They call me the smartest *****; they look at me like they would at Sauron.  Maybe I am just destined to be defined like an oxymoron, and also why do people shut their doors on me like I was a Mormon. Did I make the right choice when I took the blue pill and moved into Zion? Don’t know how to feel or who or what I should rely on. Bygones are bygones, got to follow the drill, so best not pull any funny ones. Being spied on, got no where to run, after all when your under a dictatorship there is no time for fun, there is only time to train one how to shoot a gun. Blang blam got a cross on fire on my lawn from the dreaded Ku Klux ****.  One extreme to another, what happened to Jesus’s teachings of how we are all heavenly sisters and brothers? **** the American dream; **** this apparent land of the free where anyone from anywhere can attain cream. Not a joke so turn this into a meme, this is serious if you only saw the things which some claim as the unseen.

Open your mind; don’t bind yourself to devilish things that appear kind. Charging up my chakra, hypnotizing you with my words like I’m the unclaimed child of Big Poppa. I am so waka I get yawl flocking to my flame, my bars aint **** yeah they as lit as Mary Jane. Bulking up like Bain, natural leader and I got a big brain. Some stalker ******* get so shady, thinking that I will spend my gravy, or that I will have their baby. Sorry I am not interested in getting rabies or taking a taste of your dead daisy. This is my loot; ***** the only thing I’ll give you is the boot. Scoot away from me, best stray by the bay before I write a restraining order on thee.  What is this world coming to? Harold be it that we stuck in a rut with a storm beginning to brew.  

People say I should stop drinking because I got family duties and responsibilities but I drink because I have to deal with the stress from family duties and responsibilities.  **** it all; **** my *****, better duck down because one punch and you’ll fall. Got the gall, Pokémon master man **** right I’m about to catch them all! I’m super and I like to smash bro, so better hide your ***** and your side **. Classically unclassified, mentally traumatized from a fall out of a genocide. Time to be unfiltered; rhyming from a heart that used to be good but now has been altered. Maybe I am just an oxymoron, just a sly fox that know how to survive because no matter what my hope for a better world will stay strong. I may live in this world but I am not of it, I may continue to give until I decide to say ah **** it! Isn’t it ironic? Isn’t the whole point of being a rapper to make a profit and strive to rap as fast as the speed of sonic? Let me puff some **** and drink till I’m subatomic. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Wouldn’t that be something if I chose to become like everyone else and live out a life of being toxic. So am I ironic or am I just an oxymoron? Don’t give a **** either way because I am iconic and will take anything you haters bring on!

I was once a classically trained pianist:

My nails cut weekly down to the bit
and internal tongue ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee
ta-ta, tom tuned to the metronome.

Daily hours meant:
bent stick straight up
scales and etudes then
sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias

and movements memorized
by fingers that knew the way
and weight of adjusted arms.

What is the value of
a wrong note alone

or amongst many,

of memory incapable
and fingers fallible?

Ageing so  beautifully.
Classically as diamonds do, never ageing gracefully
Her eyes fire her up, fire you up too,
This Goddess,brings forth the huntress, out on the ****, for a thrill.
Never cheap.
This individual will never ever weep.
Just a kindly miss, not lonely,
So don't take the Michael.
Nourishment needed.
Overtly she's principled.
Quintessential English,
Rapturous as summer days and Sundays.
This trusting Utopian dreamer.
Vehement pen.
Wicked humour full of woman.
X rated at times,youthful and zany.
(C)Livvi

Such Waste!

When I leave the tears flow,
Whilst at home I know,
Smile inside,
Behind green eyes,
Knowing that you painted it,
Hiding in visage,
A pretty happy place,

Since you stumbled sadly,
Into disarray by chance,
Know we may be together,
Only sometimes,
In times choice,
Simple speck,
Entirely!

Share heart space,
In grace,
Ingratiated,
Grateful for your time,
Twitters float as hummingbird,
Miniscule flirts with love,
Serenely talented,
Awaiting touch of serendipity!

We can never be in honesty,
Maybe,
Honestly guided,
Through duet of crazy lives!
A bond so definite,
So infinite in style,
Captured,
Fondness,
Much more than fondness,
Snatched in my warm heart,
Your smile,
Laced,
While tactile tenderness prevails!

