"concoction" poems
Pale skin that's
so beautiful in comparison to the sunset.
Her eyes,
the perfect concoction of blue and green, stare away.
Deep in thought,
tears on her cheeks, a smile pasted on her face.
Although her scenery
is lovely, the thoughts she has are not.
Dark demons
swirl in her mind and pick her brain.
They travel through
her veins, and pull her apart at the seams.
On the inside,
she's going crazy; she is undeniably insane.
On the outside,
she is smiling just like you; she's unwillingly happy.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
In the storm-tossed
Chilean
sea
lives the rosy conger,
giant eel
of snowy flesh.
And in Chilean
stewpots,
along the coast,
was born the chowder,
thick and succulent,
a boon to man.
You bring the conger, skinned,
to the kitchen
(its mottled skin slips off
like a glove,
leaving the
grape of the sea
exposed to the world),
naked,
the tender eel
glistens,
prepared
to serve our appetites.
Now
you take
garlic,
first, caress
that precious
ivory,
smell
its irate fragrance,
then
blend the minced garlic
with onion
and tomato
until the onion
is the color of gold.
Meanwhile steam
our regal
ocean prawns,
and when
they are
tender,
when the savor is
set in a sauce
combining the liquors
of the ocean
and the clear water
released from the light of the onion,
then
you add the eel
that it may be immersed in glory,
that it may steep in the oils
of the ***
shrink and be saturated.
Now all that remains is to
drop a dollop of cream
into the concoction,
a heavy rose,
then slowly
deliver
the treasure to the flame,
until in the chowder
are warmed
the essences of Chile,
and to the table
come, newly wed,
the savors
of land and sea,
that in this dish
you may know heaven.
14.4k
Loneliness is a pain,
Not the pain of a knife cutting through skin, sinews, muscles,and drawing blood.
Not the pain of a tooth in your mouth throbbing and sending shocks of horrors through highways of swollen nerves..
Not a fatal pain of a dying cell being devoured by a cancerous growth that thrives on the death and the pain of the very cells that produces its been.
Not the pain of the prisoner s body been tortured by men who see no wrong or feel no shame as they insert sharp hot instruments into natural and man made orifices in their captives helpless, hopeless bodies.
Not the pain of age as the body's functions start their natural march towards unreliability , Hips, knees knuckles, elbows and all the other joints as they begin to slowly dry up and rub against each other like stones rolling down a hillside.
Not the pain of hearts slowing, livers hardening,lungs wheezing like ripped accordians bellows .
Not the pain of childbirth.
Not the pain of accidents that show no fairness to the person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Not the pain of self inflicted wounds that can fool you into thinking that that pain is the answer to your problems.
Not the pain of the young healthy times when the body, and mind could accept it and overcome it
Not the pain of hunger or thirst.
Loneliness is the pain of the soul .
Loneliness is the pain of dreams that are dreamt when your asleep and when you'r awake.
Loneliness is the pain of memories . Some half forgotten some that are so clear you could almost touch them.
Some you'd rather forget.
Some you would spend the rest of your life reliving over and over again.
Loneliness is the pain that at times can be part relieved momentarily through the bottom of a whiskey bottle or a point of a syringe filled with a concoction of juices from plants poisonous to both the body and the soul.
Loneliness can never be cured by earthly things. Loneliness is a pain that can only find peace through a kinderd spirit.
Pat Rooney 2013
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
i'm not sure what happened
to those beautiful women
i used & let live in my
shivering veins
synchronized swimming in my circulatory system
sunken eyes brimming
with that chlorine concoction they used to dip in
i dug them & ditched them
but i still recollect their quivering lips
as i dispensed the final kisses
& surrounded the spa with walls & fences
i mean i wonder if they still exist
with no lifeguard there to witness them?
