when some said hello
some said ha ha,
said holmes without sherlock to signal a sighting
in signature of fingerprinting a shake;
but some said hello,
some shook some with stipend erased freezing;
after all... the doctor allowed a carcass to instil a freed numbness!
a clown frowned attempting to be picky with laughter
mascaraed, and then all hell ready to be hibernating yawned
ready from the hyperbole excused ******* a tadpole into thinking of frogs.
oh we loved the laugh the pouch of orange juiced pulled apart and pulped
into skins and skinny; we were all ready for a hajj there and then!
ha ha! make that scented with coriander!

it’s not that i hate film literary film adaptations, but only one adaptation made me want to read the book: stendhal’s the scarlet and the black (starring ewan mcgregor and rachel weisz).*

i don’t in a respective romanic auditorium
with toga donning senators
walking to egyptian flutes from the cleopatra’s entourage
gleaming old fames as to prove the pyramids
and sphinxes were above in the hierarchy of awe
to the iodine and hod on papyrus,
to give these localities the respectable aura of re-,
i take to hammock’s kenotic and burial’s untrue:
the former feeds the northern feel of autumnal london
suburbia and the latter the southern quarter,
but never mind that, it’s already minded and eerie.
i watched the screenplay adaptation of empire of the sun today,
i have to say, i was jerking up the thought
of salty rain rather than acid rain on the environmental
perfusion surprise - so i ****** a jamaican fake on the hopscotch bonnet
mascaraed on the eyes, or the romantic tears of cutting an opinion,
but honesty... honesty! three scenes made me push my
manhood away from the stench of molten iron of the army:
the was the protagonist sang the song of the kamikaze
just after they downed a shot of koji and started singing
just after doing the flap-your-hands-in-the-air-like-you-just-don’t-care
salutations of encouraged nihilism.
it’s the editing part of the film, how the boy’s voice overpowers
everything else and becomes “monotone” against all other sounds,
the dignity of the boy’s enviousness and admiration
for the kamikaze... even in captivity! by god, what a scene!
the other scene that haunted me to near tear
was when the prisoners entered the cemetery of hoarded
valuables by the japanese upon invasion of shanghai
and taking from notables the jewellery chandeliers and cars
(pianos too): after seeing the prisoners familial in captivity
exchanging cabbage heads for cigarettes
proving what the world would be like without the existence of money...
i thought of the familial “humbling” of the people in captivity,
and the sheer haunt of the same prisoners returning
to a world they so dearly lost - in that each to his own
piano and mercedes benz, that neo-tribalism of earn earn spend
frivolity and self-interest that democracy prescribes
allocating us each a tomb of fancies (and sometimes the odd *****).
but the most striking thing became apparent - in these
japanese prisoner of war camps... the prisoners didn’t wear uniforms...
i can understand if those in power adorn uniforms,
but the oddity of the prisoners not having uniforms is quite
positively giggly sinister... given the fact that the other sinisterness
is when there’s a prison camp and those in power
wear uniforms and those imprisoned are also tailored for.
i see a major libra of power in all this,
for if the prisoners are not tailored for denoting their collectivisation
as in status of prisoners... then there’s a certain freedom in all of it,
like on the grander scale, in society, where the politicians,
the overseers only wear suits and the communities differentiate
themselves with hawaiian floral tattoos on t-shirts and tourist slogan ones too:
it’s almost as if the ultimate leniency of power was being exercised
not having to wear prisoner uniforms in the japanese pow camps,
unlike the pinstripe ones of auschwitz - as some collectivisation
of guilt within ideological framework rather than the opposite:
wrong place at the wrong time.
the last tear i got? well the music on the credits reel pulverised
by the images of a son re-recognising his mother by touchy touchy.
conclusively? better on your mother’s *** and able to cook too
than on the cooking *** of a wife and with two left hands preferring
the hot topic of takeaway or restaurants - hunter gatherer died -
me belly full of berry - how is it that **** sapiens is also called
**** perderus awhile the tortoises saturated achilles with peace and thought
and no chance of martian glory telling him of zeno’s paradox?

Tears of gin
Stream down my face
Pine needles scratch
My throat's embrace
On the words I once
Knew how to say
I'm hopelessly trying to
Reiterate.

Tuck me in
Lay me down
In the bed
I'll slowly drown
Your words are weak
They pass me by
I'm so so sorry
Liquor, I cry

Morning next
Mascaraed face
Turns to look
At her weathered mate
Thank you baby
I'm sorry I
Had too much to drink-
It's fine
*sigh

you don't mind the glass beneath your feet
or the bomb strapped to your chest
ticking second by second like your very own
metronome trying to harmonize the noise
inside your head

the gag inside your mouth feels real to you
but no one steps aside to help you untie
the purpled hands behind your back

and you wonder why no one can see
all the pretty girls strung to banisters
with their lipsticked mouths gaped with
muted screams and mascaraed eyes
bulged by Death's medusa-gaze

at the top of the staircase is a noose with
your name - Jane

and as you tiptoe up the steps, the faces
of the corpses blend and coalesce
into one generic image - a girl no one
remembers beyond her death - and you
realize once your neck snaps you're nothing
more than a statistic

the rope tightens and you join
the data set - the only place you've
ever felt you belonged

You are a mascaraed
a blank mistake
milking my love for your own hearts sake

I wonder if affection was the case
or was lust the only motive
the way I parted the seas much like I was Moses

I thought you would never deceive
I believed that you were the one for me
my one and only

Turns out I wasn't your one
now I'm lonely
reminiscing on a past that's was phony

"My children were mascaraed with blood spurting in a disarray,
a nightmare flashing freshly with every passing night,
and the man's blazing eyes ignited with inevitable
pure evil --if there exists such a thing,
and my faith in humanity subsides,
my heart snatched out of my aching body,
for I am an unsuspecting, wounded mother."