Pen pushes while we drift,
Alive in sleep,
Dark pens kiss,
Fire and ice,
Pleasantries,
Not always,
Always filled with spice,
Diurnal in eternal writes,
Divagated by his own diversity,
A writing fuelled fellow,
Filled with deviance!
Character presented,
Is just soul tormented,
So classically unreal!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Homage to the late poet; Kofi Owonor


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


In one Sunday Nation article, Professor Ali A Mazrui analyzed the inter-politicality of The Jaramogi Odinga family and The Kennedy family by arriving at a difference that the Odinga’s have curse of long life but the Kennedy’s have a curse of early death through violent and untimely  mode of death .Mazrui made these analogies in reference to violent death of John F. Kennedy and the subsenguent Chappaquiddick bridge tragedy.Similarly,the salient difference between a European and American or a Japanese and African writer or African artist is that most of African writers die early in the mid of their lives through violent death but in contrast American and some European writers die peacefully and comfortably in their old age. Early and violent death is the dominant bane, fate and misfortune that now and then besmirch an African writer. This position is in recognition of a fact that my child-hood American popular literature writers in the name of Mario Puzzo author of the God Father and Robert Ludlum an author of several anti soviet spy series like; Borne dentity, Borne Ultimatum and Icarus Agenda plus very many others like The Matlock Paper had just to die recently in their late eighties. The most surprising of all is Phillip Roth whom I read at the age of twelve years while in my primary four.  Now I am forty years and this year 2013 Phillip Roth is still alive and active to the American literary civilization that he has been touted by the Ladbrokes as a probable candidate for Nobel Prize in literature. But sadly enough on 22 September 2013 in Nairobi the black angel of early  death has carried ahead its  foul duty by claiming the life of Africa’s most honorable literary scholar Professor Kofi Owonor during the helter-skelter of Alshabab terrorist lynch of the upscale West Gate Mall in Nairobi.
Actually this essay is meant to be a deep felt homage to the late Kofi Owonor, Killed by Islamic terrorists in Nairobi. However, the essay also goes ahead to decry the violent and early deaths of several other African writers. The deaths which have almost turned Africa into a literary dwarf if not a continent of artistic bovarism. Kofi Owonor, who peacefully and honorably came to attend Story Moja Literary festival to be held in Nairobi, was violently shot by the Islamic fundamentalist terror group known as Al shabab. Whose gunmen lynched the Mall in which was Kofi Owonor and his son. The terrorist were sending out the Muslim catchword on which if one fails to respond then he was known not to be a non- Muslim on to which he is shot or held hostage for ransom.Fatefull enough, Kofi Owonor was not muslim.He was an elder, an Africanist, a scholar, a poet, a realist, a rationalist, a Christian, a religious non-fundamentalist and a literary liberalist. He could not respond with any tincture of religious irrationalism to the question of the terrorist. He was shot dead and his son injured. Too sad. This is actually the time when Christian positivism goes beyond rigidity of other religious affectations in its classic assertiveness that the devil kills the flesh but not the soul. And indeed it is true the devilish terrorist killed Owonor’s flesh but not his literary soul. They are such and similar situations that made Amilcar Cabral to observe in his Unity and Struggle, in a section on Homage to Kwameh Nkrumah to rationalize that the sky is too enormous to be covered by the palm of a sadist nor to be vilified by the spitting of the filthy ones; Truly, like Nkrumah, Kofi Owonor was the sky of African intellect never to be covered by the brute of the cannon from the parrel of a Muslim terrorist.
Kofi Owonor is not alone neither are we alone. You, my dear reader and I  we are not in any historical nor literary solititude. In Africa God has blessed us with the opportunity of the dead relatives in the name of the living dead. We are not the first and the last to grief. Owonor is not the first and the last to dance with fate. Even Ali A. Mazrui in his literary expositions of 1974 otherwise published as the trial of Christopher Okigbo.A  novella in which Mazrui cursed ideology as an open window into the moving vehicle that let in  a very bad political accident to Nigeria in the name of Biafra war which claimed life of  Christopher Okigbo at the Nzukka battle front. This was one other sad moment at which Africa lost its young literary talent through violent death.
Reading of African literary biographies in all perspectives will not miss to make you attest to this testimony. Both in situ and in diaspora.Admirable African American writers like Malcolm X, and Dr Luther King all died through violent death. Even if in the recent past, the Daughter of Malcolm X revealed to Sahara Reporters, Nigerian Daily, that Louis Farrakhan was behind the assassination of her father, wisdom of the time commands us to know that it was evil politics of that time that made Malcolm X to die the way international politics of today in relation to crookedness which was entertained during the formation of the state of Israel that have made the son of Africa professor Kofi Owonor to die.
An in-depth analysis into the life and times of African writers and artists will show that the number of African cultural masters who die violently is more than the number of those who died normally in their old age. Some bit of listology will show help to adduce the pertinent facts; Patrice Lumumba, Steve Biko, Lucky Dube, Walter Rodney, Tom Mboya, J M Kariuki, Che que Vara, Ken Saro Wiwa, Anjella Chibalonza, and Jacob Luseno all but died through violent death. Lumumba died in a plane crash along with Darg Hammarskjöld only after penning some socialism guidelines. After writing I write what I want, a manifesto for black consciousness Steve Biko was arrested and tortured in the police cells during those days of apartheid in south Africa.Biko died violently while undergoing torture in police cells. Lucky Dube was fatefully shot by a confused ****. Walter Rodney who was persuaded by his student who is now the professor Isa Shivji at Dare salaam University not to go back to his country of Guyana, desisted this voice and went back only to be assassinated in the mid of the rabbles that domineered Guyanese politics those days of 1970’s. This happened when Rodney had written only two major books. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, being one of them. Tom Mboya was shot by a hired gunman in down-town Nairobi, some one kilometer away from the West Gate Mall, at which Kofi Owonor has been shot. Mboya could have written a lot. Even more than Rudyard Kipling and Quisling. But fate or bad luck had him violently die after he had only written two books; Challenges to Nationhood as well as Freedom and After. Both of them are classically nice reads until today. He had also submitted sessional paper no. 10 to the Kenya government which was a classical thesis on Africanization of scientific socialism.
J M Kariuki, Che and Saro Wiwa are all known for how they violently died. Powers that be and terrorists that be, expedited violent death against these writers. Thus, brothers and sisters in the literary community of Africa and the world as we mourn Kofi Owonor we must also let Africa to unite in spiritual effort to rebuke away the evil spirit that often perpetrate terror of violent death which  especially  claim away lives of African writers.

