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Ekhafu ya kamevele niyo ekamayanka elurende!
It goes a Bukusu saying, from Kenya,
It has it English equivalence as;
The most productive Milch- cow
is the one that often dies at the creek,
And truly Proffessor Ali A.  Mazrui
Africa’s global intellectual Milch-cow
Has died today from his drinking creek,
At Birmingham hospital in New-York,
His death is a deep wound
To the world of knowledge,
An impeachment to the voices
Subscribing to classical reasons,
An old wine skin to the new wine
Of nothing but global democracy,
I mourn you Mazrui in this solemn dirge,
I grieve for you deeply from my heart
I grieve for you as you grieved Okigbo,
When the bullet took his youthful life
at Nzuka battle front during the Biafra,
My mind’s eye is seeing you,
Like my Mr. Giraffe the driver
In your political epic
That tried Christopher Okigbo,
Mazrui the global son
Sired in the neoclassical times
We shall miss you,
As there is no whence
That cometh another Mazrui
From all the four corners of the earth
Rarely will he come one more Mazrui,

You failed your O’level exams at Mombasa Sec School
As you humbly basked in Muslim poverty, in 1943
Not because you were a stooge
But a genius of cultural radicalism,
Refusing to answer a history question;
Who is the Archduke of Canterbury?
Dismissing it as academic sham,
For what value has Archduke of Canterbury
to an African, Asian or Mexican boy?

You were denied a chance to study
At the then colonial Makerere University,
You sublimated to Edinburg and Oxford,
You come back into its deanry of political science
You met Milton Obote face to face,
When he was an African-English song bird of Gulu
You shouted loud when Id Amin plotted to **** Okello Oculli
You were then detained for this noise of humanity
You voice was heard,
And you were exported to southern Tundra
As an exhibit for non-white intellectual
Mazrui let me mourn you for the efforts
That sired intellectual democracy in Uganda,

When I reminisce of you Mazrui,
Pages of African Conditions open
Widely before my mind’s eye,
I see your intellectual pilgrimage
From Rudyard Kipling to Julius Nyerere
As you made your Al Hajji stone
at the graveyard of  Shakespeare the bard,

You met Daniel Moi face to face
Daniel Moi the Kalenjin Cow of Dictatorship
And black Maestro of ethnic terror
You took this despotic Moi cow to the well,
You pleaded for it to drink politics of reason
But Mazrui I pity, you were unlucky;
Kalenjin cows never drink whatsoever
From the democratic wells of political reasons,

Mazrui Maalim the star of Islam,
I envy your for your elonguence
I envy you for the unique power of ideas,
I envy you for unique intellectual bravery,
I envy you for constant intellectual dynamism
For your firm stand against utopian socialism
For your intuition into Nkrumah’s Leninist czarism,
And Senghorean cultural despair in paradoxical negritude,
For your firm stand against Ngugi’s literary tribalism,

Mazrui the stellar saint of Swahili Nation
I remember your glowing tribute
In eulogy of Julius Nyerere the swahilist,
When you held the world stand-still
With your cadence in tribute to Mandela
You have used every English word in your scholarship,
Indeed Mazrui you are the African sky
that cannot be vilified by any  ***** mouth,


Mazrui the angel of good thought
You cautioned Wole Soyinka in 1988,
When he embarked on his racist mission
That made him to call you a white African
Or a non- African African, An African Arab
In his blurred thoughts in dint of bigotry
Emanating from your Jekyll and Hide
Vintageously Serialized at Albert Schweitzer,
You sang to him ballads of the scholar
On the African of the soil and African of the blood,

Rest in peace Mazrui at the Fort Jesus
Let your glorious name and teachings
Remain permanent to the future people
As the stubborn stones of the Fort Jesus,
As your name takes the official knighthood
Of the leopard skin on death of the leopard,
Pierre Ray Mar 2012
Heaven, heaven is one breath away! Heaven, heaven is someone’s array of death and decay. May I say? The havens and heavens above is a way for the doves and for its love. For the day, the gay, the gray, the prey, the stray, the Sundays and sunrays! Heaven, heaven is a hideaway, a passageway, a safe way, a sway away! Heaven, heaven
is basically, eccentrically, theoretically and poetically for some of the

awesome that blossom! It’s an anthem or a poem! It’s fearsome, it’s freedom and a kingdom of wisdom! Heaven, heaven is a place of face, grace, race and trace. It’s full of allure and demure! It’s rest and a test assured! Where, there you can invest the best and insure your problems can be cured! Heaven, heaven’s characterized cries and eyes! The flies, the lies, the prize in disguise! Its skies, ties, the whys and the

wise. Footprints and imprints of ancient legends of heroes, Negroes and Neros of long, long ago! Heaven, heaven’s gorgeous doorsteps! Yep! Its havens grand, take a stand. Many brands, many hands, many
strands of many sands! Heaven, heaven is enormous and glamorous! It’s where adjacent, impatient humorous, numerous followers throng and prolong! The bleak, meek, the weak, the strong and wrong! There

is where, reactive in proactive citizens and frail senior citizens hail and sail! They prevail as they unveil! They thrive and throng to there,
where righteous, brightness belongs. Heaven, heaven all adhere and hear! The allowed, the followed, the hallowed, the supreme cloud towers and gracious powers! Heaven, heaven basked and tasked by thy masked gleam. Aside, inside it seemed I was alone…

As I cried, as I sighed! Tied in wonder, under the heaven’s throne of wonder! In blunder, as I wondered if I were dead? Instead, black crows in rows, attacked and flew over my head! Squawking, talking, flying asunder, with plunder, plunder, under the thunder, thunder! Definitely bringing me to my knees! Infinitely squawking, talking, flying around me with ease, glee and tease! Please heaven, heaven!

For instance in the distance... It’s dreamingly and seemingly quaint you see! Faint sounds of angel’s hymning and rhyming! Their heavenly, heavenly, singing, ringing triumphantly, triumphantly! Although, through the distance and persistence in time; we to will hopefully and loyally dine. Dine in thrill, on the heaven, heaven’s divine! Amen all children, men and women, heaven, heaven amen.
Holly Salvatore Aug 2013
I. That summer the radio
Played nothing but Cat Stevens
While I hummed harmonies
In my first car
It was a wild world indeed
when kudzu overtook
The cornfields
All the ears were foreigners
The leaves basked in light
That dead-ended on route 15

II. That fall we spotted UFO's
Shining over the municipal
Park
We chased them across the
Ballfields
To the high school cross country course
A dirt track running
Through the woods
And when there was nothing
Alien lurking there
Our hopes fell
Faster than the stars

III. The following winter
Three inches of ice cut the powerlines
Impounded our school supplies
With the outtages
And the temperatures plummeting
Seventy percent of our hearts froze
All the parts that were water
Expanding our chests
Like balloons
Expanding our vision too
We thought this was the beginning
Of the end of St. Clair county
We though we'd all get out someday

IV. By spring the graveyard smelled
Like lilacs
And dead town elders
Came out to dance in the scent
We played capture the flag there
On school nights
And the cops could never catch us
Behind the headstones
Of our family plots
We wrote our own epitaphs
"I was water and I could have been
A fine wine"
*I fell asleep in sweet green clover to the sound of smalltown sirens...
At night the wide and level stretch of wold,
Which at high noon had basked in quiet gold,
Far as the eye could see was ghostly white;
Dark was the night save for the snow's weird light.

I drew the shades far down, crept into bed;
Hearing the cold wind moaning overhead
Through the sad pines, my soul, catching its pain,
Went sorrowing with it across the plain.

At dawn, behold! the pall of night was gone,
Save where a few shrubs melancholy, lone,
Detained a fragile shadow. Golden-lipped
The laughing grasses heaven's sweet wine sipped.

The sun rose smiling o'er the river's breast,
And my soul, by his happy spirit blest,
Soared like a bird to greet him in the sky,
And drew out of his heart Eternity.
Anthony Duvalle Aug 2011
I’m getting lost on this trail of my thoughts now I’m surrounded
Repressed how the shooter was dressed and how he sounded
Detectives saying recall’s selective, I’m not clouded
But it’s all boiled down to he’s dead and I’ve allowed it

The gun shots rang out, his whole chest caved in
Body hit the ground, the older folk began their praying
Shooters car peeling as soon as he finished spraying
My mind’s still saying there’s ways that I could have saved him
But
The concrete seemed to stick to my feet
I kept screaming, “You’re not dead, wake up, you’re just asleep!”
A horror scene homie always sees in his dreams
When nightmares control so much more than they seem
To
Checked the vitals, no trace of a pulse
Lost his life to some men who just shoot, **** and bolt
Men who rep to the death their colors, strapped with heat
But all colors bleed red when you’re lying dead in the street
So
I’m selling out my soul, my demons unleashed
Closing all my doors, punctuating the length of my reach
Giving up on school, teacher says she doesn’t speak slang
I retreat into my native land and run with the gang

I guess I wigged out, probably cause the pain was too much
Always kept in heart my homie, how his death was unjust
We used to smoke blunts, get down with the OPP
Now I’m busting shots, ducking from the C-O-P’s

After years of wilding out a gangsta starts to get ruthless
I could **** a man or worse, leave him tortured and toothless
Disrespect or debt mean death when you mess with my set
We’re coming quicker than a jet if the deadline aint met

I’m setting sights on stacks, a crazy train that ran off the tracks
I got a loco motive, loco mind, you boys best wear flaks
And my fury’s aimed at any lame that slows up my gain
Selling pure *******, it’s all about the cream up for claim

Controlling corners, got the junkies begging on knees
I got soldiers and I like your car so give me the keys
You got a bounty if you leave without paying your cheese
I got a Browning just in case police bust in yelling “FREEZE!”

