Gates give galloping giraffes
gin gum
gifted ghost
Goofy gambles ginger beer
grapple games get goods
Gooses groins getcha
group gathering greatness
goat got gale
Grail

Not an amulet, an off white vertebrae; bone.
Brass wire, a loop at one end.
It bends as to make sure this will fit.

A gauge that measures mesmerization,
And we both must get along, but
Not because we're not tough enough:
Most of us aren't soft right yet.

So many stiffs, folly after folly.
The whole carful of loose cadavers,
Dangling, their feet hang with wet snow
And carnage,

Not even musk deer pop up,
They've all gone. Roosting in a parabol,
With X's sprayed to their groins.
Burning pop couples

Doing it like laboratory mice. Capybaras
Hiss, my own burnt blood is also
Flocculating.

Turn the cup upside down and
See the fire's balmy lachrymal opaque
Moss while it does not drip.

This is the story of man you asked me about;
Devoid of a muzzle, fur onto his chest; coarse
Hair in a garland.

It is the God of a tool that buzzes into the night.
A plateau for this most sensible study.
We feel another coming.

And when you awoke, your larval tongue
My eye mush, a song of verse and melancholy.
This half list of greatness, a tally we both wish to see.

I don't know what you could call this exactly,
I was at a musical concert in one of the states
And a school filled with children of less than 13 years of age
Presented a song which I could call a petition.
They were praying earnestly for God to save Nigeria
From lawless people, bloodshed, assassination and a list of other wreckless things
It touched me that finally, it has gotten to this! When children start to file a petition to God against our leaders saying for their sake God should save the nation
It's a bit disturbing that even the kids know that there is a problem with this nation.
Do we have to ridicule ourselves forever? The children who were in the ***** and groins some years back have come to understand the situation and are crying out.
The educational standard is falling to pieces and the threads would have to be carefully woven together if we wanna make something out of it again.
It's embarrassing to know that there are so many sectors that has failed, absolutely nothing is working.  
Our leaders still apportion blame. Roads are not good and then you get to hear one is a federal road one is state owned. Does it matter who owns the road if it is in their country?
Why aren't everyone looking beyond their noses and see what's wrong. Our youths have resolved to fraud when hard work and talents aren't appreciated.
Universities have been shut down for months now in the name of strike and the government officials could afford to eat and carry on their daily activities!
Aren't they meant to be in the hospital, complaining of one illness or the other as a result of the unrest the matter has caused? Disheartening! Even the hospitals go on strike and innocent people are left to die as a result of no medical attention.
I was moved to tears when these children sang. The nation's unrest and matters have become prayer points in all places of worship. God should indeed look down from His throne, have mercy on us and save Nigeria!

I. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon
At five o'clock in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks!
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

II. The Spilled Blood

I will not see it!

Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.

I will not see it!

The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
with willows in the barreras.

I will not see it!

Let my memory kindle!
Warm the jasmines
of such minute whiteness!

I will not see it!

The cow of the ancient world
passend har sad tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
partly death and partly stone,
bellowed like two centuries
sated with threading the earth.
No.
I will not see it!

Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him.
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood.
Do not ask me to see it!
I do not want to hear it spurt
each time with less strength:
that spurt that illuminates
the tiers of seats, and spills
over the cordury and the leather
of a thirsty multitude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
Do not ask me to see it!

His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And across the ranches,
an air of secret voices rose,
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvellous strength,
and like a marble toroso
his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring!
What a good peasant in the sierra!
How gentle with the sheaves!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling the fiesta!
How tremendous with the final
banderillas of darkness!

But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliden on frozen horns,
faltering soulles in the mist
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
No.
I will not see it!
No challice can contain it,no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
no glass can cover mit with silver.
No.
I will not see it!

III. The Laid Out Body

Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
without curving waters and frozen cyprseses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.

I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
raising their tender riddle arms,
to avoid being caught by lying stone
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.

For stone fathers seed and clouds,
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.

Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
death was covered him with pale sulphur
and his place on him the head of dark minotaur.

All is finshed. The rain penetrates his mouth.
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
warms itself on the peak of the herd.

What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away.
with a pure shape which had nightingales
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.

Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
nobody ****** the spurs, not terrifies the serpent.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
to see his body without a chance of rest.

Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
with a mouth full of sun and flint.

Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
Before this body with broken reins.
I want to know from them the way out
for this captain stripped down by death.

I want them to show me a lament like a river
which will have sweet mists and deep shores,
to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.

Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
loses itself in the night without song of fishes
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.

I don't want to cover his face with hankerchiefs
that he may get used to the death he carries.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!

IV:

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have died forever.

The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever.

The autumn will come with small whiet snails,
misty grapes and clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
becuaase you have died forever.

Because you have died froever,
like al lthe dead of the earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

Nobody knows you. No, but I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth:
of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.

It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

Be afraid of the bohém, they may write you a silly little poém to make you love 'em.
Or even worse, in reverse, with their verse, coerce your mind and soul to converse.
And even if their ascent is traverse and the obstacles adverse, routes to them are diverse.

They refine their craft to give you a raft, don't be daft, they rehearse for the terse,
tiptoeing over the perverse, not wanting to averse. They wanna choke the horses of your hearse.
They have no need to beg and plead. Just a wish to slap your ***, your steed.
They just wanna make fear disperse for it they accurse, knowing well it's a curse.
No need to look for your purse. Your courage will theirs reimburse
and your smile their swollen fingers nurse.

See, the reaper wants the tails of coins thus places them on eyes faced reverse.
The bohém kick groins and leave traces but from coins take a print of the obverse.
Why? Cause they want not heads, but what's in them. They want your head to stay ahead.
Cause when a head is spiked by tails and filled with flashy tales, it is as good as dead.
They want to help you stay afloat - forget about the raft, think bigger, think of a boat.
Like evergreen crickets they ask you to disburse your fears and reverse your tears.

They ask not for a penny, just a thought or two, not many.
Like the ***** eyed and slightly sane miss Moneypenny.
Some call it a gift, many a curse. A curse the bohém can inverse
cause they submerse spirit in a lyrical sea and lower the stars for you to see.