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:47 PM UTC
Nov 2016 - The Fall Line
~
*all the lines of man-made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting,
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution,
remaining hopelessly empty,
defining the watery soluble
inequality of null*
~~
The Fall Line
first heard the phrase months ago in Argentina,
standing before the c-shaped Iguazu Falls
the fall line
where the crystalline basement rock
erodes away the oncoming soft sedimentary,
there, where,
a waterfall is nature-gifted
so intuitive, so obvious,
what else to call the water's owned edge,
line of demarcation,
where we grow captivated,
mesmerized, knee weak,
traumatized and tantalized
knew that instant when spoken,
The Fall Line,
saw inarguable symmetry to so many lives,
would be a someday poem
selective service phrases stored and
someday up recalled,
a thousand, maybe more,
waiting for the confluence of
time and place,
to be a mother
letting my fluid sac burst,
giving birth to a concoction symphonic,
the emotions waterfalling, cascading,
the precision, vision seconds,
when words
pour, gush, surge, spill,
stream, flow, issue, spurt
~~~
silently crafted in the weeks and months prior,
the unconscious drowning in ache and pain
of suffocating drudge sludge of everyday living
*all the lines of man made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution remaining empty, defining the inequality of null*
the vision infection of the majestic fall line,
so accessible in an instance of overwhelm,
cornea implanted, the sounding call of sweet blissful
whatever
one more additional addiction unshakeable,
jumping from fall line to fall line,
it's the game I am played,
but the controller
is not in my possess
**for the joy stick that drives my actions,
toys with me,
the human fool jumping
from fall line to fall line,
unsure of what he desires,**
salvation or saving
11/26/16
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
I am the Individual Isness incarnated in this body.
I am not the body.
I have travelled through many lifetimes in many bodies.
always learning learning learning.
I have developed nous from my experiences only.
I WILL NOT EVER-
accept a mind in my head.
accept any conditioned identity as being me.
cede control over my brain centres to any mind or groupmind
that exists anywhere..
I WILL NOT EVER--
cede control over my brain centres to any conditioned identity or
group conditioned identity that exists anywhere.
or accept that any other but me,the Individual Isness, using my brain centres,using my brain the way I,the Individual Isness,want to and can do
to be in charge of the brain centres in the head of this body that I,the Isness,am incarnated in.
I WILL NOT EVER--
be prey to opinion-formers and experts and pie charts and
focus groups and surveys.
be manipulated by PR men and women in shiny suits.
see Edward Bernays book--Propaganda.
be manipulated by GroupMinds into thinking their way.
be taken in by brutal security forces posing as "guardians of peace.
respect in any way any member of any military forces anywhere
no matter how fancy the uniforms or excuses for ****** they wear.
I do not respect these parasites anywhere as they are nothing more than paid mercenary murderers on behalf of various Oligarchies..
see Jaques Ellul's book--Propaganda.
I WILL NOT EVER--
take any dangerous addictive cancer causing drugs
such as Alcohol and Tobacco primarily--
food additives...
No one has ever died from any cannabis product.
or from LSD or Mesccaline or Psylocybin.
believe in any so-called "god" or "goddess".
believe in any so-called "prophet" of any so-called "god"or "goddess".
accept any so-called "holy" book as valid or truthful
or valuable in any way except as
emergency papers to roll a grass joint
or to wipe my **** on.
be taken in by depraved words and concepts in any of these so-called "holy "books that have led to endless wars and still ongoing terrorism and atrocities in the name of one bloodthirsty "god" or "goddess".
I WILL NOT EVER--
accept anything as reality unless I can see clearly that
it is beyond duality.
accept any Conditioned Identity as me.
For I am the Isness which is a small but equal,individual,
autonomous and independant part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe--!.
which is not a "soul" or Atman or spirit
or any other religious concoction.
I WILL NOT EVER---
accept Mind as a necessary evil
accept GroupMind as a necessary evil.
I WILL NOT EVER ---
eat junk food of any kind.
drink tap water anywhere except in direst emergency.
eat white sugar or any other pure carbohydrate.
be a hypocritical moralising vegetarian.
become stoopid through bowing and scraping
and stooping at stupas.
I will be just a Self realised man living on a big ball in space
with a Self Realised woman playing and singing and dancing the Song of Our Lives.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
*chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’*
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
She stupefy truth
with her finely crafted lies
that stand head held high
without even
the slightest sign
of embarrassment.
