Frontline.
I stand on the front line.
A mile behind, ninety-nine souls
Stare.
Facing forward,
Accusing.
They say:
Why?
I say:

At any given moment, it seems there is a fashion week happening somewhere in the world - be it Sydney, Istanbul, Dubai, Seoul, Moscow, Toronto, Copenhagen or Lagos (to name a few).

But the latest entrant may be the most surprising: Silicon Valley.

Or, as the organisers style it: Silicon Valley Fashion Week?!.

The punctuation marks as part of the title are a self-aware nod to the incongruity of marrying the location, known for its allegiance to hoodies, Tevas and T-shirts, to a fashion event.

But that does not mean they are any less serious about its potential.

The three-day annual event, which finished its second turn over the weekend in San Francisco, bills itself as "part fashion show, part variety show, part trade show" and is open to the public, unlike the usual fashion industry events. This year, about 30 brands were featured and tickets, at US$20 (S$28), sold out, with about 500 people attending each day.

It was staged by Betabrand, a San Francisco company that builds its clothing catalogue by crowdsourcing design ideas and, after seeing which take off, crowdfunding the production of the prototypes to see which ones people will actually want to buy. Examples include a "mind the gap" blouse that stretches to fit the body's contours and a dress that uses a trademarked reflective material.

The event exists at the nexus of Burning Man, wearable technology and the Maker Movement, home of inventors, designers and other do-it-yourself types. Pebble Smartwatch presented a Smarthole Hoodie, a standard hoodie design with sleeves that extend over the thumbs and have a movable panel around the wrist to make gaining access to the company's device easier; and Tinsel offered headphones that can be worn as a necklace.

Alison Lewis, who holds a design and technology master's degree from Parsons School of Design in New York, showed three items: a lambskin leather handbag embedded with LED bulbs that can be rearranged in different patterns with an app; a T-shirt that does the same; and a dress with lights that undulate with the wearer's heartbeat.

"Technology is a tool. It's how we use it that's really exciting," she said. "We could have less clothing in our closets and have pieces that change and work with our moods and personalities on a daily basis."

Lewis has not had a chance to present her work in other fashion shows and, so far, she has not been able to mass-produce her items. She commended the fashion week as a place to experiment.

She was not the only designer struggling with the challenge of manufacturing what she displayed.

However, as wearables increasingly enter mainstream fashion, with designers from Ralph Lauren to Zac Posen dipping their creative toes into technology, the idea of clothing patterns controlled by apps, of drone delivery, and of customisation that allows - maybe even asks - its wearers to make a choice each and every day, seems less far-fetched and more like fashion's possible future.

Which, unlikely as it may be, puts the Silicon Valley event on the style front line.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses

prelimenary coordinates - a blindman playing chess.

well... you either drink, and write sparingly,
     or you don't drink, and you write
a novel...
    but who would have thought, that there
would be poetic odes involving coffee...
     it's staggering how many women write
poems and have to concern themselves with
coffee...
  i down a litre of whiskey a night, don't know
what a hangover is anymore,
        and i can beat out more words
than women, who use a stimulant and write
   crumbs... when i expect a loaf of bread...
if not this website, then another, and the scenario
is the same: the glorification of coffee...
           it just shows you how barricaded the human
narrative is, of the soul...
        poetry merely nibbles, and i know it's
flaws... write without paragraphs,
or care for punctuation marks... and it's immediately
a poem...
   or... oh god forbid! there's something profound
being said with a few words...
      and it has to be profound...
                      yes, i'm the Gargamel and those
are my smurfs...
                             strange that Freud didn't think up
the man-child complex...
                         which is the opposite of the madonna-*****
complex, which he actually did...
           Edward Hopper was also bemused by
these two mental pharmacologists...
                did a little sketch holding Freud as pillar 1,
and Jung as pillar 2.
    but coffee and poetry: i'd expect more from this
latitude...
        and it's still a case of:
                   people cling to the raft that's their
mental narrative mondus operandi...
                Kant tried to say something as concrete
with 5 + 7 = 13... and read any philosophy book...
    Kant isolates the ''i think'', and Hegel isolates
    the i = i, or i am i...
                              and these are serious thinkers...
but Descartes has said a limit...
                       thinking defines subjectivity...
      thinking the essential component of what's
   not thought about: the existential compromise of
   being per se...
                    and how i always seem to find philosophy
as a stumbling block concerning everything i write...
    it's almost as if i can't escape the world of
abstracts...          a degree in chemistry didn't help either...
     am i truly so un-realistic?
               not that i'm afraid of being drawn toward
the un-real...          it's that humanity seems only like
an infertile groundwork speeding toward a forgivable
promise...
    i just wanted to say: you drink and write poetry...
or you don't drink, and write a novel...
      and true to a heart's cause i will say:
that straitjacket of what poetry is...
                           whether rhyme... or other technique...
    hanging over it...
                           it can't do:
      i abhor Nietzsche for making poetry a science...
  and it is: too scientific...
              i'd never think so little can be deemed
so perplexing... or having that essence...
                    so yes... Kant
                         really does struggle to say something
profound, but he actually does...
                     over and over again... namely:
i'd never could think of so many faculties of my mind...
    not that's what i call a plastic saying...
      ****-licking brown-nosing, call it what you like...
it's just so terrible that philosophy cannot reach
toward being a humanism, like a novel always can...
     which is why i could eat a historical novel
        by Kraszewski in three weeks in between allocating
that time to the festive season,
                     and it took me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... until i let go of that post-scriptum necessity
of having to stop at every setence and do a rubick's cube...
     a bit like: well... aren't those electron-migration
   schematics they teach you in chemistry, a little bit pointless?
   who give's a badger's nut-sack about how electrons migrate
when a a cabron to oxygen bond forms?
                         but they do teach that...
           which is why you can take a novel to bed,
on the train... but so much focus is needed for that other novel,
the scientific one... the grandeur of... philosophy...
                and that's when i let go...
   the last part of the critique does allow you to read
piece of work... like a novel... unless of course that was my
need to do so...
                    so yes: transcendental methodology in Kant's
critique: does read like a novel... at some point
you just have to let go.

ii. ...

