I get off the Belt Parkway at Rockaway Boulevard and
Jet aloft from Idyllwild.
(I know, now called J.F. ******* K!)
Aboard a TWA 747 to what was then British East Africa,
Then overland by train to Baroness Blixen’s Nairobi farm . . .
You know the one at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I lease space in Karen’s African dreams,
Caressing her long white giraffe nape,
That exquisite Streep jugular.
I am a ghost in Meryl’s evil petting zoo:
I haunt the hand that feeds me.

Safely back in Denmark, I receive treatment
For my third bout with syphilis at Copenhagen General.
Cured at last, I return to Kenya and Karen.
In my solitude or sleep, I go with her,
One hundred miles north of the Equator,
Arriving at Julia Child’s marijuana herb garden–
Originally Kikuyu Land, of course—
But mine now by imperial design &
California voter referendum.
(Voiceover) "I had a farm in Africa
At the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My farm lies high above the sea at 6,000 feet.
By daybreak I feel oh, oh so high up,
Near to the sun on early mornings.
Evenings so limpid and restful;
Nights oh, so cold.
Mille Grazie a lei, Signore *******!
Andiamo, Sydney, amico mio.
Let it flow like the water that lives in Mombasa.
Let it flow like Kurt Luedtke’s liquid crystal script.
We zoom in. We go close in. Going close up,
On the face of Isak Dinesen’s household
Servant and general factotum. (Full camera ******)
Karen Blixen’s devoted Muslim manservant,
Farah: “God is happy, msabu. He plays with us…”
He plays with me.  And who shall I be today?
How about Tony Manero for starters?
Good choice. Nicely done!
Geezer Manero:  old and bitter now,
Still working at the hardware store,
Twice-divorced, a chain-smoker,
Severely diabetic, a drunk on dialysis 3 times a week.
Bite me, Pop:  I never thought I was John Travolta.
But, hey, I had my shot:  “I coulda been a contenda.”
Once more, by association only,
I am a great artist again, quickly made
Near great by a simple second look.
Why, oh God? I am kvetching again.
I celebrate myself and sing the
L-on-forehead loser’s lament:
Why implant the desire and then
Withhold from me the talent?
“I wrote 30 ******* operas,”
I hear Salieri’s demented cackle.
“I will speak for you, Wolfie Babaloo;
I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.”

Must I wind up in the same
Viennese loony bin with Antonio?
Note to self:  GTF out of Austria post-haste!
I’ve been called on the Emperor’s carpet again,
My head, my decapitated Prufrock noodle,
Grown slightly bald, brought in upon a platter.
Are peaches in season?
Do I dare eat one?
I am Amadeus, ******, infantile,
An irresistible iconoclast and clown.
Wolfie:   “I am called on the imperial carpet again.
The Emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a
Shitload of ******* carpets."
Hello Girls: ‘Disco Tampons!
Staying inside, staying inside!
Wolfie: "Why have I chosen a ****** farce for my libretto?
Surely there are more elevated themes . . . NO!
I am fed to the teeth with elevated themes,
People so lofty they **** marble!"
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis.

So, I mix paint in the hardware store by day.
I dance all night, near-great again by locomotion.
Join me in at least one of my verifiable nine lives.
Go with me across the Narrows,
Back to Lenape with the wild red men of Canarsee,
To Vlacke Bos, Boswijk & Nieuw Utrecht,
To Dutch treat Breuckelen, Red Hook & Bensonhurst,
To Bay Ridge and the Sheepshead.
Come with me to Coney Island’s Steeplechase & Luna Park, &
Dreamland (aka Brownsville) East New York, County of Kings.
If I’m lying, I’m dying.
And while we’re on the subject now,
Bwana Finch Hatton (pronounced FINCH HATTON),
Why not turn your focus to the rival for Karen’s heart,
To the guy who nursed her through the syphilis,
That old taciturn ******, Guru Farah?
Righto and Cheerio, Mr. Finch Hatton,
Denys George of that surname—
Why not visualize Imam Farah?
Farah: a Twisted Sister Mary Ignatius,
Explaining it all to your likes-the-dark-meat
Friend and ivory-trading business partner,
Berkeley (pronounced BARK-LEE) Cole.
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

