Jungle Justice Quotes

The GhostWalker Creed: We are the GhostWalkers, we life in the shadows. The sea, the earth, and the air are our domain. No fallen comrade will be left behind. We are loyalty and honor bound. We are invisible to our enemies and we destroy them where we find them. We believe in justice and we protect our country and those unable to protect themselves. What goes unseen, unheard, and unknown are GhostWalkers. There is honor in the shadows and it is us. We move in complete silence whether in jungle or desert. We walk among our enemy unseen and unheard. Striking without sound and scatter to the winds before they have knowledge of our existance. We gather information and wait with endless patience for that perfect moment to deliver swift justice. We are both merciful and merciless. We are relentless and implacable in our resolve. We are the GhostWalkers and the night is ours.

They could tell the whole hateful story of it, set forth in the inner soul of a city in which honor and justice, women's bodies and men's souls, were for sale in the market-place, and human beings writhed and fought and fell upon each other like wolves in a pit; in which lusts were raging fires, and men were fuel, and humanity was festering and stewing and wallowing in its own corruption. Into this wild-beast tangle these men had been born without their consent, they had taken part in it because they could not help it; that they were in jail was no disgrace to them, for the game had never been fair, the dice were loaded. They were the swindlers and thieves of pennies and dimes, and they were being trapped and put out of the way by the swindlers and thieves of millions of dollars.

If you look at any religious description of hell, it is the same as human society, the way we dream. Hell is a place of suffering, a place of fear, a place of war and violence, a place of judgment and no justice, a place of punishment that never ends. There are humans versus humans in a jungle of predators; humans full of judgment, full of blame, full of guilt, full of emotional poison — envy, anger, hate, sadness, suffering. We create all these little demons in our mind because we have learned to dream hell in our own life.

Even the reborn Sith are not our enemy. Not really. Our enemy is power mistaken for justice. Our enemy is the desperation that justifies atrocity. The Jedi's true enemy is the jungle.

The Jungle Law is a law without exceptions. Only the strong survives. Animals are following it, human societies are following it. It is the law of the beast, and it knows neither reason nor compassion

The moon splits open. We move through, waterbirds rising to look for another lake. Or say we are living in a love-ocean, where trust works to caulk our body-boat, to make it last a little while, until the inevitable shipwreck, the total marriage, the death-union. Dissolve in friendship, like two drunkards fighting. Do not look for justice here in the jungle where your animal soul gives you bad advice. Drink enough wine so that you stop talking. You are a lover, and love is a tavern where no one makes much sense. Even if the things you say are poems as dense as sacks of Solomon's gold, they become pointless.

Jonathan Edwards, the dear old soul, who, if his doctrine is true, is now in heaven rubbing his holy hands with glee, as he hears the cries of the damned, preached this doctrine; and he said: 'Can the believing husband in heaven be happy with his unbelieving wife in hell? Can the believing father in heaven be happy with his unbelieving children in hell? Can the loving wife in heaven be happy with her unbelieving husband in hell?' And he replies: 'I tell you, yea. Such will be their sense of justice, that it will increase rather than diminish their bliss.' There is no wild beast in the jungles of Africa whose reputation would not be tarnished by the expression of such a doctrine. These doctrines have been taught in the name of religion, in the name of universal forgiveness, in the name of infinite love and charity.

The GhostWalker Creed We are the GhostWalkers, we live in the shadows The sea, the earth, and the air are our domain No fallen comrade will be left behind We are loyalty and honor bound We are invisible to our enemies and we destroy them where we find them We believe in justice and we protect our country and those unable to protect themselves What goes unseen, unheard, and unknown are Ghostwalkers There is honor in the shadows and it is us We move in complete silence whether in jungle or desert We walk among our enemy unseen and unheard Striking without sound and scatter to the winds before they have knowledge of our existence We gather information and wait with endless patience for that perfect moment to deliver swift justice We are both merciful and merciless We are relentless and implacable in our resolve We are the GhostWalkers and the night is ours

I look forward to seeing you in the “jungle” as our warriors meet and join the battle drum that calls for unity in the struggle for breaking the chains of modern slavery—like the butterflies flying the skies and the birds over the seas, all are welcomed for both ear and eye—promises of victory are high, for even if unattainable today, tomorrow still holds the torch and dream, like fire of paradise, glory of life, glory of eternity!

the Kali yuga will dawn. A new age will dawn where nothing will be as it was. Only a quarter of the values instituted by Prithu at the dawn of civilization will survive. Man will live for pleasure, children will abandon responsibility, women will be like men, men like women. Humans will copulate like beasts. Power will be respected, justice abandoned, sacrifice forgotten and love ridiculed. The wise will argue for the law of the jungle. Every victim will, given a chance, turn victimizer.

