"My mouth hasn't shut up about you since you kissed it. The idea that you may kiss it again is stuck in my brain, which hasn't stopped thinking about you since, well, before any kiss. And now the prospect of those kisses seems to wind me like when you slip on the stairs and one of the steps hits you in the middle of the back. The notion of them continuing for what is traditionally terrifying forever excites me to an unfamiliar degree."

Cindy Used-to-be-Wilks-Now-Prine-Again
pulled a hammer from the intersection
of *** crack and belt line,
and proceeded to air out
the passenger-side window
of her in-laws Suburban.

She dropped the parcel in the
captain chair and ran back up the
driveway to the soundtrack of a
whiny car alarm.

By the time the master bedroom's light lit,
she was turning the car's ignition.

She made a beeline for the Children's Funhouse,
just under the skirt of Oklahoma City.
Blanketed by a dense tree line, the red and yellow
chipped, wooden building was thought
by most interstate nomads as an ancient eyesore.

She parked at McGowan's Store, bought a 30-pack of 'Stones and
a pack of red 100s.
Cindy ran across the lulling interstate to the Children's Funhouse.

Walked in the backdoor beaming,
"Hello ladies! Anybody want a drink?" she said to the room
full of workers.

The women of Children's Funhouse sported an image
that anyone could guess, as long as they knew
the place to be a middle-classy truck stop brothel.

After a chorus of I-do, I-do's, Cindy began tossing beers
to freckled ladies, decked in frilly skirts, saddle shoes, bobby socks,
and more often than not--pigtails.

Chung-Ae Phun, the madame, walked up behind Cindy,
tapped her on the shoulder and the two embraced warmly.
"Hey Mama," Cindy said.

"Oh, Cindy Lilly, it's so good to see you!
You picked a wonderful night to make your
prodigal return. Looks like a lot of business tonight."

"I could certainly use the money."

"Is four okay?"

"I'll take as many as you can send my way."

"That's the spirit darling. I want you to take
the Candy Corn Suite."

"I'd be honored, Mama."

Chung-Ae Phun established a fine business.
On Mondays she treated the local law enforcement,
on Sundays the district judge, and every other day
weary truckers came in to find solace.
Only special guests were treated to "special" girls
in the Candy Corn Suite.
The orange and white checkered carpet, the yellow walls,
radiated an eerie invitation.

"Let me get your outfit ready,
if you'd like you can wait in the room" Phun said.

Cindy Prine moved the stuffed bunnies and bears,
and planted on the bed.
Freedom rang like the Liberty Bell in her small skull.
Few of God's creatures ever held as much original
joy in their bones as Cindy Prine.
She could turn tundra to beachfront with a smile.

Chung-Ae Phun knocked on the door and entered,
setting a white and pink polka dot dress on the edge of
the bed.

"Your first client is a friend of a friend. Terrible gut,
smells like an ocean of whiskey, but seems nice enough."

"What's his name," Cindy asked.

"Hank."

"Send him in."

Cindy slid into the dress,
quickly pounded a beer,
heard a rapid, eager knock on the door.

"C'mon" Cindy chimed.

"Well, gawd ****, baby girl. Looks like you've been real bad."

Cindy rolled her eyes.

"I sure have. I can't find my ******* anywhere.
Will you help me look, Hank?"

Dear Talia,


I found you.

Have you ever lain in your bed, after a night of restlessness and tears that tessellate on your face as you dream of a new place where crying isn't a thing, and where beautiful girls in dark dresses and black Keds are?

Have you ever looked at the stars and say to yourself, "Wow, some of these are dead, but the person I could love, and who could love me, may be looking at them and is still alive?"

When in our darkest places, when the hurt can't escape our bodies, when we think we'll never recover, have you ever thought of a person that you don't know yet, but you know that they're part of the answer? I think you're the person I've been thinking about.

Do you want to be my Alexa Chung?

Do you want to be the soft song in my room, as we slow dance on a carpet covered in removed clothes and removed fear?

Can I be the one to show you how you could save lives with your presence and that your presence is a present?

Can I be yours?

I want to wipe off the lipstick on your lips with my lips. I want to paint my face with your mauve and laugh about it in bed, over a bowl of ice cream and teeth showing as we smile. You're a nice dream. You're the only dream I have right now.

If I die, I want you to know that you are one the most beautiful people I've ever encountered.

"I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," were my first eloquent words to you as we trudged out of Cerbone's, and pushed double doors that opened the opportunity of ourselves to one another.

When I think about it, I could have said something a little less Sid Vicious-esque than, "I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," but you can be my Nancy Spungen, sans stabbing you in the stomach. I'd rather you be my Alexa Chung, though. Plus, Nancy Spungen was kind of *****, inside and out, and you're cleaner than a rain-kissed afternoon.  

Is this weird? I'm writing a letter to someone that I spent five and a half hours with in a cafe. Then again, I think it may be warranted.

We left his classroom and avoided bumping into each other until we were at The Daily Grind. You were beside me, attached to my hip, or was I attached to yours? Your hair is dark and has a quasi-bronze streak in one part. It's unique, like parental guidance. I think your eyes could break hearts and fix spider-webbed windshields after a collision with, "Are you okay," and, "I'm fine; I'm not going anywhere."

I find it unusual that whenever I was walking with you, that I felt calm. I haven't felt that way in a long time, when walking with someone. Then again, I've only been walking with my shadow, as of late. Usually, my nerves seep out of my pores and my hair spins in my scalp, as I breathe heavily and think about long ways to say goodbye and quick ways to die. But with you, the ocean softens the shore inside.  

Entering through the weathered door of The Daily Grind, you were still there. Ryan was there, but he doesn't know who I am. To be fair, no one really knows me. It's mutual, but I only know of him because of his questionable but interesting opinions. Actually, his opinions aren't that interesting, I just think his confidence is interesting. He reminds me of a bee stinging someone and confidently allowing the lower half of his body to be ripped out, as he bleeds out with insides hanging like cooked spaghetti noodles, with wings sputtering, as he talks about Bad Faith, with a smile on his face. Wow, that was a run-on sentence. That was the type of run-on sentence you could lose faith over.

