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Raphael Uzor May 2014
The intermittent, distant rumbling in the skies was suggestive of chronic flatulence. The sun struggled in futility to shine – like a crying child who had been forced to smile. Lightning flashed in quick successions, momentarily throwing brilliant streaks of white light across the room. The angry growl of thunder that followed was enough to send a troop of Howler monkeys scampering for safety.

The lights flickered as though unable to make up their minds to stay or not to. But apparently, the wind had zero tolerance for such petty indecisiveness. And like an enraged, stimulated, demented animal, it gusted through the windows and doors, hauling loose papers, light bulbs in every direction, shattering the bulbs to smithereens, as if to punish them for being so fickle. The lights died.

Thick black blankets eerily stretched across the skies with gusto, menacingly extinguishing whatever was left of the sun’s brilliance. More rumbles and flashes followed in royal herald of the impending storm. And in no time, slick sheets of rain torrentially came pouring down, cascading the roofs to form puddles almost as soon as they hit the ground.

​I looked in horror, fervently praying that whoever God had appointed to build the ark in our time had not diverted the funds. I was trapped in the office, and I knew exactly what this meant…flood, scarcity of buses, hiked transport fares, heavy taffic and very likely, at least one month of blackout.
It would be another three hours of steady downpour before the rain eventually stopped, as gracefully as it had been ushered in.
I picked up my bag, rolled up my trousers in earnest anticipation of the inevitable flood, and made my way home.

​To my utter bewilderment, there were no floods! The lights from the street lamps cast a soft golden glow on the slick roads, seemingly creating mirages of pools of water from afar off. But they were mere illusions. The gurgling sound coming from the underground drainage was proof of where all the water had gone. It was a strange sight. Like some alien cyborg from space had been fiddling with a time machine that had accidentally propelled us twenty years into the future.

My new world was a three-fold utopian dream. So surreal!
I could see beautiful, high-rise, state of the art edifices with mind-blowing architectural designs that blatantly seemed to defy the laws of gravity. I could see world-class hospitals that admitted ailing dignitaries from around the world and top-notch schools that offered scholarships to deserving indigenous and international students.
Sure enough, this was Nigeria! The Nigeria we all dreamed of.

And there was light…electricity! - In myriad of colours that seemed to have been dispersed from several colossal disco ***** via *“wireless fidelity”
technology. I strained to hear the noise from generators, but I was disappointed. I couldn’t even hear the all too familiar cacophony of horns blaring, conductors shouting, loud discordant music, rattling vehicle engines etc. It was like everyone and everything had taken a crash course on orderliness.

I saw a vibrant transportation system that included high speed railway lines, paved road networks that looked like a child’s doodles, first-class air strips and efficient sea transportation.
I saw a working government - one that had provided the critical infrastructure for her people.

I saw a nation with a large industrialized economy, where the dividends of democracy had been delivered to the people by their government. One consciously founded on equity and honesty of purpose, and courageously sustained by unfaltering faithfulness and unwavering patriotism.      
A nation whose economic boost did not come solely from crude oil exploration and production, but also from crude oil refining, agriculture, manufacturing, infrastructure, food, services, tourism, automobiles, transportation, education etc.
A nation that thronged with international investors from all walks of life, who were not in the least afraid to invest in her.

And then, I saw her people. A people proud of their citizenship.
A people proud to be called NIGERIANS.
A people who were not given to religious, political, or tribal bigotry.
A people who individually and collectively, gallantly bore the torch of the vision of their heroes past.
A people who earnestly and persistently worked to see only goods “Made in Nigeria” sold in their markets.

Where there was once despair, I saw hope. Where there was once fear, i saw security. Where there was once disgruntlement, I saw satisfaction. Where there was once poverty, I saw wealth opportunities and where there was unemployment, I saw jobs. Death had given way to life and life to hope.

I started, as I felt something cold and wet trickle down my forehead. It was droplets of rain from a leak in the roof just above my head. I was still in my office, I never left. The rain had lulled me to sleep. Even more sadly, I realized it had all been a dream.
Slowly and regretfully, I packed my things and left for home. It was pitch black outside as I carefully waded through the polluted waters, jauntily holding my bag, more because I was afraid to lose it in the flood than in a hopeless bid to dignify the situation.

Two hours later, I crawled into bed. I did not have to turn the lights off…the electric poles had gone for a swim. A very long one.



© ONUGHA EBELE VICTORIA
This is NOT my work, but I found it amazingly share worthy.
In response to a sardonic essay written in the recent Saturday Nation by Proffessor Ekara Kabaji, wryly  disregarding the position of Kwani in the global literary movement within and without Kenya , I beg to be permitted a leeway  to observe that any literature, orature, music,drama,cyborature,prisnorature,wallorature,streetorature , sculptor  or painting can effortlessly thrive and off course it has been thriving without professors of  literature, but the reverse is not possible as a proffessor of literature cannot be when literature is not there. Facts in support of this position are bare and readily available in the history of world literature, why they may not be seen is perhaps the blurring effects from tor like protuberant irrelevance of professors of literature in a given literary civilization.
A starting point is that literature exists as a people’s subculture, it can be written or not written like the case of orature which survive as an educative and aesthetic value stored in the collective memory of the given people. The people to be pillars of this collectivity of the memory are not differentiated by academic ranking for superlativity of any reason, but they are simply a people of that place, that community, that time, that heritage, that era and that collective experience. Writing it down is an option, but novels and other written matter is not a sine qua non for existence of literature in such situations. This is not a bolekaja of literature as Proffessor Ekara Kabaji would readily put, but it is a stretch towards realism that it is only people’s condition that creates literature. Poverty, slavery, colonialism, ***, marriage, circumcision, migration, or any other conditions experienced as collective experience of the people is stored or even stowed away in the collective memory of the people as their literature. Literature does not come from idealistic imagination of an educated person.
Historical experience of written literature informs us that the good novels, prose, drama and poetry were written before human society had people known as professors of literature. I want you my dear reader and You-Tube audience to reflect on the Cantos of Dante Alighieri in Italy, novels of Geoffrey Chaucer in England, Herman Melville and his Moby **** in Americas, poetry of Omar khwarisim in Persia, Homeric epics of Odyssey in Greece and the Makonde sculptures of Africa and finally link your reflections to Romesh Tulsi who grafted the Indian epic poetry of Ramayana and Mahabharata. At least you must realize that in those days literature was good, full of charm, very aesthetic and superbly entertaining. This leads to a re-justification that, weapon of theory is not useful in literature. University taught theories of literature have helped not in the growth of literature as compared to the role played by folk culture.
Keen observation will lead you dear reader, down to revelations that; professors of literature squarely depend on the thespic work of the people who are not substantially educated to make a living. Let me share with you the story about Dr. Tom Odhiambo who went to University of Witwasterand in South Africa for post graduate studies in literature only to do his Doctoral research on books of David G Maillu. Maillu is a Kenyan writer, he did not finish his second year of secondary school education but he has been successfully writing poetry and prose for the past three decades. His successful romantic work is After 4.30, probably sarcasm against Kenyan office capitalism, while his eclectic, philosophical and scholarly work is the Broken Drum. Maillu has many other works on his name. But the point is that Dr. Odhiambo now teaches at University of Nairobi in the capacity of senior lecturer in Literature. What makes him to put food on the table is the effort of un-educated person in the name of David Maillu. Dr.Odhiambo himself has not written any book we can mention him for, apart from regular literary journalism he is often involved in on the platforms of the Literary discourse in the Kenyan Saturday Nation which are in turn regular Harangues and ripostes among literature teachers at the University of Nairobi, the likes of Dr Siundu, Proffessor wanjala Chris and Evans Mwangi just but to mention by not being oblivious to professors; Indangasi and Shitanda.
No study has yet been done to establish the role of university professors on growth of African literature. One is overdue. Results may be positive role on negative role, myself I contemplate negative role. Especially when I reflect on how the African literati reacted on the publication of Amos Tutuola’s book The Palm Wine Drinkard. The reactions were more disparaging than appreciative. Taban Lo Liyong reacted to this book by calling Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus as well as taking a self styled intellectual responsibility in form of writing a more  schooled version of this book; Taking Wisdom up the Palm Tree. Nigerians of Igbo (Tutuola being a Yoruba) nation cowed from being associated with the book as it had shamefully broken English, broken grammar etc. Wole Soyinka had a blemished stand, but it is only Achebe who came out forthrightly to appreciate the book in its efforts to Africanize English for the purpose of African literature. Courtesy of Igbo wisdom. But in a nutshell, what had happened is that Amos Tutuola had taken a plunge to contribute towards written literature in Africa.
One more contemplated result from the research about professors and African literature can be that apart from their role of criticism, professors write very boring books. A ready point of reference is deliberate and reasonless obscurantism taken Wole Soyinka in all of his books, Soyinka’s books are difficult to understand, sombre, without humour and not capable to entertain an average reader. In fact Wole Soyinka has been writing for himself but not for the people. No common man can quote Soyinka the way Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is quoted. Achebe wrote Things Fall Apart when he had not began his graduate studies. However, he did not escape the obvious mistake of professors to become obscure in the Anthills of the Savanna, the book he wrote when he had become a proffessor. This is on a sharp contrast to entertaining effectiveness, simplicity and thematic diversity of Captain Elechi Amadi, Amadi who studied chemistry but not literature. He does not have a second degree, but his books from the Concubine, The great Ponds, and Sunset in the Biafra and Isibiru are as spellbinding as their counterparts in Russia.
Kenyan scenario has Ngugi wa Thiongio, he displayed eminence in his first two books; Weep not Child and The River Between. These ones he wrote when he was not yet educated, as he was still an undergraduate student at Makerere University. But later on Ngugi became a victim of prosaic socialism, an ideology that warped his literary imagination only to put him in a paradoxical situation as an African communist who works in America as an English teacher at Irvine University. His other outcrops are misuse of Mau Mau as a literary springboard and campaigning for use of Kikuyu dialect of the Gema languages to become literary Lingua Franca in Kenya. Such efforts of Ngugi are only a disservice to Kenyan literature in particular and African literature collectively. Ngugi having been a student of Caribbean literature has failed to borrow from global literary behaviour of Vitian S. Naipaul.  Ngugi’s position also contrasts sharply with Meja Mwangi whose urban folksy literature swollen with diversity in themes has remained spellbinding entertainers.
The world’s literary thirsty has never failed to get palatable quenching from the works of Harriet Bechetor Stowe, Robert Louis Stevenson, Shakespeare, Alice Munro, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, John Steinbeck, Garcia Guarbriel Marguez,Salman Rushdie, Lenrie Peters, Cyprian Ekwenzi, Nikolai Gogol,I mean the list is as long as the road from Kaduna to Cape town. Contribution of these writers to global literature has been and is still critical. Literature could not be without them. Surprisingly, most of them are not trained in literature; they don’t have a diploma or a degree in literature, but some have won literature Nobel Prize and other prizes. Alfred Nobel himself the author of a classical novella, The Nemesis, does not have University education in literature. What else can we say apart from acceding to the truth that literature can blossom without professors, the Vis-à-vis an obvious and stark impossibility.
Ben Brinkburn Apr 2013
Pieter is a Norwegian and he lives
in the ground floor flat and takes
the bus to work and sits in his window
on his Vaio laptop with just a bare
bulb lighting his room
and receives a lot of mail from
South America
and we chat in the corridor downstairs
sometimes he’d hand me a beer
always Heineken
never ever anything else
and he’d tell me he existed primarily on
a diet of bananas probiotic yoghurt
prime beef and eggs along with beer
and on Saturday evenings only
two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon
which he’d sleep off on Sundays listening to
recordings of his home town’s church bells
and he said he understood Norway better
than the UK
you knew who you were in Norway and
were always a touch away from a friend
or foe and there was no artifice involved
just icy mountains and clear seas and the release
of arctic breath
and one Friday night Barb came over
and we sat with Pieter on the stairs
drinking his Heineken and I caught him
eyeing up Barb’s legs and I didn’t blame him
no sir I enjoy an eyeful and more myself
but we got steadily more drunk
and I ended up asking him if he was
a drug runner for coke-crazed Peruvians
and he just smiled as if it was
not such a crazy question and he
said
no, just money for Nigerians
and we clinked bottles
and we laughed
park it into an account cream off your
cut and move it on
a piece of ****
nice work if you can get it and we drink to that
and I hope Barb is feeling as ***** as me
and doesn’t want to go to the Beehive
before any Friday night genital work out
as its cold and snowing outside
and I’m not made
of Norwegian stuff.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
the only shame i feel: muslims hold a single book to be synonymous of a library.

apologies, this is why i wasn't fully integrated,
i hold enough respect for the English ethnicity to keep
the reins on my Slavic origin, and its ancient history,
i want to see the Graeae cauldron
of multiple-ethnicity and culturalism:
what with former slaves learning
rap to topple the slavish shackles?
no one ever heard my story under
the Germans, Russians and Austro-Hungarians,
all those to topple Israel already toppled me
to migrate and leave my mother *******
toward an an export: until the black gold runs
out you sand-******... until the oil runs out...
until the oil runs out...
you're the one abusing it because you have it...
until the oil runs out sand-******...
you gonna take the slang out of me?
what is it now? global or feminist tactic?
Chine ain't about to give Dagenham back,
like they're not giving Ostrowiec Św.:
first division in 1997.. extra-class...
yummie piggies at the trough:
money was created to pacify and let
rich boy girls' spend...
      Lwów / Lvov was still in poker hands
of Roosevelt... so much for ******* H'america...
     biker-clan-glandular-rhaps (or plural of odes):
****! i hate belonging to come or some thing...
i always thought about comedy prone enlarged *******
for the geography between left ****** antarctic and
right ****** arctic in tune with the jiggly fatty-bergs..
no... factual-bergs...
but you'd never disintegrate into a 0a.d.
given the colonial history narrative that doesn't
involve the old testament and ***-kissers and
hefty conservative ***-pleasers like the book
of Antioch proposed... made that up...
got mixed up thinking on the necromancer of
the year that was actually 1997-8
17th *KSZO Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski
, tablature
pld.     pts.        w.   d.     l.    f.      a.
         34      24    6   6 22 24 47...
piggie piggie: got the giddy giggly ***** ****-a-doodle-do...
and i know i would too...
small town Polish town, a big Russian
would-be clever-pincer attracted to ******-pinching,
and all the milky drools, down the Nile toward
Cairo, so long as you wife is an Oasis of hamburgers and
strobe-berry epileptics, i.e.: blink 182's what's my age again?
i speak the ******* sprechen and i don't even belong
here... it's like i'm apologising for something that
was coming... thankfully i'm resolved to integrate cognitively
but in the domestic realm have nothing to do with
this language...
     i don't want to speak it to my mother,
i don't want to speak it to my father,
i can't afford to rent a house and prolong a university
bachelor lifestyle, the arabs and nigerians bought
all the flats out and are renting them out...
hopefully to Somalian pirates for: essex tan orange
sake in terms of: if i figured my tongue was an
axe in the first place... i'd lace my life with
many more people applauding...
i never understood this desire to integrate without
having the right to censor what i'm about to
embrace... a contract, much of smallprint readied
on the fidgety hand...
       it's not that i suddenly chose to
ethnically suspend my origins for a need to respect,
i kept my mother tongue for times such as these,
when i can't be approached as white and as inheritor
of colonialism... if i say i'm German they'll *******
clap, i remember once they asked me as if i were
going to do an app. for the caliphate asking me:
you German? no... Polish... huh? what's that?
somewhere in between Germany and Russia...
now i can't claim the ethnicity that my's right hand
of use with tongue... and now i can't claim the
tongue that isn't the ethnicity but is otherwise my
limb-for-limb... 5p.m. tea 100 years later is
a hijab on the streets of Birmingham...
no secret... i just see why i need to be involved like
some James Dean "wannabe" schizoid spice...
there will be no news from Poland concerning
the migrant crisis, no talk of a Muslim takeover...
ironically, as Monty Python would have said:
everyone was expecting a Polish Inquisition,
or as the crowds chanted: Evangelism! not the Quran!
happily are those: seeing America involve
itself in this slogan... me? as ever, the Pontius Pilate:
i said it once, i'll say it again:
panic is worse than fascism...
   panic is worse than fascism...
you don't expect panic, hence the beasts' stampede
in urban areas... fascism? you know it's
coming, and you know it's not good...
             fascism is panic realised too late,
fascism is panic organised... you knew it was coming
and you did nothing to prevent it...
  the only thing that could have prevented Trump
winning the presidency was acknowledging an unequivocal
membership of the union... Cracow wasn't built in
one day... trigger ******* happy panic button: press!
press! oppress! that special relationship of yours?
yeah... ye'ha! rear 'em in with that quiff of yours, cowboy!
ye'ha!
please don't get me involved, i know how to
impale a turk on a rotten wooden stump, rather than
crucify a Syrian on a geometric of mahogany
amid sacred words: so descended onto a mosque's minaret
and the hippy-hair-debate, and no hair and the hajj.
i know, people are apprehensive you're not a businessman
employing 100 slave Mongolians enlisted to blowing
up 1000 helium filled balloons an hour for birthday
party contracts... and none of them are properly trained
in ventriloquist's chipmunk!
              james dean was the original schizophrenic...
who treated society as an asylum,
and the asylum as a garden of Eden...
                                       lucky him: mono-linguistic...
   i sometimes wish i had that luxury on inherent
cleansing of ethnicity, so i could be left with only
a culinary boasting akin to the Persian quote on
falafel... but then you never know who's side you're
gonna be on...
i might as well quote him akin to j. franco post-doppelganger:
you're tearing me apart!
                                   and they say people think...
nonetheless: whether thinking or not,
they are... a welcome aversion in finding pleasure in
zoos; esp. the times when they're sweating like sardines
stashed in vulvas on underground trains: ventriloquists'
suggestion? moans: foetal moans... get me out of here...
otherwise groaned? harder... mm... deeper...
make your pelvis kiss my pelvis! mmm... baby!
first your read the Marquis to get a hard-on,
then you ****-off that hard-on...
and then you do a hand-job to someone else
and pass on the Oxfam motto to some other "hungry" Afrikaan.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
standing on the hellbender periphery...
something happens in
the anglo-lingual world...
something correlating injustice...
"whiteness" - the babylon circus...
you name it... and somehow...
this doesn't explode to other areas
of the world, but merely implodes...

