Judas betrayed Christ with a kiss.
As a confidant, Brutus stuck
the knife in.
The betrayers are
out there,
thick as buzzards,
waiting to crush your
dreams, like crackers for
their big bowls of bones.
At least Jesus knew what
was coming.
I can't tell my
friends from my enemies.
Someday soon, Ill find
peace of mind, and the
betrayers will feast on
themselves.
They always do.

Is such a big and impossible to miss step for a scribbler
of poetry free poems to trip over.
A step that cannot be ignored, except consciously and conscientiously.
Such a person as a scribbler of poetry less poems would be a person who cannot tell the difference between truth and truthfulness.
A person whose sole raison d,etre in pretending to be a poet is their lifelong angst in being unable to escape from being under the control of  their mind and its operating system --the Conditioned Identity.
The Conditioned Identity,which is the facetious and morally dishonest "I am a poet" mask that is the consciously adopted Conditioned Identity--the operating system for the Mind.
In the great scheme of things becoming just another member of the human GroupMind--one who doesn't count--not even on the fingers of one hand-.
One,who,in the grand scheme of things,never has counted and never will count-call them countless.
Shadows that flicker and dim on the walls of the Prison of political, racial,national,familial and religious conformity
And these worthless scribblers of poetry less poems do have an all consuming conditioned habit  of consciously ignoring truthfulness and integrity and substituting pathetic sub-teen lower middle class emo whinging "truth"--about their "art" and "insight"and "vision"and their "truth"--always their worthless "truth".
Sitting and mourning the fulfilling love that always evades them and always will evade them--unless they let go of the conditioned identity and the Mind--consigning them to the dustbin of history--where they rightfully belong.
Angst ridden whingers all--in love with their image in the mirror of Minds oh so believable deception.
Scribbling about a conditional possessive love that would have been a valueless truth but never can be the essence of truthfulness.
A conditional possessive love that never was and never will be unconditional and non-possessive.
Whinging about nothing more than conditional love and a truthfulness that never can be for them--- as we see openly here and there and everywhere there are scribblers of poetry less "poetry" who use sites such as this to scribble their pretentious infantile nonsense.
Poverty of values and integrity,orphaned from the Isness of the Universe, children of worthless technological consumerism and followers of false oligarchic hopes.
With their greedy gobs open for any crumbs falling from the rich peoples tables,like baby chicks in the nest--feed me feed me they screech.
Colluding with like minded betrayers of truthfulness,groupminds of
limp wristed bombastic poseurs.
Deluding themselves by babbling media made inane celebrities
empty insights and twisted conclusions--purveyors of puerile pettiness.
Oligarchic media celebrities noted only for the illusions between their ears,and the beguiling way they collude with each other to delude themselves.
Ludare!
Oh how they love to play mind games
Lives spent colluding with these babbling worthless celebrities who know the price of everything and the value of nothing,
Pompous posturing pretentious pissants of aesthetic poverty.
Bound together into a worldwide consumers Groupmind,
persuaded by perverts of PR into believing in the Illusion of Wealth and Demockery that the Oligarchy sells.
To step over the truthfulness threshold is,indeed, to  leave behind their
security blankets of "truth and beauty and revealed knowledge"
and the concomitment meaningless verbiage about "veracity" and "existence".
Shallow and unrequited attempts to own another that the weak and unwanted call "love".
Stomping through the quagmire of conditional love
up to their necks in the **** of consumer garbage.
The Conditional love of possessing another and grasping at thin air
as they submerge slowly in the seas of righteous stupidity .
poets cling to their misconceptions religiously,
poets cling to their ignorance avidly,
poets cling to their proto-fascist politics squeamishly,
with each word and stanza that they write.
Pouring out such pleasant and elegant and flowery and "deep"
words and verses(rhyming or not) that,at their core,
have only one meaning and aim.
Which is!.
To divert and confuse their readers with the"shallow beauty"
of endless strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding words .
To create a groupmind for their poetry business products.
Admire me--buy my product--join my groupmind--eulogise me,
let me rip off your energy--I need your praise,I need your lifes energy
gimme your money honey!.
The Publishing Oligarchy will bestow rewards and honours,
medals and diplomas--critiques fit only to wipe your **** on.
Book sales and the summer Poetry festival circuit--reciting and signing scribbles of narcissism--casting lecherous eyes over dripping **** or stiff wobbling **** in the adoring crowd of sycophants.
The  Media will fawn and adulate and cast its sly net
to entangle your desires in ---infamy awaits.
Come admire me and my use of other poets stolen words,
my criminality in even daring to think the word "poet" has any value.
These are my words about my inexperience and unknowingness they scream possessively in jaundiced teeny remembrance.
Remembrance of mediocre middle class homes and attitudes
of ingrained ignorance and wilful imagined self victimisation.
Eating societies poisoned dishes--.
Serve me up a burger of roasted babies on toast
from Vietnam--live on Channel Whatever.
Or chargrilled peasants from Afghanistan
with breathless commentary from
our "reporter on the spot".
Or homeless mental wrecks from the streets
of any Amerikan or World city big or small,
trailing acerbic criticism from the immoral majority.
Or dead celebrity  consumer junkies in 5 star hotels
complete with PR handouts and **** licking "friends"
positioning themselves for increased sales.
Or the children of the Oligarchs with their "I" newspapers
and inbuilt fascist attitudes.
Who spend their shallow lives hoping for the kind
of meaningless and worthless Honours and Validation
from those that do not have honour or validity..
Or the not just lame but crippled duck presidents with their finely crafted speeches that say nothing but I am a beard wearing  failure,
looking forward to penning lies and calling it a frank memoir
while holding out my hands  for the Oligarchies pennies.
Can anyone tell me where to get a bucket of truthfulness?.
A glass of honesty?.
A tumbler full of veracity?.
A beaker of back breaking honest labour?.
Can anyone tell me where I can find
a peaceful man or woman,of any of the 5 colours.
Not those merely observing a Cease-Fire
while they rearm their weapons of the lies of beauty and truth.
Oligarchy allowed social commentary.
Is there just one decent truthful man or woman out there?.
Judging by the world Id say not.
No Id say not.
Not.
There Ive said it.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

If someone, you trusted the most betrays you.
People blame you for trusting him "Blindly"
and also quote "Trust No One".

But have you ever seen anyone pointing their fingers
at the person who betrayed you, looking him in the eye
and asked him why would he do that to you
or how dare he betray you or anyone?