Now I’m posted down the street a youngin holding his heat
Smoking joints of ****, waiting for the hit, breathing deep
His name is Johnny, at 5 on 10th walk el y amigo
But he owes me mons so homie’s got problemas conmigo
We tailed him two blocks, parked cause we’re starting suspicion
And police patrol this highway, sirens slow up your mission

Some stupid homies think they’re Tonys, I just sit back and listen
You gotta stand up with your heat if you gon’ come in this kitchen
But play my money, nothing funny, dummy thinks that he’s safe
Just cause he’s got himself a heat, and he’s been selling it straight

Who fronted you that coca kid? Who got you all that profit?
You got moved to the first class and thought you flew cockpit
I told you watch it, cheat me once won’t live to regret it
Cheated twice, so **** your second chance you’ve run out your credit

So yeah that’s me rolling up slow and smooth on you and your boy
I’ve got an *** automatic, fates been sealed, get destroyed
Lean out the window, load the clip, bandana as camo
Slow my roll, collect this soul, your time hits null with this ammo

R.I.P.

I’ve gotten lost on this trail of my thoughts now they’ve surrounded
I’m dressed as the shooter, the blessed stay far from round it
Detective’s saying my main objective was not found yet
But the killer crashed his car after killing and that’s what counted

My gun shots rang out, his whole chest caved in
Body hit the ground, I told you folk I wasn’t playing
I peeled off quickly as soon as I’d done the slaying
And now I’m rigid laying, a pool of my blood to bathe in
But
I couldn’t quit, I saw myself in this kid
Screaming, kneeling, not truly grasping what the killer just did
Eyes staring back, body avoiding doing a bid
Going too fast, a turn caused my Scion to skid
So
They’ve checked my vitals, no trace of a pulse
Led my life as a parasite, just basked in my faults
I guess I repped to the death my colors, but can’t you see?
My colors bled red, I join the dead in the street
Revised and full version of "Horrify, not Glorify"
Twinkle Jul 2014
I guess u r leaving me behind
all that u have given of yourself to me
those memories u have caused with your laughter ,
your playfulness and exbuerance for life
I will miss, the fine juxtapose your presence created

You have changed me beyond myself
Though outwardly calm I may appear
This pretense I can hold on no longer
While inwardly I sear…and long..for u.

Go on move on, I cannot hold on to you forever
You are a free soul and nothing can stop your force

Momentarily I basked in your fond attention
your eyes searing my soul
Awakening in me a realization I myself did not know.

I thank you for those fond moments
Etched forever in my heart and soul
of your tenderness and the love that never spoke a word.
Unspoken emotions, searing the soul!
Dominique U May 2014
i took it in, you see
basked myself in its glory
now i feel trapped
suffocated
asphyxiated
am i to die
with this curiosity
killing me
I was born into glory, so young and so strong.
Never imaging that I could ever do any wrong.
I basked in daylight and loved to explore,
Testing my body past the point it could endure.

I was surrounded by friends and family wherever I went,
Each night I collapsed in bed and lay peacefully spent.
I never thought about change, real hardship, or loss.
I truly believed I'd forever be a king and my own boss.

But as I grew older time opened my little eyes,
and I was forced to confront heart wrenching goodbyes.
The family I knew and loved so much began to fall apart,
and I was forced to witness my own mothers broken heart.

The invincible boy slowly began to hide and recede,
Only poking his head out when it was necessary to feed.
The boy suppressed the pain and the hurt that he felt,
Refusing at all costs to accept the hand he was dealt.

A shift within him slowly began to start now,
And he was too caught up to stop and only realize how.
The family and friends became no more than ghosts,
And the bright eyes closed as his life began to coast.
I was stirred awake by a sound so familiar
A cry barely audible through closed doors
Gently I removed her head from its home
Nestled close upon my chest
As not to disturb an angel from her slumber,
The rest a mother so dearly deserves
I rose to my feet, a guardian to those I love
Feeling as I always have before, a need to protect them
With subtle steps I crept over to the room adjacent
Expecting to find only a child, teary eyed and alone
The cries were louder now, but the bed empty
A fear rose over me, for the boy’s only two
Franticly I searched through the closet and clutter
My heart beat quickly against my chest
I lifted the mattress, greeted at last by bright blue eyes
My hands wrapped around tiny wrists
Pulled him free from his hiding
Picked him up with relief like none I’d felt before
Held him tight in my tattooed arms
And he rested his head upon my shoulder
But the tears still they streamed
I could feel their cold trails
As they rolled down my bare back
I rocked him the way she had so many times before
Promised him everything would be alright
He clung fast to me, I could sense he’d found safety
And soon the tears ceased to flow
While his mother was sleeping I was proud of myself
Taking care of my family, everything just felt so right
As I basked in the moment and whispered to him
Suddenly, slowly, he lifted up his little head
Turned toward the door and then he said, “Mommy”
And surely enough through the crack she was there
Watching her man with her boy in his care
I could see in her eyes that she’d found all she’s wanted
In those few short minutes, in that little room
She had seen all the wonder that I had felt
If reality is far better than you can imagine
There’s no need for sleep when real dreams can happen
Autumn Whipple Jan 2015
Sharp nose,
just a hint of
his wide open smile
in the screen light
maybe its unromantic
maybe its just plain weird
but his profile in the screen light
was one of the most beautiful things
I've ever held sight of
as if the real him
was coming out
and
only
i
could see it
but it burned me
his face in the screen light
it hurt me
that profile basked in blue light
simply
because
it scares me.
dang those projectors. they make me all feel-y and poetry-y.
The moon does seem to mirror my regret,
with light that fails to brighten skies to day,
it cannot blot those stars, so far away;
those jewels I could not reach and can't forget.

And as the weak one in heaven's duet;
that pale comparison, shining so grey,
without the strength to forge its own display,
those beams reflect resentment for my debt.

But should we ask the sun of jealousies
or failures through the years, when one's self-tasked;
I think we'll find regrets are not so rare,

when dreams to paint your face upon black seas
or glow with lovers on the nights they basked
are shattered by your own confounding glare.
Please let me know what you think.
Vince Paige Jun 2010
pig
the whole pig is but a part of me
as i am but a part of you
i have devoured it and consumed it
completely. you have me.
i have relished in its death
and basked in its life as it
seeped onto parched earth.
i smile while it squeals.
how it sounds so human.
do you hear me squealing?
as my heart is rent in two
and piece by piece is swallowed.
as my soul is ripped from me
and piece by piece is swallowed.
mmmm...little pig tasted so good.
how i enjoyed it.
ribs were so tender and
came easily from the bone.
little pig, little pig, let me come in.
pork chop was pink to the center,
plump and required a knife to sever.
little pig, little pig, let me come in.
sausage, two in number, sliced in twain.
red, and spicy, and oh...so delicious.
you huff and puff
to blow my house down.
08:27 PM 9/2/04
mi Feb 2017
take me back a month ago;
I'll pretend I don't have to go back home.
I'll pretend I don't have a return ticket
as long as I get to stay a bit,
just a bit...longer
because, there, people were nicer!
I stood a little taller!
The air was cleaner
because you weren't in the radar

I basked in the glory or a lion with a fish tail.
I walked down pavements that always looked freshly painted.
I passed people who didn't look like me
nor looked at me.
There was absolutely nothing there
that could have reminded me of thee but...
me.

I chose to see you in the boat on top of a building
because you said we'd sail through the clouds
to catch each others dreams together.
I chose to see you in train stations
where I thought we'd say goodbye
rather than part with a short reply.

oh, take me back to that city
where I can be reminded of you
without you.
a little poem featuring my longing for singapore and, well, you.

d.j.
mask Aug 2012
lg
I basked in the idea of our infinence,
all the while knowing that it never stood a chance.
While I may be a fool for believing,
I would have been a coward for not.
And it was,
ultimately,
more than I could have ever asked for.
But then,
suddenly,
it was all I was asking for.

