Severing fingernails, so to, chopped the
toe’s, ate some berries and snuck in a nip
or two. I assert myself, “this drink’s if only
to steal, or seal one last scream,” but,
“decadent’s,” quiet for once; A calm
christened, “collateral,” the parallel plight
and pale ear nigh, if only doors down.

Left to my own devices, I’d imagined
every bad, “thing,” and how they’d
happen; Exact and unlike random
aneurism. So I checked on the plants one
last time. I checked on the only flower,
once again, if only doors down, and one
last time. I abide impatient and remain to
question eternity; This twiddling of thumbs
and silent sliver of sun peeking upon one
and opposing, my alien, “East,” –

I long for my only, “West,” and if only
home, but its love, the other love that locks
my only gate.

And with that I’d lay awake and be, a
guarantee, malcontent, remnant come only
one reminder; A twitch under my right eye
and promised son but days later. So
continued my sequence, my defiance, my
only anything; Come one, “Oh!” and two,
yawped not for Walt, but for me,
“Onward!” awake and in an awkward
avoidance of complacent.

Ensued, were the acts of rebellion, the acts
of life, the acts of desperation in the face of
an already dead incarnation. One day to be
labeled, my suicide, at ends wrought
insurrection and beneath the twin flags,
insomnia added anticipation – Perhaps my
last, should the wolves cull come the hours
next when beds are made, supper’s sooner
cold and once more, the stars are allowed to
sing for someone, for something, else.

Once I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,
And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be--
Dead and ****** and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth,
With a record of unreason seldome paralleled on earth.
While I looked he reared him solemnly, that incandescent youth,
From the coals that he'd preferred to the advantages of truth.
He cast his eyes about him and above him; then he wrote
On a slab of thin asbestos what I venture here to quote--
For I read it in the rose-light of the everlasting glow:
"Cloudy; variable winds, with local showers; cooler; snow."

Falling snowmen from the sky
The vision of snow and ice being my surprise
November being winter early
Heaven’s way being surely
Yet blinding storm put me on alarm
Cars stuck on roads and Homes destroyed being harm
Winter’s arrival at Autumn’s season expense
This was something the skies actually sent
The mystery behind the sudden snowstorm that weather forecaster’s can only guess
Yet to drivers and sanitation it was a guest
It seemed to get worse more or less
More snow is scheduled to come
To school kids they want some
But a snowstorm that came at the wrong time to arrive
However it’s ironic and must take in our stride.

Jack ropes and merriopes
In solicitous rhyme in fer derilious velope
envy implicitous insectuaryan harridannous
Ensole brodequins forbearing to lace
Trace elements of that remaining empoisonous

For failure interred
Is succes disinterred? And if so, form where?
Where derinferred strands failure unerred
By error masked muscovado coloured Breadth
Pneumonic, perhaps caustically mate
Aerial’d on the glib side of acoustical elimination
Veritable under pooh stick discrimination

Matte clouds of drab depression ove in
An area of low pressure
According to yon hypothalamic forecaster. Core has ter
Fail lently viola lapidavitious stretch so she as
fer ter rousse fer ter kamuskova. An epic
Scribbled on der calen.

Sole of brevity then being approximately an inch and a
Bit minus that
Torrent all yendergelpin cleaving
The very schism wit! It cynicism
Be as may be a pea, no spelling bee entrusted
Where? In there? In that jumble of line?
Barely knows his lime from his rhyme, or indeed
Lime from lime.
He’s just trying to fill up that calendrous space
And make some sense of it.

Forecaster's greatest joy
The weather equivalent
Of the sacking of Troy...
Hell and damnation
Aloft in the clouds,
Heavenly wrath from
Funnel-ish shrouds.

My father wakes,
Prepares for chores,
Quick breakfast takes,
Throws on his coat,
Slides boots for wet or dry
On his aging feet,
Heads to the barn
In every weather,
Adjusting to the wind
And sun and precipitation,
Weatherman or no,
Undaunted if he sees
Hard rains
Or falling snow.

