"espionage" poems
/ innocent until prōven guilty,
contra guilty until
prōven innocent...
ah!
so the minority report?
guilty, while innocent,
based upon a premonition?
hindsight with a zodiac
type of interpretation...
innocent until prōven guilty
has no superiority
in practice over the continental
guilty until prōven innocent...
no... because the principle invokes
presuppositions,
of suppositions...
treating the two as propositions -
or rather... "verbs" inacted...
innocent until prōven guilty -
then no understanding of freedom,
at least guilty until prōven innocent
allows understanding
restraint, however unfair,
with 18 years lost...
and then the tears of relief!
Tomasz Komenda...
an "espionage" case of staging
empathy...
en masse...
an innocent man walks away
from falsely imposed justice measures...
a redemption...
a count de monte cristo
allowance...
but in reverse?
the evil man walks free...
succumbing to old age,
and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon...
there is no redemption aspect
of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence...
the... innocent, until prōven guilty,
contra: guilty until prōven innocent
schizophrenia?
the latter overshadows
the former...
because we're not babies...
at least with the latter:
there's a redemption exegesis -
but with the former?
bitter-sweet tears within
the confines, of an example akin
to jimmy savile...
guilty until prōven innocent
has much more authentic emotional
content, with a redemption narrative...
innocent until prōven guilty
has? not much,
just a grave,
and the stunted emotional expression,
what ought to be flowers
within the heart,
instead: fungus, growing in the dark...
and thus... translating
to other hearts:
let's allow this chemo-phobia
chemo-philia experiment
be left intact in its the momentum...
honestly... the study of law -
is probably the ********* game
in the allowance of games of
adulthood... one tier above gambling.
p.s.
because you know there's proof:
and that the past-participle
thrown into a future, does require
an omega rather than an omicron...
not an oh, but an ooh...
hence? reign from above,
on the omicron, with a macron (ō).
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
songs of freedom in Kenya are paradoxical of themselves
they have become the songs of oppressive tyranny
they are not songs that were sang by freedom fighters
in the tropical forests of aberdares and Mabanga
they are blissful carols of powers that be
mouthed by the state poets in the deadly feats
of political sycophancy fuelled by cult of betrayal
and espionage, a real substructure of state dictatorship
they are not the true songs of mau mau
that were sang by Kimathi wa miciuri
they are the songs of the top crust of the tribal
and political powers that be in oblivion of
the cultural revolutionaries that countermanded
cultural Darwinism of European imperial gamesters
they are not the songs sang by Elijah Masinde
of Dini Msambwa that spirited up cultural aura
of cultural dignity;which cautioned certainly
an African against the cultural call of the white culturalizer
the African to balk and turn his back
and **** and spit scornfully at cultural trickster in the colonial ploy
to dance for Dini ya Msambwa in the spirit of war and fires of war
that is to be fought in preservation of democracy and cultural freedom.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
We are not the voice to elect a king
We are anonymous
I am not the one you want to convene because I question everything
I am just a voice of honesty as degenerates overtake my home
Life in the wake of calamity cast on a pile of bones
It’s the new order of the ages, welcome to the end of days
The beast controls our lives impeding our ability to thrive
induced into a system designed for wealth, power, and lies
A price is paid for not conceding to an affirmation worth repeating
as I join the enlightened ones and wage a massive war
A circularity that deviates from its path is not a circle anymore
They will invoke internal and external threats
then establish many secret prisons
Slowly restricting the freedom of the
Press while surveying ordinary citizens
Chem-trails from government jets
will be dismissed as urban legends
Mandatory vaccinations
designed to lower urban intelligence
Radio-frequency identification chips
mandatory for men, women, and children
Man-made global pandemics
separated for segregated sterilization
Espionage becomes the new word for criticism
And dissent will be the new word for treason
In the name of self-preservation
they will subvert the rule of law
We are broken beyond repair, slaves for all we have
As they divide our families, we ignore another false flag
As history repeats, we are kept under control
But we are not the voices to elect a king
because we are anonymous
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
peanut butter and jelly
smooth crunch,
dilapidated layers,
crushed into,
nuts and margarine,
it seems those screams,
in dreams are clarity,
in reality,
whispers of margins,
so close,
shaves and wavy days,
charging in %’s in head rests,
pieces left in indents of you,
on the mattress.