and you do... try saying philosophy without saying
something pretentious....
               and i dare say: as long as the fewest number
of people concern themselves with it:
  the more chances we have for electricity,
plumbing, food on the table...
               but by now there's this talk of a curse...
premature Socratic antics... mind you: he was an old man...
but Plato be ******, he wrote down what the old man
spoke: and a clear number of them succumbed to
      the tumble-**** effect...
                      no real prospects for life...
        and, evidently, the dead gods philosophised,
while the rest remained: prone to throwing a show of
macho, and worshipped the body...
Olympus shone...  
   by now you should know that i don't know what
i'm doing...
                  give me the killer-switch to launch a nuclear
strike and i'd probably say: maracas!
shake shake shake...     fidgety in the brothel...
shake shake shake...
             that's the weird thing, every time i went to
a brothel i became over-heated...
      i sat there, the whole **** place always reminded me
of a perfume... jack daniels...
   and i could feel myself over-heating...
  i don't known if that was the angel conscience talking
to me... but i always felt those eyes of scrutiny...
       mind you, once the whole "naughty'' escapade
took off... i forgot those relationships where
                    an impotence was crowned...
   don't know: maybe prostitutes just know my pin-number
and hold to say to little richard: off to the crusades with you!
     phenomenal...
                                         well... thank god for
the north african imports! i'd start thinking all european
women are bound to be: neglected.
               and was it ever, not only about ***?
    it's nice to doubt it...
                           next time i'll woodpecker a grave.
but hey! the promised land!
                           at least you'll have someone to cry
over your grave...
   and did i tell you how there's this cult of the grave
in Poland? yep, that's not a personal reality,
it's a populist manifesto... i'm starting to see it
as a hell where people sort of forgot to state their emotion
to the people, now lying in those tombs...
         give me a Hindu wedding with fire!
  i wanna become elemental!
and look, libido on fire... a billion vishnu-******* in
Bangladesh...   it's this thirst for fame in western
societies that's going to be a downsize...
                                 over there that's like a **** in
a tornado...              ha ha! it really is!
   but then again, here i am, a graveyard hyenna...
walking in Liberace's talk of style...
  most of these graves, really are: tacky...
    just like Liberace, the greatest showbiz conman of
the 20st century... i love the fact that he fooled so many
women... i mean... that guy was almost as good
as ****** when it came to mesmerising people...
but Liberace had a nieche audience... so...
                 no khaki for the ss...
                                           and i dare to hold
an ethnicity? in tune with bob marley: one love, one people...
it has never been so painful to strategise globalisation...
         it's this ethnic cleansing that everyone agreed to
provided they received a smart-phone...
                   or a McDonald's fetish... and that's saying it cheap...
but that's how it feels on the periphery of H'america...
little ol' England boycots Europe...
                     and it's like: huh?
                                           presto! dum-dum.
    sometimes i start thinking that i have a hydra for a tongue...
and the more i drink, the more i start to see
       it splintering up into a polyphony construct,
but more a case of: polyphony of subjects...
   and yes, aren't we all those internet losers...
when the most powerful man in the world...
     uses twitter. bastions of respectable comment!
yes, i.e. newspapers... we're riding this meteor to the end...
          does anyone still consider newspapers to be
the pledges of a free society? i must have been asleep for
the past 20 years then...
                      someone switched on this chaos-turbine,
and we're all shoving our two cents of opnions'-worth into it...
and it's not stopping...
            and yet you still read in newspapers, this underlining
feeling of being condescended... as if they are the sole
authority... they have to behave like little despots...
                           social media's power is invested in its
shock reverberation... think: Marx in the 21st century...
           but can you? is this some pseudo Marxism?
             i might have bypassed all the king-makers and
walls... but i have no leverage... my opinions are
     as cheap as chips... well: we got ourselves a unison converson...
   i still don't see how the television zeitgeist still thinks
that the internet zeitgeist is no connected with ''real life''...
i mean... **** me! where's the highstreet with all the shops?
on the internet. where is the frontline of wars? on the internet.
  where do suicides take place? on the internet,
from all the cyber bugs that people start to represent...
    if this isn't real life... then i guess i must be sitting,
and writing this in some medieval castle in transylvania,
    and my computer is powered by a legion of
hamsters on exercise-wheels, in a damp room, lit by a candle.

iii.

for me, this is how reading a philosophy book looks like:

| | |
     fig. 1
                                          /   \
                                            _
                 ­                                 fig. 2
    Δ
       fig. 3
                                           A
                                               fig. 4

it's like i want to see something with some clarity;
there is clear movement
      concerning a book like that,
              but unlike a standard novel:
there is clearly nothing concerning the: any given
  hope to disperse the mist.
                you're given the blunt truth:
the use of language...
                     again, it would be easier to call forward
a use of a tomahawk... or a guillotine...
            philosophy books never establish civilisations,
they break them.
                and do i think that the crucifix is a profanity
of the tetragrammaton? yes.
                do i feel Spinoza's anguish? probably.
when you read philosophy to start to waver,
it's almost necessary to unlearn language, and with
each philosophy book: learn it over again.
     you can't remain strapped to this culture
of emphasis of singled-out words...
              we can't find a constructive basis if we're
about to start any mechanism from such a dynamic,
isolating certain words and weighing them
                       obstructs language...
                 i can't even begin to fathom a pledge
to using a language, if there are these plebian obstructions...
i did write some notes when i spent these past 3 weeks
in Poland, but i'm scared of rewriting them...
                    i can claim to have understood
their content at the time,
but the context disparity is too much for me...
                 i'm rereading them in England
and i can only see England as a nightmarish construct
of such grandeour... that i might only be seen
speaking truth in the north of it...
                nor do i like the tri-tier categorisation
of man... if you read Kant, you'd be afraid of
man's laconic approach to the mind, stating
the three boundaries, and literally no faculty interactions...
  consciousness (the artist), denoting the overly-sensitive,
the subconscious (the worker), denoting the athletic construct
   and liberation from the daily toils of pure physical
    disposition...
and the unconscious (the zombie)...
   if you read Kant and explore the faculties...
and then turn toward the Freudian populism:
   there's enough reason to be concerned...
                  i can't be saying someone anti-vogue:
and that was my proper concern, that i might be saying
someone not recountable in any sort of realism...
          that mine is an isolated case...
         ditto alongside: why are we juggling the tri-tiers,
and so bombastic and even celebratory in huddling
toward these safety-nets of being human?
    thus said: the reflective man has died...
       in his place came the reflexive man...
                             and if there really is a worthwhile
stance to be a: **** sapiens...
   then all hope for a bewildered man is gone...
                 when the potency of robotics escaped science
fiction, and all trodden paths of orthodox science were
      fed to science fiction, humanity could begin
the process of discarding the offshoots...
          
iv.

