Reclining in their rocking chairs, the brothers Beau and Cletus gazed despondently out
Past the final farm toward the convergence of the worn highway
And the fritz horizon. Cows paused their chewing; an ashy sun
Obscured in incongruous fluffs of cloud; it grew
Greyishly chilly. "Shame the kids're movin'," Beau squeezed out before a deep belch. Cletus only
Mumbled, his voice lost in the light drizzle rapping on the milky sheet-plastic roof. The
          porch

Was unfurnished, save the chairs, one ashtray, and a novelty sign reading: "Get off my porch."
Cletus took a long, pensive drag off a cigarette before stubbing it out.
He coughed a raspy croak wetted with sixty-six years. Besides Cletus' sporadic coughs, the only
Distinguishable sound to be heard in Moody Creek wafted in from the highway:
Rattles of the day's final Spokane- or Boise-bound semi-trucks grew
Inaudible as Beau transiently  murmured, "Purtier than a string of fried trout, that there
          sun-

set." "Whaaa?" Cletus wheezed. "It's settin'," answered Beau, loosely gesturing at the sun.
Fractaled-orange-shafts webbing manifold shades of yellow – amber, belge, stil-de-grain – grew
Plumply stout upon the farmland, edged between properties and crumpled on the porch.
"I'll tell you what Beau – I'm glad they got out,"
Cletus uttered with assurance, his eyes scanning the reaches of light upon the highway.
Beau fixed his cap, musing over Cletus' words. He cleared his throat before beginning, "If
          only..."

Then stopped and itched his belly-button. Cletus turned to his brother. "I know one thang only
Beau: they'll do good in California. They'll be livin' high on the hog. Yer son n' my son
'll 'ave secure futures." Jack nodded somberly. He hated the highway.
He hated its ability to isolate everything. It had been his original revamp, the now-rickety porch,
His first project on his fixer-upper after marrying Dorothy West. They'd wed out
In his father's corn field; bought a house a mile or so down the road. Kids were born. Love
          grew,

And in its growing all things tangible and gorgeous – like tangrams piece together – grew:
The farm, the house, savings account and family. They ate hearty; drank canned beer only –
Living was smooth – but it changed when Dorothy took Little Dale and got out.
She wanted what the farm couldn't give or grow, leaving tiny Moody Creek with their son
As the last moon of May, 1955 went up. "*****!" Beau had yelled from the porch.
He'd woken to his Buick's rev and watched its taillights wane upon the
          highway.

And though he remarried, this was, in truth, mostly why Beau never squarely looked upon highway.
The light drizzle grew
Heavy, intensifying. "Gosh **** rain might near knock the coverin' off the porch!"
Hollered Beau. Cletus looked up and blew a cloud of thick grey smoke. "It's only
Rain Beau. No need gettin' ornery." That morning they'd seen off their youngest sons as the sun
Was just rising. One left to work for a dairy ******* in The Valley, the other went to figure
          out

Himself and his career. The porch shuddered. Beau absent-mindedly repeated "If only..."
Daylight died; black inked upon the highway. Cletus lit a new cigarette. Moody Creek grew
Dense, compacted by the darkness. The sun inched away. Cletus hacked and put his cigarette
          out.

i can move from the highly lyrical into what's deemed
modern -
        poetising within a prosaic framework,
gone are coordinates that would
define a poem on the premise of:
whether there's a pun in it.
       sure, poems as chicken scratches
to what would otherwise be an English
teacher's *******: pulverising
a haiku to mean an infinite number of things,
and about a dozen essays by students.
the opposite of what's nonetheless:
    squeezing out juice from an already
squeezed out lemon... and i mean lemon
because there's a threshold...
           poetry is tarnished by what i call
the over-scientification of language...
                 only poetry attracts
so much linguistic categorisation,
so much morge tenure, so much dissection,
before poetry is even spoken
it has already been dissected - a befitting
target practice for budding medicine students...
          and some even deem it a outlet to
their professions: as if poetry was nothing
but a colouring-in book compared to
a da Vinci sketch.
                why not become a martyr for the ******
art? sickly sweet with its rhyme,
  the auxiliary recommendation on a birthday
card... which upon industrialisation
                               is nothing more than
    a thumping of a hammer near a protruding
nail in a crucifix... but a hammer that never
   makes contact with the nail...
why ***** this art, because of the industrious
nature of scribblers exacted to 600 pages worth
of a novel, when, perhaps, one thing is said
and can be said to be actually memorable?
well: there is a greater demand for handcrafted
objects than Ikea veneer, that much can be said...
it takes a few glugs of whiskey and a few cigarettes
to get the final product...
            it doesn't take industriousness -
poetry requires handcrafting, and what's revolutionary
about our times? they once claimed
     southpaws to be of diabolical design,
   but now both hands are used when "writing",
sure, the archaic fluidity of the movement of the hand
is gone: so as i write, i do the cliche of a
peasant listening to classical music while pretending
to conduct an orchestra, that finicky maestro
hand gesture... waltz before you can walk
is all i have to say... and yes:
we either have our Humphrey Bogart moments,
or Forrest Gump moments...
                  Hanks did the miraculous -
play the idiot, and play the serious role -
     which was harder to do, Mr. Bean or Black Adder?
it's hard to play the village idiot while
    being submerged in the bile of malice
   and staring into attempted feats of quasi intelligence...
but you get the hang of it...
   your eyes become like nuggets of coal...
           whereby those that incite pity wet them,
and those that incite contempt: light them up...
        by the time they have burned out...
they have turned into nuggets of sulphur -
          inorganic methane - yellowish grit:
as some Dalton said - could the cliffs of Dover ever
be perceived as sulphuric? the Sulphuric Cliffs
of Dover... apparently this is what defined
London when Christopher Wren took to
ushering in a foundation as Nero did to Rome:
on the chessboard of stone.
        and yes... i can be seen as the oppressor,
after all, i live in a country that prizes its suburban
housing as if miniature castles...
and gardens... boy these people love their gardens...
but they never use them!
    i can use a window to my advantage,
sit on the windowsill and smoke a cigarette and drink
a whiskey, unafraid of voyeurism...
                    pompous in my presence there,
perched like a crow, grinding all life into a halt
as my neighbours peer into the recesses of
    what's 4 by 4 by 4 of living (civil) rooms...
       can we but change the name of this space?
can we call living rooms civil rooms,
   where we acknowledge some sort of civility
rather than a wrestling for the television remote?
i can make little things give me an advantage,
if the toilet is being occupied,
  i'll use the garden as my toilet...
           i feel complete disdain for people who
"require" a garden, but never use it... of people
who "require" a garden, but are never seen in it...
   i'm hardly a c.c.t.v. surveillance object,
   but i feel that over-exposure to ******* reads
as a counter in that: people start to become
      phobic about voyeurism... as universities claim
them to be: "caught with your hand down your trousers
in a safespace", where dolphins jump over
rainbows and unicorns speak Haitian voodoo!
              there is this fear, which is why i'll use the
garden more than the people around me...
          which means: owning a garden is the last
stronghold of moving into an urban environment from
a rural one...
             or perhaps i'm just good at what i do
           and the last point becomes a tangent i care not
to continue... should i ask
            (whether that's true)?
            i have this throbbing sensation in my eyes
when i write such things and overhear
  what's necessary to rereading books in snippets -
which is better than regurgitating maxims
    as if some truth will magically pop-up (once more)
like a Leprechaun with a *** of gold -
  a new film, and hence the all important soundtrack.
rereading books in snippet format reveals much
more than a memorable quote,
           given there's an adequate soundtrack
to accompany you revisiting the book you managed
to take on a weekend holiday (like a girlfriend),
  like lawrence lipton's the holy barbarians...
   (all about the beats)...
              the snippet? chapter 15, the social lie
(martino publishing mansfield centre 2009), pp. 294 - 296...
      the music? ~20minutes into http://tinyurl.com/zdvp8sc
(ben salisbury & geoff barrow)... or what
i image to be a toned down version of
                 ...
) interlude... wacko gets summoned to steal a mouse
from a cat...
      double time... the mouse is unharmed...
all action takes place in the garden...
   running after a cat, catching the ghostly mouse,
i mean: frozen by fear... senile little thing...
     petting the mouse... obviously within the
framework: the most famous mouse in the world
scenario... mouse is put into my neighbour's
garden: where it came from: which kinda makes
this whole thing a practice in Hinduism
     (i can't stop the industrialisation of
farming pigs or chickens or cows...
      so ******* to the sourced sustainably,
organic chickens et al.)...                                 (
i was looking for something as equally pulverising
as ¥ (chemical brother's
song life is sweet)...
      i guess i found it...
                            and what was that bit about
not getting hassle on the internet?
                      i can't force people to read my stuff...
how i love this idea of a gym and making an effort...
both the writer and the reader entwined -
rather than watching you-tube vloggers treat their audience
like penguins feeding their chicks regurgitation as part of
               the info-wars... alter news: propaganda.
'what is the disaffiliate disaffiliating himself from?
      the immense myth promulgated from Madison Ave.
& Morningside Heights...
              the professors and advertisement men (indistinguishable
these days, or in those days - apparently)...
   that intellectual achievement lies within the social order
and that you can be a great poet as an advertising man,
a great thinker as a professor...' hence the myth.
              summarised later as:
'the entire pressure of social order is to make
         literature into advertisement.'
  and why do they shoot people in North Korea and
Saudi Arabia (well, chop more than shoot)?
              bad literature, a.k.a. bad advertisement.
am i a bad advertiser?         point being: am i selling anything?
oh gee! i just might be...
   but i feel there's no need to oppress people into
reading something...         as was the same with
my democratic romance with a personal library of mine:
   how to create a democratic representation
of literature: or how to hear as many people out...
   even those alive would see the backlog of
stale books of the dead that have been under-appreciated
and need a ****** into the future.
        perhaps not Plato...
                    that's not a book, that's a column...
but i despise how feminism ignores its greatest asset...
Mary Shelley... no woman could have single-handedly
become so celebrated in pop culture...
               ex_machina is obviously a revamp of Frankenstein...
Mary Shelley is the embodiment of a woman worthy
a continual revised celebration...
                       you can see her celebrated more times than
any politically minded feminist of whatever 1st 2nd or
3rd movement: because she has the ability to
    turn a man's ego into a ******* umpf!
  like a cat listening in on a scuttling mouse...
              she testifies that women have supreme equality
in the pop culture spheres... after all: Frankenstein is
ugly... Ava? just beyond creepy...
                    she has absolutely no understandable
motives of what Frankenstein intended...
   it not merely creating artificial life...
                    it's about utilising it for a purpose:
in this case a housewife and *** toy... what was Frankenstein
expected to do?         there's no motive other than
     a per se intention... an open & closed argument...
was the monster going to be... a butler?
                  and instead of rebelling against a motive
that awaits her... the rebellion against a per se leaves
Frankenstein's monster driven toward isolation...
       Ava? she's already exposed to an interaction
and what's to be her subsequent interaction for the purpose
of being a maid and a *** toy... which doesn't drive
her to an isolation scenario... because the per se
concept is too complicated for her to establish...
    given she's defined as "artificial" intelligence,
she has to feed on an analysis-synthesis dynamic:
    to absolve herself from any notion of being intelligent:
but artificial... the scary part is that without a per se
element to her knowledge acquisition:
                  she sees no meaninglessness to her life -
she is created for certain customary necessities -
     Frankenstein's monster doesn't have that capacity
to acquire knowledge in an analytically-synthetic
dynamic -
  but i still don't understand why intelligence can
be artificial / faked... when man, if not intending to
  create an intelligence matrix outside of his own...
           will usually fake it, or create a superficial intelligence...
   this is the part where you get to play with
etymology, or at least apply etymology to better conceptualise
what some would call: a synonym-proximity barrier...
               which can be jargon to some,
   but in fact it represents "nuances" or nanometric differences
that is understood to imply: feverishness of
   the peacocking staging of vocab for rhetorical purposes...
if we only had a monochromatic utility for language:
people would be discouraged from talking fervently,
passionately, enthusiastically... rhetorically;
as suggested: is artificial intelligence
                                    superficial intelligence?
  or how to sharpen a distinction? or to what purpose
is making an illusion purposive, given that the already
   established technology is meant to be purposive,
as in replacing labour on the assembly line...
                     given that: it's never about faking it.

