IN A CHANG’AA DRINKING SPREE

(ONE ACT PLAY)

BY

ALEXANDER   K   OPICHO










CASTE
Advocate; self-styled advocate, his real job is insurance agent
Sampaza-changaa drunkard
Teacher-brother to Sampaza, also a changaa taker
Monica-changaa seller
Austeen-a lad, son to Monica
Watchman-changaa drunkard
Rono-friend to watchman
Njeri-friend to Monica, single mother
Atieno-friend to Monica, single mother
Driver- changaa taker and a smoker
Barasa-changaa taker and electrician
Ndhiwa- changaa taker, brother to barasa
Yator-changaa taker brother to barasa
Mavachi-changaa taker, with a fallen out wife
Mandila-relative to mavachi
Agnesi-wife to teacher
Music
*chang’aa is homemade alcoholic spirit consumed by the peasants in east and central Africa.




ACT ONE
In a slum area of Eldoret town, very many ramshackle muddy walled houses are seen; the setting takes place in the house of Monica the Changaa seller. There is low tone music humming from the DVD, playing Vincent Ongidi’s ‘mother is better than father.’
Music; Bakeni Nebekhale, bukula indika,
           Bukula indika samwana, Udimake kungeni
          Khusoko busia, bukula indika omusumba,
          Bakhwee nebechile, bukula indika
          Udimake khusoko yaya, bukula indika….
Driver; (dancing with a tumbler of chang’aa in his hand) let me dance! This is my best Sunday, let me dance, I am son of a woman. Sing! Sing! Sing! For us Vincent, you son of Ongidi, (pointing at the DVD).
Advocate; the problem you are only dancing with your class a half empty, moreover, you are not following the rhythm , I thought you dance to this song by shaking your shoulders, but instead you are gyrating your waistline.
Driver; (still dancing) let me dance because when I will go to the grave I will not get another chance to dance.
Advocate; (gulps from his tumbler) will you buy me chang’aa of ten shillings?
Driver; let me finish dancing first, I will see what to do about it.
(Enters Sampaza and teacher, as music goes off)
Sampaza; why are you dudes stopping the music on my entering?
Driver; it is not us who have stopped the music; you go and ask Vincent Ongidi why he did not sing a long song.
Sampaza; (sits at the old couch) where is Monica?
Driver; you burn us a cigarette before you ask for Monica, were you not with Monica upto the mid of last night?
Sampaza; why were you spying on me upto the mid of the night?
Advocate; (to Driver) give Sampaza time to introduce his friend to us
Sampaza; (to teacher) sit on this stool, forget about this drunkards.
Teacher; will this stool not break and sent me down like humpty dumpty? (Shakes the stool and sits on it)
Sampaza; It cannot even Monica herself sits on it and she is more huge than you do
Advocate; (to Sampaza) this is your brother?
Sampaza; now listen all off you
All; Sampaza we are listening to you all of us
Sampaza; had I killed our mother, he could not have born, (pointing to teacher).
Driver; if someone had not told me, there is no way I could know that this man is your brother. You are totally different from one another. Look, he is fat, strong, clean, well shaven and groomed brown and is like he took a bathe in the morning before he came here to chang’aa place, but you Sampaza tell us when you last washed your clothes? Even forget of washing your body.
Sampaza; (to driver) if you want to beg chang’aa from teacher just beg without using your desperate tricks of false praises.
Advocate; but me, I could easily know that teacher is a brother to Sampaza by simply comparing the shape of their heads, they look alike.
Teacher; who is serving chang’aa today?  I want to buy some for you guys.
Driver; it is Austeen, let me call him for you (goes at the door shouting) Austeen! Austeen! Aha! This boy is as earless as a female monitor lizard, (comes back) I have called him for you.
Teacher; thanks, let me believe he won’t take time, I am really thirsty.
Advocate; you can mitigate your thirst with this one of mine (gives teacher a tumbler).
Teacher; (sips) it was not a bad stuff (passes the tumbler to Sampaza)
Sampaza; (takes a full swig) uhm! The stuff is really the tears of the lion.
(Enters Austeen)
Austeen; My God, Sampaza is here again! Sampaza, why did you run away with my money last time? You take the beer and run away, even you made my mother to quarrel me yester night.
Driver; (to Austeen) you boy manage your mouths, don’t you see Sampaza is the age of your mother?
Austeen; wait! Sampaza must give me the money, give me the money you Sampaza!
Teacher; let me pay for him, how much was it?
Austeen; imagine Sampaza took off running into the darkness of the night after taking chang’aa of fifty shillings. Imagine a whole tumbler of fifty shillings.
Teacher; that was bad, Sampaza you did something very bad. You know Monica is a single parent and you run away with her money. This chang’aa is like Monica’s husband, so please let us be honest and pay our bills;
Austeen ;( to teacher) are you paying for Sampaza?
Teacher; yes, but before that; pour a tumbler of chang’aa worthy fifty shillings for each of these elders, including Sampaza. I am going to pay that one myself. But serve me with a tumbler of chang’aa that goes for a hundred shillings. May be it can quench my thirst.
Driver; brother you are a man (shakes teacher’s hand).
Austeen; (to Advocate) stand up for some minutes; I want to remove a grenade from your chair.
Advocate; you mean I was just sitting on the tears of the lion?
Austeen; yes (he fishes out a yellow plastic container, feels each tumbler as required).
Sampaza; you boy! What are you doing? Fill my tumbler to the brim, why are you now conning me off my chang’aa?
Austeen; (politely) Sampaza listen, you know my hands always shake when I am holding something. I didn’t want to spill chang’aa by struggling to fill your tumbler to the brim.
Teacher; (sipping, closing his eyes) Austeen now play for us another music.
Driver; yaah! The music, play for us Marashi ya karafu.
Austeen; my mother has not yet bought the DVD for Marashi ya karafu, let me play for you this one (shows him the DVD), it will thrill you to your bone marrow, (inserts the DVD in to the player).
Music ;( playing) ukiwa wa enda nyubani kwangu heee,
                          Umwambie stella mimi  sitakucha,
                         Umwambie stella mimi nimefungwa jela,
                      Anisalie mtoto mama nitaleaaaa!
Driver; ndio hiyo! (Stands up to gyrate his waist swiftly) that is my best song from Tanzania. How I wish I was still in prison on Christmas day of last year.
Sampaza; (sipping at his tumbler) if you want to be in prison go and make love to your goat and call people to help you.
Driver; look at you, with all this women, why should I go for a goat?
Sampaza; (standing up to dance, shaking his shoulders) because you want to be in
Prison.
Austeen; (giggling and shouting) look! Look! Look at Sampaza, he does not know how to dance, he is waving his hands like wings of a chicken.
Sampaza; you dance and I see (daring Austeen)
Austeen ;( dancing) look! Look! Fire! Fire! Fire! (He goes to sit)
All; (laughing loudly and clapping) Austeen! Austeen!
Advocate; this boy Austeen, became old while in his mother’s womb
                     (Enters Monica, Rono and watchman)
Driver; here comes Monica, (provokes Monica for a dance, they both dance).
Advocate; (joins Monica and driver to dance) Monica! Monica! Daughter of Zinjathropus, Waa!
