If thine eye offends thee
pluck it out....

War offends
my eye.

All my
senses
defiled
*****
disemboweled
by the
abomination
of war.

My mind
disregards
denigrates
reneges
warps time
destroys values
alters psyches
lays waste
to my
conscience
of hope.

Mine eye offends me
the complicit witness
complacently
ambivalent
turning deaf ears
to groans
of the wounded
wails of the aggrieved
silence of the dead;
shutting doors
to sanctuaries
where refugees
seek safe houses,
locking factories
where men seek work,
level homes
where women nurture,
strafe playgrounds
where children laugh,
raise cities
where people
learn to be human,
immolate mosques
where
God's Children
cry out to the
Beneficent One.

Mine eye offends me,
my gut sickens,
to witness
the slaughter
of innocents
droning on
no angels to save
the million Issac's
savagely smashed to bits
by a Tomahawk's blow.

God's vengeance
escalates
the celestial ledgers
dripping red ink
from excessive
collateral damage,
people reduced
as objects used
to secure a loan
indeed an ARM
on a real time
American nightmare
whose reset rate
is mounting body counts
and massive budget allocations
protecting undisturbed flows
of corporate profits
valued in barrels
of imported blood.

Mine eye offends me
an innocence lost
Veritas vanquished
life is devalued
humanity debased
compassion defunct
empathy a twisted satire
an indelible weakness
incidental hostage
to the torridness
of the lurid play
of savage nations
projecting will,
a devastation
of action.

Mine eye offends me
the message of
sweet Jesus
a way of light
transformed into
biblical justification
agitprop verse
stoking blood lust zeal
for apostate infidels
sons of Abraham's
unworthy spawn,
of Hagar the *****
******* child Ishmael
turned out again
from tribal tents
of an absentee father
from an unfriendly
paternity.

This black *******
an abomination
in the sight of Allah
celebrates
a zeal to ****
unholy disciples
yearning to fill
banana crates
with body parts
draped in
drab Hijabs
decorated with
satanic verses
from a
Holy Quran
carved with
bayonets
of self righteous
Crusaders
armed with rifles
inscribed with
Gospel verses
on deadly gun
barrel stocks
to ramp the passion
of the righteous Crusade
against Godless apostates.

Mine eye offends me
as I witness
the **** of
corporate mercenaries
churning bereaved
Blackwaters
beholden only
to shareholders
gobbling spoils of war
to safely exit
to private vomitoriums
to expunge the excess
of gluttony
only to
quickly return
to engorge themselves
at the public troughs
again.

No constitutional
restraints
save the
strict guidelines
of holy
corporate governance scriptures
ruthlessly enforced with
golden carrots
of multi-million dollar
stock options
and the brutal stick
of shareholders divine right
to quarterly dividends
and above average
equity returns.

Corporate warriors
anointed by
holy oil
proffered
by capitalist shamans
and US Senators
conferring
jurisprudential deferment
on civil law
recusing them from
any behavior
to recognize the humanity
of captive insurgents.

Mine eye offends me,
as the flag
draped coffins
of returning
servicemen
and women
continue to pile
on the boiling tarmac
of Dover Air Force Base.

Tearful salutes,
folded flags
and mournful dirges
of prerecorded Taps
are small compensation for
shattered families,
and a wasted life,
unnecessarily spent,
criminally sacrificed
in a pointless conflict
in service to a lie.

Mine eye offends me
as I watch
my country's soft parade
of growing militarization
xenophobic fear
compelled patriotism
salute and goose step
to the flash of sword
and the sound of guns
and the glittering
medals of valor
adorning the chests
of a nations warriors.

How barbaric
are we?
allocating
overstuffed
apportionment
of weapons
and armories
while
people are
foreclosed
forcing armies
of unemployed
Joads
to ride
en masse on
an Acela Express
to a crowded
poor house
a listless journey
on pock marked
highways
arriving at
dreaded
destinations
to defunct
townships
offering
empty factories
and closed schools.

