One of the many forms of hate, racism is a monster that stares in the eyes of men and breathes fires of destruction,

Racism is another ism like classism is all about hate, it swallows men and women like each other,

It’s Satan’s child and devours races and classes, a black cross painted in my room,

Their tears reflect the haunted memories in the corner, of american blacks and apartheids I heard as stories,

The walls are blackened with their wails and weeps, but racists partied in the boulevard,

Billboards get fingerprinted by some hands, displaying the monster’s play - a stare kept alive,

The curtains unruffle at dawn, still the sun chokes the atmosphere with the slogans
Peace out haters !

I sneak a peek through the bullet hole in my *****
      kitchen's window,
steel bars prevent escape.
I gaze upon piles of worthless junk thoughtlessly
     discarded on the asphalt lot below,
where children run and play.
Momma drinks to another day's sorrows, from a
     fingerprinted glass,
surrounded by the colored bottles from yesterday's
     celebration.
I quietly walk to the living room
where a suffering Jesus weeps silently upon the
     silver-flowered wallpapered wall,
I swear sometimess he speaks to me in a whisper,
telling me,
"Don't despair."
Arguing voices cursing the misfortunes of a drug deal
     gone bad.
Break! The silence outside my living room's door.
Dungeon gray....
Heavy as steel.....
Countless locks.....
A piercing scream echoes,
goes ignored,
then fades....
I sit alone upon our dusty brown couch,
as Momma rambles on senselessly in the other room,
an alcholics tune.
I stare once again to the suffering Jesus hanging hopelessly
     upon the wall,
as the night draws near and the light as dim as my
     dreams?
I whisper a tearful prayer for hope,
within this ghetto's
gloom.....

The clouds whirl around horns of the gate.
The blush of the morning is tangerine
and gold. The blossoming chorus from the bay
for now is just silence, fog and a silver lining.
The cinema bulbs are flickering out.

There is Coca-Cola in my soul.
There is anguish in my bones.
Luxury paid for the tightness of my skin
and an artifice of love.
It blew away like dry grass.

I think God is a librarian,
crumbs in his beard, fingerprinted specs.
Cataloguing the hours I spent on my knees
his matinée idol, his evening sandcastle,
stones applauding his work in the Cali tide.

What can he do to me?
Witchdoctors can forecast rain from my guts.
A poor wading bird can fish me up
and photograph my corpse iconic like Evelyn Hale,
but that 'man' can do nothing…

I see the Island rising from the mist
like it’s throwing off its coat.
I’m like the birdman, in my way.
I’ll be remembered
flying.  

Perhaps I can even make it magnificent?
The boys on the boat will talk over their beers
of that triple tuck swan dive,
the acrobat, a harlequin that tumbled
like a shadow on the rising sun

Kamikaze, I Samauri!
The war drum beats, on, on but I’m done.
l am in the eye of the storm.
I am the harbinger, the horseman -
And the universe is a ball in my hands.

I made you up, I’ll rub you out.
The sky is holding the Sun and the Moon.
5am. Circling gulls. Harikiri.
Machinery rings upwards through the girders.
Equinox.  Tomorrow is untouchable.

wake up doped up
slept too long.

my body's the apothecary
needs to move it on
I rise
a prima gone to seed
needs weeding?
I need none.


Forty minutes in and
I think
that I could win the day
if where I'm going
goes the way
I'm going.

I'm going
going
slightly gone
but first
some clotted cream
and I might have one
more scone.

If I have tea for breakfast
and breakfast for my tea
why would it bother you
it doesn't bother me.

Open ceiling
Modern edge
Lost the TV
Two lights dead

Fires flicker
Sofa stained
Fingerprinted
Window pane

Booth or table
Shadow box
Fav'rite billboard
Down two blocks

Paint is peeling
Flashing sign
Free access code
Rush crowd time

Added sugar
Should have asked
Darkened corner
Fabric mask

Freezing, scalding
Stomach's sick
Head is spinning
Fog too thick

Cars on corner
Day to day
Repetition
Window pane

Lonely bookshelf
Business date
Recall Sunday
Here too late

Laptop keyboard
Garbage bag
College dropout
Tweet #hashtag

Only lonely
Ghost is near
Notes aplenty
Meet me here

Come here.
Let’s.
Let’s?
Let’s…
Let’s.

Come here.
Listen to Edith Piaf
(So hipster, n'est-ce pas?)
and the scratch of her
voice on the turntable,
will be ours
to keep in Moleskine
notebooks of memory.
So that we’ll try to believe,
love is actually a thing.
Let’s.

Come here.
This quaint room will be
ours,
our guest, as we breathe life
into the coffee cups, wooden chairs.
We’ll give it a nose, yes.
Lightbulbs will smell red
wine in fingerprinted glasses.
Windows will drink
us,
to us.
And we’ll laugh, our faces
hot and sad, mouths
crammed with French
fries.
A scene blurred with happiness.
Let’s.

Come here.
Trash the hands of every
boy, who’s spread himself
out on marginalia of our days.
Slathered himself on pieces
of time we wish we had hugged to ourselves.
Hate, hate, hate
him, we’ll say.
And his **** hands.
Let’s.

Come here.
Our eyes will be fireflies
behind our glasses,
in this cinema’s night, as we ‘swoon’
at rom-coms as buttery
as the popcorn we bought in the interval.
Life’s too short, we say.
Eat about it, drink about it,
maybe even talk about it.
Forget about it.
Let’s.

Come here.
Talk, about nothing.
We’ll all be dead one day.
Let’s.

