A blithering fool I am. I bring some more tasty, poetic food to a full table of empty people again.
The smell of decay is swept over, with a savory draft of nauseous meat.
Close that fluttering trap, sit the **** down and warm your seat.
Here's a bottle of whines for your *******. Eat, meet and greet, and please, this Filet Mignon is too tough for my teeth.
Seething in impatient anger, Lisa demands another plate. Complacent waitress Marie patiently escapes the bubble of her "high class" greed. She then tells the cook for another steak, medium-well please! Geez, what a smile planted on her face, while she comes out to face the *****, condescending looks of a rich, shrewd couple that doubles a shroud of negativity, which makes poor Marie's day an even more stressful activity.
A chest full of kindness she displays to great lengths, but the couples' stuck-up, ******-up attitudes stinks worse than a pig pen in May. Paul and Lisa brings **** to everyone's fun parades. The stakes are high, while the next course swings by. Bring us some cookies, brownies, and ice-cream cones pronto! Not a smile, but smirk, as she rushes to grant the picky requests from rude folks. She looks dazzling, even amongst the mess. Then she trips and falls, hurling a tray of glasses. A swirling disaster, shards of glass spray everywhere amongst the upper-class masters. A blast of laughter erupts from Paul and Lisa's direction. Sitting smug, they look the happiest they've been in months. Quite the ugly reflections, marriage fights, and failed Republican elections. Careless customers rush by and look down dirtily upon her inspection. They just continue on their way to their seats of self-destruction. Waitress Marie brings herself to her knees, no helpful hands to her silent pleas. Co-workers agree that this couple is a messy infection. Marie finally stands and rushes to a bathroom to medicate her bleeding arm. Her charm dwindling away, as a swarm of classy critters, with dresses that glitters, shove her out of their important way. Feeling dismayed, she wraps up her ****** display. Great, she awaits the end to this hellish day. Amazed, her courage to carry on this shift of the shattered positive arrays is swift. She gracefully drifts out and back to her table of dreams. Amidst two faces of schemes, Paul and Lisa want their checks, with upset eyes that traces the lines on her worried forehead. A smile brings light back to her face of beauty, the couple continue to be snooty, making rude comments on her round *****. Marie rushes to get their expensive checks, and comes back with pen and paper. She gently begins to lay them down on the table, but instead, they're snatched from her grasp. Taken by surprise, she gasps. Her hands clasped, she smiles thinly at half mast. She says she hopes they enjoyed their meal, but they just laugh, leave their seats, and storm on past her in a flash. The waitress looks down at the checks, inspects, and feeling dread from within, as no tip lines we're filled in. Brimming with fury, she blinks away her frustration.
She then decides to go clean her station. As the night comes to a close, I'll finish up this crazy poem. Here's some food for thought to swallow. Be careful not to choke.
I hope this satisfies you, so wish Marie luck, for a brighter tomorrow.

Little dormouse,
nun trying leather,
desperately cleans up her stigmata.
I hear you whisper prayers,
I see you twitch to stop yourself
to sign the cross
and I feel your foreign fear.

Little dormouse,
can you only muster
a half-riot, a part-furore?
Do you need a bit of blasphemy
to wash in dirtily
in order to be forgiven again?
And know, When you’re an angel,
floating up to live with the lullabyes,
will you grip your shoes
with your little toes?

Little dormouse,
moving your lips slow,
to look better to the snake.
To be new-born, translucent
In the half-light.
Such sanguine wine,
your flesh and your offer is.
The drugs and our pleasure
the pressure of our nature,
which we will not bow to.

Little dormouse
wants a bad habit,
not a good man.
Wants to understand,
things forbidden to think.
Wants an unhealthy metaphor,
not enough,
she wants to want more.
Under smiles,
there's proof the world is anything,
you’ll find whatever you look for,
but not the love.

