He walked full of class
Pinky never touched glass.
Sharp in the thread
Stiff lip and moustache.

When angry he turned red
His taunts filled clients with dread.
Even his wife wasn’t at ease
When Mr. Gada was raising dead.

His day started with grease
In his hair, and pressed every crease.
Next the pills glazed his eyes
And dampened his seize.

The cheat hid many lies
A past life was no surprise.
He told her he was focused
He talked with clever disguise.

He worked to fill his lust
But late nights made the Mrs. mistrust.
If she said a word his blood would steam
She lay silent, wishing to feel just.

But karma came to ream
His ugly and immoral scheme.
He let business mix with pleasure
Trips to Spain made his dream.

The mistresses husband saw her
And came charging in full measure.
Took a knife to the cheaters cheat
In a jab he lost his treasure.

Spain’s doctors laughed at his meat
Fixing would be too much a feat.
Mr. Gada sobbed and cried
When his wife threw him out on the street.

I wanted to give my mom a home, one befitting of her love and kindness, one that would resonate her love and generosity one not made of cheap bricks of clay
A home where no rent is paid cause she is the landlady, one that exude class and comfort at any given time of the day
A home whose roof isn't made with thatch and bamboo that is soon to be ready to tinder or poorly baked bricks whose cracks offer shelter to lizards and rodents as they grow older
I wanted to give my dad a house made only of the finest stones and building materials
One whose landscape when you see will take your breath away and with it's exquisite recreational area

I worked hard to make and save money. I toiled and toiled oblivious to when the nights turned to day
So the best architects for the plan and sketches upfront I'd pay, survey and purchase a piece of land without delay

The foundation was laid, the harder I worked the faster I watched as the builders beautifully the edifice raised
And when I took my mom one day so see the level of progress we had made, she wouldn't stop showering me with thanks and praise
For the hard work and struggled I had put in to see
A house so beautiful a home to them was soon to be

I smiled as I inspected the furnished house as I proudly said to myself surely "This would make the best home yet for mom and dad"

Sweetly I slept until a loud noise startled me as I was awakened to the sound of sophisticated guns and bombs
I feared for my life as I clutched my knees with my arms trembling, my eyes closed, too scared to pray
The uproar was replaced with a disturbing silence as morning came and still petrified by fear I knew I had to go check the place where the house I built for my parents stood even though my life I knew I would be risking. Well, if I didn't I'm certain curiosity would have killed me either way.
So I ran out and called out to an "Okada"
He asked where I was heading to and I said Farin Gada
"Farin Gada, yarinya? Ba ki jin tsoron rain ki?" He queried in Hausa
So I explained to him that indeed I feared for my life but just needed to check the new high rising estate around that area if it was lucky enough to go unscathed.
He stared at me with worry in his eyes and motioned that I hop on his bike.
It was still very early when I got there and I jumped off his bike before he even stopped it's engine and ran to the place where the newly built house once stood like a maniac looking around, wondering if maybe I had forgotten the address to the place I had visited regularly in the last two years or if someone had moved it to a more secure location for me. I broke down. My eyes rained as my voice thundered through the rubble.
"Tashi in Kai ki gida" I heard the Okada man call out in Hausa. "Is no sape por this flace yi hakuri"
Reluctantly I got up moving slowly through the remains of my parents newly demolished home staring back at the place even as we rode away. The place I invested years of hardwork in order to see my loved ones lay in comfort as they stay "secured".
I broke down again when I tried to tell mom and dad the news and all my dad said as he tapped my back softly was, "hmmm... Mu Seyil Nen Rit, for it could have been worse but for God"
I had a lot to say but I was tongue tied. Our rent was due the next month with no certainty of a means to raise the money to pay up cause we had finished "our own house" and I had resigned from my place of work to run the supermarket I had opened beside the new edifice.
We had stocked the house with provisions and resources that won't run dry for months to come, everything was smooth and perfect until the terrorists attacked..
We were back at zero with no deed or title to our family name.
I was back to sharing the toilet with the other room and our guests and had to share the compound with our lousy neighbor who claims to be a "Pastor"
Mom's warm and gentle arms jolted me back to reality as she held me and said " we appreciate the time, resources, love and effort you put into this project" I cried out and said " it wasn't just a mere project mama, it was your home! A token of my gratitude for your love and selflessness and all the sacrifices you and dad made to make me what I have become"
I heard her sigh as she lifted up my face so I'd look into her eyes as she gently whispered to me"home isn't where bur who" a home isn't broken by plenty or lack, rumors or wars...
So baby do you know who my home is?"
I shook my head side to side as she continued, "it is you, your dad, your siblings, my grandchildren and all whom I have come to love.
I frowned, a little confused with some many questions running through my mind then she kissed my forehead and said "Ritjimwa, Home isn't a place where your heart leaves even when your feet does; Home is where the heart is and my home, is right here in your heart...
26022014
17:45
r3d