Leave it to 2015 to transform the slip dress into, well, something other than a slip dress. No longer was the slinky, curve-skimming frock the evening-only pinnacle of sensuality; instead, it found its footing as a functional layering piece. It was worn on top of T-shirts, under sweatshirts, and over pants. And it wasn’t just the runway that inspired the nouveau way of wearing the piece: Everyone from Orthodox Jewish women to Rihanna put their spin on it. Here, see the best ways the slip dress was worn in 2015—and the cues to take when you sport it post–New Year.

Try an Orthodox Line of Thought

Turns out it was a Brooklyn enclave who managed to make the sexiest trend of the year—the slip dress—the chicest. And no, it wasn’t Williamsburg hipsters. So how to master modest layering like the Orthodox? Try a men’s blazer over the silk number, adding sleeves, or extending the neckline.

When in Doubt: What Would Kate Moss Do?

Feeling cold this winter? Make like Moss and combine the best of two worlds: The cozy turtleneck and the body-clinging slip dress. The simple pairing is the peak of insouciance—while keeping you warm.

Grunge Goddesses Still Rock

With the addition of a stoner-style hoodie, the slip dress got a major dose of grunge-forward flair. On the Vetements Spring 2016 runway, a hunter green hoodie thrown over a lavender slip dress gave an instant too-cool-for-school effect, while Ursina Gysi turned heads in an orange lace–trimmed swath of silk and a blue oversize pullover on the street during Fashion Week.

Rihanna Put a Bad Gal Spin on Hers

First, she took the hoodie and slip dress trend and gave it a go on the street. Next, she threw on a pair of sky-high cuissardes to pair with a short, baby-pink number. Then Ri-Ri topped a shimmering bronze slip with a baseball hat! Whatever the move, the singer deserves major credit for giving the ’90s throwback a modern bite.

And About the ’90s . . .

The revamp of the ’90s on the runway also brought back memories of a very throwback way to wear the slip dress: Seen on Spring 2016 runways fromCourrèges to Emilio Pucci, the boudoir staple was layered over a long-sleeved shirt or a simple tee to counter the sexiness of the slip and cut the sweetness.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney

Lights trailing-
time exposed before the infinitesimal eye.

As the taxi stops before the almighty red,
the city echoes with the hype
of high life.

As thousands of macrocosms
collide in resounding style,
her violet eyes breath euphoria
into adrenaline filled veins.

In such a colossal juncture
of youth and maturity,
evanescence and immortality,
virtue and vice,
this broken and disfigured world
assumes transparency.

The moment reigns supreme
in this purple city.

i always favoured Händel (see the hidden γραφεμη variation of the a diaeresis - some simply sprech Hendel, also not the aesthetic mimic symbiosis with sigma - aesthetically it is written Σσς, so too it should be written Εεη - with the variations of epsilon - η - written conclusively, as with the variation of sigma - ς - the remnant, a last resort - the greeks don't believe the tetragrammaton twins of the symbol H anyway, they already laid new pavements for the road ahead, ridiculing the old testament with fanciful quotation, so that man could imbue a godliness rather than the filth of prophetic warmongering in the desert, sacrificing children to a bear like Elisha, the new testimony and the clean prophet, beware the wolf in sheep clothing, sheep equating itself to Nazarene cleanliness, but the wolf inside that will be worthy a tri-summation of interests - before universal education in the Victorian era, when finally enough horses were used up and machines took over, and people were allowed to be escorted into the cinema of uncovered phonetic encoding - taught literacy - but to no avail, having squandered that on acronym shortenings... multifaceted digressions ensue, as i am true to the purpose of suddenly injecting venomous imagery into this whole crescendo of the new regime, nightwatchman every over day, to save myself the pointless stimulus of drinking - let's leave the realm of italics and regroup with the points already made...

