1.
Look! two butterflies entangled
in the thick of love, try extricating,flapping wings
girl, forget you're a doctor,let love resolve it.
2.
A strawberry touches her lips,
astonished I stop eating my peach;
where does the fruit end, her lips begin?
3.
Your dad is conservative,
mother is moderately appreciative,
every move of amour, has to be  politically sensitive.
4.
On this bikini your body prattles,
a language unintelligible through, I am all ears,
darling, make your body speak, the lingo it truly appreciates.
5.
Water nymph, your bodyhugging dress
simultaneously does myriad things,
talks erotica, tries seduction,makes me a fool fumbling for words.

It is a beautiful bird sanctuary
Where a sparrow chirps, a cuckoo sings
And  the parrot talks and the mina speaks
And the peacock dances

There is a great comradeship among th e birds
But a proud crow inflitrates into the place
And prattles and boos the cuckoo
And mocks at the lark

The nightingale sings so melodiously
That all the birds clap and laugh
Except the crow who thinks his bark
Is greater than the song of a lark

He feels as though he were the king of
The park and thinks his bark is sweeter than
A parrot’s talk and greater than a peacock’s
Walk. How long can he bark?

The crow is like a poison in a bowl of manna
How long will the birds bear their woes?
A day comes when they will kick the crow out
He will surely be out of sight

it is always nights like this, where everything is so quiet you can hear beneath the absolute threshold, when i begin to wonder if i am going mad. technically, if one were truly losing their mind, they wouldn’t take much notice to the clarification that their reality is nothing but intricate lies spun by their brain.

pushing onwards within the dark, i can feel it. a whisper of a dance in memory slices gracefully across my cheek. the hungry caress of a lost lover. it is a random number between three and four, counting the days of sleepless solitude; as my lover is playing tricks on me.

it is just before dawn. the house breathes and groans like a wretched soul trapped in a bottomless pit long before midnight. in the gray morning light, delicate wrists stained with ink serve as maps through a desolate labyrinth. “lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.”

from the corner of my eye i see shadows of uncharted men that feed upon the protective covering, encasing us; separating our world from theirs. the barrier is a shield at best, yet doorway at worst.

try to detach your eyes from their persistent, wandering gaze; and you might just catch a glimpse of a shadow gliding out of sight.

don’t second guess yourself sweetheart, you know exactly what you saw.

shadowy figures slightly out of reach, but still quite visible – gliding silently amidst, whispering quietly to those surrounding. looking directly at the figures, a gauzy lace veil delicately masks and covers each shadow.

unseen claws shred the thin barrier before it is tattered and torn. one by one, little by little, each figure sharpens into perfect visual acuity, wholly in sigh(t). as you slowly inch back, eyes unblinking with disbelief, their voices are no longer whispers.

the gaping pits of opened mouths drown you in hollow prattles, screeching rasps; the cruel high pitched icy sneers of laughter.

petrified with terror and shock at the shadow’s newfound ability to speak, you acutely notice that the house is creaking and wheezing. you can hear footsteps on the opposite side of the house, and with your eyes averted, they are gone.

with this, you must take into consideration that i have spent far too long with eyes wide shut, drowning in utter fear fueled by morbid curiosity for this world: things seen and heard. each is a cancerous tumor mutilating my mind beyond repair.

to me, the shadow figures’ tattered veil appears to be a doorway, a portal to another universe. this sheer possibility spawns the magnitude of infinite and parallel universes.
much like the shifting hallways concealed in an e(in)ternal labyrinth.

amidst this never ending maze, man is forced to wander blindly from birth to death; where he then circles back around to his exact place of previous conception, only to be born anew. condemned to blindly roam and repeat his unbroken cycle for all eternity.

in this labyrinth we are all gods, we are all monsters. each creation story is universal, yet individual to each new life.

the sinner and the saint are both born into divinity.

i've been a woman for nineteen and a few months years
and i've never looked at waitstaff
and asked
can i get that with a side of guilt?
but i should have
because it feels like that's what i
am ordering
instead of fries because
all the salt in the world
can't cover up the taste of guilt and self loathing i feel for eating sometimes
this is for all of the ladies i know who look at cookies
longingly, but tell themselves no
only to eat an entire box of them later
and cry
and most women will never admit to it
but i've been there
and cookies don't taste so good when
you're tossing them up
and this is for the ladies i have watched in the grocery store
eyeballing the candy bars like they are men in dark
allies or
snakes in the grass
because the magazines sitting right beside
them are watching you watching that candy bar watching you watching your weight watching those inches around your waist watching you
and telling you that you aren't good enough
a moment on the lips forever on
the- hold that ******* thought
because my lips and hips have two things in common-- they are big
and they want all this
******* to stop
every time a woman prattles off how many calories are in a drink
i can't help but correct her in my mind because
i know for a fact that there are five more calories in that than she told me
because i've been counting calories and playing games with my stomach since
second grade.
i may be **** at algebra, but i know intake out-take math like
i know the smell of my grandma's cigarettes.
eating meals with other women
is unbearable because i am tiered
of having to eat entire cinnamon buns
to myself because
my friends wont split them with me
and i'm tiered of watching women
talk about eating too much but
wanting to get
back
on
it
tomorrow like
feeding themselves is a crime
and so the next time i go to
cookout for a blueberry shake
i'll ask you to leave out the guilt
because it fills my throat up
like sand and my teeth
are brittle and tired from being
bared and ground
while i
battle with myself
over the baked goods at
a coffee shop
wondering if
i feel like hating myself
today