Screaming in silence
I scratch at my eyes
with numbed fingers.

Matthew 18:9

Music Selection:
The Doors, The Soft Parade

Oakland
3/17/10
jbm

the night i found a woodland pigeons roosting
on my guttering, tried to catch it given
the maxim: better a robin in your hand,
than a dove on your roof, but failed, and
to my surprise, felt no feeling of failure,
nothing competitive, and the world needs this
at this moment, the shattering of the clocks,
for a moment, to hold your breath and take
snapshots of the world as if drowning -
with a held breath, and ninja gymnastics
slowly edging toward the pigeon perched
in the guttering... do people understand that
poetry isn't about competing in the Olympics?
you can't laurel crown a poet of ability
among others, just like you can't discourage others
from the freedom to write it, however ridden with
orthodox methodology, or however concerned
with the purity of a narrative...  nor can you
have poetic prodigies - poetry takes time,
it takes fermentation, it's not one of those first
come first served allocations of ability...
it takes years, experience, i'm not talking about
a viola player in an orchestra, reduced to
muscle work, sure, you can be the muscular equivalent
of a viola player in an orchestra in poetry,
that's the easy part, tweak a few things in your
imitation and we're set to go... you'll be known
as pseudo-Plato or some other grand name...
you can't become a prodigious poet, i.e. if your
mother or father was a poet... this is the only
place where Sartre's existence precedes essence
takes form, elsewhere it doesn't,
the most evident i.e. is time flies when you're
having fun - the presupposed essence of time
defines the supposition of having fun and
the non-existence of time - the two together are
what's required of a proposition taking form -
fiddling with the prefix doesn't concern anyone that
much, i.e. a preposition is lodged between
the presupposition (preposition) and supposition -
as i said before, systematisation is a method of
economising vocabulary - a boa constriction, a restraint,
imagine yourself being a pauper while writing out
lavish decking, chairs, marble toilets and gold-gilded
toilet seats, tacky stuff according to the failing
of the concept of money, once gained: to lavish out
on things, to keep the merchant class constantly busy
and adaptable - what with the Koranic procedures
we can be assured that there will be a constant
confidence in producing, selling, exchanging,
or the tonne of food thrown out because it didn't sell.
like growing vegetables, you probably ingest
5 nutritious poems a day, the rest you throw out...
you take a fat poem, a protein poem, whatever,
there's always a variation on what poem fills
the carbohydrate allowance, but the rest is thrown out...
a thinking man's poem is fibrous, that means:
slow on digestion, reminding, an agitating gnat
or mosquito; but it truly is a case of having to be
an entertaining narrator, without character study -
or character concern - in that i lend myself
to the poetic practice of ensō - one smooth stroke
and the narrative is finished - also a culminating point
of worth consideration, name revelation 13 -
and the suggestion: what the contemporary affairs
would also suggest -
it's kinda funny when you think about it...
isn't the beast from the sea Moses and the beast
from the earth Jesus?
early Christianity probably wasn't prone to iconoclasm,
only when it reached popularity this
iconoclasm play a key role...
but what does John actually write?
in our modern tongue? Moses (the dragon) and
Jesus (the beast), as stated in the tale:
the transfiguration, or the shifting of power -
who is able to make war against the beast?
the Antichrist (some words have been kept in
straitjackets, use them, they either think you're
mad, or religiously psychotic, under-use them
and they fall into the wrong hands... bit of a juggle,
but coming from a religious school education,
i'd keep such words categorised in controversy
as euthanasia and abortion); so unto the beast...
a mouth speaking great things and blasphemies
(sermon on the mount), and the deadly wound was
healed (the crown of myrrh, and the resurrection),
and they worshipped the dragon and they
worshipped the beast - many do still preserve
"tact" of kneeling before an icon, esp. in orthodox
tradition... and the blasphemies,
well, i'm not sure Jesus was crucified for nothing...
see how people can make you look silly when you
use parts of their vocabulary? you write Jesus
and immediately you can't think of an Eddie Izzard
sketch... you're trapped with how other people
over-use certain words, keep them "sacred" in order
that they might be treated as sustenance...
some people write the word tomato or potato and
get a meal out of it, others write Jesus and they
win the ******* lottery with their flock of goody-two-shoes
fanning their ***** in packed churches in the Bible Belt.
then there's John doing a bit of Spartacus -
if any man have an ear, let him hear -
by the way hunter s. thompson was keen to study this
book too... he that leads into captivity...