****... all the children get a chance at the sandpit... only the dog collared ones attempting wrestling matches of biceps tonguing rhetoric touring waggle get the pulpit... kinda **** if you ask me: said sir sacrifice-a-lot when sir lancelot married; but all the **** happened after the ukrainian *****... it was the russian bourgeoise one... you forget you dim-witted bolshevik... the russian one... the russian one! not the ukrainian one! ah crap... too late, the crimson lunar eclipse from edinburgh to st. petersburg gave me mythological charisma; endeavour of the readers who can’t remember my tourism earning the year 2007 as distinct: i can earn an awareness of lying about the jealousy i have for the century of being a musketeer defending louis vix; ja athos! ein athos! i’m athos.... wrinkly & masturbated ******* toss! hey **, hey **... we dig dig dig dig dig, it's what we like to do... coal mine.... coal mine... coal mine... with a millionth diamond... we dig dig dig dig dig... hej **... do lasu by sie szło... high **! high **! unto abreit macht frei we go.

when the time comes, a drunk will speak
more sanity than a sane person is
capable of, then we'll be ripe to talk about insanity,
and incapable of "treating" it.

it's not really about the beard,
well, it sorta is...
i grew mine so i could fiddle with it...
which puts me in a position
where i say: violinist, in the classic fm
philharmonic!
i'm thankful that i was able to grow a beard,
no, not to look "trendy",
****! i was about to ditto in the word cool...
you never realise how much vogue
and indeed: fashion, gets invested in
when we're not talking about clothes
but about a person's vocabulary...
yep, so i'm 30 and have a beard:
or let's just say, ****** hair had the same texture
as ***** hair...
the gods are laughing,
how to discover exist, become so self-conscious
that you're able to tell a joke,
and then laugh back...
       that's why philosopher have beard,
you can just see it in them,
wait a minute: **** consistancy hairs
are growing on my chin!
  mortal have that poker hand ready
and waiting for the existence of gods,
   a Frankenstein momentum...
it's funny... so we just keep on enjoying ***...
   and the reason why i wasn't distraught
about the Fritzel case? i read
marquis de sade's ******* novella...
that doesn't mean i don't think about
       being a spec, a second in Hades' lava lamp
reincarnation flow... like we, really are:
recycled goods...
          laughing about it gives us armour...
reincarnation is so Hindi, i'm
about sport a bindi (that red dot on the forehead,
that macedonian wish we were **** with an
empire, shindig setting sun)...
you're the one talking to me in braille...
i'm  a half-wit trying to compensate the conversation
with an observation:
modern life looks like a revival, or an attempted
revival of the art of dialectics...
humanity is really trying to revive dialectics,
or as the platonic dialogues seem to suggest:
find the right enough of people...
find enough people to agree with you,
there's absolutely no mention of disagreement
in the platonic dialgues...
well... they're really monologues...
back to square 1...
                      it's hard to envision a dialogue
between people, it's even harder to stage
a dialogue, given that we'd have to
take to the art, or quasi-geometry...
and have to constatly fake it happening,
by faking it i mean acting as we really
cannot disregard our apathetic communion
toward the mere act of talking...
    dialectics is an art form... and it's begging to be
revived... but it seems to be failing in
an attempt to revive it...
                        everyone is just shouting
over each other, exchanging insults...
  joking... apparently comedy is trying to slow
things down, comedy is a pseudo-art-form
that's more arty than art itself, it's fartsy...
   who could have thought a **** (**** in polish means
luck) would ever make people laugh...
  we're all in the slaughterhouse askin idol guillotine
to: lay to rest, make ammends,
                say something, something profound,
if not prophetic.
              i just see a chat show host grappling
with an interviewee about how to engasge with
a dialectical art,
   we do live in very artistic times,
people call it minimalism,
they draw a square and you're expected to say
it's profound... because the art of dialectics
doesn't exactly agree to taking offence...
   it means retracting from the fictive monologue
of writing books...
it's a biblophobe movement...
        we're talking retraction,
we are saying: marriage doesn't do it for us anymore...
i'm trapped, in this world, and i have a stash
of 2000+ years of memory that i'm asked to
revise / improve on...
     you expect any different, from what i'm doing now?
people are in want of dialectics,
  they are bored of group therapy yoga....