Monica; I am an early woman, yaani! Womanopithecus africanus (dancing).
Driver ;( pushing away advocate), dance away from here, why are you bringing here this evil smelling sweater of yours?
Advocate; I am sorry.
Driver; that is empty jealousy, you only saw Monica’s pelvis touching mine and you jumped here to disrupt my gusto.
                               (Music stops and they all get sited)
Monica; (to Austeen) give watchman and his friend chang’aa of twenty bob, I will pay myself.
Austeen; yes mama (serves watchman and Rono chang’aa)
Rono; Kongoi, I mean thank you Monica, you are such a generous woman? (Takes a full swig).
Monica; Karibu, don’t mind I am always and I will be always an early woman.
Sampaza; (to watchman) when you came in I thought you were the crow.
Watchman; (sipping) who? Me, I was a policeman ten years ago but I was ******.
Driver; (to Sampaza) this man is not a muriakole, he is not a cop. This is a D.D.O.
Advocate; meaning?
Driver; daily drinking officer, hmmm! The DDO.
All; laughing loudly.
Monica; (to advocate) how is your brother and his witchdoctor of a wife?
Advocate; Monica, just keep quiet, my brother is in problems.
Monica; which problems? I told him to marry me and he refused because I did not have book education.  I am now making more money from chang’aa in a day than even he does from his education. Let that man, that brother of yours, chew the full scale of his misfortune. Now tell me which problem has he?
Advocate; today very early in the morning I heard my brother screaming, of course from his house. Out of anxiety I rushed there to find out what was happening. Jesus! What I so…..
Driver; what was it? Just say.
Monica; a man has nothing to fear just say.
Teacher; where is Austeen?
Austeen; I am here
Teacher; serve each of us chang’aa of fifty shillings, start with him (pointing at the advocate) give Monica, your mother a tumbler, that one of a hundred shillings.
Austeen ;( serving as he sings) how long will they ****,
              Our brothers, while we stand watching them,
                Redemption songs, Bob Marley! Sons of ghetto!
Sampaza; Austeen you are always not measuring my chang’aa to the money given, now look, does this grasshoppers spittle qualify to be chang’aa of fifty shillings?
Austeen; Sampaza, I told you my hands are not steady, they always shake whenever I am holding something.
Sampaza; (to Monica) I will bring a medicine man to give some manyasi to this son of yours, so that he stops shaking his hands like an epileptic.
Monica; Sampaza, you drink your chang’aa and to hell with your medicine-man. Let us listen to what happened to the brother of advocate.
Advocate; now, as I was saying I found my brother’s wife had swollen my brothers ***** to its base, the ***** was full deep in her mouth, my brother was screaming but the was dead silent ******* the *****, her teeth tightly gripping it at the same time.
All; laughing loudly
Teacher; Maybe it was oral ***, but not domestic violence
Monica; oral ***!?
Teacher; yes, it is possible
Advocate; but why was he crying?
Monica; because his wife was ******* his *****
Teacher; that is the case
Advocate; if at all it was pleasurable then why was my brother screaming?
Teacher;  maybe he was on ******* ecstasy, the same way a woman can be when you suckle or even ****** her *****.
Monica; but I can’t allow a man to suckle the eye of my breast.
Driver; even me, I can’t suckle my wife
Teacher; why?
Driver; even also, in my culture, one is not allowed to suckle a woman’s ****
Teacher; is that sexuology or culture?
Watchman ;( to driver) yes, answer that! Answer that question from teacher.
Monica; but it is only a foolish woman who can allow a man to suckle her *****, or if she can then she is not serious with that man.
Teacher; (to Monica) then which man do you like? Sampaza?
Monica; Me do love Sampaza?
Teacher; yes, Sampaza
Monica; this Sampaza, is always as miserable as a corpse in the grave without a coffin.
Advocate; you are as miserable as a corpse in the grave without a coffin.
Sampaza; I am not, I know am great
Teacher; yes, and capable to love the early woman like Monica.
Sampaza; (to Austeen) play for us some better music.
Austeen; which one mama? Which music can I play?
Monica; play for them Pamela Nkutha (sings) Nakula ebusi,
                  Nakula ewunwa, lalalaa! Lalalaa! Laaaa!
Austeen; Mama, that one we don’t have. Let me play for them Brenda *****.
Music; (playing) Songea nikubambe, songea nikubusu,
                          Nakupenda, nakubusu ehee monica eheee!
Austeen; Kula Ngoma; he who does not have chic let him embrace a stone (exits)
All; (dancing violently) Monica! Monica waaaaaaa!
Watchman; (dancing) Sampaza can you suckle the ***** of a woman?
Sampaza; ask driver that question.
Driver; I cannot suckle the ***** of my wife.
Teacher; I depend with nature of a woman you are in the bed with.
Watchman; correct , some women has fallen ******* like chapattis, but if a chic has ***** and pointed breast, I  can ****** and suckle her like nothing else in this world. I can even suckle her *******.
Teacher; by the way, ******* are the fountain of pleasure to a woman, when you suckle her she will just moan; Sampaza! Sampaza! Sampazaaaaa!
All; laugh raucously
Monica; these men are drunk.
Driver; no, they are now happy, pick one of them for yourself.
Monica; the man that I can love now must be having a death certificate.
Teacher; what does it mean? Me I thought you need a dark skinned man like Sampaza, you know the dark the skin of a man the greater the ****** pleasure ehee…
                       (Enters Njeri and Atieno)
Njeri; Monica, are you not aware that were are late for Chama? Look you are still *****, you have not even combed you hair.
Monica; Njeri come in why are rioting at the door, look at Atieno she is as miserable as usual.
Njeri; she was flogged by the husband.
Atieno; (to Njeri) you! Watch your mouths, I don’t have a husband.
All; laugh, (Njeri and Atieno sits).
Sampaza; look at this one (pointing to Njeri) can I give you some money so that you do me a favour.
Njeri; which favour?
Sampaza; of this…(Makes a sign of *** with his fist).
Njeri; I don’t sleep with chang’aa drunkards
Atieno; even me
Sampaza; (staggering, and then falling on Njeri’s laps) I want! Truly I want!
Advocate; Sampaza is drunk, let me take him home (pulls Sampaza).
Sampaza; (resisting, avoiding to be pulled out by advocate) leave me alone! You thief! You are an insurance thief! Who told you that you are an advocate? You are not! You want to steal my money. No, all these people are thieves, Monica is a big thief, and they want to steal my brother’s money!  Teacher! Come out of here! This is a den of pickpockets! They will still your wallet, come we go! Thieves! Thieves!
                        (Advocate pulls Sampaza out, as they both exit)
Driver; Sampaza does not have manners.
Njeri; Imagine he fell on my laps, what if my husband found him?
Monica; He would have now divorced you for eating rats.
Njeri; When I have not eaten any rat, it was only a drunkard supporting himself on my legs.
Atieno; he has spoken a lot of words.
Driver; and all the words were total lies.
Monica; no, whatever is in the inner heart of a sober man is always on the tongue of the drunkard man.
Teacher; to mean what? Anyway, forget about Sampaza.
Watchman; by the way
Rono; I am also off my senses, I am seeing each of you having seven heads, and the heads are a

