The heat,
The way it ripples from the steel handlebars
And burns my hands,
The way the clunking of the chain feels
As each pedal propels me forward
Beneath the sun.
The sky is blue,
The air is crisp and leaves pinpricks
On my skin,
Soothed by the tenderness
Of sun rays that fall like curtains
Upon the concrete.

It smells of rubber,
A lingering scent of nostalgia
That fills my lungs like tar
And fills my heart with youthful
Thoughts.
As the wrinkles emerge,
And the delicate cracks begin to show,
I realize that my bike
Is the last memento that
Resonates through my aging ways.

Let's take a final spin down the boulevard,
Before the sun goes down
And my bones ache once more.

The concrete jungle.
Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who lie in plain sight for the world to see

Crouched in marble ledges, twisted in metal beams
Wrapped around handrails, perched in their cemented trees
They laugh at those who cannot perceive
Because they don’t believe.

And who am I,
Yes possibly me
To find my identity
In removing my wooden sword from its sheath

Placing it beneath my two shuffled feet
To answer the alluring call of the beasts beckoning
To my hero’s heart, for my eyes to blink
To suddenly see them as they were meant to be.

In a world between
Real and imaginary.

For it is I,
Yes I believe it to be
Chosen to find my destiny
In a single push

That propels me
Into the path of the snarling beasts
Approaching their stairs and rails, ledges and beams
Gaps and bumps and ramps with speed

And as they stare at me hungrily
Opening their mouths expecting me
I will stand strong on my wooden sword
As the wheels of fire erupt beneath

And the scenery blurs in the flash of the rapidity
I bend my knees and grit my teeth
My eyes narrow and the drum in my chest crescendos its beat
A shout explodes from my chest, a primal scream

As I press on
In the concrete jungle.

Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who quiver in plain sight for the world to see
And whimper at the sight of who they now perceive
Because I do believe.

And it is I,
Yes undoubtedly me
Who will find my destiny
Conquering the concrete jungles of the world unseen

Surfing the concrete waves of the world between
With my loyal vessel being the wooden sword from the sheath,
That remains steady in the face of danger beneath my feet.

I am alive
In the concrete jungle.

The flood of weekend fun
has ended -- its deluge

Of waves and love and friends
. . . as waves.

Persists, propels a new inspiration.
Inertia.
Forward.

Back to reality, to work,
responsibility.

To simple morning coffee,
once again,

That reminds me, simply,
once again,

That all these forms are my reality

There is no dearth
Of reality

No dearth

Of weekends
Of mornings
Of coffee
Of work
Of responsibility
Of friends
Of love
Inertia
Forms
Waves
Reality

No dearth
No dearth

Just fun

Just flood

perchance an epic was necessary, to consolidate the scattered thinking, and indeed, once a certain life, and was lived with a cherishing heart, the heart broke, and life turned from adventures to a more studious approach, and in here, a comfort was found, never before imagined explorations - of course sometime a tourist in the arts does come, but such tourists quickly fade, and the pursuit becomes more enshrined - to levitated towards epics is perhaps the sole reason for the cherished memory of some - and how quickly all can revolve around a searched for theme, after many incorporations were minded - as one to have travelled the Mediterranean, another to have been eaten by the great mandarin silkworm of the library of Kangxi - heading along the silk route with spices - indeed the great mandarin silkworm of the library of emperor Kangxi; as i too needed a bearing - to inspect the trickster of lore and the godly blacksmith of the north.

by instruction - an accumulation of the the zephyrs
into a vector, headed north,
toward the gluttonous murk of ice, jesting
with aches to the bulging and mesmerised crescendo
of adrift stars captured in the tilting away -
to think of an epic, to keep out-of-time of
spontaneity and thistle like swiftness in the last
days of summer, that Mercury brings the new
tides of the tetravivaldis -
   brought by the λoγος of a γoλας -
for reasons that satisfy the suntan copper of
the ***** - the λoγος of a γoλας - yet not toward
Monte Carlo or any hideout of money well invested
and greedily spent for a charm -
no, north bids me welcome from afar -
this norðri fløkja, this    ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ -
by my estimate, i could not take the nonsense
of numerology of a certain specialisation,
i took what was necessary, i pillaged the temple
of Solomon, perhaps that the dome of the rock
might stand - with its glistening dome and
its sapphire mosaics - i don't belong among
palm trees and date trees - hence i turned to
deciphering and subsequently encrypting -
as i have already with *ᚱᚨᛒᛖ:
the journey of an Æsir through a birch forest
on a horse.
                    with this method in mind:
(a) ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       (b) ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ:

(a)
the need to acquire possessions accumulating
into an estate, is a journey encountered
day by day, although a journey on ice

(b)
cattle only thrive near water,
auruchs did not, and hence illuminated
their way to extinction,
         by way of the Æsirs' harvest
(to eat up diversity of life, and create
a godless world of man).

my escape route came from ᚠ - mirroring שִׂ
although the former standing, the latter sitting
down, although the former fathomable
to my pleasure, the latter unfathomable
to ascribe numbers to letters for patterns -
i seek no patterns, hence my sight turned to
the northern sights, and meanings amplified.
                
the greeks were intended to explore abstracts,
having stated a triangle
they invented the ² symbol and what not,
it was because
they didn't bother extracting a phonetic unit
from something definite,
they classified such endeavours barbarian,
what reasonable greek of 13% reason and
87% reality would extract alpha from
the sound you made when
saying ansur (ᚨᚾᛋᚢᚱ) - i.e. attention -
i.e. deriving a definite sound differentiation
for alphabetical rubrics from a definite thing
(in whatever classification that might be)?
the greeks used the alphabetical rubric of
crafting a definite sound from an indefinite thing,
so they said: acronym, aardvark, assumption,
                       α                 α      α     α,
then they said α² - there are no antonyms -
but indeed there were, hence the Trojan nation
settling in the boot, that's Italy,
the Romans escalated the greek theory
beyond taking out a definite sound distinguished
from other distinguishable sounds,
abstracting what the alphabetic sound assured
a list under alpha: assumption, advantage,
acorn, etc. -
the latins were the first atomist after the greeks,
the greeks believed in atoms, but had no
microscopes to prove atoms existed,
such scientific faith found no parallel;
the latins ensured this was true,
ending with castrato sing-along -
the latins furthered abstracting sounds from
definite orientation which the greeks did
working from ice into iota,
the latins just sang i, i, i -
of course chiral behaviourism of such dissection
emerged - hatch a plan, plan a chisel -
it's very piquant i mind to let you know -
the greeks abstracted nouns in order to create
the alphabet, the barbarians still used
proper nouns to speak proper, the greeks
thus created synonyms and antonyms to add
to the spice of life - after all,
not deriving definite alphas from
cursors that acknowledged points of origins
created diacritical stressing like comma and
semis of colon and macron, not deriving them
from definite things, shunning a helpful
vocabulary bank to an unhelpful vocabulary
banked: synonyms and antonyms the Gemini's
birth of rhetoric;
but the latins were rejected with their atomic theory
of pronunciation, since they became laden
with diacritics - punctuation marks of a different sort,
you can measure a man sprint one hundred metres,
but is that also measuring a man to say
mān or män or mán? i know that the slavic ó = u
given the scalpel opening the ensō to craft a parabola -
but it's not necessarily an accent debate
but a punctuation debate... the emergence of
the diacritic symbols above the letters is due
partly to their joy of the popes listening to
castrato operas and the fact that the romans
went too far... hence the chiral nature of certain
symbols when dittoing - the barbarians used
definite things to assert definite sounds -
the greeks used indefinite things to assert definite
sounds - mind you, if the romans became too
abstract with their little units that became engraved
with punctual accenting, then the greek letters
became laden with scientific constants as necessarily
fathered, unchanging in the pursuit of Heraclitus' flux -
for example... Pythagoras and the hypotenuse:
                            σ / κ² = α² + β² -
           or?
                             c² (ć) = a² (ą) + b² / š (bubble beep
                                                           bop barman backup hop
                                                           of shackled kakah
                                                           or systematic oscillation
                                                           for bzz via burp);
πρ² is still more stable
                                 than what the latin alphabet allows -
hence why greek phonetic encoding was used in
science, and latin phonetic encoding was used in music,
can't be one or the other - added to the fact that
latin encoding had too many spare holes with
the evolution of numbers, and greek didn't have them,
hence β-reduction in lambda calculus and F-dur and A#