and when did i not felt being captive under Christianity?
they catch you early on, get you educated in *******
and then release you into the world as mince meat;
it's all a fatal exercise in / of metaphor -
i'm not surprised rushed toward the book of Genesis
for a stability of thought, trying to
write an equivalent of Paradise Lost, i.e. Paradise
Regained basing it solely on the book of Revelation
with is complex use of metaphors would drive
anyone mad... so far i'm stumbling, we have
the dragon giving power to the beast of the sea
(Jesus' harem of nuns, water, juiced up *****)
and then we have the beast of the earth -
then there's the many deceptions or "miracles"
that Jesus did - any magician will gladly succumb,
altogether the purposes of any image,
not a statue, but an image, basically a sphinx on paper,
how ancient worship of statues and building them
turned into a worship of oil-on-canvas...
from 3D into 2D... by the time we reach 1D we are
talking the big bang... oh, right... we're talking
about the origins of the universe already...
i'll test you: compose me a Milton-like poem working
from the book of revelation and never touching on
the book of Genesis - let's face it, the only poetically
riddled book of the New Testament is the book
of Revelation... and it truly is a ****-up for any poet
to consider... easier to be a novelist and joke
at the bible being accessible in every motel room
across America... such books are agitators,
they're implants, something you get rid off in your
spare time, bite out the access of such books to your mind
like a dog with rabies... praying:
just so i don't have to wear the Golgotha geometry,
just so i don't have to wear the Golgotha geometry...
in summary? to me the dragon is Moses
(every Greek would side with the Egyptians given
Alexandria and whatnot), armed with all the physics
bending plagues (yes, i think they're true,
Darwinism is no better at their myth of Tarzan,
given we're watching sprinting 100 metres in under
10 seconds, everything starts to look ridiculous given that),
yes, both assumptions are quiet honestly absurd,
it just depends where you want to begin with:
the clash of fur versus tanned buttocks,
or the clash between female genital mutilation
versus male genital mutilation...
i told you, i am circumcised during ***, i roll the *******
back, and hey pesto! a helmet!
i think i better change the concept of enso into
a concept of the waterfall, just for the exotica (but there's
no exotica in globalisation, it's hard keeping
history and learning to get together without
some part of us rebelling to rekindle ancient wrestling),
aha! taki! can you imagine what would have been
if the Egyptians were able to keep their ideograms?
they wouldn't ever have kept them to see them off
on the evolutionary sprint to success, they weren't
using matchsticks like the Chinese were using
and kept on using, waiting for numbers to prop up
and tell you Hong Kong was 1 million light years away
from Beijing... because it was all d'uh to them
and the Mongolian harmonica imitation of the steppe
idiot laughing at a horse taking a **** like
a male dog taking a ****, giddy up on the leg over.
i'm well surprised the Chinese ideogram is alive...
it's a source for many ideas, without me even wanting to
travel there... they built the great wall of China with their
ideograms, the wall itself was unnecessary to protect
the people from Mongolian optometrists...
that's the key in Chinese, using matchsticks the sounds
are pretty much basic: Xi Lung Chi - or Chang Chewy Lo,
pretty crap, isn't it? i agree, their strength comes
best expressed by their proficiency in less matchsticks
included in the Jenga of 1, 2, 3, i mean the bendy bits,
we Europeans have to first remember the aesthetic,
then the dyslexia antidote to get our ideas out and into
the open, for the Chinese every ideogram is
not a letter but another bright new idea... eo or ea-,
whatever... 1 billion of them content with the scraps
of individuation waiting for them... with us it's
about conquering the world, but our **** doesn't sell
in Mongolia... when was the last time
you picked up a newspaper and read news from
Mongolia? the 13th century and Genghis Khan?
probably. god, feels great to unwind without
paying too much attention on the book of revelation,
every time i muster the strength to consider
religious topics i immediately feel i'm claustrophobic
and want to get out...
that book is still but a fatal exercise in metaphor -
it's overly-poetic, the book of Genesis is full of
princely imagery, but the book of Revelation
is not compatible with imagery, a garden and three
characters makes imagining it far more easily
than the three characters in the book of Revelation
on a beach... when i think of a garden i think
of vineyards and pear orchards, i.e. wine and cider -
when i think of the beach i only think of
hot dog selfies of a girl's tanned legs... and that
ain't helping... and why people vacate on beach
resorts but are scared of swimming in the sea,
and only want the sea as a canvas when swimming
in the hotel swimming pool.

