The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!

Is such a big and impossible to miss step for a scribbler
of poetry free poems to trip over.
A step that cannot be ignored, except consciously and conscientiously.
Such a person as a scribbler of poetry less poems would be a person who cannot tell the difference between truth and truthfulness.
A person whose sole raison d,etre in pretending to be a poet is their lifelong angst in being unable to escape from being under the control of  their mind and its operating system --the Conditioned Identity.
The Conditioned Identity,which is the facetious and morally dishonest "I am a poet" mask that is the consciously adopted Conditioned Identity--the operating system for the Mind.
In the great scheme of things becoming just another member of the human GroupMind--one who doesn't count--not even on the fingers of one hand-.
One,who,in the grand scheme of things,never has counted and never will count-call them countless.
Shadows that flicker and dim on the walls of the Prison of political, racial,national,familial and religious conformity
And these worthless scribblers of poetry less poems do have an all consuming conditioned habit  of consciously ignoring truthfulness and integrity and substituting pathetic sub-teen lower middle class emo whinging "truth"--about their "art" and "insight"and "vision"and their "truth"--always their worthless "truth".
Sitting and mourning the fulfilling love that always evades them and always will evade them--unless they let go of the conditioned identity and the Mind--consigning them to the dustbin of history--where they rightfully belong.
Angst ridden whingers all--in love with their image in the mirror of Minds oh so believable deception.
Scribbling about a conditional possessive love that would have been a valueless truth but never can be the essence of truthfulness.
A conditional possessive love that never was and never will be unconditional and non-possessive.
Whinging about nothing more than conditional love and a truthfulness that never can be for them--- as we see openly here and there and everywhere there are scribblers of poetry less "poetry" who use sites such as this to scribble their pretentious infantile nonsense.
Poverty of values and integrity,orphaned from the Isness of the Universe, children of worthless technological consumerism and followers of false oligarchic hopes.
With their greedy gobs open for any crumbs falling from the rich peoples tables,like baby chicks in the nest--feed me feed me they screech.
Colluding with like minded betrayers of truthfulness,groupminds of
limp wristed bombastic poseurs.
Deluding themselves by babbling media made inane celebrities
empty insights and twisted conclusions--purveyors of puerile pettiness.
Oligarchic media celebrities noted only for the illusions between their ears,and the beguiling way they collude with each other to delude themselves.
Ludare!
Oh how they love to play mind games
Lives spent colluding with these babbling worthless celebrities who know the price of everything and the value of nothing,
Pompous posturing pretentious pissants of aesthetic poverty.
Bound together into a worldwide consumers Groupmind,
persuaded by perverts of PR into believing in the Illusion of Wealth and Demockery that the Oligarchy sells.
To step over the truthfulness threshold is,indeed, to  leave behind their
security blankets of "truth and beauty and revealed knowledge"
and the concomitment meaningless verbiage about "veracity" and "existence".
Shallow and unrequited attempts to own another that the weak and unwanted call "love".
Stomping through the quagmire of conditional love
up to their necks in the **** of consumer garbage.
The Conditional love of possessing another and grasping at thin air
as they submerge slowly in the seas of righteous stupidity .
poets cling to their misconceptions religiously,
poets cling to their ignorance avidly,
poets cling to their proto-fascist politics squeamishly,
with each word and stanza that they write.
Pouring out such pleasant and elegant and flowery and "deep"
words and verses(rhyming or not) that,at their core,
have only one meaning and aim.
Which is!.
To divert and confuse their readers with the"shallow beauty"
of endless strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding words .
To create a groupmind for their poetry business products.
Admire me--buy my product--join my groupmind--eulogise me,
let me rip off your energy--I need your praise,I need your lifes energy
gimme your money honey!.
The Publishing Oligarchy will bestow rewards and honours,
medals and diplomas--critiques fit only to wipe your **** on.
Book sales and the summer Poetry festival circuit--reciting and signing scribbles of narcissism--casting lecherous eyes over dripping **** or stiff wobbling **** in the adoring crowd of sycophants.
The  Media will fawn and adulate and cast its sly net
to entangle your desires in ---infamy awaits.
Come admire me and my use of other poets stolen words,
my criminality in even daring to think the word "poet" has any value.
These are my words about my inexperience and unknowingness they scream possessively in jaundiced teeny remembrance.
Remembrance of mediocre middle class homes and attitudes
of ingrained ignorance and wilful imagined self victimisation.
Eating societies poisoned dishes--.
Serve me up a burger of roasted babies on toast
from Vietnam--live on Channel Whatever.
Or chargrilled peasants from Afghanistan
with breathless commentary from
our "reporter on the spot".
Or homeless mental wrecks from the streets
of any Amerikan or World city big or small,
trailing acerbic criticism from the immoral majority.
Or dead celebrity  consumer junkies in 5 star hotels
complete with PR handouts and **** licking "friends"
positioning themselves for increased sales.
Or the children of the Oligarchs with their "I" newspapers
and inbuilt fascist attitudes.
Who spend their shallow lives hoping for the kind
of meaningless and worthless Honours and Validation
from those that do not have honour or validity..
Or the not just lame but crippled duck presidents with their finely crafted speeches that say nothing but I am a beard wearing  failure,
looking forward to penning lies and calling it a frank memoir
while holding out my hands  for the Oligarchies pennies.
Can anyone tell me where to get a bucket of truthfulness?.
A glass of honesty?.
A tumbler full of veracity?.
A beaker of back breaking honest labour?.
Can anyone tell me where I can find
a peaceful man or woman,of any of the 5 colours.
Not those merely observing a Cease-Fire
while they rearm their weapons of the lies of beauty and truth.
Oligarchy allowed social commentary.
Is there just one decent truthful man or woman out there?.
Judging by the world Id say not.
No Id say not.
Not.
There Ive said it.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

