‘Twas many moons ago in fled days of yore,
In a distant realm of a golden shore,
When there dwelt a maiden of golden hair,
The last fairest by the name of Lenore.

The sweetness of her mellifluous voice,
Like only Angels of high heaven can make;
The beaminess of her impeccable face,
Reflections of a dawn sun-kissed lake.

Once by a golden noontide, so they say,
Perfectly salubrious was the day,
Fairly enriched by heaven's fairest ray
That Lenore chose to potter by the bay.

She marveled at so wide a limpid sea,
That was a vast luminous blue millpond,
Whispering mellifluous lullabies
Like of Angels upon heaven's compound.

“O sea, thou art lovely like a sweet dream,”
Quoth Lenore, “In thy waters I must swim.”
Hence as quick as a plummeting sunbeam,
In waters jumped the little seraphim.

Frosted in sheer elation she galloped
Upon the crest of so gentle a wave,
But every sea creature lifted its head,
Whilst doleful as marigold by a grave,

And in faint whispers didst bid her adieu,
"Farewell Lenore," till she was out of view,
Away where mortals of yore never knew,
Away where none canst ever have a clue.

In a while, the sun had shone her last ray
And solitary stars were beaming bright
Upon heaven's timelessly stonking bay,
But she still alone In the dead of night.

By luck, on yonder was a galleon
Of a sundeck decked with bright neon,
Her glossy sails as if from diamond hewn,
With words golden blazoned upon her stern:

Come thou little maiden, come thou aboard,
But little did innocent Lenore know,
At the back words in clear ruby-red read:
“To the kingdom of eternal sorrow.”

Not so long faded the night, dawn was nigh,
Heaven's molten gold began oozing by,
Whilst silvery clouds waltzed athwart the sky,
That Lenore's eyes slavered with ecstasy.

But then, there came a dog in the manger,
A hateful wave assailed the galleon
And heavens raged with roaring thunder
That echoed louder than the hungriest lion.

Tossing her where the sea kisses the skies,
Hence now but a speck on the horizons,
And there she galloped by and by downwards
Till wrecked upon shadowy blue islands

That bore words by the shores: “Little maiden,
Welcome thou to the kingdom of Nineva,
Where mortals shalt see thee never again,
For here you'll dwell forever and ever.”

This sent poor Lenore reeling far in mind
That with cinder-like eyes stumbled behind
But her galleon she could hardly find
For it had long vanished into the wind.

But hark! Yonder woods sprang a companion,
A lad whose names were Edgar Alan Poe;
Bestrode upon a snowy fair stallion
Who unto her whispered softly and low:

“If the moon be fair, then thy skin fairer,
If the stars be bright, then thine eyes brighter,
If snow be white, then thy lip’s gems whiter,
If the sun be hot, then thy hair hotter,

Then tell me, what bringeth thou to Nineva,
A realm of eternal sorrow and fear,
Where no mortal hath escaped ever,
But ever doomed in dungeons of despair?”

Despite her visage was lugubrious,
Her worries were all now but fugacious,
That yonder fair floral woods susurrous
Galloped whilst trees sang in tunes mellifluous.

For Edgar’s words of kindness had soothed her
Now doth she beam with ethereal luster
Like of night lanterns upon heavens shore
Scintillating in a wondrous cluster.

Alas! strange and covetous myriad eyes
By yon brier coveted the beauty queen
That as passes a fiend in the night skies
Did spy upon her with eyes all unseen

'Tis then when Edgar was away hunting
Whilst the beauty queen was all alone singing
When those dreamy figures came whispering
Amongst each other whilst wildly smiling.

Bestrode upon many a snowy fair horse,
Their strange faces, as pale as death her self.
Their voices, as if thousand snakes didst hiss,
Betwixt them, there lordly sprang an elf

Who unto her said, "how sweet thou dost sing,
Thy melodious voice would so please our king,
Unto thee, rubies and pearls shalt he bring,
Of banished gold shalt be thy nuptial ring."

"Nay", softly replied the little maiden,
To thy king I canst not walk down the isle,
For in violent love I'm with a swain,
Thy king's treasures outweigh not his smile.

