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kenye Mar 2013
We were the ones
lost inside ourselves
ruminating pasts
presently breaking out
A shift in consciousness
we are right here now

Beating at our chests
Bleeding out the truth
We'll show them what we're made of...

Stars
Align in our eyes
tuned into the skies
where we used to be
outside the physical frequency
Now our souls emanate the writers plane

Rise up
that burning inside
set fires with our minds
immolate the world
just to watch it burn

Everyone else will take pictures of it
tuning themselves out
turning themselves in
uploaded sell outs to the ether

We're the heart arsons
coming back to the scene
spontaneously combusting out
a new beat.
I was listening to Refused's "New Noise" and had a flashback of when I saw them on their reunion tour going on in my head at the same time.  The rest was me attempting to channel a spurt of inspiration I got after that show.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
once rastafarianism entered language ploys with wittgenstein's language games in mind it misplaced pronouns, existentialists just dittoed the signifying moral singular with the un-signifying immoral plural; like i was partly holocaust bound, ha ha (example); cherub and a scotch bonnet of my opinion tingling a contest of: chilli v. pepper v. horseradish. let's just say i'm a plasterer rather than i.q. me as a drinker. slaps in chequers on a bench to sober up momentarily.*

trust the saxon, trust the saxon to speak worse german
than the bavarian, and entrust german to the turk
above the saxon; trust the audacious saxon to leave the alphabet's
diacritic out, to spell like a roman would, from the celtic netherlands of gloom
in scotch egg on a couch, the potato of them all,
trust them with audacity and vocabulary  to conquer the world:  
relieving us norse with ****** never mind
the geese of brazil; exact roman care for all dwindles and fibrous excesses,
conquer the world what have you,
at least you have black skin and opera sunsets
while i have white skin and grey clots of 7pm in september,
or as the censors announced:
rather my vanity than the proof of god,
rather me than you in the minotaur's prison of winding zigzag vocabulary;
you're left politico correct i have three thousand
longboats waiting, you're right i have the same number
awaiting wind and sail. trust the saxons among bavarians to do the following:
but you have the caribbean and that's worth more than kenya
in a 100m sprint. you have the caribbean and i'm african,
nuance the scandinavian proust waging war with
a burnt toothpick not giving enough warmth. each me of the lost tribe walks asking:
blondish in the sea i dare you to walk and reason
the heraclitean suburbia of the river of emptied housed-in arsons worth a life.
come alaskan winters come!
trust the saxons to conquer the world without a holy implied for empires
and lost tracts in order that the romans might utilise proper a and proper o
while the saxons in **** with normans and celts said:
we'll roman-speak about the amazon girlies while our girls party out
a craft of whitened cotton for champagne ship-sailed virginity!
trust the saxons to speak worse german thank turks in order to bind by migration
an island as a ship, and sail away sail away wondering
why the roots of other european nations used the goggles to speak
as much microscope as microphone when accenting
and, in so doing accepted dialectics rather than a pompous excess of fibrous ginger plastic
known as dialects: in england dialectics is known as dialects - caged owls elsewhere
didn't coo coo but mooed with gags in nostrils sneezing when snorkelling:
we say error in sussex and say wok cumin seed sizzle in essex;
close enough to be a cockney in hackney rhymes up a mango.
Jeremy Betts Oct 2022
I followed the order handed over to the T, I swear, I checked every square inch of the interior in that musty, empty chamber as well as the outer perimeter
And, just to make sure to cover all of our bases, a land surveyor calculator was used so no one would have to return to confirm the number later
He soulda, woulda, coulda but didn't prepare for the worst,  should have taken ques from one of them openly mocked doomsday prepers
Just in the event there was no search and rescue coming together to push the radius wider
I'll say this, there's nothing you could compare to what was in there other than a twisted flair of a taboo desire for a living nightmare
Keeping it honest here, there was no proper way too decipher if pain or anger fed the monster in turn fueling the inner and outer warfare
After all this time the why is still unclear like an over exposed Bigfoot picture under the blur of an out of focus layer with the top half blacked out by a fat finger
It's mostly ever operator error, there's no proof of any attempt to even remove the lense cover
Resulting in snap shots that fully render the emptiness of a gut wrenching, heart breaking type of forever
Walking through the bare walled entry erected the neck hair, instantly on anticipatory high alert, predicting a jump scare