Dug up from the sand you have been buried in
held aloft
squirming
blinded by heat and intensity of visions
mucus runs across your face
dripping with guilt and chemicals
the aftertaste of corporation food.

Fevered dreams held together with floyd moments
rings around you
raw,hollow,retching as you cough up self disgust.

No softness here
tears too ashamed to cry,too bitter tasting
no conversation here
only prattles and pity,unsure
body squeezed like a writhing grub
flesh and water
swollen
unpretty.

.
..
...

With Crappó hated by the throng
young York decided to be strong
and told the Log 'you don't  belong'
and silenced him neigh three months long.

The corpse of Crappó lay unsung
amidst the muck of maggot mung.
Adoring words that Crappó flung
brings forth Thee Artiste from the dung.

This ballad now recalls to mind
Log's crummy comments, dull or spined,
a dilettante now much maligned,
the holey scourge of all mankind…

The only question left to face
'ts whether Thee will share Log's place
within the ashes of disgrace
adorning demons' fireplace.

*******

THEE BALLAD of LOGBRAIN CRAPPó
      
Prelude
The lord above returns to earth
descending as an afterbirth
and prattles of his paltry worth
in sluggish lines devoid of mirth.

In tedium the angels sighed
and cast his sorry soul aside,
commanding world and he collide
by grace… and gravity complied.

The earth is now a poorer place
defiled with icons of his face
adorning doggerel disgrace.
With character? No, not a trace.


LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S TALE

His day of birth! A cat meowed?
With nary but a fig endowed
his mama gasped, then laughed aloud
and cast her sin upon a cloud.

Rejected at his mama's gate
he felt his ego desiccate,
wax paranoid and fill  with hate,
his self-esteem disintegrate.

At last the cloud came floating by
and caught an ancient angel's eye.
With pity for the puny guy
she boosted him beyond the sky.

Denied the milk at mama's ****
his nourishment was incomplete
except for jam on Golden street
where angels scrape their moldy feet.

Beholding mortals down below
he ventured into vertigo
and felt his feeble ego grow
beneath a chocolate cheerio.

With halo (brown although it be)
he rose above the holey sea.
"The ruler of the angels, me!"
became his favorite fantasy.

While looking down his nose at them
(upon his head a diadem)
he framed his face in foggy phlegm
and claimed he came from Bethlehem.

He then could hear the angels trill
"Just stop, because you're mortal still,
and even then you're lacking skill
except to serve the swine their swill" .

While scribbling lines in lethargy,
he foamed and drooled "supremacy,
preeminence" delusively…
unbearable monotony .

And with a visage woebegone
he scribbled trash till well past dawn
not worth the paper written on
and thus he made the angels yawn.

At last the angels felt dismay
and chose to act without delay…
with nothing but a negligee
he landed in an alleyway .

Since then he's never ceased to whine
"Please worship I, I am divine,
the lord of those who worship swine".
He's pricky as a porcupine.

Well, back on earth since Saturday,
he daubs his face in disarray
with soul patch stripe and black beret
and prances like a popinjay.

His mental age stays stuck at three.
And never reaching puberty
he scrawls some **** poetry
which seems to be his destiny.



LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S EPITAPH

Log Crappó… well, he died in shame
cascading crap, his sole acclaim
accented ó, his only fame
with no one but himself to blame.

He finally made his last descent
inside the pit of punishment.
Now Satan's feeling discontent,
replaced as Prince of hell's torment.

On looking back, one must admit
he suffered from a lack of wit,
could never quite  get over it
so wrote his Masterpiece-of-****.