the one variant of the grapheme (æ) they didn't include
among expressions: graphite and grapheme
was the variant - gravitating to an entombing
of the excess aesthetic - geresh stress -
somehow the twins match-up to a single womb:
àé vs. áè: V vs. Λ - Copernicus wrote over all
of this with the flat earth uselessness
in terms of navigation - flat earth is useless...
huh? flat earth is the only system that gave
Columbus the chance to explore the new world -
no flat earth no Columbus -
that satellite named Luna was no tool
in navigating across the Atlantic - believe me
i'm sure -
                  or that grapheme (æ) varied like statistics
or like the characters in the book of genesis
that famous adam und eve (kim and kanye):
chances came, chances went:
it was still a draw on the tongue tied decipher:
àè and áé proved another notation for plurality
was necessary, not at the beginning of the word,
but after, hence the possessive article 's,
we could have parallelism, there was a crux,
how once the chiselling of letters came about,
more economic to chisel in a V than a U,
both the same, much easier though...
almost barbaric i might say...
sigma (Σ) enigma rune e (ᛖ) - this compass
is a ******* berserker, god knows if it's
mount Everest or the Bermuda Δ

but one thing is for certain, never you mind how
a language is taught unless you mind it,
not that conversational athenian is really what
i'm aiming at - but a lesson is a lesson nonetheless,
out of interest something new,
richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi,
and what preceded him, namely pan-slavism,
just when the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
did a little Judaic trick of its own,
although snorkelling in the waters of not writing
history for less a time than israel -
you can't beat ~2000 under water - although
you could if your little tribe had an einstein
among them, or proust or spinoza, then
you could effectively become a whale, popping
an individual out from the rubble to say a polite
'hello' and 'when will the dessert be served?'
but indeed, learning a language on your own,
how to learn from scratch, the greek orthography,
and why omicron and not omega,
the give-away? sigma - purely aesthetic reason,
                             νoμισματων

                             nomismaton

omicron                                                 omega

                 you write omicron at the front
                 and omega at the back
                 pivot letter? two: σ     μ &
                 νoμι-                                -ατων
                      ­                     |
                 anything here  
                 will use o            and anything
                                              here uses ω

alike to sigma:
                          χωρας (choras, i.e. country)

sigma (ς) not sigma (σ), i.e. digitalising languages
without a clear connectivity of letters,
block-a-brick-block-a-brick-digit-digit-digit
you learn that handwriting is gone,
two options, your own aesthetic reasons now,
remember, some paired for the ease of handwritten
flow - digitalised language changes the aesthetics,
you make your own rules (considering exceptions
of oh mega mega, ergo revision -

                                       χoρας,

but still the sigma rule, others esp. o mega
you stamp on them like βλαττια, i.e. cockroaches -
κατσαρίδα                 not         κατςαρίδα

all perfectly clear when you explore plato's
dialogue from the book Θηαετητυς (as you might
have noticed, the epsilon-eta project is still
in the storage room of my imagination) -
but indeed in the dialogue, between socrates
and the "hero" of the book theaetetus -
a sample, without an essay on the theory
of knowledge -
socrates: ...'tell me theaetesus, what is Σ O?'
theaetetus: yes, my reply would be that it is
                    Σ and O.
socrates: so there's your account of the syllable,
                isn't it?
theaetetus: yes.
socrates: all right, then: tell me also what your
                  account of Σ is.
                                                             ­   (etc.
or as some might say, a shrug of the shoulders,
a hmmpf huff puff of hot air, impractical interests
and concerns - well, better the impractical
problems than practical problems, less feet
shuffling and nail-biting moments with your
tail between your legs and an army of
intellectuals working out what went wrong
and how history will solve everything by
the practical problems repeating themselves) -
you know that inane reaction - others would just say
Humphrey Bogart and nonetheless get on with it.

some would claim i was begot a second time,
not in the sixth month period of the aqua-flesh,
how did i actually related to the life aquatic,
for nine months i was taught to hold my breath,
however did this happen?
a miracle of birth? ah indeed the miracle of
a crutch for a woman - spinal deformities -
9 months, sort to speak, in water or some other
fluid - merman - a beastly innovation -
next you'll be telling me beyond this life
we turn into centaurs, given the Koran's promise -
you'd need the appetite of a breeding horse
to satiate the 72 - or thereabouts - martyr or
no martyr - 72? that's pushing it -
or as they say among children - a chance playground
without swings or sandpits, but very careless
gravitational pulling toward a certain direction;
nonetheless, they might have that i did indeed
settle of a sáttmáli                  ᛋᚨᛏᛏᛗᚨᛚᛁ
                  við         ­                  Vᛁᛞ
                  tann                         ᛏᚨᚾᚾ
                  djevul                      ᛞᛃᛖVᚢᛚ -
the hands you see, fidgety -
     hond handa grammur burtur    úr   steðgur
     ᚻᛟᚾᛞ  ᚻᚨᚾᛞᚨ  ᚷᚱᚨᛗᛗᚢᚱ   ᛒᚢᚱᛏᚢᚱ  ᚢᚱ   ᛋᛏᛖᛞᚷᚢᚱ
         the hands give an ardent pursuit
                                                 away from rest -
well not that my poems will ever reach
the islands in question - and indeed an
uneducated guess propels me - what does it matter,
λαλος babbler meant anything, indeed λαλος,
language as my own, is a language that i can
understand - and should anyone omit
disparities - a welcome revision would never tease
nor burn my eyes - but the phonetic omission
peeved me off: woad in water, ventricles in a
variety of entanglements - it's just not there -
and indeed, orthographically, if there are no more
optometric involvements of omicron's twin -
then the stance is with you to use whichever pleases,
i can't tell the difference, unless i was a pedantic
student, aged 70, with a granddaughter i wanted
to be wed teasing a millimetre's worth of
phonetic differentiation between the two -
POTATO PA'H'TAYTOE TOMATO TA'H'MAYTOE -
linguistically one's american and the other
is british, which looks like greek and latin
upside-down and in a mirror: pəˈteɪtəʊ, təˈmɑːtəʊ;
or as the spaghetti gobblers would put it:
the tetragrammaton is working on their
texan drawl (dwah! ripples in china) -
or the high-society new england ******* *******
coo with a cuckoo's load of clocks -
before being sent off to england for a respectable
education, something en route Sylvia Plath -
but not to ol' wee scoot land - ah nay - well
perhaps for a year and then talk of north european
barbarism of a deep friend pizza and mars bar.

