Nabokov never knew her, neither did she know him

They called her Lolita
from Nabokov’s novel
hardly a suitable
name for a wild
orca who up till that
moment was part of a family
a gentle bunch
all reconciled

to the moment
they lived side by side
in each moment
instinctively ready
creatively so
the world was their oyster
their ocean their playground
in this vast arena
they knew they could grow

then it happened
the vile and the nastiest forces
man a purveyor of evil intent
thats when this sweet soul
was hauled from the water
thats when her creative juices
were spent

that’s when her heart was
broken completely
that’s when she realised
freedom, no more
carted off clumsily
to a vile circus
and thrown in a grave
of watery gore

restrained by the size
of the walls
made of concrete
this place was clearly
not made for her size
how could she live
in so cramped a location
didn’t those humans
really realise

her heart must have thumped
and her soul,must have weakened
those people who captured her
mindfully poor
how could they honestly
set out to harm her
tear at her being
cutting her, to the core

but they did and they
clearly were in this for money
she the attraction
to pack the crowds in
this tiny arena
close to the marina
entertainment was promised
and would underpin

the park, that was failing
dearest Lolita
she’d turn it all round
her sentence was clearly
a lifetime of tricks
a performer of sorts
as if drowned

in a, human theatre
where imprisoned actors
are made to react
to the cries of the mob
ignorant people
trapped in their thinking
they sacrifice good sense
and silently rob

Peter to pay Paul
their lives are about this
no real understanding
that spirit, that throb
of life in their true self
they lack this, its as if
they are insignificant
which makes us sob

we sob with such depth
in the bowels of our being
making us dance to the tunes
of those who
bellow out really vile
sounds to the ocean
shocking the innocent
out in the blue

we’re expected to leap
through a curtain of fire
to the roar of
the dumbed down’s applause
and we do
for a bucket of fish
that are fast fermenting
and seemingly only
a very small few

are signing petitions
and writing to people
poetry songs the protestors
they try
as we swim in our soup
made of brine and our faeces
and slowly we build enough
strength up to die

to take that last gasp of breath
woeful and sickening
realize this hell hole
has now become
a place where infection
is rife by direction
I no not, I care not
my body is numb

Seaquarium and all those
fools who pay money
to see tortured souls
in the last throes of life
to imagine how sick we all feel
in our being
each hour that we spend
builds such pent up strife

our memories of the blue sea
and the families
it haunts us, we sicken
pickled in sin
lost in a small concrete tank
in Miami
wondering why this nightmare
did begin

and now I am old
I have suffered much hardship
such pain, many tears I have
cried day and night
mortally hurt by the selfish desiring
they took away everything
from me, the light

became darkness the hope became
hell, I had lost all desire
to be free to be mindful
to just be my self
all I did now was
jump through their curtain
of fire

since 1970 I have been swimming
around in this tank
in this small concrete cell
I see with my eyes
how your world has been changing
once you had heaven
and now you have hell

the ocean was clean
you have made it your dustbin
the air we all breathe
is as black as the night
the oceans are full up with
crude oil and plastic
and whilst making money
you feel you’ve done right

some want to retire me
my sentence a long one
I gave up true freedom
to act on your stage
I lived in the circus
my tank of detritus
I’m sick and I’m tired
and I’m filled up with rage

I am infected
sick to my soul
and now I’m required
to undergo antibiotics
more treatment
more human medicine
pumped into me
I am and always have been a wild Orca
a created spirit from out of the sea

giving me your pharmaceutical nonsense
imbalances everything
that lies within
my mind and my spirit is lost
to the universe
I am though happy
within my own skin

All I hope
is that all of the work
and devotion of those
special people
who have spoken for me
will yield
enough work to preserve
the great oceans
and all who are living inside them
will be

creatures who live there
not consigned, to tanks
inside natural oceans
not corporate banks

She came first week of August 1970 the skin on her back cracked and bleeding due to sun and wind exposure

They wanted ti feed her on frozen herring she hated that and
Woukdnt eat it

At night she cried her eyes out. Not far away was an orca called hugo he heard her and began swimming like crazy
Her name was TOKITae toki for short but they called her lolita something to do with Miami.

Xxx
This was from information supplied by an aqua maid

called Pat Sykes a young lady employed to assist

She sensed the sadness and tragedy LOLITA felt.

Now owned by the
British
So no hope at all
Arle Capital seemingly
I am At their beck and call
Its all an investment
My sorrow and pain
i will never see the ocean again

Their karma those rich ones
Will see a downturn
For actually in Hell on earth
They will burn

This hole in a wall
Dead fish for each meal
They are looking after me
That is the steal

I am unhappier now than before
A British investment
They sleep well I am sure
But for me I am so sad
That humans achieve
This kind of investment
Who would believe
It