To the Daughter I may never have

I am sorry.

I wanted to see you and feel glee
I  wanted to kiss your chubby cheeks and walk you along with your grandmummy

I wanted to inspire you and pass on what I have learnt
I had hope to see my own woman rise past what I could not.

I am sorry I don't see your future anymore
I am sorry I cannot consider your hope

For yesterday I witnessed a hostile takeover of the body politick

It was devoured and dissolved by gluttony and greed but what fears me most is not the presence that is so overt

But the silent take over of the female world.

What terrifies me more is this subtle takeover of the female thought

Body is marked and packaged

Square in a stock market, **** your stomach in.
Little girls look at the portrait of the New American Dream
Glossy, plastic, shimmery

And I gaze on into the distance of a broken dream
Shattered is her discourse into her identity
For the idea that her body matters more than the content of her head.

I never noticed when I was sixteen
But
The body tatters and wrinkles in years
It is ideas that are limitless, expanding through the universe past every entity

The way they package the female body, silenced me.

They want to silence this requiem of dreams
Shatter my inner belief in me (and you)

I am afraid for now I see it in you, the daughter I may now never have

For I do not want you born into such a circumstance

Where your hope is *** tapes and swindles

I have never found limitation in my ******, let's make that clear.

But I have never found release in the understanding of the idea my ****** touch could matter more than my everlasting thought.

Oh, my daughter that I will now maybe never have
I’m sorry I could never see you, watch you flourish and become something great
I’m sorry I cannot bring you into a world where your opportunities are in abundance

But I am also not sorry because I learnt quickly, at 21, this world is too toxic, too polluted.

Look at my birth city, as people choke in a misty air that was created by this ****** thought
This is the physical damage and discourse.

But I also observe that
Had you been here, I could see your temptation to gaze away from this today...into the ideas of yesterday: “Why did I eat that?”

I could see you look at your limbs that let you move and dream and dance and walk to places of opportunity and see you fixate on tiny bumps and curves, not seeing them as components that make you great
But calculating the cost it would take to put them away.

They are silencing me and you
This really is serious
I feel toxic and I feel the air
The room closes in

Now I understand why I may never be able to have you

Because as I witness this destruction, xenophobia, bigotry and pain…
I still wonder if I look pretty today

To the Daughter I may never have

I am sorry.

Mad archangel 2020 scam, dead weatherman noos report blam
                                               be live-r to the umbrella storms;
“Stiffen up, you needa chief more
                                                            ­      kid, you’re riffin’ with a
legend— as it is,
         it’s a sewage drain,a bed
                                                             Pan the pipes of dawn’s
crack;at end of the tusk,
                                     the silverback-gorilla camo on the lawn
          kept the rusted metal on a locket-chain
                                                    ­     hanging off his pocket;pocket-watch
                hang from his eye-socket;
.seed sewn,              from the cornrows
                                                                  in his carriage-patch,      3-wheeled rig and [a battery-pack
                                      lithium frame,        told him, ‘slow down black’
         —ain’t no money in that”
                                     magazine gass’ed up -let me hand em the curls;
code to the Source,name
              the names, bigstick for walking a sideways polemic
                                                         ­                   fortyoz forecast for
                  hisshadow stringed-up a harpwing tune
                                               the maddog politick;
Show ‘em on the map
                                                               ­            -where it rain tonight?-
                   (not that alley X the liquor store—sea the eagle
         swim gelatinmass of marvelous cherrylime-green sky;
posse told him to pass
                                               his flying colors, vomitspittle—
                                               Magnesium flare—was all his
                                                             ­     day in the dunya,(we all got’em)
                                                         ­         bent youngblood ear like a
                                                                ­                                     bloodhound:
                                                                ­  What’s the static charge?
Smash!pumpkin brain s-p-l-a-t,  rush to eat the seeds?
   all the sparrows scatter cuz the lights
is red,white&Bluuuue on L juice
          —Ah! Hell’s loose, call me a river and
                                                                ­                                       press
                                                                ­                              snooze.

