The Art of Askem
Literary Madness
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The Art of Askem Literary Madness |
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The human mind A place where nothing is real When Mankind understands that Mankind will exist Martin Copyright Martin Askem 2009
Mankinds has continued to search for definition
since birth. This search has stopped
man from experiencing life in high definition Mankind sadly is not ready Martin Copyright Martin Askem 2009
The root of mankind’s existence is conception, an idea. For anything to exist there has to be a conception, an idea. This therefore implies that someone or something created us with an idea. Scholars of popular science and revolutionary quantum mechanics will argue a different reason for our existence,
this study of mans self will continue until the end of mankind. Which came
first the chicken or the egg? Well either is possible, however either one created the other with a conceptual idea. Life was an idea for someone, who only the man who can knows. Copyright © Martin Askem 2009
From birth we think that life is over, we
question our own existence. We spend our lives pondering on what has, is and will happen. We do not live, as life has not yet begun Copyright Martin Askem
2009
Thinking is mankinds greatest addiction Copyright Martin Askem 2009
In order for mankind to be saved, mankind
must come to an end We never should
have eaten from the tree Copyright Martin Askem 2009 Mankind The Complete Understanding
to Why The day of conception The first day The day that mankind began
the journey was from a single thought The essence of life begins with an individual thought In order for there to be a start there had to be a thought, a thought in
a place beyond mankind’s comprehension. Beyond our comprehension as it is a single thought in someone else or
something else’s mind or existence We have been guided and defined by religious belief, by scientific fact. We have endeavoured since our first beginnings to understand,
to evolve. Darwin WAS right, we did evolve as a species. BUT we evolved by CHOICE, by conscious and subconscious thought. We evolved by choice in our
journey to understand how and why we were created and if we were indeed created by someone. Life, Mankind exists because of one single thought;
therefore mankind WAS created by someone. Who created mankind has been and will continue to be mankind’s greatest challenge and indeed burden. A burden
because in our attempt to understand why and who created us we have destroyed mankind itself. We have created division, suffering and sorrow.
We have destroyed civilisations and generations. If the human race does not stop asking or challenging how we were created, mankind will cease
to exist. Why? Because all it takes is one
single thought Martin Askem 23 September 2009 Copyright © Martin Askem
2009
The White Race Have drove The Black Race into darkness with their colour blind minds. The Black Race has and continues to love a white
Jesus Christ. This
signifies The Love of The White Race by The Black Race It’s time to stop running It’s not a race We live life together Martin Askem 19/09/2009 Copyright
© Martin Askem 2009
The small framed lady stands
in the middle of the street, her voice commanding respect from the gang of thugs who just beat her son. She throws down the
gauntlet to let them know that she is prepared to die for her beloved boy, the child she gave life. The grown men take stance like animals in the
jungle, sniffing for the smell of fear; but as the air fills their nostrils the animals begin to wince as the frame of the
woman becomes the lioness for which they will not come near. The echo of the woman’s voice rings in their ears, the piercing look reduces
them to tears. The
lady with the power, who works within the washing powder, listens to the junction of people cleansing their souls. As she cleans the washing
room; echoes of her kindness can be heard in the train station next door. The floor was always clean, for the lady with the small frame and the
big heart had pride in her work. 36 years on and she still shines This wonderful woman Who I am proud to call Mum Martin Copyright © Martin Askem 2009
The question why is perceived as insoluble to mankind, the reason
for this is the question itself. When
you are able to reflect upon your life without question, you will answer why and you will complete your journey as a human
being. Martin Askem 18th August 2009 Copyright © Martin Askem 2009
WE have Destroyed and we have raped Mother earth WE
have invaded space and wasted time WE have made nature un-natural WE have driven God's creatures into extinction WE have persecuted and executed generations of Man WE
are not MEN, and we are unkind WE have destroyed mankind WHY? That is THE question Martin Askem 3:33am
13th August 2009 Copyright
Martin Askem 2009
If only I have Experienced it, then it really
happened. If it really happened
it makes it real This is how life
is was and will be created Martin Askem 5th August 2009 Copyright Martin Askem 2009
When you can hear the sound of nothing, you
answer why Martin Askem 17th July 2009 Copyright Martin Askem 2009 Fear and Loathing The tear drips down his face like a silent waterfall in the garden of thieves, each droplet filled with
emotion and fear. The blotter paper soaked with the magic takes the man lacking the grin to a place less ordinary. Life at
Large As I take
a final sip of the blood red wine, I look at the chalice and see the remnants of my last sip drip down
each equilateral side I reflect
on the past, a history of learning, happiness, sorrow and fear. A past where the close became far and the near became an expense. Life as we all know it oh so fragile,
