twenty seven came and went
              three strikes, not out

first: a stomach pump curve ball
ejecting the dissolving pills
            second: cushioned by an airbag
after speeding down a swerving hill
                  third: plucked out of the night air
from a fourth-floor windowsill.

    i followed the path
from calculator comfort and white picket calm
down into the servitude on the page of starvation's storm.

rain poured on my hamuvtakhat-bound parade
                                  bringing flooding waves
as my day in the sun became a funeral march.

i was sold barbwire-framed torture
disguised as a gypsy painted picture

  to spend old and new moon nights
under hard fluorescent light
with my black-ink ballpoint pen
        chained into my hand
fixed fast like a magnet to a needle
and silver spoon.

****** maidens crossed that path
soon to depart
at the first off-ramp chance
unwilling to share the back-breaking burden
of my cross shaped tombstone
        which i may never remove -
lest the slack rope strangle my neck
stealing a final cigarette laced breath.

under flashing technicolor lights
a lady dressed in white lace
tripped over my drunk stumbling body
falling into the sinking sand of my mind.

i pray that i may hold her hands again
and sing our star-crossed lullaby
before my curtain-call night calls me
ushering me to rest in that dream kingdom
beyond the sky.

lying face down
sailing on green clouds
of absinthe

paddling my spoon
on blurry murky pools
tides bite back
frosty ice cool.

juggling streets
while skipping stones
bounce with heat in my chest,
my vest drips
puddles of sweat.

cat eyes
paint the sky
on this ceiling
inside,
angry smoke
burns my black lung chimney
coughing broken smiles.

wormwood planted seeds
float on cubes
of sugar and ice,
mice dance stepping
through the forest of my hair
zigzag foxtrots.

**** blazed
bongo bombers
blast bubbles of beats
from emerald egg drums,
along dizzying tunneled paths
snoozing in bathtubs.

Ziggy strums his guitar
on faraway Mars
colliding orbiting cars
and shooting stars.

falling from treetops
with my green fairy,
sing me to sleep
in absinthe alley
while pins and needles ***** my legs
peg the dead wormwood
tucked into bed.

linguistic ******* as the emergence of furor poeticus
  :: out of phonetic oral *** comes lyrical transcendence


  /
acacia thorns pierce the skin
while shittim pierces the veil of the perceivable
as golden incense weaves across the sky
to a sanctuary where we unwind space & time

prophet's write of the vapor turning on lights
and horns shining in rays of synesthesia

magi mixed herbs under the desert moon
which mapped a path through golden the sand

bundle's of wild harmel wood burns
as sparks flicker & dance with stars
in a moon reaching bonfire

under autumn shadows
in the harmonic hum of the aboriginal didgeridoo
drifting on the streams of wattle-seed smoke
  gazing down as the earth unfolds and refolds
            in a cymatic origami cardtrick

out of the soil grows the ship
which flies above the starry skies
fruit of biblical implications
with seeds of knowledge
& keys to ghostly dimensions

    //
Thomas Aquinas
& Meister Eikhart shared the same eye
as you & I
peel wide the smokescreen
& spy through the looking-glass used by god
  which saw god
which was the eye through which the son of god saw
& wept at the stale state
  of the collective unconscious bots
lost in spirals of consumption & mirror reflection *******

this is not the godless wasteland
advertised by the screaming anchormen
    fear-mongers & alarmists
who sell panic by the gallon

with electrodes probing their temporal lobes
the prophets & shaman's
are in the asylums
labeled as ******'s for their visions of angels
& demons
& messages from the god's

an amnesiac species
chasing the neurochemical highs
shaped by evolutionary design
as a means to survive

barrel of monkey's biologically
swinging about nuclear powered technology
        alienated
that far removed from nature (forest. desert. ocean)
planning to leave the planet entirely


    Om Mani Padme Hung
    OM
    Om Mani Padme Hung
    OM

I found myself sheltered
in bed alongside a spectral form,
unconcerned by the storm
surrounding the building
in which I was confined -
immensely thankful to be inside
nestled alongside
the majesty of this deity.

The picture beside me;
a miracle
to my mortal eyes,
too pure for my iniquitous mind
Was she simply a creation
of my imagination?
Could the source of this illusion
be a supernatural delusion?
Perhaps a byproduct
of idiosyncratic thought patterns
systematic to my being?
I wondered...

As an expression of appreciation,
a necessity to shape an effigy
of this manifestation of Aphrodite,
has become my life's devotion -
culminating in the
unveiling presentation,
a ceremony of biblical proportions.

I will soon awaken
and none of this
will have any substantial relevance...
         however
the lucidity of this vision
has given me a reason for optimism;
born out of this distorted dream
I now believe
there are angels among us,
it would seem.

close your eyes,
and turn off your mind
my sweet, blue valentine.
accept that we won't find
love in this lifetime.

no matter, how we desire;
water cannot be turned to wine,
a camel cannot fit
through a needles eye.
and we will never know love -
for it wasn't made in our size

My hands sail
with seasoned ****** steering
  precision
slowly southward,
along the waves
  of your hair,
before beaching along
        silky skinned shores.

Navigating marked territory
my fingertips travel,
      tracing
  southwardly patiently
journeying my modern odyssey
along your ribcage paved path
  towards my epicurean mecca
of lush fuzzed meadows
while you cling to me
in our linen pastures
with cosied ivy proximity.

Your spread spent body
      covers the disheveled
    bedspread,
  soaking wet
skin glistening
  bronze,
  from a
first placed finish.

On blue moons,
between barstools
and broken beds -
I have moments
where my
beer-battered brain
opens the cage,
brave enough
to let my own bluebird
fly across a blank page.

My caged bird sings
in tweets of pain,
dragging
my life-sentenced
ball and chain
across
the telephone lined terrain
of purgatories page.

Painting the space
in hues of blue,
birthed by ballpointed dissection
of wing-clipped
captivity,
my bluebird bleeds out
those soft, tender
places within me,
mocking the freedom
I'll never know.

my finger lingers
on the trigger
safety pin
deep inside of me,
waiting to pull
a jellyfish parachute
floating me into the dust
and the dirt,
at the slight sight
of an upward curve on my lips.

in my rickety raft of uncertainty,
bobbing on the sea of momentary
tranquility;
waves of warmth
wash over me,
as i douse myself
with a liquid nitrogen
concoction of self-preservation,
steadying the swing
for a cushioned fall.

hardwired in the vaults
of my memory-bank
are big screen flashbacks
replaying scenes of endorphin
robberies,
tattered scrapbook
crime-scene photographs
and chalked off reflections
illuminating the lineup of clown masked
ghosts.

crestfallen from Goliath heights
without a stitch of pride,
still i fall
from roller-coaster summits
on groundhog,
scratched
stuck record tracks
to a heap of rubble and debris
lying
where the tower of Babel
once was seen.

my dark,
barking mad dogma
echoes whispers
in Greek
from the ink
of Hegesias and Heraclitus;
and surrenders to French truth
captured
by Voltaire and Rousseau
in safety net ceilings
cementing my plight flight
in a lifetime of all-time lows.

the flowers lay torn
with seeds split into thorns
loose ends are dead ends
where the rose bed once slept.

city of sawdust and debris
freezing beer exploding
the roads lead nowhere
in the papier-mâché maze.

milk jugs sit solid at doorsteps
with bubble domes of ice
ribbons hang from bridges
celebrating the new millennium.

crossbars peak out of overgrown grass
where parks hide the dead
under the weeds and leafless trees
a hostage where crows perch on cacti -

my home is a cemetery where i wait to die.