The hermit-monk sat smoking.        the young boy,
having ridden long from the West     his spurs and armor
glistening the eyes of harems in Damascus     driving the
untouchables crazy near New Delhi     catching Guinevere    
naked, bathing in the Ohio (She blew him a kiss that ended
his world)    having conquered Eve    slain Lilith beneath the sheets of blue skies and seas
laid waste to Leviathan in a bar one night (he remembered
her naked scales,  peeling back each one until he uncovered the pink skin)
he snuck Helen from Troy  to see her golden locks blow over her *******
in the summer time,

but the egg of the world he was walking on would
not accept him entrance, and to **** the dirt sounded unthinkable
and got Uranus castrated,
so that was out

in Brittany, long a year had passed before the death of our  lord and our other king,

the cup would not accept his lips, and the lovely boy whom the cup accepted
first would not accept his lips either, and anyway, he crumbled up in ash flakes
and died, being carried to heaven  by the angels one night: his son dead, his king dead, and
the lord, there were no men to love and yet he remained the ghost of the night,
his blood-soaked (and blood-thirsty) sword slaying water-dragons for a time, the courage of defeat defied him
and would not put him to bed with his king and lord, so he wandered until death
would claim him, but it refused him, for a man without purpose does not die in
flesh but in soul

the hermit-monk with his great eyebrows and one eye sat staring, dirtily rolling cigarettes
his bath robe, bleached pink with holes        It was my day off, he said, turning over Lancelot with
his wise eye and wise tooth       What brings you this noon, when the cranes fly without love,
and the crows fly without ‘why?’

I love a woman who haunts me, he replied
Though that is long gone by
and for now and all time
she haunts me at night.
In the pale moon light
her ghosts come in shade
to bury me alive— in the living air.
Sometimes four or five images of her at a time.
She lives on though she dies.
She carries me through the night,
a golden calf with blond-ash hair.
We fly! Oh, how we fly! She refuses
to drop me and let me die
when we fly, fly, fly!
The perfect angel of death.
The death muse.
She has never been born, and she will
not die in my mind. She has never lived at all
so she cannot be killed and never will.
I want to die. I want to die. I cannot.
She is a perfect angel and no one can
be her.

the hermit-monk replied with his one blind eye     opening up his one
black patch, he showed the young man a hole—
a hole that was an abyss—
an abyss that was a heart—
a heart that was a kiss—
a kiss between two lovers that never
was    and   never
           were

And will it never be? asked the young man

Desire never is. Love never was in the heart of man. Maybe to conquer
her mountains for a time, that is what love is. Maybe it was to plant
your flag in her valley. To roll your lips over that spine and hips of
the earth. But time will fix you. Make you nothing more than the ghost you
seek—
the ghost that never is,
and so shall you never be.

and for a time, he rode on with this in mind, knowing to lie down and die
is what he had to do, but still she came at night, cloaked in white,
holding two flowers in each hand,
one a daisy of continuous clocks, the other,
not quite a rose and nothing like a rose
but what one might think a rose
around her head were thorns, like the thorns of Jesus Christ,
she held out her hand for a time, wanting him to come to her in the night
strip himself of his armor, so she could love him and **** him within a time

she wore the vessel of the lord around her neck, a gold chain held it,
wrapped it like a tube tied       in it was wine      in the wine was blood
the blood of a child        the child had been given to a mother by God
but God took that child and said, never mind.
that mother cried for she didn’t care about matters of state, or lenders in a
temple     she loved that child, and that child died, being crucified by the world—
a man taking the sacrifice of a woman for the world

in this vision Lancelot cried      God’s worst holy man       God’s best k(night).
and every night, pressed against her dead breast, he would cry,

I want to die! I want to die!

Not yet, she would reply.
Not yet, she would reply.

but in his heart he knew she meant, not ever
for she was his mind     they belonged together—
as ghosts stalking the night, unable to die for the lord

This was his charge.

and some say at night, in the hither lands he rides
undead, undying, forever searching for the girl in his mind,
who haunts his nights with dreams of sleep, but still he awakes
every morning,
alive, unrested , undead

with apology
a sonnet brave
I pretend to be
worthy
resending a message
meant to be slang
tongue-in-cheek
I speak
***** how
I smile happily, smirk.
Entrancing asking
no bitterness, I say,
Sorry. I do not repent!
As your servant I am seeking
no ill,
dirtily.