Remember and beware, if you reward them with something as simple a stare,
you could be blinded by a hearty glare. Now you've been reminded, all's fair and square.
So why not just stay there? It's just your spirit they may ensnare like a hare,
only to mend it's wounded knee so that it can again hop away and be free.

Art is the heart of the bohém and their heart is their art.
So if you ever want to, thank them not with money but with a snack,
sprinkle a piece of your heart with honey. They'll bite it and give you two back.
Eat one too and make like a dove to flee to the place you really want to be.
Ride the waves like Nikolai's bumblebee and fulfill your uncharted destiny.

Me and the homies
built
up
a foundation of beer bottles in the corner of the living
room
that slide
down
when we play our music.

It's a pyramid
of transparent brown
******* bodies.

We stick our tongues into mouths
that will never fully be
ours,
and throw each new brick in the corner
with a clink,
*******
our
pants
and waking
up
in
entrail pools
of their digested innards the next morning.

A brown shimmer
like flashlights on the lake
bounces off them
bumping against our hips
and
mesmerizes
our upper thighs
and
inner groins.

Inside the morning
Which breaks like
The crippled North
Heat waves of wavering
Truth rings like damp crystal shots
Reverberating with a college education
Low down and empty
Eyes full of soot from the mine
And when I was I
Young and free and unknowing of myself
Without pressure to live while
I lived day in and day out
Like myself
Now the search for the holy man
In holy robes
Makes millions ponder and worry and fear
The clouds and the sky and
The drop of the bomb that will never come
Time rests quiet on my window sill
Alone and shaking and knowing
That we don't need it anymore
Evolved through death
Saw past the silk window shades
That once tried to convince to stay
But now that were gone
Out of the way of technology that
Roars with a voice not like our own
I perish with the church walls
Wild and naked with the stones rumbling
As I'm fumbling
For a place to drop these words
And I know that I'm right
But when the night falls over me
Alone and out of sight
I wince as the moon the silver moon
Slivers underneath my cool bed sheets
The hastiness of my own hand
Worries me at times of control
It shakes and it wiggles and grips with the need
Of a thousand dead men
Whose names I never knew but feel
They are still inside of like in tomb
I wish to walk away from life
To enter something else anew
Without my name without my troubles and
Without my sins
I wish to say hello to a face
That is familiar and without doubt
Friends familarize themselves with the newest wears
I tell the pear tree that their bark is fair
And ask them if they believe in dares
A sigh and a grin as above the clouds passed
And at last uprooted their thoughts
And moved to the other side
Where all was happy and warm
Canned goods rattle within her mind
Money whispers to her, "My way is the only way to be free."
Names backwards spell mom and dad
A misplaced youth who walked everywhere quite sad
I tell no tale I do not know
Yes' the grass is wet as the betting angels
Run in circles giggling, "All we be sold."
And as the tables are being built
And the chairs cut down in the near forests
The nymphs play their white flutes
As the water in the streams
Carry all that is the truth
Child you bear a fruit
That few men can see
It is a place of entranced innocence
That all are born with but
Know to keep and use
The streets grab hold like a vine on the garland
And the waiter drops his favorite feather
On the metro tram made of leather
Dirt covered road foaming at the mouth
A rabid dog whose tongue is yellow and pink
From the high blazing sun
Crystal water wash me clean
Make me new again
As overhead flies the crane
The voices inside the mind
Rattle and pray for rain
Instead of the rain there is only
The gain of sight that when looked straight on
Is not right but a kite
On a distant horizon where young Paul
Allowed his wife to be hung by the pigtails
And killed
The high naked dawn
Pink yellow and blue
Oh' Sue you were the only one
That seemed to know the way
With the whistles down below
Tram cars filled with little children that will grow
I know not their names
But the fame they'll endure to watch
Will of course soon make their hearts stop
And the rhythm of the rubble
Like the stubble on Grandfather Mr. Bubble
But the trouble with the hour
Is that it is never long enough
It longs for hands to caress every corner of itself
Glad that at least there are at least 24 of them
Not noticing that without itself
All the rest would be in disorder
Fast and decoded
Looking for an answer within a book
That has no name or any shelf
Where I knew no one but went anyway
Deep into the cavernous depths of fear
And uncertainty where only love
Would be the way to get in and out
Slipping around the hot ice the melts
For no one
When it is time the ice will choose
Mother nature has no boundaries
Except for the one's she supposes
Caught in the turn stiles constructed not by my hand
Head forward with the wind on my weathered back
The mice run for cover as the tram cars
Rush by smelling of oil and hot metal
I mention nothing to the one's that around me
I recall nothing that I wish not to
For the unconscious is meant to stay so
Give me a couch, a drink, and a man with pen and paper
And maybe I can give you something
With the pink hued clouds that play
Old episodes of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fun
Their sounds bouncing off the Oreo mountain range
The matches the color of my favorite
White and black sneakers
The detail in a film when you are in love
Is the only one that really matters
Same goes for literature
And the same goes for when one
Is in heartbreak
Dear heartbreak -
Without you love would not be worth chasing
Living and
Dying for
Forever yours until you leave me -
Reindeer Al' with the barman's red nose
The sick sync. of the pen to mind
That rattles of only the noise you wish to express
And not here all together
Back and forth whistling with tunes
Of former lovers that broke hearts
And plates
And electric bills all clad in their
Red bucket sombrero hat after
One too many tequilas and a
Wish for world peace while the man outside -
*** in fact -
Was beaten to a peach pulp for the
Slang in his whistle as he cat called
Across the way to a A-MER-I-CAN lady
Hot lady too, hot like the beach sands and
Spiteful like Medusa's stone gaze
Head amongst the clouds who spits
Out only puzzles and riddles on the fiddles
And piddles when fear enters the *****
The groins smelling of ***** dust and aggressive lust
I dreamed I heard the waves of ocean
Soft and wet like the purr of blissful elation
I cried I wept yet I felt no fear
For I knew my end was coming near
I dreamed I met an old old friend
Who once asked me always, "When is when?"
He bounced to a song I did not know
And where lived I could not go
Oh how I miss that friend of mine
I see his sad mournful face
Every hour Oh' all the time
Fuzziness of the business of the chugging gas kind of way
A rare disease that danced when asked
They would basque in their liquor and wonder
When they dream would finally flicker
But don't mention the end of others dreams
Because most of the time they already know its coming
The humming drumming realization
That not all is alright though we continue as if
There is still a little light
An uproar of song all in out of tune
Where ribbons colored red
Can't believe what the people at the party said
With all their drinks you'd think they'd think
To keep their secrets to themselves
Rather to the others like
Grandmas old wars scattered on the shelf
The yap-yap dog colored brown and black
With an old uncle that can't pick up his slack
While the shower is leaking and its cold outside
As the car is running outside but it ain't my ride

The forested breeze blew eastwards. On each swing of the wind, the birds flew and fluttered. Each of their wings swaying to find a harmonious balance. The sweet melody of ethnic hymns from the native village rose above the trees. The sequenced output with equalised acapella became an anthem that ruled the forests.The gravelled path structured it's way between the trees right to the heart of the village.

