Kafka Re-Trial

Kafka lands resurrected in Crewe deposited by a silvery alien craft, And whilst he is wondering what to do He is asked to show his pass Or pay an instant one off fine At a cash dispenser of his choice And they are checking all the time On his irises face and voice.

And of course they find that he is not, They discover he just cannot be there, Although he seems as if he is visible, And has hands and toes and hair, If he is not on the Great Data Bank, He plainly and simply cannot be, He is not listed and he is not ranked He is surely not like you and me.

So they cant detain him in custody But they do not have to let him go He never ever happened, period So who can ever tell, or know. So on a lonely bench in quiet shade He sits alone and unremarked, Wondering what games they play, Against the backdrop of the park.

And so, are we just the opposite, Are we all consigned to hidden files, Are machines deciding who we are, Where we live, and when we smile, Is nothing a certain and real fact, Unless computer correlated true, And should your dossier go into error, How can you prove, you are really you.

How do you verify yourself for a loan, If your ranking gets compromised, How do you overturn all their data, Making you a pariah in others eyes, You may hold letters of validity, They may grudgingly know its you, Unless their system grants absolution, There is nothing they can say or do.

So unless we are verifiable as sound, And our image assuages Superhal, No one will ever trust us again, No one will ever want to be our pal, But this is not like yesteryear, When a quick query cleared your name, Your questions are merely registered, And you just get told how to complain.

Complaints are collated and quantified, They are cross filed and referenced, You must never lose this number, And you must never take offence, You are continually adjourned, Or moved to yet another floor, In the hope that you will falter, From all that has gone before.

Meanwhile youre mugged, not statistically, Contract MRSA, but its not on file, Your children cannot read or write, But their qualifications raise a smile, You always hit potholes that dont exist, To save waiting on trains that dont arrive, But whose flexitimes prove you missed, The only one late out of fifty five.

You cry out to be heard aloud, But the echoes mock your voice, You cannot afford the telephone, Cant bypass enforced menus of choice, Cannot contact a single human being, By department, name or reason, All this evolved like a dripping tap, Season upon big brother season.

Then one day walking in solitude, Your will to try nearly quenched, There is the quiet of the shady park, There is the man upon the bench, Who looks at you knowingly, And asks you if you ever read, And says Then I am Kafka, You Must Tell Me What You Need.

So He went up to their doors, The Nameless Man with Faceless Face, And bearded them in their hallowed den, Their plush revered and holy place, And caused unmitigated consternation, As he either was not really there, Or indeed actually physically existed, Solidly sitting silent in his chair.

So they asked him what he would want, If he were real and not mere illusion, For his appearance was so inopportune, His face and features causing confusion, His DNA was an embarrassment, Never born, nor listed, nor created, Never taxed, treated, nor arrested, Never receiving a non education.

So he stood up to his full height, And drew up his deepest breath, That made him seem immortal, And made them all fear death, And his mighty voice resounded, So much the walls retained his words, We want to be individuals again We want to speak and to be heard, We want our voice to really matter, And we want to hear no more lies, We want illusion swept away, Replaced by council of the wise, We want common sense to prevail, And not statistical subterfuge, Which tries to tell us its all ok, When we know it must improve, We want you to abdicate and take, Your machines and Mandarins away, And we want it done immediately, Oh Yes, we want it done today.

Or else I will shine in prime time, And then all will see its me, The man who is not Kafka, The man who simply cannot be, Then where will your credibility go, Will they ever listen to your pleas. No, far better for you to go now, And leave reality to me.

And they went away in disarray, Whilst he heralded a new era, No one knew who the hell he was, But yet everything seemed clearer, Everything was as it appeared, Nothing hidden, no more of the lies, And no one filed his disappearance, When he finally left our skies.

They can media us its always fine, Statistic prove what cannot be true, They can try to justify their lies, Attempt to airbrush history in two, They may perceive us all as fools, Force fed on false soap opera goals, But cannot forever control our minds, Nor assume they own our souls, For Long term lies have multiplied, And now are ringing empty and hollow, What seemed so reasonable yesterday Will be disproved upon the morrow, And with these endless lies surfacing, Just Like The Man Who Could Not Be, The truth will slowly become visible, And the truth will set us free.

Ex systems programmer living in England

In The News:


O Pen! founder is a pied piper of poetry
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They stream into the Pittsford Community Library with laptops, notebooks, printouts and sometimes stacks of poetry books at noon every Monday. They are the members of O Pen! Poetry Over Lunch, and they chatter and wave hello to each other as they head ...


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Vancouver Sun

Renowned Vancouver slam poet dead at 36
Vancouver Sun
Zaccheus Jackson, a nationally known and locally loved spoken word poet from Vancouver, has died. He was 36. Jackson was in Toronto, where he was scheduled to perform at the International Poetry Slam. Toronto police confirmed Friday that Jackson was ...
Vancouver poet Zaccheus Jackson's death by train in Toronto 'an absolute tragedy'Toronto Star

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CBC.ca

Zaccheus Jackson, 36, dies in train accident 2:14
CBC.ca
A void has been ripped into the lives of family, friends and Canada's spoken word community with the death of 36-year-old Zaccheus Jackson this week. Jackson, who became a fixture and inspiration in Vancouver's slam poetry scene starting nine years ago ...

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Is poetry dead? Does anyone care?
Danbury News Times
A decade ago Newsweek Magazine published an article with the provocative headline: "Poetry is Dead. Does Anybody Really Care?" The author concluded that while "poetry is the highest form of writing," it takes "work" and that our culture was becoming ...


18th Poetry Africa International Festival in October
Bizcommunity.com
The Centre for Creative Arts (University of KwaZulu-Natal), with principal funding from the City of Durban and the Department of Arts and Culture invites Durban's creative and undiscovered poets to take part in the festival Prelude Poets programme as ...


Take Heart: A Conversation in Poetry
Press Herald
Edited and introduced by Wesley McNair, Maine poet laureate. Poet Henry Braun lives in a wilderness far from neighbors in the middle of Mount Blue State Park. These two excerpts from his longer poem “Under Mount Blue” describe his life there. From ...

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Mark Doty kicks off Calliope Poetry Reading Series
Wicked Local Falmouth
The Calliope Poetry Reading Series at West Falmouth Library, 575 West Falmouth Highway, will open its eighth season on Sunday, Sept. 7 from 3 to 5 p.m. with National Book Award- winning poet and Chancellor of the American Academy of Poets, Mark Doty ...

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First Winchester Poetry Festival to take place this month
Basingstoke Gazette
Over three days, the cream of Hampshire's poetic talent will be centre stage. Thirty poets will visit the city, participating in a total of 26 events. Poets with a connection to the county – young and old, established and emerging, past and present ...


The Express Tribune

A different lens: The scientific roots of classical Pashto poetry
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“This region's classical poetry contains many unnoticed scientific underpinnings,” Dr Qazi Hanifullah Hanif tells The Express Tribune. Hanif, 56, has recently completed his doctorate from the Pashto Academy at the University of Peshawar—with which he ...

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