Penning naughty poetry

fills me with childish glee

pushing away boundaries

religion pegged on me

writing myself free

My mind races endlessly,
especially in the wee hours
of the morn,
when all is quiet,
when I lie
alone in my bedroom,
contemplating.

Like clockwork,
my eyes pop wide open
& I visualize sacred
sensual pleasures
of her
lying in sweet repose,
& me
a mouthful
of her pretty flower
curling her toes,
bathed in a flood
of her raw-emotion.

Lord knows,
I'm in love with
modern technologies
& make no apologies
for the penning
of such passions
between her and I.

Swirling words & a broken heart,
I write of high adventure,
spit my lowest lows,
seek comfort in
a world
full of similar souls,
penning poets.

And I remain
forever grateful
for their understanding
of their own dilemmas,
pain & triumphs.

I like fishing, but dislike boats.
I'm sick of washing, but still wear clothes.

My brother-in-law hates the way I live my life.
My sister keeps the peace, the good little wife.
Mum, I haven't spoken to for many, many, weeks.
Another life, another town, it's solitude she seeks.
My common-law husband is wheelchair bound,
You can't jump puddles with legs that are round.

We own some land, the bank owns the house,
If we miss a payment, they kick us out.
You can't pitch a tent on the corner of the block,
Reading the small print--they own the lot...

Sailing and laundry, painful relations,
Mid-life crisis and petty celebrations.
Watching a loved one severe his spine,
Angry with friends, 'cause they're walking fine.
Another rejection or funds cancellation,
Penning a poem to vent my frustration.
Seeing the darkness in plain black and white,
A smile on my lips--This is my life...

~

Painted in a corner

Smeared about the floor

Chants of lone forgiveness

Quiet in the war



“Deafening the sound of death”



Garden roses trampled

Broken stems abound

Wilting on the visions

Blooming losses found



“Petals of peace scattered carelessly”



Blood along the pathway

Eyes hid in the mist

Penning someone else’s name

On this lengthy list



“Alphabetical to the grave”



Standing from the shadows

Crossing battle lines

Reaching for the freedom

Voices loud can find



“Speak up children, your voices matter”



Put aside your weapons

Time has come to cease

The nation now has gathered

United prayer for peace



*“On our hands and knees we pray… send the evil far away”

The ghost in your eyes tells me it's gonna be alright. ****** senseless on what might as well have been a two stacked mattress at Holiday Inn, your girl closes her yes and sees orange tones of red flashing down the white sleeves of your bland shirt,

she's on fire, heavenly so, she's on fire, a can of crushed fruit stuffed and so you feel for me, your dreams of wooly women curved of sheep and soul-y wandering across your aim, you fire, "I'm into it." as you set my frame a-glow. My legs twist into pretzels, see me baby. I am your Amazonian woman, wide-shipped and shimmering beneath the angry sun.

Orange hued and hungry for your blue American Spirited high yellow lungs, you find my funkadellic paraphernalic lips, swollen as they are for your candor.

I am Queen Ivy inspire, lucidly waiting to be the poison that inspires you, I sit lonesome on the stoop of anabandoned lot, Peter Penning down your inked arms, "Not only boys are lost," into your caramel Cuban coffeed dreams, "Girls can be too."

What live game do I remind you of, I wonder as you taste me, bitter kola nut forming across your lips as white swells of smoke ruin you, we are unbearably distant. One never hurt and the other already ruined once before and possibly never again: That sickeningly silly kind of shy but not that lingers cold to the blue flames you expel my way as dark clouds form into your eyes.

I am your Amazonian woman.

Penning down the thoughts
Am I not done with the words
Have I used them all?