The village elder sat outside the middle hut. His hut stood out from those encircling it. Humbled in stature but yet symbolically decorated with colourful redness of the roses. The beautiful scented ambience rose to fuel the air within and around. The door of the hut was formatted with sculptured inscriptions that had a covert meaning. A story line about the long historic lineage of leaders. The entrance of the doorway was guarded by two warriors. Each of them had a shield and spear, alert and portraying courage. Their bodies were bare ready to attack the enemy, their groins fully formed and covered with *****. The sight of the hut itself was magnificent...... it's aura radiant with an embodiment of hereditary and hierarchical authority.

As the village chief watched the birds sway and whistle, he sat on his antique stool. In the openness of the nature he appeared puzzled. As he shrugged his symbolic leopard hide on his back.... it swung side to side. Still in situ, but there was something about it's presence that nagged him. He touched it and then speedily moved his hand from it. He then raised his voice. "Amita!"

His voice echoed and roared penetrating all the homesteads. By the time the volume of the echo subsided he called out again "Amita, Amita, Amita!"

Amita came running and knelt at the feet of the Chief. She replied "Yes Chief Hashi. I am here for your service Sir!"

Amita was a 21 year old girl. She was wearing a straw skirt. Her arm was tattooed with a prominent artistic representation of a snake swinging from the tree. The shades of the red snake pictured on the hues of the green tree. This symbolised that she was a servant and lived at the Chief's Quarters. Amita had sacrificed her life as her lineage did to serve the Chief and his household. A dedication of servanthood to the Chief and him alone.

Amita bowed as she knelt, her bare ***** ***** and shadowing the Chief's feet. The chief looked at Amita as if hyptonised by the touch of her *******. He glared at her beauty, the outstanding womanhood she poised. After a long pose of silence the Chief responded, " Amita, can you fix my hide ensuring that it's attachments are secure"

There was a level of vulnerability that the chief showed Amita. He appeared to be humble, a denudation of authority, that very call of submission. There was evidently a reciprocal of roles as Amita raised her eyes from the ground to face the Chief. As their eyes met the Chief hastily paused and froze as if speechless. As he gathered his senses he was firmly able to look at Amita and said, " Can you join me inside my hut please?"

Amita remained kneeling as the Chief stood up from his stool. Chief Hashi steadily walked to the doorway of his hut. Pace after pace, stroll after stroll. As he walked by the doorway the warriors raised their spears to his presence. He was proudly ushered to his exquisite residence. He then  faced the warriors and asked them to leave guard. Chief Hashi requested, "Can you come back after two hours." As the guards walked away the Chief in his freedom danced around, hysterically moving his hands multi-directionally.

Chief Hashi opened the window to his hut. This was adjacent to where Amita was kneeling. In his vulnerability he whispered, "My child Amita, get up and join me inside my hut. The door is open and ajar.... always for you my queen."

Amita stood up from the kneeling position and run her way into Chief Hashi hut.

A thick flood of thought clogs
lemon teeth and pools, crude
and salty behind lost red eyes.
Gouge them hollow! Darken the moon.
Brittle moans like a swollen beehive
loom tall, fifty miles behind the lost craters.

Hugs from pigs in blue,
they dance and loll around the flames,
a funky dark against their luminous fire.
Proud and bogus (and probably ******),
bitter about foul books they never read,
statues made of fear in the groins of men.

Ruined: hurled into a crag,
torn and singing, trapped in loops -
No elbow room in black hole falls.
Snoring next to wives wrapped in shawls,
hugging her leather Buick seat,
praying to wake up gaunt and lithe.

They rise, mornings, clutching onto dreams
in which they fly through the cold gloom.
They scratch desperate screeds onto napkins,
bite squirming, disobedient tongues,
souls raw, chafing in their dank enclosures.
Animals! Bred to elect ourselves for slaughter.

African woman
She is the strongest woman
The cradle of all human

She tends softly her man
As well as all her children
She aint seeking for equity
She is seeking for prosperity
Growth, of all her generations
She knows well her traditions
Not to be in combatant competitions

Not to fight the physical equal wars
But to strengthen the spiritual-mental walls
And they call her in tough titles-submissive and foolish
All she does is, a sit-home mum, bear and then perish
But she knows well all she wants-her family to flourish
In the hearts of the matters there you will find her
Strong and willed to build and leave her legacy
Moral men and wise women-humans of substance
She is a pillar to her home

African woman
She is the strongest woman
The cradle of all human

She sits on her sack, in her arms
A giant club to clobber her farms-
Her fields fat yields of yams
And she beats their pulps till powders
They are all ground refined white dusts

Pu! Pu! Pu! Goes her game's rhythms
Pu! Pu! Pu! Shakes her shoulders
Pu! Pu! Pu! Her biceps fats dances with each fast beatings
Pu! Pu! Pu! Strong, on, urges her throbbing breast chest
Pu! Pu! Pu! Comes back the hard works echoes
Like her man in mines and farms and fields she, too, salty sweats

African woman
She is the strongest woman
The cradle of all human

On her back is a bundle of woods
On her head balanced, is a load of loads
On her back is a can of waters
On her back is a baggage of belongings
On her back is her children
On her bent back she is a farmer weeding her fields
All in a day’s daily work without complains
African woman, who stronger woman, than you?