Come here.
We can be friends.
Let’s.

Let’s.
Let’s.
Let’s?


(And your giggle will end
all and every verse written.
I’m **** sure of it.)

Five,
small,
fingerprinted bruises
track my inner thigh.

I study them.
Lightly trace each shape
with my tiny fingers.

It wasn't your intention, I’m sure—
to put them there.
& yet
I dig that you left me with something
to remember you by.

Five,
little,
light purple souvenirs
to remind me that intimacy
doesn't always mean to discourage.

I’ll fondly watch them slow-fade
bright violet to a tawny nothing.

& meanwhile

I’ll think of something clever—
some sly suggestion
to get you to remind me
one more time.

you can recognise it easily, in that abode
which recognises it,
where a man who loves thought
rather than wisdom, because he accounts
wisdom as too much factual provision...
there in the music, where his thought it scrambled
and literally non-existent.

i thought that *demdike stare would never
produce anything as haunting as they
already have,
but it wasn't them who produced the most
haunting piece of music known to me,
it was susumu yokota's tears of a poet
that's receptively glorified into an allowance
of what comfort might come
from households of ten million chinese
and a few europeans as singletons of that status sibling:
but still in the fathomed depth of violin or cello,
like that of ola gjeilo...
i'm happy for my melancholy... it is amply biding
intelligence with it... only because the rhythm section
is given unto string instruments rather than bam-bam
buckling drums heartless... lullaby rhythm i call it...
i love my sadness, because i can appreciate beauty
with a tear... and no one is invited...
and it's that kind of loneliness that turns me into
a goose... awaiting the pumpkin cindarella carriage
with surprise... if tear be shed, led it be shed at the pinnacle
of man's expression, not the sombre minute silence
of the slain in war of fingerprinted blood and mud...
let it be... decisively... from what appears as a lack of imagination
due to the engraved into cipher geometry of
the chaotic stone's face... let it be man abstracting
himself against so many patterns of chaos...
thus in turn bringing order and subsequent layering...
let man come with an elongation of each noted grievance
fully embodied and consumed...
to rise higher in an assertion of likened to angelic choir...
or will it simply be a story of those who self-love and loath
love by prizing their handy ******* the perfectly caricatured
of female genitalia... and the resolve of explaining those
who wish to embody the act of death to thus differentiate the two,
of those who self-love love occupying themselves
to not take up a sacrifice, and of those who's self-death die
by a known hand in the viscinity of visibility?
i am of no content strength willing to pride myself
as expressing either, or a deviation from,
for i do not speak in the realm of human continuity
that does not express either...
for i am not content with it, and never will be...
due to the merchants and what life is expected to be,
for if shakespeare wrote the merchant of mecca...
and left venice in the judgment of byzantium...
it would not be a pound of flesh to be sacrificed...
but a pound of flesh multiplied by a thousand if not more
and thus allowing the plagiarism of the thousand's
irrelevence and the least expected but the most hoped for discard,
for some future bound example of only one man.

p.s. i dont have the instant glorification concern
when using social media...
i have to be simply content with instant dis-satisfaction
and continue down the road with simulated non-existence
in terms of what invisible / cognitive narcissism
can discard of to expose recognising me;
honestly, atheism ought to begin the argument
concerning the non-exitence of god with the non-existence
of thought... by crossing the street too early for
a traffic accident... or the holocaust - after all god
is a word that's foundational in an expression of egoism
or at least self-autonomy to build a house without the mormons;
i know this language to a point where i deconstruct
the prime fuctioning words of co-ordination
without necessarily deconstructing the nouns
due to ha-shem, or deconstructring the verbs / actions
because of the fact that i think and am taken
aback by some of the action undertaken by people:
like ******, ****, theft, like lying, laceration or faking;
but with deconstruction come spelling mistakes
as the easiest casualties to improve on: the pawns in the game
are given the ordeal of democracy, and this democracy
is a numerous number of spelling mistakes
that feel shameful from the other side of this pixel mirror
having to be fed a life, and thus in life recognised
as accessible to be corrected for a higher reason thus taken.

honest to god, stay away from this horror island... stay away from this paedophilia haven that includes the parliament foremost, as the chieftains of practice... stay away from this wretched place, this ***** and Gomorrah.*

you ever live in a house with 30 other
migrants? yeah, near Valentines' Park,
spend the time trapped in a room
with your parents who decided to
"make a better life for themselves"
in a foreign country while John Paul Pope
became branded a saint rather than
the catalyst, a... i'm thinking of the word
donkey...  but it's a synonym of usurper...
ah... traitor! ever spend your childhood
in a house filled with adult men providing
for their children? spending your childhood
with Sonix? i spent mine, taken out from
the mud-pit where i would have hardly
cared to be Barabas without a second thought
(i.e. a conscience); you didn't spend that time
in a house run by a Jew and a Tsarina of
polish descent... you didn't...
and you weren't deported having acquired
the tongue in order to unlearn it...
having only two books of the english tongue
to relearn it in order to go back,
and receive a smack on the head by a school friend
you played happy birthday to on the guitar
**** your fiance, who bore your child,
and who decided that being a lawyer he was
also the judge and jury and the executioner...
with god ****** his way into your life
with dislodged stars moving to no known
comet orbit... yeah, in the west we're all
given "a better life", justified with that famous
export to Iraq rather than Saudi Arabia
from where the culprits came...
so... now... say bye bye to genes, ethnicity and
Darwinism being fingerprinted.