References
Ali A. Mazrui; Trial of Christopher Okigbo
Amilcar Cabral; Unity and Struggle

Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.  
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.  
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.  
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my *****.  
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!

We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.  
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.  
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.

We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.  
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.  
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.  
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.

The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.  
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.  
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.

Wickedly Waco classically gaudy ******, thee future class coming at you with lyrics so perfecto. Que pasa me llamo es que, me llamo es como, me llamo es Classy J ese. No me es no Español, I'm just classically gaudy and I drank a lot of alcohol. This is no ordinary cypher, and no hidden messages in my raps to decipher. It's just real **** that anyone can roll with, and I here to become such a legend that a million years from now I become a myth. No ***** to give, and I'm not here to apologize or forgive as I'm here to live. Life is cruel yeah that is the rule I learned, and you don't just get respect as it has to be earned. It's a dog eat dog mentality, and im still sticking to the excuse of being a victim of this reality.

Self righteous self involved and self indulged, so selfish but thats just humanity for you but at the same time we feel like we can judge others but we hate to be judged. The things that make me go hmm, but Im also human so that means I'm also part Baffoon. Sometimes I want to hide in a cocoon or fly away to cancun. Trying to be successful in ruin, just an outcast like aloy I have to find my path and surpass the proving. Not many believe in me, but as long as a few do that's all that matters to me. Only got so much life to live, so I have to make the most of it and put in as much passion in my music because I want to be proud of the product I give. Striving to get bigger, and I'm building up a movement that no one can hinder. Longing to know where truth lies, because all I can see right now are true lies. Half hearted promises be ******* with my emotions, because I'm so caught up in all this ******* commotion. Losing love for people, losing love for myself, losing sight of the sequel because I'm so caught up with the constant thoughts of killing myself.

Depressed and stressed and I'm not sure how much more I can be pressed. My uncle recently committed suicide, and that made me see how much pain it's gives others and made me see it from their side. Angry and confused, wondering why or how and what made him do what he did and sometimes those feelings can't be ever diffused. The pain of life sometimes feels unbearable but I have to keep reading them parables. Maybe I'm hysterical confiding in the pages of the bible because sometimes you  have to try turning over the tables. What's my prognosis doc? Well it says here your precocious and need to focus on what you want because you cant make it appear with hoccus poccus this is real life you have to walk the walk. I don't follow the flock because I'm not like other folks that keep looking at the clock and confine themselves in little cults. I'm embracing the worlds absurdity, and i am a ****** absolutely but yet truly also a brutal hard hitting squanchy anomaly. Going on a journey for Szechwan sauce, and buy a cake from the cake boss. Because why not? If nothing really matters why should I do a melancholy job until I rot? I just want to be something else isn't that something else to strive to be unlike everyone else. So if you're like me come along on this classically gaudy ride, because why should unique misunderstood ******* have to hide?

(No puedo hablar la lengua.)
I cannot speak my father's native tongue.
(No puedo hablar suficiente...)
At least, not enough of it to get by.
(...no entiendo, lo siento.)
The body I inhabit feels like foreign territory.
(No lo se.)
My grasp of it ends here.

I. OTRA VIDA

Dia de san valentin, 2000: mi padre aprendió inglés por amor; voló a través del mar Mediterráneo. Él tiene miedo de los sonidos cuando trata de hablar. Pero él lo intenta. Él habla casi perfectamente -- mientras, estoy teniendo una conversación uno-a-uno con Google. Es vergonzoso.

I recall two or three trips, max. There's a blend of urban and natural that's a haven for the eye -- the buildings themselves are seduced by the sun; divine blends of amber, tawny, white. Classically Romantic. That nighttime humidity fogs up your lungs and makes it feel like a hug. There was a time when we were poised to move back there - and in Dad's case, another, nearly leaving without any desire to take me with him.