Late afternoon, tween twilight but before the dusk
in time for afternoon prayers, ******* followed by
the evening service, The Name reached out unto me
to touch my face, wake me from a lifelong slowing slumber.

My man! My good man, I’ve been numbering those days,
you will have no disagreement that you’re quite the closer,
close by, the chapter finale of our story, your living, a well
thumbed novella, enjoyed by many, and a favorite o’mine.

Do not restless rustle, no busing bustle, the Set Table^ cleared,
tabulations done, the sums and dividend distributed, in sync,
your words well distributed, remainders to be dearly shared, saved,
showings of great love, valleys of feeling, these your humble attire.

Look how easy the (our) words come, the fluids of a man for which
we have been long patient be awaiting, the company all in readiness,
for confession and days of permanent new creation, fast beginnings,
think on it, to be called child once more, how glorious this unknown!

Dimensions recorded, measurements tailor-taken, silk tuxedo deep bleu, luxe, a hint of violet, here-presented, patent, the leather for blue suede winged dancing shoes no airport dare ask you remove, before they beg you, say, save grace, just once, pronounce The Name, the one of Seventy!

To walk, talk, rhyme and theorize, to forget and memorize, always refreshing, knowing nothing lasts, except things that last forever, or last never, poems and decisions needing completion, choices, reordering songs loved best, repleting all sorrowed pains, uplifting prayers, hallelujah hymns, last rites...

You, a world to us, a microcosm of a triathlon life, juggling the many, last of a lineage who could^^ pray, making rain, reading poetry to angels, giving comforting absolution for making storms, plagues, tidal waves, volcanoes, concentration camps, death marches, stillborn children, incurable sadness.

Quick when the curtain calls, listen close for the cue, toe the mark,
take position, hands upward joined, eyes down, ahead are fearless words,
a soliloquy lasting hundreds of years, balances aligned, only now you  needed, to make mercy allocations, putting paid next to all my periods, all in place, properly positioned, now comes an  evening song.

then to commence the writing of only love poetry forevermore.


5:00pm
Sabbath May 23
5780

The are fragments in the space
inside my father,

allocations of
belts and birchwood and driftwood, or
coin covered wishing trees,
safe as houses
without enough windows.

In shallow places, he tells me
'swallow your chewing gum
and limp into cemetery
grounds. I will forget you
as if you were alive"

Everything he says has
water under it.
It doesn't sit, or stay, or
take root in any meaningful sense.

I guess that's when this all started.
why I stuff an entire pieces of cake in
my mouth just to stay
silent.

I wonder if it's recessive,
this un-satiated need to fill

Keep your hands where I can see them-
Not at the small of my back where your fingertips could roll down my spine and ignite the open fuses in my heart.