        CrE  aka  Trollminator

That time,
When the morning shook me awake with a new set of senses
Every pore opened leaving my old body obsolete and breathless

It was a great day, filled with glory and dried sweat
The sky would tell me tales of gore and criminal's scores
The trees sung of warriors that could handle any pest that crept
Sun and Moon would prance, ignorant of envious bores

It was a great day, rattled with sounds and prattles
Even gravel, had its mysteries of wondrous wandering
Waters simply grew a face, to smile of silent pondering
Grouchy and coarse the soils were, always whining of past battles

It was a great day, whistling secrets and flaunting immortality
At least that was how the wind would laugh, free and kooky
Fires did more whistling, between their cackles and endless dances
Then science was rinsed off the creatures to show the paths in their glances

Who was I to judge?
Woes of consuming spectra
Under despot rhyme

Then night had fell +
My eyes would dwell /
My hearts next swell =
Still a space to figure,

A time to measure:
The center of levers::
A fate for lovers:
A void...to test

There’s a sick, sad little space
between tea spoons and midnight
where the teeth on your fingertips chatter
and the ink in your forearm prattles on
about which bone you’re going to pull out this time
and how your chapped lips taste like poetry
but your dry eyes can’t bend around the prosody
and it’s in that space that my clothes turned into feathers
and flew away with the *****
the one that pipes out those same four chords
and tempered breath made into rotting elephants on sale
but the bazaar called for more than just pennies
and I don’t think my cough medicine blinks enough
to make this dance hall stop spinning

Breathing cold vibrancy,
the earth and sun remind us
that whatever prattles on the surface
will be layered over,
fossilised,
and judged as advances
or fat, white dead ends
by the clever folk ahead

You know the one,
One who blathers on... and on;
The one we'd rather not.

One prattles like a rattle,
Tattles and gabbles,
Babbles and jabbers,
Chatters til we frazzle,
Twaddles til we drop.
One never seems to stop.

One brags
One talks
Bark off trees,
One argues
With a knot.
One can't stop.

One drops names
Like cloud bursts;
One day
One will
Be caught.

One has diarrhetic run-on.
One's opinion's seldom sought.

Finally, at the end of bray,
One has only nought to say.

Gone With The Wind is one of my favorite movies. I resonate so strongly with both Scarlett and Melanie... I feel like Scarlett is all ego and Melanie is all heart and soul. I feel like these two characters are two voices of many in my psyche. I experience a constant internal battle within, as my inner Scarlett prattles relentlessly on, draining my energy, with her goals being vain pursuit, external validation and self preservation. My inner Melanie on the other hand, fully aware of my inner Scarlett's self sabotage, embraces Scarlett lovingly and compassionately, yet doesn't allow Scarlett to throw her off center or make her feel inferior, because it's impossible for Melanie to feel inferior or in desperate need because she knows her intrinsic worth. So, in all, I would say that Scarlett is my ego and Melanie is my Soul.~~ Just sharing my analogy with the community to shed light on a struggle many of us face~~

Now it's off to sleep, and may
I find a dream to dance inside,
to smile my eyes shut tightly wide,
before the morning prattles?

A pillow mountain, rivers deep,
and blanket castles while I sleep.
(My dog could care less, she just lumps,
and snuggles, till the day.)

1
An ant rants
when left behind
by the greedy mates
who carry together
for the rainy days,
a luscious carcass
that was a grasshopper
(with hopes and dreams
that kept it hopping
not long before)
"******* all,
they wouldn't wait
even for a moment
for those less inclined
to greed and avarice"
The ant fallen by the
wayside frets and fumes
burst out  in flames
with rightful indignation
and anger.
2.
A ghost pants
while climbing the
steep gravel path
leading to the cemetery
he chose to visit that day,
"***** *******
couldn't make the gradient
little more convenient,
for a weary ghost
compelled to visit
burial grounds at
lonely midnight hours
that too by foot"
prattles the agitated ghost!
3.
A gentle wind chants
effusively like
a prophet,about the
nature of all things
material, in the past
present and future.
"Nothing lasts for ever my dear,
except pure consciousness
the absolute,that manifests as
all that we experience,here
in this transit camp we call life,
fly, fly till you embrace
nothingness, the essence,
on the wings of the winds
of change, reach the destination
beyond the limits of body and mind"
4.
The ant to which was revealed
the futility of illusory existence
lets go it's chase,knowing
it doesn't make sense
for a carcass to be, soon
to chase another.
He takes a new path
decides to go it alone
all the way beyond darkness.
A firefly he becomes,
liberation personified,
Enlightenment suddenly lights
the dark undulating sea
of ignorance gathered through lives.
5.
The ghost, (an other name of past)
sits on a tombstone relaxing,
decides to dump the routine
of haunting, stalking the weak
midnight visitations et al.
He grows wings at will
dons the garb of a dark angel,
on his way to gloomy light,
the next step to peace.
6.
Swishing  wind, chimes it's message
"This moment has already gone
hang on to the consciousness
(that fill all the vacuum of universe)
till hitching on to the moment next,
and if in the mean golden time
one can somersault,
to the absolute beyond,
go for it
if having a deep yen
to be immortal.