It is all I am asking for.
Cassandra Sykes Sep 2011
Its 1:36am and I haven’t slept in weeks
I still haven’t found the guts to tell you you broke my heart.
I can’t even think of sleeping when you’re weighing on my mind
I only spin the wheel of memories I can drown in.
I spin it over and over again, knowing full well the prize has gone.

And its funny how, even after weeks and the miles that have set in between us,
I still sometimes smile thinking about holding your hand.
And that’s the best thing I can think of doing.
I just want to hold your hand.
I don’t need the kisses, I don’t need you to caress me.
The simple joy of your hand in mine is all I ever really wanted.

We’d spend cool spring days driving in your car,
The awkwardness of being together finally starting to melt away (along with the snow.)
You cooked me dinner while you watched Oprah and your sister spied on us.
I forget what it felt like to be in your house.
But I remember just wanting to pour through your shelves of books,
Boil us a *** of tea (mint green tea, like the one you left in my kitchen that I packed away with my life those weeks ago.)
Crack open a book, rest my head on your shoulder and listen to you read.

I can’t say I’ve become too much a fan of the person I am now.
I sit and I wait for you,
I wish and I dream that there’s something I have that she doesn’t.
I almost feel as though I could have known better.

I packed away my life 3 weeks ago.
I tried so hard to leave you in that bedroom we once existed in.
But as it seems the pattern of my life has become being angry I let her take you
And wishing that I could have changed it, and reverting back to the beginning.
I run a slideshow of us every night before I “sleep”
Sleep has turned into this chore that I just can’t seem to complete.
My spelling and sentence structure has begun to wither in the weeks since your departure.
And it would be far too cliché to say that my hope has begun to wither along with them.

I remember when we first began you were working nights
And I stayed up until five am sending you text messages, desperately fighting to stay up for you.
And until the very end I did the same.
I would fall asleep with my phone in my hand, waking only to reluctantly warn you of my impending slumber.
I miss the way you giggled when I told you about the funny things that happened at work.
I miss the way that you would listen to my rants, and offer anger on my behalf.

There was that last night.
You held me through the first movie, and kissed me through the second.
You held my hand as we walked to Tim Horton’s for tea.
You waited outside with my dog, (who always adored you.)
And you kissed me on the deck outside of my house.
You rubbed my back while I was sick,
And you would not accept my apologies for ruining our night.

I woke up that next morning hours before you.
My queen sized bed had somehow become too large for us, and we shared my half.
You held me tight and I listened to your light as air laughter,
And smiled when every time I moved a muscle you’d pull me closer.
I laid on my bedroom floor and ate honeydew and listened to you snore.
I read my book, and basked in the glory of waking up beside my favourite person.
And you slept a bit too late, but I forgave you and kissed you as you slipped off to the gym.

If someone had told me that would be the last time I’d hold you through the night,
I never would have believed it.
And then she stole you away.
I lost the game I didn’t know I was playing.

The person I have become is heavily dependant on caffeine.
She can’t watch movies where people are in love without crying.
She can’t form rational sentences when it’s 1:59 am and she knows all she needs to do is fall into a dream.
She can’t visit those places she ties to you because her heart is tied to her eyes, and sometimes tears flow.

I am okay with the fact that this hurts.
I am okay with the fact that I am changed because of you.
I am not okay knowing I have to hold all of this inside, or spill it across several word documents.
I’m not okay with the fact that you left without a goodbye.
I’m not okay knowing the last time we spoke was so irrelevant to everything.
I am so completely  distraught that spelling and punctuation have fallen away.
I am lost inside of everything I wanted us to be.
Of everything she’s taken away from me.

And there was once a time when my pillow cases were stained from your bronzer.
Where I would sleep on your pillow all the nights we were apart
Because your scent was so sweet it was impossible to sleep without it.
But now you’ve been washed away after so many spin cycles
It makes my head spin.
And the only stains that remain on my pillow case are the darkening memories of sweet kisses that tasted like me and tequila.
And my own makeup, as the wetness from my eyes makes it seep down my face.
And for the minute amount of hours my body lets me sleep, I sleep next to your ghost.

Your hair is darker now.
And there is more ink in my skin than there was before.
Time has passed, and leaves have started to change.
Soon the snow will fall as it always does.
And I will feign interest in the things I detest the most.
I will simulate feelings for another, of that I am sure.

The place we had shared so much laughter,
And so many awkward first kisses,
And so many more confident ones as the months wore on, is no longer my home.
The way you tasted has a way of enduring the time that’s stretched between our bodies.
And  I remember how you used to laugh first thing in the morning.
And I miss being the source of that laughter.

I remember hearing once on a foolish TV show how long it should take me to get over you.
I have this nagging feeling that you will run past the limit I will try to put on you;
Just as you stayed in my heart long past our expiration date.

I used to use awkward words like “indefinitely” because they had always made so much more sense to me.
I don’t want to think that these feelings will stretch on indefinitely.
I want to believe that I can eventually move past my grief.
And hours past the time I should have fallen asleep I find myself jotting down words about you while my dog snores too loudly beside me.

It’s going to be exceptionally hard for me to let this go,
Because I remember how hard it was to believe all of it in the first place.
And now that out short-lived reality has ended I find myself living in some twisted fairy-tale
All I was waiting for (naively) was our ride into the sunset.
All I got was a crushing blow from some Stephen King novel
Where things so out of the ordinary happen you wonder how you didn’t consider them in the first place.

I remember falling asleep outside that bar and you coming back for me,
Pulling me out of the snow and into your arms where I spent the night.
That bar is closed now, as so many things around our creation period have begun to shut down.
That night had been the most real thing that had happened to me in longer than I remember.
I remember the way you lingered in my mind for months after our first encounter
And how I was never really happy until our paths crossed in a (seemingly) more concrete way.

And now as the nights fall (earlier, and earlier) I find myself needing a sweater.
The pattern of my life had changed drastically
And you have made an empty echo in my heart,
One that I’m sure you’re too deaf to hear in your new city.

Its 2:36 am and I still haven’t stopped typing.
I want to sleep, and I want you to sleep next to me so for once I can fall into a deep slumber.
One that will allow me to awaken without the ghosts that have been chasing me since your departure.
I want you to fix the ruins that I’ve been living in,
Because I know that you are the only one who can mend the wounds you (and possibly I) have inflicted upon my not-so-strong self.

I listen to too much country music for someone who lives and breathes rock and roll.
And my poor guitar has seen more tears than she ever has.
My computer is full of playlists that are not doing their job.
No matter how many songs I find to fit the way I feel,
You linger.
And tonight was the first night I can remember really believing its fall,
And now I’m sipping apple cider, and reading all the books I wanted to curl up beside you with.
I think you missed the point where I decided you were the one.
This is the messiest poem I've ever written. Incidentally, its also the most honest.
How lovely
the gardener thought, planting
the rose and the daisy
next to each other

So they grew
spring to summer - shared
the sun and the rain

The rose kept distance, aware
of the damage her thorns could bring
The daisy kept distance, hiding
her petals love and love-me-not fortunes

Came the autumn with its breeze
the flowers intertwined roots
to keep warm - with no distance
now they struggled to share
the sun and the rain

So an agreement became
the rose basked in the sun
the daisy drank the rain

Came spring, parched or drowned
neither was able to grow again
RyanMJenkins Dec 2015
Had a stellar time last night at the Rhymesayers 20 year anniversary show.  
A lotta these cats have done so much for my soul, that I finally remember the me in the dream that I forget to know. With inspiration so deep we can tap into this eternal flow.  I now see into the water clearly, all ripples calmed and all 3 eyes are no longer dreary.  This goes to anyone that can hear me, you must let the walls fall to notice all of life's endearing.  I have a collection of blurry pictures of mindful Mic wizards, that I have so much respect for - just to shake their hands I would walk through a blizzard.  My lover Meg and I drove 12 hours altogether on very little sleep.  The amount of appreciation I have for her only grows more and more deep.  Even when we're cold she'll still fan my flames.  On the path we're on, we still have so much to gain.  The amount of love that surrounds us, an overly-rational mind would deem insane..  But you can never see the big picture when you're staring at the frame.  Ty Kraus and Mr. Nick Ramsey joined our adventure.  Through beautiful December weather, to have a great time and witness magic was our only endeavor.  We did what we set out to, mission accomplished.  Sat astonished and basked in Brother Ali's dropping of knowledge.  All act's crafts were so polished, and I feel like Micheal Larsen, was right there among all of this.  I don't think anyone said R.EYE.P once, probably because you weren't resting.  Inside the good vibes of the alive family you were nesting.  Eyedeas never die, which is why rhymesayers came to life.
They paved the way for many artists' lives to walk in to the light.  Building a metaphysical castle one intent at a time.  I may not be on the label, but I've been recreated through my own saying of rhymes.
Got to tell Slug once he inadvertently saved my life.  This groundbreaking moment ended with, a photo, and a signed tee I wore for the first time last night.  For me, there really is no end in sight.  We've got the Blueprint and Abilities to know all is and will be alright.  I just wanna thank you all, for helping me see my stripes.  I hope I can do the same without being a stain on your might.  Thanks for helping me believe in me, and please keep painting with your divine insight.
One love~
true blue Mar 2014
a rose and a dandelion– both grew
in the garden of eden,
and basked under the same golden light.
the only difference between the two
is that they call the rose
a flower, and the other a ****.

