Given the apparent magical surrealism that the months of April is the month of fate for and death of writers, artists, dramatis, philosophers and poets, a phenomenon which readily gets support from the cases of untimely and early April deaths of; Max Weber, Miguel de Cervantes, William Shakespeare, Francis Imbuga, and Chinua Achebe  then  Wisdom of the moment behooves me to adjure away the fateful month by  allowing  me to mourn Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez by expressing my feelings of grieve through the following dirge of elegy;
You lived alone in the solitude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an eminent Latin American and most widely acclaimed authors, died untimely at his home in Mexico City on Thursday, 17th April 2014. The 1982 literature Nobel laureate, whose reputation drew comparisons to Mark Twain of adventures of Huckleberry Finny and Charles Dickens of hard Times, was 87 of age. Already a luminous legend in his well used lifetime, Latin American writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez was perceived as not only one of the most consequential writers of the 20th and 21ist centuries, but also the sterling performing Spanish-language author since the world’s experience of Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish Jail bird and Author of Don Quixote who lived in the 17th century.
Like very many other writers from the politically and economically poor parts of the world, in the likes of J M Coatze, Wole Soyinka, Nadine Gordimer, Doris May Lessing, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, V S Naipaul, and Rabidranathe Tagore, Marguez won the literature Nobel prize in addition to the previous countless awards for his magically fabulous novels, gripping short stories, farcical screenplays, incisive journalistic contributions and spellbinding essays. But due to postmodern global thespic civilization the Nobel Prize is recognized as most important of his prizes in the sense that, he received in 1982, as the first Colombian author to achieve such literary eminence. The eminence of his work in literature communicated in Spanish are towered by none other than the Bible, especially  in its Homeric style which Moses used when writing the book of Genesis and the fictitious drama of Job.
Just like Ngugi, Achebe, Soyinka, and Ousmane Marquez is not the first born. He is the youngest of siblings. He was born on March 6, 1927 in the Colombian village of Aracataca, on the Caribbean coast. His literary bravado was displayed in his book, Love in the Times of Cholera.  In which he narrated how his parents met and got married. Marguez did not grow up with his father and mother, but instead he grew up with his grandparents. He often felt lonely as a child. Environment of aunts and grandmother did not fill the psychological void of father and mother. This social phenomenon of inadequate parenthood is also seen catapulting Richard Wright, Charlese Dickens, and Barrack Obama to literary excellency.Obama recounted the same experience in his Dreams from my father.

Poverty determines convenience or hardship of marriage. This is mirrored by Garcia Marquez in his marriage to Mercedes Barcha.  An early childhood play-mate and neighbour in 1958. In appreciation of his marriage, Marquez later wrote in his memoirs that it is women who maintain the world, whereas we men tend to plunge it into disarray with all our historic brutality. This was a connotation of his grandmother in particular who played an important role during the times of childhood. The grand mother introduced him to the beauty of orature by telling him fabulous stories about ghosts and dead relatives haunting the cellar and attic, a social experience which exactly produced Chinua Achebe, Okot P’Bitek, Mazizi Kunene, Margaret Ogola and very many other writers of the third world.
Little Gabo as his affectionate pseudonym for literature goes, was a voracious bookworm, who like his ideological master Karl Marx read King Lear of Shakespeare at the age of sixteen. He fondly devoured the works of Spanish authors, obviously Miguel de Cervantes, as well as other European heavyweights like; Edward Hemingway, Faulkner and Frantz Kafka.
Good writers usually drop out of school and at most writers who win the Nobel Prize. This formative virtue of writers is evinced in Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, William Shakespeare, Sembene Ousmane, Octavio Paz as well as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After dropping out of law school, Garcia Marquez decided instead to embark on a call of his passion as a journalist. The career he perfectly did by regularly criticizing Colombian as well as ideological failures of the then foreign politics. In a nutshell he was a literary crusader against poverty. This is of course the obvious hall marker of leftist political orientation.
Garcia Marquez’s sensational breakthrough occurred in 1967 with the break-away publication of his oeuvre; One Hundred Years of Solitude which the New York Times Book Review meritoriously elevated as ‘the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race. The position similarly taken by Salman Rushdie. Marquez often shared out that this novel carried him above emotional tantrums on its publication. He was keen on this as his manner of speech was always devoid of la di da.so humble and suave that his genius can only be appreciated not from the booming media outlets about his death, but by reading all of his works and especially his Literature Noble price acceptance speech delivered in 1982.

