with ego as foetus:
    i do get a chance to give birth
to a thought,
  notably a minor critique,
or, rather, digression from a
newspaper article...

all this posturing and lying
deserves a mundane truth,
   one that doesn't even
register on scaling historical
events: as ever having
happened...

             an article by
julia llewellyn smith (welsh
roots, i gather?)
               on a book by
        emma koenig -
           moan: anonymous essays
on female *******...

come to think of it:
   i always held a suspicion with
regards to this bounty...
  i never could envision
the sort of male ****** with
trust involved...
      
  once with a ******* i ate
mine, ******* and remained
silent...
           a sensation that could
only be replicated with
what brother zygfryd de löwe
  experienced, looking up
at a hanging noose on
a titilated by the wind hallow
tree...

       ever wake up with
an auditory hallucination?
          simply with the word
uchyl?
            namely - pry open
a door?
          only today i "think"
i dreamed of reading
the book of Job, and standing
before a blackboard
   with a rubric that read,
something along the lines of

- - - - + - - - | + + - + + + + +
- + + - - - - - | + + + + + - - -
- - + - - - - - | + + + + - - + +
- - + + - - + - | - + + - + + - +
- - + - - - - + | + - + - + - + -
- + - + - + - - | + - - - + + - +
+ - + - - - - + | + - + + + + - +
- - - - + + - - | + - - + + + - -

i can't say that's "verbatim",
but it merely represents
the excavation of a dream
where + / - were used...

         and a recurrent thought:
cognitive narcissism...
   **** mirror...
        apparently i'm the most
fascinating person on
the earth,
         although i know that's
a cheap thrill delusion...
          since i'm no magician:
it's a mirror womb,
   like any madman appears
to have fathomed....

but i was suspicious of
the female ****** for a while,
this... acting in the bedroom...
this, supposed clarity
vector for the impetus that
guides man...

             having taken "advice"
from an ukranian,
then a romanian *******...
      i remember vaguely:
did i just pay for a kiss?

      winners! and losers...
who are to mind
   the gravity of the plateau?
can't tell them apart...

****** her 7 hours straight
once, in St. Petersburg
just before i was to fly out,
and...
      you say she faked those
pseudo-epileptic spasms
mostly resonating at the altar
of her feet?

   i've had 3 pseudo-epileptic
spasms in my time...
the clenched jaw imitating
the crocodile macht...
     the gut-wrench:
supra-indigestion sensation,
and then the jitters...
  cold-sweat...
         a second birth...
the slain strobe body...
        a persistent vagueness
of the performance of
blinking...
                   pain like
              a disembodiment...
a death: with a near-life
experience...
         an agitated maggot
on the tip of a human finger,
rather than a fishing hook...

custard pie...
     yummy, eh?
    
  well... if no ******,
                            why not pain?
could just imagine the sensation,
thrill, and the Ural wind...
         beating me to the gallop,
like some...
                   forgotten smile,
laboured from a face with
    missing features...
               like the kind of tenderness
a womb is given
to superimpose
               the fraility of a flower...

how chunks of meat
can be cooked with attention...
slowly,
   as to not craft a makeshift
   McDonald charring scars...
of a... fast.

    so you're telling me
that through those 7 hours that
began with a **** me
sunset, to a ******* sunrise,
the pseudo-epileptic spasms,
were, fake?!

        mind you: it's hard to fake
a spasm...
                  not in the way i described
it,
        some nights after my first,
aged 14+, i used to fear falling
alseep with clenched teeth,
considering the fact that my first
spasm was
                   propagated by
a clenching of the teeth...
        i authentically feared clenching
my teeth...
      reminding me of the electric
potency of a worm, moving
down my spine like authentic
mandarin writing...

                     but faking an ******?
man will only know,
if he eats his up with a grain
of silence...
                  if all is thespian:
                                 then all is not...

justice already hangs in
the satanic compedium of affairs,
"apparently" justified
with man's latter fall:
             and you will not know,
the difference between good,
and evil,
       having miscarried the extremes
of a blatant index execution,
with...