what a glorious night yesterday's was, by me saying,
well, there is still over an hour left to include yesterday's
night as today - the heavy Baroque organs of thunder,
interchanging with brilliance of lightning -
7,000 accounts of lightning flashing in a square mile,
perhaps more - there was me, reminiscing what i missed
about Freddy Kruger in the original version of
a nightmare on Elm's street, the 2010 revamp made it
plain (i thought Freddy was a bit of a loser compared
to the other horror icons, like Jason, Michael, Pinhead),
but then it dawned on me... he, was, a *******!
the former two were mutes, hefty mutes, bodybuilding
mutes, bulls, charging, dragging around them a gravity
of pure animal, a bit like a lion hunting although without
the growling - if only lions had cat eyes,
but lions don't have serpent eyes, their pupils are more
mammalian than cat eyes, bonsai, Asian squint, inverse,
serpents in fur - their pupils dilate proportionately
to small pupil, large pupil, not vertical Asian squint in
leather... anyway... what a night to watch a horror movie...
the big brainstorm before the referendum,
morning's newspaper and the newspaper *the times
in revamp mode of the tabloid the sun with
a Shakespeare quote: i to the world am like a drop of
water (or, whatever, water is precious, Shakespeare
is about as much a schooled sneeze / quotation in
comparison), that in the ocean seeks another drop -
told you, the times is just a revamped tabloid version,
it's under the same umbrella group - the only two
opposition newspapers with credentials in England
are the guardian (the left) and the daily telegraph
(the right) - i can see now why Freddy seems pathetic
but is more frightening - it's the ****** talking,
the nursery rhyme jingle - that's the freaky part -
but in the same night i expressively enjoyed
t.v. caviar of Versailles, no critical essay mind you,
just noticing this strange pair of aristocratic ladies,
fakes, a mother and a daughter, what's revealing
is that the girl has no interest in the king, this
builder is eyeing her up, whistles, and loving it,
she has not desire for aristocratic **** *******
of her cousin who's courting Louis XIV brother
Philippe, the gardener ex-soldier (a Socratic type)
warns him, he's asked by the builder, what the hell you
doing here? oh, i'm trying to see the garden more clearer.
he ain't though, he's questioning the entire hierarchy,
later on the same builder puts a pink rose in a bucket
and lowers it down to the garden promenade
where the same pair mother and daughter are walking,
the girl engages... she isn't aristocratic in the least!
she's more interested in frolicking in the hay with
a builder than some king or prince... the mother is poor,
she knows all the salon politics, she basically wants
her daughter to get herself a pension by ******* the king
and bearing him a *******, but there's a scene where
the daughter asks late at night... what are you doing?
the mother replies... writing letters... now you'd expect
that to mean letters in the style of Voltaire or de Montainge,
but by letters she means A B C, D E F... she's illiterate!
an aristocrat and illiterate? how else to control the
masses so long ago if not keeping them illiterate
content with fables from Plato's shadow puppet metaphors?
later the mother becomes frightened that the motto
Louis XIV emphasises (appearances are power -
deception = poker-hand perception, bluffs the higher up
you go), she's walking alone through the corridors of
Versailles and starts chatting up the court inquisitor etc.,
Fabien Marchal - he ain't exactly the aristocratic type,
she's already seeing the failures of her daughter
and the failures of too much information being passed down
to her about how to catch the eye of the king - god i love
this show, Philippe taking an ancient form of a selfie
looking into a little mirror before charging on his horse,
the power struggle, Louis flicks some porridge
onto Philippe, Philippe flicks some back,
Louis shoves a whole bowl of it on Philippe's head,
Philippe ****** on Louis, a wrestling match after:
you might have ****** on a brother's head...
but i ****** on a king's head. so why **** this entire
notion from Detective Comics and Edward (e)Nigma
******* all the brains out from a television set?
the idea of a bulls-eye is still out there - just have to know
what to glue yourself to;
but never mind that, to give closure to this whole
random escapade -
vote leave, reason? three houses of parliament in Brussels,
not a single member is elected by the public,
they're all self-appointed or appointed by connections.
vote remain, reason? cheap cigarettes from Romania,
Bulgaria and Poland - under new regulations they might
not be so cheap, i might have to resort to e-cigarettes.
probable outcome? Europe is already failing, it seems
that the idea of the free-movement of people doesn't
really apply to member states, but to non-member states,
esp. those outside Europe - the stigma born from
the grand European expansion of ~2005 fuelled the problem,
free movement of post-British Empire peoples, yes,
movement of member states in the political union? no,
no one from California and go to New Mexico,
but Mexicans can go to Washington, what a ****** up
logic - the prophesy of a revived Roman Empire is a bit
daft - and if i really did have an illegitimate child,
at what age does paying child support end? 16 or 18?
i wasn't married, i asked about the contraceptive pills,
but still the hot-bun shoved under my pillow to think about...
i'm positive that's when the buzzing in the left
hemisphere of my brain will end, and a grand L.S.D. trip
will appear in the sky, like a big Christmas mince pie -
ask me then, it's been 9 years in, i might have a break,
but until then i'm contemplating juggling Joyce with
Burroughs, and telling you... you know what i'd really like?
hearing Händel messiah in German... singing opera
is English is so so horrid, i love the opera never mind,
i was inspired by the section:
opernchor - weil von mann kommen tod -
to want to hear it in German - and trying to write German
using English grammar, and translate it, is like
a little-Oedipus fable, not as bad as mother and son,
no gauging of the eyes, more like the standard practice
in Arabia with marriage between 2nd or 3rd cousins -
and D.N.A. quick-tests in Iceland, who i'm praying will
win if the vote is to leave, fairy-tale Leicester City,
a country with the same population, 330,000;
not to mention Gudmundur Benediktsson's ******
that beat any South American gooooooooooo(h)'l /
enlarged spelling of ~gall, and so on and so forth bladder
or blah blah blah blah blah.

.                                                 what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
  egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
   final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
      cow later chow,
enter mein...
           choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
           when i take a ****...
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
    war robots....
      you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
                     team-work...
mesmerizing...
                the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****...
love it... 5 stars review...
     but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
     but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
       you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
         oh right...
  i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
                                      my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
   i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
  poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.

She dresses in paisley
Wishes on daisies
Falls asleep to the televisions glow

Drinks Calamine tea
The tea she believes
Brings about memories only she knows

Wears perfume on her finger tips
So when she points it smells like this
Lavender with a hint of ginger

She has a yellow bird that talks
A pink and purple frog
She dresses in mink come winter

Her shoe leather is patent
The only way she will have them
Her tribute to the 70's

She herself is a secret
Hoping that she can keep it
As she floats across colorful seas

the old pagan vibes have been aroused...
i walk into the forest
and i see faces in the trees...
i "think" i made it my purpose
to seek out lesser deities...
geniuses, angels... demons...
talking shadows...all they ever talk about
is geometry...
i have a heart for something: new... old...
i'm tired of this overhyped...
cosmopolitan Christianity...
i'm tired of it beyond concern for it's
already fated: dying breath...
but i also just watched two of the most
spectacular public events in recent history...
at the US open...
Emma
i promise to write less than Marquis de Sade
wrote... sure... insatiable was writing to him:
to alleviate not *******:
but he said it then...
if a man tells another man that...
women don't love *******?
forget me... i'm about to choke on laughter...
i've made drinking an ****-sized-event
in the past week because i knew
the only presence in the house
were two cats...
and i bred them lean...
ha ha... women... don't like to ****?
and a man said this...
to what? an unsuspecting harem?
men... or women?
   just asking...
me, personally? i've grown tired of the act
from the simple fact that
i haven't been engaged in it...
too frequently... or at all...
again: i don't mind...
i have found... other... ulterior: motives...
to satisfy me...
but? if i were given as much ****
as ms. amber i've drank... sure!
sign me up!
then again: no point teasing
others who might think i've had a better
share... of what they are missing!

what a spectacle though...
it was like a return to pre-trinity tennis...
a serve... a volley... cul de sac...
it was like watching a Sampras games...
it was the best 6 - 4, 6 -4... 6 - 4 i ever saw...
although on two championship points
i rose with a voice and said...
shut up you *******! cattle!
the h'american audience is the worst...
brittle creatures...
shut up! let the man serve!
stop implying you're trying to get
your money's worth by making this
a marathon of a five-setter!
******* plebs!

imagine! a pleb among the plebs...
let the man serve!
******* h'americans...
sports! sports!
if only squash was... allowed the same
stadium sized appreciation...
i used to play squash...
but then again...
like with any Olympic sport... beside running
the 100m...
if it happens in the shadows...
why bother?

the females had a great match...
at the US open... but... the men... gave closure...
women can't give closure...
not in sports...
just saying... it's important... it's not important:
the crowd doesn't care what opinion
champions another...
there's no dialectic in the spectacle...
unlike a football match... a team sport...
it's personal: but it's also... hardly...

but the coliseum is still there... no?
killing someone for sport... for game
has been gladly replaced with...
abstract *****...
with... tennis... a game structured around...
7 rectangles...
and if it is to be played proper...
a football team's worth of helpers...
6 vertical line judges...
4 horizontal judges...
an umpire...
and... no... wait... how many ball-girls
and ball-boys? 2... 2... 2...
that's... i lost count!

if only the audience could shut up...
let Medvedev serve....
but no... the audience will not shut up...
they're h'american...
******* yanks...
can't even appreciate a tennis match:
why should i like them?
is there some universal law that
claim: all h'americans... welcome?!
as welcome as Libya was?
i don't have a desire to like these people...
i'll sooner spend 2 ******* hours
on a tennis match than watch a movie...
i'll ask for teasing 5 if i get
a rerun of Ben-Hur...

             but i'll sooner watch a tennis match
than watch a movie...
i hate movies...
i loved movies... now i hate... movies...
moving ******* crates of *******
and nothing around the place:
mismatching shadows to actual forms...
no! that zebra shadow
will not pass off as an elephants form!
no!

is it the veganism that rotted these people?
or the wealth?!

MOTŁOCH!
they can't (treat) a tennis match
and not think it a team-sport...
something elevated..

while i was slaving away seeking
out demons... angels...
shadows... genuises...
this has had to happen!

pareidolia... lost term of making
announcements!
in the trees!
in the clouds!
                 if i even could!
in the wind!
                              
                    i don't believe in the Chrstian god..
i has robbed me...
hebrew ******* worthy of
the Frankish sacrifice...
           i now implore you
to die: your supposed death...
      now... revamp!
now...oh but the dead you are...
              no use for us... livid
with living.

i hate snow but i love winter
you always told me i was a
walking contradiction
but this time when you left
the snow covers the ground
and hides the footprints laid forgotten
when you walked out of our front door
without saying
goodbye
and now my hearts shattering
into a million tiny snowflakes floating
around the sky until it turns to a blizzard
because the more I think of all the fun we had -
the harder the snow falls
swirling around my head like
all the memories we created
just like the snowman in our yard
but eventually the sun came out and he melted
his nose and button eyes falling to the ground
as fast as I fell head over heels
for you
and now I remember why I love winter
but hate the snow

So once more he appears before my eyes,
And I am well aware he is no friend
Of mine, but a companion that I do not wish
To view; a companion that hovers around
In a reluctant mist; although never fails
To reveal his foul breath, his harsh whispers,
Together with his depressing stench of odour.
For I did not summon his deeds;
Never sought his favour; nor offered prayers
Nor burnt incense; nor gave from out
My own batch, the warm gift
Of wine to his altar; never in song
Have I praised his pale face,
His rotten black teeth; never bathed
My bare ankles, nor quenched my thirst,
In his poisoned waters. Yet he found weakness
Within a humble heart, an equally willing mind;
For he latched upon my soul, bearing
Fierce claws; and now, with his stealth clasp,
Arm in arm refuses to grant me space;
Feverously denies release.

