THE RAT AND THE PREGNANT WOMAN


A story poem

BY

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



Dedicated to;
My mother Neddy Nabisino Mayende Kuloba Makhakara
And her mother Maritini Nabengele Nasenya Mulemia Namugugu Ilungu wa Wenwa.
The story telling power of these two ladies is the primary source of my passion and love for humorous and peace bettling stories. I owe them all the recognitions.







OPENING SONG
How do I start telling this story that I got from my
Grandmothers when sited around the fire yard in the evening?
I don’t know how to start surely,
For to day I am very shy; all of your eyes
Are on me, looking at me like ocean of looking organs
But let me embolden my self with the belt
Of a story teller that my grand father gave me
And commanded me to preach peace
Through story telling in every place I go
So my spiritual service to humanity is telling stories
Is to soothe and heal wounds of humanity
By softly telling peaceful stories
Let me then cough to clear my voice and start;

Long time ago, but not very long time
Some where between the centuries of twelve hundred
And seventeen hundred after the death of the other Jewish
Story teller who died without a wife, who died on the cross
But others say he died on the stake, his name was Jesus,
There existed only two kingdoms in land which is known today
As Bukusu land found in the present east Africa or Indian Ocean coastal Africa,
The first occupants of this vast land is the sons and daughters of Babukusu
Or the ones who like selling ironsmith products
And hence the name the people of Bukusu; the people who sell,
The two kingdoms were the Kingdom of muntu and the kingdom of manani
The citizens in the kingdom of muntu were short men and short women
Handsome and beautiful, slender and not assertive in their physical disposition
But the citizens of the kingdom of manani were all cyclopic,
In their everything; the manner of walking, talking farting, micturating
Farming, breathing, snoring, smiling, singing, whispering
Their whisper was a noisy as the tropical thunderclap
They were tall men and tall women, very tall
Their young person was as short as the tallest
Person in the kingdom of muntu,
When one of the citizen of manani snores
All the citizens of Muntu along together with,
Their king Walumoli wa Muntu had no option
But remain awake throughout the night,
Because the cacophony of a snore from
The sleeping courts of Manani was not bearable,

On many occasions Walumoli wa Muntu
The conscientious king of the muntu kingdom
Had arranged to talk to Silinki wa Namunguba
The ostensible king of the Manani Kingdom
About the cacophonous sleep robbing
Snores of daughters and sons in neighbour kingdom of Manani
Only to cow and chicken away in a feat of prudence
Lest Silinki wa Namunguba will suspect him for being
A night runner or a thief of *** perhaps
Who roams his compound during the wee of the night
In hunt of any of Namunguba’s wife maybe
Perchance having gone out for a mid-night *******,
This is how legendary snores of the sons and daughters
Of Silinki wa Namunguba the king of Manani
Has remained unchecked for ever till today,

One time an ugly passer by happened to be seen
Traversing the kingdom of muntu
In the early afternoon some two
Hours after Walumoli the king
Had just cleared the last plate
Of the mid day meal from
His last wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
He always eats her food last in the afternoon
Because it comes on the table steaming youthfulness
He loves his Khatembete wife, the wife of his old age
The wife he married by use and show of the royal regalia
The powers and dignity of the king of muntu
He married her when he his a king, the scepter in his hand,

Going back to the ugly passer by
It was never known where he came from
Not from the east where the Indian Ocean is
Not from the west where the vastness of the land
Of black people of Baganda and Bacongo
Baigbo and Bayoruba or Bafulana of Nigeria
Or the sons of Madiokor Ngoni Diop in the Senegal,
Not from the south from shaka the Zulu and Mandella the wise one
Not from north in the land of Dinka and Nuer, Ethiopian Jewish and the Egyptians,
The passerby was ugly and from no where, in a dress and
A very ***** dress that fumed out a malodorously stenching reek
He was a man in attires of a woman; this was a taboo in the land of muntu
He was left handed and a heavy weight stammerer, with an appalling
Protuberation of   a hunched back, an enormous hunchback
Enmassing entired of his masculine shoulders,
When the wind blew his loose dress followed it
Leaving the man’s thighs and then bossom naked,
Leading bystanders to a strange discovery; he was not circumcised
He was old like any other father, he had beards
But not yet circumcised, his ***** ends in corkscrew of a sheath,
This was a taboo in the land of muntu, in the kingdom of muntu
Which Walumoli wa Muntu the son of Mukitang’a Mutukuika ruled
For the spirits, gods and ancestors as well as foremen of the kingdom
Behooved that all male offsprings of the kingdom of muntu
Whether born in marriage or out of the wedlock
Born the blood or born as a ******* must and must be
Circumcised in the early teen hood
They must be circumcised before they grow the hairs
On the face, on the chest, in the scapula and on the areas
Surrounding the testicles, the **** and the endings of the backbone,
The man again had six fingers on the legs and on the hands
He walks slowly like a porcupine, his dress was in tartars
He was violent to every one he met
Insulting old people and old women with words
Of bad manners not used in the kingdom of muntu,
He terrified and beat young children, including the royal children
And grand children of Walumoli the king of muntu
He again had to beat and chase nine young virgins
Who had come from the palace of Walumoli the king of Muntu
Away from the forest when they picking fire wood
As well as playing a game of hide and seek with other palace lads,
The ugly passer by then chased to get hold of the
Nalukosi the first born daughter of
Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
The beloved last wife of the king of Muntu
All other virgins ran home, but Nalukosi remained behind
In the inextricable grip of the ugly passer by
She screamed with hysteria of a hypochondriac
She screamed and kicked with her wholesome mighty
The stubborn passer by never left her alone
She gnawed the ugly passer by with
Her girlish claws of her fingernails
But is like the passer by was mentally disordered
He was a ******* of some time
He derived some pleasure and instead
Enjoyed the girlish scratches of his captive,
Before the eight running virgins reached the palace
Together with their companions, the playmate lads
The shrilling scream of the captive Nalukosi
Was sharply heard at the palace, first by King Walumoli
Who called his wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
To come out of the hut, the kitchen and help to listen,
Immediately Mukisu wa Mujonji the palace keeper surfaced
His face displayed genuine askance of an adept military man
Whose martial arts have rusted for a week without usage
He confirmed to the king that the cry from the forest
Is of the one from this royal home of your majesty the king
And none other than the ****** princes Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The pride of her father, the eye of the palace,
Without hesitation the king permitted the wallabying Mukisu ,
Permission to run in a military dint and find out whatever that
Was eating Nalukosi Mukoyonjo the familial heart of the king,
Mukisu wa Mujonji who was clearly known in the kingdom of muntu,
For his swift running like a desert kite, he already twice chased
And gotten single handedly two male gazelles,
Without aid of a dog nor aid of fellow hunters
And delivered them to the king as a present to the palace
Which he achieved because of the speed of his legs,
On this royal permission he unsheathed his matchette
And went away like any arrow from the bow
His shirt trailing behind him like mare’s tail
Or like the flag on the post on a windy day,
Not a lot of time passed.
Mukisu wa Mujonji is at the spot of struggle,
Between Nalukosi and the Ugly passerby
There was no question or talking,
The first thing was Mukisu to sink the Matchette
With all of his mighty into the tummy of the ugly stranger
The bowels of the ugly stranger opened puffwiiii!
He breathed and gasped twice then succumbed to death.
His grip still strong on the leg of Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The ugly passer by reached the rigor Mortis
When Nalukosi was still strongly gripped in his
Beastly hand, Mukisu wa Mujonji with all the skills
Used a Sharp matchette again; chopped of the hand
Of the ugly dead passer by off, from its torso
At the point of the muscular elbow,
Now Nalukosi was extricated, but not fully
From the grip of the dead ugly stranger,
The chopped off hand is still knotted at her leg
Around her leg, the dead hand also grips.
Nalukosi jumped here and there to throw away
The leg and the dead hand, but it was not easy to throw
The hand still stubbornly gripped around her angle,
*** time passed, each and every one of the kingdom came
Including the king Walumoli wa Muntu himself
And his nine wives, Khatembete Khobwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
Came last, as she was energyless due to rudely shocking tidings
Which the escaping virgins and lads had given her
That the ugly passer by had turned into the ogre
And had swallowed her daughter Nalukosi
That he had swallowed her piecemeal without chewing,
People of muntu came and found the ugly passerby dead
The left had chopped off its torso
But still hanging loosely on the leg of Nalukosi
Nalukosi jumping, kicking, screaming
Screaming away the dead hand from the grip of leg
But nothing had forthcame her way,
Walumoli wa Muntu could not afford to see
The hand on the leg of her beloved daughter
What could he tell his wife, is your all know
Dear reader and audience to this song;
Even the mighty and the wise ones
Generously bend when under the pressure of love,
Out of this dint, even before Mukisu wa Mujonji
Could display his next military card
Walumoli wa Muntu grapped the dead hand
That stuck of the leg of her daughter
And pulled it with another force that
No man born of woman has
Never used since the creation of the earth
By the gods and spirits of Muntu,
The hand come off, he throw it
On the cadaver of the ugly stranger,
He clicked and clicked and hissed
With anger like a wild turkey
In the African thorny forest,
He ordered the dead one to be buried
Their without haste, nor ceremony
Mukisu wa Mujonji buried the body
Quickly in a brief moment with precision
As if he was taking notes
From the lines of the poem
OF Pablo Neruda on how
To bury a dog behind the house
This time burying an ugly stranger
Behind the forts of the kingdom,
After all these women, children and men
Of muntu plus their king Walumoli
Went back to their houses hilariously
Broken into a song and a wild *** dance;
Makoe eehe! Makoe !
Nifwe Talangi Makoe !
Talangi!
Khwaula embogo sitella
Nifwe Talangi!
They sang up to midnight before
They all retired to their beds
Respective beds with panting thoraces
From heavy singing and dancing.