in my family conversation is seldom thoughtful questioning filled with wonder quiet pauses instead it is sociable banter teasing goading spontaneous gratuitous remarks clever embellishment excessive flattery it is an ancient system passed down patronage pecking order nepotism sycophancy near to impossible for me to be honest in presence of their overwhelming vanity when it comes to family gatherings my voice isn’t very strong my family’s joking squelches my chirp they are each and all more loud sarcastic faster wittier more crude outrageous more funny loud gregarious sanguine Mom embarrasses herself with uncalled for flirtations (her mental state rapidly deteriorating) everyone laughs boisterously they snap kid exaggerate amplify taunt i can hardly get word in i need to repeat myself several times or more to be heard my voice is minor i struggle to tell story they listen politely then rush back into their rowdy repartee i am way too sincere way too naked in my ineptitude my stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen pitch black in front of me voice inside screams please i need help so bad please make it easier i’m lost in all this commotion drama hunger lack of clarity

Chicago 1980 Odysseus always revered cousin Chris is taller tan-skinned handsomer stronger protective of Odysseus knowing he is frivolous liability tags along with Chris and his prosperous trader friends advantaged echelon inherited wealth educated white young men they float above everyone else their tastes in clothes furnishings run Brooks Brothers Burberry Giorgio Armani Ralph Lauren John-Paul Gautier Paul Smith Emile Zegna Salvatore Ferragamo their preference in women run typically blonde large ******* tight butts make-up painted nails they think Odysseus is a freak because he usually chooses females none of them want Odysseus likes skinny girls flat chests glasses he knows he is an extraneous art pet to Chris and his group

Chris joins newly built state of art fitness facility pricey membership accesses all of Chicago’s fast track shakers movers politicians lawyers pretty people Odysseus has his limits he does not have money to join also he dislikes snooty elitism several times Chris invites Odysseus as guest Odysseus feels insecure outsider Chris always includes Odysseus pays for dinners they begin with round of doubles then 2nd round of doubles before glancing at menu Chris drinks Canadian Club on the rocks Odysseus follows they raucously order extravagant meals with appetizers 3rd 4th 5th rounds of doubles after pricey dinner at chic restaurant Chris’s group rendezvous at bar or club they order round of drinks tip lavishly sip drink glare around room leave barely touched drinks walk out with look of disdain they scavenge more bars in search of females or some intangible attraction Odysseus is never certain what they are looking for or what is the source of their contempt each wears black leather jacket carries huge wads of cash $20s $50s $100s folded stuffed in front pockets no wallets or clips