perhaps it's the same in france and germany...
how scandinavia (notably sweden)
succumbed to this: i will not or rather:
i don't want to know...

i actually miss not having made
myself available to my grandparents
for this past month...
i'm pretty sure i would have read
and read and stayed sober...

4 years outside of the confines of both
england and december teasing january...
a hip-replacement surgery of
a very demanding mother...
turns out... her worries were unjustified...
if the surgeon was happy...
the nurses were happy...
it required almost a month of passing...
her vampirism draining me...
until some physiotherapist explained
it to her...

but that's not enough...
to vacuum each day to better keep her
impulsive-compulsive ticks in check...
as much as i like the joke of owning
two bonsai tigers...
and i haven't minded the cooking,
the ironing, the whole Cindarella shabang...
but when there's all that...
and there's the father loitering
around waiting for a new contract...

all the great things i ended up doing
with a degree in chemistry...
this is my last outlet...
get busy scribbling,
drinking and... over-rating my ambitions...
but all these anglo-lingual problems
just invite themselves in...
i listen to them and...

on the doorsteps of Russia...
can you imagine what sort tangos this
multi-cultural experiment would dance
in Russia?
that's practically an Asian entity...
or in the Balkans with its still preserved
Turkic presence of Islam...
anywhere where...

- i really can't see the problems...
other than this: this is a very terrible piece
of writing... look at it...
flabby, disjointed...
different problems in Russia...
or... ha... written in the vicinity of London...
with a mind-set still bound up
to having Belarus and Ukraine as neighbours...
and Russia too...

on the hellbender periphery of "whiteness"...
this whole: we were colonial powers once
argument... is sort of dead on my ears...
even i can attest: the darker skinned Kenyans
and the lighter skinned Nigerians...

i'm actually tired of the whites
who are pushing their transcendental *******...
never more free if they didn't push their
ideas and instead learned a new language...
apparently england fares the worst
when it comes to bilingualism...
circa 30% of its 15 - 35 year olds speak
a second language...
compared with Denmark: circa 90+%...
germany circa 80%... Poland thereabouts...

for some reason i was never taught
to "love" my fellow-countrymen... being an émigré...
how much of it was an automated: self-exile
and how much of it: we did this for you
to have a better life...
better life - as i now ask...
it's a life... i don't have comparative literature
to call it any better or any worse...
it is what it is...

i'm tired and i'm drinking:
which usually implies that i will be more honest
than usual...

the better parts of me i've left with other people,
what i have accumulated is,
the worst part of them... mostly their: sanctimonious
appeal... or the bigmouth strikes: yet again...

even Russia is a multicultral societ...
but there's no prancing beyond the better part
of the trough of Moscow's snippet piglets...
moss-co... opt in or opt-out...

the lost ability to consecrate one's life
in postcard snippers of photographs:
that once upon a time other people would take...
but now you take yourself...

imagine a man that masturbates once...
every "blue moon"... on / off...
what door is opened most frequently
in the house? the fridge is opened more times
than even the front door...
and then there's the selfie barrage...
because... looking into a mirror is no longer
enough...
if photography can be an art-work...
what the hell is the photograph
when one can focus in on something in a mirror?
are people who take these photographs
are afraid of looking in the mirror?

to have to stand completely stark naked...
mollusk-esque...
and the world's not quiet an oyster...
and all that: one punch sucker and it's
not so much a one punch k.o.,
and a one punch k.o. and a postmortem...
i've seen one of these examples:
"i.r.l.": i even hovered over the body
with a bunch of bystanders and said
out-loud...
'well... this sweet ******* is
not seeing next spring' - i.e. getting up
and having life-support machines
attached to him...

evolutionary: to begin with...
it's norman normie normansky...

oh yeah, i've seen a one punch post-mortem,
i've been to a brothel,
and i've been to a strip-club...
but still in Russia...
and esp. in Poland...
on the periphery of "whiteness"...
and there was no "cipher" to follow-suit....
what's expected is...
not expected...

because the button of cleavage...
which... let's face it...
one can't distinguish it from the peach
of an ***...
i wonder: would i, ever be bound...
to the grand canyon; "exemplification"?
please, stress any "further"...
two croissants doing the rub-rub
in an imitation game for two mollusks *******...
as ever: looking for
a tomahawk and a... scalp...

but in Russia: you would never see
this pseudo!
pseudo is a cuss-word reserved for petting
hunting dogs...
when you want them to aport! in reverse....
not in Russia, not in Poland...
good cuck-luck taming Ukraine...
perhaps all these ******* ever knew...
was how to seem: mouthy...
appropriate... and what better place to start...
than some obscrucity equivalent
to Rotherham!

oh i see it... when the THETA becomes the V...
rover nor rho-f-f rho-f-f...
******* r and am!
or simply quartz... and spam canned ham!

i was never expected to be the thief among
prostitutes...
kissing and the dosage of the reprimand
buther... cut always below the bulk
of a knee... survived the thinning
of the shins...
in psychiatric terms my "codition" is alluded
to as: the crude soup...
never was a more sane man demanded
to feel inadequacy...

but i salvaged for better complaints...
this is not even, remotely assertive of...
when i want and i will not
disparage from sound savegery
and... "that thing in the back of my mind"...
the sane people call it:
the hallucination of morality...
they're all hush hush about it...
they don't want to be prescribed:
shock-treatment of... being dropped into
an ice bath... to hell with their bowties!

jesus mary and joseph...
i could never become a jack the ol' ripper
though... i became a tapeworm of kissing
when it came to the canvas of
prostitutes...
parasitical lips... bite-down tooth envy
of my great-grandfather...
what i could never kiss...
i always wanted to bite to tease with...

now my libido is satisfied...
i can claim not being the hyperbolic outlier....
i don't need a wife,
a mother in law... a child...
a shadow life of a Chikatilo...
to lend myself to Cain...
i can absolve myself with the rites of Abel...
how... oh how this most pristine how...
i only supposed i'd be dead...
and not playing both "victim"...
prosecutor... and inspector columbus to boot!

conventional language scares me...
there's so much hiding behind
immovable objects...
that in turn the moon or the table become
quasi-deities in a world
littered with demigod *****!
of the polytheistic gods...
which one... didn't chance a common semblance
to a *******?
perhaps i've earned this rigid tongue...
rattle and sawdust itching from it...
first bound...

last resort: this is not about to become
a conventionality of language...
this is not going to become...
an aud lang syne...
this is not going to become: tea-party
forget me: forget me or taste the forget-me-not!

revised lent topic: on the hellbender periphery...
how these post-colonial former subjects...
well unless you're in Poland,
Belarus, Ukraine, Russia...
mein gott! i really should start knocking
on Russian's door, more often...
this sort of ******* that's allowed
in England would be... most likely...
quickly suppressed...
for the good of the people:
it's always: for the good of the people...
oops... " "...
yeah yeah... "for the good of the people"...

the colonial ambitions...
and the guilt of being white in eastern europe...
which is why i can never master
the english conundrum...
while kenyans are darker than the nigerians...
but in their dark-choc...
seem to be basked in coconut oil
that oozes from the Indian ocean...
Kenyans who import timber from Ghana?
and the Nigerians...

oh sure sure sweetheart!
we can revive the Balkan enterprise...
you just say when!
we'll have the christian serbs run amok...
over the islam minorities...
sure sure...
it's almost akin to: teasing Russia
to climb out of its Caucasian bed-root...
when it ****** with the Turkic peoples...

and of course... coming across the
Afro-Europeans of the colonial present, past,
and future... there was only one history
of / for the Europeans...
origins in Africa...
sorry... what about the Indo- prefix?

here we have the sanskrit...
here we have the hierogylphs...
but... what of the writing of ancient
Kenyans?
i'm no better... came st. cyrill and his greek
contra the glagolitic...
which is... probably southern slavic...
and... there were the runes
and the ancient romans fighting
the tribes of Danube... but never as far north
as the Baltic did they come...

but in mind: i'm always going to be bound
to the periphery knocking on the doors
of Kiev and Novgorod...
with the Mongol also citing:
he too knocked...
something happened... had his hand cut off
at the wrist with the remnant budding
leftover of the Crimean Tartars...

so... this passover former colonial...
"grief" is now running former colonial society's
mischief?
am i white, or am i asian?
i will never know...
Islam and what? the crusades of the baltic states
by the teutonic knights?
and Europe and Europe and Europe
without the english, the myth of troy revived
in Italy... and the proud yet backward
greeks...
i too thought: if it's not feral enough...
it's feral enougn where english is not spoken!

after all... england is a far far away place...
even if i'm currently "living" in it...
it wasn't invaded and all it had to propose was...
its own ******* to the external world...
pristine england...
pristine p.s. england...

this anglo-phile... ahem... "problem"?
in ukraine or in russia?
it's a problem and a problem of this sort
is treated with a sort of amnesia...
equivalent to:
today's Monday, yes?
oh... today's not a Monday?
will i still you if you mind calling it a Tuesday?!

the body intact bound to a vicinity of London...
the mind... detached... elsewhere...
perhaps it was the over-rationalisation
of the darwinistic approach...
again: even copernicus didn't or wouldn't
have entertained such an over-reach
of his heliocentrism become dogmatic...
copernicus who?
exactly! only someone like wittgenstein
would celebrate copernicus...
the west only celebrates galileo:
because of the trial...

i can attest though... mendeleev is secure!
is it perhaps odd...
that some ****- would not find
differences between a croat
and a moldavian?
a kashubian and a silesian?
a scot an a welshman?

imagine my ah! gasp!
the tribes within a tribe...
the "home" team consisting of liverpudlians!
and the "away" team consisting of scousers!
liverpool f.c. supporters of the former...
everton supporters for the latter...
but we're all white!
i'm "white white" because i've acquired
this tongue and i can...
somehow... forget mein: wurzeln...

mind you... elsewhere?
that word... root? in deutschezunge?

wurzeln: decipher: nurse! scalpel!
wur-zeln...
no no... this will not do...
wü-ř-eln
alternatively...
wü-ž-eln...

and that's not "woo"... it's a V-not-U...
voor-zeln!
alternatively there's the ż (rz)...
which is equivalent to either ř or ž...
ř = r(z) and ž = (r)z...
"when" and "where" you know that's
an orthographic distinction to begin with...
i.e. ř = r(z) and ž = (r)z
when rz = ż...

i really have "real" problems to mind
of my own, on the periphery of:
the "western lands"... st. cyril is biting at my toes...
as ancient roman bites back...
the alphabet intact...
you either learn some greek...
or you don't gloat about being lazy about
not having acquired some passable "knowledge"
of cyrilic...

so? here's to taking another selfie from the perspective
of fearing to look into a mirror...
and here's to some new obscure modern hieroglyphic
take on the "thumbs-up"... and: shmiley :)!

better i stick to the diacritical markers...
niche point of interest...
niche to the point of claustrophobia...
but of all these anglo- problems?
these "racial" problems?
yes, yes, racial problems in "eastern" europe...
of real concern...
the russian empire and the kazakh people...
mongol remains...
ottoman remains...
western europe now being nothing but
shame for the rest of us...

"the rest of us"... "us"...
"we" could have said... before they had a chance
to gloat... to buffer gloating...
to pride themselves beside pride per se...
to mistake pride for gloating...
before "we" came and learned their language...
and found the leashes of their starved
dobermann hounds...
the mediocre liberal elites of the dutch...
the belgians and their... swiss ambitions...
hell: did they really have to invite
the swedes into this "problem"?!

perhaps this is written in english...
sure as **** it's not written by a native...
i'm no more an englishman than
a parsley root is a ******* carrot!
although i dare say...
that essex hue of being: toasted...
coming from a lazy afternoon at a snippet
of a Brighton beach?
the well-tanned look?
no... even i don't want to fake being
Thai in December...

i thought i'd ease the "tension"...
who can say: i'm piglet pink with a dash of
cranberry... cosmopolitan cocktail whenever i
pretend to "feel like it"...
otherwise porky leather...
and then... the layers and hues of...
copper and chocolate *******...
then there's that amnesia rust...
and there's always that porcelain japanese...
the albino iranian and we can have
a ******* **** contrastic hues...
copper over there, some cinnamon over here...
some chocolate in between
and some porky leather 'ere...
personally i think i'm more sepia than white...
there's still that visible blood in my veins
that allowed me to conjure up:
the blue-bloods...
better in german: der blaugeblüt...

perhaps: when in rome...
well... the vandals and the rest of the evil brood
had to, at some point...
tell the romans... you're not being yourselves...
there's no longer a social cordiality in place...
there's no more: when in rome...
because i'm not native of these lands
and of this tongue...
but i will not be... smothered by some
*******-worth-a-roasting debility mongers
and mongrels of: subversion!

you should visit Russia from time to time...
if you get a chance to **** a siberian
******...
hell: don a ******, she'll tell you she's
on contraceptive pills...
then "all of a sudden" you'll find yourself
wondering: matt! i think i'm pregnant...
months after the relationship ended...
and she's on her next pair of gloves;
but she's calling you... for you to pick up
the pieces...

diese englischprobleme ar nicht mein "sache"!
and if there's a heaven...
i pray to god i speak some obscure dialect
of german... bohemian german...
silesian german...
i'll even settle for gothic german!
not for some love of the people...
i just want to imagine myself as having
died a: lebkuchenbäcker...

a gingerbreadbaker...
since *** didn't cut it...
and ******* became a yawn...
there's only this...
the remains of exploring language
without having those stiff, polite...
practical, teasing an escape from solipsism,
formal... samples of language use...
this is the best i can offer...
to use language for the sort of reasons...
that with the language thus used...
i will not have familiar ground to stand /
walk on... since this language does not
exist in the dignified everyday:
lick-the-envelope... seal it... send.
KAMAU Oct 2020
The wind of change
the wind of Revolution,on our sails
  soon it will sweep across all countries
all over my beloved continent
Stronger than the harmattan I hear it is
the cry has been heard
the wails are too loud
the battle lines drawn
young nigerians say no to tsars
and hell noooo to SARS
message is one #abolish SARS
a united no to oppression
fear not their portion
Beginning of the end
they are ready
ready to reclaim the soul of Africa
message is one from young Nigerians
we want to live,we want to be safe
Respect our existence
or expect our resistance !!!
Speak up
Speak Nigerians,speak for you poses a mouth that heals a nation.
It is in thine voice of thy mouth and thy vibrations on thy body that remedies spring forth.