I'm afraid that you may think that the way I perceive the world is weird. It's okay, though. I think I annoy my friends whenever I tell them about my problems, so I don't want to do that to you. I only tell them about a quarter of my problems, but you're the type of person I could tell everything to. It's not their faults, though. They have their own issues and lives to handle, as do you. I'd hate to be the cut in your mouth.

You ordered a ***** chai, I believe it's called. You're a regular. I'm only a regular to lonely nights. People know you and love you. I can see why, and I'm glad they do. You're the type of person that inspires books and to be yours would to be everything.

I ordered a Sierra Mist, because I'm about as cool as a pyromaniac's paradise. I like your eyebrows and your voice. We swept each other to a table by the window.

Your eyes are green. Your hair is black. And after meeting you, there's no turning back.

We were supposed to study, but I didn't come there to learn about Sartre. Existentialism did come into play as I tried to figure out if you could add purpose to my life. You did.

I think you were a little surprised that I didn't want to study, and I think you were even more surprised when I wanted to talk about you.

My God, Talia, I don't think you're aware of how beautiful you are.

We spoke for five hours and thirty minutes. I thought it'd only last half an hour. We bled ideas, stories, and questions. You told me the story about yourself. That was my favorite story.

After these five and a half hours, I had to go to therapy. You said it was four. This was the second or third time you checked your phone in almost six hours; I was flattered that I had your attention. The first time, out of probable nervousness, and the second time whenever your friend came in to talk to you.

I wanted to say so much more to you, but I bit my lip so I wouldn't and so my jaw wouldn't drop.

When you said it was four, I was sad. I didn't want to leave you, or for you to leave me.

Do blood and thoughts hold a race whenever we're afraid of losing someone?

We walked out of the cafe, and found the sidewalk. As we walked, I was wondering what was next. I didn't know what you'd think of my having a therapist. I'm not crazy, just scared.

I should have held your hand.

When we arrived to our destination, the lair, I told you that I had a therapist and an appointment. I asked you if you wanted to sit with me in the lobby. You said yes. I felt the words, "Thank you."

I don't think the elevator we stood in was big enough for our hearts, and I'd like to think that love seat was our sanctuary. You looked at me and understood, as we talked about our childhoods, our mothers, my father, and our worlds.

I wanted to kiss eternity into you.

My therapist came out, and I said bye. I got up, quickly. I would have said goodbye slower, but my heart was too fast. I'm supposed to see you tomorrow, so I can work on my goodbye.

If I die, I want you to know that you've given me the greatest six hours I could have asked for.

You deserve to be happy and I hope that you are, no matter with who. Despite all of that, I feel like you and I are supposed to happen.

I wrote a poem whenever I got home:

Move your hands with mine.
You're the current of the ocean.
I whisper your name, and I'm not afraid.
You are my emotion.

It's you, isn't it?


I want to be yours,

Josh

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                america, americultus, americate, dubiously *******.
::: our gold-flecked bodies.
blackbirdian danceparty, i'll go.
washed-up beach bottles and all our feet amongst them curling time.
teens dream in orchid; they wait for stars and dark and los hombres of good dust.
they wait on eyes, and on embers, on belly belly.
jellyfish flashlight shrine.
we eat acid and strawberries and butter in the cemetery,
and feed foxes lizards face first :::
                us lost ghouls on school-nights.

                flash tag jazz, and yellow bicycles.
::: that hot eternal light.
that candy colored smoke don't smoke; go south on her body.
then thoughts form thoughts form action, form twangs all tuned to air.
& we, as notes, we notes harp like light
to dust.
our glistering hormonal thrusts beneath sheath of liquid love. her eyes,
with those multi-speckled strands
infinitesimally drunk :::
                seed from my ****.

                pearled halo: smoke above my head.
::: waves and machines and weekends. filtered by the long ****
of existence.
boys wait in rooms of hotels for more drugs, and the girls bringing them.
like caterpillars on silky thin treadways,
with nothing but the flavor of our passions to ignite the way. we
exacerbate the boundaries of our intentions. we
curl under sheets, bending sheets of light and sound. we
flakey emaciated flakes. [sequence suffered time in motion] we
                dirt. it’s what we are; dirt.

                we are druggernauts, tasting ourselves along the iridescent brim.
::: we crawl up cross-glowing hillsides toward portals and faraway
bleep-blorps of hot god-head calibration.
we sticky-crackle go burn. [nature puzzles]
the brain shifts back; twenty-one grams they say the soul weighs.
they say things.
cherry blossom tree tips in the dark.
tele-portal surfing with an intergalactic pizza priest, and his satchel of secret sauce.
he heaves in the corner; rebirth :::
                tendrils pulled tight, everybody **** chung…

Cindy Prine's bee buzz ringtone ripped her from
her deathlike slumber,
"Hello. Oh, hey Mom. What? Yeah, I'll be in tonight.
I agree...no, no I won't be brining Mattie. The Wilks
have her. They are wonderful with her. I love you too.
No, it'll probably sevenish. Not seven. Sevenish."

The Candy Corn Suite reeked of ****** fallout.
Sheets still wet and sticky with sweat.
The checkered floor covered in beer and discarded condoms.

Her ******* ached.
Most of the men had been awkward,
frightened, and easy to finish.
Hank, the porky 'friend of a friend', however,
had been brutal.
By the time he had finished,
her *** turned a light purple,
her back covered in spittle;
her scalp felt barely intact.

Cindy smelled pancakes and went downstairs.
"Good morning, darling. You want some hotcakes
and coffee?"

"Sure, Mama."

In the lobby, the Children's Funhouse looked like a ****** continental breakfast. Patrons from the night before and the workers
often sat side-by-side for what surely can lay claim to the
worst breakfast environment in the history of mankind.

"Will I have the pleasure of your company for a while, this time?"

"I'm afraid not. I need some time away from everything."

"Everything?"

"Todd, the baby, it's just depressing.
I'm twenty-*******-years-old, ya' know?
I did not sign up for domestication."

"Right on. Hell, neither did I," Chung-Ae Phun laughed
and curtsied, "So, where you going Cindy Lilly?"