"Wretch", why dost thou abhor our proposal?
For soon thou art to regret having done so,
So cried the elf, "opting for a mortal
Than a mighty king who is immortal"?

"Hark! Fair moon, see that morrow by noontide
Thou art by the edge of yon verdant moor,
For then thou shalt come with us yonder side
Neath the sea, and dwell with us evermore."

At this, a wild wind danced by many a leaf
And so vanished the strange troop of the elf
That she busted with a sigh of relief
Though deep within, her soul kindled with grief.

Not long, news sprinkled into the swain's ear
Who gathered a troop of a thousand men
Each bearing a bow, a hummer and spear,
All ready to guard the beauty queen.

When came morrow, they took little Lenore
And laid her beneath a lone sycamore
That stood by the edge of a lonely moor,
And then all matched towards the shingly shore.

No army led by any hostile king
Towards them could ever come any near.
There job was great that they did chant and sing
Songs of triumph of the fled days of yore.

Alas! To match towards the sycamore,
There pale and cold laid innocent Lenore
With not any single bone of poor her
Broken, but her breath taken evermore.

Mute, forlon, and motionless stood the swain
With bitter tears galloping from his eye,
With his soul 'neath a sepulchre of pain
That from yon day on, the realm he did curse.

For in Nineva, a realm dim and deep,
There not a mean ray of light canst now creep,
And there all creatures night and day dost weep
Till sweet Lenore wakes from eternal sleep.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 16th.July.2018.

#tale #adventure #fantasy #Lenore #EdgarAlanPoe #Nineva

For as long as I can remember,
the women of my family have lived
in hunger like hulking tigers in a cramped cage.
Love is quickly used up, its quality fading
from golden light into grainy shadows
flicked haphazardly across God’s great canvas.
After Love departs, nothing remains but
the splinters where we have torn away limbs
and dug holes in search of that light again,
the flecks of gold streaked through our hair,
the ones that know better than revisit our homes.
When we give up, we sit in our drab backyards
to watch the sun sink over a police state
masquerading as the ultimate state of grace.
We tuck our freedoms into bed, kiss our sacred rights
goodnight in case we never get the chance
to lead by the hand into the light of day,
and sneak back down to the kitchen for one last snack,
maybe two. Maybe more, maybe our mouths
wait in secret to transform into one bottomless pit
as we reach with every breath we take for something
we have always known and long since learned
we’ll never be able to grasp in our earthly fingers.

I DON'T blame the kettle drums-they are hungry.
And the snare drums-I know what they want-they are empty too.
And the harring booming bass drums-they are hungriest of all..    .    .
The howling spears of the Northwest die down.
The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song.
A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky.

Won’t stay too long
You’ll be glad that I did
Trust me, I’m just an aggressive bad kid
I see conflict where none exists
Peace in the nothingness
Warring with wretched warmongering
Mind’s Abyss
Raised by the lioness
And the guerilla head hunter
The hungriest

To those who have said,
That I need more meat on my bones.
Please, leave me the hell alone.

Call me string bean one more ******* time,
And I swear to god, I’ll kamikaze my metabolism.
Just so I don’t have to hear “toothpick” again,
And what most may not know is that:

I have an intimate relationship with food,
and cook with the same heart that I love with.
So let me tell you something:
This heart isn’t something you should **** with.

This heart is surprise bouquets and cabernet,
Romanesco blooms and manta ray.
Caviar salad and salmon fillet,
With rosemary, lemon, and that Old Bay....

So don’t tell me that I need to learn how to eat,
I think the issue is more so that,
You need to learn how to cook.

Other than an unusually fast metabolism,
My trim stature can be attributed to a
Wooden box of my own broken hearts
That I’ve collected over the years of trying to love.

Maybe the people that are the skinniest,
Are the people who lost their appetites a while ago.
After a broken heart or a passing friend,
Or a relationship that was never meant to end.

So let me ask you this.
Tell me what you know about,
Gravity working overtime to keep
A fork away from your mouth?