I gaze into my crystal ball, discern amidst the haze
A world so far removed from that of now, it would amaze,
Where catapulting incidents collide like billiard *****
And sense defies belief as renaissance makes the calls.

Blueprints fresh from Internet supply the suitcase blast
Where the terrorist’s, simultaneously, ignite in cities cast
From Moscow to New York, Beijing to Berlin
Gay Paree to London town then way out east again,
Budapest, Jerusalem Calcutta burning all
And Tokyo is levelled in a ghastly nuclear pall.

Kneejerk reaction triggers contrails in the blue
Crisscrossing all the continents obliterating through
An overkill so vicious that in seconds it is past
And the living cling in horror, bearing witness… aghast.

Restraints are erased as the opportunists dash
Flotillas from the Spratleys sprint to occupy and cash
In on the minerals, oil and potential food supplies
Of uncontaminated nations found beneath Pacific skies.
Hindi, Jew and Muslim settle scores bereft with years
Of resentment accrued in a flood of blood and tears.

A sudden realisation of immensity of loss
Curtails the destruction in retrenchment across
The habitable outposts, the dearth of supply
And the daunting prospects of a nuclear winter sky.
Global collapse of all electronic gear
No power, no phones, and no cars now…for years.
Electromagnetic impulse put paid to all that
And the day is as dark as the cold night is black.



And here all we sit, in the here and the now
On the verge of catastrophes’ teetering tower,
With a fools pudgy finger just inches above
The nuclear button…and all that we love.
……You fear the insanity, sense the insane
Knowing that people like this are holding the reign?
Knowing that volatility strikes
Like the shot of a gun and the ****** of a knife.

I don’t have the answers to hand
But someone out there, knows how…and can.
The sands of time are running thin

URGENTLY needed a LEADER...to WIN!

M.
Planet Earth
6 March 2019

Your kiss effected an  explosion,
          catapulting bats hanging from the tree of my memories,
warm full lips, exuded the flavor of banana flowers,
                     in time of  ******* out nectar, from it
I imbibed the heady feeling,
                it garrulously spoke about my idyllic childhood in  the village
and on your inner environment too,
                    that prompted your kiss, so fervid, full of longing.

So I've been thinking lately

What if
he's on a journey out to find himself
reading Hemingway and Emerson (his namesake) and roughing it at Walden Pond
smoking foreign cigars
and staring deep into coffee
to decipher the meaning of the swirls of smoke
that rise from it in the morning?
What if
he's asking ChaCha! the meaning of life
or trying out a new brand of shampoo
or attempting to set a high score on Tetris
or out burning down bridges just to see them ablaze
or doing volunteer work,
reading to disabled children at the local library?
What if
he's decided that this is all too much,
that he'd prefer to live in anonymity
trading his celebrity for secretarial work or carrot-harvesting
or breeding exotic fish
or renting out those inflatable jumping-castles?
What if
he's tired of all those books in Technicolor
all the paparazzi out to get him
and commercialize his favorite beanie
just because he's on vacation because he pulled some strings at the office
thus catapulting him into some movie set halfway across the world?
What if he's sick and tired of them hunting down his girlfriend
his dog
that random wizard mentor guy that's a deadringer for Dumbledore?
What if he would rather sit at home and watch the Game Show Network
and change his name to something boring like John instead of living up to a thinker's expectations?
Or maybe just the opposite, he's just watching Family Feud to pass the time because he WANTS to be a thinker
but doesn't know how?
Or maybe Family Feud just makes him lonely because he doesn't have a real family,
just that evil guy with funny glasses and ****** hair and an awful Hamburglar taste in clothes?
What if he's decided he's on the wrong path
and needs to turn his life around?

What if Waldo doesn't want to be found?

Burning nails, the beginning of the end and black sails for the death of an invisible friend,
Tragic loss resulting from the magic catapulting from my fingertips.
Read my fiery lips:
Give me shelter from your Neptunian storm,
Split the world with a wedge and keep our bodies warm
Kick the trunk of the oak until it bleeds with the fire you stoke
And coke you need and **** you smoke, and ****** Prometheus,
You are only human. But the fire in your blood leaves their smokestacks fuming
And nothing can save you, enslave yourself
With your strong-willed bravery on a rocky shelf.
Roll your eyes, disregard, spit in faces, **** me off
Because I'm the good sister, just tend the hearth and when I speak I scoff.
My name is Hestia, and I don't often stray from the Pantheon
So just trust me on this:
I'll introduce you to the smoldering truths, induce catharsis
And let your body loose, pick up your liver, tend your wounds
As if they were ash and oil, because we alone know justice.
You alone know how you've toiled.
And I can only start to understand your firebrand,
A passionate command. I tolerate you and adore you for your mortal score.
Prometheus, don't let those raptors gouge you anymore.

