"And Abraham drew near, and said,
Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked?"
- Genesis 18:23

I

There are about four thousand people
Here.
They throng in blasted heat like
Little arid wasps.
Gasping summer rain,
Like the opposite of fish.
Of their individual character
I can give no generality.

They are men and women,
They stand on roofs and
Sleep on their words.
They are hot and cold
And they hate and scold.
They are devils and stars
And ***** and priests
And children of priests.
Orators, they are also:
The speakers of the state (which
Is hotter than they could
Ever know); they steal
And reel and impose their
Splitting fingernails deep into
The varnish of the
Wishing well.

They are men and women,
They stand on roofs and
Smother dreams by spitting on the sky.

II

Fox. Come and light my little room
With your brilliant breath. Have you
Come very far? From the eye of the trees?

I should leave this little town if I were you.
It has its ways and leeches from our
Dangling hands. A tongue named Lethe.

Wake early and flee back to your dark,
Summon that green corpus shell that
You came from and follow its outlying root.

You should know the power of the vine.
It crawls in the blinding night and
Strangles what it cannot feed upon.

Oh my little fox, I beg you turn back,
For in familiarity lies strength and nothing
In this wilderness will give you nourishment.

III

He walks in waterways and crunches bone.
He watches moonlight play on open wounds.
He wishes dearly for the ends of weeks.
I heard him live his life without a sound.

The high school band with a treble clef. The year
Of empty penmanship in which he wrote
A thousand notes and mailed them underground
About which neither parent knew a thing.

Encounters best discovered some years later
Work to redden ears in coffee shops,
Or rather as I’m talking to him now,
With darting speech and halting eyes and all.

Perhaps the atmosphere could lend itself to blame,
The hormones and the collusive ennui.
But little charms the tear ducts quite like saying,
“Why am I this way, do you suppose?”

I haven’t got the heart to make reply
And often pose myself the same question
Before the mirror thinking of my whims,
The muddied roads that led me where they did.

My time has run itself to pieces in
The hope of spreading my horizons, but
Some sand runs faster in the way, some gains
More ground. And mine? This distance is unknown.

I licked the shelves of Hardy, Plath, and Keats.
I lorded over idiots with glee.
I lured the fathoms of my mind to float.
And oh, the things that he must think of me.

IV

The doors know I am coming,
They dart out of my way.
My telekinesis stops there
But I troll forward
And brandish my little iron steed.

****. Adjust my strap
And push the cart onward.
My purse like a little leather
Bundle of swaddling.
I nuzzle it close to my breast.

Frozen foods. Diet says
No carbohydrates, so I adjust
My tastes. In a little town
Like this, they’ll notice if
I don’t.

Magazine aisle. Nothing
But ***-endorsing rags
And godless photo sessions fit
For lining shelves and
little else.

Lord, this vast store!
Give me strength to bet back
To my car. God, look at
That **** at the pharmacy
Asking for birth control.

And I can’t help but
Cluck my tongue at her:
I just tell Ray I have a headache
And turn on my back.
Ha, as if she’s married.

No decency any more.
Men getting married, women too!
God supposedly “Banging” us out of
Star dust. Who are those atheists
To judge my truth?

Checkout. No, self-checkout.
I don’t like that clerk
Staring at me. Receipt.
Probably a ******* anyway.
And for a moment my mind controls the doors and all things.

V

She’s gone a bit insane.
Yesterday in class, she asked
To go to the lavatory
And just went straight home.
(Poor thing, I can’t blame
Her after all that has happened.)

She’s told me about her
Father before. Whether she’ll
End up as warped remains
To be seen. She’s got my sympathy.
(Mother dead at four, brother at
Seven and something else at twelve.)

Senior year is more than
Freedom from Dad, she says.
It’s freedom from myself,
Whatever that means.
(It is her father’s profound wish
That she memorize all of Revelations.)

From the grass, she tells me
That her father explained to her
That non-dairy creamer kills
Ants. She does it with a smile.
(We don’t have to say much more,
Suffice it to say he’s a very loud man.)

She still has an averse reaction
To stories about car crashes.
And I never read her her
Early July horoscope.
(Nightmares are too kind.
Panic sifts through windowpanes.)

Her uncle doesn’t call from
The old hometown, he was
Grabbed from her life and her
Father never says why they moved here.
(Two years her junior, she jokingly
Calls me Grandma because)

She hates her real one. Prom
And graduation. A candle
Ceremony and she’s gone.
Her father left before it was over.
(I’ll miss her, but I made
Her promise not to visit.)

VI

Hot like a miracle breath.
The two seasons: Summer
And February.
We taste the heat
And drive away for the weekend.
Of course the world ends
And the “Welcome to” sign.

Unsurprisingly,
The radio dies as we
Head back to town.
Why should the death of
An intangible surprise me?
Everything else
Dies here.

Pessimism like a mockingbird.
The smoking trees
Ripple like an Ella
Fitzgerald vowel.
Hold your
Miraculous breath
And it still won’t rain.

Our abortion
Welcomes the needle heat
with a  horrifying
Little finger.
That smile,
That smile.
Jesus.

How can it stay so
Hot? No reply,
But I forgot who
Was asking.
The irony of this ****
Town sparks my
Smile.

VII

So where are you from?

        I lived up north
Before I moved down here.
They needed teachers and
I thought “Why not?” Turns
Out this place is a lot
Slower than up where I
Came from. No offense.

(Laughs) None taken.
So what are you teaching?

Senior English. Pretty cool
Subject but I was shocked
How little the kids had been
Exposed to. I hope to remedy
That soon. (Mumbles something)
Any more problems, you know?

The parents have complained?

Oh, just the usual nitpicky
Silliness: “I don’t want my
Christa or Johnny reading
Such-and-such a book.”
After a few years, I’m
Sure the parents will lighten up.
Or, (Laughs) at least I hope.

How are the kids?

Can I actually answer that one?
One or two brights but most
Just seem ready to get out.
They’d better be willing to put
In some actual thought if
They really hope to. (Pause)
It’s not all about sports.

(Laughs) I hope you’re not too
******* the athletes. They do their best.

Well, I certainly hope
They do. I won’t play
Favorites or anything like
That. Hardly fair to the
Others, right? (Laughs,
A pause, tape ends.)

VIII

He can’t breathe.

He’s been running for
Hours.
The trees. The brush.

Wonderful veins blast
Away at their work
To preserve him;
Great fibrous tendons
Work to carry him
Away from the noise.

The murderous streets with
Scoured buildings
And trees inviting the
Convening crowds to lay
Out their burdens, to
String them up and
Ease their hard frustrations.

They have not seen him as yet.
He follows Polaris,
god of the irreverent,
Meager candle for a
Drowning man.

Exposed road; he flags
A car like a madman.
Well, we shan’t go
So far as to call him that.
And has he any bags?
No.
And which way is he going?
North.

Procession. Silence.

The coolish progress
Of a blackish
Summerish
Night.
How many minutes
out of town? and how
many moments in the
rounding cruelty of acting?
The driver smiles in his driver’s
Seat, eyes lit by the green
Display, ears filled suddenly with
Static.

The bruised night
Raises its single, white eye
Like the ponderous pitch
Of a bird.

I suppose he knew from
The second he saw the car:
There was never any sanctuary
In this little cloister.

The towns spreads like
Botulism over both windows.
He stops before the courthouse.
Stops before his jury,
Hanging judges.
And you needn‘t ask yourself
“Who are they?”

I’ll tell you.

They are men and women,
They stand on roofs.

They are boys from California
Who ran like foxes but refused
To run away.

They are musicians who lived
Their lives without a sound.

They are hopeless hags who
Speak in blinding grocery stores
And **** the gossip air.

They are girls with opportunities
Burst like an innocent cell
And violated by the heavy hand
That tucks them deep to sleep.

They are cruel little ******* who
Only wanted something to listen to
While the seasons spun around them.

They are teachers who never learned.
They are hearts that never burned.
They are heads that never cooled.
Not when it’s so hot outside.

They grew uneven like a story
Written in celebration of a meaningless title.
They have every right to be angry,
And yet they level their stones
At one another instead of the
Hell a glass house can become.