3 weeks in Poland, and i'm naturally depressed...
this place really has that feel about it...
don't know, living England
feels worse than living in Alaska,
Scandinavia... or god forbid...
Siber.
      i swear i could hear a sober
me talk in Siberia at some point...
then look at a meteor
falling to a full-smitherings' load
of *******...
i did say 3 weeks in Poland
and i did say: not in any major city
as noted by weather forecaster,
didn't i?
       i see english society,
not so much: looking up its a-hole...
but more akin to looking at bugs
and their ontology.... their way of being
remotely too near but best described
as human... i don't get this
need to glorify d.n.a. and monkeys...
i simply don't get this *******,
given i spent 3 weeks in a country
that doesn't seem to care much
about such "discoveries"...
   i can seem old fashioned
but half the Tudor...
          maybe i'm just a senile
example of man... maybe it's just that...
i'm drinking and i have half the wit
of an intelligent person giving
a snarky reprimand... while the other
half of me is just saying: huh?
why are books supposed to
be akin to movies in the west?
what's the west, really?
       i'm with the chinese,
complately bedazzled by these futurists,
these positivists, these:
   i'm god-clad eternal aged 20...
wait for a video when i'm 60!
       i'm originally Polish
so i can speak to the subconscious of a nation
alien to me... well... why...
because the consciousness of a nation
is given the pinata whack on its testicles...
   i don't speak for super stars...
  there's Joe, and there's Alfred...
i'm so apathetic with my life
(counter claim: given the a-
meaning without: i'm brimming with pathologies
that can't be counted, or be worth
   a medical student... **** the doctors:
i need someone moved from  a McDonald's
drive-thru moved into a Michellin
restaurant, and geared up to be "ready").
with a mass influx of man, there comes
a person, once in a while: who has
the "delusion" of necessarily feeling
       lost, but more or less about to *****...
it comes when civilisation arrives...
   this pendulum... this
                   whatever it is that makes
people so **** adamant in being
constantly vehement on being solely
momentum prone...
    and yes, the meta- prefix
really does show you alternatives...
  it might as well be called counter-
physics... but it's still a case of pressure,
being pressed against a brick wall...
my neighbour is having a baby,
he's circa 55 and she's 44...
i admit, i was a bit of a rascal
writing poetry and laughing,
sometimes imitating a fox's howl
(dry laughter)... but i became motivasted
to live next door, and sorta stopped my
antics... now i'm not smiling:
i'm frowning...
                    the peacock is about:
he's just less demanding to showcase
his feathers... but at least the t.v. works...
      but that's english society for you,
i should know... spending 22 years in it
has left me... sick... alias Christian...
the fern in a flower-***, a negating-ease (dis)
animal...
           and i really do feel only capable
of writing ******* after ******* to make
the day make any sense...
         i really have no competence
to deal with the metaphysics of pebbles
to make up a mountain:
   coins to make a bank...
            it's too amphetamine for me...
      but coming from a "failed" culture
               with its Marx this that and the other...
i have come as a zoological curiosity:
in that i simply, don't know, how to compete...
   it's one thing championing
democracy against an autocracy...
       but another when the democracy
is a thousand ******* Hitlers...
                and all their proxy wars...
  i don't see the point of wars anymore,
all of them are proxy... like the 2003 war
in Iraq... it was proxy! proxy by was to
revise the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait...
          you sorta lose the will to live
anything true akin to: blood sweat and tears,
9 to 5... a pension... life insurance...
each day the point of these "truth"
constructs clings to you like an asbestos...
and you start peeling like a *****...
itchy... just itchy...
     you give up, not because it's the easiest
thing to do... but the hardest.
      giving up is hard...
       people going about like horses in a race
that people gamble on
  becomes easy to watch...
          and not engaging in these
examples becomes hard...
it becomes hard to give up,
          to not give a toss...
     such as England, a hopelass land
of what i best remember having come
here 22 years prior: grey skies
       and red double-decker buses...
it's hard to not guess why Scandinavian
made this place...
        i can't see a ******* candle
of hope in rising above this grit...
for miles...
         and then the media states:
oh *******...      22 years though, mate,
and i'm not exactly feeling a Disneyland