and when descartes finished with christina
queen of sweden, she became an animate portrait
of feminine attempts at philosophising,
she was basically ostracised from society,
well, not society per se, she didn't become a stray
dog, but she forgot certain functions of
the upper tier - lazily modern man decides
to hide phenomena from understanding
individual instances, with the kantian guise
of a noumenon, hence cutting his efforts short -
indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by society - only after descartes finished educating her;
and indeed to most people a little bit of sloth
equates to an amputation of some sort -
yet only with the x-files' season 2 episode 2
i've learned of the effects of prolonged alcohol
"misuse", that little boxing match in my liver?
it's not a pain as such, it's actually a hardening
of soft tissue - with prolonged alcohol exposure
soft tissue organs harden, notably the liver -
and it's not a pain, it's a hardening.
but indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by her tier of socialites - i'm glad diogenes
didn't get to her, but then again a bit of cloth
goes a long way this far north -
yet unlike the encounter with napoleon by hegel
diogenes' encounter with alexander lasted longer -
which tells you the old method does no service
to a little bit of material accumulation -
but perhaps the acumen was briefer when you were
ably living in a barrel - and to think, as only
that being the sole expression, not so much
a body without organs as stated in the thesis
of anti-oedipus by deleuze and guattari -
a consideration for a body without limbs - prior
to a footprint an imprint on the mind -
carelessly now, a diarrhoea of narration -
how rare to find it - perhaps this idea of epic
poetry is a default of writing per se -
with this my whatever numbered entry i seize
to find escape in it - a lack of ambition -
a loss of spontaneity that's a demanded mechanisation -
by volume, by inaneness - to reach a single
technique accumulative zenith, and then back
into the ploughing, rustic scenery and the
never-bored animals - i rather forget such escapades -
and there i was dreaming of a grand
runic exploration - some imitable game -
some scenic routes - yet again -

It’s a garden I saw
one propels within oneself
there was no shadow.
I saw starry rows lining up
in broad daylight, I was stunned
Yes, stars in the broad daylight!

Here I see the sun up on the high  
and the full moon in the night.
But here they weren’t
needed in the fair fare!

Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls

Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards

Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain

Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away

Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery

Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend

Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls

Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways

Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face

Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty

A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive

Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011

To the Moon and back have I loved you,
To the Moon, that I have loved for too long.
You cannot even see me within this song,
You cannot love nor see me anew.

To the Moon and stars have I missed you,
I have seen your sins, and hearts *****,
I have searched for you around the sun
I have longed for you, trapped within me.

To the Moon and skies have I writ,
With not so much merit and a little wit,
I have loved you in a single heartbeat,
I have left you but, my darling, merry meet.

To the Moon and the heart that I knew,
There are not many words to utter,
That such feelings have gone forever,
And have you loved me, forgot me not?

To the Moon and lungs of the earth,
Have I loved again, within my breath?
Have I lost my poems and sights of death?
Have I been sunk in your cold wrath?

To the Moon and the rigid Sunshine,
I have believed not in your fate,
That such a chill still catches me by surprise
That such choices may not be wise.

To the Moon and Earth have I told you,
That all is not much like a children's tale,
Perhaps I can go again, wish me well,
There is not much of a love like you.

To the Moon and life have I seen you,
I have loved you as my fate, a fulfillment
That to wishful dreams such is a mate
Not to be with theirs, not too late.

To the Moon and Night have I seen again,
Have I read, and devoured frank white tales,
Have I longed, have I dreamed, and kissed
Have I fallen in love with a young twist.

To the Moon and breath have I heard,
And all was a nightmare to my chest,
The morning, such a shy dawn,
Is unlike any other night I have seen.

To the Moon and Light have I sworn,
That such a poet has sainted a tone,
She sits and stares, all in silence,
Love is love in her white solitude.

To the Moon and Fate have I told,
Such white nights are to behold,
And within them is a scary love,
What is not a scary tale to me.

To the Moon and Rise have I called,
Around the skies and earth to reach you,
You, whose gaze made me bare and anew,
I, who saw all the lithe winds in blue.

To the Moon and Snow have I gone,
To want to bring you to me alone,
To make myself known to such grace,
To love you and back again in haste.

To the Moon and bliss have I sworn,
That such a desire is not forlorn,
As far as my stories can tell,
So long as my lifeless dreams are felt.

To the Moon and shapes have I wanted,
I have wanted you like none else does,
With a ****** rose and sea that last,
With an ocean at present, of the past.

To the Moon and storms have I swum,
In such coldness, all longings must go numb,
But who would astound such loving feelings
Who should say yet, ‘tis a morning?

To the Moon and lands have I been,
To the swathes of love of the Neverland,
But who would whisk away such strange love
While there is much, there is enough?

To the Moon and day have I reached,
That such a chest is not bare, no more,
I have filled my love with a thousand days,
I have teased my sight with a hundred lights.

To the Moon and shores have I dreamed,
With a dark slice of weariness up high,
A tinge of bitterness is in your eyes,
A hint of sweetness at my sour nights.

To the Moon and heart have I sent you,
To the vast love I have unleashed,
That I want you but more in my arms
To such spilling lights, to such a free fate.

To the Moon and Sea have I sainted you,
In the so much rain like I used to,
I have sprinted to you, and run back again
I love you in the sun, under the rain

To the Moon and Soul have I burned you,
That you remain but a naive flesh to me
One that propels my heights, my destiny
One that I have all here with me.

To the Moon and words have I writ of you,
And chosen you to be my serene song
I have loved you with such trueness
I have loved you for too long.

My stress quivers
as it’s whisked away by the sweet-tempered wind.
The sun’s soothing hands reach out
to brush their fingertips upon my face
And I fulfill their wish again
as my smile thoughtfully reveals itself
from its dingy place.
The kayak propels through the turquoise water
Forced forward by the strength of physical power
With every stroke
Every slap and splash
My mind is freed of its routine thoughts
Leaving them all behind
In waves of pure wind and light

WRITERS BLOCK, WHY CAN'T I SPEAK?

