kate beckinsale & anne hathaway
can speak
the name... matthew all
day long...
                 and right into the night...
i'll try to fall asleep...
must be an Oedipus complex
sort of thing,
   in primary school my school
friends thought that my
mother had the visage for
   sandra bullock...
   ha ha! good luck to the men fathering
daughters!
          you ever find it easier
to pet casts, and cage tigers?!
              **** me...
my shatten is soliloquy central...
           i drink to excess and
listen to excess erotica latex ****
music...
      and then? do nothing about it...
i like cinema...
                         **** me...
a fetish for leather that extends
past a ******...
    i would have asked her sincere self:
can we drop the ******
so that i might attire myself
in gimp?
      she evidently replied
a no with her 19 years of existence...
oh... under-baked apple pie
my dear...
            ha ha!
           no, i have more cherries
to pick, i''m beyond stalking some famous grimace...
you are here           .



and i?



                                           .              am here...

who needs the excess of
quasi-journalistic coverage anyway?
    
           that transitioning harem
of rock stars...
     like Kafka said:
i'll be waiting for something
i never had,
and missing it,
            by never having touched
a peek behind the curtain...

   i'll wait... for what i could never have...
and within the confines
of what i could never have,
          i'll settle for what i can already, have.

kate beckinsale & anne hathaway
can speak the name matthew
all day long, and i won't mind...
        
      would i be the one following them?
train-spotting....
         taxi counts...
                 ******* crows that
croak mid-flight count...
           the number of canadian geese
in b-54 formation
migrating come mid-autumn...

          geek without the cartoons...
push me...
   keep pushing...
     i want the shove
and the ****** wording of auto-suggestive
courting of -
                           courtesy...

              thank you...
i'd rather stalk my own shadow...
looking out for the plot-line of
an eased out **** doing the olympic
gold medal dive into
the crapper pool,
via analyzing the shadow of plop
pop gold...

        zero splash...

                a ******* harmonium
on the neck of a Polish teenager,
traveling on a Warsaw tram
      to reach a girl who...
              was counting petals,
and the worth(s) of considering
the concise surmount of love...

             yeah... next time?
i'll be the one used to invigorating
the stance on stalking
one's own shadow...
             why?
because i fidget...
i get all jerky...
                  the hype instigator
movement...
   ******* a woman
like a piston of a car's momentum...

               does it really matter?
i thought the Madonna-***** complex
wasn't a man-"thing"?
   if man owns the Freudian Oedipus
complex...
  does man also have to lend in his
strap-on dictum for the
Madonna-***** complex?
   so...
              that's not a wholly woman "thing"?
she's doesn't own that
complex?
   it's man's fault?!

             i know the Rastafarian Putin
isn't rasp -
but you know that Israeli ******
are better than the Russian ones...
so the story goes...

               which kinda explains...
impotent with women trapped
within the Madonna-***** complex...
with Bulgarian prostitutes?
a limp **** only, and only when
i forgot to trim my ***** hair,
my Eden...

  i have the Oedipus complex...
am i also responsible for
the Madonna-***** complex?!
really?
                        you sure that women
are not supposed to attend to question
this trans-schizophrenic,
   squint / split /
           dichotomy?

                   prior mothers,
that prerequisite motherhood
with the basis of ******* themselves...

   the Madonna-***** complex
is outside the realm of the male constraint /
castration of rules...

   i already mentioned it...
i couldn't be circumcised...
   protruding veins, that met at the zenith
of the *******...
if they circumcised me...
        i would have bled to death...
the, "crime" of ******* is
a lot easier to handle...
   if you haven't been circumcised...

because?
   circumcision is a motivational tactic...
you are... technically... not allowed
to ******* once you've been
circumcised...
  
               you're free, to *******...
if you haven't been circumcised...
as a male...
            no problem...
problem of ******* comes...
when you persist in the act...
but you don't actually possess the excess
skin, that might allow you
the prime, solipsistic act...

    ergo?
******* is worth a justified critique...
ONLY, and only IF...
you've been circumcised...
sorry if you have...
           notably because?
your priest isn't a rabbi...
and there's no fiddler on the roof
matchmaker song
to boot.

oh no, there's no problem with the act
of *******...
  but there is... if you have been
circumcised...
  why?
    during ******* i used to pull my *******
back...
  and **** with an unsheathed
****...

      but in private?
the ******* was rolled back on,
to counter the imitation of experiencing ****
***... with a clenched fist.