my, my... haven't these people become, oh so audacious, and they believe themselves, so firmly placed, so crown-corone: the crown above a crown assured, that they alone reside with cradle of history... my my! aren't they just the brats we all were looking for! they alone, are the erasing force of "mystery", to combat "mythology" with their own "plagiarism" of said facts?! wonder behold! the 8th clarity, that of the english language itself! kindest gentlemen! i implore! salvage your honours, let the titan sink! no?! marvelous! who are these gehenna baboons tricking? we are assured clemency, are we not?! these people seriously believe they are the sole inheritors of history! oh no, this is a europe within a europe type of game... i have my history, just as much as you, have yours... you erase the pride i have in mine, i erase the pride you have in yours... simple as 1 + 1 = 2... you squalid ****-pants think that a brexit will make you look better? no **** sherlock, you have the honey! but that makes you segregational in politick? i don't think... making it look nice will not make the belgian choc-makers sense a false deal in hands...

you have to learn one thing about the english,
they're polite, i give them that,
but they're also two-faced hydra-thisted liars...
i once took to liking them,
but after a while: i took to liking them:
by hating them;
  they just became these annoying
gnats of purpose, something you'd
rather shake off, rather than keep.

and like all good western societies -
the history had to be upkept -
    western europe mattered -
eastern europe was... "exotica" -
i love these palm tree jerkers off -
makes me feel right on time with
harrod's shelving oysters...
real bwitish -
        cognac in the congo while
the belgians spontaneously sprang
into the vocals of: aussie aussie!
oi oi oi!

wankers;
i just keep imagining shoving a 100
toothpicks alongside 1000 toenail
clippings up their gobs to prove a
"point", although none would have been
reached.

the **** do you mean foul mouth?
last time i checked you had bigger problems,
via dyslexia... foul mouth that
first.

and to me shakespeare is only macbeth:

open locks,
whoever knocks -

open skies -
whoever cries: a lone wolf -

one in every one of seen stars -
whoever the day unlocks -

open skies,
and with star a breakfast
made, least one, least two,
least one count
worth two passing days
of feud...

open skies,
a sunrise and a set,
twinned culprit of the hour -
upon both the hubris
of unfashionable "concern" -
that they may settle
a least, while gambling
the most of said affair:

      to dear malevolent
search of conquest -
reignite, the revisitation of
the endearing power-laden
desire for:
           kept quest -
of arm in arm -
         with both body,
as too with the shadow -
that medium of contrast.

so much so...
longinus podbipięta*
               herbu zerwikaptur -
to have owned a sword that
cut off three heads of
teutonic knights, and later three
heads of ottoman turks...
to have made that righteous plea
for puritanical reasons -
that medieval rite of honouring
the chaste and the brave...

but in western europe,
no few if either if not any histories
meet within the frameworks of
the three days that history
encompasses:
yesterday, today & tomorrow...

for all i know:
slavic languages have clear syllables -
and even clearer letter to state -
if the prime be french babylonian
muddles - then english follows second -
these are the twin languages of
neo-babylon -
   with their muddled syllable "chemistry" -
they're so unclear in what they "want"
their languages almost resemble
their: women...
    slavic languages are known via
the mongol to have a chinese
ethos of clear: distinct: syllable clarity -
since they possess a clear unit
division of syllables into letters...

seriously... all it took was to ask me:

sh = sz
                 as ch = cz -

                yzwz -

god is a word solely prescribed for
thesaurus rex -
       god is anti-grammatically categorised
as mathematically vector -

   god is not a dictionary word,
it's a thesaurus word....

     its grammatical construct is neither
verb (prayer) nor noun (allahu akbar) -
  
        it's either antonym or synonym...

and by the time i've posted this,
i've drank my *****, ate my moussaka,
and my mexican napkin bread,
and said: hello tomorrow,
hello tomorrow: goodnight.

which poetic product best be affixed
with hashtag STINKY label.