I've been thinking lately,
But the thing is, it's only thinking,
Speaking is becoming a rarity,
Because my voice has lost clarity,
The visions that resonate deeply,
Within the iris and cortex are simply,
Pictures that I am painting,
Using only my imagination,
The same tool that had begun,
To rust, and mold, and decay,
Into a vast vortex of nothingness,
Which would hold and lead astray,
A positive being into malevolence,
But this is the set precedent,
Due only to those whom settle for it,
Because complacency,
Ruins whole communities,
But this community is not a hood,
This community also not a suburb
But a street that cannot be freed,
You cannot struggle through it,
While trying to feed your baby,
With old food bought via EBT,
It is a street without a name,
It doesn't go two ways,
It's not bi nor ****, it is multiple
Inter global, and international,
It is the spark that starts life,
Coos the fires that fuel dreams,
Fires that give off thermal energy,
But also spiritual energy,
As it rips and roars through,
Internally, within my body

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

I'm talking about the word of mouth,
The power of a piece of glass,
Falling deep into the depths, down
Sinking into darkness,
No longer shining, but reflecting,
Because shine comes from within,
But that light has dimmed,
And it has gone out into the world,
Searching for a new hymn,
Accompanied by a new tomorrow,
Because the glass had begun,
To shift it's drift in the middle,
And as it fell it only showed others,
It's supplanted it's own fears, tears,
In order to reveal to you, you
This revelation coming from sacrifice,
is suffice to entice,
A parallel mind to intertwine,
It's views and thoughts up a vine,
Becoming a great interconnect,
A train station for thoughts,
Not allowing for it to be kept inept,
As it makes it's stops and it's mark,
Across the universal plantation,  
Revolution will be fiercely fought,
Whether through riots or protestation,
it's all up to you,
But the wills of a collective group,
Will always overthrow the wills of a few,
for this is my temperate love,
Derived from my temporal lobe,
Occipital visuals are critical,
To reach a pinnacle that bares individuals,
that live reciprocal,
Towards ideals and ideas potential

I CAN'T MAKE CONTACT!

No one is hearing me, thoughtlessly
Because no one is listening,
This includes me, sadistically,
As I have yet to speak,
Due to the passages searched,
And a worth claimed of its worth,
My sandy grains will not form,
Together to create diamonds,
But will act more so as pollution,
"Why pollution when you haven't even spoken?"
This is the problem, it is not speaking,
Communication is a basic foundation,
Foundations form the largest infrastructures known to man,
Family, Business, Religion
And these are all inflamed by love,
Love of others, love of God, love of self,
it's this help that propels,
It propels lives forward,
and encourages the brave voices to be heard,
and act as many birds
To soar against the crushed sky,
To hold the thunder accountable lending more context to your content, the expressions expressed,
The words that flow like air conditioned through a vent,
A coup d'état that circumvents,
The issues, issues with my tissue,
Because the idea of not being able to speak... Makes my skin crawl

From the inside out

Moving between my legs,
Left, right
Moving between my sides,
Left, right
Moving between my arms,
Left, right

And finally falling from my mind,
Past my brown eyes,
To reach my throat then run,
And glide off of my tongue

Crushing your previous ideologies.
Blasting through your intuitions,
Destroying any technologies,
Devastating your direction

Words pass through me
Words enter through you
Worse pass through me
Words enter through you

The streets have shots
Well I have writers block

And at the moment,
I can't think
And at the moment,
I can't speak

I just want to know...
What's happening to me?

In this age of global uncertainty, clothes have become a kind of panacea for a growing number of consumers. Designers are responding to the political upheavals of the past year by injecting some much-needed humour into women’s wardrobes. Browns CEO Holli Rogers is already predicting that spring’s sartorial hit will be Rosie Assoulin’s smiley-face T-shirt. This cheery number, which reads "Thank you! Have a Nice Day!’" neatly sums up the jubilant mood of the coming season.

The logic goes that turning up the dial on the fun, the colourful and the crazy is the sartorial equivalent of Michelle Obama’s "when they go low, we go high" mantra. We may not be able to control the chaos of world events, but we still rule our own style.

It’s no coincidence that a cartoonish aesthetic, of the sort you’d find if you rifled through an eccentric child’s dressing-up box, was in plentiful supply on the spring/summer 2017 runways. Alessandro Michele’s army of Gucci geeks displayed growing swagger in garish get-ups that ran from fuzzy crayon-coloured furs featuring zebras to tiered, tinsel-y coats that rivalled Grandma’s Christmas tree.

It was a similar story at Dolce & Gabbana, where sumptuous eveningwear was loaded with pasta and pizza motifs, and drums became bags, while Marc Jacobs tore a page from a psychedelic colouring book, covering clothes with the childlike scrawl of the London illustrator Julie Verhoeven. Even ardent minimalists would have to admit that these playful looks have potent pick-me-up power.

For Anya Hindmarch – whose empire is built on feel-good fashion – all this frivolity is nothing new. "An ironic, lighter and more irreverent approach has always been my thing. People love beautiful objects and increasingly, they want to show their character – that’s the point of fashion," she says. "Customers today are more confident with their style. There aren’t so many rules. It’s about putting a sticker on a beautiful handbag and not being too precious about it."

What’s surprising is who is consuming this cartoonish style. Though there’s no real rhyme or reason, says Hindmarch, often it’s older clients who are investing in the maddest pieces – like her cuddly, googly-eyed Ghost backpack that has also been spotted on Gigi Hadid and Kendall Jenner.

The same is true of the customer for the Lebanese designer Mira Mikati’s emoji-embellished styles. Though her fans run from twenty to fiftysomethings, at a recent London pop-up one of Mikati’s most ardent buyers was an 87-year-old. "She tells me that whenever she wears my clothes people stop her on the street. They smile. They start conversations. She literally makes friends through what she wears."

Mikati began her career as a buyer, co-founding the upscale Beirut boutique Plum, before launching her own line some four seasons ago – largely out of frustration at the sameness of the mainstream collections. "I wanted to create something fun and colourful but easy to wear – that you can add to jeans and a white T-shirt, but that’s also a conversation point."

Her clothes, worn by Beyoncé and Rihanna, are certainly that: pink parrot-appliquéd trench coats, scribble-print hooded tops and dresses clad with a family of monsters who spell out her Peter Pan ethos in scrawled speech bubbles that read "Never Grow Up’" The antithesis of normcore, these designs take their cue from her children’s toy trunk and the Japanese pop art of Takashi Murakami – who returned the compliment by donning one of her patched bombers.

Mikati is clearly onto something. According to Roberta Benteler, who founded online fashion emporium Avenue 32 in 2011, it’s the cartoon aesthetic that’s really piquing women’s desire right now.

"Anything that looks like a child’s drawing or a toy sells incredibly well," she says. "Brands like Mira Mikati, Vivetta and Les Petits Joueurs inspire the impulse to buy because they’re so eye-catching. You have to have it now because there’s a sense you won’t find it anywhere else."

The exponential rise of street-style stars and the social-media machine that now propels the fashion industry also plays a part in the popularity of these playful looks.

"Designers are creating for the online world and customer," continues Benteler, who cites the Middle Eastern consumer as a big investor in these niche eccentric designs. "People find escapism in fashion and more than ever they need something to cheer them up. These are clothes that stand out on Instagram, and for designers that translates into sales."

In practical terms, in an effort to beat the warp speed of high-street copying, designers are differentiating themselves with increasingly intricate and artisanal styles that are harder to mimic. Just because these pieces have a childlike sensibility doesn’t mean they’re not beautifully crafted.

"My aim is create a handbag that you can keep as a design piece," explains the accessories designer Paula Cademartori. One of her most successful designs – the Petite Faye bag, which comes in a whole rainbow of configurations – takes more than 32 hours to create at her Italian studio. "Even if the styles are colourful and speak loudly, they’re still sophisticated," says Cademartori, whose brand was recently snapped up by the luxury goods group OTB. It can pay to be playful.