I
loathe
fighting with
my entire being.
Maybe because I have
never really been in a fight
just observed my parents, my
friends, everyone around me and
watched as the tension built and built
and built making me feel as small as a child
and as powerless too. People don’t understand
the consequences of their actions, I don’t understand
people. But, I understand fights. Words are like slingshots
catapulting friendships into dangerous territories the words you
say sometimes you mean them, sometimes you don’t and it’s the
words you mean that are the worst. Those are the words you can’t
take back.  And what I understand about fights taught me this. A fight
is like a symphony it builds and builds until its deafeningly loud, and then
its quiet, and there is nothing left leaving its audience unbearably sad and at a
loss.

Dear Newborn,

Hi, hello.
Welcome.

I hope you’re enjoying your stay here on planet Earth.

I’m sure the drive in was a little difficult, a little painful,
perhaps a little ****** (or a lot ******),
like moving from the darkest cavern to the brightest….
well, place. Area. Location.

I can’t think of anything superbly bright right now.
Oh, oh, I know.

It’s like living your whole life floating
at the far reaches of outer space and then
catapulting directly into the sun.

Great analogy.

Regardless, welcome.

I said I hope you enjoy your stay,
the key word being hope, because, well,
you may not enjoy it.

In fact, it’s guaranteed that there are parts of life
that will be near-torturous,
that will make you wish you had never been brought
into this world.

But with that also comes moments of happiness
unlike anything you will ever experience, 
intense joy that makes you feel as though
you’re weightless once again,
floating out in space with no restraints,
no boundaries, just peace.

The good will be great,
and the bad will be horrible,
and sometimes the good will be good
and the bad will be just bad,
it all depends on the day.

A word of advice: treasure the time you have.

You won’t understand why this is important until you're older,
but do it anyway.

Life fades just as quickly as it is brought to fruition,
and there are people on this Earth you will want to treasure
like they are the finest gold ever to be panned out of any river.

There will be moments like this, too,
moments you wish would never fade,
and they will fade,
but never let them escape your memory,
and seek to make more of those moments every day,
even when happiness seems like an impossible dream.

Life is the most difficult journey you will ever go on,
but has the possibility of being the most rewarding, as well.

Allow the pain to be felt just as vibrantly as the happiness.

Never stifle your emotions.
Never limit others.
Never forget where you came from.
Never stop dreaming,
But never allow yourself to be tied down by those dreams, either.

Be free,
do what makes you happy,
be compassionate,
travel,
drink and make merry
(once you're legally allowed to, mind you),
and just be.

Exist to the great capacity you possibly can,
and die knowing you lived

Wishing you the greatest of luck,
A young dreamer

It would take too much time
to spit out a rhyme, that exhales
the too many complicated details
of how I became a criminal.
If someone out there tried
to define the lines of limitation
that create stone cold walls
beholding all that is right and wrong
I would laugh in their face

There is no right time or place, for anything
despite all that grandma told me she can
Remind me that fried fish is fried in oil saturated with fat
as if my jiggling thighs didn't already know that

But I'll try to smile, despite the war I struggle to, need to fight
against the earthquake in my stomache but it's just begun to have it's fun

I feel disgusting.
I am ashamed.
I'm not aware of the rules to this game but everybody else seems halfway across the board

There was no one incident catapulting me to hell, I just think I was born there
And if you don't believe me there will be a yell, or screech to teach the meek and weak
who seek some form of hope, some drip or some leak
I will yell at you, when whispers drown the drums in your ears I will reveal the fears you've been trying to conceal for years and I will bring out your ******* tears

Why? why would I ever want to make you cry?
I don't, I just don't want to see you make the same mistakes I did
said every mother father aunt uncle sister brother family member ever

Where am I going with this?
These are not the consecutively places lines
I have been assigned for the poetry class I sit in at nine
These are lines on paper portraying, redundantly saying why I sometimes wish I would die.
Sometimes.

