I’ve seen trees in white dust covered in red barks so to lean asking the dark-skinned civilian soldier to dance, to ****
as cranes stood awfully still in the night vigil of unsupported rhythmic rant, as mosque songs flew in cacophony with her
mental amber, whose face drips off at semi-covered sick puddle with dissolved soft tissues in magnificent soccer performance
and entering an expensive trance to answer foster homes or metro-stop problems selling large and loud fried mechanisms
of lively things, of trendy modes of being, as borrowed bikes lie unruly besides the rock, not locked but saddled down
not the saddened frown of foreigners, British consuls, forced English speakers or almost bald kindly smiling losers
that protests this portrayal, oh-so-heavily in cynicism’s eye, in the proud rooster display of really bad water quality
as I choose to not holler my soul out nakedly there, but over here where the prettiest girl in a hijab does smile
at her pious children playing wild, such bliss, that I would never know from the white thick films of her grandfather
that is mean to say, “someone down that ancestral seam must have done something.” implying folly, nothingness
in our libertarian mistletoe waltzing in suits and formal wear all andante in terminating station’s bugle’s sheer force
at its permissive admittance of goodbyes, in wispy accents that bothers your courageous boss’s college graduate daughter
at the cruel light-blue decoration bulbs draped across coconut trees that never fruit and hence is safe for the street
at the murals and skateboarding sites overfilled with graffitied mathematical equations in proud display of young idealism
at freshly brought cheap soy sauce smells rising high over no chimneys and new energy
for those without another home to smile wistfully
before bumping into the traffic lights, running amok, declaring themselves chickens.

Transfixing mushrooms wide
into soil where it spreads like jelly
congealed of teary elephant trunks,
where upon raves of reviewing waves
widened with staves of sonic craze,
like spores into you, like you!

Across Africa, truly truly –
not one country. All through chutneys,
it is poetry and Aphrodite’s ivories
where blood drowns in Lake Loch’s
scabs of **** of Ella’s contrast
back into square dancing acts
and somehow, somehow –
esta no es mi lengua
why did you ever come out?

Crumbling inwards as in space,
individual supernovae, quite a chase
I do hope Woodrow dies a boy.

1

‘Sugar Sugar burning bright.’

I will always associate grapes with you,
after romping at bus stops comme hares,
all in a state of disrepair,
paying the multiracial train fare while
tucking up the driver’s cozy, why trans
portability! Half-lloweens to Macy’s,
the dreamy honk fades into the moon,
behind gun cartridges of a Southern neck hair,
of crooning files in gregarious heads bared,
so to meet you there. Despite the polyester
uniform, the detergent-festered skin – ’twas
‘What an old school *****.” your plump lips
in slightly cracking slant at half-forty-five
to the Jupiter’s Koran. Would it suffice?
My advice – to always dab your cherry stone,
so the taint of whirling frozen-yogurt
aren’t left for me to sip on.

I’d warn you.

None other than yourself who only invite,
through carefully calculated vortices,
coarse premises for me to fall –
within snuffed up ceiling in starry neon,
heroic chameleons in trompe l’oeil foolery,
as if you knew me to write, to be feathered,
simply within an inch of your maple fullness.

I will not.
run /
/ conundrum
formulaic /
/ sweet ***
anthrax /
/ angelic
acquiesce

I watch rappers uniformed,
songs airborne, to reinvent
spelling it in a peculiar way,
and I am not relevant anymore.

Was red bubbles in pen cap with water
we are in the gutters
nothing for me here, nothing for creases
nothing for compost pile of us

angles of eyelashes while they laugh
sharp glasses says, ‘does not’

And I still would want to sit,
in jazz dresses with eyes unlit,
in polite, menial upper-risers!
and I would be served something posh
and they sit around, say, flattering
“It is not meant to be decrypted.
We don’t know what you are on about.”

Photos of lush evening dried and girls as they swirl through the skyline posing in a million skylines around as in houses or rooms in front of similar cameras soaked with blood of: workers, writers, creators and isolated penseurs / a beat, berserk / and the pinkish twisty ends of fancy lettering will get the better of me / of my tropical little plant waiting to die, sunset to be posted, to be shown / but I am alone sans white pants good bodice and the three of us with glowing skin

hence My same poses switch faces switch names switch accounts switch screens switch and the crinkles at the end of each eyes twitches the same and the camera glows when we feel low / tides go go go like blotches of defiling purity at heart ascetic of little buttons and photos and / “you could be someone that blows” / “you could be seen as someone who’s done things” / ” pretty ” / “darker shade of lip that coincides, of course halfheartedly, with the evening medley of ” / “you could” /

and they sit around, say, flattering
“It is not meant to be decrypted.
We don’t know what you are on about.”

what more could be