But involuntarily,
for a fraction of a second,
her lips quiver in glee.

"It was beautiful;
their screams of agony,
my control over their lives,
and sweet fear
reflected in their eyes--
my eyes."

My skin is cold as thawing ice
frozen, fixed, and bleak
the world is broken under my feet
where did life go so wrong
I’m boxed six feet deep
in a dark crumpled creep
dreams mascaraed as light
forbidden light I can not see
one day my past appears
in my treasured hope
from once shinning eyes
how the hours past me by
in this requiem a song
chiming in the wind of time
tempered like stained glass
forever, forever at last
Shouts of Barabus, say not!
low my soul tis not I, behold
the cross, rising on the hill
Golgotha the blood running
A lamb before the slaughter
“Screams” of He died! He Lied!
I…silently died with him too
At his feet nailed and bent
I hear a shuttered cry
“Forgive them they know not what they do”
My brokenness once firmly in the ground
rises quickly bursting in light
Alas my King, my God tis you
every prayer spoken is true
The golden streets I craved
mine, all for the life you gave
BB2015

Laying in the garden of the man who sold me my dreams
I watch as the moon crests over me
I think of all the things I have yet to say
Dear, Night. When did you become today?

Sitting in the dinner listening to that Bright Eyes song
Life seems so short but the days mascaraed as long
So I put down my change and look for a song to play
Dear, Night. When did you become today?

Walking the pavement towards the oranging skies
I watch the sunrise like the lids above your eyes
When you see my worried face, ask if I'm okay
Dear, Night. When did you become today?

A picture paints a thousand words
But a single word holds a million meanings
Than one day a God made of love decided to create us
Spoke a single word
And there we were
And if He is love
Than every uttered syllable
And deepening breath would hold a form of love
From a hug of a brother
To a kiss from a lover
And if we were breathed love
Doesn't that make us programmed of it
Something so familiar yet unknown
Amazing and dangerous
The joy of some
And the death of most
A poisonous sting like a bite from a snake
Awaiting its victim
In the shadows coming from nowhere
Love is like that beautiful girl at a mascaraed party
Alluring but hidden
With a playful smile
And teasing fingers
A charade of the heart
and a game never won
A vial trickery
Aimed at the soul
Striking excitement and fear
A keep quiet display
Often causing pain
Dodging lies
And forced feelings
It happens in the blink of an eye
Or like a soft slow hymn
Lulling you to sleep for the last time
Arms wrapped around the idea of forever
while the morn holds your soon to be cries
And if all love is
Is broken pieces of a tale told once to many times over
Why do we still choose to feel it?
Why do we still linger in the smell of a lovers grasp
Full knowing it may tear us down
We are fools
Lost in the idea that love alone can heal us
And maybe it can
But is it worth the risk to find out?

Pie eyed, pout mouth
butterfly wings all crushed
a little girl's hand squeezed shut—
Who are you now? Mascaraed
to the death, to the death.
A young white girl slung on a pole,
a princess hung by the neck,
mannequin?
Who is your puppeteer,
does he beat you black and blue?
Does he do that to you?
Does he tell you he loves you like I do?

I love it.
But grow trees to adumbrate it’s anima.

To force a mascaraed upon its glow.
Tarp my elation for it.
It’s guttural.
I feel my definition eave when I do it.

Alien cliques called societal norms.
Make such a scintillating activity, abnormal.
I hurt no one through such a cosmetic lust.
Fabric is not a great medium for harm.

I cringe at such struggles.
For gender roles and such.
One shouldn’t care of what other think.
God knows I’m a hypocrite to state that.

I want to share my “taboo” with someone dear.

I need to.

Anyone who struggles with personal enjoyment.
Doing things that are no harm to others, but are considered deviant.
I would love to leave you with a quote.

“I am human, nothing human is alien to me.”

Where whatever clothes you want to.
Love whoever you want to with their consent.

How much longer will my stairs be able to hide my problems?
Up, up, up, they go! Face? Are you still hanging on, even by only a last mascaraed lash? Say what you want, but spiders are in.. At least that's what the street kids and i
philosophise. It's time for the cob webs to do their dance, there is no meaning.
I only have minutes left, 3:48 to be exact.

I saw him at the theatre,
an act he gave,
consisting of a mouse at a mascaraed.

I saw him at the amusement park,
playing at the arcade,
I saw his smile grow as he won the game.

I knew that smile,
way back when,
he smiled at people he knew,
and those he didn't; he did the same too.

Lost in his smile, I always had,
a deep connection with that man,
but his eyes are where the real soul stands,
and without it he was bland.

Last time I saw him,
I never had a chance,
lost in his own eyes,
he waited for her to come.

More of these celebrities
cascading through the TV screen
selling me **** I don’t want
telling me how to live
how to donate for starving kids
in a country they’d never heard of.
Look at their eyes,
nothing. Nothing there.
Vapid curiosities
the lot of them.
They fascinate me,
in the way a kitten
is fascinated by a bug.

Look at those eyes,
nothing there.
Death in a fur coat
and high heels.
Mascaraed with hairbrushes.
I can’t see myself
bedding someone like that.
For once,
I don’t hate myself enough.

the night
a mascaraed
for
the
Cheshire cat smile
stalking for her pray
for
one-quarter piece of
the
ghost-white moon