Wednesday, 12 December 2018

The Hawg Series - Literature - a sci fi piece

The Hawg is my Futurama Piece.  Not often you see poetry in this format.  Enjoy.

The Hawg Series 

The Hawg Series -1– A Date with Destiny

She danced with silver feet,
Delaney watched, eyes glued to the tap
the light infantry of dance steps
the miniscule telling of Hawg’s delight.

Gerard Skinduly held a rifle
an ungainly act for a career politician
the photo shot a chance for pennies,
Margery the photographer tilts her chin.

Hawg sniffs glue, has done since 7
remembers Doom 3 and Battlestar Galatica
his lithe frame attuned to sudden movement
the girls of Satswanry keep his pleasure.

Delaney’s got a boil in the middle of her head
such is the way of ShapeDancerettes,
days wind on with a well worn clock
Hawg starts his dinner, a Moro bar

and smiles at the destruction splattered on TV
the Islamabad’s fighting with their masters
the Iranian Peace Corp fighting Oilrigs
the Israeli Opposition winning peace.

The dance continues, she soars aloft,
reaches for a piñata, burst starlike into the night
the daisy chains of laughter rocket around,
all in viewing order assuaged to the effect.

Badly lit stairs trip an assassin, death like stride
to the top of the stairs and the dancing queen,
Hawg’s onto it straight away, spills the glue
and runs full pelt into the landing, gun ready

The Ninja of his arcade game days to the fore,
fires a volley at the running assassin, death in the back
the hole wide enough for two dogs to run through,
a blast as equal as a Doom 3 shot against 10 troopers.

The dancer with star shine eyes smiles laconically
reaches for a tissue, light strobes of tears tumbling,
then she starts to spiral, and howl, the baying wolf,
dance of death and sadness , a cantilevered moan.

The Hawg Series -2– Why she Vomited

Hawg carried his lofty Prize
a King Charles Spaniel stuffed with down
and a built in bark, carried it to the mantel
and placed it with his Ox Eye Tibetan trophy
and the picture of He meeting the President,
July 2213

she waxed lyrical as you do in Cliché Lounge
the star light still shining from silver slippers
the memory of Hawg in her mind, the gunman
still lying in the stairwell as she danced home,
she vomited twice passing him, knew it was right,

Mr President, are you taking calls, Hawg Senior”
The phone handed over, a few mutterings, silence
a cough to clear a rustic voicebox, sherry sipped
Yes of Course Mr Hawg, send him to the DYI,

A baby in a perambulator pushed by one mother,
it’s not unusual - multiple mothers in these tough days
the more the merrier in days when assassins ruin,
but a single mother with her baby walks past Hawg
as he stepped down from a stoop, legged it to Hinnies

to meet with the Dancing Queen, his girl in bright silver
the sun shining from her hair, her lips dry from vomit.

He answered his blipphone, a suicide bomber panting
wanting to rescind his ways, become something normal
He bends and touches her toes, feels a baby coming,
says his apologies and rushes for Grand Centralle

Spies the bomber pulling a string from his vest
and charges with full force, yelling to all to duck,
the bomber see him and pulls the string harder
but nothing happens, the bomb faulty, disarmed
they both walk off to a local Precinct, to capture.

Hawg senior stands with his son’s fifth citation
such is the way in superheroes land.
The Hawg Series -3- The Tap Dancers Pirouette

Hawg sits at his favourite bus stop,
the seat placed opposite myriad house gardens
suspended by due rods from window’s
the five storey apartment alive with joie d’evrie

see a friend lean precariously out of her window
2nd storey, far right, the one with the triple planter
sees he hover out the window, silver littering her path
as she began her daily ritual, the dance of watering

she soared through the air and started her dance
two step tripping twofold over ten entrancing violets
the music of her song the reverie of faeries, nymphs
the silver rain of love water oozing from her sandals

Hawg measured the distance, as he always did,
sent an arrow with unerring accuracy, pin point
that flew through the open window and imbedded
in a messageboard built for such love and attention.

The assassin down the road steadied his Lazrifle,
the young dancer in his laser sight, aiming, zeroing
ready to pull the trigger, another arrow from Hawg
true to aim, the lady saved, his lady, his pet, his!

Hawg stands, hits his phasephone, calls her indoors
the day bound to be routed with wayward minds
the flowers happy with their watering, silver dripping
to a boardwalk empty save for one dog scratching .

The Hawg Series -4- The Hawg

What is a Hawg?  Why do they exist?
Are they Human, cyberbotics, superhero?
Well that’s an easy one really.