My makeshift home is built upon stereotypes: orange trees, olive oil, generous glasses of vino. Pienso qué un otra vida where I'm stood on the beach at dusk, with heavy-lidded eyes and ears attuned to cicadas and rolling waves. This is narcissistic lust for the woman I could've been - she is all smiles, bilingual, peace embodied. Those are the nights when I'm not careful: she leaves my bed by morning.

II. ESTA VIDA

To mourn the "what ifs" shows a lack of gratitude for what is, and god, what luck! For inglés to be the second most-spoken language, de-facto "centre of the universe"! To migrate most anywhere and get by; for the Western world to be coerced into Anglophonic bliss since tourism makes their ends meet!

On a holiday, I clam up ordering "una batista fresa" and get a taste of how my father feels. José Francisco: his colleagues call him Frank, in the same way I shun my legal surname because a Spanish 'LL' is too hard for others to grasp. I reek of privilege - post-post-Franco, white European, playing with my non-language behind closed doors. There's private delight in a rolled 'r': momentarily, I'm local, not a mere faux-foreigner appropriating my own heritage. Ironic - he tries to be "less immigrant" whilst I've got the fortune of trying to be more.

I was born into a universe of possibilities. A million options feel like fate -- screenwriter, Oxford grad, Spanish barmaid-or-waitress-or-I'll-take-whatever -- each unchased path is a reminder that, somehow, I'm choosing wrong. I've never perceived myself as small (ex-tall child, "ex"-chubby kid with a head outstretching the clouds, first of the eleven-year-olds to grow **** and got gawped at like I'd grown an extra nostril). Outside this hall of mirrors, I am tiny -- too small to have this many dreams -- manifesting as terror-borne paralysis because I want to do more than I'm built for. Solution: aim smaller or grow up.

Ever greet
Someone so
Sickly sweet?
Her candy
Apple red
Puckered lips.
Her minty
Fresh white
Glistening teeth.
Her short
Honey combed
Locks of
Angel hair.
Its all
Too much
For me
I swear.
The scent
Of acid
Cotton candy
Penetrates the
Small room.
Innocently dressed
Classically groomed.
With a
Smile that
Says "I
Could just,
Like be
Your bestfriend!
I'll try
To hop
On your
Boyfriends ****
If you
Turn your
Back for
Just one
******* second!"
Call me
A sour
***** but
I hate
The fake
Super sweet
Little *****
That walk
Around like
Theyre the
****, like
They've got
Some god
Given right
To act
Like fake
Crowd pleasing
***** *******
I'll fill
Your face
With bruises
And stitches.

To the kid in the hallway telling his friend
"Maybe you need a **** whistle."
And to her response, a sarcastic
"Matt, **** jokes aren't funny."
You're **** right they aren't
Tell me, how is anyone forcing themself onto another person funny?
How are the I don't want tos when her "no" couldn't scream loud enough funny?
How are the ****** thighs and bruised hips funny?
How is the waking up in the middle of the night
How are the flashbacks and her wailing funny?
How is the seven year-old who had so much anxiety she'd tear her hair out
Or a sixteen year-old who kept eyeliner and a kitchen knife side by side in her purse funny?
It's about as funny as a slaughterhouse full of pigs taunting the other pigs
And telling them their approaching doomsday is amusing.
I dug my key into the palm of my hand like a knife when I heard this jeer
Clenching and unclenching a fist
Because I knew if I did not
That hand would go right through your faces.
You do not know the impact of your words
You see, for a survivor
Jokes about ****** assault are triggers.
They bring back every memory
Which becomes a stinging tear behind an eyeball
Fighting not to emerge from its home.
When I say something
Classically I am being "too sensitive"
Just as I was "too sensitive"
When he told me to get on top of him
And I said no
So much courage mustered up in a little body
I could have moved mountains that day
I could have been my own goddess
At seven years old
But he did not care
He was bigger than me
And he imposed that will onto my body
Reducing my childlike frame to the size of a fly
Being swatted by the paw of a lion.
I will not be silent
So when you tell a **** joke and I am in earshot
Do not expect me to laugh
Because there is nothing funny about a slaughterhouse.

.well, if this boyscout contra girl-scout debate it going to rage on... whatever the problem, and whatever the conclusion... shouldn't just the boyscout brigade start baking cookies in the shape of a phallus and *******? with white sprinkles on the tip, and brown sprinkles on the base?

what has become of that famous
three worded statement? you know it...
gott ist tot...
      well...
               isn't it glaring, right in your
face?
          you really can't have gender
neutrality in certain languages...
   because most of the nouns impose
gender discrimination...
for example, in ******...
    the sun (słońce) is feminine...
while the moon (księżyc) is masculine...
you can't achieve gender
neutrality... because the words
already discriminate for themselves...
the English language is gender
neutral...
         unlike any other European
languages...
   no wonder then...
it's befitting that the death of metaphysics
would culminate in English
with what was to replace it...
   trans-physics...
            it's like the English language
has created this trans-physical
"realism" of (a) reality that...
                      so... you closed the asylums,
let the melancholics and the schizophrenics
out...
          and in come the new crazies...