What's the story here, Karl?' Kevin asked. 'Hard as it is to believe, these people are slaves,' Karl explained. 'Slaves?' I asked skeptically. 'Well, you might not call them that but they are virtual slaves. They don't receive any pay. They are dealt with harshly. They don't have anywhere else to go' 'What about the government? Don't they help?' Marcus asked. 'The government?' Karl laughed. 'The government my eye! Those generals stay in power several years, make a bundle smuggling drugs, and once they're millionaires, they retire. Some other lousy generals take over from them, and history repeats itself. You think they give a shit what happens to a few lousy Indians?

The word he hated most in the world was “justice.” Which wasn’t to say he didn’t know the difference between good and evil—but he understood that rather than simplistic morality, most conflict in the world arose from differences of opinion, with both sides raising the flag of justice and claiming to be on the side of reason. This allowed them to justify the most underhanded means as “a necessary evil” to defeat the other side—the law of the jungle, essentially. N had a deep understanding of this. He had money, status, power, and talent, so he could do pretty much whatever he wanted and other people would see him as an avatar of “justice”—but he knew that keeping others down in the name of justice is another form of bullying.

We know about your presence          that fills the world,          that occupies our life,          that makes our life in the world true and good.   We notice your powerful transformative presence     in word and     in sacrament,     in food and in water,     in gestures of mercy         and practices of justice,     in gentle neighbors         and daring gratitude.   We count so on your presence     and then plunge—without intending—into your absence.     We find ourselves alone, abandoned, without resources         remembering your goodness,         hoping your future,     but mired in anxiety and threat and risk beyond our coping.   In your absence we bid your presence,     come again,     come soon,     come here:         Come to every garden become a jungle         Come to every community become joyless                           sad and numb.   We acknowledge your dreadful absence and insist on your presence.                           Come again, come soon. Come here.

When we came out of the cookhouse, we found the boy's father, the Indian man who had been grazing the horses in the pasture, waiting for us. He wanted someone to tell his troubles to. He looked about guardedly, afraid that the Señora might overhear him. 'Take a look at me' he said. I don't even know how old I am. When I was young, the Señor brought me here. He promised to pay me and give me a plot of my own. 'Look at my clothes' he said, pointing to the patches covering his body. 'I can't remember how many years I've been wearing them. I have no others. I live in a mud hut with my wife and sons. They all work for the Señor like me. They don't go to school. They don't know how to read or write; they don't even speak Spanish. We work for the master, raise his cattle and work his fields. We only get rice and plantains to eat. Nobody takes care of us when we are sick. The women here have their babies in these filthy huts.' 'Why don't you eat meat or at least milk the cows?' I asked. 'We aren't allowed to slaughter a cow. And the milk goes to the calves. We can't even have chicken or pork - only if an animal gets sick and dies. Once I raised a pig in my yard' he went on. 'She had a litter of three. When the Señor came back he told the foreman to shoot them. That's the only time we ever had good meat.' 'I don't mind working for the Señor but I want him to keep his promise. I want a piece of land of my own so I can grow rice and yucca and raise a few chickens and pigs. That's all.' 'Doesn't he pay you anything?' Kevin asked. 'He says he pays us but he uses our money to buy our food. We never get any cash. Kind sirs, maybe you can help me to persuade the master . Just one little plot is all I want. The master has land, much land.' We were shocked by his tale. Marcus took out a notebook and pen. 'What's his name?'. He wrote down the name. The man didn't know the address. He only knew that the Señor lived in La Paz. Marcus was infuriated. 'When I find the owner of the ranch, I'll spit right in his eye. What a lousy bastard! I mean, it's really incredible'. 'That's just the way things are,' Karl said. 'It's sad but there's nothing we can do about it.