She waters the seeds
with acid, deliberately
even manage to get kudos
for her 'kind intervention'
Her 'collected venom'
in real, is a counterfeit concoction
more deadly than the real,
that attracts unlimited attention
and the loudest rounds of applause,
for it's new shade of blue
when displayed with special effects
for all to view.
In her presence, fairness loses its meaning
foulness like her, usurps it, makes its own,
becomes the reigning queen!
Whatever she does
has a dark beauty,
even the true angel of evil
would greatly envy her.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
Think
the over thinking
Like
wanting a drink that you're already drinking
Like
wanting to swim when you're already sinking
So easy to think the over thinking
a concoction of daydreams
you hate to be drinking
While
you're already busy believing your sinking
and your foots on solid ground.
So easy to think the over thinking
leaving
your future on the brink of brinking
And
you haven't done a thing cause
you're too busy thinking.
So easy to think the over thinking -
The only reason that your really sinking
in a world that may be okay.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:22 AM UTC
The color of those sadistic green eyes still burns in the back of my mind.
The soft texture of your cheeks molded into a frown still lingers on my fingertips.
And I could never forget the smile that held steady as I fell for you.
Do you remember when you told me that if you were stuck on Mount Everest and could only call one person, you'd call me?
I remember. Because you said you'd guarentee that you wouldn't even be there without me.
These memories pierce through the cast on my heart and I'm forced to face the fact that my heart isn't healing as fast as I thought it would.
My tongue tastes of morphine from the many nights of trying to forget you.
More so, trying to forget that you're doing okay without me.
Do you ever reminisce or has the ink in your pen forgotten my name?
A toxic love, part depression part anger, a poisonous concoction, somehow so addictive.
You left traces of sorrow on my skin that sinks deep to my bones and flows through my bloodstream.
A bitterness so strong it shakes every muscle in my body.
I could never forget the way you controlled every fiber of my being.
I remember the butterflies that once danced in my stomach, but they've been replaced by a tornado.
An unforgiving whirlwind of reasons why I will never be good enough for you to show remorse.
I will never be worth the apology that you could never admit I deserve.
You taught me how to soar, gave me wings so I could fly.
Feathers made of clouds until they dampened with the tears of a solitary night.
You were never sorry.
Indifferent to the scars on my flesh that screamed your name, caused by the pain you brought me.
You can't erase the wounds by telling me to be sorry.
Seeking repentance for the blood you sought after.
You found delight in my pain, a serpent attracted to my weakness.
I could never forget the smile that you held steady as I fell down Mount Everest.
-k.d
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
Listen! Can you hear?
Behold! Can you see?
Feel! Can you experience
The change from a female
To a fruitful African mother?
Oh yes, she took the concoction
This morning to prove her innocence,
Yes, she had to go through this
Ordeal to satisfy her aggressive head,
But this passionate love was
According the will of Tweaduampon,
Hmm, the moon has appeared
Nine times over the thirsty land
Of Africa since morning,
Can you behold Asaase Yaa
And Isis watching with their
Eyes of favor and fertility?
For Osiris, the Beautiful Being, can even
Testify the May-rain matching
Endlessly over the wings of Timbuktu,
Ah look! The noon is fast approaching
With excess wailing and fear,
For the Military Hospital
Is burning and bleeding with
The fire of eternal expectations,
Indeed, with success comes greed,
And the gods of blacks is not to ****
Push daughter, push!
Push the pain of this Tuesday joy
Out of your vulnerable soul,
For the Marshall bells are still
Ringing to receive this divine offer,
Hear the sweet voice of the dawn
Energizing the anointed male baby
Out of the nine-mouth old darkness,
Today, a new day is born,
Today, a revolutionary is born,
Today, the gods have given birth,
Today, Kabutu is born,
Today, the history of Africa has given birth,
In fact, magical protection and life
Were behind this gods and his
Divine Essence was glorified with power.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
O, mosquito for taste of blood you seek,
For miles and miles you fly, within radius,
To earn a warm and idle skin to *****
By day in cravice dark by night with us.