vibe... or that i'm peering into
King Solomon's mine of opportunity...
            it's bad to be exiled...
but it's doubly harrowing to write in a foreign
tongue...
                        because if i wrote in
my native tongue: i'd probably buy a gun
and shoot and shoot into a cave
to hear a very profound echo...
                writing down the meaning of sounds
and then overpowered by incorporating
the tactic of onomatopoeia, rather than
just leaving a dog barking alone...
reducing language to strain a barking dog
to a woof! then going a step
further with a wolf and a howl and awoooo!
that's the tip of a baboon's pear-pink buttocks...
   oh sure: flamingo-step next to the goose-strutters
why don't you...
           England is naturally depressing,
i must be a ******* living here...
but at the same time i can only say:
it's so refreshing to hear a non-global tongue...
a niche verbal...
                      at least it's not as insomniac
as the four coordinates:
   new zealand / australia, south africa,
                                  england, u.s.a. / canada...
where do people get so much energy from?
Miłosz? lazy **** wrote in his native tongue
till the end...
   i have an accent and it's not helping...
i have a knowledge of the tongue... and it's not helping...
    and what is it with
literature-movie-making hyphen akin to parabola dip?
if i write a hyphen orientated word,
i really can't see a =, however much i try...
readings books is a bit like
doing arithmetic, although the difference is:
you are less rigorously puzzled...
    you're not suddenly gauging your eyes
out to find out what's underneath: 1 + 2 + 5 + 8 - 1 + 9 = ?
and the result? probably a chance to set out
to handshake mr. dictionary when the answer
comes back as taciturnity...
   how can you live an interesting life
and then end up writing a book?
what compels somone like Don Juan
to write a memoir... what makes someone like
Alex Ferguson write an "autobiography"...
  you hear of pillage and **** in history...
      it's a standard unit of the complete
capitalistic individual...
                ghost writers... ****!
   capitalism is less venture and discovery
and more Las Vegas...
           it's less colonialism... and doubly Las Vegas...
well i do get the original principle...
but what i'm seeing now?
  it has no principle...
               it really is starting to look
a bit like Germany post world war i...
   what with the deutsche mark spiraling out
of control...
       no matter how many 000000 you put onto
a banknote beginning with 1... wouldn't
make you do anything with it: other than burn it
in a stove to keep warm...
    the same with the concept of a book in
western society...
      it's dead...
     i don't even know why people bother to write
books or print them...
             care to tell the Uber team where
the last taxi is stationed?
                      can you imagine this coming
from someone aged 30? i should be writing this
and be aged 70... but even i can't keep up...
        perhaps its darwinism and its gaping hole
for a mouth telling me to look to imitating
insects and reptiles and discarding mammalism
(ha... minimalism)...
     you go to Poland and there's absolutely
no fascination with the big bang, there's no mention
of a black hole... and there's seriously no
darwinism... what you get instead is:
news... current affairs... all the motives for
a carpe diem shabang...  
         which means i have to be a *******
of some sort and give a care to live in a language
that has: so many important answers to
give unto humanity...
                             white boy to white boy:
man... why do you even bother?
i'm exhausted just listening to it all...
never mind next Tuesday!
            well... you can't get any more raw than this...
it's a misery speaking in a foreign tongue
incubated in an alternative ethnicity...
i'm starting to wonder why african-americans
adapted so well...
               looking at the native americans
who commit suicide in their youth,
and given they live on "nature" reserves with
yogi bear...         african-americans are a perplexing
sort... maybe that's because i'm 1st generation...
            i guess it sorta passes you by
after the years and allows you to make a living
from playing basketball, and talking really fast (rapping).
well, saying that: 1st generation and last...
    god forbid i would have to *******
into a *****, wait for a cake for 9 months
   and give it social securities... too much darwinism
and the impetus to survive, reproduce
   and keep the d.n.a. diesel running... sorta dies;
oh sure, god comes into it...
he's the only constant in it... the constant that
    gives... but only nurtures via a crucifix.
i just heard it too often and i'm yawning -
too much history in between
and too much biology and physics theory
at the start.