She is the backbone of her family
She is the umbilical cord of her folks
She is their heart and soul and spirit
She doesn’t retire until she expires
Early she is up-late she is asleep, O Mama-African woman!  
Even with all gone, she still as a mother chicken them all broods
She still them all remembers as my dear little children
Mama, African woman! Mama, who there be like you?

African woman
You are the strongest woman
The cradle of all human

When they all walk naked-liberal
She has a wrapper for her *****
A cloak to guard her gold-her fertile groins
She knows, good honey is deeply hidden in hives
And inside these hidden hives are strong stings
Bad eyes are a sight for witches-evil ruins

Her petals plains she must by all means protect
Until right comes the most suitable honeybee
Until right comes the sweetest singing hummingbird
Until moral comes the most beautiful butterfly
Until then, her nectar is not for every eye-tongue
Gathered she covers her fine curves
For she is the most beautiful of the divines-African Woman!
The strongest woman-the cradle of all human!  

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

Image
In a nation full of mirrored meanings
Losing the plot to the points made by editors
With the front to cover-up
The dots and dents
That differentiate one doe-eyed one-day wonder
From another

Not too difficult
Then
To discern from where our demons are derived

The motivation behind our mothers' mockery
All too often a fearful fantasy
That this will be a permanent reality
A lonely destiny of separation
In sanity

Choosing challenge as our champion
Causes less respect than one might expect to receive
From those persons whose pretence it is
To adore independence

In fact they abhor the idea
That they might not
Have got a clue
What's best for you

It's all so clear to them that the fix is a daily change
Lies in a variety of lipsticks
And the new best-dressed latest range
Of thigh-thwarting
Waist-winning
Sin-free super-fad foods
That nourish your neuroses
Whilst simultaneously stifling your spirit

While your mind is on your midriff
You're not wondering if the government have gained their votes
Through the generous use of their
Accumulative groins

And you are much less likely to ponder the particulars
Of the power plants you pass
If every article you read
Is ready to remind you
Of the importance you should place
Upon the proportions of
Your ***

A Dead Dolphin

They came upon it
snout to sea
turned in waiting
for the wave
to take it home.

Alas, it was too far in,
landed among the spoils
of the spring tides.

In wonder at this
once-living mammal
struck by death
in the sand,

She, kneeling
with due reverence
and no little wonder,

allowed her fingers
to remove a single tooth
from its open jaw.  
She looked up at him,

questions in her eyes.
He shook his head.
‘Best not’.


Blue Bell

Being the time
of belles in the wood,
fitfully blue
amongst the still-nodding daffs,
it seemed wholly appropriate,
after walking all day
in a northerly chill,
to tea at The Bluebell
on chocolate ice cream,
rhubarb jam (with a scone)
and a *** of ‘builders.


The Washover

Once a road
now a washover
a desert stretch
empty of everything
except sand

in the deep tracks
left by a 4 X 4
he laid prone
so to disappear the horizon
from the photograph he took
of this singular stretch

where one winter storm
the sea had usurped the land
and daily since held the upper hand


The Collection

Framed in the camera’s view
his collection of shells
and assorted detritus
lies on a square metre of sand
ordered only by the hand
of a diurnal sea
silent still
yet waiting
for the incoming tide


Roe Deer

Roe deer
(my dear
hand held
fingers warm)
two ears
above the bushy bank
white **** bounding
with a floating leap
clearing the fence


An Evening Walk

passing the pub
two smokers
by the church
five men remembered
dead so young
up the lane
a distant house
hiding in park land
now the cliff top
falling storm by storm
onto a shallow beach
a cold sea

back and facing now
the setting sun
a circuit taken
passing a still pigeon
turned to stone
sitting atop
a garden fence


The Owl

Short-eared it may be
but it heard us
walking the tough grass

but just to make sure
it described for our view
a circuit displaying
the complexity of its plumage
and the ever-alert confidence
of its so silent flight


The Bathroom Chair

The bedroom viewed
the bright flowering of
oil seed ****;
its spacious en suite
had a well-placed chair.
He remembered a family tale
(he’d heard it twice)
of their architect who said,
when surveying
a bathroom to be, ‘Of course’,
you’ll be needing space for a chair’.

So imagining the blushes
of her mother, he considered
this quietly upholstered chair
with its paisley pattern, where
in the morning he would,
and in comfort, stare
and survey the loveliness
of her daughter there.


At Lunch

At lunch - they sat
facing each other
over the picnic table -
where once a row
of cottages stood
before the northerly winds,
where only the tiles of their floors
remained to further pattern
the morning shadow
of the lighthouse near.

They spoke of childhood,
and her making of collections,
his spectrum of autism,
and how it might be one day
in a further future when he,
an elderly man, might need
her graceful arm to lean on.

He told her gently
how his passion
for her lovely self
(in all its quarters)
seemed quite undimmed,
and, as he held her fingers
in the April sunshine,
hoped that it would
always, always be so . . .

Her warm smile
(across the picnic table)
made any further words,
that might have been,
fall into the wind
and fly towards the sea.


To the Lighthouse**

Feet sure on the stone step,
the climb remembered well,
43 to the next stage,
39 to the second,
passing the curved doors,
the no-more flaking paint,
the damp (still) and the sound
(always) of the wrapping wind.
On a windowed ledge
she saw
the half-devoured prey
of a resting hawk,
and on and up to
under the lamp room,
where a fall of linen cloth,
stained by the sea,
marked with groins’ rust
once hung;
and further up,
in a small space under the lamp,
its windows now engraved
with the smallest of sailing boats.
Now one saw in the glass
a long-past sight of
tiny luggers plying their catch
of sand and gravel in the still grey
tumultuous, uncertain sea below.

Hurling curses everywhere,
pitchforks and pistols in everyhand.
The price for silence
flirted with moral opulence.
The minted paper lollipops
credited our hungry accounts;
whilst our future sold in the markets
and our groins thrown in the caskets.
Change is not a criteria to progress
because it is a slutty variable.
Honesty is not a key to political prowess
because it is transparently breakable.
Let the feet do the talking
and the mouth do the standing.

Chocolate luscious lips
spreading opening
like a blooming flower,

Honey dew kisses trinkling down
while you drink
from my over flowing cup of lust.

Meaningful quips.