There is connection and disconexion between
The living and the dead, the living fear the dead
And dead loves the living,
The dead want the company of the living
For the living to accompany in the land of the dead,
When the ugly stranger was killed
And buried uncircumcised with the hunch
Not plucked out of his back
The gods and the livings dead
In the realm of the ancestors
Of the kingdom of Muntu were not happy,
They never wanted uncircumcised old man
With a hunch back to join them
And worse enough with the six fingers,
The gods and ancestors really god annoyed
That Walumoli wa Muntu has done them bad
He is only caring for the living, the pre-mortals
Especially his last wife and the daughter
But he has neglected the ancestors,
Why trash to ancestors a stark humanity,
They communed among themselves
And resolved to sent Namaroro
The god of dreams, dreams as messages
From the ancestors and dreams from the gods
Namaroro visited Namunyu Lubunda the palace
Prophet in the Kingdom of Muntu to pass
The message vesseling unhappiness of the ancestors
And gods in a blend of gloomy read to execute
A vendetta;
This is when in the wee of the night that Namunyu Lubunda
Dreamed and had a vision of a old man from
The east is warning of the coming long spell of starvation
That will befall the kingdom of Muntu for ten years
                                      That Namaroro told Namunyu Lubunda
As for ten seasons of foodlessness
Behold a begging kingdom
Behold a starving throne,
The scepter of Muntu is a disgrace
To the holder
Then Namunyu Lubunda set forth by dawn
To the Palace to meet Walumoli wa Muntu
In his, palace before any other royal chores come up,
Both good and bad luck combined
Only to have Namunyu Lubunda to get the king at the palace
He got him fresh and relaxed chewing the cup of fortune
In his full ego, all his wives had submitted to the morning dishes
To his dining hall in the palace, he moved his hands from
One plate of food to the other.
Namunyu Lubunda entered with a submissive salutation
To the royal, He bowed and declared the glory of the king
In typical standards of the ethnic composition of the house of Muntu
Walumoli wa Muntu Mukitang’a Mutukuika
Majave Kutusi Mbirira Omwene esimbo ya
Kumukasa,
Walumoli responded with a feat of dignity to Namunyu Lubunda
The palace prophet, as he roared to him; come in
Come in son of Lubunda son of our people,
He did mention the name of Namunyu Lubunda father
As he fears his words may escape with the power
Of his kingdom the scepter of Muntu
To other insignificant families in the kingdom,
Let me announce what brings me here; intoned Namunyu
Go ahead and announce my holiness
s the prophet of this kingdom; responded Walumoli,
Misfortune is awaiting the kingdom
It will eat this kingdom away
Like a ravenous hyena on the ewe’s tail
The ancestors and the spirits of this land
This kingdom of yours the son of Muntu
Are immensely offended with your recent behaviour
In which you commandeered all villages
In your kingdom; from east and west
The **** the innocent passer by
With your owner hands that handle the scepter
You killed and lay to rest the foreigner
A pure omurende to the kingdom of muntu
You buried him uncircumcised without contrite
In the cemeteries of our foremen who asleep and circumcised
Why did you lower the dignity of our forefathers
Who never share a roof with uncircumcised person
To share the ancestral realm; our emagombe
With hunchback foreigner not circumcised?
This kingdom is condemned to all spell of curse of death
Ceaseless hunger famines and starvation
Women dwindle in their reproductive capacity
Rarely will you come across a pregnant woman
Food will be difficulty to put on the table
Even the sweat of your brow will go to naught,
You will not be buried with insignia
Like a pauper you killed will you be buried
The house of your wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya is a house of no consequences
For even your daughter Nalukosi stands cursed
She will not mature to be wedded into a marriage
She will hover the earth under heavy agonies of hunger,
My assignment is done and over
With or without your permission let me go.









THE FIRST SONG
Our song continues dear brethren
Come join me in arms we sing
Joyous singing of these songs of peace
Telling the world peaceful stories
As we enjoy sitting together around my grandmothers fire yard
Warming our selves to her lovely fire inherent in her good stories,
These songs will sing the glory and success of the king of Manani
It is an irregular Ode to Silinki wa Namunguba the son of Mwangani,
The son of Tunduli, the son of Wajala Njovu, the son of Welikhe, the son
Of manyorori, the son of Chumbe, the son of Kajo, the Son of Mabati, the son of welotia,
The son of sikele sia mulia, the son of Toywa,the son of siruju, the son of Mango, the son of Mulwoni sinyanya Bakhasi, the son of Mbakara , the son of Makhakara wa Nambuya, the son of Mukoye mulala kukhalikha w0nga, the son of Zumba the son of God.
Silinki

Why are you stretching around?
Like a crazy creature, stretching
And erecting at every bossom’s sight
Don’t you know this to be vile?
Behavior so uncouth and basest
That all men on earth dislike,

Leave me alone master, leave me alone
Show me a happy man without a ****,
I will show you the sorriest point on earth,
Which woman burst not with ecstasy?
On taste of my nature, which woman?

Shut up you sly creature
And manage you mandibles,
You always stretch and stretch
As if you want to lacerate my muscles,
Don’t you know that you put me in risk?
*** is all over and you stretch like crazy,

Leave me alone and let me stretch,
Don’t fear disease and risks,
For *** is now impotent
***** blood is now natured
Above any nonsensical vice
Like *** and his brothers,

Stop stretching or I chop you off
I don’t want any burden of next kid
I am not in any pocket fitness,
For one more mouth and one more ****,

You are a foolish coward
You fear even your success,
Who told you kids are a burden
And parenting a curse?
Beautiful liars taught you these,
Can’t you see china and Islamic State?
Declaring their muscles and mighty,
For no other reason but children
Surest quivers needed in your arch,

For sure don’t stretch, calm down
And stay balmy or I tear you off my torso
Where will I get land in this world?
To contain the useless proceeds
Of your raucous *****?