the new testament... a book riddled with metaphors...
no wonder the greeks exploited the hebrew literalism...
and yes, plato the precursor made this very real...
by testifying that poetry had no place in the republic,
the new testament had to become solely poetic...
   the new testament is a rebellion against plato's republic...
it's a book wholly compromised on metaphor...
culminating in a book that's founded on imagery...
the gosepls are, once again, arithmetically speaking,
resembling the crucifix... which damns the concept
of the tetragrammaton...
                      as a book: it's only gibberish in
its final circumstance of revelation as a book of imagery...
   and in its preceding case: a book of metaphors...
who wouldn't be apprehensive to be born human
with such a thing being rampant?!
                    imagery is gibberish, given that we
have compentent painters out there...
and metaphor is metaphysics, given that we have
competent magicians out there...
   so how far apart are the words: qua             and
                   quo?
   as good a question as: how far apart are the words
                          phor               and phren?
       φoρ                       &                            φρην?
        so in the congregation of μετα, how are they
so apart?  looking at language from an alphabetical
perspective... it's hard to see anything inspirational...
    nor the tangens divergence of words
that are nonetheless so proximate in their construct...
a bit like the genetic proximity of man and ape,
or man and a banana...
   φoρ (the bearer of the beyond) -
                φρην (a mind concerned with things
under the curtain) -
                        and so: the futility of looking for
        a soul... became translated as the new found feudalism
of looking for a mind:
  given the common consensus: we're all mad....
so too looking at mythology could be revised:
  that myth of narcissus and echo...
or narcissus and psyche...
                         or φρην & πσιχη -
                we already know that there's an aesthetic
in Greek, at least they showed us
      that it can be σimple, when acknowledged
  and practised -
which means transcribing the ease of handwriting
   into a digital format, can be seen as an unnecessary
complexity - as if me currently looking for a word
that ends, and showcases the most obvious Grecian
aesthetic (without mention ο, ε, ω, η, œ)...
but with due mention: so where the second variant
of α, given there's æ?
                           it really is hard to find coherency
in human language... i'm still trying to conjure up
the second sigma... unless i hit the plural noteς...
there... i hit them... as simple as that.
  and yes: the father of the french hooked c
in garçon, came from this: the sigma used at the end
of wordς... i suspect that how things were denoted
to be possessed in english, also came from it.
once again: handwritting is bewildering on this digital canvas.

v.*

i don't have an atheistic argument, or a theistic argument,
i'v

Headless chickens running aimless toward the almighty dollar
Blindly staring at the knife"s stainless steel amidst all the squaller

My thirsty soul argues against my numb skull to hold a thorough audition
They lewdly feud about potential candidates accrued to search for recognition
They conclude on a suspicion they mutually feared as a result of blind ambition
Search preludes the admission, that I found my dream car with no keys for ignition

Don"t question authority especially when it's the majority
Everyone knows the world is flat and let's just leave it at that
I bought water from you now I have ice to sell
I have a great story but no one worthy to tell
Hindsight should really be at least twenty fifteen
Because to admit we just don"t know is too obscene?

Blissful ignorance"s repugnant scent wafting through the cave
Mindless sheople"s chainlinked brains all dancing at the rave
Fire flickering Shadow puppets tastefully riding the next wave
Puppeteer wizard behind the curtain telling them how to behave
Misaligned redcoated frontline soldiers falsely labeled as brave
Life"s ironic conundrum puzzle, choosing which children to save
Diseased cement steadily drying in a world ever ready to pave
Hungrier than I"ve ever been, yet sickly devoid of things to crave

I stand behind you.
No matter where you turn,

I've got your back.
Don't care if you can't see me;

I won't make a sound as the
Bullets hit.

It's a cheap shot world at times.  
You form the frontline,

I'll be here with a back full of
Lead with your name on it.

I'm a ***** Boxing Champion.
Taking all their sucker punches,  

I stand behind you. Let you fight  
Your own battles,

Shield you only from what
Isn't fair.

Even the odds with every step
You take. I'm kevlar. You unalone.

Over the ravaged battlefield, a pall of death hung fast
I watched in silent horror, as the wounded breathed their last
The screams of bloodied soldiers, echoed down the sodden trench
As vermin ate the flesh of men, unbothered by the stench.

A drizzling rain was falling soft, as darkness slew the day
I knew my life was fading fast, so I began to pray

Oh GOD! Above in heaven, as you look down on this Hell
You see,through this black holocaust, a frightened Sentinel
The time is fast approaching Lord, when we'll meet face to face
And I'll be held accountable, for my actions in this place

No words in mitigation, can excuse the deeds I've done
I'm a product of my nation born to die upon the Somme
Before deaths bullet takes me, when I'm ordered from this hole
I beg you to forgive me and recieve my wretched Soul...

The order came along the trench ''Get ready to attack''
The cold hard hand of terror rested firmly on my back
Down along the frontline, whispered prayers of men grew quiet
While mass extermination waited out there in the night
Each brief second seemed an hour, as I saw my life flash past
Then somewhere in my reverie, the whistle blew at last

That cold hard hand of terror pushed me forward from behind
A burning rage and bloodlust closed the senses of my mind
Rifle shooting deadly sin, over no-mans land I stumbled
The dead of prior battles, in heaps around me,tumbled
A piercing war-cry on my lips, my bloodlust not yet sated
Firing blindly, all the while, the foe he grimly waited

Halfway accross hells quagmire, the flares popped overhead
Casting down an eerie glow on the living and the dead

Caught like running Ghosts of men, by those floating midnight Suns
Fodder for Deaths banquet, silhouetted for their guns
The whine of flying bullets filled the air about my ears
A smell of death, its **** and blood returned me to my fears

Realising our predicament, caught between two stools
Though Death reaped us like fresh grass, we all ran on like  fools
A bullet caught me in the chest, just below my shoulder
I fell upon the barbedwire and felt my blood grow colder
Hanging there, as life ran out, screaming for assistance
I saw myself and comrades, from what seemed a mighty distance

So adrift upon some sea, Life, winding down within me
But Oh! the manner of my Death, a very sad short story
A lad of nineteen summers, I had never loved a wife
Nor done the things I dreamed I'd do in the young days of my life....

My nation called ''We Need You Son'' in nineteen and fourteen
And preached of War and Battle as a bright and shining dream
With words like, Honour, Glory, Pride........ Bravery and Duty
Beguiled my generation by painting Death as beauty....

A message from the government explaining my sad tale
My poor beloved family will soon get in the Mail
Telling lies of sacrifice for our nations worthy cause
BUT NOT RELATING,HOW I DIED OF GOVERNMENTAL FLAWS.....


Written on October 5/2005.. Copyright.Eamonn O'Dowd.

Apart
Departed
Parted ways
Discard
This card
Its a scar
A love scar
It tells
A tale
Of what once was
A stale
Stench
Fumes from the outdated
Perfume
The lipstick print
Burned
A permanent
Memory
I'll never forget
Those lips
Slipped
After i danced
With the devil
For a bit
I
The advocate
For too much pride
Abdicated
My position
As dictator
For your revolution
Your free
This civil war
Was uncivilized
Lies
Across the frontline
Frontin, lying
Guess
I'm a traitor
I traded
It all
For the greatest fall
I ever took
I know
I don’t deserve
A parachute

So let me loose...

.Suicidal Paratrooper.

The Blue of the Democrats
The Red of the Republicans
Where is the White of The People?

When did We The People become,
We The Separated?

In times like these.
We cannot look to the government.
We The People, must look to ourselves!

United We Stand!
Divided We Fall!