"Back to my mom's for a bit."

"Are you two close?"

"Um, she is a brilliant woman.
We've never been able to talk,
but I guess you could say
I respect her."

"Fair enough. Cream or sugar?"

"No, thanks."

"How was Hank last night?"

"Oh, God, that ****! He--"

"What about my ****?" Hank blurted with a sinister, crinkled edge of lip.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I had no idea you were still here!"

"Why the **** should that matter," he snarled grabbing her tiny left arm.

"Hank, leave her alone," Madame Phun said sternly.

"She's just a little *****, Chung-baby."

"Hank, you need to leave."

"**** that. Not after the money I wasted on last night.
You promised me she was top rate.
I want my money back."

"Hank. This is not some fast-food joint,
where you come back to the counter
and ***** after you've eaten your burger!
Judging by the panting, sweaty mess you were
last night, she did just fine."

Cindy Prine reached for the intersection of her *** crack and belt line,
wrapped her trembling fingers around the hammer.

"Well, then I think I deserve another one on the house.
Can we make that compromise?"

"This isn't ******* Craig's List either, Hank. Get out!"

"I want another lay with this Lilly broad."

"Absolutely NOT--"

Cindy interrupted, "No, no it's okay, Mama."
Hank grinned, his gut seemed grow, the
hair around his arms spread like vines.
"Is it okay if we do it in your truck?
My room is an absolute mess."

"Fine by me. How I usually do it, anyway."

Hank opened the door for Cindy, in faux chivalry,
then proceeded to his side.
The cab felt like hell, and the metallic seatbelt burnt Cindy's skin.
"Where should we start?" Hank asked staring at Cindy's chest.

"How about you just relax for a second."
Cindy rubbed his crotch firmly, Hank closed his lids
and sunk into his chair, as he let out the first sigh,
Cindy snatched the hammer with her right hand and
quickly struck him
one-
two-
three
times.

Hank's skull sprung a leak. Blood spewed onto the dashboard.
Cindy shoved him to his side, snagged his wallet,
and proceeded
to crack three or four of his ribs.

Fashion rarely looks to the Brit awards for style inspiration but somehow fashion finds its way, in dribs and drabs, to its red carpet. These awards are the unwanted stepchild of the red carpet and generally, this means it’s a bric-a-brac of high-end and high street looks. For every Rihanna in couture you have a Little Mix in Asos.

Such is life, though, and there were legitimate trends, aside from the James Bay/Kylie double hatter. First, in the spirit of Angelina Jolie’s 2012 viral, there was a Right Leg – as flashed by model Lily Donaldson and singer Lana Del Rey. Nightwear came in a rather lavish Miss Havisham-esque form via Florence Welch (cream slip, eiderdown wrap, bed-hair) and Rihanna (a lilac slipdress covered with seashell patterns), and which unexpectedly preceded Alexander McQueen’s autumn/winter 2016 collection. Finally, there was a definite nod to The Wizard of Oz’s Emerald City via Jess Glynn’s sparkling green jacquard suit, Kylie’s backless heels and Jack Garratt’s toned down double-breasted suit.

There were the half-successes, too: Adele’s cascading liver-red dress and matching lipstick was grownup, but compared to her memorable 2013 Valentino hit at the Grammy’s, it felt par-cooked. Singer Charli XCX has been a frow regular at this year’s London fashion week, so she went predictably designer in pale green Vivienne Westwood. But she was let down with her slicked-back hair, a styling addendum that somehow overegged the overall effect. She also looked stiff and uneasy, probably because, at 23, she was too young to pull it off.

The menswear was far more experimental. To wit: Labrinth in a blue and pink orchid-print suit which, unaccessorised, had just enough humour to work (it looked like a box of Cadburys Roses). Mark Ronson did his usual trick of pepping a cleanly cut suit with the odd flourish. This time it was a monochrome dogstooth suit covered with a static print. Even JLS’s Marvin Humes, in a Yves Saint Laurent bomber jacket, epitomised the modern man. And what Carl Barât lacked in pizzazz he made up for by wearing a Hedi Slimane suit (although less said about the James Bay hat, the better).

The misses, of course, were plentiful. The mullet dress is the trend that refuses to die (see Cheryl Fernandez-Versini and half of Little Mix in various synthetic horrors). Alexa Chung rarely puts a brogue wrong, but here in a velvet bustier dress, was fairly forgettable (lesson: don’t step out of your style lane). Then, of course, there was Keith Lemon, who pillaged the misses of awards seasons gone (the Pharrell hat, the pseudo-Gucci blazer … everything really). What did you expect from Keith Lemon? The Brits then: a series of blind taste tests on the red carpet, none of which gets full marks.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