Dens, devils dark alleys
Apart from the quiet disco beats
The house-techno-electronics melodic
Or timbres of the naughty riddims rhythmic
And the dim coloured alternating disco-lights
Else, Dens are blurry dark
With all addicts-of ***, narcos or gins

In there no one sees no one
Just the silent talks of sins around
The usual businesses brought them there
In the mixture of multicoloured lights
So no one will talk of anyone once lights returns
Yet they shared something in common
A gal maybe, a cocoa puff or a shisha vapour!
A cigar smoke or a ***** tot and danced it ***** to dawn

In there are naked nudes-
Dames as well as few muscled-dudes
Teasing silent seated decent dressed
Stripping, selling their worth or wealth
To these willingly seriously immerged
In the occults of the immoral ****

Some are seductively rolling with the podium poles
Their greased groins incised on it metallic luster
Grating-grinding-dancing dirtily down
Its silvery smoothness in timed tempting
Slow spicy synchronic, slutty slides  
Watching the salivating seated
Erotically elated shift in their chairs

Some, skimpily skinned are snaking their boneless bodies up-down
In caressing zigzags of mastered dancers ***** arts
Immorally exposing their mostly expensive parts in bits
To tempt and trap these blind corrupted moths in their Lucifer’s lights
Forcing them to dig deeper their posh pockets to pay to be bemused  

Business here is crooked, dark!
Like ***** and her Gomorrah
Or Tyre and her Sidon
It begins with the fall of the night:
The extinguishing of the day's light
And ends with moments to dawn’s bright

In there all night are all dealers of immoralities
Of dark arts, of *** or of drugs  
Goons as well as criminals of government deals
And the corrupt business billionaires sandwiched
Richly enjoying the **** of the sinfulness-
Sharing, wasting, the rapacious richness
Of their easily gained supernormal profits
On these salacious naked nudes, free to feel

In there in the masquerade of these rainbow lights
No one sees no one, no one will say of anyone
Just cash exchanges hands
You got it, you get what you need
All the services you want-its all at your watch
With just a snap of the finger, all easily you acquire
You are the master, everyone else your servant slave-
At your disposal to your utmost attendance

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

Have you ever lied awake
thinking about someone until you cried?
     Not because you were sad
     but because your eyes were so tired?
Have you ever traced your hands
over yourself wishing it was someone else?
     Not always dirtily, mostly just
     longing for their company?
Have you ever thrown away
promise and possibility?
     Not because you didn't trust,
     but because you didn't know how to?

On sordid airs I detect
A sizzling cigarette
That dirtily dizzies me.
The vapour shaped and misshapen
As though the pale horse of Death
Is animated again,
Forcing forth from some lung's depths.
The dizzying diseases released
Onto the city street.

Then passing a Chinese window
Cheap honeys rich in flavour
Seem woven with the air.
Wisps of some Summer, lost
Among clustered years
Covered in moss,
Dangle beneath my nose
And rising up
Almost fills what's hollowed.

But I am busy and must go
The city suffers no one for so long.
So I go on
To the city's dizzying smells,
To leave the moment's spell.

The city smells me.
The tunnels and funneling gutters
The nostrils of this grey matter
The network of working, walking
Men, women and children.
It adapts with new technologies
And the conscience of the street
As the street well knows
Controls me.

The Eastern Thieves joyously mandated
it will cost you an arm and a leg you'll see
cherish your pint of blood till you're bloated
come take barrels and drink till you all find peace

Whitewashing in praise of depravity foul
they founded nature versus nurture in tarry song
alchemy of crude vagabond twinned with dense mob unfurl
a lamb to slaughter seasoned with lies and duplicity all day long

Decades and decades and decades they roasted
**** tomorrow, today even yesterday in fancy urban myths
in retro villainy wears a crown and justice is a flush dirtily busted
look for salt of the earth to keep the grass trying to expose our tryst

I do no evil and fear no evil for truth is truth
proxy vigilantes in the pay of gangsters and extortioners
show your mafia of shame around, cook intimidation in your filth
in honor I stand before man and God, to criminals I am of foreigners  

and
I will stand against you.......

My words taken out of context
Could lead one to believe
That I’m the villain in the story
That I am nothing but a thief
I uphold the standard of my morals but
Your microscope is dirtily gray-tinged
I do not endure to give you hope
I am not here to claim that you win
I simply live to experience
The hurt and pain and sorrow
I have no desire to leave this world today
I’ll try again tomorrow
You strew me about
Drugged me
Held me down and spit in my face
You called me a false prophet and
Kept me over an arm's length away
My struggle seems for not
As futile as it may be
I try to conjure myself in your dreams
But you don't seem to hear me
I scream to you from a distance
Behind a forcefield of self-restraint
An aching mind recovering
My generosity and love all but *****