The government was never
fat politicians.
It was We The People

Where is the Red, White, and Blue?

We are the Government.
We don't have the luxury
to blame ourselves.

We The People.
Of the United States of America
must stand against today's problems.

Not debt.
Not war.
Not education.

But laziness,
disunity,
and hopelessness.

Blaming the government,
is blaming We The People.
Blaming your neighbors.
Blaming your friends.

What happened to Uncle Sam?
He fell and We ignored him.
Our Uncle Sam is still there.
begging for help,
We keep walking.

Now We ask each other.
Where is Uncle Sam?
Where is Patriotism?
Why is our country in disarray?

I say,
look unto yourself
We The People
have become lazy
have become confused
have become weak

The World is turning.
Mother of time is ready
to spit out the old,
and chew,
on the new.

Like Rome.
We seen our final glorious days.
The New World dawns.

But I tell you my friend.
It is not too late.
We have all heard and saw Rome's dismay.
It is not too late.

It is not too late.

We can learn from the Romans.
We can turn from our ways of laziness.
Help Uncle Sam!
Bring a New America.
Out with the Old!
In with the New!

Uncle Sam has a lot on his plate.
The War in Afghanistan,
His debt to China,
and His fading economy.

We can't help him by solving those problems.
But let us,
We The People.
Clean His home.
Sing a song to him.
Our all-american Uncle.
Fix his home.

Let us We The People take the first step,
if you see kids on the streets,
yell at them,
"Did you do your homework?"
"Are you studying for your SATs?"
Encourage!

If We are at work.
Don't play FarmVille.
Work knowing this,
You are fighting for America,
everyday is another dollar off of Uncle Sam's debt.
You are the frontline in this war against time.

If We are at school.
Stop flirting with random girls or boys,
with intent of ***.
Know this, you are next.
We are The People.
Kids build the bullets of Uncle Sam's Gun,
through education.
If Uncle Sam has good bullets, he will win his battle,
If Uncle Sam has bad bullets, he will lose his battle.
When Uncle Sam goes to battle with the other countries,
your bullets will be the difference between America the destroyed,
and America the victorious.

We Are The People.
We Are The Future.
We Are The Government.
Never forget that.

So next time you ask yourself,
how did this happen?
Look at yourself,
remind everybody.
We are The People.

We need to work harder America.
There is no question to that.
That is the Modern Common Sense.

"The Business Int'l is a trans-national,
Multi-operative, corporate entity.
With the means to function outside
Normal Gov't bounds
The Business Int'l has become the worldwide leader
On the frontline of:
Genetic & Bio-Engineering!
Space Exploration
And long-range teleportation services!

Our research will better* [human-kind]
And is the most advanced & comprehensive
Ever imagined.

The Business Int'l values it's loyal customers!
And at the Business Int'l
We take all of your corcerns seriously.

We also offer aid to every worker at any/all of our subsidiaries
Any 4th class employee who feels compelled to:
[Leave the Facility]
Or
[Propagate sensitive data]
*STOP.
Remain calm. And fasten yourself to nearby set furniture
Until our Registered Physcian can
Follow up with you.
Self-Quarentine is a Business Int'l core policy!

In extreme cases though,
The Business Int'l reminds you to
Be prepared to utilize
Your personalized botulinum capsule
Provided to you during your initiation!

Thank you!

More than three months passed
COVID-19
Causing terrifying scenes
More than two hundred thousand of people died
The whole globe was bewildered

Crowded hospital
Lack of oxygen machine
Stalked feet
Painful separation

Doctors and nurses
Directly around the clock
Rushed meals
Worry cast aside

Save people like firefighters fight fire
No moments of rest
A physician is a holy mother
Save each life

Although they are also afraid
Infection with virus
But the professional vocation
They sacrifice to the end

So many silent people
Leaving without returning
The Good Doctors
For humanity's protection.

Goodbye brothers and sisters
They are forever grateful
Medical team
For the health of all peoples.

All weapons of
   the fates you've sealed
Are no match for
   this pen I wield
The power to
   articulate
Ticking rhyme bombs
   to detonate
The conflicts waged
   gambling mankind
My perfect hand
   is treaties signed
Hellbent hounds pray
  like dogs, I hunt
Frontline this notebook
  battlefront
With metaphors
  of mindless drones  
Like similes
  to brainwashed clones
Whose C4 booms
  and IED's
Can't build bridges
  like ABC's

Or tear them down
  with death regimes
By rusting through
  the war machines
Flamethrowin’ my
  verbal grenade
With ****** noun
  scorched-earth tirade  
On militant
  cold-blood elite
King cobras know
  I'm packing heat
Seeking missile
  resolution
Winged raptor
  devolution
Prehistoric
  barbarism
Literacy
  cataclysm
Stockpiling
  extinction bones
We're cavemen carving
  fallout stones

My Hiroshima
  prose explodes
With nuclear
  bushido codes
Released from my  
  katana's ward
To free my press
  from shogun lord
Oppressing haiku
  imagery  
And samurai
  epigraphy  
Expressions of
  my ronin soul
Omitted by
  the daimyo
Satsuma is my
  poetry    
My final draft's
  Nagasaki
  
Ink cartridges
  strapped 'round my neck
I print no charge
  or background check
And ****** every
  live round free
Of innocent
  blood elegy
And killing sprees
  of gunned-down news
Domestic violence
  black and blues
A Number 2
  pencil dependent
Obsolete
  lead-head amendment
Open carry
  shoots a blank
Empty shell case
  at my think tank
So grip this peace
  then **** and pull it
**** my diction
  write the bullet

The bank account overdrawn,
the west coast -- naked, easy --
passenger seat and head resting on cold glass,
seeing the pines turn to ash to evergreen to redwoods to sand.

I bit her ear and asked for her name,
in Before George's sanctuary,
blush, blushing -- finger to lips hushing,
drinking cognac and speaking in flaming coal
I saw the clouds behind the night sky,
I saw Jesus teach himself to fly,
and I hallelujah'd and amen'd and carried
her to the shore, Samantha, she said,
bulging mind,
anorexic action,
I bit her ear and asked her room number,
in the ocean's frontline,
hush, hushing -- backs of hands and blushing,
drinking cognac and speaking in simmering oil
I saw the night behind the clouded sky,
I saw a fly transfigure into Jesus,
and I hallelujah'd and amen'd and frayed
the remnants of grassroot and buttercup,
drunk high tide,
sober dry iced,

The bank account cleared its throat,
"Room 210 and I'd like a ***** and coke."

frontline soldiers
march through the melting snow—
rows of wet saplings

Roses are Red, Blood is too.
You're my best friend, but I hate you.
Best means nothing.
Friend means less.
Yet without you,
Truth?
I'm a mess.

Said what I said *** I give a ****
which is more than you get from the crowd you hang with.

Ricky and Dustin and tall hot blonde kid,
Misha, and Matt..
**** all of them!