You found me
simplicity,
harmonium,
quiet ***** humming
slow,
softness,
starts,
and the violin follows along

And you grow
oh so quickly
and my smile joins you
my body
my toes are tapping
and a man walks sturdy
stepping on your beat
with a smooth nonchalance

And I am lifted
my arms raising,
reaching,
and my legs
weightless

Enveloped in song
warmth,
lilting,
socks slipping on a wooden floor
clapping along
as your voice grows

Strings thrum
and my bones with them
and as you fade I slow
my twirling gentles
but my smile remains,
breathless
cheeks red and eyes
glowing.

Hey Delilah, whatchu doin tonight
I'm comin right over, we gotta get over our lives..our lives

Hey Delilah, take my hand it is strong
Its gonna get over, we gotta get over your howl..
the sound..of fear

Heed the call now
It's waves resonate in you
shredding the soul
many steps we walk through..to the tune

Circular Paths, streets are callin wild
Resides in our heart
Our vibrational soul
in the while, for awhile, all our days

It would be a sin against my God to live in ignorance of your touch
Feel the Divinity of your womanly warmth, of your warmth
To Explore your innermost fathoms
and the Reflection of Desire in your eye
Found in the sensual meditation of your gaze,
in the night

Our Bodies belong together
The story of their union was told
Long before our birth on this earth, in the old, it was told

Like David on the roof top
For you a man would die in war
So meet me by the hillside
We'll grow old, in the shadow of the wood

Away from tired world notion
of what is right or good
Lay with me next to gurgling streams
Adorned with Gold
Whose gaiety of movement
it will match our own
Finding ******* freedom in the forest
The air both sweet and pure

WE CAN BE TOGETHER
THERE LOST IN TIME
HEED MY CALL IT IS WILD AND WARM IN YOUR EYE,
IN YOUR EYE THROUGH THE NIGHT

HEYAHA!

What I am I don't Know!
I run along Rivers and stand naked in snow
Climb Waterfalls, Smile in Trees, and Howl at the Moon
Surf on the Dunes
Swim in the Sea
Lie on the shore in the breeze
If you should ask me I don't know ask me again
I'll never know my friend

You want something from me
a guarantee
Not mine to give
Falling right over, we gotta get over the fear
of the fear

Feel these arms, they can take you down
fold you right up in the valley of womanly streams
Lost in the waters, Life is a dream

There is nooo goin back....From whence we came
Time is like a river wild, untamed, untamed
Endlessly moving forward
into stratums unknown
Make the most of this moment or ever, forever, feel the pains of cowardice alone

The past is like a window
Burns HOT like the sun
Everyone makes choices and hopes they're not wrong

Life is like a river with so many streams
We all go into the ocean drowning with dreams
With dreams left unsaid

It's been awhile, we're gonna find it again
A human connection, Life is dominated by sin
The material
The desire for more, are we here to acquire a Mate?
A family, a woman, a house?
A couple share their drink


Listen to the river of sand
The torrent of Maia
The reign of illusion, found in your hand
Desire
Are we man enough to face it?
To seize our fates?

We live, as cowards, surviving in shadow
What is our personality, Id or the Ego
Liar...Livin in Time

Standing in the Present Moment
Ignoring my Father again
all things come to an end my friend, your lonely soul therein

Deadened tissue of the heart
nothingness invading
wink of the light
rapturous smile, earthly delight, breeds tomorrow's sorrow

Livin' on the last straw
cresting a turquoise wave
Risking the razor's edge of our fall
Dying with a Song on stage
Sensual desire,
wrapped in the spirit,
touched by the Dark, touched by the Light
Hundred million reasons to fight

Rain Wash this age away
Leave me naked in the wind as I came, as I came
Spread cushioned by the bedding of green moss
Birthed in a forest, sonic cataclysmic sound
Consequence, all our dreamin and dreamin and dreamin around