The fact is,
subjective to the
context of sparks,
ignited by espionage,
rubber gloves,
the ****** scope,
from afar,
how did we cope
before they put us together,
in jars.
The antithesis,
of all we can be.
Weak at the knees.
Peanut butter and jelly,
ready to eat.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
I am such
a *******
******
Been fanning the flames
of my flamboyant faggotry
since April 1990
when I strutted from the caverns
of my mother's....
nevermind,
I'm never touching one of those.
My childhood is exemplified
by late-night espionage treks,
sneaking through my sister's side
of our bedroom
maximized by youthful perspective,
each step of mine garnering more
taut gravity than the next,
finally reaching the Holy Grail:
her Barbie collection.
In the fourth grade, I drew
my interpretations of those
beautiful, diamond-infested drag queens
that rained feathers and sequins
upon one drought of an existence,
the adults framing my tolerance
as a smut-stained abomination.
Now people ponder
why I'm so overt
with my gaydom.
Why argue with your
nostalgia-hemmed family friend
over the cultural significance
of the Barbra Streisand Album,
or gladly sit through marathons
of 1980s ****** camp classics?
It's the kid in me.
Something lost for an era
in a washing tub
of middle school torture tactics,
heavy breathing
over hiding something
so natural.
And a few years of that
are **** stifling enough
for this gigantic ******
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
A fool could see this from a mile away
Still I let you get close
Your love, like espionage for future endeavors
For me to give out all my love to have it scattered across the walls you built up to keep me out
Still I was outside your solitude of isolation
My fair Juliet, misjudged and ruthless, how I like it
Blinded by mistreatment, I want what's bad for me
Like sugar to your teeth so sweet but risky
I'd fight to suffer the slings and arrows of as they say misfortune with you could never come my way..
No one said anything about sticks and stones
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
Acceptance is the key,
to satisfy urges.
a positive air,
flying in ages.
a victim,
drug planted in her own chest;
waiting patiently
to solve her own test.
Admit it.
as you read these lines,
you mix ideas;
in your own gloomy mind.
I'm odd,
and decision is in merit.
you being an espionage agent,
I really don't like it.
**** your memory;
as I burn photographs,
attitude's the villain
my glass will be full in a snap.
I've crossed the river twice,
and there's no turning back.
Dead as the dark sky
you're only just a member of the past.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
In my consciousness remains darker images
undefined ideas some literal espionage
that it pulls
my words rhyme to the sense
when we go behind zero and null
that empty space in our brain
And to our vibes remorse which die
in my consciousness i reside
along as i go by
And is there a reason to explain what i think
as a million thoughts have passed when i blink
is what im hearing thoughts of my own
or is it someone else's whistle in my head blown
But all this has made reflect
that down in the sunshine resides a darkness in my head
a world in my consciousness i neglect
If you shall get me you'd understand
whats in your head makes you appreciate
what makes you retaliate?
is it just function of a naive mind?
these questions pop in my conscious
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
He drinks it up, he drinks the
**** like it’s water.
There are faces, and files
and they change with the seasons.
The parking lot has never been this dim, but
who forgot to turn on the lights?
The friends who gave him trouble
now just give him help.
The scarred people seem little more than
pawns in a game, and he must play them, but
it’s not his choice.
The mirror’s like a caricature,
it provides more distance than closeness.
I wished he could’ve seen his son
being born, but.
Somebody slams the table, ****
something’s going on
We got him, men
we got him, we got him.
Oh wait, oh wait, egg on our face,
we got played, we got tricked
this man is just black.