I'd never go back there but if you dare, prepare to soil your underwear, best to bring an extra pair
It's far eirrer in there than I imagined it'd be with the unbalanced nature of finding tragedy has bled into the comedy so frustration and the for mentioned anger seemed not only justified but fair
One might expect a shrill chill to fill the air befitting the general atmosphere likened to the hollow echo of an abandoned aviator hanger
There was an uneasy stillness in the helplessness seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere
The nonconsentual caress of chaos looked to have been ramped up a gear, allowed to feast on the bounty of self loathing and fear
I don't know if you could consider one over the other being better while not sure who's the bigger threat, the dark passenger or driver?
Neither should have been allowed to steer especially after the request to hold so and so's beer
Looks like nothing penetrated the barrier inside each ear that, according to the guest sign in on the counter here, had been garded by a couple demon friends made during his very first winter
Just prior to the proverbial greener pasture being engulfed by an arsons fire lit by the land owner
And oh how it wreaked of dispair, heavily punctuated by the stench of failure
It lingered like a stocker predator peering over top the chip and bolder on what's been dubbed an unworthy shoulder
Progressively more violent as the one under investigation grew older, evidence shows a temper that consistently boiled over
The life destroyers lurkin' behind every door down a never ending corridor, waiting in the cover of darkness found around every corner
You don't know from where but can hear screams of terror as you pass a single motivational poster that reads, "being dead inside will allow for the skipping over of the coroner all together"
Buyer beware, this particular first stair is a header, the warnings couldn't have been clearer
A lack of empathy stains character but if lead by example it's plain to see why someone might refuse to care
Or would even know how to for that matter, solely focused only on the neighbor who's grass is forever advertised as greener
Didn't do the work on the personal endeavor so it didn't get any better, attitude towards it all seemed very cavalier
An obvious what not to do trend setter, a self proclaimed and locally agreed on idiot of the year
Missed all this YOLO banter, acting like a pop of the trunk would reveal a spare
Who's life is it really if you're not even a content creator in it much less the engineer
Come to think of it I don't recall that even bein' offered up to this poor sap as a qualifying career
It should be but that's neither here nor there, what's done is done and every other cliche you can pull out of the air
To put it simply, he wasn't known as a fighter so he threw in the towel and tossed innocence out with the bath water
The belief that life was beyond repair was a thought he struggled to alter, positivity was something he never learned how to gather, had a horrible teacher
It didn't help hearing a proper confirmation message from both a soothsayer and palm reader with no reassurance from his supposed maker
Proof that it's always safer to separate judge, jury and executioner, it's a no brainier
But he wore all three hats plus at his core was a sinner, it could've been his last meal every time he sat down for dinner
So he no doubt knew there was no scenario where a man like himself was gonna come out the winner
And now that I've seen the bizzar aftermath from every angle I can say with far more confidence than when I began to explore that I don't know how he managed to even get this far
The violence was real, the battles weren't staged, it raged on behind the fleshy mask he wore to keep us from witnessing the horror
But every day his anchor to a brighter reality got weaker, thoughts and surroundings becoming darker faster than he could remember from the days before
One can only be expected to hold on for so long when you're the nail trying to resist the hammer
He was neither hero nor imposter, just the next mother fuucker to fall victim to his own future
Who’ll hear, a bitter tale for the tails
About the two drummers who are set,
To beat their palms upon the drum,
To free a sound their hands can’t catch,
And to struggle that the horn be split?

The sound’s a dirge filled with grieve
That all ears shall hear when it flies.
But many will take it for a true dance;
They will dance and spill their bloods,
And mix it with the naïve thirsty sand
Often hungry not tired of looking dry.
They’ll dance to dazzle the drummers
Who have fled the drum into cozy hides,
Who have made the dancers their ears,
Who deafened their ears from the voices
Of both the dancers and their own beat.
They will dance to dazzle the drummers,
And sweat and cry more tears of fuel
As drops upon a soft blazing inferno.

They will dance till the sound is dead,
When they’ve grown weak and numb,
At the sight of the arsons and the piles,
Of bodies and parts, waiting to be kept
In the belly of the gargantuan ground,
By the drummers who are now priest
Who’ll say: “weep not, for they’ve R.I.P.”

