( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands,  a feather from the pea-****’s tail )

Volga - 1

there might have been some provocation
on the part of the  rat’s bible  

it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters  
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming  
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to ****** the blue-hue  with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles

Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of  the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board  

Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it

if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down  

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning

Volga – 4

to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little

is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub  
will enter into the circuit-house

and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island

Volga - 5

coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw  
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind  the rice-rain
from the cirrus                                                

the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality

the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid

is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving

manuscript of the basement of a well

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat  vehemently  
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs

they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song

to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required

notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of  the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen

here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well

on its one page lies the faulty  crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …

within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken

if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land

let us have one game more

there is a tourniquet on his tongue.

he is a risqué bloke
with alkaloid fingers,
they are wearing
yellow asylum jackets
yet he calls me
mad-


emoiselle, his, in between the lines
he cuts with razorblades and mirrors.
i find myself in between legs
of a stanza (not standing),
pale femurs and inner thighs
french-kissing into
surpine ampersands
where the first word
is a proclaimed ugly disease    -- perhaps 'love.'
and the other, its escapade   -- perhaps 'tuberculosis.'
but i must be the period:
oxidised bones.  


within the eyes
of a stanza (still not standing)
abides no fancy lines
no avarice for contemplative meanings
there is but space and void
and i've filled his femur marrows
with metaphors
to the verge of the patella.
he writes poetry for me
with a needle
and an eight-ball.



there is a tourniquet on his tongue
and his spine fits my stocking


seamlessly.

The sun would always come out a little after

                                                                        the mind massacre
                                                                          
                                                                               - follow the monsters-

            i fancy lying on the
hard floor
because it is the only place
where the train of vertebrates in
my spine
can set in its rails.  


                                                               i am a void
                                                               bleeding out oxidised civilisation
                  -holes in my head-
                                                                in a world where colours
                                                                are just fabricated memoirs
                                                                of porcelain filmstrips.
                                                                            

i fear that i am becoming anorexic:
my brain is splattered onto
a tiny plate
                                            -emaciated-
where i maliciously
pick out the
soft and pretty
bits.


My tongue is cancerous,
segregating words into
Pinks' and greys'.        
                                                                                
                                                             my heart has malformed into      
                                                             an ugly blister
                                       -swollen-
                                                              milking saps
                                                              of dismal yesterdays.        

i'm swimming
alone
in an acid bath
of bleach and ice.                                            

                                                      can't find the light
-the light-
                                                       beneath the glass
                                                                                              -the night-
                                                       of the
-decaying-
                                                       chandelier.

i know a secret,
as small as a lump of cancer and pale
as oessin cartilage, insignificant
as the number thirty one
until the end of december.

i know a secret,
locked beneath the tongue of the demon
inside the piano,


-

spitting out keys, oxidised,
corroded, foul, cut for bone marrows  
and cheap hotels and umbrage and
odium and pathological experimentations.

i know a secret,
decolourised in the shade of red and
no matter how raw you scratch me,
it will never bleed out, not even
for you.


--

they are coming, the surgeons, you say.

they are here to anatomise, to dissect, to ****,
to clean, to find, to ****, to dichotomise, to
divide, to sever, to ****, to ****, to stitch,
to seperate, to hide, to fix, to ****,

to make me sick.


---

i may as well be sick.  


----

i think i may as well gut out your stomach
and tie your pretty ileum into a pretty
ribbon, to a pretty street lamp,
and make you walk in a straight line
until you die, to show me
how much you love her.


silly boy, getting to her heart
was an easy as a six point
four centimeter incision.


-----

i was the faire semblant and  
you were the toothless protagonist
of some drunk playwright's
filthy dream, they gave you
gloucester eyes.


euthanise me, i want
your ugly face




------

to be the last ugly face i see.

Terminate with Prejudice,
The word came from on high,
Synchronise the satellite
Above her in the sky.
Instruct the drone manoeuvres
To glide 10,000 feet
And fire the micro missile
Through the roof, but be discreet!

A haze of gas like perfume,
A sneezing fit or two
And every living thing within
The building dies on cue.
No symptoms are detected,
No evidence is found,
The toxic gas is oxidised
Before the hour comes round.

She lies in all her beauty,
Clear alabaster skin,
Green eyes stare to infinity
No heart, that beats, within.
Her searching words offended
The holders of the grail,
Who reached across the globe
To wield their deadly flail.

This Brave, New, evil World
With technology to do
The bidding of the acolytes
Who transgress borders through,
Of every creed and every man,
Across the planet vast
To violate, at will,
All human values of the past.