Round and round
Thoughts and words
In the loop bound

The thoughts have been naughty
Jump off the mind cliff,  doughty
Don’t want to be worded
Flight to nowhere boarded
Off the radar crash land , all spotty

I need only to smirk and you’re mine
Anytime
If it’s god that you want
I have dozens in mind
Devilishly divine
Bending time like a grandeur delusional
Spine  

In a mad hatter ectoplas-mystical slime
A prismatic drug addict’s first nursery rhyme
Of accursed hearse verses of graphic design
Now to lay to rest intellect spectacles musing
Of selves glorified more than those of my choosing
To deify Destiny’s
Deathly serenity
Plentifully sending me vibrant surprises
And penning my ending in violent demises
Disguises surmised by the climate arises
Girl always there riding my similar waves
As I try to save face digging mechanized graves

But the cloud tentacles
To the depths
Drag me down
To demented ascension
Black holes in the ground
Where disciples of light
And my huntress in white
Vivify me by day
Resurrect me at night
To instruct and deduct
Reasoning in a state
Of a being supreme
Contemplating its fate

I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat

I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations

But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat

I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat

I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire

But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me...  Spouting rhymes out of life's hat

I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat

I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart

But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat

I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat

I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands

But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat

I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....

flipping through pages of his mind,
caressing unspoken quotes; I whisper
slang of lust in his ear, ******* his big
ego to the bottom of his page, while his
drool trickles between breast; uttering
syllable after syllable as I re-write his script.

his hardness speaks fluently, inking
parchment with liquid tipped quill, oh! the
thrill as I bend his will, to fluidly flow; dipping
in inkwell of thoughts, penning desires and
want in liquid diatribe of lustful pleasures; like
a moth to flame flickering, as I lick verbs in
hunger to peruse his re-written script;
gripping sheeted pages to uncover his
beguilement; drinking in acknowledgment
of his golden chalice.

I want to decipher his member in autographed
curlicues of calligraphic swirls, teasing and
taunting as he watches, awe-struck; as tongue
etches each throbbing vein in ebonized charcoal,
sketched upon pages of wanton verses making
him scream with passion in prose; on bended
knee tasting my rose, penning his moans in
quotes against throat.

in heat of our passion, pages and scripts are
flipped allowing him to drip ink upon lips as I
whisper softly to his mind; want of him to grind
his neb of ache within my archive, articulating
history of hunger; as limbs mime each cursive
letter, insinuating one vowel at a time; licked
against silken parchment in tender stroked
consonant utterances; shuddering inside  
walls as nouns clench and moans escape
in adjectives shattering mind as wet tendrils
slide down firmness, fore, only she can do this
to me; making me flip volumes of pages while
inside wetness she drips ink all over in
chaptered stages.

each chapter I lick her spine; cornering her
in my mind as a sensual adversary; claiming
her as I untie her collection of copious sighs,
my mind tries to deny copyrights to her library;
as I place her upon my shelf, while against the
wall; ravishing her like the wild section of animal
kingdom, lusting while I watch her body fall
prey to breathless hunger, devouring
and savoring her bookmark; paying full
attention to her glossary of delectability,
that melts upon tongued bilingual text;
her nectar leaves its imprint upon
our handbook of worded aphrodisiacs.

cherishing our artistic volumes in ardency as
we're ready to publish our first draft, but not
before I slide her lubricious cover upon my
shaft; we begin to lay strokes of signatures
against our first editioned copies belonging
soley to us, as we scream in accented jargon
every second I tease; easing in and out,
shouting out in voweled ecstasy; gliding
thickness, gently against taut bookmark.

turning each page with deep thrusts, into her
inkwell; as I swell with friction, speaking in
fluent diction, of addiction to her sweetness;
dripping, as I'm slipping in tomes; thinking
about how she begged me to re-write our script,
spilling ink in delirious closure, in *******
exposure while losing our artistic composure;
writing manuscripts as ink spills upon volumes
of pages in disclosure.

dahil wara katapusan an duon san mga mata
mabubuhay akong minamatay
san dating kaaway ko sa lawas na ini
sa lawas na ini naghambog an talawon
pinapagubtik an kaaluhan na nagpapamuda
muda na nagpupukaw saakon gurugab-i
kendi na nagpapahibi
mesias na naghahala-hala

magiging madalas an pagsid-ip niya sa bintana
para laen ko makita an liwanag
malaog siya sa kahon ko
laen para magkawat
kundi dagdagan an pagub-at
makasakat an pagbagsak
siya na ako
masurat tula.

~Written by Melton Balicano
(a bikol dialect)


since these eyes have been weighed down on unending
i shall live while being slain by an old foe in this body
this body where the craven had once boasted
surging chagrins that blaspheme
blasphemy that rouses this corpse in the dark
treats that shed tears
a messiah that taunts.

he shall constantly peep through the window
so that I see no light
he will break in my casket
not to thieve
but to burden further
the downfall shall rise
then he becomes me
penning a poem.

