The Ides of March.

It all happened on the Ides of March that history glorified
through well deserved martyrdom, sweet Julio, cut from his Mother’s womb, so long ago. Whatever happened to her I wonder? Does history record? perhaps he should have been left stillborn..

Knives in the back, a fitting end for one who fed to the crowds, the defeated Celtic Queens and Kings in his Triumphal Marches. Proud men and women who fought the Roman way we live by today - food for lions also slaughtered, trodden under the feet of terrified elephants, later speared by desperate gladiators - who lived a day longer.

Ah! Sweet Julio, the vine who wound himself around the proud heart of the true Queen Cleopatra, who traded love and body to save her land - a land older than time, a way of living alien to the rigid plodding and cruel Roman way -
that we still live by.

Jules, the boy grown man, self deifying in his own mirror, the wreath of ivy placed upon his own human hea... a God! Just like Charlamange, who charged and stormed and murdered - like Henry and Elizabeth Tudor, like Cromwell, like the Hanovarian Georges, “Begone Stuarts, descendants of the Bruces and Holy Way.


Julio, the patrician butcher, of sucked in cheeks and dripping sword, held in someone elses hand - Just like soft faced Victoria, with Boer blood on her pastey jowls, like Adolph (they had the same eyes) who dabbled in the occult and never learned the most basic of occult laws, of ‘reaping what you sow’. Lenin, Stalin Mao and Bush, “Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa - forgive us for we knew exactly what we did but we did it anyway’ Lest we forget Panama, Grenada, and Iraq.

It all happened on the Ides of a March so long ago, that Thatcher should have known better, and Gough and Malcolm, red cheeked after sipping quality scotch, Malcolm keeping his belt tightly on his trousers, because of past mistakes - hoping no one would notice that little problem of East Timor and how they got into the silky sheets of the bed if Indonesian trade....lest we forget.. we forgot.. till it smacked us in the chops, and we could no longer pretend.

Heroes all! Not Julie’s mother who suffered hard the knife to bear him - but Julie’s deeds are deified instead, deeds of blood, power and evil. Cleopatra, his whore, the scarlet woman, who spoke fourteen languages proficiently, and cried bitter tears as her vast Alexandrian library of ancient ways and learning burnt to the ground. Cleopatra who vomited to bile whilst forced to watch Julie’s Roman debauchery. Who was really the whore here?

Roll on the Ides of March! No loss here. Diana the beautiful huntress, strides across the frame of history, in protective gear, in case of landmines,...a Bruce descendant, from the Celtic way - a Queen of our hearts, not of the Roman way. The flag hung low - officially - because Elizabeth Saxe- Coburg Gotha..sorry, Windsor, was persuaded it was good for public relations. Not to think that family relations would mean a lot. Diana rolled back far beyond the mists of time, before Hadrian built his wall to keep Diana’s people out; what cannot be subdued, the Scots - must be walled out - ignored...beyond Julio’s grasp.

“Watch your back Julius”, his fading wide advised - was it a dream she had... or had someone told her as Julie slept the contented sleep of adulterer, butcher and God?

“Beware the Ides of March”, the truth will out, for some... and while Roman roads are important, the roads they covered, the faery roads of Celtic ways are breaking, like determined blades of grass through the cracks of Julian eugenics.

“Et tu Brutus!” he exclaimed in surprise.. one wonders why. Did he think to die an old man in a bed tended by a grieving wife?


A wife, now free to live, to hold up her head - Julius Ceaser’s widow - to lie alone in bed as usual and dream, as women do.

“Beware the Ides of March”, Julio, ‘All the way with LBJ’ Soeharto, Bush, and Pinochet. The gentle dreams of motherless and fatherless children, cry out down through the centuries of Julian evil, for the milk for their survival and love and place of family. Their arms reach for the hearth of home, the arms of comfort and the gentleness of their mother’s humming. You can’t take your power with you, Julius, Torquemanda, Popes and Kings innumerable, ...there are no Gods in heaven - just one - the one of truth.

It all happened on the Ides of March..and was no big deal at all.