Osogo chiewa gokinyi tula ruto e wi tado,chunya penjoree nyakwar kibiere ang’o ma dwa yudowa ma awinjo duond jachein machiegni ni? Achiewo amanyo ang’uolana mane agolo ka pok adonjo e od nindo.Awuok oko agoyo ****’a koni gi koni ,aneno minwa oa turo bando e puodho ma path ot,’minwa oyaore?’ amose gi luoro apenje ni,to ma winy ochiewa gi ruto modhuroni to kare ang’o madwa timore,”Nyathina ing’eyo ni asebedo ka aleko lek moko mag tho chalo ni masira nyalo yudowa machiegni ni.”Wewuoyo kamano minwa nyoro ka koko ayiko nyabila osiepa mabuonjo mos to ong’eyo rito nyikwayo ,omwolo nyakamaye,ok adwa winjo wach tho kata matin.Ne, we keta gi wach tho gokinyi chiew owadu ma ababa mondo udhi e puodho ridho bando, wuoyi ber machiewo to yudo gi matimo ka chieng pok obedo makech,awuok achiko e od steve omera kuma ababa tinde nindoe karito ’ ,Ababa pok ichiewo,? mama wacho ni en nindo manade ma sani pod ng’ama dichwo ninde?Bro,nyoro ne anindo modeko nadhi e thum kaseda loka aduogo saa apar ga riyo asayou weya uru anind matin okatamora puodho to adhi.Ababa we tugo koda dalaka. kwani wan ema ne wakoni ni idhi e thum? Chung na malo ka pok achopo kanyo apami.Awera kode Awuok Oko Tiego Kwer ,nyundo pisore to goyo lweta malit ‘Uwi Uwi ****’,Fred en ang’o? Minwa goyo koko,Ta ang'ise gi lit ni " ok nyundoni ema dwa bamo lweta yawa',Ababa nyiera ‘Hehe mama nakoni ni jo town gi bure kata tiego kwer gikia’.Omera we losona kaka ilosonano idhi ****’o iya gokinyi.Mama to nyathini kamaye ekaka tinde onindo dalaka ? Saani dekoro wasechopo e puodho? Fred, in to ema ihero lungo wach,Nyoro donge nang’isi ni aseda mawuon Erick ne onindo e bade? D.O Misiani ne biro goyo ngolo kanyo gi joka shirati band,makoro imedo chumvi e wach dhina e thum ni? Ne ok awinjo maber ababa yawa,yani "Aseda ne osewewa ? To nyaka ne bi dalaka asebedo mana ka awuotho to shemecha gi ok kona ni wuod awino ratego osewewa,mayie we adhi sani agone gi mos puodho ok ringi pod an dala ka.Mama? Ababa ng’isa ni aseda kare ne ong’ielo orengo? We adhi agone gi mos mondi? Fred Okadwa Walo Ochuno Ni Nyaka Idhi Sani ? Dhi nenore marach ni asebet odieng' ariyo dalaka to pok adhi gonegi mos,we adhiya adhiya mama asayi?Kare dhi to kik ibudh kono,Aneno wuonu ma ngoto kono ohero minoni mang’eny gi penjo mag pimo wich,Tang' kode? Awinji minwa.Omera ? Mano fred maneno kalo e rangach kanyo no? Adwoke gi gero,'Mano ng’a magoyo koko gi nyinga E gweng’ no?An bena omera kwani ikia dwonda ? Omera kare in e gweng’ ka ? An Nabiro nyoro. Achopo ka owad gi baba u ma aseda kagoyo mos.Mano ber ,yaani freddy eldoret ka omiyo ok unenru, chakre john ma wuonu tho yawa,uweyo nyauyoma ema puro dalaka  kapunda? Ok kamano baba “nyaka wamany omera, piny oidho ma  ka ok imanyo toinyalo inindo kech kata kwelo.We an achop ago mos koka aduogi,Kapok idhi  Freddy miya gimoro kanyo adonjgo kisii ka amorgo chunya? Omera Benah, sani to atwo ok awuotho gi wallet lakini mak mia moro nikaa ikwe go wiyi, abiro neni maber godhiambo.Erokamano wuod baba, in gi chuny mana ka wuonu ma john. Sasawa Bena we an Aweyi.Hodi ka? Karibu! Karibu !  Freda,To in Dalaka? Antiye min akoth nabiro nyocha neno nyara matin gi minwa ,Mos  kuom gimoyudi ni? Nyathi john,mae e yo manyaka ji duto te nelu,nitie kinde nyuol gi kinde tho, wante wan jokalo e piny ma mwalo ka,mano adier min akoth.To ne  odhi nade ? " Kik iwach nyathi nyieka,an nachiewo gi sime koa kisumo ni wuon akoth wakoche ne oyang’o ng’ute gotieno koa tich.Gichinje matindo tindo." Mos yawa, pinyni  ne waresre nade? En mana kamano nyathi nyauyoma,to piny majan kono udhiye nade ? Siasa awinjo ni liet kono mapek piny otur ji dwaro lokruok? Nandi, dhi maber lakini nasewuok kono an eldoret tinde.'oh nisewuok kono ? Mano ber tek ni iyudo kamoro ma chumbi wuoke."Min Akoth ok awuotho machwe ahinya lakini mak rupia moro matin ni, iyudgo kata sukari moro ne nyithindo."Erokamano nyathina nyasaye ogwedhi,to pok iyudo min ot nyaka nya min nyathini wewa? Hahhahaha ! Naseyuto,Nyasaye ogwedha gi jaber kendo achano mana harus.Pod apime ka en miyo manyalo pur ma kojwach ka.Pod Antiye Dalaka Wabiro Wuoyo Kayudo Kinde. We an aweyi? Erokamano nyathi nyieka.

Reverse back to the verse
I throw ya in you cursed
Watch me put them rhymes in a hearse
Sound the eulogy
Cuz none get next to me
Im swift as bruce lee
Kicks hard like Chung Li born in 83
Add the 4 more ya get *******
Im crazier than Cujo these putos
Dont want it on the mic
You aint murderin nothin'
but ya own sight
I brailled ya envision changed your decision
Whatin' n guessin' a prediction?
Is it me or is it the way the
Way my rhymes please ?
Bow to ya knees
I make the crowds freeze
Even ya fans say bless you! when i sneeze
I bet you still wear dungerees or high heels with tight capris
I thought ya heard  im the rappin' don Shapiro
Shine n spin  around haters like disco
Sip old school Sisqo hit the blunts slow
Let the smoke meditate my mind flow
Learn how to grind ill put  ya on a flat line
Resuscitate your rhymes just to put you back on the flat line
Searchin' for the light im dolemite
My game **** tight know how to write
When ya step to legend im gifted
Young black n hung
I keep ya lifted
Got hoes on the tip of they toes
Just to hear suave flow
Pockets of dough
Thats how it goes
Pistol cocked to ya nose
Ya thoughts are froze i suppose
Dont redeem ya self
My rhymes hittin' so hard
Made the minds deaf
Cuz when ya try to diss me ya diss ya self
The microphone murderer
Aint never left !!!!