Speak Nigerians,speak against the calamity that befall your land.
Speak against the hand that hurt thee.
Speak against the innocent blood spilled to please others.

Speak Nigerians in a united tone so your voices can be heard.
Speak to tell your fears.
Speak to make it clear.
Speak to put the nation right.
Speak to put an end to police brutality.
Speak to put an end to misappropriation of funds.
Speak to put an end to intimidation and High-handedness.
Speak to put an end to deteriorating health facilities.
Speak to put an end to weak institutional structures.
Speak to put an end to electoral misconduct.

Speak to put an end to unemployment as a normality
Speak to put an end to poor social amenities
Speak to put an end to injustice
Speak to put an end to oppression
Speak to put an end to sectionalism played by our political elite
We are tired of freedom of speech guaranteed but freedom after speech denied


Arise o compatriot
Arise fellow comrades in the struggle
We clamor vehemently to put and end to bad governance
So our future can be secure
        
                 Ojuolape Isaac Mfa
George Nsikak Oct 2016
This is dedicated to the millions who died in the Biafra - Nigeria civil war

Counting the losses
Of my people at dawn
Breaking the curses
Of no wholly source
I sought to wage war
Without funds and money
I thought to secede
From a nation strong and many
I was full of envy for vain minorities
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border

Proclaiming Biafra
Was so big an agenda
Building militias
To **** and to tether
My opposed tribal brothers
And the critics of my powers
I denied much on media
All that hid in my fingers
My plans I held higher
The proclamation of Biafra
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border

Visible to the blind
Were were ready for a fight
Audible to the deaf
Huge price of war to pay
Hausas killed in numbers
By my igbo sons and daughters
yorubas were driven without boots
by my fellow Biafran youths
Ibibios were suspicious
So were Urhobos, Itsekiris and Ijaws
Enmity was at its peak
So high that none could breach
All these were my agenda
My services to Biafra
Was so good for me to render

On May 30th 1967
Was just like a fable
I declared in the open
Without even a wobble
The state of Biafra
Almost complete; an agenda
An anthem was composed
Flag and currency; none could oppose
The heat of the tension
Is such I couldn't mention
The height of jubilation
Not all did it favor
There was sorrow in the land
This, I cared not apart
I was a symbol in the world
For the havoc I did cause
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border

The war began
With no money at hand
We fought with pride
With pains in our hands
We fought with might
Defending our father's land
We died in mass
Numbers of air attacks
We killed civilians
Of the tribes against our plan
We'd shoot in the heart
Every oppose we'd catch
Nigerians were too strong
but we swore we'd burn
I saw no flaw
In the havoc I did cause
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border

Hunger and thirst
Was order of the day
Sorrow was a pest
and death had no end
Too many burdens to bear
The pains of war to pay
We ran out of guns
Bullets, grenades, even bombs
We had but matchets
Arrows, stones and spears
But We faced an army
Of full artillery
Our tragedy had no end
Even God couldn't help
So our homicide was cast
And We became fossils at last
Let those who seek war; stop and think
The pains of it;higher than that of peace
So I e'caped in a copter
Leaving my people to suffer
So on exile I did ponder
while millions died in yonder
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border

I write from the grave
From the hell of my pains
I was that educated soldier
Who took you to battle borders
And ran, leaving you to suffer
I was that educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border.
Osondu Aug 2016
"Lord, if you be at all, be a blade"

"Dance. Nigerians are not sad."
So I must drown myself in loud music
Move my head to meaningless lyrics
Yet, I am plagued by demons of despair
My mind is caving in around me
And I am a mere spectator, yet
"Dance. Nigerians are never sad"

"Choose to be happy. Is this for attention?"
Yes.
Because I will allow myself this torture
To be haunted by this devil sadness
For a mere few seconds of your life
How grand.

"You have made contracts with water spirits"
I do not like fish or even water on my skin
Yet, this seems like the answer
To the evil darkness that clouds my mind
Turning me inside out

I am ill
Still, they offer ignorance
Cage me for "choosing" to be ill

Lord, if you be at all, be a blade
Slay my demons
Ignorance too
My anger is the silent one. Lurking beneath till it becomes thinly veiled sarcasm. My anger is mine.

Mental Health is Important. Aye, even for Nigerians.
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
I fell short of matching all of the stars in space with the raindrops that made its way to Earth
Instead, I matched the stars in your eyes with the old pain's last breath and otherworldly love's first
The clouds have opened back up for business, booming thunder and zooming lightning
Somewhere there, the flash of your smile
The beat of your heart
The coolness of your waters that quench my thirst for you

It's natural to look at nature au naturale
Like Italians and Nigerians talking with hands as expressive as Deaf lovers relay romantic verses
Clear, nimble fingers that massage my soul within the cumulonimbus and nimbostratus
Fueling, flooding, fostering the gods' apparatus


You
The final form of unfinished paintings
Give birth to worthwhile wishful thinking
On my mind like taxes and teacher's lesson plans
A soft brush adjusting to the sky's new hues kissed like ones we've missed or knew
A masterpiece in pieces of Vishnu's vision for when he returns to look for Lakshmi
Hopefully time will not be Shiva to end this for me

How does it feel to be adored by Indra, when showers descend and drench the deepest ditches to force creation of drawbridges for those dire to cross your path again?

- Ifeanyi N. Okoro II © 2021
There is no forgetting.
jake aller Apr 2020
Saturday April 17

You are my Lode Star

in the morning dawning light
you are always there
you are my lode star
my sunshine, my moonshine
the love of my life, my wife
with your endless love
I will face the evil corrupted world
even walk through the shadow of death
as long as you by my side
I will fear no evil for you are with me
and I will love you
until death takes me
from your your loving embrace


another Nigerian spam found poem

the Nigerians keep sending me
and millions of others
delightedly creative spam messages
this is one of the nicer ones
I have received

Enjoy
but don’t send her any money!!!!!

Good day Child of God,

Calvary Greetings
in the name of the LORD Almighty
and Our LORD JESUS CHRIST
the giver of every good thing.

Good day and compliments of the seasons,
i know this letter
will definitely come to you
as a huge surprise,

I humbly
ask you to give me
your attention
and hear me,

i am writing this mail
to you
with heavy sorrow
in my heart,


but I implore you
to take the time
to go through it  carefully
as the decision you make


will go off a long way
to determine
my future
and continued existence.

I am Mrs. Esther Heidi
aging widow of 61 years old
suffering from long time illness.

I have some funds
I inherited from my late husband
, the sum of ($17 Million Dollars) a

And I needed a very honest
and God fearing  
who can withdraw this money
then use the funds for Charity works

I WISH TO GIVE THIS FUNDS
TO YOU FOR CHARITY WORKS.
I found your email address
from the internet

after honest prayers  
to the LORD
to bring me a helper

and i decided to contact you
if you may be willing
and interested to handle
these trust funds in good faith
before anything happens to me.

I accept this decision
because I do not have any child
who will inherit this money
after I die.

I want your urgent reply
to me so that I will give you
the deposit receipt
which the bank issued to me
as next of kin
for immediate transfer of the money

to your account in your country,
to start the good work of God,
I want you to use the 30/percent
of the total amount to help
yourself in doing the project.

I am desperately
in keen need of assistance
and I have summoned
up courage to contact you

for this task,
you must not fail me
and the millions of the poor people
in our todays WORLD.

This is no stolen money
and there are no dangers involved,
100% RISK FREE
with full legal proof.


Please if you would be able
to use the funds for the Charity
(Note: I would use the money
to invest in the Church of Jake)

I want you to
take 30 percent of the total money
for your personal use
while 70% of the money
will go to charity.

I will appreciate your utmost confidentiality
and trust in this matter to accomplish
my heart desire, as I don't want anything
that will jeopardize my last wish.

Please kindly
respond for further details.

Thanks and God bless you,

Regards

Mrs. Esther Heidi

comment: the sad reality
is that 10 percent
of people fall for these scams
and loose lots of money

whole towns in Nigeria
exist to exploit the world
they call themselves
the 404 army

if it is too good to be true
it is probably not true

end comment


Last Day of America

the last day of America
was the day we last voted
the last election we ever had

for on that day
a month before
the corona virus re-emerged

as the great re-opening
of the US economy
failed to stop the relentless spread
of the virus from hell

causing panic and mass confusion
fear kept Americans home

and Donald Trump
was re-elected

because his voters
believed that God
had told them to vote
for their new found king

the newly energized President Trump
declared a national emergency
martial law
and suspension of the constitution

Promising to restore democracy
when the time was right

he promised his followers
that he would restore Christian values
renaming the United States
the Christian States of America

on that date
we met our fate

Christian fascism
was here to stay
on the last day
of American

writers digest prompt - last blank




the Conqueror Worm Corona Sonnet

Lo, t’s a galla night
within the lonesome later years
when around the world
the dreaded corona virus showed its might
spending fear to those in their later years
that it might take them in the night
that before the sun came up
their time on earth would end up
DEATH IS COMING
TO US ALL
NONE CAN ESCAPE?WE?AWAIT
FATE

# content tracing: the Conqueror Worm By Edgar Allan Poe

writing.com corona sonnet form challenge



my Mother’s secret life as a mad poet   Not for publication - remove from Poetry soup etc



one day I discovered
an unpublished poem
that my mother
had written

when she was in the midst
of her madness
before dementia silenced
the voices in her head

she had typed it out
and hid it among her papers
I read it while going through her stuff
decided to kept it

and reflected up it
over the years

my mother was born
perhaps 40 years too soon
for she was a true free spirit
a truly original thinker

and I wished
she had published
her writings

in her story
she talked about
the endless blame
that she felt

besieged on all sides
by the demands
of her children
and her cold unfeeling husband
who just did not get her

her poem speaks for itself

A Mother's Blues

How much longer can I live
With the thin edge of hysteria
And constant paranoia?

The slightest misstep on my part
Unleashes a tirade of my past sins, real and imagined--because I am the enemy.

I can't be true to myself
Since if I disagree

Even in the friendliest manner
The 16-mm. guns are revved up for a full-scale counter attack.

I wonder that I am still functioning.
By now almost anyone known to me

Has been subjected to the most agonizing kind of torture
And my humiliation is almost complete.

The phone calls I have gotten
Asking if that is my real position?

Or even worse asking
What am I doing
To cause such unprecedented allegations
Of provoking suicide
Are almost unbelievable.

And yet I have to listen,
In no way say or do anything that would even suggest
That anyone else than myself is the cause

And that the correction must come from me.

The reason is that when I am able
I do not want to let anyone else think differently

Since I persist
In the notion
That this is private
And there should be no intrusions.

But then late at night
When I am exhausted
And with no more defenses
My vulnerability is so effectively exploited.

I turn the other cheek, I change the subject
But then I get cornered

Because there is the screaming insult,
The statement of fact that is not fact

The bitter charges, the assertion of a position
That is they condemned
In the non-stop monologue,

The immediate challenge to get out,
And the endless litany
Of the deepest kind of hatred.

Am I the one to run--I have to no avail.

Am I the one to fight back

I have but to no consequence.

Can I ask for the common decency?
Of being able to sleep for a few hours

So that I can stumble
Through the routine of earning some money
Which goes to support my continued torture.

Do I have the option of fighting all night,
Sleeping all day and then returning to the fray?

Do I even have the right of insisting
The ledger is not all that one-sided?

No, I'm there to assault.

Money in unimportant
And so I don't need to work.
Because when it is all lost the avenger
Will then ride to the rescue
By taking in the laundry.

Do my dreams matter?
No, they are false and of no consequence.
Or, worse they are wrong.
Or, even worse they should be stamped out.

And now my final abjection.  Exhausted, desperately striving for the moment of quiet that precedes a restful sleep a son arrives asking for a chat. I try but I don't want to give advice, as I have none really to give. But my avenging angel swoops in saying why listen to that creep--he's a two-time loser. Did you know all the crimes he has committed?  Once again I could not remain detached and listen to the skill of the assault or the spilling of the hatred so long denied its vengeance.

I fight back and my humiliation is now complete.  Do I have any person left with whom I can feel whole? I am being reduced to a hunted animal.

If I have a kind word for anyone that person is at risk.  Can I fight back?  No, because there is the ultimate blackmail of the constant threat of suicide--I live daily with the fear that my reactions will trigger this.  After all, when the world is tired of hearing how bad I am what can prove it.

Should I finally admit this inevitability and take the only step that can forestall it and that is to move first.  What do I have to lose? NOTHING.  The anguish and hopelessness would finally be at an end.

My twenty-year struggle to do right would be at the end.

My god, how I have suffered but no one has asked since it was the suffering of others that was all that mattered.

How much larger must my burden of guilt become?  When, on when, can I have a reprieve?  Can my debts, real or imagined, ever be paid?


the poem spoke to me
for I was perhaps
her favorite son

for of her children
perhaps I was the only one
that ever got her

and I miss her
every day

and wished
I had told her
that before
dementia took her from us
and took her life

poetry superhighway prompt to write a letter based on your mother’s writings


Plane, Train or Automobile - none of us can escape our fate


in these dark and dire times
we find ourselves living
we often fear that the times
are infected with death

and so we are afraid
deathly afraid
that if we take a plane
we will find  General Corona
among the passengers

and we afraid
deadly afraid
that the subways
are incubators
of death and destruction

the virus spreads
fear and death
in its wake

many of us
retreating to our homes
and venturing out
in our cars

only to find
death is stalking us
as traffic piles up
traffic accidents
still killing more people
that the dreaded General Corona

the grim reaper smiles
his work is done
Satan thanks General. Corona
for a job well done

writing com daily dew drop in prompt


packages

they say
that God works in mysterious ways
his wonders to perform

every day it seems
that more and more
of what we buy
and consume

comes in packages
sent from here and there
as people
continue to practice
social distancing

and going to the store
becomes an exercise
fraught with peril
and danger

so we order
on line
and we get our packages
sent from here and there

one day we received
a gift package
of clams
delicious fresh clams

as I ate them
I thought of the workers
who had labored unseen
for me to enjoy
this bounty from the sea

and I gave thanks
to the gods
for making it happen

in this day and age
we should thank
those who are still
laboring to feed the world

they are the unsung heroes
of this war fought by nature
under the direction
of General Corona


tweeter speak poetry prompt April 16 Packages



computer madness sonnet


computer madness infects my soul
every day when I turn on my PC
and encounter endless  haiku error messages
constant crashing, constant eating my files
at times like this it seems to me
that my mad as a hatter crazed computer
is plotting against me and only me
it wants to drive me quite insane
sending me right around the bend
as I scream at my machine
it beeps at me this **** machine
smiling as I threaten once again
to shoot the hell bound machine

sonnet all poetry computer frustration contest
You have always been my sunshine

You have always been my sunshine
my moonshine, my load star
that guides me in the night
for your sunshine kissed my soul
the day that you walked
out of my dreams
into my life
and became my wife
for 38 years and counting
every morning I see you sleeping
your smile is like the sunshine
that wakes my soul
and banishes the nightmares
back to the dark corners of my mind

love sonnet for all poetry contest on prompt line Sunshine Kissed


Saturday April 18, 2020

Korean Blues Crown of Sonnets

I have been dealing with Things Korean
for almost 40 years now
dealing with a once exotic land
’now my second homeland?
first came to Korea?
in the Peace Corps in Korea?
went to Korea to find the woman
in search of the woman
who haunted my dreams
met the woman
Fell in love with the woman
From Korea who walked out my dreams
In an land still exotic

In a land still exotic
It was a very exotic different land
and even now decades later a new land
remains for most Americans
still a strange land exotic
but much more known land
in the US
due to K drama, K Pop,
Koreans have become globally cool but still exotic
Many of my fellow Americans
may know a few people from Korea
and some have served or lived in Korea
but to most of the us Americans
it remains over there still exotic
a strange Asian exotic land
A strange Asian Exotic land
I fell in love with that exotic land
now I spend half my time living Korean time
half in the U.S. time
and due to the corona time
will be here for some time
and well Korea
no longer an exotic land
as I am now just living in Korea
my thoughts half Korean
and even dream in Korean
so be it near the end of my time
I am back where I began
Writer digest prompt write an exotic poem wrote my first crown of sonnet form too, and it mostly rhymes! go figure




Cosmic Debris  Corona Sonnet


use as sample for remaining corona sonnet

the Conqueror Worm Corona Sonnet

Lo, t’s a galla night
within the lonesome later years
when around the world
the dreaded corona virus showed its might
spending fear to those in their later years
that it might take them in the night
that before the sun came up
their time on earth would end up
DEATH IS COMING
TO US ALL
WE  
WAIT
LATE
FATE


# content tracing: the Conqueror Worm By Edgar Allan Poe

writing.com corona sonnet form challenge



for Posting 2.  Cosmic Debris Corona sonnet 2

I received a mysterious email package
followed by a phone call offering me a magical mask
a mask that they claim would prevent me
from the dreaded General Corona
hey there
who you jiving with that cosmic debris
a mask that they did not want me
me to know about
TOP SECRET CODE 2 LEVEL  STUFF
MUST    ACT   NOW
SEND MONEY  ASAP
BUY
IT
NOW

# content tracing-  “Cosmic Debris by Frank Zappa”
with apologies to Frank Zappa




No More Ties for Me!