Oh yeah, Tony Manero, the Bee Gees & me,
A marriage made in Brooklyn.
The Gibbs providing the sound track while
I took care of the local action.
I got more *** than a toilet seat, a Don Juan rep &
THE CLAP on more than one occasion.
Probably from a toilet seat.
Even my big brother–the failed priest,
Celibate too long and desperate now–
Even my defrocked, blue-balled brother,
Frankie, cashing in his chips at the Archdiocese,
Taking soave lessons from yours truly,
Taking notes, copying my slick moves with chicks.
It was the usual story with the usual suspects &
The usual character tests. All of which I flunk.
I choose Fitzgerald's “vast, ****** meretricious beauty,”
My jumpstart to the middle class.
I spurn the neighborhood puttana,
Mary Catherine Delvecchio: the community ****
With the proverbial heart of gold &
A backpack full of self-esteem deficits.
I opt out.  I’m hungry and leaping.
I morph again, grab *** the golden girl.
Now I’m Gatsby in a white suit,
Stalking Daisy Buchanan in East Egg,
Daisy: her voice full of money;
My green light flashing on the disco dance floor.
I, a fool for love; she, my faithless uptown girl,
Golden and delicious like the apple,
Capricious like a blue Persian cat.
My “orgiastic future” eluded me then.
It eludes me still. Time to go home again to the place
****-ant Prufrocks ponder their pathetic dying embers.
Time to assume the position:
Gazing out from some trapezoidal patch of green
At the foot of Roebling’s bridge,
Contemplating an alternative reality for myself,
A new life across the East River,
In the city that never sleeps.
I crave. I lust. I am a guinzo Eva Duarte.
I too must be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires:
THE BIG APPLE.
But I am ashamed of my luggage,
Not to mention my baggage.
It’s like that last thing Holden Caulfield said to me,
Just before he crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge,
Crossed over to Manhattan without me,
Leaving me alone again, searching for our kid sister,
Phoebe, the only one on earth we can relate to:
“It’s really hard to be roommates with people
If your suitcases are much better than theirs.”
Ow! That stung; that was a stinger.
I am smithereened by a self-guided drone,
A smart bomb full of snide antigravity,
Transformational and caustic.
My meager allotment of self-esteem
Metastasizes into something base,
Something heavy and vile.
I drop to earth like lead mozzarella.

I am unworthy, unworthy in the maximum mendicant,
Roman Catholic mea culpa sense of the word.
I am now Umberto Eco’s penitenziagite.
I am Salvatore, a demented hunchback
(Played flawlessly as a demented hunchback by Ron Perlman),
Spewing linguistic gibberish in a variety of vernaculars:
“Lord, I am not worthy to live anywhere west of the Gowanus Canal.”
By East River waters I weep bitter tears,
The promise of a promised land denied.
I am a garlic-eating Chuck Yeager,
Auguring in, burnt beyond recognition,
An ethnic trope, a defiant Private Maggio
From here and for eternity,
Forever a swarthy ethnic stereotype
Trying to escape thru a small but significant
Hole in the ozone layer above South Ozone Park,
New York, zip code 11420.
That’s right, Ozone Park.
If you don’t believe me, look it up.
GO ******* GOOGLE IT!