One man with a unique insight into the feel-good phenomenon is Marco de Vincenzo, who combines his longstanding role as leather goods head designer at Fendi with creating his own collection. "When we first created the Fendi monster accessories for bags we were simply playing around," he says of the charms that still loom large some three years on. "The most successful designs are created without pressure, through play."

His own-line debut bag features an animalistic paw. ‘It’s about creating something new and different for women to discover,’ he explains. "You buy something because you love it, not because you need it. Fashion is like a game – it has to excite."

When it comes to distilling this childlike abandon into your wardrobe, take cues from super style blogger Leandra Medine, who balances madcap pieces, such as her first collection of colourful footwear under her MR By Man Repeller label, with plainer, simpler ones. "It’s all about wearing your clothes with joy, and having fun, but not looking ridiculous," says Cademartori. "You don’t want to look like an actual cartoon."

It’s advice that chimes with that of Anya Hindmarch. "I love the idea of wearing a super-simple Comme des Garçons jacket and a white shirt with a really fun bag to mess it all up a bit." It’s a failsafe formula for dressing your way to happiness.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

My blood flows with gold
my fingers alight with fire
it propels and consumes me
to an all encompassing desire.
Completely in the wind,
utterly in the rain
A sweet abandonment
into the delightful pain.
My skin - too tight
My movements - too constrained
Even a bellow from a mountain top
leaves this feeling untamed
A power so wild
so ferocious, yet so compressed
wails at the boundaries
of the unexpressed.

Friday April 10


Walking in Limbo

a man finds himself alone
in a dark forest
filled with strange trees
and hears voices
in the wind

he walks forward
towards a light
in the forest

and soon finds himself
confronted by a ghostly image
the dead are all around
and he realizes
that he has died

and he is wandering
in limbo
he walks towards the light

and sees a man
at a desk
who asks his name

he says his name
and the man
smiles and tells him
welcome to limbo

join the others
to wait your turn
for judgement is due

and the man
walks back
through the haunted forest

trying to remember how he died
but he has no memory
of his past life

and is doomed
to wander in limbo
stuck between time
and worlds

comforted by the ghosts
around him
and the light
in the forest

writers digest prompt to write an ekphrastic  Poem




New Bodies in New Era

we are living
in a SF world
things are changing
at breath taking speeds

nowhere more
than with the coming biomedical revolution
soon we will be confronted
with the reality

that we can live forever
in new bodies
grown for us
in laboratories

with our memories intact
and I can hardly wait
want to throw off
this aging 65-year old body

and get a new 20-old perfect body
boy, I can’t wait

I would be come
what I always wanted to be

6 foot 6 inches tall
perfect athletic basketball body

perfect visions
perfect hearing
perfect smelling
perfect teeth



well behave hair
no more learning disability
no more coordination problems

no more fibromyalgia
no more arthritis either
no more aching aging pain
no more mental fog

god,
I can hardly wait
hope it happens
before I die

and I hope
I can live
on forever
with my wife

also transformed
into a perfect
**** as hell
new body

poetry soup prompt to write a poem about changes

life interrupted by corona


we live in a strange world
life interrupted by corona
the virus spread throughout the world
disrupting everything

putting life on hold
as more people
hunkered down
waiting for the virus

to pass over us
like in biblical times
the virus
will test us all

life interrupted
on hold
until the virus
spreads through the world

and then
we will all
go back
to life interrupted

writing.com Daily Dew Drop interruption


Saudade for friends I have lost

as I get older
I lose more people
every year

more people I knew
have died moving on
and I mourn their lost friendship

wished I had been
a better friend for them
and knew them better

and with the corona virus
spreading around the world
I will lose so many more

in the coming year
as the virus spreads
its malignancy far and wide

I lost my father due to cancer in 1985
and my sister
due to a freak illness in 2007

and my mother
due to Alzheimer’s in 2005
and my father-in-law as well in 2007

Demel Tucker
high school debate teammate
dead of *** in 1995

Julian Bartley and his son
died in a terrorist bombing
in Nairobi in 1998

Jon Weber college roommate
dead due to prostate cancer
in 2000

Paul Simon  friend from the visa line
dropped dead of a heart attack
in 2004

Ted Halstead
one of my best bosses
died of heart attack in 2007

Chris Richard
one of my former bosses
from my days in Bangkok

dropped dead of a heart attack
shortly before we were due
to have lunch in 2014


and so many others
I have lost
along the way

and soon there will be
so many more
as I get old in the corona era




my lover’s body inspires me

my lover
Lover’s face
inspires me

Filled ****
as hell
still got it

drives me
wild desires
tonight

concrete poem - national poetry month prompt day 9


Vogan Poetry inspires us all

Couth super- of  the world
trailer, stringendo travels afar
Rent center bank me bark me
recipe, stringendo.for sure for sure

National poetry month prompt  day eight Vogan Bot Poetry


The end of the world news depresses me

the end of the world new
depresses me
makes me want to shout and scream

**** leave me alone
to deal with my grief
amid the death and destruction

watching CNNMSNBCFOXBBC media nonstop
filled with essential dread
the end of the world is upon us

from the screaming news media
spreading forth across the land
fake news screams the president

all is alright he proclaims
no one believes his 16,000 lies
and so it goes

we are drowning with information
coming at us so fast
and furious

When will it end my friend
is anyone’s guess
in the long run we are dead

National poetry Month Day Seven poem inspired by the news


the Devil speaks In the Garden of Earthly Delights

in the garden of earthly delights
the devil makes a covert appearance
disguised as always

he wanders about the world
corrupting everything
with his evil foul deeds

the devil turns to me
and says welcome to my world
human

you will soon be mine
death and destruction
revenge is mine

you will all die
i decree it
and he laughs

and continues to corrupt
the garden of Eden
and earthly delights


ekphrastic garden of earthly delights national poetry month prompt day 6

president trump haunts my Dream

president Trump
haunts my dreams
daily dystopian nightmares
as he daily proclaims
the end to the republic

as he ushers in fascism
with his every lie
he corrupts the world
and I hate
seeing his bloated fat ugly body

that haunts my every dream
as I watch him  rant and rage
against my old friends,
his enemies in the deep state
ushering in chaos and destruction


National Poetry Month day four prompt image from a dream



ten words random rhymes

every day I see our president
Trump proclaims that he will be president
his image haunts my dreams
dystopian nightmares propels my dreams
as the president proclaims he is president
the end of republic follows
no one hears our screams
He ushers in endless dreams
fascism inspires
our collective screams

national poetry month Day three prompt  write a poem based on ten random words


674 Santa Rosa

my childhood home
for almost 10 years
was 674 Santa Rosa
Berkeley California

A five bedroom
adobe California home
on the side of a hill
at the bottom of the Berkeley hills

you entered on the top floor
across the street you entered
on the bottom floor
thus it was in the Berkeley Hills

the house
had a large deck
with a perfect view
of the golden gate

we used
to sit outside
watching the sunset
as we ate dinner

my Mom and Dad
would have
their nightly cocktails
on the deck

before retreating inside
to continue
their nightly fights
and arguments

I grew up
downstairs
hearing their constant words
of hatred, dismay and outrage

my parents were the proverbial
odd couple
perhaps
never should have married

but despite the hate
there was still some love
that kept them together
throughout the years

we had a rec room
with a pool table
and I hung out there
with my friends

my mother tolerated my friends
most of the time
she would be somewhat sober
until after they left

and the madness came
over her
as she drank her whisky
and wine

the basement room
was added later
was my younger brother’s room
later was my room

whenever I visited
from college days
hiding out downstairs
avoiding my mad mother

my old room lay abandoned
filled with books
thousands of books
that I had read over the years

when she died
I should have taken
all the books
instead I took

about one hundred
just no space
for the books
of my childhood memories

National Poetry month day two prompt specific place poem 674 Santa Rosa Berkeley California