“I want to prevail,” he says,
“I’m no loser,” he says.
He’s no quitter, but
he sure ****** it up.
The faces get twisted, now the
eyes look the same.
This won’t be the first time
and it won’t be the last.
He blames a lot on others,
but he knows that persistence
is infallible, like the pope.
Nobody really trusts him now, he’s a bit of
everything and everywhere.
Heart’s in the right place, but
where’s your heart?
He keeps downing the brown ****
keeps downing the liquids.
“One day I’ll get him,” he says.
“one day I’ll get the *******
At this point, he speaks for himself,
for himself. Nobody, no
one, nobody else.
At dinnertime, he says,
“sing me a song.”
Relax is defeat,
rest is charity, rest is
A deep moral compromise.
a loser needs a bed
A winner needs a mug.
he downs the ****
He downs the ****
god, he downs the ****
like it’s water.
OOGABOOGABOOGA
i’ve got him in my sights
He won’t see it coming
he’ll be shocked as the rest
A **** like that? no
he wouldn’t see a barn.
He didn’t say, didn’t see
his own mother, his mother
When he came out the womb.
didn’t see **** I say,
didn’t see ****
SPIRAL espionage ELEGY sang
now or never or ever again.
RAINTIME odysseys
left im babbling rancid
The ragtime freaks giving him looks
from the left of the sandbags,
The night, the night,
too long, too long,
The night’s a *****
i can’t stay, i can’t stay
to night’s a *****
i can’t stay with this *****
this ***** no
take these ropes off
this *****
***** take these chains off
i will, i will
i, no
you are you
people
you are *******
you are stupid *******
these are chains
i am chained
who
why
god
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
All the televisions have eyes,
Theatrical espionage.
Please mind the gap,
And do not sit too close.
Electric revelry
Flows in three dimensions.
Quenching of one dimensional windows.
Optical murals of other men's dreams.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Patience, the most important aspect of spying
They teach that a lot
Some are born with it
Can't be bought
Me, well I've gotten better after all these years
I try to have a book I can read
For it's boredom I fear
Hey, you get to see the world
I've been all around
Got stuck in Southeast Asia
Myanmar still astounds
A culture in contrast
So rich and poor
When it comes to human rights
The world doesn't understand
So here I am in Timbuktu
I'm talking literally
This is the life I have chosen
It works fine for me
My spouse comes along
To help me deal with the insanity
Such as finding good drinking water
Poor pitiful her and me
Aw, but we love it
This life in espionage
I help to save the world
The frequent flyer miles are large
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
My mind is in a spin!
Thoughts take shape inside.
Characters and Scenes
are pouring from my scribe.
Imagination strikes.
Words just start to flow.
I wait to see just where
this stories going to go.
Will it be suspense,
as horror's do protrude?
Will ****** come to pass
before the interlude?
Or could it be Amour?
Two hearts that beat as one,
with him and her in love
how smoothly will it run?
It might be fantasy
with creature filled with flight
where heroes of the day
defeat those of the night.
Comedy is fun,
with such a laughing spree
as wild jokes escalate
with witty repartee.
Or maybe espionage,
will we produce a spy?
Who rather than fail his mission
would be prepared to die.
Perhaps a child's fable
with a fierce leprechaun
who tries to steel a babe
that's only just been born.
An epic would be good,
one like War and Peace.
People could read for years
after its release.
I wonder what these thoughts
and self examination
shall bring from deep within
my own imagination
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
letter by letter,
some of great lust,
some of espionage,
and secret meetings.
part film,
part theatre,
part fever dream.
we were woven together somehow,
like we were characters in a book
being read out-loud somewhere.