And I just don’t know when to quit.
So why quit there?
Work with me, fratello mio, mon lecteur.
Like you, I took the LSAT so long ago.
Why am I not a distinguished American jurist
Asking the one question that seems to be on
Everyone’s eugenic lips today:
“Aren’t three generations of imbeciles enough?”
I am Charly from Flowers for Algernon,
A slow learner with a push broom, swept up in
Some dust from Leonard Cohen’s cuff.
Lenny: a grey-beard loon himself now, singing
“Hallelujah” for fish & chips in London’s O2 Arena.
“Suzanne takes you down, Babaloo!”
At last, I am Jesus Quintana—
John Turturro stealing the movie as usual--
This time in a hair net and a jumpsuit,
"Made of a comfortable 65% polyester/35%
Cotton poplin, you can even add your own
Ribbon leg trim and monogramming
For just the right look to be one of
The Big Lebowski’s favorite characters.
Mouse-over the thumbnail below to see our actual style
(Color must be purple). Style #: 98P, Price: $55.95. On sale: $50.36.www.myjumpsuit.com."
Fortunately, I am a savvy marketeer:
I understand the artistic potential, the venal
Possibilities of product placement. Go with me
To that undiscovered country.
The humanities uncorrupted till now by
Crass gimcrack television ads. That’s right:
******* commercials smack dab in the
Middle of a ******* poem. Why not?
Great literature has always been about
Selling something, even if only an idea.
Hey, **** me, Herman Melville!
We both know the publication costs of
Moby **** were underwritten by the tattoo artists &
Harpoon manufacturers of New Bedford,
Matched by a small research grant from some
Proto-Greenpeace, Poseidon adventure in some
Great white whale-watching swinging soiree.
Murray the ******* K, pendejo!
At last, I am The Jesus, a pervert & pederast,
According to Walter Sobjak—another post-traumatic
Post Toasty, like me, still out there in the jungle,
Still in love with the smell of ****** in the morning.
My bowling buddy, Walter, comfortably far to the right of
The Dude, and Attila the *** for that matter,
But who gives a **** if Lenin was The Walrus?
(“Shut the **** up, Buscemi!”)
“Once you hang a right at Hubert Humphrey,”
Said the streets of 1968 Chicago,
"It’s all ******* fascism anyway.”
That creep could roll, though, and as we know so well:
“Nobody ***** with The Jesus.”
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

INCOMING!
I just heard from an old girlfriend who is miles away,
Teaching school in Navajo Land.
The Big Rez:  a long day’s interstate katzenjammer,
A Route 66 nightmare by car, but by email,
Just down the block and round the corner.
I had previously closed an email to her with a frivolous
“Say hello to my stinky friend.”
It was a total non-sequitur, an iconic-moronic,
Ace Ventura-mutant line from Scarface,
Which may have meant–in my herbal lunch delirium—
That she should say hi to some mutual acquaintance
We mutually loathe, Or, perhaps an acknowledgement that she–
My surrogate Cameron Diaz–has a new **** buddy,
Of whom I am insanely jealous.
Or maybe it was a simple Seinfeld “about nothing.”
Who knows what goes on in that twisted *****’s head?
She spends the next two hours in a flood of funk,
A deluge of insecurity.
A veritable Katrina ****** of self-consciousness,
Interpreting my inane nonsense in terms of vaginal health.

Hey, you want to ruin a woman’s day?
Tell her, her **** smells.

by
Alexander  K  Opicho
Eldoret,Kenya
(aopicho@yahoo.com)

Ladbrokes, the online betting firm has once again nominated Ngugi wa Thiong'o as a candidate for Nobel prize in literature 2014.The firm arrives at the probable nominee through a highly polished probabilist mechanism.It also nominated Ngugi as the probable candidate for literature Nobel prize, but the final was Alice Munro the Canadian short story writress.The eventuality of Ngugi winning the literature Nobel prize is a long a waited event in Africa , especially among Kenyans.
However, Ngugi is not the only nominee , he is among others and even to make it worse he is not the top scoring nominee. He has tied with four  others at the score of 50/1 points.These  are; Umberto Eco who wrote the famous book In the Name of the Rose, Nuruddin Farah a Kenya *** Somalian veteran poet and prose writer   and   then Darcia Maraini.
There are eleven writers of global stature who are currently scoring above Ngugi wa Thiong'o.They are operating at the level of 50/1 scores. These include ;Margaret Atwoo d, Salman Rushdie, Cees Nooteboom, Don DeLillo, Amos Oz, Javier Marias, Cormac McCarthy , Bob Dylan, Peter Handke, William Trevor and Les Murray . The missing writer in this category of global writers is Yan Martel the author of Life of Mr. Pi , whose also on the list of the favourite writers of president Barrack Obama.His book Life of Mr. Pi once shared  a prize and equivalent acclaim with Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Legs. So, why Martel was not nominated remains the usual intrigues of Nobel nomination process.
Haruki Murakami ,Assia Djebar,Svetlana Aleksijevitj , Peter Nadas, Joyce Carol Oates , Adonis ,Milan Kundera , Philip Roth , Mircea Cartarescu, Ko Un , Jon Fosse  and Thomas Pynchon  are currently scoring below Ngugi.They are operating between 10/1 and 26/1 scores.However among them Haruki Murakami, Joyce Carol Oates and Phillip Roth were very story contenders and hence competeters for the same prize with Ngugi during last year.But Joyce Carol Oates is a weaker contender this year given than he recently wrote an offensive and tortuous poem against the eminent American  poet Robert Frost .  Oates drew from the book Lovely, Dark and  Deep  which   paints the  Frost  as an arrogant, sexist pig who gave up on his mentally ill children. The story has outraged Frost’s fans, biographers, and  his survivors.
Inspite of all these there is no literary value that can make Ngugi wa Thiong'o to deserve a Nobel prize reward for  Literature. Apart from his first  two books weep not child and the river between that had concrete literary position, his later works are pamphlets of communism , that keep of regurgitating communism as initially written by Karl Marx and France Fanon.His second last book Globalectics is written as annual lectures in respect of Rene Wellek, the books is a practical duplication of Paulo Freire , and Spivak Gavatri.His contemporaries at the University of Nairobi accusing him of tribalism when it came to supervising post graduate students. he was soft on his fellow Kiguyu's and discriminative agains Luo and Luhyia students.He lifestyle as communist ideologue is also self defeating as teaches in america at Irvine University , very busy amassing wealths just like any other capitalist.He campaign for vernacular writing is egually not water tight on the bench of praxis, as he himself teaches special English in America but not kiguyu language.
Another stunning revelation from the Swedish academy is nomiantion of Vladimir Putin the Russian president for Nobel peace prize alongside fifty something  organizations as competitors.the nominations is based on his role he played in the Nuclear disarmament of Syria.The Ukraine question has not been yet raised.But logic of these goes like historical imbroglio that puzzled the world in relation to the role of ****** in relation communism against the then gathering storm for the second world war.