One of those times the mirror in the bathroom was not silent or flat it screamed,
"FRIED fish is FRIED in OIL SATURATED with FAT"
as if I didn't already know that

One of those times occured directly after one of those times
and I will never have enough security cameras
and I will never have enough freedom

Because in this universe, we teach the entire history of how jesus came to be
but shun faith in the stars or the wisdom of mythology
Because in this universe, healthy food is instantly corrupted and corrupted healthy food will get in your head-wait, no. Society cannot simply manipulate my brain
Because in this universe, I was already born insane
In this universe a sixteen year old girl can be sexually assaulted 3 times
and still be expected to feel protected
In this universe, a sixteen year old girl can feel older than dirt, tired and disintegrating
there's no SSRI that'll chemically clog this hurt

But my friends still stand beside me
They're solitary statues saluting my salvation
we live on our own planet of alienation and whenever
I can't find the rocket fuel to propel myself from my own pit of despair
they know not to say much, they know the importance of just being there

There will be no one supporting me my entire life
I'm my own husband, lover, my wife
I am the criminal being charged with crime
I am the mouse in the clock moving the hands of time
with that time, lessons yearn to be learned
In this life, we all just want to be heard

Winter song. Fall passing.
And too with so many like this. When she is not there-

   Vibrations after the battle, footsteps breathing deeply into the cotton beds and privy the shrews of their slavery. Heavens' toll after me, brine and abalone shimmering.

Cast in a shadow of half-arched feet, slender narrowness shimmering crystals obfuscate the fury of the ringing;

Every evening when I wake she shakes her bell.

It ripples like food coloring droplets undulating in a dixie cup on the mantel of a kitchen sink. The elbows sprout out first, then the head stridently strikes upwards catapulting the arms and wrists to the sides, and then at last when all is deep ****** blue, the raw hairless legs unmask themselves and fold out into the edge of a postcard and the reddy, cerise snowflake stain brands the juicy signature of an incredible beautifully imprinted star. And still she is not there.

Into the white rooms the insects crawl, at last the cacophony of their bedeviled stridulations eeking as if from a broken and collapsed jaw. A necessary end to every inch of hoarfrost strung across their elliptical hoot-shaped jowls-

These are the marks that time encrusts upon disheveled and dilapidated Spline.

In dark matter there are Spline. In shifty daytime television sitcoms, Spline saw at our ears and cost us trillions of migraines each year. Three Splines sit on a log, another four on a fence. They race each other in elevators, make inappropriate gestures, make airplanes disappear into the Indian ocean, and steal the breath right out of our lungs. Spline cannot come any closer. Spline are the dreary minutia which separate friends, they are the sentence that never makes it off of our tongues, the anger we leave curled into our fists.

She is not here and the fevers are burning. The languages are deafening. It is almost impossible to believe words like these were ever spoken aloud. She is not here and the jeans don't fit, the dogs are shy, and the accidents keep happening. There is never a glimpse at perfect and hot happiness. There is nothing here but the spotty ash-pocked masked faces of the Moon Men, hurrying and scurrying.

She is not here and the sea is drying up. The war is in the street and in the streets the men are dying. Everywhere is dross and cataclysmic end-dust, desiccated hours and dandelion seeds.

Inside of the room the music plays softly. Glass's solo piano Metamorphosis Three and Satie's Gymnopedie. It has been only six hours since she left, but

When we see each other I am superman

Catapulting into the depths of the dark,
my mind won't grasp the objective real.
Obliterated,
scared,
new.
Born again is me,
with the knowledge of possibility.

Rays shine
warm breath on my neck
golden light in my hair

Here comes the sun

Catapulting life into overdrive
while smiles glance off
rain dropped tulip petals
and the outside of my spoon
scooping red delicious
watermelon dripping from

My fingers
My lips
sweet sticky
like baklava
or my mom
when I leave home
affection caressing our
words and tears

Honey filling our eyes
as we look back
once more
to see if the other
is smiling or crying
or both

Summers remind me
of transition
coming home
going home

So many homes

flying into Chi-town
Altoids of various sizes
litter the scenery.
An artfully constructed
playset thrown off
by the skilled placement
of refreshing breath mints.
Maybe they’re off brand,
or perhaps ecstasy,
though I don’t see any
smiley faces or hearts.

I like to look for high school
tracks as we descend.
Forget the football fields,
they’re far less interesting.
Mostly black, though
sometimes gravel, dirt
or red and even
purple once,
though not in Chi-town.
The homestretch extending beyond
each curve;
no hurdles in sight
much less a sand pit.

A mile inland
there is some sort of water.
The body scattered
and split like some
kind of man-made accident.
shallow sand banks
invisible from the ground look
like dead whales.
floating (submersed) there
like lifeless, sandy corpses.
Maybe it’s because of my “Free *****” spree,
but I see whales.

