thread on the identity of Shakespeare. Was it Will or Mary Sidney, Countess of Flatbroke, and the weight of opinion was heavily against the woman attempting to get the doubters of her theory listening.

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There is an aul saying i made up maybe, about the sunrise. That no one goes round bug eyed with the exciting news, telling all they meet that it is coming up tommorow; meaning that obvious truths are something we all know and do not need to convince others of. And as long as you believe it, that's all that matters. The few recorded facts of shakey are unbelievably few, and not having done a detailed investigation into the authorship debate, am unqualified to speak, but the factual truth is that whoever wrote the stuff attributed to him, be it the one you believe or a rent boy in glasgow the world will never hear of; what's important is we love our shakey's words, who wrote them is irrelevant to me..

I have experienced stuff i would not dare dream of telling others, in order to not give them a chance to label me completely cuckoo and insane, and i know certain higher truths you would not believe if i told you, and which would only serve to make me appear from another universe intellectually.

Look at all the flat earthers getting burnt at the stake for heresy, and as humanity delves further and deeper into material knowledge, science completely displacing the humanities as to where existential truth and the proof of reality's structures lie.

So all material truth seems to be relative and just the latest gloss, take or layer of existential spin cloaking a much more slippery set of theoretical data; drawn from the conjectural well of ones intellect first and proven later, as the science catches up with technological innovation. One could say we make happen what we believe first, all life on the globe connected in a way we will never know, being as we are enmeshed and constituent parts of this light and force for void and darkness.

For we are but the latest brief force of life, lit atop the pyramid of past flesh-fuse lives of living and dead foerebears. Two parents, four grands eight greats etc, and so, surley even the most spacey of scangers would agree, are the sum total of all those lives that went before us, and poetry in its purest form is nought but communing with ghosts; a prayer to self and dialogue with the soul, in the quest to speak of Love, or at least advocate it as poets, you and i.

Imagine trying to explain to a 16 century person the concept behind tv or any quantuum theory, it would be - to them - real diabolical magick, and should they see one, it would drive them insane. What four hundred years ago would have been the most insane of magic, is now scientific fact, and the science humanity makes up, but a placebo cloaking the higher knowledge of which i refer to but am not at liberty to divulge.

Thus the register of suspense is created, without having to reveal or project the truth of my intellect, that most - should i choose to announce the secret of the universe, would consider as that of an idiot who learns at a national enquirer school of factual proof..Believe it mary, if you choose and be content that you know, forget trying to convince the doubters, for their truth is no greater than our own, whatever it be, for (time)

like truth is each our own
unfurls unique to one and all
and lives are lived as days
have gone, no two the same
beyond the passing of horizons
by the sun...

A snippet from Time, a poem i wrote several years ago that came over a few easy drafts, one of the magical ones you can barely believe came from you, as if one were merely the conduit of a higher power. The truth of stuff like this lies on one person holding the ear of an audience who fall for their spiel. Hitler did the same, and so proof can often be nought more than weight of opinion.

Imagine ten people wrong and one right, then ten look and nod at each other, lets have a vote, we must be right there are ten of us who beleive it and only one crazee who does not. Proving that proof is nought but fictional beleif, in this debate, and at the mo, the fictional shakey we know from a picture and few recorded facts, is de facto head fantasy-proof, yours sounds a lot more interesting and compelling for a bore seeking to speak of beauty in a song..