They walk so slow the sun
Can stoop and eat them up
Without the briefest guilt.

redefining awkward definiens
endorsing victorious evening
clamoring hawk-like intonations
conjecturing additional goals
optimizing ambient network
winning illinoisan night

trapping hacked-up events
warping æsthetic remnants
resuming inaudible overture
rallying auric-state net-work
defying anti-punk technophobia
eliminating cavalier homies!

minding icelandic anniversary
winging ersatz excuses
kicking ecstatic nerves
denying lackadaisical event
questioning upper echelons
brûlant en calice

what's with this hobby of keeping friends?
i've got two friends that
only say meow...
          and i'm kinda not rooting for
a Colombian hottie for a wife...
                 i abhor this idea of a "loner",
i haven't heard any monks being called that...
  but then again monks do live in a monastery...
why do people always seek each other's
company? what's wrong with liking your own?
it really bothers me... i mean, by current
standards of denoting this man a loner
would make Spinoza laugh...
                  is it because you need to be the quintessential
hermit living in a clay urn or in a hole
in a desert?
                              each night i drink something,
without fail: i feel better for it...
               i'm hoping it'll **** me...
but so many times people who don't known
how to drink get so ******* melodramatic
that i think about ensuring they are banned from
abusing the amber...
                        i hate melodramatic drinkers,
you either utilise the sedative of the amber to
an overcoming potential... short: Kant's
transcendental methodology... you you won't
drink and whine... or bash people about...
and that, i must say: is a rare art.
     1 litre of amber and i'm as silent as a mouse...
i'll say it again:
    there are too many melodramatic whinge-bags
out there... i don't get them...
    i mean i get them: but i abhor them...
                i could really do with a pupil,
nietzsche would do, about time he stopped dropping
those barbiturates and learned to dance!
         tanz! tanz herz im freuer!
yes, sometimes the trip was long
the N86 from romford to goodmayes and
into the brothel near the train station...
but every time i played a folk song,
usually dikanda's ketrin ketrin i'd sit on the bus
for about 40 minutes... aflame...
                i find that prostitutes are only fed the myth
of a tender touch and a complete lack
of experimental perversity... even a kiss is
the beginning of their myth-making...
   ordinary girls are fed the myth of movies,
and how it all works out...
    each time i went to the brothel i sat for the journey
time like a Sufi meditation with the
              dervish dance in my mind...
                 and that's the truth... mind you,
i have a grandfather that supports my work
and buys me cigarettes... then again he lived in a time
when he could age and get a state-pension,
as he does... he's not ailing in any sense, and he lives
in a post-communist country... and i just spent
3 weeks over there... which means my state-sponsorship
in england has amounted: that i could take out
110 quid and give it for a *******...
                and i could remember myself aflame...
  on a bus with a dervish dance in my mind...
           drunk, as usual: but that's the fun part of it...
i could wave my *** at all those
melodramatic drunks you get at parties and in other
public places who suddenly speak and only moan
how unfair it all is...
                      first time i went? well... i did go to
uni after all, the sacred land of getting a good score
for later life... what a sahara when it comes to ***!
   like with prostitutes it still turns out to be a case
of hard facts and harder choices...
                  money...
                        and­ the white historians and who else
in the etc. cul de sac are wondering why our ethnicity is
in decline... it's quiet a thing to be bemused by the freedom
of women and not addressing the point fairly...
                   the women are so free i had to find my own
freedom with a *******...
                         i got bored of too many darwinian examples
being incorporated into the act... once it's the peacock,
next it's the mantis and the black widow...
of sure... there's so much to gain if endorsing some sort
of chivarly, when next door lives a babe with a sugar daddy...
   ***-starved ******* can go elsewhere,
       wild-eyed logic and no manifesto...
literally: there's no hope for a manifesto here...
             there's no manifesto...
                    this is absolutely not a manifesto...
         i'm actually happy that as an ethnicity we're in decline...
  i found talking to other ethnicities a bit restrictive
and boring... i had to censor vocab fluidity with dams
and other ****** architectural constructs...
    so i looked at the shows on television,
a bunch of child-genuises were on...
   i never thought that spelling was like arithmetic...
   but it is... it is, oh hell it is...
  the judge says the word in that odd jumble that a word
is when you have alphabetical distinctions
   in vowel, consonant and syllable form...
    but the languasge is so different, after all
language is not really an optical language as such,
mathematical language is truly anti-phonetic...
and it comes down to the simple example:
      spell the word: onomatopoeia
  start saying the alphabet and it sounds nothing like
this word put together,
   the syllable ono-                
                       then -ma-
                               -to-        and now the tricky bit...
peya...          but what of the grapheme œ?
                you'd really be able to break your tongue
on that syllable suffix...
                       and when the children started spelling
the word: it look as if they were going cross-eyed
   trying to translate the sound into image...
    mathematical language doesn't have that problem,
do the following airthmetic (e.g.)  
   1 + 2 - 5 + 6 - 4 = ?
                                          0...
but that's different when you are told to spell the word
   renaissance -
                                  doubly more difficult if
you are told to create syllables without diacritical mark
distinctions...
               back to drink, like being asked for
a wine connoisseur's palette, when the wine you've been
given has been diluted...
   or in this case fudge packed so there are no
clear distinctions, too much french influence
      and siamese twin graphemes seperated...
excess vowel that i've heard means: kissing...
i'm sorry how the story goes,
i just can't be forced to **** a kenyan penny-picking
                tragedy with my humour...
        i'm bewildered by the arithematic
and the "arithmetic" of putting words together...
                  the internet has quietly become a war
for a freedom to talk... it's more a freedom to think
than talk...
                  and god forgive me feeling so obscure in
what i wanted to think, but given the social structure of
events happening, i had to do a minority report on
it being said, and me not typing this on
a medium of defeat, that i ended up on a warring stance...
i mean, i can understand obscurity per se,
i can't see how i can attach myself to it on a basis
of a phenomenon...
                          so unearthed we are from a structure
that a rebellion against
                  the szlachta was viable...
what the hell grows on concrete? coconuts?!
      i already said: this is hardly a manifesto...
and i truly demand it to be thoroughly agreed to...
                   then comes the shortcoming
barrage of: i knight you the nigh of not worthy...
                        and then the recycling process
bombards you with: many more squint-eyed *****
to come where you did, come from.
       urbanity has forsaken man attached to an organism,
but is feeling it right now,
                 he's attached to an inorganic farbic of testament...
i haven't walked the soil or toiled in it
to feel it's breath between winter or summer..
           i once had so much one-dimensional inclusion
in this world, then my sight was diverted,
and i came across the numbers, who took to being
***** whales and gulped me in one cascade of
the feeding...
              and i was told to walk it alone.
once actors were abhorred by society,
but then there was no office folk to compete for
utility biases when it came to giving gratitude to
pristine plumbing...
                          back when man was highly
economical... and thus actors had to be abhorred...
  to create a tsunami of sadism to keep them
staged... and true enough:
         if christ was crucified in the colliseum
there would have been fewer than none churches to
establish that event... given the colliseum is
made into a subject-trophy cabinet of holiness -
               and how the colliseum did morph...
it's sad talking about being human as excluding humanity,
as it's sad talking being human by including humanity...
               but thankfully (or not)
there's still that case of the arithmetic of the two tongues...
        say the word colliseum
                             co- -lli- -se'um.
      i mean, that means something...
  take to numbers and of the 26, care to call c = 3
               18 + 33 + 24 13 21
                            +                      2 1 2 = 5
                                                    4 3 1 = 8
                            + 58
                                    = 109
    
kabbalah is *******... mysticism was squandered with
gematria... but islam has no alternative either...
sure... if you have to establish a mirror image
of having a care for theological parasites...
   then you turn a into 1, and b into 2 and z in 26...
and then fiddle about until you get a *******'s worth
of bashing about because you couldn't write
a play entitle Macbeth...
               did any of these holy alternatives die
in Auschwitz? most of them living in America didn't
serve in the Israeli army...
                 who wonders whether they died in
Auschwitz?
                 no! they didn't!
       they were bemused by this correlation of
numbers and letters, thankfully we already can read
the opposite of the kabbalistic practices
prostate in the Deutronomy...
           say 10 a thousand times... adds a few more zeros
but leaves the 1 intact...
            please enlighten me as to who wrote the first
koranic recitation if not khadira? please! for the love
of god tell me it wasn't khadira!
         oh wait... given the hispanic um...
it's khadija - the h is silent and the j is actually a hatch...
          a bit like in the west, with y and j trying to
be a grapheme... a load of ******* *******:
and yes: i have to be crude on the matter...
   so we have the first verse written by a woman...
  or was it a bit like saying...
Aisha wrote surah no. 114... i can just picture it...
the young wife said to her ageing husband:
pray with these words, you lecherous *****!
say: say it you ageing carcass!
i seek refuge in the lord of manking,
the sovereign of mankind...
      the god of mankind...
     from the whisper of the retreating whisperer
(gabriel must have left him once the 13th wife arrived,
of god! the symmetry with jesus' disciples!)
     who whispers into the ******* of makind
(evil is in the brackets) -
from among the jinn and mankind.
conscience really can be a ****** to master.
but the geometry of the koran (glutton the q if you want,
makes no impressions on me) -
is that it starts thick... ends up anorexic...
           so much to say at the start,
but then shrinks... it's beautiful in that sense...
given the miracle of muhammad was that he was
illiterate...
  so someone had to write the words for him...
            i'm guessing khadija wrote the best part of it...
i like to think of her writing the first revelations...
    but i also like to muse that aisha wrote the latter
half of the: how do they stress the ******* q k c so much
that it sounds like it's not coming from the mouth
but coming from the nose?! qu-ran... i need
a hanky and snorkel that **** out... qu sneeze! i-ran...
          it's glutton and it's nasal, and it's almost like:
the back of the throat... and then comes the la la la all-hubris
in that song five times a day...
                but seriously... you tell me the man was illiterate
an this book exists... so who wrote it?
   women!
                                         the merchant of mecca in
Finland... left the scandinavian penninsula after one year
and never came back...
                   but how can you have so much
at the beginning and so little at the end?
   a different woman, who was literate (and the man
wasn't) wrote what needed to be said...
    i just look at the surah an-nas as a way to suggest
that the prophet: al suma mal ley *** blah blah
had been asked to repent... repent you paedo!
          that's crude, i know... and i'm drunk,
i'll wake up sober tomorrow and cook a pork curry
and think about leather shoes and shoelaces and belt...
and how camels are dirtier than pigs and how you
can eat almost all of pork offal and when i see a camel
i just think of chewing tobbacco and spitting into
a copper tin... or camel-jockeys...
        or how i think arabs are cursed with oil
and dyslexia and diabetes... how most of them will
end blind or amputee due to their diabetes...
      how a lot of them would like something more
than turkish coffee and baklava, and how
it stops looking cool after a while...
           arab oil, dyslexia and diabetes...
which probably means a palestinian balaclava
at the end of the sequence...
   i'll never know: i'm not planning to have
a stop-over shopping spree in Dubai, any time soon.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 23, 2014)

Every bird loves to hear himself sing:
poet as broken sparrow full of pitiful sorrow;
poet as proud cardinal, tight and righteous;
poet as bald eagle, impractically clichéd;
poet as California Condor unable to land;
poet as grouse (formal grouse, lyric grouse, the avant-garde);
poet as vulture feeding on the system;
poet as parrot squawking down the red carpet;
poet as crow, loudly erroneous;
poet as warbler, precise, lilting and endangered;
poet as the high-necked goose, ugly, deluded;
poets of the weather describing the heather,
birds of a feather endorsing each other.