Consider, in this connection, the case of the ardent socialist. He finds that there is very much wrong with our world, and we all probably agree with him. His enthusiastic conclusion will be that "Capitalism" must be replaced by "Socialism." But it is safe to say that, in most cases, the socialist will find it very hard to define the one as well as the other. The idea uppermost in his mind will be that now there is "anarchy" and "jungle" and that afterwards there will be order, justice, and planning. His opponent, defending not "Capitalism" but the market economy, will explain that both theory and ample experience prove that socialism is most likely to be a bitter disappointment. All the time it is quite probable that they will talk at cross purposes because the socialist has in mind quite different problems to be solved whereas his opponent never meant the market economy to be the answer to all these problems but only to one of them, i.e., our special problem of economic order. He will say with Shaw that "no sane person refuses to wear spectacles because they do not cure a tooth-ache.

It was so incomprehensible how a man could fail to see it. Here were all the opportunities of the country, the land and the buildings upon the land, the railroads, the mines, the factories, and the stores. All in the hands of a few private individuals, called capitalists, for whom the people were obliged to work, for wages. The whole balance of what the people produced went to heap up the fortunes of these capitalists. To heap, and heap again, and yet again. And that, in spite of the fact that they and everyone about them lived in unthinkable luxury. And was it not plain that if the people cut off the share of those who merely owned, the share of those who worked would be much greater? That was as plain as two and two makes four, and that was the whole of it. Absolutely, the whole of it. And yet, there were people who could not see it. Who would argue about everything else in the world. They would tell you that governments could not mange things as economically as private individuals. They would repeat and repeat that and think they were saying something. They could not see that economical management by masters, meant simply that they, the people, were worked harder, and ground closer, and paid less. They were wage owners and servants at the mercy of exploiters, whose one thought was to get as much out of them as possible.

Nevertheless, it would be prudent to remain concerned. For, like death, IT would come: Armageddon. There would be-without exaggeration-a series of catastrophes. As a consequence of the evil in man...-no mere virus, however virulent, was even a burnt match for our madness, our unconcern, our cruelty-...there would arise a race of champions, predators of humans: namely earthquakes, eruptions, tidal waves, tornados, typhoons, hurricanes, droughts-the magnificent seven. Floods, winds, fires, slides. The classical elements, only angry. Oceans would warm, the sky boil and burn, the ice cap melt, the seas rise. Rogue nations, like kids killing kids at their grammar school, would fire atomic-hydrogen-neutron bombs at one another. Smallpox would revive, or out of the African jungle would slide a virus no one understood. Though reptilian only in spirit, the disease would make us shed our skins like snakes and, naked to the nerves, we'd expire in a froth of red spit. Markets worldwide would crash as reckless cars on a speedway do, striking the wall and rebounding into one another, hurling pieces of themselves at the spectators in the stands. With money worthless-that last faith lost-the multitude would riot, race against race at first, God against God, the gots against the gimmes. Insects hardened by generations of chemicals would consume our food, weeds smother our fields, fire ants, killer bees sting us while we're fleeing into refuge water, where, thrashing we would drown, our pride a sodden wafer. Pestilence. War. Famine. A cataclysm of one kind or another-coming-making millions of migrants. Wearing out the roads. Foraging in the fields. Looting the villages. Raping boys and women. There'd be no tent cities, no Red Cross lunches, hay drops. Deserts would appear as suddenly as patches of crusty skin. Only the sun would feel their itch. Floods would sweep suddenly over all those newly arid lands as if invited by the beach. Forest fires would burn, like those in coal mines, for years, uttering smoke, making soot for speech, blackening every tree leaf ahead of their actual charring. Volcanoes would erupt in series, and mountains melt as though made of rock candy till the cities beneath them were caught inside the lava flow where they would appear to later eyes, if there were any eyes after, like peanuts in brittle. May earthquakes jelly the earth, Professor Skizzen hotly whispered. Let glaciers advance like motorboats, he bellowed, threatening a book with his fist. These convulsions would be a sign the parasites had killed their host, evils having eaten all they could; we'd hear a groan that was the going of the Holy Ghost; we'd see the last of life pissed away like beer from a carouse; we'd feel a shudder move deeply through this universe of dirt, rock, water, ice, and air, because after its long illness the earth would have finally died, its engine out of oil, its sky of light, winds unable to catch a breath, oceans only acid; we'd be witnessing a world that's come to pieces bleeding searing steam from its many wounds; we'd hear it rattling its atoms around like dice in a cup before spilling randomly out through a split in the stratosphere, night and silence its place-well-not of rest-of disappearance. My wish be willed, he thought. Then this will be done, he whispered so no God could hear him. That justice may be served, he said to the four winds that raged in the corners of his attic.