Said so softly, caressing whispers as

I whimper while softly
crying out your name,

Lustful stares,

while you extracted
a scream from my lips,

holding

my gaze all the while you've
probe my delicate rose bud.

Stockinged thighs and garter belts dance
to my ankles like swinging vines.

Hands on knees and up my legs,

opening me.

Licking, Kissing, *******...

We breathe rapidly.

Once again legs begin to part,

as quickening hearts beat faster and faster.
Music to my soul,

you breathlessly
call out my name,

Silken fingers touch,

unfolding petaled tulips,

Soft succulent kisses
traces up and down bodies,

the emotional ramification's,

left me speechless

while you profess your need for me ,
your love for me.

going insane,

grinding *****,
pumping groins.

"0oo-oh-ooo"

Screams aloud, muscles strain...

Proudly legs wrap around waist.

Soulful moans rant
the night as bodies collide,

crashing towards ecstasy

the seed is sown.

Passions met.

Heated to a cooling sweat.

Slowing the earth
is turning right again.

I can hear our hearts beating.

tangled feet's still dance together,

legs mingled in sheets.

Blankets scatter all over the

bed.

Spilling on to to floor.

Warm and cozy,
hazy feeling and a bit love sick too
like in a lazy dream.

Out of steam and out of breathe,

panting and trying to stand.

My legs give way and buck from underneath,

smiling eyes stare back at me .


Someone wake me from this dream.

Of

♥♥♥♥****** Gratifications!♥♥♥♥

Always Me Ayeshah

you never really say piranha.... it’s more like piraña... no wonder english without the necessary diacritic spans north america and australia and the emoji platform, so the romans said: bonum, sed ν (nu) *** linea obliqus, sic ha est ad hoc tetragrammaton pars, et allah est la la; quamvis latin est mort scriptio autem non clara voce - basically just write some latin using english grammar, what’s beneath it? guess.*

i’ve written almost 10,000 poems and still i can only
remember having said one or two memorable things,
i mean, for god’s sake, the pedigree maine ****
that lived with me for the 7 years he lived to
dying of kidney failure said more memorable things
than i did, having only said meow / miał (i.e. he had it, once),
maybe that’s because i don’t actually cradle these outbursts
to much appreciation, hence my own worthy critique -
but like i said it once admiring spiderweb threads and the washing lines:
by the casual phrasing ‘killing time,’ i’m sure people invoke
the meaning: to occupy a definite space;
the antonym? that’s a bit what philosophy preaches - ‘to stand outside
all of time and space,’ well the first one i can do and feel remorseful
concerning boredom, but that gives me an indefinite space,
although this whole ‘killing time’ is a great option, i’m going to
schwarzenegger time with a sawn off umlaut, ooh... kick to the groins
watch the crouching tiger hidden *** change - and occupy
a definite space. see, you have to find the hammers and the chainsaws in language
to escape the waterfall of fictional narration, obviously grammatical
categorisation of words makes it easier to suddenly realise:
am i really typing, or actually hammering a word in?
but realising that grammatical categorisation of words
exposes unlikely-to-turn-rusty tools gives writing a whole worth
of sanity, as no longer the chance encounter, but a safe environment
to abseil like a spider which lost the plot of creativity famed by the cobweb, just ******* out a piet mondrian.

Watching Homer struggle
to explain how a god wounded by a mortal
cannot die but may thereafter live with minor pain

and the humor when that god
complains to Jove that His supervision of His daughter
is inadequate and His Love too unconditional

while Diomed (or Tydides)
wreaks havoc on the Trojans and Hector
gives it back (in kind)

anatomically correct descriptions
of spears piercing jawbones and groins
sons without fathers hunting and fishing thereafter

alone. Written
amazingly presciently!
as a metaphor for Vietnam (our war)

forgotten consensually
as this generation slips lazily away
to Hades (on Huck Finn's raft)

where the lights are always blue, gentian actually,
supper's served at 4 and former adversaries
pass the heavy hanging time playing pinochle (and pool).

We're selling the house to pay the taxes.
Pallas Athena wars among the men
from the axle of her chariot

and Venus is injured by Diomed,
standing in the field of battle where she never should have been,
in her adorable hand.

What has this to do with Solomon in jail.
Not the Jewish king, a black American male,
same thing.

Your children can be failed at school and marched to war.
You can be taxed and sent to gaol for the honor of it.
anyone lived in a pretty how town.

We have no obligation
to perform the Iliad or read poems and even Homer
considers Achilles effete (compared to Hector)

and Odysseus is wrong even when he's right.
Therefore, modern man explores
the mathematics of circles in coordinate planes and their tangents

(when) (once) (soon)
the secret of warp speed is discovered
expansion of the species will be limitless and permanent.

Now picture this... I communed with chaos and conjured up an ancient conquistador by the name of Quetzalcoatl. He called me a chickenshit coward before grabbing me by my cranial consciousness container; and with a chiropractic crack, just like that, my chakras connected and I channeled the grizzled ghost of Ol' Ronnie Reagan. He gurgled a “Hello” and grumbled “Just Say No” ... “Did you know my Nancy fancied fucktarded fantasies, or that she believed in batshit lunacy like astrology and necromancy?" ***** better know, it's bros before hoes cuz this ghost with the most is about to get gangsta with my ***** Miki-G... "Yo, Gorbachev, you old goblin goat, wipe off that **** stain on your head and tear down that muthafuckin' wall.” After guzzling a gallon of ***** Putin ****** in, he gave Ol’ Ron a wink with a glowing goat eye of iris framed rectangle dark... lowering his headgear he ran slowly while singing a slurred ***** polka rendition of possibly a ***** Riot song. The chorus went something like "******* the Bolsheviks with 11 inch strap-on *****" to which Ronnie replied, “Ewe can dew it to Nancy too!”, as his horns hit cement setting off the biggest supernova block party this side of the galaxy. When the dust settled, everybody was gone and all was right with the quarks and the gluons. The quasars aligned and spun in a symmetrical dance inducing this trance that gave me the vision of which you are reading and the bliss about to unfold here on the shores of Château de Event Horizon, my own private island. As I watch the goblin goats manufactured from the genes of Gorbachev graze the galactic grassy knoll, I’m soon seduced by the song of a sidereal siren... KA-BLAM a ******* shipwreck I endure. When I came to, at the end of my rescue, by whom I suspect to be the same starry-eyed saboteur. She whispers somniferously that to be saved I must partake in her hedonist holy communion. “Drink this neutron star wine in remembrance of my taste, distilled from grapes grown on gamma ray vines representing the lust-laced blood of salvation.” I, a blissom blind bavian obviously, find myself beneath an altar awaiting with bated breath and baculus bombé, bewitched by this bathykolpian beauty of absolute perfection, it’s made clear from my enormous ******* that I’m eager to worship betwixt her exquisite bombosity. “I come to you… er... and on you... with this sacrificial offering of byssus ******* and baptismal borborology... but before I implore... first, hit this baetyl of brume and breathe in a Big Bang **** hit of some killer cosmic kush grown on Kepler 452…. *******?”

