I don't wanna see you cry
To make people happy, I strive
Cause I know
What it feels like
To have sadness
In your life


Oh wont you smi-a-i-a-ile
The storm will last a while
But the sun
will shine
through the clouds
Oh won't you smi-a-i-a-ile
Smile


I don't wanna see you hurt
Cause I know what its like
To feel like dirt
But you are a beautiful
Wonderful
An awesome child of God
Take my hand
And we can find
Refuge in his word
I assure
You
You
YOU

YOU'LL SMI-A-I-A-ILE
The storm will last
A little while
But the sun
Will Shine
Thru the clouds
Come on and smi-a-i-a-ile
Please just smile

The thunder booms and the lightning strikes
Tears fall like rain
from your eyes
Just have faith
And believe
And all your burden will be relieved
Oh, won't you trust me?

Finally
You smi-a-i-a-ile
You were stuck in a storm
For a while
But the sun shined
Through the clouds
And now
The world
Smi-a-iles
Come on
And smi-a-i-ile
We've been thru
The storm
Sometime
We found
Happiness
In the sunshine
Now its time
Now it time
To smile

Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen

The train slowed as it pulled into la Gare de l’Est, the cars bumping and wheels grinding as it came to a stop. It was late. I’d have to move fast to catch the last metro home. I didn’t have the energy, I was tired, cold and hungry, which made me grumpy.

I slung my satchel around my chest, grabbed my carry-on, and made my way to the exit. As I neared the door, I could feel the cold January air flooding into the car. I tightened my coat around me as I stepped down the stairs onto the quay, carry-on in my right hand.

Looking for the nearest exit, I turned left without looking and ran full on into woman. Our bodies collided, time slowed, as we compressed into each other. Her hair flowed into my face like an ocean wave. I could smell her hair, her scent, her femininity. She squealed in surprised, her voice full of youth and nubility.  

The world rushed back into real time and I saw her. My eyes opened wide in awe and disbelief that a woman could be so beautiful. I remember her eyes, supernaturally blue, sapphire blue, as if they glowed from a power within; her skin, white, milky, alabaster, as if she were a statue come to life; her hair, black, glossy, like the feathers of a witch’s raven.

Our eyes locked. Her angry gaze cut through me. I felt exposed and in danger. I looked down and apologized. “Excusez-moi mademoiselle,” I said, putting my right hand to my heart and bowing slightly as if addressing a queen.

I looked back up. Our eyes meet. She had assessed me in the blink of her eyes. She regained her composure, her body relaxed, she touched my arm, and said, “excusez-moi, I was not looking where I was going,” which I sensed was untrue.

I stepped aside. She passed, turned her head, looked me dead in the eyes, gave me a slight smile, and disappeared into the stream of the exiting crowd.

I was perplexed and confused. I’d never had that sort of exchange with a woman before. I didn’t know what to make of it. Was it good, bad, or somewhere in between?

The crowd had thinned. I started walking toward the metro station, looking for #4 Port d’ Orleans, increasing my pace before I missed the last metro home. I followed the signs, and descended the stairs to the quay. There were a few people and groups, up and down the quay, quietly waiting. I leaned on a large concrete pillar, too tired to pay attention to my surroundings, waiting for the train, smelling the air filled with exhaust from electric motors. I could hear the hum of the approaching train. In an instant it was in front of me, slowing down, coming to a stop, the doors hissing open.

I waited a bit, for the groups to board the train. Tired and on auto-pilot, I leaned down, picked up my carry-on, boarded, and sat down on a folding seat by the door, putting my carry-on between my legs.

The train slowly accelerated, humming, rocking, back and forth melodically. I looked up out of curiosity to see who else was on the last train, and I saw her, sitting on the first bench catty-corner, facing towards me. Surprised and caught off guard, that I would ever see her again, I  immediately looked down, not wanting to be caught staring, looking at her from the corner of my eyes.

I couldn’t get over how beautiful she was. Preternaturally beautiful, as if she wasn’t one of us, somehow not human. She was reading a Kindle, iPods in her ears. Her dress was Parisienne, black on black, the only color, the blue in her eyes, and the blood red of her lips.

She oozed sensuality, sophistication, and confidence. How could that be for a woman so young, a woman in her early 20s?

She read quiescently, only her thumb moving, ever so slightly, as she page forward through her Kindle. Her eyes never looked up, not even to see who new entered the car, when stopped at new stations.

I would look up, occasionally, to glimpse at her. She was fascinating to me, not only because of her beauty, but from her vibe. I couldn’t explain it, couldn’t figure it out. Why was I so drawn to her, like a moth to flame?

The train pulled into to Ile-de-la-Cite, rapidly slowing down, passengers counter balancing so as not to fall over. The doors hissed open. In the corner of my eyes, I saw her stand up and start walking up the aisle towards the doors, towards me. I raised my head slowly, our eyes met, locked, time stopped. She smiled, subtly, but enough for me to see. Her eyes, gentle, tender, inviting. I smiled, a slight smile back, my eyes saying everything she wanted to hear.

She turned and exited the train. I stared at her, my mouth open in amazement. The klaxon sounded, the door started closing. Panic surged up within me, as I feared I would never see her again. I bolted up from my seat, headed towards the door, abandoning all behind me. The doors slammed shut with thud, I pulled down on the handle, they were locked.

The train started to move, I looked at her. She was looking back. Our eyes locked, as the trained sped off into the darkness of the night.

It was cold, windless as we walked along the Seine towards Ile-de-la-Cite. The city had wound down, as people settled in for the weekend. The sky losing its light, turning navy, almost black, l’heure bleue, what the French called twilight, when one sneaks away to meet their lover.

The snow fell, slow, light, a delicate flurry, as the street lights flickered on, their orange yellow glow barely illuminating the ground below. We walked arm in arm, as she readjusted and tighten her hold so as not to slip. She felt good on my arm, in my arms, right as rain, as if made for each other, like interlocking jigsaw puzzles.

We walked in silence, our looks and smiles saying more than words. She radiated a beauty, a nubility like no other, match only by that of Aphrodites.    

The flurry thicken, as we cross le Petite Pont to Ile-de-la-Cite. I sensed a reluctance and heaviness in Seraphine’s step as we crossed over the slowly flowing waters of the Seine. It was late. She was tired, I assumed, from all the evening’s dancing, and now the walking to her flat at Place Dauphine.  

We walked past the square in front of Notre Dame. It was empty, and covered with a velvet blanket of white snow. It was surreal, the emptiness of the square, the majestic towers of the belfry contrasting against a gray white sky, the falling snow, the yellow of the sodium lights, softly illuminating the scene.

I walked us to the entrance of the square, and sat us down on a bench at the entrance of La Crypte Archéologique. We chatted about the dance, the evening, and how fun it had been. I told her I occasionally worked in the Crypte overseeing and helping the excavation the Lutèce layer, but spent most of my time at Musée Carnavalet doing administrative work or Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève doing historical research.

In silence, we looked in wonder and awe at Notre Dame. Seraphine snuggled tighter against me. I wrapped my arm around her, looking into he eyes. She was preternaturally beautiful, bewitching and lethally seductive. I felt as if I had no power to resist her, like a moth to a flame. I placed my hand on her cheek, and drew her in, kissing her, light and gentle as an 8 pm church bell rang in the distance. We kissed more intensely. Her breath getting harder and heavier. She put her hand behind my neck, pressing me into her, as she ****** my tongue into her mouth, harder and harder, till it hurt. Surprised by her lust, I pulled back, when I heard the 9 pm bell, the last of the evening, ringing.

I was confused, disoriented, as if I’d just woken up. I just heard the 8 pm bell as we started to kiss. Now it was 9. And my tongue, it was sore; my mouth had the metallic taste of blood. She’d gotten carried away and ****** hard, drawing blood. But I felt oddly calm. She said it was late and should get home. I stood up, took her hand and walked towards her flat. Her parent must be rich or noble, as Ile-de-la-Cite is too expensive for the masses.