Yo everyboy gather around
Hand me the crown
Cuz ya know im King of the ****
My NY freestyles stay lit
TEXAS is where i reign
Home of the ******* up clique
This life i live aint no ****** puzzle
Tryin to figure me out gets gun to ya muzzle
Dont meddle in my ****
Spinnin' out the wombs
From cradle to my tomb
Im hittin' ya curves that go straight
Flows penetrate so hard make girlies mind  *******
Who can relate?
To my skills raws as ever
Goin' in with my raw potato skin
Bust my nut then i leave em blowin in the wind
If ya a hater i gotta mack 10
Extra clips on my hips ****** done then i dip
Listen closely to the story being told
I wont grow old never will i fold
Platinum or Gold knots
check the tic toc
My money on clockwork  
rolex watch
Worth 50 gran an on the other hand
Is the microphone
Turn the amps up mic up
Leave crowds minds blown
From nut being shown my tone
Is laid back these nigguhs
Spittin' is wayyy wack
While you pushin' Honda im in a Maybach
No frills only the real i spit so you can feel
Givin' head aches to radio station
Cant tune me out im like exacerbation
Crush my opponent everytime he bust a rhyme
They give up even before they heard mine
Intimator from dope originator
Now im the terminator eliminator
Showed up yo party they still didnt play ya
Im old school fool soul filled with blues
Leave my competitiors on front line news
It goes a little like this
This is a replica of a Chris this aint a diss
But an address
To you punks who wanna **** around
With the master of this ****
Duck quick or these rounds will put you in the ground
Flat line..........

Last year i visited one of my friends home in Siaya their homestead was surrounded with graves .
**** was Scary and Weird.

I've never believed in ghost or spirit until I lived in that homestead for a week.

At night things were always moving falling off shelves. I constantly felt like I was being watched. The only time I ever experienced sleep paralysis was in that house i was sleeping in.

And in the morning i jokingly said to my friend "If there is a ghost here, it better leave because I'm a christian and i don't entertain demons in my niche!"
At this time my friend didn't take any of it seriously).

One evening as we were walking around the compound making stories;
A dog started coming towards us aggressively. As the dog got near us barking facing the main house, a finger suddenly appears and closed the opened bedroom window in our mind we thought Becky(my friend's sister)was the one who closed the window shockingly Becky was in the kitchen cooking.

My friend thought it was just a evening phobias and day tiredness is trying to prank us.

A few days later I was doing laundry in the basement and My daughter and her friend, who lived across the fence were playing outside;
It was six in the evening,suddenly strong wind started blowing and one of the cemented grave cracked i ignored the scenario and continued with my work.

That night i stayed late to read poetry suddenly a shadow slowly move past the door, at which I immediately turn off my reading light and freeze like a deer in headlights.
My friend and my daughter were dead a sleep.
I sat their unable to move or even think about what to do other than be absolutely still. That is, until I heard another sound, the sound of someone trying to open a glass door.
"Omera Omwanda nitiere gik mawuotho ka,chung! Chung!",as i tried to wake my friend.
The shadow was still jiggling the glass door handle, but it sounded like the doors was not opening.
I heard light foot steps move back along the balcony to my set of glass doors the shadow stop directly in front of me.
Omwanda didn't woke up,i was terrified and chills all over my body.

Next night i wanted to sleep early so i said my daily prayer immediately i said Amen the lid to a glass jar fell off the bookcase, and a picture with glass in the frame just smashes to the floor and breaks into a thousand splinters!
Have you been scared ? I was scared and is the night i said this is too much early morning i must leave.

Following day we left to Eldoret i hated the experience i had in Siaya;
The **** spooked me .
BASED ON TRUE STORY.

The morning ***
Before head
back to work
This Jay Oh Bee
B is for Business / Bull Dooky

"It's just Bid ness"

No Justice
The menial  
Minimum wage / Slave to NEED
Gotta have purchase
Gotta buy to eat
Nothing comes for free

Except / accept

That moment
The whole world fears...
DEATH.
We sware to
Vanity
A Slave  - yes Sam, I am
I tell you this,
what I saw, we done-did seen...

White Grey hound buses
Parking in our Plaza
Spilling out the Orient,
          Snapping pictures with Samsungs
While I did smoke
An Ultralight One-Hundred
          I got the sense,
That they were surveying the area
Pointing forefingers painting
Tree
Miming
Expansion
GPS  e s p
Architects of
Pleased with themselves
The language of enigma
Listen
To their chatter
            chinking
Foreigners they used to be

Historical predictions now

What landscapes will look like
When remodeled
(...misguided projectiles....)

A bigger Little Korea Town

Over run...

It's the feeling
That must be panic
It's the feeling
Of being surrounded
By enemy foe
By animal control
Their tranqs. Nets & leashes,
Stunners at the ready...

Pzzt and sshhzzz....
Static mind games
Phones smarter than us,
Of course

We all FaceTime with touch screens
I'm no different,
Press Menu, the date and time
                       It's only 5 minutes 'til...
Light another ***
Before I get started ...

Here, my J.o.b. Is being...
The only employee "who a-speak a-only
English"
"Only a-one language"
Hehehe *** emoji!

Less than zilch.
Became
Like a spy spying secretly
Inside his own
Country / nation / tribe
Of the people, all
men are creating
Our own inequalities...

Done-did see, oh say so

We'll get - done got toked
Peace pipes, petrol
and the joke goes
"There's this bus, and them opportunists...
Blueprints, dispensaries,
The Imminent war..."

(Even the church has history
With puffs
            Of black and white
Rising
             Smoke / gag reflexes /
The Coughing it up)

Chang Cha-Ching!
Money.

Smoke brakes over
Gets back
To the factory
Line
Chain Gang am/way

Cracking whips on backs of us
Of those who still worship
The lamb...  Yes I am
To Uncle Sam :
In the way, another obstacle

In the way of progress
Prehistoric pedestrian painted in the landscape
Sooner pushing
Out of the way

For supermarket boulevard malls
Catering from cowering from defeat
Mean streaks
Bomb shells
Mad money and a piece
       "Glocks, 45colts, semi automatics
        *******' Guns
For the **** storm hustle...!"

Every conversation started
Shaft all up in your grill
Every question an appeal
Digging
For information is power
Axing who you be?

I works at the grocers
In the ****** area part of town
Across the ways from the dispensary
(**** Chung winks at chuck wagons)
Says I gets discounts
With my marijuana card,
Prescription coupon
******

A regular
Opportunist.

Yelp! Hollah!

we Gots what you really need
       It's only business
Don't take it personal
Minions of E.T

But Still... there is no justice....

