you draw your self hatred out like a kid draws out small pictures
and play double dutch with the hands on a clock, knowing how
unsafe it is out there, flirting with death and flicking me off when
i wrote out the reasons why you should stay, that this autumn fallout
is only a misconstruction of your mind's witching hour, that dystopia
won't linger and utopia will be home soon, it will blossom into your lungs
and turn the simplicity of your broken soul into something completely
quintessential and complex, like an origami rabbit, i fold my sharp edges
and twist myself to be malleable and secure for you, maybe i'm not too certain
of myself or you, but i'm not too certain on a lot of subjects, i'm worried
of being thrown into the arsonist world you started, covering up the sky with
black dense fog, the type of fog that would happen only in dangerous wildfires
i'm a controlled wildfire, but i let my fire spread just to help control your fire

- kra

born underwater a ****** to the birth of creation
complacent verses bathing in lakes wasted her patience
ocean poems emotive prose the notions grow
breast strokes sowed in silly string civilized sovereignty
divinity’s reliance divided by Earth’s dire needs
fires breathe regardless of the rain she breeds
seeds beneath the sand hold no reason to lie in wake
so we speak in foreign tongues with dominance a mistake
to take her language for another world
visions died with imminence and grandiosity
a coliseum’s misconstruction catalyzed combustion’s coldest counterculture
living within the wind sinning stings it’s singularity
glaring stares impaired all sages of their clarity
careful conscious turned rotten swimming in the toxins
glossy water robs apostles of oxygen
filtered riddles fiddled this conviction’s symmetry
& now the god’s live in ignorance and misery
crimson skies abysmal cries they’re looking at the ground
astounded to the loud doubts that overpower clouds
powdered optometry devoured flowers of their solitude
another rotten petal for every sentiment left misunderstood
confused prisoners gifted with the write to think
proles sentenced to wonder why the caged bird sings
a paradox of broken thoughts to question it’s intentions
matter undermined the undefined enlightenment
spirals in the light comprise a present tense
evanescent destination sensei keep I humble
so many stripes up in my wavelengths
widowed endorphins scrape the pain away
balanced chemically an efficacy of electricity
many marvel but the master’s prophecy is destiny

Thus on my genesis Love's fought Regret
My Ardent Sire whose Merits installed
These English Gifts whom I have thanked just yet
Carried Misconstruction; And docked the Fine Toll
This that Penance be my Honest Attempt
Yet still besieged in case of Bad Timing
The Gold I carry an Issue I Contempt
Will try once more to Win his Best Blessing
My how the Fortunes some drive the Mind mad
And took my Heart back to a Wildman's State
This cannot continue; Much have I had
Sponge this Circled Self back to my Constraint.
The Human in me, the Cause of my Lone
And Sister's Reason I banged on the Phone.

The bridge of trust smashed by bad judgement. It was made of bamboo anyway. A stone bridge would have stronger foundations to withstand this indiscretion.
Would the deep cracks limit it's resurrection?
I've rebuilt my side of the bridge but your side has drifted away down stream due to the earlier misconstruction.
The shaky understructure unable to withstand the bamboo obliteration.

i

The inferno I go into, as I shalt not be burnt by hurting arrow's
A being born of love, taking shuttle from a dove, passing the cup,
As Ill-will circle's me, the contempt of many tryeth to ****** me
As I'm loosed from their naysaying, to their gameplaying anger.

ii

Anew I wilt linger, in this round spinning ball, giving beauty of forgiveness and awe, showing other's the light of God, as the prey wilt lacerate, as angels to me shalt emancipate me of daily aching and nightly heartbreaking, for tis this spirit's overcoming all .

iii

I seeith the real between the false,i seeith the idol's the crowd worship's like a mob, I seeith the murderous bigotry of word's gone wrong, I seeith mineself singing a heavenly song, a comeback from the bygone's, a holder of many vision's.

iv

Overriding superstition, giving authenticity between dreaming wishes, not listening to misconstruction, letting mine conscience  alive from allegation, moving mine wing's, nation to nation, giving the true one's an invitation, cometh one, cometh all.

v

Smiling wide, not changing what and who I am, spiritual by birth, though this place, a man, not saying I won't, to things I canst, a wonderful show, of graceful stand, and even if I'm a one man band, (which I shalt not be,) I'll keepeth on smiling, for I am me....


