Satan is love and love is Satan
You are one and the same,
In texture, scent and beauty,
You all blend into one
Commanding three quarters
Of heaven’s loyalty
Ninety percent of human allegiance,
The church and the mosque are your marionette
All the temples are your domain,
African Shrines are your beautiful turf
As synagogues thrive from your love.

Satan, this sonnet is for you
My lyrical dedication to your glory,
An Ode of all odes to you Satan
As for you will reign
In the natural systems
As the sole queen of my heart
Your regal time in my love-sphere
Will infinitely pullulate in times to come,

Of your nature I know not
Of your abode I know not
Whether you are in ethereal
Or in the realms of hell
I know not but to your glory,
Of your race I know not
Notwithstanding your black label,
But your glory and mighty I know
You reign the earth and the heaven
With unmatched stature, unprecedented
Your foes forlornly left minus option
But only to desperate wistfulness,

Your works are a tor among mountains
In seas, oceans, landmasses and heavenly systems,
You designed colonialism at Berlin conference
You inspired slavery in the powers that be
You inspired heart of apartheid among Israelis
Against the foolish Palestinians,
You masterminded forceful occupation
Of the oil wells and Lands of Palestine by Israelis,
You designed Apartheid in South Africa
And nascent racial hatred in America
That saw death in Ferguson and the poor lad
A ****** Treyvvon who is better dead!
And it all went all without simple fetter
My dear sweet heart, the one and only one,
Satan the dearest Lucifer Alias Ibilis,

Your accolades are unique
And true Spectacle of spectacles,
They stand garlanded out of the rest
To sure glory of my dear little dove,
The flower of my heart,
Was the gift of nuclear power
to the stoogish Einstein your protégé?
Was the gift of *** to the Irish Scientists
Your efforts and sweat of your brow?
Is Ebola your latest tool in depopulation move?
Will you spare the black souls my dear love?

My heart misses you dear little love,
Where and when can we meet?
For us to have our light moment
To have a heart to heart chat
In the fullness of flowery flora
And monkey Fauna of Africa,
Can we meet on the **** shores
Of warm and elegant Lake Turkana?
The beacon of natural beauty
On which human sorrow melts
Into the mellifluous warmth
Of your love and delicacy of you romance,
I look forward dear for this day,
On which I will be swallowed
Into your softly touch and caresses
As your warm kisses land on my lips
I will softly moan to the warmth in you love.

Can I come along with my friends, dear sweetie?
For they are unhappy and proscribed to a legal corner
In this dark abyss of African political culture
They are Lesbians and gays, drug dealers,
Polygamists and polyandrous ones,
The laws of the day have pigeonholed them,
Let them come to your table for a treat
On buckers and Nyama Choma of he goats,
For truly they are your current brainchildren
Forlornly isolated by black primitivity.


I will sing to you all lyrics my dear
As your works are marvelous and wonderful
They crystallize into a power of powers
I will sing to you; ‘the poem to Satan’ of dear Marx,
And ‘evil’s idol’ in the glory of your love,
Will sing for you ‘the night in the forest’
And ‘Ode to my mother’ of Adolf ******
As I shower your reign with classical lyrics,
In praise of your power on human heart,
None else calls the tune of human piety
As you powerfully do my dear lollipop.

I am now tired
And the lamp of my house now faintly goes
As my heart yearns for sleep
Into which I will dream
The blissful dreams
Propelled by the sweet scent
The sole outfit of your lovely reign.

i’ve learned all my trickling tricks of puppeteering from philip augustus of france early on in my schooling, richard the lionheart never came close, i was in similitude with philip augustus, that i even bought jim bradbury’s book to read and essay with.*

never become the alcoholic that denies his alcoholism,
you can’t hide an addiction, better embrace it,
when addiction enters the stage as the acted upon acting
there’s no point hiding it,
enter the realm of the full embrace, hiding it will only make it worse
than it actually is, i embraced it, and i think
the piggish commons are getting their tax payers’ money’s worth
with my poems, if you think otherwise... you stand
happy-idle at the supermarket check-out and tell me
the football scores from the big weekend
when a northern monkey team took a thrashing
from a southern fairy team.
the question is different thought - forget the beginning and end
planned - we already have the diapers and the coffin,
make what the middle ought to be, clueless narration, spontaneity,
off the streak of the river currents not expecting change
but having to accept change...
michael greilsammer’s la ville blanche
cream’s white room
or cat stevens’ into white?
none of them... moody blues’ nights in white satin...
but a funny emerged from trying to sing greilsammer’s la ville blanche,
i speak no french,
and in my mumble i managed to see the other imagination,
the skeletal one, not the technicolor one of images and walt
and the housewives sleeping beauty and snow white
(although i appreciate the other walt, the whitman),
i mean, through my “un-imaginative” mumbles i tried
to skewer the words of the song, i couldn’t,
i could usher in a single perfect word
but beyond this i was trying to imagine the god awful spelling excesses
of the french tongue... i mean bordeaux when you only say bore’s door /
boarded up door - no x oh... xylophone, yes, no? no...
oh no wonder dyslexia and spelling mistakes...
these letterings are phonetic approximates,
anyone can make the visuals complicated
and retain power... but few to own up and say:
1 + 1 = 2, but the priestly order said: e + ' = é
as jumpstart ready on the trampoline... but e + ' = è
means you get a sudden attack of the mute & mime.
that’s what happens with a missing diacritic that’s blatant in english,
you get to spell a french word like bordeaux with a zed and look at it and qualify
the tongue to say: yep, bored door... needs oiling... oil up oil up!
then spontaneously play a harp of unconscious snorkelling
(also known as snoring... boor hiccup shush... bore hiccup sheen):
it’s the last stronghold of the imagination, this invested in english
from mother tongue slavic... it’s like trying to sing to a song
without spelling glaring at you...
so you start imagining this blessed primitivity...snakes and matchsticks
to flare up... turn it all into a 1970s disco...
it makes sense to mumble then... for ****’s sake... bordeaux?!
who adds so many letters in between definite lettered sounds
to make it look more uglier than the pretty riviera? huh?!
monaco? oh... well that explains it: why vaduz (capital of liechtenstein)
doesn’t have a grand prix.

