Slave of briers courts
regal, purple, velvet robe
Picture perfect rose

Black is a book of secrets
The world's words written
without fanfare for the colour
just the hue of inhumanity
Like a plague... like a sin
if its black... it's hard bound

Bound, booked and stacked
high on history's shelves,  
real words living life: over again
chain, maim, pain, inhumane
Don't flinch figure! Lynch figure!
If you ain't a figure, go...

Figures, black as night as day
stray cats ain't panters, they can't pant
Counted cruelly as commodities
But who's been chequeing?
Says who black isn't beauty?
Says who diva Devi isn't a cutie?

Black is now back
with a Kodak claque
hot like Lewis Hamilton's wheels,
hot heels, a black dress stepping
on broadwalks, cats talking
"time to lift off the tarmac"

My wondering child
never lost in the clutter
young encephalon

Feather light words exhumed
heavy as Mussolini's clock
coo coo times, chimes
and a fascist bird sings;
sweet and succinct

Taken as is
might slight delight
The vitiation of words
in the phrases
Petals dead on a wet, rotted bough

Beyond these lines...
on worrisome papyrus
where names fall in anguish
like hailstones on Nebraska
cold and violent
none lost in turbulence
in the hall of two truths
weighed on death's feather

Beyond these lines...
words sharp as bayonets
on loaded guns, pointing
... pointed as lead, drawn far afield
beyond sight
beyond purpose
beyond comprehension, yet
accurate as a ******'s breath

beyond these lines...
these crude and relevant lines
that calls forth to death
with rhymes ... with syntax
imagery, impeccable imagery
refrain, can we refrain?
beyond these lines... of death
beyond these lines... of death

Oh Sophie, no Sophie
So sorry, you left
crystal blue persuasions
No warning, you left
my coral feet reefed, fleeting
for cold fired bricks streets,
in heels on the walls, well lit
Too bright for you to see:
these red lit walls

and Sophie, do recall
better moons saw, my heart
teeming with an ambient glow
in our seasons, when we lay
on the hills of Soufrière
So extravagant those eruptions
You trembled when lava poured
freely into the Port of Amsterdam
No walls, no *****.... Sophie?

How, my dutch, now?
These red lit walls,
so lewd and menstruating
stands as glass windows between us
and these strong, macho *****
forged with Finish arms,
like Heini Koivuniemi look-alikes
muscling my heavenly pleas
to the hellish red walls in De Wallen