They came in like a gun blazing
Death and rage in their eyes , gazing
They aimed to **** , **** them all
They don't mind , school or mall
Ending lives, satisfy their deathly hungers
Idolising their holy religious plungers
We name them terrorist , ****** killers
They spill blood just for the thrillers
Success is counted with the lives they ****
Human blood not unlike their own, they spill
Destroying families , the world they stitch
Life is Life and Karma's a *****

grin penetrating my mind and your touch - your grab - sewn into my side
sinking as a summer without fin(n)s drowning in your baby blues,
boy
and fooling myself into early christmas hollyboughs? go-lightly on me, oh please!
A ****** bisou beneath mistletoe
with curled toes and auroral, idolising eyes
fantasising eyes
overall, decriminalising eyes
Annie excuse at (H)all to see you and
re
-vive (mes soins, votre sécurité)
-kindle (the ignition to my inspiration)
-pair (poles apart)
a pair in the most offensive of ways
my only vice is cleansing yours
but your sins or psyche?
am i wounded or warming?
my truly fatal frailty

my hair surrounds me like a halo,
fingers of keratin, adrift like seaweed.
softer in the pale bathwater,
silkier in its soapy film.

my phone is on the toilet seat.
i count how pearls of water fall from the shower head,
pipes and joints loose from wear.
after 20 i let the water pool over my cheeks,
settle over my eyelids,
bubbles surging to the surface impatiently.

submerged, i let the starvation in my lungs grow urgent,
a sleepy thrill i can play with to pass the time,
as i wait for my phone to never ring.

we used to lie together in my room watching
my walls become immersed with citrus,
and how remnants of day
would soak into the earth and the walls and the houses.
i would love to watch the watered down grapefruit
undulate in the horizon amongst milky clouds.

you are newly adrift; pace has taken a liking to you.
you dance from place to place as if being chased,
but i am no different than before.
i feel like i could lie on my bed watching the sun droop
for hours.

I have been uncomfortable in my own skin for
14 years
3 months
and 2 days.

It was my 7th birthday and
Upon opening my presents,
All bright eyes and
Childish excitement,
I found a bra.
It was a small thing.
Frilly.
Pink polka dots and
White lace and
I,
Ever polite,
Smiled through my tears.

Last month my mother stood as statue while
I cried in the bathroom for over an hour
Because my chest was infected
And the doctor would have to
Remove my only armour to
Expose my back to cold steel
And my mother, (because she's the type of person
Who irons her clothes before she packs them
To travel across the globe),
Could not bear to see me wear a bra that was not
'Pretty'.
So, purple satin, push up, plunge neckline
Restraints were strapped to me,
And I could not find a jumper baggy enough.

Yesterday, you said that my outfit makes me look
like a 15 year old boy.
I said that's why I like it.
You might not appreciate that
Some days I want to step outside myself,
But don't tell me I'm weird for idolising bodies
That are more pleasing than my own.

You do that,
Too.

I wonder how,
I could have trusted in God,
For so long,
Spent so many hours,
No, wasted them,
Praying so fervently,
Idolising thin air,
Believing faith,
Would provide comfort,
But instead, it left me,
Hopeless and broken,
Because miracles are mythical,
Tireless prayer and devotion,
Won't turn back time,
Or heal wounds and ease troubled minds,
So why do I still wear,
This crusifix?

i found that showing off your
taste in music
is actually more intimidating
than walking around in Eden
stark naked - given
the auspiciousness in the "glamour"
industry and elsewhere, odd, isn't it?
we are more ashamed by
our musical taste, shunned by it -
the Balkan Slavs are the Spaniards
of what most people call "cheap taste",
you now, oiled and greasy
six packs and - well the Balkan Slavs
bred with the Ottoman Turks,
what do you expect?
we are more intimidated by our taste
in music being exposed than our naked
bodies -
believe me, i'll cry at the beauty,
i'll cry at the beauty but i will not despair -
i rather allow tears in, because i know
laughter too will come, i rather cry at beauty
than inhibit it with a masculine heart
expected of me to be stern and in the belgian
trenches - stupid youth idolising the warring
of old farts who have a disclosure for
swollen prostates and can't take the banta (
huh?! goli? i hate slang incorporation,
it's absolute nonsense) -
so instead they shove young men into warring
enclosures and then lay wreaths of poppies
with a 1 minute silence... i told you,
absolute ******* - i rather cry at beauty when
it appears like a picturesque sunrise -
that Armenian will have a beef stake weighing
at half a kilogram to box with translating my works -
i don't mind standing naked like this,
another example https://goo.gl/pJpddh.

no. poetry can be swirling
across the keyboard like a Rachmaninov
order from chaos
no meaning or rhyme
no rhythm all the time
idolising Bukowski
ending abruptly

You were born and your father wept
begged the deity above all
to let you feel his love

On knees he bent and broke
for the smile that would come across
your face innocent and pure

Made you feel like a princess
around shambles
because he always wanted better for you

When time passed as uncontrollably as it does
he gave you distance and respected the change
As you became wise to being a woman.

Still loving and idolising
His laws became strict and confining
And you would rebel
For years that saw no end.

Love conquers us all
Makes us weak and trivial.

And now dear Mother
See it in your sons face
and let it remind you

There are no fathers made
Unless a mother loves us.

as idolising and idealising love once
said: https://goo.gl/Szn4a0,
so unto rearing children
we bid our hopes of
the forbidden idolatry, such a farewell;
for indeed a woman trivialises
ransoms of violence against the one;
while man does not trivialise
such ransoms, a bull sack of the numerous
to be impregnated clone insignia...
his violence is against the many;
always for the glory of war with man,
always for the glory of individuation with woman.