The cog revolves around the wheel
Fire dancer breathing still
In the harmonium of the heart
Into the night we fly to survive

1.
any colour may be applied to the
night-dress

this city actually has no cart
driven by horses

before a pretty long time the shepherds
had also told adieu

by secret signalling the red-hat addiction
called the pigeons  sitting on the broken sticks
of the antenna to come nearer

on those dead-news the travel-story
keeps awake by whole night

and pours down on eye-lids
clouds
wrapped with cellophane

one day that wave sent
rolling-down-on-the-back hair
to the yellow balcony

those are all ancient drama

in the glow of the back-light you can see
civic humps have grown up on the back
of the birds every day and night

yet
under the dead-stop ceiling fan the dance
of the ****** reel wet with sweat does not fall short

the paper-buckles with the flowers painted on it
gets more and more tight on the air of the throat

velpuris of the evening
offer full enjoyment

2.
the night that comes all walking on the sands of the desert
how much concern does she has about the navigability of the river

when the husk of the water-chestnut is got open
flowing down the waves bursting into a blaze

to that flow is open the motor-car
the wan procession
and all the fishes that want to go upward the wave

so many varieties of floating

if the matter of clouds be let off
the multi-coloured fingers
also have so many infotainments  

if the question of  moveable property is  raised
it is only a suicide-note from my father

and a knot
in the robe of the blue trouser

3.
the trees and creepers of the night
and the plants and herbs of the day
do all of them have the same blood-group

there is much flora
inside the jail-custody also
and in this ruins of the old palace

how much is it justified
to express eagerness about the geography
of one’s character

specially of the trees
of the fishes
or of the humans

it is said
all rivers
flowing through the bodies of the great men
are totally ******

there is also the blank desert
on the silent snow-valley
in the corner of your
lips

4.
on this spine
having a mouth of crocodile
always jump down
the climate    

everyday
the sunglass changes

look at the soil and the sky
no one of them has any body-guard

the open mouth of the light
swallows the grey coin

here the wall becomes more tamed
the wild jasmine comes nearer to the heart
and hums

then ripping open my veins
should i also ***** the blue elocution
accumulated on the ****-pit

after recovery of the flower-mill from fever
the harmonium is being played on  

even introduction with the gas-balloon
has not been done yet

5.
arrangements are being made

the green shirt will gradually
turn reddish

the culverts that have become exhausted
within the travel-format
will get recharged again to sit up straight

and the hawker will get passed the silent-home
shouting with undressed coconuts in hands

from the lap of the stand-still rocking-cradles
of the children-park
the amaltas will say
i’m ready

then to escape the sun-shine
the boy who comes to attend the private tuition
will embrace… oh margosa … its your pierced-heart

you may tell him that the name of the girl
who is eating guava and swinging her legs
sitting on its branch is munni

6.
the horse is running
just above 3 feet of the yellow cornice

his back is full of dreams
or a girl named miss dorothy  

around it is the mid-night
around it is the wind that wants to be printed

and in every corner of its flying
are hundreds of skirts
  
all are of free-size

what may be their market-price
there is no shop-keeper there

in that valley
a shadow is proceeding on

do you know whose shadow it is
he is philip the teacher who gets irritated easily

this time there is no thin cane
in his hand

in the pieces of papers dumped in the waste-box
under his window there is a manuscript eaten up by the worms

there is ‘darling’ there
and ‘yours beloved greta’

in which skirt
a touch of that greta does remain  

is it being searched even today

is it greta or margaret or eliza  
there is no bar if it is dorothy

in whose smell there is no greta
who has no such horse flying just above three feet
of the yellow cornice  

each mid-night fills the fountain pen
with the flow of blue ink

7.
the leaf of jack-fruit is luxuriant
i can’t remember whether i ever notice
the portrait of your face on it  

there are so many words
that are slippery

how much rustic is the dust of the legs
of the young person is known to the road of the city