some savour for a moment, a lifetime or just a while. The fitter grouted his tiles, the administrator filed her files. The
bobby on the beat who lost respect and put out his neck to protect our liberty; for the youths in depravation he took a liberty. Unlike those with bifocals who stopped
a cared, who took three and a half seconds to glare. The guardians wore uniforms, be it the white clothed nurse or the man
in blue. Our perception, our life did we really have a clue CCTV, big brother, a replacement mother or an angry brother. Life, it involves wife an man or a girl. A baby or two or even three, the dice rolls and whoever decides who we should
be Life is fragile, lasts for a while, the smiles, the
kisses, and the moans from the missus. All a fraction of time, all something that was once yours his or mine
The dust that has become a must for the lady in the black shroud, a nasty habit that started as a
hobby with the hobbit in the cupboard, the fiend of a friend from long ago who lost it. The artist draws
a curtain to expose the burning light, the glimmer of hope for the son of the sinner within. The son with the cheesy grin,
his stomach turns as he learns his line, each one cut ever so fine. The dust that is a must is his dirty habit
too, another snort in the backroom out of view. The lady in the washroom is weathered and old, for many she appears to have
a rotten cold, a sniffle and sneeze as she lets the clothes dry, the prospect of hanging herself with another line seems sublime.
The washing line spins whilst the boy grins, the lady in the shroud listens to the sins. The habitual ritual,
the ingestion of the barbital pill that is the dispensation of the of the glum ills Last will and testament
written in the bed head for the addict that chases death, his cries fall silent on the nurse in the white dress.
The white folds of her cloth sway in the wind like a tired moth. Attracted to the bulb, the flicker makes him come
quicker, the dust far more potent than the malt liquor served from the dirty vicar
The scribbles of the siblings allow the echo to be heard, the expulsion of the revulsion sprays the
wall like cheap emulsion. A nasty habit, an habitual fad, the frown from the sad. The parishioner who partitions, the deaf
father who endeavours to listen. A confession of a condition, the acrid smell of religion. The waft of faith from the
oven of hell, the bun that is cross sitting on the table, each slice of a segment of the fable. The melting butter makes me utter
the words that are oh so smooth, like a needle circulating a vinyl groove. A ring on the door to raise the alarm, three wise men have entered the
barn. Presents from the past in a room that is hollow. A shell waiting to be painted with the gift of tomorrow The son of God He was a good boy,
by the accounts of his mater. He rebelled as a youth without his pater. The boy struggled to grow into a man, trailing behind the father who ran away. It took a few decades and a history to fade before he saw the light, before he started
to fight. To step out of the darkness and into the sun, to retreat from the anger and sorrow The history went past in a fleeting glimpse, now the baker must craft his finest
loaf Each slice fills the mouth of the
hungry son, the child to the man whose father run away on the day of reckoning The Homeless Child The homeless child runs wild in the street, screaming at the twister sister who allowed her to get blisters
on the once oh so soft feet. The
dishevelled hair filled with dirt and grime tells a hairy tale, the rabbit that jumped over the fence one summers day to escape
from the mad hatters hell. A carrot an onion or a walking stick, another beating from the man who was sick A twisted mind of an unkind soul, whose only goal was to make
the rabbits weak, to fill there lives with sorrow and eyes with rainfall that poured for a week The rabbit now sits in the pouring rain, with a knowing smile
that says life is no longer so bleak The
rabbit is free. The rabbit is wild. The
rabbit is no longer the homeless child
The butcher with the sharp steel blade takes his first cut of meat. The appeal of slicing through
the flesh sends a shiver down the mans spine to the base of his feet. Loosing my religion That is just
the story of my life, the cry that I used for an eternal lullaby. Lying in the wanker pit wanting to cry, asking the question
why
The cunt's
drip with juice as I cut loose the text, my vocabulary makes others vexed. The Scholars will try to reflect; they won’t
understand the script’s effect. the third columnist will defect This is apt, my mind
adapts to ease the pain and sorrow, and my pupils digest as I read the book of law I piss on the floor to wash
away the shit from tomorrow; I stand on the hill watching the climbers sorrow The law, the foul, the meek and the weak. My text
the answer so to speak The metal stick like candles wick, burning in the night, where the demons alight. It’s all right; it’s
ok, ok An expelation of an explanation
for the nation of dead souls. Deadheads lying in a bed filled with piss and mist. The answer lies within the
palm of your hand, look beyond the glass and see the sand Copyright © Martin Askem 2008
The man with a frown
sits in his room alone, for him the cracked PVC chair is his throne. He sits alone scribing his works, each word another stone on the path
where destiny lurks
As the dust settles
the girl with the freckles stops and stares, her eyelids like umbrellas in the pouring rain Her nose twitches as her brain years for some
more cocaine. The powder like clam chowder to Mr Chin, The girl with the freckles wonders where did all this begin The rain poured when she last scored; now she lies on the bathroom floor soaked from
the rain, cold and dead from the cocaine.
