There Was An Old Farmer called Zelalem
Whose dream was to visit Jerusalem
for which he tilled crop and prayed for rain
to mint some buck albeit in vain
That relentless Old Farmer called Zelalem

A disease,

Luckily its curable..

When with great people,its never at ease,

To it,its invisible.

And everyone else invincible.

Its all about looking at what everyone else is doing,

And forgetting its own work.

Doesnt know where its going,

All it does is want to break.

Its hard living with that disease,

So lets give ourselves some remedy;

A piece of self acceptance to put your mind at ease,

A table spoon full of self love to revive your energy,

And big dreams to ignite your fire.

Ignatius Hosiana May 2016

If you are bound to quit,
you shouldn't have started
for much as reaching here
is a milestone,
the
medal
lies
across
the
finishing
line...

Way past 12
yet still I am awake
the world sin,
in a pen
conforming lights,
this is the world now?
digitized in bytes
digitized in bites and bytes.
we are ever distant, we don't
gaze at each other on these nights
we just digitize , digitize bytes
process instead of feel
and distract ourselves
forever encased in the mud of the machine.
Lets jump on the lifeboat
and find ourselves homes
to root in, not another boot that breaks the skin
Emote, and feel
don't process
with a zeal that begs

Inspired by listening to Radiohead Pyramid song late at night,
or is it morning? :)
VØD Feb 2016

Two Stories of Minorities
         By VØD and Mr Zeal

Growing up in the hood as a mexican
You learn your no good and your pedestrian
Now we have trump running for president
So now "a mexican will sex offend our women" and "they're all drug dealers that don't deserve to be residents"

Growing up in the Suburbs as a african
Martin Luther King speech was ran down as if it was pedestrian
Trampled over by those skin colors who chose the first black President
And a african will steal anything just to keep family in mention, they're all low food stamp having Residents


We are hard workers, we helped build the country
We arent shady lurkers that ship drug loads filled with some tree
We had our grape boycott like the americans at boston with their tea
In reality we're no different from the white man, despite our cultures we're human completely

We are the anchor of alliance defining us would be passion of soul
The beat to another's code, we're not different from the white man, despite past offences
We all walked the trail of tears and picked cotton
Different languages came from the Tower of Babel the immigrants alike we fell from ourselves

Normal writing is me, VØD
Writing in bold is Mr Zeal
Cameron Greer Feb 2016

Beat-Up Old Car
Vastly under-appreciated possession
In dull blue, a MK1, no less, with original rust
Inside lingering scents of Exchange and Mart
top-notes of WD-40 and miscellaneous mix tapes

A car like this gets into your life
in lumpy knuckle-barking unsubtle ways,
stays there in subtle ones

That long drive back to Yorkshire
in the quintessential exemplar
Clutch cable snaps.
Bugger and Crap.

Hardly helpful but can be accommodated
with enough thought
rough though it is
on starter motor
and nerves whenever
anticipatory powers inadequate
and we are forced
to a complete red-light stop

Brakes dodgier, exhaust noisier
than ideal or legal
Gender-ambiguous
elderly tyres flirt outrageously with slick tarmac
Showing their canvas underwear
and male-pattern baldness

Keeping this unstable, unsafe, unreliable
ultimately essential lump of metal
moving and on the road
is a fine art

Engaging, fluid and intense art;
The Clash and The Specials
Costello and The Cure in support

A distraction then
getting hauled over by plod
somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Thatcher's boys.

Tax? MoT? Insurance? ID?
No real interest shown

Any passengers in the back?
Clearly no.  Pickets?  
Pickets? What?
Please open the boot sir... Oh.
On your way lad. Drive carefully

I was, officer, I was
More than you will ever know

Thirty Years ago the conservative govt. under the egregious Margaret Thatcher, gleefully aided by a despicable bunch of oleaginous yes-men and sociopathic creeps, knocked into line by the creatively destructive ghoul Norman Tebbit...  ratchetted-up the creeping politicisation of the police force.   What she started has never been properly undone.  Yes, it's simplistic to point to one person alone as 'the cause', but her legacy remains and is as toxic and divisive as ever.
JR Rhine Dec 2015

My Jesus
does not shout his father's name
in a victor-trodden written page
in scenes atop mass unmarked graves.

My Jesus
does not begin sermons
preaching the "White Man's Burden"
treating a "Savage" as ill vermin.

My Jesus
does not parade down busy streets
holding signs of scorn and deceit
casting dour faces in their fallacy.

My Jesus
cries out his father's name
from a splintered cross in agonizing pain
his blood the payment of sin washed away.

My Jesus
tore the holy temple curtain
lifting the veil of the voyeurs uncertain
washing their dirty feet a humbling servant.

My Jesus
In the crowds victim to the zealots' decree
Widens his arms in the wake of their hypocrisy
He calls them all to him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

In response to my poem, "God is a Gargoyle."

If there was a chance that a sliver of hope in humanity
still looms within your hallow chest;
still waves a portion of your resplendent soul like how the Hunyak calls for innocence undeclared;
still looks at the moon embraced by calcium coated rods, wishing it to quench its thirst
Will you let it revel in its over-zealousness?

If not, can you explain to me why,
why have you disowned your responsibilities to mankind despite it, like velcro, wailed when you tore it from your skin?
On the matter of the justice deprived, what say you?
Does it serve a lesser purpose than frolicking on streets, crimson bathed?
Has Billy shown you the razzle-dazzle of murderer's row?

As Legends wreak havoc with twin brigands,
slander who took a page from libel and read out loud —with a projected voice echoing throughout the ages— erroneous eyewitness accounts
and rancor who is bisexual to atrocity and entropy and seemingly engulfs himself in them,
you sat pretentious on your wheelchair
Over looking war from a peephole in a filthy blue washroom

The bombs that we drop are no longer metaphors to modern ears
Neither do sacred extremes keep their insatiable thirst for ruptured streets a thing of faded memory
Attacks on clergymen are no longer a painting born from a misinterpreted dream...

And you, no longer can you regain your innocence for you have witnessed the dilation of dense war, pulling and sucking every ray of light from hope that it sees

Yet you did nothing.

If there is still a speck of humanity in the mind of a mechanical automaton like you,
Will you let it rip apart steel skin and touch the lives of those like you?
Will you let it carve a symbol on your forehead, to let people know you are to save the dying hope in humanity
Or will you let it bid farewell to fair weather forevermore?
Or even more so, will you let it brand you so that every time you hear its call for justice inside you, you cry an ocean of dissatisfaction?

In the matter of a dishevelled world, what say you?

Read more of my works on: brixartanart.tumblr.com
Amitav Radiance Mar 2015

Dizzying heights
This soul has scaled
Pinnacle of glory
Euphoric moment
Kissing the softness
Sky is the limit
But this passion
To reach beyond
And touch the depths
In-between this journey
Much is revealed
Soul is testimony
To the eternal journey
And the zeal to win

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