At the door of the courtyard of Place Dauphine, she told me she had fun, looked deep into my eyes, gave me a light kiss on the lips, entered the code on the number pad, and disappeared into the darkness of the courtyard garden.

The creator of the universe
Our whole existence
Our tradition and way of life
The beginning and the end

The divination and religion
Of our people
Odu Ifa our literary corpus
The grand priest of Ifa
The mantle of Olodumare

The builder of the Ifa Oracle
Ile-Ife your city of abode
Orunmila,
Orirun ile Yoruba
The master of Aseda and Akoda
The Aalafin of Yoruba land
The Ooni of the Yoruba mantle

Our spiritual system of existence
Orunmila,
The supreme being
The Orisa of all orisas

Esu bows at your feet
Obatala trembles at your voice
Ogun makes an obeisance at your sight
Osun lays down at your coming
Yemonja proclaims your might

The divination of Ifa
The prophecy of the Yoruba heritage
The founder of earthly beings
The Ese Ifa
Orunmila
The principal Odu

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

YA FREAK YA FREAK


WHAT IS A FREAK, IS IT SOMEONE WHO IS DIFFERENT CAUSE THE WORLD IS SO WRONG

IS IT A PERSON WHO LOVES LIFE, BUT DOESN’T TELL ANYONE

I AM NO FREAK, I AM A COOL PERSON, I SIT AND DO MY TAPESTRY

LIKE THE ARTIST YOU CAN SEE IN ME

MY VERSION OF A FREAK IS SOMEONE WHO HATES HEAVY METAL, CAUSE HEAVY METAL IS RADICAL, DUDE

I LIKE AC/DC, AND MOTLEY CRUE AND I ESPECIALLY LOVE MOTORHEAD

THAT IS WHY I LIKED MY FRIEND PATRICK, CAUSE HE LIUKED OR APPEARED TO LIKE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, I AM NO FREAK

AND IF YA CALL ME A FREAK, I WILL BE UPSET, CAUSE, DUDES

I LOVE JUDAS PRIEST, I LOVE JIMMY BARNES, AND THE ONLY REASON WHY I LIKE COMPUTERS

IS SO I CAN KEEP IN CONTACT WITH THE WORLD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THAT, DOESN’T MAKE ME A FREAK THOUGH

IT MAKES ME A COOL PERSON WHO LOVES HEAVY METAL MUSIC

I WANT TO TAKE THE GEEK OUT OF COMPUTERS, CAUSE GEEKS CALL PEOPLE LIKE ME A FREAK

I LIKE TO PARTY IN CLUBS, AND I LIKE TO GO TO THE FOOTY, AND MUCK WITH THE FOOTY FANS

I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE A FREAK, BUT WHAT IS A FREAK

I TELL YA WHAT IS A FREAK, I AM NO FREAK, I LOVE THE COOL PEOPLE WHO GO TO HEAVY METAL CONCERTS

SURE I AM NICE TO MY MUM, BUT THAT DOESN’T MAKE ME A FREAK THOUGH

I JUST AM A VERY NICE PERSON, PEOPLE WHO CALL ME A FREAK ARE THE ONLY FREAKS

COMPUTERS ARE FUN, NONE OF THIS DOS ****, THAT IS FOR THE FREAKS

I LIKE COMPUTERS TO SHARE MY WRITING AND MY ART, AND TO ENTERTAIN

I DON’T WANT TO BE THOSE QUEER PEOPLE WHO ARE TOTALLY GENTLE, I DON’T DO GENTLE

I DO COOL, AND I AM COOL, I’M COOL MAN, COOL YOU, YEAH COOL ME, I AM A BOY ANYWAY

I KNOW YOUR A BOY BRIAN MMMMMMMMMMM YOUR A BOY MMMMMMMM I AM A COMPUTER **** KID, I AM NO GEEK OR NERD MY MATE

GEEKS OR FREAKS ARE PEOPLE WHO HATE COMPUTERS, CAUSE THEY CAN’T GET PAST THE ADULT

I AM NO FREAK, I AM NO GEEK I LIKE COMPUTERS FOR CREATIVITY YA SEE

I WANT THE HEAVY METAL FANS TO LIKE ME, CAUSE YOUTUBE IS THE PLACE YOU CAN WATCH HEAVY METAL FOR FREE

ANY BAND IS COOL, HEAVY METAL MUSIC IS THE BEST MUSIC OF ALL, TO GET YA SOX OFF AND REALL PARTY HARDY WON’T STARTY

I AM NOT A FREAK, I AM A YOUTUBE ******, AN INTERNET ******, I HATE PEOPLE TREATING ME L;ILE A FREAK CAUSE THEY ARE JEALOUS

I DON’T WANT TO GET KILLED OR KIDNAPPED, OR ANYTHING, BUT I AM NOT SHY TO L.OVE COMPUTERS

I WISH THE WORLD WOULD STOP TREATING ME LIKE A FREAK, MY COMPUTER LIKES ARE

HEAVY METAL CONCERTS

LEARNING ABOUT THE WORLD

PUTTING MY ART ONLINE THROUGH ART COLONY

FINDING THE PERFECT PARTY SO I CAN SHARE IT WITH THE WORLD THROUGH YOUTUBE

TO FIND WRITING GROUPS LIKE FOCUS ON FICTION

OLD TV SHOWS I USED TO LOVE LIKE BECKER AND CHARLES IN CHARGE, ETC ETC

I WATCH A LOT OF TED DANSON’S BECKER, YA COULD SAY, I AM A BECKER MANIAC

THERE ARE MANY MORE, I ALSO HAVE SHOWS SHOWING THAT I CAN STICK AT DOING TAPESTRIES, BY INSPIRING PEOP,LE TO BE CREATIVITY

I HATE PEOPLE SAYING I AM TOO WOOSEY TO, TO GOOD ART, BUT OPEOPLE WHO SAY THAT, ARE THE BIGGEST FREAKS AROUND

IF PAT HATES HEAVY METAL,HE IS A FREAK, CAUSE HE HAD A FUNNY WAY OF SHOWING IT, WHEN HE MUCKED AROUND WITH ME

HE GOT ME INTO LOVING HEAVY METAL, AND STOP WORRYING WHAT PEOPLE THINK, I DON’T CARE WHAT PEOPLE THINK

I AM AN ARTIST, I AIN’T NO FREAK, I AM A WRITER I AIN’T NO FREAK I AM A YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER AND INSPIRER I AIN’T NO FREAK

I DO MY TAPESTRY ON YOUTUBE TO SHOW MY STAYING POWER, AND I HAVE STAYING POWER, REAL STAYING POWER

I THOUGHT DAD WAS TREATING ME LIKE A WRITER WHEN HE SAID I WAS LIKE OS, SO TO SPEAK

I AM NOT A FREAK, I AM STILL A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE, WHO IS FINE WITH HIS VIRGINITY

I DON’T CALL ME A FREAK, CAUSE I HAVEN’T HAD ***, I CXALL FREAKS, PEOPLE WHO SAY THEY ARE YOUNG WITH NO SOCIAL MEDIA

I AM ON FACE BOOK AND YOUTUBE, AND I HAVE A STRONG QUOTA ON THE INTERNET, I ASM NO FREAK, I AM NO GEEK

I AM THE COOLEST DUDE IN CANBERRA, AND THERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT

I THINK MY OLD MATES ARE LIVING IN THE PAST WITH ME, EVERYBODY MAKES MISTAKES, EVERYONE HAS THOSEC DAYS

COME ON DUDES, GIVE ME A BREAK, I AM A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE WHO LOVES TO PARTY WITH HEAVY METAL MUSIC LIKE ACCCA DACCA

