when i see postmen delivering letters,
                                   i think they feel ashamed
of having a poet among them rise
to such global prominence,
i could end right now and have reached
an Urban II pulpit, just as he
was getting started...
  i used to admire Mr. Know-how for a time
out of sympathy... but then that slowly died,
only because i found people who
had some respect for learning to tie
their shoelaces, and spell words...
      it turned out to be the most abhorring
form of rebellion,
       i could have written all possible
synonyms of red in acronym, just to
make the use of the thesaurus made for
better use... or said ultra-acronym
variations or red, like: crying-mason...
and you would have hopefully said crimson...
  but let me be clear... he got my attention
in Glasgow... but after a while...
    even if i had a cradle of appeal
i might come off as lousy...
               but still, when i read him write
like this needed to be a dyslexic statement,
i thought he might write something illuminating
in hieroglyphics...
           i wish i had a respect for not spelling
words correctly... grammar **** or not...
                    there's no point playing with genes
if you're not creating a plateau on
the internal organs of fathomability...
  genese don't necessarily translate into memes...
     people with a perfect good set of genes
will only still be football players...
        just gagging for a concussion to show-off
their Achilles bravery... i have heroic
   drinking battles, no one bothers to celebrate
new year's day with me... i found out
the hard way: even the brothels aren't open
on new year's day these day, as Auden might
have predicted, all the lonely hearts go to...
oh right... perhaps it was the male-on-male
orientated brothels that worked throughout the year...
  after a while it's not that you despise the body
for all its necessarily purposes,
      but after a while, the body does so little
that the niqab does so much more,
    after a while the head wearing a kippah
does so little aisatsu, that you start to ridicule
the practice as an excuse to headbang at a rock
concert in a maggot pit...
after a while the hair does so little that the hijab does
so much more...
                  can you imagine a Mongol inventing
a hijab? horse-skin ****** wrapped around your
head... thank god for the silk road and the silkworm
produce from china, or wool from the shepherding
states...
             otherwise? a ******* tragedy...
    it's also true in reverse... buddha curled his
******* using the thumb... but he bluffed
the sign-language and necessarily pokered that one
into sign-language saying: down the middle!
           we had sundials and clepsydras for a reason,
as we also had libras, for a reason.
            should i fear a man with only one book?
or should i fear a beast with only one "word"?
  well, these days the former is true,
    but when lions said more than men in terms
of authority... could could complain it wasn't so?
  let's just imagine, that whatever we write today
will not reach a heritage status of the paintings
in the Lascaux caves.. well-brokered that statement...
since an african mask carved into an Baobab
by a shaman will fetch much more worth
at a tribal convention, than a african mask
enshrined into confusing a baobab with an Acacia
fetch at a gordon gekko's winning prize
for the most caviar rather than sushi being ate.
the point is... i was just thinking of writing a short
introduction to an actual poem i intended...
                   you never expect such things to happen,
esp. given you just escaped building the pyramids
safely rooted in masonry, and having to
     wield some Atlantean imagination
for the hanging gardens of Babylon...
to be later told: oh don't worry, we have people
to build as a colliseum, you stick you
to intellectualism of the four letters...
   and then jesus comes along and about a billion
people are rounded-up talking about salvation
by reading only one book, saved by complicating
only reading this one book, by stating
how many times certain words are used in them,
to ensure everyone after Moses can plagiarise
ancient Egyptian into contemporary Hebrew
(only when Charles II can speak Bulgarian or
Romanian)...            horrid numerology...
oh! oh! there are 20 references to the word pray
in the bible! it must mean something!
   how about? bla blah bla blah....
well... d'uh! blay and blaw: Otis Redding (doughnut /
       ice-cream man)
                               and        Sam Cooke
(don't know much about hissing tories)
    so true too, turns out Abel (blay) was also known
as clay.... even though Cain was the vegetarian...
   so that makes Cain (blaw) the god-wind when
Cain slaughtered Abel and the earth unearth
      a curse that made Cain into a nomad and less and less
into a vegetarian... ah, the Scoots buckled and backed me
up on whether blaw came with the lyrics
      son of a preacherman, and whether my
    rubric arithmetics of sentences could ever chirps
up that smokey blonde Dusty.
   hey man... sit up for 48 hours, write about
writing on napkins, and then have a whiskey,
and watch 2 gloomy days turn into clear-skies
  and a visible sun, setting.