My life appears to a dream


For I dream
of meeting
the love of my life

in a dream
she haunted my dreams
for eight years

she walked out of my dreams
into my life
and became my wife

yes my life
resembles a fairy tale
complete with a princess

that rescued me
with her undying love
and made my life complete

national Poetry Month Day One Prompt Metaphor for Life Dreamer




Trump Derangement Syndrome Blues

Trump haunts my nightmares
dystopian visions
soon to come true

fan story 15 syllable poem contest

Saturday April 11

To My Dream Woman Who Loves Me

to my dream woman
who has loved me so
over the years
since I first dreamt
of meeting her
thank you for finding me
and rescuing me
I just have three words
to say
I love you
Saran hae
and  in a million other languages
and will love you
until the end of time

writers digest prompt to write a x  Blank  x

BLACK OUT POEM

Black out Poem
God’s Punishment

Original text


During a press briefing today to address the nation’s response to the coronavirus pandemic, President Trump was asked about certain Christian pastors who plan to defy state lockdown orders and hold Easter church services this Sunday.
“I’ve had talks with the pastors, and most of the pastors agree … that they are better off doing what they are doing, which is, distancing,” Trump said, adding that the pastors want to “get back to church so badly.”
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Trump then referred to a notorious pastor who sits on his religious advisory council.
Defend democracy. Click to invest in courageous progressive journalism today.
“I’m going to be watching Pastor Robert Jeffress, who’s been a great guy,” Trump said. “He’s a great guy and I’m going to be watching on a laptop.”

Jeffress is known for his litany of statements demonizing the LGBT community, abortion, and secular people. One of his most reviled comments came in 2015 when he said the 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment on America for abortion.
“People ask me all the time,” Jeffress said during a speech at Liberty University. “‘Well, I just don’t understand why God wouldn’t protect our nation and he would allow these radical Muslims in 2001 to **** 3,000 of our citizens and why God doesn’t protect us. Surely, God doesn’t use pagans to bring judgment upon his own people, does he?’”


“I’ve had talks with the pastors, and most of the pastors agree … that they are better off doing what they are doing, which is, distancing,” Trump said, adding that the pastors want to “get back to church so badly.”
Report Advertisement
Trump then referred to a notorious pastor who sits on his religious advisory council.
Defend democracy. Click to invest in courageous progressive journalism today.
“I’m going to be watching Pastor Robert Jeffress, who’s been a great guy,” Trump said. “He’s a great guy and I’m going to be watching on a laptop.”


Jeffress is known for his litany of statements demonizing the LGBT community, abortion, and secular people. One of his most reviled comments came in 2015 when he said the 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment on America for abortion.
“People ask me all the time,” Jeffress said during a speech at Liberty University. “‘Well, I just don’t understand why God wouldn’t protect our nation and he would allow these radical Muslims in 2001 to **** 3,000 of our citizens and why God doesn’t protect us. Surely, God doesn’t use pagans to bring judgment upon his own people, does he?’”

Black out text

the coronavirus pandemic, President Trump
hold Easter church services this Sunday.
“I’ve had talks with the pastors, get back to church so badly.”

“He’s a great guy and I’m going to be watching on a laptop.”

he 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment on America for abortion.
“People ask me all the time,” ‘Well, I just don’t understand why God wouldn’t protect our nation and he would allow these radical Muslims in 2001 to **** 3,000 of our citizens and why God doesn’t protect us. Surely, God doesn’t use pagans to bring judgment upon his own people, does he?’”

Poem

Corona Pandemic is Not’s God’s Punishment



Amid  the coronavirus pandemic,
President Trump
Attended virtual Easter church services
I’ve had talks with the pastors,
We need to get back
to church so badly.”

Rev Jeffries is  a great guy
I’m going to be watching on a laptop.”

Rev Jeffries said

The 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment

on America for abortion.

“People ask me all the time,”
‘Well, I just don’t understand
why God wouldn’t protect our nation
and he would allow these radical Muslims in 2001
to **** 3,000 of our citizens
and why God doesn’t protect us.

Surely, God doesn’t use pagans
to bring judgment
upon his own people,
does he?’”

I am sad to report

Rev Jeffries

I spoke to God

This morning

He confirmed

He did not cause 9-11

To bring judgement

On the US

For abortion

He went on to say

The corona virus

Is beyond his control

And he is not sending it

To punish the US

Or the world

His final words

Please tell Rev Jeffries

To simply ****

poetry super highway black out poem

coffee Whitney

my coffee
morning delight
all day long
not though at night
can not sleep
afternoon coffee
leads to nightmares lasts all night


writing.com Whitney poem form
  
coffee Hay Na Ku


hot
coffee
in morning

ice
coffee
afternoon

Drink
coffee
afternoon

will
soon have
bad nightmares

must
have my
coffee now

drink
coffee
all day long

no
way sleep
will come me

curse
of my
mad coffee

writing.com prompt write a Hay Na Ku Poem
Daily Dew Drop In submissions as well



women playing the lute contemplating God

a woman sits
by herself playing the lute

deep in contemplation
thinking of God's love
for her

thinking of the devil
and his temptations
she continues playing the lute

all poetry contest

Reality is drowned beneath the waves.
The bubbling crescendo
Sounding forth its mockery
At my resistance.

Anguished cries are muted
By the vast liquid’s gossamer grasp.
Each arching crest curves around my soul
Cocoon like it entraps me.

Explosive waves roar their obsession.
Each powerful white tipped crest
Rolls with the joy of loves persistent tattoo.

White water propels me headless
Towards destiny’s ocean
Its power rushes through my veins.
Tossing me over the edge of reason
The Tsunami consumes me in its passion.

Heart pounding within my rapturous journey
The water falls away into distant oblivion.
Suddenly I am ****** free of its tenuous hold
It’s vehemence crashing me against the scared shore.
There the marks of our passing remain a constant reminder
Cherished scars to be carried on loves momentous tide

Like a Tsunami come to claim the soul,
Love seeks my full surrender.