AND MOTLEY CRUE, AND I WATCH THE CONCERT ON YOUTUBE, DUDES, ALL THE BLASTED DAY LONG

DON’T CALL ME A FREAK, YOUR A FREAK, ESPECIALLY IF YA THINK I HATE PARTYING, I LOVE PARTYING, IT’S COOL FOR ME

Breaking up stones to see sea shell patterns
Staring at stumps to see rings degrading, slowly
Sitting on a cardboard box in an empty room
Blowing out my mind with mechanical precision
Today I wrote all my poems in a letter, sent them
to my father
Told him to open it if I didn't make it home
I want him to open that letter

Articulate Throwback (Amazing Rap that Doesn't Get Enough Respect)
Fielding an eclipsed Jack the Ripper Sun
Yielding dismissal garish, begotten The Matrix smokin’ gun
Wielding a firebrand skittish
Skills levied an intolerable tax by quisling quoted British
Stunting on heyday levity marksman of primes
Flogged for flagrant dragons sinking nickels and dimes aimed beatific sublime
Flowing like centripetal orbit  galvanized by riddled spirits dashed in secondary impetus of reason over rhyme
Littoral swank partial to Taylor Series of dedications Speak Now peaks livid with fumiducts of crippled sheep blandished for reach
Apologies invited always welcome for a kitsch debased by universal theaters yet united for Payable on Death singing the deceit of receipts impeached
Islanders flooding suicides punning that a sunken treasure is barbs smuggling
Otiose on ribald corsairs blinkered by the rhombos of speculation thunder itself about lightning starts wondering
Where a City by the Bay shining on a Hill of travesties of decay tanks for domesticated Negros that flashbangs got to slay
To the wistful shaken house music garnishing the prey of prayer on heavy pulls of quotable 415 hay-day
The wrinkled stray dog never  far from *****
Slapsticks against the tribunes awaiting for meteoric functions of a recessive allele of a dominant comet
Ludacris flickers dancing in dormant revelry because On Top, Just Let Go..I am honest and On It
To the milk of harvested stars glaring at tankers and garish broken FaceMash scars teetotalers scatter with Thursday crashing into glass shards
Black fame is a white epiphany of infamy designated by name
Of the craven coltish spinsters who market the crackling whiplash of sanity apportioned to the regaled insufflation of blame
Streaky on a jejune Diggity hapless hop of Kumbayas etched by Trailer Park’s scalding flop
Glorifying a Gangester heir to titanic humbled beginnings chockablock divested to Kennedy’s dead Candy Shop
Impressive rags of riches of counterfeit tags blundering with lazy LASER Tag of sharks too bellicose to earn a pitfall pittance of swag
Trippin’ by tripwires too flippant to be flippin’ on known graves sidesplitters of treecheese yaggots grimaced on madcaps of bottlecaps swimming in ether of money too happy for House of Pain rags of gag orders intrepid because some blood is Bad
****** drapes of tapestries too woven on Ducking Badger duck tape
Pretending not even a slightest twinge of celebrity faked is a tantamount affliction to Kobe’s escape
Time to rig the 7/11 notoriety of a caper drawl in Cape Town Blue Sky Action can barely offer scrape
Let them eat cake and heads roll like Nicholas Cage clairvoyant in mystique quaking like a Quaker parody rank-and-file rancid graveyard creep
Cuz the best in the Business evokes singes of Dre grazed persistence a Space Rover rather than a broken-down drive-by Vegas Cheap Holyfield Jeep
Forgeries in trigonometric time gone haywire because ******* of fools is delicious neutered ballistic wrong with elemental statistic
Armed to the Teeth because twinges of righteousness is strongly established because it elevates truces well-predicted
Reckon the self-aware hive jetsetting with Jive warbles of departure yet to arrive
“Talk” of those fewer in knowledge yet living an invented diatribe
Lil Dicky mumbling his churlish codling vendetta
Too petty on the game like a turgid Mariah Carey Christmas Sweater evaporating on benzo bleats because exaggeration is a measuring stick more prone to delusion than the vapid version of Eddie  Vedder
Ripping through seamstresses of time a delope from impoverished cesspool grime
Certainly not swinging with sockdolagers like Musk as UPS owns insider angles about BitCoin riches scoffing at #11 Sublime
I owe respect to an upstart prescience scowling hatched never against fragile egg-shell minds
He’s the predecessor to the Walter White of cesspool inveterate rivets in hulking pretense of a measured stick lying like Tony  Hawk on the grind drawling on videogame addicts lost to numbers like Wall Street bet on fractions divisible like Scarface on cardinal crime
Blip on the WHIP cackles of clever pasquinade owned by sizzurp of Red Wings demolished like Draper balking at the West Coast ****** of East Coast royalty etiolating on Life After Death because of a teased script of March 26th shining bright like nine-inch nails longer than an exaggerated Dicky loving pollution more than Sina Loa loves bricks
Mad respect to juggernaut Michigan flow, but when you henpeck a rooster fewer regaled Ravens start to sing like Tomorrow’s sung by Sheryl Crow
So attack the kenspeckel hiding like sobriety itching to revel
Even the greats are grating despite prestige owned like Steppenwolf inventing Heavy Metal
Yet the raspy dengonin certainly a curtain call for the moribund smooth competition genius but not square to my elevated level
Time to brush aside, politics is a Velvet Morning rather than an Everest scaffold of glaciers divide
Flourishing Eden of a Seattle worthy of treason on rollercoasters yet to ride
The contumely of charlatans berating brassage is a Lie Boring in Federal Way united against prejudices scowling because Qwersy Mencia is too fraught to enjoy the jeers of a tattered Pride
Past-Tense Quinn in his Chauvin Blue Suit is Queer on The Bends
For a better radio the shatter of the quaff is Damon on the mendlatch for the rights of heroism among men
Applesauce is scary when the cooks are too chary for emoluments of cherry-picked vanity inoculated because hackneyed hacksaws aren’t that scary
To a Rush Hour acclaim that owes a Martian a fair-share of the inviolable degrees above freezing that guarantees the Hang Seng
The cretaceous dinosaur livid in the Fields of Dreams lives to the honor of the author rather a subsidiary prosperity rooting for the same exact team
Credit belongs not to slot-machine jibes of Navy throngs because the sealed pedigree of a Potemkin stonewall ravaged an Atlanta March that Richard Sherman found himself wrong
Ripostes of wavered glory serenade Field’s Medal accolades jaunty with brimstone repartee for persecution of Sing-Sang jailed avuncular Dana Carvey
Crumpled in missives etched decisively by Popcorn paparazzi Lee Harvey Oswald Part Three dinging Reagan’s Drugs because belittled Batman and Robin Harvey Dent is on a defalcation spree
Limited by the gambit of orbit I flex space measured only by perception hourglasses mistake for Dewey Decimal ministry
Because mountebanks of the tramontane canard unscrewed by Donkey’s without the triumph of vindicated colts spew the unwarranted without the warrant of upright parlance
Deflecting the useless caricature of Jezebels they barely even know dancing with fisticuffs choleric with jaundiced illuminati chants of an age bracing for the venom of viper’s of gratuitous pretense in violence because the whittled conscience scourges footloose profligacy in dementia that owns probability rather than certainty but doesn’t stand a chance
A billowing toxic fume of a Trojan Horse of galloped complicity of headless horsemen too scared to even pinprick the average Brett Hume huffs like mad wolverines dancing with Buccaneers for the fidelity of bridled brides with a tailored or sloppy groom
Cowering behind plashy starlets dashed for authenticity too soon
The Red Robin Hood ****** of silhouettes of Caste system indecency is reduced to reductivism in peddled paranoia of Randall Graves confronting his deepest specious tomb
To rogue slipshod miracles of denuded ice for Christopher Reeves Wally World White in Simple Jack owleries of confiscated light they caper encaged Caspergers ergotamine flavored favor uptight
Glaring prince dashing Rusty with ***** for Hummers glazed with donut torus hummus swift with reverend repartee
Sunken sleepless abyss ghosts haunt for quaffs evanescent in backbone bliss incurring parted sight for nebbich sprees
Calculated by persnickety prattle brazen with bravado promontory sparked on the flames of an overhyped hysteria ablaze
Raisins aren’t the determinant of a blinkered starstruck page gilded to amaze
Formidable reform conserved against blasphemies of ****
Withstands the immutable geotaxis of inevitable backfires in limited scourges of scorn
Time to sacrifice the badge earn the primacy of trimleggers making a dash rushing for hourglass sand prominent in fiat flash
In a second a trampoline against a specious marvel is a sour remorse of a crusade turning into protection not found in autumn ash
With autarky righteous rain boogies against bogeys of golfers livid with sensational inane
Lunacy predicated on sensational maudlin labors of Genesis 3:16 birth pain
Incurred upon the toil of the lugubrious heights of teachers that defy tribes and stripes
Soldiering for God without even the slightest nefarious mercenary spite
Because Ledgers cannot be mistaken for legends because petty battles Abandoned Pools named were avoided for Nobel Prizes of moonshot fame never King Kong because 24k magic called the Hang Seng  game enter stage right
The thematic liberation of the freewheeler isn’t a combustion of truckers Ruckers allergic to chattered shame
But the time honored Sevendust defies blisters because a brave heroism leaps into legacy vaunted by cheery repute in winning hegemony against rigged fraud in frigid feral tames
I march to an inaugural chance without a chance of quick inauguration because Junetao is a duck-duck-go childish flicker against Amsterdam Vallon besides the church with a touching spectacle of solidarity beyond temporal Anacondas of deserved blame
An ally to the kitsch the prosperity of Nas is afforded to optimism never so fulgurant because of a bewitched Tik Tok twitch
As the true flock regards the true shepherd the guardian of wonder and the captain avoiding Yellow Submarines because Stayin’ Alive is a prophecy not a febrile contagion of germs pitching tents for flukes insistent on incident rather than honorable to Canada Dry on Strike for better than a bubble gum mumble rap of Lil Pump’s pruned humps for a ******* ghost rider rather than a profaned itch
But the camel survives because the needle doesn’t thrive in a world where God is always Stayin’ Alive to strike a pose for the voguest Jive
“The Seduction” lives and the corruption limps with glib bribery fibs because 2 Timothy 1:7 in autarky is a generous rhyme that  gives and gives
In endless crusade to beat like David the ***** of a poker miracle that stars in a showcase of a life of splendor eternal rather than a cursory kamikaze reckless fib
Its time for  abundance of life to be lived fully to truly find riches in the best possible life winsome in discretion to quake and yet remain immune to a Walgreens of Stonewall myth
Cast not the first stone against the immaculate Giant because everybody is shaking to Bond and Saint Joseph’s guarded wordsmith