             a ******* thesaurus!
minor-noun subordinates and,
lumbering excuses to play:
                   hide & seek once more;
although now?
      ******* off a few people
along the way.

the english: can't ******* hark,
can't ******* trill... the ****, can they do?!
   |ch| is not cheap...
                       couldn't laugh
even if i wanted you to.
       yeah: the "missing" O...

    so why bother with Hollywood,
if you have a Medussa's worth
of an actress, lazily occupying a bedroom?
    
i already said: i was and am,
       suspicious of the female ******...
till i became suspicious of mine...
    and: hardly lost it...
               hid it... in the ecstasy of
the drunk's laughter...

                 and the winner is!
twice removed actress
                     bulging in cushions like
a bloated tarantula...
                   considering the ape...
who is to tell me i'm not right
in borrowing the "metaphor"
      of equating women with a mantis?

too much seems to be borrowed
from animals
in the english speaking world,
  to further an investigation of being
human,
         too much has become
of the deranged, zoological tiger,
writing out a lemniscate
    to appease the democratic
continuum of:
             the tiger isn't adored...
                but the cage, certainly is.
              
a female ******... huh...
                  pseudo-epileptic spasms?
and this article?
plain outright lying,
   i never imagined people gambling
                                               with lies,
    but then again:
     i'll become, less naive,
on the day of my death...
  my pontius pilate hour of:
          you couldn't exactly ask
for a Parisian waiter to tell
me the secret of high-chin, long-nose
*******?
            who cares about lobsters?!
                   mind the Parisian waiter!

Paris: it's not exactly an excuse
       being Croat, speaking English in Paris,
missed opportunity though,
   je-b'a-n'ah      ku-r-v'ah              ma-ć!

and the winner! is?
           Zeus and Hera once debated
which *** derives more pleasure from ***...
but that, a woman,
   deviates from ******, altogether?
         and the man,
      becomes a seagull chick,
fed regurgitated ******* all the time?
   you can't fake pseudo-epileptic
spasms...
                
                  and i know what is and what
isn't considered a finality of
paying for an hour with a prozzie...
    considering the fact that you,
actually know what you're paying for,
when she's not being paid to
act the: pinnacle role...

               well: it was either to go and
see a priest, or a psychiatrist...
    but evidently the ******* knew
better... on how to educate me in
the art of: sifting journalism-on-saturday
diatribe...

                you almost want an
introduction of the concept of a sabbath
to journalism...
      
   but the missing O?
             leaving a man so gullible,
or rather:
                    i could buy into the fact
that i have a replica to "mind"...
   but being rejected from being
able to give, rather than receive pleasure?

she said it herself:
   a rare quality, for a man to mind
giving, rather than receiving pleasure...

to be left in a perpetual doubt,
                     is akin to being denied,
        which is hardly a happy phallus...
i like your supposed
   *liberators"...
                       looks like the "excesses"
of skin prior to circumcision have
a secondary purpose...
     christ, would you believe:
they can make a ******* out of that, thing?

I love your supposed fraility
it appeals to me,
in your smile theres
a beckoning hint of marigolds,
your eyes are demure  
yet they catapult
waterfalls of Lisianthuses.
Your rivulet urges a suddenness
to speak your name
as though you have drawn me
I truly wonder who is  lost.

her.
        eyeless enigma.

she chasing another listener.

another one tied to fraility
   trying to face the lid-less night,

constellations swarming with his
     questions.

she.

      kindred tornado.

inspiration's explosive alleyway.

she has left me for another.

  left me here.

    sullen, chiseled out,
a hidden sculpture leaking blood.

stuffed in silk,    since the last time  

             she was here.

    where does she hide or linger?

her ghost words waiting in a unseen library waiting for my thoughts to scroll through endless imagination.

muse of the stabbing spruce.

blinking in and out.