Such a leathery lonely and laboring,
Traveling traitor is love,
griping and groveling for favor,
a fair-weather forecaster,
a fickle friend,
a lonely wanderer,
out in the night.
I kindly ask
that you keep kicking me,
With your calloused feet of hindsight.

The weather forecaster is as good as it gets
for many
at the predicting of a bright future

Long sighs and cigarette burns on the white curtains that cover the only window in your
coffin-sized bedroom.

Pink haired girls feeling insecure, smoke drifting out from the neighbor's bonfire, children laughing with their sparklers lit and sparkling,

and you're crying.

It's not new, though, comes frequently, an every-day forecast told by the same forecaster, each sentence spoken so similarly that it feels like you've drifted back in time for only a moment,
because you've heard it before, you've heard this before.

And we'll hear it again before the sun rises.


Mothers laughing with their young daughters, hand in tiny hand, hopeful eyes so full of life, long sighs.

Pretty girls with smiles that are so much less hurtful than the sun, lovely ladies with pearl necklaces that shine like teeth on their slim necks, they like to lose themselves in the night.

And at this time, the night so late that even the the moon went to rest, everyone left still awake is connected,

a thin, dull white string, tied around the slow breathing chests of the people who remain alone, awake,

eyes so open that their eyelids strain.

Tears dried into the heavy purple bags that accentuate your green-blue eyes like smudged eyeliner,

do you hate yourself because you're alone or because you're lonely?

Road lights as tall as lady liberty, blurred in your glassy eyes, the sky is black but everything is full of light and the subtle vibrations of the miles going past by minutes and you're smiling, everything is beautiful life is beautiful you're beautiful.

and it only lasts an hour before it stops.

It snowed last night.
When the people open their blinds,
a clean surface, a blank sheet of paper,
is what they will find.

Soon, cars will run it over, and turn it black.
Some will shovel it aside, or melt it with salt.
These things never last forever, snowflakes cease to fall with a sudden halt.
But once it's gone, you'll want it back.

Soon, it will be stained many colors.
We are curious, hard-working but messy, broken, and healing children.
Unable to fall asleep after we've been tucked in under our too-warm covers.

Red and blue flashing lights
show up too well on ivory streets.
God, they're so **** bright.
It makes me sad, somewhere tonight
a bed will have cold sheets.

Rewind. Restart. No ink marks this page.
No footprints obscure the surface, fine like alabaster.  
The script has yet to set the stage,
and the weather has not yet met it's forecaster.

Mother Nature hit the refresh button,
and gifted the world a Tabula Rasa.
Use it wisely.

Saturday,
a replay of a day I've seen,
I mean, of course, the rain.

Neverending never ends
until it ends
and then it's ended,
a case of,
least said soonest mended,

We won't be getting there
if there is where we want to go,
the forecaster forecasted snow
and I know he's usually right,
but
a canoe would do me for now.

Rain sheeting
as forecaster says
"Showers over Cumbria have cleared"

My lie is bigger than yours.

So it is Sunday early afternoon light rain
and I'm not a weather forecaster, and   no one pays me
for this observation, perhaps the seagulls do
they are flying low today.
The journalist who bravely fought 15 men, was put him
in a rocket that exploded when high enough, I found
a finger that looked Arabic, but the dog snatched
out of my hands before I could examine it more closely.
The world is so full of lies we grasp at nails
to accept the lie that is implausible yet has a ring
of bafflement enough so it can be business as usual.