When I retired
I made three vows
to myself

first, I would spend
my remaining life
loving my wife

second, i would never wear a tie again
unless it was a real special occasion
as I hated wearing ties and suits

wore a suit and tie
almost every day
of my life

as a teacher
later as a foreign service officer
all over the world

last year of my job
I only wore a tie
on "tie worthy occasions"

since then I have been
tie free
except for a wedding

and I love it
hated suits and ties
just not Berkeley enough

for my free spirit
too **** corporate
and I don’t care anymore

and in Oregon, where I lived
no one wore a tie,
not the Oregon way

oh the last thing
I shave twice a month now
used to hate shaving

but I also don't like
a full shaggy itchy beard

and I shaved every day

for years and years
except when I was in the hospital
for a year

and I grew to love
having a beard
back then

back to the office
started shaving again
every **** day

now I do my thing
no office for me
and no more daily shaving

and a beard is also
very Northern Cal/Northwest
Oregonian Chic

so once every two weeks
is a good compromise
my beard is now a poet’s face

and so I hope to keep
these three vows
until my time is done

writing com Daily Dew Drop Inn prompt to write a poem about a piece of clothing





Corona Consumes Me  Corona Sonnet  3

I am consumed by the corona virus
and I am slowly being taken over
as the virus infects my mind
taking me over turning me
into a wild raving zombie man
Let there be light
will I become the first
ZOMBIE APOLYCAPASE LOOMS
WILL WE ALL DIE
CORONA
KILLS
ME

content tracing - Let there be light from Bible and the entire Zombie Apocalypse genre where the Zombie flu started usually in China as a flu and then morphs into the zombie disease



Sunday April 19, 2020

for posting General Corona Leads His Troops Into Battle, crown of sonnets

General Corona leads his forces across the world
riding on a black horse
from out of the Apocalypse  ride the four horsemen
which are let loose upon the world
He leads his forces across the world
into battle as the leader of his evil forces
The enemy of humanity
General Corona he does not care
nor does his virus minions care
about your nationality he does not care
about your politics he does not care
or your wealth or who you are
for all you are nothing but humanity
the corona general sees humanity
the corona general sees humanity
as nothing but hosts for his virus army

as nothing but hosts for his virus army
chanting death to humanity
until his evil army
sweeps throughout the world
throughout the world
and millions must die
it is the will of the general all must die
and it is the end of the world
or perhaps the beginning of a new world
filled with hope and love through out the world
humanity comes alive throughout the world
fighting back against the virus army
peace, love and compassion defeats the army
and general corona will finally himself die




Voice Message for God

dialing 202-346-5666  Beep
You have reached GOD
Press 1 for English, Press 2 for Spanish
leave a message or prayer
and maybe an angel will call you
will get back to you Beep
Hey GOD someone sent me your number
and well I hope I’ve reached your number
I don’t know where to start that’s the point
GOD I am scared of you
all the time is my point
I am so afraid, so scared
of the dreaded General Corona
and his invisible army is my point

and his invisible army is my point
forcing me to stay at home
and I am sacred
that you anointed the wrong man  
to be our leader, that makes me sacred
not to second guess you man
your will be done and all of that man
but GOD, can’t you do better job my man
of anointing our leaders to serve under GOD
of all the people in the U.S. dear God
this is the best you can do?, man?
I mean you picked perhaps the one man
in the world who could be the anti-chris, God
Seriously GOD what is wrong with you? man

Seriously, GOD, what is wrong with you? man
was this all sort of a cosmic joke?
well it ain’t funny any more ain’t no joke
Please GOD make it all go away, man
Please GOD for the love of GOD
and all that is holly and good, man
just make it all go away, GOD
and anoint someone else, man
a real leader for a change, GOD
and let him lead us to the promised land  
this I pray in Jesus’s name, my man
and if I don’t make it, GOD
We have a lot to talk about GOD
See you on the other side, my man

writer digest prompt write a “message Poem” so this is a voice mail to GOD




Every Day I go Back in Time to when she came to Me

every day I go back in time
to the two events that changed my life
to the dream that haunted my life
and the day she walked into my life
and became my wife
I can never forget the dream
falling asleep in the physics class
as the teacher was going on and on
and as I nodded off
I saw here there
standing there
speaking to me
the most beautiful woman
in the entire world

in the entire world
she was speaking to me
and disappeared from my dreams
and I knew that i would be
meeting her some day she would come to me
and so I eventually went to Korea other side of the world
in the Peace corps hoping she would come to me
then one day i had the last and final dream
she said don’t worry she would soon come to me
and then she walked out of my dreams
and there she was she came to me
and so she walked out of my dreams
into my life, became my wife
when she came to me

Poetry Superhighway prompt to write a poem about time travel to your past or your future
poems for April 17 to April 19
aurora kastanias Oct 2017
I was born in a city and time where and when
things were described by their name in the name
of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty
depicting society as it was fearing nothing
while no one took offence, as none was intended

in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self-
deprecating humour. In the countryside village
peasants called my father the Greek, as there were
no aliens other than us and the English man
who lived down the valley. Black skins

only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant
than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins
were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears
of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite
populations they had never seen. Italians

were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams,
though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did.
First strange faces appeared for myths to become
realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years
to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers,

Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders,
Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops,
Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable
to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs,
employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals.

Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash
and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some.
Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road
a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures
of tourists at night when the gypsies come out

of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers
unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking
pockets on public transports everybody knows,
signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese
hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish

kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores.
Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes
and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal
on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments
sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg

for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal
with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning
pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent
dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians,
Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise

themselves as clandestine street vendors
of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied
by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running
away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held
on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise

behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight
from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay
strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past
to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine,
poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day

via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close
our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding
behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take
distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience
and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon.

Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage
to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me
for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions
dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait,
scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.
On political correctness
George Nsikak Oct 2016
At the Biafran front, I fought
Tearing down Nigerians
With shots of guns
We fought like men
Defending our lands
But with risk and fear
As some went blind

Among our troops
Were hatred and envy
Tribalism of doom
Had taken over our army.
Alongside my brother
We triggered together
Tearing down men
Like pales of feathers.

As a boy of sixteen
I saw terror in fifteen
Behold dead men lay like weeds
Vultures had enough to feed
Among the dead people
I saw my old father, he died still feeble.
Turning to my right
Lay my mother, sister at flight
My hands became weak
And my heart did bleed
They were killed by the army
Which I fought that they live.

Biafra was in famine
As children starved to death
A thousand Igbos massacred at night
As our troops retreat to die.
Nigeria flew their jets
Bombing no one but children and old women
A grenade caught my brother
And I knew it all be over.

The seaways were surrounded
Nigerian Navy locked us in our grave
No weapon came to Biafra
Even our camouflage had become rags
Enugu; capital of Biafra had been captured
There's nothing left, except to be raptured.

Oron and Calabar fell
Nigeria sent us hell
So in battle front we had
Nothing more than matchets and planks
Our major had ran
And we were left, to die at our hands.
With fear, my fellows fell
The fear of death, none could tell
I ran through the forest
Finding way for my escape
Lo there was a tunnel
And so I escaped Colonels.

Fifty thousand fighters quite survived it
They were buried alive
In mass graves for their deeds.
Down in my tunnel of sleep
I saw my family in the deep
Papa, I called aloud my father
He said go for the war is over.

Biafra had surrendered
But I had lost an arm
Millions had died
Diseases did bade them bye
The war, famine did sail them high
Though a soldier I survived.
I had lost my home family and lineage.
What would I do with a withered arm?
Flies had really fed it by
As the last man alive, No one cared whether I die.
So I died a lonely death
With no one to cry
Overwhelmed May 2010
sitting in my room on this
cold, dark night
I see that we humans,
are all one

and all
brothers
and
sisters
in this
ride
we
call
life

we have been measured throughout time by
the amount at which we separated ourselves
or
how much we overcame that and brought ourselves
together

on this cold, dark night
I have realized that I am
human, we are humanity,
and the whole of our
species is more than
the parts we have
made separate

may my sister rise,
her arts bringing new meaning to the world
may my father rise,
his wisdom sharing with a new generation
may my grandmother rise,
her love fostering that which I believe in

but also

may my brother rise,
even if he is not my blood
your talents are meant to help all of us
may my mother rise,
even if she is not my blood
your wisdom is necessary for my survival
may my grandfather rise,
even if he is not my blood
your love is needed to show the light in
all this black night

may every man and woman and child rise,
for you are needed somewhere,
by someone,
and for your strengths I will love you like my own
even if by all accounts,
we are opposites

We are Humanity

we are the blacks
we are the whites
we are the arabs
the chinese,
and the indians too
we are the austrailians,
and the germans,
the nigerians,
and the brazilians
we are the thinkers
and the builders
we are the helpers
and the leaders
the keepers
and creators
the holy
the unholy
the vague
and the defined
the me
and the you
and the they
and the us

we are all humanity

I sit in this room on this
cold, dark night
and I see that we humans,
are all one


we are all equal
in the end, the
final end

and it must be understood
that I am human, and you
are human, but we together
with everyone else, that
then is when I declare:

We are Humanity
One of my older pieces (At time of writing). I always felt the concept was grand enough and most of the words right but at the same time I never got the magic I felt about the subject into the poem. Critiquers, what do thy suggest?
Sombro Jan 2015
Spartans had to roam the East
In the land as yet unfettered
Some Nigerians have to find a beast
And **** it to show they've bettered
Barmitzvahs may be tradition for some,
But for me coming of age was looking in a mirror
And realising that I've stopped changing
That I'm just like every other finished piece.

The mark of an adult is seeing a man
And feeling threatened by his size
The mark of an adult is seeing a woman
And thinking dark thoughts inside
The mark of an adult is meeting strangers
And instantly forgetting their name
And instantly not caring.

Many had to tame the wilds to become full grown of old
And we are not so different, we bear a darkness too
We must pass the burning eye of the real world's value of gold
We have to bear the people seeing nothing when they see you.
The world can be a lonely, scary place.
Vivekanshu Verma Apr 2020
Riddle in Rhymes,
During Corona Times
By Toxic Detective for Indian Society of Toxicology (IST)
Vomiting is nature's protective reflex against ingested toxins with my bitter alkaloids, accidental by innocent kids,
Bitter is Killer 💀, As a thumb's #rule, in medical science; but most of life saving medications are also bitter 👅, instead;
Vomiting after ingesting me, protects you medically as well as legally, in court of law leads;
Prehistoric #judicial systems determined guilt or innocence in a legal #trial, for human misdeeds;
By subjecting the accused to a dangerous experience, traditionally known as “trial by #ordeal” misusing my seeds;
Whether one survived such an ordeal poison of mine,
was left to control of divine,
to be freed;
and escape or survival was taken to indicate innocence on behalf of the defendant, instead;
The roots of this custom lie in the Code of #Hammurabi and the Code of Ur-Nammu, the oldest known systems of law, reads;
Numerous West African tribes from #Calabar, depended on my toxic bean in jurisprudence, in needs;
Also renowned as ordeal poison or #lie-detector bean, for rulings in their early courts, impledes;
Tribal #Nigerians, misused toxic action of my beans to detect witches & people possessed by evil spirits, who concedes;
#Judicators, would feed numerous seeds, what they called “ordeal poison,” to the accused; if he or she was innocent, indeed;
Hypothetically, God would perform a miracle and allow the accused to live—and the court would have its ruling, proceeds;
If the reverse was true, of course, guilt would be “proven” the moment its sentence was successfully carried out, in recede;
I am a climbing leguminous plant in forests, can be poisonous to humans when chewed, as beads;
I am a large, herbaceous perennial vine, with a woody stem at the base, as natural weeds;
I produces a large, purplish flower with intricate visible veins; attracting innocent Kids;
My flowers yield a thick brown pod of a fruit, contains 2-3 kidney-shaped seeds;
it’s not until rainy season (June through September) that my fatal plant Breeds;
In monsoons, my fruits, capable to produce its best, most toxic beans; indeed;
I am named botanically by appearance of my fruit “a snooping beak-like solid appendage” physo- means “bladder,” at the end of the stigma Beaked;
My toxin is reversible cholinesterase inhibitor, which acts on the autonomic nervous system, leads;
My poison disrupts communication between the nerves and organs of victims, it needs;
In this regard, I acts similarly to nerve gas, which results in contraction of the pupils, recedes;
Profuse salivation, convulsions, seizures, spontaneous urination and defecation, exceeds
Loss of control over the respiratory system, and ultimately death by asphyxiation, as due to secretions, airway blocks & impedes;
Antidote to my poisoning is the slightly less toxic tropane alkaloid atropine, which may often succeeds;
Though myself toxic, my alkaloid proves an effective antidote for poisoning from another deadly plant, Atropa Belladonna seeds;
Guess my name, causing Vomiting, as Lie detector for your means: when an Ordeal poison, impleads;
References:
1. Pillay, VV. Comprehensive Medical Toxicology. 3rd Ed. Jaypee. 2018 p612-15
Ben Brinkburn Mar 2014
so you've now got a glass eye
that's great
it really suits you
although
can't get used to you without
the eye patch that
gave you real character it was
really sorta you
y'know
and
mine's a JD and Coke
I know I know sacrilege but hell
hell what the hell
so what
and so here's a toast to the has beens
and might of beens and
the been's that still are
long may they prosper
in vulcan peace
well not really soon may their fall come
soon may they get it over and done with
soon may they suffer then swallow their pride
in a lake of ***
hey then they can join us in Alphabet City snuck away on
East 3rd a sparrow's erratic flight
from Avenue D
and this is not a great part of town
this is not hyper-cool urban angst
this is pay dirt and delusion and a hollow heart
yodeling in the gloaming
only full of words that
don't fit
and some times the bar is full of Belgians
sometimes Nigerians
sometimes English
some stray Chinese now
and then
clutching bottles
grinning ruefully about what might be and
what hasn't been
sneering
the days are for mooching and for flitting
for wincing and for teeth gritting
the nights are for hawks like you and me
feeling free
with darkness to cut
with
old world bravado
and neon to caress
with new world glass sharp
optimism tinged with the
smarts
of a hidden knife
Spare a thought for lost English souls in NYC
Who do we run to when our leader's or do i say rulers no longer care about us
They promised us "CHANGE"
The word "CHANGE" is flying in the air
Our nation is in total ruin
Cost of living is skyrocketing daily
Food is no more affordable nor is it accessible
Our nation is feeling this devastation
Only politicians are well to do
They have forgotten about us
They have forgotten the promise made to us
They never came any close to fulfilling their mandate

When l look at our politicians extravagant lifestyles I asked
What about US
What about all the time they said they are the answers
      In my country ,
Those who care to give or share dont have to give or share
    In my country ,
Those who have to give or share, dont want to give or share

The masses are kept in the mood of despondency
It seems to many that all hopes are lost
Some after having their last meal, they wait for death to come
While some take their lives either by jumping off the bridges or taking a highly concentrated chemical down their throat .