the Red Meat palace or Chang’s Szechwan grill are their favorite restaurants as many as 8 men sit at table pack mentality prevails for dessert course they pull out small brown bottles filled with ******* if it is Friday night Chris’s pad is frequently elected females other arrangements settle bill depart restaurant one night Odysseus arrives early at Chang’s wanders downstairs into women’s boutique salesgirl named Fiona greets him they hit it off he invites her to join him and his hosts upstairs after her shift is done Fiona arrives as dessert is about to be served table of men look desirously at Fiona beams Odysseus and Fiona along with Chris Phil Tom go to Odysseus’s place Fiona is perhaps 22 petite lovely with deep blue eyes set wide apart long eyelashes brown thick hair cut to shoulders high ******* pink ******* fragrance of linden flowers delighted by male attention Fiona ***** fondles each men are quite intoxicated Odysseus and Phil are only capable to sustain erections Odysseus stares mesmerized at Fiona’s extraordinarily swollen ***** she notices his fixation grins blushing men shout commands but in actuality Fiona is in charge reducing each of them to little boys vying for her attention near conclusion she requests they form circle around her ******* on her chest she fondles them touches herself men laugh mockingly as if to compensate for their lack of performance Tom picks up plastic dart gun aims it at Fiona she laughs crawls on all fours Tom fires dart hitting her on **** Phil grabs gun from Tom reloads another dart suddenly it feels like fraternity stunt Odysseus goes along offended by his own complicity to him episode feels more like men having *** with each other than being with a woman telephone rings it is Odysseus’s latest love pursuit she tells him she is on her way over everyone rushes to put on clothes change bed sheets they depart within minutes she arrives finally ready after weeks of romancing to put out for him after that night when Chris and Odysseus get buzzed in bar Chris routinely speaks the line to women have you ever been done by 2 cousins one night at Green River tavern woman squeezes milk from her ****** into shot glass dares cousins to drink Chris laughing turns down her offer Odysseus shoots back shot of milk then takes swig of Irish whiskey cousins go see Billy Idol at Odysseus’s insistence they stand near front stage young girls screaming after show driving home in Chris’s Fiat Spider Chris complains his ears are ringing i don’t know how i’ll be able to work tomorrow Odysseus nods like he hears hollers out window hey little sister shotgun!

Mom and Dad want their son to enjoy fruits of burgeoning affluence they feel certain what they are doing is best for him they rent quarter seat at Chicago Mercantile Exchange they originally promised full seat but they are overextended Odysseus enrolls in trading course he learns to trade Certificates of Deposit and Eurodollars which are recently established markets suddenly Odysseus has lots of cash his parents are dishing out he does not know what he is doing newly launched markets lack investment and fleece young men of their parent’s money his friends surroundings change he loses sight of himself he is a thoroughly incompetent trader bleeding cash scatters money between harebrained panicked trades or ******* girls $1000. wristwatch when Mom and Dad see jewelry they become furious in a way he represents his parent’s design for how to build successful son yet their plan is going dreadfully wrong he wants to stand up speak out against Dad and Mom he is not courageous enough to counter their weight he wants to express with more assurance his passion to pursue painting and writing isn’t fact he graduated from art school evidence enough of his aspirations commodities exchange is last place in the world he belongs Odysseus is risk taker but he is not aggressive or entrepreneurial only lesson he has learned with respect to his parents is how to run away

by all appearances cousin Chris is brilliant trader in reality Chris is hooked up with powerful crooked brokers they use him as their bagman he covers losing trades and is compensated or offsets winning side of profitable trades subsequently dealt his share Chris is not a criminal he stumbles into profit-making situation when certain conditions are flexible to advantages Chris is diligent hard worker the vast sums of money he earns do not distort his personality he is always generous shielding of Odysseus gold trading pit becomes so shady S.E.C. intervenes relinquishing exchange’s contract Chris and his bosses walk away unscathed having made their bundles

Mom and Aunt Rita run social itinerary for family including birthdays holidays all other gatherings where family will meet changes by the minute depending on Mom and Aunt Rita’s caprice checking in by telephone at least an hour before is mandatory arriving at destination Mom and Aunt Rita insist on specific table location seating arrangement it is important they be seen viewed by others at restaurant they never sit near kitchen or washrooms or where there is too much noise light away from drafts who sits next to who is crucial round tables are their favorite preferring backs to wall looking out so they can nod wave Mom rules from proud pedestal Dad upholds chain of command sometimes he irritably gripes Aunt Rita immediately comes to Mom’s defense Dad points finger back off Rita you’re way out of line where do you come up with a remark like that Mom mediates Max that’s enough in a way the sisters are spoiled little girls over-indulged by their father they believe their opinions and tastes are the best most correct everyone in family are subordinate to their no and don’t Mom and Aunt Rita routinely criticize Odysseus’s semantics oppose his observations critical of his clothes conduct they handily misconstrue his comments to mean fodder for their amusement Mom and Aunt Rita’s efforts to keep prim proper decorum cause resentment Odysseus feels constricted by his subservient role in drama of family he fails to understand their care

Odysseus busts out of markets leaving behind alarming debts for family to pay off he feels humiliation disgrace plunges into bottomless sleepless despair hides in house door locked window shutters shut phone rings unanswered hates life willfully wants to destroy himself there is no way out after week Chris comes by to see if he is all right Odysseus is reluctant to let Chris in Chris commands be a man get a grip on yourself Odysseus replies maybe i’m not a man he feels failure shame realizes he has become traitor to himself he wants to look at existence head on embrace it but all he knows are dishonor regret deception he conceives his being has been stolen he wants his life back but knows not how to recover it he feels deep in obligation to Mom and Dad thinks to escape from Chicago but his parent’s control is crushing he wakes late drinks black coffee smokes cigarettes marijuana hangs out alone sky changes from light to dark to light phone rings he reads Nietzsche Sartre frequents ***** Hole punk rock dive several blocks from residence becomes orphan of night drinking drugging

January 5 2011 30 years have passed Chris marries fathers son becomes best father to his child he can be leaves markets in late 80’s Dad dies in ’91 Odysseus leaves Chicago in 1994 he manages to paint some paintings write some words stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen ***** pink gray skies behind pitch black in front sometimes you need to take a step back in order to move forward Mom says she worried enough about money when she was younger and isn’t going to worry about it anymore her entire life she boasted i’m saving for my children but in the end she saved solely for herself Odysseus never learned to stand on his own all he ever wanted is to love and be loved he wonders what will happen next

We lay on our backs, looking up to the sky, watching the clouds drift and dance across the indescribable expanse of summer blue. Shameless, we shout the first things that come to mind, whatever we think see floating above us.
Turtle. Sailboat. Dragon. Elephant. Chair. Fire truck.
And we laugh, because we know they’re just amorphous masses of water vapor, floating without reason or destination.
And the clouds, they lay on their stomachs. They look down with wonder, pointing and giggling. They tumble and roll across the sky, watching our lives below. Shameless, they whisper to each other the first thing that comes to mind, whatever they think they see below them.
Mother. Leader. Writer. Musician. Son. Lover.
And their laughter thunders across the sky, echoing raucously through the air because they know we’re just amorphous masses of water vapor, wandering across the earth without emotion or purpose.
Who do we think we are?