These Claudines, then…they want to know because they believe they already do know, the way one who loves fruit knows, when offered a mango from the moon, what to expect; and they expect the loyal tender teasing affection of the schoolgirl crush to continue: the close and confiding companionship, the pleasure of the undemanding caress, the cuddle which consummates only closeness; yet in addition they want motherly putting right, fatherly forgiveness and almost papal indulgence; they expect that the sights and sounds, the glorious affairs of the world which their husbands will now bring before them gleaming like bolts of silk, will belong to the same happy activities as catching toads, peeling back tree bark, or powdering the cheeks with dandelions and oranging the nose; that music will ravish the ear the way the trill of the blackbird does; that literature will hold the mind in sweet suspense the way fairy tales once did; that paintings will crowd the eye with the delights of a colorful garden, and the city streets will be filled with the same cool dew-moist country morning air they fed on as children. But they shall not receive what they expect; the tongue will be about other business; one will hear in masterpieces only pride and bitter contention; buildings will have grandeur but no flowerpots or chickens; and these Claudines will exchange the flushed cheek for the swollen vein, and instead of companionship, they will get sex and absurd games composed of pinch, leer, and giggle—that’s what will happen to “let’s pretend.” 'The great male will disappear into the jungle like the back of an elusive ape, and Claudine shall see little of his strength again, his intelligence or industry, his heroics on the Bourse like Horatio at the bridge (didn’t Colette see Henri de Jouvenel, editor and diplomat and duelist and hero of the war, away to work each day, and didn’t he often bring his mistress home with him, as Willy had when he was husband number one?); the great affairs of the world will turn into tawdry liaisons, important meetings into assignations, deals into vulgar dealings, and the en famille hero will be weary and whining and weak, reminding her of all those dumb boys she knew as a child, selfish, full of fat and vanity like patrons waiting to be served and humored, admired and not observed. 'Is the occasional orgasm sufficient compensation? Is it the prize of pure surrender, what’s gained from all that giving up? There’ll be silk stockings and velvet sofas maybe, the customary caviar, tasting at first of frog water but later of money and the secretions of sex, then divine champagne, the supreme soda, and rubber-tired rides through the Bois de Boulogne; perhaps there’ll be rich ugly friends, ritzy at homes, a few young men with whom one may flirt, a homosexual confidant with long fingers, soft skin, and a beautiful cravat, perfumes and powders of an unimaginable subtlety with which to dust and wet the body, many deep baths, bonbons filled with sweet liqueurs, a procession of mildly salacious and sentimental books by Paul de Kock and company—good heavens, what’s the problem?—new uses for the limbs, a tantalizing glimpse of the abyss, the latest sins, envy certainly, a little spite, jealousy like a vaginal itch, and perfect boredom. 'And the mirror, like justice, is your aid but never your friend.' -- From "Three Photos of Colette," The World Within the Word, reprinted from NYRB April 1977

A few years back, I had a long session with a psychiatrist who was conducting a study on post-traumatic stress disorder and its effects on reporters working in war zones. At one point, he asked me: “How many bodies have you seen in your lifetime?” Without thinking for too long, I replied: “I’m not sure exactly. I've seen quite a few mass graves in Africa and Bosnia, and I saw a well crammed full of corpses in East Timor, oh and then there was Rwanda and Goma...” After a short pause, he said to me calmly: “Do you think that's a normal response to that question?” He was right. It wasn't a normal response. Over the course of their lifetime, most people see the bodies of their parents, maybe their grandparents at a push. Nobody else would have responded to that question like I did. Apart from my fellow war reporters, of course. When I met Marco Lupis nearly twenty years ago, in September 1999, we were stood watching (fighting the natural urge to divert our gaze) as pale, maggot-ridden corpses, decomposed beyond recognition, were being dragged out of the well in East Timor. Naked bodies shorn of all dignity. When Marco wrote to ask me to write the foreword to this book and relive the experiences we shared together in Dili, I agreed without giving it a second thought because I understood that he too was struggling for normal responses. That he was hoping he would find some by writing this book. While reading it, I could see that Marco shares my obsession with understanding the world, my compulsion to recount the horrors I have seen and witnessed, and my need to overcome them and leave them behind. He wants to bring sense to the apparently senseless. Books like this are important. Books written by people who have done jobs like ours. It's not just about conveying - be it in the papers, on TV or on the radio - the atrocities committed by the very worst of humankind as they are happening; it’s about ensuring these atrocities are never forgotten. Because all too often, unforgivably, the people responsible go unpunished. And the thing they rely on most for their impunity is that, with the passing of time, people simply forget. There is a steady flow of information as we are bombarded every day with news of the latest massacre, terrorist attack or humanitarian crisis. The things that moved or outraged us yesterday are soon forgotten, washed away by today's tidal wave of fresh events. Instead they become a part of history, and as such should not be forgotten so quickly. When I read Marco's book, I discovered that the people who murdered our colleague Sander Thoenes in Dili, while he was simply doing his job like the rest of us, are still at large to this day. I read the thoughts and hopes of Ingrid Betancourt just twenty-four hours before she was abducted and taken to the depths of the Colombian jungle, where she would remain captive for six long years. I read that we know little or nothing about those responsible for the Cambodian genocide, whose millions of victims remain to this day without peace or justice. I learned these things because the written word cannot be destroyed. A written account of abuse, terror, violence or murder can be used to identify the perpetrators and bring them to justice, even though this can be an extremely drawn-out process during and after times of war. It still torments me, for example, that so many Bosnian women who were raped have never got justice and every day face the prospect of their assailants passing them on the street. But if I follow in Marco's footsteps and write down the things I have witnessed in a book, people will no longer be able to plead ignorance. That is why we need books like this one.