I am tired of cautioning you
Or I dare you and dare you again
That perhaps I am on the wrong body
Those who are few need land,
But those who are populous need not,
For their victuals come from tertiary means,

I am finally tired of your rudeness,
If you stretch again I will be irate,
As it will be uncouth act of mannerlessness,
For you surely know that my wife is aged
She shares not in your school anymore
If you stretch again know then that you’re vile,

Look again at your thoughtlessness
Who told you that I am condemned forever?
To be feeding on old women, harridans and *****?
I no longer want them on my ****** menu
Feed me on the young wenches in a polygamous fit,
For the elders like you and many others on earth,
will only renew their  old sinews
By merely feeding on the French chicken,

Then you persist in one line like the possessed
Are you possessed by the ****** devil?
I don’t have any ****** energy for your business,
You only put me into a desire for what I cannot eat,
Leave me alone by quitting your vicious *******,

Fear not at all for how you will eat,
You fail to enjoy because of your ego,
You focus on the finish line alone,
Remember  the process in coition,
Tighten you **** to delay *******
And here you will cogitate with gusto,

Negroes! Negros! All over the world,
Again you want me to make more Negros,
Be aware that your melanin is an eyesore
The world looks at you but in pain,
Suppliers of blinkers cannot quench,
The thirst for these wares,
With which the world can put on,
To ward off the pains in the look
At the skin of the *****,

Fear not Negros don’t create themselves,
They come from the supremo of deities
All creation is beautiful in wisdom’s eyes
Whoever that hates creation hates the self
No other act can then match the wickedness.

I lost cuntrol when I was nine years old.
Mother took my hand off my crotch yet left my brother to the confinement of his ****;
Girls good, boys bad, and oh no sweetheart your beauty is your only power.
And I’d blush; not in the way she’d hoped through the sweep of a brush but rather when my teacher left her hand lingering on my back as she bent over to tick the formula of the female form and cross out what the chimes of the church commanded.
I looked at the curve of the x she used to mark the spot and sighed.

Teach me. Teach me your ways so I can breathe in the sweet blossom of your hair as I rest in the bossom of your heart, its smells like lavender. Lavender.
Lavender sweet dreams honey and I will see you there tonight.

It was then I began my perpetual low earth orbit from dream to dream and departed from what mother said that day when I asked the question that makes mothers quake as they smooth out the creases in their dresses and tuck their unravelled hair behind bitten ears.
Making love. We made love only to make you, darling.
Mother smiled sweetly and turned her back on me as her mind traced back to that morning when she made mad passionate love with the milkman when daddy wasn’t looking. I am still waiting for my little sister.

If practice makes me perfect then meet man, mother.
I used his rocket to launch myself into space where I spelt her name out in the stars and jumped over the moon to Venus. I felt the warmth from her skin like the sun that keeps me alive. Alive. Alive.
Warm me, darling, just with the nestle in my vessel in my veins in my sugar coated spaceship.
We found sticks and made smores and we floated together, with my hand tracing your V in that three-dimensional galaxy between your legs we fell in love. No void existed between our celestial bodies as gravity pulled me into your arms.

He came as I came back from space thinking of nothing but the soft shape of her hips and the trail of her spine that led me back to earth.
There’s man with his grey socks still on his feet, dark matter on the sheets and a wrapper on the floor.
******* I thought, but in the sky…
That night my mother asked me why I am smiling.
I said I have become an astronaut in orbit with a woman who I love in space.
She cried shes lost it.
I smiled, nodded yes, I've lost it to her.

I lost cuntrol when the earth, heavens and waters fell in love and sailed and soured as we danced on the tree tops of your garden, with waves crashing beneath us leaving salt shimmering particles like diamonds on your feet.
You were my alphabet soup that filled me with too many words, the thrill of the prize at the bottom of the cereal packet and the noble intentions of stopping the Titanic from sinking with the touch of button.
We had love at first sight like David and Jonathen, Ruth and Naomi who boarded the ark as my back arched in passionate throws below deck, as Noa held Emzaras hand smiling.
Adding a letter to her name on Transgender Tuesdays was just an afterthought.
Opening her drawers to pack up her boxers and bind her ******* Noa smiled as the clock cocked Tuesday.
She entered her escapism; what the Bible calls a natural disaster, I just call natural.

I lost cuntrol when I re-arranged the stars like pick and mix, so I could always find my way back to you. When you said I love you I wondered whether I’d had too many dolly mixtures and where jelly babies came from.
Sugar rimmed your lips like salt on a martini and left me drunk with desire as I licked around your edges. You slipped a haribo ring on my finger and I gave you my loveheart.

I lost cuntrol one day when my lover Alice said eat me. She showed me Dinah who hide beneath her skirt and I followed curiously.
I didn’t ask her to say please but that’s another story.

After her lesson I was told the Sputnik satellite was man-made and I laughed.
Oh no, women have been launching rockets with complete cuntrol between their legs for years, leaving the earths atmosphere and dreaming of everything else but ***** ****’s ****.
During countdown they think of shopping lists, whether they’ve burnt off enough calories for wine with their girlfriends, and sometimes, sometimes, of her.
Do good girls go gay?
In space, my mother said, in space.

Our mouth customs has gone beyond our control,
Every time we talk about Turkana nation,
We always goof to label it a den of poverty,
By failing to see the vice of human backlogs,
That has worked most to stultify human hopes
Down to a false pale that Turkana nation is all poverty.

A nation that arms its daughters and sons in entirety
With the vogue models of AK 47 and 74’S
Enjoying money worthiness to a whopping!
Media with which they brutally rustle neighbours’ cows
Leaving them in forlorn cry like lame childlings
Such nation can’t be labeled a poverty reference.

Nation in which a naked elder in a loincloths is matchlessly animal rich
Owning hundreds of Carmel and goats, sheep and cows in similar fold,
Enjoying pure *** in marriage with virgins, whose breast are sharply pointed,
Marrying them in pairs out of polygamous morality in the chriso-paganity,
Where each man is a king and each woman an akuju; Turkana goddess of beauty,
All youth confident of animal wealth, then it is total sphinx of no secrete
To label Turkana nation a land that is all about poverty.

Land of sand tunes fit for use in modern architecture,
Replete with deadly desert scorpions, watchdog against women stealer,
Diamonds and gold form its hills of Lapur and Pelekechi,
Its underground waters huge than masses of Indian Ocean,
Lake Turkana being deeper that Lake Tanganyika, full of Fish like helluva,
In the sunshine that generates solar power in fathomless units
Desert snakes jumping here and there in chase of Locusts,
On the seashores at Todanyang and Loewarang towns,
Antelopes there are foolish that they don’t fear dogs
While chicken are condemned to be wild birds
For the Turkana don’t eat birds lest they degrade in dignity
Foolishly calling such land to be example of poverty
Is like putting your economics education in higgledy-piggledy pose.

A turkana woman is a beautiful woman, indeed a paragon of femininity
Slender and narrow at the waist with a humongous bossom,
Her legs are sizeable and long, forming a curve between her thighs,
Her neck stands straight on her thorax, forming a shape of flag post,
Warm on touch and sensuous on each kiss, with her eyes full of compassion,
Her arms strong on each assignement, hence her gun management power,
She screams on an ****** like the swine in a slaughter house,
Sending up the chills of gusto up the spine of the *** partner,
When in the apical realm of love at scenic Eliye Spring,
How can a nation full of such wonderfully virtuous daughters
Be declared in foolishness benchmark of poverty and human despair?