this will balance out at some point,
benzene ring orientation of
groups... CH3 and what not...

first came the meta-physics...
that died with gott ist tot..
   and from the ashes arose
           the mind-****** of trans-physics...
the Peter Pan physics...
the asylum was abandoned,
the crazies took to the streets,
there were trans-rights,
there were trans-activists,
a whole plethora of trans-this
and trans-that...
            and... well... the discrimination
and ridicule-inducing rhetoric
concerning the classically mad...
the melancholic, the hypochondriacs,
the psychotics and the schizophrenics...
eggshells tip-toe:
bend over backwards for the new crazies...

hell... appease the new crazies
and shove the classical mad into the gutter...
because you know the new crazies
do not have violent tendencies,
or for that matter, masochism incumbent...
me? i such think they're *******
pathetic... their delusions are...
precisely:
         without metaphysical groundwork,
they are imposing
   a fake, more than obvious skew of
reality...
                if i see an Adam's apple
or no geisha hands on a trans-"woman"?
i can't double-think,
contradict what my senses
immediately recognize...
so... all the metal heads with their
long hair... i'm supposed to think
they were men?
                  
metaphysics apparently died at the end
of the 19th century...
but what replaced?
        it's not pretty... trans-physics is
the boogie on the side of bogus...
anti-gravity...
          anti- i can see this is suspicious...

well... at least with metaphysics
   meta- (the after)
    there was no exact certainty,
the kind of daydreaming of heaven or
hell...
              after the physics...
there is no after-the-physics...
  the orbits prevail...
        and when a sun dies,
   a black hole remains...
                         there is no after...
and... esp. with the discover of antimatter...
death is but a massive yawn...

but trans-physics?
this period, this transition period?
                 this is not beyond physics...
this is not Wonderland, this is not Peter Pan...
this is not going to, ******* ride on a whim...
a delusion...
                        last time i heard physics
is about rigidity, and less about
                        what chemistry deals with...
the mandible aspect of physics,
the reaction of at least two things interacting...
physics can, in part, deduce the
noumenon interaction,
for example the electron is in no way
affected by the proton or the neutron
            with regards to its ontological schematic...
                            1 0 -1
- nonetheless, this is a transition period,
after this trans-physics period of...
i'd say 100 years before the omni- consensus
of society balances out...
               there will be a time
where ortho-physics will take over...
straight physic, upright physics...

                   and then?
if you think that this trans-physical period
was weird...
                            the natural antonym
of metaphysics will enter...
   where nothing will be normal, normal
about para-physics...
            life and death will sit side by side...
life past, life beyond, life by death...
death past, death beyond, death by life;
we have a long way to go.

Pumping like an artery for I got to be the battery that drives this, **** prince charming ***** this ain't no fairy tale BS. I am Hades You Persephone for reality is that life ain't no symphony. I'm just meant to be the coldest MC, Bringing you ******* all to your knees. I am as influential as Socrates and rappers like Kanye, Yachti, Wayne, Jeezy and other fakes I use as a trapeze. I'm classically gaudy so call up Regis to fill em in, for I still have Evil Within and got a tendency to slay anyone then laugh while eating some M&M's. Hating me for spitting the same ****, so what man everyone else does it. At least my bars got substance, at least one can understand every single one of my sentence's. Says right here that everyone talks too much, tries too much, works too much, but don't act out what they preach too much. Set you up, bring you down, this is the domino effect man I told yawl I'd go after these fraudulent clowns! Rapidly maniacally painstakingly organizing my life back together, avidly trying to make a difference for myself, so that life for others can also become better. The domino effect got my methodical prodigal prophetic mind constantly staying in check. Candid and sadly reeking of erroneous savagery, a man that is classically Gaudy and who also suffers with a split personality. Can I call an audible? Can I have a head start to get away from the constable? I am an abnormality who is typically without liberty to be anything who will never be looked at as being a rational help to humanity? I'm just deemed a *****, so when it came to my goals and dreams I had no choice but pull the trigger. Go figure that my figure match the picture of a killer, go figure that I roll with some drug dealers, go figure that to survive I had to become a stealer. Cause and effect when one lives in debt, cause and affect that I can get your girl more wet. Adversity is affecting me, got no time for tranquility when the pigs be searching for me. What would you do if you were me? Would you also be praying that there would be a heaven for a g? How would you feel if you constantly had to flee? How would you do if you woke up with pigment and had to adjust to life being treated like **** like me? This is just a part of the domino effect; this is just how it is in the ghetto; yeah this is just how it is always being seen as the usual suspect. Nothing but a defect, nothing but an insect, nothing to respect, so how can hope or change ever manifest?