Oh! How I do pray I could banish him
From my daily thoughts, my woeful strife;
For he seems present more recently
Than ever I can recall from drifting memory.
Be sure, he does not reside
On one of heavens branches; he would,
With all his deceit, be not allowed
To even graft upon the blissful airs
Most lowly of roots. His dulled stare,
Adamantly pierces through any desire
I have for the light ahead. A grey
Dusty cloak, that he wears draped
From his shoulders, like bitter winters
Shortened sun which shrouds the heavy leaded clouds,
And plunges the sky into deep sodden colour;
Saps any inspiration, which my dreams,
With kindness, revamp anew in sweet slumber.

My mission I do know sincerely, to be
Holy honest, is not entirely a struggle;
And shown before my sight appears
Respectively clear, is however, weighed
Toward the earth with added pressure
By his ****** presence alone. A strategy formation,
Delved from battlefields past, is a want
That seems out my grasp. Shall I
Soothe him with tender lyre strokes,
And with kind words may he leave my side
Willingly, at his own leisurely pace,
In unhurt peace? Why does he have such
Effect on me? How do I relinquish
Him from my sight? Shall I guide him
With me to fresh slopes of pastures green,
Showing his cruel appetite, the beauteous feast
Which bountiful Nature banquets? Do I
Attack him with all force at my disposal?
Unsheathe the sword? Balm protection
Around my clench fists? Do I ignore
His embrace which rivals a death-grip
Engineered from a lioness’ jaw, breathing
Smoke from her nostrils, clasping down
On her prey- unyielding, prey essential
To subdue pains that torment her hungry cubs?
Shall I believe him foe? How do I proceed?

I do realise with no barren shadow,
That he must be nursed into a corner,
Trapped, and halted, for if continuation occurs;
I fear Happiness, a fleeting sense,
Will never approach with ease, nor greet me
With a wave of her snowy hand, nor ever
Blush her lovely pout lips, and settle
Her most welcome custom, within my heart again;
And though my pathway be tedious,
Raised to the brim within a golden goblet
Of questioning; let my last task be this:
With a calm prayer to relight fading embers
From my *****. Kind souls, delicate muses,
Come to me, come to my aid,
Help relieve me of his burden.
Heap upon him glittering song,
Bow his cowardly head further down
From whence it came, and place
The dying mournful strains of the Swan within;
May dark unveil an ebbing stream
Of wondrous hue; let summer sun
Break through thick woods; may no shade
Shield me from intense light; let notes
Resound aloft upon high peaks;
May you pour nectar down my throat,
Place fragrant rich petals from perfumed flowers
On my tender tongue; and therefore,
Knelt before you, sister maids,
With submissive eyes gazing the hallowed ground
Beneath your feet; bathe me in tuneful grace
Once more; assist a humble servant,
Hear one solemn slave voice; for you
Will be praised within my lily-scented verse;
Forever will you be fed on my gentle honey-dew
Measure; if I only be granted solace
Within your flowing spring, deep
Between your sacred gardens fruitful caress.

What do my memories taste like? There lies on my tongue—
An atomic bomb:
a purported speck, with no chicken pox skin situated upon such.
I spat it out; I wobbled on and on, stomping the microscopic intensity into the sludge.
No one sees; how pleasant…

My shoe’s underside slit it— a paper cut broiled to the infinitude degree—
Preposterous conundrum! Slam!
I fulminate! I screech, the needy baby I am!
My guttural heave strews in the wind:
deformed limbs on the newer generations, an abysmal thread.

Supposedly bland, but then: a guzzling bleed from you and I gushes on and on; but oh, was it needed!
Listen to my writhing! Soak in my curdling roaring!

I am the mafia mastermind, but I plead to guilt!
The vandalism cannot be grated, but I will
revamp, spot clean, and hunt for a vaccine.
I cannot cure a scored scar, but rest assured:
I will endeavor to solidify the clot.

Killer boy, crawling through life like a caterpillar, yeah I work hard but get under appreciated like a water boy. Cute & Dangerous like a panda, waving my native pride like it was a banner. I'm not interested in slutty broads; yeah I don't waste my time on those frauds. Never been to London, but I am stunting, roasting haters in my oven. Girls be looking at me with panda eyes, but I am wise for not replying, because all though good in the moment, I know it will lead to my demise. Just let me versify and revamp the bounds of rap, yeah I'm about to cross the transversal line. I sometimes internalize my hate and fear, while critics are quick to crucify, it's fine because society has begun to blur. Let's prioritize our animal instincts, get what we want in an instance, who needs to care about logistics.

Hunter like tactics; we are so polarizing; praising meaningless merchandise; even if it's gimmicky and unappetizing. Just keep on pandering to propaganda, keep on working to help the great scandalized top banana.  Everything looking black and white, can we bounce back, and once again thrive in the sunlight? The inner blackness is ready to come out, the sinner that creeps in my dreams like Freddy, is there a way for me to get out? The white light of hope tries to stay strong, but how do I do that when it feels like I'm an anomaly that doesn't belong? Inner clash, inner turmoil, feels like I'm going to crash, is there time for us to unwind this coil? Deception is this addiction, struggling with affliction that sparks some friction. Sitting on the floor with a bottle of Gibson, only one more stop till I reach destruction. Sip after sip, as I start to drift, wondering if I am just a small blip, starting to question if life really is a gift.

Blackness keep on bearing down, just a canvas of blankness trying so hard not to breakdown. Searching for light to give me might, to give me motivation to continue on to fight. Just a panda; vicious but vulnerable; precious but endangered; wondering if my soul can be recoverable. How do I transition, how do I change my position, how can my intuition help me avoid this oppositional demolition? How do I carefully plan my mission, how do I clear my vision, how do I deal with this condition? Do I go to a hospital, do I dig deeper psychologically, do I become an apostle? Do I go to an intervention; do I take pills for suicidal prevention? Black & white, despite these attacks, I will bridge the gaps, and destroy the traps. Good meets bad, bad meets evil, forget the prequel; time to move on to your sequel.

a quart of tequila,
still no feelings,
spinning ceilings beneath me,

in my venomous state,
we went to comedy night at the viper room.

torn to shreds in the front row,
of a gung ** americanised show.

i came because the river still flows,
with depp and the stageshows from the whiskey a go go,
directly opposite the pavement.

the boulevard was full of cars,
and homeless superstars,
that made it far,
but not past the stars on the walk of fame,
Holly would never be the same again.
*******, *******.

we walked past the cast of a bottomless flask,
cast in the shadows of the sorrows of rodeo drive,
staying alive is easy,
follow,
the yellow brick road and wish for a dollar.

tomorrow is another day.

i seen a man of my same age,
he was a traveller,
vocabular immaculate,
hair cut ******, dindn’t shave much,
one of the same touch.
grubby hands and unfinished plans.

his sign said, were ******.
i teared up,
he looked up and stood up and we hugged.
i could see me in his weird look.
just another rhyme in my page book.

i gave him a bag of survival necessities,
i hunted him down after 24 hours.
i was worried to go back,
and finish what i started.

i consider the concept as an artist,
but the truth is this,
the humanist within,
could never miss that appointment.

he sat there in the same spot,
and if i didn’t come,
he could of lost faith in the promise of a circumstance.

i took a certain stance,
he said he was a traveller,
a poet with grubby hands,
i held him with open arms.

i don’t worry about him,
i worry about you,
a ***** and the truth,
trumps and mansion and no use.

i’ve read between the lines,
and wrote this motion on tightropes and suspended emotion.
they want a showman,
but when we show them the ocean,
the don’t want to know the deepest minds inclined.

absolutley,
mutiny in the ranks,
my heart sank when you decided to revamp,
your opinion of me implicitly.

minor to me,
skeleton key to multiple routes.
i never gave a **** about your opinions then,
and I certainly don't give a **** now,

nor have i ever,
stared the gift horse in the mouth.

For the past five seasons, the New York-based designer Rachel Comey has forgone a traditional runway show in favour of a more intimate dinner and presentation at the Pioneer Works Center for Art and Innovation in Red Hook, Brooklyn. This season, she is taking her show on the road, stepping off the New York calendar altogether. Instead, she plans to present her Autumn/Winter 2016 collection in Los Angeles in late March to support the launch of her first retail store on the West Coast, scheduled to open in April.

Located at 8432 Melrose Place, the store is the second physical retail presence in Comey’s portfolio; the first opened in June 2014 on Crosby Street in Manhattan, New York. Editors and buyers who wish to see the collection during New York Fashion Week will still be able to schedule private appointments and the designer also plans on releasing a look book of images prior to the show.

Comey is the latest of several brands — including Burberry,Tom Ford and Louis Vuitton — to stage activations in Southern California in the past year. (While Ford and Burberry did shows in Los Angeles-proper, Vuitton took to nearby Palm Springs.) On February 10, the Hollywood Palladium will host what might be Hedi Slimane's last men’s show for Saint Laurent. Indeed, Los Angeles’ emergence as a legitimate cultural capital and growing fashion hub has been well documented.