“What if I were to bind you up with a sash? Byssus bound with blindfold, and belayed beautifully as can be. Blissom confinement is liberating when not meant to abash. Bestowing to you a masterpiece in *******, a most exquisite ligatured apogee.”

Exhaling miasmic veils of woven haze blindfolds she blows, until we are unable to see. Instead we let our lips caress each others flesh in search of the treasures buried just below. The ritual begins when I go down to taste your nectar of the gods, feel my fingers scrawl spells on your flesh in hieroglyphic haste, Anubis awakes when I invoke he to weigh my heart and become Osiris resurrected, manifested as broken pieces tossed and lost by the tempest of temptation. To traverse this tribulation and emerge triumphant, invoke Isis and find the 13 to complete the puzzle of my psyche. But if you want your toes curled and that shaking sensation, it’s 14 you’ll need to complete the capstone of my ******* obelisk. Then we can transcend by the touch of the tongue, ******* ritual recitation through unspoken glossolalia until we complete our journey to become the Gods of our own creation. Why should we not manifest through sensual sidereal sexuality? Orchestrating a galactic glowing mass of groans from groins grinding in tune with the pulsar powered music produced by Love, Lust, and Longing. Our libidos vibrate as sine waves in harmony with strummed string theory, for we are the Cosmic Conductors controlling this sonorous ****** symphony riding gravitational waves that will forever ripple throughout the fabric of spacetime. Cosmological carnal knowledge collapses and condenses our atoms, coalescing to produce photons of pure light to illuminate the encroaching dark void of loneliness which desires to devour it all.

Broderick was the smallest kid
in the class
but the girls liked him

and he had this
mass of blacks curls
and big dark eyes

and had this way with him
that the girls liked
and they would gather round him

when the teacher
was out of the room
leaning over

his shoulders
whispering things
into his small ears

and he'd say something
and they wet themselves
laughing

putting fingers
to mouths or bellies
and saying

oh my God
or
I've never heard

such a thing
and then put their hands
to their virginal groins

but you and Reynard
saw no great humour in him
or saw what it was

that creased the girls up
to the degree
of ***** wetting

(Reynard's expression)
because out in
the boy's playground

he never said jackshit
or made a sound
or joined in ball games

or cards flicking
or conker smashing
he just hung around

the fence
peering out
at the girls

on the playing field
playing hockey
or some other

ball games
in their short
green skirts

that showed
their green underwear
when they jumped

or ran along with sticks
and some guys would say
hey Broderick

what about us guys
what about joining in
with our games

or talk with us
but he never did
and Reynard said

he must have something
the girls like
small Broderick

possibly his big dark eyes
you said
or his humour

Reynard said
or promise
of his big ****.

No god above could ever inspire
my love like She whom I admire.
The temple where each night I pray,
is the holy bed where nights She lay.

A cup of wine.
A bed divine.
No world outside,
nor thoughts of time.

Our bodies meet,
our arms enlace;
our limbs entwine,
our lips embrace.

When lips first taste of passion's bliss,
in this holy kiss that we rehearse;
our bodies' grace is our godliness,
our bed divine is our universe.

Shrine of our idolatry,
bind our flesh eternally;
sear our chests with passion's fire,
adhere our groins of mad desire.

Forever our spirits in the Heavens soar,
however, we plummet - to the floor.
Fingertips chase over slips of lace.
Teeth they find all things that bind...

How savagely our clothes unwind
as we prepare on bed divine
to make the sacrifice sublime!

And all Creation comes from this
Breath we form in holy kiss.
When lips combine
Your breath in mine,
two breaths they form
one breath divine.

Déesse, mon âme,
by Your body,
All that's godly, I define.
For what could be in the skies above,
that I can't find within Your love?

Our love, it makes the stars align,
the moon eclipse,
and the solar shine.

And all Creation comes from this
Union of our holy kiss.


[End of Act I]

Now picture this... I communed with chaos and conjured up an ancient conquistador by the name of Quetzalcoatl. He called me a chickenshit coward then grabbed me by my cranial consciousness container; and with a chiropractic crack, just like that, my chakras connected and I channeled the grizzled ghost of Ol' Ronnie Reagan. He gurgled a “Hello” and grumbled “Just Say No. Did you know my Nancy fancied ******* fantasies, and that bedlamite believed in astrology and necromancy? ***** better know, it's bros before hoes cuz this ghost with the most is about to get gangsta with my ***** Miki-G... Yo, Gorbachev, you old goblin goat, wipe off that **** stain on your head and tear down this muthafuckin wall.” After guzzling a gallon of ***** distilled through Vlad Putin's ego, he gave me a wink from a glowing goat eye of iris framed rectangle dark... then lowered his headgear and destroyed the blockade like a supernova midnight pool party for Gremlins and grenades. When the dust settled, everything was gone and all was right with the quarks and the gluons. The quasars aligned and spun in a symmetrical dance inducing a trance; showing me it was gonna be a great day here on the shores of Château de Event Horizon, my own private island. Where I will watch my goblin goats with genes of Gorbachev, graze the galactic grass while I wait for a companion to come. Another cynical cosmonaut to converse with through this and partake in this holy communion. Where neutron star wine made from the grapes grown on gamma rays represents the life force of beautiful bombshells of red, brunette, and blonde. Lust-laced blood we bathe and become baptized in; breathing from the baetyl of brume taking Big Bang **** hits of killer kush grown on Kepler 452. The haze making it hard to see, when we feast on the flesh force fed to each other; for we are the Gods creating our reality. Leading to a galactic gathering of groans from groins grinding in tune with the pulsar powered music called Love Lust and Longing. Our libidos sing the sine wave sounds and strum the string theory, for we are the Cosmic Conductors created from stardust now streaming the vibrations of this ****** symphony throughout the fabric of spacetime. Cosmological carnal knowledge collapsing and condensing, the coalescing creates pure light from new stars being born to illuminate the darkness dwelling within us all.

