==========
United States of, as in America's
us as toy r us were, coceptually,

states r us, res publica for which,

we, the whole batch born free,
with freedom of the press and
adve'tisers and a fine loaf a day,
for selling free papers, here kid,

GRIT sell this.
Sell that, Publisher's Clearing House,
you know how, they buy the press run,

yeah, they buy all the paper, all the mills,
yeah, they own the stock market, the deals


who knew what when,
is anticipated, slippery, this once
then ante climactic we think of ever




If now state, present state when
we agree, mentally, we are ready

readers, we have learned our ABCs,

by way of Henson, polylingually free from

the limits of sorry old Jos, e-less jo se si se free

from certain trust in words,
stacks and stacks and stacks,

all bundled grunts and hmms, so, n'such
all okey A OK Roger out, didah didawdit

Your time, paid into my stream, using science,

simple as can be, is sublime, so simple, a point

when time is as if no time really ever was,
then we realize now is, though, real as ever/

A state is a political entity that regulates society

and the population
within a definite territory.[1]
Government is considered
to form the fundamental apparatus
of contemporary states.[2][3]

grip cohesion ceity

So, ceity deceitfully may be

we agreeing, on whatsoever we do
being wedone, we do our fair share, eh…

the American, local neighborhood way,
on this side of the railroad tracks, out west/

If Poetry was cornered,
and about to be scorched alive
he would stand still and strong
despite the quivering fear inside.

His murderers would begin to sneer,
watching Death dangle minutes away,
and torcher him before they'd say:
"Any last words, on your last day?"

He'd swiftly swing open,
his delicate pages aflutter
as their wretched smiles
start to crack and sputter,
in shock at the boldness
of being openly sighted
and so very vulnerable
to being instantly ignited
just to save the great works
of all the world's poets,
who poured out their hearts
so purposefully in pen.

They'd see pieces of Poe,
about to exist Nevermore.
The words of Angelou,
with emotion in store.

Frost and Untaken Roads
that now all lead to Death.
Wordsworth's wisest words,
soon to take a final breath.

Eliot and The Wasteland
will find one another soon.
Not even sad Shakespeare
is going to last till' noon.

As the observing evildoers watched,
Poetry paused on a piece prepared:
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death,"
to which they remorsefully stared.

What a shame it would be,
said proud Poetry,
to let these legacies die.
the spirits of every poet
will haunt you if you try!

The mob looked at one another,
and quickly fled the scene,
leaving the ending as happy as
A Midnight Summers Dream!

"Birth, and copulation, and death.
That’s all the facts when you come to brass tacks:  
Birth, and copulation, and death.”*

But though he repeated them twice,
Those aren’t all the facts when you
 come to brass tacks,
Eliot left out a line:

Somewhere between copulation and death,
When you’re well along, but not near
  your last breath,
You find that the facts when you come to brass tacks are
Ice, ibuprofen and time,
My friend,
Ice, ibuprofen and time.

               


*T.S. Eliot, from Sweeney Agonistes.

        ^         ^
       My kitty
        cat's an                                        
           imp
       ra cti cal                            
    purrrrrrfect
  little dainty fat                    
    little lady cat                                                         .
       who uses                                                                  s
         her litter box while wearing her white sock
                                     

“hey.. yes, trying to get some things updated around here… now... so sorry for the outage! but things should be tip top now.. still ironing out a few kinks though
Regards”

With the first sign of rebirth
Came the gift of time, extended
In its renewal and revival, further
Offering the restoration of friendly relations
All done as an act of reconciliation between progress
As well as forgiveness asked of our mothers, everyday
Within such gifts intended for the common crowd
It is at the stroke of the halcyon hour
That we forget our sorrows and crumble like bricks
What is of this sad ending that we talk of, intentionally
That plagues the essence of the mind which is white as snow and trembling
Only cloudy days can show us the purity of ice
When the clouds do subside, the sweetness that preside
All talk is forced into stony silence under the dark night
Through the mad-sort of palace of time
Where there is a time to withdraw into the study of history
Ashes to ashes as well as fire to fire
Dwelling in a cold curlicle of a silent galvanized gate at a cemetery
Behind a rose garden, where the woodpeckers beak at the windowpane
Rusted beyond recognition broken into windy submission
Such things are built for no purpose and no future promise
Only to sustain posterity and labour
Not to make use of Earthly resources
An old man still waits for the rain
Saying that he is hiding behind the arras of an isolated house
Where the sepulchre is hidden under a rock tattered by zephyr
A string of creeper prostrate themselves, whimpering
That ostensibly grow, under the shadow of a thatched roof
Only to never be seen again in daylight
Of rebirth and redemption
Such is the creeper in the daylight
That lives in utter recluse and retreat

You came again
With his shroud
Your hunger and pain
I could see and love
In his mouth
Asking me to
Love those eyes and face
You offered a tulip, with a bow
After you lift your countenance
We walk hand in hand, ashore

BLACK KETTLE

I am a black kettle
But inside of me is a colourless water
I sit on fire everyday
And they deny me of the dinning table

I am a black kettle
Albeit, people make me what I am
Yet, I wouldn't prefer to be in isolation
On the zenith of kukuruku's hill

I am a black kettle
Never judge me by my look
My dream and goal gives me the temporal colour
Inside of me is my natural color

I am a black kettle
But despite the litany of woes
I have a consolation
As long as there's an entity called washing and rinsing
I will always have my true nature retained.
     -'Bintan Ola
      ©2019