No! right?
I feel, the people, the society encourages this betrayal and the betrayers.
If anything such happens around you,
stop giving free pieces of advice and
stop backing him(the betrayer) up.
You better warn the betrayer not to betray anyone
and also quote "BETRAY NO ONE"

What kinda foolish statement is "Trust no one"?
How can you not trust anyone?
So everything you do is just drama!
Acting like you trust him/her,
that's where these betrayers come from.
They are you, who sit silently when betrayal happens
You got to trust! Nothing works without trust!
Why is it, not trusting anyone even an option?
Let's say let's "BETRAY NO ONE"

how fast we give up
to the thought
and tomorrow shadow
covers us up
but we had set off the place
not existing on the maps
from a shore like a pigeon
we kiss the eyelids of the death
but those ones in the mirror we don’t dare
and drown into our voices
till Marathon is an attack
of a heart
but who will be the messenger
for us

the betrayers

The original:

предателите

как бързо се предаваме
пред мисълта
и сянката на утре
ни затрупва
а тръгнахме от място
несъществуващо на картите
от бряг подобно гълъб
целуваме на мъртвите клепачите
а тези в огледалото не смеем
и давим се в гласовете си
до Маратон е удар
на сърце
но кой ще бъде пратеника
за нас

предателите

*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.

ESSAYS ON
LEADERSHIP FRONTIERS OF AFRICAN LITERATURE
By
Alexander   k   Opicho




Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents                                                                                                                Page
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE 4
THE CURRENT EAST AFRICA IS NOT A LITERARY DESERT 27
AFRICAN WRITERS HAVE CULTURAL RIGHTS TO FORMULATE AND CREATE ENGLISH WORDS 31
LIKE PUSHKIN, AFRICAN WRITERS MUST CREATE THEIR OWN PROFFESSION OF LITERATURE 35
THERE IS POWER IN THE NAME ‘ALEXANDER’ 40
KENYAN COURTS AND PARLIAMENT ARE BETRAYERS OF HUMANE GOVERNANCE 47
AFRO-CHRISTIAN RESPONSE TO RADICAL LITERATURE IS GOOD AND SWAGGERISH 50
YUNUS’S SOCIAL BANKING IS A GOOD BENCHCMARK FOR THIRD WORLD ENTREPRENEURS 54
HEROISM IS NOT GREATNESS BUT HUMILITY IN SERVICE TO HUMANITY 57
KENYAN STUDENTS; YOUR MOBILE INTERNET CULTURE IS ANTI- ACADEMICS 61
WHAT IS THE MAGIC IN THE WORD ‘DRINKARD’ OF AMOS TUTUOLA 63
SOCIETIES IN AFRICA HAVE TO MENTOR BUT NOT CONDEMN THE LIKES OF JULIUS MALEMA 66
AMERICA WILL NOT WIN THE WAR ON GLOBAL TERRORISM 69
AFRICA CAN OVERCOME A MENACE OF **** IN EVERY 30 MINUTES 71
COMPARATIVE ROLES OF AFRICAN-BRAZILIAN LITERATURE IN THE POLITICS OF RACIAL AND GENDER DEMOCRACY 76
NEO-COLONIALISM IS NOT THE MAIN VICE TO THE GAMBIAN POLITICS 85
RELATIVE MEDIA OBJECTIVITY IS ACHIEVEABLE IN AFRICA AGAINST POWER CULTURE AND TYRANNIES OF TASTE 89
READING CULTURE IS GOOD FOR BOTH THE POOR AND THE RICH 96
VIOLENT DEATH IS THE BANE OF AFRICAN WRITERS AND ARTISTS 100
AFRICAN WRITTERS AND ARTISTS MUST ASPIRE BEYOND A NOBEL PRIZE 104
WHAT ARE CULTURAL RIGHTS OF AFRICAN ENGLISH SPEAKERS? 109
WHY IMPRISONMENT OF WRITERS CONTRIBUTED MOST TO AFRICAN LITERATURE 113
DORIS LESSING: A FEMINIST, POET, NOVELIST, WHITE-AFRICANIST AND NOBELITE UN-TIMELY PASSES ON 121
Amilcar Cabral: Beacon of revolutionary literature and social democracy 127
How the State of Israel is brutally dealing with African refugees 131
Historical glimpses of language dilemma in Afro-Arabic literature 146
THIS YEAR 2013; IS THE YEAR OF GREAT DEATHS 153
AFRICAN LITERATURE WITHOUT POETRY IS LIKE LOVE WITHOUT VAGINAL *** 156



















PROLOGOMENA
BARRACK OBAMA READS MOBY ****
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
American president is reading Moby ****
Ja-kogello is reading Moby ****
Ja-siaya is reading Moby ****
Ja-merica is reading Moby ****
Jadello is reading Moby ****
Ja-buonji is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his father
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his mother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death to his brother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took the grannies
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman  
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Baba Michelle is reading Moby ****
Baba Sasha is reading Moby ****
Baba Malia is reading Moby ****
Baba nya-dhin is reading Moby ****
Sarah’s sire is reading Moby ****
Ja-sharia is reading Moby ****
The ****** is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes audacity of hope
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes dreams of fathers
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes yes we can
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes American dream
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you readings?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because American president is like whale hunting
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Obama is a money making animal
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Osama is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Gaddaffi is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because coming to Kenya is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Guantanamo prison is a bay of whales
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Snowden is a Russian whale
Because launching drones is whale riding
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading, Moby ****?