Who will redeem our nation
Who will revive our  economy
Who do we run to when their is no food in the country
Who do we run to when price of fuel is skyrocketing without control
Who do we run to when rent is no more affordable to the masses
Who do we run to when every good thing in our country  can only be accessible to 5% of the country's population

Nigeria is our country
It is not for the politicians to take,
Not for the 5% well to do Nigerians to take
Nigeria is for all of us
We love our country
Thats why we are lamenting
We are tired of being victimised in our own country
It is totally unjust and its affecting everyone either financially,  physically,  menally psychologically or otherwise
... How do we get our dream Nigeria
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
is russell brand the presenter on the pointless blog?
  i swear it's russel brand! no wait, it's someone
  called alfred dyson... ***** the fun out of it
  it's still russell brand to me, eating pickles for
  he he giggles.

you know, the only reason i cried when i first
watched the cinematic passion of the christ,
it wasn't the plot and the outline,
i cried when i heard the resurrection of ancient
Aramaic... that got me... it pierced my soul...
so you're living with your parents
because the nigerians and saudi arabs bought
you out of right for home ownership,
and in the background you just hear an i.v.f.
baby argument, a test-tube baby argument damning
you for not enough capitalistic incentive...
herr doctor freud comes in too into the plotline...
and then you turn back and watch russell brand
on the pointless blog discovering sardines in
digestive juices of preservation of sour marbles
in the museum alongside mummies.

brian molko already did the trans-gender **** me
mascara look without, as the homosexuals already said:
well i did confuse the **** with the ****,
but by god i didn't confuse the ******* emblem with
architecture and warring attempts...
brian molko made the girls jealous with his
androgynous appeal... girls got jealous,
pressurised the trans-gender movement to a tic tac toe.
Word Hobo Mar 2018
Seb's young fertile face beamed African royalty
even in the penury of this Nigerian refugee camp.
Her mother's downcast eyes shunned the camera's querying lens,
while Seb's, "I-love-you", eyes were welcoming.

Seb's eyes were as blossom-petaled obsidian pools,
each pierced by the light of a distant star.
Her blackness did not succumb to woeful displacement,
but shone with the promise of an overcoming spirit;
for a Mother's prayers were writ in the marrow of her bones.

Born with a tenacity to love,
her young heart leaped out through trusting inquisitive eyes.
Her tongue, budding out of rich dark faced soil, seemed eager
to taste the sweet juices that her spirited-eyes promised;
smiling, "l love you", behind barbed wired love-me-nots.

Seb was a child . . . full of joyful expectations.
A child who did not choose this world;
'tho born of a Spirit conceived to love . . .
to love the . . . hell . . . out from her world.