You need to know this, see in the year 2156
an alien invasion was thwarted by Planet Gearth
by and large Humans
and their thermonuclear weapons;
for once all fought as one

But as a result, Radiorobotic cyborgs
survived the war, the machines of servitude
the invaders slaved and used.

Yes they could regenerate, much like humans
and soon became servants of Mankind
to help save Gearth from another attack,
until one day, a vagrant disease, ape we think
lowered all till one was left, Hawg Senior.

He was quarantined and studied so that his secrets
and many there were, could be enhanced to aid
mankind in it’s search for security from outer space,
and he was enticed by a woman, intense lust
and as a result a human Hawg was born, the mother
a space cadet with Planet Gearth Consortium
reared her child for three months until it was realised
the child was starting to develop too quickly,

the realisation that nature had been interfered with,
the realisation the child Hawg II was something else,
the realisation the kid had special powers, the ringing
of the telephone from outside the area where phones
were frozen in servitude, the knack to know when
others were around, his special powers of knowing.

He grew rapidly, but at the same time, he grew things
not evident in Man or Cyborg, the antennae that could
and often would, locate Nijahoe Assassins, like the
one that almost killed his mother, she now a retired
scapegoat for man’s folly, the son now well and truly
a Presidents Man.  And now, many Presidents past

a mother denied longevity, and a father, Hawg Snr.
now a World Icon, last of the species on this planet,
and of course, at 57, the super fit, super intelligent
Hawg II or as he is known in society The Hawg.

Why I hear you ask, the Nijahoe Assassins,
from a day where Jihad
and Kamikaze
were catch cries,
the days when Yellow and Brown evolved
to beat White.
A war that still rages, but now only the Nijahoe chase
the breeding pogrom of the superheroes,
the dancers in Silver and Gold
the ladies of magnitude
and one in particular
the one to bear child of the Hawg.

They all know her well.  The Hawg knows her better.
And is winning her safety.

The Hawg Series -5- The Girls of Satswanry

The dancers of silver feet, they are,
a scant ten in a world where fewer
is the norm, the remnants of fighting
the dancer girls of royalty, selected, trained
the girlfriends of Superheroes.

Hawg’s lady has no name, she just is
he likes it that way too, least the human side does
the Hawg side calculates continuance
both sides agree she’s the one for all

A new President in the making,
president of anything, maybe hero
maybe like his (or her) dad,
maybe hopefully a silver dancer
supreme in her knowledge of stairways
the ability to water plants from feet
the lofty heights of star, moon
and anything in the sky revolving.

Hawg calls her Sparkler, and she’s happy
happy to have a human name, a human face
to be once human now a starlet shining,
like her sisters, to delight all eyes,
except those of the Nijahoe, the hated
the assassins of all things beautiful,

Today she found the arrow in the noticeboard,
another tally of Her Hawg, after watering the plants,
she knew, cyber transmitted to her girlfriends
a warning, that they had found her, were aiming
they cyber replied things are cool their end
Hawg senior had visited everyone, explained

The Hawg sat motionless on a park bench
South Central Presidential Park, under the Yew
dedicated to the Hawg of the past, counted his arrows
and cybered Ten Central for replacements, pronto
A lady of Leisure sauntered up, raised a skirt
The Hawg just motioned her to leave, to depart
and find a Human of apt quality to fulfill her needs.

The Moto scoota passed through the Amber Light
the corner of Tenth and Henry, at  a speed designed
not to be surpassed by even Law Cruisers,
came to a stop at the Yew, a package dropped
then scooted away, off to another Government errand.

The Hawg chose his moment to bend over and uplift,
Swirling Death Disks, three in total, whizzed overhead,
the vector 200 metres at 140. ten arrows in action
ten targets acquired (the arrows register cybertalk)

The Lady of the Dance senses his home coming
his glee, notices on the message pad eleven Nijahoe
in two days, they were upping the ante, destruction,
of the Dancers, the Hawg’s, all off planeteers,
the battle goes on, life well and truly in the balance.

The Hawg Series -6- The Elimination of the Nijahoe

It’s been another 24 years, Hawg III and Father
in seclusion, with mother and wife, succour
they make a rare excursion out, the Nijahoe silent
unaware as to their location. the Hawg senses
not too far away, maybe a day’s trip, silence

the Doktour runs his calculations, His Nijahoe
ready to unleash the minute the sensor activates,
the Hawg’s Arrows his DEAD giveaway,
Nijahoe manufactured, why The Hawg finds
victims so easy in range, but in 24 years

the Nijahoe have grown again, expanded
until the plight of Two Hawg’s lends existence
or non existence to a deadly cause, wasted
the many human rabbits, many simulated Hawgs
many times the fighters of the Old Millennium

strike targets in readiness of the return of the Hawg
to see if his son was the same brute force, powerful
together as one or solo strength, the power
about to be unleashed, the sensor goes off
Red Rum Hanging Tree, a town on Gourmands.