CHAPTER ONE
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE

I am writing this article from Kenya on this day of 23 September 2013 when the Al shabab, an Arabo-Islamic arm of the global terrorist group the Al gaeda have lynched siege on the shopping mall in Nairobi known as the West Gate where an average of forty people have been killed and a hundreds are held hostage. The media is full of horrendous and terrifying images. They have made me to hate this day. I hate terrorism, I hate American foreign policy on Arabs, I hate philosophy behind formation of the state of Israel and I equally hate religious fundamentalism. Also on this date, all the media and public talks in Kenya are full of intellectual and literary tearing of one Kenyan by another plus a retort in the equal measure as a result of the ripples in the African literature pool whose epicenter is the Professor Taban Lo Liyong .He is an epicenter because he had initially decried literary mediocrity among the African scholars and University professors, Wherein under the same juncture he also quipped that Kenya’s doyen of literature Ngugi wa Thiong’o never deserved a Nobel prize. Liyong’s stand has provoked intellectual reasons and offalities to fly like fireworks in the East African literary atmosphere among which the most glittering is Chris Wanjala’s contrasting position that; who made Liyong the prefect and ombudsman of African literature? This calls for answers. Both good answers and controversial responses. Digging deeper into the flesh of literature as often displayed by Lo Liyong.
Liyong is not a fresher in the realm of literary witticism. He is a seasoned hand .Especially when contributions of Liyong to east African literary journal during his student days in the fifties of the last century during which he declared east Africa a literary desert. In addition to his fantastic titles; Another ****** Dead and The Un-even Rips of Frantz Fanon, Professor Taban Lo Liyong also humorously called Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus, what a farcical literary joke? I also want to appreciate this Liyong’s artfulness of language in this capacity and identify him in a literary sense as Taban Matiyong Lo   Liyong the son of Eshu. He is an ideological and literature descended of the great West African Eshu. Eshu the god of trouble which was dramatized by Obutunde Ijimere in the imprisonment of Obadala and also recounted by Achebe in the classical essays; Morning Yet of Creation Day. I call him Eshu because of his intellectual and literary ability to trigger the East and West Africans into active altercation of literary, cultural and political exchanges every other time he visits these regions. Whether in Lagos, Accra or Nairobi.
Now, in relation to Ngugi and intellectual quality of Kenyan University literature professors was Liyong right or wrong?  Does Liyong’s stand-point on Ngugi’s incompetence for Nobel recognition and mediocrity in literary scholarship among Kenyan Universities hold water. Are Liyong’s accusations of East Africa in these perspectives factually watertight and devoid of a fallacy of self-aggrandizement to African literary prefecture as Professor Chris Wanjala laments. Active literary involvement by anyone would obviously uncover that ;It is not Liyong Alone who has this intellectual bent towards East Africa, any literary common sense can easily ask a question that; Does Ngugi’s literary work really deserve or merit for Nobel recognition or not ? The answers are both yes and no. There are very many of those in Kenya who will readily cow from the debate to say yes. Like especially the community of alumni of the University of Nairobi who were Ngugi’s students in the department of English in which Ngugi was a Faculty during the mid of the last century. Also the general Kenyan masses who have been conditioned by warped political culture which always and obviously confine the Kenyan poor into a cocoonery of chauvinistic thought that Ngugi should or must win because he is one of us or Obama must win because he is one of us or Kemboi must win because he is the son of the Kenyan soil. These must also be the emotional tid-bits upon which the Kenyan Media has been based to be catapulted into Publicity feat that Ngugi will win the Nobel Prize without reporting to the same Kenyan populace the actual truths about other likely winners in the quarters from the overseas. I am in that Kenyan school thought comprising of those who genuinely argue that Ngugi’s literary work does not befit, nor merit, nor deserve recognition of Nobel Prize for literature. This position is eked on global status of the Nobel Prize in relation to Ngugi’s Kikuyu literary and writing philosophy. It is a universal truth that any and all prizes are awarded on the basis of Particular efforts displayed with peculiarity. Nobel Prize for literature is similarly awarded in recognition of unique literary effort displayed by the winner. It is not an exception when it comes to the question of formidability in a particular effort. However, the most basic literary virtue to be displayed as an overture of the writer is conversion of theory into practice. This was called by Karl Marx, Hegel, Antonio Gramsci and Paulo Freire, especially in Freire’s  pedagogy of the oppressed as praxis.History of literature and politics in their respective homogenous and comparative capacities has it that ;There has been eminent level of praxis by previous Nobelites.Right away from Rabitranathe Tagore to Wole Soyinka, From Dorriss Lessing to Wangari Mathai.Similar to JM Coatze ,Gao Tziaping,Alexander Vasleyvitch Solzhenystisn and Baraka Obama.This ideological stand of praxis is the one that made Alfred Nobel himself to to stick to his gun of intellectual  values and deny Leo Tolstoy the prize in 1907 because there was no clear connection between rudimentary Tolstoy in the nihilism and Feasible Tolstoy in the possible manner  of the times .In a similar stretch Ngugi wa Thiongo’s literary works and his ideological choices are full of ideological theory but devoid of ideological praxis. Evidence for justification in relation to this position is found back in the 70’s and 80’s of the last century, When Ngugi was an active communist theoretician of Kenya. His stature as a Kenyan communist ideologue could only get a parallel in the likes of Leon Trotsky and Gramsci. This ideological stature was displayed in Ngugi’s adoration of the North Korean communism under the auspice of the Korean leader Kim Yun Sung. This is so bare when you read Ngugi’s writers in politics, a communist pamphlet he published with the African red family. By that time this pamphlet was treated equally as Mao tse Tung’s collected works by the Kenya government which means that they were both illegal publications and if in any case you were found with them you would obviously serve nine months in prison. And of course when the late Brigadier Augustine Odongo was found with them he was jailed for nine months at Kodhiak maximum prison in Kisumu ,Kenya .O.K, the story of Odongo is preserved for another day. But remember that, this was Ngugi only at his rudimentary stage. But when Ngugi got an opportunity to get an ideological asylum, he did not go to Russia, nor East Germany, Nor Tanzania, nor China but instead he went to the USA , a country whose ideological civilization is in sharp contradiction with communism; a religion which Ngugi proffessess.In relation to this choices of Ngugi one can easily share with me these reflections; is one intellectually  honest if he argues that he is a socialist revolutionary when his or her employer is an American institution like the university of California in Irvine ?
Ngugi was not the only endangered communist ideologue of the time. There were also several others. Both in Kenya and without Kenya. They were the likes of; Raila Odinga, George Moset Anyona, ***** Mutunga and very many others from Kenya. But in Africa some to be mentioned were Walter Rodney, Yoweri Museven,Isa Shivji,Jacob Tzuma ,Robert Mugabe and others. The difference between Ngugi and all of these socialist contemporaries of him is that; Ngugi went to America and began accumulating private property just like any other capitalist. But these others remained in Africa both in freedom and detention to ensure that powers of political darkness which had bedeviled Africa during the last century must go. And indeed the powers somehow went. Raila has  been in Kenya most of the times,Anyona died in Kenya while in the struggle for second liberation of Kenyan people from the devilish fangs of Moi’s dark reign of terror and tyrany.Walter Rodney worked in Tanzania at Dare salaam University where he wrote his land mark book; How Europe underdeveloped Africa. Later on he went back to his country of birth in Africa, Guyana where he was assassinated while in the revolutionary struggle for political good of the Guyanese people. Yoweri Museven practically implemented socialism by fighting politics of sham and nonsense out of Uganda of which as per today Uganda is somehow admirable. Isa Shivji has ever remained in Dare salaam University, inspite of poverty. He is now the chair of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere school of Pan African studies. Jacob Tsuma and Robert Mugabe they are current presidents of South Africa and Zimbabwe respectively. The gist of this reference to African socialist revolutionaries as contemporaries to Ngugi wa Thiong’o is that a socialist revolutionary must and should not run away from the oppressor in to a zone of comfort. But instead must remain and relentlessly fight, just like in the words of Fidel Castro; fight and die in the battle field as long as it is a struggle against the enemy of the revolution. This view by Castro is pertinent as it’s a Revolutionary praxis which actually is redolent of practice of an ideology that has to be held for ever above ideological cosmentics.Ngugi scores badly on this. So if the Nobel academy looks at Ngugi in terms of defending human rights then it must be reminded that Ngugi have no marks on the same because he only ran away from the practical struggle. Anyway, Politics and ideology has its own fate. But let us now come back to literature. Ngugi and his books. As at  this time of writing this essay  Ngugi has published the following works; Weep not Child, The River Between, A Grain of Wheat, Black Hermit, Petals of Blood, Devils on the Cross,Matigari,Homecoming,Decolonizing the Mind, Writers in Politics, Ngugi Detained, Pen Points and Gun Points, Wizard of the Crow,Globalectics,Remeembering Africa, Dreams in Times of War and I Will Marry When I Want as well as the Trial of Dedan Kimathi which he wrote along with Micere Githae Mugo.Out of this list the only works with literary depth that call for intellectualized attention are ;A Grain of wheat, Wizard of the crow and Globalectics. The Grain of wheat is simply a post colonial reflection of Kenyan politics. Its themes, plot, lessons and entire synechedoche is also found in Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomie as well as Achebe’s Anthills of the savannah. My argument dove-tails with those of Liyong’s stand that rewarding Ngugi’s Grain of wheat and forgetting Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah and A man of the people would be a literary ceremony devoid of literary justice. Wizard of the Crow is indeed a magnum opus. I am ready to call it Ngugi’s oeuv

Why DO People Betray???
Why do they lead innocent souls astray?