Still falls the Rain---
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss---
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
In the Potter's Field, and the sound of the impious feet

On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain

In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us---
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain---
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds,---those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear---
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh... the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain---
Then--- O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune---
See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,---dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar's laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain---
"Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee."

mądrość murzyna:
gadaj ile się da: więcej ile trza...
mądrość murzyna:
rapu rapu rapój...
daj boże ile się da:
zora na pastwisko!
daj boże daj znać:
następstwe mego... oj nie!
madrość murzyna:
gadaj daj gadać: ile! nú(!)
nú(!) dawaj panie!
daj mu gadoty ile trza!
mądrość murzyna:
zagłusić boga: trzą! wybryk!
hāk tùá!
zagłuśιć: o tak... tak pewny
jestem: o tak; tak jak jestem
pewny że to: to tylko i to: jest
jak ja, tylko ja.
boże może że to nie było
morze albo nie tak.

Brown lived at such a lofty farm
  That everyone for miles could see
His lantern when he did his chores
  In winter after half-past three.

And many must have seen him make
  His wild descent from there one night,
‘Cross lots, ‘cross walls, ‘cross everything,
  Describing rings of lantern light.

Between the house and barn the gale

And blew him out on the icy crust
  That cased the world, and he was gone!

Walls were all buried, trees were few:
  He saw no stay unless he stove
A hole in somewhere with his heel.
  But though repeatedly he strove

And stamped and said things to himself,
  And sometimes something seemed to yield,
He gained no foothold, but pursued

Sometimes he came with arms outspread
  Like wings, revolving in the scene
Upon his longer axis, and
  With no small dignity of mien.

Faster or slower as he chanced,
  Sitting or standing as he chose,
According as he feared to risk
  His neck, or thought to spare his clothes,

He never let the lantern drop.

The figures he described with it,
  “I wonder what those signals are

Brown makes at such an hour of night!
  He’s celebrating something strange.
I wonder if he’s sold his farm,
  Or been made Master of the Grange.”

He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked;
  He fell and made the lantern rattle
(But saved the light from going out.)

Incredulous of his own bad luck.
  And then becoming reconciled
To everything, he gave it up
  And came down like a coasting child.

“Well—I—be—” that was all he said,
  As standing in the river road,
He looked back up the slippery *****
  (Two miles it was) to his abode.

Sometimes as an authority

Should say our stock was petered out,
  And this is my sincere reply:

Yankees are what they always were.
  Don’t think Brown ever gave up hope
Of getting home again because
  He couldn’t climb that slippery *****;

Or even thought of standing there
  Until the January thaw
Should take the polish off the crust.

And then went round it on his feet,
  After the manner of our stock;
Not much concerned for those to whom,
  At that particular time o’clock,

It must have looked as if the course
  He steered was really straight away
From that which he was headed for—
  Not much concerned for them, I say:

No more so than became a man—

I’ve kept Brown standing in the cold
  While I invested him with reasons;

But now he snapped his eyes three times;
  Then shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s
’Bout out!” and took the long way home
  By road, a matter of several miles.

Séraphine, Vignette nº 7, Le Cercueil

I was on the phone talking to the museum. Ground-penetrating radar had found what looked like a coffin at the Lutetian layer, and they were in the process of digging down to it. I was telling Sylvain to use the new 4K video cameras to record every detail when the doorbell rang. I’d left the door ajar, knowing Madame Pinard, the concierge was bringing by an adjuster to inspect and cut a check for the repair of the leak in the ceiling that had washed away chunks of plaster, now laying on the hardwood floor in the bedroom, exposing the wooden rafters of the attic.

“May we come in Monsieur,” she shouted from down the hall in the foyer. “Yes, Madame, please come in,” I shouted back, with more exasperation in my voice than I wanted to express. “I am on the phone with the musee Madame, please show him to the bedroom.”

I saw Madame and the adjuster come in out of the corner of my eye and turned my head to see them as they walked the stairs to the bedrooms. The adjuster was not a man, but a woman, which was surprising in France. The first thing I noticed about her, was her wide round birthing hips, what the kids, called thick. She wore a long-sleeve white silk blouse, black pencil skirt, and the traditional, obligatory Parisian back seamed stockings. I didn’t make out her face but caught sight of her red hair tied in a tight bun on the back of her head, and the milky white skin of her neck.

“Damien, are you listening,” said Sylvain, the dig manager on the other end of the line. “Yes, I replied, “l was distracted by my landlady bringing an adjuster into the apartment. Yes, I’ll come down as soon as they leave.”

After a few minutes, Madame and the adjuster came back down. The adjuster walked into the foyer to wait. Madame came into the living room and said she’d have a crew out tomorrow to start repairs. As madame turned and walked down the hall, I got a better look at the adjuster. She was pure Celt, with red hair, white skin, dark brown doe eyes that looked black, high cheekbones, and the sharp straight nose of a Greek statute.