I took a class in psychology,
But who could ever hope to know
The inner wanderings of a lost soul,
The mechanisms making you tick,
You, conflicting conundrums and
Cautious contradictions...
You have classically conditioned my mind
To fumble over your chapter,
With your classical ways..
Heuristics never applied to you,
You are Freudian; hopelessly undefinable
And impossibly right

Rushed by the stormy ‘purple rains’
Crescendos that picks in all peaks
Softness of the male energy portrayed
Prolifically flamboyant and eccentric

Ambiguous, mysterious sensual reciter
Classically unconventional and different
Shedding the specifications of gender roles
Crowned by dark shades of violet pizzazz  

As the rain settles on the dusty grounds
As the soil solidifies and paste the others
As the dove wails looking for its nature
Rest in peace as the mascara waters down

Stickysappy
pupils
gather images
withoutbeneath
classically
trained “understanding”
Blinking colored pixalfree
(nonsense.)
everything inside- Happy
out of focus

But believe me
(when I say)
You do not see
as well as I do,
with your
*Unadulterated Vision.

Five red haired maidens / resting symmetry
Draped in bluest sky / arranged peacefully
Interwined pink flowers / chaining togetherly
One composition / from Antiquity
Arms wilt with leisure / classically painted
Their wild thoughts blooming / a pale recreation
Seated in judgment / of time untainted
By modernity / By degradation
in eternal youth / in a single row
They sit and they watch / seasons come and go

I think I’ll always be at least a little afraid of my own reflection.
It betrays me,
Stares at me with my father’s eyes and my mother’s smile.
Taunts me, teases me, tortures me,
Forces me to face all those faces that came before mine,
All the faces reminding me that I can’t change where I came from.

My eyes are supposed to be beautiful,
Big and green and thoughtful,
Intelligent, intoxicating, inexorable.
Though I’ve never found any beauty in my father’s eyes,
I find his relentless selfishness,
His arrogance,
His stubbornness,
His refusal to help others escape the pain I know he’s always carried,
Reflected in mine.
I stare at a mirror,
He stares back,
Reminding me that green is not just a color of beauty,
But also the color of the selfish isolation I am doomed to endure.

I don’t see beauty in my mother’s smile,
I hear all the hateful words that passed her lips,
All the words screamed at me until I finally began to believe them,
Encouraging me to make myself smaller,
Make myself less me.
I picture her hovering over me,
Her grip so tight on my wrists that I can feel the bruises forming,
Her face distorted by my tears as she hisses at me,
“Cruel,” “cold,” “undesirable,” “unlovable,” “unfixable.”
I imagine her soft smile,
The same smile she wore every time she swore she was proud of me,
The same smile everyone tells me I share with her,
Sweet and feminine and classically romantic,
Twisted into the spitting image of hate and disappointment she won’t let me forget.

I wish people wouldn’t search so hard for my beauty.
I wish they wouldn’t take my face,
My features all stolen,
As a representation of my being.
The big, green, eyes,
The charming, uneven, smile,
Long thick hair and tiny, little, freckles,
Femininity, romance, perfectly imperfect to keep you interested,
Just unique enough to make you think you’d never find a replacement.
It’s all so pretty, so perfect, so pointless.
It may captivate you,
But it doesn’t tell the story of what lies beneath,
All you’d have to endure to keep it in your life.

It’s not easy to see beyond my face,
Or my attitude,
Or my wit,
All designed to intrigue.
It’s not easy to stare into my eyes and watch them fill with tears,
Watch the way my face falls,
Farther and farther from your perception of my beauty.
It’s not easy to hold slender hands when they tremble,
So violent you’d think there was an earthquake rattling around in my mind.
It’s not easy to trace the outline of my figure when I’ve become too thin,
The valleys between my ribs,
The sharp ridges of my hips are too scary.
I may be easy to look at,
So easy to admire,
But I am not easy to love.

I ache for the love of which I have been denied for so many years.
I want to be beautiful for all that I’ve endured,
All that I carry with me,
The pain I’ve felt,
The stories I’ve collected,
All the broken pieces of old versions of me that I’ve slaughtered on my own accord.
I want you to think that I am beautiful even though I can never accept it.
I want you to still think that I’m beautiful when my skin is ripped to shreds,
Torn by the blade in my own hands,
When my eyes are sad and empty,
When my smile eludes you.
I want you to still think that I can be beautiful.

I am so tired of bleeding my soul for people who just want to look at me,
So sick of letting people in who find everything beneath the surface of my face ugly.
I am so much bigger than my body,
So much more beautiful than my face,
But it will never matter.
People will always praise my father’s eyes and my mother’s smile,
The traits glued to me that bleed into my mind,
Infect my soul with all of their hatred and anger and disgust.
People may always call me beautiful, but just once, I want someone to find my beauty to be more than skin deep.