gv 4.2015  Word Hobo

~~~~~~

(Note: This piece came out of seeing this fascinating photograph
by Sebastian Rich,  of Seb clinging to her Mother in a camp for displaced Nigerians.)

Link to this Photo of Seb and her Mother:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-04-26/infectious-and-innocent-smiles-from-war-zones/7355958

Scroll down to Ninth Photo
Caption  :  A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens.


I would encourage all to visit the website of Sebastian Rich.  His heart-gripping photography is incredibly moving and meaningful.

sabastianrichphotography.com.
Link to this Photo of Seb and her Mother:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-04-26/infectious-and-innocent-smiles-from-war-zones/7355958

Scroll down to Ninth Photo
Caption  :  A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens.
ConnectHook Feb 2019
Donald Trump has made many quite fussy;
as he did for one actor, named Jussie.
In the end, the abuse
was revealed as fake noose,
two Nigerians, red hats, and one *****.

It's so rotten, one almost can smell it
and it's painfully shameful to tell it;
but this fellow named Smollett
reached deep in his wallet.
Some bought it, when he tried to sell it.
Just corner Kevin and ask him about it:

https://youtu.be/CIn2FQpxqNY
Have you seen kenya & Malawi??
Nigeria is worst
never should anybody say
we are the giant of Africa
it's a lie , the truth is
we are all failures
Thinking that
we actually succeeded
After independent
it's wrong and we know.
Living only for our pockets,
and
stealing from Nigeria
it's all we try to do
mutual respect, love and peace
will never be
divided
Nigerians
biafra are fighting
fulani herdmen are killing
bokoharam are kidnapping
our country is a war zone.
{NOW READ BOTTOM TO TOP}
.
{c}Joseph.udo
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
sure, we're caring for the demographics,
a black hospital nurse
                           manages to own a mercedes benz...
huh?
          how did that happen?
                  a bunch of nigerians
   "business men" manage
to buy out all the new flats in a new building...
white priv.    white priv. they say...
             nigg'ah gonna shoot!
they still call us communists... never mind,
       i have no rhetoric for hyperboles...
  one muslim dies at a mosque... everyone goes
nuts! a muslim woman walks up to
           a politician and says: i'm afraid to
raise my children in this country!
   one word answer: manchester.
                       i knew and i try to forgive myself
into forging alliance with the zeitgeist narrative...
whether social or mainstream media...
   but sometimes, it's almost like ulysses
     not tied to the mast of the ship, mad, being
dragged to the depths by the song of sirens...
     and this is what media has become...
the song of sirens: as if you, really really,
     but not really, need to provide an opinion...
to the oars men!
                           past these crevices
                            of schizophrenic insinuations.
ah... but the title...
                  this is not an anti-feminist poem...
sure... allow men to join the army,
   make a fetish of demographic representation
being adequate, in the army...
          i've worked on a construction site?
          you know how many women are on
a construction site? perhaps in the kitchen...
      i've seen only one brick-layer, a butch woman...
she could butcher a cow with her bare hands...
there will always be more women in the army
than in the construction site...
       imagine, these days, being a industrial-sized
roofer, tarring a roof, in a heat-wave of
                    over 30 degrees... at the boiler?
over 50 degrees...
            women are more rare in the construction
industry, than in the, ******* army.
          oh please, come along... join the construction
industry army... lift 40kg of felt,
   and 45kg of mineral felt, and carpet
  the roofs of tall buildings...
                   in the 90s, roofers could still wear
shorts... now, they're boiling eggs in
    long jeans... and the radios were banned
    in the industry...
          sure, it's safe as hell, for it is hell,
     but glum and boring as an office job,
  that needs sit-coms and jokes...
                                   like i once said:
    i completed the scottish widows' h.q. building near
st. paul's...
  more women in the army, than in the construction
industry...
     this is not an anti-fe poem...
                    oh please, come along!
       in a place where there's so much concrete,
fresh roofing tar smells just as infatuating
as freshly cut grass where there's so much earth.
more women will join the ceremonial
procession of a weak army,
than join a strong industrial army of a strong
work-force...
      odd... i've never managed to spot
feminism making an insurgence into roofing...
            *****, shut the **** up!
you go and cover 100 sqm of a flat roof in a day
in over 30 degree heat...
     you do that... then you can moan
your little bourgeoisie swan song;
which is odd... since writing this so called
     "poetry",                   i feel castrated,
although internalised... my ***** are bulging,
and tickling my perception of things...
     i watered the garden, and cooked a bbq...
           oh well...
     ever wonder why construction workers are
anti-gym-culture of office workers?
    ******* krawaciaże, office hamsters...
    paper pile (a), vs. paper pile (b)...
                   more women in the army,
                 than in the construction industry;
less yoga, less yoga, less yoga,
                    oh don't join the army!
                            get into construction!
   then tell me that prostitution needs a tear;
you lift a 40kg roll of felt,
                              or a 30kg doughnut of
hot-melt, and drop it into a furnace of
                                                       a boiler.
arc angel Oct 2017
Is much different from every other it’s much colder. The atmosphere generally stirs up emotionality in every one
It makes you ,yes you want to be with the opposite ***.
Generally taken as a day to exchange gifts
But Nigerians have made it seem like a day when love is made
Which is kind of negative looking at it generally.
But Nigeria is not generally like that with every thing done here.



So I say what can be done to change this.
But I am not against love, love and more love
I generally do enjoy the feeling but excess of all is bad.
It leads to broken relationships homes and finally heart break
Which you would notice (heartbreak) on the 15 of February every year.
So what more can I say I an a boss and a boss I will be
But if we were to go by and by then our daughters
Will continue to be heart broken every 15 of February.




This trend must be stopped by choosing to love
And love truly with all thy heart, body and soul
This I believe will change everything
But I am not saying that if thou holdest you back  
From progressing you shalt stay that is why you are the boss
You can either choose to continue or leave
But it must come from the heart
And must be a conscious step towards self realization
This is just the way it has been should not be your words
But understand that changes are there for a reason
So go share thy love.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
if i thought that prostitutes coming in at £2 per minute was bad... that's £120 per hour... the "engineers" at my local bicycle wholesaler come in at... £10 for 5 minutes work... changing the tube of a deflated tire... to hell with that... i'm going to invest in some tools... do it myself... walking past the shops in the mall while it rained... work... loitering... work... loitering... why is retail so... undermining the body? oh... i imagine escape with the mind is no good either... work as loitering... flick of the switch... it's hardly construction site antics of roofing... i'd sooner hang myself... but it's not like i can **** myself off... it's great that both she and me can boast about keeping personal hygiene to a zenith... complete shock when she performed ******* with rubber... pleasant shock... about five storms brewed in the sky over London while i hit a flat tyre near Rainham... well... what to do? walk the **** back... 4 miles...  but a thought arose...

i've heard this complaint... several times...
it's worded in many variations...
but the gist of it has the following words
arranged, thus:
i don't want to "merely" exist... i want to live!
Frankenstein had the same bother...
perhaps Frankenstein's angst makes sense
since it was conjured up by a woman...
while Frankenstein is burdened with existence:
per se...
he still pursues "life"...
ex-instance: out of, every - every(!) instance...
i was taking out the garbage:
massive freak for recycling...
i usually put out a ratio of 4 to 1...
orange recycling bags to one... slim... black...
bin-bag of recyclables...
i'm currently someone else's *****...
Pimm's... i'm pretty sure some ancient
Greek philosopher had a saying about
drinking someone else's alcohol...
oh... it's ease now...
but i know what i'm looking for...
it's only that much easier:
Diogenes the Cynic...
oddly enough it makes sense...
i feel like an English girl teasing her virginity:
long... long ago lost...
teasing with white lies...
talking nonsense during ***...
i **** like an animal: mute...
well.. if she let's me ******* inside of her...
oh... it happens once every half a decade...
do "they" have to speak during
*******: last words most poignant
where: in her bedroom...
'what would my father think
while i'm ******* you off...'
do i look like Oedipus... dearest Electra?
talk is beyond cheap during *******...
how about you show me your tongue...
as almost forever:
my eyes turn into two mouths...
my mouth turns into a socket
whereby my tongue becomes an eye...
while my head is sliced open
and a grand ear is lodged into the space
once occupied by fast-phlegm-of-brain:
freeze: i can remotely remember a 10 year old
moi leveraging the following statement:
i can't hear silence...
those words: exact...
i can't hear silence...
god i love to drink... what lot of life...
i love drinking more than:
perhaps if i loved ******* more i'd have
all the grazed knees and greased elbows
to go forth: into the world... with a pledge
of Darwinian beauty to: stare down
the stereotypical male archetype of:
spreading my d.n.a.
that one Thai surprise i picked up on a park
bench... enough strong beer
and enough jazz and she was... sloppy ***...
she even gave me a totem to remember
her while i dressed her in my shirt she
disappeared into while walking her home...
i ******* into my hand: rather than into her...
last time i checked Darwinism has no
place in the Freudo-Jungian schematic of
the atomised man...
consciousness is a flimsy affair...
given any focus for thought: ought-i? ought-i-not?
but still the angst of Frankenstein...
such burdens from mere existence...
such burdens that have to be translated
into... the pursuit of life...
me? i'm at the opposite end of the spectrum...
whatever happened when
Jason v. Michael took place...
well... what happened when
Frankenstein's (monster) took up a challenge
with Sisyphus...

it's the same old complaint:
by people who... come to think of it...
will not squeeze that much out of life
should they arrive at: "living" and not merely
"existing"...
however...
like today... with a flat tyre...
watching the sky for the direction
of the opera in the sky:
there was the thunder...
like a grunting... grumbling...
an empty... fasting stomach in the sky...
no lightning... i walked wishing to be struck dead
by a stroke of hey-zeus...

i remember that i exist:
more than i project the fact...
i remember that i exist...
more than i project that i do...

it has to be a mantra akin to: memento mori(a)...
by then it's impossible to love
or assert a posit for life
within the grounds of: well... it's not like
this will ever end...
watching the gymnastics: women... mostly...
no sorry ****** would attempt to undertake
the beam...
oh look... no need for only-fans:
but if all you're selling is...
selling bodygood-me-body-good-you...
that's fine...
what these girl gymnasts do...
what female tennis players get up to...
do girls really need to box?
**** it... let's see...
i'm asking for a compost of...
plum cherry and a prune...
i'm not going to paint those archaic
faces... dissolved under a niqab... just on a whim...
if they want a cat fight without nails all
manly: fists clenched:
let them... have... it!

i still don't understand the "underbelly" of
an argument that says:
existence is less than "life":
life's ****...
a flat tire and walking 4 miles while i
could have cycled 10 miles more
reduced me to a silence of the mind that re(a)d:
don't even bother thinking...
don't even try turning this inot
a cognitive narrative...
where's your pen? where's your paper?

all the greatest poignancies of essence
of life are encapsulated within the posit "bloopers"
of existence: per se...
life is ****... life is trivial...
i exist without pardon:
i recoil at seeing a maggot or a snail
or a spider...
my beginnings are hardly...
******* anaemic tadpole...

      to merely grasp the fact of existence...
will Frankenstein's monster argue:
subsequently: a life is necessary...
the life... well we all know what
the upper echelons of society prescribe:

let's be mean: "us": the poet gets... **** all...
the restaurant critic gets...
an umbrella for the rain...
paid load: newspapers...
toilet-paper should cost more than...
what weekend newspapers have to offer:
lazily bypassing dialectics...

i exist... a fact i remember from time to time...
i exist: it's not something i project forward...
life's... life is... pretty much **** in between...
but how people complain:
the mere fact of... midnight air...
while cycling to the brothel...
no... breathing itself: taking a ****...
that's not enough...
even eating... not enough...
the joys from the spices...
the cinnamon... not enough:
people, just... want... "life"...
by life... that implies invoking other people
to share your: "presence":
by that time... the people of want...
are... wanton... i don't want to be surrounded
by people who...

reminding oneself of being the recipient
of existence...
is... well... life fulfilling: in-itself...
i might not fly a F16 fighter jet...
or... make a cosmic trip to the moon...
but... i can provide a rhythm to
the pulse of a roundabout when i engage
with it on a ******* bicycle!
i like using much larger objects to my advantage...
a bus will sloth out from the starting
grid much slower...
what do i do?
i linger behind... i can match up its momentum...
fun fun fun...

within the categorization of "life" counter
"existence": by life i probably have to imply:
"essence"... and all that debacle:
does essence come before existence
or does existence come before essence?

i don't care much for "life": life is complicated:
life is drama... life is soap opera engagement...
life is disappointment...
existence... on the other hand...
reminiscence... spontaneity...
the full acquisition of the faculty of memory:
it's not that i must remember that i'm:
worm-food... i must know it...
knowledge of death must be burning at
my ******* groin...
it's not good merely focusing on memorising
that fabric of future events:
to remember death implies:
reincarnation... i'm not a big fan of reincarnation...
reincarnation implies:
zombies and only a fixed number
of worthy people jumping from body to body...
it implies:
the soul as being parasitical...
all of animation being parasitical...
this animation will never transcend
beside mere body toward a collective pursuit...

sure... call it something else...
if not soul then sigma or anima...
if you've ever seen a dead body in the morgue...
you'd know: this façade...

eh... i love to drink... i love to drink because:
even though i've love to **** a little bit more...
drinking never leaves me disappointed...
perhaps somehow... melancholic...
at the introspections i find...
to **** like the prowess of a game stallion...
that would require... doing the bidding of
other people... including myself:
i like to drink in order to undermine myself...
so drinking comes first...
******* comes second...
ambition is... long gone by the time i sieve
through all the music i want to listen to...
the books i want to read... sometimes i do:
read the books i want to... read...

hmm.. ****... humpf..
she has like a Lamborghini... a stomach like
a Genie...
what could existence possibly afford me?
the scent of cinnamon...
the taste of pint of Guinness...
a well constructed curry sauce...
life... on the other hand... "life":
a persistence of disappointment...
that i might have to share all these pleasures...
halve them...

why did it arrive in the mind of the most
atomised man that: essence comes prior
to existence?
there's nothing essential about existence...
there's only the existential existence...
scrap heap of: go toward the fabric of:
the in-between...
lately i stopped minding inter-racial
breeding antics...
given 2nd or 3rd "half-caste" inter-breeding:
depends on a woman's disgruntled taste...
wash up on the shores
of the sandpaper cliffs...
still not pickling ******* symbols in the juices
of ****...

you come across sandpaper skin...
these mulattos will fizzle out...
but i get it... if i were strapped to a whitey
beached whale... i'd want to be black...
otherwise all this... little bit of me...
cycling losing weight makes...
absolutely no... sense...
how did the black guys phrase it back
in high-school: more cushion for the pushing...
no wonder... if i were acquisitive of a 12"
phallus... i'd want... enough ***
to penetrate for her thrill: met...

hence my ***** envy disappears...
i'm left with beard envy...
oh god... chest and the whole worth of torso
a pirate's envy of kidding with pepper...

'i want to live! i don't want to merely exist!'
can one, merely...exist?
oh sure... one can live:
without ever once reaching for
clarifying what's essential to be alive...
to exist? i'm pretty sure that's missing on most people...
i like to rub my fingers on bricks...
tarmac... before i enter a brothel
and touch a *******'s body...
i like to impress myself with the sensation
of imitation: blind... when i read her body...

such that it makes sense...
the verve: lucky man...
a sing-along sort of a song...

let it flow: allow the walking abortions: oh wait...
too late: already conceived...
but thank god for the Olympics...
the male swimmers have the sexiest bodies...
not the sprinters... the swimmers...
much ado about the torso...
but it's so gladdening watching the Olympics...
all body: shapes and sizes
are... sized up...

the body build-up to swim
is not the same sort of a body
associated with lifting weights...
or performing judo...
or sprinting... or undertaking the high-jump...
if one British athlete decides to "take the ******* knee":
Olympics is ruled by a spirit of: all-inclusivity...
you testify racism at the Olympics...
you testify that... Jesse Owens didn't make
****** uncomfortable at the 1933 Olympics...

you bring your politics to the Olympics:
you best cancel Olympics...
sure... take the knee...
take two... i'll gladly kneecap you while
you're at it... just to make sure you forget
both running at a sprint... or walking...
black racists  will not undermine
a healthy atmosphere of:
some of us are born lesser...
some of us are born superior...
all of us aim at managing what we're best at...

me, drinking... no... i hardly think anyone
can match up to me...
i persist to drink yet retain a pedantic attitude
in relation to spelling, punctuation...
i say: ******* from posit A...
rekindle... eastern Africans... Kenyans...
are much darker than western Africans...
Nigerians... no wonder that among
the macaques i was admiring...
ivory beauties...
i forgot their skin colour:
coconut oil in the moonlight...
i was reminded of their teeth and the sclera
of their eyes...

itchy... ******* itchy... i'm so itchy...
itch after itch... i'm itching... itchy...
     itchy... i'm galvanized by some ulterior motif
of a reflex i won't be able to control..
i'll plead: not-guilty....
not because i am...
                  but to conjure enough
dissonant-custard of...
readily accessed pie-bypass that: i will not:
readily give... itchy... itchy... always with this
*******: itch!
Kolawole Zainab Aug 2019
Our country was colonized by British
Our resources are rich
We were granted Independence
But exhibit not moral decadence

Leaders call for change
But demonstrate not any change
And engage in social vices
They campaign with derica of rices

Fake promises during campaign by
Construction of road,bridges and all a lie
The voices of citizens not heard and pains not seen
God forgive leaders their sin

We celebrate Nigeria @58
Yet,leaders rule us with hate
They rule for selfish gain
Citizens tackle physical pain

Oh Nigerians! let us all stand up
And flag proudly be raised up
Positive change can happen with PVC
And all will be easy as ABC
Umar Yogiza Jr Dec 2018
children of death and settlement

by the tired, busy mouth
        of the evening;
where the only
        art is entering
you squat, bare
        in the corner of darkness
suffering and smiling;
        searching for the love
of another darkness
        there! i mistook you
for a lost shadow, for i let you go
let you go.

before now, i slept
        into the is same darkness
waiting to be ferry into tomorrow;
        thinking the large body
of retrospect past
        is immutable
but can't convince my pen
        that the only poetry in nigeria
is her present —messed-up
        by the same gone, ageless people
we revered, we have to let them go
        let them go.

into the red dark
        past nigeria, there
is a labyrinth tree
        whose ripe fruits are love
and poetry
        but was intentionally
neglected; we let it go, let it go.

looking through this tree
         i can see
into the future;
         above and beneath —
the ****** hatred
         of death and grave's
settlement, that we can't let it go, let it go.

gently —gently and gently
         i want to sink the deepest borehole
of poetry
        into this tasty period
where the only water is not
        only bullets; but
nepotism, tribalism
        neglecting naked reality
that brewed the wine that we can't let it go
let it go.

       the largest wound
in our hearts
       where the past bullets
pierced our comforts
        i want to heal it before i let it go, let it go.

i sauntered
        through this discomforting pain;
climbing through —
        the disagreements
betrayals, backbiting
        debaucheries and raw selfishness —
minds who don't want to let it go, let it go