I am dejected out into ghost town rain, not even an insect to look at.

she is gone.

my eyes void of color, claws shred the page, she left me, dulled with hangdog drift.

where is she?

shadowing a hitman?

running wild through the next Picasso ear?

how does she imagine me?

  a conflicted whisper outcasted in rain.

where. where. where did she go?

swishing leaves up into the miracle blue air with another.

towering perceptive ideas into the fingers of grace,

flowing down the anxious page smashing mediocre left and right.

**** her. bless her.

she.  

    a butterfly threading golden silk.

her mystery bonding with the population of every Galaxy.

I was rested when she left.

when she returns

  she will not recognize me.

my frazzled hair.  my hotmess trainwreck. my burned up furniture smoldering into the carpet.

Me.

on a rooftop  scrubbing through starlight like my skylight of dreams.

if I wait with patience of Job.

will she sunrise burst me

in fountain light

falling through me

like that lover who exists in the 5th dimension.

rocking my world with pure fire thunder.

I cry at the fraility of mortality
I accept all must pass
Anything is possible at any time
Thus awareness is key

Unlock the door
Storm the houses
Take captive the machinery of maya
And take a match to the floors
Let the house of austerity go up in smoke
May the winds of Nature blow the cloud away from overhead
May the shadows be cast into the light

Hoy es hoy
Ayer ya paso
Y manana nunca muestran su
Asi que hoy es la vida
Hoy es todo
Hoy es el Cielo
Hoy es el infierno
Percepcion
Circunstancia

Enviar mis saludos a los angeles caidos de antano
Que sus almas se ilumino con dulce alivio a la luz del sol de oro de ser eterno
La manana del Cielo
Se realizo hoy en la Tierra

That sweet release comes but once a lifetime
And once it comes, the revelation
Cannot be shared with others -
Each body, each soul
Must experience it for themselves...
And at that moment, all shall be known
But until then, we must make comfort and peace our objectives
Why rush?
Enjoy the ride

Just as quickly as I quiver
I bounce back into action
Slowly replacing the fraility
With ounces of relentlessness

Hurry,
Fall in love with me
while my eyes are sealed in dreams,
my defenses shackled in sheets
I have thrashed to the floor.
Fall in love with me
in my fraility,
while my bones are weak
from rattling,
before I shove your
ship from the shore
and scurry to the mountain tops,
shadowed by lingering
'almost's.
I sing no more.