Ancient as the wind
Monroe hips
And a smile that could stretch for miles...
Classically outdated
But the flower never faded
Honey is just searching for redemption
On the wings of Magdalene...
One day your empire will rise from the sea
The ashes will fly with the breeze
And the rain will be as pure as the first tear that fell from His eye...

Elder cocoons
Crysalis Hospice
Heaves pounding war drums
Fables of eternal bridge
Bingo and television
zombie horde lunch hour
Tennis ***** play race car
down halls tarred with lost children
Abandoned wither liver spot wrists
Silk wrinkles
Pull like neck folds lifted
newborn simba kittens
casted into this kingdom
scientists culture control

climate but not the yellow wall
It's too high for a fit cyborg
intravenous barbed wire
Cathader Penetrating
illusions of escapism
except the prison wealthy
classically conditioned

trading ice cream like cigarettes
trading blood diseases like ramen packets
There is no planned parenthood
in old folks homes
There is no distribution of free condoms
In a facility where they without medication
When you're about to win the lottery

His last day requested to bed Nurse Christine
Wheelchair ridden fumbling to open
A shaker of Mrs. DASH
I reach to help him open the spice.
Growling and Sadistic he festered:
"Let the little boy do what he can do."

I sat down in my chair.
he had his nurse ala mode.
no one will fund a ****** dispensary for old folks home.
they wouldn't use them.

Of course as I have an entire life left to live I am wondering what you ate for breakfast.
You ate a chicken quesadilla.
For breakfast???
...wierdo...
but at least I know now
the suspense was killing me.

Now I can't help but wonder what you did today...
Any photos???
You went the bathroom???
GET OUT!!!!

And of course, I want to hear your 'inspirational' (recycled) quote of the day.
"Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”
(classically overused)
MAN THAT GOT ME SO INSPIRED
I WAS SO SAD BUT READING THAT MADE ME FEEL 100 TIMES BETTER!!
20 likes
WOW YOU ARE A GODDESS!

YOU CHANGED YOUR PROFILE PICTURE????
SCOOOOOOREEEE!!!!
Woah, you look so pretty, you did such a good job with the editing (there is a lot of it).
You look nothing like that in person.....
I like your bra...by the way...
10 likes in 3 minutes!!
DUDE
THIS IS LIVING!!!!

Well enjoy your life with the constant need for approval...
Lets see where that takes you...

'What shall we talk about today?'

Spin, spin, spin the conversation
into loops and recapitulations.
Cassettes were my sustenance but
a vinyl record spins on the turntable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
Rests, then
    block chords, then
          swing-swung rhythm.
Then,
unexpected concords.

Where did those blue notes come from?
And colour our red, some supposed red, into
purple?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

I grew up on the clarity and
gravity
of soft pink time;
pearl-notes to the steady, steady,
steady
beat of a metronome.
But now,
                now?
Syncopation.
My  
      beat
against your
                beat
and we make a violently violet
bossa nova.

Suddenly the classically trained flautist
has time-travelled to her very first lesson.
Because no sound flutters out of the mouthpiece
and her fingers can't keep up.
Swing-swung
            syncopation
and she doesn't know to breathe anymore.
Where did those blue notes come from?

Silence.
Have we reached the final double bar?
The cadence is imperfect,
                                             unresolved.
Listen, a cold snap of instant jazz
knocked us over.
Arms clasped, teeth chat-chat-
                                              chattering.
1,
     2,
3 -
A not-quite waltz.
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
I think we know what it is but can't figure it out.
And so Cole Porter and Billie Holiday save us
from
     fading out.

'Let's do it, let's fall in-"

I don't want this song to be over.
I don't even know what it's called
but
don't let it end, don't let it,
don't
        don't
don't.

I can't cook but I think
I can make  
                   instant jazz.
And you,
        and you...
You'll write dizzy like
a Coltrane solo.
As you do.
And I'll lay down my flute,
struggle out of my red minuet and
                                               wonder:
Where did those blue notes come from?

But jazz has always been unpredictable.

'What shall we talk about now?'

I stumbled into you via modern technology,
Shot out of an atom smasher with endless chances
To spark some debate on space and all that lies between the moon and your window.

I like to believe in the odds of random probability,
Taking extraordinary circumstance and crafting it into friendship,

A testament to innovation, modern socialization,
And classically, it's boy meets girl once again, and she's sitting on a fortune of intellect.

Thinking for yourself has unlimited *** appeal behind it, and you're glowing with charisma.

You're my drug, my very own antidepressant.

I thank every God for the atom smasher that made it possible to collide with you.

Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.

I went out with a new guy tonight
A business major and heartthrob
He even held the door open for me, and brought some peonies
All of the girls approve, a little too much
Playfully asking if he has any similar friends
But in my head,
I think of how he talked too much
And how I could never picture him kissing the nape of my neck like you do
And how that indian food we ate, wasn't the most kick-*** aphrodisiac, either
He is amazing
And it's really not about the food, or his perfectly pressed button-down shirt

it's about you
it's just my heart and brain are classically conditioned
to despise and discourage anyone but you in some ***** white t-shirt
your dark hair a thick mess, scruffy faced
standing at the foot of your bed, smiling at me

I am an instrument with proud, inexcusable curves,
finished in a deep stain that shows my wear,
how I was loved—
the hands that have touched me.
It accentuates my grooves, my nicks.
It implies the things I've seen
and the music I've created.