and they're tired of being treated like
canned laughter... or an audience
with prompt cards they later don at political
rallies...
  like: when to laugh, followed by a t.v. editor
telling some minion: prompt the verb laugh
at an audience at a big brother show...
   i'm drunk, but i'm not stupid,
actually, being drunk and writing this makes
me ulta-conscious... i wouldn't say
intelligent... i think of myself as a sieve
most of the time... but you know, life, life gets
in the way and you sometimes a few
stupid mistakes, that you are thankful for.
i can't remember the last time i used
a dictionary... or a thesaurus...
       and i opened the fridge door about 100
times before i opened the front door...
and walked to the shop
where the cashier knows my name...
i'm like Bilbo Baggins who decided to stay
at home and said: ******* adventure!
i'm staying home and reading J. Joyce.
   we can't find dialectics, no more than we
can ask for a socrates real, by reading plato.
but it's nice that plato suggested that
philosophy could be theatre, i.e. staged,
made into a dialogue...
     just when we were bound and keen to
our sophistry, to our rhetoric,
and felt no emotional content could be bound
by mere talking...
     dialectics is a shade hanging over modernity,
i can't read a sun-dial with it hanging
over us... why art is so ritually minimalistic,
because this one art-form is missing...
no one is going to approach dialectics
is there isn't a real case for expressing empathy
and merely rooting it in: a need for comedy.
that halo-of-an-oasis is going to dry up...
(yes, written while under the medical care
of a headache... that **** is just lodged in my ****
and is teasing me... come out you little
cupcake, i'll flush you down the toilet, pronto!
or as the poles say it properly:
gówno przez ciebie gada / ****'s talking
through you... oh gladness, the oven bound parasite
booked for 37 degrees of the body's high-end
of temp.) -
but it's being staged as we speak,
   an art form, deviating from up-start and on the ready, go!
art of rhetoric...
               modernity is equipped with competent
talkers... persuasive and gnat-like annoying
with their provocations...
  what's missing is dialectics...
  how one side can question and become almost
mermaid... dragging someone into nodding
if not clapping approval...
      we can all agree that some people do talk
with the art opf rhetoric being almost
self-taught... ******...
                     dialectics is so much stranger...
it's an art of speaking that has become
      like a dusty moth infested ******
of a 80 year old nun...
                     she bakes great cookies though,
let her off.
               it's not that we're even having
these discussions, we're slobbering a chance of having
one with lies, shouting and "in your face"
dynamics... it's not even that we can
imitate plato enthralled by socrates, constantly
agreeing, going: aha, yup (nod nod nod,
******* pigeons)...
                    we positioned ourselves for the basis
of having to express hostility...
       because to have reached such a freedom
as we have, that we dare to call it: esteemed,
or highly regarded as in need of improvement,
or redefining.
  we seem to be unable to say why we
can't resurrect dialectics...
           all the talk-shows on a late friday night
will not answer that question...
     i'll spot the Halley's moment though...
a comet known as Hailey (hey! bruce lee)...
        when artists return to less abstract concerns,
we have all the science we'd need...
   can the arts stop contemplating new york
traffic grids, and ******* stops
and we return to celebrating the human form?
   it will really be something to see
dialectics... i.e. with one person so persuasive
that the other person doesn't argue...
    and i mean that as a concept anti despotism
without a massive throng of people doing
a political mantra chant of sheep, herd, approval.
it's like that question about consenting to ***,
that part of you that says: can i actually
think this?

tu da ve za sivi
va du vi za vada zo
veda ga va caduza
nevaga za du vo
badeva bada debu
yana ba va gada ze
remana ga redava
mada ga de bada ve

U vlastitome autu ne putujem sprijeda
Ne znam ni koji je dan, možda je srijeda?

Čak ni u tihoj sobi moj glas se ne čuje
Čak ni da sam na pozornici ne bi me se vidjelo

Hladnu ruku mi molim te hvataj
i pozitivne misli u glavi mi startaj

Oženi me za strukturu i radost
ionako samo trošim svoju mladost.

Pa kud se kreće ovaj "auto"?
Šta bi ja kao trebao znat vozit?
Nemam love za pivu kamoli za položit
Ma k vragu i svemu, nek sam ide.

I tako ja napredujem po ovom putu
Imam rezervaciju bit sam u kutu
Ništa pa tako ni život ne rješavam u prvom šutu
Skretanjem za Bjelovar valjda će mi rješit muku.

Bjeli grade, što li skrivaš
Mjesto za još jednog mizernog gada valjda imaš