How do they forget promises of yesterday??
Why do people betray ???

Why do they deceive?
Why do they cheat on their true lovers?
Why do people betray?

Do the betrayers haven't any heart??
If yes,
Then why do they break fragile hearts...
Hearts that are filled with
pure love and loyalty...
Why do people betray?

Can betrayers
keep themselves happy
when they've already snatched away
happiness
and smiles of the sweetest lips....
Why do people betray?


Why do they leave poor lovers alone crying ,
When they need them most?

By being so dishonest, selfish and mean....
How do the betrayers keep their conscience clean..???

II

Do not be afraid, my darling
I see you.
I see your tattered spirit
and stripped flesh
wandering in darkness.
Alas!
we are kindred,
you and I,
for I too have been
murdered.
I have died a hundred times
and I have lived a
hundred and one
We, who are dead
but still breathing,
are kindred.
I have been poisoned by
the nectar of lust. And
this nectar was
sweet and it was
intoxicating and it was
addictive and it was
******* lust.
It was fed to me by
a man posing as
a god and he kept
my goblet full and
I was paralyzed.
He was not a god
nor a man.
He was a snake,
a false prophet.
The nectar was
venomous and
my blood,
my body, and
mind were
laced with
paralytic venom
I could not move
and died waiting.
Alas!
We are kindred
you and I.
We who have died
waiting and paralyzed.
We who have been
murdered by false
prophets and snakes.
We are kindred with
Eve and the apples of
Eden, we who are
poisoned but  
still alive.
In this paralytic state
a surgeon came
and he said unto me
“I will let you be free”
and he cut into me.
He entered my chest
so delicately and
so eloquently he
whispered to me
“ Darling, if I cannot
keep you I can’t let
you be free.”
He wanted a
keepsake, a piece
of my heart.
Something which I
would never just
willingly part.
He took a small
piece though I
screamed to
his claim. This
was not my love,
just blood,
muscle, and veins.
Alas!
We are kindred
you and I.
We who walk around
with pieces that will
never be found.
We who have filled
the empty cavity with
other objects to
replace what can
never mended.
Do not fear, my darling
we are still pumping
blood and we
are still alive!
An artistic healer
found me wandering.
He said unto me,
“ My love, I see your
rough edges and you
are flawless to me
with all your perfect
imperfections.”
I was his canvas
that could be remade
to what he wanted
me to portray.
He molded me,
bent me,
folded me,
painted me.
He chiseled away
at places that
were already weak
places that were
untouched by people
like He. I was his
muse which he
misused, abused,
and attempted to
create and sculpt
art, which I was,
to his vision
of what I should be.
He coated me,
plastered me,
froze me in time but
paper machete is fragile
and I never asked to
be molded or painted.
Slowly I broke free
from thee. Death by
art was not meant
for me
Alas!
My darling,
do not be afraid.
We are kindred
you and I.
I see you in all
your molded glory
upon the altar
which he built
to display a creation
which he did not create.
I am the one
who chiseled
at the cement
and the plaster
and the paper
and the alter
so that we can
escape a different
type of cage.
I see you broken
but uncaged.
A builder of dreams
approached me and
he said unto me
“ You are a rarity
in a world full of
mediocrity. A rare
bird like you should
not be caged.”
He built me a castle
made of sand and
deafened me with
promises which
were lies. The tide
rolled in and castles
made of sand were
taken back to sea
and i was deaf
and I could not
hear the rumbling ,
the crumbling,
the mumbling as it
was all swept away.
I was asphyxiated by
the sand and sea
of empty promises
and lies
and expectations
that I found myself
chocking on.
Do not be afraid my darling.
Alas!
We are kindred
you and I.
We have
swallowed
and choked
and  inhaled
the dirt which
posed as sand.
We who have been
drowned in lies.
We who have
been buried and
have touched the
ocean floor at great
depths have come back
to the surface.
Alas!
We are still swimming.
We are the ones who
saw the shore and
returned to land
with our feet firmly
planted on sinking sand
and unsteady ground.
Hush my darling, and do
keep our secret safe.
Hush and never let them
know that we, who are
dead but living, are the
ones who created the shore.
We have a multitude of
little deaths. Deaths which
showed us life, joy, and
pain.
Alas!
My darling,
we are kindred
you and I.
We are the masochists.
We invite the murders in.
We who see the axe in his
hand as he knocks and
yet we still allow the
murderous aftermath
to begin with no regard
for the clean up.
My darling, we take with
us a piece of our killers
as they have taken a
keepsake from us.
Alas!
My darling
we have taken
we have learned
we have observed
we have seen their
surgical precision as
they have taken us
apart. We have
mended and
stitched and
sewn and
glued and
filled and
repaired
ourselves.
Oh my darling
do not fear for
we who are
still alive
still fighting
still breathing
still living
still pumping blood,
we have taken
their murderous
intent. We who
were victimized
by batting eyes
and lies that left
bitterness as an
aftertaste have
have learned to
lace honey with
arsenic. We are
kindred, you and I.
We are different
now. The stichting
and filling
and sewing
and gluing
has changed
us.
We are not afraid,
my darlings.
We see you.
You who have
caged and
trampled and
opened and
taken and
broken and
killed are no
longer feared.
Be afraid
my darlings.
Alas!
We see you.

III

I am a serial killer.
I have ravaged
empty vessels
which once upon
a time were
filled with ideas
of what could be.
I am innocent!
I slay the murderers
who murdered me.
Those who murdered
we.
I and we have
perfected the craft
which you,
and you,
and you,
and you
have used as
weapons of
mass distraction,
mass destruction.
I am the one
who distracts
and destroys.  
I have ingested
sufficient venom
to become
arsenic laced
honey.
I have let a
man drink
from me ‘til
he could drink
no more. He
drank himself
to insanity.
Oh dear!
I fear I did
not warn him
of the venom
that’s within.
What once was
just plain honey
is now
poisonous
to him.
I am a serial killer.
The killer of
cervical slayers.
But again
I am innocent!
I once sheltered
a wretch and
he sought
sanctuary
inside of me.
He never looked
at my eyes.
Only prayed at
the church that
he made betwixt
my thighs.
Oh dear!
I fear
I did not mention
that this was not
his church. It was
my sanctuary which
was now covered
in his dirt.
Death by exertion
was his end.
I let him die *******
but I did not let
him win
A tragic death
for a stallion
like he. Because
I am small he
underestimated me.
Like Helen of Troy
I brought
destruction
upon thee.
I am a serial killer.
The killer of
psychological
terrorizers and
verbal mesmerizers.
I have linguistically
lobotomized men
who thought they
could philosophize
the origin of I.
I have sown the
seeds of doubt
within the halls of
confidence which
have lain within his
mind.
I have broken
fortress walls
that were built to
withstand the  
wrath that fell
upon *****
and Gomorrah.
We have cut out
the tongues of
our verbal
betrayers and
left them befuddled
in Babylon.  
Oh dear!
I fear I forgot
to mention that
Freud is my Father
and Jung is my
uncle.
Your mommy issues
do nothing for me.
I am not her!
I am a child of
psychology.
Rationally you are
weaker than me
mentally.
I am a serial killer.
The killer of
egotistical thrillers.
I have paralyzed
and anesthetized
men who have been
thrice the size of me.
My scalpel is sharp
and my steady hand
cuts as deep as my
verbal violations.
This is my body.
This is not your nation.
My dissection was but
a brief vacation to
your annihilation.
Your internal organs
were similar to an
egotistical colonoscopy.
You thought your
insides were different
from me.
You required proof
that we were the
same.
I said
“Let me cut first”
and you did not
complain.
Oh dear!
I fear I failed
to mention I’m
quite skilled and
I have killed before,
far better men and
even their ******.
I am a serial killer!
A killer of killers!
You are a cheap
thrill as I reap
and I sow.
I plant the seeds
that I know will
not grow.
You will stay frozen
and will get old.
I need not a keepsake.
I own your soul.