I hang on the wall in the far left corner.
One of many walls in this room of a thousand others like me,
made to perform the very same tasks.

It's quiet here.
Echoes in our hollowed bodies,
amplified from the smallest sounds.
All of us, hiding away until we're found,
recognized—and stroked and strummed.
Poor and pitted, waiting
for the completion of hands, and minds,
and unmatched understanding of how and when.

There is a hope, when the lights come up—
when the footsteps approach my wall.
Although he hasn't yet, the thought alone sustains me.
I can feel him
lift me off of my holds,
run his hands down my pronounced edges,
and tune me with precision
by his classically trained ear.
He twists and plucks,
as I contract and give and give again.

I only play beautifully for him.
I vibrate to hum
making notes that require
no accompaniment.
For a stretch of time, I have purpose.
My hollowness
becomes a haunt for untethered melodies.
He makes me something I cannot otherwise be.

The maestro,
the maestro and me.

Now, now, now, now, now, now, now!
Terrible!
You can do better
You can always do better
Yet always can't never
Suckin' on a sliver in the tool-shed-deluxe, AND I've GROWN depressed again
Sept' NOT cause' I tend to tenderize dem' words!  Badly written, this mind un-fittin' for deez words I'm sittin'! Red marks, red marks n' squiggle 'neath my stupid words a lot like me and my arms n' body!  I am incorrectly myself far too often to see truly true pieces beyond the sky's fragility be she man nor woman yet the classically pronounced hermaphrodit-E!  I stink and smell like rotting hell except worse due to too many twos or were they duos throwing in the towel... foul.
I am
I
Am
The walking stench of literal intention and the walking stench of the hands of death (clench).
Broken staff is my forgotten word thus I AM ZERO-MARK
Not the nor a or an, but and is to I am as a universe as a point of hallucination

I'm going to miss you old friend.
Yet you still sit on my driveway paralysed.
Reminding me of the day we passed my driving test.
Your ****** crackling old radio, the miles you'd go for me without a grumble, and that night we effortlessly out ran that flashy peacock Ferrari from two roads down.
Your ice blue metallic paint and cream leather interior. Classically understated.
Your hefty old school body panels (felt like we were trying to move a building when we pushed you defeated and exhausted to the side of the road). But you were solid, a tank, and you always kept me safe.
Roddy Rover, my first car.
I'm going to miss you old friend.

If it was up to me I wouldn't have a name
Menace to society now I see the irony
Every sound is a different kind of feel to observe
A different present moment
How we live during certain  times
It just flows in me snd I let it **** me
Stages of our life that we cant define in time
Character from a high being innovating
With worth in their brains
We're all soldiers since birth and we rebel
And we **** inside..... and we live consciously
*******
A grasping student
I belong to her.... my mother from above
mother of my heart, you are one
And we create ourselves
Just a being from planet earth
We are the creators of life
And mother nature is just being
Treat her well
Stages in my mind
Cages are being broken
We are beings
I see them in my room
There's no mind
There's no rules
There's no mystery
Embrace misery to learn and earn
I'm just a being
Fall for yourself
Open arms...vulnerable
Feel you
I see you
We're just beings
Aliens are here
They're just other conscious beings
**** social media I see myself in keys
Lost in black and white
I own the measures
So vulnerable
**** a phone
My lord, we are our own
What is ******
A way of being
Aliens
I see classically
The MUSIC
I see
Stages are shown
**** a title
The being
Myself
I feel it
I'm just a ****** to you
FUCKKCKCKKAJAKQIIQ
The self
DUDUDUDUUDE
GOD
Communicating
I'm so free
Recording in my mind
Molecules I see you
Messengers
To this feel
The being
This experience
*** and the being
Insane in the king
Voyage the self spiritually
I'm ******* in person
No LANGUAGE
Spiritually depresses
THE SELF

Back in time

SPEAK IN ***

Characters

Languages

****
nd death

BACK IN TIME BEINGS

AND DEATH

I am energy
****

MuSic and death

I AM AN IDEA
Human

Humans e
DOkao

Omggggg in my head


In my head

Prrscrfkkk

Peace and sacrifice k

*** peace
Ggaggaga
Ajgkkkk
*** ACCEPTANCE
THE MIND

*** I'M LIVING
*** I FEEL
***

DUDE
In my head

HEAVEN
HELL
I SEE THE GODS
THEY SPEAK IN CODE
MODERN

I SAW EVERYTHING

I WAS NOTHING
I WAS SO SATAN
I WAS SO GOD

we're not alone