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Aisha Ella Nov 2017
His "I love you" came swiftly.
Like the monsoon pouring down on a leaky roof
Those three words broke through my defences.
At first they were an ambrosia;
They sustained my life and our relationship.
At least for a short time.

Then "I love you" became an excuse;
For absences, and purpose-filled accidents.
And I ignored the warning signs, the flashing lights.
I pretended like "I love you" was enough...

...But it wasn't.
His "I love you"s were like band-aids on bullet wounds;
Like using play dough to fix cracks in concrete walls.
But I rationed our good memories,
I held on as tight as I could to our love
And watched as it slipped through my fingers.

His "I love you"s became poison,
That seeped deep into my bones,
And turned blue skies grey,
And turned light into darkness,
And slowly killed whatever semblance of love
I fooled myself into thinking we had left.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
where was i? right, anywhere but here,
listening to some medieval music,
i sometimes sit in one place,
fade, and then find myself sitting
in the same place with a question
on the tip of my tongue: where am i?!

hard not to notice:
heaven reigns supreme with
a "st." michael coming down
with the sword...
depiction, please!
where's satan?
  coming from below armed only
with a tongue...
fair fight, by anyone's standard:
i'm dripping sweat from both
ridicule and sarcasm...

st. michael comes down with a sword...
satan rises up with a flaming tongue,
does satan lick michael's sword
to draw the blood required for
running the heart factory?

               medieval people and their
"nuanced" explanation...
so many images contra words
contra literacy of the people outside
the realm of monks...

   satan rises from the depths of
     hell saying: i wish a socratic dialectic
with god...
god replies: michael i will send armed
with swords...
who ever said: the quill is mightier than
than the sword,
implied: when the tongue has
to be necessarily silenced? then!

      das schwart,
          das feder,
    das zunge...

       how many definite articles are
there in deutsche? das, der, die?
too many or too few?

         always with "st." michael armed
with a sword...
and satan... armed with only his tongue!
i guess, the tongue becomes a tank,
while the sword becomes a feather's
tickling effect...

    angehoben das teufel von der
    tiefe: und gab sie namen...

  (raised the devils from the depths:
  and gave them names)...

why is satan only armed with a flaming tongue,
while "st." michael is armed with a sword?
is god, the god-dialectic / theology
so afraid that it has to remain topped
with unchallenged imagery
                         of sword contra tongue?

ich werden anfangen:
   ich werden treffen du hälfteweg...
            im schreiben...

                  satan rose to a depiction
with "st." michael: disarmed...
  tongue in mouth: which should have been
his hand, "st." michael descended with
a sword... come to think of it,
with satan's tongue cut off...
it still spoke to "st." michael within his
hand...
  the sword overcame the medium...
and so writing was born...
once upon a time when satan's tongue
in his hand began licking the sword
of michael...
            and? if the contemporaries
should hope to know:
writing is the res extensa medium
of res cogitans:
            writing is an extension of thinking:
it's not an invitation to speak...

writing cannot be speaking,
however much commentaries you leave
behind...
writing is an extension of thinking:
it's not an invitation to speak...

it's no disguise...
    in terms of the depiction...
enough of Milton and Dante and...
satan came to the summit
  without his armour without his weapons...
the summit of the plateau...
tongue in gob and joke in cheek...
while "st." michael descended
wit a sword and a missing tongue...
it would appear that god cut out
"st." michael's tongue before his descent
while arming him with a sword to
cut the conversation even shorter
than it was supposed to be, to take place...

the aspired to monotheistic monogamy
of king Solomon,
to imitate swans...
    Muhammad's lost enterprise of
the: greatest harem the world has ever
seen... sorry... Muo-Mo-Hammie:
the macedonian alexander beat you to
the count of 365 concubines...
as did genghis khan...
           so many pakistanis with khan
as a surname...
             your failed harem ambition?
compared to the otherwise world "greats"?
with the ******* promise of 72 virgins
post-mortem? that ship is sinking in my head...
muhammad failed in the ambition
of averaging a 100+ concunbine **** fest...
so he promised 72 for those that believed in
him...
   and if he was ever competing with
king solomon? look at solomon...
         he chose monogamy in the end...
i guess it's a noble enterprise to come back
among the lizards...
to spawn from an egg: from an womb
made external by an egg in the form of a bird...
birds: half mammal half lizard...
            muhammad failed at having
an envious harem...
                which makes me a little bit envious
of him... compared to the others...
he's quiet honest...
        but if he was illiterate...
    who the **** wrote the Quran?
    what's that book, in praise of older women?
andrás vajda...
   who would have written the first
verses (if not the last) of the Quran if not
khadijah **** khuwaylid?

i'm sorry to say: the feeling of conversation
soon turns into a feeling of conversion,
me, beer in hand, park, bench,
an old pakistani walks up to me...
flips out a digital Quran,
tries to convert me...
     opens the book on surah al-baqarah...
i point at three words...
what are these, i ask?
he replies: oh... only allah knows...
really?! really?! i ask myself...

    the three words?
   alif. lam. meem.

           allah knows?!
guess i'm allah then...
given alif: أَلِف  (α, א) a-lif
                 lam: لاَم (λ, ל) l-am
   and meem: مِيم (μ, מ) m'eem...

so yeah, "god" knows...
   how was this old pakistani going to convert
me, supposing i was simply some european
"drunk" sitting on a bench, drinking beer,
assuming i was ease target for
isis propaganda?!

    "god knows"... when it comes
to old pakistanis trying to
             recruit young europeans...
god knows ****!

if this old pakistani was seeking an easy target
like some paedo, he was much mistaken,
what does a pumpernickle (has) to do with
a windmill?! zilch!
i'm not going to exactly crawl out
of my walther von der vogelweider:
        palästinalied
that much easier...
i won't....
   i just think:
the yids have tight defences
against proselytes... they abhor converts...
islam, welcomes them,
at their own peril...
          and there i was thinking that
urdu was "superior" to sanskrit...
an old pakistani tells me "god knows"
in relation to alif. lam. meem.

             i guess the quran has an inbuilt
proselyte defence mechanism:
in reverse... ask a muslim what alif. lam. meem.
means... if they tell you: only god knows...
ha ha...
              hello stupid...
                            is the islamic world playing
a jewish game of gematria?
are the three letters supposed to represent
some sort of "covert" message?
A.L.M.?
        what, based on the hebrew alphabet
where "a" is not an an A but a consonant(s)
akin to ayin and aleph?!
the gay genesis?
          
                really?
                 we: the europeans were perhaps
the barbarians in the medieval years,
harrowed by the cold...
lucky us: lucky me: we did learn to read...
so ignorant of the pakis to presume
such and such...

             that we are still unable to read
and will fall for the next sort of *******...
look at us! we even began to question
christianity with the unearthing of
the nag hammadi library where
jesus played chinese whispers with
st. thomas!

   next time i'll be listening to a camel jockey
or a magic carpet ride aladdin
i'll ask them: you dehydrated, or something?!
oh forget h'america,
their evangelical ******* is worth
as much as a free microwave or a toaster...

