your are my temple of splendors...
goddess consort...
treasure trove of images
blood cries of bowels being eviscerated ..
so sweet the delicious horrors ...
cry as i lick **** ******* with kisses
at once tender beyond human comprehension
more gorgeous then the glitter of stars
and bludgeon brutal
you beaten to death by glittering *****
and stuffed in a filthy wood box
nailed and roped your mouth like blood jam
a ghastly contortion
your ******* dark brooding
your weeping blood tears
your toes bleeding and half eaten
mmmmmmm
i love you ooooow

do you want to know how i love you????
like god and the devil
always one with the other
in love with each other as they are
tender kisses and slow hurts
all at once
for you
always dieing ...always resurrected
always held and adored my beloved
im crying for your touch

"Being an introvert in an extroverted
world can absolutely be difficult."
Came across this on some blog.
Think it's more complex to be a mediocre, an extro-intro or an intro-extro...
you can't go all out... you won't remain all in...
you're doomed to be in the twixt. Yet the middle is dangerous...
The middle of the Ocean is the deepest, the middle
of the jungle is the riskiest... the middle of the garden
of Eden doomed an entire race...
for its existence... no driver would drive freely in the middle lane,
most run to the climbing lane soon as they see it.
Some say the Earth is trapped between Heaven and Hell...
maybe we're a compound of Paradisal elements and
the rumbles of the Hades...
the pawns in the Chess between God and Satan, the Jobs in the bible of now...
I'm a Junk of all trades & I'm afraid being in between trades makes me a master of non...
I know too much and yet I know nothing... I am an extro-intro...
I go out only until the plank starts to swing the other way...
I go out until I sense the cold and quickly run back to the lukewarm
betwixt for the hot is as fatal to my kind as the cold.
Am not an Author and neither am I a poet... Am a "Poether'' or an "Auoet", Am not philosophical neither am I Theological...am "philological" or "Theolophical".
I'm trapped at the equator... I'm neither an Eskimo nor an "Antactico"...
Not Ugandan nor Kenyan... Tanzania can't claim me
but there's yet to be a concrete East African...
maybe I'm African.
My point is some people think the middle is safe...
but I believe different. it's my opinion if you want to be a piglet be one,
if you want to be a puppy be a puppy for its fatal to be a Pipet or puppet...
both are instruments... even their use is similar.
My tragedy is am in between, am a mediocre, a pother,
an opssimist, a philothopher, a ctranger or say "Ukantan".
I'm just there... Don't be caught in my place...
find a place to belong... no matter how dangerous and risky...
always choose where you lie...always strive hard to find a prowess...
Go past the lines for History remembers those who are unique...
whether for the worst or the best.
Be the last if you can't be the first...
*Everyone will remember Mabirizi for he knew how to be the last...
And sadly everyone will remember Museveni for he's good at keeping his place.
Who will remember the one in between.
Who will remember Besigye? Who will remember the servant boy that
cautioned Achilles against fighting the Thessalonian?
Who will remember me?

But what is a full moon anyway
When you are not with me to fill it?
And what if philosophy leaks from my brain
All the time you're not there to instil it?

Can I speak my own thought, can I hope my own dreams
Can I tread on a path that's been torn?
Can I carry the mountain right here on my back
Or sit on it to welcome the dawn?

If I torture you first will you confess your sins?
Will you scream if I stretch you out here on your back?
Would you tell me such secrets I couldn't have made up
If I just ensure you have time on my rack?

If I save myself for you will you spend your time on me?
Your silver is not what I need at this time
But if you were to keep me wrapped up in a blanket
I'd come to you midnight like Mary divine

And I'd stand with my candle and call to the angels
We all would assemble the shepherds of old
For I know how you love to see men working nature
Freeing other young creatures from nightmares untold.

And when nighttime is over and my dawn is broken
I'll swallow my stories back behind my chest
I will remove the nails with which I had bound you
Roll back the great stone and lay you to rest.