daubing green on both palms
i call for rain …oh rain ..oh rain

and into that rain i let my wrist-watch float

thus the great rainbow unfolds its wise mirror
on the scaffold of bottle-gourd  

from the bright cloth-end falling down
the odour of detergent

thus the applied mathematics of the diesel
is learnt to a greater extent

8.
behind the change of colour of the swelled wind
the samovar plays no role

though you know it you tear off tears
from your eyes

and the merry biscuits that are kept in the jar
raise a joint demand to serve them
after wrapping with new banana-leaves  

and the funny thing is that no accounts is found out
of the expenditure on the lip-stick that was used
by the fishes in the aquarium  at the time of illness
of the antenna

by the hands of the clock stretching their shanks apart
is it possible to know the actual age of a comb
either it’s costly or cheap  

9.
like the light
like the dark

yet it is full of the sound of steps
again it wakes up on the forest-road  

taking leave from the yellow construction
all the sound of the bamboo-flute
sinks today into the green minerals

it is not moonlight
on the road it is some north-east sadness

he who comes admits his body
with the divine sin

if you are sorry be water for three days now

through out the day and night
there is the paraffin of fire-flies

the blue cough is not from the sky

it may be some tusu-gaan fly off
from the chest of the straight-line
that has been wiped out

10.
i’ve deposited my metallic heart
to the archaeological-store of the wind

and i send rolling this bare eyes towards the fog
frequently

i make the crystal of her hair soft

i can see those crows
whose jaws are not closed

the colour is also
as if it were burst into cotton

can the anchal of danekhali sari swallow the kernel
and water of the blue tooth-brash after opening its husk

i say to the head with earnest request
oh my father keep cool
and look at the rain-pipe inside which
there is all the dances of the peacocks

11.
in the dim light
the predecessors of the dead stars
tell stories

this dhaba
is beside the long bus-root

yet it is still not satisfied
with the shrimps

the tail of the black drongo
hanging from the farakka bridge
is divided

towards the ganga
towards the padma

the gramophone of the mid-noon
continues to sound at the midnight

those who are doing pilgrimage
on the back of tigers

within the lighting zone of their torch
all the nearest of men who get lost
cover their faces

you know very well that the memory-gland of the wind
becomes how much river-minded when it walks through the fire

Yours is not a caged minor bird
That has forgotten how to fly
Who has not wings to unfurl
Or a voice to sing harks of warm air
Even on winter mornings

Glide the up-draft and all it’s edges
Where you said you’d fallen from
And where I could see my footprints
Lost in the distance
Far below

I have no fear of falling.
Dive bomb the rocks below
or take faith in the air beneath -
Flap and talk of leaving someday
Ready a perch in wanton relief
and take what you’re given

I am not a bird
I have forgotten how to sing sweetly
Others make noise
Blissfully unawares
of the harmonium which awaits

As a sound or a note overheard,
captured on the ear.
Without knowing the scale
Or the instrument
But the sounds or an urban minor bird

You are in essence
as effortless
as air Itself

Exuberant he is!
That’s a Yogi with character!

Smiling, treat wallah.
Pyramid quartz.
Dangling sparkles.
Sunlight reflects
His teeth softly open to the world.
Taste buds willing
Simple yet refined
Yogi Yum Yums
Spreading the thunderous joy
Of pure delight!
He gives permission to say “GOD”
He sits.
When no one is around
In the hall where Shiva dances to his music.
Pulsing the instrument
Harmonium glimmering with song.
Goggles on, ready and shimmering
He booms a great confidence,
The resounding sound:

SHRI RAM
JAYA RAM
JAYA JAYA RAM
SHRI RAM
JAYA RAM
JAYA JAYA RAM!