It’s better to of loved and lost,
Than to have never of loved at all.
But I’ve loved so many,
And lost so much,
It’s no wonder my waist is so small.

When I see someone with...
A little more to love, I get jealous,
Because it shows how much they have loved,
And how little they’ve lost.

Shows that they have consistent love,
A persistent love, that different love.
Whenever you tell me that I need to eat more,
You’re actually saying: patch up your heart.

Put duct tape over all the holes,
And hope that my heart stays afloat --
to somehow trick the freudian part of me
into thinking that everything’s okay.

That everything has been okay.
As if it’s something I have never tried doing,
Because I enjoy being called toothpick.

When you tell me I need more meat on my bones.
I want to tell you to hurt a little,
Feel how heavy a fork gets
when someone’s on your mind.

Feel how hard chewing becomes,
When you’ve already bit off
more than you can handle.

I want you to feel the Carolina Reaper,
Throw burning embers into your wooden casket
Of overthinking, and feel the heat,
When you put yourself under the pressure to eat.

I want you to know the feeling
Of your stomach eating itself from the inside out.
But you can’t bare to remember to eat,
So you just drown it out in stout.

I want you to feel so overwhelmed,
That hours last seconds and days last minutes.
And time escapes you and all you can think about
Is how you’re going to forget about “her”.

I want you to spend every waking moment,
Replaying the same images in your head.
Working all day, and then getting to bed,
Realizing all you had today was butter and bread.

I want for someone to break your heart,
And for you to forget to eat.
And then have to be called stringbean,
Everyday in between.

I want you to see
Filet mignon and mushroom cap stuffing.
King crab legs and honey-glazed duckling,
And feel your stomach do absolutely nothing.
[ . . . ]
But I hope that you never feel this way.

This grief makes for hungriest people,
but makes for the best poetry and music.
And it’s not something I’m willing to share,
With someone who calls me toothpick.

We got out of the ****** motel early,
while we still could,
before the rental car got stolen
or our room underwent dynamic drive-by refurbishment.
There was supposed to be a
complimentary continental breakfast,
but the coffee machine was broken
and someone had already swiped all the donuts.

My only frame of reference for Inglewood was that it was Sam Jackson's character's home turf in 'Pulp Fiction',
leading me to suspect it
probably wasn't a nice area,
although the fat ****** smoking outside
when we'd checked in at 2am
had seemed very friendly.

You were right about LA, about
how there must be a sun, but you can't
really see it, you just
sort of assume it's up there somewhere
behind the fog huffing in off the Pacific
and the toxic breath rising from the
city's gridlocked mouth.

We made for Venice Beach, because you
don't fly all that way and then not go,
us figuring ourselves early enough
in the grey, jet-lagged damp, to
avoid the junkies, the winos and the crazies,
the symptoms of America driving itself mad with
unrealistic dreams.
But they were already there, muttering and
shivering on sand and cement, some
under rags or cardboard,
just waking up in
spite of themselves.

A woman with the hungriest face I ever saw
threw a cigarette lighter at me, then yelled,
shaking in her filthy clothes, that she wasn't giving it to me, *****, FYI,
FBI, CIA, JFK... then
started screaming about Kennedy and all those lying ***** up on the hill.

The ocean ******* away at the land behind us, like it was
whetting its appetite for the day when San Andreas splinters, and the waves finally get to
devour
California.

The hungry-faced woman was still shouting when
we walked away, through the graffiti and
gangs of *******-huge, hulking seagulls.
If I'd stopped and tried to talk to her, if I'd
gotten anywhere close enough, I was
afraid she'd tear a bite out of my face,
and I didn't know what shots I'd need if that happened, and we didn't have medical.
Which was a shame,
because I'd have liked to hear
what she had to say about Kennedy.

We walked to where you'd street-parked
the car which
still hadn't been stolen.
On the way, some guy, a stranger
coming the other way, called you
'Football Dude' and asked you
to catch his neighbour if she
jumped off her balcony, but
I think he was joking.