and i can sit, on a windowsill, perched and bound
to fake demure, and then listen to
                      an adhaan... and weep...
              a weeping to state joy?
a concrete emotion?
i'll sit, perched, and hear only
the many diacritical invocations of A...
all the gnostic symbolism speaks of
the A with eyes...
          but does it depict the A with ears?
http://tinyurl.com/o92pavd...
who is dajjal if the question is whether
or not he has one eye, yet whether
he has but one ear?
  why can't i receive the same emotional
comfort from the study of grace,
in castrato tongue, in Handel or Bach?
   why are there so many "diacritical"
variations of a single letter... such as A,
alpha, or ah?
             why must this vowel resound
so pristine, and i gain so much emotion
from it, as to be reduced to shed
those tears?
              it's but one vowel...
          and it stretches, on and on, and on...
something that could almost be homosexual,
for i am prone to react to a man singing
than a woman proclaiming the onomatopoeia
of ****** that translates in house,
son, daughter, a kitchen...
             provisions of all sorts...
why then, in this adhaan so i see A, equipped
with all the possible diacritical fascinations
i implored to see?
      it's but one word... ah                 lah...
and the trembling contained in it...
        why could but one word contain my tears?
or a way to possibly extract them
with the least possible due to do so?
mind you, i am drinking ***** and coke...
is that why i'm crying?
  why would i be called european,
and drinking ***** and coke and listening
to an islamic adhaan and crying?
huh? is this the point where i wonder
if i'm living in western society and "suddenly
disocver" i'm gay?
is this the part? maybe i like music too much,
and with the adhann and, e.g. le triou joubran
i think christianity has made music ugly...
and i'm trying to listen to something beautiful?
is that the point where i say it?
that one adhaan is probably the only thing
i would care to listen to if the rest of the world
of music tried ****** my hearing ever again...
and can the western world not spot the weakness
it's spreading?
          why should i drink ***** and appreciate
an adhaan?
   why?! i speak zilch of arabic...
   so why the heavy heart?
              why the tears?
                 what could possibly serve this prompt
that has happened to me before?
   who are we to not claim that religions
are to enforce poetry,
and the more beautiful the poetry,
the more the stance to endure...
          when islam started singing it's praises
they took to singing the psalms of king david...
how horrid that sound came from the depths
of aeons... king david had a lyre...
   how could you sing the psalms with many
instruments?! and, say, a choir rather than
a soloist?
              the adhaan is but one voice,
and some refrigerator background noice equivalent
to an ambient soundtrack...
        i just see christianity in england
as this stale mummy, with a church packed by
old virgins... and in poland (being a catholic
nation): zombies... pigeons... cult adherents...
  and oh that dreaded mea culpa mantra...
like everything really was my fault...
   go to poland, go into a church,
and let them recite their creed.... zombies!
a satanic cult!
    at least in islam you get to abstract praise
my imitating about to receive ****...
**** me, isn't it a multicultural world after all, eh?
and it only became possible
by investing in a self-proclaimed x-men
               quickening of evolution...
just a bit of ******* on a woman, and a man...
   being cut off...
you do know that dobermans were a breed of dogs
that had their ears cut, so they wouldn't be floppy
and instead pointy and therefore more
fearsome? well, never mind the tail being cut off;
rottweilers? that's a cow-head...
   would a bulging dog-head really look
fearsome with pointy ears added to it?
a fat head / a big head, according to the film
unbreakable is characterised due to its
size by an inherent unpredictability...
and therefore necessary evil... you can't really
add to it... a rottweiler with snipped ears
can never make up for the lean doberman,
being its cousin...
well, you see, i can appreciate an adhaan being sang...
but this thing about muslims and
not wanting to keep dogs or cats in their house...
oh just this one case of talking to an old
pakistani on a bench in a park,
and he said he said cats were ***** creatures...
but there's this story about muhammad
and his favourite cat... huh?!
   well... there you go... i know as much
about nothing, as you know as much about nothing
that could ever convince me to
    do something that you would approve of,
or thereby exploit for whatever reasons,
beginning with being, merely entertained;
modern day british converts...
                                                  use­ful idiots;
i'm sorry, but that's how it looks...
of the ones that converted, how many of them ever
weeped listening to an adhaan? one? any?!
that doesn't mean i'll don a taqiyah -
if i have that emotional intelligence / response
to it;
   i call it a bit like a man trying to prove
he's masculine and punching a boxing bag;
ah, the bit that's goo-choc and you get to see
the fraility in every man, not borne from violence
and all that's easily seen...
   but something hidden.

I look up to the night sky with a heavy heart breathing.
It is my tears that keeps me up late at night.
Tis the stinging in my eyes that linger through the day
There be a wanting feeling beyond what i can imagine
How did it come to be?
Oh this fraility within
Why must it be?

I've stayed quite long in despair,
Lurked my fears, faked my emotions,
I've been asked by many if i was okay,
But I kept myself composed and engraved,
So many times i fell in abyss,
A different dimension with hopelessness contained,
I cried alone in the darkness,
Everytime that i was pale I'd say,'I'm okay!',
Slowly and gradually i lost my faith,
In burdening up sins and choosing to be left stained,
On losing a part of me i realized,
How alone i was and how regretful i was,
It was the emptiness in my soul that struck me hard,
It was the fraility in the choice of my words that sunk me in the dark,
Every tear that  I shed,
Every memory that i had,
All but a lie pulling me to my own death,
All the guilt that i had,
Scared of what I'd done and i how I'd face God,
I lost myself half way and the other half just faded away!