Pride dug a hole in their relationship
Deeper and deeper they dug
Silence was the casket they fell in
No echos of love
Endorsing anger as their new form of emotion
Blaming each other like old fools
Manipulated souls
Feeling destroyed
as pride became their voice of reason
Leaving no choice
Obeying it as they both chose to be (right) no love (left)
Promises ignored
Both robbed of happiness
Pride introduced them to emptiness
Both stressed and depressed
Seeking validation for their emotions
Turning to negativity to find satisfaction
The devil between them
Comfortably cuddling with their souls
Creating a divided union lacking a destination
pride left them Lost with no direction
Pride destroyed their beautiful connection
It destroyed their promises and hopes for a bright future
Suffering to see the sunlight while living in darkness

The dream

Remember- Martin Luther King-

"Let freedom ring"
He grace the world with a vision.
"Free at last"
He sang of the goal to the crowd

Remember -Agathe Uwilingiyimana -

The "content of our character"
Has come to judgment
But these character are just fools on a stage

Remember -Abraham Lincoln-

King's dream would come to a peak
But 2chainz, kim, minaj  TO and those unlike him
Would push it over and watch it crash on the buffs below

Remember -Medgar Evers-

Even Langston, wondered "what is a dream differed?"
Mahalia Jackson screamed for Martin to "tell em bout the dream"
But as Marvin proclaimed "we still don't know what's going"

Remember -John Fitzgerald Kennedy-

Obama made it in but the walls of the house he resides are far from the gleaming white it claims to be.
Blackened by the administration before him, the walls just too dingy to overlook

Remember -Fred Hampton-

He said "america gave us a bad check" and the march to washington would be how its cashed.
We all saw Barak at the teller endorsing but in the end the long fall of that tall horse was the goal of the fairest man.

He wanted every valley exalted.
Instead ******* God father pizza man makes a fool of the process, and a kid with a hoodie take the hit, just like Emmit Till, a school full of babies take the hit, Twin towers in new york takes the hit, theatre full of batman fans take the hit, but guess that's living the dream.

Remember- Harry and Hariette Moore-

Malcom says by any means
Even Jimi Hendrix sang for us to grab the machine guns
"Fight the power!" Be a public enemy. What ever happen to all that?
A fist in the air and a call for unity use to use to get us up in the morning
Now this ***** running around with a helmet and some horns telling these skanks he's the flavor of love.
Ya I'll pass on that
And go with the labor of love and survive with a better understanding of what life is.

Remember -Benazir Bhutto-

Mya Angelou was a ****, *******, stripper, and thief before she  new "why the cage bird sing"
Even today with all her enlightenment she ask where is Dr King's dream?

Humans have come so far so fast but judgment and common sense still elude our sophisticated lives. What once was a dream is indeed a reality to most but that's only because the play ignorance to the issues that still plague our nation and that dream we chase is littered with little nightmares.

Remember -Emmit Till-

Lincoln started the process J.F.K started the process, M.L.K. Preached the process, Medgar Evars tried to beat the process, Malcom X was betrayed for the process, Agathe Uwilingiyimana stood up for the process,Benazir Bhutto took a chance on the process,Fred Hampton died in the process,
Harry and Hariette Moore burned for the process,
Emmit Till was tortured in the process.
All believing the dream would see them survive.

-Remember the future-
-Xin-

A world convulsed at fallacious lies,
With a pensive reality,
And caliginous skies.
A night as dark as the depths of hell,
Malignant capabilities,
Your sinister voice I know too well.

Due to your influence,
I have become oblique.
Dreading all the words
That you speak.
Am I truly the one you seek?

Now I have prospected
and also detected
That the only way to be consummate
Is to remain idyllic, and appreciate
The taciturnity you’ve effected

I apprehended
That I should have escaped while I could
But I pretended
Like I misunderstood
That you were do good.
You insanity was cloaked by a hood.

I’m not endorsing you to deliver my downfall,
Aforementioned here, is my last stand.
Absent from reality I’ve become,
Just to plummet down this peak once more,
Due to the careless vivacity
of the fellow that is blind,
to his doings unkind.

And now, all you do is provoke
The constant fear that I have chosen
the wrong bloke.
And for this I have frozen
A friendship that was golden.

I really shouldn’t crave you
but for some reason
I can’t abdicate.

how many decimal points would it take to create
                                                                ­a 2 = 2 scenario?
maybe the cultured swine in me asks such
questions, or perhaps i don't have
enough practical, matrimonial and
heterosexual worries in my life to ask
such a question in the first place?
would it take 2 = 2.00000000000000002?
how many denials
             then?
       maybe i'm asking a question like this
to start trending a nuanced vogue
amidst
            the most discriminated form of
humanity, namely white heterosexual men?
hmm... perhaps.
      last night i watched a movie adaptation
of a video game: can i just say that
Mario Bros. worked, but
the intricacy of game becoming movie can
only work when you get sore thumbs...
can these people: who play or design such games
ever write a novel? nearing two hours into
the movie and i was chanting with a variety
of onomatopoeias a zombie apocalypse
best summarised by the words: agony drool...
well d'uh.. e ragrammaton is a sneaky ******,
pops up everywhere in language,
      while looking for the post-Heraclitean logos
within the framework of phonos
  i came across the surd dynamic of four:
well, three, the H-twins and the trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, leaving Y as the tangen
and a focal point of convergence...
    and Jesus paid no respect the name -
i could tattoo pharisee on my *** and burp
    through it... there, four prime surds...
in Sanskrit: dhaal... you sort of jump over the h
and add a macron: dāl... but let's face it:
the aesthetic is sorta missing, what you hear
and what you see are cued combatants...
              why am i writing this? i just received
Monday's newspaper... could i be less
reactionary about the world inviting itself into
my pleb-bound world? can someone please
usher these gnats from my halo?
no... well... hence the reaction.
          and so much more vitality comes from
self-loathing than from self-love...
   life is more colourful, and so much less
lies-fudge-packed-between-the-sardines-to-an-ideology...
     catch you on a Friday night when it's not
so pristine? sure thing babe... sure thing my
tweaser plucked runny-mascara piglet...
we'll be snorkelling in mud by then.
could anyone think of a reason of mixing mayonnaise
with horseradish?
          but seriously... when did people forget
the concept of polyphony that Bach (ich?
see, the phonos already retracts the polygamy
shared by the same spelling) - say chequers and
cheese in german... chaka demus & pliers
and venting out a tension in the Caribbean quarter
of London, postscript August:
and it always rains... rains daggers and lip-kissing
anger of: ******, not enough scotch-**** chillies.
      and that's saying enough before Shaggy Dry Fuss
came on the scene with: wozzin' me.
   the real whizz kid right there... question is:
alter Paris? Jim Morrison's grave is taller than the Eiffel,
well, all the bums go there and steal the naive
    groupies leaving bottles of wine and joints at
the grave... but yeah... they called it cut-up post-Tzara
with Burroughs,     a zillion things that crept up on me
while i wasn't thinking about Juliet...
                and the reality of a shopping spree,
and all the cliches imaginable...
        perhaps truths too...
                    but even the writing said it was originally
theirs... Bach was already prescribing polyphony...
        let's say multilayered convo....
                       let's say: vogue of millennials'
distractive tendency... and that's so so so much clearer
than what poetry can become:
       a deaf man's tapping to a jazzy / hip-hop beat...
   a tenacious d's   one note song: ******* too,
rhyme... grr...         why do people write poetry as
if they're talking to Muhammad's Aisha prior to
skinning the grape?
                    why don't they talk to poetry as they might
talk to a *******?
                     who are "they" (yes, not paranoid, just
an obscurity with no vectors or index pointy pointy
*******
           the oyster)
                              which brings me to the controversy...
do you think rapists are masochists? or sado-masochists?
there was me on a date, i brought the movie and she
brought the bed and dinner...
                     see, i ask because something odd happened...
first of all was the Victorian practice of *******
under the bed-sheets rather than on top and all bulges
in full view like serpentine lizards (fat? i tend to
see it as seafood)...   yeah... but in the brothel
she would fake arousal for my eyes to see and slobber
her oyster in butter... or l'oreal cream...
   fair enough... but i'm wondering: this one time
she felt so so guilty after getting a genuine ****** on
the job... obviously that's hard... but on this one
authentic anglo-saxon date i got ****** by a dry ****...
       so either rapists are self-endorsing masochists
and all the women they **** have dry ***** due
to fear... or... yeah, that glistening or...
             is this a prescription piece? no, i'm just curious
why prostitutes smother their foreskins with
beauty cream so it doesn't hurt, and this one
pristine puritan babe was all Saharan pouch deepfryer...
                which is why i'm wondering...
   if a ******* can cream-up, and a good upstanding
girl with a decent job in a grammar school with
free accommodation on site can't....
                       you might as well shove your prometheus
        into a tube consisting of sandpaper.
                                         some also call it
    scratching your 5 o'clock shadow.