i was the ****, you were the flower
and maybe that’s why
they ***** their fingers just to put you
in a vase by the window, while i am in
a vase that does not see light.
there is no water, no earth,
just plastic
and other weeds.
midnight prague May 2011
you cornered me wicked, mid drift in the high
consumed. bluntly exposed.
you placed your thin fingers upon my lips. staggered. bent.
begged me not to breathe
I call onto you like the ocean in heat
like nature in its furious cause to prove that
man has no power over her, that he does not have her cure
in his superficial thoughts that wake in midnights rising
in between yen hungry rich peasants

you have no remote dignity
you have all your pride buried above your blistering smile
that burns openly to my naked eyes in the honest sun
I see everything that makes you up
I see your nose that bleeds
I see your feeble state
and that God forsaken disease

you moved the core of my woman with the taboo
in the thin yet powerful essence that danced between
our darkest places
so hidden from the light
you turned me exhausted with matrimony
driven you blinded basked in your polygamy
and you do still
even when our eyes do not see each other
even when your hands cook feasts in the morning
for that beautiful woman I met

because of you a part of me has become exile and remote to myself
because of you I have become a foreigner to my most permanent assets
I loose myself simply within the thought of my smile bedded
beside your humble surrounding

I find it hard to sleep at night
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
i've noticed that, upon ushering words from the depth
of nothing, or as an interlude in Knausgaard's day-to-day
musing in vol. 6 after inviting Geir over:
this "i" or that "i" or for that matter "my" i...
however you want to frame it...
    i noticed that if i allow myself an evening of not writing...
esp. on an electric screen for someone else to see...
if for example i lay down to go to sleep...
not exactly asleep: dart out of bed and scribble something
on a piece of paper for only me to see...
i will still dream...
but if i sit down and face the electric screen:
pixels like the eyes of a fly... for someone else to see?
i don't dream...
   otherwise... having scribbled down the following
on a piece of paper:

   exploring Heidegger's dasein in another language...
my native, which i will translate into English,
basically prepositional coordination of(f) being
off not necessarily implying non-being -
perhaps merely: being-in-itself or rather the other...

tu-być : be-here
              to-bycie : this-being
ten-byt :                      ditto
although: nuance... there is a distinction...

i also scribbled down something i heard a long
time ago about how Russia, India and China are
re-orientating themselves with the slacking of the western
influence on: whatever it was that the west had
for the past three decades beside
proxy wars, collateral damages and "culture"...

i heard the term: post-ethnic-nationalism
post-ethno-state post-nation-state...
ergo: multiculturalism... which, oddly enough:
i can't come to grips with trying if not trying to
pretend to be a native of these isles -
perhaps it might be a shock for someone outside
of London - but in London it's almost
second nature to... be surrounded by people
from all around the world...
needless to say: the natives are not so disgruntled
once they're sitting all pretty-cherry on top
of some hierarchy: esp. in the journalistic
opinion sections of the Saturday / Sunday magazine...
then it's an open bonanza against
the "lower class racists" and what not...
i can't be an anti-racist: after all...
                                     anti-racists once produced
a schematic for us to learn from in primary school...
which shower the size of brains of...
a white person, a black person and a racist...
and some other brains...
the racist's brain was under-developed:
smaller...                                      ­ really?!

anyway... so Russia, India and China have opted for
what has come to be known as the:
civilization-state...
                                     given the ongoing zeitgeist
******* blowing up in the Anglophone world from
H'america... the culture-war(?!) -
i would bet fairly and say that pretty much all
former nation-states of western Europe
and beyond are currently in a state of morphing
into: buzz buzzword: being - culture-states...

but whereas a civilization-state seems an abrupt
optimal to counter and disagreement with regards
to continuity: civilisations don't merely come and go...
whereas cultures do...
   culture is somehow a totality of the little things
in life... fashion, the arts, politics, faux pas innuendos,
trends, diet...
that's culture and some...
but civilisation? to me that's like saying...
the foundation of Rome was the creation
of the aqueducts...
                  civilisation to me is like saying:
the British Empire and the steam-engine...
civilisation to me, London, exclusively is... the tube...
the underground network...

seriously... i don't need to go to a West End Play
i don't need to go and see Ed Sheeran play
to a sold out Wembley stadium of 100,000+ people
(although, i did, even though i did because
i worked a shift there doing security,
so, technically i didn't, but did)
            i don't need culture... as such...

all i need to do is first, do a shift at Craven Cottage...
hope that the Elizabeth Line won't be working
travel on the Central Line from Newbury Park all
the way to Holborn... and then blah blah...
instead of trying to look at the tired faces opposite
me admire the map of the Central Line
(it's a toss-up between the Central Line map,
or the District, Northern or Piccadilly)
and then, on some sunny day... get my bicycle
out... and bicycle for most of the route... notably...
skewing... merging at Fairlop working my way
through Barkingside, coming to Gants Hill
then less of the tube route (mind you...
between Leyton and Stratford it's pretty
much over-ground) -
   and then from Stratford - through to Mile End...
from Mile End via Whitechapel... to Aldgate...
from Aldgate to St. Paul's... Chancery Lane...
Holborn... rat beneath the ground:
like a rat needs a bicycle -
   well this rat is no hamster: hence the bicycle
and not a hamster-wheel...

what culture? movies?! i tried watching something
relevant to the 1980s today... ***** Dancing...
great soundtrack but... cringe!
that's even before Malcolm X and how inter-racial
inter-****** relations had to be the new norm:
i mean: ******* fair play...
    building the new Brazil -
    but i still think there's an under-representation
(and isn't everyone supposed to get a fair share
of representation) of white boy Romanian girl
(Roma, gypsy) or white boy Turkish girl...
   or white boy half-white half-Indian girl...

i know i will not dream tonight because someone
will see this...
my little itchy thoughts, my freed from the reins
"i" that doesn't really have these words clogging
up its mind - only until the itching of the fingers starts
and i have a blessed day...
like today...

why is it that a Saturday evening can feel like
a Sunday evening?
oh, right... i made steak for dinner tonight...
potato wedges (skins on, first boiled until
the the water started boiling, turned off, soaking
for 5 min, drained, olive oil, cajun pepper sprinkle,
into the oven)
    and some baked vegetables:
leeks, carrots, parsley root, red onions,
celeriac, swede... balsamic vinegar,
    sambal, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper,
sugar (i stopped using honey,
   it sticks to the baking tray plus the vegetables
lose their crunch, and vegetables need their crunch)...
2 steaks (456g total) shared between three people...
seasoned with sea salt and grain black pepper
(i prefer pepper grains than pepper powder,
i.e. pockets of explosion of that spice)
    3 min each side... a perfect medium-rare blush...

however the Indians might sell their spices...
chillies etc. there's still something wholesome
when it comes to eating certain types of food...
given that... i wouldn't be eating beef in India:
i wouldn't be seasoning beef with chillies!
that's why pepper is important...
that's why horseradish is important...
i let most of the Indians slip up: oooh! the Europeans
didn't have any spices...
apart from thyme, rosemary, sage, lavender,
mint... pepper, horseradish, i#m sure we
were also familiar with cumin seeds -
as well as that anise-seed that' not the star
(i forgot the name of it, it looks like
a cumin seed, but fatter, and split down
the middle - green) oh and of course:
plenty of salt...
what's all the spices in the world in the culinary world...
IF, YOU, AIN'T, GOT - SALT?!
   (if you don't have... i know i know...)

it's rather bewildering talking to certain Asians...
although, saying that...
most of Eastern Europe had plenty of interaction
with Asians, namely the Mongols
and the Turks - which the western Europeans
sort of... "forgot"... after Darwinism they
skipped over Asia and went straight back
to Africa... personally? i feel more akin to Asians
(esp. the oriental folk) than i do with anyone
from Africa... however Christianity was born...
after all: what's the definition of a white man?
Caucasian? and where's the Caucus?
Asia... Europe was always going to be
a funnel - a bottle-neck continent -
a port... a departing point...
       perhaps we shouldn't be so clingy to it...
unless of course:
   oh the parody of Jesus never came out of
Europe: "we" had to wait for it coming from
North America, but by then it was no longer
a parody of Jesus but a parody of North American
Christianity... a North American parody of Jesus
is... oddly enough... a European parody
of North American Christianity: via Jesus...