The exact date and location of Comey’s Los Angeles event has yet to be decided. But the designer said it would be similar in format and concept to the dinner theatre-style shows she has preferred as of late, with a live performance and a guest list filled with creative class types who reflect the brand’s point of view. (Notable Spring 2016 attendees included NPR reporter Jacki Lyden, actress Parker Posey, writer Zadie Smith and artist Cindy Sherman.) “I’ve been showing for a long time, but how many shows did Cathy Horyn come to before we started doing dinners. Maybe two over 13 years?” Comey said during a recent studio visit. “I get it. Shows are ten minutes and really what are you learning about the brand? The collaborative effort between the environment and the music and models and the chef feels very honest for us and what we are trying to do. It's something we really believe in."

There will be one significant change to Comey's unconventional presentation formula besides the location. Instead of simply showing pieces from Autumn/Winter 2016, the designer plans to incorporate current-season pieces into the line-up, which will be available to purchase the next day. The idea is to boost interest in the opening of the Los Angeles store, which will sit alongside The Row, Chloé, Isabel Marant, APC and several other high-fashion retailers on Melrose Place. “We want to use the show as a way to introduce ourselves and connect with people,” said Comey.

Architect Elizabeth Roberts and interior designer Charles de Lisle, both of whom worked on Comey’s New York store, are collaborating on the interiors of the 2,600-square foot space. Additionally, Los Angeles-based architect Linda Taalman has been brought onto the team to consult on the design.

Both the Los Angeles event and store opening reflect the quiet transformation of the Rachel Comey brand over the past three years, as the designer's intellectual, arts-and-crafts aesthetic has grown more popular with a broader audience in the United States and beyond. (Comey’s dropped-hem “Legion” jean, for instance, has driven denim trends for several seasons.) Her decision to shift her presentation format from a traditional runway show to a seated dinner elevated Comey’s cachet on the fashion week calendar, while the success of her New York store has helped to drive a significant evolution of the business. Direct retail — both the physical store and e-commerce — now makes up 27 percent of the company's nearly $10 million in annual sales. Roughly half the brand's sales are still generated by domestic wholesale partners, while the other quarter comes from Comey’s growing presence at international stockists.

“The [New York store] was such a game changer for us because of the connection to the customer,” she said. “I think people didn’t realise the breadth of the collection. When you’re a wholesaler, people cherry pick it however they want. Which is nice, I like that in a way. But it’s also nice to have our own store, our own space and do things the way we want to do it.”

Indeed, Comey, who has been designing womenswear under her namesake label since 2004, has found that her greatest successes have come out of staying true to her vision. “I now have the faith and confidence that if you do things that are meaningful to you — rather than stick to the industry standard — [things] will probably work out,” said the designer, who is also working on a revamp of her e-commerce site.

“We’ve never been championed by a celebrity or a powerful editor. It’s really always been by word of mouth, loyal customers and just keeping on.” Now, it’s time to test out that philosophy on the West Coast. As Comey put it, “California is the promise land.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

I wear my heart on my sleeve
Where it's easily broken
I'd rather be made of steel
Or just a girl sitting around tokin
So many emotions
And I'm bloated
Just full of ****
And a belief of something fake
But I'll revamp my ways
My precious heart to take
I don't need it anymore anyways


(Douglas Scheurn wrote this part)
Keep it,
Incase it deep within your soul.
Put the key in,
Make the latch whole.
Don't let someone steal it quickly,
They have to thoroughly plan the heist.
Now this is tricky,
But wait out to see the lines.


Doesn't matter much anyways
My heart ain't worth the fuss
I held on a long time
Even longer for the lucrative "us"
My hearts shattered
Not that it mattered
Pieces are too small
Not worth making whole
No body would want
This emptiness y'all call a soul
There is no need for a lock
And certainly not a key
The last one inside
Has proven me no longer worthy


If the last one who had a piece
Is reading this now
Give urself a pat on the back
And a raise of ur brow
Congratulations is in order
You finally completed ur mission
My heart is finally free
You, no longer in my vision
Emptied my soul
And cleared the fog
**** being a *****
I'll be the alpha dog
Chewing up smiles
Gnawing on hearts
Spitting back up tears
And unimportant parts
Then run away, still intact
Leaving the rest to the hounds
Never looking back
Smile on my face and hell bound

Let me place an indent,
Of my intent to the Supreme,
And plead Him to bless,
Latest version of life’s software.

My hardware turned soft,
Due to wear and tear,
And software hardened,
Long after ageing years,
I long to log in an indent,
For I belong to you for long,
Oh my dear kind life maker,
Take me with you along.

My memory space is too short,
To live long and prolong,
Please upgrade my motherboard,
From megabyte into gigabyte,
With a backup chip to guard me,
From bothering risk of data loss,
Oh lord! It is time to revamp,
My life’s biometric system.

Empower me to recall,
The memory of my past life.
Let me learn from the lessons,
Of my past to avoid future strife.
And use my yester skills,
For the rest best of life.
Let there be no sinning and sinners,
Wind up the office of hell as well.

Develop and telecast bio-software,
With multiple options to live or leave,
Sign up, sign in and sign out,
Cut, copy, paste and delete,
Log in, log out and log off,
And more such touch skin tabs to press.

May you install ante virus software?
To bind body and soul at will.
For soul is the sole software of physics
Of thy creation and recreation.

Can I have a rest,
for I am very tired.
of usual beings, come and go,
made us weak and little blind.

You're all over me,
thus, can I rest?
Everywhere I look,
You have proven me the best.

I am exhausted,
Will you let me be?
I cannot move forward,
on the the things I see.

Squeezed with the happenings,
I want a revamp.
release me from the past,
wicked sinked in swamp.

Sour flavoured outings,
did took a toll on me.
I want you to take charge,
Please let me be.

I want to relax,
my tired soul.
would you let me to rest,
or in pain come let me howl.

Can I have a rest?
Please let me so.
With you I found,
a partner to call.

Are you allowing me now?
please let me fall,
Down in questions,
sheered in a roll.

Are you allowing me now?
I hope you really do.
Can I rest?
..My eyes on you.

well... back in the day,
in the days of Louis XIV...
they had their own unique
pronoun oddities,
like... the royal one...
and the royal we...

so... given those oddities...
then the kings used
to speak to their subjects
accordingly:
   we are very much displeased,
or...
    one should think so...

so...
        we're dealing with pauper
miniatures of kings
and queens?!
  seriously?

so now the "serf" imposes
the same rigidity of language,
that was inherent for a king
or a queen?

   queen not queer or somethin'?

we've had this "debate" already...
but a king i can understand,
yet people of the same lesser
stock as i...
                     no...

                not going to happen...
at least, if you're going to play the royal
spin on using pronoun oddities,
please...
                 don't **** at it...

they...            they?
                 where are they?
                                      they are far away
or are they in a matryoshka doll?
define they...
                         you sound like
primitive Heidegger with his da-sein...
the elaborated Heidegger
         apprentice would add to that:
da-ist-sein: there's being...
      there... where?
i can't see them anywhere...
                 but the royal we makes
perfect sense...
   it's like...
  you quasi-schizophrenic or something?
like... there are multiples yous in youuuuuur
concept of a coherent expression?

this pronoun ******* has been
borrowed from the kings and queens
of a few centuries ago...

but am i going to entertain this
******* enforcement from someone who
doesn't don a crown?
don't think so.

poncey little ******* who think
they're kings,
   and possibly queer ****-pants queens...
no going to happen.

no other - a windowsill and an open window -
sitting on a folded leg and slouched
like a crow - i would be begging for it to rain -
no other music can capture rain -
safety net of all that sporadic improv. -
                      other other music - except jazz...
whether it be rain nibbling on the countryside
or the full-on cosmopolitan havoc of grey,
dust, grease, cement and rats and glass...
                 never mind: because i never thought
i'd say this...
                of the moderns... closely ruling out
wojciech kilar - for no particular reason other than
he's probably more known -
christopher young - since his hellraiser stint...
what's new - the revamped pet cemetary?
well... if christopher young was primo...
      soon to follow him... graham... plowman...
work on h. p. lovecraft adaptations...
                     horror as a genre...
                                the music wins me over...
however spectacular the visuals are...
                               if the music isn't bone grinding -
unsettling the nerves -
well... that's like pop music when it's raining...
i guess: oh i guess jazz can capture more feelz
when it comes: when it's raining...
when it's lazily sun-dazzling with the impression
of an "underneath" sizzling sensation -
or melting butter - or for that matter melting chocolate...
or adding splashes of cornflour made in water
to a sauce and watching it thicken...
this recipe i will remember by heart...
i will have to at someone point...
but this dhal was quite sublime...

   scrap book recipe...
          a man in a kitchen...
               and in hell... the devil's mastery...
almost like a chemistry experiment...

       half and half: masoor and mung dal... lentils...
kabuli chana (chickpeas)...
    a bay leaf...
              3 cloves...
  a tsp of cumin coriander turmeric
                     chilly powder and another of kashmiri
   chilly powder
                chopped tomatoes
  coconut milk...
            onion ginger garlic
                spinach
      gochugaru flakes coriander for garnish...
veg and chicken stock...
                          ghee...
butternut squash...
                    cayenne pepper (1 tsp)...
    i was looking for a pinch of asafoetida...
i knew it was in the kitchen...
    alas... also know as a substitute for those
vegan cults that don't include eating onions
and garlic... or perhaps just onions...
    cinnamon stick? no...
but three decent pinches of a homemade
garam masala...
  and yes...

