A Cottonian who saw it all.

( A poetic lecture on the realities of life)

..and down the road you see him….

Amidst the destruction that happened all week long…bands of wasted souls wanting to find, search, seek and destroy the fine tuning of Mother Earth..some even searching for love amidst the madness, some searching for other’s souls amidst the rotten greed …

..suddenly today melted away to the  past and yesterday’s happenings were a distant memory in the gutter of past dreams…

His trench coat wrapped around him, he’d seen violent scenes from the Bronx to San Jose, from Dakar to Abidjan and would  see tomorrow’s new more aggressive cities burn and smelt with the rage of inbuilt dirty ambitions…

In his own inner circle which meant nothing to others, he knows the gravity and weight of being there.. part of the wastelands. Away from the inner destruction and hell’s hole that beckons the weak hearted.

He stands at the corner in his week old growth as his life flashes by and explodes into smithereens…

..people pay the price for actions not forgiven, stuck to the memory of laughter, false joy  and happiness. And then pain and horror.

He sees it all . He saw it all. Crystal clear.

Reminiscing about the bandit and that crazy gitana, both wandering through the wilds, through hills and valleys with zebras in tow. In pure love immune to rusty jeeps strewn across the badlands. The rush for life now abandoned by the desperate, the weak and the foolish who claw and crawl, now camping out in the oasis of hope, waiting for a milagro, a miracle.

He remains at where it all started and realises time is nigh. The hour of dawn, amanaser will be  when the peace arrives. If they smoke the pippa de paz, the peace pipe that is, as  he stares into the never ending alley of hope and despair. With his Warrior Soul.

Judgement Day..The frikin judge must have barely skimmed the post of Commander on the tip of his toes and decided such heavy responsibilities were for strong minded men, no not him. He would rather come tumbling down the gangway and land on his head  ashore, to become a land lubber of the weakest sect from his high end ghetto,  assisting large multinationals get rid of claims from their employees even if they had given their lives to the company. Fattening his own purse with bullion even if he died like a mule whipped to sorry strife on shattered knees. This complete mierda, this dung of the lowest order. He pities the poor mule if the mule was real, that poor beast of burden, NOT this spineless  cowardly  guttersnipe who says he reports to Her Royal Majesty. Utter-utter crap. Pure Horse manure. What a bunch of sorry shits, losers, wasters and bile. The best words described would be ‘failures deep in the gutter of never ending scum, sum scum’.

No, never could he associate with vermin scum like this as what they really want is a free loading passage to everywhere.

From stale foul smells, to bad breath and cheap ideals these sad persons were supposed to live within each other’s selfish means and not get better, not one bit.

He knows what his path is. His path is sure and straight like a burning arrow finding its mark.

He respects those who understand logic, reason, compassion and humility. He loathes those who know nothing, learnt nothing and remain selfish arrogant  fools and suckers through their journey. He prefers to loathe them from a distance and knows soon enough they will reap their own rewards in the kingdom of purgatory. They came from rotten backgrounds and as time passes become even bigger rotten scoundrels and charlatans. They are the dreaded disease.

How could he even dream of being a part of them?! His dream weaver worked with beautiful wondrous stories of great passion for life, great passionate love and great passion-humane.

For he is a warrior and a do-good doer and his trail of fire will be remembered for all the good things he did. With his Warrior Soul.

Not will an iota of goodness be remembered from those weak who hide behind their concubines petticoats and ‘hope’ all the sorry mess created by their own incompetence, impotence and fear of responsibility will miraculously disappear and they will continue to have so called job security. These greedy and heartless fools who thrive on seeing others unhappy only think about how much they have stashed away in their mattresses so when they die like maggots, their material wealth will be buried with them in the catacombs of hell divine.

But the warrior knows his inner strengths. His talent, his background and his ability  stay intact in spite of making momentary contact with this breed of maggots. He was educated with the ideals and passion of Bishop Cotton School at Bishop Cotton School. Yes he the warrior cherishes and loves his own and they him, for now, for yesterday, for tomorrow. Forever.. From the morning mists to the deepening sun over the hills of Guachepelin. Finally atardeser, dusk over the horizon, to the west at Punta Arenas with rayos de esperanza de oro, rays of golden hope.

Just as the mermaids swim home to their lovers at night.


 ……………Excerpts taken from the mind, the soul of El Ziginare, El Capitano, El Amante, The Nomad, The Wanderer, The Captain, The Lover who still sits and waits at the water’s edge with the Albatross. Off Tierra del Fuego…… knowing,

His time will come.

Their time will come.

Just waiting, with the zillion keys on the river bed of the Seine…


With his Warrior Soul.

(Durante el verano del ano  2012 / Around the Summer of Year 2012)

Vivek Bhasin
Lefroy 1961-1970
True Cottonian.