Ate a plate of whey, with the weight of the nation
on my shoulder blade, away from any destination
so underpaid, my paychecks archaic
not even a quarter to go to arcades with
it’s outrageous!
misery must be contagious
haven’t seen happy faces in ages
It may just be time to vacate
break out like rosacea to the golden gate
every swig of this whiskey brings me to a bolder state
like Colorado
i weighed my options and hopped in my Silverado
like a desperado full of bravado
with the bottle, feeling tipsy now though
singing in staccato ‘**** an intervention’  
time to get uncertain,
speed full throttle towards the intersection  
laughing and swerving
through the red light cursing
and yelling interjections
with a bottle of bourbon
horns blaring, it’s deafening
my ******* ascending
just struck a deaf person
no ***** giving
i’m out of my mind, livid
get hired and fired in 5 minutes
from any job i was given
i’m tired of living
no one even knew i existed
until i started whizzing through traffic
causing collisions,
now i’m forcing decisions
on residents w/ moral convictions
who’d rather see me oral constricted
then remain mortal in prison
got these ******* endorsing petitions
to have me executed by poison injection
shot, hung, electrified, the above all mentioned
and did i mention-
My backseat looks like a knife convention
there’s an array of switchblades i had since fifth grade’s declension
Sketching art on the desk while serving detention
some kind of wonderful, no eternal reflection
i’m reflecting as i smashed into a connection
and see my reflection in the water
as i’m descending slow motion like deception
my body is in all different positions of flexion
this is met with favorable reception
hear the crowd’s exhilaration
i’m unwilling to indulge in anymore retrospection
just waiting to hear the splash
and waves crash then….

VI

Several hours to the nearest coast
away for a night and day is all
our landlocked lives would allow.

That first time we arrived at night,
down the steepest hill to the road’s end,
to wind and rain, and a hardly visible sea.

Then up three steep stairs we climbed,
to that attic room where opening
its window on a November night

we sat in its deep-silled space
to see the waves seething below us,
waves vying for room in a bay

crowded with rolling forms
of water eager to break and fling out
foam and ****, spray and stone.

Later and despite the rain
we walked the length of a beach so dark
our shoes could hardly guide us home.

Always the incessant sounding sea.
High above a drama of moon and clouds
throwing jagged shadows on the wet sand.

Caught in this play of natural things
how could we not hold these images
ever closer to the imagination’s heart?

VII

I’ve come again
to my favourite place:
below the coarse grass landward,
above the wet sand seaward.

This zone of discovery,
my well-found land of treasure,
rich in bewildering textures.
Some of it I could do without,
but even the plastic is
beguilingly ornamental.

I carry with this bag of mine my third eye.
I will collect and even curate (in the field)
ephemeral exhibitions on suitable surfaces.
Never camera-shy these found objects.

Later, they may appear
on my studio table, or pinned
against the wall, then primed
with carborundum on
a collographic plate, stilled
into life for the purposes of art.

Whatever the object may be,
it carries my tide-mark,
a quality sign endorsing a choice
made on a deserted beach,
and proved to be right
when placed in my hand.
It registers rightful ownership.
Who knows, one day
it might embody something
more than an image of itself.

Time is nothing new, knowing knots will never be undone
Evil crawls in the minds of man, manifesting itself to be beautiful
Accepting and acknowledging all aristocrats who abuse their power
The world is bland, where a woman loses her womanly flower
Covering each other up, taking out the surface not the root, it’s wrongful
Uncommon is the book, imagination in the individual’s ideal of no fun I sit pondering upon these problems, probing a way into fixing all
When a crumpling crucial crumping sound, roared through the skies TV’s turned on, radios turned up, the Television speaks of trumpets
Couples, church-goers, children cry to the camera “Ready your Caskets” Fire and hail trail to the ground, blood blaze behind, Earth in her demise
People jab and judge each other, nobody understanding the Trumpets first call.
As the people panic in passionate rage and fear Everything is going, diminishing, dying, covered in dirt, grass and trees burning
A second trumpets serenades through savage yells
Mountains begin to burn and fall, along with the church bells
The seas slowly from within spoils into blood curling
Every child glances up joyfully as staircases appear. A ten horned beast raises out of the sea, mouth maliciously open with intent
Scrambling and screaming sub-beasts crawl into an unhinged jaw
It rages and shakes the ten kings hoarding on each horn. Three kings crumble, crash to cultivated grounds, their bodies torn. Blood bathed, entitled; enraged the beast takes earth as its thrall. The people scared, scratched, scraped and tortured bent. Blackened beasts bash past the saints
Looking for sin, sinister civil devils
Trumpet three blows, while sitting upon universal long ledges
The demons demonstrating patience beyond the ages
Hells helpful and hazy corruption seen at different levels
Through mans lounging, Wormwood falls to decide fates. The world is weeping through wasted weaves of wind
Disgusting smell of dead rides the tormented tasteless air
Swallowed by the fourth trumpet, bravely bashing through gusts
To find safe haven upon the throne of tusks
No animal though that tasted the tenacious disease will be accepted in care
They will be banished into the cold forever dark air, where they will shiver and cringe. The world is silent waiting, wallowing for the fifth When it comes Angels, breath beneath the blacken clouds
There striking wings linger as they blow three cornets In the sky, seeping through the soundless sky sails comets
A sight for the still faithful all watch in a crowd
As the comets releases Locusts from beneath. Laying lusciously low in a most lucid state, The ***** Her words wager, weave, win through the minds, falling for false prophecy
Ripping right by the remonstration of being The ***** of Babylon
Woman and Man fall for the words, seeking haven from hell hereon
Adult to child, wishing away her whims, she is the spiritual adultery
No newly made Neanderthal seeing her for the devils zany zealotist abhor. With The ****** lies, breaches the Mother of abominations
The one obtuse and first woman to walk in the Garden of Eden
Human at first, ripped apart, away from innocence; Lilith Haste to Hate, Revenge against the rotting earth, taking away human health
The goal stupendous, shaking sorrowfully, any good is forbidden
For killing is her passion, her art, her own Revelations. The sixth trumpet signals the release of the most dangerous Soldiers
The four enticing beings of end that are released from Euphrates the great water
Their massive army mounting at two hundred million minimizes us
Useless and hopeless everyone allows plagues in their bodies with lust
All people want is death, decaying, disembodied from the soul, without a bother
The ***** still preaching, but not a single being is listening to her false words of a philosopher. In the mix of mist and swamps I continue to sit and scrutinize
Every evil endorsing embassy of hell-spawn
Floating and coating, demoting every satchel of thought
As every defecate of remorse leave me in distraught
My mind is distilled where my initial thoughts are withdrawn I empower the sour cowering stare of the devil’s eyes. I cannot look away, the steady statue stare Embracing escalated enmity, fighting for it not to invade my mind
Never knew cruelness existed and brought beings such delight It covers itself in kindness and caring as it wishes me good night
When wrathful vengeance I awake, to aspire, to find
A torture most terrifying, tossed into twisted tarred souls, my religion I forswear. A game of chess, played between each, no physical state
Dictating the defence, drawing out, hitting, harassing and hackling
Pawn for a pawn, the pound of flesh taken from the absence of attack
Everything twists and twines around each feeble thimble of thoughtless comeback
Devil sends soulless soldiers, crashing crazily through bones a crackling. Finding flirtatious moments to pass the queen into the kingly gate. I have lost; no match made on earth can win with the Devil
Although I lost, I still hold onto faith that in the everlasting end I will be acknowledge by my God, I’ll will be shown care
I sit, sore, scarred, seared of my dignity, I pray
In my mind the Lord’s Prayer is the only way I can defend
I know beyond my brave but bashed thoughts that I kept away from evil. The loudest, most holy, mind clearing trumpet rings
The seventh and ending of the biblical war
A hole rips the sky, rendering useless, entirely beautiful though
Angels dash rescuing the ravaged by faithful souls, protection from beasts below I am avenged, my mind repaired from the unprotected un-releasing pain that I can now ignore
I praise to the Lord, lavishing, laying beside his council of twenty-four of forgiving beings.

product endorsements
are what I like to do
and boy have I got
a good product for you
since I've been wearing
the EverFlex brand
of shoe
endorsing them is all
I like to do
they've a comfortable fit
and on the foot
they so nicely sit
EverFlex are the kings
in the shoe-making vocation
and should you not be
slipping into a pair
your feet won't be
sensing elation

As i shape stanzas, Adam Lanzas **** the cameras, in glamorous stands up, against the manners of actors, in the matters of forgotten factors, in a world gone bananas, I still cant stand us, even when we are dead.

