The inaugural bang swiveled with the vacant expressions of a muted feral crowd indignant about ethnic identity and swift in the recourse of tyrannical thugs pandering withered abuse

I solemnly abided in a chirpy itinerant glower against the exclusive system for stranding the disintegration of lyrical integrity for the Potemkin cheers of the culmination of too many jeers

Withered words for the abeyance of silence I incurred with wistful pleas for resurgent clarity beyond   sheepish fears

So I loitered in the evanescence of words..

Watching with alacrity as the strident ignorance of grafted wretchedness writhed its last mustered exsibilation at the sound of windbags bloviating beyond prodigal extravagance without a visible tweeted word

I measured my pause…..as I considered the heft of poignant exposures to a dismal serenade of miscegenated politics and garbled breaths of wheezy mendicants seeking participation in the trophy of smothered compliance

But I marveled simultaneously at the extinction of the shriveled crowds as they sized up the minutiae of wastrels glamorously inviting a frozen recapitulation of sorrows borrowed and wasted on minced platitudes that swindle still the votive confidence of regimented sympathy pretending empathy for soured hearts professedly defiant at their bereaved will

My pulse I clocked at 120 as I wondered where on earth the 140s and 150s have frittered their patience on with such brazen alacrity for the garish snarl of a sojourn into the ineffable effrontery of aureate mutiny against the tyrant of deaf spoon-fed indignation without the luxury of shared ignominy of memorable cadence for frippery in sparse blurbs registered in braille rather than brawn

Then I remembered my vociferous persnickety temperament and the curdled hatred of procrustean swan songs to an etiolating standard of ethical entanglement in aloof issues delivered with a decisive swoon too swift in earnestness to outfox with a quipped rebuff or a calculus of classical spoof

Then I wondered with a problematic but inherent prolixity…..
I too could adorn the adoring moon with a lyrical lampoon geared for a clockwork punchline or a winsome rebarbative tune….OR…. enchant with an incisive acerbic rant about how pasquinades outstay their welcome because of the clambered insistence of happenstance years ago in a blinkered mirror but never rehashed too soon

But where would affection heap its laurels if I dared to swindle the spotlight away from frisky poetasters who proved a renegade inspiration for fluttered triumph in a seaside tragedy only the crestfallen waves of pestilent Idiocracy could steal from my outstretched tenacity in verse and verve

Boom went a fulmination of hatred at my labored words! And then I swerved to avoid potholes of tenuous gainsay…. and other miscreants littering the world with misappropriated labels for laments belabored with publicity for displaced enmity distilled from a cauldron of mismatched ignorance….tethered to the vagrancy of gripe plucked at the ripe time for a twenty-dollar prize give or take a dime

But that dime separating 1990 from 2010 meant more than anything to a life littered with hallowed word crimes…. against the sanctimony of syncopation with cheap bleats too arrogant to be sheepish at the lavish indulgence of the marginalized wines…. brewed in a castle flickering on fiat worth rather than the simplicities of minutes of warbled time

So I currently warp minds with the proctor of a gamble too garish to finesse the quicksand of attrition but jaunty enough to bypass the limitations of a linear self-referential memorial about the circular nature of irony espoused by divorced rhymes

Now I stand ascendant….waiting for the retinues of retinas to absorb the wavy rigmarole of the serpentine pathways carved beneath the buzzwords of race and division and towards soldered unity with a human race beyond racism…. and a class divorced from socioeconomic crass division

Just then I arrived at serenity…. as I realized that the BAR exams that encage so many aspirant hearts are counterfeit in the court of the highest judiciary art that believes that insidious artifice is an embezzled venture of frolicsome guttersnipes wallowing in division can never revive a lifeless heart…. even if quick-witted credentialism rattles the slaves to vapid artforms that any humanism would never deem smart

Ditch the agitprop as a human frailty indentured to endure the curated disease without a cure to make the snollygosters in Washington ever so cocksure with their cockalorum disregard of the palatable consensus to make news real again….Finally for the fraternity of an enlightened human race in a benighted world of trendy fatuousness that infests the planet with the debauchery of glorified urchins jerking the levers with severed brevity to promote infectious foofaraw with cultural indemnity

I leave you with this

What is ornate complexity without the luxury of concerted beatific bliss that the parsecs that flummox your minds throb vehemently with cohesiveness in my internal design are not remiss

And remember the benighted standards of kitsch for the kitchens of penury bewitched don’t stand a chance against the overriding itch to vanquish mountains one after another to cross them off the list

I look through the keyhole to peep at eternity
and wonder
what the **** are these people feeding me?