IV

We are naked.
Our flesh is worn
and our spirit torn.
The garments which
once kept us warm
are now just eaten
and tattered.
We have silently
walked
and waited
and paced ourselves
and learned hatred.
WE have come
back home where
board games and
Barbies wait.
I have broken
all my favorite toys
just like you
and you
and you
and the horse
you rode in on
have taken all
my simple joys.
You have all
taken away
a piece of pink
and replaced
with a piece of
grey. A piece
which will never
be the same.
Oh Darling!
Do not fear for me
do not fear for we.
We have become the
porcelain women
which watch
and wait.
Our pink colored
kingdom shall
never be invaded
because here we
are waiting.
Not even shoots
and ladders or even
the Madd Hatter
can lead you to
green pastures.
Oh my!
You failed to notice
the malicious
twinkle in
my eyes.
I fear this was
your fault
for you created
a steeple
betwixt my
thighs.
Silly rabbit,
we were never
yours.
I was always
mine.
This is
not revenge.
This is a warning
before the rhyme.

She was only sixteen,

Yet her mind wandered about the galaxies like no other beings can do. She recognized every little details on the fireballs and the faraway stars when no other beings can. She carved the rocks and shaped them like the stars of the milky way. With different kind of hues coloured the atmosphere, she breathed in them all.
She danced her way around Jupiter and hopped on the rings of Saturn and danced like it was her first dance with her groom on her wedding day. She shined like how any other stars would shine. With all her might she pushed herself back to earth like a falling star.And just at the balcony of the house on the corner of that street,
                  a little boy wished upon her.
He wished upon a wishing star. He looked up to her. He told her his worries.

She was only sixteen,

but her heart felt every little emotions any hearts can and can't feel. She felt things that could forever scar her heart. She felt despair,rage,embarrassed,annoyed,betrayed,hurt,
                 ­      but also she was inspired,she felt joy,proud,strong and she loved.
The miseries she felt upon being neglect, she dig a hole and found a little dusty emotion in the corner of her heart....hope. She hold onto it,treat it like a child and there faith came up to her and fall in love with hope. She's stronger than any other beings can be as faith and hope unites.

She was only sixteen,

yet she shut her eyes and flee to Neverland with Peter Pan.
                             "Give me your hands" he whispered.
           "The second star to the right,and straight 'till morning" he said. He held her hands and off they went with fairy dusts from Tinker Bell stuck on their icy cold lashes.
To join him and the lost boys.
To be the first lost girl.
To never grow up as the world gets more beastly by minutes.
To forever have a childlike mind and a childlike body.
To escape from the harsh reality and enter the world of immortality where fairies and wisps flew by like it's a normal day for grocery shopping.

She was only sixteen,

but she had hurdled through life with things that the beings in The Wizard of Oz lacks. She tricked manipulators with her wisdom,she showed her betrayers how huge of a heart she has.
She forgives,
       She forgets.
She braved herself through all the horrendous obstacles she had to face. Life hit her,hard and just when she got up it kicked her in the stomach and let her bleed. But she saw things differently. She accepted the kick and let all the negativity in her lungs escaped and let all the positive vibes entered her.
With hands as small as an elf's,she opened it and let everything get caught in her hands. Like the net of a fisherman,not everything great gets trapped. But when he's blessed with a huge fortune,big fishes came to him.
           The thorns,the sadness,the euphoria...
She accepted everything and smiled. "Thank you" she said everytime.

She was only sixteen,

but she's already a beautiful aurora herself.

Certainly our city with its byres of poverty down to
The river's edge, its cathedral, its engines, its dogs;
Here is the cosmopolitan cooking
And the light alloys and the glass.

Built by the conscience-stricken, the weapon-making,
By us. Wild rumours woo and terrify the crowd,
Woo us. Betrayers thunder at, blackmail
Us. But where now are They.

Who without reproaches showed us what our vanity
has chosen,
Who pursued understanding with patience like a ***,
had unlearnt
Our hatred and towards the really better
World had turned their face?

Who knows? The peaked and violent faces are exalted,
The feverish prejudiced lives do not care, and lost
Their voice in the flutter of bunting, the glittering
Brass of our great retreat,

And the malice of death. For the wicked card is dealt and
The sinister tall-hatted botanist stoops at the spring
With his insignificant phial and looses
The plague on the ignorant town.

Under their shadows the pitiful subalterns are sleeping;
The moon is usual; the necessary lovers touch;
The river is alone and the trampled flower;
And through years of absolute cold

The planets rush towards Lyra in a lion's charge. Can
Hate so securely bind? Are they dead here? Yes.
And the wish to wound has the power. And tomorrow
Comes. It's a world. It's a way.

There's some sort of magic between the eyes of a resting jaguar. Their languid yawn, opening the gaping maw that lies between their strong teeth, more energetic than their tired paws.

Still and regal, wearing muscles like fine silks, their fur like that final kingly cape and their ears their crown.

A zoo jaguar once met my eyes and in a deadlocked stare, saw the camera in my hands, and turned his head to pose. A prince always knows when to please his peasantry. As a pleased peasant, I snapped pictures and nearly cried at his serene posture behind a wall of glass. There was some sort of uncharted beauty in the way he spoke without words oversaturating his meanings. It was a way I wished to speak. He was a comrade behind glass, silent yet observant and knowing. Though my head might be a good fit for a maw, I nearly wanted to keep him close company.

The dark spots that adorn his body are the only betrayers of the fierce undertones of his monarchy. Well, except for the teeth, of course.

Though I try to unlock my gaze and detach from the gossamer threads that were beginning to tie, the jaguar eyes and jaguar prince incessantly seep into my brain, for when I close my eyes all I can see is theirs staring back at me. All I want is just one hand, a single touch, a gift to feel their crowns and robes, to experience the powerful royalty beneath their quiet eyes, even if being taken by their maw may end up being the price.