самая большая радость - это жизнь
самая большая боль - это жизнь

memory burns into a loop
of melted vinyl
smooth touch
    scratching sound
a bottomless pool of broken noise.

white nail polish
glides into letters on a blackboard
forming romantic verses
      screeching to a halt
with the ripping of cuticles.

drifting into an afternoon siesta
waking to overgrown streets
electronic billboards
peak through the jungle
        'seek and destroy'.

sunlight reflects
off of a golden throne
white hot brightness
melting eyeballs explode
out of the hollow skulls.

Atlas cut off his ears
when the voices on his shoulders
drove him to madness
              lost bearings
without hearing
the balancing act slipped clumsy
dropping the blue ball into nothingness.

Jupiter's rings swung loose
falling
          forming a noose
cracking a lightning whip lasso
slipping around the neck
squeezing tight the windpipe
                                breathless death.

Autumn leaves sing in khaki demise
wasting no time in the crimson-stained snow,
lying in smoke-berry and fading rickshaw sleepiness,
with violin and violent Hallelujah's -
Winter cries
along with the bird on my windowsill
on cold steely silent nights
in wingless speckled September.

Flowers all laid to rest
in rasping acoustic nylon songs
bemoaning the lateness of the rising sun
and eagerness of the moon
in lurking jack-in-the-box premature explosions.

Inherited deep-rooted seeds of genius
in David's boldness,
and Solomon's songs and wisdom -
which you planted in hearts
across Montreal
and New York
and Jerusalem
and in the bone-chilling, home-hitting
single bedroom flat on the basement of table mountain,
in Cape Town.

The pillars came crashing down
and wakening to a blaze
of bone-marrow blasts
that shot from hell through blood prison cells
into pine caskets of eternal maple,
where kings don't sit on broken thrones -
your word's are an eternal victory march
plastered on the guiding mast of these
glass shattered times -
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah.

The flowers will begin to bud in spring
with promises flowing out of bird beak sing songs,
rising to new heights, forever,
until the end -
for new origins on hotel kitchen chairs
right through;
to the blossoming land of resurrection
vibrating on unheard harp strings,
louder,
and louder we will sing again -
Hallelujah!

I

we are the square-eyed children
who swim in radio waves
from our rooms of solitude,
painted in blue moods
and hues of synchronized views
with our online friends,
who refresh our highlight reels
to hollow barrels of silent
stone faced laughter
and muted,
seated ovation.

eyes glued to the all-seeing screen
blind in a bubble of bloated ego,

flaccid placid photographers
who play the spectator
part-time role
behind narrow focused lenses
which see more than our eyes
who specialize in self-portraits,
chopping cropping
the big picture,
only to fit our bigger heads
and the dead stares of our square-eyes.

              II

there is more life
in a morgue
than in these crowds
of Medusa's tongue-tied
eye-contact shy
gargoyle features,

stonewall statue seas
and paralyzed shoe-gazers
who fade in and out of frame
on clouds of clout
and self-doubt.

              III

we are the proud people
who sold the paradise of Eden
for currents of electric disconnection,
the prodigal people
who vacated thrones
for apples made in caves,
manned by child slaves.

protesters with placard
profile pictures
who have never ticked boxes
at the vacant polling stations.

Hercules armed
with one hundred and forty
keyboard swords,
struck down by David's
slingshot of actual action.

              IV

specialists in matrimonial failure
chasing bluebird ticks
in sickness and unhealthy
fixes of quick ***** remedies.

deadbeat parents
who build broken homes
and damage children playthings
for insta gratification
by the gram.

who spend more
on therapy bills and numbing pills,
and spend less time
reading bedtime books.

              V

we are the walking dead
who pretend to care
with our online friends
but wouldn't dare
stare the serpent
in the eye.

who defend with triggers
of offended offence gestures,

leaving a trail of despair
while we run scared,
frail, with our tails
between our shaking legs.

we are the walking dead
square-eyed children.

we are the future.

a gramophone set on a plaque
spins an entangled equinox of sound
stirring the empty white room
where drifting comet paintbrush strokes
splash from palette
onto the canvas
filling pencil sketched stencil outlines.

behind the blank stare
a melting box of crayons
leak into the canyon pocket of the rotten
rusty mind's trapdoor opening
dripping in a kaleidoscopic waterfall curtain
of a rainbow explosion.

thousands of fragments
float in a broken magnetic field
unable to link into the cutout space
created by the lost curator
inside that blank gallery
where the erosion of the memory bank valley
fills with silt and debris.

photographs held in place
by safety pins and sticky tape
dissipate into a foggy dusk
where faces are bleached
unraveling into distant
smudged post-stamp silhouettes.

bitter pills dissolve with yogurt
in halls where caretakers lift the lid
exposing an echo ringing uncertain
as diluted voices
sing hollow songs
under a needle pin in the distance.

withered flower petals fall
landing on a riddle filled diary
set on top of a dusty nightstand
while the ticking grandfather clock
strikes another hour
bringing the end of the final chapter
ever closer.

Orphan Ontology (an obituary for father time & mother earth)


swap the snapping turtles for shadow puppets
it's Plato's cave all the way down

shimmering hexagonal revelations
stream through my Dimethyltryptamine daydream

out of my eyes unfurled the room
& then the world was birthed from my womb

faint as a whisper, yet haunting
a spectre lingers in the ether
heavy charcoal clouds hanging over me

under orange smoke, I pray
in dusty days of this drought-stricken
Eleusinian mystery  
where the flowers which you painted in the spring
have turned a pale shade of grey disarray

a black hole sun hovers where the superlunary
ought to be
& i find myself lost with insomnia
seeking aletheia on a polar night
stumbling around the thorny maze of my own creation
in the tattered pair of shoes
painted by Vincent van Gogh

in that little ice age
Nietzsche's demon spoke the cursed words
spelling out my Sisyphean eternal recurrence
to carry an acacia cyclops cross
sprawled across the breadth of my back
crafted by my clumsy hands
splintered & ****** as they deserve to be  
for letting you slip through
when my skies were still blue

Preface

I was on the balcony of a dingy bar one evening and overheard a girl say the words 'downstairs people'. It may be that she was simply referring to the people on the street below us, or that she had birthed a divinely diverse contronym.
I staggered over to her table, like one of the biblical Magi who pre-drank on camelback all the way to Nazareth, and commended her creation. I asked if I may use the mystifying term. She agreed and I typed and saved the word(s) into my digital Notebook.
Thanks

DOWNSTAIRS PEOPLE

"Those poor Hebrew downstairs people on the river bank -
the flood came and washed away
their entire livelihood in a single day"
said Pharaoh, being fed grapes
while a second slave fanned a palm leaf to his face.

