Yorkshire housewife 'raised by monkeys in jungle'

The story of a Yorkshire housewife who spent five years in her childhood living with a colony of capuchin monkeys in Colombia is to be told for the first time in a book and planned television documentary...

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Is He or ain't He?

A Trappist monk stands between graffiti reading in Hebrew, "Jesus is a monkey" (L) and "mutual guarantee, Ramat Migron and Maoz Ester" (West Bank settlements) (R), which was sprayed on the wall of the Latrun Monastery between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv on Tuesday after unknown people set the monastery's door ablaze.

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Super Karate Monkey Death Car

I am your weapons and your Light

I am the harm which you inflict.

I am your brilliance and frustration.

I'm the nuclear bombs if they're to hit.

I am your immaturity and your indignance.

I am your misfits and your praised.

I am your doubt and your conviction.

I am your charity and your rape.

I am your grasping and expectation.

I see you averting your glances.

I see you cheering on the war.

I see you ignoring your children,

And I love you still.

And I love you still.

I am your joy and your regret.

I am your fury and your elation.

I am your yearning and your sweat.

I am your faithless and your religion.

I see you altering history.

I see you abusing the land.

I see you, your selective amnesia,

And I love you still.

And I love you still.

I am your tragedy and your fortune.

I am your crisis and delight.

I am your profits and your prophets.

I am your art, I am your vice.

I am your death and your decisions.

I am your passion and your plight.

I am your sickness and convalescence.

I am your weapons and your light.

I see you holding your grudges.

I see you gunning them down.

I see you silencing your sisters,

And I love you still.

And I love you still.

I see you lie to your country.

I see you forcing them out.

I see you blaming each other,

And I love you still.

And I love you still

Now you know

Invictus

All God's children have shoes

Kral Majales (I am the King of May)

Allen Ginsberg ....... May 7, 1965


And the Communists have nothing to offer but fat cheeks and eyeglasses and
lying policemen
and the Capitalists proffer Napalm and money in green suitcases to the
Naked,
and the Communists create heavy industry but the heart is also heavy
and the beautiful engineers are all dead, the secret technicians conspire for
their own glamour
in the Future, in the Future,but now drink vodka and lament the Security Forces,
and the Capitalists drink gin and whiskey on airplanes but let the Indian brown
millions starve
and when Communist and Capitalist assholes tangle the Just man is arrested
or robbed or had his head cut off,
but noit like Kabir, and the cigarette cough of the Just man above the clouds in the bright sunshine is a salute to the health of the blue sky.
For I was arrested thrice in Prague, once for singing drunk on Narodni
street
once knocked down on the midnight pavement by a mustached agent who
screamed out BOUZERANT,
once for losing my notebooks of unusual sex politics dream opinions,
and I was sent from Havana by plane by detectives in green uniform,
and I was sent from Prague by plane by detectives in Czechoslovakian
business suits,
Cardplayers out of Cezanne, the two strange dolls that entered Joseph K's
room at more
also entered mine, and ate at my table, and examined my scribbles,
and followed me night and morn from the houses of lovers to the cafes of
Centrum--
And I am the King of May, which is the power of sexual youth,
and I am the King of May, which is industry in eloquence and action in amour,
and I am the King of May, which is long hair of Adam and the Beard of my own body
and I am the King of May, which is Kral Majales in the Czechoslovakian tongue,
and I am the King of May, which is old Human poesy, and 100,000 people chose my name,
and I am the King of May, and in a few minutes I will land at London Airport,
and I am the King of May, naturally, for I am of Slavic parentage and a Buddhist Jew
who worships the Sacred Heart of Christ the blue body of Krishna the straight back of ram
the beads of Chango the Nigerian singing Shiva Shiva in a manner which I have invented,
and the King of May is a middleeuropean honor,mine in the XX century despite space ships and the Time Machine, because I heard the voice of Blake
in a vision,
and repeat that voice. And I am the King of May that sleeps with teenagers laughing.
And I am the King of May, that I may be expelled from my
Kingdom with Honor, as of old,
To show the difference between Caesar's Kingdom and the Kingdom of the May of Man-
and I am the King of May, tho' paranoid, for the Kingdom of May is too
beautiful to last for more than a month-
and I am the King of May because I touched my finger to my forhead
saluting
a luminous heavy girl trembling hands who said "one moment Mr. Ginsberg"
before a fat young Plainclothesman stepped between our bodies-I was
going to England-
and I am the King of May, returning to see Bunhill Fields and walk on
Hampstead Heath,
and I am the King of May, in a giant jetplane touching Albion's airfield
trembling in fear
as the plane roars to a landing on the grey concrete, shakes & expels air, and rolls slowly to a stop under the clouds with part of blue heaven still
visible.
And tho' I am the King of May, the Marxists have beat me upon the street, kept me up all night in Police Station, followed me thru Springtime Prague, detained me in secret and deported me from our kingdom by airplane.
Thus I have written this poem on a jet seat in mid Heaven.