I’ve never been to Chicago,
only in and out of the airport
and catching glimpses of what I
can see through the windows
of Midway.
My good friend has flown with
me once, but we parted at the
big city.
Have you ever wondered why
cities are built like mountains?
the tallest buildings in the
center with everything
else leading up to it?
Kinda like that Verizon commercial
with the magnet and lead…
Maybe I’ll Google it
to find an answer.

There’s a private airport a
little closer.
(Too good for Southwest to land
there). Private jets and runways
too classy to have a White
Castle across the expressway
from it.
They have cornfields.

Even closer now.
The houses larger with matching
sheds and identical roves.
Almost all have pools, makes
sense for a windy city like
Chi-town.
Some are covered and
nasty for the impending
winter. Playsets and driveways,
minimal trees.
I wonder if the children
ever get scared when
the shadow of a 700 series
darkens their windows and slides.
If they look up and feel warmth
in their Children’s Place pants,
throwing their ice cream to the
wind and catapulting into
the comfort of their father’s
arms and then
write about it 13 years
later after they get off that plane.

“Thank you for flying with us
today, please come back and
see us soon.”

A desperate cry for profit

That’s another story timing the pace to match the waste of time
She makes a box of remembered sounds catapulting across the room
And stores them in measured rows of lines of time with tentacles reaching the floor
Its not the seemingly nonsense that drives her to beserk-dom but the seemingly sense it all makes
Take that and that she says and jousts her thoughts into the paper lid that forms the tray of her mind
Pulling it out like drawers in the mortuary the morgue the home of the funeral director and associates
Examining it like the rock collection of her youth the butterfly cases of the PhD the recipes snipped clipped
But that’s another story
This story speaks of wasted time lounging on chairs and couches in front of firelight and TV ions
The dryer rocks the clothes dry the washer beats it clean knocking the detergent to the floor
It needs to be balanced that’s all but how how to balanced she’s not the tools
The fridge ice frozen in the line and the disposal as well stopped in time no action from either all quiet
She’ll do it later get the guy who fixes things to come by and not fix it but says next time
And fixes something not broke and charges her anyway and cleans the gutters but sweeps the yard instead
Its this nonsense that makes the most sense padding around in hospital socks non slip to slip into his arms
What do you think a movie and dinner or just the *** you know the blood won't flow to both
And she hops on and hears her stomach growl it’s a trade he’ll do it next time the movie she means
The dinner ingredients dry up in the frozen fridge and she muscles the dryer to clean the vent
She’ll get the guy to come fix it but he doesn’t do appliances so he’ll fix something else that’s not broken
And says I wont charge you as much this time I’ll bring the brush to clean out the dryer so it can rock the clothes
But that’s the story the other story of her tender soft spots making memories in boxes pulled out like drawers
Her drawers on the floor as he rocks her like clothes in the dryer around and around up and down tumbled and dried
Moist to the fingertips her memories linger scent upon scent crouching to see why the fridge is frozen
Under the peas and the tiny ice tray frozen in dinosaur shapes are piles of ice in bags awaiting the storm
Take it all out take it all to the counter and you tube the answer to the quest but end up couched crouching
Not seeing what the camera shows so she’ll call the guy and he’ll help her put the peas back and not charge at all
This time

See the mountains
Shedding arsenic and snow
Catapulting and shaking.
Pacing before they know what's to come.  

These are the trees I mentioned.
They don't have them from where I'm from, but
All over the world it's the same:

It's fun to do drus
When you know that you're gonna die young.

The swings are never empty,
they are always occupied by girls
pumping their legs to fuel ideas
that have not yet been created.

The sun manipulates its rays
to illuminate tin-foil slides
and girls burn their legs as they go down,
learning more about life than they wanted to know.

Girls pause at the edge of bridges,
one foot hovering above the shaky metal.
and when they finally take a step they run,
catapulting themselves away from nothing.

Hands grasp on metal bars,
Feet hovering above splintery wood.
Girls swing back and forth,
enticed by the idea of letting go.

Roses catch the eyes of girls.
They grasp and beg for them.

Girls will blossom into roses,
and they will ***** their fingers on their own thorns.

For years I've been your
Pretty, pretty china doll.
With pink lips, permanently set
Into a half-smile.
But inside, my china heart
Broke a long time ago
And the blood, it
Threatens to seep through
The cracks that you made.

I'm dreaming, dreaming.
And in my dream the
Mirror shatters.
Catapulting a million fragments
To the floor and little Lily
Is there. See?
She's playing with the shards,
Hands bleeding.
She pulls them to her mouth
Like her teething rattle.
Blood, dripping down her baby gro.
And you laugh, you laugh.