"I pity the downstairs people who will never see the top of the sky
as I do flying high in the heavens with
my wings forged of feathers" said
the courageous, ambitious mighty Icarus
as he touch the sun before he sunk.

"Commoners and peasants those downstairs people
with inferior blood and cesspool gene pools
akin to slaves of yesterday's glory days"
said the sibling king and queen in their fancy dress,
jewels and their crowns and all of the golden rest.

"Those slutty downstairs people with their
gardens and their swimming pools;
I wish I could splash all over them too"
said the third floor pervert in hot-and-bothered envy
watching the ******* clad figures splashing in ecstasy.

"We hate being downstairs people,
sardines in cubicles without air-conditioning
or views of the Manhattan skyline"
said the paper-pushers on Tuesday morning,
eleven September two thousand and one.

i rack the depths of my conscious mind
hoping to find
what the unconscious hides.
exploring the mysterious deep caves
of my psyche,
which hoards buried trauma chests
and rejected repressed reminders
of drunken debauched deeds

those awful humiliating blurs
in the midst of slurs,
and stumbling carcasses
in crumbling grog bars.
where the incongruous combination
of chemicals digested in whiskey pools
of my otherwise empty stomach,
and blood rushing to my heart ache
taking a turn for the worst.

those intoxicating devices
which grip and control without license
act as my puppet master,
for whom i dance without order.
there is no clarity in that dooming bliss
where the infidelity of a lustful kiss
is a casual handshake in a red dress.
nothing good ever happens after 2am,
and 3am is the devil's hour
while 4am knows your secrets
and riddled repressed regrets.

blinded by denial deduced from delirium
I still despise myself the next day
whilst in disarray,
silently craving the grave
before the sun sets on my fragile body.
self-loathing isn't a charming game to play
but it is the tormenting price you pay,
for not all is bliss if you bathe everyday
in the pools of folly.

Among stumbling puffs of bar smoke
strung fumbling huffs of guitar croaks
serpent charmer ******* nylon tightropes
trapeze mastery floating notes seamlessly.

polyphiloprogenitive poet
launching dancing pages on rocket ships
shooting starry winged syllables off lips
dripping rhythmic shaking hips.

Lungs absorbing tufts of juniper soaked
drums bubbling cuffs of marred tokes
tip-toes hover
soft ripples invisible
beer pools stir splashing eager.

puffing chests
burst through door frames -
goggles rocked out
whisky knocked back
heads balloon and winks meet smirks
seeking moon starved warmth.

Voodoo raves
howling smiles
echoing violet cannons

blue suede caboose
shaking sleep,
violent rivers seep
soaking tents

standing knees weak
falling waterfall thighs
dripping secrets

moaning secretes
swamped burning
voodoo rains
smiling howled
echoes.

blazing the tall grass of the past
acting the big bad wolf
huffing, puffing cigarettes
and blowing up Peruvian powder.
dancing on stages and tables
while growling my agony
in moans and groans
to joy division tones.
howling into the night
to back beats and guitar solos
shrieking with a might
heads could explode.
black ink burning my pages
with a darkness which could shake
brooding Boston-born Poe
in his Baltimore burial bed.

i contain multitudes.

hiding behind wind swept
wild weeping willow hair,
hanging in my face
shying from prying stares.
locking myself behind
dingy dungeon bedroom doors
chained to a writing desk
fighting writers block wars.
playing second fiddle
keyboardist on a typewriter
to Charlie Parker records
fingers dancing to jazz chords.
putting cigarettes out
on my forearms
caging myself indoors for lab rat
benzodiazepine tolerance tests.

i contain multitudes.

wearing flower crowns
and thorn tiaras
on my head which hung
some days
while prancing with peacock pomp
other days. i contain multitudes.
swinging back and forth
as the wind blows
my moods in blue hues
to purple patches and back again,
orbiting around the bend
of my loose ***** head.

i contain multitudes.

the ghost of Hamlet drives his Cadillac
from Denmark to Dallas

ghost foot stepping heavy on the gas
passing decades of decadence
fanned by fallen slaves with hollow faces
skeletons risen from their shallow graves.

watchmen cast their eyes
on dice and dominoes,
blind to murderous deeds
passing men begging on their knees
    whispering ****** words from chapped
chained lips
              
scoffs drowning pleads of 'don't shoot,
I've got kids to feed.'

Abraham walked down highway sixty-one
back to the sacrificial altar
carrying his rabid dog,
a bow, fifteen arrows and two pistols
in holsters -
                 best friend blown, shot in the head
splattered brains and bones spread on the rocks
                            sat drinking the blood
mixed with a double shot
to ease the swollen sense of shock.

Antonio is going home,
assets seized
though the loan remains unpaid
        walking the narrow
thorny road
his poems couldn't pay the bills
and pelicans sit
beaks wide and hungry
seeking holy loaves and fish to feed
    they watch a king pass
walking on water
as hunters and fishermen shoot
at the easy flocks of prey
           ready for bullets to spray
while clowns play
splashing in the shallows,
           they better pray to their gods now
for the day of reckoning shall be known.

blood floats on the water
under the purple painted sky
eyes shut  
     blurry from crying
all through the night,
                
              the resurrected king died a second time
now the hackers wipe his memory
       smirking Moloch's stinking grin
chicken grease drips from sharpened teeth
running down their chins
onto crisp white shirts
under petticoats stained with sin.

golden chalices and plastic cups  
       lifted in cheers
toasting on the cusp of greatness
party anthems sung in jest
as the prophet waved goodbye
                                      falling spread,
         punctured neck and chest
eyes shut  
            he lay shot dead.

Sisyphus fell back to the foot of a hill
rolling his stones
with a mountain to climb
asking for a lift,
    the driver shook his head
saying dimes are no way to pay in this rat race
and road-blocks
have closed the one-way that lay ahead

the impending street parade
with waving banners of death
flapping in the wind
   limousines turn into hearses
as the speechless crowd stand breathless
wondering in silence
                               who's next....

"Here the crow starves, here the patient stag
Breeds for the rifle…"

I.
With Tongues Cut Out

The knife is mightier than the pen
when the writing on the wall spells out
'hands in manacles
and feet in shackles for innocent writers'
while gangs run the empty streets
leading to overflowing morgues.

Banner shadow play falls over jesters
hanging from puppet strings
at the hands of trigger-happy
self-appointed kings
who write horror scripts
recited by the comedy production
at the united nations of starvation.

Clinics filled with prophets
who flew ignored warning signs
in the darkness of algorithm skies  
designed by gimmicks of  
clicks billed for profits.

Rouge vermillon flags and berets
form a red sea of people
with a full hand of joker cards in a game euchre.
They shuffle rival tables
for first draft deals
fallen from conveyor belts
serving meals of shiny plastic fruit.  

Blue birds plagiarize
and sing the olive branch song
while flying over white nights into a landslide
crash-landing from heights
signed on the first
exploding in tunnel-vision shouting
from left to right
  diverged and reversed.

  II.
Special Needs of the Entitled

Orange jackets dressed in disguise
as multicolored coats
in the town of naked emperors
on their knees
at the foot of a hollow throne.