You want revolution? Then dismantle all indifference and stand up - stand up and do not move - do not move from your conviction of justice - do not move from your conviction of equality - do not move from your conviction of humanity - do not move an inch - even if all the artilleries in the world are charged against you - do not move and do not harm - just stand - keep standing - keep standing like a pillar of insanity - an insanity for sanctity - an insanity for serenity - an insanity for unity - let them break every single bone in your body - let all the blood in your veins pour out - let every trace of life seep out of your wounds - but still do not move - till there is a single kernel of life left in you. This is what revolution looks like - this is what civilized revolution looks like - no guns, no bombs, not even a baton, just a whole lot of determination, that even the mighty gods cannot deter - a revolution that turns an animal world into a human world - a revolution that turns a jungle into a modern society – a revolution that turns distance into unity.

All roads lead to people - those that don't, lead back to the jungle.

Since the fall of Darth Bane more than a millennium ago, there have been hundreds of thousands of Jedi—hundreds of thousands of Jedi feeding the light with each work of their hands, with each breath, with every beat of their hearts, bringing justice, building civil society, radiating peace, acting out of selfless love for all living things—and in all these thousand years, there have been only two Sith at any time. Only two. Jedi create light, but the Sith do not create darkness. They merely use the darkness that is always there. That has always been there. Greed and jealousy, aggression and lust and fear—these are all natural to sentient beings. The legacy of the jungle. Our inheritance from the dark.

Instincts of today evolved from yesterday’s jungle life, Tomorrow's instincts will rise from today’s human life.

Human of Revolution (The Sonnet) Human of revolution is not a human of vengeance, Human of evolution is not a human of recklessness. If vengeance 'n recklessness ensured human rights, The jungle would be the definition of kindness. Let your blood boil in the course of justice 'n equality, But don't become a monster in fighting monstrosity. Let the prehistoric cycle of cruelty break with you, So that humanity can dream beyond rights 'n dignity. It's not about getting vengeance, or about getting even, Justice begins with self-regulation, not law and order. Can you tell right from wrong without involving law, The day you do is the birth of actual, lasting order. I say, revolution means defending without descending. Hold their punches, hold your punches, 'n start dancing.

considered throwing a cup of frozen slush into the criminal’s eyes and blinding him the way that Xavier had done with the Smoothie of Justice a few days before.

Today's choice is tomorrow's instinct, Choose peace today, tomorrow it's norm. Yesterday's choice is today's instinct, Give in to hate, and the jungle goes on.

Twinkle twinkle valiant star, ever wonder what you are! Far past the freeze and hate, lever of love, you're world lifter. Up above the jungle tribes, like a diamond in the sky, to be a star you gotta burn, in your light the world unites.

Apes cannot cancel the Everest (Sonnet 1550) Unleash yourself as love testament, Be the answer to archaic derangement. Stand undaunted despite cancelment, Apes cannot cancel Mount Everest. Unleash your spine, Unfurl your fervor. Awake to humankind, your eternal harbor. Anchor yourself in rights, Rituals can take a back seat. Rights decreed by jungle rituals, are no parameters of civil spirit. Either you succumb to the world, or expand so vast that the world succumbs to you. Dare past time with your dream defiant, fabric of reality will unfold through you.