Walk tall Turkana, stand and walk tall, for you are the ****** of Africa
Your oil wells are gift of providence; it will put green foods on your table,
Walk to school and learn anything, learn the languages of the world,
Through which you will caution the lazy talkers of this country,
For them have labeled you as black sheep of the Kenyan family
When it’s their folly and vicious governance
That has betrayed Turkana towards its destiny.

i can't imagine a better maxim for a marriage:

   when both of you are young...
and... instead of being
these "star-crossed lovers" -

with a rubric
                  of the thwart(ing)...

to marry: when both are still in love with life...

                    from a nation-state into
the ***** of a diaspora...

what a fine word...
   the mass-influx of hyping around
the otherwise, fake:

       migrant workers...
like the current argument for
british sovereignty:
we will not have any of the bureaucracy
from Brussels...
but, we, will! have...
those romanian fruit & veg pickers!

it's hardly a joke:
more like a choke...
                    what's the difference between...
leaving one part of the country
for another: part of the same country...
and then... being daring enough...
to leave the country: thoroughly...
and have to learn a new language?

dual-citizenship...
go back? stay here?
hmm... i'm not really fond of speaking
or writing in ******...
the germans dissolved...
the russians too: dissolved...
i'm pretty sure that language can
remain intact... as it is...
under the law & justice party...
once they focus on the breeders
with tax-free incentives...

Chicago! what a fine diaspora hub
for the ****** "expatriates"...
good thing i never made it to
h'america: in stripes...

the friends of my youth...
most of then? crimminals...
        the nicknames we had for each
other:
i remember being taunted as being
an... "angol"... because my father wasn't
their father and wasn't part
of laying down the foundations
of "bones" for the dockland light railway...

i left a nation: still in its infancy...
and to its infancy i will drink!
but as a language: not a people...
not a geographic location...
a metaphysical manifestation:
if the word be a faustian signature...
yes, my lord... i see the pinching
itch of the natives squandering it...
like it should not have been...
a frederick hohenstaufen II experiment
in a nunnery on Sicily...
mute children... raised by nuns who didn't
speak: pretending...
to see... what language was genesis primo!

my allegiance is to the tongue...
it might allude to the fife and drums...
but dealing with the rascal
who deems...
that god save the queen be treated
with irreverence...
i'm not as daft and yobbish to glare
with a hydra giving birth to an extension
of its neck-load girth...

give me! the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
and i'll show you le marseillaise!
i have long ago pledge my allegience
to the tongue...
              
because? well... to be honest...
under all the supression from the...
(a) herr meisterstuck:
         the day:
        
        the prussians... "forgot"...
they were jumbled up with the lithuanians
as the last pagans of europe...
and then they decided: whatever it
was that they decided upon...

i hear some russian... i hear a down syndrome
person talk...
it's all lovely and sing-along...
but it's hardly by strict obligation
to the latin script... is it?
i have to nibble at pitty-worth jokes
to aid my...

diaspora: involuntary mass dispersion
of a population from its indigenous territories...
last time i checked...
i was born into a city famously known
for its practice in metallurgy...
i was the never-to-be grandson
of Die Krupp ambitions!
    i would leave my hometown and...
well... there was Warsaw...
or the... brain-drain train "elsewhere"...
from a nation into the grand...
vacuum of the diaspora...

except in england...
       the no. 303... most of which settled
in either Scotland or... Stratford-upon-Avon...
elsewhere... some other... "elsewhere"...

well...
   given that i have had had a choice...
ha ha! comma? sir?! that that?
      given that i have had - had a choice...
well... imagine... perhaps there's something
about Fwench... but i'm chosing sides...
it's not in Norwegian...
so... b'leh b'leh b'leh... b'leh...
                      
               i just have to borrow some german...
speaking this... hybrid saxon having
buggered enough afghanistan-esque brit druids...
the zeppelins were always dropping...
soap-bubbles...
          i tease oh god...
i tease... but this music is so... so...
oh so delight-ful!

                   die könig im gelb!

ah... to marry: when both are in love with life!
terrible affair: should... "life" somehow
matter: to disappear...
this love a suffocation for the best ****
they had in... ever...
and there's nothing of what life is concerned
with...
either children or... being infertile...
but to be in love with life...

the russians can't proclaim a diaspora...
then again: the "mafia"...
i've heard of an italian mob-esque...
      disposition... subsequent undercurrents
to boot...
an... irish mafia?
bothersome details...
         i still pledge my alliance to a Dickens
over a a Shakespeare...
because...
by chance... i might find some poetry
in the prosaic? by Shakespeare alone:
i'm... "expected".... aren't i?

bad news from York-and-the-shire...
Rotherham... and the... prefix ****-
   and the suffix -stani "debate"...
                   do you even know
how... let's not go there...
to term a bogus inconvenience of...

'what the hell is concerning you...
to fathom from cloud-9 a ****** notion of...
being out-bred?!'

an economic war... is a slow war...
it takes time...
it would take the amount of time...
to turn a once proud town focused on
metallurgy into rubble...
some stayed... some moved to warsaw...
some... played: a joker hand de facto...

i am: this... subtle... p.s. curiosity...
had i only come to breed...
rather than to otherwise...
nuance... allegiance...
zu die zunge?! alles!
             die menschen?
                     jeder seine haben!
             die schwach wind und der flagge?!
ist: die schwach wind: und der flagge: nein?

perhaps there's a stressor
of impetus in german that's not allowed
in english...

     ich bin hier für die sprache...
              
it must be translated... such it being:
oh such a wonderful... phrase...

   to marry... when both... are in love... with life...

zu heiraten... wenn beide...
                           sind im liebe... mit leben!

art-*******-and-funky-funky...
parsley-sage-rosemary-thym­e...
        what? thyme? there's a phi or a theta
to posit... instead...
you took the Dubliners' route of: paddy...
tad... and toink!
                'ucking scoundrels!

i will call... the greek-chinese ideogram...
I(ota) the key... and... "thereabouts"...
a keyhole of O(micron)...
it's an id: representation...

                 squashed: yes: 0... for better...
"graphics"...
    
to be young... and to share a half of both:
of being in love with life...

       Φ = the key enters the keyhole (I, O)...
    Θ = the key is turned... (Io)...
         Ψ = the door is opened...

        enough... Beijing "abstract" concerns...
for anyone?
       what's the abstract of rotation?
                                   oh... i guess: 'micron!

so much for abstracts as: only from boing-boing-xin...
some letter can qualify to be
apprehended in ideograms...
B - bossom or a fudge-yeast-byproduct
of a full ***...
              etc. or... Φ, Θ, Ψ...
       now by adding the brackets...
and time has a geography...
from the height of mythology...
to the depths of journalism...
that's... a vector:  (Φ, Θ, Ψ)...

     it's a key... a door... a keyhole...
                            an opening... n'est ce pas?!
hey! let's complicate it further
with: mr. squint... chop-sticks...
dragons... live vermin sushi...
    and counting dry grains of rice...

i'm not: Česlav Miloš...
to begin with... Czesław Miłosz was...
a Lithuanian...
because Copernicus wasn't ******...
"because and because"...
                     sides... all this talk of:
"allegiance"...
**** it... it's a cosmopolitan allegiance
to... the commonality of tongue...
shared to the point...
when... old fictions wrestle with me
and i'm confined to my own cubic...

for english is a language i can
entertain...
allow... yes... this parasite can erode
its host's cranium und...
                                  grauangelegenheit...
it was never... so imposing...
as a german tongue or a russian tongue...
therefore and thereby?
      an easily qualified tongue-donor
with the expanse of thought:
a complete and utter brain-drain on...

now...
there's a difference...
the english will not know it...

there's the nation... and there's the diaspora...
can the english... claim h'america...
or canada... or... australia...
as a nation-extension toward the confines
of a diaspora?
no... i don't think so...

that: quintessential inconvenience of
being merely: english...
   more prone to a local geography...
a devonshire... a derbyshire...
               someone of york...
  lost in new york...
                    a people with...
an imploded seance of diaspora...
    from the humble little island...
to: whatever fraction that was supposed
to make one impose on...

had i just been Irish... and "somehow"
forgotten my Gaelic...
or been that Welshman and no longer
with any Cymru...
well then...
but i come willing because...
      beside the mother and father...
the maternal grandmother and -father...
who will i speak my "native" and "mother"
tunge / zunge to?
          