Fifteen minutes of spotlight
is sold at crossroads
for souls
trapped under mouse mind control
damaged and caged
in happy-ever-after city.

Blue ticks bite through bright lit screens
pulling the strings of wallflower fever
in an echo chamber of partisan screams.

A falling feather in the arctic summer
rises on a pendulum weighed down
by a pinch of salt of the earth
sprinkled with spoons of weightless self-worth
and the nerve to disturb the universe.

   III.
Self Defense Classes  

Purple bags fall in the hands of pupils
seeking dilated nights
with sprinting minds behind wide eyes
in a race of blinkered horses
on a course inside a skull shaped coop
with lanes drawn in sandy lines.

Spiked seats on concrete floor stations
hide behind broken latch doors
in bathroom stall conference rooms
drip
           drop
                        dead
for the water of life is poison
and the medicine is venom.
Your daily dose of choices
lie between the bottom of a bottle
or staring down a barrel
(though red and blue
                                       are but two)
  
A recent review
for 'the last voice of reason' read:
/
too depressed to be iconic
too cynical to be ironic.

    IV.
The Way, the Truth & the Death

Stained glass distorts the view
through cathedral windows,
painting a rainbow over drowning floods
and warping the picture seen from pews.

Thorny-stemmed yellow roses
lie spread across sallow sanatoriums  
at the feet of newfangled sunset beds
    while some envy the dead.

The first visit tore the world apart
with unholy crusades and war.
The second coming will end it all
                        first with whimpers
  then the second big bang.

the blue clock ticks
with poor man marching boots
on a night
unwilling to wave goodbye,
overstaying her sky time
and shutting out
the skipping rope sun,
stealing his moment
in the light of day.

fleeing the scene,
carrying a satin-sack
bag of tricks
over my shoulder,
stuffed with a mix of gimmicks
and chips -
i crawl on my knees
on the lost chord path
blindly
following the hollering
blackbirds song
from the hovering,
hanging sky.

a vision of paradise
adds the last bundle of straw
to the cross i carry
across my broken back
in a one-way
seaside lane
on the beat off track
where a pendulum seesaw ship
swims to the shore,
calling my name.

in a race to save my face
on the spinning globe
roundabout,
the pickup stick paramedics
stop to disinfect my ****** knees
and resurrect me
with a white Gemini ointment.
while pumping my chest and
pressing the creases
of my ***** laundry -
back from the brink
i blink and beg:
**** me,
please.

lyrics on the metaphysics of lust*

   let me kiss you
below the depths
touched by simmering rays
crashing like waves onto your bronzing skin
on a sunny day

may my ravenous fangs
sink into the nape of your neck
holding back the pining force
of seven hundred clamping bear-traps

the safety-nets
woven out of cigarette smoke
& verbose poems
written by a flickering lamp
burning midnight oil
dissolved in the unseeable depths
of those deep-sea green eyes

helicopters whirled in the pits of my stomach
when my gaze found her face
& i could stare until i was able to rig a wig
blindfolded
where each strand of hair mapped to scale

starving to death for your tomb of life
    la petit mort // la petit mort
an afterlife womb
  where heaven & hell mix
        craving more & more

gliding fingers ski southward
tracing outlines along silky snow
    i connect freckles
                                  dot•to•dot
sketching a finger-painted masterpiece
along the canvas of your burning flesh

          hallelujah
                            hallelujah

hips ****** up as lips meet lips
now dissolve on my tongue
                                  
shifting gears & counting speed
melting me as she breathes
earthquakes shake over quivering bodies
turning calm seas into wild stormy high tides

blood rushes into flushed cheeks
she floods my shore
like a tsunami at the break of dawn
on all fours begging for more

black on white strikes gold
while grey melts in between
tap-tap the beat of a snare drum
hitting the high hats where the dots of i
meet the passing crossroads of u̶s̶

sweet & sour sweat drips
splashing from sheets onto the floor
steam sways & burns
as the scent of burning wood
fills the empty spaces of our room
an unspoken language with signs of smoke
as flames burn through the old
& come again glimmering new

i would fall from heights
shaking Lucifer terrified
for Luna's starry skies to linger,
in a Jashar night, by your side.

floating on Chopin stroked ivory nocturnes
swimming in deep ruby pools of Pinot Noir
dancing on your flowering lips,
sweet with vanilla cigarette smoke.

life is beautiful.

phosphorus waves of purple patches
carry me from seas of stormy eyes
onto shores sanctuary with blue skies
harbored in your sheltering arms.

brighter than painted pages
singing lullabies in the city of angels,
blinded dizzy by the light shining
through the iris of you eyes.

life is beautiful.

punctured bicycle on a hillside
spread by skyscraper flames
burning my humble log cabin existence
halcyon falls to ash on the ground.

chopped mountaintop forest
crumbling down to street corners
begging for coins or breadcrumbs
and bleeding on pavements in darkness.

life is dreadful.

burst dam walls of crippling cancer
flow from drowning depths of hell
crashing high waters
washing away life's short circuit (un)certainty.

reading Dante at you bedside grave,
flowers lie dead on tombstones
spread in autumns cemetery
as you lay where i may never go.

life is dreadful.

I

a voice in the pocket of the outside crusader
screams in diluted darkness
crawling on blood flooding knees

from prison cell dead end canyons
crossing deep graved cave ravines
curtained by smoke and steamed mirror terrors

light burnt out under collapsing night
bound in the noose of lingering rope
tightly tied to faded flashlight demise

stretched synthetic wet-suit fabric
torn and unraveling into threaded anchors
leak cold salt water into a punctured spirit

torch batteries burnt fatally flat
the leather’d limb matchstick ember
whispers slow fatigued flat line breaths

bed of rock extended beyond
obstacle field crawling lengths
where metres faded into millennia

II

softer than a dandelion cocoon
a breeze sweeps from a hairline crack
roaring life into the cavity tomb

lifted from the empty lung
crushing stranglehold and inflated
floating onto clouds of feathered flight

crippled by fear of fatherless children
a second breath bounced from ropes
into seasoned soldier strength

jaws of death slumbers hopeless
dozed off by the anesthetic bite
fighting to escape the narrowing gates

unscathed and mightier he flees
from the enclosing fallen walls
with strengthening stories of power for all.

Walk with me through this siesta city
under the redbreast robin sunset

as the wind whistles in between crevices
of grey, moss covered skyscrapers

and the idle streets run into the distance
like a dry river, empty, but for parked cars.

From tar to dirt as the monotone
mechanical hum transforms
into an orchestra of rustling leaves
accompanied by the gentle finesse of a running stream.
Beyond the smokeless factory district
where the monochrome backdrop
bursts into vibrant shades of green
sprinkled with blooming skittle wildflowers.

Lets us lay a picnic blanket
on the overgrown grass
and drink a bottle of wine from plastic glasses
as we watch the sun sink below the horizon.

You could lie down on your back
toes pointed heavenward
under the star splashed ceiling
while you see the northern lights behind your shut eyelids
and praise the highest heavens in foreign tongues
among the sounds of a trickling stream
fusing with clinking wind-chime echoes
deep in the throes of the holiest of holy's.