Taking a walk at 2am
As weird as it sounds
It's the silence that draws him
Breaths of the night calms him down
The winds howling raucously
The moon gleamed as if she knows him

The stars glinting decoding a message
To know if he'd live to the fullest
To know if he decided to perish

The trees converse in notions of credence
Reliance in silence to rectify the human's crevice
They knew he's here to emit enmity
Canopies are nowhere in sight
Shadows rested with darkness aligned
He knew it was mundane to believe it could happen
That something might just happen if he believed
But nothing happened

He yelled at the moon
How foolish she was to only shine at night
Only to gleam at him
As darkness laughed as it dictates the night
He hated the darkness
He overcame his fear to be out at this hour
Running until his breath runs out
But he finally walked instead

His senses staggered suddenly
His mind playing tricks
How could this be
He heard voices screaming
How could there be anyone at this hour?

He's floating now
His body glowing blue
He felt this before...

He finally woke up
His family crying with glee
**"YOU FINALLY WOKE UP FROM YOUR COMA!!"

The music of life, at times, is a raucously *** concert
of ominously monotonous melodies sung sirenically
by voluptuously ugly monsters.

Curvaceous enough to flaunt the fact they’re actually ****.
Which makes you feel like an *** but that’s just the way
it was meant to be.

Then the chorus bombs in, and the song starts to get sweeter
since the tune becomes a lot like Bob’s album: Street-Legal.
But as quick as you can nictitate, the ****** you anticipate

flicks away like a spark that was never gonna be lit-to-flame.
And so revert the monsters, their obnoxiously off-key verse,
somehow being, paradoxically, still acceptably heard.

And I almost forgot to mention how horrifyingly awkward
the gawking audience dances! Watching it is honestly
the most awful part of this non-senseness.

God Awful Row!

The night sky.
Illuminated bright, almost daylight at nine.
Restful feel hovers in the air.
Until the moment when Apollo arrived.
Delivered his prophecy.
Peace may reign the Earth again.
A lunatic smiles.
Grinning,
Who are you trying to kid.
Chuckling raucously.
The huntress arrives.
Diana chases Apollo through sky at night.
God and Goddess hitting the heavens.
Having a family spat.
About the state of planet Earth.
Diana being Artemis.
The sister of Apollo.
United they threw the lunatic back to Earth.
To cause chaos once again.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

.
I peek through the keyhole
and try to smell
freedom drifting on a steel breeze--

My window vibrates with distant echos of laughter
and the lone moan of a rusted lawn mower.

The cool, trickling creek is once again hidden
by the emerging tender leaf.
Silver quivering shards of light
come shooting faster than bullets and
raucously ricochet around my room.

Gravity works on the melting snow on the distant mountains,
little rivulets race to satiate the wild flowers in the valley.

--If you open my door, I will go there with you.





.

Standing, waiting, my face blank, uncaring and staring
at the garish colors of their cheap and ill-fitting clothes.
Cramming in, fingers all greasy, raucously laughing,
jabbering *******, braying useless information, loudly.
Swarming, idly in hot  little dark holes of rooms, making
a suffocating stench from ragged mouth-breathing.  

Obnoxious.
******* disgusting, everyone.
Don't ******* touch me.
This is overwhelming.

"There's too many people in here."
You sidle up to me, saying what we're both thinking, and then we leave.
Both of us glaring at the ******* shuffling slowly,  in the way,
unable to meet our height or eyes, they remain glued
to the tiny screens in their sweaty and hot little hands,
as their annoying children are screaming and running.

You.
You, with your ****-brown eyes.
Silent and stoic, with a hard-edged jaw. Are you ******* me?
Like not making eye contact with me is going to shame me,
stripping me of something that you never even bestowed?
You think I'm obscene?
Mister, look at you.

I am tired, but, I am okay. I am fine.
I don't care what you otherwise say.

Alive and sober, awake and dying.

I am improving, actively evolving.
I am not devalued or retrograding.

*******.
Don't not look at me, as though I were a freak.
Don't sneer and scoff, and judge me, as meat.
*******.

You think you know me better than me?
You think you could even convince me differently?
                am I right, or am I right?

Go ahead, lock your jaw, frown and furrow your brow, you magnanimous hypocrite.
We're both autonomous, and rich, in Ameri-*******-ca, with freedom out the *******.  

You're free to judge me.
I'm free to say *******.

We both bleed red blood.
We both will do as we will,
loving, *******, fighting,
drinking, *******, coping,
hiding, hurting, smelling,
crying, begging, hating,
breathing, needing, eating,
sleeping, living, and dying
under the great majesty of

                                                               ­        A *******
                                                         ­            INDIFFERENT
                                                 ­                       UNIVERSE

where we both need to
stop thinking differently.

I’m going to dance on your grave.

I will hoot and holler and stomp up and down
Rattling your bones in that bag of loose flesh that’s slowly melting off .

I will scream into the ground that was savagely ripped up
And then squished back in around that shiny box.

I will lay on my belly and read my favorite books
And laugh raucously at all the best parts.

I will swear and kick the somber stone at your head
And howl when I bruise my foot.

I will sit crisscross-applesauce on the grass in August
And sing Christmas carols.

I will do whatever I feel like doing
With little concern for what you’d think.

Because it isn’t your grave.

It’s mine.

And are you also frightened
Of the monsters with nighttime white faces
Of places lined ****** with traces
Of tiger-striped neighbors complacent
Are you all so frightened?