We Prey on the Lambs
And tell ourselves to
Doubt slowly
             "Just you wait / they'll see...
Dawn will break"
Ever
Clear of smoke, no doubt

The open minds, eyes,
Done did and able to see...
The invasion
Gots
Intellectual property

Karma will be a *****
On dinosaur bones
In the crude that burns the sky
And the smoke
Breaking
Our bad /

bubble...

FIN.life.
Choke.

I can’t sing so I write lyrics to elevate chi
Words that make your brain neurons
Fire and enlighten your brain, firing like Chung li
Kicks that strikes an emotion
That flows like the synergy of the ocean
Jump in with or without your clothes on
Doesn’t matter, god made us naked
After the fishes eat, they swim for fun
We’re living, lucky, all under the sun
After all is said and done we are one
So let us past on our positive chi

Seeing you was priceless
but touching you was precise
I like the was your hands feel on my thighs
And how we watch the sunrise
Without the sun burning through our eyes
I like the way you kiss me gently
Mellow me with jazz playing
Eyes gleaming
Fire flaming
But our time remaining
Wasn't time expecting
I'm gonna miss those lips
That kiss
That smile
That.... That ....
And what am I saying
I'm mesmerized
With those big brown eyes
Have me smiling
Not from ear to ear
But from eye to eye
Got me looking like miss Chung lee
Got me wanting to rub your feet
Got me doing all this crazy ****
And for what
For some attention
Some affection
For what?
For those hands on my body
For those hands on my thighs
For what? You tell me bc I don't even know why you got me thinking twice about going to the state of sunshine
Where there is no you ....
But I gotta do ....what I gotta do

when I bomb first
betta believe muthaphukkaz
touchin the hearse
I'm cursed
with a demonic flow
puff that hydro
but my mind ain't slow though
so stroll
with me down the valley of death rows
ya meet skulls to bones
watch yo steps
fool cuz I'm prone
to ripping up ****
shoot up even ya casket
if ya dead *****
since my money itch
I gotta get the scratch
cook up another coke batch
Naw scratch that
I'd rather a raider hat with a baseball ball to gats
make ya heartbeat flat
check the paper stacks
we got more racks
than a Swiss banks
smoke the baddest danks
freak the baddest skanks
but they never get a thanks
from me
***** cuz I gotta
ruthless mentality
make fatalities
to emcees that try to battle me
ain't no little in me
I'm b I double g I to e
hypnotize y'all with bars
thAt even glisten stars
and look at the scars
across the late night
shining bright
is my organization
**** tight
taking flight
over the industry
they beneath me
like they sneaky
huh I never trusted quotes out of a magazine
but still dump on fools out my ak47 magazine
with yo head guilltione
for tryna intervene my cream
got trusted killaz on my team
from eses from Diego to the bay
black nation Jamaican to Haitan
we ain't fakin
when we rob
we come hungry as wolve packs
counting paperstacks
and eradicate wacks
givin death the ultimate thirst
cuz it's dry
***** I thought u knew when bomb
Betta believe we the first uh


yeAh verse two
just as vicious
so ******* and ya crew
bust on fools
with hallow tips
now I see my favorite color drip
red dot means ya dead
ask Craig
I got flava in ya ear
life in fear with yo family in tears
cuz they know the thugs is here
to set execution
to muthaphukkaz
that thought
they could evade persecution
reducing
the population
one by one
listen to the sounds
of my guns
it goes rat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat
now ya body fat
but back
to this fiend hustle
money I'm talking
so **** the struggle
since I was bornghetto
I'll die ghetto
and when they bury me
don't throw rose peddles
just hold up the pistols
and fire shots in the air
like ya don't care true playa he'll yeah
I'm brutal as ****
to those pushing luck
don't get struck
by my fiery tongue
once I speak
brains get hung
*** kicks more than Chung
Li with speed of Bruce Lee
Y'all can't  see me
Naw but you'll sure as hell feel me
like spirits running in the late night
blurring yo sight
I sense the fear in yo heart *****
sweats tears getting bigger
am I there
or is it just a shadow glare?
I'm evil as they come
so bow down
when ya see the Don
black Al Capone
with a mansion of my own
soon to transform
all pen ****** home
built for the war zone
so I ain't scared to die
shoot me but ya better make sure I die
cuz if not I'll be planning yo burial plot
watch for my live shots from my glock
it don't stop even when I'm gone
still reigning as champions
fire blazin sky grazzin
hell raising
in the streets
coming after crooked *** police
what's worse ?
when we drive up in a black hearse
betta believe morgues makin money why ?
cuz we bomb firrsttt

Why so inquisitive little guy?
You threw your own feces at Miley Cyrus.
Ate a whole bar of soap.
Even carried Ebola virus.

While nosing around you got
zapped by a high voltage fence.
Stole a bunch of bananas from the dollar store.
But got probation cause it was your first offense.

You once smoked a pack of cigarettes
with Salvador Dali.
Then twice stated he spoke English
like a dumb tamale.

You ran your rental car off a cliff
in Malibu just for kicks.
Bought a case of Gorilla glue just to sniff.

Hanging out with Maury Povich
you copped a feel on Connie Chung.
Spent a complete summer strung out
in North Korea with Kim Jong-un.

You got caught peeking through the hole
in the wall of the girls' locker room.
Pleaded no contest when
the monkey business hit the courtroom.
Then told all in your sorted
memoirs, nom de plume.