The rain falls softly on the sleeping city…. Cloaked in the blanket of a monsoon lull…. A few stray dogs scamper for shelter as the first storm of the season colours the dawn a deeper crimson…..
The thunder rumbles from the north east…a deep slow sonorous sound coming from the underbellies of the moisture laden atmosphere…..
The soft drizzle forms a hazy blanket of morning mist around the city…..already stirring with the first signs of life…. The resurrection of the everyday work-a-day world…….
The musical tinkling of a bell echoes around as a pushcart brimming with flowers rushes down the street, hurrying to the market…fresh, preened and ready…to be sold to the highest bidder…
The soft music of the approaching storm inspires a boatman, out on the holy river, to sing…… his voice echoes over the bass of the thunder……a plaintive pleasant humming……the nuances of the bhatiali fill up the empty cracks in the morning……
The rain deepens…………the drizzle expands into the monsoons first downpour… pitter-patter sings the rain, reverberating off a thousand tin roofs……the sky darkens……enveloping the dawn in its grey being…..
Somewhere, someone tunes a harmonium…..clears a throat…a hand draws a curtain aside…..
The peaceful reassurance of the daily azaan spreads out from the mosque…..calling the faithful to prayer…..
The flower vendor…now setting up shop, attaching an extra strip of plastic sheet to fend off the rain…. Stops a moment and bows his head as the nearby tolling of a bell and the sound of a conch shell being blown announces the beginning of a new day in god’s abode….
A woman kneels down in a pew…..praying…..the calm of the church mirrored in her peaceful face…..
The rain looks down at the city……..now, half awake…slowly stretching its limbs……..stirring from the depths of a restless rest…………awakening to the jangling of a bread earner’s faith……
The shower relents……..probably giving in to all the Monday morning groans and grumbles emanating from a city forced back into consciousness…..
Finally, all that remains is the moisture on the flower vendor’s tarpaulin and the shadow of the boatman’s song on the rippled river…….

the krishnachura and the champa

both of them
have the only-one unsheathed afternoon

both of them
have the same-one broken harmonium

how long more the eyes of terracotta
would roam in the sun

the uneven fate-line
is written on the green slate

the sound of the vocal chord is also eloquent
as if it were some  bare trees of wood-apple

around the swimming
there are some scattered scrapes of slippers

the colour of whose straps
is blue

and some tales of the faded sky

i return home with the night of
phosphorus

i return with those waves of the
mid-night that have no translation

i lay them in order

See what we have become,
love has propelled us
to greater heights.
Greatness has visited us.
Mercy has shown up
and smiled at us.
Grace is at work.
His banner over us is love,
for the beauty of the spirit
shines forth.
Fortune is here to be taken
by all who are worthy of it.
Your faith is all you've got
to win in the down world.
Faith drives the body to conquer
the insurmountable.
Unshakable to withstand the storm,
for the mountain you carry,
you were supposed to climb.
The sword of the spirit drawn
against all craftiness and
manipulations of the evil intruders
who messes with you and those you love.
For the greater one lives and dwells in you.
To be in harmonium with ourselves is a
prerequisites for harmony to reign.
Immense help is available for the
ones who dares to seek for divine support.
To knock on the door unanswered
shows that you just need to push harder
for it to be opened.
For the one who asked is helped.
Remember that anyone who cannot be
counselled cannot be helped.
This is the new dawn.
Arise now and reset your life.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

The Cosmic,
the cosmos,
the universe,
the galaxy,
the whole earth,
the world,
within and without,
even beneath,
all of them bear witness
of your coming,
of your existence,
of your purpose,
your destiny is shaped,
your path ordered,
predestinated to rule,
configured to win.
You are not of the earth,
for you are born of God,
alien in the world,
resident in the earth,
the spirit man,
with heaven within.
The firmament,
and all that composes planet earth, water,air,flora,fauna, soil, people,
human creations,
is needed to be in harmonium,
live in harmony, respect, love,
and oneness.
We must connect lovingly to mother earth,
all living creatures,
human and nonhuman,
physical and nonphysical,
intelligent or without intelligence,
containing a soul or not housing a soul.
We must respect the planet earth,
the water, the trees, the air, the animals,
and other humans.
We are all of,
and from,
the same source.
Just for today,
Be at peace.
©20189 Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

Death
is a tale
penned by
voices innumerable
and the cosmos
are best captured
in minimalist
strokes.

Summer:
He kissed me
Flashes of my past favorite things charmed those blue eyes
God
I still remember everything about us
Fresh fish on the grill
The first time you held my hand
We curled around each other's bodies like tentacles
We wanted every inch
Sweat
Harmonium on inside humor
You found me and I followed
The ring bells
Terms of endearment changed so drastically
He held her so gently that I melted like butter
Like what you would cook and we sweated until we kissed
An entire day downstairs and an entire night upstairs
No wonder I got so dizzy.
Finding ourselves becoming one.
Sharing clothes and teeth marks and hearts.
We were happy.
Once.