Keep your words in your throat-
Swallow them down the same way I swallowed the lump in my throat when I realized I was a trophy on your shelf, a prize that collected dust.

Keep your heart within your ribcage-
Don't offer it out in slivers of affection, in segmented allocations of desire and lust. Keep your ******* heart contained if you can't even keep it whole.

Keep to yourself, it's all I really ask-
I used to ask the opposite of you, though I came to see that you had a padlock on your heart I couldn't figure the combination to.

Please keep far away from me; don't check in and don't text, don't call and don't bother because I can't answer calls from the past nor can I keep my heart to myself when you can't keep to yourself.

you begat it all wrong with your genesis story: i don't think i'm hot ****, i doubt that i am, hot ****.

when i cite communism i don't imply:
a redistribution of wealth -
me? i'm happy with a good night's sleep...
i mean capitalism has lost the essence
of work -
         in that: there is no respect for labour...
such a trivial "thing"!
god... this sounds oh so awful -
      and in "career" one always ends up
sounding a crude as a lumberjack's echo
in a forest - chop chop - gunner on the tilt -
crude writing that comes when one has
ingested too much of foreign opinion,
via audio, and not via reading...
            i have to find myself apologising
for this outpouring -
       but then again sometimes the most
mundane "things" have to be said,
for *per se reasons, than for any vector
purpose culminating in a reached point (b)...
when people trivialise work is the worst
kind of times...
          when so many trivialise work by
contesting in karaoke sundays in england,
or "masterchef" kitchens on mondays
tuesdays through to fridays...
  how about honing in on the immediate
concerns, the near-breathing-aching-tomorrows
of these closest to you?
   how a father will complain to a son
that he made him too much lunch food:
what? it would be easier to complain had
there been too little, and that you didn't have
to throw excesses into the bin?
i had to outthink heidegger in his "fetish"
of dasein... it was too remote for me in
the end...
      and since i've never come across
a philosophy book that utilises grammatically
categorical words (e.g. noun, verb, adjective etc.)
i feel a veil has been lifted...
  the curtain of sleep -
and when i see how heidegger took to stressing
dasein: being "there" - i think of
journalism first, and how to excuse the world
and turn to hermitic ways,
  for there is a there, as there is also a "there",
i.e. there isn't any!
but that is much more an allocation of
counter-verbalising events -
      there's no talk of adrenaline when speaking
of a terrorist attack far far away,
       there's only the word: tragedy;
the terrorist is immediately felt,
but the post-scriptum is but a "loser" in
the descriptive allocations -
would you fancy facing this "loser" face to face?!
i envisioned heidegger's dasein to be
more procreative, more centred to
       a fickle coordinate of media attention...
   more the engaging "plotline"...
less a case of demanding aristotelian
post-etymological correction facility of nouns
i.e. calling things by their proper names -
and more engaging, always engaging,
even if by a centimetres' worth of engagement...
that old shambles of tornado in the west,
a butterfly in the east with equal event impressions
complimentary...
    of all places, my grandfather managed to
visit auschwitz three times, upon the third
he resigned from the encounter with the gas chambers,
but i somehow always seem to be trapped
in these barbwire confines, given that i've never
visited: romancing h. h. holmes earth...
    but i took to this **** philosopher like
a fish takes to water: the reason?
        defunct complexity of the prose
     in other writers...
                        notably aristotle;
i had to chop up history as some sort of
inheritance, that had to be kept for reasons