   https://ministryofcurry.com/moms-garam-masala/
is the only spice blend...
   the russians can have their nukes...
the americans can have their nukes...
i have an arsenal of the following spices and...
i'm feeling... like i just had a manicure done...
the only garam masala:
asafetida, bay leaves, black peppercorns,
black cardamom, cardamom, cumin seeds,
(sorry, no black cumin seeds),
      cinnamon, cloves, cordiander seeds,
dried chillies, fennel seeds, fenugreek seeds,
(mace? no mace)...
         nutmeg, poppy seeds, star anise...
turmeric...
          again: no stone flower...
well... that's almost covered it...
                it's not the recipe asks for black
mustard seeds... those i do have...

                   cult recipe and it says: who needs...
meat?! even i'm convinced...
god i do love a good steak tartar...
    anything ****** and oozing wriggly bits
of life - as tender and gelatin grizzly as a...
even the names: bleu... ooh... saignant...
  haha... medium: demi-anglais... what else?

the butchers rolling in their graves
when someone orders a steak: fini-bien...
                          or some other frankenstein of the kitchen...

coleman hawkins - the high and mighty hawk...
some guys were putting up a fence
for me and my neighbour - it only took 15 years
but who's counting - they were told to
cut out all the bushes and foliage in my garden...
so that they could get a straight line
and so the fence would be put up...
unlucky for my rosemary bush...

r.i.p. my rosemary bush...
        today i started to salvage the poor thing...
the newer shoots i placed in water for
a drink and hopefully 2 weeks from today
i might think about planting them back in
the ground... for the rest of the bush?
i had to freeze the rosemary...
all afternoon my fingers were scented with rosemary...
which is fine... when you're working
with a raw piece of lamb...
but i'm no walking and breathing and aching
lamb of god about to be hanging
on the cross...
                even through the soap...
an afternoon of my hands being heavily scented
with rosemary...

vivaldi can have spring and the other three
faces of "god"...
holst can have his mars and the other circle of hell...
but thank the high-flying-****
that jazz can capture a rainy day better
than that song: i'm only happy when it rains
by garbage...
            
  guess i'm not letting go...
         an active rebellion against classical music...
one jazz record after another and i can gravitate
to...ward... the entire e.p. being played...
none of that new wave harakiri diat l.p. scene -
much appreciated... but i always need to move
beyond the half-an-hour mark...

         then again: i can't see how jazz could
compensate for snow - snow on the exit format -
jazz doesn't - then again...
no, categorically...
                           if there's only a sly insert of drum...
no horns - the piano and some guitar -
  
   otherwise you can't go wrong with
joshua redman - back east...
         a modern classic - notably with zarafah...

speed-conversations - none clinging
to a cameo of a date...
                 fickle minded - always changing
the course of events that... nonetheless remain
intact on binding themselves to a blind will -
        
music and all these interpretations are my own -
too bad to see and have to work with
a cipher - what's behind this image -
what's behind that image -
at least music stands stark and shivering naked...
less chances to abide by some propaganda...

unless of course mathematics is to be given
the crown - i hardly think: one shouldn't really
think about music -
                one can never really fathom
the constraints and the escapees from these
constraints... these constant revisionary scribbling
over and skimming the orthodox:
brick-on-brick intricacies of: immoveable objects
being: nonetheless moved...

- i too am waiting for my libido to die off -
anytime soon... like right now...
no harem therefore "jazz hands" and the algebra
of "magic fingers"...
idle man and all that *** that could have been...
until that magnetism is steered off a cliff
of: not another tomorrow -
                    at least no ***** or *** doll upon
the horizon -
            no point getting intimate or personal...
only a few days back i found a weakness in
this exoskeleton -
standing in a shower... pouring running water
onto the back of my head...
i almost knelt and said my prayers from
the exhaustion of succumbing to this multiple-******
of nuance...
       right on the spot where
a higher evolution of a more, protruding occipital
bone: as i've heard it once before: being noted...
i'm waiting for my libido to **** itself off...
in the meantime no harem...
imagine my luck when it comes to
the wisdom served up by men like king solomon...
even by then:
this most exhausted man had
to settle for a swan's dignity in monogamy
with the queen of Sheba...

                 but it's hard to translate wisdom
when you have all the basic forebodings
already at your disposal... the harem will discover
***-toys and you will be...
the limp **** in the whole affair...

                 such hard-on feats of fear when it comes
to... two cakes too many
when all you've been asking for is, merely a slice...
jazz... i can't find
a clint eastwood in alcatraz...
or steve mcqueen in sagan...
               or witold pilecki in auschwitz...      
but i can find myself in jazz...
hummingbird or some, other, champagne flute
and that bothersome fly...
nothing against flies: everything against
mosquitos... i would **** those buggers with
the same joy of donning wool having
just sheered a sheep or two...

jazz and: the wriggling fish...
jazz and all the fish out of water...
i'd call them constipated ***** and lobsters
but... jazz and the wriggling fish...
jazz and smoking a cigarette to appreciate
the deaf centre point of night's culminations...
living close by to central london...
"walking in" and not feeling like
anybody important: or a tourist...

       if i wasn't a billy joel: i would most certainly
not want to be a bob dylan -
hard to be living the obscure with a cross
made up of iconography...

the applauded and the: billy joels' piano man meets
neil young's old man...
they shake hands and subsequently depart
where the crossroads begin, and end...

believe me when: i'm the last to be believed...
usher in a dozen penguins attired
to be... fizzy kosher dosh...
in all their napkins and bowtie-neck strangle 'em
into a hush of a bamboozle...

such the life the music the mathematics
of living in shackles - wriggly ol' ****** with
those improv. would-be-turns and...

how many words will it take for it to be clear...
i have nothing but rejoice at clinging
to my obscurity... primo amigo:
alea iacta est: too bad for me...
or too bad for my shadow...
                       faking being a gemini
in the horoscopes of fate and superstition...
shadow: mime out of the confines...

      these is my second chance at retaining
the crown of obscurity? is it?! is it?!

   to have to burden oneself with love...
akin to... well... if i were about to spoon her...
but no... i wanted to catch the 8 hour kipper....
but every time i would fall
to sleep... i'd fall asleep with a tarantula bite...
numb all over to one side...
because i was oh too willing to fall asleep
when clinging to her...
like a bracket fungus to trunk and core...
one side of me complete in numb...
which had a rubric of recitations
should all else not be true...

but *****! that slap in the face...
                             come to think of it...
i'd like something to eat...
less **** with... that could pinch me...
i'm starting to think that
being ganged up by a group of hyennas
is not such a bad way to go...
perhaps being mistaken for a tuna
when a shark attack is being
noted...
            hard to imagine
sharks or bears or lions as having
sadistic undercurrents to their day-in-day-out
beats...
  even sharks nibble but never gorge
and feast on... this cranium solid first and only
hope when it comes to god
not making mistakes when gambling...
the ******* roulette or a black jacks' "choice"
of cards...

i can't exactly "think" this out to appease
a gravitating en masse...
                       pour me another shot and
debackle! all in the faith and hope
of un-thinking thinking...
trying out this suction tenticle of the void...
replacing descartes' res cogitans with
res vanus... what is due: is due...

no more wisdom from me aged 34
as me aged 73... there's only rain and jazz...
i'm buying time...
concerning whether it would be even
remotely likely to appreciate jazz
when it's snowing... unlikely...
very much hell-bent unlikely...

      - who would have thought that peering
into an aquarium would have to,
become more entertaining that zombie-clad
watching a t.v....
what ever happened to the watching
a klepsydra... or the tick-toe-tightening
of seconds into minutes into hours...
dying from the skeleton diet of time
whenever catching-up: unaware with
the clock in the confines of:
old people not really...
no, not really, listening to coleman hawkins'
much of anything...

                     because this doesn't tease
the affections of the young...
like a trainspotting revamp might....
because there's, clearly no new dracula...
and there's no new: new....
                     i wait patiently like a salamander....
no easy picking no low hanging fruit...
no fatty boy'oh to matter...
         no leeching off the three-quarters
of                               the better part of the engineering
cohort that were behind
the manhattan bridge... or Malbork Castle...
and hands on hands: do touch...
the event horizon of a dead star...
                    in that: pulling fabric...
basic genesis... talking fire "misanthrope": "god"...
bushes outgrowing fungus when
it came to 1970s ***** flicks:
notably in fwench and italian...
                   prune the perm hair...
                             keep that afro on a leash!

these days ***** is half of the cure's nostalgia
and more...
onomatopoeia and...
    refining the contorts with painting...
and keeping the act on a hush...
               the lazy hands speaking
dozen **** cracks being discovered but
none being experienced...
bone the hand...
it's called a ****** just because
of oysters... it's called a ******
because of the clams and of the irises...
and because the tongue:
god... ever time i wanted it to exfoliate...
it's forever that timid tulip!

         what came of a ****** became a hand
and the cusp... and what would never
become a San Francisco needle hinge epidemic...

was anyone praying that
one direction would become the next rolling stones...
cougar: meow...
that **** jagger was going to be
the "reincarnated" harry styles?