Jun 20, 2024
Jun 20, 2024 at 10:58 AM UTC
im a writer
mostly on the mirror
when you're not looking
i wait patiently
no longer soapy
but squeaky
until those curls are
being lathered and rinsed
until your eyes are pinched tight
thats when i
carefully remove myself
from the place where we two
spit on each other for fun
and while you rinse
i make absolutely sure
not to disturb
the ringlets that
give weightlessness to
our privacy
to the mat
and then forward
to the reflecting surface
to my canvas
glistening
it invites me
and i paint
single finger extended
i eek it out
it squeaks
prints against glass
this is my textual dead drop
an espionage of love
scrawled above my sink
only for you
hurriedly i escape
before you know
whats happened
before you know im not there
now you are
squeaky
and wet
and upset
that im not...
what the...
"live long and prosper"
?
waiting for you
clad in narry a single article
i hear you lament
until
a heavy sigh emits
from the tiled "bachelor room"
adjacent to mine
a half curse and
then a swoon
and then squeaks
you traipse in
naked
earthly hips swinging
fling open
and then shut
the edifice that marks the barrier
between the real
and the imaginary
you
force yourself into
the place between my eyes
and the place that knows
"brush your teeth again real quick"
you want me
but
who wants to smell
the cheapest whiskey
while you make love
obliging i shuffle off
hoping to please
my only muse
when i read
below mine
"make it so"
keeper.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
For Alonso, the day was sinking into dusk
But for Dulcinea, her knight was rising.
Long his lance’s shadow stretched
And thus his stories, picaresque.
He flaunts his tale of espionage,
Purring silent and clandestine
“there I sprung from camouflage
and smote these vile leviathans!”
“Oh, please don’t stop,” the gypsy cries
draining doubt from starlit eyes
From behind her fan of elegant slips
She retracts the rivets to her lips.
Alonso mounts the moment of his concupiscence
to rescue the fair Dulcinea from her diffidence.
But the windmills turn for our quixotic man
Whose delusions are rescued by a chaste heroine.
Years later a man was overheard in Cordoba…
el estaba hablando con unas senoras
“Oye musas, puedo decirte,
he visto algunas cosas.”
“…mi vida se salvo una noche estrellada
por una mujer de gran belleza
que volvio a las tablas de la fortuna
aqui, en mi reino de Iberica…”
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
won't you play espionage with me
we can spin our espian eyes around
as we dawdle in thespianage
we can burn a bridge with a barrage
of molotov cocktails
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
I
hold a thought and lose it like I have Alzheimer's
I see as different I like I have Parkinson's
Broken and sent to the trenches in and out of the face of it
Been made to ride kinds that were unkind to me
Seen friendly enemies and changing friends as if treatment has analogies
In the function of this gumption
I am found stumbling in a swing that relays me to all I can be and all I
really am
Showing me all things that are and abilities for all that I can
Been relying on society and its complex definitions ofwhat it takes to
be a man
Poetry shows an epicenter of the balance between male and female
Having nostalgic thoughts of a former fossil me that still remains
Swerving in the beat of my heart dispelling emotions that are hard to
contain
Stripped in wires for like of espionage, wrapped in coinstrains all I
can rely on is my restraint
Taken trips to Heart-so-raw and the cats scratch and wound like
Jaguar-Paw
Had a love once before and that was before the timeless heartbreaks
where I ended up shutting doors
... And the exes have hexed, coaxed the perplex complex of the poular
axe illium crest of thoughts mislead-ium chest __ Oh how raw, Earth's
crust of fix-fuss no less than confuse thus us so we don't trust, we are
waiting for our rests on the Cosmic tree tugs if not space lugs.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
I looked with the intent to hear his thoughts-
Both of us held used booklets.
"She symbolizes passivity," he,
in acquiescence, whispered.
My espionage, my love, won thusly:
Before his whisp'ring ceased,
Great passivity fell like a curtain
Between that sweet boy and me.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
Can I tell you a secret,
I think you’re the most beautiful,
when you wake up with no makeup,
in my arms where you are held,
and you’re stretching and yawning,
and I’m purring an pawing,
and it seems,
that any moment without you,
is just time in between,
and I know this is hard to explain,
but do you know what I mean?
I mean,
you know what I mean.