Marshalg
Revelations in a Scorching Sauna
26/11/2011

/              there's currently a historic heat-wave
happening in england...

indistinguishable
   from, the perfumery akin to the:

inside(s) (of) a barkingside 25m
pool with a diving tower...

part of the higher education
of chemists
belongs to sniffing around,
esp. after having synthesißed
esters...

               one one...
    chlorine...
        within the framework
of the current english heat-wave?
i'm picking up a scent of
chlorine...
                  it's a variant of
public swimming pools -
            which utiliße chlorine
for minority report
   advance: on employing hygiene...

but in the air?
    i can sniff it out...
    it has transpired, translated for me
to pick it up...
   there's chlorine in the air,
notably, i'm guessing,
from the raised temp.,

         you would know,
if you've been to a public swimming pool
that uses oxidised water
as a chlorine alternative -
         O subscript 3,
                 the clarity of the air,
simultanoeusly begging a comparison
with the air inside a 4°C fridge environment...

well, there wouldn't be any "conspiracy"
surrounding the distinguishable signature
of a chanel no. 5 perfume...
     so... i can tell you a scent of sulphur
is sulphur...
        hence... hell yawned over england,
and from its gob, came the scent
of chlorine...
  the second component of identifying
hell -
   sulphur being the first...
   chlorine?    just shy of first, coming
in second.

My thoughts are wilting upon the branches of
my reflections, each one a shade different from
the other that like shimmers of a sunset linger.

I wait for the instance when assumption is oxidised
and in heavy nothingness they fall wilted on my
mind, they are cushioned beneath so many more.

My minds creativity has descended and now rotting
in colourful expiration. And for now my thought don't
wave, till the next time buds of thought form and reform.

It was a day where the sky cried for me
and I cried for me too
it was a day where I decided to ignore the cuts and bruises I gifted myself as a present and keep walking on the smashed tiles                  
I was desensitised to the ache but every slash that broke my skin seemed to give release

looking in the mirror, the eyes that blinked back carried no colour
the mirror cracked under the sting of my hateful gaze
and for some reason my knuckles bleed from this
drop …… drop
oxidised deep red stains followed me to the timber balcony
the wood absorbed every distress from me and the sky
the silence on my mind as the rain played with my face was disturbed by wondering of what it would be like on the other side of the world
where there was a small barrier between fire and eternal peace

Your words cut me like a knife
No. Not quite
Less like a knife
You are not precise
You hurl your words at me
Fast but no control

What is your aim?
To hurt
To motivate
Both
Do you even know?

Your words slice me like a saw
A blade oxidised into rust
Blunt
Your wound isn’t clean
It doesn’t leave a straight red line
Or a quick way to heal
Like a zip
Or a trail of blood
To show someone else my way
Your words tear my skin
An impossible jigsaw
An empty space

Your words leave a scar
Pink
Like my favourite colour of lipstick
But it is angry
It burns
It rips open
Again

Ancient wisdom



                            lies in

                            Bones



The StoneAge



                             didn't end



                             for lack

                             of stones







monster ~



                 monsters . .





                                    everywhere





                                                  whisper

    ­                                              in a many ear



                                     loud enough

                                     to stoke our fears



                                     playing games

                                     of truth or dare





monsters

                                 and

                                              their

       ­                           concubines





corrupt . .





                                   before

                                   we realize





monster ~

                                 monsters . . .





                                  telling truth





the many

                                 branches

                                 are the root





the leaves  . .





                                   that fall

                                   aren’t

                                   leaves

                                   at all



but ~



                                   the devil’s call

                                   to sacred fruit







monster ~

                                    monsters . . .





                                     play

                                              and

        ­                                                hide





                                     at . . .





                                    sleight





and





                                     hopscotched

                                                    ­truth



                                     in



                                     dead of night





monster ~

                                    monsters . . .




                                    held ~



                                                    my breath



                                                               ­ so I



                                                can't breathe





                                     and





                                    blind ~





                                                     my eyes



                                                          that I



                                                      don't see





they

               come

                                  for

                    ­                          me



                                 ­             I'm alone . . !





    all ~


                                  the monsters


                            are at home







when:



every

                 blessing

                                       is

                                                   a curse




                                                    every

     ­                                                                 ­   word

                                                    becomes­

                                                               ­           a

                                                   ­  verse





souls ~





                  have

                                   fallen

                                                 where

                                                          ­     they

                                                           ­               stand





                          in . .        





                                                               ­     ashened

                                                   ­   grey

                                                        ­            of

                                                 ­     no

                                                        ­           man's

                                                      land­



all my colours . .







                                          deeper shades ~





                                          of

                 ­                         sombre thought



                                          and



                                          darkened

           ­                               days





intent . .





                                          designed ~



                                                               ­ just



                                            to



                                                               ­  survive





lies . .



                  contrived ~

                                   to

                                           multiply





atomized~



                                           in



                                           the atmosphere

                                           as dust





oxidised~

                                            in



                                             the minds

                                                          ­        of men

                                              like rust







monster ~

                             monsters . .







                                                    promises . . . .






camouflaged truths ~





                                                    that’s

   ­                                                               al­l

                                                              ­               it



                                                     is . . .





The American Dream



                                                               ­            ain’t

                                                          ­    what

                                       it seems





it's just . . . .







                                         another






****** up ~







                                                 monster scheme . .