Anchor yourself in rights, Rituals can take a back seat. Rights decreed by jungle rituals, are no parameters of civil spirit.

Sonnet 1284 Human chest contains miracles of the cosmos, Animal chest contains but the brutal jungle. Choice is yours, what shall you facilitate - a world of brutality or a world of miracle! Be a miracle or be an animal, choice is yours; In your veins brews the dream of civilization. The world is in dire need of miracle humans, There is no such thing as miracle animal. This ribcage ends up a prison most times, But it can also be a sanctuary - a paradise. Entertain hate, and you are a prisoner; Give in to love, lo you usher into light! Abandon divide, adopt but life. Contain the world in your chest of light.

Up above the jungle tribes, like a diamond in the sky, to be a star you gotta burn, in your light the world unites.

It was always with her now, that sadness, like one of those rare orchids you saw clinging to jungle branches on TV, always blooming in her at unexpected moments, and even on the move, scuffing down the hall toward Doodle's room, the thought of evading it called it into being. Sadness. The word itself didn't do the feeling justice. What she felt was a more complicated alchemy of emotion, equal parts grief and loneliness and longing, with measures of resentment and self-pity drizzled in.

Two Liberties (A Sonnet) There is not one but two liberties, One is savage and the other is civilized. Savage liberty lacks accountability, The civilized one makes us humanized. In the jungle liberty is the supreme law, But one that involves no accountability. Thus injustice is the norm of wildlife, But it can't be accepted in human society. Accountability is the line of control, Between human and animal behavior. You don't need intellect to draw the line, All you need is a well-formed character. So liberty must be guided by accountability, Only then can we create a sane society.

If you give in, the jungle gains another predator. If you stand firm, the world gains a transformer.

Better all head back to the jungle than some fly in private jets while others cry of hunger. Better have no progress whatsoever, than the rich get richer, and the poor poorer.

The kingdom of poetry" This is like light. This is light, Useful as light, as charming And enchanting… …Poetry is certainly More interesting, more valuable, and certainly more charming Than Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, the Atlantic Ocean And other much admired natural phenomena. It is useful as light, and as beautiful It is preposterous Precisely, making it possible to say One cannot carry a mountain, but a poem can be carried all over. It is monstrous. Pleasantly, for poetry can say, seriously or in play: “Poetry is better than hope, “For poetry is patience of hope, and all hope’s vivid pictures, “Poetry is better than excitement, it is far more delightful, “Poetry is superior to success, and victory, it endures in serene blessedness “Long after the most fabulous feat like fireworks has mounted and fallen. “Poetry is far more powerful and far more enchanting animal “Than any wood, jungle, ark, circus or zoo possesses.” For poetry magnifies and heighten reality: Poetry says of reality that if it is magnificent, it is also stupid: For poetry is, in a way, omnipotent; For reality is various and rich, powerful and vivid, but it is not enough Because it is disorderly and stupid or only at times, and erratically, intelligent: For without poetry, reality is speechless or incoherent: It is inchoate, like the pomp and the bombast of thunder: Its peroration verge upon the ceaseless oration of the ocean: For reality glows and glory, without poetry, Fake, like the red operas of sunset The blue rivers and the windows of morning. The arts of poetry makes it possible to say: Pandemonium. For poetry is gay and exact. It says: “The sunset resembles a bull-fight. “A sleeping arm feels like soda, fizzing.” Poetry resurrect the past from the sepulchre, like Lazarus. It transforms a lion into a sphinx and a girl. It gives a girl the splendor of Latin. It transforms the water into wine at each marriage in Cana of Galilee. For it is true that poetry invented the unicorn, the centaur and the phoenix. Hence it is true that poetry is an everlasting Ark. An omnibus containing, bearing and begetting all the mind’s animals. Whence it is that poetry gave and gives tongue to forgiveness Therefore a history of poetry would be a history of joy, and a history of the mystery of love For poetry provides spontaneously, abundantly and freely The petnames and the diminutives which love requires and without which the mystery of love cannot be mastered. For poetry is like light, and it is light. It shines over all, like the blue sky, with the same blue justice. For poetry is the sunlight of consciousness: It is also the soil of the fruits of knowledge In the orchards of being: It shows us the pleasures of the city. It lights up the structures of reality. It is a cause of knowledge and laughter: It sharpens the whistles of the witty: It is like morning and the flutes of morning, chanting and enchanted. It is the birth and the rebirth of the first morning forever. Poetry is quick as tigers, clever as cats, vivid as oranges, Nevertheless, it is deathless: it is evergreen and in blossom; long after the Pharaohs and the Caesars have fallen, It shines and endures more than diamonds, It is because poetry is the actuality of possibility, it is The reality of the imagination, The throat of exaltation, The processions of possessions, The motion of meaning and The meaning of morning and The mastery of meaning. The praise of poetry is like the clarity of the heights of the mountains. The heights of poetry are like the exaltation of the mountains. It is the consummation of consciousness in the country of the morning!