I watch your chest rise and fall
I can smell the whiskey on your breath.
I, I take a plump pillow and
I press it hard over your mouth.
The porcelain mask starts to
Slip, it slips. It falls to the ground
And splits, it splits.
You don't struggle and your chest,
It doesn't rise any more.

Now I rise.

I walk over to Lily's cot,
I check her hands and they're
Fine, they're fine.
I kiss her mouth and my
Tears drip, drip down her baby gro.

Caravanning inside night,
I drove home.
Full moon shinned brightly.
Stars hung high illuminated.

The quiet coated ears,
as touched by natures glory
a deer tall and regal
poised itself.

We met eye to eye.
His eyes sparkled in mine catapulting me
into feelings of oneness.
His deciduous antlers grew to heights
weaving a tapestry to become one with trees.

We met eye to eye.
His presence, a form of beauty
catapulting me into gratitude for natures ally.
His breath, smoked inside night breeze
bonding with my inhalation.  

In an instance he ran off,
leaving his antler tree-like branches behind
and me to marvel at the gift I saw.



StarBG © 2017

My heart is racing skyward
Racing against the moon and stars and my
Ribcage. Beating everything in its path
Catapulting upwards out of my chest
Pushing through the atmosphere and
Ascending to higher dimensions.
My heart is a comet
Shooting through space soaring
Past planets trapping itself in revolutions
Evolutions of life floating about
My heart moves through moves
Forward moves on.

Oh heart! Stay planted stay firm stay rooted inside me! Do not leap to great
Heights if you won't take the rest of me Higher too.

it's not a prison that
keeps me segregated from the
general population to
protect their neurotypical minds
that are terrified by
a blood lust directed toward the self
or perhaps that urge to consume
and consume
all just foreplay for the
grand finale where i'm
bent over the toilet and riding
that stratospheric high
catapulting me out of this world
and into the forest of stars
a pinprick in the infinite black of
space

but do not misunderstand
it is not some sort of jailbreak
a streaking figure in the
black and white stripes of shame
clinging to my exiled body
it is more the futile pulling
i am not stuck in the trap

i am the trap

and i lock down on my
vices and the
self destruction that sings
the most sickly sweet songs
that somehow convince me
that if i am pulled even tighter
i might somehow break the mould
and no longer lash myself to
those actions and thoughts
that terrify
and destroy

i worry i am the strip
of glue that hangs in the kitchen
to catch the fruit flies that
come to visit in the summer and
pester me until
they land their feet on my
sticky
sickly
trap
they can't escape
and so they die

is that what i do to them?
is that what i do to you?

do you become paralyzed
by some sort of
noxious agent or
a viscous bog that
cements you here
and forces you to watch
eyelids held open
as i dance with the demons that
you assure yourself
you will be able to tame
you will be able to banish

but they're the one's who've been there
decades of companionship
and torture
Stockholm syndrome that
ties me to them
through some sort of
vital connection which i can't escape
clipping the umbilical cord
and leaving me bleeding on the ground
aching for that part of me
that is gone

so i pull myself
i stretch myself so thin
and the harder that
your fingers fight to escape my trap
the harder i clamp down
because i want you to go away
to prevent the inevitable pain
and yet i pull you tighter
i lock your fingers into me
my nails digging into your back
as if somehow i can affix myself
to you.

Cicada sounds crush me,
they take me back,
catapulting me
to those simpler times.
Hanging out down at the lake,
corn dogs & pulled pork,
summer watermelon.
Jeff & Jenny sure did their thing,
that Camero
was a starship,
& what a trip
sneaking into
the drive-in.
Marlboro lights ruled
our nights.
When we got older,
Miller Time took Becky.
That ******* drunk driver.
Her mom lost her son & hubby
the very next year.
She's a survivor.
When football star Jessie
got smoked in Iraq,
a piece of our hometown
really did die
& it ain't never coming back.
I heard they closed Shorty's last week,
that tweaked me just a bit,
best vanilla shakes in town,
******.
Here come the cicadas again.

My name is Saddam Hussein Al tikrit
Please don’t shoot me, I have complied,
Let me come out of my hideout
Out of this hole in which I have been hiding,
For sure ,I want to surrender to your might
By acceding to appalling condition of my Arabic folly
Imbued to me as a legacy of my childhood trials,
Perpetrated unto me by my foster parenthood
My Arabic uncle ,who often whacked me my skin
To thwart my good manners into defiance disorder,
He pummeled me often, as if I was  an African antelope in the trap,
He misled me to amass weapon of mass destruction,
Goofing in  my dreams to decimate the synagogue of Satan,
Only to ire  my holy big brother  of the capital cosmology,
Catapulting him in to an imperial overture;
Zero option but to declared unto me a holy preemptive war
In which I am beaten like a desert lout
By the global powers that  have been
In my foolish stamped of the clash,
Very classical  clash about civilisation.