Oh, and the car was yellow.

short is the most delicious look
silence is the loudest book
with lips the hungriest food
and night the darkest wildest mood
breathing is the deepest ****
giving in the hottest ****
love is a bittersweet borrowed lie
time is a slowly emptied sigh
deception is the sharpest yet rustiest lance
and rage the slowest, saddest dance
while truth's just polished-up confusion
with words - the slipperiest illusion








- - - - -

Denying words their right and might
this was cryptically conveyed to us:
a death plan is being  perfected,
the need of the dark hour, for sure!
This extending nightmare we are in
a darkly crafted metaphor, threatening!
Never forget, one is nothing more than
an unflinching  core member of the clan,
standing daggers drawn, waiting the turn
taken  a blood oath of utmost submission.
A 'death plan' sounds sinister,you think?
it's intended, remember as you advance.
The piranhas are the hungriest,
                                                 at this time of the year
 the climate changes sharpen their fangs,
for a killer smile, the vengeance of nature!
Beware the nature is aware of all shenanigans,
the swim against the flow  can go on no more.
Looking for an omen, the dark sun rising
with an accusing finger pointing at you?
At this pirrana hour, let go such thoughts
there won't be such niceties,no embellishments.
Fight your bitter water wars, with neighbors,
in this twilight fast engulfed by a dark night.
Repent for slipping from the ladder of thought,
leading to the pinnacle of the tallest pyramid,
while the rot spreads, when y'all lie, relentlessly
steal or **** to stamp one's victory over the other.

yo check it **** these youtube ****** sound like a bunch of ******* chirpin'


yo father of the seven seas 
its time for the realemcees 
to stand up mob up 
cuz these ****** ****
more **** than a ** thats on a street lick 
******* up is my clique
we ride w mobsters
do biz while eatin' shrimps n lobsters 
ya cant stop tha 
reign i drop on ya brain 
got ya eyes bugged out like snorts of ******* 
after i finish ya
ya cant regain ya title or fame
ya know the name yosef comin' mo explosive
than Saddam droppin bombs
no harm done to me
hold ya hands in a circle and repeat after me 
"yosef the magnificent"
none can surpass or blastme im see through to ****** that try to talk to
me with that ******* save tha soft talks i send ya to hells pits
with no remains and blood stains 
on the concrete mayne
i got multiple domains without pushin' an ounce of ******* no pain no gain yea my words insane major like pain
all ya need to do is remain 
calm and cool as the pistol to ya mouth makes ya drool
ya know the rules 
******* pay me cant slay me i was birthed in another dimension
sent back for the mental incision 
like ISIS got these *** *** emcees in a crisis
now check my ices
rolex pushin' a manual fully loaded lex
180 on the dash fast cash leads to a crash but im too smooth move pass
the crowds
im rougher than a diaper rash like Johnny Cash
i dance in the ring of fire
Hip Hops Resurrectin'Messiah ya need Higher 
Learning as im turning 
the page the **** got me in a rage
these ****** aint spittin' nothing they in a daze
when i shine i burn em harder than a sun beam rays 
even if ya had 50 aks
pointed at me it still wouldnt penetrate me im untouchable incredible
sources credible
game hungriest so yall edible
if ya sold ya soul?
ya still couldnt floss like me
shady two point o the Rap Cypher Chief 

bow down ya ***** bitchess!!!!!!

essential radiance wilts and fades
In the light and halo of propane tank explosions
Dark cold nights spent rocking back and forth on the edge of a dream
Only knowing in hindsight that the forgotten question
Was what brought us here in the first place

phases come in and out of tune
Their lunar frequencies alive with you, you sit and open up the case all day, we let the cold air tighten up our powdered skin, the holes we've bored into the raincloud stick us in the neck,

Join hands with wisdom
extinguish dominion, combine and refract the remainder, destroy the big time dog-catchers.
hungriest of all was the Cat whose puzzled look of shame diverted your eyes while he disappeared into a higher vibratory frequency, which became color and sound syntesthesia
Blending seamlessly with the broken windows through which were heard vague memories of forgotten  dreams, the shouts and rhythms quite audible but each syllable indistinguishable