Better yet, don't!
They don't deserve you.
I know you don't believe it,
but its true.

You're incredible, as I've said before.
Start believe that.
Stop being a *****.
Who is this girl?
You could be so much more!

You want to be wanted?
That's what you want for yourself?
What about success, dreams,
and maybe good health.

If I could give everything I have,
I would.
If that meant you were happy
and would smile like you should.

I would die for you.
Why don't you understand that?!
You're the best friend that I've ever had!

Delete my number.
Do you think I meant that?
I felt like such **** that's the response that I had!
And you can forget me and go get a tatt?
While I'm in tears over a fight that we had!

You get drunk and say you hate your life.
Yet continue to do it every night.
and I'm willing to drive there to be there for you
because that's what a ******* best friend would do!

And no matter what, I'll always be here for you.
And if you walk away,
I'll be here, too.

Violets are blue,
and that's how I'm feeling.
If you're at this point,
I guess thanks for reading.

This is my cry,
my reach out to you.
Cuz the way I love you girl,
a text wouldn't do.

Best means nothing,
friend means less.
But sisters are until the ******* end.

I don't care if you hate me or if I hate you.
I don't care if sometimes we have a fight or two.

The fact is, there's nothing that I can do
to even begin to explain to you
how much I want to make amends
try to improve and just stay friends.

You don't have to acknowledge me.
Delete me from your life,
all over some stupid ****** strife.

But I couldn't stay awake for one more night
thinking about it,
pretending everything was alright.

Let me know one way or the other.
Let's not give up on one another.

With everything that we've been through,
I don't want to stop being a we with you.

You're my best friend,
my sister,
my wife.

You're my tree,
my twin,
my kiss at midnight.

You're such an immense part of my life.
Eliminate you at this point?
Yeah right!

So roses are red, and blood is too.
We're at war,
yet I'm on the frontline for you.
Fighting for everything we've been through
and I'm not giving up.
**That's what best friends do.

The Gifted ones we turn into
The "Wild Ones" to be
The Chosen-Ones of the
Golden- Gods
Wild Oats organically
are grown into
your younger heart

   Like (Cheer)ios
Mysterious Honey O's
Uniquely-- tied-- unknown
Does everybody become ?
The Joker playing poker
Too many "Billygoats"

Wild card players
Playing jeopardy in
(January)
To be his chosen one
Miss (February)
True gifts the big ones
(March) in wild ones

The Emerald-Green door
planet
Poems on earth sonnet
(April) no fools I'm cool
Orangutans wild dolphins
Italian vineyards  
Wildlife Fruit surgeons

(May) I click to tease you
Shark bay will bite you
Getting burned with a
flat iron
Walk the talk Sea lions
Sea Cortez smartphones
Married in (June) candy Pez

So personal  in (July)
What awaits through the__ door*
Mom brightens my August day
I pod imaginary dreamscape
Cat got your tongue
Darkness like Grunge
Amazon Jungle-book in
the lounge

Got Scrooged no gifts
To Google the camel got
your back move to the
frontline with her "Big Cats"
On the Jet gifts and magical hats
It pays to be wild
"The Man's Pleasure" he is 

The most wanted list
Oh! Christ
The last gift watch out
The Brittish are coming
to brighten up your
bucket list

Saint Nick canary slippery
hands tight fist protest
The wild ones "Readers Digest"
Trees and eyes don't lie
Knocking on heavens door
Don't be the swagger
**** Jaeger

White snow sugar dance the
Warm maple brown sugar
                        
I hear the Godly caller
Writers, all doors welcome

General.
Sir.
That is how you will identify me,
Hoorah?

I tell you what.
I am a soldier
But you?
You gotta earn your rights
To be privileged with such a title.
You get me maggot?
Fall in line, keep your lips locked.
Look me in the eye.
See any fear?
You shouldn’t, unless
It’s in your reflection.
You scrounge for this courage,
These cajones, that passion to surmount.
To get here, where I stand…

Here…
Can any of you maggots tell me
Where here is?
Anybody?
Are you even listening to me?
Where the hell are you going?
I never said at ease!
Sigh

I was an elite,
A soldier,
A leader.
Where here was the frontline.
The trenches, the beach head,
Africa, Stalingrad, O’ahu.
Now, here
Is found forgotten,
Lost in tragedy,
A false spectacle of hope,
Leaves me lost in this wicked dimension.
Clinches my soul.

Bang! Dust cover, flash
Dust cover, flash
Flash…
My senses.
Fading.
Into this abyss.
Leaving me here.
A ghost.
A spirit.
Please…
Bury me a soldier

We, unaccustomed to courage
says Maya.
We, who have chosen
with choices we were not aware
of making
as we made them.

we need a revolution.
some courageous warriors
that will lead us into
liberation.

but the frontline soldiers
never come home.

Are You On The a Frontline Or Are You Online

-LYNN BROWNING

The Flak hits the wings and body of the plane
506th Easy Company
Of the 101st Airborne

The leg bag
Tore right off
They jumped lower than they should have been

Tracer bullets burning holes through the parachute
Tracers spraying around in the air
Firing in every direction

Paul "Buck" Rogers
Lands in a tree

Some worked their way down
Through a farm area
To a hedge row

Easy Company captured and destroyed
The guns at Brecourt Manor
Saving countless lives on Utah Beach

They helped to liberate the Dutch
Angels from the sky

The black and white footage is amazing
The gratitude and love the people show
To the men is wonderful

Finally free after four years
Of Occupation by the Germans

Battling from village to village
Along "Hell's Highway,"
Easy Company crossed Holland to the Rhine River

Nine men of Easy Company
Lost their lives
Battling in Holland

By the End of the Holland campaign,
Easy Company had been on the frontline
For more than 70 days

On Dec. 16, 1944
****** launched his offensive into the Ardennes

The Battle of the Bulge would become
The largest engagement
In the history
Of the U.S. Army
600,000 soldiers would fight in the battle

Easy Company was told to hold the perimeter of Bastogne
Surrounded by Germans
Branches knocked off of trees
Holes in the ground

Artillery attack
88s, mortars, rockets
They jumped into foxholes
He could see all the shells hitting from the foxhole

The wounded got relief from battle
Maybe a ticket home
If they died they were at peace

At Berchtesgaden
They uncovered artwork

In Zell Am Zee, Austria
Easy Company helped secure
The surrender of 25,000 German troops

On November 30, 1945
The 101st Airborne Division
Was inactivated

Day after Day
They fought together
Fought for each other
Knowing some would not return

This veteran said,
"I cherish the memories
Of a question my grandson asked me the other day.

'Grandpa, Were you a hero in the war?'
Grandpa said no
But I served in a company of heroes."