All Nijahoe deployed, all fifty four, the nearest
ten miles as the crow flies, as a Nijahoe strides
the sensor only points to one, the Hawg himself,
but still he won’t handle 54, 30 at most, maybe more
dependant on the newest weapons developed

over time and hiding, the first Nijahoe in range,
taken out at 3 miles, a well aimed arrow, dead
then 2 then three, and soon the pile grows to 15,
reroute, reconnaissance, search for the boy
the true target, does he dance hovering Mum like

or is he the ever present Bulk of Hawgishness,
soon a reply, they sense but cannot see, a hunch
Invisible, dancing above the ground, spreading
poisonous Daytura Juice, Nijahoe choking
poison to their veins, hallucinations, self kill

The flight of son carrying father, both exhausted
back to the lair, to Mummy’s Den, the lady’s palace,
the Nijahoe a thing of the past, life changing, curtains
pulled wide open, what other changes in those years
what other enemies for the three aliens of Gearth.

The Hawg Series –7- The Ladies of the Dance retire

She still hovers daily, feet pointed down, toes dipped
silver sensation dripping and littering the hover
the smile everlasting for a man and boy, hers
she says little, just creates beauty with each pass.

They now live in a woodlands, separated by fields
cityscape still strong in the blood, in the eye line
all three retired heroes of civilisation, each tree
a home for silver dancers, their men folk, humans mostly,

The days made up of dancing, weaving, magic
the days short, the nights long, the ladies sing,
the men, dance, warriors full of vim and vigour,
the days full of laughter and beer, barring the Hawgs

no the Hawgs are busy still, son and father, cops
in intergalactic affairs, journeys to far off places
their lady in toe to assist with her skills of observance,
all three, though retired in mind, in kind, behind

Rooftop Yew 12, the great heart of Time and Space
the tree that beats out the rhythm of Heartbeats
the master of the Oaks, keeper of the Redwoods
the Great Tree of Masterkind, the scholars, invent,

the triumvirate Man, Woman, Home the purest
the sanest it has been for eons, the doors open now
society safe from Nijahoe terrorists, of Street Urchins,
the little overgrown rogues of Brroklin, a subcity

The ladies still dance, the 12, a remnant of past times
a time when the Geisha Honies were given their gift
now in semi retirement, dancing less, singing more
the Great Annie Lennox – Ladies Mother, crooner,

Gave them voice, passed it on, and they sing longingly
for their former dance partners, Great Cops of Ludite
all in passing now, just the Humans, the superheroes,
the lonely Hawgs, the lonely trees, all company for life,

retirement, until the need to fight inner and outer space
until the need to reactivate, to reinvent, to breath, live
to sing and dance with their ladies, mom’s, sisters
to forget the horror of the past, build a future.

The Hawg Series -8- Retirement.

The Hawgs 186 now, his boy a little younger
they’ve both been off planet saving Gearth
the lady (and mother) training Silver Dancers
a time when peace rules supreme, quiescence,

Two days from now, Hawg will lay down his legacy,
his peace and quiet for his retirement, writing
memoirs of adventures and battles, won or lost
the proof that Gearth is relatively safe for eons

Hawg Junior to take command
of the Gearth Intergalactic Force
To deal with the mechanics of power
to let his father pamper his mother

It’s written in glass,
the end of an era,
the end of time
for the Hawg.

The Last Supper

Some odd ball facts.  All the key features of the Last Supper as painted by Leonardo de Vinci look very Italian (or European.)  Normally those of Hebrew extraction are of darker complexion and pronounced facial features.

According to the story surrounding the Birth of the Messiah, 3 wise men followed a wondering star?  Assuming they were on foot or pack animal a wandering star in the sky doesn't allow followers to go to the same spot.  Ergo the Star was geo-stationary. Ergo (??????)

The Origin of the names of the Disciples.

 1st   Jesus - Aramaic/Greek
2nd  Both Simons  -  Greek/Hebrew
3rd   Andrew  -  Greek
4th   John  -  Greek with Latin Variant
5th  Two Johns - Greek
6th   Phillip  -  Greek
7th   Thaddeus  -  Greek
8th   Bartholomew  -  Greek
9th   Thomas  -  Aramaic
10th   Judas  -  Greek
11th  Matthew  -   Greek

Saturday, 8 December 2018

Tale of the Captaincy Tape - Taylor vs Williamson

It's been a given, Since becoming Blackcaps captain Kane Williamson has flourished under his own captaincy so what are the comparisons of our two leading Test cricket batsmen?? 