My affection becomes jarred by the human hand jostling my wrist, and I blink for the first time since seeing the posing feline prince. My head turns, trance averted, and I'm looked at with perplexion as my body has sidled up to the glass, and the Jaguar, now alert, is swinging its tail and staring in wonderment at me.

My eyes magnetize back to their rightful place, his green eyes on my green eyes, and I wonder what lives we would live like if I could see into his mind and know what's he's like. Perhaps we would be friends, or family, or hunters, or partners, in that other life.

Or, perhaps he'd want to eat me nonetheless.

One more camera shot of my jaguar prince, and a silent nod as he situates himself back to his pose. Restful, regal, serene. Turning away, I feel myself leave a part of me that always stays with him and taking that part of him that stays with me.

Every wild eye does, and our secret we will keep.

Whatever happened to that young starry-eyed anarchist in the black suit, with flowing brown curls, eagerly waiting for life to unfurl.

Through you he was replaced by a teary eyed fascist,
carrying a gnarled stave,
silently waiting for the grave.

You were the greatest catalyst, and the strongest of poisons. Now your name is on my list, of betrayers and blasphemers.

Drown out the silence
The snakes come whispering
Slithering
Drown it out with the noise
Tiny quiet close and loud
Drown out the words
The snakes
Hide very still hearing the silence
Imagine the noise to drown the snakes
A wave of sound drowning
I drown in the silence and see
Imagine
The snakes as they drown
They are still here
Creeping in through the cracks of quiet noise
What do the snakes say
They say nothing nothing
It all means something
No noise messages
The silence hurts but the words hurt more
What heart do the snakes have it is all gone only cruel carved stone
What heart do i have it is gone torn apart into silence
Let the tears come
Slow like the thunder
Quiet like the eye of a storm
Loud as the screams I hear
The screams that are mine
As i try to drown out the silence
Scream scream but only I can hear

The snakes still live but protect me not harm me
They surround me like a living shield
And i begin to be proud of them
In my green glowing underwater haven
They whisper but i cannot hear
I  don't need to
Most are gone and the few that remain
I know where they come from and who to blame
For the fact they have to stay
Slithering whispering
Drowned out by the lake
Not my snakes but anothers words
In the guise of my symbol
The sorcery comes from my mothers words
Slippery sliding
Venom from a saviour
Like a traitor
Rats squeak
Scurry
Scatter
For snakes eat rats and they protect me
Rats and words
Words and rats
My snakes protect me
Her cats protect her
And then there is the mouse queen
Almost all good but gets nothing done
Doesn't know of the rats of her right hand man
Voice uses them
Betrayers
Do no good

Yes, you out there wherever you may be
You try to steal our souls in poems
We know you, to the tee

What twisted motives to be us, by proxy, what cowardess you be
What an empty vessel posses you, such sadness, such despair
You pick our hard imagined fruit and not from your own tree

You clone our minds, like leaches on our skin
You wish us harm, you thieving ***
You wormy monster, a slug, next to kin

I curse you
I loath you
I hate you
You stealers of our youth
Betrayers of our written souls
What lacks is pride, and owners of the truth

Hexes, rejuvenation
Strange carbon based life forms
The history of their cries
Scrawny weak-minded kings
Weaseling nocturnal betrayers of fortune
Over the shoulder paranoia
Puzzled tourists
With fragmented egos
Yet they produce
Painful generosity
To those who have relived them of their joy

I abandon me dagger eyed campaign
Let them live
I wish to see how they progress and prosper

what did i get myself to?

Four letter word and dime and a nickel and a quarter of your time
to a bliss passing by 595
your breathing and chest sinking
your lips calm and keeping ,upon the hours
of a dosing night a lasting high
your front teeth milky white meets my frosty space
the diving hips
a collar trips
man i feel you pull through and it isn't enough to call me some coward
some dancing ***** hanging on to your very lips
you said maybe is there a way
i said nah yoo i ain't raised for that
i am a forty five pound lean launching machine
from outer space to your living set
and busy strutting with vowels and annunciations since i got the power
for the heys and nays
i got the power
i got the power so it
ain't easy to unfold and what hasn't been told before
i ain't some player, goldie lock mean hater
prestigious for the one word betrayers cause it is out bend and crying doesn't work anymore
i got the breast knuckles to my chest and i say the fury of a quiet man is lethal
i am begging you to tell me you aren't danger.

I write of wrath, of rage and anger,
And murderous thoughts towards my betrayers.
I write with vigor and blood-lust,
In violent tempests, if I must.

I write of the madness she incurred,
In piercing fury, my heart concurred,
For solid as a rock it shows,
And red with rage my aura glows.

I write of indifference, my violated
persona can take only so much hatred.
Await me filling my soul with black,
Dark things as though there was ever a lack.

I write of the tolerance I have left,
For a loving patience of me was bereft.
In faces around me, I wish them only death,
My thought: I wish not the same air in our breath.

I write of the fires of my flaming hate,
The lack of gall in the events of late.
I no longer know how to remain humane,
in a state where anger drives one insane.

What keeps you awake at night
Mathematical formulas which make wrong right
Do little planes flying above
Interrupt the little dreams you love

Are nooses plaid, are comforters warm
Do mass produced mattresses break the norm
Is your pillow made with feathers, can you answer the question why
Where, and tell me when, do old people die

In a house with no roof, I stare through ceilings glass
They keep out the rain so I can stare into the past
Every star is dead but I don’t keep corpses alone
Somewhere you’re awake too and I know we’re looking home

(Chorus)
Blue tape holds the crack
From falling apart through the back
Opaque handle
To a wooden cross candle
As spinning rooms concur
I think too much of her
So many thoughts clogging my head
Gotta clear them out with a canister of lead

Somewhere there is sanctuary I can rest at
Somewhere there is a rabbit inside a top hat
I know with a wave of the wand she will appear
Clad in the purest white and the crowd will feel no fear

Over my shoulder there is a map and a sign
The road leads two places, one less divine
I don’t know which I came, or where I’m going to
But I pray that on this road I’ll meet up with you

Over my shoulder spar the devil and the god
And I distance myself from both betrayers very odd
When the devil wins, he’ll come chasing after me
At no sanctuary can I rest; sleep is not to be

(Chorus)
Blue tape holds the crack
From falling apart through the back
Opaque handle
To a wooden cross candle
As spinning rooms concur
I think too much of her
So many thoughts clogging my head
Gotta clear them out with a canister of lead

So who is your devil and how far did he go
Did you let him leave a mark, do you let the marks show
Do you measure every man by the bruises and the kisses
When do you decide he’s worth it, after the hits or the misses

Do you sleep because you’re scared, do you sleep because you’re ready
Do you sleep at all, are earthquakes steady
When you break down is someone else holding the hammer
Do you confide in no one or do you confide in stammer

Faith is like a flame and your body is the wax
But the candle cross burns because wood pays less tax
Have you lost it all, is life now a game
When you dream of me do you see my face or hear my name