O, mosquito you small but deadly thief;
On wings of silence came you trespasser,
A drop of blood you've stolen whilst to leave
Me unawares that I'm being the loser.
Alas, you left behind a virus strange,
Of potent evil concoction which spread,
And corrupted my veins by this exchange:
My good liquid for diseases I dread.
Like being bitten by a winged vampire,
My body shaking my soul is on fire!
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
My cousin came to my house
And stayed after Thanksgiving
I thought that Thanksgiving food was enough
Boy, was I wrong.
He woke me up at noon
At noon.
Didn’t he know I had to sleep off the Thanksgiving meal?
And he said
As if I should have known.
Could you get me the cheeseburger pizza salad slice?
I replied, From where?
Who would have such a concoction?
But I knew him.
He would be the type
To ask for a cheesy gordita crunch taco from Burger King
And look at their confusion with his own puzzlement.
Then when they told him, we don’t serve that.
He would reply, It’s okay, I have the recipe
I can tell you how it is made.
So I get up and put on my coat.
And gloves.
Because I don’t want grease all over me
And start to walk.
And just my luck
The first snow of the season starts.
Not heavy enough for me to turn back
Just enough snow to turn it into an experience
That made me wish I would have slept upstairs
In the closet
So my cousin could not find me.
Its like the Making the Band 2 show
When Puff Daddy tells them
That he wants cheesecake in a different borough.
So I guess my cousin’s Puffy now.
He said he was into producing….
I get to the pizza place
And tell them what my cousin wants
But it took me three tries to get it all out.
They said, I’m sorry, but we don’t have the cheeseburger pizza salad slice
But we have the chicken pizza salad slice
I said Good enough
I’m sure my cousin would be happy
I would regret those words
I brought the pizza home.
And told him that I got it.
He seemed happy
Until he saw that the meat was chicken
Not cow.
He asked me
Had the audacity to ask
Couldn’t they remove the chicken
And put hamburger meat?
I tried to tell him, That is not how it works
They don’t respect your recipes
They have their own
What is the difference?
He then pointed at the pizza and said
Chicken goes on burgers
It does not go on pizza!
I was stunned into silence
By that logic
I don’t know how cheeseburger and pizza go together.
I told him I would eat it for lunch
So at least one of us was satisfied.
The other had his own ideas
But couldn’t find a store to cook them.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
she smells (nameless and shameless)
*a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless
morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded
the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are mostly gender identifiable
my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters
the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast
amazingly invisible on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things (popcorn pieces)
is just a scratchiest fragrance too far,
needing a sheet wiped clean slate
even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration:
she smells, I man-ually stink, each,
each glower shower nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut,
to exhume and then send away
this odor now christened,*
nameless and shameless
11:47 28/4/19
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
As the laser rays from Science City lit up the night sky in a resplendent rush of colours, I watched on, quietly , from the balcony; my mind racing back to the class 9 Basics of Economics book and to that class.
Utility. A major concept in economics.
I had understood it so well then.
I had paid full attention to the teacher when she had explained that once I had had a spoonful of Biriyani, a little bit of my hunger was satiated and I would enjoy the next spoonful a little bit less than the first.
That was how utility operated, marginal utility diminishing with every spoonful.
Today, as the rays light up the sky, I think of him, and of the principle of utility.
Does the principle apply to first love as well, as it does to the first taste of Biriyani?
As love's bittersweet concoction explodes, does it render the following loves as only marginally utilitarian then?
As the first rush, first blush fades, as love's faces change, do we begin to get satiated a little less than the first time?
And is it really because we are already a bit full, a little satiated?
Or is it because the hunger gnaws on, craving that first rush, once again?
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:10 PM UTC
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch
Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin
I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse
Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin
If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin
Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain
Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin
Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...
Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Silver screen athletes
quitting soccer teams
to join homophobic friends
(redneck quasi outdoors-men)
who just want to **** animals
angst must be vented
lest it boil inside
and form a much darker concoction.