~a translation of Balicano's masterpiece
Glenn Sentes

Growing flames will turn your name into a cloud of ashes.
A flowing mane remains untamed through whirling dervish clashes.
Beating hearts as hope departs through valleys long and winding,
Burning sun, you turn and run, the path ahead is blinding.
You always knew I wouldn't do, so why'd you even bother?
Pass my time by penning rhymes and double ******* lagers.

i'm always trying to describe
the wrong things, aren't i?
describing your voice
when it's the words that matter
outlining your face
when it's the smile that really shatters
upon my eyes
trying to write this feeling down
when it's the reasons that are really
important to me
and i guess that's when i realize
i've been avoiding penning this fear
afraid of the reasons, of the causes
that led me here
and this feeling?
it's nothing more than a consequence
or so i tell myself
as i step carefully over
the dark puddles
and onto the hard cement, looking
for the yellow lines
that will tell me where to go
left or right?
right or wrong?
i've been describing the wrong things
i know that now, and i have
each scene played out
in black and white
while the real meaning is lost
in the spaces between the letters
and the missing punctuation
gathers itself into the sky
spelling out the word i am afraid of
fear

I am invisible
and invincible,
an unknown image,
known only with
my visible mask,
an invisible soul,
hidden behind the veil,
shrouded in the
cocoon called
the body,
peeping through
two tiny holes,
from the invisible.
And the one writing,
is invisible  
with an invisible heart,
penning the words
of the invisible thoughts,
flowing from the
invisible through the
cracks of the
invisible powerful mind.
An invisible soul
dwelling within
a sound visible body
with a sound
invisible mind,
doing the impossible
and great things
with giant strides
to influence and
impact my world.
I dominate and subdue
the oppressors and
adversaries with the
might of an invincible
invisible warrior.
I healed the
sick and afflicted
with the invisible and
powerful affection of
my invisible love
from my invisible heart.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme.

Just in a single word
try penning first
and foremost on mankind.
It can only be 'love'!

I'm pouring out my thoughts on to this paper.....letting my mind free for the next caper.

I've been a superhero and a lovesick man.  A few stories about putting a ring on that special woman's hand.

A story about suicide and my last ride....sound similar.....but they are not the same.....different car same lane.

Will eyes ever see this creation by me? When I look at my comments.....it says none......I'm not Drake so I'm not on one.

I guess I didn't move the crowd with my words.....if I read it to the masses would I even be heard.  It's absurd that my fellow poets just don't know......they are the gasoline that helps me go......and when I blow it will be because of the fire they ignited and kept lit......

all because they didn't consider it robbery to read my ****.  I apologize for that last line... but it went with the flow.....I just get frustrated when people don't leave a kind or even a bad word.......especially when I drop a piece that I think is great and I really do.....when I create it......it's definitely for me.....but I share it first with you....

The first eyes to see my baby....but you act like she's ugly .....looking at her face....and retreating in disgrace.

I guess you never met a poet who was poor ....but had expensive taste.  That's why my pen stays attached to my waist.....

I wrote this poem sitting in my car after I got off of work and now I'm in the parking lot.  TheTeacher penning jewels and looking to hit that jackpot......

Comments raining when I hit.......I quit! Take this pen and shove it!

~

i have never particularly cared for him or for his style of play.  there is a fine line between knowledge of one’s talents and arrogance and i have always thought Kobe walked on the downhill side of that line, when doing so was unnecessary.  of course it did not help that a Lakers / Blazers rivalry cost the Blazers at least one NBA Finals berth… most of us are, after all, most likely to gravitate toward our hometown team.  

but on seeing this post from Kobe in the Player’s Tribune, i found that i simply must acknowledge the classiness of his retirement penning...

instead of a letter, the guy writes a poem.  how can i not embrace this?

~

BY KOBE BRYANT
LOS ANGELES LAKERS

Dear Basketball,

From the moment
I started rolling my dad’s tube socks
And shooting imaginary
Game-winning shots
In the Great Western Forum
I knew one thing was real:

I fell in love with you.
A love so deep I gave you my all —
From my mind & body
To my spirit & soul.

As a six-year-old boy
Deeply in love with you
I never saw the end of the tunnel.
I only saw myself
Running out of one.

And so I ran.
I ran up and down every court
After every loose ball for you.
You asked for my hustle
I gave you my heart
Because it came with so much more.

I played through the sweat and hurt
Not because challenge called me
But because YOU called me.
I did everything for YOU
Because that’s what you do
When someone makes you feel as
Alive as you’ve made me feel.

You gave a six-year-old boy his Laker dream
And I’ll always love you for it.
But I can’t love you obsessively for much longer.
This season is all I have left to give.
My heart can take the pounding
My mind can handle the grind
But my body knows it’s time to say goodbye.

And that’s OK.
I’m ready to let you go.
I want you to know now
So we both can savor every moment we have left together.
The good and the bad.
We have given each other
All that we have.

And we both know, no matter what I do next
I’ll always be that kid
With the rolled up socks
Garbage can in the corner
:05 seconds on the clock
Ball in my hands.
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1

Love you always,
Kobe

If I wrote about my love for you,
It would take 7 years
and 7 volumes to put it altogether.

I could write forever,
And not be done,
Because thats how strong my love is for you,
Immortal and unending.

How could it not be immortal and unending,
You were,
In every way,
My first love.

Penning down my love for you,
Is everything I have ever wanted to do,
And so I do it,
Hoping for some sort of profit,
Knowing that no good can come from this,
Until I tell you this and try not to hiss.

I know that you know that I loved you,
Does that even make sense?
I mean,
I do love you.

So I try to fit this love into a book,
And it would not stop at page one hundred and twenty,
It just went on and on.