_

hell man...
    i mean my neighbor smokes
16 8ths in a spare of the week...

wha?
    ****...
   i remember i used to smoke
an 8th over the week...

yeah... an 1/8... of an ounce...
he smokes two ounces
in a week,
  
gets the **** on discount...
but still has to cough up
over 100 quid for the stash...

but... but... these organic
cigarettes you're pushing?

ha ha... **** me... holy basil
(tulsi leaves) -
and the peppermint and green
tea leaves?
   in ******, whatever you want
to call it, rolling paper...

i've seen the inner sleeve -
big fan of hunter s. thompson,
i suspect...
   otherwise you wouldn't
have used the second, plastic
filter...
  
   tell you what... don't put
that plastic filter on every cigarette -
halve it...
     or provide two or three...
it's reusable -
        i smoked one of your
placebo marijuana joints...
  and then i'm going to smoke
a red Indian cough-up...

   ah... these blue Indians...
Vishnu centrists -
   beyond blue blooded,
more blue skinned herbalists...

dunno... the effects are subtle...
you can only tell the difference
if you actually smoke tobacco...

but sure as hot **** on a street
in Calcutta -
    it beats the Arabic portable
hookah pipe...
   i.e.?  
         vapping - or vapourißing -

i'd say less a cure for tobacco smokers,
and more a cure for
the dope-heads...
    he (my neighbor) smokes
2 ounces a week,
   and somehow manages to stay
down on a job...

    no ******* way...
    he says it helps him to sleep...
like me...
   a liter of ***** and two
paracetamols,
    or one naproxen (if i'm lucky),
or two paracetamols
  and one amitriptyline (25mg)...

sorry, what? sound of mind?
sound of mind to the point
where i'm mindful of grammar
and spelling?

            **** man...
  the content is transcendent
    of whatever the receiving end deems
it to be...

i might actually buy into
this... placebo marijuana -
given that i am a tobacco smoker...
  ha ha! holy basil:
  like Basil Fawlty...

   as you see...
there are people, and there are "people",
there are neighbors,
    and there are "neighbors",
i don't see how the natives
can dictate universal laws of
     private property ownership...
esp. over such... trivial...
meaningless...
          sitting down on a cactus
****-naked "problems"...

i hate being mean,
   i hate telling someone to *******...
i really do...
    i compromised -
i stopped smoking cigarettes
out of my window...
  but yesterday's confrontation?
over a ******* barbeque...
    oops... the compromise
has just been revoked...
  
   music blasting into my ears
through my earphones...
the next thing my cuntish neighbor
will "hear" is sign language...
  
oh yeah... that primary school
lesson:

(a) WHY     (b) DON'T  
        (c) YOU    (d) ****    (e) OFF

(a) index + middle fingers
    slapped on the left palm knuckles up

(b) index + middle fingers
    slapped on the left palm knuckles down

(c) scissor index + *******
   into the side of the left hand

(d) fist, vertical slam onto the left
  palm

(e) thumb's up moving away from
  the palm of the left hand...

because?
      i just can't be bothered trying
to reason with some people...
     they might as well be put in zoological
confinement, and put under observation...
but i'd feel sorry for the chimps
and other animals, have to share a close
proximity.
This trumpeter of nothingness, employed
To keep our reason dull and null and void.
This man of wind and froth and flux will sell
The wares of any who reward him well.
Praising whatever he is paid to praise,
He hunts for ever-newer, smarter ways
To make the gilt seen gold; the shoddy, silk;
To cheat us legally; to bluff and bilk
By methods which no jury can prevent
Because the law's not broken, only bent.

This mind for hire, this mental *******
Can tell the half-lie hardest to refute;
Knows how to hide an inconvenient fact
And when to leave a doubtful claim unbacked;
Manipulates the truth but not too much,
And if his patter needs the Human Touch,
Skillfully artless, artlessly naive,
Wears his convenient heart upon his sleeve.

He uses words that once were strong and fine,
Primal as sun and moon and bread and wine,
True, honourable, honoured, clear and keen,
And leaves them shabby, worn, diminished, mean.
He takes ideas and trains them to engage
In the long little wars big combines wage...
He keeps his logic loose, his feelings flimsy;
Turns eloquence to cant and wit to whimsy;
Trims language till it fits his clients, pattern
And style's a glossy **** or limping slattern.

He studies our defences, finds the cracks
And where the wall is weak or worn, attacks.
lie finds the fear that's deep, the wound that's tender,
And mastered, outmanouevered, we surrender.
We who have tried to choose accept his choice
And tired succumb to his untiring voice.
The dripping tap makes even granite soften
We trust the brand-name we have heard so often
And join the queue of sheep that flock to buy;
We fools who know our folly, you and I.
Antony Glaser Jun 2014
even the wind chases down her cause,
sequestering at her leisure
Joanne seeks memories
beyond her highgate bedsit
she dreams of tenderness
but could never quite divulge
where it's journey ended
She thought the breeze could carry her defences
Only now, she concedes.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
what's the biggest difference
between 20th century's
french and german
existentialism,
    and the 21st century's
primarily, anglo-sphere,
realisation of an existential
   "crisis"...
           anti-jew meme...
         the globalist octopus...
imagine...
     some people have
recovered from an existential
crisis, having established
vast constructs of thought
way back in the 20th century,
namely
the french, and the germans..
but...
my oh my oh my my...
the anglo-sphere of linguistics
has only, "just now"
awoken to this...
   quiet a predicament,
wouldn't you say?
                         fertile ground...
oh sure, there was existential
angst in the anglo-
sphere among irish
pillars...
                beckett, joyce...
but concrete architectures
of thought, regarding existentialism,
seem to be absent...
  so... counter-argument:
so how come i can
freely buy a copy of some
german philosopher,
a french novelist turned
philosopher...
           but...
  i'm skint... when it comes
to english thinkers more
or less associated with
my status, rather than stance,
on contemporary "translation"?
   elitism...
no... it's not that...
      i could have just well
have procured
a life helping out my father
in industrial roofing...
             i didn't mind roofing...
it's not an exactly pristine
labour of love sort
of environment...
the scottish widows' h.q.
roof near st. paul's?
        me.
   i was part of that
monstrosity...
       but... come again?
but there are some many attachment
cursors when it comes
to an anglican take
on "revising" continental
existentialism...
        whatever crisis
the continental people
felt, and consolidated
the 20th century people...
is only just starting to bud
in the anglo-phonic world...
start-up, island,
end result,
    h'america and australia...
there was never a question
as to why, or if,
the english-speaking
people would ever entertain
existentialism,
but, suddenly they are,
at least starting to look
into the pit,
from their ivory towers...
immediate escape
impetus?
      reach for the fictive
narrative,
                disavow journalism...
make journalism bedfellows
with political rhetoric...
there's no debate...
circus, however you look
at it...
             you can't fathom
an abstract variant
of the german or the french
mind, gripped by
an existential critique,
a piquancy,
    a pedantry...
in the english speaking world...
there are,
just simply...
   too many attachments
to deal with...
       - growing a beard:
meant exactly that -
eat ****.    
         i don't see where
there a "me" to be found
in a (0, 0) starting space,
of net-worth-"work"...
     coumpters-freeze
network...
for a language...
that ridiculed,
or became succinct
in succumbing
to its anglo-preferences
of objectifying counter-standards
for its own...
shortcomings...

  what has 20th century
existential philosophy have
to do with "anything",
esp. if arrived from
the either french
of german, cultures?