But they still won’t stop crying alone
At seeing black yesterday jump into today,
Holding pity pictures of dancers after action
To pinch their minds and cause real-weeps;
Asking them why they all had to dance
Even when they didn’t bang the drum.
A poem on the looming Biafra and Nigeria grievances.
your poetry is the
timid surgeon's
blade

your brainwashed disfigured filth
posing as poetry, glitter sprinkled
over horse ****

parasitic eager beavers
rattling off hollow sanitary words
from suburban armchairs

when you speak of passion...
I want the ivory joy
of licking teeth in black
cold nights of February
grabbing fistfuls of flesh
and desire

not your stiff ******* advertisement,
marketing zombie climaxes and red roses
of compulsion

when you speak of loss...
I want the acrid smell of burnt
hair, a scene of cinder and ashes,
a house of dreams smoked
by the arsons of addiction
and stupidity

not your camouflaged metaphors
of two dollar sunrises and legislated
loneliness, echoing off the empty walls
of narcissism

when you speak of hate...
I want cold bacon grease and blood
stuck to my tongue and dripping from
my mouth, to become a carnivore of ******
and liberated violence

not your confused assault
of cheap mouthwashed words
spat in basins of shallow
*******

ah, **** it,
write what you will
but give more
poetry should
In the new being that dawns, must I
Console waste and falsehoods;
Used not to my romantic skies,
Nor my Victorian delight, tonight.

In the new human that lives, but I
Run like a murmur, and shadows;
Those misshapen, unnatural forms
Falling away into vernal decay.

In the new soul that breathes, yet I
Come to made solace and comfort;
With no romantic tenderness
And softness that tend to me.

In the new influence, the new smoke
But I taint my arts and visions;
And make blessed sonnets insincere,
Ridding of their appetite for me.

I was born in the modern, caught
Within the naught of being;
What carries this new feeling, I guess
My soul may not find rest.

I was urged to stay, and say
What the morose hold yet to tell
Not the honest of me; the truths
I may have fallen into silence.

I am only able to live at night;
Being true to dark, ******* sights,
That attract but no organism,
Nor living thoughts and modern insights.

I am only capable of misery;
Their arsons are killing to me,
I cannot paint all that rages in me,
They suspend my arts in dishonor.

Their poems bring about nothing;
My delights they have all killed,
Out of my aesthetic will,
Out of sane satire and parody.

Their art charters no bliss;
I am like the quiet of the sky,
In the midst of this war, I only say
None but the imagery of lies.

Their spouses enjoin ill kisses;
Coining sublime in our frights,
But never frightened like our tears,
Dwelling in our drained thoughts.

Their remarks make us dissolve;
Keeping art away like a spectre,
And dissect my love like a sombre,
Like they were the mere sober souls.

What if the poet in me, conformed
To those marks with no heartbeat;
And my angered words lost their form
Ending such good tones of their wit.

What if the worth in me, paid to them
The wanted chords and juggled songs;
For their ****** and erratic admission
But so not my final destination.

What if the written stopped to sing
To leave, and wish me just well;
How could I stay blind to frustration
How would I restrain such fevers?

What if the tune in me, made dead
By the modern’s hustled breath;
Sung by the engrained commonness,
Having lost its poetic madness.

What if the hours in me, silenced;
Made moroseness, and quiet
I have not been recalled anyway;
I have been silence like yesterday.

What if the seconds in me, tickled
And turned and bored me to dust
Would their hesitations ever last
Would they come to the truth?

What if the leaf in me, peopled
All of their impossible periled
To petrify and sicken my desire,
Shall I embrace mossy poems still?

What if the rose in me, tempted
To lose hold of trained purity;
Would my punishment rise in smoke,
Would I be chained to hell?

What if the love in me, stunned
To death, and its cordless vision;
I am never loved anyway,
Nor guarded, nor made of love.
Leo Nov 2017
I am an angel in the rise

I am angelic in the fall

I am I Am at rest

And awake to such a tall

Man – shaggy hair rising in plaits
Form – immaculate sans
In pitch black etched across his chest

“Shall my hands afford ash?”