I’ll make the work worth it,
come join this One Man Cult,
we can all dance in the sunset,
it’s our choice but not our fault,
nope not at all.
No denial without admittance,
not the government don’t keep secrets,
no espionage at all,
I’m an open book you can read it,
hey you,
can I tell you a secret?
It’s our choice,
but not our fault,
we can all dance in the sunset,
come join this One Man Cult,
thought that we were one,
until I realized we’re all things,
can I tell you a secret,
I think you’re the most beautiful,
when you wake up with no makeup,
in my arms where you are held,
and you’re stretching and yawning,
and I’m purring an pawing,
and it seems,
that any moment without you,
is just time in between,
and I know this is hard to explain,
but do you know what I mean?
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
Venice, California; 2018
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
me and her we barely talk
like spies for different governments
I've tried extracting information
but I'm cut off, passing out
and I wake up every time
17, heart-broken with silence
blank stares scan my every evening
somehow I am still invisible
turning this into a cold green light
to explore the dark corridors of my heart
my thoughts turn to microfilms
and battle plans and secret blueprints
my cover's hanging by a thread
I'm now a fugitive with everything to lose
a secret agent in love with their handler,
the disembodied string of signs on glowing screen
how much emptier than this is it possible to get
because there is no home
and you can't just go back to the agency
one wrong step and charges vary
from espionage to treason
and there've never been any right moves
at all
so now it's back to basics
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
You creep in and out
You often create doubt
Your symptom are often masked
But rear their ugly head unasked
You cultivate over time
Espionage on the mind
A Trojan horse to success
The rough edges of a otherwise fine line
You are present with no presence
Not easy to find
People often don’t know they have it
You are a bad habit
A savage for mankind
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
Weariness of straining stress
In a bedchamber of thick darkness
Illumination drowned in the
darkfield of ******
Mysterious mole in the conclave
of concord
Crawler of cruelty crawling for prey
Eulogising gods of darkness for
caging light in the attic of
darkness.
Espionage goon of evil
Drenched in darkness to sell sorrow
Where are you migrating from?
Where are you swaggering to?
In bewilderment, my spirit watched
you
In astonishment, my soul monitored
you
But my body wallowed in deep-sea
of deep dreamless slumber.
Creeping like a poacher
In swarthiness of darkness
Habitant of evil you are
To sting
To ****
Denizen of death you are
To turn hubby to widow-man
Undertaker of tragedy you are
To turn wife to widow-woman
Envoy of hemlock of hell you are
Dweller of darkness
Agent of disaster
But suddenly!
And suddenly!!
Light engulfed the aura of darkness in
the cavity of Illumination
Lucidly l saw you
Clearly l heard you
Dangling proboscis of danger
Waggling poisonous *** end of death
You stuck on the wall
To sting
To ****
Helplessly you watched me
Now pray your last prayer
Clod of callousness
Vasoconstrictor of wastages
What is your real name?
Scorpion!
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 1:12 PM UTC
i love like someone who has been sent out on a mission,
even though espionage now exists through a computer screen
and the wars of our country have long since turned hot.
i love like i have a hidden wire for a heart,
with another's voice rattling through my bones:
*a casual touch here, a kiss there, maybe even a smile.
be careful though, someone is always watching.*
i love like you have a roll of film in your pocket
that i need to obtain, whatever it takes.
so i'll laugh at your jokes and run my hand down
your coat lining until i taste the secrets you keep there.
i love like someone will review the tapes later
and share in the inside joke of rustling chiffon
against skin, and the punchlines you missed
while you were staring into my eyes.
i love like a character i've invented specifically for you,
a girl that exists only inside of your mind.
i kiss like all the girls you remember and sound like
all of the moments you cannot forget.
and when we're done, you will feel like you're the one
who has cracked this foreign code wide open
and left her smile on the floor for the world to see.
but i'll sit in silence, looking at my empty hands and realizing
there was never an operative in loving you.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 4:03 AM UTC