i rather imagine marriage:
as when both of them are in love with life...
and in love that being said:
a little tale o' whittle england:
make it big in h'america...
        
         this... the most complete...
antithesis of a diaspora...
                    or rather: what lingua franca
was... and what l'inglese is...
and how: even if arabic tried...
and even if: mandarin would hope for...
well... hardly...
jackie chan kung fu and muhammad:
english is more popular than islam...
**** it up: camel jockey!
oh sure... they're "muslim"...
conflicting opinions... once:
speaking in english "arrives"...

                   i'm here: to turn up the volume...
because... i might as well have been
born in estonia... and speaking... estonian...
and never having left estonia...
been very much happy for the euro
and the... thumbling russians... somehow...
"retreating"...
well... if the russians are retreating...
they're: trying to revise being
an indo-european mongrel with...
accents of scandinavia concerning
the founding fathers of Kiev...
and them being russians:
what the hell do we do with the ukranians...
and the mongols that settled and became
tartars?!

yeah... the russians are on the retreat...
    this little island that... hopes for a diaspora...
instead... shuckles...
it has to settle for a h'american empire...
an australia... a new zealand...
ogh! mein! gott! no expatriate diaspora!
no tea with mussolini typo excursions!
mein gott! v'er vill youz goez?!

         zee f'ikkin moonz?! on a sputnik flarez?!
light up baboon *** numero uno:
then whisper among the fwench...

yes... very much brilliant...
         to be alive... and to marry so young...
and be helped: so young...
and not be thwarted...
   'coz crazy bunnies had the best ***...
great: to be alive, so young,
and married: and married to each other
and at the same time: having life marry you
to love it: to be together and married
to a love for life:
and... just... somehow...
having a co-dependent... of reciprocated
self-interests...

                            even in poland...
a soviety satellite...
with concrete chicken-shacks... ah yes:
that... "once upon a time"...
better the ******* state as my landlord
than some grubby liquorice ****** 3rd party:
libertarian "full dislocusre of mammon's
expression of par-tay"... sort of *******!
give me the state, the grey-suit and the gimps!

or? shackle me up for a stipend
working the sloughterhouse...
to boot... a house filled with 20 dobermans...
and 5 rottweilers...
i'll slaughter your cows... for the steak chops...
as long as i have the dogs to cuddle
and imagine myself doing the greater:
cosmic-karma-good...
the dogs... the harem of dogs...
no... women need excuses...
the dogs!

                 hell... a woman would require...
anniverseries... flowers... pinnace for a tsunami...
crumbs... what's a loaf of bread?
details... something to be minded as:
once being a plughole...
blah blah... hands for cushions...
        
              plus... women can't drink...
let her everything else: apart from the whiskey...
if she really wants to drink...
tell her to sober up on some Stendhal or
some Balzac... but don't let a woman
try to outcompete a man drinking...
she can drink...
but not... in that most... ugly: crab-feast
of... "detail"...

the english man... england...
h'america, australia... new zealand...
oh... wait... you were hoping for a diaspora...
weren't you?
yeah... clearly i didn't find an affair of
the imitation of greece...
took charge of the latin script...
inverted the mediterranean sea...

i speak your language: doesn't imply
i've shed the "ethno-nationalist" tattoos of "d.n.a."...
for a people to have made it bitter...
with the teutonic order over access to the baltic sea...
what's the baltic sea?
it's like the black sea...
the baltic sea is about as useful as...
well... the danes and the norwegians
held the toll and price of passing...
just like the turks or the byzantines held
the key of the bosphorus...
the baltic... is a "sea"...
just like the black sea is a "sea"...

did you know... there's a caspian sea?
yeah... it's a "sea"... more like... a lake would
be so much better...

the english could be akin to the arabs
from 200 years ago...
instead: sitting on a tonne of salt...
and waves...
and open horizons...
while the arabs sat on camel ****...
sand... and dinosaur juice...
and materialistic leprosy and limp-****
viagara palm tree impromptu...

sure... the lottery ticket of the past,
oh the most glorious past times...
        nothing lasts forever...
       so it seems...
            here's me celebrating Dickens
to the last... breath... because...
keeping up with speaking my native
language: when there are no
prussians, no russians...
           no austro-hungarians...
and there are only...
ukranians and lithuanians readying
to guilt-trip me over the failures
of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth?!

in this language i can...
ale... nie... w... tym!

He is the lion strength
He is the Pride of Africa
He is the unbending tree along the ocean waves

He is a different being
He is the African warlord
He is the Affican hero
The African knight

He is a leadership model
He is a piller of the African walls
He is a continental delight
He is Our true Legend
He is the African Legend
He is our true hero

Goodnight African papa
Goodnight African Nelson
Goodnight mandela
Sleep well in the bossom of the creator.

There is a dull ache in the pit of my bossom-
maddening and riveting as the alcohol scalds
my tongue, my throat and settles in my stomach.
Far away,
In the different weather and scent of-
streets, alleways and my bed not quite the same.
Long way from home,
Amidst a place not quite my taste-
missing and kissing in the the corner streets.
Epiphany as the place; that is not quite the same,
reminds me that it is not the missing piece;
Rather, that I am the lonesome traveller.
A stranger, a moribund
In this far away land of sorrow and of memory.
Long way, homesick in the vast expanse of-
memory lane;
A place not quite the same as the one left behind.

Washed ashore
By the angry ebb
Of lost Atlantis,
The ocean brims
In liquid Jade
And grains of gold.

The sun won't sleep
Under the blanket
Of the vast horizon,
But dances with
The velvet moon
At heaven's feet.

Divine rays pierce
The prismic clouds
Bleeding spectrum,
Rain that seethed
At the apex
Of nature's bossom.

They gushed forth
Like raging horses
To a thirsty basin,
That slithered down
The silver rivers
And shallow streams.

Neon vines
Creep in the floor
Of the sleeping forest
Cradled by the songs
Of Mockingjays
And willow dryads.

The zephyr hums
A joyful song
In the laughing thickets
As flowers bloom
Like newborn stars
In the undergrowth.

In the mellow heart
Of the deep forest
A *****'s cry
Echoed woes
Of the hidden land
And its deadly curse.

Mama Africa,

She's a blessing to mankind,

Her soil is fertile and lush,

Her skies are forever sunny and blue,

Underneath the soil lies minerals still yet to be touched.

She has worked for her children, oh, if only they knew!.

Blessed to be born in the bossom of mama Africa,

Cursed!, we allow her to waste and wither

She cries tears of blood, as she watches her children slaughter their brethren for selfish gain

When would we Learn, children of Africa!

When will we learn, we are one Africa!.

                                                                    -wolf

Written for a challenge on my
former site... he wanted us to
rewrite Shakespheare...
a daunting task to say the least!
I can only hope that I
did The Bard justice!


O! Wretched Stars!
Look not down upon this maid!
Your wheels moved well upon
your merciless plans so laid!
You cross' d conspirators!
You... content in your spheres...
do you not find my eyes stricken...
... with tears!

O! Morose and meddlesome Moon!
So swollen full!
Let not this dagger pulled
from my loves gold'n sheath be dull!
You... gliding the uncaring sky
as ship with sail...
let mean, pernicious fate take me...
... your winds prevail!
Take me to where
my lover doth wait...
... take me to shroud, I prithee...
... to my mate!

O! My fairest husband!
Do not lie so still!
Can you not kiss me this last time. ..
... by force of will?
Can you not, with your
fair hand instead,
Take slender blade
and pierce my bossom
til it be bloom'd rose red?!!

Romeo... Romeo!
Wherefore art thou Romeo?
At last you're dead...
... and thus without a name...
As in the halls of graves
... all occupants the SAME!

A pox on your house!
A noisome pestilence!
And thee, o dagger?
Come and take me themce!
As for my house? Let them lie
with palsey in their beds...