Read to a roar of laughter

1000
100
Only us

“Who are you?”

Cut short by a roar of laughter

100
10
Only us

“They call me Cain, brother, and I can only show you ‘what’.”

And what, indeed, amidst fiery chariots and divine palaces suddenly surging from ocean chasms had my thoughts sought to comprehend?

Here I am amidst a dream

A neon second scene

But where is the Word when

Awake, and to multitudes.

The morning sun rises to bring light on a blackened church. There, at a vandalized oaken pulpit I give my sermon. My Bibles were lost in the arsons committed on my home, my church, and the corner shop refuge that once provided living space for local destitute. I am unprepared this Sunday, but the Word flows freely. He ‘Is’ is speaking through me. I look down to my notes and revel in their order. Clean lines, a steady hand stroke on every letter composing a glorious sight amidst the seemingly ceaseless chaos of this life. The times have changed, and so I write these words hoping that they may bring Light to times darker than these.

I am a fool in the rise

I am foolish to fall

I am I Am at rest

And awake to such a bright
Light – refracting subaquatic from
Towers – streaming ribbons with the current
Whilst star-light chariots permeate disorder

“She made ham from ash”

A thought recited to a piercing silence
Singularity while

10
100
Observe

“Where am I?”

A thought recited to a low hum
Singularity while

100
1000
Consider

One – stepping forward from light
Form – immaculate sans
A wild, pulsing eye

“I am here to show you ‘what’.”

Expressionless

“Are you able?”

A smile

A light

“No, come.”

And so, with caution, I proceeded down Atlantean waterways buzzing with preternatural light and rhythm. Amidst this shimmering ocean scene there was beauty and awe which words to comprehend could only paint pictures of madness. And so, I came upon my home.

Here I am a king at sea

With neon throne and queen

But where is my Hand when

Awake, and to multitudes

The morning sun rises to bring light upon a blackened church, home away from home. The attacks grow fiercer by the week, and I have not managed to procure a Bible for today’s sermon. The turnout is better than ever, and the Word flows freely from my tongue. He ‘Is” is speaking through me. The people are queued from pew to door, from street to corner. They seek, en masse, refuge from daily struggles; refuge not found within these Holy walls. Yet, they come. Their order is glorious! Such a wondrous sight amidst the seemingly ceaseless chaos of this life has never before been seen. I write these words in hopes that they may bring Light to times darker than these.

I am sacred in the rise

I am sacramental in the fall

I am I Am at rest

And awake to such insurmountable

Sounds – reverberating
Grounds – quivering
Towers – streaming
Chariots – quickening

“Oh, what a beauteous scene I have come unto! Thank the Highest, thank the Highest! These neon lights, though manifest in form I dread, do not belie the Supreme! Nay, unto him I deem fit all creation! Do not these streams paint your name?! Have not these seams sewn your claim!? I am free among these dreams, and from You have all I need!”

Sang to all who would listen

“Could these hands afford ash, the embers of eternal flame would brand the holy flock! Could I make ham from ash, the maw of sheep would ne’er seek to be sated!”

Sang to all who could hear

“And ye had better listen who doubt the name!”

“But who are you who are such a tall”

Man – shaggy hair rising in plaits
Form – immaculate sans
Opaque lettering across his waist

“Shem HaMephorash”

Read to a crescendo of laughter

Only I
10
100

“Why am I here?”

Cut short by a crescendo of laughter

Only I
100
1000

And why, indeed, had such beauty been shown to one who could not comprehend? Why, indeed, had I been brought to the depths, to revel in that which I have been cast from?

“To pyre, to pyre!”

And so, all the oceans were torn asunder. The final baptism before

10
100
1000
Years


There I was

The second scene

Of all I have conceived, but a dream

But a dream

For here I Am

Amidst the seams

Of all the paths I weave

The morning sun rises to bring light upon a blackened church. It is not Sunday, yet the patrons are queued to the street corner again. These people have come to hear the Word flow, yet the Word for me today is woe. The final sermon: Whole and hearted.

“You are here for me, as I am here for you!
There is but one truth, one way, one mind!
It lies not within one, but within two!
The Singular Multitude!”
An old poem i wrote that i stumbled across

— The End —