Condoleezza’s
bowl is always full with rice, which is nice for her; others search to find another grain, many in the pouring rain
The
inspiration comes from within the perspiration as the mind takes a trip for another day. The clouded vision and lack of revision
stopped the collar being g unleashed for a while until today. Copyright Martin Askem 2008
The
tortured mind is easy to find, the tortured mind is like a strained teabag, weak and undefined
Throw a six or grasp your sweaty crucifix, drop and pill to dispense your ills. A devious mind standing from behind, press forward to rewind the clock, stop the victim standing
in the dock Land
a three and decide where to be, in a box confessing your sins like a dispensation of constipation. Empty stomach ready for another throw
or a blowjob from the whore staring out of the window. Windowpane or a pain in the head, a game of dominos or a placebo before you go to bed
The lick of pill hit the cranium like a hammer knocking on a oak door, the echoes of extinction
evicted from a dusty attic called the mind as the hallucination comes near. The teak starts to speak and starts to flow like the Missippii River, as
the levees break in the eyelids my leg’s start to quiver A twinge in my liver or an undigested dinner, Sitting at the table writing yet another
fable or maybe the scriptures of life. Cutting new words like butcher with a knife. A hungry morsel to feed the hungry mouths, a seasonal feast
or thirsting fast, words written within this that are meant to last A historically tale or a Manx cat, a four legged friend our fiend that got
fat. A visual cancer
that is destined for the brain, a visualisation that causes pain Is it a mirage or a marriage, is a horse drawing a carriage. Is it birth
or is it deaf, is kind or is it blind. Do you mind, do you care? When you walk past a victim why do you stare.
Twenty-four hours to live, the clock starts ticking.
Countdown now from twenty-three and some change Some resolution, absolution and pollution maybe Leave a carbon footprint or a bloody fingerprint
at the scene Make
a scene in a bank for a large withdrawal at the end of a gun, or a glass of liquor with a perverted nun A nun wearing a black cape, or a knowing smile
that is oh so fake Fake
an emotion or tell a lie, no point only twenty left before you die Nineteen the challenging age and a stage, visit a stage show or maybe
partake in a private dance The search to find the woman who gave you the knowing glance You feel the bite, only seventeen left; a call for some music whilst
there is still time left A left turn to burn some soul and sow some seed, wallow for one last time in your sense of greed A greedy fool teaching you the rules of play,
have to learn quickly as tomorrow will be yesterday. Yesterday seems so unclear, as the clock ticks and nine hours is near Fifteen have pasted, what a blast. Such a shame
it couldn’t last A last bet at the table before they close, a peak through the window at the lady with no clothes The naked lady on the table, waiting for her son to be born to tell him his first
fable The time
comes near as the waters break A look at the clock to see that it is time, a gasp of air for the first and last time
As the man stood waiting for
his ride home in the night the three approached with the intention to strike The first blow to the head stung like a bee, this hennas act of violence
the first of many from the three The man fought back, trying not to drop to his knees. The glass then struck his head from one of the three Another frightening blow to
the man fighting for his life on the street, the three’s only intention to bring pain and defeat More and more they struck as the man became so
weak, the clouds began to fall as the three reached their peak A mountain to climb for the man who lay dying on the street, darkness filled his
mind as the salty tears dripped down his cheek Then silence arrived for what seemed like a week. Time was up, he had punched out so to speak. As he said his farewells,
goodbyes and lullaby’s to this unkind earth a light shone from the distance that was deafeningly loud A gasp of air drew into his lungs, a step out
of the darkness whose life was just done The three ran away thinking they were kings of the street The true champion, the battered man once again rose to his feet Copyright Martin Askem 2008
The wind blowing in my ear brings another thought near I take a dig to clear the wax, as the man pays his poll tax A returning bill or an awkward ilk, Mrs T stole
all the children’s milk A cow in a field or a snake in the grass, a drink final drink from the cabinet for the woman they said would not
last Last orders