"Your only flaw: you are flawless
and I just can't wait for love to destroy us."*

It's like moving underwater.
Motions tracing leisurely behind a rapid mind.
The heart bursts.
Contents dilatorily ejecting. Sharp shards of ruby splayed
in a resplendent eruption of primitivity, the pieces suspended
in seconds that last years and years, and years-
fleeting in seconds. It tastes like sunlight
and stage fright, painting the mouth a wet pink.
The eyes never truly knowing stillness
until the two gazes collide, melting into one, stuck in syrup
the flavor of searching. Teaching how to feel both
trapped and free, together in a romantic roll of quandary.  
Plains of silky naked skin, burning in lazy lines
softly remembering where fingertips grazed, caressing.
Love, I'm afraid,
is too often the beginning
of sad stories.
Stories about how the shattered pieces of bursting hearts, ruptured
by filling too quickly, too completely with the fluttering heartbeat
of another, did eventually drop.
Embedding their points in a too soft spirit.
Leaving a hot mangled meat,
the size of a fist. Damp, bleeding, raw, and barely beating.
Gushing, gushing, July to June.

Our final hour draws near
As the pillars of the earth
Are raised above the threshold
The human condition
In a hideous state
of primeval primitivity
It's tribal, and civilized devices
Our cherished, but brittle
and unstable societal constructs
Have been refined and pondered upon
By wisemen and great minds for a millennia
But they remain all the same.
of gold and jewel hoarding merchant swine
Or the Lord of the land which still
Holds in his hand the peasant lives
have existed Since the days of Christ.
Fortunes and prestige was made
On backs of the slaves of man
No longer slaves of one color or origin
Be it the blindly led masses
ready to be molded for purpose
like ***** of clay, or those
Who exist to fill a pair of Jack boots
To crush any who oppose the will of few
Imposed upon the liberty and lives of the many
Kept in listless contention
Cattle cargo kept calm and in comfort
In the moments before slaughter
No use for livestock who
no longer can be soothed
By the noise of the static which has kept them subjugated for many thousands of years
Slaves, by whatever name designated
As a product of which the era produced for them
Today still remained shackled
Even as they no longer have chains  
To bind the spirit or flesh
The forgotten
Will not be extinguished
They writhe in ancestral rage
Their enemy oppressors
Shall be cleansed as pennance
In the fires of retribution
The end will be swift
with haste the winds of changes
Which will blow with the sands of time
Eroding the stone inscribed with the epitaph of humanity, that reads
"What hope could there be, for us, when the light that we possessed
Our compassion, the goodness of man,
is something learned in preference of morality and not inherent in our soul'
And bring the torrent of uncivilized upheaval
Tearing us like weeds from their earthly respite
Grinding and rending us in our vessels
back into the soil and seas.
Relinquished to the warn embrace
of our celestial mothers womb
As she plants the cosmic seeds
Sowed in the brilliance of her aeons
And which grew the bountiful harvests
that fueled our creation
And let us to thrive
as we found our way
through a cruel,
but natural order of selection
The anomallic flux
In a fluid plasticity of
Biological machinations

The nature of yearning is inexplicably human. Animal even. An all consuming urge to digest the entirety of another body. The raw pressure to take and take and take. To gnaw my lips until the blood excites me enough to risk the second serving. I can’t explain why but you feel like god in those moments. When my face is buzzing and hot and just the suggestion of your validation of me is an apple I dare not bite. But I should? Should I? Do you want me to? I’m sick. I’m a sick animal and without need to recover. I’m an animal whose chest is caged in rationale but whose bones crackle and splinter from holding it in. Primitivity still exists in us. It’s just that it happens to exist in the bad ways. The shameful ones. The ones that we sit in pews to forget. But it feels so right for lust to visit when it’s not invited. Come in. Sit down. Consume. Digest. Enjoy me.