A lion does not compromise with its meal. Our enemies know their fate before it comes.

I kept running and weeping, fully convinced that I was about to die. I flashed back to typical jungle justice scenes from Lagos and what happened whenever a fleeing thief was caught. I imagined being caught, tied to a makeshift execution pole, and shot.

The great corporation which employed you lied to you, and lied to the whole country- from top to bottom it was nothing but one gigantic lie. The whole country was a lie; its freedom was a lie, a snare for pauper workingmen; its prosperity was a lie of rich employers, its justice was a lie of grafting politicians

Les instincts d’aujourd’hui ont évolué à partir de la vie dans la jungle d’hier, Les instincts de demain naîtront de la vie humaine d’aujourd’hui.

It ends with me, toxic masculinity ends with me, religious intolerance ends with me - superstition 'n conspiracy ends with me, prejudice and puritanism ends with me - jungle nationalism ends with me, animal fundamentalism ends with me - segregated spaces, both outside and inside, end with me.

Bella ciao, we're not going back to the jungle, not ever, not now. Hate not permitted while I stand, this, is the original divine vow.

Kato believed that every person deserved a chance to explain their actions, to be heard before they were judged. But life had taught him that there was the justice that one deserved and the justice that could be had. Here and now, this jungle justice was the only thing within reach. Kato took a step closer, held the rifle to his shoulder, and gave the man what he deserved.

Be the human your flesh appears to be, or go back to the jungle, your mind is suited so.

I need you to do as I ask you,” he said in desperation, fighting the beast lifting its head hungrily. Her laughter was soft, enticing, the sound dancing over his skin. “No, you don’t. Too many people think your word is law. You need someone to defy you a little bit. I know you won’t hurt me, Mikhail. I can feel your fear of yourself. You think there’s something in you I can’t love, some kind of monster you’re afraid for me to see. I know you better than you know yourself.” “You are so reckless, Raven, so heedless of danger.” He gripped the back of a chair so hard the wood threatened to disintegrate into dust. As it was, it would hold the imprint of his fingers for all time. “Danger, Mikhail?” She tipped her head to one side, her hair falling in a slide over one shoulder. Her hands went to the top button of her blouse. “I would never be in danger from you, even if you were furious with me. The only danger right now is to my clothes.” She took a step back, laughing again, letting the sound warm him, ignite the fuse deep inside him. Heat coiled, spread; need slammed into him, hard and urgent. Hunger tore at him, a blind red haze. “You, little one, are playing with fire, and I am totally out of control.” He made one last attempt to save her. Why couldn’t she see how selfish he really was? How he had taken over her life and would never release her? He was the monster she couldn’t see. Perhaps with the rest of the world cold logic and justice ruled him, but not with her. With Raven he was taken over by emotions with which he was so unfamiliar that he could not control them. He did things he felt were unconscionable. He let her see the violence in his mind, tearing her clothes, taking her body without thought or control. She answered him in her mind, warmth, love, her body eager for his, receptive, accepting of his violent side. She had total trust and faith in his feelings for her, in his commitment to her. He swore softly, ripping the clothes from his fettered body, leaping upon her like an attacking jungle cat. “Mikhail, I love this dress,” she whispered against his throat, laughter still spilling into his mind. Laughter. Joy. No fear. “Get out of the damned thing,” he said hoarsely, not realizing he was confirming her belief in him. She took her time, teasing him by fumbling at buttons, making him find the hook in her skirt. “You do not know what you are doing,” he objected raggedly, but his hands were gentle on her body, carefully stripping away her clothes until she was all bare satin skin and long silky hair.