Besides her stunning beauty, I noticed her necklace, a traditional golden Celtic torc, which signified the wearer as a person of high rank. I’d never seen a person wearing one. I’d only seen one on a statue, The Dying Gaul in Le Louvres. How so very interesting I thought to myself.  

As she was talking to Madame and turning to leave, she made eye contact. She tilted in acknowledgment and goodbye. I nodded back and she was gone. I wished I could have gotten a chance to talk to her, maybe even ask her for an aperitif at the corner bistro. Oh well, c’est la vie.

-------

I went to the dig at the La Crypt at 12:30-ish talked to Sylvain for a bit and went down to the lower levels to see it for myself. The area was gridded out and several cameras on tripods were recording. The team was within centimeters front the top, and so put down their trowels and used a high-pressure water and suction hoses to remove the rest of the topsoil. The top came into view, the excess water was ****** away. Sponges were used to clear and clean away the mud.

The stone was obviously Lutetian limestone, finely sanded and polished. The lid was craved, which first glance, looked like Norse runes and one Celtic knot. “Take pics and send them to religious studies,” I said half to myself, half to Sylvain. How strange to have Norse and Celt iconography together I thought to myself.

It was late when I exited the metro station. The air was bitterly cold, my breath appearing and disappearing around me like a mystic cloud.

I was tired, exhausted from digging, and was seeing things in the corner of my eye that I chalked up to aberrations of a fatigued mind. That is until I walked past the Boise de Boulogne. In a dark recess, along the tree line, I saw what looked like a faintly glowing woman in a white dress. My first reaction was horror, remembering all the monster movies I’d seen as a child. Then quickly, my adult mind kicked in and rationalized it away as an artsy late night photography session, which is common around Paris. The sting of the cold refocused my attention and I hurriedly resumed my walk home.

I was tired, muddy, and had to take a shower before throwing myself into bed. I showered, dried off, and pulled back the new, thick duvet I’d bought for winter. The moon was full, beaming softly, barely illuminating the dark bedroom, as I cracked opened a window to let a small amount of fresh cold air into the humid stale room.

I slid under the duvet. I liked the cold, it reminded me of camping in the mountains with my old man and being snug in our down sleeping bags as we talked half the night away. I quickly fell asleep.

I half awoke, sensing a presence. I opened my eyes and saw a woman, ****, standing at the end of my bed, enveloped in a faint blue luminescence. She looked at me with big doe eyes. I watched her watching me, trying to figure out if I was dreaming or not.

She crawled on to the bed. I couldn’t feel her as she made her up the bed. She straddled me. I saw glint around her neck and saw she was wearing a torc, and realized who she was.

Her face was centimeters from mine. Her eyes burned with ferocity, intensity, and anger. I looked back up at her, fear welling up inside of me. She looked down at me. Her penetrating eyes, looking into my soul. I could feel her in my head, my mind.

She felt my fear, and without a word, just the look in her eyes, reassured me, calmed me, and my body and mind relaxed as if a nurse had given me a shot of morphine.

She touched her lips to mine, and felt the heat of her beath, smelled her dewy scent. I didn’t move. I knew I was prey. I knew what she wanted, and let her take it.

She slid her tongue into my mouth, and I gently ****** on it. She ****** up my lower lip, biting it playfully. She tasted sweet, fresh, like spring water. I couldn’t get enough of her. I wanted more. I kissed her harder, deeper, and felt myself slide to the edge of sleep, no longer sure what was a dream, or what was real.

She pulled back the duvet, grabbed my ****, and stroked it till it was painfully hard. She kissed it, put it in her mouth, and ****** it. Her head bobbing up and down. She’d stop, bite the head, and use her teeth to scrape up and down the shaft till I winched and yelled out in pain.

I started to moan, my body tightening, and arched, thrusting deeper into her mouth, coming as she raked her nails hard down the side of my chest. To my surprise, she didn’t spit out but swallowed my ***, licking excess from around her lips.

--------

I opened my eyes and was blinded by sunlight streaming in through the open windows and curtains. What the ****, I thought to myself, I never sleep this late. It was always dark when I wake. And the birds, chirping in the trees outside my window, were loud, and grating on my nerves.  

I slowly got out of bed. My body ached, my lower lip hurt, and my **** was sore. I grabbed my **** and immediately released it in pain. It was raw as if I’d had ***. I was definitely confused. My eyes darted from side to side as I tried to make sense and remember last night. I left the dig, came home, showered, and went to bed.

I trudged to the kitchen and made coffee, all the while, racking my brain for some clue as to why I felt like ****. I poured a cup, leaned back on the counter, and sip the coffee. I shook my head, placing my hand on my hip, and felt a sharp burning. I looked down and saw blood on my hand and side. I went to the bathroom mirror and saw fingernail marks down both sides of my chest. I just stared.

I had no idea, no clues as to how these happened. I jumped into the shower and washed off, bandaged up the bleeding scratches with paper towels and tape, dressed, and went to the cafe at the corner.

Despite the cold, I sat on the terrace, ordered coffee, bread, butter, and jam. I looked at my phone. It was 8:08. I looked at my text messages and emails for some clue as to what happened last night.

Breakfast came, and I sipped the coffee, staring out into the street. The waiter walked past me. “Oui madame, what would you like this morning,” he said. “Cafe et croissant,” she said. The waiter turned and walked back inside. I turned my head to the side for a quick look and blinked twice. It was the redheaded adjuster from yesterday.

“Bonjour M. Delacroix,” she said. “Bonjour Madame,” I instinctively replied. There was an awkward pause.  “I am Brigitte, Brigitte Dieudonné,” she said softly.

We small talked over breakfast and when I tab came, paid, and said, “I headed to the office.” “It is the weekend monsieur. “Yes,” I replied, “I work at an archeological dig on Ile de la Cite. The crypte.” “I am headed that way myself, do you mind if I walk with you,” she asked.

We walked to the metro station, down the stairs, through the turnstile, and onto the quay. The train came, the doors hissed open, and we strode in. The train was full of Chinese tourists and it was standing room only. I grab a pole and Brigitte did the same as she squeezed up beside me.

The train jolted forward and Brigitte bumped into me. As the train smoothed out, she kept leaning into me. Her derriere in my crouch. I could feel her body through her coat. I was getting turned on. As the trained curved around a curve, it rocked back and forth. Her *** bumping and grinding against my now hard ****. Could she feel my hard-on through the coats? She half-turned her head a gave me a coquettish smile. She knew I thought to myself.

We exited La Cité metro station, on to Place Louis Lépine. Before I could say anything, she said she’d like to see the dig. “Sure,” I said, and we walked to the La Crypt. We walked down the stairs to glass doors and pass the touristy exhibits and displays, to the back, behind the green painted plywood wall. Sylvain and several grad students were standing over and around the coffin. Two of them were in the pit setting up a portable x-ray machine, one with a still camera, another with a video camcorder, and the rest looking down at their tablets.

Brigitte and I walked to the edge. The coffin’s lid had been clean. The runes and Celtic knot were clearly visible. “Danger, death, mother,” Brigitte said. Sylvain turned his head, and said, “she is right, danger, death, mother according to the religious studies guys.” “How do you know that,” I asked. “It’s in all the teenage vampire movies,” she replied grinning.

“The top one is an inverse Thurisaz, which is means danger. The second one is an inverse Algiz, which means death. The knot is Celtic for mother, and the dot in the heart means she had one daughter,” Brigitte said trailing off.

“It looks you’ve got it under control Sylvain. I have an appointment. Brigitte can I walk you back to la place,” I said.

We walked to la place and stopped at the metro entrance. “Can I have your number,” I asked? “Yes, you may, if you promise to call monsieur Delacroix,” she said smiling girlishly. She took my phone from my hand and typed in her number and dialed. Her phone rang. “I have your monsieur, Delacroix. A bientot,” she said. We did la bise and she was off.