You're a lazy obstinate chimp
who's too curious for his own good.
I'd say a future trip to the vet to get neutered
is a sure likelihood.

i've broken my fast with a, very nice egg fried rice, with chicken,
and mixing sweet sweet chili sauce with soya sauce...
   and i'm watching these youtube channels...
                  thinking: where do they get their energy from?
to talk so much?
                              and where's the water? the water
they're supposed to drink to clear their throats?
                                          it seems many of these peope either
edit quiet a lot, or they haven't taken to talking professionally...
      you talk long enough, you'll become something akin
to a tobacco smoker... sure, you won't be coughing-up
phlegm in the morning, with a tobacco hangover...
    but sure as hell you'll be, quasi-pavarotti, talking, and then
ahem, ahem... hmm mmm... glug of water...
                                right in the sight of naples, going: wow!
naples is in tuscany, right?
                             don't know... i make **** up as i go along,
alongside the stuff i cook... drunk -
saying: if i didn't smoke... this would probably taste batter... better,
n'ah... it wouldn't... you need to numb the palette with
something...     you know the scots deep-fry mars bars?
and pizza slices?
                                    and i thought eating raw herrings
in cream sauce was an extreme...
                          eh?!
                                  but about these youtube channels...
where does all the energy come from? how do they even figure out
that it's a bother?
                   the devil was work for idle hands...          w'ah l'ah!
   not exactly a tux, white cotton gloves, and a top-hat
with a rabbit in it... but at least the most possible alternative
to mind...
                              people have so much energy to talk, and talk,
and talk, and protest, and talk, and protest,
                    and combine the two into a chinese circus acrobatics
forming a human house of cards...
                    the mayor of beijing said to the magician
who was supposed to scare the tigers away:
     did you actually growl?  or did you simply say growl?  
what the chung chow fu have i a care for a parrot
                        that i can talk to? scare them! scare them marco polo!
imagine they're mon-gools! orc ghouls!  
                        this is the point about drinking alone...
when you drink... people can basically ruin your little bit
of happiness when buzzing...
        i hate drinking with people... they **** me off within a second's
worth of: snapping your fingers...
                       drinking really becomes a solitary acrobatic...
and all the better for it.
                    it's the talking... i like "thinking" drunk...
   but talking while drunk? that's a ******* gnat birgade all over me...
    i'm like a cow imitating a dog's happy tail waggling,
but actually trying to shake them off...
                        bothersome, bothersome... little... bits and pieces...
    i just dropped a ming dynasty vase... oops...
       likewise: so much for the care for modern conversations
in (a) pub(lic).
                            ping-pong with shadows on the imaginary
scale sounds more entertaining... as much as banging your
head against a brick wall.
                     it's just that i never really heard anything
interesting said by sober people...
    and so much so that... i've never heard anything a drink's
worth of shared time, said by drunk penguins... people, people!
seriously though... how do these people on youtube
who video themselves, have so much energy, and care
to reply to comments, and live-feeds?
                             i'm thinking: rye bread, philadelphia cheese,
and sliced strawberries.

i don't know, maybe my writing has overtones
of begun conversatioin, never finished...
or maybe conversation is all my writing ever
invokes...
              it's almost as if want to talk...
but never muster enough will for it to take place...
   i could reread Kant's transcendental methodolgy
over and over again,
       i don't know, maybe because i'm european?
and i feel no allegiance toward feeling bereft
in dealing with a colonial past?
         european-centralism is nothing western...
it's not even muskovite, so what the hell is it?!
           when i read kraszewski is didn't beg for
Dickens....
              England was a marr bruise, 1 thousand
miles off from Reykjavík...
a lost cause...
                    dead in the artcic, alongside the scutter
of: the tales of the beheading monk...
          should he ever arise: and make Diana
the patron saint: as is her due...
             whenever i spent three weeks
starved from the medium of defeat,
                                 i did read Kraszewski as antidote toward
the fluke that's: paweł jasienica & sienkiewicz...
                    if ever poszukiwana, poszukiwany, (1973),
czy tem myś, czy tem: **** misja!
riplej! riplej! oh! nie dadzy ripleja!
   o **** to pytać: kurwe z amsterdamu.
ty? ty to huja dawny o zzadźwi zakonice w chomoncie
     nabić krojem: w babylonskie obietnice...
   szomota kryju skarg...
and this the end-trip of polish culture,
and me scold, that rubric of a wish to forget china-town!
you just savor that phrase: designed in California...
manufactured in Beijing!
         Mao-Tse chung-fowl kung-fu chop!
hrabia Ezzex...
                            fat-ma-gil turkczynka wiodle:
chóra! brak Arraba! tak, ten spustoszały
                        zagwizd smroden pełny, czworakim,
  obgadany w kodym: Lałrancja blondaßa!
                 anglischen: murgrabiaschen bach!
                          obejmać: wielbłąda, też mu pisano!
cycor wydajny... pierś też nie brak!
   cycek to też twój idol... ziarno maku zjem...
piasku: wpluje ci w oko i powiem: pieprz!
  sfędzi? czyli: trafiony: zatopiony... u-zbek u-bjojten.
jak tylko mu to Bóg zapisze...
tak zaklęty pismem: jak i czołem wyryty!
w swej mądrej czuwości! w bidzie będzie cytaty wtedy...
   czoło jego wyryć da kilo czerni wydobytej:
bo bendzie mógł mówić: szmacznie: stolec kwit!
i to straty: tak naprawde pragne.
                   at tu sra, sra sra: wielbłądzą flegmą:
by tej nie-wyparzonej gębie nadać nowy czyn
takiej to samej orgii pewności, jak zza wieku począt 2, 1.
                    to ja też go: o pardom: krawatem i
kajtanem obuznajm spytam... i co on mnie wtedy
nie powi! o jo jo jo joj! asz: sie boje.... boże boże:
   daj mi tchu: by w tą arabską morde
   na pluć co zwe: żyć z tobą nie łatwo...
  ale trza...
   pokajrze mordzine my bratku...
                                     daj! wszyje ci uśmiech
                poza granice policzek! tak na zbyt,
tak na gwarancje...
                               bo może i zapomne,
co kiedyś na mej, twarzy, nadać słowo zakwitu:
                       słać raz jeszcsze, szęst; czuwam więc, onajmić szeście
tym statkiem: to konieczne, spartańskie: wzbudzenie,
                    o to zór wojenny! nawet ten
ostatni angol... będzie pierdolił mi smutki
                       o swym: wzbogaceniu na wichurach
              zdobycia: koron i grzbietów pochyłych
w skraj kolonii... opłoczynnach: morgrabia szczoch...
teraz raptem: revolt... ha ha...
niby marionetka i światem poczytna znaleźli sie:
                           niewiasta narodzin absurdalnych wiar!
   no kurwa! w bieli syta! ja cie kręce!
    takich to wymówek to mi naprawde, za mało!

