meanwhile,

the Big Fat Yellow Bootay
was getting right tired of
waiting for the election to end.

so,

she set off down the highway
going ninety five...

"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!" she cried
as she gunned the engine and
threw herself in gear.

"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!  MOTHER *******!"
twice she cried,
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!  MOTHER *******!"
this second time
for extra good luck
with the unfolding election.

cool Fall breeze caressed
her yellow metal,
her big fat yellow bootay,
a glorious day to
be out on a drive!

well, except where she had
come from.

beep beep
beep beep
always driving her
beep beep beeping insane!

it shore nuf was quiet
out this way!

she turned the shiny
silver dial to turn on the
radio.
'gonna have to get me
some better speakers
one day soon.' she thought
to her big fat bus self.

and what came out blasting?

"That's Alright Mama,"
by who else?
but the King!
Elvis!

Elvis has left the building
and now,
Elvis is ON THE BUS!

she didn't quite know all
of the words,
but what the ****,
she sure could sing!

As the big fat bus
with the big fat bootay
was driving along,
singing joyfully,
she glanced in the rear
view mirrow and what
did she see?

why the ghost of Elvis himself
was sitting right there
right in the back of the bus.

He starts strumming on his
own guitar and singing,
'that's alright mama.."

so she turned off the
radio to listen
to the ghost of
the King,
Elvis,
himself,
singing in the back
of her big fat yellow bootay!

she also watched him eating
a lot of food
in the back of the bus,
her bus.

his ghostly figure
seemed to
fluctuate between fat Elvis,
and skinny Elvis,
like a seesaw.

by and by
says he,

(not the really fat one
but not the really skinny one
neither.)

'I need a pit stop.'
says the King

so the big fat bus,
with the big fat yellow bootay,
asks,
asks she,
'you wanna stop at the next
stop & go,
or
the next
fizz & wizz,
or
my fav if you really
need a constitutional,
the stop & plop?'

at this particular junction in time
this ghostly King,
was in the shape
of Fat Elvis
but very cooly outfitted,
bellbottoms and rhine stones
or were those all diamonds?

note to self,
the big fat bus
squirreled away,
check on that.
are those real or not?
more mulha is always
good
and this just might
be mana from heaven
in the form of Elvis the KING
himself
and maybe just one
of those diamonds
will fall out and
get lost in me.'

mighty strange happenings
going on around here in this
big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay.

' the stop and plop little mama,' elvis replied
with that
ohhhh,
soooooo,
divine Elvis drawl
and that darling little
thing he did with his mouth,
but was doing now
as he was sitting there in the
back of HER big fat bus
with HER big fat yellow bootay!

OH MY,
it really is a
HOKEY POKEY day!  she sighed.....

From nowhere with love, on the teenth of martober.
Dear madam, my darling, my sweet- but of no
Importance that is. For your features no longer,
To tell the truth, can be remembered. Not yours,
Yet no one's best friend. I salute you from one of
Five continents, which rests on the cowboys. Then
I loved you more than angles, and even "Omni...",
Hence, farther I am from you than- both of them.
Far away, late at night, at the bottom of valley,
In the town, where snow reaches the doorknob. I ,
Upon the sheet wringling, at least not as may be
Described somewhere in the further line,
I fluff up the pillow with "you" in a murmur,
Over the mountains, which have no bounds or end,
In the darkness, with the entire body, all your
Features, as would a crazy mirrow, I recreate.

I looked into my mirror
Saw my grandad looking back
I wondered where'd he come from
And how'd I send him back

I didn't see myself there
And my dad's not there at all
I know I saw my grandad
My dad...he's not that tall.

I know I've got dads smile
And I've still got my own hair
But, staring from my mirrow
I saw my Grandad standing there

I know it wasn't me there
I do not look that bad
The face in the reflection
Was looking pretty sad

I know I have his aches and pains
And in my head I am still me
Like I said, my dad is shorter
So....who the hell'd I see?

No mound of dirt was shuffled to top a grave.
There will be no tombstone, no epitaph.
No weeds to pull, lawn to mow, flowers to tend.
There will be none of these.  Only this box, this
terra-cota colored plastic box, comprised of a
sampling of him, secured by a seat belt on my
car's back seat.
It's fallen to me to transport his ashes from a city
in Ohio to one in West Virginia, my poor dad,
who's had the misfortune of dying in a hospital
two hundred miles from home.
How ironic, I think, that of all his years of living,
he never once rode in my car, yet here we are on
a road trip together.
This is not my father.  But it may as well be,
the distance looms between us just as big a gap
as it ever was, minus the polite conversation,
the awkward moments we'd always encountered
when together not knowing what to say to one
another.
As I drive I feel this need to talk to him, to tell
him what I have always wanted to tell him.
I love you Dad.  But the words won't make that
transition from head to mouth, prove themselves
no easier to say after his death than they did in life.
So I recite my poetry to him, poetry being the
only thing I have to offer, words I'd never shared
with him when he was alive.
Poems flow from my mouth as freely as the tears
which stream down my face.  I cry for my dad
but also for myself, for all the hugs never
exchanged, all the words left unsaid.
The car is eerily silent and I half-expect were I to
glance in the rearview mirrow I'd see his ghost
sitting on the back seat.  I search the sky as I drive,
praying for a sign, something to let me know he is
at peace,  But there is nothing, only blue sky dotted
with clouds, and this plastic box entrusted to me
for safe delivery.  It asks nothing of anyone, gives
nothing in return.
Shortly it will be delivered to its final destination.
Without hoopla or fanfare it will be placed on a
table set up for the ceremony.  Put there for the
sole purpose of giving him a proper mourning.