... but not 'til this sweet dagger
finds me... its host... DEAD.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/26/2014

She went to Russia as a student
To study fashionable nuclear technology
At the communist Patrice Lumumba University
At the center of ideologue creating city of Moscow,
She went there an accomplished total ******
No African eye had ever seen her naked bossom
She came from the western region of Africa
A girl so couth in all the platforms of life;
In manners, dress and ****** appetite,
With only education as the prime focus of her heart;
To bag a science degree in her African leather wallet
Under her arm pit, sandwiching culture and discipline.
But communist racism turned her into an ape *****,
All the tricks of European racism were employed on her,
The young girl lost her seed of self-worthwhile sensibilities,
She conceded that perhaps she was a daughter of zinjanthropus,
In the land of dignified civilisation of the Russian humanity
Where communism struggles to achieve universal Godliness
As ***** blackness strives to achieve universal communism,
In this negative personality feat, my dear daughter goofed,
A poor girl of Africa joined communist *** workers market,
And hence the door was opened to communist loutishness,
Comrades came in arms and went out, to collectivize her love
Making her ****** rights state property, subjected to proletariat dictatorship,
Only to suffer the bane of the time on her complain of woman rights,
She was declared as an African ******* in Moscow,
Suffering from incorrigible explosive African anger,
***** irascibility never seen any where in mother Russia
Only capable to be corrected in Siberian prison .

Red Lace Is Something
I’ve only ever heard about.
Never seen.

Big Hips, Tiny Waist
Isn’t real in my world.
Just TV.

Tight Seamless Dresses
And a flattering sillouhette:
Flattery?

Danger: Curves Ahead,
Comparing me to thrilling.
Not me.

Real Women Have These:
It’s either me or my best friend.
Always neither.

Bossom Buddies, Close Knit
Shower buddies using soap.
Never clean.

Mother Moon smiles at me
She says it’s okay to be alone
If alone is grounding, is peaceful, is safe
Because, child, there will be many battles to be fought
There will be times, lots, when you’ll be thrown into death
But now, tonight, rest in the bossom of your mother
Let her comfort you, care for you, tell you all is well
My mother smiles at me, she embraces me in her cool breeze
And I am home.

I saw a purple piece of fluffy cloud,
It was flying over my mind!

I, said, sticking out,
Unfold yourself!

This balloon swung to and fro
Like the girls on the floor,
And it went on till I said again,
Unfold yourself!

It crooned, stooping,
Love, love, love,love,
You left alone, you left alone!

No! You are in my bossom!
No! You are in my bossom!

A droplet fell on my head,
Oh, it was so heavy, so heavy!

Keep it, it said, with you,
The souvenir of your beloved,
You left alone, you left alone!

The breeze came there
And took it away aloof!

I sighed with sobs,
I scolded myself to forsake it,
So early when it was in its prime!

On the yellow sheet,
I penned my pang!

There was a balloon in my room,
I left it to fly in the space,
It wandered hither and thither
Like a homeless child,
Oh, the wind took away its soul!

O Almighty! I wish to meet it in thy heaven,
O Almighty! Make it my wife there!

I am burning inside.
My anger is a tiger,
A tiger burning in the forest
Of the night... dark as
Aged blood on a
Midnight shroud.

I must accept the truth of
My life. And find complete
Forgiveness for those who
Have done their level best
To destroy it.

The ones who have taken
The blood from my veins
And ripped out my heart.
Who killed my dreams
Now, once again, stillborn
In my arms.

I won't allow self pity to
Replace that sweet child.
A poison changeling
To suckle my bossom
And bite the ******.

I'm angry.
But it could be worse.

I could have a
Body wracked with cancer.

I could have been born
In a body stunted and
Wizened... with a
Conciousness to
Understand my
Predicament...
A quadrepalegic.

I could have been born
In a sewer in Calcutta.

From dawn of day
Til day's begun
Count your blessings

One

By

One.

One day
forgiveness
Will come.

Heat of our bodies...ignites flames of such passion...
as we hold each other so close....kisses so deep....
fingers explore skin....heightening our desire...
Oh how the hunger grows...
to play in the flames of carnal desire.....
taste of her skin....intoxicates the soul...
yearning for so much more....sharing the hearts affactions....
The sloping smooth skin of her bossom...
my hands gently ****** so lovingly....skin shivers under my touch....
souls and hearts open to each other.....
fingers and lips indulge in such pleasure.....upon this night....
We join as one...limbs locked around each other....
moving in synchronicty to our beating hearts....passion surging....
feel me baby...throbbing....thrusting....in the garden of your ***.....
friction between us....building an inferno of love's fire.....
succumb to our desires....we share our love....
our hearts explore desire's boundaries....
we serenade each other....in the sweet ecstasy of our love making....
forever bound in this love...forever cherishing each other.

She said
'drink not the beer of men,
for it is stale and tasteless.
drink your fill of the beer of women,
for it is cool and harkening.

'lay not your head upon your pillow,
for it is with lonely songs you shall sleep.
lay your head upon my pillow,
for it is in this sleepless night we shall rejoice.

'you are tired, not of waking,
but of your bones being uwarmed,
your marrow unsucked,
your hair untussled.

'come, into my arms,
feel the softness of my bossom.
place your hands on the small of my back,
pull me from righteousness and pleasure retention.
pull me towards your eagerness,
your egrogious pleasure.'


burning and aching the good ache,
yearning and fighting the good fight,
she filled me with desert heat,
she encased me with oasis wet.
for her; an hour of *******,
for her; failed musings and a *** bruise or four.

honey, I'm just down the hall.
let me taste of you,
allow yourself your fill of me.
Honey, only if it do please ya.

Did you know I am black...
Have you listened to His story....
My mother's hands planted me strong..
I have roots of strange fruits
Swinging, But Winds can't move me..
Sweetly I darken as I ripen...

I believe in The Masters plan..
I speak master of no Man..
I pray that He Rewrites His-tory
Things Only the #Master would demand..
Don't be moved by howling hounds..
I Stand firm upon shakend ground..

Hands up, around my royal stem.
Feet dangle until a breathless end..
One pulls back as ropes tighten..
I think of what could've been..
Come get a taste of sin..
I feed the hunger of men..

Look at me strangely Like deformity
My skin bares no such impurity
I am the son of Light
Burnt in the bossom of RA
My power supersedes this hanging state..
I transcended every time I'm consumed..

You only have days to repent..
Hell has cold places for hatred
Now that heavens a breath away..
Don't hunt what you don't eat..
There is blood on the leaves
As you planted gardens of death..

One hangs on as Strange fruit..
Memories linger in the frozen air..
I believe we share some roots..
Tears water the branches we break..
Stories that can't end as His-tory
Dangling Fruits From the popular trees..

It all seem like yesterday
When we all gathered round your bed
Kneeling for blessings,benedictions
And warnings to live as one

It all seems like yesterday
When you will rock me with folktales
Stories of how you won my mum
And the blessings attached to you as one

It seems like yesterday
When your advise cuddles me in my blues
Re inspiring my soul
With it streams words of gold

It all seems like yesterday
That the devil took your breathe away
Leaving us with a hole
Scars like tattoos
As we mourn in silence
And here,
we standing all in a dark shade of glass
Black gowns,black suits,black tie,in the rain
Spreading our ashes over you bossom rest
Blaming the devil for the theft of a good life

Though your pictures glaze our hearts
Furnishing it with your radiant smiles
The memory of you
We continue to cherish
As we hold today a remembrance of you.