"she gave me a lung"? Did you mean instead, "she gave me a hug"?
or "she gave me a bug"? or "she inserted gerbils up my hole ****"?
or, "the commissioner is climbing up my *** like he's doing Connie
Chung"? or, "don't fling **** as on the way up is the price of dung"?
Goop fell upside left from a drip-blackened rafter, for the bat-guano
-collectin' *** wiper, it was the bat-****-excrement-crap he was after
as its pissy psychotrophical/psychotropical/******-active properties
hypnotize a crazed-bat-******-sniffing-Obama-****-bussing grafter
whose 2017 **** movies made him, in comparison to flit Heinie &
**** Chester Conklin, sixty times Uncle Miltie's length, more dafter
than the 1902 Germanical germination of Jerry Boer war 2 laughter

A poet that floweth like a slow pour o Moët
over the ***** and *** of these ****** that
I gladly leave gushy in the deep of forest
To the bass pumped out by Skiitour its
About ******* time I got on my grind
My mind's on God but got money on my mind
Playwright lay pipe in any fine honey I find
No slob she won't slob the **** unless she a nine
The way my hands rest you'd think I carry a nine
No Luger don't confuse ya my response is nien
I'll machine my own drum with an automatic hum
Finna craft a set of meteoric iron guns
Got iron lungs ya son I **** chung
Never been bankrupt thank God when I wake up
Now this life is a dream hope I never wake up
Y'all thought I changed up I just kept doing my thang bruh

Hit the Green On Whyte out the Killa Bee
**** with me I'll know who your killas be
Take a **** of these trees if ya feelin free
They choke on the D when they ******* with me
Hit the Green On Whyte out the Killa Bee
**** with me I'll know who your killas be
Take a **** of these trees if ya feelin free
They choke on the D when they ******* with me

Water is for my plants Moët for when I pant
Ya heard me we drinking champagne when we thirsty
Hoes get wet when I dance, they check at my lance
Ya heard me feet burn like their eyes at girth of Yehud meat
I'm balling up they fall in love when our eyes meet
I ask where we goin for brunch she replied "surprise me"
Haven't even got her name yet this is not surprising
The absolute height of player is the surmising true glory
Of my biography made to movie based on true story
Bard cookin soft right, off white the sheen is all bright
This **** lookin hard like the all spark get lit all night
Bring your girl back to mines I live 5 blocks off Whyte
***** poppin pushing hot keys you can't stop me
Do not knock me or trust I just might rock three
Shots to your dome blaow return your *** home
You just a kid to this *** now get your *** grown

Hit the Green On Whyte out the Killa Bee
**** with me I'll know who your killas be
Take a **** of these trees if ya feelin free
They choke on the D when they ******* with me
Hit the Green On Whyte out the Killa Bee
**** with me I'll know who your killas be
Take a **** of these trees if ya feelin free
They choke on the D when they ******* with me

Krishnakov spittin that avtomat kalashnikov
Phone try and auto it yeah that ****** me off
Made me miss my bars getting hit by cars
Forgave still bear a scar "I'd never fare this far"
Is what I'll say to my ma if she ever pick up my calls
A bad and bodacious Badger's twerk had me lose a ball
Sad and loquacious had to work or I would lose it all
Never lose my calling I know God is offering
Won't listen to Satan and his calls for slaughtering
Although that's what I oughtta be doing, bartering
For style and influence the currency is Tegridy
You gotta survive through sewers, life is hella gritty
You could smell the city on them Jewel boys
But I pity the chains that they live and die for, fool ploys
Slave to the lower man, am I the last reporter in
This sorta wind swept world we take orders in

Hit the Green On Whyte out the Killa Bee
**** with me I'll know who your killas be
Take a **** of these trees if ya feelin free
They choke on the D when they ******* with me

Your *** chokes on Kosher Salami when you **** with me
I beat on her Ocher pastrami while I roll up my trees
Pour Moët on the pink though **** leave it glistening
Your *** wet after a wink and 10 seconds of listening

tabacoo as a sharp ****** of a syringe
into your brain:
          the insatiable geometry of
a fly's flight... best decipted by
        the word: whizz.

concerning inanimate things:
  ****... that's not today:
                 that ******* tomorrow!

the moon in daytime:
                       mostly during winter.

and if there was ever a need
  to revise plato's exclusion criterium
from the repulic?
         i have one:
              if you can solve crosswords,
you should be allowed to write
                    poetry.

        hate those buggers who take on
pedagogy techniques of what
"poetry" is...
                     in terms of music,
and what rhyme represents?
                          hitting the same notes,
on and on and on,
                    i'm guessing the people who
can write pedagogy poetry
       are the ones who can solve
                     crossword puzzles,
and are most likely to grab onto
   a thesaurus...

                       so why did i start writing
poetry?
                      couldn't afford paint,
paintbrushes,
                    nor the (bayeux) tapestry;
it's either called digging graves,
quantum mechanics,
                or wormholes:
   within the concept of the metaphren:
conjured from metaphors
         congregation like a flock
                                  of flamingos;

or as the myth of poland is concerned:
why did storks pick this land
   to migrate to in the northern
                                  summer months
and not, shveeden?

              scheisse weiße: pick-ah-boo!
       turkish:                
         jason ******* statham, of all people,
   or what's called:
          they spent all that money
            on the fast & the furious 8
      and there was no yackie chung in it?  

(a) i write poetry because i can't afford paint,
(b) if you can solve crosswords
                              you shouldn't write it,
because who the hell needs rigid
geometricians
                      and pedagog paedophiles
        to give you a squiggly line
                 that apparently never ends?

while he hulas through tábor Mandalay like a ***** minus *** ****
who, as bait to queer Maurice Povich, humps likee Constance Zōng
who, as wife to Marx-****-box Maury Povich, plays Connie Chung

Empty Cloud
Lion Cliff in the Chung-nan Mountains

Tiger tracks in snow
Stone chime: ay yay yo!

              Samadhi.

All my chances are sandwiched as the plies of plywood. Luck will have me, she'll be of certain bend: a ***** named Chung or Hoa or any number of gooky names.