I've been shattered in a 1000 pieces
Pain,hurt,sorrow,despair, releases
Im laying like a broken mirrow on the ground
Each piece crying
You have to hear the lonely sound

I'm willing to let all the pain go
Even if I'm in a 1000 pieces
Just take ahold of my soul
You will feel the sorrow  as each piece releases

I'm 1000 pieces
Waiting
Anticipating
I'm 1000 pieces
Just find the piece that is my heart
Grab it tightly and let it flow
Only by your pain can I grow

I am falling down
into that deep darkness
I feel weak and broken
I am a shadow of my self
Dark kisses touches my face
let the darkness swallow me
I am so use to pain
and its drive me insane
The  taste of hope
is disappeared
I guess I must swallow the pain
and wait til it end
No escape
No hope
Just darkness
I cry in the dark
with broken heart
I look at the mirrow
I stare at my self
just like my soul
dark and empty
I am falling down
where the darkness
surround me
I guess I must
swallow the pain
and wait til it end
No escape
No hope
Just darkness
No escape...
Link to the song:Depression
https://soundcloud.com/martinavenkova/depression

Have you ever
Sat next to a
Neon yellow-orange pig?
Stared into its black eyes,
Its thick black eye brows,
It's two ******* nostrils surrounded
By that
Neon orange
Skin,
And wondered why the kitten,
Who enters with such
Curiosity and sniffage,
Cares so much at first and then,
Cares so little at all.

Certain men
Are like
This.

Certain women,
Act
Like this.

Certain people
Are meant to make
Certain people
Better people.

We are the building blocks
Of
Eachother, one another, everyone.

And I can't stand
The way my mind thinks and behaves/
Self-desctructs, re-constructs
These visions of illusory
Reality.
I've achieved nothing,
Yet,
I smile at the clouds who've achieved
Everything
By
Molecularly genetic chance.

Aren't we all just mistakes
In the gigantic genome experiement of life?
Accomplishing...something?

You know...I've got a pig roast this Saturday?
You know...I think about moving
And I think about screaming at strangers?
You know...I wonder what it would like to be hit by a
80 mile an hour car?
You know I know that all my peers, all my friends, all
My closest dearest closer than family people
Are utterly miserable with everything and just

WANT TO GET AWAY FROM IT ALL

Exhale

But,

To

Where?

We can't all become
Three million dollar

Junkies,

Can we?

There is no great state
Anymore.
It's broken.

The ideology
Of war
Is
Dead.

Patriotism has turned
The country inward when
All should be
Outward.

But then, you make,
The hair on the neck,
Stand on end.

Be in the scene and see
The small grains of sand atop
Her big toe nail, the sun-reflecting upon the nail,
How its pink shade reminds you of
Cotton candy no, bubblegum, yes,

Bubblegum.

These are the minds
Of formers past.
They've made their trists and tried
Their minds toward
Life that was both meaningful and
Meaningless.

What I wish to do is paint with words,

Our words,

So,

When all is finished,

I can see, without mirror

For a mirrow is a stage and a stage
Is too close, as is, the mirror.

Our age needs distance to affect
Any change.

What we've become,

What we truly are,

From there,

From here so to

Perhaps see,

Where we,

Should go, next.

i fear
my footsteps...what if i am followed
my shade...is it an ambush?
my fingerprints...stranger in my house

I just love the person i see in the mirrow now.

How?

How will I forget you?
How far have I gone?
That I can't see my back
I'm not such a blind driver,
That drives without looking at his mirrow...
On a narrow road,
Thinking to arrive safely...

Do you think that I forget you,
Your face,
Walking
And thoughts in class....

If I forget everything,
Methinks these would not be forgotten....

Don't you think I'm that a child?
That remembers his mother's caring
in the day and night...
Hes efforts in disciplining him,
Her responses to his cries

open your ears and hear me!
I still see you in my hearts
With both good and bad image
We don't talk but you are in my mind

Know that the tree you watered
Is spreading its roots,
Products,
And shades in the world...

I'm still grateful

By Muhammad Auwal Ibrahim