Taylor under his own captaincy (2011 - 2013), under BMac's (2013 - 2016) and under Kane Williamson (2016 - now)

Runs per Captaincy Under Own Captaincy Under Bmac Under Kano
Ross Taylor Captain Blackcaps 2011 – 2013 6 60 173

8 0 124

78 6 67

82 70 2

76 28 0

76 54 0

14 5 17

0 217 36

6 16 4

56 129 0

122 131 32

44 2 11

17 3 17

18 45 102

48 51 40

21 0 60

60 45 77

0 36 15

2 45 93

7 6 16

113 0 107

45 8 20

9 23 2

18 104 13

142 50 2

74 7 2

37 39 19

0 32 0

41 0 82

19 60 0

3 8 22

66 20












Runs per tenure 1308 1300 1155
Averages 43.6 43.3 38.5

And in comparison, Kane under the same three Captains??

Runs per Captaincy Under Ross Under Bmac Under Own Captaincy
Kane Williamson Captain Blackcaps 2016 – now 4 0 15

69 77 13

0 39 4

8 102 11

50 19 24

1 2 42

15 22 55

49 8 91

69 37 60

19 52 6

19 17 13

0 13 3

19 8 114

34 0 74

4 10 62

11 135 48

8 55

Runs 371 549 113
Average 23.2 34.3 3







































































Wednesday, 5 December 2018

Some of my (very) early attempts at Poetry

These poems were written when I first started writing poetry on the Roger Waters Bulletin Board in 1999.

The first is me telling a rabid Christian he'd have more respect of his fellow posters if he stopped plagiarising his Bible and posted his own dogma.

Plagiarism = Deja Vu = BarkingDogFox

The street peddler pedals his soul,
to all that care and don't,
with microphone and mini-amp he drones on
without staring his sheep in the face,
nor caring for who he converts or not,
I walk by and pity him, but for what?

The space between me and him grows,
for I know that I shan't preach,
nor waste shallow speech, on him nor his type,
for I keep myself to myself and
ride off on my bike, and converse with only my ilk.

But comes to pass when man can no longer, feel
weak when he knows he is stronger,
as jaded posturing street preacher,
spreads his maker’s words and not his to be heard,
in a site designed for free thought.

Bow down, bushy tailed one, look in the mirror,
what do you see that is such a horror,
yourself amplified in shards of light
blanketed by dark,
for your mind is clouded and interminably shrouded,
by someone who's not you. Oh Bark!

So you plagiarise to make your name,
where we free thinkers,
some good, some stinkers,
express our deepest, darkest, lightest,
prose for us and those,
who wish to share our minds and waters.

Well, Roger has spoken to us and for us
and the choking hoards who appreciate free
so expression is the recession, clouding your
mind, I ask you, implore to leave Gods works behind,
when you make your mark in this thread.

Psalming is calming, for you and your kith,
myth or legend for what, do I wonder,
as history says, that man shall not plunder
the riches of the mind but
seek to search for the sake of mankind,
the answers to questions not written.

Oh BarkingDogFox,
take your hand off your eyes, and see why we despise the darkness that lies within,
with your hands removed you can touch other books
and have a good look at others interpretation,
give your mind-eyes new sensations,
and marvel at what YOU can produce!

Never really new what I was writing but in retrospect every poem had a message, this one for my Brother.

Heart of Gold

Rub the cherished rock,
plain as day
dark as night
reach in with your eyes
and visualise the core.

See the glitter and
warm sparkle
of a nugget,
or just see,

Take the rock axe,
ready to hew,
change your mind
thinking gold will spill
and grey ensue.
What to do?
Admire the rock
for what it is,
or risk ruin for the sake
of human vanity?

This one is plainly evident.

Bad Habits

Rosary beads clicked,
one, two, three, four, five
and boy children made
a calculated dive 'neath the pews
as the Black cassock of belief
wandered by,

The type clicked into place
letter, epistle, apostle,
bearer of news
of little laddies constantly abused
for many years and mournful
tears of mothers reading the press,
God Bless.

And the Frocks hang
testament to times
when crimes were dealt with
in the Confessional,
no one clicked for ages
yet now it is professional
recourse to unseat the horse.

Click, click go the beads of sweat
in the Vatican where a Pope
measures out the hopes of change
and the dealings with the Boy Lovers
are hidden away
for another day
and still the crime rolls on.

That was some time ago now,
belief has been reinstalled
and Cassock lifters defrocked
humiliated for their habits
and turned into gaols
with males who like them,
basic instincts reversed!

Justice is in the hand of
the True power,
The power that reigns supreme,
in Humanity, and in God,
how odd!