**** darwinism...
i want my furr back!
i'm tired of being a bus
driver!
                 rotondo roulette
roundabout:
                 you
are but deaf in
making me be compassionate prone....
you are, of all i make a zulu of
a tongue to speak in,
neither Mc near close encounter with a Mac...
and not ye two nearer a reconpasse....
aye, tilting toward the might of the Picts,
learned tongue forbade the tongue to weave....
glassfar aeyer the glutton worth f bossom....
                   and into tha death bed healthily
cling to the roß: gørt!
                              you have no favours intact
bound to cleave to me...
you are arsenic bound... artefact of arson!
and no more be you clung!
                   forgive the one who was
bound the crux, and forgive no one else...
come to me bidding knee, and
         i'll show you where a hail mary
sends you: toward the Dantian drift,
and Milton's escapism worth a wish to have,
unto brother, done as Cain did, thrice toward Abel.
so led by Macbeth...
and unto no other, i wish to return,
having not prior been blessed...
  not until the seagulls of a king learned
to be king without a crown...
you will not weep for me, so why bother to give
etertainment to a grave?
             sooner a war, and sooner a marble statue...
than this...
  this pathetic gratification for a doubled concern
for the wordly bliss...
     there! rhyme St. Lancelot!
to your fate and... rhyme! rhyme! prance!
                            make one's due...
a baron of asking for la carte -
if that be the right case of seeking menu:
vampirism of the glut, that before
the tongue has tasted, the eye has ate!
eat! eat! may you eat enough,
to sing me an opera after! burp! long live
the inglorious cringe!
               so, rhyme St. Lancelot... prace and dance!
make one the ambiguity of pronouns! polo!
polo monsieur! dare the Pict, dressed in woad,
take to explaining tattoo?
   who the **** is ginger these days, monsieur?!
you are but a foul creature,
reigning from Edinburgh, not having read
Macbeth... toast to spitting into a champagne flute
as be your honour, and at least this:
      to where i find myself...
           in mist bound, and carcass sowing
a smile or signature bestowing...
             laid to rest, by the meadow's care for clue,
by witchy assemble, i have a tongue of a hyena
laughing at the epitaphs of the human desert
that's a marble etch... and i'll have you more!
   morose i am, bound to scoff the last of
the most concentrate words of worth whehter bound
to man, or beast!
   these times are not impeding a charity for a man
of my concern... they are are here as
counter to whatever served as balance...
  lo, last said, Macbeth,
             first with the nightingale and quake:
Macbeth... thus last with qualm and the highland
prone... to fall! to desist! then to a crow,
with croak and magpie salute.. Macbeth!
             i feel no romance for Hamlet...
       even though i should...
you are, but your own tamed lady, approaching your
first male couch victim... and that cheap eroticism
of a low-land scandinavian squire fir moor dukes...
  that thing: danish bound...
                     before i type out the dialect of picts...
i better type out the dialects of my own kind...
                                  but since i have no beginning,
i have only the immediate... and the end is a tad bit...
     unnecessary.
now that can only mean one thing:
i should have really have invested in adjoining with a woman...
why didn't i?
     was it because the civilisation i was living
in was not worth saving?
       why didn't i make matrimony with a woman?
ah feckle see and seer's boo tock!
                     tick-ah-lick-ah-lick-ah-true... saves saying: me
or you... ye 'ear?! rot's worth in Dundee, ya
clotting dodger... e don, it's called a Beethoven
sequence... one side wanted a joke anf ah friendly verse,
the other side wanted a statue of liberty...
                none of us seemed to walk
under the cottonwood trees of some imaginary
street akin to avenue des champs-élysées.
    i don't know, i'm no jew making money
from the holocaust. no wait, they're not?!
    god forbid it could happen!  why did i add that?
i felt ashamed not creating a collage
  of tabloid and worded mâché
to the trough akin...
well... the other reason i wrote that with such gravitas
is because my family was involved in
the second world war, and didn't
receive any deutsche marks, in compensation
money... it would be fun if they did...
but they didn't... so where's the ha ha?
    zu tun Spielberg? or is that
Spitzerbergen? don't look at me, i'm not
making money from it!
   i wish my great-grandmother made a bestseller novel
from her world war ii experiences...
              but she didn't...
i just get reminded about the jews
    the jews, the jews...
and am never told about the stupidity of warsaw, 1944.
oh wait, i was, and i still didn't make any
money from it!

There's a place in my heart where an apple tree grows.
On warm Sunday afternoons my soul rests beneath it's unwavering shade,
And there amongst the long sweet grass my fears and sorrows all just seem to fade.
How it got there, what it's for, no one really knows.
Strangely still, the ground around it strangely, somehow glows.
But it's bulky bossom and entangled arms keep my worries abade.
And when I reach to pick an apple from it's gentle depths I simply make a trade.
One bite into the golden globe and one bad memory just goes...

It's stands solemn and contright beside the sands of time,
And from there the surreal sea of dreams just stretches on and on,
Merging with the sky as it disappears beyond.

On the branches of my hope there hangs a tickering chime.
And when it sings it's time to go, it's time to say anon.
There's a place in my heart where and apple tree grows of which I'm pretty fond.

Eve convinced Adam
to eat forbidden fruit
in the Garden of Eden

Helen of Troy's face
launch'd a thousand ships,
her lips instigating warfare

Sumptuous curvatures of
women's hips and bossom
lure honorable men to disgrace

How dare that trollop
where a pair of trousers
accentuating her buttocks!

The micro-hemline
corralled a wandering eye
to the elegant calve muscle

The female figure is
warmth and seduction,
yet devilish and misleading

History and myth
reaffirming sweet satisfaction,
but reeking of disaster

A frame dating back
The nostalgic feeling of a former home
How we all stood and watched
How we all wondered how it happened

Why does it hurt again?

The three offsprings looking down
In the cushioned box whence she laid
Tears, free flowing
Mouths agape, a child cries
Its the end of the road Ma,
Pray under the bossom of the Lord
You Rest.

Alone in crowd and character
Alinier found his mate
An accident would guide them
to a golden arching gate

and as they passed eloped like lovers
under the passage's golden face
Alinier saw beyond the gate was
a thirsty, hollow place

the gate remaining open
he saw her beauty and confided
he stepped inside the desert land
and his fate had been decided

She turned to face Alinier
with eyes as amber flame
she uttered, "something you must do
before you know my name"

He spoke to her, "Pray, say your wish
so I may hold thy name!"
she swore, "you must cut both your ears
before you make your claim"

So with Shining Blade he lost his ears
and turned with crippled grin
to his smirking mistress, who spoke her name
but he would never hear again

He said to her in pleading
write to me your title miss!
but she wrote, "There's something you can do
and in return a kiss"

Alinier said, "Tell anything!
So I may keep one kiss!"
The woman said to take the blade
to both his drying lips

So with Shining Blade he lost his lips
and turned to face her, bleeding
she leaned and kissed Alinier's mouth
but he could not feel a thing

He cried to her with gurgled tongue
"My lady let's kiss and rest!"
She wrote, "there's still one task before
you see my flirting breast"

Alinier said, "Speak what you want!
So I may see your bossom best!"
She wrote, "you must remove your eyes
and I'll reveal my chest"

So with Shining Blade he lost his eyes
and as his darkness carried woe
the golden gate began to shut
and soon he was alone

There is a lady in the night
A constellation fair
Lady of the Crescent Moon
You'll see her sitting there.

She wears a diadem of stars
Opals of bright hues
Each color in it represents
A soul who's been abused.

She, who is their patron
Lets them shine like suns
She holds them in the heavens
And cares for every one.

She holds a scepter crystalline
Wears rubies on her sleeves
Her bossom alabaster stones
A tapestry she weaves.

The crescent moon behind her
It's beams are like a flood
It is a second diadem
For she's of royal blood.

AH! You cannot see her?
No. You will not see her soon
You'd only see from VENUS

Lady of the Crescent Moon.