Fall:
The leaves changed.
So did we.
I over stayed my welcome.
Being swept out like the garbage below you.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
The inches between us in your bed
Complete with "Nightmare Before Christmas" print
Grew larger and larger
The unfamiliar faces began becoming your new candy
Apparently I wasn't dark, or sweet enough for anymore.

Winter:
On my knees
I never knew how terrible tears tasted
Begging you please
Slap Slap
I fell down a flight of stairs
You came with me, but only to use it for malice
Why?
How?
I never should've cared.
True love doesn't exist here.
Only long walks through the jungle
Giraffes walking around.
Long limbs. Long eyelashes. Long tongues.
That's the only freedom that exists.

Spring:
Where did these feet come from?
Suddenly I can walk by myself again.
Shaky.
My hands and back tremble from the weight of the world.
Atlas has not helped.
Surrounded by the ghosts of my past, and present.

Keep this for the motto girls:
"No one can have me like I got me."

Eating Cadbury's chocolate handed
to you by sultry Amazons as you
float gently down the river Seine
in Paris while accompanying Frenchmen
in berets gently play their harmonium
thingy as the younger Brigitte Bardot
lets her blond hair tumble gently over
your face as she softly hums in your
ear songs by Smokey Robinson,

& meanwhile Hendrix's long sweet jam
Voodoo Chile blasts from enormous
banks of speakers being towed alongside
by Viking longboats crewed by Republican
politicians & overseen by the ladies of
***** riot now free from the prison cells
of Siberia,

as Tommy Cooper performs magic tricks
& near extinct animals, birds & insects
mate freely among floating clouds of
vapoury spring dew,

while deliciously gorgeous Thai ladyboys
slowly peel grapes for me before setting
off in a fluttering cloud to use their wiles
& charms on Republican conventioneers,
as you relax & smoke ***** & share a
hot-tub with God.

Joy.

I am an
odd fellow,
don't expect me
to be like you.
I follow the
path of my
destiny.
The sun doesn't
shine for you
alone.
Neither the moon
at night time
belongs to you.
The wind cannot
cease because
of you,
everything benefits.
Breathe in the
air of life,
and exhale love.
Cold and it's
chilling snow flecks
is felt by all.
The odd things
happened for a
reason.
For you to
know and live
life and love,
you must first
desire it with
your heart.
The good life
awaits you.
This abysmal
cannot elude,
exclude and eliminate
the very ones
it came to pick.
The innocent ones
are protected by
the greater light.
I am a
protagonist,
the forerunner
of the inner quest.
Don't ever shrivel
by its presence.
Be bold and
unshakable.
It's not meant
to harm you
but to create
harmonium and
protect your interest.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