i enter the past
        the way good poetry
entered the indolent
        through its untied roads and
whispering potholes
        with the hope
that not all nigerians are stupid
        through this silent
tired, busy mouth
        where the only poetry
is entering
        you must broad
your search;
        night is also an unemployed
graduate, wanting to let to go, let it go.

© umar yogiza jr
abuja, nigeria.
Safana Dec 2023
Betta will once again make Nigerians better than we are, even if the previous minister did not perform well. Furthermore, Betta is better for both present and future.
Hon. Minister for Humanitarian Affairs

Bretta C. Edu
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2021
anything that's young and small is usually fun to have,
fun to care for, tend to... whether a dog...
a flower... or a child... esp. a child...


i'm not into typifying anything racially...
although... with enough experience cycling...
you come across racial stereotypes...
it's unavoidable...
i don't mind black drivers... i don't mind
white drivers: hell...
the stereotype of the white van man:
who's usually white is a blessing on the road...
these guys are a blessing to cyclists...
they care enough to pass you by with the minimum
amount of space required...
but they're not nervy... jerky...
they don't stalk you for a ******* minute
before making a move to overtake you...
but if i see a ******* "ninja" behind the wheel...
or some pompous Asian who blasts his
horn at me... i'm giving him the finger
that'll elaborate into the index-middle-and-ring
and shout at him: *******! read between
the lines!
i can't help myself:
the guy is usually driving a ******* VW polo
and he think's he's driving a ******* TANK...
i can squeeze past... no problem...
i've come across two instances where my
thigh glanced the surface of the exterior of a car...
i once had a collision with one of those
Ronin with an L placard attached to their rear...
******* mileage... doing 30mph... tears in their eyes
from the wind... blah blah...
i never thought i'd say this but...
Heidegger... dasein... where else if not when cycling?!
- a Sunday newspaper...
oh yeah... i'm a "boomer" in that sort of way...
i love the printed press... esp. on a Sunday...
Sunday newspapers are the best...
they have the magazines... they do a News Review...
it's almost as if... the culmination of all things
relevant arrives on a Sunday...
Monday newspapers are pointless...
i believe there should be a media sabbath...
and it would be a Monday since...
the newspapers are most slim on a Monday
and... no one does anything important on
a Monday anyway...
but the following article really did catch my eye...
'Machete gangs on the hunt for flashy Mamils'
(the sunday times, page 15,
october 10, 2021... nicholas hellen, transport editor)
so that's 'x' not "x" since it's a direct quote
and not a metaphor, misnomer or airy-*******-fairy
ambiguity...
the jyst... jist... whatever: the zest of the story
is... a cyclist was rammed and had his £15,000
road-bicycle stolen from him in daylight...
in an affluent part of Loon-dun... Richmond Park...
MAMIL? it's an acronym...
i hate acronyms... it's a H'american "thing"...
middle-aged-men-in-Lycra...
like i said: i too cycle... i'm a nut for cycling...
and i too wear Lycra shorts...
but i cover those Lycra long-shorts with something
breezy... other than that... no helmet...
no Lycra top...
   but it's the closest a man can get to what
women wear underneath...
if Lycra is not equivalent to the finest sort of lingerie
(phonetically... that... lan-jar-ray... not quite...
almost)
a woman can wear... then...
my ******* are not currently tingling
to a point of me thinking i have a ******...
290,000 is the number of bicycles stolen each
year in England & Wales...
funny that... i don't spot so many cyclists
to not have this number properly scrutinised...
i'm guess... scrap metal? scrap rubber?
- it's Lycra it could as well be something sexed-up
like lace... but... it has to be covered with
some sensible material...
i'd sooner be dead than don a ******* helmet...
cycling gloves and that pseudo-yoga-pants look
that women are pulling off...
sure... your *** looks fine woman...
thanks for that libido insomnia i've been having
with a Marquis de Sade hard-on for the past:
20 years!
started ******* aged 8... or 7...
even managed to teach another boy how to *******...
what's the ******* for?
not that? solo projects with ref. to...
no... never... i was never fond of the Egyptian gods...
but this one... so i asked this girl what deity she'd prefer
to... hardly pray to... at least keep in mind:
well... her counterpart... Atum... who spawned
his... offspring through self-*******...
so... hardly a taboo...
of course if i were a woman and had my
decapitated ******* toys and a web-cam...
i'd be milking it...
oh hello plumber... hello... electrician...
it's hardly something to do before a camera & broadcast
it... it's someone one does
on the throne of thrones...
once you do the no. 1 & 2...
that's no. 3 and there's no. 4 that comes up
while baptising yourself in the shower... a proper wash down...
but never in a scented candles spread on the bed
sort of way...
well: if you have to milk it:
i guess you have to milk it...
the sort of erotica associated with pregnant women...
- i never liked Talking Heads...
but this song... qu'est ce que? f'ah f'ah f'ah...
i was sold when watching Bloodshot with van Petrol...
that dance...
i'm shimmy... simmering... hell:
brought right up to the boil...
- so yeah... i can racially profile certain traffic
behaviours...
"ninjas" are not that bad...
but Asian... sorry... not Orientals:
i'll call red red, o.k.?
           Hindus... although i like this slur...
CIAPATY...
          borrowed from japatti...
in my native spreschen it denotes...
eating with your mouth open...
the MLASK... the audible sound of food being
chewed...
but i'll still "secretly" envision a world
where... we ate something French for breakfast...
or just poultry abortions...
something omni- for lunch
and a curry for dinner...
           i can't get over the superiority
of the blue Indian cuisine...
    lucky them: lucky for some to have
stockpiles of salt... but lucky for them to have had
cardamom... green or black... cumin, coriander...
chilly for all this time!
- but when it comes to reincarnation...
sure... i remarked that time sort of stopped being tinged
with a metaphysically: linear and
adorned a cyclic nature...
but... reincarnation implies:
only a fixed number of souls... while the rest of us
are zombies... empty vessels...
i'm not saying it's wrong... but ******* scary...
imagine... it's like the Catholic ELECT...
the Jewish CHOSEN few...
                            it doesn't breed much...
sympathy for your fellow man...
i like sympathy...
a symbiosis of pathology...
i once could quote myself as saying:
apathy breeds no pathology...
a quote staged when someone remarked:
there's nothing worse than apathy...
          dis-ease: a negation of ease... one more scrutiny
with etymological tinges... or hue...

always the two necessary lubricants when
writing... since i never feel like talking:
breathing is fine... but talking?!
refocus of a subject matter: Kandinsky...
talking-head... news anchor...
or merely a ditto-head...
i.e. one half of the "air-quote" i.e.
                                                      " id est... as above...

****... there's some dehydrating washing
in the attic... i need to get that ironed...
there's a decent chicken broth slowly cooking:
i'll need to boil some vermicelli for it
as a starch accompaniment...

i too hate the masochists running riot in...
m'ah race... i hate them...
i don't mind this whole world that has congregated
in Loon'dun...
i feel queasy in a monochromatic society
to begin with...
Poland & Cheltenham are like-for-like...
it's that i've grown among so many hues that...
it's impossible to otherwise an "otherwise"...
but... for a people that espouse so much Darwinism...
but at the same time... trickle down
English... "pragmatic" sensibilities?
sorry... something is going to awake in me
something primordial... something most associated
with the evil genius of the Russians...

you simply can't sell me Darwinism and
behave like ******* dodos!

my Salinger year... my new york year...
whichever name...
a very accomplished movie...
quirky... very quirky...
it's almost like watching...
Bell, Book & Candle starring
Kim Novak & James Stewart...
tamed existentialism: nothing remotely connected
to Robert Eggers' the lighthouse...
a movie on par with Ingmar Bergman's
the seventh seal... or Samuel Beckett's Watt...

i still haven't finished watching the movie...
the night i started watching it
i ended up drinking myself to a silly state
of lying on the floor...
then... attacking my cat with caresses while
crawling without using my legs...
like that cenobite in Hellrasiser: Inferno...
i was head, torso... arms...
a waking nightmare of what watching serious
movies & drinking does to you:
the waking grip of: delirium!

oh i know... a little... w.h. auden famously remarked
that all the Hitlers of the world wrote at night...
the above i wrote during the day:
having forgotten to put on the washing
of bathroom towels...
as you do... gearing up to cooking
the most pristine beef steak...
some french fries... a mushroom sauce...
leftover coleslaw...
you really can't butcher the beef meat twice...
you need to cook it for its final purpose:
tender medium rare...
i'd east blue... i'd eat rare...
but doubly butchering it to a well done?
i guess only the English have this
horrid palette...
they'll make chalk out
of chicken *******! a bit like my grandmother!
no... exactly like my grandmother!

come to think of it... a narrative is a cascade...
a river... a waterfall... something that lends
itself to Heraclitus...
then the cut-up "technique" came
beginning with the Dada movement
and later... fro Tristan Tzara
through to William Burroughs and his
"comrade"... Gregory Corso...
i'm more into juxtapositions...
let's call it...
          Kandinsky's anarchy with the subtlety
of either Satie or Debussy...
i sometimes walk into the forest
drunk... come a special place in my heart...
the highest autumn... the genesis of winter...
with a naked torso: because
i have to take all the clothes of my upper body
and sit... scouting for the moon
on some throne of bark...
peering from behind the branches...
listening to: as a branch is broken...
and something nears...
            
i need this night... it's such an annual event...
a seasonal ****...
like the period it takes me to make my own wine...
i need the trees as skeletons...
it's hard: when... you don't have any colour
to work with...
some might say i write a "word salad":
which is a derogatory term in psychiatry for
those who are familiar with it...
i'm speaking nonsense or...
i'm trying something new...
post-post-modernism...

      does it even matter, right now?
           i don't know my neighbours...
the ones i supposedly knew managed to invent
a tall tale concerning my Arctic hued Maine ****...
kidney failure... sorry... you what?
i was visiting my grandparents while being
traumatized by an advent of future events...
i begged and begged to return home...
if these Asiatic people love themselves so much:
and their community...
how much they might abhor tending
to westerners' pets...
say it... don't fake it...
"neighbours"...

well... that sheikh party... sorry... Punjab?
why do i require all these unnecessary
explanations... why do i need to be schooled?
that party of Sikhs went down well...
i spotted a few of them looking at me sitting
on the windowsill... waiting for an insomniac crow
to crow in the nacht...
  the party was going fine for a few hours...
until 1am hit and... i could hear the aruing through
my headphones...
in the morning a car was parked by
the garden fence that read: DOCTOR
on the front...
so... someone overdid it?

listen, friend... if you don't know how to drink!
don't drink!
i drink because i'm bored...
and i like to... dribble a little scribble...
i am: a harrowing...

     i'm sorry: these aren't my neighbours...
i can tell you why they're not my neighbours...
those Nigerians that moved next door...
where once an English woman... post-wall...
and her pseudo-Lithuanian bulldog of a bf moved in...
the one who told me i needed to ask
his permission when making a bbq...
because he had his washing drying in the garden
and he didn't want a smoked salmon fest...
or the woman that lived two doors down...
with her autistic boy...
i don't know how many men went
in and out after the boy's father left...

i'm not saying i'm better than...
but i like... what is it that i like?
a sensible... polite society...
a society where i can drink a Franziskaner beer
on a park bench, in the shade... and not bark
obscenities...
i like politeness... i like... this most pristine of social
contracts...
i still believe there are...
unwritten... social contracts...
like today... a woman was walking with her
two daughters riding bicycles...
i finished my beer and smoked my cigarette...
i was on my way
riding the bicycle without
holding the handlebars...

LOOK! LOOK! the man is not holding them!
well... i should come up with
some soppy story about being 35 and not having
children...
chances are... society would only allow me
to breed female prostitutes...
and male suicides...
i'm doing the next best "thing"...
nodding my head like a pigeon walking...
pretend dancing while perched on a windowsill...
listening to Talking Heads' ****** killer...

i'm out... the chimp in me checked out...
oh it must be so great to have little girls
and boys...
the ones that spot a man with a beard
and exclaim: LOOK! LOOK! he's not holding
the handle-bars...
he's almost riding a unicycle!
look at the clown in disguise of...
not having any ****** paint!

i'm also jealous... i can make a corner without
holding the handle-bars of a bicycle...
it's like... gravity 2.0: two-point-oh...
but the stuff the English colts in Essex get up to...
gearing up... doing wheelies...
i'm jealous... all i can do is...
turn corners without holding the handlebars....
whey hay! presto!
it's like... gravity can be used outside the realm
of planetary orbit...
it can have its own micro-cosmos! wow!

at this point i ought to be like:
i want to raise young girls...
teach them how to ride a bicycle without
them needing to use the handlebars...
only for acute turns...
i'm sorry... the chimpanzee in me
is sleeping...
i'm Harold... can i help you?

               i'm ******* grooving to Talking Heads'
****** killer bass line...
like a pigeon... strutting... instead
lodged with a leg folded sitting on it
on a windwosill...
              believe me... the world's great!
it's almost as if i never left it:
it's almost as if i arrived to watch its sunrise!

the drink is hear... the absence of any decent narrative too...
talking heads' psychology killer vs.
fleetwood mac's: the chain...
to hell with African-esque...
the European-solo projects...
if it's not about the bass... it's not about anything...

imagine a pigeon strutting...
and my giggling... imitating dancing while rooted...
those two girls on bicycles...
LOOK! LOOK! a man is riding a bicycle
without holding the handlebars!
as much as that might have: ought to...
bring me sorrow...
the sun was shining...
i wish i could... tap into that sort of
research material...
hello dead end... hello project dodo...
for all the right reasons...
for ****'s sake...
my mother loved her father...
but my grandfather "sold" her... the worst of the worst
of genes...
i'm also invested in them...
i'm evolved in that:
i know... when it's desirable to stop...
i want to stop...
i don't want a future i dispose of to
come back to me with... ******* complaints...

i adore the children of strangers...
LOOK! LOOK! the man!
ha ha... the first time i was scrutinised as
a man... i... never remembered being a boy...
LOOK! he's riding his bicycle without using
the handlebars!
it's the little that makes the most...
like... catering to your feline companions...
making them teased... but now abhorring you
up to the point of:
how, the, ****... do, you... arrive... at...
"lost" cats?! dogs i can understand...
i saw this one instance where a guy...
roped a dog to a bench... then ****** off...
for some... strange ******* reason...
the same dog was... running around with
another stray... ******* magic...
a stray dog a "lost" dog i can understand...
but... what sort of a *******... what sort of *****
do you have to be / become...
to conjure up a... ******* stray cat?!
seriously?!

believe me: i've lived a little: to know... a little...
it's not that i know nothing:
which is... that infamous Socratic negation positive
statement....
you can't just... conjure up...
"lost" cats... what terrible people they must be...
dogs i can understand...
leashed...
cats... i imagine cats ******* off on their own...
then i start thinking about
the milk-toast...
the... overcooked beef...
beef that's not... medium-rare... or blue /
i.e. doubly butchered...

the bicycle isn't simply "owned"
by =a: pataphyscian: alfred jarry....
               a cyclist is somehow...
sometimes... a buffer....

hello... the end.
Babatunde Raimi Sep 2019
They have provoked her
The giant of Africa
When you stir the bees nest
You must be ready to dance
On the Cobra's tail they stepped
Does actions not beget re-actions?

In a sane society
Where human lives are treasured
Shall we continue like this?
Whose score is it to settle?
Do you want us to count scores?
This is not a battle you can win

Who cursed Africa?
Is this the Africa our fore-fathers fought for?
What really is xenophobia
Brother killing Brothers
But they forgot in a hurry
Are these the people we redeemed?

When a pride of lions are led by a Sheep
This is what you get in return
Disregard for human lives
Until their family is victimised
They enjoy in affluence
While we all suffer in abject penury

I have seen Tigers escape from Buffaloes
They stood as one indivisible entity
To defend their territory
Because enough is enough
We are a people of patience
But don't test the power of Naija

Take the battle to your leaders
Not to fellow Africans
Ask them about their electoral promises
Go to school and get a life
Acquire skills and stay empowered
You've got one more shot at peace

Go back to your history books
Read of our exploits during the  world war
Google our feats in Liberia
Have you heard about the spirit of Biafra?
That spirit still lives
The one that makes us stronger as one

Sheathe your swords of xenophobia
"Naija no dey carry last"
I hear the drums of war already
But until the beagle sounds
You have one last chance at peace
Take it, before it's off the table

To our leaders and politicians
Shame on you all
Our blood means nothing to you
Our brothers are sent to Valhala
The house of the Odin God
Our sisters ***** and maimed
Shame on you and your generation

And to you the ignorant fool
You **** your fellow Africans
Forgetting we are all flesh and blood
We share the same ancestors and lineage
This is not the Africa Madiba fought for
Shame on you all!

My fellow Nigerians
I come to you in peace
Let us explore diplomacy
They want to turn us against ourselves
Will we allow them?
"Biko, were Ndidi..."

My hands quiver as I write
My pen drips blood
I fear for my generation yet unborn
I see a revolution brewing
But let us go back to HIM
HE is the God of instant judgmen
The Rothschilds control trillions of dollars. J.P. Morgan, whose insurance fraud scam sank the Olympic while it masqueraded as the Titanic, was a Rothschild minion. [David Bowie is following the left-hand path. His demerits will merit the shredding of his soul.]*
   *
Nigerians have ruined Nigeria's public assistance programs for everybody! Dear President of Nigeria: Nigerian free food is delicioso! I could eat massive amounts of it all day everyday! Nigeria is so clean & sanitary! Why can't all law-worshiping Nigerians love & respect each other to lower the ******-rate for awhile?
Today Nigeria Celebrates here Independence day/freedom from Colonialism.

As we celebrate I ask:
Are we truly FREE?

We have freedom from Colonialism,

Yet we suffer from tribalism and nepotism.

The crown and Britain are no more our masters yet political thieves are now our master.

Diseases and pestilences plague our land, as health infrastructures are in ruins or neglected

Judgments of the crown no longer bind us, yet our judicial system seem no more the last hope of common man.

Our Political leaders appear worse than colonial masters, who treat their subjects as slaves rather than fellow citizens

Patriotic Nigerians appear to be pathetic Nigerians

The economy dwindling and the giant of Africa is loosing her value.

Hope the  pride of Africa will not turn a shame to Africa?

Which way Nigeria? Are we still standing or we are standing still?

To turn the Nation around can begin with you

You in your little corner and I in my little corner, let's seek to do that which is right

✍🏾
    01/10/2023
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
i've just changed my tyre and my inner tube
on my... very cheap viking road bicycle...
i've also had to cough up 10 quid from a stash
of 100 quid i was willing to pay a *******
for some love...
how i will spend the rest of the 90 quid
leftovers... i'm cutting back on...
glorifying the night
with mannequin drunk antics...
              and smoking cigarettes... so... it's pretty
much a flip of the coin...
i'm starting to abhor
the coverage of the Olympics these days...
they're only showcasing women in sport...
yawn...
ooh! wait... there's that new medal up
for grabs... the Nigerian mixed gender team
tried something new...
let's call man (Y) and woman (X)...
the orthodox tactic stated:
YXXY...
the Nigerians tried to pull off a Jessy Smollett...
they did an... ha ha...
YXYX...
it looked great at first...
the Nigerian man gained about 10 metres
on all the women...
but then... the Nigerian woman lost
the lap with slowest man...
that was fun to watch...

look... i've tried to do an ode to Bukowski:
seeking out small poetry magazines...
"building-up" an audience...
a lot has changed since the typewriter became
defunct...
i've looked into several "magazines"...
rejected by a few...
i looked into this one... rising phoeni(c) review...
i'm still looking into it...

i was like: wow! the message!
fresh perspective... angelhead hipsters...
i have a beard and a viking haircut...
but i'm not a hipster...
   i looked and looked...
of the voices represented by the so-called
review... truly underrepresented voices
in democracy...
obviously they have to be women...
no one is ever so truly "under-represented"