And are you also frightened
Of the German death-expert, that phantom
Of your mother turned raucously pantomime
Of a world-wide prisoners’ anthem
Are you all so frightened?

And are you also frightened
Of the nuclear holocaust schemers
Of the cannibals’ preying on dreamers
Of the new World
Are you all so frightened?

And are you also frightened
Of poetry written in free verse
Of burning alive you foolish young convert
Of the chorus of underground screams in the desert
Are you all so frightened?

it's exactly 2 weeks from my hiatus in
a homogeneous society -
   away from an internet connection -
alcohol free -
           and i've come to realise one
thing above all others:
       multiculturalism is...
   ******* exhausting.
                       i can play the "******"
whitey yo-yo all i can among fellow
***** morphed into fully grown
     beings -
                     problem is,
     i don't know if i'm more an outsider
among fellow men, or among the populace
of this, fair country -
     mind you, the only reason that the english
seem to have "tact" in disputes concerning
the fate of europe...
    englishmen are fakers...
              great at acting i must admit -
what was always going to help keeping
a serene face and mindful language?
   la manche - ärmelkanal -
                  english society is an exhaustion -
too much vibrancy is always a lodged
fudge blob in my head...
                for all the celebratory days -
i admit to keeping at least one day of
mourning, me, usually coming back
from the sedative of a homogeneous society...
    my complete immersion in but one
tongue...
not seeing a sikh turban, a black skin,
skimming on the flavours of chine -
     just plain old sauerkraut (apparently
cabbage is a funny word in urdu -
but i still mind asking the turk to add
some sourness to the sheer of lamb in
a kebab) -
                  and, my god,
pickled herrings, raw,
that famous alternative that is,
                 baltic "sushi".
                            - but i'm afraid that
the english would be double their usual
awkwardness in a homogeneous society,
so bland, so un-tropical,
              so... familial?
             in a country where you can pretty
much say what the ******* want,
even with the already ridiculous
religiosity and overt testament of:
   on sunday we don't work...
    not much different to france or germany
mind you...
    only the english run out basic ingredients
akin to milk or flour on a sunday...
mind you, whenever i walk into a supermarket
there are these zombies walking about...
i go in and know what i'm after...
   after... surrounded by these *******
   friendly, zombiefied, tourists...
           that isn't to say i frequent the english
society as such,
         my experience began and ended
with the catholic irish in school,
  and then some disorientated farmers
at university...
       Derby? a complete *******.
                    'hey matt', one of the few people
that uses my name is a supermarket cashier...
it's not that i mind skins, colours,
fashions,
what gets under my skin is the way in which
linguistics has become a sort
of zoology -
                 caged words in limbo of f&%£!
            does not really equate to anything
in the study of etiquette or is it simply,
   a statement that has aesthetic appeal?
                           at least the word
kurva (i made sure the W was missing so
you could veer into the sharpening)
   is treated as a conjunction rather than
            blushing guise of cameo in a language;
language ought to be a river -
      not when sea meats shoreline -
flow... flow... flow...
                   if everyone started to not muck
about with respecting the rules of
congeniality, if everyone just had that blank
canvas space to vent out but more importantly
inhibit frustrations...
                 for all the cares for a freedom of
speech: some things are better left unsaid.
                why?
         well... in all honesty, this fervent defence
of the defence of free speech,
  has made all thinking into a gluttonous bowl
of **** mixed with custard!
              whatever happened to the ultimate
freedom of all? the freedom to think?
               thought it dying a painful death
of necessitating keeping a freedom that's
   beneath it, in stature, or status...
      thinking has morphed into the most
inappropriate fear:
                                  claustrophobia,
or as some like to prefer, in calling it
by the nick of: cognitive constipation...
just to compliment the already vacant term:
intellectual ******* -
           better being a jerking off than
     scared of occupying your own, frickin' 'ed.
- but like i said, english society is breathtakingly
exhausting...
           i sleep like a baby in a bed
where my great-grandmother died...
   overlooking a graveyard...
               - and i replace writing with
puritanical deep-sea diving into books...
      actually, that's the only time when i really
read something...
                and the grand effort always
pays off...
                   no book is ever abandoned,
however tedious -
                          i care to arrive at the conclusion
of: perhaps "hangover" in the reading -
but raucously "drunk" upon completion -
even after a year -
          no book is worth being stranded
in the purgatory of lost fancies and aspirations...
movies are different...
         there's always the toilet or cigarette
break to get off easy on making excuses;
           how could anyone finish watching
gone with the wind is beyond me...
  i'd accept the stretch of film akin to
   ben-hur or cleopatra,
  in the latter case the Octavian monologue:
lord anthony is dead!
                the soup is hot, the soup is cold,
is that how one says it?
         lord anthony lives, lord anthony is dead...
shame on you for saying such words
lightly!
               his name has an echo chamber
in the urn of eternity!
               yeah...
   life in english is exhausting simply because
you find yourself with a **** & custard's
worth of thinking left in your while
walking on egg shells...
           pretending to defend a freedom of
  the waggling tenner -
penny for your thought,
                tenner for your talking;
     which is not worth the bother these days,
perhaps the mad had always dreamed of
castles in the clouds...
    but unlike the mad:
  i'm thinking of making my mind a labyrinth.