we have Joe Slave over 'ere...
oh right... sorry...
paweł nowak....
just took joe stephen slave's
role was
the person, the hands,
in a recycling factory...
do you mind?
  rather:
do you mind...
teaching your natives...
   to...
   and you know how that
cindarella story ends...

introducing existentialism
to the brits and,
generally,
  the anglican variety of
the tongue, being
used...
   will end up as, failure...
the 20th century
taught me this,
the irish failed,
the french
and the germans...
basically a "foreign" idea
is more than just...
******..
the people are ******,
with paradoxes
of their women...

                sure... a bit like
Iceland...
oh, ****, a bit too close
to the continent...
like madagascar
  is to africa...
and sri lanka is to india?
i'm not 'ere to care to
the idiosyncratic
concerns of island people...
contra the, "collective"...

island people will forever
remain island people,
"solipsistic", idiosyncratic,
idioms...
            i can't change that...
always prone to export...
but never to import...
    island people,
       the **** is there to say?
ever bewilder yourself
over chanel 4 news...
and how...
  john snow is slipping
into dementia?
      you listen to the cue?
no?
                  sorry... john...
dementia on the horizon...

attempting to adapt
existentialism into england
will fail,
given their moral high-ground
of the "migrant crisis"...
it's an island...
  the borders are clarifying,
distinct,
        sure, the people can be *****
when their language
is bored in being
a "lingua franca"...
         but other people have
other, in-debt defences...

western slavs?
ever hear a spaniard speak
pollack, just because
he hiked with a polish girl?
yeah... mahler...
                       violins and ****...
you only listen:
                  for an idea...
it comes, it comes,
it doesn't come...
well... you move onto
some khachaturian...
        so,                 no biggie...

you can't import continetal
thinking to an island people,
they have no concept
of borders...
their naive presupposing
barrier, centered-ground is
unshakeable...

   existential philosophy
"meme" rate of survival is... ?
0.1,
binary, negation, an affirmative
statement,
and then the fiasco...

       it doesn't help
that there's an alternative
outlet via h'america or australia...
i'm not looking
at the "bigger picture",
when there isn't one...

     20th century existentialism
will not work in 21st century england,
or any english-speaking world
to begin with...
there are just, too many,
attachment points,
         as many nurtured
nostalgia avenues
as there are amnesia riddled
currencies of attention
exhaustion...
        it's just a pristine model
to revive the serf...

there's no point reading existentialism
to a people,
so far lodged in their
isolationism that they
can claim, both an island-stature...
and two continents,
by extension
       of stating: "being aware"...      

i guess you have to be born
on the continent
to read anything by 20th century
writers,
but... trying to implement
the word...
into the idiosyncrasy
of island-dwelling people,
akin to the English?

                    i'm not even going
to bother trying...
they're island-folk...
   they "think" of borders akin
to coastlines...
and not migration
fake bordering of a contradiction
of peoples occupying
a quicksand pit
of looking at a geography map...
island-folk...
  they know border...
because they know... island...

you can't translate
something that's already
paradoxical to them
  (hypocritical, is not a milder
term of usage for the desired
execution)...
     no...
                not going to happen...
two islands,
some set of continental enclaves...
culture...
whatever you want...

             i've lived with them,
even though i've lived pretty much
among either the irish migrants,
or the scots...
    you're not going to translate
an island, into a continent's
auxiliary...
  right now...
you'd think that
   Estonia would become
characteristic of an island-people
auxiliary mentality...

       i can't blame these people
though...
   an island environment
provides an island people
mentality...
    if you have never been
part of a congregation,
geographically...
   yes...
      but they're borrowing
continental idiosyncracy...
****** *****...

   Iceland?
            yeah... oh yeah...
they're hot on the topic of what
island life is like...
being so...
   conservative that they even
have developed apps
for people to check their
genetic proximity
and any immediacy to live,
+ baggage...

      the Brits were always 'ere...
the Icelandisch?
were always there...
          and...
  sorry... for the already given
postcard: wish you were
here analogy of...
            curiosity killed
the cat...

           but island dwelling people
will always be,
an island dwelling people...
right now,
you do what i do...
you play chamaleon...
  "sociopath"...
                you...
begin with: a-pathy...
          without pathology
looking for... what requires
you to mingle with the most
pathological examples of
a hushed sanity of society...

          and...
          your luck, as well as mine...
nothing really happens...
like butter smeared
over a gently toasted
piece of toast.

hello tomorrow.
Nigel Obiya Apr 2013
PLANET NAIROBI (When the sun goes down)
Nur…
They were on the verge of losing this battle… it was only a matter of time, and he knew that. Through the window, he saw them advance, with a fierce swiftness that would have put anyone opposed to them at unease. Trembling uncontrollably, he reached for his weapon and held it firmly, ready to martyr himself for his family’s honour and legacy if need be. For they were not, and never would be known as a family of cowards, they were royalty... and he would rather go down fighting than cowering, that was the bottom line. But he knew that his sword, as well forged as it was, would be no match for Rath and his five hundred man strong battalion. So, biting his lower lip he waited for the pounding footsteps to reach the top of the stairs where he stood, the one solitary guardian to the throne. Martyrdom was his destiny.
“Let he that stands between Rath and the throne fall like the city walls!” Rath’s dominant voice bellowed as it got closer, too close for comfort.
He braced himself.
Suddenly, the doors burst open. And Nur... Prince Nur, finally got to come face to face with the scourge that had terrorised the lands of the sea for so long. A man of whom he had heard about from stories as a child growing up. A man that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. Nur realised that he had always been afraid of Rath, long before this moment, how was he supposed to fight this man when he was clearly at a disadvantage? For it was common knowledge that to go into battle afraid, was to go into battle prepared to lose.
Rath was a gigantic figure, and exuded the air of one who was accustomed to crushing his opponents and hadn’t experienced defeat in a while... if not ever. This man stood at almost eight feet tall, with rock hard muscles that seemed to pile on top of more muscle, threatening to tear through his dark skin. His long locks of unkempt hair fell over a face that could only be described as menacing. He had a permanent scowl that was complimented by his black, soulless eyes. And as they stared each other down, Nur couldn’t ignore the presence of sheer evil he saw in those eyes, a shiver of dread ran down his spine. He raised his blade.
“A child?” Rath barked, “A petulant child? Is that what this Kingdom’s defences have come down to? An infant?” He waved a dismissive hand at Nur.
“A prince!” Nur responded defiantly, raising his blade even higher and more confidently. This man may have been the epitome of terror, but Nur would be ****** if he was going to be talked down to in this manner, this was his palace.
“A prince huh? Prince Nur I presume? Your father was a brave man, I respected him. Even if I met his acquaintance only for a couple of minutes, before I slaughtered him. But I do respect a king that fights alongside his men, as opposed to other cowards I’ve had the pleasure of killing that had barricaded themselves in their chambers and let others fight their battles for them. King Thur was a rare breed... but a dead one all the same.” He laughed remorselessly as he said this. “And soon you will get to join your warrior father foolish one.”
Nur lost all sense of fear. Infuriated, his nostrils flared as he swung the blade with all the ferocity he could muster, slicing deep into Rath’s right forearm. Time slowed to syrup as he saw his adversary’s blood stain the sword, but realising that it wasn’t a fatal strike, he turned around swiftly, switching his stance just in time to see Rath’s massive blade come down on his head. Then there was a deathly silence.
The afterlife was nothing like he had pictured. It smelt of... he couldn’t quite place that peculiar smell. It wasn’t pleasant, but neither was it unpleasant, just unfamiliar. Then he turned around and saw her. He deduced that she was probably the source of the smell. He noticed that smoke came out of her nostrils and mouth every few seconds after lifting a sticklike object to her lips. Nur mused at how wrong the high priest in their kingdom had been when he spoke about the place in the sun... the afterlife. It wasn’t anything like he had described.
But wait a minute! He realised that the sun was still above him, in the sky. He could see it. He could feel it on his skin. So WHERE WAS HE? He felt dizzy, unable to comprehend. Only a minute ago he was in the royal palace, facing certain death. And now he was... he didn’t know where he was, or even what he was. Was he dead? Transcended? Was this just his soul? If so, then how come he still had his senses? All these questions raced through his mind at the same time. He turned toward the lady, who seemed unaware of his presence. She was tall and very light skinned compared to him and her hair was tied in ponytail at the back of her head. He couldn’t make sense of her attire though, she seemed to wear a lot of clothing, garment over garment that covered her arms and legs. She was also extremely beautiful and had a slim womanly body most warriors would **** for, he noted, and felt himself flush. He tried to see what she was squinting so intently at and concluded that she was just staring into space as she drew, he realised now, on the tiny stick and blew out more smoke. That was when he noticed how high up they were, this palace stood almost five times as high as theirs. It was overwhelming to say the least.  He got up and walked over to her, deciding to leave his blade behind so as not to come off as a threat.
“Greetings?” He said politely. She jumped as if she had just seen a ghost, dropping the stick she was holding. He had clearly startled her, so he took a step back lifting his hands in the air to signify that he meant her no harm. She breathed rapidly and began to speak just as rapidly in a foreign tongue. Nur couldn’t understand what she was saying, but the hostility in her tone and her demeanour was hard to miss. He took another step back, ready to defend himself from an attack if need be. He had heard tales of an island with warrior women who could match, and beat, even the strongest male adversary in combat. He decided to tread cautiously.


