Malcolm watched,
Unmotivated malcolm heard,
Her promise of vegan vegitarain burgers.
It was her call of calls which she called
A mis hap
made malcolm turn away.
However,
I could of just stood still and waited.

My dreams, every moment of flite,
the souls of my heels lifting,
Rising.
Once I ran running  to fly over
Comencement bay, Her and I cleared every beach cabin
and crab ***.  
Her lips, my neck.
I can, yes I can.
We know,
we
Shouldnt, again,
Again, do it to
Me all over again.

Blue dennim, red animal shirts.
Rocket fuel, apollo escaping
her ex boy friend.
We danced for quarters,
The juke box muttered my name
inside every sunken ships hollow hull.

And,

Her palms shook my freedom
From all the worlds worst
Endenvers.
What the hell malcolm?
why didnt I go back?

You bet'ya  malcolm came through and
he made easy with it Mr.  Flood.  
I know hes forgetting or hes
choosing to be away forawaile, buddy.
Making deals feel like straw hats.
He ought to win this time, Mr.  Flood.
Or else his wallet objects to Ideals.
Show me more moments when I have
went away to exile because im slipping
on waxed  vanilla floors, face down
in suran saharas covered to sticky crumb
dreams.   Malcolms turning to our clock
gears now, Mr.  Flood.  Let him roast
like cosarole this evning, lets fix another
Drink, Mr.  Boomerango, for malcolms
singularity.  He isnt going to notice!

"To all the fallen Kids, Heroes and Sheroes that fell victim to the massacre of June 16 1960, Sharpeville, Soweto…
Callings for new Seeds and Haloes, we pray for new Victors and Messiahs…coz still we ask “So where to?”*


Worthy knowledge deserves the one who will acknowledge, it found another, he was in shortage, threatened, he found joy in carnage.
Retaliation turned sour, as we shed tears for fallen heroes. Rest in peace to all the Petersens, the Malcolms and the Bikos.
Great minds edify and think beyond limits and sky.
This systematic routine of life laced with politics and economy infiltrates us numb, living in a liberated space and yet at times feeling so dumb.
To equip oneself with the truth, the past, broadens the mind with a quality that will seize to last.
A continent, must be God’s definition of art, beautifully authentic ancient dark civilization…envy must’ve burned the heart.
Propaganda made victims, a disease intended to chronic; now all that’s seen is reversed conscious, invincible and sonic.
Pride is you, continent, head up, chest up, we becoming confident. Mother of the soil shining naturally yet shining somewhat redundancy.
Reconciliation over retribution, an astounding virtue, still forging a social democracy.
Peace will be hard to find in this pandemonium world.
True healing comes from divine providence, I was told.
Male and female, human beings, we need to perceive each other like nature, true identity knows no stranger.

Apluad malcolms quiet stillness.  
Unrooted like fallen timber, and now
to be a soiled waste of passion.  
Mr.  Flood,
Sneaky Mr.  Flood,
Poured ***** in the urn.
One more drink for lifeless
thoughts.  If it be the way of death.
If it be the way of death.  
was it an ugly truth,  Yes,
And malcolm knew how ugly it was.
All the world like a bag of oranges.  
Carried  in high frutose fashion.
But,
Malcolm has no say to be involved in any
more chancless pursuites.  It was for the best in
his case anyways.