I beat the horse
'till I couldn't get it wrong
even then
the faceless desks of power
endorse eugenics,
pharmaceuticals,
and high profile lawyers
sentencing me to a life's term
teaching Sophocles
to an uninterested fifteen year old
too busy stroking a Ritalin limp ****
to star censored ladies on Vegas stripper cards.
And he said "Watch your language"
when I said "What the ****
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
Tough girl isn't afraid of much
Tough girl is strong
And brave
Tough girl has mastered the art of apathy
The science of not giving a ****
She is confident
And swift
Tough girl has trained herself not to care
Walks with confidence
Keeps her head up
She is a whirlwind of resilience
Withstanding each disaster
Every hurricane
She refuses to let the world break her down
Her skin
Is a combination of metals
Her smile, a shield
Bone made of iron
She is incapable of corrosion
Her heart always guarded
She is unbreakable
Knows how to put up a fight
And win
She doesn't give in
And no matter how hard people try
To bring her down
She doesn't let them get to her
But I
Am not her
Our resemblance is uncanny
And I have the ability to pretend
To fake a sense of pride long enough to believe it
A concoction of false courage
And intimidation
But she
Is not me
Tough girl is everything I have ever tried to be
Having spent hours practicing blank stares
And learning how to walk
Like the ground below you isn't breaking
Trying to breathe like there isn't a storm building within
Resistance is a skill I have spent forever trying to build
But I am not solid
I am not tough
I am softness that wears rough around the edges
A jacket built of barriers
With barbed wire skin
All of this protection
And I somehow still manage
To frequently break open
I am not a super hero
I can barely save myself
Let alone anyone else
And as much as I wish I was
I am not tough girl
As much as we look alike
As similar as we seem
I am not she
I care too much
Think too deeply
And love too passionately
But I'm starting to realize
That maybe
It's not such a bad thing
Maybe the girl
I've been trying to be all along
Is not as put together as she seems
Those who appear fine
Are often the ones coming apart at the seams
I may not be tough girl
But I can still make believe.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
No matter how religiously
you bleached your skin
You remain
Daughetrs of the Sun
Your sun kissed skin
The beauty exotic to others
Perfectly baked by the Gods
Shining like gold.
They have taught us to use skin whiteners
To wear sun glasses even inside a scaffolds
When our skin are made to be protected
From the rays of the sun
Our eyes, black and brown
Beautiful as the fruit of the duhat tree
Our hair, our skin
Choco like from the cacao tree.
Fit for our climate's concoction.
We were born in the land
where the sun is abundant,
hospitable and magnanimous.
Flaunt thy color
Savor its malt flavored goodness
Embrace the complexion you were endowed with
Embrace your own spirit
Hail thy Motherland
The sacred space you were gifted.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
My bathroom,
the bedroom,
my living room and
the kitchen are all
spying on me daily,
seen my nakedness,
more than enough
to describe every
bit of me,
records my every
moment and daily visits,
day and night.
I'm not ashamed to display
my nakedness even
**** without decorum.
My bathroom mirror is the
first to see the show of
my new dance steps,
and i allowed it to see and
record the secret of my life.
So shamelessly I displayed
my secret acts in my bedroom,
doing all sorts of stuff,
things my mouth cannot
freely talk about.
In there in the closet
of my beloved bedroom
I committed all sorts of
crimes that even you will
be ashamed to watch if
you know what I mean.
In the privacy of my bedroom
no holes barred.
What do I say about my kitchen.
I became an alchemist
and a herbalist taught,
groomed and approve
by my mother.
On the cauldron as
a herbalist I mixed up
all kinds of herbs and spices
and come up with my alchemical concoction to help entertain
my family and friends and also
to feed and condition my body.
My living room now turned
into a theatre where I became
an actor to everyone who cared
to watch me display my prowess.
All these I do in quietness of
my small enclave where
my bathroom and Kitchen,
the bedroom and living room
witnessed and spy on my follies.
Did I tell you about Palomar the parrot and Kelly the German Shepard.