Poetic injustice
Gunpowder dusted daisies
****** rain.
We've won the war
and lost our souls
Yet we haven't bought enough gas
to get us home.
We're grinding our wheels
helpless on the frontline
Dying for dollars
that will never be spent
Only hoarded by the wealthy
in dusty banker vaults
where unicorns and dragons live.

and yes, very much a niche concern, my laptop broke down
   and i'm forced into the box room, albeit not ramped
out with Nabokov's Switzerland lodging:
at a hotel in the Alps catching butterflies and Lolitas -
i've finally matured in my likings -
but let me tell you, it has been painful
adjusting to the upright sitting:
lost the slouch and the quickie
crow-on-a-windowsill with a whiskey
sharpshooter and then a tornado cascade
into the lesser concept of a blank page and that famous
nothing of philosophers... i love the lesser critique
of Heidegger, my grandfather bought me
a 25 volume worths of interest,
and Heidegger stood out foremost,
primarily because of a peculiar surname,
i later learned that he was the German
that would eventually make Wordsworth
pointless in picking up the lyre,
with so many books i had to realise that
i needed a partner akin to walking through
Dante's epic,
              i could have chosen Ovid, but esp.
Horace, but i didn't choose Virgil or Homer,
a blood German peasant... but also
a pheasant, which means auburn peacock...
oh sure, you get familial ties with people
of the world, people who made either their
forenames or surnames akin to the nouns
as familiar as stars chairs and smoked ham rumps...
perfectly akin to everyday familiarity of use...
i wasn't worn in Warsaw or Krakow -
if i were, i probably wouldn't have left the natives,
but living on the outskirts of that great capital
doesn't necessarily impress:
in all honest edict contraction: i feel debased
travelling into London (central), ***** and ******
out my mind...
       i guess this means two more years rereading
Heidegger's being and time
                               after purchasing his ponderings ii - vi
from the years 1931 - 1938;
yes, my family was directly affected by **** Germany,
not in concentration camps, on the frontline,
so why would i be sopping over a **** familiar
in the realm of philosophy?
       a. public intellectuals don't exist in England,
    English doesn't like philosophy,
         proof
                  ?    b. Shakespeare - peer in on shaking
a pear and
                      the dancing of a retired circus bear dancing.
     c. that's Pythagoras, we leave him in the Pascal gambit.
i just think it's a shame that i have this massive
democracy in my room, and i'll end up with something
akin to a Quran -
                              again, why Heidegger?
i don't know, it could have been that Czech Kundera -
     or Kafka, it could have been Seneca,
              but all these writers are city dwellers,
Heidegger was a quasi-villager pseudo-city-dweller,
i find foxes and deer and dead badgers in my little
promenade escapades, also Satanist black masses
with the framework of in excelsior satanis! -
and lightning that strikes but no thunder is heard...
less for the sons of thunder: the 12 hot-air balloons,
it's very much Germanic in Japan with
feng shui or otherwise known in the peninsula as qi
     kee.
                      then there's the **** of the haiku
by the west and me answering: let's make ensō -
smoothed out narratives, ecstatic variation from
     thinking and away from moral decisiveness
in that activity of perpetuated choice-making -
                how clearly thinking extends into narration
rather than the Cartesian
                 precipitation of thought into being -
nope: from thinking into narration
          juiced-up enclosure of "zoological" tightening
with ensō: beefy haikus.
          but what i really find problematic?
the interpretation of Heidegger's concept of dasein
as coupled with ecstasis.... our ex-stasis...
                  with da meaning there
               you can pretend to be "happy" about protests
across the world, and wars and other turbulent
activity...
                   what i am proposing is what Nietzsche
prompted with sum ergo cogito,
         in that the real ecstasis is concerned with being
allocated to a here, and therefore a hesein -
the interpretation posits the ecstasis there
when Heidegger originally posits concern there,
     or as he encodes: "concern"
                       meaning the dittoing puts him in a safety
of the here, it's the ecstasis of not being there,
but here in the present as the ecstasis, and there
     of some abstract venture as being beyond his command
of attributed dynamism of being involved,
for he's not involved. give me an hour and i'll be
in the countryside: we have that weighty countryside mentality,
farmers talking ******* when stacking hay
and laughing with the grammar Nazis when
    people go to the gym but teach their brains
the flab that the brains actually are: primarily spongy fat -
     apart from typos, it's the case
                                           (it is the case that)
   i don't (do not)
                               much concern myself from English
slang of piano (Joanna)
           and the outright **** (Pakistani),
               cos there was no sine                  when people
overacted toward the tan of me swallowing vowels and
replacing them with shortcuts to prop'ah Cockney,
oi oi, ******, bruv! brush up! this bus to school is
mingy with the throng!
                          who ordered the sardines?
        Stendhal is still the love of my life... i can write
enough complexities with Heidegger, but my love
resides with Stendhal... who would have thought
that a film adaptation would make me eager to read the book
(the scarlet & the noir)? Peter Jackson knew, as did J. R. R.
but it comes from the musings,
          once i do the Kantian critique a one over
the missing yawn and what's actually the most underestimated
arithmetics of wording rather than number circus
         or replicas of taxman rubrics:
after enough chemistry, favouring the organic and
later becoming endowed with a palette for Indian cuisine
well: philosophy books are the worded versions
of mathematics in terms of jumping the burning wheels
of 1 + 11 = 12        and          i contemplate
                                            but what's the = and the 12?
it's so ****** open, i could have invited a hundred thieves
to porose a car-boot sale at my house.
but all this, which might seem like self-love,
    it's not about that...the French intellectualise
and have them public because they talk beautifully -
                  the English?
they sing...
                               the Germans are morose and silent...
        the Spanish are simply the onomatopoeias of *******
and the Italians are seen and heard licking their fingers
after enough basil is added to tomatoes...
   i'm still banging on about the apathetic interpretation
of dasein, rather than the ecstatic version popularised
by the scholars...
                                 the version that reads:
if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it fall,
does it make a sound? that's my interpretation of
dasein / being there / being "there"....
                          a.                          b.
                       concretely            in abstract,
we already know that the abstract of being is nonbeing
or that things are abstracts of nothings with identifiers
of being used, without actually being touched:
i can say that i see a chair without actually having
to sit on it.
                    i was thinking simpler though -
olly murs' heart skips a beat and someone of the major
tracks by one direction...
             when i reference myself to these tracks
i'm being ecstatic, in the dimension of hesein,
                  like da, shortened purposively from the
authentic hier / here in german....
              why am i ecstatic in the here?
   because i don't have to be concerned in the realm of da /
there, where my opinion "might" matter...
                   but really doesn't...
                             which is why i don't understand
this interpretation of dasein meaning ecstasis -
                           or ex status quo....
                                               as already suggested -
our moral obligation toward language is to provoke
a Minotaur to become an architect of our venture in
using language, away from the market place...
into forests, into depths that have no justification
for being imagined, or as such diagnosed as ever being
there and established to planning permission and norms
of established caricatures and cleanly undertaken
shallowing and hollowing out from them being furthered.
i should be sad having trodden such a path
for myself, but i feel a kinship with this German,
come on, what consolidated the Kantian
dichotomy of a priori and a posteriori as in
   or must not philosophy a fortiori poeticize beings?
should not be conversed with from a wholly
anti-intellectual dynamism suggesting a personal
historic aversion of what's otherwise ethnically ******
without suspicion in terms of cultural tact?
again: nothing - which is higher and deeper than nonbeing(s)
(i ensure the ambiguity of the plural, if only
due to the fact that nothing is
    kindred of a definite article - the -
                          and ensures a translation as nonbeing,
while nothing in a quality as in nothingness
            kindred of an indefinite article - a -
         and ensures a translation as nonbeings, the plural,
ambiguity and throng -
   perfect offshoot that's already known as a-
           and -the         with a missing -ism).
yes, language ought to resemble something less
instructional, certainly less capital / monetary,
and more of a preservation of ambiguity and subsequently
myth... or what otherwise concern themselves with
in the hustle and bustle of a public life: integrity,
                                ulterior of the personal sphere of interests:
the person per se;
       and the apéritif (a'per-teeth)?
                 for lack of diacritical insurance, the English
are constantly in need of a tongue-map for waggling it
prop'ah:
                    the Chelsea y'ah
or the Cockney wa'er                - t t t.
                mind you, that's related to the trilling of the R
(originally intended as a trill) and subsequently lost
in the Germanic ethnic cauldron: hark the French and
cipher the English curling the tongue making the R curled
rather than trill - my idiosyncratic fascination aged 8.
  i thought i ought to end this with a thought about
what's a universal maxim in psychiatry
  in England in terms of a standard prognosis:
patient A has lost touch with reality...
      that's the prognosis, the diagnosis: dialectics of Gnostic
teachings? anyway, that's the standard,
that a person has lost touch with reality... what a great swindle!
     y