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee;
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my *****,
To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desart were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
*** be my queen, *** be my queen.

Money is a **** producer, who mascarades as a professional film producer, promising fame and fortune to young girls in LA.

Money exploits us all, telling us to cry on his **** as he forces it down each of our throats.

MMM

Money talks its valuable poetry, cha ching as we take the money shot, the money shot, the money shot...

Blaw! we take the money and run. Exploited, every one of us carries this inflated value; running around with our heads chopped off.
Where did we put our heads?
Not a one realizing how.
We put our heads collectively in the sand.

Money talks, but we dont. Money walks, but we wont. Money marches, but we cant stand. Can't form a coherent sentence while we're getting ******.

"If my dad finds out he will destroy me!"
"I won't tell."

Money wants us young, dumb, and full of idiom; and as the bubble bursts, we can't help but feel depressed.

Our faces are all over the internet. America the beautiful, I can hardly see your face behind the biggest, blackest ****.

If you want to turn anyone into your own personal *****, first you got to get the money!

Money is king. But is he kind? Money is our god, but what kind?

Money money money, MONEY!

The lyrics of every rap song on the top 100

Can we get some hoes and some money that we can throw's up in here!?

It's what we all want, and its what we all fear. Money controls us and rules us without a peer.

Money replaces trust, it replaces common decency, and puts a friendly mask on the face of a murdering monster.

Money makes me sick. It smells like burning flesh if you read it just right, and put your nose up real tight, it can start to burn you too.

Roll a hundo, give Ben a sniff. Money doesn't care if you sell it off to buy drugs or a train wreck. Money isn't ethical and neither are you.

Money wants us all to bow down, and when we rise up, we look like monopoly men.

Give me some money and I can change the world into a paradise on earth; give your local bank some money, and our world looks like a shopping mall.

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
  I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
  The lassie I lo’e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
  And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
  Is ever wi’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
  I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
  I hear her charm the air:
There ’s not a bonnie flower that springs
  By fountain, shaw, or green;
There ’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
  But minds me o’ my Jean.

Robert Burns (1759–1796).  Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics.  1909–14.

O WERT thou in the cauld blast,
  On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
  I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee;
Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms         5
  Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my *****,
  To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste,
  Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,         10
The desert were a Paradise,
  If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
Or were I Monarch o’ the globe,
  Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my Crown         15
  *** be my Queen, *** be my Queen.

Pandemonium crowds the streets,
at this moment there was an invasion of peace,

tears running down that little girl's cheeks as she dives for safety,
I lend out my hand and offer help, "Where are your parents?"

my mother has broken her leg near the bridge, "do you have any remedies to cure her weakness, she asked?"

"I'm no doctor, but I could try to wrap cloth around the wounds and reduce the pressure, I say."..... Before I could whisper another breathe, gun shots rang, BLAW! BLAW!

vandalism of shops were destroyed, cars were wrecked, little boys were toting pistols, with a fistful of ammunition, I was in anguish, depleted, gone, extinct...and here comes my sonnet of defeat.

Armored trucks with militants came steering through, tossing c4's to subdue aggressors, purge was to maximum to overcome. This is the land of anarchy, all men, women, and children are free to do as wish, war me again as shall I this time repent, restore my health that has been thievery of me, I beg you so forgiveness.

Im tired of being different
They tell you it's appreciated
Yeah right
But I won't be not me
I'm right
Writing poems slows down the pace of the thoughts
Traps them
Helps me remember
Who I am
I hate it
But the alternative is worse
Perhaps
Patience?
I'm tired.