You're like ripples of heat cutting through the atmosphere
My desperate depression inducing guilty pleasure
The words make it sound so heavy but it really is as effortless as breath
In and out
You're the feeling of bad tires on a slippery road
The exhalation of a close encounter
A statuesque vision of false hope and love and a queasy stomach
I want to devour your mouth with my mouth
You make my eyes hazy with lustful thoughts
It's an addiction to temptation
You're perfection at 4AM forever on my mind
We are just two beautiful terrible creatures
Aching for freedom and each other and that's all that will ever matter

Teen model Shonali Khatun strutted the catwalk as the audience cheered at a fashion show in Bangladesh's capital.

But Shonali is no ordinary model, and this was no ordinary show.

She and the 14 other models are survivors of acid attacks, common in this south Asian country, where spurned lovers or disgruntled family members sometimes resort to hurling skin-burning acid at their victims.

The fashion show, held Tuesday night in Dhaka and attended by fashion lovers, rights activists and diplomats including the US ambassador to Bangladesh, aimed to redefine the notion of beauty while calling attention to the menace of such attacks.

For 14-year-old Shonali, the event was nothing short of empowering. She was attacked just days after she was born amid a property dispute involving her parents, and was left with burn scars on her face and arms. She spent nearly three years in a hospital and underwent eight operations. Her attacker has never been caught.

"I am so happy to be here," she said. "One day I want to be a physician."

The models, including three men, walked the catwalk, dancing and singing and showcasing woven handloom Bangladeshi designs. The show was choreographed by local designer Bibi Russel.

Organisers said they hoped to highlight the fact that acid victims, too often overlooked, are a vital part of society. They deliberately chose to hold the event on the eve of International Women's Day.

"We are here today to show their inner strength, as they have come a long way," said Farah Kabir, country director of ActionAid Bangladesh, which organised the show. "I often take inspiration from them. Their courage is huge."

Bangladesh has struggled to deal with acid attacks in recent decades, and has instituted harsh punishments for the perpetrators, including the death penalty. The country has also trained doctors to treat such sensitive cases and attempted to control the sale of acid, but has failed to eliminate the scourge entirely.

In 2016, some 44 people were attacked with acid in Bangladesh - an annual number that has remained relatively stable.