of posterity, rather than nostalgic romance:
for one, i hate history to be kept for
reasons of posterity,
   achilles or homer was not kept to this day
for reasons of posterity, they were kept
out romantic reasons...
      history as posterity belongs to scare children,
in the classroom...
      and nowhere else,
  but authentic history: desires no teacher
and no pupil...
           it just has the authenticity that becomes
ultra-history... myth!
   therefore my gateway to the ancient times
resides with heidegger's dasein
with? zusein -
         and yes, not being a native german speaker
i can understand the "mistake" of
this sort of "nuance" -
             again in inverted commas,
for lack of a better word, or a desire to open
a thesaurus (rex) -
           in auschwitz 2.0:
                     respect work, to be free -
it is this, in the concentrate form that's most
demanding: toward being -
     in a cubicle, in a tightly knit tartar patchwork
on a kilt...
     we're not going anywhere if
work, esp. manual labour is not respected,
or is frowned upon...
              when work becomes all software,
and little if no presence of work as hardware;
i guess that's one of the reasons
   i'm on comfortable terms with the supermarket
staff at my local...
  i go there so often, i'm so *******
predictable with my purchases i am almost like
the one ready to become part of
the flying dutchman ship... immersed in
my everyday recurrent predictability...
no qualms with the staff, just the frankly friendly
            'alright mate, how are you?'
'fine mate, how are you?'
    'oh, not bad.'
          'good good.'
i know i can be the most pompous ***** on
paper from time to time,
  but then my writing is one thing,
and i know there's an umbilical chord of segregation
between the hungry foetus of a blank page,
and me binging on pickled gherkins and
     raw herrings in a cream sauce with this
blah, as every over blah, turning into a blur
the moment i wake up the next day;
and in grammatical terms (i.e. categories) -
i have already given dasein a name (a noun)
in that i call it an offshoot of journalism -
whereas in the instance of zusein:
i invoke the notion of some act (i.e. a verb
dimension) - i.e. the acquisition of action
through non verbal involvement -
beyond the hier & the da...
        something that becomes a mongrel
of the two positions, to a non-relativistic
  compendium...
      and if we all assembled ourselves,
or simply had the ambitions of simple verse,
or complying to simplifying language
in order to "appear" simple -
well, what would happens to those of us
who wrote to attain complications -
and thereby remain the simple brutish folk
of easily understandable manners,
   and tactful hushes -
                and the awry grafts of hubris?
the worst enemy of staying awake is
the enemy of all of us: the simplified &
therefore overused craft of using language...
i am not writing a ******* lullaby!
       josé! pronto! yalla, imshi!,
i don't write for either children or for rhyme,
i have my reasons for this being
more than true...
        simple language is repugnant to me,
it just serves the purpose of itemising
the person who writes it as:
    well, **** me for trying to understand
that sort of writer for a year,
  i can sniff a rat with one line of verse,
neurotic, despotic,
      cleverly encrusted in homogeneity,
******, under-fed, just *******,
       language is there to be mishandled,
complicated, diversified, turned into
an amazonian cocoon,
                   something out the blue -
  something lost in space -
  opulent, high on fibre -
             i can't stomach reading works
that are nothing short of a geometric
precision & predictability of drawing
a circle, or a square...
  which is why, whenever i watch american
films i get bored...
   because i managed to integrate this
knack of seeing past the already recurrent
plotline predictability...
  so much for those "creative" writing courses.