(Chorus)
Blue tape holds the crack
From falling apart through the back
Opaque handle
To a wooden cross candle
As spinning rooms concur
I think too much of her
So many thoughts clogging my head
Gotta clear them out with a canister of lead

In order to hold on are you addicted to escape
Can I be your drug; may I be your blue tape
My words are sincere when I say this is no cut and paste
I could always love you and my belt stays on my waist

You could banish demon, you could banish heaven and hell
You could hold my hand and I’d have no tales left to tell
Maybe if you guide me I could leave my road behind
Imagine if you’d guide me, imagine what we’d find

Old people never die; they simply sleep forever
Maybe we can sleep too, if we lie down together
And so is our star dead, but it can be seen far away
Night is for sleeping but it’s brighter than day

my mind went white
amongst tiered humans walking like dying elephants.

there are other worlds. other minds. other heart break.
like the needle that sewed my skin when it came apart
there is constant reconstruction below this bewildered place
constantly in a state of shock
in a state of livid chaos
in a state of controlled happiness
held stealthily like the slaves shoulder to iron branding
the screams are loud, but the masters do not hear them
they do not flinch at the sight of this unruly pain

and so we have come to a place this universe has known far too long
the betrayers hand placed so solidly above the heads of those who have become numb
and a shadow above the minds of hope.

In the old market, I walk by a man who's family's hunger is painted on his face
like the gushing of blood red smoke. I had wished to wrap my arms around him for the day/
instead of walking around looking at things he would never dare lay eyes on
for there are mornings when he would give a fragment of his body in return for full stomachs
that sleep in the same room, so small at night/ little reminders that there is a reason behind his
undeniable struggle resting upon his eyes like doormats to homes of the elderly who have been abandoned, peering out the window trying to hold on to one beautiful memory to keep them alive
in there what is to most, the most foreign loneliness.
what will his children be, I ask myself. Why is it me that has been given more and not them.
these thoughts ache in my veins.

I pass by a building, where the rocks are ancient
a small thing it seems left behind by history. vacant .

there is a man selling raspberries that are rich with sweet sap
he stares at them only wishing that his life was as rich
flooding with envy at the sweetness of their nectar
then brakes away in thought to stare at the marvelous ocean
swaying like the beautiful mistress he never met under the arabian sun

droplets of sweat break at the rate of breathe that is taken
on these grunge filled streets, auras coming and going of loss and celebration

Yesterday
I'm sitting in my bed
Thinking, "yesterday"
A few hours ago
It all happened
And it gave me hope
I hadn't felt like that
In quite a while
It was beautiful
Yesterday

It's been so long
A lot has happened
I spent less time on me
I spent more time on them
I lost me
In finding them

So I sat in the crowd
In the presence
Of friends and families
Haters and liars
Back-stabbers and betrayers
It didn't matter
This was my time
I looked at the wall
I saw a cloth printed
"Merit Award Ceremony"

I fell into a trance
While the guest speaker
Gave his speech
In half an hour
He would give me a handshake
One I truly deserved

I felt my heart sink
My spirit kneel
I could hear my heart beat
And so could everyone around me
I was shy
I wasn't used to this
I've always been smart
But lately
I had dimmed
A lot had happened

So this moment
Was the affirmation
Of my comeback
I knew this wasn't the end
This was the beginning
Only the beginning

You can never know
How fast a runner is
At the beginning of the race
We just believe
That they're ready
It is when they begin to pace
Accelerating
That we truly appreciate
I felt that way
Yesterday

My phone vibrated
I glared at it's screen
It was my mom
She sent a text
She had just arrived
To uphold my achievements

I felt someone pat my back
Persistently
I shot back to reality
I looked above
It was my friend
Reminding me
To get in line
The time had come
I stood up
Confidently

I felt eyes on me
Envious eyes
Of the other students
Who came
To witness the success
Of students like me

The speaker
Announced my name
I took a step forward
I walked up the stairs
It didn't matter
My failures didn't matter
The fact is I achieved
That was why I was invited
In the first place
To this pleasant ceremony

I felt deserving
When the guest speaker
Gave me my certificate
And shook my hand
We posed for a quick picture
I heard the crowd cheer

I stood on stage
I recalled whatever it was
That the guest speaker said before
I felt inspired
Motivated
Strengthened
I smiled at the thought
They will be seeing
A lot more of me
Here, every school term.

we frantic
for secretive places

a cave inlet, dim fire,
where we could claw
each other to pieces

like animals
love a distant scent,

all sweet conversation
make hunting spears
no word is meant

who preys whom
what brings us here

primitive echoes
assail our skins
habitual betrayers

ours, yours, bodies  
some lurking thirst

of centuries digs its
claws into flesh
like animals

love a distant scent...

Would you listen to me if I said I've once been deceived to believe
That I was born to be chained and never freed ?
Born to be
A laughing stock to my haters
A stepping stone for my oppressors
A naïve girl to my betrayers

What if I told you that at the age of 5,
I wanted to die ?
That because of my past, I wanted to commit suicide ?
I remember being in the kitchen, holding tight a knife
Then I heard a voice within me scream, "It's not your time!"

Would you take my advice if I asked you to pray ?
And if you do it with a contrite spirit,
Angels will come your way ?
And if you do it with consistency,
Your blessings won't delay ?
And if you do it with humility,
Your soul will be saved ?

The darkness creeps up behind me.
I turn and look, what is it I see?
I see the faces of the people who used to care.
They just smile at me, they stare.
Meanwhile I am on fire.
The burning continues as the flames grow higher.
Unable to withstand the pain in my heart.
I wish it would end, I want to go back to the start.
The figures of betrayal wrap around my soul.
Til I am shrouded in darkness, with no clear goal.
No way out, because they keep me trapped in.
What did I do wrong? What terrible sin?
My naive self decides to give the betrayers another chance.
Only to be crushed once again by their morbid dance.
Over and over again they pull me deeper into hell.
They've been doing this since the day I fell.
I just want it to end, I want the pain to end.
Maybe they will help if it's a hand i continue to lend.
And so the vicious  cycle goes on and on.
I keep helping them and they eat away at my soul.
*And they will keep going until the day I am gone.

a spell changes the consciousness of being
puts a spell on you manipulated by magic
of words the syntactical nature
the world made of words
would you like to let go
a light within the whole
to direct your conscious mind
the magic a real secret
to know the words
that the World is made of
an internal spiritual essence
these words to know
your strength of power
to overcome all that has blocked you
a spell to cast is within you
the words waiting
to touch the tip of your tongue
the spell your arrangement
to pass a person or thing
that has been
holding you back
rise the words above you
and let them settle in
on a piece of paper
the name of it that must submit
begone to never hold you back
doodle an image of betrayers
do what you will with your pen
tell it formally you are above them
above the things done to you
any words to use to change them
say them now
above the paper and pen rise
whisper to it
shout if you will it
vent all the negativity
they have caused you
take the paper and burn it with fire
add more burning let the flames reach higher
now let it burn out completely
in your fire safe container
it all goes add spit ***** or water
done pour on a plant
that grows and grows
to shares the struggle with you
nurture your plant
nurture your self
you are done with the spuded
black sand and glass castles
hold storm water in your hands
to a rickitglen the woods go
we shall wander like vines
our eternal spirit the eternal land
self care spells
talking tree spirits
receive some visions to share      gjmars 7/23/15

I've been broken by all of my

Betrayers, destroyed all my hope

Burned their bridges back to me,

Torches ignite, scorch the rope.