They can tell you my story if you
asked them.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
I hurt with the pleasure of carving knives
plunged into blood-lusting hands.
Standing in the storm of stab wounds
and searching for Gods dressed in human
to give me mental medicine
for wounds that they must trust me to see.
I am the glass-tongued mediator.
I am the vortex that turns worlds to ink-soaked scenery
and words to black noise.
They gurgle out blandishments like they're true! And to them,
I'm a glass door to better days;
they put their famished hands
onto my handle and tug for good luck.
I open and warble out what they want to hear;
a fortune teller who cries courtesies and fills her glass ball
with a concoction of
tears and liquid caution.
I don't want to lose them.
But I choke on their
distorted, glazed looks,
I stuff my throat with gauze,
my chest fills with blood
as they throw their clocks into the garbage
and raise me on glass pedestals
and drool praises as I cry for me
and for them and
for us
and for-
Useless. I am useless.
Wasteful. I am wasteful.
Broken. I am and should be broken.
Did anyone ever realize? How would they
when I am so selfishly unselfish?
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
Oh Brexit!
Where is the Exit?
You can’t make your money
You Tory Grandees,
Nor can you
Remainer MPs.
We’re running right into a very hard cliff;
Before we get out we’ll all be so stiff.
There’s no majority for any option
And Theresa May’s deal is but a concoction.
Vote after vote and endless debate.
March twenty ninth is the Closing Date.
Can we escape?
I really don’t know.
The media are loving this pantomime show.
This sorry charade is filling the news,
We’re all sick of hearing everyone’s views.
Please get me out of here
I hear you say
Surely, surely there must be some way!
So come on politicians
Get your fingers out
And show these Europeans
We still have some clout.
If we can’t do that then just pack it in
And throw the whole thing right into the bin.
Whatever we do I’m just past caring
But I hope you’ll tell me thanks for sharing.
Get on with it!
That’s the yell.
For until we resolve this
We are in Hell.
Paul Butters
© 30\1\2019 (Written in the early hours!).
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 5:05 AM UTC
His words were delicately dipped in rationality.
Each lie was well thought out,
perfectly imitating the definition of truth.
Reassuring promises slipped from his lips,
like steaming cheese from a slice of pizza.
I was nearly tempted to take a small bite,
knowing the irresistibly of his delicious concoction
would lead to my devouring of the rest
and an eternal heartburn.
But logic protected me from his lies
like a hood shelters a head from shattering raindrops and forceful winds
that can easily cause a mind set in stone to weather and crumble.
His eyes traced the angles of my face,
searching to see if I had bought his false advertisements.
And what he discovered was that I had not;
I was not too blind to see the Pinocchio in front of me.
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 5:39 PM UTC
I
I greeted you, my inevitable day
In this shaky firmness of my hands;
Assuring me of my weakness; the languidity of my serene constitution.
The sky smeared with fright,undeed, and look, hark to how the sun closed the night!
This was but unpalatable dew, misty in its impatient greyness
Avidity for genuine sorrow and late confessions
The calm heart then wronged, and soon the war touched the light!
II
Beware of love, o silly hearts!
Loving thoughts, are indeed averse to relenting;
albeit they are always leading to smirks and destitution.
Release thy grains from yon grievous chain!
Spark thy wings, heave and bend!
Wear thy glee, ere any of the gruesome tears remain!
Shield thy mask with greater abhorrence!
III
O notions, fruit my doom and feed my sight!
From womanly misery I yet ought to emerge
and all its surly sleeves I ought to blight!
IV
O peace, fetch for me my untaught breath in vain
Keep me steady, ditch me not in the rain!
Tend me more, yet not my cheerful friend-
in pleasures whom thrives, in virtues was whom foolish!
Praising plaited hairs, swept amidst folded skirts.
Gruesome lies they carry, the finest they conspire to marry;
what a horrid, unalterable, evil concoction!
Yet pureness is the only that deserves awe;
virgins are a symbol of unrequited love, but tenderest affection!
However lonesome, hither and thither I shall bear this pain
Until my stern heart melted to love again.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:38 AM UTC