Nasim...
Nasim Naikuni was beyond peeved. Who was this ******?  He had scared her half to death and almost made her fall off the roof, not to mention burn her favourite grey, three thousand shilling trouser suite when she dropped the cigarette. And what annoyed her even more was that he didn’t seem to register how ******* she was. He just stood there with a blank expression on his face, like a schoolboy waiting for his mistake to be explained to him. Nasim couldn’t stand slow people, they got under her skin. She was yelling at the top of her lungs, which was taxing to say the least, seeing as she had been smoking just seconds ago.
“Are you slow?” She shouted, tapping at her temple repeatedly. “What makes you think you can sneak up on me like that you fool? You almost killed me. Do you realise that?” Then she stopped and studied him, out of breath. She noticed that he seemed unable to understand English and so she switched to Swahili, “Nini mbaya na wewe?” What’s wrong with you? Still there was no response.
She gave him a once over. He dressed strangely. His large, golden brown pants that fluttered in the wind seemed to have been made from an expensive material, though it was like no material she’d laid eyes on before. It bordered somewhere between silk and suede. His shirt was also made of a similar material, but leather brown in colour, matching his leather boots that were laced and reached just under the knee. He stood an inch or two shorter than she did, but she guessed that was probably because she was in heels. He had long hair that seemed to fall halfway down his back in one long braid. He looked almost exotic as he tried to communicate, but she couldn’t place the language or his ethnicity, for his skin-tone was chocolate brown but his hair looked almost like an Asian’s, dark and straight. He spoke in a tongue she had never heard before. There was also something really classy about this boy, whom she guessed to be around eighteen years of age or so. It was like looking at a darker, more pampered version of Sinbad the sailor.
Nasim relaxed a little and decided to give the fellow a chance to introduce himself, in whatever way he intended to do so. He seemed to pick up on this and started explaining something to her, making a couple of gestures, and at some point she thought she saw him mimic a fight, and then  point to the sky. Nasim still didn’t know what he was talking about, but felt a semblance of communication begin to take form. He directed her attention to another part of the roof, probably where he had approached her from. And she saw the blade! With catlike agility she swung her purse at him, the blow caught him square on the jaw with a thud! The bottle of perfume she religiously carried around in it serving a different purpose on this day. He hadn’t seen it coming and so had no chance of stopping it. He staggered backwards as she made a run for it toward the staircase but felt a hand grab her ankle causing her to tumble onto the hot cement floor. At that moment her heart sank, for she knew that she was done for.


Nur...
Nur was perplexed, he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve the assault. The lady had seemed to be calming down, but all of a sudden she had lunged at him with a weapon he had first assumed to be a bag. Though, she didn’t strike with the strength that a warrior would have, and also had made an attempt to flee. This told him two things. One, she wasn’t accustomed to combat... and two, she had attacked more out of fear than strife. Which meant that she posed no immediate threat to him. Also, she was the only person he had met so far and his only hope of figuring out where he was. He couldn’t afford to lose her, not just yet, so he decided to try something he was ashamed he hadn’t thought of sooner. Nur spoke into her head.
‘I mean you no harm.’  He said, and waited. No response. He tried again, concentrating harder this time. ‘Can you hear me? I mean you no harm’
‘LET ME GOOO!’  Her thoughts screamed.
He could understand her, they had made a connection. Progress...