The devil was inside me
Tonight, for the very first time.

I ached and cryed out for
him to let me be
I'm sure he loved every
Ounce of breaking skin
For him, still for the very first time.

Sorry father for I am weak,
Too weak to bare reality
So pains will do otherwise to soothe my wretched soul .

Sorry father for I have sinned,
My groins and arms in agony

But still I fake this half hearted grin,
**** this life I am living in . Ball my eyes and for what reason other than inebriation and unhappiness built within .

convinced she had no beauty,
she stared at her own reflection
into her pupils , down her throat , into her ear canals,
until her own face morphed into something unrecognizable.
she cut herself open , let her veins run like a stream , shed her skin, searching for any beauty that may exist
deep
deep
down.

and in her desperate searching
she found it ,
lines and bumps and curves she once thought were horrid
transformed before her eyes.
in her constant and endless willing ,
wanting ,
wishing for them to be beautiful,
they became.

and the world started to notice ,
eyes widened , heads turned , hearts opened , and groins awoke
and she reveled in her new-found power.
she wrapped men and women alike around her dainty but deft fingers,
shining jewels.
her beauty was a power ignited and fueled by herself alone
and she burned , a beautiful flame , with an intensity that left nothing but ash and scar in her wake.

exhausted after ******* the life out of yet another and already seeing the next one willfully align in her crossfires,
she tried to lessen the flame , to tame what she had now become ,
she wrapped herself in cloaks , shaved her lustrous locks , and swore herself to celibacy.

but her beauty was unleashed and could not be returned to her dark depths.
it shown through every crack and cloth and she ran ,
ran from herself ,
ran from the world.
touch became sinful and painful and unwanted ,
gazes became violating , haunting ,
and she cried out at the world blaming them for being so weak and lustful and victim to the wills of the skin

and she cried out at herself , brushing her finger tips over her own skin ,
for the power she had wished into being had become her greatest curse ,
the world , in which she only wished would see her ,
to love her ,
she consumed violently and she now found herself utterly alone ,
with only herself to love.

From stars to cars and bars of all kinds,
I snarl of wreaths that paraded mankind,
Which once gargled me in a brawling growl,
But it will no longer howl
No more.

Forgotten
Sootened,
They lay in
Blackened
Lying
Ice of Cold and Tremors
Murmurs of sore nerves
Of Cold chills
spine-wrenching curves
I have no remorse.

Whining groins to pawning reigns,
I gwaah at sheaths made of chatoyant neighs
It once skewed in me a featherly meow
Lest I forget the breeze
And howl into that ol’e reprise.

Dens, devils dark alleys
Apart from the quiet disco beats
The house-techno-electronics melodic
Or timbres of the naughty riddims rhythmic
And the dim coloured alternating disco-lights
Else, Dens are blurry dark
With all addicts-of ***, narcos or gins

In there no one sees no one
Just the silent talks of sins around
The usual businesses brought them there
In the mixture of multicoloured lights
So no one will talk of anyone once lights returns
Yet they shared something in common
A gal maybe, a cocoa puff or a shisha vapour!
A cigar smoke or a ***** tot and danced it ***** to dawn

In there are naked nudes-
Dames as well as few muscled-dudes
Teasing silent seated decent dressed
Stripping, selling their worth or wealth
To these willingly seriously immerged
In the occults of the immoral ****

Some are seductively rolling with the podium poles
Their greased groins incised on it metallic luster
Grating-grinding-dancing dirtily down
Its silvery smoothness in timed tempting
Slow spicy synchronic, slutty slides  
Watching the salivating seated
Erotically elated shift in their chairs

Some, skimpily skinned are snaking their boneless bodies up-down
In caressing zigzags of mastered dancers ***** arts
Immorally exposing their mostly expensive parts in bits
To tempt and trap these blind corrupted moths in their Lucifer’s lights
Forcing them to dig deeper their posh pockets to pay to be bemused  

Business here is crooked, dark!
Like ***** and her Gomorrah
Or Tyre and her Sidon
It begins with the fall of the night:
The extinguishing of the day's light
And ends with moments to dawn’s bright

In there all night are all dealers of immoralities
Of dark arts, of *** or of drugs  
Goons as well as criminals of government deals
And the corrupt business billionaires sandwiched
Richly enjoying the **** of the sinfulness-
Sharing, wasting, the rapacious richness
Of their easily gained supernormal profits
On these salacious naked nudes, free to feel

In there in the masquerade of these rainbow lights
No one sees no one, no one will say of anyone
Just cash exchanges hands
You got it, you get what you need
All the services you want-its all at your watch
With just a snap of the finger, all easily you acquire
You are the master, everyone else your servant slave-
At your disposal to your utmost attendance

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

I remember that night,
when you stutted whilst tryna introduce me as your girlfriend to your parents,
I guess you were nervous more than I was,
nervous that I'd be upset by you finally giving a label to what was happening between the two of us,
but,
I smiled to myself,
trying to hide the pleasant feeling I was feeling inside.