I have tried every side of the bed to no diligence unchecked, in a nervous wreck of annoyance coining in and destroying it, for a bonus, its bogus to know us, but i'm owning it yet, with no regrets and loose concepts to be swept to *****, and on my feet.

I'm obsolete, and my talk is cheaper than most, as i host my feats in a single page, post heathen faze incomplete, as it is only so lonely in the frozen face of flattery, where i may fill my battery, but nothing more, in boring affordability, storing dreams for safe keeping to a later day that may never be, but hey, what does it matter anyway, i will either be, or not be.

I may be just lapsing in luxury, rupturing the subtlety of my structuring around the scars of brain parts too far to reach.

Lets meet on middle grounds with silent screams and loose eyes, fiddling the sounds and singing for the criers, expiring behind less than inspiring doors.

I am just bored, praising the lords of a more recordable source, reliably on course, with a deplorable force, endorsing the chores of servitude, never meaning to be rude, as i enjoy my solitude, while in the employ of the gratitude for what i got, but im not...

That boy anymore, my wonder turned wandering and i will never be that baby again, nor alone, so let go, in knowing the flow can be trusted in showing us something more, said the slave to his *****, before a morbid torrent to show her core to the floor of a showroom, vacuumed into space, awakening to the fate, of monotonous finality, praying to randomly generated gods, for the fogs of war... or anthing more, than this.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 3, 2016)

O Jackie O,
I never once loved you so.
So skeletal in voice and dress,
Too stiff and ironically glamourless.

But I wonder today if you might
Have guidance to state on this fight
Between burlesque yacht-yellers
And gold-plated chief fellers.

Just yesterday my girl endorsed my girl*
Throwing another flag into the whorl.
Would endorsing be a thing you would do
Like so many diplomatic kangaroo?

How can we parse your demure brevities
As one of the pseudo celebrities?
Is it all just the new and the old
Auctioning the righteous and the sold?

Is it all just the shiny
For the brute and the whiny?
The answer lies not in your pillbox hats
Or from infinitely sermonizing acrobats.

A gun is always cocked at the ballot gate
To defend abstractions under the breastplate.
O bookish frau, the parade quickly becomes fraught,
Kennedus patiens, covered in blood and covered in thought.

~ Ommm ~

I'm attempting to find inner peace on the top floor
of a down town community hall.

                   ~ Ommm ~

I can hear the anxious siren of an ambulance;
its tone stretched out by the sound waves
that fail to keep up.

                  ~ Ommm
       Focus on your breathing... ~

For an apparently relaxation endorsing pose
right now I feel very uncomfortable.

                  ~ Ommm
       Look towards your inner eye.
       See the beam of bright, white light shine
       From your third eye.
        See the bright light...  ~

I can't see it, are there special opticians
For people who can't see through their third eye.
Maybe I don't have a third eye...
Oh no, I don't think I have a third eye!

                  ~ Ommm
         Focus of your breathing...
         Focus on the bright light
        radiating from your inner eye... ~

Okay I think I've found it, is that it?!

          ~  You should follow along
               towards the golden temple,
               Step forward.
              And with each step
              focus on the feeling
              of the fresh, green grass
              beneath your feet. ~

My right foot has serious pins and needles!
Don't think about it!
Don't think about it!

        ~ Your left foot is your Karma,
           Your right foot, your Dharma
           With each step focus on the feeling
           of the fresh, green grass beneath your feet... ~

My Dharma has serious pins a needles!
Ouch, ouch, ouch!
Don't think about it!
Don't think about it!
                              
                            ~ Ommm ~

I need to move but I don't wanna disrupt my zone of inner peace.
Ouch, ouch, ouch!

                      ~ Step into the pool
              and feel yourself melt within it.
         And lose the sense of having ****** form
                 Float into the nothingness.

                   Drift off into the water...  ~

I wonder if there are inner eye lifeguards
For the little imagination people who can't swim.

              ~  Focus on your breathing ~

Pins and needles!
Ouch ouch ouch!
Maybe if I wiggle my toes a bit...

       ~ Gradually come back to the sense of having a body.
                 Feel yourself being bought back to life.
                                  You are re-born. ~

Re-born?! Well, if you say so but
My right foot is proper dead right now.

                             ~ Ommm
                   Keep gently breathing... ~

And now I better brace myself for
the many uncomfortable, complicated poses
that we will manipulate our bodies into...

                             ~ Ommm ~

That distract us temporarily from the manic metropolis chaos
that's buzzing right outside the windows.

                               ~ Ommm
          Stretch out and breathe in that beautiful prana ~

The dusty air, choked with car fumes
and the diesel engine hum of the noisy dockyard nearby.

                                 ~ Ommm ~

Morning is a trigger to activate the awakening normative
Prior to such a tradition was endorsing the night of sedative
Temptation pressures me to remain with the sleep of comfort
But day is none other than a truce between light and alert
Leave the bed I must and forward to the room of ****** nurture
The kitchen is the place to cope past the room filled with furniture


Upon the counter I shall set my coffee to rest with the breeze
Bacon is part of the morning nurture I shall extract from the freeze
Inside the toaster shall be two bread slices facing the slow roast
Alongside the swine's flesh shreds are eggs from the chicken host
Products of meat shall cook upon the range until come the full stop
This morning meal shall I consume when done its use on the countertop

the **** came out from Egypt,
like a pyramid...
i'm, literally, not here...
i'm, not here...
            and that's a the end
with many more post-scriptums
coming from the kid of god...
kid, yes, baby goat antonym,
and no point using fingers
in the most weird arithmetic
counting to: that! it..
           or, i! the: obscure ref.
   to what's airy and prone to disperse:
                     a, and subsequently
without, i.e. a-,
           i don't under the point
europeans with european women pampering
to rich arabs, and why egyptians are
involved... there's enough hate
to sell another Holocaust,
    wasn't the last Holocaust so denied
as to not sell it?
  it's selling, right? what with Rachel Weisz...
the holocaust is selling hot, so what's
the argument? the Poles didn't even get to sell
the holocaust, they were partly to blame for it...
   so what's the problem with holocaust denial
if holocaust clap-clap is about endorsing it?!
   oh look here! the title got you,
what's missing? the articles, benefits of a, god...
lamb of god sounds like the right tame,
the worthy cliche...
                         there's always a devil, and the devil...
ha ha... but there's never a god, and the god
is monotheism... lamb of god, kid of devil...
baby goat... d'uh!
                                   teeth!
gnats and the crocodile bite-snap!
                                  well, trans-gender euphoria...
woo! hoo! youth day with the pope gesticulating
******* into it for a ****** cream advert!
woo! hoo! chug! chug! chug!
      wonders... and god does indeed work
in mystifyng ways... last time i checked, he
didn't include the encyclopedia in his genesis...
beginning with day 1...
                  but i'd expect Peckham to be on the list
in terms of gaff...
       shame it's never article bound with god,
but always article bound to say: devil...
it's not you even say a ****** of being godlike
by saying ***...
                    as you apply to devil,
and say: the devil... i really do believe in holy
matrimony... whether sealions have harems
or whether swans prescribe monogamy and the lonely,
wandering, widower...
            sounds about cello or male ******* slapped against
a tennis-racket crap to me...
don't know, were you expecting a narrative
of ping-pong?
                   well, the i is in the huh; that should be clue
enough for you.
        lamb of god is never as restrictive as kid of devil...
somehow g fakes being a consonant unlike the d...
               why does kid of devil ask for the or a preposition?
i'm almost crying... why does it need atheism in between?
                      can't you think of anything more demeaning
than being crucified?! how about being impaled on a pike?!
how about the blood eagel for those who transgressed
      the nordic social code... how about the iron maiden?!
you have to be ******* kidding me to epitomise being
crucified... they didn't crucify the son of god,
no more than they crucified an innocent man...
                    the ******* must have done something
to compenstate being a Jewish woman back then...
i'd establish being impaled on a pike to be more painful
than being crucified...
  and so we behold the least original form of execution
as our heart-rendering feeling toward keeping
a stranglehold of the throng...
        we had much more ingenuity come our way
in terms of how a human body would be mutilated
if allowed capital...
it's such a shame that i am left with this dust...
         but it's still a case of: lamb of god...
       and not kid of devil... atheism always pokes its
ugly head through... no one says: kid of devil...
there's nothing definite or indefinite about it...
           yes, kid, baby goat...
            no one bothers that with kneeling and
repentance...  you clean the language up,
   as it looks, the unearthing of the nag hammadi gospels
mostly read by western psychiatrists is no help to me...
    the transgender movement is a lazy way to say:
i really didn't read a lot of poetry...
because these people didn't!
the land of the pronoun is a wild west of what's
typically english, asexual noun appropriation,
   and general liking toward custard ****:
my my, it really does splash a bit about the place.
                              they decided it was easier to
do the genital chop... than read a poem...
                     i'm stating from year 0...
because there's really no point in asking this
Jew raised in Egypt to take us anywhere else, other than
here... if you can make as much money from
other people's ultimate miseries, as the money
made from the holocaust... good luck to you,
i somehow never see money as translatable goods...
too much a priori static... it's like you're not
expected to, but do so nonetheless...
  a right old need in asking for a bollocking...
          and here is nowhere... and i mean:
    i have no geneticists' bias to preserve the human race,
or that argument that really, really belongs in a museum...
  atheism is so lacking motivational convo,
  i'm almost starting to believe it... ****! i have started to
believe it! look at me! dodo haven bound!
           i'm about to get flustered and ask for
a balding swan to fuss about its feathers when
i ask: which way to the toilet, devoid
of toiletries? it's ok... really.. i have a sun tan;
what? isn't that enough?
       will schindler's list teach me anything,
will it teach me to hold your hand more gently than
my own?
    i have no respect for people making money
in making others respect it...
at least the old tesatment people put on a ******* kippah...
you just keep up with your religious
hollywood ******* of many ****** movies
and i'll make enough of them foundation
for the next pyramid! Belial unto Balaam sooth!
i have enough gravity to drag me beneath the seas,
  and make sure that the earth eats me whole,
enough crematoriums to remind fire it's chore...
   and enough air, worthy a ****,
  and a comic gag to choke on turning words
into fishbone, of that pinewood needle refined kind:
neunzig-acht rot bollons... needle... pop...
     ja, minus ein; papa apache made me do it!
gott... mein goot ęglish achtung!
                 we really did stand & deliver as
                       adam & the ants told us to do...
we obviously didn't spawn any babies...
to keep our body motivated toward a beyond a grave...
no matter... T2 came out... and
no sight of Arnie Schwarzenegger.