the worship service looks full this morning
though, admittedly, i haven't been
in attendance since Christmas.
families in their Sunday best
sit on wooden pews
in a patriarchal church
that spent its tithings
on a multi-million dollar
gymnasium rather than the poor
their savior told them to look out for.

men, women, and children
awkwardly pretend
to sing contemporary hymns
beneath their breath,
hoping no one will notice
as they pick their noses,
thinking absently of Easter dinner.

i write poems
while the pastor prattles,
his shallow words
an empty drone
filling my ears
with white noise.

i feel myself drifting.
i haven't been sleeping
lately. the news has got me thinking
each passing day might be our last
on planet Earth and i'll be incensed
if i waste one minute more
than necessary
in this cramped
and ugly church,
a sanctuary smelling faintly
of old ladies, cheap perfume,
and wilted flowers dying silently.

just one more week
and i'll have been
god-free for half a decade.
for now,
i grin and bear the tedium
and mourn the tarnished legacy
of the radical rabbi,
a Nazarene who took on an Empire
and died by his convictions.

i daresay,
he'd be rolling in his grave
if he could see
these rich, white
Presbyterians sullying
his good name—
provided, of course,
he'd not so famously
vacated the premises.

the pastor prattles on
and i nod off as my
phone shudders in the
pocket of my jeans

i fish it out
during the brief
interim where
everyone obediently
closes their eyes and
bows their heads
victims for a hungry
guillotine

the screen alights with
her name just as i
suspected and i voraciously
read the rough draft of the
poem she's just sent me  

the clock stops in the middle
of two separate seconds
i ruminate over the illuminated text
on screen digesting feminine
intentions between intermittent
glances to see if anyone's noticed
how even Father Time
paused to read her lyrics

i'd read dozens of excerpts
penned by her generous hands
sonnets wreathed in somber cadences
spoken word blistering with brazen passion
and compassionate pleas beseeching
all who'd listen to thaw cold hearts
and take heed of the lost
and lonely masses but
i never read something where
she referenced me

alas
the piece was
brief
and i can't help
but think i am
one of her many
footnotes

and the sick and subtle
tragedy is that she
instigates my exposition
rises in each action
and catalyzes every
climactic conclusion

I have this voice inside my head
That talks and talks and talks
No matter what is done or said
It never ever stops
This little voice inside my head
That masquerades as thoughts
It prattles on relentlessly
With all that I am not
Not nice, not kind, not good enough
Not anything at all
Except the things that it sings
To keep me feeling small

sleeping feels better than being awake

but the more I sleep , the worse I feel when I am awake

which seems obvious , but nothing quite is

when I am not with you , 
which also now seems obvious .
I want to do my one good deed for the day

but as soon as those words enter my head in that order

I feel disgusting and it feels ruined .

my head prattles away
with some other part of my head

about this and that ,
I don’t know . 

I wasn’t invited .
I’d never say this is the worst day ever ,
or whatever .
not everything needs to be said .