The best part of that night,
was when we shared our first deep kiss,
perhaps I wanted us to do more than just kiss,
perhaps I wanted to unveil our ****** feelings for each other,
I wanted to touch you so badly,
my groins ached for you to caress my body at that moment,

“I have been trying to get laid
So should I try lacing up my suspenders and get my *******,
for another fifty shades of drinking a Harlem shake to the
piece of cake fairy tale of nagging paper trail just to impress a **** pony tail
at the dark alley bakery, vending her own cookie with a tight shoulder skirt to this lions in search of an empire from a leverage  point to cleavage, Torching the alley with a naked thigh just like tossing a coin into a fountain in a circus with clown with umbrella about throw some shade until when the tides go out to, you get to know who’s been swimming naked upon the pleasures that are bitter to swallow to this blood ******* roaches chasing strangers who would spread her legs to the canvas and induce seduction as a color scheme……..
She called me sadist and I called myself a dreamer,
She dreamt of pushing me off the bed and calling me a screamer
She envisioned cutting my throat and playing jazz with my vocal chords
She fantasied sarcastically caressing my cuticles just because last night I came in short of breath

Previously
She would sell her own soul to the syringe of morphine drip
for a denial shot that pain heals in the prefix of an outpatient  rehab
now in the bathtub nursing in patient withdrawal ,
She would tie a shoe string around her bicep in search of vein,
so as to squeeze the **** libido version of limbo to oblivion
humiliating the dark clouds begging for a shooting star
to the pages that frustrates the pen unto the novel that prescribes a prenuptial of black bride killing the reader’s digest and buries their heads…………..so……………………

I am becoming a book.
that will induce an ****** with sympathy veil of beggar feeding on their own horses
to the end of the caterpillar misery is **** butterfly confetti to script that syncs the readers perception
Into the ****** abuses of the needle that impregnates the ink and tells the canvas to go get paternity test throughout the history of melting medusa lips
that made a homeless robin without a hood painting a revolution in this concrete jungle
where dreams are made up from silence thought that can
ambush a hive softy through whistling that melts
a bee’s temper in the presence of a queen is a poisonous sting of a artist
dipping his own brush into his own soul with a healing dew that never bruises
the honey in the vein of the garden is the beauty of the wine  
From a vine to flower is a grape in the glass is anarchy

From what I am running from
To misery flowing from the river on
That’s why we are here
To profile the lost identity from the art of war that sun Tzu was afraid of losing his head to another thigh!
That’s why we are here
To profile the slit of the dress that curved the sword another napoleon to conquer Soviet Union
That’s why we are here
To profile a love Ballard from contortionist that melted medusa eyes from cold to flexible
Revolution will wear a mini skirt, squat and kiss the lepers hands for the Benjamin’s banking dump jokes...and still hire Johnnie Cochran for second ****** trial of O.J Simpson ……………
That’s why I still want …………………………….



our culture wore a fabric of circus clothes only dance in the arena like a puppet from the strings of the servants chasing a redemption in the den of thrones getting thrown to the game of throne for guilty pleasure as kings daughters were gambling upon gladiators death to the freedom of escaping their own Sobibor that chopped off my foot in the life of Kunta Kinte
Slavery was blushing teeth with a **** moan of a cigarette smoke
Flirting to the horrors of unshaved groins,
from the growing pains in the hands that planted olive trees
to labor and harvest their oil that has become tears of
cowards staining heaven with obscene imagery of their own likeness
holding their insights captive upon the eyes of the ******
Until our backs were a canvas of whips and brutality, we had tattoos
of pain and graffiti of blood as written the book blue skies
claiming the prepare the way the Lord, judging Esther from a supremacy attire of poverty
termed to be isolated from the world where the corner stone fell into the wrong hands and built a
Tower of babel for the Pharisee living in a glass house



Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal to pleasure
the urges out of the Garden of Eden, Adam had to seek leaves to live with eve,
From a mustard seed renouncing the deception ought to praise the womb that gave birth to the blood sweat and tears to the system planting snares pig’s ears and fears ,
with intent to subdue the cat inside the bag from the smell of the rat that has been suffering a broken rib
We used ashes as lotion to conquer the scratching pains of the unhearing wounds eying the staff that turned into a serpent in exodus to the stiff neck of the system after the death of Moses….we had to succumb to victory,


There was a story of how soldiers got hungry
in the battlefield even they started feeding on themselves
Fighting for peace in the pieces of human meat...
upon pawns that have kept chasing the salvation of in the story that was
made by rats that fought all the dogs and killed the cats is like
Judging a fish with its own abilities to climb trees from the a shadow of small boy reflecting an elephant in the room with betrayal that made Julius have a seizure after gambling with another’s man
life with few pieces of silver sealed by a Judas kiss that killed Jesus,

The shoreline
Has noticeable variations
After years
Of indistinguishable ripples
People wade in.
Roots are exposed;
Groins vanish under
Undulations;
A scenic road slips
Stone by stone
With waves of regret
And nausea,
Falls of remorse.
**** it all.

across the room,
I walked out of my living room door.
eyes concentrated,
drawn on the floors of my covered toes,
to the roof of my Afro.

Men stared at me with raw impure thoughts,
racing through their brains,
it was moment of galore for them,
that such exposure could have such an effect on their oblivious groins.

The clicking of my heels,
clicked on,
what could a woman do but walk on and remember that,
another like me, will soon again make him, him or even him,
turn heads
all simply because his just  being a man.

I'm heading for the darkness
I'm descending into hell
Not a place I really want to be right now

Just a few short days ago they opened up my groins
Just because they wanted to shove some extra plumbing
deep inside
Only took them about nine hours

Anyway while deep inside covered in blood and gore
Somebody made a major mistake and now
I'm suffering like never before

One little mistake is all it took
A tiny slip with a scalpel blade
Been told that I will probably need a stick
For for the remainder of my days
Oh well its lucky I carve my own

Well no more wild camping
Under a tarpaulin in the woods
No more the bird song in the early ****
Because the birds don't sing in hell

I can still smell the strong aroma of vinegar used to wash away the blood
of slaves who were flogged on deck until their backs were raw
mainly the ones who refused to eat  or drink in order to be made bigger
to sale on the auction block.Their lips were sewn together and a hole
was cut into the side of the cheek and boiled millet was poured in
We slept less than six inches apart below the deck amid the *****
funk,feces,side to side,belly to belly,hands and feet in short chains
a slave will try to escape usually as the small canoe is leaving the shore
or throw himself into the shark infested waters to end his doomed life
while the chains and anglets were taken off that we could dance
to fiddle music music and entertain the captain and crew with yellow rotting teeth and whiskey coated breathes
before arriving on deck some slaves might have died
and were thrown overboard or put into rafts piled up and floated
out to sea,and so we were again counted and examined  one by one
*******,groins,toes, backs ,teeth, arms
No wonder that some of us slaves thought that death was a highly
prized escape over living a life of chained misery