I.
This bridge spans two worlds... No, two realities, though where gone?!
Mirrors the mythological beauty of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon
Endorsing the clout and stoicism of Zeus's Statue on Mount Olympus
Parallels the grieving love that built the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus
Evokes the envy of the world as did the Great Library of Alexandria
Rescues forlorn souls, unrivaled since the Lighthouse of Alexandria
Embodies Giza's Pyramid's genius and their incorporated golden ratios
Shorter lived and more vulnerable than the Colossus of Rhodes

      Most impressive, though, is that this bridge was only built by two
         Abandoned the 8th wonder of the ancient world... Dare who?

II.
Horatius Cocles, sole guardian of its last half, despairs at the disrepair.  
  Mind forever enveloped and enthralled by shadow's legendary glare!

Horatius Cocles, despondent, knowing that glory days are long lost, 
  but more so bearing knowledge that Venus will never once more cross!

Horatius Cocles, tortured by this bridge, yet impotent to torch it ablaze.
   Disabled evermore by visceral love, yet would do it all the same.

I have tried to give birth to a new and improved version of my vision
Exulting blips of exactitude and ambition
Flashes of pretension on a screen of pending dreams
Lacking mobility and projection
Inertia writhes

I'm mainly advertising trying to sell and intrigue
To those who have enough eloquence to persuade my predilection and schemes
Endorsing me providing lifelines and pure consciousness
Lacking the force of extorted themes and exulting worthiness
Cleansing my mind of the mocking bird's trash heap
Help me dissemble the falsified declarations and professions of fiends

I want to be pristine
I beg thee to teach and galvanize me
Endowing me with inexorable sight
Keeping me keen and full of bold might
I am willing to fight

Bring me to the surface of these turbulent seas
No need to mention my frailties and anxieties
All I ask is a breath from the surface of true realities

The urgency constrains my needs for rejuvenation and appreciations
For all those little beautiful things that once meant the world to me
Like pink carnations

Sleeplessness morphs into spells of insomnious hauntings
Stunting my contractions
It's completely and utterly exhausting
A labor deprived of true initiative and wanting
It may sound silly but everything is contradictory

It is these pains that leave me incomplete, ineffectual, and in paralyzing omission
Excluded and feeling great depths of oppression
Despairing and kept in solitary confinement
  
Suffering more than I'd like to profess
Distressing the matters that cave into my chest
An infiltration of insurmountable anguish
Abolished
Untouched by a shoulder or hand of accommodation
Is it selfish to push for this magnitude of isolation?

I crave cultivation
I want to grow into the Giant Sequoia
But the fires of self doubt leave my branches in ruins
Smoke signals sending sirens
A constant affliction
It's all my own doing

Contingency pleading for nourishment
Somehow knowing thee and ye could constitute for something of legends
Tell that to our reflections
Or maybe it's the fear of fire that terminates our pregnancy
Causing us to introvert instead of projecting
Withholding both you and I from mastery

Painfully  the  heart  beats the  chest,  
Ember  of  lineal  segregation  will  come  out,  
And  the  ripping  blaze of fire  will  engulf,  
Communal  harmony  consummating  peaceful  coexistence  gulf,  
Executing  ethnicity,  caste, creed  and  religion  smithereens.  

Patriot’s  spirit  yields  serene  backdrops, 
Everyone  perman­ently  scribbling  down the  tales,  
And  if  we  don’t  improve  the  stories,  
Coming generations will  be  forced  to  clean up our mess,  
Ending  up  in  the  question  “what is  peace?”  

Peace  is  simply forgiveness,  
End  of  hate,  war  or  violence,  
Abstinence  of  using  violence  to  show  our  emotions,  
Calming  silence,  
Endeavor to  have  unity  in  diversity.  

Portrayal  of  Kenya’s flag  is  peace,  
Entailing  every  magic  spell  of  her  climate,  history  and ­ culture,  
Appraised  by  her  quick succession  of seasons,  
Culminated  by  the  gentle  sun  and  benign  rain  that softens  the  mind,  
Endorsing  peace  naturally.  





Wishing a peaceful 2017 General Elections in Kenya.

Black glass
Hugged by plastic.
A rigid, shiny stone,
Holy and smooth as silk.

It calls upon you.
Its dark face glowing with glee,
its still form
trembling in tantrum.

Eyes gawk eagerly while
dexterously trained fingers
Slide their grease-stained trail
across its blossoming surface,
trapped in vanity.
A technological marvel,
one might say,
it’s glistening roads worshipped and
Truly wondrous.

All the images: moving, smiling, addicting.
The knowledge of the universe, packed into
a tiny, plastic cocoon,
festering, growing, evolving,
eager to be eaten.

Endorsing gluttonous laze, and
Unmasking humanity’s
unseemly colors;
it lulls you in with its
digital spindle embrace, the
sharp strings of data
reaching in through the eyes and
touching the optic nerve.
Neurons swell in ecstasy, pupils dilate, the heart screams;
matter of the brain catches fire in
its electrical storm, and
cascades into chemical ******.

Satiating a toxic lust.
Brilliant glass
turns to black,
stuck to your hand like glue.

proud parent of a closeted gay kid

my honour student has clinical depression

crybaby on board

if you can read this, this is the closest thing to intimacy i have experienced in weeks

the voting system is a fraud. i think we should reconsider the infrastructure of the american government before endorsing a candidate via the back of our vehicles