Care to join me for a stroll
to the land of milk and honey, hunny?

for Lee Miller

// LIBERATED FROM CAMPS //

born on foreign shore
falling beyond the crest of the equatorial horizon
to family washed up in a shipwrecked fleet
while fleeing the camps and tattoo stamps of war.

displaced and placed on a privileged pedestal
i pick and pluck the petals inside my mind
while the compass needle spins in distress
searching for direction and equilibrium.

in a basket with statues of stone faced settlers
and sunburnt segregation lawmakers
the shadow cast in concrete moulds
hangs over me unyielding to the African sun.

cultivating gritty soil in a field of weeds
to sow seeds for wings in the coming season
before taking flight from untarred runways
into skies of cosmic possibilities.

keys to my congenital shackles
and chastity belt of literary aspirations
lie above the clouds in faraway towns
or below the gravel of my local grave.

// REMINGTON SILENT //

under marching fingertips
the typewriter's pitter-patter tiptoed in silence
as if the letters punched were bandits
planting pamphlets of propaganda.

a poet wrote his last stanza in London
under downpour of blitzkrieg bomb storms
crushing the keys and mangling the machine
his words are all the remain.

Fallen out of ***
      Drunk on lost luck
Needle takes another ***
       You're in my veins, you ****

douse my beehive mind
in liquid amphetamines
to steady the blurry split screens
of multi-tabbed greyhound speed
barking madly at stalking shadows
fallen from my heels
jolting me out of my skin.

throw a rope ladder down
into the entrapment basement
resident stage to the passive aggressive
clinking cutlery orchestra
conducting butter knife cutting taunts
torturing my melted butter split aura.

hanging on to the edge of a chair
inside my chest where every breath
echoes the beat of a marching band
& trembling hands stand
on melting ice as they somersault
in the winter solstice
frozen from cavity vault to my face.
              
i look to see through sleeps eyes
where the mercury penny drops
under arrow pierced apples
in shade dripping with nights clarity
on a melted sea beneath
the flowing eastern wind
blowing the misty uncertainty to smithereens.

neuron explosions sketch constellations
out of flame infused
squeezed citrus peels
as sparks dance
where beasts of land, air & sea
collide in dotted starry symbols
drawing borders across synchronicity.

my rubber soles are worn thin
while stones fill the insides
but rubber-band wings stretched wide
bending tides & mountains appear as molehills
from weightless vapor heights dissolving the sky.

i seek the calm of crocodile waters
where i can stretch my legs
on fertile silt riverbeds
& soak in the golden sunshine smile
washing down in spectacular arrays
of scepter conjured waves.

open the gates to my airborne castle
where hope finds ****** interpretations
along the path to eternal symposiums
i'm lead to Jericho's jenga answers.

open the door
yours films almost done

feast your tired, starving eyes
on the screaming screen
as a church ***** sets in motion
the rewinding of a binding sermon

whispers drift in on the west wind
from fruitful hilltops
into the blood floods on the streets
disguised as badly dressed drunken pretense

leaping through a swirly bokeh lens
smashing the fourth wall
the singer lays his song at your feet
sacrificing himself entirely

the allusion lies in smithereens
as kings and queens bend over backwards
trying to mend the four fallen horsemen
pondering what may have been

* let the wind guide you
past flying arrowheads

swim with furious strokes
through the anxious eggshell men
who sit with boggy intentions
at the gates of that sinking mire

move with the moon whispering shaman
as he toasts the beaded chalice
filled with amazonian vine brewed potion
rooted in the foundation of a forest

dance in fireside shadows
and on heavy clouds of smoke
to the beating of animal-skin drums
fly with him, let him take you

* believe in the book
for a beast exists within you.

i shot into the starry night sky
on a Miles Davis blown trumpet rocket
fizzing higher and higher
with electric waves whizzing
from the soles of my beaten scuffed boots
through my body
and up to my head,
spiking each strand of hair
to stand stiff like a saluting soldier.

buzzing on brass blown bubbles
and bass drum beats
my feet started shuffling
scuffling to hoots and *****
of cosmic rhythmic jungle jives
that sent shock-waves raving
in a two step jumping jack jolt
along every plate of my tingling spin.

star dust synchronized swimming
melodies melted and dissolved
into the air around me
dancing on clouds of sound that lifted
both feet right off the ground
carrying me with a freight train gust
onto spinning turntable tabletops
with a hop, skip and flashing jumping jacks.

those jazz sounds reverberated
through my body and dislocated my joints
into fluid elastic bending motions
of rubber-band man wiggling,
flopping and flapping with the blowing harmony
of exploding saxophone stimulated satisfaction
ringing in euphony
from ear to ear
in toe tap dancing frequencies
ten-thousand nautical miles skywards
to the sweet trumpet of mister Miles Davis.

to: The Decembrists, bricklayers, Arthur Meursault, Leonard Cohen & the Somerset West public library

    I
at the foot of my altar
a candle burns at both ends

running out of gas, a dying star
shines through the skylight
magnified
sparking a flame.
the veil catches ablaze
burning in half
top to bottom
revealing a million
scattered puzzle pieces
lying below a gold spray-painted calf.

in the pile of ash, that was my altar
lies a pool of melted wax.

    II
standing behind a pulpit
facing a mirror
at the base of table mountain.  
my sermon floats in a bubble
towards the summit
before bursting into a blind
hollow orbit.

    III
staring down the barrel of a dead rubber
the deck is loaded
and the dealer has my number.

absurdity is my only ally
while the chairs are packed
with strangers

my chips are all blank
while i sit chained to the board
in titanium shackles.

    IV
carrying the burden of empty bags
flying a kite dressed as a dusty white flag

this name is a weight
too heavy for my slight shoulders

my body is torn
hanging on all three crosses

denied thrice
of a seat on the throne
the roll of my dice
will eventually take me home

hineni
hineni
i'm ready my lord.

above the ashtray valley,
blood splattered light
of sunrise shines
on the factory town,
manufacturing marching slaves,
while institutes
groom prostitutes.

hawkers hunt
landmine playgrounds
for stray best friends
who ventured off leashes
and into wet market woks
serving stir-fry stew.

sides of
table—side theater—
cirque du slaughter
offers a show
with the menu.

cages rattle
like hostel cutlery culture,
in corrugated tin places
dishing dog meat plates
from street food
vendor caravans
to starving
hand-me-down
boys and girls.

unrelated,

underlined bold headlines
offer a glimmer of good news -
     ‘orphanage closes:
westerners adopt the school.’
lightning strikes twice
on page three,
offers of 'buy one,
get twins free’.

that poetry

    evoking acerbic memories
of sweating in a desk at school
reading ye olde english poems
in a classroom under roman rule

allusions across the palette
and writing essays on single stanzas

deep
deeper
snooze fest

nodding off to Elizabethan sonnets
& kipping through Victorian elegies
with Eminem blaring through earphones
rapping hip modern lingo.

Leonardo played Romeo
either Di Vinci
or Di Caprico
for all i know the ninja turtle.