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

The things we grow tired of were the same things
we once love and adore, in our relationships
Their faces, their smell and their voices
What a turned off: what a misconstruction
these little things turn out to be....

Outlines of a bird
Flying, but unstirred
In the bleak presence
Of phosphorescence!

Knots untying themselves
Loud ringing bells
Emanating petrichor
On the luminous floor!

Construction deconstruction
Misconstruction misconception
Blocks above blocks
Clocks! Moving clocks!


On the whole
It is a black box
Ready to go down the hole
Without a key, but with infinite locks

Encrypted Decrypted
Protected Unprotected
Waves after waves
Castles made of clays!

Ready for the outburst
Ready to explode
To find a body, to be the first
To walk on the forlorn road


Search is on
For the companion
The illusionary ally
Turns out to be an alter-ego
Unstoppable flow!
Unraveling mazes,
Retracing the traces
There are too many places
With a multitude of faces

Its a frantic search
From the inside
It is the soul searching for a soul!!

how strange to invest in both time and space... rather than to mind one of both attempts... perhaps time and space are relative in science, but there's hardly any parallel X to bind time and space together with a hollowed, bony, attempt of marking the final boo of man as ghost, as ghost in man... the joke reads: death to all... and the more history you hoard... the poorer you will become; and are we not the poorest of the lost last, 24 hour news? i'm more afraid to fall asleep today, or die, than wake up tomorrow; the life in death and subsequent maxim... the death and... the revelled tombstone; the gods are fools... for none have had the sparring with time to teach them a word of fleeting cherishing the most frivolous, but at the same time most prised dispossession of what could only be complimented by possessing adjacent artefacts... had i but the magnanimity to possess a heart... i wouldn't remind myself the need to keep a stone, thus shaped, in my trouser pocket.

words en masse,
       intimidation.

    "w".m.d.
   watermelon
of...

eh... a power of...

the power of misconstruction,
Bangladeshi?

  am i smiling in Saudi
or am i saying ha ha?

is my surname Khan
or is it Genghis
and the **** or Baghdad?

   what, no **** a *******
mongol?

last time i cheerios -
i was half Spencer...
*******...

   i dawn at the culminating
seduction of when shadows meets
body...

w.m.d.

  words of mass... disorientation...

and that...
in its most lethal terms,
begins by "faking" an...
                                   innocence;

no... let's trace it back to:

  *faking it...

      after all, the inverted comma
inspires the definition:
   in the gob of another -

(revising a punctuation mishap)

- are we to treat all subsequent
affairs in a demand for anti-copernican
c'mon! k'ah k'ah bl'ah she?
crow below crow above,
left is east right is west
east is right west is left,
up... down... huh?!

want a ******* birthday balloon
to match the agonising irony?!

how about a drill...
      and a head of an iraqi kid...
funny thing being...
i always wanted to beccome
a veterinarian...
             seems i was actually
born to become a... butcher.

       anatomy...
               one way or the other.
i lived trying...
      dying; will become the easy part.

sketching is really hard to understand
for a budding painter...

               to sketch with words
makes the greatest prospect paing
a ****'s worth of cube...

     sorry...
        if language cannot mean anything outside
its mathematical certainty of
coordinating masses...

    then, the last thing it's allowed to do is,
say hello
    and then, ******* without saying goodbye!

i'm tired of this quasi-english
irish ******* of attempting to figure out:
why it bothers me,
   when an advert states,
paddies, dogs, *******...

         i will not for the love of my life
bow before these harpsichords of
  shamrock!
tiny ******* pianos -
  better a truant you truly hate,
than an adamant you fail to
recognise but still intimidate
by faking,
the bitterness of "love".

language for the love of god,
is never to be riddled by
one, two or three dimensions;
sometimes, language,
has to be allowed the freedom
of being:
              non-instructive;
un-mathematical.

*there's a "light" that never dies...
as there's a "light", that's never born;
i'm too drunk to even
compliment this phrase
with any meaningful demand
for, sentiment.