how's my driving? validate me please i'm so sad

September 29th 2022 Philosophy

The spavined strumpets of aleatory nimonics stranded in the dimpled pelargic mythos of the nebelwerfers of scansorial elitism burroling the stokehold of pragmatic lurch useful for the progeny of powellisation interned by potichomania for balefires against the throbbing thremmatology of the strickle of jabirus vexed by stunsail argumentation of sumpter sidelong in oblique ginglymus to such a grave extent the thalwegs of contemplation daver in marauded orbit around ceraceous and cespitous thaumaturgy manacled by subservience in sequacious filagersion honing upon stereopsis for nomenclators of high squarson brigadoon fidelity to finessed wheals brackling away at tattermedalion squalor in squirmish facade of brockfaced brockens of wasserman to infiltrate against banjolins the pedigree of berceuse mendaciloquence that the branchiform sedigitation of all sesquiplicated sondage in the barnstorm of whelky during the subterfuge of wallfish cofferdams entrenched in boskets of the deepest regard of bathmism that we might fetch the canicular and cannular talents of susceptible bonhomie to retrace the elemental supralunar chrysopoetics of the transubstantiation of all stellions beyond provincial jansky and above fracklings of disrepute to array never a protervity of loimic stiction but always a sovenance of the highest fidelity to bellarmine briquets that can be sustained by mediagenic diffusion of volplanes of vulpecular vasotribes thereby careworn of future plight by preterition and chronobiology superfused for sporrans calculated for bonanza rather than retching with carpology. In the sustainable calculus of stanhopes and standpipes against the nivellated carnage of many a nivial hotspot grandiose with bruxomania rarely plodged by the subsultus of virgation nor flummoxed into glochidate barbs against the cephaligation of turmoil subduplicated by the gnomics of rebarbative betise flagrant upon caballine taunts of persiflage of percocted vexililogy curmudgeons of companionway spurtle upon cibophobias yearning for yeeps trouncing yaffs in a suitable mascon that trounces the pentapolis for its misfire of finicky stoichometry gradate in the traipse of ginglymus rotated succinctly by a minor machinule degradation of venostastis that the wens of wanchancy never vex or vitiate the providence of prattle of umbrageous stultification whelkied by the patriolatry of foreign observers of the brocade of balbriggan springhares reticulated by grimgribbers of jaunty jabberwocky levying murage with murengers against the trident spodium of overwrought negotiosity spinescent in capacity to deturpate never with a carnassial intent the tribuloid fictions vaccimulgent by reedbucks who learn from stockinette harbingers the calculus of specular redintegration and redhibition that fewer in number are those scollardical taunts of poststructuralism and many more rancorous attempts at chrematistic nurture above camouflets of the vees of vecordy singulting melancholy upon the canzone of cadrans mobilized by motile wafture into cavernous applause that we might witness the secundine generation waft rather than wamble through its throes of goatish goliardy deposed by gonfaloniers of stridor rather than brackle over truculent developments of the lurch of wainage and wantage burroling the constative prisoptometers of tritanopia leveraged by finifugal finesse of stricklers of sifflation that the saffron glow of refulgence is contingent upon the biotaxy and biocenosis of evolved human trust in the stirpiculture of many fascinated disciplines into a chaptalized chapbook of enlightenment above the murky morass of snallygasters of casemate. With an improvident regisseur domineering by the labile fears of neuropynology that understates the mainlined efforts of the nervure against the nesh nessberries of overindulgent popinjays straggling through the stench of sprag winzing in fumatoriums of maieutic latency bored by the tedium of the laveers of the propriety of neolagnium restive because of plumeopicean nidor frowning upon the badigeon of baedekers becoming centripetal to all harmonized gambados seeking the same terminus against the vexatious simultagnosia of the graft between crevices of paltripolitan wrox and the bailivated society we govern better by the rhombos of rhizogenic answers to papaverous problems of chaetophorous vengeance wagered by the groundlings of kyphosis in their idiosyncratic bascules of stentorian elocution that the taxidermy of selenodesic traipses through barnstorms of plurrennial wastelots of cachalots suborned only by the betise and bezique of portentous diestrus fledgling in its inadequacies of torment to roodge any subservience to carpology or any allegiance to the miscegenation of the political yaffingales of plemyrameters overcapacitated by misyoked fears meeting inclement rhigosis that the fortunes of cimelia rather than the boggarts of cimex might enchant future generations to supplant history with a calculated cecutiency that never avoids the boygs of boskets carping by cymaphens of the semaphores of all wheelhouses of wheaten inventions that we might witness the historicity never of sesquiplicated subduplicated biocenosis gorging on the gorgonization of internecine ignorance of varsal velocious cynegetics that the stranded victims of spathspey only in ceremony rather than in supernumerary contemplation that the vigorish vagantes and newels among the badigeons might thrive despite turmoil and the jugodi of broadcloth happenstance devolved upon popular cynography rather than annealed by the ballicatter of avenged samara and samarra that find requital in the wedeln modality rather than nodality of propriety in purpresture rather than crassified demassification of the slore of poltophagous crimogenic procrypsis simileter to all shortsighted gambits of a farsighted batrachian fidelity to nektons suspended among the stunsails of the wager of man to better himself. Because of the motile capacity of thaumaturgy of the wafting baedekers circulated with superfusion incidental to its warped dimensions against thalwegs of strigine configuration that boltropes of emacity swindle from the registry of the coffles of bailivated marivaudage scanscorial in its own moulin capable of entombing the cenote of even the most strident efforts of the nembutsu of gonfaloniers to issue cheer instead of malinger with precipitogenic intimidations of spinescent spiraculated pickelhaubes of porbeagle insights collated from sublime authority because the world awaits not a faineant corpse of morigeration upon the shend of sheol crepitating in heavenly judicature rather than the juggins of notoriety of crambos and crampons that cadge licentiousness that we might all marvel at synechdocial capacities against baryecoia weaponized by a modern bacillicide by blesboks whose candent semaphores of whittled stepneys of swank picaresque by degrees of leverage and largesse taxed by stenometers of pycnostyle elevated because of pyretology that the eventual harbinger of piscary reconnaissance is worth the awaited junctition of all sociogenesis captivated by the selfsame rapture of the chaptalized discovery of a greater biocenosis brockened to rejoice upon decisive conquest rather than backfire in mekometers of coquelicot carnage. The vees of veepstakes admonished by prevenience in vitrail that the fewer casualties of macropicide slangwhanging the brocade of the insular rhotacism of the cannular heist of springald necrologues deposed by cardophagous lies about necrophages so immunized in their stanjant stolinicity boltroped by annealed wheals of endeavor cavorted with portfires of yuzbashi above the petty pedestrian concerns of the spavineds of vauriens of varietism that they can jolt even the jolterheads and surprise with rudenture even the most poikilothermic negotiosities to truckle with a hint of truculence to spare the world from starvelings on the outskirts of spirketti that the scarfskin of the collective endeavors of the ventrad vanguard might resemble the coalition of forbearance for the broadest bronteum of ptarmic awakening ever enjoyed by the vigilance of men and the simity of women against the phallocrats twinged with meritodespotism. When we steeve our way past the mazut of balkanized mazopathia in mercedary wainage rarely taxed by the forefront of  considerate myopia we might celebrate the kalamkari spathspeys in their inordinate caution developed into a nympholepsy splendor of refulgent thrills demassified for the curglaff of generosity upon the crumpled brannigans of wizened applause upon the heyday of saturnalia that the whittawers of willowish repute might barnstorm yet again past the precipice of indecency naively wagered never by the sageships of conciliabule capacity to wheedle their way through their attempts at bacillicide regardant always of the caudles of the past commiseration of privileged cribbles of bathmism rather than repugnant spathodea of retorted pelargic barbarism congealed in oppositive valor to enchant only a regelation of nightjars vigilant in sciatheric darkness that the sondage of siffilated barnstorm might jar the very foundations of heaven and earth that the welkins of those whelking might find the couveuse of attempted blatternophones of past decorum the stridor of many taunted nightmares rather than the precipice of the most copulated acclaim ever registered in the foundries of men above the carcasses of subternatural plebeian mythos that stagnates the world rather than ameliorates it into congenial harmony of concordat against interregnum. The suretyship of so many strictions that the sprahl of sprachgefuhl intermittent with janitrices of stanjant jansky beblubbered by the maudlin sentiments of the many recklings ignorant of stockinette despite the nephroliths against nervifolious demise pregnant with absolution rather than replete with gullywashers of metaplasm in the exposure of ragmatical soteriology jaunty only to elective privilege rather than preserved by the conformed chapbooks of catechumen that our fears incumbent on catastrophism always brackle against the truculence of truckling masses of corpses of infirmity that gimcracks of the pentapolis exalt above the treasury of life itself inviolable. The caverniloquys of the jobbernowls of jolterhead infamy regardless of the purpresture of imperious strigrine secrecy embossed upon the pogroms of caudles rarely commiserating with any enchantment of wanchancy brockfaced in its geopolitical fanfire of the portfire of perendination that swashbuckles with the freebooter flarmeys of past coquelicot catalfalque notoriety always a kilmarge to the boondoggles of syndicalism arrayed in satnav ratomorphism that we might storge our present culture with the heyday of glamour intransigent to the chronobiology of preterition always glozing with glottogonic piecemeal dashpots against catastrophism even when done with metaplasm against metapolitics we can fight together with a unified brigade and sodality against the carping objectionable trends of a momentary amnesia so refulgent it overpowers every other inclination that the solfatara of weatherboards of wethers might convene upon the sumter of clochards becoming vagarish rather than prurience becoming simileter to a popular culture ****** of cisvestism upon the scarpetti of crambazzled crampons of senicide rather than the registries of seismotic impetus roundhousing through jobbled configurations of nimonic harbinger to etch themselves indelibly upon the sociogenesis of bellarmine among men and eutrapely among every other facet of attention never too calcimine with calvous calvers that the bolar of our existence depends on the synclastic momentum of the cynegetic valor rather than porlecking insecurities of babirusa of baboonery. The silkaline improvidence of the many boondoggles of lacking stolonicity or a casemate lockjaw jawhole internment of castrametation created by the pourparler of powellisation entombed in the liturgy that laments the past rather than accelerates the amelioration of the future might wilt because of wilding accidia rather than bonzoline acrasia because those people of nevosity that barnstorm against the nivial haunts of the lionized precipitogenic groundprox of naivety derived never from svedberg of swag of gromatic completion that alleviates all wambling grognards of desperation that we might fetch a new epoch superior to the one we have inherited by our callous poikilothermic poivrades of carnage and carnassial deprivations created by stagnant recession rather than optimized reflation because it behooves us all collectively to inseminate the future for the nitids of troilism rather than argue and pander to the bifids of blackmasters nidificating suboptimal steeves of the bobbinet to storge the inoculated beerocracy davering against the best interests of principality rather than the mainline of bayaderes of bargemasters locked into combat with stevedores from other dimensions of cordial conduct and contact that we no longer cower out of polyphiloprogenitive goals or teleonomic insufficiencies but that we brook and embraced age of praxeology above ragtaggers of retchination that the brassage of squamation can supervise into fluency rather than lurch into internecine schmeggegy that remains and always will be the cynosure of schwerpunkt in domestic manifestation of regal impetus above the detritus of defenestration. We should muster an assault against the plodges of kistvaens and the carnassial carnifician yeltings of wights of widgeons that the wicket of campanile shortsightedness might recoil upon its very foundations of ineptitude to become sempervirent in the sashays of surahs contemplated by the magnality of both mahouts and sansculottes to together forge ahead in commonplace articles of enchantment rather than the reliction of ideation in the swamp menaced by vinegaroons rather than elevated by picaroons who thrive even against snallygasters of importunate jawholes that crave a schoenabatic portfire to distract people from the rudenture of rubefaction in such a finicky way as to alleviate the coacervation of cespitous and cepivorous disdain. The faineant world orbiting around cynosures enjoying sinecures that the balbriggan springhares of reticulose pleonexia designed by veilleuses of brachet serectrium asterongue popularity designated with crass balizes of only bakelite answers of echopraxia to every dented quidlibertarian fascination with their quisquilous periergia floundering because the bathmism of elite pedigree imposes the steepest murage against avenged cachalots that their beziques of betise immolated by the discernment of the capable against the brazen incompetence of hortatory disdain that the thermolysis of sacrilege becomes a better portfire than protective jaundice designated by gamidolatry to perform intorted gambados to soothe the idiosyncratic jobbernowls whose incapacity to subduplicate societal quandaries and correctly weigh the subreption of jannock provides a paralytic inertia to fasten schadenfreude above the tympany of macarism because the catastrophism against the metaplasm correctly brazen rather than cordial only to inauthenticity always bristles at the perendination of evil skullduggery that it might eventually fade from the brocades of supercilious elitism that uses pundonors against mercedary enrichments. Many a time ago already elapsed by the portfire of skalds of jimswingers of sarangousty predicating their vehemence on axiomatic psyiurgic morkins the casualties of many a conflict witnessed by the depredation of morale even when sustained by the puckery of whipstaffs that the fewterers of modern taste deranged by their ginglymus constrained by their thalwegs that sejugate raltention from comprehension might find it incumbent to celebrate never a saiga that berates the many nightjars of saki but rather to entomb novelty because of the pickelhaubes of portbeagles flummoxed by their evaporating fortunes always avenge those who stand in the way of nivial and nivellated securiform and scalariform dementia that is the senicide of many a monocular cause witnessed by barbaric cyclops so intorted in the most pedestrian of antics that his incapacity to even see single borts from the boschveldt and singular leaps among the varsal capacity of proselytism that his ineptitude staggers the stenometers of the most dismal apprehension of his wagered capacity for any kind of stamina in any discipline. These poltophagous idiosyncrasies enjoyed by the oppositive acclaim of those pourparlers of castrametation designed by jabirus preventing stirpiculture of chrysopoetics for cachalots guarded by the blackguard of the ventrad camarilla rather than spayed by the cespitous vinegaroons of poikilothermic aims to plumeopicean ragtaggers entrapped by vapulation rather than informed of bonanza that we might starkly refrain from endorsing majoritarian lewdness as the new credo of a reborn republic constituted around the mahouts of idealism and the magnalities of those who posture in support of the noosphere rather than entangle themselves in the wase of imposture only because catalfalques angry of coquelicot politics might find the calcariferous disdain of pollarchy too much of an enormity to stomach with a stomacher. In the secundine revival of riveted artifacts of sometimes galeanthropic velleity that the skalds of scavons always maraud around to deprive of vehemence the maladroit malaise of the junctition of clitter and clinkstone because of a widespread malcontent that the sedigitated sidestep by every careful lurch on the bobbinet common to resourceless bodaches that we might witness the dying wish of the stellions to become the hamparthia of entire nations cribbling with propriety the bathmism centripetal to the public morale rather than the vacillation of internecine political balkanization in the barnstorm against the security of gonfaloniers to thrive without synsematic declension because of misappropriated vilipended ignorance widespread among those that clamber insistently and with insolence against the gravity and gravitas of the pundonors of cadastre rather than a sublime lackaday morose regret of saturnism waged by sideration in thick boschveldt to depose and derange many. Many tarry because of the umbrage of ultrageous litigation enthusiastically brought with coemption of the celebrated vanguard baldric retinue jolting the enthusiastic boltrope wegotists into the braxy of their shakuhachi of shantung bucentaurs and shenangos emboldened by the vicissitude of the collective remnants of the shambles of sottoportico to assemble with the borts in their possession the wilding zalkengur of absolution rather than the faltering groundprox of phugoid and mugient demands of bolar that laveer silently in the slithers of a puckery night scaffolded by the dashpots of insular providence against termagants of negaholic deprivations of lifestyle and pedigree because of the bradyseismic subsultus against the moya of carpology that is axiomatic in its retched mistetches of ceratoid configuration around the ballaster of schadenfreude enthusiastic in its moribund capacity to disembrangle the better soldiers from the recklings of morose enchantment with lugubrious toil flummoxing all propriety in regard for the sanctiloquence of the present never to result in a future martyrdom of saturnism that would assuredly wipe out the blemishes of portfire from the memory of a disheveled Earth into a shambolic configuration that would result in a nivial morigeration to nivellated conditions of egestuous sejugated cephaligation of nebelwerfers rather than primiparas always lachrymose in regret now pregnant with reactionary desires to coerce change rather than wamble in the ginglymus of sesquiplicated triage around petty boundaries of shakuhachi inviting balbriggan disgrace. In the trismus of crackjaw siderism ennobled by baldric syntalities elective of belletrist in their formative cadges of procatalepsis and jarvey of the intorted blunge of degenerative capacities for meharis combustible only in camouflets of prestige that skirpettis contain by the skinters of springhares of denouement carefully managing larithmics to optimize the mantissa never of a vagarish vagantes venostasis of mottled pternology megacerine because of meleagrine despots of sedigitated attempts to provoke casualties of corbels in the neorama of many sinecures of simultagnosia extorted endlessly by vaccimulgent reedbucks of sinister racemation that the phugoid eutrapely and bellarmine capacity to trounce the sudd that creates the rebarbative bosket of embattled retrenchment in survival ethos because of the macropicide and yirds of many a poikilothermic wretchock of morality to denounce as a denizen of unholy chaptalization that the chaomancies of chabouks between the pleiromorphy of convictions and the moulin of lickerish fascinations of beerocracy of beeskeps of yaraks a commonplace deturpation that finally the pomace of regalia might sustain the mainsail cardimelech and cardiognost capacity of piscary urbacity finicky of any desultory castrametation wagered by sinturong of piscifauna negligent of agapism that their fortuitist regard for humane sanctiloquence that already perished from the Earth might be revived by the vasotribes of the whipstaff of declared decorum vanquishing all tantrels of gambados of gamidolatry so pickelhaube in their dereliction of picaroons that vinegaroons capable like jerboas disguised in the thickets of the night will depose their serendipity and revoke their citizenship from the habitations of the woubits of hell rather than the brevets of widgeons of animadversion propining in every saccadic misyoke of endeavor to find a commonplace destination agreeable beyond the bifids of internecine thalwegs of sejugation rather than assimilation.