Perpetually ******, peeved and put-out
                        Cocked my cans back to give them a clout
                        Surrounded by slithering serpents suffocating my shout
                        Asking angry ******* what their apathy is about

Longing for her luscious locks to be locked with a look
Burgeoning, bumbling, believing love's broken book
Tired of the teasing, I take what I've come to took
Nestling near, cradling only my pillow in my arm crook

                              *******, *******, **** right you're going down
                              Fixing your ******* face into a freckled frown
                              Grouchy and greedy, I gasped seeing her gown
                              Hungry and *****, I can't leave the scent, like a hound

              Where was 'we' written in the wedding
              Roaring raucously, I rip off her ring
              Zealous, jeaous, I zag away from my zig
              Can't you cantankerous ***** see I want to be **KING

THE RED DIGITAL CLOCK REMINDS ME I AM at 21,112 feet,
a palindrome at 6.06 in the morning,
drifting from sleep to wake,
back to dreams of reality.
The man in my dreams.
The man of my dreams.
Somewhere over the rainbow,
crows scream ****** at each other and the world turns.
Men at work.
6:16 says the flashing clock,
flashing to remind me,
flashing to forget.
The man in my dreams
The man of my dreams.
Pilots fly me onwards
to a knowing destination,
a truly murky crystal of logic and stupidity.
The Chelsea hotel reminds me
that love is not dead,
that it lives on in the hearts of the workers of song,
at least for those of them left.
Mountains of things,
rings,
wedding bells chime and time,
time slowly marches by,
races,
paces,
one way streets.
Time.
Castles the colour of ink,
landscapes of pink mountains.
Snap back to reality.
The sun kisses the distant horizon,
as planes tear holes in the sky below
and the old women weep for the days that will never shine again.
But the children laugh for the days that are yet to be born,
the days of promise and peace,
war and understanding.
A new era?
A new beginning?
A twist in time to take us to where it all began
and the beautiful moon watches raucously from above,
smiling on his children,
sending kisses to his cheating lover, who still wrestles with the horizon.
Colour floods.
Grey, grey, grey.
A dulux of colour.
Man made.
Your body searches for me.
My mind wanders to other things.
The heat of your stare envelopes every pore of my being
and I freeze,
immersed in a mountain stream,
drenched in the sweat of love.
Doors open,
archways scream
and silence is our only food.
And yet reality still twists you from me.
The man of my dreams.
The man in my dreams.
Crows cry and children sing.
Happy nightmares, wearing thin.

“To love is to tenderly dig into someone’s mind:
His or her heart and soul to forever find!
Care and carry compassionately in storms and in winds
To love is to find an eternal peace in the one that you lovingly abides
Love is to find a familiar ground that two forever binds!
Love is the joy shared by two that in this journey, true rides!
In love are routes rough, in love are ways tough, in love are rails-grids that grinds
Though, in love are determined souls that never part but remains set in strong stands”

A kiss is a stamp of love
To feel your breath warmth in mine
An emboss, an assurance of love
Our staring gaze, the stupors for each other’s sight
Is a language stronger than words-written or verbal  
Understood only by two fools honestly hungry for each other
The beauty and peace of your voice
Candidly meaning your saying that you love me alone forever
Is an indelible engrave of our love
Music, a sweet sacred hymn to my soul
Like a piper’s pious pipe, it is a song to my ears
A solemn instrumental, sentimental to my heart

To hear the heart beat of your heart
In the strong embraces of your arms
It’s a stigmata to our love, there to be binding forever!
An umbilical cord strapping us together end-ever
To listen to the whispers of your soul in our feelings and flows
To feel the silences of your heart in our emotions and elations
Is to be entangled in eternal love, to be chained in forever love

You are mine, there is no way I will let you go!
I will fight for you, I will care for you!
I will love you forever and ever for our love is forever  
I will love you beyond any Heaven's heights or Earth's extents
Now in its extant and ever even when we are lost extinct
We will watch the earth form and deform together
Nature, magnificently make and despondently delete together forever
Together we will quietly listen to the melodic music of the universe forever

When the sun sad burns, I will be your shade
When storms rage havoc, I will be your shelter
And when the rains pound, I will still be your umbrella
When lightening rudely strikes and thunders raucously scares
I will still be there besides to care, your scares to cure
When snows severely fall, I will be your oven, kiln warmth
When summer and springs sweet sings, I will be your mild melody
And when autumns dull comes, I will be the joy to raise your moistened moods
To who do you owe your heart to? To you I owe my heart
In my heart is my all-my soul, it that outlives me-dust!
Keep compassionate care of my spirit, until I returns-compost!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

Candlelight dancing off the rippling bathwater,
The steam rising off it with an aroma
So sweet,
From the herbs steeped in it,
I’m a goddess,
An empress,
And my nectar is the red wine
Chilled to my preference,
The delicate stem dangling from my fingertips
And I watch.
As the coolness drifts off the glass in lazy tendrils,
Dancing over the surface of the heated water.
I part my lips and exhale gently onto the curve of it
Until the twirling fingers of cold opposing the heat
Swirl desperately,
My breath is the master,
The air the puppet,
And I tilt my head at the first notes of a song that draws me back,
Back to a liason in the dark
With an exotic lover,
The French words slipping over my skin
As silkily as his lips did,
Each verse reminding me of how we celebrated those verses then,
Raucously
Remorselessly
Hedonistically,
Almost as I do now,
With my ambrosia and my rose petals dancing among sprigs of herbs on the water,
With an orchestra hailing my memory,
All by the light of countless,
Flickering
flames.

When the moonlight shines at its best,
where lightning and thunder roar raucously,
And heartbeats as fast as the speed of light,
I inform of the blood-curdling apparition!

Where flesh decay,
And when your hair rises,
I inform of the phantom's run!