SURAH 910
The psittacists of the malaxage of malabathrum attempts at covvengerized metensomatosis defile the very flombricks of the plasmamium cracking at the unseemly phememes of specious paraselenic polkamania at the pelargic wricks of the wroth and wrox of yeltings denouncing the meroscopic moulins of freggetted ragtagger paynimry metapolitical wegotism of parietal paroxytone pteropine qwartion designed indelibly in the maltelasse of the repined pantography against the megistothermic kenomanicaphobia of the dutiful demarche from the porriginous portfire that crassifies every polder into periblebses of volcanic tirades of mofette because of the mows of moya recriminated around circumducted poikilothermic vindictivolence because the reremouches of guarded sotissiers flaunting their praxinoscopic perenendoscopic maltsters of privvy theatromania might vauntlay themselves among the vanguard for the wirewoven fabric never of mendaciloquent fabrications of prosopographilalia always done in ventose conceit of megalomaniacal desperation by the earwigs of dikephobia that they might taste the torment of the day they are denied of their proper brevets of flargentum and instead reasted upon the stew of the murengers of yeltings that bratingly reject frikmag upon prima facie cogitabund and meditabund fanciful whimsy in the anemocracy that agrunters of their prisoptometers of recalcitrance they might taste the stain of their acrimony rather than the recidivism of mugient morigeration that storges never an enmity and always a tympany of alveolate harmonization of the synectic broods of eutrapely. In the kaleidophones of the komatik herculean viragos of webster heroism despite their foisted epigones of pseudogyny in attempts at dethroning maritodespotic phallocracy wirewoven into the resofincular audacity of the chomage of the chirked swirk of forswinked frustraneous endeavors lewdly cadging and roodging the hypesters of wegotist flargentum in ergotall chantage wormcast beyond the woonerf of the rackrent Rabelaisian ebriection of the wretchocks of wayspayed dormitage redundant in its canter of verisimilitude in the echopraxia of the enviable by the envied that they might understand that the yelting murengers of murage belong in sacrosanct harmony with the eutrapely never of wallfish walleteers domineered by the lability of their wambling stature jengadangled upon the precipice of astroud asterongue notoriety expounded by the plasmamium of recoil and the covvengers of modest modicum earned by the machinules of their coerced decorum that the nanciful prance of the cakewalk of prurience might be recorded by the Master Record of Al-Muhaymin as the subterfuge of pralltriller tropoclastic obrogation of existent statute bowdlerized by the ptochony of the puericulture of dormant wayspayers obsessed with viraginous wesperm because of herculean deficits in retchination because of cynosures of cyesolagnia of tympany that might become a retched mistetch of the serendipity of melodikon that despises the plankwise pillory of wertfrei in the mangonel of those desperate to find a mittimus against the plenipotentiary by the jengadangle of aleatory finitism in prescriptivists who flout based on their cecutiency of immoralism that the gladiatorial edge and brazen zugzwang might backfire in enormities upon the jemadar of the serpentine slither of hederaceous pointillism in Freudian surrealism of the mascon of pretended indemnity personified by the mongery of the hipped hobohemia of jerboas incapable of jiboya that fewer mugient hypertrophies of exaggerated parabolaster find findrouement in their recalcitrance rather than their mountenance and that their bluepomp redstrall might stumble in fliction rather than in rancid frinteran scams of jazzbos of emasculated pandora flummoxed by a bewildered scorn of sentinel machinules exasperated of the ploys of kakistocracy. The registry of the moffets of kalabothron that ingeminates refines corrugates and snatches never from the perjury of eidolon the perfectable mantissa of the soluble antipangamists of an age punctuated by pantography lassoed by the servile toadies of reremouches of redstrall demeaning in their every demarcation of mendacity done in wapenshaw and wapentake of the weighage of their perpended meldometers of radical incarceration because of phlogistons tone deaf to phocine regius regalia that they might find the touching spectacle of the calcimine yeltings a purpresture hortatory and peremptory enough to derail their attempted commenefaction of the filagersion of the flombricks of regurgitated efforts at pelargic hebephrenia obtained by polders of gid flajousting their way into the coddles of portentous infamy rather than insuperable fame of Parousia. We maraud in the whiggarchy of the wrepolis of one verberating with plangorous sempiternal evasion of pointed porbeagle mantissa deprived of the isonomy of the raltention of the halldorn ktenology rather than kymatology of supersensible moments etched into the fabric of indelible eternity that any perceptible hallswallop is already a hikkle and hibble of obganiation that endangers the pugient popocracy of the lackadays among the popjoys of the campanile febrile aristocratic latitude of presidential hearth outnumbering by the qualms of peremptory logodaedaly that never a plumbism encounters an elitism and never a plumeopicean piscifauna descends into the heyday of moffets of maidan madness in the viduity of the world from certain cynosure in sinecures of madefaction rather than exclusivity in the prescriptivism of a physicalist nihilism attempted by the morigeration of many a covvenger obsessed with wricks and suborned by wrox to become tumbleweeds that tritefully in platitude always denature the mesozeugmas of the topgallant asseveration of latitude rather than a perpended valetudinarianism. The nauclatic barnstorm of all potagers of the outmantled vicissitude of the echopraxia of pralltrillers of the rindkline of outmoded sondage in the sennet of the pertinacity of wegotists marauding against their paraselenic critics that always try to vauntlay because of moya that has mowed down entire generations of evergreen groundlings of the geotaxis of photophiles that spar against the rectiserial subaltern mountenance of the mottle of scaramouch metapolitics in retrenchment and retreat because of the sempiternal flabbergast of gentrified wroth and wrox of waldflutes that bemoan the hikkle of the rhadamanthine jumboism of misocleres of minatory subsultus in contrivance only perceptible to the thrombosis of cacidrosis that the petcocks and cockshies of elitism spurn with spindrifts of brinkmanship of the galvanized pseudogyny of bluestocking smardagine attempts to swallow the Earth whole by the singularity of the procrustean never the walleteer of the wallfish of tralleyripped jawholes of potamology that chirk their way about Simple Jack but never preternatural Julian because the asterongue meteoric meteromancy of the pretense of spurious spumid thrombosis calcimined by yeltings of wallbaggers rather than the hinderbaggle of recadency rectiserial in its gallywow prestige of polders fulminating in every exasperation to riotously remonstrate against paragons rather than congregate around flippant frivverscrabbles of frinteran ill-humor that never use proper cephaligation of morphaen cacidrosis waged upon the impavid intertesselation