in society... not since that episode
in Bewitched... where... the wife's mouth
spends the husband's dollar...
or the sugar-baby spends his... mah'jesty's
premature he'jaculation...

this is the last time i trust the editorial process...
no... clearly... *******... in original print...
in the original stake on:
burning a forest to get your ******* *** of
a fist a full arithmetic of knuckles off your chest...
not here... not... now...
the classical route...
i can smell.... it...
it would have to first bypass the tastes
(criteria of the editors) to later reach
a larger audience...

but not now... we can bypass the whole
charade of the editorial process...
if youtube.com was what it was
in circa 2016... having fun with
A.I. algorithms... we had fun...
i mean: i stopped using last.fm... didn't i?
a computer acted pristine like:
what the **** happened to both
the ****** megastore / 'his master's voice'
on oxford street?
i was waiting for someone interested
in music to... do the **** people don't do
in a museum: curate to my tastes!
no?

i'm done in appealing to these editors...
i was thinking about posting something for
the rising phoeni(c) review... as a joke...
oh they will read my stuff...
but... they'll only accept a ******...
or a 'lack un' to compensate for the ratio
of men to women...
dare! believe! a plumber... a roofer...
might have a degree in chemistry! OCH!
gosch!
mein gott!

hellopoetry and allpoetery... eh...
i too was thinking... "recognised" pedigree...
am i something less for...
if i were here first... you being second:
you think that term / status of platform...
translated into journalism is equivalent
to... tabloid-press?
who's pressing what? i'm pushing in 26+ digits....
the plus enforces the use of punctuation marks...
the odd sequence with Hangul or Katakana... etc.

no one waited for the advent for bypassing
the editorial process as much as i have:
i've become the butcher to the raw thoughts
in my 'ed...
why... not press harder...
if the status of platform is to be deemed less...
than the status of publisher...
hellopoetry / allpoetry is...
it's not a social platform... it's a reading platform...
it's way ahead of... ha...
that's ha: never used goodreads...
or twitter... or instagram...

for that loved up tactic of: in defence of democracy...
the classical approach to publishing
is a pyre...
i'll **** on it some gasoline if it might just
burn a fluorescent fire of blue...
too slow... 1 to 3 months waiting for a hopeful
reply: it's a bit like waiting for access to
a nightclub where only the colts of
the rich few are allowed access for
a staging of Solomon's harem...
while there's: Solomon has left the building...
with the queen of Shebah...

insomnia libido coupled with insomnia "printing":
i can't wait: not that i "can't"
i'm already geared up for the cascade...
platform ≠ tabloid...
publisher still equates itself as publisher...
that... ******* lackey of "good tastes"...
forlorn in keeping to the sensibilities of:
catered to women...
no fun... if their thumbs' up is all i were
ever after...

look... the "mission statement" reads:
all inclusive all this all this other...
i'm an aging schizophrenic...
an aging quadratic-bi... lingual...
i'm hardly keeping up with either anchor
or ship... the sails?! the wind... oh...
i'm all up for that...
i don't even know whether i'm truly schizophrenic...
i treat it at a metaphor...
like William Burroughs might have...

but as a platform... pushing my doughy-eyed
geriatric gazelles "aside"...
here's me making a tide:
the old-school editorial process of...
"envisioning" print: no ******* print...
forget about it... as publishers you will see
as much eyes-glued to the emptying of
eye-sockets with your editorial fancies
as much as i will see: zombies
slurping up cones of: less cream...
more of that vivid juice shared by all...
in the form of 'strawberry opposite of icecream'...
the A.I. result is clueless...
you know... no cream...
i forget the word... just the proper sugar...
and water...  frozen...
not sherbert...
                       strawberry ice cream vs. the other type of ice...
still no results... ah...
strawberry... what if i type in...
watermelon... ah ha ha: SORBET!
and i thought i was **** as
crossword puzzles...
genuine: herr Franklisch...
herr... Merovingian...

   but at least i'm something of an Iraq:
i's: raw... whenever the western
democratic export might be minded...
introspect...

eh?
me too... #bewildered... feels like
a bee has just stung me...
no... i wouldn't feel safeguarded by
the obstructive publishing practices of
a "new-age" internet...
i.e. via the editors... later: the public...
oh no... first the public...
the editors can ******* by then...
curate "what"? by "then":
the ******* mortals teaming up with
XAOS... to overthrow the immortal
gods of Olympus...
just like the Olympian gods
overthrew the Titans?!

it's a platitude: most certainly...
i can't wait for editorial scrutiny to...
publish... eh? you're implying:
"publish"? i can publish on a whim...
if i can gravitate to a higher realm
of exfoliation... why should i be...
curtailed... stopped...
why in this body of a weaker gorilla-take
i'm still the anaemic tadpole...
why would i want to guise myself
in the concern for editors...
they'll reject all i'll ever write:
let's listen to the sinew...
to the wrath... the broken bone...
the lubricated extension of tendons...

if this is somehow lesser than
what might be... editorially approved...
the legality of...
i'm not here for the money...
look at me... i'm throwing those
30 silver coins in the air...
get rich young...
tire yourself... dying... old...
i've seen what dying old amounts to...
no much...
you earn: my gob's worth...
i'll add a bonus of my own phlegm
and a serpent of a tongue to quiz you...

but i will not reserve myself for
making myself "evident" by choosing
the "classical" publishing "en-route"... ha!
who has the monopoly on paper thereby...
ink?
i.e. what "paper"... what ******* "ink"!
high-brow ivory-tower guards of...
what?!

limited readership!
throw your words like grains of wheat
against the "deaf ears": subsequently
watch them turn into pearls!
platform ≠ tabloid journalism...
after all... tabloid journalism is still...
editorialised... isn't it?

it's neu.... it's mutated: Darwinism allows
mutation to take place:
i don't see how it can't...
it's the 21sst century! didn't you hear?!
em... do i have to look for inspiration
for scribbling... because it's merely / simply
out of ha-ha-h'america?
oops... lobs... aside...

i'm pretty sure the concept of platform:
is curated by the public...
long live platforms! long live the streets!
to hell with publishers and
speaking hush-hush coerced speech
in tenements owned by disgruntled Jews...
who... thank you: thank you:
for the Egyptian Moses...
sharing his insight into...
the eye of Horus... sure... ha-shem lettering
came later...

like i'm a ****** having lived all of my life
in ING-LAND!
by way of editorial "integrity":
who would publish any of it?
ha! noo... oone...
        watch me: **** on the necromancy of
pyramid... subsequently into the Nile...
because i'm immortal and i have enough
"time" to... "sort of"...  "wait"...
hit the iron while it's hot...
i'm not waiting for the restrictions
to restrict my freedom of expression:
too much of the beach has been tamed...
by those who didn't scribble...
instead deciding to make videos...

to yawn like the seas...
eh... to grow intact like they are to be towed...
but to bypass the editorial scrutiny:
this... envisioned:
"surprise" of a "concept" of "summer"
via England... there's no "summer"
in England...
September = an Indian Summer...
which is beyond metaphor and misnomer...
it's... weirdly placed for an islander "typos"
to.. stay... well addressed in a workaholic
trajectory of: FUNCTION... BASIS...
CUE!

publisher vs. platform...
                 there's no real "vs."... is there...
it's not an immediacy contra:
the highest quality when
the "highest" quality is only arrived at by...
WAHMOON!
**** it... let's leave it to the coliseum

the bread: the butter... the bread: the butter...
just "another": cheap-ink-dosage of...
"IT'S NOT FAIR! IT'S NOT FAIR!"
well of course it isn't...
you do X... i'll do Y...
if we're not doing some
"middle-fiddle" in between
for a compensating status quo:
then... what the **** are we living
for... some Muslim niqab: the Taliban has
come! welcome the Taliban... the ****?!

democracy: platform... allows this...
editorial scrutiny passes this back...
back years... alongside...
a Mongolian horde invasion: tease;
but i write in a zunge zeer
people have no "question"
or... thereby... knowledge of... off.

oh i'm supposed to feel worse than the
better of... off the worst?
pull me in... gravity... time's: a plenty!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
it takes me about 2 hours to drink a bottle of wine
in the form of kalimotxo by myself...
2 hours while i watch a bat fly around
chasing moth tapas...
2 hours from around 9pm through to 11pm...
before i finally relax and open a second
bottle... if i push it through to 2am
and wake up at 9am... well... problem solved...
whatever the "problem" might me...
an irksome memory most probably...
a past girlfriend... Siberian... hardly any
Mongol ethnicity in her...
but still all the more crazy...
apartment in St. Petersburg etc. etc.
the best *** i ever had...
until... the best *** i ever had was
with a Turkish *******...
so... that chapter is sort of done...
hang-up from the age of 21... now that i'm
35...
well... sort of wow... 14 years...
not bad...
                but i can at least find relief in not
being ****-hurt about not getting any...
on a spectrum:
the alpha the beta and... mr omega man...
how i'd love to own a dog...
but taking it to a public place to ****
and then have to bag that **** and dispose
of it... and i've seen them!
those dog-walkers...
even in the advent of facemasks and hand-sanitizers...
did the dog walkers use hand-sanitizers picking
up that hot-dog-of-a-****?
no... sure... it's through plastic:
double-sure Irish revelations concerning
the ******...
put it's one thing sticking your whittle itch'ard
into a mouth of floral batters and
oyster digestive juices...
and picking up a dog's hot loaf...

oh sure... for the love of looking into
a dog's eyes and seeing all
that b.d.s.m. playing out...
                   i suppose dogs are great when
growing up...
but once you age...
you find miracles in little things
like... your cat deciding: no...
i'll take a **** in the neighbour's garden...
am i to... arm it with a c.c.t.v. camera
so i might know... where he... did the deed?

rain of pigeon ****...
if Warsaw is a city known for the happiness
of pigeons and parking-meters...
i guess London already knew about that...

- because all the world is filled with
a grift for defocusing narratives...
because: you can never experience thinking within
the confines of a unifying narrative...
a narrative of focus...
from the many: unto none...
or... from the one: to the few...
that's why i better believe
the astronauts of text, memes...
the advertisers... because... poets are paid
peanut while "journalists" are
being paid: a wage-gap...

on a Saturday... on  Sunday...
taking the knee: it's absurd... since you're not
taking both of them...
like one might at a Catholic mass...
but beside that...
some reverse psychology at work:
"taking the knee"...
   em... didn't Derek Chauvin take the knee?
you're taking the knee?
i'm taking the knee...
here's my knee-cap...
you're taking the knee?
Derek Chauvin took the knee...
apparently he "took the knee"
to the point of... suffocating a man...
hell! let's all take the knee:
let's take too!

how about i lie face down and imitate
crucifixion: how about not ******* off
some ethnic **** - because all
the white english girls are hell-bent of proving
us wigs perfumed: pampered in
baby-powder as being anti-racist:

racial equality? hmm...
i'd love to see it in two instances...
on a 100m sprint event
at the Olympics...
and... also at the Olympics...
at a 100m sprint event in the pool...
i'd love to see a white man win the 100m sprint...
perhaps i'd also love to see a black man
swim... just swim...
for all the racism in h'america:
no wonder: if you band-up together
and call yourself african-american:
but you have no idea what
Zulu warlord sold your for:
clearly a fair-game of exchange of goods:
a TRADE...
it's not like these... David physique European
wimp lords managed to chase and
chain the Goliaths of Africa...
i look at them now...
walking freely in the prospects of Europe
and think to myself: how the ****?!

don't give me that **** that a limp biscuit
cuck armed with some iron pebbles
and some fire ***** shot from a rifle
could overcome...
a zealot barbarian wielding a tomahawk...
if half of the african-americans knew
their heritage:
if you'd identity me as Russian i'd take
offence...
some Arab pushing me Quran
on Edgware Rd thinking i'm German
while having a mulatto indian-anglo-saxon-celtic
girlfriend... i don't mind...
mistake me for a Serb...
hell... mistake me for a Dane...
but don't mistake me for a ******* Russian
or a(n) Ukrainian...
we might all be white...
but i'm pretty sure money dries up pretty soon...
what... Maurice... no... it wasn't Maurice...
Malcolm X... no... i'm pretty sure
it wasn't him...
oh you know... pan-Africanism...
like pan-Slavism was a thing...
Marcus Garvey...

       exodus back to Africa... like hell the Jamaicans
were going to give up Jamaica... ha... ha ha...
slavery in Russia and just nibbling on some
vantage point of the east:
it must feel... satisfying to known that
a foreign entity might have enslaved
"you"... beside the people of shared heritage...
what with whatever serfdom was...
hardly a matter for deciphering
cobbler professionalism...
a man as limb: limb the extension of
some other's peruse of... unforgivable pleasures...

i still make a killer of a mango curry...
thanks for the recipe...
i'll see you in New Delhi... perhaps... never...
i have to: come at "it" full throttle...
it's an agitating prospect seeing
zombie-esque drone partying up slogan
chatterers...
i'd be willing to break my jaw...
and my nose... just to hear them shut up...
i'll sooner **** on a kidney bean
seed and watch Jack imitate Jacob's ladder
than... whatever is left with: that than...

no wonder... the 2nd bottle of wine will be drunk
in under 2 hours... i'll fully lubricated...
relaxed enough to spew...
if only race was as fluid as ethnicity is
absent in the case of Brazil...
or for that matter...
all of south america: with the exception of
Argentina i suppose...
why? hiding ageing Nazis...
it's not like Joseph Mengele ever faced a firing
squad...  or hanging...
well... what he did face was...
having a brain haemorrhage while
taking a dip in a swimming pool...
i guess you might call that: double-drowning...
the gods really invested themselves
in that death...

oh i can imagine the.... breaking of the bones
while still revelling in doing
a puppet show... as the ****** drowned...
he'll be dearly remembered... just for that...
my "tale" is hardly tall...
but... if you haven't been involved:
the currency of duping manhood
with a pharmacological cocktail of...
chemo-soup: to match up to the brain
being all fat and: the proteins are ****** at...
only and only at the proper release point
of invitation: via Alzheimer's...
that's when brain tows... muscle! ugh!
killer proteins that solidify liquid fat
of oil into: curd-esque cheese clusters...
wonderful ingenuity... who might need
a ******* insect parasite...

why not turn to dieting?
women diet a lot...
i don't know: well: i do...
i rather burn off the calories than hide them...
women can diet all they want...
i tried it once...
out of sympathy for the cult she joined...
i lasted for about 12 hours...
it was already too much that
i drank my coffee black without
any sugar...
give me the ******* plough!
let me exhort and exalt the body...
i don't need to diet: to feel this creeping sensation
of a thousand non-existence "things"
nibbling at my fat reserves...

it's bad enough already: than seeing this pan-African
movement and...
it's like me visiting Kenya: visiting the macaques
feeding them sachets of sugar and tea
trying to escape the sun:
feeding the shade on a balcony wasn't enough:
some Muhammad with a crocodile farm
while his daughter: clad in a niqab swimsuit...
sure... "racial equality":
me... porky skinned:
in the full glare of equatorial sun...
i'm hoping for a rash...
come the night and the ivory beauties...
with skin as molten coffee mingling with
chocolate... buttered up...
smoking marijuana... i can only imagine
the brothels of Mombasa...

race is one thing: ethnicity: another...
but then again:
i'm pretty sure the african-americans
in their "congregation" of southern-Baptists
can't tell a hammer from a sickle
from a ******* horseshoe when it comes
to the ancient disparities between...
Nigerians and Kenyans...
just like whites are supposed to...
call me a ******* Russian one more time...
German? eh... the historical relevance of
the Wends... i won't mind...

the Hebrews... oddly enough: they're not a race...
they're an ethnicity...
you can mistake an 'ebrew for a European...
or a Mediterranean olive skinned:
somehow pseud-Greek... somehow pseudo-Roman:
st. Augustine.. Tunisian in disguise?
the race of the Baltic Sea people...
tell them they're all expected to eat
Baltic sushi: or raw-herring in a creamy dill sauce!

the world came knocking at my door...
my peace... mein nacht...
2 hours spent drinking a bottle of wine in comfort
with the wind caressing the tree...
like my hands weaving the nakedness of a *******'s
body... each groove where the flesh and muscle
"weakened": where the bones were left:
exposed... at the knees...
at the elbows... the collar-bone...

someone of a continental persuasion will tell you:
don't guillotine the head
of the beer...
in England you're expected to be cheated
when drinking a pint without a beer's head...
the foam...
i too want the beer's head moustache...
unless you're drinking Guinness...

if all these african-h'americans had a quencch
of "thrist" knowing they were...
said X... or said Y...
money is worth as much as tomorrow allows...
to spend it: rather than invest with...
personally i'd like to know the name
of the warlord that traded our limbs
for the precious stones...
then again: it's not like picking cotton
was anything akin to mining coal...
so... what?

now all this propaganda by the:
i hate them... they're ha-ite...
why why... urban liberal anti-racists...
i hate anti-racists... they have no knowledge
of metaphors... or for descriptive language
to begin with: their knowledge of physiognomy is
half-wit short of Picasso's impressions
of how: Africans see their faces
without the use of mirrors...
how they see themselves in masks...

to hell with your ******* "ally": too!
i'm looking at the most degenerate of my supposed:
degenerate of the specimen...
such... classy... high primed:
individuation: quotients...

- who hurt you? oh babe... who hurt you?!
- baby... i think i hurt myself...
years later i noticed she was still hung-up
on that one morbid swan of the highest kept
expectation: widow Zeus...
at Loch Lomond...
thank god for that Turkish *******:
she finally gave me an inkling into
how to tell apart: limp from limb...
toe from tongue...
i wouldn't want some... pigtailed
imitation schoolgirl dream, either...

give me the proper *****: the armchair...
the respectable: glass of wine that i might sip
and there would be... rivers of it... working their way
into my beard and down my neck... onto my chest...
give me... the thirst never to be quenched!
cheap romance novels for girls...
newly knighted phantoms compensated with:
***-mad dogs readied to be relieved of
being broke by: a leash of
sacrificial mundanity!

ask a girl twice... Thai: not a "surprise": an authentic Thai
bride... so no ****-in-a-lacklustre...
what the colour of my eyes were...
this is still biology class...
in high-school... that's before i shunned a tonne
of weight...
she didn't guess... grey? blue...
oddly enough: they're still grizzly... GREEN...

- as i write this... from a consensus agreement:
the ****-boys can have all their
shifting harem-caurosel all they want:
and eager have...
you have to cycle a while to spot all
the flavours of solipsism:
the empowered women alone in their cars
singing along to songs no one
wants to hear: my heart overflows to drift
into a quasi-sympathy... for a millisecond...
before i'm reminded of something
by a shadow cast by a a tree...

i want to return to a grave that's best
pleasing the colour of my Iris...
the world keeps knocking at my door...
however real or however metaphorical...
i'm not answering...
it's all... pretty much... custard...
thick splodges of it ruining the concern i have
for pin-pointing the knife
at the focal posits
of where to best insert a knife:
since... simply shooting myself
in the head with a shotgun is generally
agreed upon at, as:
a ******* bad idea...

     i wouldn't dare... or even convene myself
to later somehow, bother...
**** the ethno-masochism of english girls...
not that i am in any ways "welcome"...
if they're going through that:
**** a black guy phase...
  thank god i don't earn enough
to keep one "happy"...
thank god for a many a great a number of "things"...
Turkic women: who's hair as black as it is...
raven black teasing blue...
blooming blue teasing at...

i'm heading to a "somewhere" from where
the Mongolian breath arrived at: arrived at to begin
it's.... original migration and: receding culminated with...
i don't need these blonde anglo-saxon wash-ups of
mythology... to hell with Helen!
last time i heard: she only fakes not enjoying what
later: becomes apparent...
i'm not saying she's implicitly gagging for it...
but she she's not...

she's not exactly toying with the ascetics...
she's having *** as an aesthetic...
she's always having more fun:
even in the process...
she's mediating the third-person voyeurism
more than the person she is having ******* with...
it's hardly a person by then... piston works?!
piston works... ergo: piston works!

i can't compete with her already achieved experience...
i could only come around finding...
someone more experienced:
a nymphomaniac *******:
someone who could spell it out to ne
directly: i would be taking the back-seat....
i'd have my arms amputated when
she performed her oyster-*******-trick,,,

coming in at £2 per minute...
oh sure... hear me bemoan all the injustices of
the trade... when... there are some....
on only-fans... not filling to touch!
i squint my eyes...
i squint my eyes even more...
i'm left with ******* a lemon...

                 what?

— The End —