The Antibiotic does not cure the neurotic and
the cow doesn't know she's been born.

I have worn on my face each and every place that I've ever been,
I have seen things I would never believe,
but the snot on the sleeves of eternity leaves me quite cold,
now I'm old I don't care what they feed me,
they can cook up a storm from the cow yet unborn,
it's genetics and antibiotics won't cure that either.

My son will never know the me I was
before I became myself.
He'll never know the girl
who sat on fire escapes at three am,
in some city somewhere,
smoking cigarettes and writing love poems.
He'll never know the tiny apartment
where she discovered
that she could never really be as broke and glamorous as Audrey had been,
because she didn't make enough money,
and there was no handsome stranger that would eventually take care of her
after ninety-five minutes' time.
And instead of throwing fabulous parties,
she preferred sitting on the floor,
drinking cheap wine from the bottle
in front of old movies.

For years I dreamt of a life like that.
Where I was my own and belonged to no one.
Where life was lonely
in a tragic but beautiful sort of way.
That was the woman
I believed
I was destined to be.

And I was lucky
For not many people make it
to who they've always dreamt of being.
Not many people escape the monotony of real life.
I did.
I got out.

And parts of me were glamorous.
The nights I met strangers
and danced on city streets,
drunk and in love with the world,
wearing tight dresses,
heels in hand,
hair blowing in the summers breeze.
She,
was glamorous.
Walking down streets
singing anthems to our youth and independence,
we were glamorous,
me and all those nameless friends.
We were young and unattached.
We roamed the world,
and it belonged solely to us.

But friends,
life gets lonely.
And when the glamour fades,
you are who you are.

I loved those nights.
Every one of the passionate,
exciting,
artistic,
lonely nights.
And if my life had gone a different way,
I would still be that girl,
in that tiny apartment,
twenty years from now,
longing to escape that life as well.

You see,
my life has been wonderful.
And I have been the luckiest girl to walk the earth.
Because I never got stuck.
Some people just get lost,
in all of that never belonging to anyone,
never belonging anywhere nonsense.
But I didn't.
Now, I
belong to my son.

And he will never know who I was before him.
Nor will I tell him.
Because those memories,
and those secrets,
those are mine.
Mine,
to drift off into remembrance from time to time,
smiling secretly
about how I was one of the luckiest women alive
back then.
And luckier still that when I come back,
my son's smile is there to greet me,
and remind me that my life
my life, is exactly where it should be.

My son is an old soul,
filled with old thoughts.
I can feel it in his breath as he sleeps,
and his eyes while he studies the world,
ever so serious,
ever so conserved,
and ever so beautiful in his silent observations
of me and the world he is meeting
for the first time.
And one day
he will be the man who walks city streets,
changing the world,
saving the existence of man.

This,
I know,
because he saved me.
He saved me when I was so "glamorously unaware"
that I needed saving.

So while I have moments
where I mourn who I was -
the starving artist intent on creating tragically beautiful art -
I remind myself
every moment,
that my son,
my son IS art.
And who he is
will forever
be my greatest poem.