of the flombricks of glib triage foisted above rhotacism of the rhubarb crassified by the detritus of the alchemy of waldgraves attempting to resort to carnaptious deeds of vauntlay in villainy that spawn the retched errundle of the desultory tatamae of the vetust brocrawler fighting against the coalized recalcitrance of the paltripolitan pantapolis desperately yeuking in its intorted incivisms of inurbanity to posterize the cackling humdingers that shake entire centuries with qualms rather than traumatize with the yikkers of flashy torpindage attempting torpillage against the assailants of the plagated murenders that berate the chatoyant yeltings for their brayed assault against the chamois belonging originally to backwater champlaignes that asseverate their power dynamics with psychodynamic mesozeugma in the age of messianism despite the pelargic wegotists paraded in their verdure of foothot temerity too tempestive to survive the carracks and carnet of pantographs that become the mignons of the pantomnesia of the carousel of trumpery among the oppositive heelers that demand never a vindictivolence of moffets but always lapidate the vandykes of rhipidate and rhizogenic mottles of subversive metastrophe because of metapolitical allegiance to portfires of the tocsins of pretended alarmism rather than kenomanicaphobic brilliance sheening prefulgent in the ruffianized pullulation that berates itself for its pangamys of faltering panmixia and thereby corrugates itself upon the yestertempest of the attempts at youthquake that shatter the younkers of crotaline elitism sheepish of its own finifugal respite in podobromhydrosis created by the madefaction of humorous minimasque jannock janizary jokes that serenade for the gallivant of glory in the hidden thickets of plumage and plucky Herculean heroism against the hednons of attempted subversion that alluvions of hikkle and bilkey by machinules of masterate liturgy might always insulate from the purpresture of gerdoying gammerstang fulgurant percutient patibulary wormcasts deriding wertfrei and belonging to the maskirovka of the worsification of militarized envy seeking casualty where there is always repose and violence where there is always a sodality united for peaceful but precarious paciferation that averts the jimswingers of the jiboya of the jobbery of the jentacular threats of a braying menace of wrothing indolence centrobaric to all singularity and never consequent to any bleat of the pretense of temerity because of the viscidity never of a vaporetto of vacuefied stupefaction but always a beatific harmony of the serendipity of wordsmiths against the regal taunts of the skrimch of Potemkin hatred. We stagger in an astounding davering movement where delitescence is still a guarded murage of the wallbaggers that insulate the aristocracy from the thickets of the social mobility of macropicide against the yares of logodaedaly that vaunt God rather than vauntlay their enemies who dare with radical subversion in wretchocks of plumbism to deracinate the caterwauls of galeanthropy from their gradate punctatim attempts to create a serrated barrier of machairodont flarmeys of flargentum among the dense thickets of the yarzheit of apikoros giaours that fly-by-night in the boschveldt of borascos demanding a collective dementia in exchange for the machinules of radical harpricks bemoaned by the madefaction of gallantries of topgallant gambols rather than gambles with the safety and security of the broader world widely protected by never a vindictive word or never a sempervirent gambit for monopolylogues long ago assized and quantulated by putchers of gammon that they might perish in their assailed ratification of draconian flakes flapping their albatross wings in the deipotent glory of decrassification rather than galvanic attempts to revive the revenants of the heyday of gladiatorial spectacle to the demise of the wrox rather than the porcellanous attempts by coverthrow to demean or ratchet a grumbling mumpsimus of the fakest mittimus ever devised by the jemara of the moorganization of time for a peaceful coryphaeus to exhibit his magisterial eloquence on the platform of the barnstorm of eleutheropomania that always prattles in favor of the favor of delitescent mantissa and the guarded larithmics that corrugate in the favor of antipangamy that belongs to the hypestorm of never a capias but always an exonerated eutrapely of grandeur and hauteur without a hint of pompous chatoyant trucidation of lesser enemies and brittle redshort opportunism of delirifacient demur that becomes insulated from its own refrains that it provides impetus for liberation than a succinct meldometer of meleagrine and rhadamanthine physiognomancy that is too brazen in its weatherboards of wrathcheque to quivver in anything but the guarded tropism of those who understand the psychodynamic valor of exhibitionism in a jocular manner of regelation that the calcifuges never panic and the bonanzas never shrink in their blettonism of world triage for peaceful beatification that beams with the light of the prefulgent sun rather than heliofugal demiurges of recidivism potentiated by the aggravated grimace of gerdoying. The belletrist of the sondage of the morescos that vaunted themselves among the privileged because of the proband of forestalled generations of raillery rather than the rindstretch of the kobold subterfuge of armigerous enmity mobilized only in petty medicasters of iatramelia that the true enormity of congealed revalorization becomes that supernal and superlative beacon that prefigures all of destiny by the kymatology of the regnant resofincular retrocognitions of the phememes of intuitive plasmamium never paltry in paltripolitan values of a tottering demiurge that might be masticated in its semese because the density of the timocracy withstands all mettle and scores all veracity by its demarches for world harmony rather than its septiverous divisions of sciamachy waged against potentates because the giaours despise the valor of the monotroch of the rickety wroth of punctatim hortoriginality that never bleats or blemishes in histrionics but always values the foresight of the masterates to asseverate their hegemony rather than their servitude to the manifesto of the most radicalized epithets and rhubarbs of ruffianized faffle of the fangasts of the wormcast of the pollarchy becoming waterish in its insipid gambits to bowdlerize the world of polymathy because a polyhistor too intrepid to tread lightly and too kind to domineer with imperium might be counted not as a noxious nuisance of lability of phlogiston but always a zealous courtier of a renewal of generations for chrestomathy and the galvanization of religious zeal against the totemic racism of a tottering balkanization or the peregral attempts of the isorropic to imitate the ivoride of jealousy because of jalousie. May God bless our troops and insulate us from all disaster and may God provide the beneficent path for the multanimous love of fidelity of the phocine phons of kaleidophones of the miraculous kith of a loving matriotic nation united by the fervor of patriotism to serenade the world with beatific love rather than inseminate a radicalized potentiation of the insipid paraselenic violence of a world that should rollick and maffick in celebration of promethean insights rather than chirk a draconian destiny. Amen