Sentient street,
As we walk through the gates of sentience,
Like a child,I quirked my head,
Left~right and back with innocence,
To glimpse at their seemly slums;a nimble haul of dread,
Tucked me,as I gander the miscellany artistry,
The winsome combs on their chambers,
By builders and framers,
For all;but the aesthetics I knew belonged to the affluent,
An erudition I needed not to imbibe as a student,

Oblivious of myself;I spotted their melancholic eyes in their inscriptions,
And read the histories and encryptions,
The stares they gave tremored my heart,
And tore the arteries apart,
My soul wept for their bereavement but tears was deficit in my eyes,

As I march to the yard of his repose;I said"A journey we shall all embark"
Gawking at the annexation of other chambers,as grief berserks,
I got there,

I stood meters afar and stared,
As the priest blessed the yard;And prayed for his soul,
Conferring him into the bossom of his maker,
And instructing the digger afterwards;to dump him into the hole,
His folks quaker,
And bade him their farewell with flowers,
In their last hour,

But as they fetch sands and stones to wrap him,
In their faces I saw grim,
When the diggers spat and slapped;his coffin with stones and shovels,
For this has been their long awaited muscle,
And in deligence;they deliver,
"This journey I will embark too"I said,
As I stood in my shiver,
And withdrew and left in mopes.


Sentient Street
©Historian E.Lexano

The fire is pretty enough.
Flames
Dance
Dazzling
Bright
Whilst I hold you tight
In the bossom
Of my soul
In any old soul
You could lay there and rest;
But not mine.

I
Rock you like a storm rocks the sea
Holding you carefully,
Haphazardly
And you smile wildly now;
Enjoy the ride
Enjoy the fire--

But wary the smoke
That rises and curls;
The black-ash folds
Which create me.
As you breathe me in
Tasting my sin
Hoping to stay--

Be wary the smoke
Which rises and curls
Toward your nostrils and
Into your lungs...

Perhaps you can breathe.
Perhaps not.

And I'll take in yours
Large sighs fill my lungs
With the dangerous fog that pervades you
And now it knows mine
And as we intertwine,
Time:
Leaves us*

And I---
Like a child, but a thousand years old,
Searching stories, yet told,
For some saneness to hold,
I drink in the silver
and wine--

One dark lonely night when the moon
was bereft of his starry wives,
he came back to me in my dream
to sing and dance the song of death alive!

He held my hand, drew me closer,
pressed my bossom to his chest,
a devilous smile crossed his lips
as my tears found its oceanic rest.

His eyes never left my sight
nor a moment did his hand lose its hold
as he held me close in an embrace
full of peace and serenity to be told.

His smile spread in my cheeks
like the rise of the early morning sun.
The fresh dew drops of his love
welled up in my being soon.

The time was like the sand
too loose to be held by hand
without any weeping, holding or clinging
I let go off myself in his delirious swing.

When I finally awoke from my sleep
his fragrance was in the air too heavy to bear
as the mad pursuit of his unknown desire
seemed to be floating in the morning air.

A beauty so great, was it destiny or fate?
How the sun lays upon thou bossom of thy face, that glows glorious like the kingdom behind Heavens gate.

Your smile that run for miles in my mind during contemplation, your voice so soft, when spoken give my heart palpitation. So nervous when I get near, cant help but smile, like a soldier in the face of fear, I happily welcome these feelings, without a tear.

Roses that very from color, but your a rose beyond colors, the luminescence of your eyes and smile, glow,because of your untouched beauty has progressed beyond others.Your a simple women, smart, intelligent, intellectual beauty inner and outer, like Iv'e said before your a rose, but who's love peddles and leafs has grown strong and shown, blossomed to be prone, by love that you own.

My eyes lay upon the sight of perfection, my eyes upon you, is the sight beyond ascension.Above beyond and infinity, let me caress your neck, and taste the lips of serenity and longevity.

By: Emmanuel jv Hernandez
2-27-12

The rain sings her adieu;
her surreal scent, her every smile
her very essence drowned by heaven's
teardrops, while her memories remain:
boxed in mylar.
>
The rain sings her adieu.
But how can one not forget her?
How her kisses lingers longer than
St. Elmo's fire, and the feel of
her touch refreshes every second, and
renews every hour.
>
The rain sings her adieu.
Lightning growls and thunder flashes;
and every teardrop vainly tried,
to ease the pain of losing her.
Vainly too the hours, trying every second
to return back to the very moment where
time has finally called her to his bossom;
failing vainly to appease him with their
pleas.
>
The rain sings her adieu.
But what is love without her?
To cherish every moment without her,
to live in bliss sans her, and looking
forward not having her?
Oh what purpose is existing when she's but
in another realm.
>
The rain sings her adieu.
And beyond the horizon appears,
The colourful band of a promise-
despite her absence, her memories will
but forever be etched in through the hearts of those
who truly love her.

begging she
hobbles
wobbly on
bent legs her
garments
unraveled
scarlet
letter
meticulously
embroidered on
sagging
bossom
golden heart worn
upon the wrist
which
wields
the
collapsible
white
cane.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/12/2017

Nearer the center of us,
Of our creation. Our home.
The energy rests, charged highly feminine
Highly creative.
Preparing to birth.

Near this point of One,
Where the explosion took place,
Where the energy to create begins again.
Here we arrive from a womb.
Emerging into reflection.

Here the Mothers love is experienced.
Here you see what unconditionally smells
Like.
Here you begin to see why all must be.
Well, as it is, always.

Here the womb births ALL,
And here we rest with our SELF.
None can give to the source of itself.
To take is indeed a fallacy too.
Mothers unconditionally love their
Children. And near You, she's dedicated.

To our time to witness,  she's pleasured
By our stance . She tells us to rest,
And stand, ride until you glide,
And have fun.
When it's your turn to rebirth,
Trust I will be the one to call you in,
Close to my bossom
And we will release, exhale and reunite.

All is well. Trust in the magic of love.

Cloaked in black velvet and silver adorned skull peices. A halo of anxiety sits over my head. The intrusive pornographic thoughts rumble like holograms in front of my minds eye. Iris's and lillys. Dandelions and sunflowers. I want to stick my fingers in all the flowers and taste their pollen on my lips. Fantasia salivation elicted with cowbell bass drops. *** sells in seconds, lust in hours, love in years

Feeling  like a ****** journalist. Her green.hair, another with straight bangs. A septum and ****** peircing peirce me straight through the heart. Its vanity but its a start.
Let me wrap you in eagle feathers and wolf fur. Let me exercise your cowskull traumas, raging buffalo hormones into rebirth
Huff and blow moaned words into ear canals as I enter your eternal.
Infernal like the lusts of hell
Ethanol and bossom busts sell in seconds, Lost in hours with love to fear.
Gold halo of Anxiety paired with a silver skull clad in black velvet
Thrusts of the pelvic
Release whats held in
Redesigned pulpit seldom held words in
Align with me the divinity felt in
*** (in)finite feelings that last in transnce. Slowly peeling away strips of skin to permanance.
Feeling an earnest sense of wonderment. No time to wonder what it meant when impermance is permanent

Smoke cigarettes for the hurt when life has turned to **** but you heard it when i said i love you and you turned a bit. Looked in my eyes and i caught a glimpse of a future id like to witness. Didnt hear a word you said but i saw the world in your eyes instead. Tried to listen but my brain went dead
No words to say when you glow infared. Hotter than the spectrum
of sight. Glowing infared,
Youre hotter than spectrums of light so burn me like Arizona sunlight
Slap ***, hand shaped sunburn from a liquid honey night. *** on lap, lap up the *** like the last watersource, pour it on my face until gasps of air you hear. Taste your pollen near my lips nectarine fallen on your chest.

Feel the lasting affects
Of sexs' (in)finitely affixed fixation on transience. Glowing infared and ambient. Flowing energy in the pits of sacral chakras, returned to the crown and passed back down. Circulating intuitive lessons, divine bits of each other imbued in fission, fuse them into   living. Seperated by the gods as two seperate beings, unite mind, body, soul
Freeing all in estatic feeling.
Peeling all the tragic sealed in
Two seperate beings fleeing
Into impermanance
Towards a permanent form of seeing
3-4-5
666 eyes healing