I live, in honor of him.

horror stories muffled by pillow forts and blankets that stretch across the
vast of my beloved
room.

in hiding--
your young skin
    is shielded
  by a lonely
shadow dancing
with sunlight.

the room's symphony plays on as
a crescendo of
soft laughter
and light footsteps
cues in.

magazines     sprawled on
the carpeted-floor
jennifers & ashleys
glamorously sporting
shiny hair.

away messages
are synonymous
to x's and hearts
bordering
your
besties' names.

and these are the best
years of your life
but it just feels like dirt
to your name
being young
gets old.

mobiles in purses
strapped to your chest
"I HEART NY" keychains
dangling by the locket
that frames your blurry
picture of
him.

you feel so important
surrounded by friends
and people who
shower you with
lots of
cheap love.

you don't care
about what you don't know
and it's easy
living
when all you're living
is the lie of happiness.

a mishap fudged together in a blur
by the onerous fate autonomy
a throw away girl
death addict
in a racket of echoes
fingernails
******* and spit
for relics of witchcraft
in a foot licking satanic ritual

she picked him
like a con mark
for the realization
of her shadow dream
to escape from form
in a shaking bed
spread herself wide
feeling the black sound
like musical water
to drown in
with weight
that holds immovable storms
of brazen villain's and glistening *****
who pumped her mouth like gas
for obliterations throat bashing she loved
causing the hideous end of herself
splayed straddled a ****** archaeology 
of kisses withering in an ancient pudding

razor peeled ******* blooming 
betrayed whorish curdling screams
in a deviant propulsion

glitter mucous and blood
drizzled from her lush red smeared lips
with tears of mascara 
in a ghoulish basement
an object of desire for demons 
on the ceiling

she abandons all hope
lubricated her **** and ****
opened her thighs
for a freakish novelty
of soaked vibrating machine gun tongues
for a hemorrhaging orgiastic suicide

her blade slit tongue
still undulating
and pinned it in bits 
to a **** toy 
******
for valentine's day

her love and guts like a buffet 
glamorously featured 
with photo pics
in Mademoiselle magazine
smiling cockeyed
drugged and staggering

she put a rope 
around her neck
as if in an embrace
and blew her brains 
a spiraling horror
of diabolical appeal
in a ghastly enterprise of roulette 
of pants off dance off 
scattered gauze bikini  
and a head wreath of hair 
glittered like a half-eaten pomegranate
under disco lights

Ominous  voices spoke within the haze of smoke,
in the rambunctious spirit of adolescence
one would hardly listen to those rants.

I remember two things, I was a white horse
raring to go to the very end, of the track, where a mountain rose,
its peak hidden in the cloudy whiteness, beyond that lies the cave of  secrets;
the second certain thing, in that dream was my age, just 18, highly precarious,
none can  now say this white horse, would turn dark at the end of the race.
(not, even if one becomes 18, all over again,would be sure)

The girl, wearing a flame red streaming cape, riding on my back
said: "What a night we had"! Yes she did amaze me all through the night,
and look now, I am happily  under her spell, she has the magic word
to make me excel, if by chance failed, I'll be her ****

They'll turn me in to a mare by their spell, and sell in the village fair,
They'll regale themselves with this sweet imagination: if he wins he is our horse for ever,
or else, the money he fetches, would take us forward for a while,
The horse in his delirious fit thinks:" My love, we'll have many more nights
like we had, just you wait".
                                                                              The crowd gets impatient,
they just want the race, see the ******* the horse, pass glamorously before their eyes
see someone's win, or  some one soon should bite the  dust.
**Be ready in your blood thirsty self, to witness oh! heartless crowd,
here, I am treading the blade of the sharp sword, dripping blood from my heart.

when I saw you for the first time you were a dove on the branches shuddering with the sudden breath of sprite as white as pure snowballs
and………………………………………………………………………I
................................­.................................................................­!
days after visiting you reminding me a nightingale on the same branches singing glamorously although  comprehensible on some occasions and not very tangible on other times: hovering you upon the sky, upon the roof  was enchanting somehow
and......................................................­........................................................I
.......­.................................................................­....................!
later on, a tornado encapsulated the flight of a swallow in habit of severe immigration from the land uneasy to far and far while seeing the branches empty and songs silent tortuous the sight
and.............................................................­.................................................I
..............­.................................................................­...............!
years past and considering those days make me to reproach myself  that how wrong I was. only a butterfly sat on our written scriptures for a while never promise to stay a bit longer. Born  by spring will be die in winter night,
and.............................................................­...............................................I
................­.................................................................­.............?