Not knowing what to do,
I fell even more in love with you,
Regretted nothing in this time.

I guess I hoped and hoped for some sort of recourse,
But its okay.

People always say,
If you love someone so much, be willing to let them go if it makes them happy.

But what if,
I am not willing?
Until I get a chance to be happy myself,
And what if,
That happiness stems forth
from being with someone I love so much.

So I sit by this tree,
I sit and wait,
Penning this rant on paper,
Staining it with my tears of 7 years of love.

Seven thousand teardrops later,
I cannot think no more,
So I close this book for now,
Volume 7 of my immortal love.



So I will continue to write,
As long as there is love in my heart for you,
As long as you are there in my life for me and with me,
I will write and there will be volumes!
There will be poems!
All to tell you only one thing that I could not tell you with my own lips.

But I will hide them away from you,
Knowing you will not hunt down my poems,
My sonnets,
My vilanelles,
My free verse,
My prose,

If you do,
I pray you do not decipher them
And learn the truth behind them
They will bring shame to me,
Because I did not have it in me,
To tell it to your face,
What I have written in my words.

So pray be,
Leave them alone,
And if you do decipher these,
I leave it entirely to you.

These volumes and years of my love,
they exist to tell you,
That I.Love.You.

In the midst of worldly tumult
Where troubles never cease,
I find my solace in the words
To attain a sense of inner peace.
Some seek refuge in a glass,
Or other fleeting thrills,
I wield my pen to extract my woes
And convert them into a quill.
For when my soul is torn apart,
And anguish grips my mind,
I turn to writing as my balm,
And solace I can find.
I wasn't born a poet,
But life has carved its way,
Into my heart, my mind, and my soul,
And left its marks to stay.
So I'll keep penning through the night,
My pain, my joy, my strife,
For every word that flows from me,
Is a celebration of life.

I am anti-matter.

Trending on Twitter.

Shooting a guest-spot on Two-and-a-Half Men.


A five-dollar foot-long
meal-deal of a man,

long on propaganda
  while short on substance;


A School-House Rock rendition of
Aspiration Asphyxiation

penning love-letters to Jesus
     beneath my breath
to abate the sensation that I'm just
     redundant protoplasm
with a pecker and a pocketbook



   failing to distract myself from the fact that
every intake of breath is a death sentence.


I have no praise-worthy abilities.
You can't **** your way into heaven.


   Satan himself
caught a better break being
cast out of the kingdom--

there is certainty in condemnation.


Those poor souls who harbor
    the illusion of indemnity
through faith in a
        purportedly magical Jew
truly are the blessed few

not via the Lord's redemption, mind you,
but by the thoughtlessness of their devotion.

Perhaps the two are tantamount to one another.


The ****** are so labeled
     because we question ceaselessly--
curiosity is no comfort.


Should the sun burn black,
     the world will go cold
or
      some star-burst might
   scorch our galaxy clean
of all delusions of eternity.


The meek can inherit the ashes.

he turned up a winning
ace on his arrival
he turned up an ace
the ace of revival

everyone engrossed
with all that he wrote
oh yeah there was a real
classiness to his tote

he'd arrived at other forums
not getting applause
those places weren't aiding
his penning cause

he turned up a winning
ace on his arrival
he turned up an ace
the ace of revival

when he found the site
where the mob noticed him
there stayed he to garner
kudos on his trim

of the adoring hordes
his arrival did infatuate
a diamond ace card
dealt him triumph's fate

he turned up a winning
ace on his arrival
he turned up an ace
the ace of revival

Homage to the late poet; Kofi Owonor


By
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)