He will tie the strings of the masks each day,
Waiting ‘til the set of suns to remove it from its grasp:
Tugging on skin. First, the heaviest of all,
Abhorring the world for granting him the greatest burden;
Infuriated for not gaining the choice of first breath.
Purity of immense emotion, coursing through newly opened lungs.
Second, the hungriest: Shoving the mask aside to consume life,
Delectable love filling tables, now made just to fill his stomach…
Only to fall to the ground, clutching himself at thus, no longer hungry.
Third, a mask stuck to his face and peeling skin with attempts to remove it;
Falling to his knees, he looks up,
Up to those above him, begging the skies for such a life- for such freedoms.
A wide smile forming beneath, teeth gleaming with a chuckle:
He simply wants what they have.
Fourth, the lies of all veils, God, why create such a mask?
He shall look across the room to eye the other, blood pounding in ears:
Pulsing, drumming, begging needing wanting standing to ask for just-
A dance? But he hides his soul beneath the mask and shall continue to the end.
The fifth, an arrogant fellow of such. His branch most sophisticated,
His tree the strongest but the sprouts below?:
Changing too much for his own approval, despite the brightness of their leaves,
For he was the one recognized by the sun.
Sixth, leather with a hollow beak scented with crimson carnations.
Folds and wrinkles, creaking bones soon to turn dust,
Why would he rise from his wooden chair? Rocking
Back, and forth, back, and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth-
Snap. Crack.
But he is not prepared, he is far from hopeful, the sand falling quickly.
He does not wish any longer to wear the last mask:
Number seven.
The previous six shatter and tumble to the ground, now mirrors in the soil.
He looks upon the shards, lungs gasping at the sight:
A man, yet not a man. A demon, yet far from such.
He hungers for the gift of first breath, for the love fed to him,
For the freedoms, for the dance, for the trees and for the petals.
He is not prepared to go,
For wasn’t it once said,
That hell is empty, and all the devils are here?
Perhaps the lenses in this one shall show him truth, or perhaps not.

Drunken rage...
is not the way to go.

right.

I can't help but feel,
that somehow.

In this twisted heap of simplicity...

its my fault.

The way I long for you,
is inexplicably
disgusting.

and you're mine.

I cannot fathom what it feels,
to not actually have you.

Cause,
its buried burnt deep,
in the core of my mind...


somewhere in the past...

somewhere in the blackest, hungriest
Chasm where all their blue eyes
open door smiles, soul ripping melodies
invisible insecurities, and inviting, devilishly
beautiful
faces live and breathe. Somewhere.

says I don't deserve love.

or perhaps Im just whining...
because I'm selfish.

just like everyone else on this joy--
ash ridden planet.

But, is it?
is it selfish to ask you...

to share breath with me,
for all the days of my life.

Because, when I look at you,
before you can even greet the day.

I see the children I never even
Wanted
to have.

Call me selfish. Then.

My sweetest Evening!
You are always welcomed.  
An entrance into my calmest moments.  
Your embrace / a long lost lover / but a  day since we made love
my dearest repriev’er
of harsh afternoons
and hungriest louder mornings.  
  Come.  Tell me how the world shall sleep.  
as when kittens cry for milk.
The purr-dreaming as rumbling
rails of clickety-clacking travelers
from unknown countries.    Dressed for each season.  A boldest boutique unsurpassed by circumstance.  My sweetest Evening kissing me!

:: 09-06-2018 ::

poets are the greatest treasure hunters,
or maybe, they might be the happiest.
most likely the most fulfilled.

poets are the richest in nature.
or maybe, just the most aware.
most likely just the most sleep deprived.

poems are our greatest treasure,
like chests full of gold.
instead of gold it's words.
that we crave to hold.

poets are the hungriest.
for emotion, life, and fear.
or maybe,
just the calmest.
sitting quietly.
amongst their peers.

Thou, thou violent fires,
Though thou might rage
With all Hellish desires,
No more in a peculiar cage

Of fear, thou shalt shroud us.
At length, thou shalt calm,
And like as the tides of the sea,
Return whence thou dost come.