"I am ashamed of having such things in the country," Kabir said. "Unfortunately, in Bangladesh we do have acid victims because of either gender discrimination or violence, or because of greed. And we want to remind everyone the kind of injustice that has been meted out to them."Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

Even though I didn’t know you
I wish you happiness in heaven
Rest my little Farah
No one will bother you anymore
There is no violence to see anymore
My heart is with you my little Farah
Let the peace of the good Lord be with you
Your face will shine everyday in the sun
Your spirit is here with us
You are in our hearts, mind, and soul
The light of the Lord will shine upon you
You will be missed by the people in your community

Imagine
You're an adorable dolphin
Your cute fin!
You're ecstatic about watery
Corals
And
Aquamarine
You sport and swiftly swim
And swim
You dance with the white horses
You sing in the tempest


Imagine
You're the lovely hyacinth
You enhance
The elegance
Of a gorgeous
Garden
Your evocative
Perfume
Is mind-blowing!


Imagine
You're a sweet skylark
Your pleasant tone is
Magically melodious


Imagine
You're the silvery rain
You remove the pain
Of the heat of the sun


Imagine
You're the splendid
Rainbow
You feel a glow
Of colour
You've the VIBGYOR
You are
Never
Evanescent


Imagine
You're the
Breeze
You blow nicely
You're more
Than invisibility


Imagine
You're the lamplight
The djinn
And obscurity
Fear you
You're luminously bright!


Imagine
You are
FARAH TASKIN!!!;)
You own
The evergreen
Realm of fancy!:)

Her mind is deeper than the
          Mariana Trench
     And more infinite than
               Outer space
     Even she doesn't know
           The mysteries
            Of her heart
Her heart is the eighth wonder!
              In her thought
       She's an astronaut or a
                 Cosmonaut
               Occasionally
       She's a stargazer or an
                 Astronomer
              At the same time
  She dives into the vast blue
                    Ocean
      She loves scuba-diving
       She cherishes snorkelling
                  Right now
               Her mind is
                      Darkly
                      Cloudy
      ­          But she knows
           Her mind will become
      Stunningly sunny soon
         When she feels alone
        Her heart talks to the
                  Southern wind
      Her heart's sonata is known
                   By nobody
                Her mind contains
                  Poetic imagery
                      Metaphors
                         Similes
                    Alliteration
                Iambic pentameters
                     Nostalgia
                       Conflicts
                         Stimuli
                       Cumulus
                 Inner lexicon
                       And so on
Her heart is as strange as the
                        Universe

you know, i sometimes wish i didn’t learn this language with as much liberty as primary school might allows... given the ageing tend to censor words for the definition of boxed ******* of the turtle; honest it was pointless... in parliament the debate started off with: let’s mime! cube... six handshake proof... boney m... clap clap clap... love... mo farah... panda enclosure of m... only drunk priests attire the power of furthered expression otherwise powerless in status quo for the tsar, the tsarine and familial pyramid extension into the serf of non vox.*

i have to be the rasputin of my day,
the non-plural zeitgeist
that defines a generation...
even if my generation is keen
to hunt nazis that don’t exist
in order to feel morally superior;
as a neo-con said;
it’s pathetic it really is,
they have a life that’s not really lived,
they enter the realm of dialectics without
strong opinions to defend...
so their placebo dialectics is residual of just talk:
talk that might just as well be about politics
as it might just be about weather.

how can the one be the same as the other, when one is humble, while the other is bombastic? where one is he, who seeks to cherish emotion, while the other, to feed off a touch of marble? where one seeks a "narcissism" of shadow, the other seeks the icarus-bound: self-inviting fade of light, and subequent downfall, which no shadow dare grasp, troll-akin; who dares to touch the sun, will find no secure net of shadow to catch him, might the falling star, usurp the patchwork of safety, bound to those glorifying schatten und schweigen (shadow & silence).*

if ever "legacy" media is to remain intact, worthwhile, can i suggest a very odd but all the ever more present concept? religious of course? why are sunday newspapers the worthwhile reading material? why couldn't be have a media sabbath, say, on a monday? what the hell happens on a monday? if it isn't stale-bread, and isn't a "historogical" case of the frame within the bounds of day-to-day journalism... what does happen, on a monday? nothing! between my fingers, monday newspapers are the anorexic by compariosn to friday, saturday, sunday....