In one Sunday Nation article, Professor Ali A Mazrui analyzed the inter-politicality of The Jaramogi Odinga family and The Kennedy family by arriving at a difference that the Odinga’s have curse of long life but the Kennedy’s have a curse of early death through violent and untimely  mode of death .Mazrui made these analogies in reference to violent death of John F. Kennedy and the subsenguent Chappaquiddick bridge tragedy.Similarly,the salient difference between a European and American or a Japanese and African writer or African artist is that most of African writers die early in the mid of their lives through violent death but in contrast American and some European writers die peacefully and comfortably in their old age. Early and violent death is the dominant bane, fate and misfortune that now and then besmirch an African writer. This position is in recognition of a fact that my child-hood American popular literature writers in the name of Mario Puzzo author of the God Father and Robert Ludlum an author of several anti soviet spy series like; Borne dentity, Borne Ultimatum and Icarus Agenda plus very many others like The Matlock Paper had just to die recently in their late eighties. The most surprising of all is Phillip Roth whom I read at the age of twelve years while in my primary four.  Now I am forty years and this year 2013 Phillip Roth is still alive and active to the American literary civilization that he has been touted by the Ladbrokes as a probable candidate for Nobel Prize in literature. But sadly enough on 22 September 2013 in Nairobi the black angel of early  death has carried ahead its  foul duty by claiming the life of Africa’s most honorable literary scholar Professor Kofi Owonor during the helter-skelter of Alshabab terrorist lynch of the upscale West Gate Mall in Nairobi.
Actually this essay is meant to be a deep felt homage to the late Kofi Owonor, Killed by Islamic terrorists in Nairobi. However, the essay also goes ahead to decry the violent and early deaths of several other African writers. The deaths which have almost turned Africa into a literary dwarf if not a continent of artistic bovarism. Kofi Owonor, who peacefully and honorably came to attend Story Moja Literary festival to be held in Nairobi, was violently shot by the Islamic fundamentalist terror group known as Al shabab. Whose gunmen lynched the Mall in which was Kofi Owonor and his son. The terrorist were sending out the Muslim catchword on which if one fails to respond then he was known not to be a non- Muslim on to which he is shot or held hostage for ransom.Fatefull enough, Kofi Owonor was not muslim.He was an elder, an Africanist, a scholar, a poet, a realist, a rationalist, a Christian, a religious non-fundamentalist and a literary liberalist. He could not respond with any tincture of religious irrationalism to the question of the terrorist. He was shot dead and his son injured. Too sad. This is actually the time when Christian positivism goes beyond rigidity of other religious affectations in its classic assertiveness that the devil kills the flesh but not the soul. And indeed it is true the devilish terrorist killed Owonor’s flesh but not his literary soul. They are such and similar situations that made Amilcar Cabral to observe in his Unity and Struggle, in a section on Homage to Kwameh Nkrumah to rationalize that the sky is too enormous to be covered by the palm of a sadist nor to be vilified by the spitting of the filthy ones; Truly, like Nkrumah, Kofi Owonor was the sky of African intellect never to be covered by the brute of the cannon from the parrel of a Muslim terrorist.
Kofi Owonor is not alone neither are we alone. You, my dear reader and I  we are not in any historical nor literary solititude. In Africa God has blessed us with the opportunity of the dead relatives in the name of the living dead. We are not the first and the last to grief. Owonor is not the first and the last to dance with fate. Even Ali A. Mazrui in his literary expositions of 1974 otherwise published as the trial of Christopher Okigbo.A  novella in which Mazrui cursed ideology as an open window into the moving vehicle that let in  a very bad political accident to Nigeria in the name of Biafra war which claimed life of  Christopher Okigbo at the Nzukka battle front. This was one other sad moment at which Africa lost its young literary talent through violent death.
Reading of African literary biographies in all perspectives will not miss to make you attest to this testimony. Both in situ and in diaspora.Admirable African American writers like Malcolm X, and Dr Luther King all died through violent death. Even if in the recent past, the Daughter of Malcolm X revealed to Sahara Reporters, Nigerian Daily, that Louis Farrakhan was behind the assassination of her father, wisdom of the time commands us to know that it was evil politics of that time that made Malcolm X to die the way international politics of today in relation to crookedness which was entertained during the formation of the state of Israel that have made the son of Africa professor Kofi Owonor to die.
An in-depth analysis into the life and times of African writers and artists will show that the number of African cultural masters who die violently is more than the number of those who died normally in their old age. Some bit of listology will show help to adduce the pertinent facts; Patrice Lumumba, Steve Biko, Lucky Dube, Walter Rodney, Tom Mboya, J M Kariuki, Che que Vara, Ken Saro Wiwa, Anjella Chibalonza, and Jacob Luseno all but died through violent death. Lumumba died in a plane crash along with Darg Hammarskjöld only after penning some socialism guidelines. After writing I write what I want, a manifesto for black consciousness Steve Biko was arrested and tortured in the police cells during those days of apartheid in south Africa.Biko died violently while undergoing torture in police cells. Lucky Dube was fatefully shot by a confused ****. Walter Rodney who was persuaded by his student who is now the professor Isa Shivji at Dare salaam University not to go back to his country of Guyana, desisted this voice and went back only to be assassinated in the mid of the rabbles that domineered Guyanese politics those days of 1970’s. This happened when Rodney had written only two major books. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, being one of them. Tom Mboya was shot by a hired gunman in down-town Nairobi, some one kilometer away from the West Gate Mall, at which Kofi Owonor has been shot. Mboya could have written a lot. Even more than Rudyard Kipling and Quisling. But fate or bad luck had him violently die after he had only written two books; Challenges to Nationhood as well as Freedom and After. Both of them are classically nice reads until today. He had also submitted sessional paper no. 10 to the Kenya government which was a classical thesis on Africanization of scientific socialism.
J M Kariuki, Che and Saro Wiwa are all known for how they violently died. Powers that be and terrorists that be, expedited violent death against these writers. Thus, brothers and sisters in the literary community of Africa and the world as we mourn Kofi Owonor we must also let Africa to unite in spiritual effort to rebuke away the evil spirit that often perpetrate terror of violent death which  especially  claim away lives of African writers.