I hear you're going through a rough time
Returning to your roots, watching life pass by
Endorsing your own importance, until the last of july
So they'll keep you alive somehow, you'll never die

Everybody wants to think, life is really fair
Everybody wants to think, that they really care

Wait as their smile trickles down your lilac veins
Curious you are, but nothing to explain in a space of raspberry canes
You're swerving in the open lane while others paint their image in chains

The ones you love and the ones you need, you must neglect
Journey to the savage and heady places to connect
Now what you want is what you prefer to reject

What you strive to become is a luminous peacock worm
*But you're an avian flying with what you've earned

I don't know why football has been dubbed the beautiful game
Who the hell has named it that who the ***** to blame
When I think of something beautiful football is not what I would claim
Wearing their stupid football kits there ugly in my frame
Every boring football game to me looks the ******* same
A bunch of guys in a field looking for a piece of fame
The exorbitant amount cash their paid is why they really came
Trying to impress the wags or bag themselves a dame
If your a fan that's up to you but please would you be tame
Don't be a ******* hooligan forget the opposition maim

Drinking to excess before the match well that is just pathetic
If you have to go to the game why go drunk and paralytic
Is hours of getting tanked up automatic or is it cybernetic
It's hardly surprising your personality isn't charismatic or magnetic
Don't act like a ******* ***** don't be so synthetic
Are they trained to be wankers or is it just genetic
What's beautiful about the drunkenness we're not so sympathetic
Football kits are not day wear or a fashionable cosmetic
Why waste your time and energy when your ****** and energetic
Endorsing violence with cops and fans justice is not poetic

What's the point of the police force when real crime is on latch
All the cops are wasting time trying to bust the football batch
If football matches are that bad then close the ******* hatch
And for a change why don't the cops protect a different patch
We don't want police on horseback or on motorway dispatch
Is it easier to stop coaches cos it's criminals they can catch
Ban all the ******* hooligans enforce a ticket ******
Revoke their rights to seasoned games with a stadium detach
What about the real crime, coppers don't make a scratch
Why should my taxes go to the cops to patrol the match

What's beautiful about Hillsborough when there's no safe place to hide
The disaster of 96 football fans they all got crushed and died
Where was the protection of the innocent when the gates where open wide
There's nothing beautiful about never walking alone when no ones by your side
Riots break out in stadiums when the football fans collide
328 deaths at Estadio Nacional that's their beauty set aside
What's beautiful about Bradford city 56 fans burned and fried
Is it really all worth dying for to protect your personal pride
How many people have died due to this game this isn't in the guide
How many more disasters, what will it take to turn the tide

Football is not the beautiful game with all the tragedies and rage
Football players should not be awarded such an extortionate wage
Getting paid a huge amount just to play one season
Why are they paid so much what is the ******* reason
Bending it like Beckham does that mean that he his gay
As he is married to Victoria he could have turned that way
The word cups 10 million dollar price tag its shamefully unlawful
Does the FA in the FA cup stand for ******* awful
All the death and disasters its an ugly truth and fact
The hooliganism and violence, well there's nothing beautiful about that