My wounds bleed war paint and
there’s an air of mischief on your tongue.
When chaos propels itself on our sweet plans
we are reminded of our wavering energy to hiss past the unexpected.
An appetite for freedom can’t sustain starving artists.
I often imagine life as a black and white silent film.
Those rust-tinted spectacles stay concrete on the bridge of my nose,
Dancing giraffe-men on stilts boisterously
taunt the congressman on his crackberry,
ask him what he’s livin’ for.
Give me your half-drawn dreams to hide in, give me your blood.
Because mosquitoes never tire of kicking you when you’re at your lowest.
Give me your childhood ambitions and carefree summer nights, and
you’ve got guts, kid,
you’ve got guts,
to careen over rooftops in search of a paradise.
Sway in narrow alleyways in the major cities and
feel the warmth of life occurring.

God knows. I want a love that is like sleep.
-Why should love be like sleep?
-I don’t know - so that it is like death.
~(D.H. Lawrence - Women in Love)


High sun, like lightening, licks upon the illimitable lake,
Lustre like winks of shattered glass at noon;
Propels gentler warmth into the swimmer’s wake
And she sails in absence among the salt of loves several months overdue.

But it seems, the softness of a wave presses its face against her,
As would a crying animal. Soon her wounds swoon
Gulping in yielding glory the mineral blur
And closing their infant mouths in cowardice as at confession.

For she has a front-row ticket to the drowning light,
Watches in tepid woe the greenish circles ebb in funeral song
As the horizon paints itself black in grief. It no longer charms her plight
To think of the sky as sea; you told her to watch the boats where they are

In order to define the end of the earth, and now she is no longer afraid,
Because she knows that you once were, and she’s on paper somewhere.
And now she packs up her let down town, wishing she stayed
Somewhere closer to the sea and the precipice of loving you.

It's not all been bad.
I have had some fun
I started to surf
when I was young

If ever I was lost
And out of reach
I'd often be found
Down at the beach

My own little sanctuary
Where I could be free
Either sat on the sand
Or out in the sea

I love the ocean
It blows my mind
It's Calming yet dangerous
Misterious yet kind

The energy's magestic
The feeling of joy
Has captured my attention
Since I was a boy.

It's led me to travel
To far distant shores
I've met so many people
Opened so many doors

I've surfed with monkeys in trees
And elephants on the beach
Surrounded by dolphins
And turtles within reach

I've surfed during sunsets
And sun rises as well
Trippy seas and Trippy skies
As if under a spell

I've almost **** myself sometimes
When caught in a gnarly rip
Being dragged out to the big stuff
That aint no ego trip

When you can't see beneath
The deep grey sharky water
And the fish race away
Is it me for the slaughter?

But hang on, there it is
Thank you neptune and peseidon
Look out to the distance
there on the horizon

A little bump
It's coming near
A pulse of swell
It's almost here

I turn around
My stick I straddle
I face the land
And start my paddle

Then suddenly
It lifts me up
Propels me forward
Fills my cup

It makes me feel
so very awake
I jump to my feet
For goodness sake

I'm 100%
Right there in the now
Conjoined with nature
No interest in how

Just doing it because
I'm it's biggest fan
Loving it loving it
because It's there and I can

Already a treat
This gift keeps on giving
I put in a few turns
Life is so worth living

Then the wall gets top heavy,
It's the best feeling ever
Everything goes quiet
It's a sublime endeavour

I'm inside the wave
for a second or two
The green room, The barrel.
Deep in the blue

There's no feeling like it
I can't even explain
Wonderous, breathtaking
It's ******* insane

I pull out of the journey
Can't get any higher
Full of adrenaline
My brain is on fire

Riding those waves
Gives me so much pleasure
I guess like the pirate
Finding the treasure

The greatest way
To improve my emotion
Is to float about
In that big old ocean.

I always thought
The tiny little creatures
That we call hamsters
Were adorable
When they run on the tiny wheel

That is
Until I realized that
I'm the hamster
Running, running, running
But going nowhere

My anxiety propels me
To run, run, run
My instinct is to run away
But, just like the small creature
It just loops around me

I push it away
And it gets worse
And it just snowballs
Growing bigger

And bigger

And BIGGER

Then I'm stuck
Spinning so fast
On this hamster wheel
Round and round and round

I'm going faster than the speed of light
And I can't process things
But I brought this upon myself
By thinking, I could run away in the first place

Stupid
Stupid
Stupid
Stupid

I am so stupid
I have a mental illness
And it's not going away
No matter where I run

It's like a small child
Clinging to my leg for dear life
No matter what I do
That **** thing is with me

I can tell
That people are getting sick of me
I feel it
A feeling I'm all too familiar with
This is the feeling
That tells me to prepare for the storm
Because they are getting ready to leave

Just like a hamster
It's cute at first
But the squeaky wheel
Slowly drives one insane
And it's not so cute anymore

At first
People pitied me
As they tried to help me
But I continue
To use my anxiety
As a reason for my dysfunction
And it's driving everyone insane

At this point
I want to shut down
Stick a knife in my temple
And **** my brain
So I can think
But I won't
Because I have WAY too much to live for

So my next best option
Is to shut people out
And get the **** done

Alone

Because that's what I'm best at

It was stupid to ask for help
In a war against myself
That no one else sees
Because that's what pushes people away

They see me
For the monster I actually am
With my constant anxiety
And horrible depression
And they get overwhelmed
And leave

So the best thing I can do
Is lock this up
Put on a happy face
And pretend nothing is wrong
Lik I've done for almost 17 years now

I can't lose more people
I just can't handle the heartbreak
And I'm afraid
That my catastrophic brain
Will slowly destroy
The relationships I've worked so hard to build

So here I go
Just gotta hold my breath
Smile
Hold my head up high
And pretend I'm okay
Because that's the only way
To fight this impossible war

Fake it until you make it

*Right?

Such vicious energies of hate
That propels an enactment
Of intense and exhausting experience
Where vigorous rhetoric of contending factions
Show inability to shape a moment into coherent form
Providing only chaos

Let's lose our minds amongst the olive trees
Labyrinth of oiled imagination
Twirl like falling leaves / falling to our knees
in unbalanced joy and veneration
of ourselves. For there is nobody else
but us; there is no other time but now,
Red flowers bloom. A blue shadow propels
a still landscape into being somehow
fluid. Timelessly we swim, wet within
each brush stroke branch and painted wave of wild
emancipation—to forget the din
of the wretched asylum. Vincent smiled:
Dive too deep and you shall go insane,
The olive grove remains the other side of the pane.

Because of you,
I can say what's
on my mind,
laugh at myself
and put a smile
on a sad face.
I do the
impossible things
with the
right mind set.
Because of you,
I became better.
Your inspiration
motivates and propels
me beyond the limits.
Because of you
I became a superman
doing all kinds of
amazing and supernatural
tremendously incredible
great things with
giant strides.  
Because of you
i can climb
all the hills
and mountains like
the Spiderman.
Because you are
by my side I
became more than
a conquerer.
Positivity became
my ally and
generates me to
a spiritual high.
Because of you,
I know everything
is working the
way they should.
And for that
my heart is so grateful.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

Pure anticipation
   at the moment I
      can rush into your
         open, waiting arms
            and brush my lips
               against the smooth
                  softness of yours
                     is what propels me
                        through the dizzying
                           dullness of each day.