References
Ali A. Mazrui; Trial of Christopher Okigbo
Amilcar Cabral; Unity and Struggle

We twist words,
So they look like beautiful
Cylindrical knots
Than the lines they really are.
Art is never really made out of
Straight lines,
It comes with curves, tangles,
And mystery.
Writers are liars.
We embellish, we polish,
We try to put as much spice in your
Cup of coffee just so you can hear us
Think.
We lie. Hard. Yeah there's no such place as "hobbiton"
And Sherlock Holmes was never a real person.
And there's no district 12 where Romeo met Juliet.
All lies.
But yet, we love them.
We scream feed us more.
Writers are liars, but we also ******
Mirder out characters
When we get bored with them.
You think Moriarty was bad,
See the man penning his words,
His soul is darker than death.
We are liars. And thats why we are good writers. Because we
Don't need the truth to support ourselves.

I never spotted perfect with 7 many years, that may be, until eventually I just rode by having a snowstorm in Cheyenne, Wy piles. Neither of the two does That i of course bear in mind just how the results in difference in autumn for the east coast Cheap Fitflop Malaysia, and the way they will appear like fire flames lunging on the sky inside tones of persimmon, cardamom, peridot, wine red and rust. However not too long ago experienced this and much more by going to typically the Baltimore Booklet Pageant the day with Sept . 28, 2003. Even while I can look at using an superb meal inside the Renaissance Resort dismissing the actual have or use the handyroom I really performed at "Writing Entertaining Imagination," it absolutely was the seasons which often discussed in my opinion. Both these incidents-the excellent skiing conditions together with the results in changing-reminded us just how much I have got bad a pageantry with the gardening seasons. Simply because got time consuming relaxed excursion across the states, I thought overall regarding basically the la position for the third 20 a long time seems to have distracted myself towards swapping times. On the other hand, I don't know once this may possibly helped me to recognize an alternative growing months inside my living. We are in front of the imminent diminished my favorite ultimate surviving mother or father. Purchased, grow older Eighty three, who have serious osteoarthritis and rheumatoid arthritis, has worsened since I discovered her during the past year. Surprisingly, I would not think sadness, but a resignation, a feeling that this is part of the life never-ending cycle. Just like the music, "Everything will have to improve.Inch That is the totally different problem at the time We displaced our momma. I used to be now 100 % unprepared in the event that my favorite the mother was killed of your sudden cardiac event in December Just one, 1993 that we seemed some fury, nearly an important rail alongside God. How could You? Ways dare You operate the following women, exactly who I was really acknowledging has been my base, that carried us on the inside of your girlfriend, whose quite fingers moves We spotted mimicked around my own? This era ended up being to grow to be some tips i afterwards discovered for the reason that darkest winter season about wellbeing. Looking back, It is my opinion my very own problem was in fact a natural part of just what usually symbolizes have an effect on the original parent, in particular the momma. Those are the basic items, we all, just as novelists, will need to draw in our writing--the shifting months people day-to-day lives, people letters, on their trips and how many of our character types deal with these folks. As soon as the Baltimore Arrange Festival, I ended with Detroit. Even though presently there, When i had dad out from her brand-new residence-a nursing jobs home-to obtain a milkshake in Carl's junior, and even though moving him as part of his motorized wheel chair, I just sensed for instance the father or mother. I have been don't annoyed on the subject of his particular becoming people, his particular frailties, his own failings, (that have been far more obvious due to the fact my own maternal dna fatality.) Freezing imagined her to help you check out heat of the sun at her tissue-like pores and skin, whereby you could possibly begin to see the azure problematic veins. I actually sunken myself 100 % inside decisive moment. We've been experiencing the natural light. Irrelevant of the calling I'd received from my personal hometown, Detroit, concerning how ugly it is about Pop, "He's in that brand-new turmoil," or "that innovative crisis"-I wasn't extended irritated. Within the connected with a original public individual, To begin with . to help you reframe the matter. In contrast to contemplating my personal daddy's slower loss of life simply because Cheap Fitflop Shoes, "Isn't doing it awful the way in which become old in addition to die?In . here are currently being how a the seasons in everyday life transform. As a writer, we regularly come up with from the conclusion, "What however, if ...In I absolutely point out, can you imagine we all reframe a lot of the issues of joining the dinner generation-dealing along with children/grandchildren/elderly parents? Imagine this is often a festivity?

I really saw my best father's temper carry because instructed her just how blessed the guy would have been to now have some sons who have checked available for your ex boyfriend, not to mention three little girls. Exactly how skilled he's being a Ebony mankind, to get little children who may have prepared your partner's everyday living much better, for money, when you virtually all started. I really came across all the treatment inside brothers' face when i suggested it for the health care they've got brought to during the throughout the last 90 years many years, which includes settling your ex within a elderly care facility historically month, although it is often in opposition to my favorite daddy's choices, however was basically just for his / her better great. It struck me. My own inlaws and I are currently all the seniors. What's more, as an author, Now i'm currently a teacher-the little come to others meant for guidance.