which brings me to another thing... only upon
doing a shift at Craven Cottage did i first hear
the parakeets... never before...
     i'm not going to bloat my ego this much but...
since then i've seen an article on Wikipedia that
i never saw before, the article just appeared out of
nowhere: feral parakeets of England...
subsequently... only a day ago:
you're only here for the parrots, fans chant
as birds swarm Leyton Orient pitch (Evening Standard
4 hours ago)
and bare conker trees overrun by bright green
parakeets make them seem vibrant despite leafless
branches (Daily Mail, 3 days ago, somewhere
in south London)...

today i was given the chance to walk back into my old
haunt... as much as i love cycling...
it's sometimes refreshing to walk...
the slowing of pace, the horizon almost intact...
more so... if walking into a forest...
Bower Wood... i know it is a curated wood...
it's not as feral as the pine woods of Eastern Europe...
but: if life gives you X... you make XY...
x = lemons, y = juice ergo xy = lemon juice...

i'm pretty sure i was familiar with this wood...
i was out hunting for souvenirs for my mother to dress
the table / fake deer antennas for candles to sit in...
holy, some other greenery with black berries...
i was hunting for ferns, almost near impossible
given this time of year... found some! bright blush
of childish envy... oh... and birches...
some oak barks fallen off... just me alone in the forest...
i was so thankful by myself...
but usually i heard crows, magpies and woodland
pigeons... but now?! parakeets?!
here?! now?! parrots in winter in these parts?!

i swear the world is standing-up-side-down...
it's hard not to miss an under-current of a serious
pagan revival weaving and slithering its way through
Europe: if only you care to listen...
i switched off from whatever is available in culture
these days... i know that what i'm listening to
will not gain popular traction...
i can walk into the forest and... there's the forest...
i go back home... cook dinner...
go into my bedroom, open a bottle of cider
thinking: no champagne will beat this...
put on a record akin to...
Heilung's TENET and... hey presto!

                       i was in company of a good friend:
someone already dead who...
i don't know how someone can lose themselves
in the forest... pareidolia...
   you can sometimes see paths already trodden...
unseen but somehow: you can see a "ghost"
of a foot here and there...
    you know: you just KNOW where a human foot
prior to yours once treaded...
there are patterns... better sticking with pareidolia than
the iconoclasm of celebrity...
i always thought that was better...
i like to think i'm in the company of strange
creatures: phantoms of my mind...
but hardly! how can these be phantoms of my mind?!
i didn't spontaneously conjure a face in a tree
when the ******* tree is older than me!
the tree was here before me!
what?! some sin?! some psychological sin
of non-conformity?! i don't adhere to star-gazing
in the filth of commodities and entertainment?!

i know why this feels like a Sunday evening even
though it's a Saturday night...
i was planning on going to the brothel tonight...
but... oh hey mother, hello father...
i'm going out... where? you don't have any friends...
blah blah... yeah... well... i'm kind of happy
because of that: no social-constraints of expectations...
as the conversation usually ran with the last
remaining friend i had from high-school...
- so, what have you been up to?
- nothing...
     and he knew that i was scribbling like mad...
what's there to talk about when it comes to writing?!
last time i heard: you read what is written...
you don't talk about it...
hopefully the reading of something written goes
back into thinking and is not spoken of:
since the conventionality of everyday
formality of social-speech crushes anything delicate
that is born from i-ought-not-but-regardless-i-must!
it's a compulsion!

i went to the shop about 3 hours ago to buy an extra
bottle of cider because i knew: having read a little more than
usual i had to keep the Libra of conscience in place,
"conscience": never write more than you read...
and never read less than you write - so so...
          wow... FORK in the "ROAD"...
                        this is me replaying the opening of the song
TENET - the sound of the horn...
well... i didn't have a horn in the forest...
but i had my pagan statue... a dead white tree...
i left this little stick next to it... i used to walk this wood
more times than i can remember...
sometimes i walked into it bare-chested...
blind from the darkness, but somehow illuminated
by the moon... sat on a stump of wood...
silence... then a breaking of a branch...
not the sort of breaking of a branch still attached
to a tree... something stepped on it...
i wasn't alone... i froze but then ushered in my voice
to compliment a shared bewildered amazement:
that is not a foot of a man stepping on a branch...

in the same wood i saw my first GARMR...
would i really have to go with the flow
of a Christopher J. MacCandless?!
                                       if hell is going to send its hounds
out to meet me, it doesn't matter where that might
be... i don't need to visit the northern most parts
of Norway to find what i'm seeking...
and what i'm seeking i found: since i'm dragging what
needed to be found around...
it's not surprising that at Bower Wood i was
alleviating a traffic problem when
two does and about 5 fawns were causing havoc...
"havoc" in the night implies 3 cars pulling over...
me coming down from the hill running up to
the village of Havering-atte-Bower spotting one...
not caring if there was a stag nearby running
with the fawn which subsequently ensured
the two does and the rest of the fawns
started to gallop and disappeared into the Wood...

i wish i could make this stuff up...
but then again: i'm not jealous of people
who have seen the Galapagos Islands or the Maldives
or... ah... just recently...
i took that rat-above-rat-below trip on my bicycle
into central London... i said to myself:
circle round St. Paul's cathedral... nope...
not good enough... around the Old Bailey then...
o.k. - and i "prayed": please! not another flat tire!
hey presto! on my way back... a flat tire at Aldgate!
great! well... i walked this distance before...
i can walk it again... walking back...
passed the East London Mosque and then...
Allahu Akbar! a bicycle repair shop!

walked up - leaned the bicycle against the wall,
the Chinese guy said: just 10 minutes
(while he was fixing this Deliveroo rider's
electric bicycle) - no problem -
i took some times to each some gelatin sweets
and drink some water, looking at people,
i felt like i was in some exclusive club,
only cyclists allowed - it felt like a very urban
sensation that most punks must have felt,
or goths, standing out...
i paid too much compliments to those guys
in Cycle King bicycle shop in Chadwell Heath...
i knew the front tire was worn down,
but i thought: get the professional's opinion...
they would be more than willing to change
the inner-tube for the Nth time before telling me:
oh... you need to change the actual tyre...
how many times did i change the inner tube?
**** knows! milking it... ******* were milking it!
but this Chinese guy said outright plainly...
it's ****... i'll change it for you...
inner tube, tyre and labour... £55...
done!
               he changed it to a tyre that...
well... let's face it... 2nd gear front
and 4th, 5th 6th and 7th gears in the back...
i was whizzing past home... he said:
less width... more grip... for the grit...
   but at least he was ******* honest...
that's what i mean about a European's relationship
with the Asians... i'm honest, they're honest...
they're not some SCAM MERCHANT KNIGS
of NIGERIA: CNUT-MBAPPE typos...

oh... and it's not like anyone didn't notice
that Indian girls think they're the bomb?!
oh yeah... oh no, not the Muslim girls... those girls
are whipped into always staring down...
like white girls are whipped into peering into
their smart-phone screens and envisioning:
anything outside of inter-racial relationships is:
pederasty (loose term)... whatever it might me...
bulimic antics: not done properly, mind you...
not in the Roman style of training the oesophagus
to just spew on a whim: i.e. i ate too much...
apologies... i need to... ugh! ugh! ugh!
                      get ready the trampoline!
we're going to launch half-digested fish-heads!

now i'm happy... my Trek Merlin 5 is compatible...
fun... looking at that *** trying to chase me down
working my way down toward the Old Bailey...
Asian ceramic raven haired
no helmet... and never, never... ride a bicycle
in an urban environment minding
the sticker on the inside of a large vehicle:
BLIND SPOT... well... d'uh... so use the large
vehicle like a battering ram against all the gnats
of smaller vehicles... ride on the outside of the large
vehicle... always on the outside...
what are you, cyclist... a Hebrew forced by
the **** brown-shirts to walk in the gutter rather
than on the pavement?! what am i?
just because i'm a cyclist i'm no less a hazard
to a motorcyclist?! momentum, self-generated!
i like my legs... let me know when you're dealing
wheelies and whizzes on a ******* wheelchair...
until i have my legs... i'll be skimming through
traffic... Norman Davis might have called
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth God's Playground...
i think i'll call London my playground...
there's plenty to play with around here...

                 but for once i listened to my ego...
for some reason i didn't require a depth of the
Freudian secular trinity of the addition of superego
and id... i was just about to think about going to the brothel
but then my ego said: you're not feeling it...
and i wasn't... i still had to clean the kitchen up,
take the garbage out... i was oiling myself up...
"oiling": checking if i still had a 30 year old's hard-on
i stopped using the fake diet of ******* of
actors: disposable, unattainable...
i switched to: ROMANIAN AMATEUR ****...
well... it's what i'm going to get...
but i checked my hard-on too many times today...
checked, i.e. checked without climaxing...
checked about 4 times... the 5th time i checked
i was thinking about going to the brothel...
but then my ego (not my ego) checked me...
you're not going anywhere:

THE FICKLE MIND AND THE FIRM TRUTH
OF THE BODY...
the mind lies more times than the body cares to admit...
until, of course... the reality of body steps in
and the mind has to retreat... just as happened with
my excess drinking... i went to buy that extra bottle
of cider and waiting in the queue while a mother
with three daughters "****'s sake" the mother retorted
while the girls were undecided what else
to add to the basked i looked at the shelves
with all the spirits... no! no! no more whiskey!
no more *****! no more!
i checked my supposed "impotence" too many times
today... "impotence": more like being
insulted by the madam: beached-whale...
she just flicked it when it went limp because
i found her physically abhorrent...
flicked it... like it was a worm...
like she was 6 years old and i was 5 years old
and she was still playing with Barbie dolls
and unlike she was...
because she knew what a key was and what a keyhole
was... but she had no idea what
physical attraction was...