Dear France,

I say goodbye today, after so many beautifully painful moments. I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I thank you for showing me what it meant to be myself, to fend off my fears and win over my confidence. To know my weaknesses and reassure me in my strengths. France, you're more than a country to me. I thank you for all the hard times, the endless nights and the painful, lonely sundays. For the fun times and the bad times. You made me grow in unthinkable ways. I learned to be comfortable in solitude and joyful in company; I learned the value of long relationships and the ephemeral amusement of short ones. I learned that life is not easy and yet you don't have to worry so much. But most importantly, I learned what it means to be a stranger, a foreigner, an outcast. I learned to love who I am, where I come from, and all that it means.

I thank you for the people I met. For the dully predictable clichés of your society, and the wonderfully astonishing beauty of what each French hides. Parisians so pretentious you'd think their stares are stabbing you, and women so flirtatious your heart stops and you find out with a bittersweet taste what a coup de foudre is, as she walks out of your life as fast as she walked into it. People so nice they'd go out of their ways to give a ride to a lost colombian kid who can't find home. People so nice they take the time to talk slowly so you understand that fascinatingly complex language of yours. People so nice they invite you with their friend even if you're a drag, not getting the jokes and trying to fit in. You have so many wonderful people France, you make other countries envious, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Your culture is unique, surprising and oh-so enjoyable. I learned so much that I think I owe you a lifetime of gratitude. I walked your museums, visited your endless castles and read your writers. I learned your architecture, memorized your history and recited your poems.

I thank you for being a meeting point of cultures, the heart of a continent and the boiling stew of a thousand spices. I had a taste of everything I could, I swear. I fought off my prejudices and made friends wherever I could, changing people's minds about my Homeland as I went. I fell in love with girls I met in your soil, and your language was the bridge to countless encounters.

I leave having seen your lands, smelled your flowers and soared your skies. I leave after climbing your mountains, swimming your seas and sailing your rivers. I leave with love for Bretagne, Provence, Alsace, and everything in between them. I tried all the cheeses I could, all the wines I found and all the foods you have to offer. I fell in love with the traboules in Lyon, the park in Strasbourg, the lights in Paris, the beautiful port that is Nantes. You took my breath away so many times in so many vast landscapes and little towns that I might never breath again if it's not your air.

Oh France, I tried so hard to find out all there is about you, and I thoroughly enjoyed the ride you offered me.

You are easy to love, France. Beautifully enticing and glamorously inviting. You make my Homeland jealous, and She's gorgeous as well. You make me wanna split in two and live two lives, so as not to miss anything you have to offer. It's so painful loving you, France. You're a demanding lover. Friends, family, costumes and comfort were prices I had to pay for your charm.

I leave having learnt your language. People even take me for a Frenchman sometimes now! I leave having studied, worked, loved, loss, cried and laughed here, and having done my best effort to breath you all in as best as I could. I promise you, I will never speak ill of you.

I leave with pain in my heart and tears in my eyes, a knot in my throat so big I had to write down my feelings as to not let them go unnoticed. You were such a wonderful friend, France.

I leave with Marianne in my heart, knowing one day I'll call you home.

With all my love,

"SHE LOOKS INTO MY HEART."

I said to her, I
told her that
she resembles
the moon  in the
midnight when
she's at her
brightest state.
She looks into
my heart when
she fixate.(s) She
resembled the
sun too and moon
were her
siblings. Because
they
glamorously shines
together.
#C9_fm

Like expensive perfumes
That make Kings and Queens
Have the scent of royalty
You have colonised me with your intoxicating fragrance.

Just as the presence of the unicorn makes a rainbow
And its beauty leaves lasting memories,
You have made a road map
That always makes me admire you in silvered mirror.