60's sunglasses Dylan
with his
sharp witted
politically satirical songs
backed by harmonica
scatters the crowd
stinking up the room with sarcastic views.

we want artists
depressed
and on xanax
mumbling and grunting
(subtitles read 'inaudible')
sporting face tattoos
lifted out of a colouring book

money
cars
jewelry

gangs
guns
drugs

reality    meets    tomfoolery

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

newspaper printing machine
in your pockets
shoving vibrating headlines
in your faces every minute

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

detached monk
who sold his fiat
living on rain water
grubs and beetles.

Charles Blondin would fall
from that tightrope
slippery *****
                        slinging
religion
reality tv
& *******

fighting *****
                        techniques
rope-a-dope
choke-holds
& undertakers tombstone

jokes
(legal disclaimer
feeble waiver)

t&c's will get ya.

City of flickering dust crusted lights
along homeless haven'd stained shaking sidewalks,
where lampposts tell twisted tall tales
seen in the reflections of shop window views
of the stalking capitalist machine.

Billboards bellowing lucid interpretations
smile over split milky-way highways
launching battery driven cars on candied clouds
nine miles high while dandruff snowflakes
fall from salon-styled stands of thin grey hair
onto executive shoulder-padded suits
into plastic snow globe promises of a white Christmas
for kids on the streets in Little Haiti
and Old North Sacremento.

Chinese manufactured diseased dreams
spreads through third-world African cities
malfunctioning tribe cultures into
building blocks for fly-by-night
phony hip hop street scene
high-tops of American *******
rip-off Beijing based monopolies.  

Cutting out native tongues
and fitting botched back street
plastic surgery transplants of jail-yard gang slang
false identities of cultural misappropriation
and heritage suicide by displaced majorities
who hope for bread crumb paths home
along folktale story guiding epiphanies
of ghost kings of the past bellowing from the sky

"REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE".

Eight thousand puzzle-piece
butterflies
fill the memory carded banks
of discarded blank
cyberspace Alzheimers.

An empty room with silhouetted views,
creating illusion imitating
hallucinations
of a promise to reinstall the words lost
to safety proof
false parachutes.

Without canvas-sized,
indestructible evidence
or ink-based remembrance -
only erasable by flames,
flood or
unsigned credentials
fallen hand in glove
into
overenthusiastic forgetfulness.

there remains to be seen
a virus immune to tonic,
vaccine,
or innocent naive dreams
capable of murdering,
erasing,
and deleting every letter
conceived by keyboard finger-*******.

Here sits a love sick ******
with his head in the clouds
which would rain purple-hazed
words on the handful around;
those who remain concrete laced
flat on the ground in silence
while the sky promises rain -
yet only delivers clouds thundering sounds
of yesterday's romantic morose cries.

The dreams and visions of publicized ambition
dead
to files of hard-drive suicide -
by pornographic escapism,
prism-shaped with temporary reflection
of a soul due to expire.
Teadless and tired
in need of eternal service with supervision
by technology and savvy technicians -
mechanics of the afterlife,
while sighs of a Leonard Cohen existence
drown out the cries
of a bad cup of immortality.

Red-eyed mornings with deleted history
control-shift-n
and go go incognito
of a different kind.
free of decision or any conscious mind -
without a driver at the wheel
deciding the turns,
for any burning yearning sensation to stay,
go, hop-off and arrive.

The destination won't be seen alive.
Even as stains of lead will remain after death
with every orchestrated fable and tale
told by its grey-eyed author immortal,
while multidimensional gurus of ancient fires have stories and songs
done wrong by sins
of broken-telephone
though burning in hearts, souls,
and every orifice available to spark -
still end up with the scent of unholy ****.

The blank void of all memory is all that remains
throughout every special momentous occasion with hard-copy refection
or recollection of that holy time and spiritual place -
I await judgement and punishment
or divine rejection,
for falling in love and forgetting to save.

wenn du lange in einen abgrund blickst, blickt der abgrund auch in dich hinein

I
as a child you painted the sun
shining with your burning smile

you sang in school halls,
sailor laced pubs and broken bottle bars

in button-up paisley shirts
and alligator boots your moves shocked electric

skull composed rock n roll rhythms mixed,
blending with blues to fret board machine gun shots

reaching beyond the realm of ocean and sand
standing on the shoulders of giants

drinking and bathing in the ancient fruit
your mind hypnotized, floating through the cosmos

supernova sensations exploding, shining
into looping black hole visions of the afterlife

walking in the darkness of a steel moon
a shadow illuminated over hades from bare balconies

II
school was a prison
blurred by dimming medication,
your prism mind
strapped in a straitjacket

mechanical marching orders
fell on deaf ears
a broken cacophony
sparking flames in the rain
where weeds grew with flowers
dancing in the breeze
setting Eden alight

III
riding on the smoke train
from green stations
and university radio studios
until the tracks turned white
disembarking the disenchantment highway

facing the music
saving face
one less grave with your name

IV
you gave your jacket to grey bearded vagrant
naked, hysterical, freezing on the streets

waves of disease blew across oceans
hitting you homeless and clothesless, drowning

war tore through towns, crippling the lost
while your inner tug of war, ripped the seams

ink reflections swim on those pages
revealing the cost of eternal darkness

phoenix rise from cigarette ash ******* heaps
get back on your feet before you fall deeper

the monsters you face aim to take your place
from a mirror to the underworld, dragging you beneath

shine once again
shine one last time before the end
shine on
everlong.

                  jeder, der mit monstern kämpft, sollte sicherstellen, dass sie selbst kein monster werden

the song and dance man
drunkenly swings on broken chandeliers
from stage fright to center stage spotlight.
hiding behind dark
sunken eyes
masking
the b r o k e n man
deep inside.
i have seen those eyes
tainted weeping
stained
cracking glass
peering
with piercing glances
past the mashed crowd
in their mosh-pit dance.

drunk show pony
with mescaline poetry
flashing a cold smirk
in a scarlet football shirt
under a zebra striped sweater.
joan of ark dancing in flames
with seizures to lost radio transmission
playing pool in camden town
head cool
deep in the underground.
beehive jazz smoother than velvet
microphone in hand
oozes grace
mascara runs in panda rings
showing face in torn denim
over leather boots

rock n roll gallery centerpiece
paraded on stage
behold the crowned jewel in eyes
of escape artists with mannequin faces
who pay the doorman entrance fees
to see the tormented performance.
stuck record night on loop
sleep is the menu
with a three course
crushed pill
knockout serving -
arriving on a tour bus hearse
                                leaving
for a homecoming final bow
set in the clouds.

tangled up in you

she listens to bob dylan,
while in her eyes
i see a constellation.
it has a hold on me
that i am unable to escape,
the way that her loose-fitting jumper
       drapes off of her shoulder
     makes me shudder
  makes me scamper through
my mind to find
suitable words,
to describe
the way that i'm feeling.

she casts a dizzying spell on me,
emotions that's crash heavily
on my soul. i lose control.
i drown in the sound
of her heartbeat.
the melodies of
            'tangled up in blue'
   and the waves of her hair.
her eyes are an lake,
the depths unknown.

what is beneath the shades
of emerald green
is certainly a mystery,
my curiosity compels
me to dive into her.  
the deeper i swim,
the deeper
  i free fall. it's so easy,
after all.
with the unknown comes a danger,
but equally, there is a wonder.
a beauty too magical for the surface,
however,
the majesty of her soul -
is matched only,
by her face.