                        reciprocated...

well ****... it's working... guess it's not working with you...
a bit like the horse that Christopher Reeve rode
when it dropped him and recalculated Superman:
without a spine...
plus i had no excuse to leave the house...
i had plenty of excuses to read some more of Knausgaard
and write this...
tomorrow i'll have the excuse of "working late"...
going to a brothel is not like saying:
oh yeah... i'm going on a date with a girl
we're going to the cinema blah blah...
       no... dearest ******* Madam...
she's the one that chased away both Mona and Khadra...
what the **** happened?!

what am i? a Duracell bunny?! there's an ON and OFF
switch with regards to my phallus?!
if that's the case... what's the dynamic of ****?!
is ****... no... it can't be... **** is a man *******
a turned-off woman? i once had an experience
of a woman who... let's put it mildly:
her **** was as dry as the adequate metaphor
of sensation one might regret to feel from rubbing one's
hands on sandpaper!
hands... finger tips... rough skin...
ergo the ability to play guitar or rock climb...
we're talking tender skin...
so... technically: hardly a pleasure for a ****** to feel
pleasure from an unaroused ****!
ergo?! that was an aroused **** and it's all psychological:
not physical... the shame of giving it so freely
and unwillingly... whereas playing games with
those one might want to give it up to...
i can hardly **** with a LIMPY -
   but i certainly wouldn't want to **** a timber-mill worth
of toothpicks, match-sticks and left-overs...
**** is psychological it would seem...
                the shame of it... all those labyrinths of playing
games suddenly disappearing from the case of
"spontaneity"...
   you should ask her: South African... Sancha...
worked in a private school... teaching boys Mathematics...
maybe she was a *******... by now who knows?!
i do know that i wasn't terrible aroused by her
the first time we tried...
i got a limp... like i got a limp with Ilona:
a forewarning... but she was adamant and whispered
into my ear: you will not deny me...
second time i was in her teacher accommodation
i brought a copy of the Machinist with me on DVD...
she must have spiked my drink because then the horror
of cocoon *** ensued and that's when
she climbed on top of me and gave me the sawdust
sandpaper **** treatment in the dark...

it kind of follows through to the casual mode of
argumentation people have concerning the schizoid condition:
it's all in your mind...
right... so the schizoid condition is simply: so...
your i-think detaches itself from thought
and forms a i-hallucinate complex as if: spring follows winters?
well then... it's all in your mind...
**** is probably in most of women's minds...
it doesn't actually exist in reality:
in the physiology... **** is a mental construct...
it must be... since i don't recall any ******
talking about: oh ****... i had to pull out...
her **** turned into a mantis or the mouth
of a worm from the planet Dune... i just couldn't
continue!

the next day she drove me to the station and i never saw
her again...
ergo? i have a strange relationship with a limp ****...
it's not impotence: per se,
it's more a judge of character concerning a ******
partner: however brief, however informal...
it's like a wild animal freezing still...
     deer in the headlights...
                                      i should have known better
with Ilona... but she pressured to the point where it
finally started "working": i wish "he" didn't...
it would have saved me so much pointless drama...
if i were a man with a child i would tell him just as much:
it's not working for a reason...
that ***** is a mantis... you're not a robot...
this isn't a *****... you're not an extension of a *****...
it's not working for a reason...
go and check... watch the most realistic "*******":
switch to amateur stuff...
                                that's all you're going to get...
and can you, get it up? well then...
it's not you...
                                     once all the glamour is gone
and you're left with a butcher's cut of antics...
                              well... if you're aroused by that sort of stuff
in private... why can't the partner reciprocate?
maybe that's just me finalising some logistics for
tomorrow...
shift at the Ice Rink tomorrow...
me... two girls...
   one butch lesbian... she keeps rubbing off on my arms
every time the home side scores
and she's celebrating...
      one rub by chance i can understand... two rubs
and i'm thinking: this isn't homosexual conversion therapy,
is it?
the other? got me the job to begin with...
started taking dieting pills because she feels depressed
because she thinks she's fat and this is what
working with women looks like if you're not
in the business of being a plumber: in the realm of
customer service...
    
                 that's how this new girl i fancied at work
got fired... about 4 other girls ganged up on her
and she was literally bullied out of work because...
            
it's coming up to 1am... i need to get up early tomorrow...
do a cycling shift...
trim my mustache, my beard, my ***** region, my arm-pits...
finish one more bottle of cider for good luck:
or no luck...
           listen to some more pagan music...
think about Bower Wood and how i wish that if i weren't
working tomorrow
i'd buy myself a bottle of whiskey and walk
into it, right now... to howl and wake up the crows.

p.s. oh, right, that dream i had last night when
i didn't scribble any words for anyone else to see?
two night ago i was swimming with
pseudo-jelly fish on the edge of the universe
transmitting vibrations of light...
last night i was watching while some colts
were gleefully celebrating their ability to drink
shots of absinthe... until i walked up to the bar
and showed them how to drink absinthe
properly...
i took out a spoon, dipped the spoon in some
sugar... poured some absinthe onto the spoon...
lit the spoon and the sugar alight...
watched the caramel form...
then poured some water into the glass
to clue them in into the secret of drinking absinthe:
you don't drink absinthe like *****...
you need for the green-milk of wormwood
to emerge!
    sie müssen für die grünmilsch von wermut
zu auftauchen!
Branches just above me
Gold leaves like mother's jewels.
Surrounded by the sages of days gone by.
The wind was my instructor, my best and favorite teacher.
Her boughs they hid me from the world, but not the
World from me.
I felt the very beat of Earth
And basked in the embrace
Of the littlest maple tree.
Haruka Jun 2014
"There is no poetic beauty in pain."
I am learning this slowly.
My hands still shake when it's past 2 in the morning
and breathing isn't easy most nights.
I am not poignant with my words
and some days it's hard to get out of bed.

This is my adolescence:
A tangled mess of dismantled almosts
and empty promises scribbled messily on the back of restaurant napkins.
It's stolen kisses in sleepy coffee shops,
failing chemistry,
driving recklessly,
and staying up late on lonely nights to watch the sunrise.

There are days where I'm convinced life shines
with a brilliance unknown to me,
so I continue on and live for those days.
Those days where breathing comes a little easier and I remind myself
that everything happens for a reason.
I hope you find these days where all you know is basked in a vibrance you've only read about.

Live for those days.
Live for me.
Pete Marshall Feb 2010
Perched high upon this jutting cliff

The flint stood hard upon my feet

I lay with lizards and basked in warmth

As beneath the waves rose & swirled

-

Across the bay the castle walls

That stand in time & in a time

Many have been and dabbled in myths

To take the steps and do the climb.

-

Below the sea strikes on the rocks

And hides the cave where magic lies

As people wait for tides to drift

And venture down in search of quartz

-

The rolling slopes and ragged crags

Engulf the isle that now lays calm

Where once was death and battles fought

And magic brought the golden one

-

Behind my back stands Barras Nose

Who’s clash is vain with battling seas

As heat comes down and warms my soul

I lowered my head in prayer for thee

-

Whilst lost in thought of fallen foe

And knights that fought upon this spot

Of myths & legends within my heart

What was the power that turned the key

-

And waves that flow forever on

Like time can drift and so can life

Today I laid upon this cliff

And breathed the air absorbed as one

-

My eyes look out across this place

The colours that fester upon the land

From grass & rock & sand & sea

And birds that swoop in endless song


-


And those before and yet to come

Like beating rhythms within my mind

To find a place that brings you peace

As reality calls and beckons you home
First published on Authspot 2nd Feb 2010
Pierre Ray Feb 2012
It was written in the beginning, a beginning before Britain, before folklore, gore and war. A beginning then, when the lords created, decorated and separated the night and also the bright, bright light. Therefore, a delight! In the beginning, creating the seven ways of days and the rays. The birth of earth, the black ravens, the havens and the heavens. A beginning of clean slates, dreams, schemes and themes!