In the jungle, how so careful we were— predators might just be lurking somewhere. No different from what we’re in the world— predators just abound in any mold!

Way of The Slipper (Bug-Repellent Sonnet) This prehistoric world has an instinctual affinity to black and white, binary concepts. Justice is too grand an exercise to be contained by the binary nonsense of violence and nonviolence. Bullets are an act of violence, silence is an act of bookish nonviolence – but there is a third option – the way of the slipper. Slippers are more effective in fighting bugs, than bullets - slippers strip the bugs of power, while bullets make them martyr. With all your slippers combined, the mightiest of tyrant is bound to fall, be it a state head, court judge or copper, or oligarchs rendering democracy into jungle. When people blow their top, billionaires become bum, and presidents turn tramp. Fetch the household bug-repellent from under your feet, and treat the corrupt and bigoted like your offspring gone bad.

Here is my vision of the true justice, the justice of nature: the zoos opened, predators unleashed by the dozens, hundreds … four thousand hungry wolves rampaging on streets of these hive cities, elephants and bison stampeding, the buildings smashed to pieces, the cries of the human bug shearing through the streets as the lord of beasts returns. Manhattan, Moscow, Peking reduced to ruins overgrown by vines and forest, the haunt of the lynx and coyote again. The great cesspool slums, Calcutta, Nairobi, all the fetid latrines of the world covered over by mudslides, overgrown with thick jungle, this is justice.

Most Human (Sonnet 2151) Racism is no longer tolerated as normal, Islamophobia is no longer tolerated as normal, Homophobia is no longer tolerated as normal, Chauvinism is no longer tolerated as normal, Colonialism is no longer tolerated as normal - believe you me, I speak as a biologist, this is the most human humanity have ever been in our 200,000 years long history. Accessibility is no longer ignored as unimportant, Autism is no longer frowned upon as abnormal, Integration is no longer cussed as act of stigma, Intolerance no longer celebrated as divine intervention. No wonder bigots have their knickers in a twist, customs of the jungle are getting eradicated like disease. Don't be disheartened by occasional resurgence of fascism, inhumanity flickers fiercely before fading into the abyss.

It’s not a free country, it’s a free jungle, where predators roam free abusing the marginalized.

Colonials Go Home! (Forest Fascist Reserve, Sonnet) Colonials go home, not to England or Europe, but straight to the jungle! Only place wild animals are beautiful, is in the dog-eat-dog spaces of the wild. Don't worry, once in a while we'll visit, like we visit any of your fellow animals. If anything, visiting you will inspire us further, to never deviate from integration. Nevertheless, there is still another way, you don't need to be deported back to the jungle. If there is even a smidgen of humanity in you, now is the time to bring it out, and get help. Otherwise, we can easily trace your family tree, back to the time your family lived in it. Once we do, all nine billion of us will chip in, and hire a couple of cargo planes to deport all you bigots to a forest fascist reserve.

In English we say: survival of the fittest. In Naskarian we say: jungle is built by the fit, civilization is built by the kind.

The jungle rules have silenced voices, broken spirits, and allowed oppression to flourish.

Prototype Human (Sonnet 2249) The pen is my paradise, the pen is my grave. Everybody has all the answers, I seem to have only questions. Good thing, I don't know how to write, methods are obstacle to my madness. I'm vast enough to contain the world, asylum pills don't work on pilgrim brains. My pen never runs out of ink, because the pen is an extension of my anatomy. Madness is the first sign of sanity, oneness is the seed of infinity. Stereotypes are sanity of the jungle, prejudice is sacred in the animal kingdom. Flags are the poison, cosmos is (my) kin - I am no stereotype, I am the Prototype Human.

Churchill and Columbus belong in the jungle, loudmouth karens belong in mental institution.

Declaration of Independence, this time written by human (2510) In the course of human happenings, whenever intolerance gets legislated, and persecution becomes national policy, it's duty of the living to abolish such order, and boot out the monkey masters of malice. We the humans, with more than two brain cells, and proud carriers of a beating heart, do solemnly swear upon our upright backbone, we shall not walk away when a human is hurt. ICE or Gestapo, no matter the uniform, we tolerate no monkeys do harm - we are citizens of the mountaintop, never again we're regressing to the jungle. Thus speaks the Declaration of Independence, this time voiced by human, for the humans. No king, no pilgrim, is our master no more - Earth is our address, integration, our tradition.