religeous rulers point the way,
prophets promise glory day,
we selected you to stand,
die for power, greed, and land,
heaven waits with golden gates,
eternity and peace awaits.

prime minister, or president,
never go where you get sent,
politicians telling lies,
young men dream thro rambo eyes,
fight for country, king or queen,
blood on your hands,  mine are clean.

misled martyrs, fighting wars,
greedy leaders selfish cause,
soldiers bleed on foriegn  sand,
frontline battles cowards planned,
no turkey this year wrapped in foil,
fight for freedom....or is it oil?

There was a time when
all times looked the same
passing through seamless
dawn of ageless drain
We sought, fought and
bought our freedom for an ageless price
At a pace that dares not to take away our
endangered race
But what have brought
this craze of dismembering
the maze we felt less safe in.

The incorruptible men who
once calmed the storm
are now cohorts of a demeaning plot.
Their role in a war of stakes
is a gusty grab for the frontline
as they tussle for the ratio of cake
a game they so delight in.
Exhausted in a place which
was once a timeless haven
as their dignity is torn in shreds.
All sorts of glory are lost
still no one feels this is a shared shame.

If only we knew the journey would abort halfway
but the signs were like flare from the start
as sides became drawn in clear spat.
Two hundred and more of our “prized cowries”
got snatched from our land and our leaders
cannot guard our streets because they say
the times are bad and the enemies are back.
Everything get soured and some of us are left behind
as limbs are severed high into the firmament of red horror
We go hash with our tag
twitting and chanting that they restore our girls
bring back our girls-we pray
bring back our girls- we chant
Bemused, the soldiers assure to search our lands
While Boko bomb us out from our very own sands
Tangled, mangled, limbs and bodies get buried in our time.


© Chijioke Izundu P

You could've left, honestly I wouldn't have blamed you.

You could've left, but you didn't.

Instead you drew your sword, fully armoured.

Alongside with me you fought.

Slayed my demons one by one.

When my strenght ran out you held the frontline.

I see you rise and fall, only to rise again.

You fight and you bleed, for me.

My best friend, know that I'm always ready.

Ready to fight for you, I'll slay 'till my last breath.

For you.

I love you my swordsman.

Sad to say that my cat has fleas,
From playing in the grass-above-knees,
Don't rob my bank if you please,
Mr. Frontline man,

Arrrr RRRRg

Today they are on the frontline
not because they are the leaders.
They know how to sneak their way up.

I can’t get loneliness off my mind
It’d feel better to rip out my spine
I fought all my battles on the frontline
Yet my victories meant nothing in time
Ever changing, like the rhythm of rhyme
Now i’m stuck dodging the land mines
All the sweat and the blood blind
Sowing and reaping, this fate divine