Sessizlik kovulur; bir yıldırım duyar yağmur,
Cennetten ince inciler gibi akar yağmur.

Aleme mal ile mülk sormadan ikram eder,
Birden gelir, birden verir, birden kaçar yağmur.

Beni terk ederse güneş ya terk ederse ay,
Hüzünlü yalnızlıkta beni kucaklar yağmur.

Semaların ahları sessiz sessiz duyarım,
Hüzün, bereket dünya içine katar yağmur.

Görmez açık elin renkleri ya işleri,
Güle kör, dikene kör; zira kör ağlar yağmur.

Efendi dervişe, namusuz katile verir,
Bilmez bir dindar ya bilmez bir günahkar yağmur.

Allahın Rahmeti sır gibi duyulmaz bazen,
Sessiz şakır şakır, ıslak ıslak akar yağmur.

El açık Rahmet Deryası semada bulunur,
Mis Gül Efendisi gibi Rahmet saçar yağmur.

Beden sükun içinde yatar yeşil türbede,
Amma güzel diliniz konuşur mesnevide.

Ey hazreti Mevlana Celaleddin-i Rumi,
Hazreti Şems güneştir size, siz aydır Şemse.

O pak mesnevi içinde neler buldum, neler,
Süzünüz bir deryadır, her şey vardır içinde.

Her kese açıktır bu derya, fakir ya zengin,
Ders, güzellik ile hikmet katarsınız şiire.

Allah'u Teala çok razı olsun sizinle,
Mahvî'nin süsü bu, helal olsun bu kaside.

I want to know more than one
Haitian

I want to know more than three
Jamaicans

I want to meet Nigerians that speak
Igbo

Kenyans that laugh at the Swahili I learned in Berkeley
Ugandans that correct my Mandarin
Tanzanians that teach me how to say it in Cantonese  

I want to tour the holy city Ile-Ife
trace the pilgrimage path of Mansa Musa
then circle back to Timbuktu

See the reminders of Aksum
See the remainders of Kmt

Touch the Earth and envision the buildings that my ancestors constructed
thousands of years before they were invaded thousands of times
leaving the still standing walls that others never believed were thousands of years old
till their, “science” said so

I want to board a barge in the south and flow north with the Nile
I wonder what eight others will join me

I want to walk the same trail
that was the first trail
compare my foot print
to the first foot print

The vision I see
The things I want to do
The escape I want to take

Isnt one that is new

Its one that is old
so old that its in the blood
in the very fabric and design
of all that claim

Human

What I want is a realization
no
a reawakening
of my genetic inheritance
of my ancestral birthright

What calls me is the land so old
its true name
its original tongue
is the only
can only
be labeled

The First

There
that is what calls to me
There
that is what pushes me
that is the very intangible force that pulsates my heart
pumping the blood through my veins

That place that is forever older than old
yet
In a constant state of
Reconstruction
Recreation
Revelation
Renovation
Revitalization­

Revolution

I want to breath the air in that place that is always in a state of newness
I want to feel the frequency in that place
where there are as many words for new
as there are people to speak them

That is the place
That is the space
That is

© Christopher F. Brown 2015

Church of InsanityA melody as old as life as dead as time, plays threw these blood staind walls of this old church of insanity.This church still alive with the ones slain watching me.Walking down the ile, making my way to the alter and crouching prayers of self preservation and of strength to think of myself and gaurd only myself...As my desires bigger then my heart I know I am only as big as my heart wills it and only as good as what I see in myself not what others see of me..ac/12/11/97

Samedi  12  juillet 2014
"FULGURANCE DES ETRES,  DES LIEUX ET DES MOTS" (RECEUIL DE PAUL ARRIGHI)
J’ai bonheur  de vous faire connaître  l’édition,  ce  mois de juin 2014,    du livret de mes  poésies intitulé : «Fulgurance des êtres, des Lieux et des Mots».
Ce livret édité à compte d’auteur par   "Paul Daubin éditeur" et imprimé par la COREP. Il  comprend 104 pages avec 21 pages d’  illustrations, provenant pour la plupart de mes photographies en couleur.
La belle préface, aussi perspicace qu’emphatique est l’œuvre de mon ami,  l’authentique Poète Toulousain Christian Saint-Paul.  
   Ce Livret traite  sous les cinq chapitres  suivants:
- 1°) « Souvenirs d’Enfance »; ce sont mes  souvenirs les plus lointains de mon enfance en  Kabylie (Bougie et Akbou)  et à Luchon dans les Pyrénées.
-  2° )  Dans « Sur  les Chemins de Toulouse »,  je dépeins le Toulouse des quartiers de ma jeunesse, le faubourg Bonnefoy, Croix-Daurade, le  Lycée Raymond Naves des "années ardentes et tumultueuses" (1965-1972) ,  puis les autres  quartiers  pittoresques de Toulouse où j’ai résidé,   après mon retour en 1992 dans cette belle ville,  sans bien entendu oublier la Bibliothèque de recherche "Périgord" qui est pour beaucoup  mon lieu havre de Paix intérieure et mon  "refuge spirituel".
-  3°) «La Corse, L’ile enchanteresse»,  correspond à des poèmes en Français sur La Corse surtout la région de Vicu et le canton des "Deux Sorru", sur les  lieux et les arbres souvent emblématiques de cette île qui aimante et capte ses amoureux et ses fidèles et leur rend leur attachement au centuple.
- 4°) Les «Poésies de Révolte et de Feu » décrivent mes passions parfois mes indignations. Aujourd’hui que j’ai  atteint soixante ans, l’âge de la sagesse, j’ai encore  gardé vivant cette faculté de m’indigner et parfois  de me révolter. Les poèmes nous parlent  du grand poète Italien Giacomo Leopardi,  de la « Retirada » blessure faite à l’Esprit jamais refermée pour les enfants et les amis de  "Toulouse l'Espagnole",  de Mikis Theodorakis, de l'assassinat de John Lennon et de l'action et de la dérision de  Coluche, etc  
- 5 °) Le  « Renouveau des saisons et petits bonheurs »  traite  des saisons tout particulièrement des somptuosités de l'automne,  des lieux que j’ai aimés,   de la création et de la boisson du  vin et ce n'est pas le moindre de mes reconnaissances,   de nos compagnons les Chiens.
Le prix de vente proposé de dix euros est au strict prix de revient.   Pour l'acquérir  il vous  suffit de m’envoyer un chèque d’un montant de dix euros et une enveloppe timbrée au tarif normal   mentionnant  votre adresse postale  pour que je sois en mesure d'effectuer  l' envoi postal.    
                            
    Paul Arrighi
  
  
Adresse : Paul Arrighi -  20 Bd de Bonrepos- Résidence "La Comtale" - Bat C - Bal 7 - 31000 – Toulouse (Francia)  
  
Courriels : paul54.arrighi@numericable.fr

Here lieth one who did most truly prove,
That he could never die while he could move,
So hung his destiny never to rot
While he might still jogg on, and keep his trot,
Made of sphear-metal, never to decay
Untill his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
‘Gainst old truth) motion number’d out his time:
And like an Engin mov’d with wheel and waight,
His principles being ceast, he ended strait.                        
Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm
Too long vacation hastned on his term.
Meerly to drive the time away he sickn’d,
Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickn’d;
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch’d,
If I may not carry, sure Ile ne’re be fetch’d,
But vow though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,
For one Carrier put down to make six bearers.                        
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He di’d for heavines that his Cart went light,
His leasure told him that his time was com,
And lack of load, made his life burdensom
That even to his last breath (ther be that say’t)
As he were prest to death, he cry’d more waight;
But had his doings lasted as they were,
He had bin an immortall Carrier.
Obedient to the Moon he spent his date
In cours reciprocal, and had his fate                                
Linkt to the mutual flowing of the Seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase:
His Letters are deliver’d all and gon,
Onely remains this superscription.