As I blink and wink, badly and sadly I think… An ending, with fate or an ending with no ascending or commending date? Let’s debate and negotiate! A beginning, of Pharaohs, their arrows and the sparrows. An ending of sorrow? A beginning, borrowed from our hour’s tomorrow? An ending, I deem, that forever bends, defends, depends, pretends and never, ever seems to end. The heavens specialties and

hell’s cruelties. Governments and their restraints! Negative and positive lengths and strengths. A beginning and an ending; betrayed and strayed, long before many of us were to play or say. Stories of cities, glories and their pities! Starving nations and Haitians! Expensive vacations and relations! The elapsed and relapsed! Perhaps, the mishaps and disruption of our corruption’s eruption and ending

destruction? Hey! I say, let’s turn a page past the basked, the masked and vast. A fold past the cages that enrage-rage, wage and old age.
The detained delights, the petty fights and plights. Why can’t we each reunite? Unite forever! Drop and stop this harm and fight. Fly into the night, together with our almighty arms and mighty charms. Primarily, in the beginning or ending, let us not negatively but too positively and ultimately amend! Children, men and women, amen.
Sestina

Since time’s morning we all have seen the tower
In the far corners of each eye—
Its shape, its presence, was constant
And dark and cold as its steel pillars,
Which linked the earth to the aloft
As it left its hidden peak among the clouds.

How light and fragile seemed those clouds,
Yet how strong, as they embraced the pillars
Far above the common watcher’s eye
As if their undulations were what kept aloft
The gray, unmoving tower,
The only scaffolds to hold it constant.

But nothing in the cosmos is truly constant,
And nothing in the earth stays perpetually aloft,
Even the pillars
Of the groaning tower
As the wisps of the clouds
Began to pull away from the reach of the tower’s eye.

And how it burst, that eye
Of the suddenly trembling tower
As, from their place aloft
The fading clouds
Heard a promise of “I have always been constant”
From the hoarse vibrations of the mercury pillars.

But the wisps could not be persuaded, and the pillars
Erupted in a terrible shriek as the clouds
Strove to leave the tower
With a peaceful message as the constant
Jettisons from the tower’s erupting eye
Could not remain aloft.

Built, shaped, constructed to hold itself aloft,
No one considered that the tower could not stay constant
Upon the dissipation of those clouds—
First fell, screaming, the eye
And then the buckled, madly clawing pillars,
And so collapsed the tower.

And still the tower’s wreckage remains at the edge of our eye,
The constant twisting, twitching of the pillars,
As they feebly reach to the aloft and the faded strands of the clouds.


Villanelle

This is the tower’s story,
Witnessed by my truthful kin,
Such as it was told to me.

A desperate pursuit made he
After his love, to save him
This. Is the tower’s story

More than it had seemed to be?
What’s about’s seldom within,
Such as it was told to me.

Even though an elegy,
A tale of truth beneath skin
This is. The tower’s story

Is harsh memento mori
For a soul who’s always been—
Such as it was told to me.

Was such a thing meant to be?
Surely, not to have been seen.
This is the tower’s story,
Such as it was told to me.



Sonnet

I heard recountings of profound despair,
About a man with eye and tongue of brass.
The day before, I’d seen his icy stare;
The evening next, his story came to pass.

How strange, distressing, were those words to hear
Of how his love accepted death’s kind call;
The screaméd pleas and how he drew her near—
Unheard, unseen, his anguish wrings my soul.

The image of his twisted countenance
Within my mind—his visage turned to red—
Invades my every thought. What cruel romance,
How he caressed her hands as she lay dead.

And how that icy stare seems now to me—
What once was brass is naught but mercury.


Pantoum**

He would do all to be with her
As he pleaded,
Clinging to her arms
Like a lost child.

And he pleaded,
His eyes streaming
Like a lost child’s,
And told her,

“Is my screaming
Not enough to stop you?”
And, bolder,
“I can’t let you go.”

“What’s enough to stop you
From telling me,
‘I can’t let you know?’”
She starkly asked.

“You’re telling me
What I have never said;
Be stark—we basked
In trust and love;

What have I ever said
That burns enough to turn
Our trust and love
To pain and death?”

“The worlds so roughly turn—
We could not stop the dread machines
Of pain and death
As long as we live.”

He could not stop the dread machines—
Clinging to her arms,
How long could he live?
He would do all to be with her.
All four of these poems are written from the perspective of a fictional poet about two other characters of mine. Technically a school assignment, these will be very helpful for the story itself.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
Nat Lipstadt     3 hours ago

your answer to my caring but simple "checking in with you" inquiry, overwhelmed me and I have required days to fully comprehend the textured life of a man who see everything in color combinations that deserve recording in whatever medium his heart chooses. Time was needed, time to summon up the courage to reply with smithy-crafted, wright-shaped words that honor your honed skill.

my heart is gladdened by your inescapable ability (no, you cannot escape it) to perceive the values of life external and internal, that make your poetry a symbolic representation of all that is fine in the most aweome title that one can award ones self, human.

I am well aware that life has never given you a flush in the cards you were dealt. Nonetheless in e v e r y word you have written you have betrayed yourself as a loving man, appreciative of nature's gifts, and reenforcing them with fresh perspectives.

i make no pretense anymore; all poetry writing is a personal ledger kept, by which we daily, almost constantly, measure ourselves and record the small moments that sum up who we were, are and who we desire yet to be. Thus, indifference by others, no matter why, oft leads to a misleading sense of lesser self worth.

I well recall years ago reading your poetry here and ******* air in gulps as I basked in your lush attentiveness to the world in which we co-exist.
I even praised myself, by keeping your company.

You do not seek praise for self, but our shared gods have made our paths cross, so that like Abraham arguing with God not to destroy the evil cities of ***** and Gemorrah, if he can but find even just ten worthy men, so do I pray to anything, anyone, anywhere, I pray, if almost for selfish reasons, that your urge to write, to share, to see beyond the loveliest surfaces of our world and let others rest upon them, and to gift them to an almost,  undeserving  but needy world, never finds the Isle of Surcease.

If one man presses his claims upon the scales that judge your life, then all the weight of worth I load upon one side, in your favor, to beg you, let this single man's devotion to your cause, living with all the good and the sad that is therein contained, be sufficient to persuade that you must never suffer easily the delusion that your poetry is lacking  in any manner to prevent your sharing.

If not here,
then tell me where we can find each other's "instant messages" of recorded moments, that you uniquely supply.

I cannot ever obtain a good understanding of your perfect storm of the last seven years, but what you shared here and in every word you have ever writ, like my prayer here and the ones I have yet to utter, let them all, letter by letter, rise thru and up like the mists of dawn, travel gently upon the slow currents of our rivers, to reach you well received and by any deity,  willing to let us lend a hand.

Re demons, we defeat them or at least negate them, even temporarily through writing. Another reason to share your work, if even one sole solitary reader, gasps for air when reading you, if but one sheds tears at the human kindness you to continue to disclose in the quilt of quality of your works, to lift one soul's weighted-down heart, you have to, must,
feel obligated to share.

I have no more words to plead, so I will arrogant demand of you to accept this one fan, one devotee, one lover of your skill at capturing and then releasing, your words ever glow in this man's essence, as both necessary and sufficient.

forever yours,

nml
My message to another poet whose work was simply magnificent, but who has ceased to post and woefully, has deleted too many...

October 23, 2015

5:30 am
As I pour you stories from my memory’s cup
Comes out another childish tale of a wolf pup!

One wolf pup dad was telling me for weeks
He would bring home I was five or six
Would you bring it Dad from the forest?
No dear I’ll get for you from the market.

Ah a wolf pup not just having a dog or a cat
Only in our home how wonderful would be that
When it grew up what a sight that would be
It would cuddle me and growl at my enemy
Unleashed it would roam our home all night
As neighbor’s envy and the burglar’s plight
Our neighborhood accustomed to the night owl
Would now reverberate with a wolf’s howl!

I basked for days in warm glow of pride
Imagining a large wolf walking by my side
Each night after dad left for his night shift
I spent sleepless dreaming his morning’s gift
Each morning as soon as I heard him call
I ran to him to see if had arrived the furry ball.

Days came and went and dad could sense
His child was nearing the end of patience
One night leaving as he kissed my forehead
Told me dear son the pup is fully made
Don’t worry you’ll have it on the next day
A child trusts his dad that’s what they say.

I stayed awake the whole night with the night owl
Cuddling a big wolf in my ears its booming howl!