a medieval blacksmith, insO̲—
—much as lyrical material of mine gets cast sim. to cold
weapons; I'd say, as anything mind-distracting, like dope
["destructing"]
lyric-writing acts in the role
of temp rise, 'cause it unshadows the mind
like da[ɛ]mn skies, dissipating clouds of lack of delight
which is whY̲ I clepe
it as "mind eclipse" (lack of the light)
hence all the grimness seen in mY̲ bar sheets (chernukha)
like someone having a flight, a bored, tragedy wight
["aboard"]
lashings of spite I add in my lines
a geek practicing harassment in rhymes
as a pastime; an antihero, like Frank Castle I side
with on going against baddies with vice (lesser evil)
'cause you can't battle a knight
or a savage canine, or seize a bastion by
means of any kind of chatting (good luck managing that, gandhists)
get real; chances of collapsing
a toughened up corrupt regime by tranquil, brawl-free rallies
are as high as a bA̲nged up substance addict
can be (highly unlikely); though I keep the anti-autocratic
subject matter frontline, for ones who half-a##edly indite
their lyrics, it's casket likewise; a wA̲ck sod with pine
boxes & nails for 'em; & thA̲t's something I'm
more than glad to provide
you with; tra[ɛ]nslation: you ain't sA̲fe, chumps
[a casket isn't a safe, hence "it's casket" means "it isn't/ain't safe"]
like an offer to have a sled ride
"dude, let's slay some"
["sleigh"]
said the voice of the Islamist radical-like rapper in my
bean (Shady); "let's bring a da[ɛ]ng mayhem"
["bin Shady": Osama bin Laden + Slim Shady, who's a lyrical terrorist]
it added with passion, then I'm
like: "sounds like a blast of a time" (kaboom)
but no[ɑ]t to you, be—cause I'm on my violent bullsh#t (again)
like a jihadi loony; with these lines I'm suited
up with, you'll be blasted like plants bY̲ a shrE̲wd wind
or like a head of state ordained to invade
a neighboring state
in this **** field, I feel
like Max Payne with a gauge
[shotgun]
in a prey-tE̲E̲ming weald
hunting as sport; slay just to main—
—tain some relish & killing skills
you're like misbehavior-free slaves
in this field; translation: you're tame (lyrically)
["tranSLAYtion"]
therefore, you're unwished-for
like anyone & anything with a high lack of approval
[by "high lack of approval" I mean "dissent"]
on politics of the regime of some dastardly ruler (dastardly ruler)
drunk by the power he keeps a tight grA̲sp on & moola (power & moola)
just like Vlad the mean puta (Vlad the mean puta)
code name's lavato[—]ry shooter (lavatory shooter)
you jacklegs remind
me of simple cases or the Batman that time
when he wound up with his bA̲ck damaged by
Bane, 'cause I get you cracked with no strife
just like trash, you would wi[aɪ]nd
up in the dumps if you set your crap next to mine
and let ones being into rap scrutinize
your level of lyrical threat's to splatter a high—
—ball glass or stuff like
that, punks; me? like an armor-clA̲d man, a night—
["knight"]
—mare; Dante strapped with a scythe
[Dante from the "Devil May Cry" video game series]
the way I whack, it's so tight
that I have my device playing some phA̲t beats as I
masterly slice you hacks into stripes
like the Senyera; rap di̲letta[ɑ]nti
and political oppressors are picked as targets
and I may be read as a vigila[ɑ]nte
'cause I go after you like
V; like 2 sawbones having a fight with their scalpel-like knives
[I go after the aforementiond figures in my lyrics]
["after U [which is followed by V]"; V from "V for Vendetta"]
a pa[ɛ]radox while A̲t it 'cause I go autocratic, despite
["pair of docs"]
the views thA̲t I stick by; other words, I kick A̲## as if I
were dealing a jA̲cka## foot strikes
[I'm against unjustified maltreatment of animals, that sentence is just for wordplay]
a rebel thinker with a wrA̲pped up in rhymes
sick, hazardous mind bringing lyrical disasters & crimes
oh, there's one I'm imagining right
now; a rap-writing dabbler, besides an autocratic *****, wi[aɪ]nds
up inside a hearse
with me being A̲t the wheel like
a town that's rife in terms
of poison-pushing; a psychopA̲th when I drive
["atterville"; "****** path"]
speed up to 150 miles per
hour on a track in Alpine
heights, pound a go[ɑ]ddamn curb
barrier breaching it & sending the wagon in flight
open out the driver door
and jump out with a 'chute backpA̲ck on my spine (bye-f#cking-bye!)
watching the car go down, just like a war
criminal busted, & whereafter burst, like
brain arteries of a nazissistic scoundrel; like reports
saying an autocratic piece of trash nullifies
the limit of his presiding terms
I'm bA̲d news when I'm
on my lyric-writing horse
[the "high horse" expression]
like cavalry; I'd like a dastardly, vice-ridden autocrat to reply
["riding horse"]
with lyrics to any of the crA̲p I've devised
in opposition to authoritarianism
should I send some to the office with galore of rE̲A̲r-licking minions
of that "it's all the nasty West" guy
or that's suicide?

The alarm has stopped ringing
And, I want to get out
I want to smell the white dahlias
And see the blooming Bougainville
But I got to hold tight
For it won't be right.

Morning stroll has taken a troll
For god's sake, I am bored at home
Doing nothing has become an ideal chore
And now, I feel like fat Thor.

What situation is this
When the air is right
But we haven't earned the celebration right

I miss those gleaming laughter therapies
But I won't risk my family hierarchy
My hands are trembling;
My eyes are dim and white
But I manage to pull through a smile for those at the frontline...

                   ~NIKITA MANSINGHKA

No words accurate
To describe the death rate
Human lives at stake
Even breathing a grave mistake

Quarantine the patient
14 day isolation
Only available Solution
Even if jab taken

Rules dont apply
To Doctors on duty
They too have a family
For them now secondary


The Nurses on call
Give it their all
Service to humanity
Epitome of sanctity

Frontline worker
Knocking on deaths door
Care their very core
Clarity in every pore

Nameless and faceless
Sacrifice their bonafide
Price of their servitude
Mankind not big enough to measure its magnitude

Worship and Celebrate
Their quality innate
Put themselves behind all
To treat a Pandemic on front of all

Work done by them
Expecting nothing in return
Environment of calamity
Doing their calling calmly

Immortal status achieved
For only one reason
Future generations must know of their contribution
By Example they showed
Stopping death at its door

Spouse and children
Of no relevance
Safety of fellow humans
Engulfs their hearts and minds

Fear and uncertainty
Existing universally
Balancing it wonderfully
Rest living peacefully

Bow our heads
Heart soul and rest
Words or actions
Cannot define our indebtedness


The study of theology
Questions solved permanently
Fictional or reality
He bows his head willingly
In you he sees Divinity

'Attention!' yelled the commander,
as we fell in line one by one,
this is the tragedy we're under,
at least 'til the end of World War One.

I was shoved into the frontline
the minute I turned eighteen,
freedom and peace were never mine,
no, never mine to keep.

My simple life was never real
I was just biding my time,
as a boy my fate was sealed
and to refuse it would be a crime.

Sweetheart, did you remember,
our dreams that were to be?
Now crushed in the cold September,
the result my of signing to army.

Trenches run meters deep
all across northern France,
the home to my battered, crumbling feet,
as I take my battle stance.

In succession soldiers will perish,
across the brutal field,
the pain they will not relish,
but have to keep concealed.

The universal bloodbath,
that'll eventually take it's toll,
all searching for a triumphant path
that runs through rotten coal.

First the Triple Entente,
of Russia, France and Britain,
they had the ships and could confront
to conquer and accomplish their mission.

Then came the Triple Alliance,
yes they weren't very good with names,
it was Germany and Austria, a likely compliance,
I'd say they've got quite fair game.

well,

Victory was widely sought,
but the war was nearly done,
hundreds and thousands of hearts are stopped,
because of the curse that is World War One.

There’s no way out of here alive
With molten fever consuming my fraying mind

Bound fragile to flesh cast cog
Bound to sprocket and brittle bone
This hollow machine I call my own
Harbors both frontline and buried home
Thickly sick in uncertain, clogs

A riddled complex bleached with textureless rooms
Where, scrawled white, scribbled deep, the walls sputter
Void of voice and prop yet choked with clutter
None window, none door, save intangible lover
Offering both belief of choice and doom

Her name wanders worlds to haunt my lips
But only death and delusion come to meet my kiss

There, splashed and splayed through blistering ash
Dripping sparks from horizon’s blazed ceiling
I’m thrown ‘gainst the frame, my heart reeling
So the earth holds me to the floor, both of us bleeding
I, within, myself, side foiled folds and crass

Lo, her silent beauty weeps and screams
Siren! Angel! Demon! ; So I’m Pygmalion’s craze
And her, his pride to leave me razed
Then I, her bird, braves her play and blade
That carves my fall through trap-rapt dream

For her and I, on wings; hopes tried,
To wake and break us out alive.