© mingoáo - 明 -

the Writings of Mingoáo Inc. is the exclusive agent, publisher-distributor of the Writings of Mingoáo. No part of the Writings exhibited herein may be copied, transcribed, reproduced nor transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, not by carrier pigeon, pony express, smoke signal, slingshot, sled dog, not even by alien spacecraft, nor stored by any information storage and/or retrieval system, past, present or future, nor translated, without the expressed written consent of the Author and Publisher. ~ Not to be Copied, Forwarded, Distributed, Shared Nor Transferred.

Take to the streets
and beat them with kindness,
club them with your decency,
ram home an ideology
to show that looking after our weakest
saves us all

hobble them with thumps
that scream
a little love goes a long way

that those that aren’t the same as you
in hue or shape or song,
if hearts are good,
belong in your world

cut them to the quick
with cameraderie
support and tolerance
destroy their unjust fears
and crush their tribalism

In cracking hard heads
the only death we’ll see
is a diseased past
which, unlike other countries
races or creeds,
needs to be lost and forgotten

Holding on to painful glories
costs more than the oxidised bronze
of an old man’s statue

In this light, our amber
sunset, Bonnieux has

all the hallmarks of a
Costa Concordia, or an

abandoned container
ship, anchored in some

forgotten delta, where
alluvial silting caused it

to causticly corrode into
an oxidised monstrosity.

Brexit's Being Bruged
even more, as we speak.
Jacob Rees-Mogg, the no
******* Catholic with his
Opus Deity Doctrine of
self importance, just put
an oxidised gauntlet over
the red hand of Ulster,
galvanising the border
with a corrugated vision
obscured by Myopia.

faaaaaaaaaaaaaack...

      another blank space

|







                                                                         |

and i'm supposed to fill it,
with something worth digestion /
cognition?

    could find it much easier
fitting an elephant into
an oyster shell, come to think of it.

if only i didn't strain language
to the point of complete
disintegration,

       like you do, casually,
fathoming a Wednesday evening,
sure sure...

          d'eh ****?!

and the dirtiest of mouths gets
to sing soprano
     in the castrato choir,
of some obscure English prep.
school...
             involuntary celibacy
my ***:
                

                since so much of
nuance is lost in this: dead above death
medium...
       imitating being rudely woken
in a grave 100 years later:

      so, people are still unsure about
executing nuance in
   direct messaging,
          let alone metaphor?
thought so...

good to be awake,
savouring a blink with the long awaited
play on the "sly"...

        now they have c.c.t.v.
                     monitoring ***-holes?
              marvelous!
let me get out my aladdin lamp
and rub rub rub rub it good...
like shoeshine and a **** o.f.f.
                          (of future fision)...

imagine being congested with
the backpack of speaking for all of humanity...
which makes a very real
echo chamber...
     notably: when i was in paris
i ensured that i had an italian girl
or a russian-canadian girl talk
french for me...

                 can echo resonate in vibration?

and we made the turf beneath the eiffel
tower ours...
came loaded with wine and breadcrumbs
and cheese...
      and...

             nabokov's ******...
          now a mirage...
the fancy boy read the book,
    i had in possession a brick
(an unread book),
             but we still managed to mingle
like it wasn't the typical
Friday night of excavating life
      from the cement of Nay York...

       plaster alabaster... albatross!
post scriptum: coin flip, coin toss,
             dousing cotton with
   oxidised water...
namely: abstracting a mouth
                          ******* up relief...

  ever so often though,
language does disintegrate to the point
where even by prefix knowledge
of the alphabet doesn't help
(given that i always had
trouble with the alphabetical
suffix), i.e.:

   a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, m, n, l, o, p...

   q, r, s, t, u, v, w, x, y, z...

      is that even right?

it's just another moth in custard
scenario...
          who needs to remember
a... sequence like that,
   when it becomes jumbled-up into
words in the end?

   interlude:          ****! that really is
                                                 26!

i still can't stomach the north american
love of acronyms...
           can't stomach or rather can't stand
the exclusivity of acronym usage...
i guess it comes with
the prime, namely u.s.a. (of) -
  so suddenly the goal posts shift and
prepositions / conjunctions are,
                                           not minded...

i tuned in to the point of global
politics, minding that there's an extra
F attached to: "of" america...
      
            believe me when i say
that almost every european wants to
see wee billy on the hill
                      rather than ms. liberté...

******* disorientating using
this language, this insomnia medium...
who the hell has time to dream
using it?
                
              drunk like a skunk:
            worshipping a voodoo shadow;
i too once held a belief
in the use of language that didn't
disintegrate,
            made strict, and alumnus, suited
for a replica of a paragraph:

alas!
             a whisker shy off a cat's
                           jaw drop with meow...    

this is probably the closest
   i will ever come to experiencing
sky-diving...
                    **** it: free-f
                                          a
                                           l
                                           l!

There is an orchestra of
sound to be heard from
Irish hinges, rust never
sleeps, depreciation and
appreciation are perfect
when they harmonise on
poorly maintained gates.

Recorded individually it's
an ensemble of the most
oxidised symphony one
but dream's to imagine.

Ps.

Since coming back to
Ireland I have been
recording hinges, they
all differ. To date I have
120 collected and filed.
Soon to be mixed, I will
release the most haunting
melody, written by rain.