can't these ******* feel a break? can't they just, stop,
for, one, day?
              i'm sure tolstoy took breaks in between
writing one of either of his mangum opus constructs...
why can't journalists just un-plug?
it only takes one day!
       i'm not here labouring to depose
"legacy"media, i'm trying to reform it -
please, guys, take one day off...
you're being over-worked with a 24h coverage,
the british empire is dead,
the sun can somehow and in whatever
"way you think is "sudden": can, set.
you can see the night through the perspective
of a dreaming mind,
   please: let go for that one day...
give yourself rest...
the jews invented the sabbath after they
finally completed the construction
of the pyramids... they were never
atheletes... but slavery taught them:
exhert the body for the worth of a pyramid...
guess what... the jews
are no longer the really attuned intellectuals...
their ideas? culmination point maxis:
i.e. communism? failed...
   time to shove these ******* into
the roman arena and make them sprint!
   they can't compete intellectually any more,
every intellectual jest, becomes a flaw...
the jews ought to know when a new pyramid
is being given shape...
            evidently they're intellectually stunted...
they should know who the original
athletes were... who's luaghing?!
     they're laughing?
                you seeing what i'm seeing?
can they please make these as pleasant as
possible? can they at least bargain with
the journalistic branch of humanity and
introduce a day (notably monday)
when people are not informed of a
dasein* on heidegger's terms?
      can we please have a journalistic sabbath,
a day off? do we really need to be
so "well informed" every single day?
look at it this way...
   a typical sunday edition of a newspaper
will take me about 2 days to fully digest...
         and i'm talking about 70 year olds...
no, i don't have a mobile phone, i don't use
dating apps...
              i believe in the truest form of
random potential, vs. natural selection...
random potential? revival of subjectivity...
natural selection? established objectivity...
   you take the random and compare
it to the "natural": do systems and rubrics really
get a girl wet? emm.... don't think so.
her favourite song was in flames' metaphor...
mine... i'll lie about this one...
i have too many... dry **** logic's goodnight?
more likely i was "dreaming"
of incubus': wish you were here,
     and hear this: as if no one said it to begin
with the first itchy finger on this horrid
      piano of spiders attempting echo.

there was a point...
   coming from a brief member of the ****
party...
   you know... i was actually having
a justin gatlin moment when he beat
usain bolt today...
      it was poetic... the "satan" bowing
before a "god", as a "poet", how would i never,
ever, rejoice in such moments,
akin to isaiah's words: oh lucifer,
how lowly fallen...
                                 there was so much
poetic justice in the event that only took
10 seconds to complete...
  how can you now suddenly break into
a framework of milton, and side with
the boogieman?
                              kinda makes all chemists
redundant: why not give all athletes
enchancing drugs? keep the plateau, invite
the fausts!
                guess what the biggest performance
enhancing drug was for justin gatlin?
the crowds boos...
            you can't, you can't find a bigger
drug, a better drug...
                 never undermine the underdog,
the fiend, the evil, the "enemy"...
       the crowd will always loose!
                          who befell, the crowd pleaser,
or the one who hushed the crowd -
the same crowd who stayed for
                   for the medal ceremony for farah...
who won? who won?!
           who won?!
                             it would have taken
the wiser of the two bolts to have bowed out,
than to become shackled into
   a shamrock of shame -
                no one will remember the victories:
everyone will only believe in
the overcoming of the underdog -
                         no matter the number
of medals, take to the ratio of 100 victories
and only 1 defeat... people still remember
the 1 defeat... or that's how history is taught...
commentators in the present may
cite the 100 victories, build statues...
   but people, people confined to history,
remember the 1 defeat... and the confines
of sand confined to an hour glass...
                                 the rise of the loser
is never celebrated, because it is paternal...
but the fall of the champion is only celebrated,
because there is no paternity,
  not maternity invoked, only the eager
hyennas waiting, only the condors, only the crows,
only the scavengers:
     flesh of flesh, torn off, till what remains
is only but what best resembles bone.

as heidegger said in aphorism 123 (V):
  then to totter in the great emptiness and shout
once hoarse.