it was only supposed to have lasted
from the 22nd March till tomorrow,
the 19th of April...
               but looking at it,
I'll be spending an extra month in
this once, formerly, town with
a bright future, communist red,
where, once upon a time,
buildings that could house:
   2 x 10 x 4 = 80 families sprouted
out of thin air,
like steroid mushrooms after
the first rains of autumn...
              and the local team played
in the ekstraklasa...
    and this that and the other...
now... civitas emeritus...
town of pensioners and
niedobitków... the rest of rats
jumped ship...
          once around 17,000+
men employed in the steel works...
now? plenty of greenery,
the odd alcoholic teaching tango
and enough empty space and timeless
vacancy to fill up...
the ongoing retirement of 20 odd years
of my grandfather... 2ho's brain
is slowly being eaten away...
by, as he says, in the pospolity zór...
leń... no killer proteins just yet,
but something tells me being the last
person standing among your
friends, nuanced friends and
all the formality of acquiantences
can do the head in.
   small town, small business,
I don't even know if I can be bothered
to hit the road and head up to
Marienburg...
       honestly pains me, but I wish
a ******* termite would climb into
Sienkiewicz's krzyżacy...
the book is killing me...
   and even if I did make it to Marienburg,
i'd come back and still find
the grueling grill and the żelazna
                     dziewica about
to poke my eyes out...
   classic, yes, pillar of
literary national pride, probably,
necessary export? in film alone...
    plus
   - I heard termites find paper like
some sort of Oriental delicacy equivalent
to man and the world and his
whorrish-glam Harrod's oysters...
   only Arabs and Harrod's and that
**** pile of glitter is like puke on canvas
by *******... a question of conneisours,
or car boot sale enthusiasts of Essex County.
- just one more month,
far far away, from the dirge of London,
and the subsequent outer suburban
    labyrinth of weeding out middles and clues
and classes in counting hairs on
the heads of brooms, contra: violin bows...
and never to my liking the spectacle
of spring on that ****** island...
cherry blossom so rare,
unlike that street in Bonn,
                               Spring on the continent
in general, not to mention the eyes
becoming more and more used
to the monochrome homogeneity...
with me, as the sole importer,
the sole Marco Polo who came from
a vicinity of the East End Caravan
with 'indu spices, and cooked the old
farts curry...
                           plus the intresting news
regarding an organisation, O.N.R.
                                  i never thought they might
exist, good to know that there are
exteme, fringe groups out there,
worthy contenders with the mainstream
mullets...
                      and yes, Marienburg
will definitely continue to look better on
a postcard than in real life...
                                 a walk in fresh air,
a beer and sandwich an I'm off to the land
of Nod... dreaming of sleeping
and waking and finding something
between a stash of: pearls,
        eggs, silver eggs, silver gooey tadpoles,
silver-azure frog spawn...
      and then falling back to sleep in
my dream, and subsequently waking
to my grandfather nagging my grandfather...
which ends up with a cigarette
and a consolidatory piece of
mole mound cake for each of us...
       and the day is spent...
                I'd have to be daft not to "hide"
in this outpost, learning more and more
about the: kashubians, der pyry...
          hanysy (warsaw shlang für
scheiße, schlauß) / silesians...
     rzeszowskie rubieże...
      zór mazowsze (masovia)
                           krakusy i czystosze...  
and what about that cwaniak
warszawski, z prahi, ten... andrus?
swa-vo-merrh, piszem sławomir...
tak samo jak ten goalkeeper a t'
'amtem in crux: golkiper...
                          prosze bardzo, prosze prosze...
gramatycznie to raz,
                       a fonetycznie, to dwa.
I mean, why would I leave this outpost,
when there is absolutely no reason to
write any form of existential angst...
where I can be told:
born on the 15th of May,
          the day when Saint Sophia takes
to blooming lilac, when lilac wakes...
back in England you really have to scout
for spring, then again daffodils are not
trees... plus there's this missing natural
orchestral harmonium of successive waves
of some other botanical form finding
intrest, as if an reborn whisper of curiosity
and joy...
             which, your garden variety
of English... doesn't really tell you...
unless it's spring, you couldn't tell a difference
between it an soggy summer...
or for that matter, bland Victoria sponge.
but what I don't miss in the least is...
leeching drunk to the internet's blank pixel
slate...
           even I know that a sober poem
is sometimes required,
which doesn't exactly dissolve the otherwise
entrenched darting juxtapositions
and Dr. Braillesurf's stipend and in genral
streuenhirn...
        in general the Internet and fame,
based on two songs...
donkey's years since I last heard
   rizzle kicks' mama do the **** -
released in 2011, views 17+ millions...
don't ask me how an algorithm took me
to the other song...
  only heard it today
released in 2007... only heard it today...
panamore' misery business -
views?! 153+ millions, yes, that an extra
000 added to the first song...
           and still 11 years later...
     it's this sort of oddity that makes
me believe in the local government,
small cities and in genral the village life...
the neighbour and the gossip angst of
these people...
                 some say: at least they'll come
to the funeral...
                          looks like
I already found the string of planets
de Saint-Exupéry's Prince Petit visited...
and my own among them...
   good to know, that it's a small world
after all, and not some competition
to transmit a radio broadcast from
either the zenith of the Himalayas,
        or the nadir of the Marina Trench.

