Smile, pose,
flawless, poise

Let's make another picture perfect square,
Perfect for everyone to stare
I don't care what you think,
what you see, what you think,
of what you see,
As long as I can fool my memory

Even if I sink,
even when everything stinks
If I can't remember, it won't drag me down

Let's find our true love,
One and only true love,
Starting from the superficials,
Oh yes, 'cause I believe from this
we can go straight to the nuptials

It's odd if you ask me these days be,
spent more time fighting off monsters that can never be,
Exploring Neverland,
truly being Peter Pan?...

Is it still called a social interaction?
When there is no communication,
More like with the green monsters, spending quality time
all kins of them,
And in plurals,
all these digitals
...

I lose myself in your orbitals
whenever they focus on me.

I want to bury my cephalic
in the crevice of your cervical.

I long to keep your brachials
around my dorsum.

You have
amazing scapulars.

Thoracic to thoracic.
Or our palmars intertwined.

Digitals tracing patterns
on each other's abdominals.

Press your oral to my buccal
and we'll see how this goes.

A privet hedge..a broken gate the House with a roof tiled with Welsh slate,
a broken half open window from which the light throws shadows on the lawn..G'awn be off with you a Cockney voice shouts out.
The Camera pans.

A street,quite neat and real rare around these parts..two lovers on the corner sharing hearts..as if they could beat as one..
Move on there movie man the cop shouts from the black and tan.
The camera pans.

Traffic light that's stuck on green..a crowd gathers." I've never seen the like "..An old girls cry.."Someone will get hurt or even die,call the police "..as if they would bother their fat *** cans..
The camera pans.

It spins and spins upon its pins and captures you and me..and writes in Avatars of cars and flouting clouds of blues and whites,which balance out the unfilmed nights when cameras close their cyclop eyes and digitals tell no more lies.

I rise early like a bird..I heard a camera crew is coming down to film some scenes in my home town.
An expectant hush
An excited rush and then
The camera pans.

i was born in the middle of a question
one of those that people theorize about
one of those science tries to explain and religions preach over:
'why do you hate us so much?'

see, my black skin was made in my mother's womb
and that hate has been passed to me through generations
through my father's blood
and onto this skin of mine.

it resides in my fingertips, my digitals contain ****** scars
behind my teeth there are agonized screams
and inside my womb are the children i had taken away from me.

why is it that even though i can move my arms freely, -
i can throw a punch if i lose myself - i can still feel
the shackles around my wrists?
why is it that my neck feels tight at the sight of every tall tree bench?
why
is
it
that you still hate us so much.

even after all this time i can still see, trust me, even though you try to hide it
i can still see it in your pale eyes
and in every thin lipped smile
in every unwelcome touch to my head
in every single word you say to me,
in every bullet you put in my chest
in every filthy word that comes out of your mouth
in every idea you try to spread
in every step you take behind me at the store
in every single right that  you deny me
i can still feel the hate.

and it is the god's honest truth
that i will, whatever it takes, try to make sure
that the black child that shall bloom from my *****
and that shall not be taken away from me
will be able to live with the blessing that is its skin
and without the burden that is your existence.

Trump's in office
I got no offspring
This world is complex
We all pay offerings
To all my digitals
Who push up often
If all that you see
Is bugs and textures
Reverse that axis
Inside them options
Look for the sky box
This is a structure
This is not the rapture
This is just a sting
We've survived worse things
We were always trifling
We've all been through strife
We're still one nation
All cut by one knife
Blood pacts are ancient
Please take my hand
But respect my space
Look past our faults
The American Race

My personal agony,
very precious to me.

I was carrying you
on the paint brush, on crayon.

Canvas was
empty after you left. No oil
painting of curved lips and digitals.

You hang a man eater-
panther, after lynching.
Whole length suspended from a tree.
So beautiful, as a star night.

You were left
to yourself-to ponder over
the killer and the ****.

Who wins in war of words?
In war of lips?