One year later. Nasim...
“Good afternoon people? You’re hangin’ out with me Nasim Naikuni on your favourite show Voices, where you can throw any question you have regarding life... and living it, at me and the voices in my head will answer them for you... yeah, you heard right, the voices in my head. I’ll be takin’ your calls for the next hour. Let’s begin shall we?” Nasim spoke into the microphone just before a voice-over added...
“NASIM NAIKUNI, THE ONLY RADIO PRESENTER THAT’S LITERALLY GONE BONKERS!” And then was followed by some rock music. ‘So what?... I’m still a rock star... ’ Pink’s lyrics belted out as Nasim removed her headphones to take a breather before she talked to her first caller. A breather... and also to have a bit of a chat with the voice in her head. She walked out of the studio into a corridor where she was out of sight, and concentrated, her eyes crinkling from the effort.
‘Hey, are you there?’
‘Uh huh.’ The prince replied.
‘Okay, we’re on in roughly three minutes. Make me look good babes’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘True dat. What are you doing?’
‘Breakfast.’
‘It’s one in the afternoon... ’
‘This is not my planet, therefore I’m not obliged to follow its rules. I can have a one o’clock breakfast if I want to.’
‘Brunch.’
‘What?’
‘Brunch, what your having would be brunch. Breakfast... aaand lunch?’
‘You see? You get all high and mighty on me about this and you even have a name for it? If it is so wrong to have breakfast at this time, then why would your people give the meal a name? I’m just saying.’ Nur said mockingly.
‘I give up’ She replied with a sigh.
‘Nas... Nas?’
Silence.
She walked back into the studio.
“Caller... you’re on air. Shoot.” Nasim said softly, leaning into the microphone.
“Hey Nasim, lovely job you’re doing by the way.”
“Why thank you dear, but I don’t deserve all the credit you know?”
“Yeah I know... you and the voices in your head... ha-ha! Anyway my name is George, and I’m kinda’ in a predicament at the moment. You see, I have a wife and a family... two kids, but I kinda’ got into this relationship outta’... obligation as opposed to real love...”
“Obligation?”
“Yes. I met my wife five years ago in uni’ and we dated. But looking back, I only got into the relationship because I felt I’d led her on and she loved me soo much, I just couldn’t disappoint her. So I got stuck in a phony relationship, at least on my part. Next thing I know, we are pregnant and... It’s been we ever since.”
“So you want to what? Get out of your marriage?”
“I want to be with the person I truly love...”
“Hooo... **! Scoreboard! Now we have lift off. And how long have you known this person that you truly love George?” She said this with a tinge of amusement in her voice.
“Six years... and we’ve been going out for the past two.” He sounded ashamed.
‘He sounds ashamed.’ She heard Nur say observationally.
‘No kidding.’ She retorted.
(In the past year or so, Nasim and Nur had come to an understanding somewhat. After she had struck him with her purse and the little scuffle they’d had on the rooftop, and after convincing herself that she wasn’t going crazy... or that the cigarette she had been smoking wasn’t laced with marijuana or some other hallucinogen, she finally gave in and listened to the voice speaking to her in her thoughts.
‘Please, just give me a chance to explain. I need your help lady!’ He sounded desperate.
She felt sorry for him, but still suspected she could be going nuts.
He continued. ‘I don’t know where I am. My father is dead and I don’t know where I am or how I arrived here, and you’re the only one that can help me right now...’
Nasim, touched now, replied. “How am I supposed to do that? And how are you doing this telepathy thing? Are you really doing this?” She shook her head violently, like a wet dog trying to dry itself, “I’m very confused right now.”
He looked even more confused. ‘Talk to me in my head, I think it is the only way we can communicate with each other.’
She didn’t know how to.
‘It’s simple, concentrate.’ He said reassuringly.
She tried. Still nothing.
‘I could hear you a moment ago, I don’t understand. Let’s try this slowly, repeat after me... Nur.’ He told her.
She heard him, and was thinking what?
He repeated, ‘Nur.’
She tried thinking the word he’d asked her to repeat as hard as she could but he didn’t seem to be getting anything. She decided that the cigarette must have been laced with something. Here she was, on the roof top of her work building trying to master telepathy, with a stranger who just happened to own a sword. This had to be a dream, a nightmare.
‘I must be high.’
‘Yes! Yes! You’re high!’ She heard the excited reply.
‘What?’
‘You did it!’ Nur said happily, ‘you figured it out. And yes, I was also meaning to ask you about how high we are.’
She had done it. Nasim could hear him and answer back, she felt oddly proud of this accomplishment. Then she asked puzzled. ‘High? You get high?’
‘I am high.’ Came the naive reply.
‘Oh...’
‘Why are we so high up? The palaces on our island are half the size of yours, are you that many in your palace that you need to build it so tall?’
Then she understood. And laughed... ‘Who are you? And how did you get here?’
‘My name is Nur... Prince Nur... how I got here? That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ He was being honest.
And thus begun an adventurous relationship between the two. Nasim took him to her apartment that day, passing curious and disapproving looks all the way. The most difficult part being trying to explain to her boss why she was coming from the roof in the company of someone who dressed like a ******, as he put it. She made up something. And he gave her one of those I’ll accept your story just because... looks. Nasim found that hilarious. But she was glad she had asked Nur to leave the sword behind to be recovered later. That would have been a tad difficult to explain. They got to her apartment block and were met by more disapproving looks from a group of nosey old women, the type that love to mind everyone else’s business but their own, as they walked to the lift. And when they got into apartment F6 on the second floor, she introduced Nu
Planet Nairobi… wrote this a couple of months ago, it was turned down by one publisher and awaiting other publisher’s feedback. However, it’s been a minute so I decided to share it with my peoples… if you like my work, this one will get you going… it may have it’s flaws, but hey… I never said I’m perfect, I’m just a writer.
Serena martius Sep 2014
She hid her heart with fallacious layers of 'don't worry' and 'it's fine',
And she pleaded them not to try and reach her soul.
But their words tore through her defences,
And they cried as the onion girl bled slowly into oblivion.
19 th October 2016
**Writing happened overnight
Some pent up thoughts
Confused no where completely understood
Clarity and Connect
With self
The need to express well

Wrote the night whole
Out ,came The Soul '

Held defences high
Not wanting to break the shell
Some chapters always
Skipped
Escaped
Deleted
Never to be visited

Yet life can be strange and funny
However well planned
It takes it own course
Makes you read listen and understand
And learn those very lessons

The student in me
Awakened Anew

Glad to have found my words
Or maybe the words found me
The right tone for the inner voice
Well timed
No more confined


A protective family
Not a worry about the unknown(life)
Lessons unknown
Make you stronger
And our children(catalysts) bring in a greater sense of responsibility and learning

An unfinished piece in my mind
Leave it as it is
As  many more lessons to be learned


Thank you all for the connect, the motivation, inspiration and love .
Love peace and blessings to you all !!
Good morning/Good evening/Good night :)
My greetings to all .
These are the hard times,
the long stretch of coal-shed days,
the corrugated nights of the antinomian.

I retch at the old doubts and the panoply
of dustbins clattering bright,
their watchers simian in the morning ****.

I dress as though dredging up greys,
monotone deep in the GB tradition:
now sandpit tea with oil stain floats
silt dreads the mass of a seven year clay.

Four weeks of shadows drown wind in a storm.

And dreams of my cottage
in days of such calm and late summer happiness
as brought cut corn and strawbs
and horse manure in hugs

until like Zulu tribesmen the birds appeared.
Hunched with expectation
Spears smiling like baddies they rushed me.

I woke pouring sweat like a workhorse
the weakest of defences laid up
my face pulling cellophane over French windows.
This is a very old effort. It's probably not up to scratch, but i couldn't resist using it to start the February collection. Eliot had it wrong...April's a breeze compared to the cold long nights of Feb...
Blind Distance Apr 2015
Walking in a room or strutting down the street

                 Inside a tunnel of ignorance she steps or takes a seat

She feels the hungry glances devouring her soul

       Pray that the gist of her laugh remains whole

Follow those hands running along the thin hair

                 Blushing as the gesture burns down in a flare

(Women are to be conquered

                 And you can take her with a gentle smile

She will drop all her defences

                 On her knees to please your diguise.)
Kung walked
        by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
        and then out by the lower river,
And with him Khieu Tchi
        and Tian the low speaking
And “we are unknown,” said Kung,
“You will take up charioteering?
        “Then you will become known,
“Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery?
“Or the practice of public speaking?”
And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,”
And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province
“I would put it in better order than this is.”
And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple,
“With order in the observances,
        with a suitable performance of the ritual,”
And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute
The low sounds continuing
        after his hand left the strings,
And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves,
And he looked after the sound:
        “The old swimming hole,
“And the boys flopping off the planks,
“Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.”
        And Kung smiled upon all of them equally.
And Thseng-sie desired to know:
        “Which had answered correctly?”
And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly,
“That is to say, each in his nature.”
And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang,
        Yuan Jang being his elder,
For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to
        be receiving wisdom.
And Kung said
        “You old fool, come out of it,
“Get up and do something useful.”
        And Kung said
“Respect a child’s faculties
“From the moment it inhales the clear air,
“But a man of fifty who knows nothng
        Is worthy of no respect.”
And “When the prince has gathered about him
“All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.”
And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves:
        If a man have not order within him
He can not spread order about him;
And if a man have not order within him
His family will not act with due order;
        And if the prince have not order within him
He can not put order in his dominions.
And Kung gave the words “order”
and “brotherly deference”
And said nothing of the “life after death.”
And he said
        “Anyone can run to excesses,
“It is easy to shoot past the mark,
“It is hard to stand firm in the middle.”