By now you know what happened I never got the gift
Someone else had taken it my memories only drift!
Tryst Feb 2016
Love is not lust tho' lust may lead to love
As seedlings basked in sunlight spring to flowers,
Young blooms may make a golden treasured trove
Where tender tulips kiss in huddled bowers

Love ripens like straw-nested berry fields,
Plump, juicy, flavoursome, and blushing red
As nature's bounteous sweet harvest reveals
Her shapely form resplendent in her bed

Love is an acorn to the mighty oak,
Deep-rooted and unbounded by the sky;
Love ripples like a genteel puddled cloak
Laid bare to keep a silken petal dry

    Love is but love and life is but to love:
    So poets write and lovers seek to prove
Unknown Oct 2014
There was this feeling
That the people once called love
They described it as
Untouchable
Unavoidable
Spiritual
Sensual


Life


A storm basked along the horizon
On one particular day
Supernova came
And she told the world to be still
And

know

And everything was quiet after that

There was the color red
As heat bled
From open sores in the sky
And mercy
Pulled a knife from it's spine

Those unscathed
Would often shake fists in the air
Heads turned upwards
And open voices to a stranger
For whom they blamed
Armageddon

Not a whisper responded
Nor did despair
Cease to charge

Love no longer had a place
Alas, hatred had eaten her heart
All that is left
Is but a husk
Of an echo
Of a memory
It is nothing





*Dust
Dual meaning.
Winter Silk Jul 2014
The fire slowly died out in the cool, gentle ocean breeze.
It was a time that was deep into the night, the light bulbs have long been inactive, the tents stood like shaking, young trees in the wind, and the people inside them were happily locked into a deep sleep.
I shifted slightly in my sleeping bag, casting my gaze towards the heavens as I basked in illuminating starlight.
The moon had hidden itself that night, allowing me to see the sky in its true colors. I let out a breath formed of great contentment and pure amazement as I marveled at the splashes of red mixed with faint greens that were highlights of the blue and black canvas above me.
I smiled as a temporarily remembered my conviction for sleeping outside of a tent that night, because as I lay down in that pristine, sandy beach, I felt every care and trouble spill from my heart and into the sand, falling through the grains and going farther and farther away from me.
At that moment, I was nothing more than a wandering sailor on a sleeping bag galleon, exploring an ocean of stars in a realm of peaceful loneliness, where only the astral bodies lit my way.
Still, something was weighing me down.
Even when I was so far away, and so alone, I felt you beside me.
Even when I was king of the stars,
I was still a peasant without the queen of space.
Found this in one of my old journals.
I took the time and liberation to type it down, because the words and descriptions seemed pretty enough to be here.
Also, she was the "queen of space" because she always seemed so far from me and so close to me at the same time. Yes, she defies space on a regular basis.
TL;DR You can be alone, lost in your own world, but love will always find you.
Bay and beach
Wind and waves
Sun and sand
Tools of play
And pools of pleasure
To herald rock and roll
Held me on one fine funny day

Whipping gripping sun
Running rolling waves
Breezing sprucing spray
Cuddling cradling swing
Seesaw Sea, a scene to see  

An ebony boy for joy
Curled n’ squirreled
And scrubbed shiny sand
Made of wet velvet waves
Basked and bathed
Bathed and basked
And on and on and so on
Bath n’ bask filled his day

Cheerful crowd on a wild boating spree  
Expert loner on his confident bouts
With batting waves for surfing thrill
All and sundry kindred, rid of color or creed  
Joined n’ enjoyed nature’s extravaganza

Tots trotting helter-skelter
Splashing on slippery waves
Jubilant lads fad of hackney ride
Wayward youth awkward way forward
Trespassing bikini lasses passing by

Receding light inked in crimson red
Dipped glowing globe at the far end of sea
Paving way to the emerging coolant moon
To shower his delightful light for rest of night
Antoinette G Sep 2015
Calm and Peaceful
With sky a stormy gray
She stood and beheld
The vibrant green
Of the fields
Which her homestead lay
And in the distance
She gazed upon
A sea with rough and crashing wave
Its once crystal waters
Now churned angrily
Sending forth a frothy white spray
She standing on a cliff
That was so far away
Basked in the tranquility of the moment
Not worrying what would happen soon, at any moment
With a BOOM of thunder
With a flash of lightning
The storm began
And her one special moment
Was gone never to come back
The once peaceful countryside
Was torn asunder
With this storms mighty blows
And it was so hard to believe
That just moments ago
It had been such a different scene
In which to observe
And as the stormed raged on
The girl watched the rain fall
The thunder BOOM
And the lightning call
And she remembered those moments
Those quiet ones
And she treasured them
She treasured them most of all
I feel like we all feel like this sometimes
iridescent Nov 2014
After all this time, I have learnt to write in the dark. See, this jukebox plays every night and it wouldn’t shut up no matter the pounds I fed. Such is the night of a writer; it goes on shuffle and repeat. And sometimes I hear your voice. Most times, it sounded like folding a picture of us and keeping it in the pockets of a stranger’s jeans, probably ending up tumbled and dried. I ask myself if it could have been a painted canvas. It’s just the thought of you that haunts me at night. If you ever do heart to heart talks, let’s talk about haunted houses. Some people get out of it; some don’t; some re-enter just for the thrill of it. I might be all three and I might not be the most played song in your playlist. I have tried several times to write about you, but none of them sounded right when I read them out loud. Some may write what they believe and some may write to believe; I might or might not be both. If I survived writing this prose, how could I be sure if it was your voice haunting me or if you were just a house I sought refuge in? The Northern Lights stays in the Aurora Zone; no one said that they’d ever Go West. Your skin on mine was like a child holding on to candy, I never wanted to let you go. When I wake, I only wonder if you have ever missed me at 3a.m.. I could make a mixtape titled: I heard you in these songs. But you were one who basked in the light. So I guess it’s safe to say that what was written in the dark stays in the dark.
ryn Nov 2018
These hands...
Cast of clay.

Had basked in the sun.
Deepened lines marked their faces
and enlarged cracks marred their backs.

Rough and matured.
They spoke the language of old
and hid the ancient ruins of the past.

Held together.
Side by side,
they clenched the fantastical ideals of today.

However,
uncertain and pulled apart...
The future just falls away - a ghost.
A mirage that eludes grasp and capture.
Sofia Mar 2016
in a cathedral of my own making
i am dust basked in sun light
with hands stretched out
to love the pillars
that have held me up
when the stained glass windows
were celebrated for the
light they let in
and the most divine part of me
the cracks of my temple at
the bottom of my spine were
left to widen like horizons
begging to be spread farther
were left like myths untold
but all the stories are true
and the smallest parts of me
are not fables and myths
left to keep your imagination
alive and you afloat
the smallest parts of me
are particles that have
held me up longer
than you have
and i may be alone
just as many of us are
but who has time to
count a star
when astronomers count
galaxies on the tips of their fingers
and i am but an atom of the universe
just as we all are
Shook out your memories
Pennies from a piggy bank
Tucked in between couch cushions
From your first home

Old age has kissed your skin
Basked you in the gleam
Of the unknown

But tucked in your creases
Lie memories
To lead you home

Who you were
Is not unrecoverable
Forever preserved
In our hearts
Because I won't forget you even when you forget me.
352

Perhaps I asked too large—
I take—no less than skies—
For Earths, grow thick as
Berries, in my native town—

My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—
Those—dangle easy—on my arm,
But smaller bundles—Cram.
III Sep 2018
Curled up together
On your couch,
Our hands intertwined,
Our backs
Against the hollow hum
Of Halloween's breeze
Lingering through
Dancing drapes
With dizzy dips
Before the cracked-window audience,

And the sun playfully peaked
Over the graceful dying trees
That lined suburban streets,
Looming over pumpkin
Patterned leaves, basked in
The approaching gloom of
Dusk,

And while the night
Tied that present to this memory,
I remember the scruff of your
Auburn hair against my nose,
The bewitching draw of
Some vague fragrance
My addict lungs yearn to
Breath once more,

And now,
With each passing October,
Autumn leaves never seem more alluring.
Eriko Aug 2016
There is something about it
The inexplicable curve in the diet
Swimming in pink grapefruit,
Sharing the stunted manifestation
Of a slice of clementine Gouda cheese
The way, the solace in a lone glass of wine
Chilled iced, purged crayfish
Flushed from the brittle salt basked seas
From the callused knuckle of stony fisherman
Casting out at the crackling array of dawn
With the waters brimming at the hulk
And the mast scraping it's white and red tusks
The fisherman who left at dawn
Leaving his beloved steeped in slumber...
Allowing her eyes flutter to the beam of pink salmon
And there is just something about it,
Pulsing from the faint flicker of overhanging bulbs
A writer stoops over a sliver of miracle
Purged from the raw etched in his vast chest
The very act of describing compassion & sin
With the ink soaked mechanism of his typewriter
The legacy of a young girl
Who wasn't meant to save the world
But to find it, the humanity whisked away,
Drowned perhaps by whiskey and alcohol
Eyesights deterred from the long lone walk
Pocketed with threats and head shakes
The writer's fingers fly,
And funny how there is something about it
How it doesn't end in full circle
That we lack the great capacity
To seize the flesh of truce
So distilled we sail,
So perturbed we write,
So empty we feast
Never quite knowing
That elemental presumption
Of something more

— The End —