Nothing wrong with a little fornication
It's much more pleasant than all the allocations
People have daily
But I'm more of a creator
Than a destroyer
So that shouldn't be too shocking
You just got to be smart
Nothing wrong with getting down and low

"Visitational Voids"

Your veins hold stardust and we have the beginning and ending of time within ourselves.  I'm not looking for more time or untarnished love. I'd just like for a quiet to come over me as it does when we sink below a broken surface. Matter belonging to my ancestors and of my unborn children, I return to simplicity that's so pure and so dark, raining a timeless, stagnant glory. A temperatureless void in space where infinity contains answers. Where we wed to one another to exist in inevitable, unquestionable cohesiveness. Where fear isn’t scary. Where it comes uncaptured and intangible. Where what's tangible is our cosmos souls. Your human ego and mine, left behind, and the forever living that you and I do, conforms to the human theocracy about Big Bang. Our indivisible held hands expel so much passion, heat, human, lively things that we create new life.  This is the quiet. Take me to space, where it's a hum of stars. We can waste away into rebirth and recycle elemental allocations of consciousness and moral sounds.
-d.r 12.16.15

it's no wonder they called you *******... and not kenyars... you ******* quasi Nubian allocations of sub-Sahara; unlike Indian, the darker you are, the more aristocratic you become... west africans are peasant in comparison to east africans; which is why their women are so much more attractive,; that lushness of plump skin, skimming the sea, meeting while at the same time engrossing the moonshine in being mutually reflected; Rhodesian beauty will always outstrip a Nigerian ambition.*

i'm starting to get worried
about afro-american women
these days,
who don't know what
dark choc east african beauty
looks like...
a sort of plump besuty
that might make a white
boy get a hard-on...
west african women are paler,
they have no aura of
a darker skinned east african
woman...
they arouse reprisals
of arrogance rather than
appeal of libido...
         unlike the Hindus -
darker esst african women are
more desirable than the paler
skinned west african:
slave trade material
gummy-mouth-off-*******!
with their castrated Herculean
slam-dunk dummies worth of
manhood.
at least east african women are
ball-dropping gorgeous
compared to the west african mouthing off
undesirability calibre of woman...
seems it translates around the
Greenwich bellybutton
            timing of reference.

Releasing The Seed Savage

Rooted and built up in the receives-refiner,

Being  comfortable among the treasures of abounding

grace after the fullness wherein that see the glorifying signals.

Circumcising the mysteries in the ark within the praise,

putting the impact of desperation in the charity which is the

bond of perfectness.

Chiefly sanctifying the gasecious enablement within the

spirit jubilee through the investment of biblical images…

flying greatness in the ordination, gathering up ***** by

the encounter of joy unstoppable.

Testing the test of time within the voracious vibration,

Spouses the humbleness in the gifts reassurance synergy.

Sworing the signals among the baptizing destinies with full

Back-up, in much potency entering the higher of profession.

Penetrating the hope firm living through the genetic-exhortation.

Bearing onto complete witnesses in the crow nest multitudes.

Fertilising the ministration within the marvel of spiritual allocations,

In the banquet  therapy where of spread the echoes the virtue at upper room.

Revolutionalising the secret  provision to 1000 Times More into

the “Just-Tidy” faculty.

Furthering the enterprise within the infalliable proof.



Your Sensitivity-in-the Voluminous,

SURETICE TONGUE

Email: believingvirtue@gmail.com

RHEMA PIPELINE.Releasing The Seed Sava

R REVOLVING

O OPEN

C COOPERATORS

H HISTORY

D DEVELOPMENT

A ­APARTMENTS

L LIVING

E EARTH


V VALUE

I INVITING

L LEADERSHIP­

L LEARNING

A ALLOCATIONS

G GIVE

E EXTRAORDINARY

Small boy, kneeling, gaze fixed
amongst the rocks, crystal clear
flashes its glimpse of life, appears,
then gone, uncertain, until another
braves the tranquillity, why?

Surely the boredom of sand and rock
a better bet than a dart, for what?
a taste of the other side, which
sooner or later, will work its way round

stared for hours watching
life follow its course, haphazard
cover to cover until one by one
their dances done, walks away

Yet, no memory complete without trophies
to treasure, justify each and every,
of time’s allocations, hands
that just can’t resist
what the eyes choose, attraction,
the easy option, a shell, ornate
bright colours to gather dust and fade
until one day, finally recalled
, thrown away, her story of life
forgotten, wrapped in plastic,
a black eternity, entombed

the man, weathered, walks the beach
gaze fixed amongst the waves, lapping
the froth and foam around his feet, bare
looks briefly at the rocks,
their magic, long gone,
as picks the pebble, washed, worn
like the wish, and throws
eyes closed, back to the sea