And they said: If a man commit ******
        Should his father protect him, and hide him?
And Kung said:
        He should hide him.

And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang
        Although Kong-Tchang was in prison.
And he gave his niece to Nan-Young
        although Nan-Young was out of office.
And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation,
        “In his day the State was well kept,
“And even I can remember
“A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
“I mean, for things they didn’t know,
“But that time seems to be passing.
A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
But that time seems to be passing.”
And Kung said, “Without character you will
        “be unable to play on that instrument
“Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.
“The blossoms of the apricot
        “blow from the east to the west,
“And I have tried to keep them from falling.”
Dimitrios Sarris Aug 2016
When everyone falls i shall rise.
When clouds of darkness cover everything our light will slice
a glimmer of hope, a sign of all that is good in this world.
When all defences are broken my wings
become an impenetrable fortress.
I'll never bend, never falter, never give up.
I shall be your savior, your liberator.
A promise was given, i won't let you fall, i won't let you fail.
If challenges come to your tail, i'll make them know that you're not frail. Slow it might come but success will be high, don't be disheartened because it's slow as snail.
I am just a soul, a broken soul looking for a place.
The place it belongs...
The skies grow dark,
Clouds gathering,
Obscuring the sun in an instant.
The last stand,
One final protest,
As defences break,
Screams,
Pain,
Blood,
Death,
Fills my head,
And all becomes clear,
Di Ffrin, Di Sstrek,
Is my reality,
A sweet melody,
Unsettling,
But sweet,
Oh yes!
It consumes me,
The light leaves,
All becomes dark,
And all makes perfect sense,
They could not help me,
There was no way they could,
But now I have it,
What I need,
The realisation,
In the darkness,
The Purity of Lies.
Poem adaptation of my unfinished book 'Purity of Lies'
mark alcock Feb 2013
How eloquently and beautifully we hid from each other.
You with your righteous truths, hard  and cold like granite.
Marking lost-love’s old bones.

I gripped your proffered broken shovel. Worn blade rusted, and shaft broken.
Aged and useless now, worked and worked on too much cold, hard ground.  
And so the old, cold, bones below lay undisturbed.
Deep and all but forgotten  
Forever waiting to be found.  
                

Mine? Barbed wire…a measured demarcation simply, efficiently separating a field of dreams from a shell-pocked Somme….taught, unyielding, sharp and unforgiving.


You, a brave soldier hacked and bit and and gnawed at the unforgiving steel wire, tormented by the verdant vision, which lay beyond.
Striving to reach that goal.
That which lay beyond the muddy battlefield….
Beyond the rigid stinking corpses….
Beyond the ghastly horror.
I know you saw a bright field of soft scented blooms and dreamed of resting, head pillowed on sweet, rainbow petals, scented nectar and  soft green grass.

I  would have gladly surrendered the wire cutters, but, blunted and useless, dulled by one or two, too many tries… there was no use.
You see my dear, they were long ago worn down. Worn down on many a marbled  headstone.
Their once keen edge, ground and blunted on words which said ‘here lies love’
(May it rest in peace).

There they sit and there they lie, the gravedigger and the soldier….
The soldier, torn and tattered upon the ****** barbs……
The gravedigger, frail and worn, broken shovel resting on broken feet…..

These were the culmination of our defences
Our defences…
Mine a spiked barrier,
yours an  epitaph in  stone.

******, battered love hungry body
and weeping gravedigger by loves tombstone.
Erin Hankemeier Apr 2014
Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation.
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon their defences...

Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour.
Grasp it, sense it tremulous and tender.
Turn your face away from the garish light of day,
Turn your face away from cold, unfeeling light -
and listen to the music of the night...

Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar!
And you'll live as you've never lived before.

Softly, deftly, music shall caress you.
Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you.
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind,
in this darkness which you know you cannot fight
the darkness of the music of the night.

Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world!
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!
Let your soul take you where you long to be!
Only then can you belong to me.

Floating, falling, sweet intoxication!
Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation!
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in,
To the harmony which dreams alone can write,
The power of the music of the night!

You alone can make my song take flight,
Help me make the music of the night.
Music Of The Night from Phantom Of The Opera is an extremely mesmerizing piece. Everybody has their own perspective of this song, but to me, the singer is feeling immense love for another person. He sings about sensations, imagination, splendors, tenderness, fantasies, a new world, harmony. He asks his love to help him make music of the night.
Everybody has their own perspective of this song, but I believe this song is an immensely exquisite piece that everybody should feel in their soul.

If you want to listen to it, look on Youtube. I, personally, believe the best version is by Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Ben Jones Apr 2017
When the funding is cut
So the hospitals shut
That’s a Tory
When the poverty bites
And you lose human rights
That’s a Tory
Such excess
Better reassess
Better repossess
Better get yourself private healthcare
Overtaxed if you work
Unemployed? Then you're scrounging on welfare

When there’s bigoted views
Blatant lies on the news
That’s a Tory
When the biggest and best
Are too rich to arrest
That’s a Tory
But they’re lax
Covering the cracks
Never paying tax
Claiming everything on expenses
They can steal with a smile
While they peddle their flimsy defences

When they're guilty of fraud
And they're banking abroad
That's a Tory
If they're selling your school
When 'austere' means 'cruel'
That's a Tory
Too much spin
Slogan and a grin
Wearing pretty thin
Bussing people in to applaud them
Any law can be bought
If you're well off enough to afford them

That's all folks and remember, you can't spell Theresa May without heresy

**
Devi85 Oct 2012
In department store foyers, free samples sprayed,
A collision of cosmetics muddle the air.
The olfactory overpowered by such obvious odours,
Why do natural notes disconcert you?

Not the gym heavy sodden or overworked,
Recognition of an individual, whilst eyes remain shut.
Faint trace of the familiar or frenzied pheromones,
A headiness misplaced by the cologne wearing clones

Preference for the perfumed, the artificial sweetener.
Marketed meticulously
Musk manufactured yet not made by man
Of flowers dear, of oils and compounds.