Oh Life
Our dreams are like little moths
Taken over by our innocent wishes
With pain, pleasure and hearths
Aspire for life with all sweet dishes

What is life just an effortless effort
The end of the tither remains unknown
A pure surprise, deception and flirt
What it carries can never ever be shown

Oh life you killed me in sheer disgust
I could not reconcile with thy fraility
A sweet mixture of pure love and lust
A sham hesitation ,a quivering stability

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2018 Golden Glow

The High and the Mighty
Tough and Brawny
The Slow and the dead
Bereft inert and wasted
Two sides of the same coin.
Happy the haughty
Unleashes the bully,
deeming the other worthless.
Tearing the soul brutal.
Play the game of the top dog and underdog.
Both are clowns,neither realising the futility of  this wasted exercise.
Pin the underdog on his physical gesticulation and mental indisposition.
Alone or in a group all are of a similar type.
Lynch the fall guy .
Stooge, scapegoat , victim and prey he becomes
To the vanity he succumbs.
Technique pretty as picnic.
Humour at his fraility,
Sock his security.
Convey substance right,
Lock him in tight.
Prepense a Wrong,
Twist his arm.
Snap and he reacts
He imitates your act
It's all too simple now,
Deride him unfair and square.
He has his cross to bear.
All the while sit in a chair
Wax eloquently about calibre and compare.
He stands there  sensibilities destroyed.
Wasting and Raising the role  ,
Haul over the Coals,
Oh boy has he killed your Soul ?
The Mighty is a bully,
Always righteous.
The Weak is Cunning,
Uses all the  weapons  he can comprehend.
Shunning Pretending Obeying and even Clowning.
The Bully manipulates the  weak for control, consciously.
The fragile also wants control , manipulating himself unconsciously.
This conflict seldom ends.
Till the feeble attains strength to defend.
Defend he will once he is able to transcend,
That the Mighty pedestal he had given to is living on a pretense.
The Mighty is acting out of a deep inner lacking.
Education none. Occupation None.
Achievements None.
Courteous he is to no one
Covering his incapacity,
He tries to be Judge and Jury.
Never once ******* himself
For deep inside he has no sense of self.
Lives in a dream ,  
Destroying condemning  others dreams.
Lives the life of the Mighty,
As long as others don't see reality.
That being his only strength.
Till his time is up and fate beckons,
The world has no choice but to reckon
The irony lies in the destiny.
World is not a fair place,
For Mighty he is not .
The Frail realises too late
But can never fight fate

Unfulfilled dreams
No one an exception
Every human has some
Things they wanted to do
But never done

Reasons plenty
Usually blamed on Destiny
Convert to reality
Create the opportunity

Life led and lessons learnt
Burdens carried faced the brunt
Problems faced upfront
None left to surmount


Idea of expectancy
Lifes longevity
Some clarity
Based on fraility


Doctors prescribe
More or less correct
Time left on earth
Breaths till last breath

Time and tide
Wait for none
You no exception
Ready for the action

Things not materialized
Thought process conceptualized
From infancy till now
Dont get Into the how

Unrrealised gist
Prepare a list
To do before death
No one knows after that

Follow with zest
Complete tasks ahead
Fulfill before death
Before body under wreath

Lighten the soul
Before its journey behold
Last days on planet
Complete them rather
Than forego it

Kick the bucket metaphor
Your soul had left bedside
Nothing left beside
Things not done and unsaid

Follow your heart
Led by your thought
Fulfill the wish
The soul incomplete with
Prepare your Bucket List

24 HOURS

Read in reverse --
cupped wingspan of a flying cloud
drinking the brightness of an evening sky ;
Blazing cascade of northern lights, shadow
spaces rare, unguessed meaning of all
that pours longing into empty places of the night.

There are nebula perhaps cradling new stars
in heaven’s secret constellations, radiance
tender and consumming --

then, a drop of sun, goss-layered gossamer
over a rippled veil of shade and light,
dawn shifting irridescense into milky
pink rose refreshes the fraility of soul.

Day’s ardent color makes promises
fading gradually into the curve
of softening dark-- the silver curve
of early moon or the pyrotechnics
of a falling star.

24 hours, a presence constantly moving on,
a marriage of day and night when earth,
moon, sun and we align.