// Ce monde me réduit à rien. Cela me porte jusqu'au bout. Sans colère, il nie que j'existe. Et, acceptant ma défaite, je me dirige vers une sagesse où tout a déjà été conquis - sauf que les larmes me viennent aux yeux, et ce grand sanglot de poésie qui me gonfle le cœur me fait oublier la vérité du monde //

we exist in a black & white world
where they burn your flag & your pride
if you stray outside the confining outlines

loose cannon jazz leads to blue looks
for swimming upstream to birth cool
in a pace which rips through rule books

black sheep are shot for grazing at night
in a fight against driftwood wearing hoods
instead of uniform peaks, woven in lilywhite

snowflakes aim to form a synchronized shape
& euthanize, medicate & lobotomize
Houdini’s who break or partake in a chain escape

led by lego brick leaders
stacked thick in piles of dimes a dozen
fed stacks to build a kingdom for the one

throw your TV’s through the window of possibilities
& step outside the jars of clay
spinning in the hands of potters plotting a payday by foul-play

follow brave men down the road not taken
where the grass is greener & the air is cleaner
for the paved path ends at a kool-aid drinking fountain.

shiny race cars ****
    around the monopoly board
    chasing flags and champagne
      in a head spin of burning rubber
      and thirty five million eighty-six'd dinners.

every roll of my dice
lands me in a pit of snakes
sliding down as i shoot to score
my shots and knocks
have chutes behind every door.

sensibility walks in
in a probability suit
      hooting that i won three raffle ticket draws
before i turned twenty-one
and that my sun crowed thrice
striking the same place
a wiggling wormhole mistake of rising too early.
      as i'm drunkenly bounced, 'to save face'
from my own party.

a taxman walked on water
or walked out of his own tomb
still i dig in his bag of tricks
wondering 'what else he can do'.
i paid him every month
even rendering Caesar his due
now that my leather gathers dust
in my time of dying
i stand cap in hand
begging at his door
only for a drawer of daggers
to stab me in the back. 'hey, A for trying'.

never was aesthetically pleasing
to be a washed up has been

i'm on par for the so far so good steeple
but i'm swinging for an eagle.

motor-sport and politics
are bugs on my cracked windscreen
the lance in my side
and the spear in my rear
remains the same to this day
that idiot wind stealing my cigarettes
a crux shaped rash that just won't go away.

i may shake the water off my feather back
like a stick of melting butter
but the breeze blows
huffing and puffing leaky oil rig rings
that this fluffing puffin can't escape.

give me the cross or give me the chair
but that idiot wind
will steal all i hold dear.

prelude

sitting
strumming
steel strings
blackbirds feed and sing

speeding cars pass
rattling ice cubes
in a whiskey glass

on the wall
a misty painting
where blue smoke
and cherry trees
meet

    fade in

curtains open
spreading the scene
for hungry eyes
wide

absorbing
every trace
in a dizzying
trance

lights flash
reflecting
three masked figurines
slumping in a stupor
weaving their dance

cast a bone
on stage
prism horsemen
fly

fur coats
fall flaming
lending hands
at crossroad skies

roll over
listen
whispers laced bright
lips turn white
clenched teeth bite silent
dying of the night

    fade out

darkness spreads
peeling off the backdrop
walls close
through you

dressed in costumes
buttons and zips
the rail leans empty
fading into mist

follow the road
down the blinking tunnel
funneling scripted verse

bowing in roses
spread
across the floor
disappearing in a blink
falling
through the trapdoor

curtains wail
shrieking
halting to a close

words dead
finished
burnt pile of ash
buried pages
torn into pieces
scattered in the trash

    au revoir

Flooded mind in an arid desert existence
my oasis is a
square peg in Maslows hierarchy.
feed me paper plated possibilities
while my lungs burn
for ink stained atmosphere.

Outsider,
silent observer and undesignated critic -
the ticking never stops
without poetic deconstruction
of societal wastleland shaped bombs.

Born into this
I decry my morbid existence,
spent in solitude
spent in hunger,
as amorphous animalistic anger
festers until light rises
out of clear sighted verses.

Torpefied torment only cured
by hospitalized hour handed
time spent,
without relent
in my parabolic chair
of destined emphatic expression.

Born into this,
my perennial poets curse

through sixth-sense lenses
built into focused-frames;
the unacknowledged legislator
zooms in on the landscape hidden in plain sight;
to dissect, digest and divulge
an abstract autopsy of societal abnormalities.

disguised in makeup of mythical tales,
the parallel pictures hide in satirical details
dressed in innocent historical fables -
revealing esoteric plot-holes in reality
and magnifying the pore-sized loopholes
onto projections of pundit objections.

in sculpted stanzas
the poet reshapes alphabetical definitions
to portray and illuminate telescopic details
into layman termed translations -
misread by the naked eye in undefined,
unobserved misdiagnosis.

picking up the mantle laid by poets of yesterday's;
the protest songwriter picks, strums and plays
off of the same hymn sheet -
laying lyrical foundations to critical conclusions
on stages set for youth driven revolutions.

i
From the streets of Dublin
the hordes re-Joyce
as Odysseus waxes lyrical
with colloquial finesse
    his golden tongue spitting fire
steamrolling the jargon wagon
on stairway rails from tube to paper.

Live stream of consciousness
flows from depths below
bellowing out of shadows
an intoxicating wave
breaking the surf on black peaks
of spiked stone keys typed in gonzo.

  ii
Aristotle stood firm
at the pulpit in his symposium
while his quill penned poetics
preaching the genius
of metaphor and metaphysics.

Embryonic parsel-tongue
waving a wand in wizardry
from ink fountains bursting on parchment
delivering the gift
of ribbon wrapped eloquence.

  iii
Unbuttoned rolling flow
in fluid monologue
skipping ropes of jazz speak
unedited
unfiltered rivers
where rough diamonds are crowned king.

Standing on one leg
inspecting the heart
the past fell
growing arachnid telescopes
and digging in every anatomical tract
to extract the distilled essence.

  iv
Musical motif
shining constellation of text tessellation

Lyrical relief
binding formation to flex evocation.

  v
Vineyard winding with jump cut scenes
fermenting fruit
ripe for the picking
inducing intoxication laced reading
    sliced and spliced
a chalice of spice
blinking
weaving
overflowing.

Godard's lens zooms
blooming in district cloud nine
rolling ***** of raw nervous energy
shaking from screen to belly.

  vi
Magician of allusion
pulling Shakespeare out of his hat
peeping from leaves of grass
and Walt's multitude of class.

Join the dots and fill in the blank
to a spectacle
for spectators wearing spectacles
who open their cans of interpretation
worming out and ransacking the sack.

  vii
Unchain the shackles of form
abandoning umbrellas
for free falling
s
n
o
w
f
l
a
k
e
s

  viii
From Greek theater's
staging Freud's favourite play
to a trek with a scarecrow,
a tin man and Dorothy's pet lion
  the hard to swallow
jagged little pill
pulls the wool over hollow eyes.