Fresh, fruity, citrus or spiced
Artificial aromas keep your own scent disguised
Society simulates this sophistication of the senses,
Masking yourself from me as you are wooed,
Accustomed to this attraction, till you let down your defences
How shall I know you when you are ****?
Ariel Taverner Oct 2013
People everywhere
They look at me
In disgust
what is that thing
They say
All the things they say
gather and attack
Attack my fortress
My defences
The defences I put up years ago to protect myself
From all the horrors
All the monsters
All the people
All the mindless freaks
That attack me
Just as they attack me now
And its hard
really hard
Why me
Why
They fail
Not the attackers
My defences they collapse and cave in
As they do that they collapse on me
Leaving me restrained
So that they have all the power they want
And they use it
Why me
Why
A physical representation of emotional pain
phocks May 2013
Something here is not quite right.
The days have become shorter
And we are no longer certain
Of our respective fates in the world.
The times have changed and now
We are all alone.
There is no longer any light
Guiding us and we are floating
In a dark space from which there is no escape
Or reprieve.
Blank looks become our faces
And we find ourselves wandering the streets
Again, aimless and without reproach
For our crimes.
The things that once motivated
And inspired us
Have long lost their appeal
And all of our prejudices and hates
Have come back to haunt us,
Again and again.
We no longer hope for a better world
For ourselves or for anyone,
But instead
Wish our pain upon everyone we see
In these cold and bitter streets.
The night is coming soon
And with it will bring an end
To all of this.
There is nothing left except pain
And suffering.
The distance between us is widening.
We no longer communicate.
All of our technology
Has enslaved us.
We will all die alone
And with a mountain of regret
That we will never share with anyone.
A noxious gas has descended
Upon humanity and is filling
Our very souls with its vapid waste
And toxic demeanour
And now we are forced to endure
The coming dark age
With no one
And nothing to protect us
Or save us.
We wait patiently for our fate.
There is no optimism.
The time has come
To lay down our defences
And submit
To the coming reign of terror.
It is no use to fight anything.
Our time has come
And passed us by.
We have failed.
We have failed ourselves.
We have failed our world.
And we have failed each other.
Goodbye.
Good luck.
Star Gazer Jan 2017
Show me a field that is filled with golden flowers
hours upon hours the smell of the grass elevates the scents
that seems to send passerbys into an overdrive of envy.
Lend me your hand so that my coarse skin is softened by yours,
the door to my heart is forever open awaiting your entrance
and the defences are fending off other fiends so don't worry about guard
because as hard as it is to trust, I've let my guards down a long time ago.
Show me that you can be the green to my gold
let us grow old but never grow up as we play like kids
let the bliss fill both our hearts as we unite together against the world.
Girl, will you find it in yourself to love me? ...as much as I love you?
Samantha May 2013
To drown in the void; a steadfast oxymoron
But I am struggling to stay afloat
My limbs lack sensation, mockery of my mind
Vocal cords cut, stolen that night in the snow
Carried to the cosmos on an angels back
Helen, how you torment me!
A thousand whispers, torrential and coaxing
To find silence would be all end all; greatest defeat
But what a warrior I found in you,
Quiet and it's little reverie
Infinite; feeling as though I should explode
The quickness of newly discovered emption uncontainable
But in solidation I am weak, without your armed defences
And Helen is touching my skin again
Paul M Chafer Sep 2014
So deliciously dark,
The sultry taste of pure lust,
Lingering upon my wet tongue; so hot!
I smile, lapping up your slinky essence,
Writhing, twisting, arching, resisting,
Attempting to deny my devilish charm,
Hiding behind flimsy veils of innocence.
Only, I know, deep inside, you burn,
No chains, or bonds, could ever hold you,
Knowing you want me, so very much.
Parting your hastily erected defences,
I ****** you up; we plunge into the fire,
As one, the flames consume, seared raw,
Forging an emotional alloy, thrashed out,
Hammered upon the anvil of sheer pleasure,
Quivering, breathless, enraptured and blissful,
Again and again, leaving us both sated,
Still tasting of sultry lust,
So deliciously dark.

©Paul M Chafer 2014
Debbie Lydon Feb 2019
I am often in awe of your wild mind,
Despite your defences, I can see you are kind,
I know you believe me to be fickle and blind,
But I see you, and the reason for the wall you hide behind.


There is wonder and beauty that light up your eyes,
Yet everyone falls in love with your careful disguise,
Pain finds its way through your laughs and lies,
And there is sorrow within the man, that like a child, cries.


You can turn all the frowns that you see to a smile,
And upon seeing you, my clouds are cleared for a while,
But who mends the hurt that caused your soul's exile?
And when will you turn to face your denial?


Your cheer does not mask the tragedy inside,
Altruism will not change what you're trying to hide,
Unreachable, unfathomable- two ideas within you, allied,
To win the battle over self and thus deem you fortified.


But this barricade will not defend against flame,
Nature is power and emotion is the same,
We are already on fire, to deny it is insane,
So feel what you will, break the shackles of shame.
Caleb Hess Oct 2018
My train of thought takes me to an ethnic enclave of pride located in my dystopian head. Outside of this head of myne is a pink butterfly trapped in a grey cocoon. I’d leave this cocoon and finish my metamorphosis if I weren’t trapped in a spider’s web, this hideous cocoon is my only protection from it’s pain inducing bite. I’m always on high alert to defend myself. I must always keep my defences high and never let my guard down or it will take advantage of my vulnerability. The word stress is an understatement, I feel as if this web is draining me of life, as if it loves the taste of my misery. I am bewildered and overwhelmed with the weight of my ever growing responsibilities. Soon enough this spider’s patience will die out and I will be the one to take advantage of its vulnerability. Until then I wait.
END
A poem about strict parents or anything else, interperate your own way
My tight pressed lips,
against Your tangent hips.
Our hands yield
to the symphony of surrender.
Lay your defences down,
Let our hearts pour out.
Scantitly clad souls,
Semi naked hearts,
Ever so vulnerable.

There are things
far more important
than ourselves.
There are things
that we love too much.
that it hurts.
even to let go.
In our midst,
it is each other.

''May I have the final dance under
this perishable moonlight ?''
Alice Burns Jun 2013
An exit for expression
An admittance with no fee
A mind free from excluding
An exhibition without end

The centerpiece- an installation
Ever moving within its frame
Its contents constantly disappearing
To reveal a blank canvas to be filled once more

The artist turns out to be me, and me alone
Leaving my post is an improbability
As the gallery holding me hostage is my own mind
Yet in truth, I find happiness in this prison cell

Without sleep I find energy from passers by
Who refuel my passion with their coins
Thrown into my hat beside me
Tokens of positivity that they cannot directly give

The door is always open
Even to those who find fault with the artist
Who tease me in my chained feet
And hurl their abuse with intent to delay completion

Yet still, I welcome companionship of viewers
Without noticing the deviants who scratch away at my painting
My selflessness renders me unable to notice evils
Blinding me with the future I paint before my eyes

My piece is never mastered
For I am distracted by evils constant approach
Presenting me with gifts of seeds, that grow in my soils
Only to blossom as weeds, and eat away at all goodness

But my grounds are open, and my job demands time
Rarely do I have the time to look upon works accomplished
But I steal a moment as sun and moon change shifts
Only to be met a view that gives no happiness as before

My stubborn positivity keeps defences up
Protecting myself from taunters and ghosts who take refuge in corners
I am distracted by my own optimism, the joy of what I do
But it hinders me, in ways I cannot defeat

My ability to seek vengeance was never yielded nor encouraged
So instinctively as always, I turn not to the voices behind me
And paint upon the canvas once more
The doors still open
My Dear Poet May 2023
Some throw themselves to fire
Some to a raging wave
We throw ourselves at words
Doubly as dangerous…but brave
We string along a sentence
We bleed line by line
Scraping along defences
We grind the grit and rhyme
Defying the babblers battle
Waging war with a world
where words have no meaning
or power when they’re hurled
We’ll never decay or go rotten
We’ll be writing till we’re read
They may shut us till we’re forgotten  
But they’ll quote us
when we’re dead
A tribute to all poets
Gabi Jun 2013
You're not the same person I met,
a year or so ago at that party.
You're not the same person I knew,
when we wondered all night around the city.
You're not the same person I fell in love with,
when we learnt of all the little details about each other.
You're not the same person whose heart I broke,
with my indecision of a future.