But still, here I sit
toying with blackened words seeped in sadness
thinking lines like slow decline
broken hearted
so cliche and tear stained pages

clawing my way back from the brink
while shedding verbs of loneliness

isolated desperation clinging like my second skin
slowly flaking from my shoulders leaving only subtle traces
where my new skin yet feels to raw to pick up and carry on

stamping signs of happiness across black lines of begrudged depression
as though a noseless yellow face could succeed where I still fail
to vanquish the unease slowly eating at my restless mind

give me peace from these swinging moods
catapulting me between a selection of unfounded aggression and broken sobbing

I don't want to sit and think
words of how the light seems dim despite its heat

to take beauty out of sunrise
starlit nights and humble silence

take it back and leave me be
though I might not sleep for a week or three
as least I wont sit here late at night
and write depressed poetry

He asked her if she hung the moon in the sky
If she used a ladder from the ground
Placing it on the dewy grass of September
Planting roses in the soil below to climb
Up each rung of the ladder
Putting thorns in the feet of those
Who dare enter.
She asked him if he painted one more star in the sky
If he launched a rocket catapulting his soul
So high he could float long enough
To use every colour on his palette
Dropping to earth so fast he caught
A shooting star which he stitched to his heart
As a gift just for her.
The universe asked them if they both wore masks
A mask to cover each & every fear they have
If reality scared them more than their nightmares
If the bright orange sun scared them more than the dark
They both whispered in unison
"How do you know, that we do not?"
The Universe smiled, winked with a laugh
Asking them to throw away their fears
& make love to their dreams.

© Sia Jane

griming squeals and cavernous drops
catapulting into euphoria

i, the beat's marionette as
a grimy dirt cadence possesses me

puff puff , a stink is infiltrating
yet its sweetness clears a mind distressed

notice the Flying Ruby , eyes mesmerized
by the smoke cascading from my lips

******* touching and spliced hands
encompass a transaction of intimacy

The bastion of deep bellicosity begins, which would interview the strengths of benevolence in the ranks of Darius III. The Greek polis was reborn from Halleniká in the shady V, from the seventh necropolis of Messolonghi, with the equerry that was landed by thousands of ships that were from the date of Philip consolidating the Hetairoi that would be reborn again to fight this peremptory battle in the lower Macedonia, which brought the allied cavalry on titanic folds, which this time will be commanded by Vernarth with legionaries at their disposal, the very light weapons were made from the candid glow of the Katabasis universe, since the bags of the matron's guides went to the parapet in the unevenness of Skalá, very close to the Katabasis or vortex of the Diadochi, when they were abducted by Wonthelimar. The turkeys were already described and difficult to observe, and less to hear them, so the Matrona or Oikodéspoina would purify the little Messiah mentioned in the Apocalypse chapter twelve of Saint John the Apostle, to ascend to the Over Being and then receive the Trinitarian light as far away from the Hades or Katabasis that Wonthelimar would understand very well as a predecessor of the Ultramundis. Thus, the placenta of the Oikodéspoina would increase the free fall and the recovery of the crystallized space, in such a way that the maternal figure would give the first busilis of the outbreak of the Battle of Patmia, before she can rise to the surface with all the spilled blood. . Vernarth in the tent next to the panoply observed Lazarus permanently rising next to him, and all the burned doubts of winning or dying by the edge of destiny. Vernarth gathered the Phalanx formed into a soldiery ecosystem of men armed with the Faith of the Mashiach who had descended together in the rows of syntagmas, and of enough men who multiplied a hundredfold each time the Katabasis ascended to support others who made the Pivot in Hades. . The large-caliber metallic iron and bronze weapons with Xiphos, Dorus, Sarissas with hopes of winter who dressed in spring with Persephone who always carried them in the atrium of a Persephonic Hoplite. Assault turrets over forty Euclidean meters exceeded all the numerals of Pi, through the glasses towards the empire, where the shutters released huge oblations from the pulpit of the theater of tragedy that was rising from the stalls, inoffensive crossbows that would burn the missions of Zefian with the fourth Sagita, catapulting fences that in turn disintegrated into thick destructive ridges. In this instance, the Corinthian League became evanescent with more gangs with Thracian or Tribal troops, although they were foreigners, they joined the mercenaries. With the same figures of 42 thousand troops of Falangists, 5,500 of Cavalry, with some Hippies that Kanti and Alikantus arranged. The mercenaries and tribals fringed the 5,000 contingents in the ghostly spectrum, which made them almost impolitic, a Magento Calypso sea was joining the Thessalians that surpassed the armor of 1800. Vernarth while absorbed in the fabric of the stall saw a Lazarus as he walked barefoot, from where he still asked for help when he felt his feet begin to burn.