As a young whippersnapper
and one precocious lad to boot,
I discovered common combustible materials
found in the bathroom.

At opportune times,
I blithely tinkered with dangerous chemicals
that could (but never did)
explode into one humongous
fiery maelstrom and
bloom (re: annihilate)
this lad to smithereens.

Window kept open to avoid
un--necessary nor accidental asphyxiation.
After clearing defecation deep within,
the recesses of my bowels,
I thenceforth indiscriminately combined
various household cleansers
and cleaners (in powder
and/or liquid form) into the bidet.

The requisite sphincter muscle
byproduct constituted the key ingredient.
Anyway, my aha moment arrived
one childhood day
that long sought after ka-boom
sent a plume of smoke
in tandem with geyser of water
caused me to feel
flush with excitement.

Waste trill fluttering filled mine heart
(like music to thine ears)
after mine solid waste
***** byproduct went kerplunk
and caused tsunami
on other side of word.

Mere seconds elapsed
before explosive outcome found me
hurled clear across the room
like a bat out of hell.

Fortunate for me that this
natural ****** excretory function
never caused any serious outcome,
nor injury to life nor limb.
Immaculate notes (with graphic pictures –
albeit crude) attempted to document
any pertinent information.

At some juncture
with this private laboratory experiment,
a close observation
(with nose pinched tight)
revealed bubbles of air trapped within
our archaic household plumbing fixtures.

That aha i.e.eureka moment
prompted me to utter “*******”
when a chain reaction similar
to volcanic rush of air took place
within the planet.

With haste not waste,
these nimble fingers scribbled
unintelligible (deliberately illegible
to everybody but myself)
the chemical romance
to light a fire under the buttocks
of whomever happened
to be in need of emptying their bowels.

Now, I eagerly waited,
(albeit with impatience)
for that opportune time
whereby thee unsuspecting child
or adult needed to answer
that alimentary call of nature
my dear Watson.

The moment of anticipation arrived
when a long forgotten accursed relative
visited unexpected, which unannounced
rap on the door fueled fanciful notion
to whip up potion to promulgate prank
within the *****.

Once necessary ingredients,
(which secret formula cannot be divulged –
well maybe for a negotiable fee)
got poured giddy glee
generated gloating from head to toe.

Quick as Jack B Nimble
or his best friend Jack B. Quick,
these skinny legs (spindleshanks) sped away,
yet in close activity to the innocent
by sitter who nonchalantly ambled
into the powder room to tend to private business.

Right ear cocked against wall
that served as barrier between
occupant of water closet and yours truly.

Pleasant barely audible
humming, tweeting, and twittering
(like an angry) bird
singing emanated while obnoxious
guest of dishonor proceeded
to place posterior atop *****.

Seconds ticked by
with every now and again
pages of printed material heard
in conjunction with abdominal
groans and grunts to assist sacrifice
to the porcelain goddess.

Utter stillness suddenly punctuated
by the initial sound of a splash into the crapper.

I cupped hands to mouth
lest any unwanted guffaw slip out.

Instantaneously, our pestilential
kooky cousin kissed their *** goodbye
as propulsion forced the body politick
clear thru the unwelcome ample sized window.

Goodbye Charlie (pseudonym used here
to protect the not so innocent)
soon became diminishing shape
spiraling toward the horizon.

One speck of flotsam headed spaceward
versus the turgid **** joining brethren
into the sewerage cistern.

Written by: Edgar Allan ****,
who required quite some time to recoup,
and with slops pail headed off
to collect specimens from the latest scoop
rearing to go bouncing along
*** signed to another *** rap,
whereby blistered buttucks
hopes to earn yours truly another touché
(**** hay) before bottom smacked
courtesy leader of troop
a strong indigenous native son,
whose **** tressed reputation
recounts storied war whoop.