I'm not the same person you met,
with my defences up even stronger now.
I'm not the same person you knew,
when I used to laugh and smile at everything you did.
I'm not the same person you fell in love with,
my heart is colder and more bitter than ever before.
And I am not the same person whose heart you broke,
when you gave your love to someone else.
It's corny, but deal with it.
Unheard-of Apr 2014
He, was in love with her plays
her masquerade
tragedies
shakespearean days

Her fences
Defences
Her armoured-
Sensitives

Her past
her facade
her lovely charm
and, learnt, laugh

The curtains close
the room brightens

But he'll fall in love again
the next night,
when they reopen.
Haven't been on in a while but this poem was one of my drafts before I logged off.
Alan McClure Jul 2013
A vicious dog came prowling in to bite and terrorise
feasting on the beautiful, creative and the wise
Chewing their creations and their principles to dust
Leaving all their brilliance to crumble, fade and rust
A snarling, grinding horror issued from its ****** jaws
the sound rolled all around me like a wave of black applause
I gathered my defences and prepared to go down well
My work would be my armour to defeat this hound of hell
My courage at the sticking point, my words in serried ranks
my songs and poems all arranged like waiting Sherman tanks
As those who had inspired me were cast down in their prime
I knew the beast was coming, it was nearly closing time
But just as I prepared myself to triumph or to die
The wretched creature shook itself and passed me right on by
It glanced just once behind it with a look that seemed to say,
"You poor, deluded fool - I didn't want you anyway!"
Maha Salman Nov 2015
I charm easily with the elegance of my words,
creating a rhythmical movement of lust around your tender heart.
Perhaps I may use the trick of deceit and fill your mind with the endless
thoughts of our love being compared to the effulgence of a dying star,
or I could lace sweet kisses derived from my broken soul upon your unmarked skin.
Maybe then you shall let down your defences for the only thing I can do, in your mind, is write poetry about how much my adoration for you encapsulates the essence of a bleeding rose.
And when you start to dance to the melody of my voice dripped within your love,
**I shall slowly break your heart as you have broken mine.
Promises, I make only to keep
You are a friend and that’s  sacred to me
I will be holding space, for us, you see

My words safe in my heart
The hurt mine to behold

My inhibitions, fears
Tears and distance I keep
To elevate and alleviate

You may bring your words
My silence, I’ll keep
It’s been a while, the spoken words I’ve bartered for the written
Won’t give either to you

Escapist I am not
Happy in the crowd, smile and gel
Safely guarded by my shell

Mellowed with age
Outbursts few and defences weak
Empathy, I don’t seek

It’s only human
To let go and carry on
Looking fine and beyond
As quitting is not done
Sorry, not meant for this place, but, I tend to dump :/
Out of crassitude with gross vision
Awakened to just another lip
service
A mind deaf and obstinate to my
opinion
A heart so hard , the passion
waned
From your cup I tested the wine
felt amiably pleasant in a moment
devine
your decietful tone blurred my
senses
A vocal utterance breaking through
my defences
On the eve of crossing the line
my liberty denied being subject to
your concience
my innerself detected an accurate
vivid sign
A discovery that revealed a Vision
unclear
Poetry is music and music is magic.....it is
my voice, the brush that paints my feelings.
SabreLi Dec 2016
I felt trapped, I couldn't see
As a fateful darkness surrounded me
It came from nowhere and left no trace
It picked my soul as a resting place

There I felt it deep inside,
Digging my grave before I died
Contrary to its ghoulish nature it slept so peacefully
One could hardly believe this was the Evil all had feared

Meanwhile all around me,
The darkness crept so silently
So easily deceived
By the beast that lay so deep
It passed me by…

But I saw it glisten in my eye
Day by day as time went by
I begged and pleaded for it to go
To no avail, I should have known

It would not listen; there it stayed
Inside me as I decayed
And as my body began to rot, I felt the thing emerge
I tried to fight the Evil One; I tried to fight the urge

Until it was lodged far too deep,
No chance of recovery
I slowly watched my old self go,
Could not retain an empty soul
It passed me by…

Nothing weakened the beast that thrived
Inside me as the old ‘me' died
My shell crumbled piece by piece
Yet my suffering did not decrease

My last defences were not forsaken
Until the last part of me was taken
Forced to surrender I bowed my head
My whole body lay there - dead.

The Evil One contained in me
Now roams loose, completely free
A constant reminder to all around:
In suppressed souls -
Evil is found.

Copyright © 2008-2017 KF
Written when I was younger; I felt like everything was against me and that if things continued in that manner I would cease to be me and my demons would take over.
Thia Jones Mar 2014
Skipping ropes tied to lamp posts
hopscotch was another for girls
I'd try to work out the rules
but dare not ask, nor yet even
be seen to be showing interest
sometimes I'd be invited
to join in girls play
I could hold the rope
while others skipped
but had not the grace
or the agility to skip
at all well myself
there were role play games
of families with dolls
proudly displayed
tenderly nursed
and I would be offered
the role of 'daddy'
though I had no clue
of how to do that
having no father myself
so I would be told
to arrive home from work
to sit in my chair
to put on my slippers
to smoke my pipe
to hear tales of misbehaviour
by the children
and I would be amused
but would be told firmly
that I must be stern with them
then when that was done
to eat my tea and afterwards
to sit watching the telly
distracted from the game
that continued around me
or to go out to the pub
and I thought that
fathers must be
the most boring of people


The rough and tumble
was not for me
why would some boy think
he could throw me down
straddle me, pummeling
overpower and hold me there
trapped, despite my struggles
I learned early that
scratching, biting,
flailing, kicking
were not permitted
nor were tears
yet I shed them still
and screamed and scratched
and bit and flailed
if I could not avail
myself of natural defences
generally expected of girls
then why should my attacker
receive no more than
mild admonishment, if that
while I'd be advised
to "toughen up"
and the goading
carried on relentlessly
"you run like a girl"
"you throw like a girl"
"you kick the ball like a girl"
"you fight like a girl"
as though doing those things
like a girl were demeaning

Cynthia Pauline Jones 30/10/13
chichee Nov 2018
We used to take turns tearing down
each other's defences
like the last Christmas present or
an exit in a building fire
And when there was nothing
useful about our bodies except how
they fit against each other.

There are soldiers that don't deteriorate facing
bombshells and fire-grenades but
birthday parties and Saturday nights by the telly.
We could be two of them

Remember how you got when you
just needed something to
hurt
I was your push-pin doll.
Like how children
gouge the button-eyes and rip
the stuffing out of their teddy bears
(but still fall asleep holding them closer than
their absentee parents)


The truth is once,
I would have worn your bruises like
a necklace.

These days, I offer my heart up
on a platter and you don't even want
to spit on it.

All I can do now is will
my fingers to write poetry,
too cowardly
to even pick up the
phone.
Some people love better falling apart.

— The End —