    i "predicted" he wouldn't win...
                jealousy? do i look like i might be
jealous of an athelete of such competence
and decision to ****** rigour?
     unless you're talking about the ability to
write after a litre of ***...
  competition wise? i'm your man...
   cheap the *****, the more i'll write...
    cheap ***** within the ratio of: rich thought;
it was a "prediction"...
        you pick up nuances...
   generally speaking, when the mob anticipates
too much, too much fairy tale, you begin
to overshadow everything with: "pessimism" -
well... because there's the story of
                  sanctity - one of resurrection -
               one of the admonishing of sin...
my admonishing of the "sin" of childhood trust /
                          friendship?
become a hermit...
            and trust, not, one, ever, ever, again;
you can't call it a competition in terms
of trust and friendship...
     but i guess the ****** utopia of gay-talk
is just that, bwest-fwend... footie-fwend...
fwend... accompleesh... leash-buddy...
drinking-buddy...
                  associate... business-partner...
   lover...
surrogate-mother-*****-homosexual-*****;
****! test me! if this isn't the ridiculous
part of even attempting to engage in
ridicule... i fold! there's not worth in making
jokes out of this verbal amazon of:
  i eat a random berry, i hallucinate,
   i eat a random leaf, i stop hallucinating...

if i were you, i'd start with incubus'
album morning view... yeah, i know,
2001 may seem like far far away... esp.
with green day's slaughterhouse "rock" anthem
regarding september...

ask me again... how does the biblical narrative
become reincarnate in the day-to-day
lives of people ranging from dust-bin men
through to world-class athletes...
don't know...
             i'm stretching another second over
having to stretch heretical yoga-poses
attempting to doubly-inflate my bladder
and stopping myself from ******* my pants.

Sad feet carrying the weight of my misery on the back of their ankles
Overgrown nails and worn out nail varnish
Take care of yourself Farah they say.
Take care.
Do they really mean it?
Can they not see the weight I carry around?

Eyes close one more night
It’ll be better by tomorrow
I promise
They don’t know
I fall asleep every eve with the same ******* thought

Farah

Whatever I do, I do it deeply. Emotions are things that I know all too well about. I'm very intense, and sometimes I bring others into my intense world. Some can handle it, while others tend to cower. Some are still around, while others have retreated back into their plain meager worlds. I like deep conversations about various topics. I like people who use their brains for something other than preventing their skulls from collapsing onto itself. I love deeply. I hate deeply. These are good and bad traits I know. This is why I'm into art, poetry, and writing. It takes a deep person to appreciate these things. I love that I am deep. It shows compassion, it shows individuality, and it shows that I can be passionate. It might take a lot to get me to open up, but I've got good reasons. If you can be patient with me, I'll introduce you to my intensity. I am so **** introverted. But, it's the quiet people you have to look out for. I don't live my life to please others. They don't live to please me, or do they give a **. This may make me a bit of an outcast, but it's the outcasts that followers look for to do the dangerous missions when things get heavy. I am who I am. I love to learn about others and I love to learn about myself. I'm learning new things everyday. Extreme intensity! Sounds good to me. Extreme sports are cool, but nothing beats learning about your own inner self and bringing others into it. I surprise myself sometimes. While searching for my inner self, I discover who, what, and how I am. We spend so much time trying to please others and learn about others, but we forget to look within ourselves

I don't know how much more intense I can get. I'm looking forward into discovering it though. Physical, mental, and emotional intensity. I think that sounds pretty sick, and we artists can see things from all sorts of perspectives. I'm done trying to be liked by others. I'm done trying to fit in where I don't belong. I am a puzzle piece that is dark, trying to fit into a puzzle picture that has a blue sky and beautiful field of flowers in it's scene. I think I fit into a picture that has a dark sky full of star

"The View, Shame On You,"
for the lies about IRAN you, Alyssa Farah Griffin spew

"The View, Shame On You,"
for on 11/12/24 indicting a country known for making its welcomed guests its most popular stew

"The View, Shame On You,"
for your crime "...and will be more direct about calling Iran accountable for how it's just sown discord across the world," the one sowing discord is you

"The View, Shame On You,"
for possibly having something personal against THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC that would tell you it's GOD's rule so our country's rule that a lady must cover in public her breast, hair, and legs, too (*You really are someone without showing them)

"The View, Shame On You,"
for grossly offending many, many, many American citizens' birth country, Iranian residents' homeland, martyrs' (from Saddam Hussein's barbarianism) beloved nation, the motherland and fatherland of Persian rug makers and chefs of scrumptious Persian cuisine, a beautiful GOD-made landscape in the Middle East, and me, an American born to American parents, a grateful tourist and short-term resident of THE place called IRAN, The Islamic Republic of Iran, at the very least Alyssa, an apology from you is due

By: Najwa Kareem