" FOR AS HE THINKS IN HIS HEART, SO HE IS "

The porous lamentable weak, ignorant, dreary fearful minds
Dull, insipid, dark, negative, eroded, laden and forlorn
Always the negatives, steeped in doom vicious whirlwinds
Ignoble pernicious forecaster, deadbeat subhuman worthy of scorn

The edifying truth states - as you think, so shall you become
What profits minds bestow in grace to plunder from graves
When rich harvest awaits those who earns humanity's welcome
Inspired in the community of brotherhood away from knaves

What you think about you bring about so negativity is you
Any wonder thus you hate and nurse resentments about others
Fearful of their qualities, jealous of talents making yourself few
They say if you look at the sunshine, you don't see shadows too

So crawl back to your worship at church of the poisoned minds
Go write your dirges as you mirror those pained aching souls
From the paradise of the Living Light an abode in my mind I find
Where the raptures of edifying nectar upholds never stale or sour

Merciful Lord never leaves a soul alone
In any calamity and in amy disaster
A loving owner never ever just disown
A fortune maker remains forecaster

Soul is His commanment and His image
Under all circumstances He is Savior
The relation is like a bond and a bridge
He remains Master in eternal favor

My Lord has bestowed me with love
He dispels all tricks of all my enemies
He takes care of me from around,above
He saves me from every ailment,disease

I have no one less Him this is my belief
He remains near and dear to me always
Only His Mercifuness can bring relief
In entire universe You deserve real praise

Colonel Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright April 2020 Love Remains

Do you have any clue?
It’s all about you.

In the theater of your mind
making the poem well rhymed
You never truly knows
how your true intentions goes.
holding you tight in highs and lows
by writing an article or composing a prose..

Forgotten the aftermath of disaster
told by your inner forecaster?
Oh, wait, don’t panic your brain
let me tell you again.....

You'll be left alone
to survive on your own
buddies will mock, your painful moan

Remember the saying remarkable
work expands to fill the time available
Most of the things are irreversible
heal before the pain becomes unbearable.

Feel the chains of habit
stopping you to take a gambit
try it my way,before saying "God ******"

Start by getting rid of the inside clutter
take help else do it hugger-mugger
Once your vision gets clear
You'll stop complaining of life unfair
As you'll know YOU are the charioteer
who surely gonna make things differ

Now list the things you have to set right
once ask your insight,
Then, give a tough fight
with all your might,
And in between, never say,
You are a neophyte
Just Go on and Expedite

"But, what if, What if,,,"
What "What if" ?
Speak it loud and clear
am filled with so many things to tell you dear...

"Offo Wait baba,,,,"

"But what if someday, I lose track of my goal,
Day and night goes out of control
miserably affected by public opinion poll...
when what i do is just think and think
like ruining the paper by indelible ink
when tied across my neck is an albatross
Then, How to come out Boss,
of the huge time loss"

O you Champ, facing the blow
Have you heard of Tony D'Angelo?
First listen his words, later you Google it
"If you have time to whine about it,
you have time to do something about it"

So, here comes the crucial matter
Each time you fall, you just need a trigger
to view clearly the picture bigger.

O beautiful young heart beating with vigour
I'll be always there, as your inside treasure
whenever you feel like quitting
and its all crap your antenna is transmitting

Then try not to look, try not to think
close your eyes, relax, breathe, then blink blink blink
Now, Open your Diary and your turbulence gonna cease
as you'll turn the pages intended to appease
Observe, there have always been times like these...

Now comes my last words,
command will be in your hand onwards...

Listen...

Rather being Undeterred by your own undoings
Recall it's you who gonna change things
Massage your sleeping limbs
Or make use of your strong blue wings
But please Don’t wait for someone to ping
In times like these, no one usually rings
Go alone, and climb the Colorado springs.