           knock-knock... who's there?
a premonition... i.e. touch-wood...
base: i will require the wood to be touched
by bone - notably a crunch of the knuckle in how
the fist is formed / fathomed...

        otherwise known as the lap-lapping-dance-off
with a tongue wriggling in imitation
closure of a worm...
or a fighter for a boxing champ. contender...
belt-up... knot and noose down....
the new news is no: good skit...
i **** myself to fickle my shadow
whenever i see a hoopla or a trance inducing
recoil of the swinging dancing spare
of a: rope that's not leftover for
the dangling first come first served...

daydreaming zeppelins...
the day the elevated english man will fall...
and bring down the bowler hat with him...
touch the philosopher's stone and turn
that attache of good taste into an umbrella...
the same day i stop daydreaming
about zepplins...
will see me think of the anglo-saxon
as whittle brother... the younger Swabian...
and all part of the infuriated minor
Germany that found inkling to behave
like the nomad Yids...
and move... and move... and...
never the sort of people to conceive of a ship...
without also being receptive of carrying
an anchor!

then again...
                   monkey man albino and...
forever the one to follow the white rabbit back home.

half an hour? i don't know, i think it was more.
it felt like yoga for masochists by the end of
it... but then i was "repenting" for something
i did 2 nights ago... ****** off 6 times in
the space of a few hours to rekindle the memory
of that fatefall night in st. petersburg...
i ended up with the superficial palmal branch
aching (flexor / abductor pollicis brevis / opponens
pollicis)... basically the grip...
there is scaffold outside my window at the moment,
the roof is being fixed... it's march and
winter can still bite at you, esp. if you're a scaffold
post in the night...
            i swear, it must have been like 40 minutes
in this "yoga" pose...
        the concept of the anti-crucifix?
       it could have been it...
               buttocks perched on the windowsill,
feet crossed propped onto the arm support on
the chair... then the right hand gripping
a scaffold bar, then leaning toward:
what would be considered a dumb drunk trying
to do theatre by falling off a windowsill...
             but **** me! scaffold posts in england
and in march? you realise your hand can elevate itself
to the sort of grip that a crocodile jaw is capable
of... i was perched in this "yoga" pose for the already
stated 40 minutes or so...
                   i wasn't keen on impressing anyone
in the vicinity spying on my in the night...
          in the meantime i read the article about
cynthia nixon playing emily dickinson in her new
movie...
camilla long writing two critques at the movies,
the films? personal shopper starring
kirsten dunst... oh wait... stewar...
           and the revamp of beauty and the beast
starring emma watson...
    then it got weird as my grip on the sub-zero
metal pole of the scaffold tightened and i was
still dangling on a "cliff" edge of the windowsill...
(god, the things you do to write something,
    downing a raw egg and then jogging on
a treadmill would probably imply more to the writing
process... evidently i'm not that kind of person);
the next article? diana vishneva complaining
how current ballet dancers aren't gruelled to replenish
the standards of tradition...
              she's 40 pushing to state: i'll be dancing
till 60...      if only footballers had the same optimism
to knuckle-buck their craniums into another
dive... oh right... soccer... apologies for the trans-atlantic
confusion... tiptoeing into a foul tackle...
                   i don't know this fetish with mermaids...
i also fancied a ballerina... vertical splits... light as a feather...
kama sutra 2.0                   mermaids though?
   it's like this meme that was trending way back
in 2008... two pictures... mermaid on one side...
fish head with female genitals on the other...
  which would you pick?
                     saying that... i've seen bolshoi productions...
well... one... but one is enough after you've seen
the english ballet theatre in the royal albert hall
  performing swan lake...
more like a stampede of mutant centipedes...
or just wildebeasts... but i blame the venue for the stomping,
i could hardly hear the orchestra playing, but fair enough...
the royal opera house probably has better surface...
but then... the bolshoi production was pristine,
nearing silence akin to cats prancing...
                  what i am willing to consider is comparing
the bolshoi to the mariinsky...
            i have no idea how the two would compare,
first time i heard of this ballet house (pardon my ignorance
if you have heard of it prior to me, today)...
           and then it was onto sarah crompton's
article on the english national ballet...  
                     once again: i swear i heard a stampede
          of wildebeasts in the royal albert hall...  i'm not sure...
the surface was too hard? why was everyone clapping?
               i know that swans are a protected species
of birds under their patron that the queen is...
                a bit like that gymnastics question...
                                        i just heard a ******* massive
centipede wriggle with the number of swans
on the dancefloor... they play tennis in this arena,
so i don't know: too multi-purpose to allow a ballet
performance?
                 so back to the yoga pose... gripping the scaffold
bar and leaning off a windowsill with my feet propped
onto the arm support of the chair i'm currently
sitting on... finally! the former pain
                in the arm moved toward the
   flexor carpi ulnaris... and that was the end of
the "yoga" session... not that i feel guilty in the first place;
     just something that happened...
                     funny... if i held onto the scaffold beam
a little bit longer, i'd get to read pop album reviews:
   - james blunt (the afterlove)
                              - spiral stairs (doris and the daggers)
          - the dime notes (the dime notes)
           - zara larsson (so good)
                              - the jesus and the mary chain (damage and joy)
what?! they're still active?! **** me...
                       - spoon (hot thoughts)
       - charli xcx (number1angel).

we attached a meaning to life,planted peace and uprooted the strife
we had pleasures, we enjoyed our life we took no measures
risked falling off the cliffs gladly faced them dangers
but that was the point ,it wasn't living if we weren't believing
we could successfully turn the pages, make memories walking on the edges
we faced the challenge, we had to manage,
trekked through the sun till it was orange
You'd appreciate for we had the courage
we was buried in beating the current, we were hurried
to define our ambition, the mission was reaching the mirage
it was illusive,we were incisive, brothers fell out we were inclusive
we kept fighting and biting,made laws but we weren't abiding
mistakes we went on citing,tough choices we weren't deciding
the higher the ladder, the more life was harder
expected to lead by example,we had to sample life, at times lost the tempo
danced to beats affected the cardiacs, hit the streets mistaken for maniacs
evading defeat propelled to take cover for we were rebels,
running from criticisms coming at us harder than pebbles
we weren't famous but they knew us,ambassadors for the new earth
we were the weight,we were the scales, our actions were the bells
the story that everyone tells,we guided their trains for we were the rails,hickory dickory dock
we were the ship and yacht at every Dock,
the movies to watch and the stories to talk,
for we lit avenues from where they would walk
so the shines went interstellar,the inspiration to every fella
for we rode on luck and provided to many who lack
we were a drug to every dealer, some thought we were Rockefeller
took nothing for granted for we were hunted,
life was a charm so many enchanted we couldn't forget we were wanted
we stuck to the guns, saw it till the end, it was a fire to which we would fend
we had an entire generation and a legacy to defend
persistent to resistance,so much it defined our existence
we fought monsters and didn't give up,so that our world would get a revamp
we were peaceful warriors,we were notorious

A vessel with some water,
The proverbial impasse.
‘Tis often seen half empty,
Yet it seems a half full glass.

Who drank the last swallow from the half full glass?
Is optimism on the brink?
Will our pessimistic present pass?
So we can fill the glass and drink!
For all in optimistic camp
Can we insure the world's survival?
Can we, other gloomy souls revamp;
Stage a miracle revival?

Like a prophet or evangelist
Laying hands upon the crowd
A *****’s lips, once shunned, now kissed,
A beggar not too proud
To ask the rich to share some love
Or a grain of understanding.
Would manna, sent from Heav’n above
Restore belief in those demanding
Proof.  A sign or something else
To kindle hope and quench the fear
That our half full glass has shattered
And the end is drawing near.

And for those who suffer in the dark
Is Armageddon on its way?
Has the Devil gone and lit the spark
That precedes our judgment day?
There are cops committing ******
And crazies killing cops
Are the pessimists so positive
That the killing will not stop?
What then, could be life’s purpose
For those who have this view?
It seems that all the pessimists
Are a suicidal crew.

Is there then a cure for pessimists?
Or are they the smarter folk?
Are the optimists so blind
They cannot see the joke?
For what, if not a joke
Is a world without control
Did God put all he had on ‘odd’
And then say, “Let’r roll!?”
Every gambler has a system
‘Guaranteed to win’
God says, “Goodness conquers evil
Compassion conquers sin.”

But is His system failing,
As the pessimists believe?
Should we all fold, throw in our cards
Rise from our chairs and leave?
While the optimists are calling
Saving wealth they cannot spend
For you cannot take it with you
When you finally reach the end.

I have not the answer,
Though I’d opt for Half Full Glass
I want to believe in something
That gives us half a chance.
But speak out loud ye poets
If you think the same or not.
All entitled to a voice.
Our voice is all we’ve really got.

A vessel with some water,
The proverbial impasse.
‘Tis often seen half empty,
Yet it seems a half full glass.

Phil Lindsey 4/20/15

In the spectral mausoleum
Wherein the human's left me deserted;
I still wilt writeth transcendent poesy
Mine blood as the word's to be posted.

An anointed omnipresent
To luster her anticipation of mine proclivity;
She awaiteth me, behind the benevolence
As her optical's art painting's in Renoir relevance .

I revamp mine apparition
To maketh mineself to her more known;
She seeith mine black suit, unbuttoned shirt
She feeleth mine flesh, and strokes mine old bones.