Subtle barbs of honesty,

Chew away at their being.

Take this curse away from me.

Silence me eternally!



Gnawed to the bone.

Abandoned – all alone.

I’ve lost all ties to that which was once known as my home.

Stripped of all resource.

Lost with no hope of recourse.

Gaze upon me now,

The Pariah!



Stab wounds upon my back.

Eyes beaten blue and black.

You shelter that which orders

Every devastating attack!

Reaching far out,

For help from those who ripped my heart out!

They lash whips at my will, breaking skin, my death has no doubt!



Gnawed to the bone.

Abandoned – all alone.

I’ve lost all ties to that which was once known as my home.

Stripped of all resource.

Lost with no hope of recourse.

Gaze upon me now,

The Pariah!


... ... ...


Gnawed to the bone.

Abandoned – all alone.

I’ve lost all ties to that which was once known as my home.

Stripped of all resource.

Lost with no hope of recourse.

Gaze upon me now,

The Pariah!

This light, it drifts on in waves
Herald me, let me catch it
Let me drink it.
In the recesses of my mind
My darkness contorts to hide
How it loathes these better times.
As ever, light's tide subsides
Darkness reclaims its wicked halls
And again supersedes all that has come before.
Trapped within this deadened state
The past is all I can't erase
Shudders in the darkness
Mimic the stirring of a soul
How I long for something more
Yet in the darkness of this maze
I am blinded by twisted views of fate.
Sincerity could bring serenity
If only it were real.
Monstrous red flowing from lines of fragile blue
The dark zeal and steel rule supreme.
These are the things of which I dream

Yet again cowardice stays my hand
I lie awake and dream of being that better man
The glorious shards of light brought on by those anonymous smiles
Perhaps they will quiet the darkness for a while.
I convey the words of a source unknown
I assure you, you'd find no pleasure in my own.
To illicit joy, laughter's light
Cut great vast scars in my night
The magnificent contours of green grass and sky
If only this too were not a lie...

How I've yearned, Burned! For those days of light
But the sinewy hands of a loathsome mind
Will grasp and hold the weakness of these times.
I struggle, I scream
Surely a God would cut these ties
Oh kaleidoscope, oh light!
Darkness has seen you sink and fade
I begin to both forget and regret my better days
My mind spies betrayers, witches and fakes
Yet they are your righteous, your angels and namesakes.
And so, I shall dwell in Hell
For this Heaven's sake.

Wanderer, why are your feet broken?
Have they lost their will?
What of all the distant lands
yet traveled, ambled towards?
Are their soles growing dim,
forgetting the quest,
regretting the rest,
seeking a peace,
or gathering relief?
They, the betrayers,
led you into the dark...
long ago they conspired:
the left against the right,
the two against the one,
the one against the many.
Are they lost?
Are you found?
Ambushed, then discovered,
a worn sandal,
the soul survivor
of pilgrimages unknown.

The lifestyle of crime
Is no way to get by
Living the high life
Is fun for its while.

But in the end
It casts betrayers as friends.
Benedict arnold's with grins.
Happily they pretend
As your sitting in a hole
Of your own filth.

Watch for the dudes
Who call moms (****).
Watch for the girls
Who think makeup makes up
Themselves.

The lifestyle of shame
Just leads to more guilt.
Not relieving yourself.
But imprisoning by the
Weight.

Life's about decisions
The crime of self we can escape.
Though our minds are in constant state of ****
From mainstream society.

Though will you follow mainstream?
Reality?
Or imaginative beliefs?

The difference between the three
Decides your fate.
Change now
While Its not to late.

With an ear for
sympathetic voices
To gather hands
Who'll hold you up
Claiming ambitions
Outside your birthright
A charming devil
And a magnetic smile
Outlast betrayers
Of your cause
The stairs ascending
Seem never ending
But the price is worth it
Despite the bodies you pile up
Though the empire of borrowed time
Built upon them
Still resides at the base
Of a volatile volcano

Tonight I set a piece of my hair
On fire
I guess I thought I was above
Being licked by a flame
But as the old and the new
Jested, tumbled, and leap frogged
Over my name
I shake my head thinking back
With sour disdain.

7 dollar beer and we all cheers
I hit the table with the bottom
Of my drink or shot now
Because Chicago ain't nothing
Like the ***** south
Or filthy philadelphia.

I've had my hands above my head
Looking for a sun king
24 years of kissing toad after toad
After toad
Multi colored mane
A flame licked the hair in my face
It's so painful to hear no.

Wet dramatic eyes
Betrayers gotta throw some daggers out, can't stand to see me be so happy
On my own.

I wonder how you really get by
Telling and feeding yourself lies
As your phrase "2017" threatens
To stifle, *****, strangle
What once was.

But what once was has been defeated
A suit of armor on my front and back
I jingle and jangle with every heavy step, lest I forget
How many men have slept
And I chose to forgive and forget
But I go my own way now.

sleep longs to take me into it's arms
As I hear and see the joyful sun
With rays of the same fire
That made me question my beauty
As pixilated stemming hairs
Brimmed and mocked
But he gave me Boy Scout socks
To wear in the summer, fall, winter?
But they don't threaten to leave, deceive, or make me feel
Less than the beaming bird I am.

"It sounds like you've kept busy"
"I love how deep and complex you are"
"You are so dramatic"
"You are a beautiful, amazing swan"

Always ooze moon light
And those who are meant to, will carry a bucket to capture some of your radiance
So that it can be treasured and remembered,
Siempre.

Fresh start, new beginning
Rivers of life streaming
Time to face these demons
Devoured my treasured possession
Epidemic recession deadly disease
It's a war for souls, you easily fold
Shocked by the great depression
Soon to blossom in this new saga
En era of chaos, and transformation
I'm in it for the capital gain,
Against all odds in this evil game,
No shame in my hazardous flames
You wanna play with fire
You're prone to die like a coward
Your team is full of betrayers
Backstabbing *******, punk snitches
Wizards & witches must die beside ditches
Hitting switches, when I'm busting
Never trusting no one, you taught me
I thought you had my back
But I was wrong about that
You were quick to stab me in the dark
Learn how to speak before your *** talk
But you took it further, no reinforcement
Left me when I most needed you
I can't trust you, you changed out the blue
You gotta learn to crawl before your *** walk
Quick to judge me, hold a grudge against me
I don't give a ****, not now not ever
I guess I'm alone, tensions danger zone
It's all good I ain't tripping
But why the ******* flipping
Take it how you want, you gave me your back
Ain't no turning back, alratoz

Machiavellian
placed
a
thorn
in
the red rose
for
the deceivers
nonbelievers
and betrayers
of leadership