My thoughts get polluted in the short span
of time it takes them to run to my tongue.
Intent evaporates, I find myself
spewing banality with confidence.
Dubious sense of humour fails to land
a punch; I dodder past with a faux grin.
Finally it’s time to pass the baton
to another unwilling candidate.
I nod pleasantly as we continue
our dull charade of camaraderie.

Once upon a time being sociable
meant exchanging infrequent messages.
The small talk prattles on… I think about
the lost luxury of writing letters.

Chattering of china
Twittering of utensils
The scoop of melting grease
Manifesting the release
The smoke of sizzling meat
Saturating the nostril
And the waitress
Half slavish
Flirts here and prattles there
To dodge the malice of moment
In the ring of endless hustle
Where refills are free
And rewinds obliged.

I feel old, and the cold's creeping in
And my hiding makes me more aware
That I'm too scared to show

My heart's whispers are louder
Whispering quietly but incessantly
That the time to move is now

To quiet such a chatter is impossible
All that is left to do is "do"
But the heart that prattles on is a blessing

A heart that is silent is a saddened heart
Or one that is muffled with drink
I choose my big, loud, thumping heart over any silent thing

simple wiggins from hanky panky
lucre snatchers, con artists and hatchet jobbers
conjoiners fleecers and dastard pirates and blighty racists
all in the mix waiting for a fix to put the licks on an unexpected brick

simple wiggins twisting and turning
crooks from nooks and dopes with hapless hopes
takes on a softwood that turns out an oak that's no joke
now they're all in a tizzy frizzing and frazzling in dazzling dizzy

simple wiggins confused and nonplussed
flinging pans, pots an kitchen sinks cause they're ****** finks
plans astray and lies exposing they're decomposing pansies in panic
shamed, belittles in prattles, rattling as dumb cows in stinging nestles

simple wiggins oafs without loaves
liars and shysters wanting unearned pearls and oysters
foul bullies in foul follies ganging a set-up con for purloining lollies
using all fooled cannon-fodders as watchers, informers an performers

simple wiggins thieves and chalk scums
go dig your rig and rind your grid for your putrid grimy tosh
undermined criminals in urinals politicking garbage to your trash
most now see your game for you're lame in your shameless lanes

THIS IS HOW WE SHOW OUR LOVE.

The baby's in the cradle; far is mum.
He wakes up frightened and he starts to scream.
He blubbers to his mum to carry him.
This is the way in which he shows his love.

She comes and lifts him up and hugs on chest.
He feels so calm, and she feels glad and blessed.
He coos, he babbles, and he prattles best.
This is what he does when he shows his love.

There is no need to cry; his mum is nigh.
The world for him is safe; why should he sigh?
So glad, he lifts his hand and scratches her an eye.
No wonder, this is what he does to show his love.

My Lord, we feel so frightened and we plead.
We carol and sing hymns and offer a good deed.
We may at times imply a spiteful word,
but still we are that child who shows his love.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
____________

Stead he, once aloft high mountains
the ravine bellowed upon tides unsung,
sought lands unbeknownst to him
far across oceans as daffodils chirped
to be still whilst robins burned
and hound the tasteless nectar
ripped asunder underneath the spiral shelled slimy chained beasts ...