A                                                      
    s
      m
          ile                          con
                                               tagious
               is a          and                        gift.
                       free
                          


Give         And        What
         One          See           Happens!



                  IiiiiiiiI
                 O       O
                       I
              .                 .
               .               .
                 ..............

.
                                  missile
                     ­       missilemissile
                           missile  missile
                           missile   missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                            missile missile
                 m i s s i l e          m i s s i l e
             missile missile    missile missile
            missile.   missile missile    missile
               missile miss        Ile      missile
                   missile                 missile

There's a monster
    
           that's made my dreams
          
                               into her haunt.  

She's spilling into days where I wonder;

                                     How does a creature like you exist?

You are

              unreal.

I mean, the way you toss your head to the side

                                                     whenever you say something contrary

                                                       ­                                                   plagues me.

Following me like some gorgeous features that wont let me go

and a smile

that fills me with holes

opening me up

in ways I'm terrified to show

but what tugs at me worse

are all the ways this ghost could be known

I knew thunder that rolled off

                          electric lips
                                                
                                                every time
                                                                ­      
                                    pink
                                            
                   ­   lighting
                                      
                                      bolts
                                               
                                               mo
                                                  
                                                   ve

Speaking unafraid                                    she's free in that way
                                                             ­       
a kind of free that                                      makes liberty ashamed

and me calmly sm                                    ile while my insides are

gawking wide open                                down the middle with                              

clucking of a single coo                        coo clock keeping time

in this game of chicken I've           made out of looking  

                                                you  
                                           in the eyes.

                  Shaky hands swerve yet hope to collide
                                    
                                                                ­      sweet demon
                                            
                                                      rattle me no more
                                        
                   ­                        come closer

                               hold me still

                   show me how

a ghost can be felt.

Jeudi   le 05     novembre  2015

Très cher (e) s  ami (e)s  de «Hello Poetry»,

J’ai bonheur de vous faire connaître l’édition, ce mois de novembre  2015, de la nouvelle édition de mon  livret de mes  poésies intitulé : «Fulgurance des êtres, des Lieux et des Mots».
Ce livret édité à compte d’auteur par «Paul Daubin éditeur» et imprimé par la COREP. Il comprend 104 pages avec 21 pages d’illustrations, provenant pour la plupart de mes propres  photographies en couleur.
La belle préface, aussi perspicace qu’emphatique est l’œuvre de mon ami, l’authentique Poète Toulousain, Christian Saint-Paul.  
Ce Livret traite sous les cinq chapitres suivants:
- 1°) «Souvenirs d’Enfance»; ce sont mes souvenirs les plus lointains de mon enfance en  Kabylie (Bougie et Akbou) et à Luchon dans les Pyrénées.

- 2° )  Dans «Sur les Chemins de Toulouse»,  je dépeins le Toulouse des quartiers de ma jeunesse, le faubourg Bonnefoy, Croix-Daurade, le  Lycée Raymond Naves des «années ardentes et tumultueuses» (1965-1976),  puis les autres quartiers  pittoresques de Toulouse où j’ai résidé, après mon retour en 1992 dans cette belle ville,  sans bien entendu oublier la Bibliothèque de recherche «Périgord» qui est pour beaucoup mon lieu havre de Paix intérieure et mon «refuge spirituel».

-  3°)  «La Corse, L’ile enchanteresse», correspond à des poèmes en Français sur La Corse surtout la région de Vico et de son pays (les Pièves)  sur les lieux et les arbres souvent emblématiques de cette île qui aimante et capte ses amoureux et ses fidèles et leur rend leur attachement au centuple.

- 4°)  Les «Poésies de Révolte et de Feu» décrivent mes passions parfois mes indignations. Aujourd’hui que j’ai  atteint soixante et un ans,   l’âge de la sagesse, j’ai encore su gardé vivant cette faculté de m’indigner et parfois  de me révolter. Les poèmes nous parlent  du grand poète Italien Giacomo Leopardi,  de la « Retirada » blessure faite à l’Esprit jamais refermée pour les enfants et les amis de  «Toulouse l'Espagnole», de Mikis Theodorakis, de l'assassinat de John Lennon et de l'action et de la dérision de  Coluche, etc.  

- 5 °)  Le  «Renouveau des saisons et petits bonheurs» traite des saisons tout particulièrement des somptuosités de l'automne,  des lieux que j’ai aimés,  de la création et de la boisson du vin et ce n'est pas le moindre de mes reconnaissances, de nos compagnons les Chiens.
Paul Arrighi (Toulouse/Ajaccio)
                                               *
Adresse : Paul Arrighi -  20 Bd de Bon repos- Résidence «La Comtale» - Bat C - Bal 7 - 31000 – Toulouse
Courriel : paul20.arrighi@numericable.fr

bo co, ja mam
igrek i jabłonke
na czole by mówić:
tramwaj! tramwaj! hmm?
pedestrian! pedestrian!
kurwa pierdolona jego mać!
o kurcze! czak czak!
     i kałczatka syberyjska!
no to ja na hyc w ziąb.
tyle e u ro py na ile
znać szczypc szyfr nadgłos
w brzytwy:
igloo igloo igloo...
o ten chłód!
mrozek tchu cieni
o piątej połódnia zza czymś,
z zimą na tle policzka.
i nigdy razem z
wspomnieniem!
ja i ta **** zachodniego londynu!

i'll write my german like my father soap operas his english, mangled, and disturbed... i mean grossly misjudged.. i mean like: did anyone really understand him? they must have since he now has a house... but then i was too lazy to begin with... which is nice, to begin with... i mean: that nice: clap clap... clap clap... all i need is a hope for encore... it's Borat pseudo Kazakh nice... i mean, i can speak the most perfect assimilation tongue for my host nation and end up on the street... just like i might become the ****** argument in germany... where i actually left my docier... now i love to write a bit of dangling ******* in german, dunno, maybe the pole in me felt like it... thankfully no knows jackshit about Polish history, or Mongolian history after Genghis Khan, therefore i'm not prone to a phobia of repeating historical demands! i mean: who the **** remembers John Casimir in the anglophone world?! umm... no one?! hurrah! we get the blond penguin tuxedo quiff juggernaut into power... but allah'u akbar... it wasn't the playboys of Dubai!

nein!
du kann nicht eine
  zivilisiert brutus,
mit verschwendenvolk
führ hyänewirbeln....
ja... art sortieren kindsouffle
wie mehrsaga...
   hinweis papa-pauß?
deine ein sauer antlitz...
ein fuchs-hyäne: herablassend,
trocken- nordpol otto theodor,
                 ein! sú!