The colonnade escaped into the Argentinian waters of Selene that flowed outlined by the gloom of the draconian Persian hierarchy. They subdelegated a Satrap who would bind the components that would confront each other beyond the warning threshold of the Katabasis. The Persian countertops reigned in other adverse lands where Patmia was the law of the Trinitarian Decalogue, in the invocation of the On Being that departed from holy languages that were Christianized in holy oils that flowed through the fascinating musks of war won, and with weapons that would surpass physical forces, by resembling in Iranians that were ruled by the coppery ten thousand assets mediated by the Persian palfrey, and satrapies such as Bactriana and Sogdiana. Behold, those who were once thousands against thousands revived in the disquisitions of other reasons that were not obvious, before a mystery that becomes inapplicable but was noticed in the directive of the enmity of the nations, with their own human components making them of an Infant Mashiach, who really was in the wills that are perpetuated in the siege of continuing to be protected by his Oikodéspoina, which shielded him from all latent threats before an almighty who lavished on them in the fords of the mistakes of a past, and the glorification of eternal life. The spectral of sacrifice was outlined with the same base that emerges from a sensitive parchment, to be rewritten in Vernarth's Katabasis, applying sentimentalities corresponding to the fire wagon of the cremation of the nubile destinies, sacralizing the excessive intemperance of those who envision and they deteriorate in the middle of a ploy that has never been finite.

The Oikodéspoina took refuge in burdensome intraterrestrial lands, arguing that the lands would tremble and the crown of her head would fall to her feet with Selene, relieving herself of her troubles by humanity in the birth, which would be designed by the Kératas of Moshe similarly to seven more than they were replicated in the tertiary night of the red blood cells, who conferred with the Necromancers of Vernarth and Alexander the Great, that God self-climbed on his throne to watch the scene of the Katabasis on Patmos. The blades resounded with great and pristine sounds of angels that made them ring, for a quadruple duel of Hellenes and Persians, of God and Satan, adorning themselves with their appropriations and the authority of those who hold the staff of the Áullos Kósmos. The rams ran in terror through the mountains and the eagles mounted on the small golden hills, because the Messiah prayed to them night and day, because the hour of truth had descended from all heights in the quadruped rams, and the inhabitants of the earth would testify that there is no time to decide, for less time of what or who will survive among you, because as long as the ground plug exists, it will have to be done with open hands to the one who supports the sky after being born from a Gerakis, and of a river that makes of being a chamber with great sieges to awaken the inextricable king, who has to unite us and not divide us with his chalice loaded with Apoika wine, from where they are ****** on the hooves of Alikantus, when the men raised their hands to greet, and to confirm that they already had the Xiphos in their hands, to give birth in half the time of Kairós, who snatched the life of the snake in its ovule throughout the region of Dod Ecanese, being the faithful two-dimensional earthly sheet of the constellation of the Dragon with the twelve houses of the zodiac, trying to contravene the seals of divine light and the shed blood of the Savior.

The testimonies stated that Lazarus had already vanished from the Vernarth store after these visions of necromancy, after the Ekadashi confirmed the error of heavy material that would be taken for those who fly over the salvation of all the rest, and of all those who are dragged by the puffs that illuminate the uncertain empty spaces that remained to spread the Christian faith, for those who want to be swept away by their sleeplessness and survival of a Lazarus who has to grasp the staff of light, to scare away the red blood cells of the serpent that wounds with his spitting, and that he signs from his jaws imitating good intentions that are not infallible to exempt himself on the basement of Olympus, The dragon with the rune of a Basilisk trying to attack the vanguards of the Hoplites of Vernarth.

I'm drifting from your flourescent smile
the time machine is catapulting backwards
You are receding the shoreline
The undertow is dragging you to sea

We are scraping from the nerve
The only sense of reason
child bone and marrow

I'm sifting through your cold dead corpse
thinking of your eyes lifting myself further
I'm in to deep way over my head
breathing in their fluid,
Choking I'm your king

So I left you there
it was better for you
You have the stars now
you are in open space