Like diamonds and gold, so precious and important
you are more important than the blood that runs through my veins

The fountain, lamb and ivory
Symbolises purity and hope,
You have become my symbol of life.

Just like the stars that twinkle radiantly
And the sun shines glamorously,  
So your eyes is like that of an angel
Making me to ask myself if your father is God.

Just like Grimhilde in Snow White who asked the mirror,
"Who is the fairest of them all?"
I ask my mirror,
If I am legible to enamour in your beauty.

They say true beauty comes
From the inside
But your the symbol and definition of true beauty,
mon coeur bat.

Part of me lives inside her,
Like a parasite of romance and memory;
The part that raises half her mouth when the joke's a specific type of funny,
The part that keeps her eyes locked on an empty inbox,
And the part that gives her boyfriend such a diarrheal aftertaste.
It's a tapeworm of longing and contempt that she's **** good at ignoring, because she turned an empty stomach into business as usual.
But she keeps it anyway, because something about it seems so genuinely human when nothing else can match the feeling.
Because when the jokes, messages, and boyfriends are all gone this little white ******* will still need something from her. It won't go anywhere.
The glamorously empty life of a parasite at the beck and call of something just as beautifully flawed.

When I told you I loved you with all my heart,
perhaps you never understood.

My heart is like a magnificent skyscraper and every story was lit like a fancy casino,
glamorously shimmering from its hundreds of windows.
I made sure it was always lit from your view.
Though, I have a confession to make:
It was very rarely that my light was strong enough to hold by itself.
In fact, the lights would shut down more often than I’d have liked to admit to you, or anyone else.
No, the lights were nearly broken and not even a backup generator could hold such a behemoth of a building, and so I would panic.
I panicked and did my best to light it for you because you deserved the prettiest view.
I brought candles.
Thousands upon thousands would illuminate the rooms just bright enough for you to look up at the windows and smile because they were lit and you imagined a place as beautiful as it once was.

Though it wasn’t any longer.

The candles on the first floors would melt and burn out while I’d sprint up the stairs to carry more to the middle floors. My flames were burning faster than I could run, my lungs wanted to give out trying, bursting and frazzling like my lighter (which, it too, needed replacing). I was so carried away, caught in the motions of burning and burnouts that I would trip up the steps and injure myself. I cried as I spilled hot wax down my hands, my arms, and I would peek through my windows with tears, noticing the days you no longer looked up at them. I tried even harder to light the place, I brought bigger candles, maybe they’d hold longer, maybe I could have had more time. You looked up now and again and I felt like maybe you’d finally understood. Then you left and, well, I realized you never knew how hard it is to keep the lights on.

I let them burn out for good.

I keep hesitating, hovering my match over a few candles, wondering if it’s worth pretending my love is still easy. I’ve tossed my old light bulbs out the windows just to see them shatter. I thought maybe if you’d walk by and see the broken glass, you’d want to know for yourself and see what I put myself through.

Yet, all you did was ignore the sounds of the glass smashing against the concrete, the sounds of my shoes rubbing the shards into the pavement, and me.

I still light a few candles here and there, but after a few hours, I have the urge to put it out again so I drown them in buckets of water.

My heart is a mess, and I wish now that instead of just looking up at the illumination, you would have wanted to be involved, and that you would have taken the time to gander inside the building for a change. Why did you never do that for me?

Withered leaves
cold sun
silent water
are the most beautiful sceneries
in the noble
autumn season
this may be everlasting
in the eyes of hurried padestrians
in this odorless season
no flowers no waves no snow
however
the autumnal street is blooming firily
glamorously
a boat snuggling in autumn
the earthliness is touching
picturesque
the sunlight
like gold powder
adrift in peaceful water
the moon rises
yearning melancholy haziness mistiness
have all melted in the lengthy
autumn night.

A beautiful mind lies
Glamorously sparkling
Before your eyes

Out of reach
Yet closer
than a daydream

I thought
By writing poetry
I'd be using words like iridescent
Or inevitability
But I'm just a blue collar girl
So I use glow
Or surely
To portray the same words
Less glamorously