i basically write the broken limb tongue my father speaks
on a construction site...
          i mean he speaks out of time, and sometimes
out of place...
   and every time i write his invoice i am
left heart relieved, had i a romance: i've be broken.
                        but the funny thing is,
i write this ******* and i can't even own a coffee machine
having said it...
             he speaks pish-boor english and gets a house,
a t.v. and a car....
      i write this perfect assimilate english and get
a postcard from australia: thanks, move here.
                   i'd hate to imitate the jew and turn to be
a nomad...
               but globalisation evidently demands that of me...
   it just gets boring after a while,
with all these needs and Neds trying to compete,
i just want to end up failing with fireworks...
become god at the age of 33...
                     and **** the rest of it if i should live
to be 66...
                        ah, come on man,
show some veterinary bias...
            some cult, some basis and futurism without
a regressive attitude... give the dauch the scoop...
and the lady her pooch pouch of vogue!
                  ah, then you're like me
talking german, like my father talking english...
perfectly... via fuchs-hyäne: perfect to the laugh
defining night; or licken-icken:
          für deutsche! über alles: für deutsche!
do brody, byczo jest! und nichts est!
               nienen warschau mitteklasse!
schwarz zirkusegen schatten: krächzen!
                pirdolony or-zełek twy... hujnia i motywa
      na badziewie.... mówi: matka... a potym... kórwa.
ha ha ha ha ha ha!
a po co ty i ten cymbał azjatyk? ten czambo kazak
i  pierdolony cynamon?! huh?!
po jebaną plombe, kasztan, mogiła, figa i pflaume
            i śliwowice?!
Liban na odzew reszty oliwek?! pospolity ruch?
   wnikąt rzeszy! masz! masz marsz kurwa na stambuł po wnót!
Sobieski Sobieksi i na głowie szambo!
te pizdy znów ci zawrót i chęć i nadzieją dały z
          genezą na coś by początek nie smiały miał być?
   ale tak naprawde nie tu... rogiem of warszawe roku '44...
bo wszystkich zycek wybito gazem,
gina musztardowym *smrodem... senfstinken...
                    furzschreiten...
to wtedy tak naprawde to:
tak naprawde poza Warszawą to powstanie do głuchych
          oślą mową wzdycha wzbogaceniem zdobytą
                                 psim sumieniem i czekam na zdobycz
            to zwane honor i państwo... czyli
wszystko braku na uniwerku... póki braku ideału...
no ta... cerkwiew Piłsudskiego! ach ten wąs! niby Stalin!
ale brak tego romantyzmu z nad Litwy!
co ma ten sławny wąs z pod Gruzji!
już mi miód w portkach!
       na ten twój! w ochote i zamiar tchuża i
                             żacier w mgłe i proch!
jak i w papier i piasta mrok w paproć o zacier modlitw
                         i czarów!
       kłam ty oczekiwań mioteł i motyli takich fabryk
których... kochasz...  
oj oj... wmojym gardle hydra!...
                 na tyle narodów ile da sie pokrewni nadrobić
brata i siory... tak, dam te wojenke...by tańczył mi kozak!
a o tobie wspominał mnie jakiś tajny Romon zwany Wład,
Piłat ******!
             ksywa: wampir... nie wiem...
sporo drwena na maczugi... ale nie wiem po co on chciał
  tak na ostrzyć jak na ołówki... w dupy macać?

Dzień dobry,  ok, ustalimy koszty na 100 egz. zajmę się tym po świętach, bo będę wyjeżdzać. Wiem, że miał Pan prawo zwątpić, ale w Polsce inaczej mimo wszystko podchodzi się do poezji, mam wrażenie, że tu nadal jest ona ważna. Bardzo wiele wydaje się tomików poetów - amatorów, są oni zrzeszeni w klubach poetyckich. Cieszę się, że Pan ma też swoich czytelników, to super, myślę, że tomik Pana zadowoli i oczywiście wieczorek z poezją też. Może uda się Panu przyjechać ? ale to jeszcze dalsza perspektywa, mama mówiła, że może sierpień. Pozdrawiam.*

oczywiście, skoro pani prosi, przyjade... wiem, ta niesfoboda różnic perspektyw, na zachodzie jest ważna muzyka, ta forma ubustwa poezji... rym na rym na rym etc. ile czasu jest potrzebne tyle racze zgodą i kiwaniem głowy, nie chce sie wpraszać z tą obawą zaniedbania... w sumie nie ja wykonuje tą "brudną" robote publikacji. oraz dziękuje za brak formalności z tymi słowami przed moimi... chociaż rękopis by wiele więcej wykrył w ramach odpowiedzi, tzn. czułosci; jednym słowem: dziękuje.

Before uende tizi,usikule ndizi,that could make you feel uneasy,nowadays injili naspread bila bibles,the only player kwa hii game anacheza na bi-*****,hii si  kujichocha ni  vile skills nimeobtain kwa makocha,luku safi na maganji kwa toja,na hi I dunia ni ya sir God so kaa unategea downfall yangu my friend utangoja.

Art inatoka kwa heart,PETTY POET is about to change ile narrative imekuwepo,my lines are full of flavour kaa ni diss unapokea kichapo,ni  heri uko mnaeza kula vako,huku kumekauka kuliko kichwa ya babu owino,na Jana na Leo mayutt daily ni  kilio,promises hamfulfill kisha kwa mbulu unabrag venye  uko na spirit ya kuokolea,zote mauongo,I wish ningekuwa na kalamu ni-underline na rangi iliyokolea.

Kama ni  uhondo unatafuta songea,si kubrag ni course ya success nilisomea,daily  nikiota nagrow ka mmea,kila mtu  ana-views tofauti huwezi sikia nikikusemea,ukibehave abnormally tunakutreat normally,si  wasapere pekee wanapenda mali ata  mayoh utaskia wakisema no-mali,

Hii time short nimespend apa  nilikuwa na blessings za mama no wonder sijastammer,kama nimekubamba scratch kwa tenje uniseti stage name sijaplan kuhama.
Follow PETTY POET on;
YouTube;PETTY POET
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kuşların senfonik
tweet’lerini banlıyor
çirkin martı vaazları
ve
çatlak sürahiden sızan
su gibi
kafam bi milyon
bugün

koca götlü martha
ile
kocası solucan fred
balkonda çiçeklere
spa bakımı yaparken
akşamdan kalan
jack daniels’ın son nefesini
yudumluyorum

akşama parti var
lacivert ******>çok mu havalı olur
bilemiyorum
tırt mı kaçar
blue jean gömlek
beyaz nike

nazar
geliyo hep
ona hiç
gitmediğim halde
peşimi bırakmıyor
yaşlı bunak

dişi ceylanların
skimoske beni
yakalayamaz ki
bakışlarını
meşgule veriyorum
eleği duvarda
hızlı bir uncu olarak

çünkü
son
romanımla meşgulüm
eften, püften
çatı çığlığımda
agatha sürmenaj geçiriyor
parmakladığım
her bir tuşta


sahi
ben de, merak ediyorum
katil kim?
akışına bıraktım hikayeyi
oradan oraya sürüklüyor
robotron adlı haspa

akşama sarkıyor gün
vantuzlamak için
kestane yanığı
batım dudakları

ve artık
uçan tenekemi almalıyım
rot balanstan
belki
birlikte intihar
ederiz
kim bilir..

Every day…
We walk

Every day…
They ring

        
***            ***
             ***                    ***
     ***      ***
      ***…      ***


Through the auburn haze of fall,
The piercing chills of winter,
The misty spring mornings…

The stubborn sound waves drill through the air,
As we trudge, scurry, and mall-walk.


***            ***
             ***                    ***
     ***      ***
      ***…      ***


Sometimes, I feel like they taunt me,
As I race to class--
My mind going faster than my body…

    s
    t i m e
C         r       ile            
   la  t  e           HomEwoRk!
      sses
           s


I can handle it.
At least I think I can…
Take it bit by bit,
Become more of a man


***!


For now, I just have school to deal with


Bummm!


And the reverberations of stress
Echoing through time


BUMMMM!!!


Oh, the bells of Doane College…

Merrill will never stop ringing

Déchiquetée Dragon Décébale
Infestée Incube Ile
Lacérée Lynx Lucifer
Abîmée Alligator Apsara
Ciselée Chat Calin
Esquintée Eau Enescu
Ravagée Rongée Ravinée
Eventrée Enceinte Emiettée
Etranglée Etrillée Ensanglantée

İnsanlarda bir adettir tebessüm,
Dar zamanlarda kuvvettir tebessüm.

Yakut dudaklar ile akşam üstü,
Şüpheli yerde rüşvettir tebessüm.

Taze taze bahar zamanlarda ki,
Sevenlere işarettir tebessüm.

Dediler ki hep; bir dilsiz dil vardır,
O dilsiz dilde evettir tebessüm.

Tanıdıklara ve yabancılara,
Ey Mâhî deme: "zahmettir tebessüm".