... the lowest form of wit
... the highest form of intelligence
- the wilde wit-king wrote
wearing a fab fur coat.

  ix
Jigsaw piece of the trivium
with five canons plugged into the auxesis
aimed at the poet
while unfolding inner turmoil
and cleaning out the cobwebs
in the closet of self.

The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself

Raised on a diet of bible verses,
beatings and curses -
he grew like a rose from the concrete;
feeding on prose, poems and paintings
on pages
of disheveled dogeared diaries.

His days spent playing ball
in hopeless broken glass
grass-less parks;
filled with litter and rabid dogs
across foul festering fields
on the stench-ridden outskirts,
the wrong side of the tracks,
set him up for a back-footed existence.

Washing ***** dishes;
racking,
stacking and packing piles of plates
for wages paid in copper coins,
unable to foil his life of turmoil.
A plethora of poorly punctuated
pauper poems,
written in faded ink on train tickets,
unfolded matchboxes
and scraps of old paper advertisements -
offered no food for his thoughts
nor crumbs for the rumbles of hunger.
Lines stuffed fat with substance
never fed the mouth
that spoke them into existence.

Pawning his tattered and torn everything
outside railway stations
to ragged homeless roommates
for bartered paper-plate morsels
rescued from floors and trashcans.
With his empty bag and nothing to sell
he returns to his cardboard cell,
the darkest corner of his hunger hazed hell.  

Blinded by starvation fed desperation,
he grabbed an apple
from a fruit and vegetable
market-stationed wheelbarrow
only to end up thrown into jail,
mixed with murderers and rapists
                there's no climbing out
of this felon-shaped hole
as his downhill life;
till death,
remains in
free-fall.

the cold squeezes out
every drop of these heavy
lemon-juice teardrops;
while my hunger has me so light
that my inflated thoughts
carry me above townhouse smoking chimneys
and through the angry grey
bubble-bursting clouds
into airborne pedestrian prison.

plagued by corkscrew aching pain
in my back,
from sitting on milk-crate chairs
and writing on slippery concrete stairs
outside the train-station
of deafening smokestack'd lightning shrieks;
my nerves are shot
with eggshell fragility.

the stabbing cold wind
spikes and stabs
through the barbed-wire scars
of my jeans and jerseys
leaving me twitching,
and jolting
with indecipherable handwriting
on crucifix crossed t's
and grave holes
on the misplaced dots of tired I.

I smiled at a walking-stick man today
after I underlined a poem
at the finish-line full-stop,
and his granite frown
transformed into a wet clay lampshade
shining smiling face -
glowing from his kisser
to his tapping toes
with the singing spring in his step.

I passed a sobbing dollhouse girl
with melting ice-cream
dripping onto her stockings
and splashing her buckled-shoes,
who forgot all about
her spilt milky dessert,
when I offered her a NikNak chip
from my 10 cents orange disco packet.

my desolation dissolved
in those forgotten human moments
of tribal days;
where my joy returned
flushing colour into my cheeks
and the bleak winter
burned with life.

drowning on the closing page of winter
along the filth stained streets,
downtown Cape Town,
i walk upstream
through the sea of turnstile smiles
searching for a drop of sincerity.

drifting towards my vagrant home
with struggling sluggish steps,
my starved, lethargic
lactic acid legs
weigh heavy
hiking hungry.

trapped in a wayward ever-mend
cul-de-sac
at a blue traffic light,
my crippled compass
passes the warning signs
of humdrum sighs,
silencing my whistled
barbed wire lullabies
under suffer’d sulfur skies.

basking in cold-shoulder greetings
and downtrodden dismissals
my empty rag pocket bags
offer no trump cards or blankets
on the bone chilling pavements
of this tortured Topheth town.

September sings
springs song
as my ember flickers
under soaked socks
and shredded sneakers,
waiting for the sun
to dry my wings
and fly me westward
from these deacon blues
towards the beacon view
shining life anew.

Cut out of the womb
and lined up,
lying down in the newborn baby
nursery room,
the sobbing infants
sing the sardine tin song
in the sniffling sniveling
cot,
crib
and cradle throngs.

From crawling to walking
to filling jam-packed classrooms
with desks of crisscrossed legs
overflowing with limbs
and too many copies of the same book -
dare not doodle, or cop a look outside.
During eight and five
your time and undivided attention
should abide by the blackboard gospel
pushed from the pulpit by an automatic robotic
preacher teacher -
confined inside while the sun shines.  
On-by-one in single-file
creative,
artistic minds come to die
before the uniform mashed potato brains
are regurgitated, and fertilized
with a dumb dimmed 'no-one home' light.

Mind the gap at the crack-head crammed
bus stops and subways
bursting at the seams
like toothpaste tubes of people
who are rushing on glass pipe smoke
and glass-ceiling pipe dreams.
Low self-esteem herds
brimful with defeat,
sporting weakened-knees
from back-breaking work
in service delivery for minimum wages
who run through endless,
endless mazes
powered by prescribed amphetamines.

From the hamster-wheel buses
the programmed people limp
to their red-brick beehive buildings;
broken
like the cracked, smashed windows
and dangled fire escapes
of their council estate cold water flats,
which spark and zap
from fishy duct-taped
misaligned electric lines -
too blind to see in the stacked
dim-lit,
racked and ruined flatlets;
they tune out to monkey-see,
monkey-do reality TV.

From the manger cages
and through the turnstiles
of military-ready schoolyard security,
into captivity of cubicle confinement -
rapscallion rogue rats with curious thinking;
problematic to jail chain-gang linking -
scratch, gnaw and nibble
with latched paws, so feeble
at the cracks
in the classified class system experiment.
Those stratification cracks cementing
the ratification of immobility,
painted and filled with rat-poison blended pills,
mixed and pushed
by lab-coat fat-cat aristocrats.
Who would stamp insanity
between the twitching, curious ears
of any visionary vermin -
who are shunned by the obedient no-trick pony,
mischief of rodents,
and exiled from the community,
with labels of being possessed,
insane
and crazy.

Is the happiness found
in ignorant-coloured blinding bliss
for better or worse,
in this death-trap mapped
faceless rat-race?
Where individuality and originality is a curse
deemed deserving of a solitary,
outcast castaway alley existence
not worthy of a penny
for any free thoughts.

I pray for the Pied Piper's song
to lead the righteous, rebellious rats
along a new yellow brick road;
to a slavery-free,
cruelty-free
Eden -
built on unshackled foundations
for tomorrow's emancipated generation.

i will not mute my purr
to pounce on a teasing string
winding along the filthy floor
or pause the paw bath of my fur.

i am the disciple of this poetic discipline
unwilling to betray my art
for any amount of silver coins
or ruby-lined diamond rings.

money and even security fall
relegated into the plaything tier
in the kingdom with me where my voice
though without the skill of king Midas
speaks truth, reigning supreme.

i have too much pride to stand-by
while my artistic spirit is cast aside
in the name of peace or long-legged favour
dressed in a short skirt
egging me on to lustfully submit.
  

for my pride
i will keep thrusting until i die