Hypocrisy tastes like a burning flag, metallic and too sweet, like prepackaged lemonade and the sweat on your upper lip. Ghost girls with skin the color of special facilities linger in map-less forests, fleeing from camps where they dip chin-dimpled children in ice bucket lies. It’s only a game, gentlemen. Don’t think too loud or they’ll paint ribbons around your neck faster than you can whisper “this is wrong,” faster than “this is inhumane,” and even faster than “where is God?” Faster than the pale, fleshy worms that creep into the orbs of innocence embedded in girls’ abdomens and turns them crimson, and what escapes is only soggy snow and whimpers of protest. But no, you can’t blame those vermes. It’s human nature. This is all human nature, and we still find ourselves better than the trees, faster than sound, higher than the clouds.

In your extended absence, you permit me
use of earth, anticipating
some return on investment. I must report
failure in my assignment, principally
regarding the tomato plants.
I think I should not be encouraged to grow
tomatoes. Or, if I am, you should withhold
the heavy rains, the cold nights that come
so often here, while other regions get
twelve weeks of summer. All this
belongs to you: on the other hand,
I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots
like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart
broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly
multiplying in the rows. I doubt
you have a heart, in our understanding of
that term. You who do not discriminate
between the dead and the living, who are, in consequence,
immune to foreshadowing, you may not know
how much terror we bear, the spotted leaf,
the red leaves of the maple falling
even in August, in early darkness: I am responsible
for these vines.

After the wind lifts the beggar
From his bed of trash
And blows to the empty pubs
At the road's end
There exists only the silence
Of the world before dawn
And the solitude of trees.

Handel on the set mysteriously
Recalls to me the long
Hot nights of childhood spent
In malarial slums
In the midst of potent shrines
At the edge of great seas.

Dreams of the past sing
With voices of the future.
And now the world is assaulted
With a sweetness it doesn't deserve
Flowers sing with the voices of absent bees
The air swells with the vibrant
Solitude of trees who nightly
Whisper of re-invading the world.

But the night bends the trees
Into my dreams
And the stars fall with their fruits
Into my lonely world-burnt hands.
_

Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml

Rupert Timlin, is at it again
Got incredibly drunk and beat his girlfriend
Now, he’s going down, going down town
And we all really want to know what went on

Now he’s charged with quite a few
Offences and he knew
He’d gown down, he’s going down
And we all really want to know what went on

Underage drinking played its part once more
Misplaced aggression played its part once more
The cut and the bruises on her, what was it for?

Well I may be young
But I know what’s
Right and wrong my friend

Rupert Timlin, is at it again
Rupert Timlin, is at it again
Rupert Timlin, is at it again

I sit here
unaware that the tapping of
the yellow pencil in my
right hand is disturbing my neighbor.

I used to call him every saturday morning.

As I try not to fall asleep again
during first period,
I think about him,
about what I would take back
if I could.

I'd take back that look of sincerity,
because I wasn't.
I'd take back all of those
hours we shared in Central Park.
Not because I want to erase him.
I just want to
erase who I was.

A girl with
a reality that had been
soaked in arrogance.
Someone who didn't know
when or why
to say no.

I should have
said no to him.

I loved that he loved me.
Not because it was
him who loved me
but
because it was
someone new.
Maybe if I tried hard enough
I could have loved him back or
at least pretended to.

I don't think that
any amount of trying
would have made me
change my mind.

I can't stand people
who get mad at p(r)etty things.

Today I felt stagnant
so I hugged the sunshine
I rediscovered my belly button.
Today I felt stagnant
so I tattooed poetry
across the sky
I drank gasoline and
chased it with rainbows.
I ran until my lungs
burst,
spattering my chest cavity with ice water.
It’s amazing the things
you can do when you’re
alone.

i fell in love once
and my love was the ocean
deep and dark and unexplored
a mystery wrapped in seaweed
and colored with the shades
that nebula and dying stars
reserve for their coldest parts
it was an easy fall
like laying down after a long day
of holding up the universe
with only your pinky finger and
a stack of phone books
or like sinking into the water
not drowning
but hovering
just beneath the surface
air is just an inch away
and you are surrounded by warmth
by cold
by water
my love was so beautiful
their voice was a dying star
an explosion as life is melted into light
the noise of it absorbed by void
and absence
and nothing
their body was the oldest tree in the oldest forest
tall and wide and strong
and dying
but still beautiful
still green and lush where the branches were resisting
still brushing leaves across the sky like caressing the clouds
still humming the noises of a settling life
and since this act of falling in love
i have found that the easiest love to fall into
isn't romantic at all