A sworn, torn man stands at the top of the world’s longest staircase, and my friends and I have signed up to ride. Millions of others stand between us and the top, waiting for their chance, their prime, to resign. We sulk in the depths of the sea and hope that someday we may be free.
       The man holds penned paper that the depths cannot perceive, but we know it. Our ticket to the roller coaster lies, with number, on a digit. I and my friends were anglerfish before, but now we are eels. We no longer need dangly lights to guide us to prey, and now we tie ourselves and each other in knots.
       Life is fun later when we are dolphins, then porpoises, then whales with legs, walking onto the seashore as brisk as can be, drinking our saliva as though it were a river overflowing with our survival. We walk in to the forest and steam lobsters over a log-fire. The wings with the tickets laugh at the monotony below him, but we’re below him even in that.
       Grey skies cloud overhead, and we realize where we are. I and my friends run from the thunder that comes in every drop, the acid in every drop; where the water helped before, it now forms uncomfortabilities in our skin, nonconforming to the mutations of standard evolution. We need shelter, now, fast, and together. A huge tree is mostly protective.
       Eventually a ladder of clouds drops down and draws us like a magnet. We can’t stop it, the clock has rung fourteen for two days now. We then have arms and can climb it, so we do, though the rain left pimples on our faces.
       We ascend to the front of the line.
       “Hello, ticketman, where are we headed?” we ask. He says, “Darlings, you haven’t been anywhere in the first place; how can you be headed to a where? First, go tackle a why.”
       The rollercoaster takes off, shoots off – a rocket propels us through precarious stages of life. We have ups and downs and sideways parts we can’t really decide the morals of, and we enjoy it.
       Then we are dead.

Our lives are like ocean waves, born of a celestial entity among a diversified sea of possibilities. Direction and intensity set at birth with a future blurred by the endless horizon

Some waves wander alone, losing momentum as they are gradually ushered down by Earth’s gravitational pull before tragically coming to a rest among the blue abyss, destination never realized

Others are born of the unseen violence and upheaval between tectonic plates battling for dominion over the volatile landscape deep beneath the surface. Knowing no other way, they perpetuate the violence that created them, destroying and consuming everything in their path

Yet some join together, superimposed into a harmonious union that multiplies their strength and propels them forward until it’s waters gently meet the shore in an actualizing marriage of journey and destiny

Storms often boil up out of nowhere, dismantling adjacent waves. While a select few resist the onslaught, instead gaining strength and vitality. Like a conductor bringing a symphony to crescendo, the roil pushes these waves further than others in pursuit of their destination

This dynamic tapestry of new beginnings and violent ends blend together as one, eroding and shaping the land around them as they work out their daily squabbles. Heads barely above water, they continue onward towards the horizon blatantly disregarding a future for which they create

Fire is in his eyes, in the pit of his belly and  *****,
a fire ball he is, zooming through the sky of desire,
the longing for her transforms in to a roaring fire
within him, it untiringly rages, slowly gets sublime

It warmed him, blood coursed in force through
the veins like a river full of molten lava, with a mind,
he was blazing his trail, with accelerating creative urge
lovers of beauty saw him as a firefly of high skies
brightening  vast expanses of inner sky, like none else did
she was the serendipitous spark lighted him thus
the fuel that propels, the 'anima' behind his phenomenal drive

He was burning to find a moment to commemorate,
this fire, his desire for her, not a bit less even after all these years
unexpectedly she appears, at the moment that thought occurred,
she smiled, it's radiance fell in to his psyche, froze as a golden idol,
Wasn't it what he desired? She getting etched as the spirit of a smile!

Heroes, processed in baths of blood,emerge spotless,
Oaths lanced on battered helmets and dirt dusted fatigues, the Hand of God upon the lawless,
Never let the barrel lay its head to an enemy, the shell casings remain fixed and fearless,
One solitary act propels man to sacrifice, it is still, timeless,
Remember the mark is invisible, carried on fitted sheet flags, to us, faceless.

It's the finality of it all that propels me to run away,
and in my distraught cowardice I ponder,
just how many masks must I wear,
to masquerade my hatred, to hide my tears, to disguise all the fear?

Angels, and Demons lie in and around every thought,
and in my wrath, denial, and loathing,
I chase them away with the ferocity of a demon
rampant within a fog of ****** induced madness,

and yet that demon which remains; knows just the right words.

Her venomous static pierces the softest remnants of my heart,
the mask cracks, and my hatred erupts like knives, razors, and ropes tied in nooses;

I want to **** your daughter in front of your eyes,
I want to ****** everyone you love; while you watch in agony,
I ******* despise you.. humanity is filth, a virus, and a ******* disease.

I pour gasoline on my own humanity, and watch god's crinkled face
as I scrape a razor across my skin just to spite his entire ******* existence,
just - to - spite - my - own - existence..

I slowly burn it all away, burn away all that matters, and all that I love..

I ******* hate it all!
I want to destroy it all!
I want to consume it all!
I want it all to end in a fiery blaze!

I want humanity to writhe in the same diseased agony that engulfs my heart
piercing it like millions of red hot razor blades..

I want to destroy every last bit of compassion,
every last bit of purity left in humanities already blackened hearts,
and as I watch as it all crumbles to the ground in it's insignificance,

I can only laugh.

I pick this Earthly slide into Summertime, this season to begin, propels forward in all sense of Time, history retrograde, etched in Stone for Centuries, Coded in DNA, programed Circadian bodies, impressions applied geometric thickly glazed coat, generously slathered across my Retinal Screen.

Setup complete for me, attuned to Solar frequencies, aligned to cohesive Cosmic driving motion spiraling Syncopation with all partaking rotational bodies, all timers set to synchronous, all ties to everything celebrating their teamwork well done.

Activity accelerates, as does the heavy heat, both inseparable, together climbing ****** into sunburnt sweat, steaming, sizzling Sunday barbecue to reflect the Flesh boiling together in sympathetic Celebration of our Seasoned Sun.

Longer days accommodate for memories and fun, commemorate the Force of Season, into swing, will soon be swung, centripetal to glaze a different gaze lathered across my retinal screen, reverberate through Atmosphere, redistribute composition, smooth bottlenecking, flowing out yet emptying to take fill of what flows in.

No change of Season, nor change of Heart, no redirection ever knows emptiness, no moment leaves a Void unfulfilled.

No moment when the smooth Transition stutters to a Stop. The sync is in the constant movement bringing balance in equilibrium by shifting tides, Spinning Stars locking in, programmed by Primal Cause, the Synchronicity in Everything, so Summertime comes, this Time in which we rejoice, knowing it's all been planned, beautifully executed by mechanics of Nature.

Trust in understanding a Power much Greater is in Control, we are here simply for the Experience.

...Not to much more, just in attending to the Transitions of Ourselves.

25 years old, and I had never seen a vulture.
Now 100 or more are circling my head,
Begging me for dinner.
Sweet hell,
I’m half tempted to give them
A taste of me.
Found out last night
My lovers been *******
With the demon of pleasure.
Now I know how it feels
To be bitten by my enemy.
I’ve drank my share of two large oceans.
Maybe next time I’ll listen when
She lulls me out to sea?
Problem is,
I never listen.
Least not to the voice of reason
Or anyone who knows what’s best.
Can someone please tell me which direction up is?
What kind of vessel propels you deep into this yonder?
Who has put a leash on you,
My devil dog from hell?