Le dernier coup de vêpres a sonné : l'on tinte.

Entrons donc dans l'Église et couvrons-nous d'eau sainte.


Il y a peu de monde encore. Qu'il fait frais !

C'est bon par ces temps lourds, ça semble fait exprès.


On allume les six grands cierges, l'on apporte

Le ciboire pour le salut. Voici la porte


De la sacristie entr'ouverte, et l'on voit bien

S'habiller les enfants de chœur et le doyen.


Voici venir le court cortège, et les deux chantres

Tiennent de gros antiphonaires sur leurs ventres.


Une clochette retentit et le clergé

S'agenouille devant l'autel, dûment rangé.


Une prière est murmurée à voix si basse

Qu'on entend comme un vol de bons anges qui passe.


Le prêtre, se signant, adjure le Seigneur,

Et les clers, se signant, appellent le Seigneur.


Et chacun exaltant la Trinité, commence,

Prophète-roi, David, ta psalmodie immense :


Le Seigneur dit... » « Je vous louerai... » « Qu'heureux les saints.

« Fils, louez le Seigneur... » et, vibrant par essaims,


Les versets de ce chant militaire et mystique :

« Quand Israël sortit d'Égypte... » Et la musique


Du grêle harmonium et du vaste plain-chant !

L'Église s'est remplie. Il fait tiède. L'argent


Pour le culte et celui du denier de Saint-Pierre

Et des pauvres tombe à bruit doux dans l'aumônière.


L'hymme propre et Magnificat aux flots d'encens !

Une langueur céleste envahit tous les sens.


Au court sermon qui suit sur un thème un peu rance,

On somnole sans trop pourtant d'irrévérence.


Le soleil lui faisant un nimbe mordoré,

Le vieux saint du village est tout transfiguré.


Ça sent bon. On dirait des fleurs très anciennes.

S'exhalant, lentes, dans le latin des antiennes.


Et le Salut ayant béni l'humble troupeau

Des fidèles, on rejoint meilleurs le hameau.


Le soir on soupe mieux, et quand la nuit invite

Au sommeil, on s'endort bien à l'aise et plus vite.

What is this man,
Can you tell me?
Man is a spirit.
The spirit is man.
Man, the spirit.
The Spirit man.
Both are blended into
one spiritual force.
The spirit man is from above
and is heavenly,
while the man is physical
and is earthly.
This man and that man
lives in a physical body,
possessing the power of both
the upper world and the lower world.
Two different kingdoms infused into one.
Converged in his being are
complex and multiple nature and
thought patterns interwoven within
his mind in resonance to the
influence of the spirit man.
Both are infused
and encapsulated together
into one whole essence.
The spirit man becomes more in tuned
to the octaves and radiations
within the balanced rhythmic
interchange of the cosmic forces
and intuitively linked to both internal
and external wavelength.
The consciousness of the mind of man
recognizes this fact,
and dynamically helps you within
to live in harmonium when you find
the rhythm that balances and centres you. ©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

Out of habit
she stirred the
hornets nest and
as a habitual offender
he keeps throwing
pebbles into the
still waters of
the quiet pool
causing it to
twirl and turn
unnecessarily.
The ripple spreads
encouraging strives
and struggles,
with tumultuous little
waves causing
commotions and
disharmony.
Even the mind
cannot be stilled
or know peace
amidst constant
irritable pesky little
constant harassment.
Like the acid,
it erodes the
mind of peace
and serenity,
weakened the heart
and eludes and
robs it of harmonium.
As White as jade
as pure as ice,
no one jokes
with his inner peace.
Like the droppings
of a sick animal
infects and cause
dis-ease in the
environment,
even so is
the constant pollution
of the mind
effects the spirit.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

snow is the choral arrangement

of soil--the breadbasket of

harmonium.

dispersed as pistils in every

grain of soil.

the profile of a woman in labor--

leaving her face on both sides of

a hospital pillow.

a twig's weighted sixfold bob,

a cardinal's seventh alighting.

dusting a spire of snow.

Mother in coma,
The son plays new harmonium;
She attends the ball!