Once it was that everlasting agony
could not fulfill perfunctory oaths whiche'r
sunken tribe prided upon,
the chieftain adorned in his garland of skulls
satiated his pains within lofts of fire.
Sparks clouded the presumptuous begat holy water
and knives wound heretofore hate ridden bellies,
carved with rusted blades and bent iron
With each bell rung, a million epochs tumbled.
and Thus hovered the pledgion, crying hoofs and browbeaten droughts
in all splendor and prose !
Giant trees stood before him
reproaching the presence of bygone feet
loud was the rustle and harsh were the uncurling leaves
to be withered away by blackened seeds.

In halted symphonies did cries of woe recede before
hate blurred lines that fear devised,
and pride begrudged asunder, crones of fruitless endeavour
towards sunken cloth and forsaken joys;
Instinct upon reach lay before he
"Whereupon this glance is my whittled bride
she who prattles about in surreality ?"
the silence followed the swift tail wind and met the brittle spear
****** herein, louting jaundiced rendezvous and accoutrements winked into
by lonely hearts shrouded in frivolous tones of mystery.
But falter not did he,
for men do seldom bathe in the harness of failure
rather than crows mimic the nests of sparrows
so that every twitch lauded and immortality spanned by darkened visages
cawed into the blood, hitherto plucked in tarry reeds;
He came upon a fork
and wondered aloud "why is there but a nested abandon 'ere -
soaked fragrance and ridicule greets but the seldom few
who dare challenge the beast that lay within;
wary of unwoken lust bound in shiny drudgery,
be it ignorance that compels the starving
that voyages sown upon tapestries raw,
could take shape in weary eyes
and nascent tears of milk,flood the bow
yet unstruck by ignoble appetites of unladen treachery
while lurked prey lament the sharpened
sow of her majesty's trumpet ground in dust through
riveting songs of intertwined floods
adorned in destiny and swindled by fate !"

"Now look here, to the west" , the voice cried
for riches to be held in weight vanished the annals writ within
"Cry to me the sorrows to be laden
by growing tendons and grudges herein.
In these pangs of misery do I dream of the morrow,
of countless sunlights upon the flesh of misery
and wings that glide amidst tenuous storms",
For neither did mountain nor river below
do little to fasten a shade of warmth and passionate sin,
halt either stride or furrow
With which giants leaped across corpses of devils
and men scribed souls towards glimpses of voluptuous grins.
"Lend but an ear, to the magical east,
at laughter glowing and talons lauded
with unsung whispers raked in sun belied rot,
and sagely jests upon magisterial gods"

Thus ends his journey to fallowed ravines,
bound in knowledge and in blood,
O Men, Speak no more of his glorious persona!
As mercy beckons for grace to begin
and with fallen stupor groweth wisdom
to be perched upon desire unfulfilled but lulled into unity,
As twilight echoes through dawn like rumbling snow capped peaks
and the orange night succumbs to starlight with fateful longing
So does he peruse the forsaken trail
forevermore, and at ever last.

Hey plebs
if you think Prince Andrew
is sitting in sorrow and suffering
that's merely the ignorant perceptions of small minds
the Prince is thanking his lucky stars and totally at ease
having all his creature comforts and glorious free time
no more having to feign interest in what the plebs are doing
or shaking hands and grinning with the unwashed
listening to their inane prattles as they faff about
always hungry for attention as if they matter
anyway to hell with them muses the prince
they can keep their useless adulations
like its the Royals fault they get star struck
mummy says they are silly and I should just keep a low profile
the Prince thinks they can kiss his fine derrière
he's on the vacation of a lifetime
and overjoyed he doesn't
have to smell these dogs anymore
and they can snap growl yap and whine as much as they like
its what they do..... n'est-ce pas ?

he said –
screaming this as we’re
walking among the lilac trees
in the arboretum
while an old couple passes
our way. “Quiet”
I say. But he still prattles
on a couple of octaves
louder with his smart-***
going full blast with the cuss
words spilling out faster than
our feet and carrying
the sound further than I can
escape its presence. “I’ll call
the police” I tell him. That got his
attention. He stopped yelling,
for the moment
he must have
muffled the sound
in the therapy room
cause I was scared
and never seen
this side of him
must be
a full-moon –
in the afternoon?

The askew-ed twaddle of the fisher snake
lashing rebuttal ginned in bitter pains
expostulating  the colossus of blazing truth
from the damaged maddened coward in jeans

The steady truth and facts that sting vapid face
will always pierce the wounded guilty *****
as she hollers pathetic tirades in cover face red
for the dawn light has dealt a grievous blow

Slithered out fisher snake daughter of thieves
the shamed in jeans of slime and stained hands
the mudslinger in heat prattles the trash of trash
furnace hate emitting its toxic bile as guilt bites again

Dis-reputed fool of fools will see regurgitation
for truth is constant and hurtful to unwashed wenches
unlike the serpentine tongues that makes it up to deceive
for grave is the disgrace of the thieves as it is of fisher snake
whether in jeans or mired in the putrid shame of the shameless