Feel like the soldier boy who went away,
left his mom and dad and the family dog,
in the drive way,

left his friends, left his school, hair cut real
short, when long hair was cool, left his girl,
you all, know how that went

got a letter but it was to Dear John...
even though lips held kisses and promises
after she finished grade twelve too.

he left the mountains, he left the river,
if he was lazy, now, he would have to giver!
get his heels together,
and learn that respect was earned,

but
always
respect the
rank and uniform,
the man
needs to earn
the respect of the
troops,

he knew no quit, and he came home
when he could and sometimes he
travelled far,

sometimes when getting home
was not possible he lay on his bed,
and left the room and in his head,
he made it home,
for the weekend.

the dog died, his dad left,
chaos turned a world upside down,
but he still made it home,

much water has flowed down the Columbia since that day,

my life is still busy, left the army
not enough years to build a pension,
but I will rattle of verses from the
sublime to the perverse,

I will poke with words, to let you
know I feel, and some pieces I write
the tears will fill my eyes and
the sounds won't be right,
and my heart will pound,

I will walk down these all too
familiar roads, the 'sunsets' and
'love' verses all look familiar,
maybe each time I go away I
will try to stay longer, and
maybe one day, I will retire here
among the poems done and
antiquated, among the ones
rolling raucously in my mind,
waiting for those birth pangs.

waiting for their turn to be read aloud,
waiting to make my mom real proud,
waiting to publish

waiting for someone to say...Hello.

the word "special"
can be used to mean
incredibly different things

when she was called special
after her first performance
while being handed a giant bouquet
of vibrant flowers and candy
her smile stretched from end to end
cheeks pink and blushing
and stood proud as the audience called for an encore

when he was called special
after fumbling the ball for ---
what, the fourth time in a row?---
his chest felt hollow
and he chuckled along anxiously
with the rest of his team
who were laughing raucously

when she was called special
after releasing her first album
the world was announcing her name
'The Next Big Thing'
she was used to it
flipped her hair
and wondered what
normal people were like
and pitied them

when he was called special
after being called in by his counselor
who added that
he wouldn't be able to graduate
his face fell
even though he was used to being
called special
as he walked out of the school
letter to his mother in hand
he wondered what normal people were like
and envied them

It’s ‪7:00pm‬, You Feeling My NY City?


a nighttime crescendo, daily grows stronger for longer,
a major miracle for a city where blasé arrivée so fast in
a New York City Minute, uncool, you’re done, see ya,
starring in your-***-banging-solo-reality-show

but this loving polyglot *** clanging, more akin to being in...A Chorus Line?
no stopping a diurnal ritual, soon to be the longest running musical,
a clap & dance prayer ‪@ 7:00PM‬ sharp, a very civilized NY hour,
quarantine is French for sleeping-in, we vive les temps viral!

‪this evening service, no choral motet, no anthem rock,‬ nope,
just a single note, a cheer, a celebratory count, taking stock,
we noise makers beat back death once again, we’re alive,
kickin’ up heels to a dance guv-anointed as NY tough

that bell ringing noise is us saying, see here, we are all heroes,
stir crazy got nothing on us, it’s a bust, no showing rust, aging,
in a city that never sleeps, we may have changed but temporarily,
an unnatural reflective silence prevailing, still take a moment to say:

our city’s style, no way Jose, this noise is a surround sound blessing,
it’s a street sign, “stick around,” here is our home, not going down,
we are troops, seasoned by history, how to survive, sheltering live,
underneath our huge racket, we quiet whisper, raucously shout

staycationing here, my homies

May7th

5:35AM

iridescent inkblot
splats across
sapphire skies

raucously roving
empty and
eroding earth

barren branch
territory and
taloned toes

warily watching
canyon and
cracked clay

I am an afterimage. I am a bisected heart fluttering in half-felt contractions, pinned down to a student’s desk. Somehow there is no blood, only light. Light, softly spilling from my aorta, gentle and insubstantial. You shake your head to dispel it as you turn back to your teacher’s lesson, but I am painted in the space behind your eyelids every time you blink. Your teacher speaks but isn’t really saying anything at all.

Sentiment is one hell of a drug, cradling me docile in the back of the classroom. The box-cutter used to saw open my ribs is abandoned on the floor beside me. They’ll come for my vertebrae next, I think. They’ve already skipped over my eyes in the curriculum, but I’m okay with that. If they had stuck to the class plan, I wouldn’t have the chance to see you cradle my split, sputtering heart in your hand while you trace the inside of my left ventricle with the lightest ghost of touch.

In the back corner seat three rows behind you is an angel. I ask them why their wings hang so low, and they reply, the weight of human expectation. Their feathers twitch when the teacher walks out of the room, flinching when one of the students laughs raucously and declares in a half-heard conversation’s fragment, well, God can fight me behind the Denny’s then. The angel’s face turns pained, blurry, and they whisper for my ears alone, God has no wish to fight you, child. You, three rows ahead and still playing with my heart, are oblivious to their sorrow.

The aftershocks under my skin are a memory. Be gentle, sweet child, be gentle. Only old bones truly sleep.

h.f.m.

Hello! how's do, I haven't seen you at the park in a while

Oh hi! oh I stopped coming here

Why is that

Have you noticed the dog **** all over the lovely lawn
some seem to just come here to **** all over the place

Yeah, I noticed, but I now just walk around the perimeters of the park
I don't bother going in, better to leave the ******* to their ****

she flashed a broad grin across a pleasant attractive face

That's just like me and social media these days
I do post my bits when I have to but I don't read what the crazies,
the  moaners, the professional complainers and the senseless have-a-go's with nothing better to do, have to say

Now, that's wise

We both laughed raucously, kissed and walked away still smiling

Overhead the grey autumnal sky hung laden, a bit like the laden uneased minds of the harbingers of doom

I see blue sky and inhale the fresh vibrant winds
mindfulness.....

Amongst a sea of gray faces frozen in a grimace,

I stand unmoved, vivacious, bubbling, & beaming . . .

This subterranean city in which we build our lives,

Only to realize we don't have to forever.

I am learning how to break my chains . . .

The darkness raucously surrounding & determined to suffocate anyone who lets it,

I face with fear to over power it until I am no longer afraid . . .

I reach the other side
where all I feel is warm, immense jubilance
& magnificent colors . . .

This life is once
& a beautiful grandeur
we no longer have to endure . . .

It is our choice,
to take for granted or unearth
our true voice . . .

Like water you are silent
Like the crashing waves out
Like the streams of cold water
Like the chasing wind of crying stars
Whenever you come out of the sea
You hide behind the cloud when the moon comes out
When the light comes out, it's over and there are just silent waters
Over a straddled bridge where the madcap laughs raucously

Light is broken, and brass is unspoken