We're trustworthy to give in the experiences as a result of preceding years to a new generation on the way, as being a people today, lived through, which describes why I think it is vital for american to write down our own articles. Sadly ,, for African-Americans, a great deal the historical past was initially damaged or lost as, though there was basically your dental customs, plenty of people still did not publish its testimonies documented on daily news. As a general penning tactic, When i came across a pattern. On paper, some remarkable summer often connote a trending up get out of hand in our characters' activities. As an example, typically the characters just fall in love, get a household, have a very the baby, and grab special deals. They are simply happy. Paradoxically, a new figurative fall and winter typically reflect some sort of volitile manner, which can be known as the "inciting occurrence,Within in a very report. Someone don't likes you and also results in one. A friend or relative dies out of the blue. Or simply a cherished one is definitely the sorry victim in mindless abuse. The smoothness becomes sorry. For a quick blizzard hard to bear a person's tidy daily life, typically the character's world is usually thrown away about stabilize. This can be the center with trouvaille. Loaded to listen about how exactly good your own character's a lot more. Imagination is centered on bother.

Now perhaps even the appropriate lifetime really ought to get hold of worried to keep your readers changing web pages. Concurrently, even though Fitflop Sale Online, It looks like that him and i ought to learn to look at the excellent of these downhill spirals and rehearse it inside our writing. Even while a lot of these awful instances are actually everything that compel you on, we have to reveal typically the advantage in this, much too. It really is usually while in the "symbolic" winter season that the character's mettle will likely be subjected to testing, and also reader will find out what they're constructed from. As a writer, you would possibly consult, so how exactly does the transform and also be because of this specific wintry year or so? May he / she range from sceptical to be able to optimists? Mistrustful in order to trusting? Mean to be able to non-profit (for example Scrooge)? The character could also read the undo of menstrual cycles. Sarcastically, equally winter time means loss of life, (like. loss of life from a connection, departure of our own children's, loss individuals illusions,) there is also a some part resurrection within this end scenario. Hard usually is when we experience a disaster, i am plopped level on our supports, occasionally essentially, and forced, (whether or not from much of our could,) to think. Exactly what privacy or maybe nutrition will the identity identify subsequently? In particular, presently, Simply put i gaze at how my mummy might be born-again again and again at a frosty working day when I drink a common tumbler connected with broth, that is certainly one of your ex lots of ways connected with taking care of.

Currently I'm wondering. Just what remembrances might your dads continue winter time bring in myself? Might it be the love on the good anecdote or perhaps her story-telling potential he given to if you ask me? I don't know. Nonetheless I understand. In the midst of daily life, we are now throughout demise, to be able people we will have to adapt to those exceptional, wonderful events that make up each of our humanity. In the end, mainly because Ruben Irving was concluded her epic saga around the world Depending on Garp, Inch ... business people are station incidents.In . Copyright (d) 2008 Dark-colored Butterfly Marketing
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I am writing a new story,
but don't look here for the narrative,
because
I am not writing it with these words you think you are reading,
or the patience that I have found.
I am penning this new manuscript,
and all the illuminating circumstances that make those reading
wish they were the characters in the joy-tear-jerking plot,
the parts everyone passes eyes over in order
to make their own lives richer...
I am scribing my way through to the end
not with words, letters, jots, tittles,
but with
actions.

my mother always found souvenirs meaningless
two years back, you brought
something back from China for me;
I've never been to China

someday I might swing by
on moondrops with a nightingale's cry
and find out which pack of 10s this pen came from

and suddenly one day
I realise that all I have left of this person
is this souvenir from two years ago

They call me a workless guy
What they mean is worthless
Envious they’re and that’s why
Don’t like my leisurely pace!

I ain’t the one to run the race
Make do with my small needs
I hate to wear a worried face
Bear a mind where darkness breeds!

I don’t wanna run a race
Where the end ever recedes
Hate to be for the time pressed
Yet finding needs increased!

I give a **** taking it too hard
Love to run my time as own
Penning a poem feeding a bird
Watering dreams homegrown!

I'm not sure what to say as I pen this down
What I am feeling is making me drown
In a sea of emotions, of feeling
I no longer know with what I am dealing
I want to tie heavy rocks to my feet
So I don't float up from under the sea
Symbols of life don't help me
Symbols of love, regrets fill me
A sea, empty and full, of feeling
A darkness destructive and unyielding
A blackness that fills me whole, contaminating everything that it please
Even the bit of relief I get from writing hasn't set me free
I'm going on my own, the sea being my coffin, and the darkness my company in this unending dream
I'm not even bothering to fight
*I've already lost the battle and the war

Words impossible to pen down ,
let go like a loose electric wire .
Mixed lines , confused verbiages ,
unsettled like random mosaics.
Composure of the birds disrupted ,
like ripples in the calm water .
Running with my life onto my palms ,
over to topple .. gasping to breakfree.
Lost identities , scars of the past rooted deeper.
I want to run , walk , fall but not stop ,
i want to caravan the world , conquer speed.
I dont want to be tagged intelligent ,
to meet the social benchmarks .
I want to set myself loose , breakfree cross boundaries,
i want to be a ROGUE NINJA.
I want to let the untamed breeze fill my hair ,
I want to live ....
Theres no point penning down your thoughts with perfected adjectives..
    JUST BREAKFREE.