at the bar if you drive a car A gallon of tax, an expensive habit and that’s a fact A factual frustration leading the nation, did he care old Mr Blair Now it’s plain with
Mr Brown. A passing wind or maybe just a clown
The clenched jaw bites down a little tighter, the aggression fills the mind a little
further The man with the wicked streak takes a peak as he takes a leak. A leaking
pipe that doesn’t feel right needs unblocking, the frustrated mother asks the noisy lad’s to put a sock in it. Sweaty socks or a hungry worker on the docks, the man with little hair or a head full of dreadlocks. The workingman has to go to work feeling ill, tries to rectify his problems with a small pill. A pill or two or maybe three, Lennon and McCartney singing let it be Quarter to three, not long to go. The worker waits to pack his sack. Go home to
the missus then have a nap Copyright Martin Askem 2008
The narcotic is so strong it made me come close Closer than near, more potent than wine spirit or beer So hot gloves are needed to
hold it So tough
the mould cant hold it It is powerful it lasts so long, it can be so right yet so wrong This drug comes in many guises, delivers many surprises What is it I hear you say? The narcotic is love, try
it one day Copyright Martin Askem 2008
A dog took a bite, the little brat crashed into him with his bike. The long winding staircase, to deliver a note to another nutcase. Madness and insanity mixed with profanity. Door number twenty-four, on the council estate swarming with the law The big heavy sack hurt’s that hurts than mans back is back on the
table. This is a postman’s
story, a day in the life, a job or just a fable Copyright Martin Askem 2008 Sunday Afternoon Sleep Was he stolen from the tomb, or maybe the womb. Was he here there or in the other room.
Bingo
Living in Sin The man on street has got nothing to eat; the man with the suit has got lots of loot.
The Man on The Street
Sadness For many years I walked along a long and winding road, sometimes hard to navigate and sometimes not knowing whether I could
continue the journey.
A Day in the Life The insanity of his profanity is welcomed gladly by the hostile crowd. The words flow freely throughtout the midnight sky,
a hostile apostle kneels and asks the question why.
The Meaning of Life Is the meaning of life in the middle of my hand
Life as you know it As I drift away to the place I came from before, I ask my self the question. Will it be long before I am knocking on the door.
The Price Of Gas Freely flowing, not knowing where this will go. Will it become a rhyme or maybe a poem? Looking out of window it is sad to
see what she wants to be. Walking down the road with child in tow. 16 years old and she is a mother, people ask is that child
your brother. Shameful act at twenty past one, what has he done. The narcotic is psychotic and I got it.
The Dream The Lucidity of my frequency transforms my darkness into reality.
The Voyage of Life My mind was flying at a thousand miles a second, My body trailed a million miles behind, Like the snail to the rabbit.
What I am Life is life, death is desire, who controls the mystery for i am the ready reckoner of lost souls.
Home Alone He sleeps on the street, with nothing to eat.
Raindrop A raindrop runs down the window pane as He sits feeling Pain, he drops another dose to see whether he can become close.
Do The Maths There are many rights and many wrongs, endless behaviour that is continually prolonged.
Single Mother A teardrop runs down her face, she looks out of the window to see him depart from her place.
Why Evolving at twenty to one, standing on the dark shell of life. Imagination and desire-Silly games.
Pressure If you think you are under pressure in your daily life at the moment read this and think for a moment
Circus Act Are you with us or are you without us
Timetable Hurried passengers push past hoping to get a seat, sitting down on the 8:20 to Clapham Junction, oh what a treat.
Stopwatch Ticking away fast like a stopwatch, life moves fast in perpetual movement. Sometimes the hours seem to move slowly, the miniutes
drag along quietly behind. but they always reach their destination.
The Light I stood there walking away from the light, but I felt it pulling me back. for several seconds I was gone to a place far away.
Bridging the Gap Bridging the gap between black and white, from what is wrong and what is right. Endeavouring to make change to a diluted world.
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Impressions
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If you waste fuel and don't recycle you damage the environment. but the true environment is the living one.
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