Thou, thou violent fire,
Though more fierce thy anger
Than the Dragon's ire,
Thou shalt lose thy power

But hark! Into the balmy air,
Rage nevermore to drag men
Into shadowy vales of despair
Like as the hungriest lion in a den.

For though thou might rage
With all Hellish eternal hate,
Nevermore to shroud us in a cage
Of fear, for death too is thy fate.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California. 10/28/19.

I.
Tenuously,
the aging outline
of her solemn face twirls,

tracing the meandering galactic tendrils
that emerged from her ten-thousand light year goodbye,
the kind of heartbreak that builds upon the horizon like an avenging angel,
like a city of jagged shadows eating away the starscraping brightness of the past.

As lightning bolts streak across a cluttered heartscape,
the drumbeat of time thunders forward
and we are leaves on her river,
ever approaching the hungriest waterfall.

II.
Swaying in the wind,
we can become one.

If you offer your hand,
I will hold it in mine.

If you contemplate the universe,
I will adore you even more.

If your deepest thoughts
are withering in chains
in order to smooth away
the beautiful complexities of your frail essence,
I will inject a thousand caresses and whispers
into your day so you realize there is another way.

We are artists,
with singularities dynamiting
our hearts from day one.

We are storytellers with the wintry breath
that haunts the blackness of Now
like an old woman in the window that isn’t there,
pulling dreams from absolute zero,
capturing quantum butterflies from
the expanding vacuum of space
like we were born to do it,
which we so ******* were,
my sweet.

Here,
embraced by velvet starlight,
soaring to the peculiar gorgeousness
of songs we may one day share,
the rhythms and words of the cosmos
dance across the planets and stars,
stumble towards the humble journeys of asteroids and comets,
revealing in each step that even
the most minuscule subatomic particle,
even the grandest map of the cosmic microwave background,
has always been rushing joyfully in our bloodstreams,
thumping along with every heartbeat,
tasting the immaculate heavens with every kiss.

III.
I want to see the fire
of midnight in your eyes.

Swaying in the wind,
we can become one.

Love is a many-splendored thing
and our attempt to capture such vibrancy
eventually disintegrates entire kingdoms into ashes
leaving us shadowed by the moon and wondering
whether the sky shall ever spark again
with the brilliance of another pair of yearning eyes and longing skin,
high mountain trees flourishing with heavy touches of ripe adoration,
a blossoming sunrise that emerges from deep inside,
the richest reward for the hungriest heart.

is like a week without a bath. I feel
grungy and seedy. My hair is stuck
in mats. My smile is upside down. I never
laugh. My eyelashes stick together from

the drowning of my tears. My shadow
doesn’t follow me. I’m not that great
company. I’m melancholy as a storm cloud
that hangs around after the rain. The knot

in my stomach’s tied so tight it feels
like a chain pulling me from the inside, and
ripping me apart. My heart’s a black
box with no output. It lies outside my

body. And my brain is a can worms that
the hungriest fish would turn down. This is
what I call destitute –
a week without you.

Ingredients:
One voice lifted in song,
Two hands ready to play,
Six strings, freshly picked,
One guitar, perfectly tuned,
One foot to keep time,
One heart full of inspiration,
One positive mental attitude
Without any artificial additives.

Method:
Blend gently together,
Fold in a warm, mellow mood,
Play for as long as it takes,
Or until everything good rises
Into a bluesy, folksy, mixture
That will satisfy the hungriest hungry soul.
Serve anytime, anywhere.
Goes especially well with friends, singers and other musicians.

There’s people right?
They eat a lot
Consumer culture
Juggernaut
Robotic in
Its can’t be stopped
Until the systems that have propped
Up profit’s
Propaganda plot
Are toppled on the chopping block
And left to rot,
The numbers drop
Like cold steel blight’s
Unyielding crop
And forged within the melting ***
An apex adaptation-wrought
Existence species
Dispossessed
Suppressed no more,
The hungriest

I can't and will not beg
         for any favour
         even starving to death
         in the hungriest winter