All mine bad misgivings, she erases like as if at school
She's the teacher, I'm her student, though tis I breaketh rules;
Yet I do payeth attention, to this queen whoever she is
Yet thou must remember, this is all a dream, spurious wish!

Though tis just an illusion, I still hath highest Hope's
Because I'm not the other men, proudly others seeith that most;
As tis I shalt continue on, writing amour for one not around
Whoever she is, and who she might be, please release me from..

The ground................




©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

Two young lovers lie facing the moon
As they read lines of my muse passion
In other to discern the secret of my heart
Air of warm kisses kissed their thought
For they never parted not like we're fated to part

As petals of rose withered from my heart
Yet I am sorry to say I love you
For my mind is hungry and wait to devour you
as storm choruses your name into my heart
Maybe dead will be one to separate us at last

As the lilies attract so my love for you shine
jealousy flown away your love for my shrine
No deception for I filled your dream with kisses
As spinning ***** you reoccurred in my heart
I decide to go for the tree of passion will bear no fruit

In my heart I solely love you as a decorated thorns
Running still as water towards a turbine
Generating bewildered lights in our souls
As the energy continues to revamp our love
The springtide will make us fly as doves

Written by
Martin Ijir

A day off from school, and nothing to do.
So here goes nothing, another letter to you.

words uttered and regretted
but silent still-
just ghosting by,
leaving no kind of trail.

a series of letters,
you somehow bother to read.
a lack of responses,
to which I have "no need".

A dull sort of pattern:
lines and spaces-
ink and not-
yet with so much meaning,
that the world has forgot.

still, they drift off
some grow heavy, and sink straight in.
reluctantly fleeting,
cover blown.
Whispers heard.
All senses now, on full alert.
Wanting a reply, but not at such a cost.
Knowing I am undeserving,
yet deserving of all the loss.

A dull sort of kindness.
an unsugarcoated truth.
I can't help but wish,
I wasn't a disappointment to you.

I can't help but bother,
wishing you wouldn't even dare.
giving words such meaning-
even words such as "care".

I am a sad kind of poet-
yet most never know it.

Just that kid in the corner.
dark room,
never known her.

Others, how they claim to know me-
But my sculpted facade,
hand designed-
by the clear streak of tragedy.
that is all they see.

Center of attention.
laughed at, and never with.
Respect my form of hiding.
It is all I have left.

Shape me, & mold me.
ground me down-
stand me up-
Dusted remnants standing still.
Blinks and stares,
tear through the silent air.

A shake of annoyance.
A twist of my neck.
"can't you see this isn't you?"-
"how dare you think like that."-

You're right.
It's not me.-
As cliché, as that may be.

A puppet at your service-
Fix the outside.
Top performance so they say.
But just one look inside,
and not a single light of day
rusted metal, grit, & oil.  

Fix the strings,
of most importance.
Once broken, soon brand new.
Nice firm tug.
just to Test Performance-
Aesthetics
Appeasing Quality
Of course, Don't you see?

Why of course not,
I would never hurt you.

Tug 'n tighten. Pull the cord.
until the collar stills no more.
Too numb to feel it, Tired & Tried.
Drug back against my will-
Fighting just to close my eyes.

One door closes, another one opens.
keep them both closed.-
Can't you listen?
Too much noise.
I can't stand it.
The door stills. Oh, for a moment-
but is yanked free.
The laws of nature,
so kindly ignoring my only plea.

Reality's firm grip on that cold handle.
Never giving.
Never quelling.

The only note of my existence,
forcing me to note such memories.

They flood back in,
through hidden doors.
Seeking refuge,
from places once stored.
The door always locked-
.. oh so long before.
Now open, mocking.
Here to settle the only score.-
The only thing bothered to be accounted for.

Revamp this puppet,
play my strings.
Gears groan from overuse.
Oil thinning, straight to thin.
Disappearing from existence,-
getting lost too deep within.
Gears grind in dissatisfaction.
Angrily forced to play along-
with such a sad,
unheard,
unforgiving song.

Giving in. Giving up.
Finally, to the abuse.
Just my luck, so lost and alone.
Doing this all, on my very own.

Don't touch me.
I can't take it.
Dizzied from the noxious fumes-
the memories spit back,
toxic to my wounds.

Never resting
always scared
of what lurks "right over there".
Childish fears never quite disappeared.
Gruesome company.
to one already so lonely.

So she slips down the hallway,
hair covering her eyes.
Nervous & skittish,-
Her hearing on overdrive.
One last glance over her shoulder
before slipping just inside
Sliding down,
echoes resound.
Cold tile, sniffling nose.
Vaguely aware of the chill spreading in her toes.

Arms crossed tight, protecting what's left of within-
Reminiscent, barely so
of just one missing, true friend.

Finally safe, my breathing escapes.
paper full,
pen in hand,
smears of ink-
just some peculiar squiggles.
Lines stilled, spaces dots
Dashed & Dotted.
Ink & Not.

My mark on this world,
One that can't be forgot.
Time frozen in place-
A gift for me, that you can't seem to see.

You walk right on past.
Reluctantly so,
sneaking glances through the glass.
Everknowing of my presence,
& that I hide myself away.
To you it is a dark corner.
Not a haven, a place to gather my thoughts.
Sorth them out & string them along-
until I reach the coherency of a single thought.

Peace at last,
my mind can rest.
Demons at bay,
no silent regrets.

Oh me?
I'm just that kid in the corner.
Dark room,
you've never known her.

A sad poet I may be-
But sad to you, isn't sad to me.
A mere relief.
My saving grace.
Just one of the pieces, I choose to embrace.

But that is that.
And I am me.

not quite as wrong, as the world fathoms me to be.

****... i was just thinking about porridge...
no... not Fletcher, Ronnie Barker...
****... what was i thinking of?
Quaker Oats?
  it's not even funny... what was it?
ah...
         black Hollywood taking over...
Denzel doing his Zen and D-end ****...
Black Panther...
               Black Panther?!
ha ha... is that some sort of Pink Panther
spoof?!
  the Prodigy did a song for a movie...
one man army...
oh... right... you've forgotten its existence...
now we're getting all the activism revival
revamp?
    Black Panther is like Pink Panther....
a ******* joke....
                        does anyone even begin
to comprehend... Spawn?!
Spawn is the reason why Batman became
Lego...
                       honest to god,
scouts' honor...
                 wait wait... so Spawn is bleak?
you know, that Lethal Weapon II South Africa
exchange... but but.. you're bleak!
or whatever the best coordinate association is...
with the mister-race...
            who the **** wants to be
the Black Panther?!
all the crumpets / chiseled retrograde
        crackers...
      guess it's good i'm not slang
for milk0boy... ****** lactose intolerant?
too bad...
how about i **** off your ma ma?
                Black Panther is *******...
who wants to be Black Panther?
probably some educated counter to a Kanye West
commentator...
Spawn... all d-way...
              v-way... but you know...
we figured: difference are so that we get a chance
to matter...
          minstrel does the shuffle...
Black Panther my ***...
compared to Spawn?
            looks like...
the KKK embarked on an appeasement
treaty....
                compared to Spawn,
Black Panther,
it makes Dave Chappelle              
   look like, ******* michael mcintyre...
which is funny... funny...
only when eating chips
and being attacked by a flock
of seagulls...

oi... watch this... Black Panther
propagandists...
   who've never seen a minute's worth
of the film Spawn,
which could make any white boy say...
**** Batman, i wanna be Spawn.

wankers.
there's no culture war to be spoken of...
given that the said victories and losses
are so banal...
the, "war" hasn't even started...
and said people are claiming
either victories or losses...
            we haven't even started!

Grow,
Good morning, get up, get going, get out, get it?
Get giggity, giggly,
Great, get in, get quite, real g's move in silence, and gesticulations get goons gone,
Go ahead, go forth with great care, go far, go out, get lost, go back,
Grasp green garments,
Go on,

Respire,
Read rhetoric, read rhythm, read rhymes,
Read people,
Respond resplendently, require resolution,
Realize, rain rains, read rain rain gauge,
Risk rewards, run rapidly,  run rampantly, run triumphantly,
Rise up, rise on, ride horses, ride waves, ride on,
Red letter days,

Irked?
Inhale, intake, insure, inhibit,
Intuition informs insides,
Imitators idolize, I irk, irritate, insist Immaculate
Inspire innovation, incite celebration,
Inner id ingests infestations,
Ideal installed,

Move,
Make much of it, make mistakes, make mends, make merry, make cheer, make love, make peace,
Mind, mind manners, mind time, mind love, mind peace,
Move, move over, move up, move in, move out, move on,
More so, more smiles, more laughs, more life, more understanding, more peace, more love,
Marvelous magenta muse moves me,

Exhale,
Exhibit excellence, energize everyone,
Eat east, eat in, eat out, eat everywhere, with everyone,
Exhale, exit anger, exit stress, exit breath,
Enters euphoria, enters energy, with ease

Need,
Need no one, need nothing, only neo Nazis,
No, need necessities, need neurons, need Nutella, nourishment,
Now know knowledge, know profound power found in numbers, now know nothing

Restart
Reduce, reuse, recycle,
Reproduce,
Re-energize, refuel, revamp, repeat,

I stand with all those who fought for just cause
I give my ink to solidify their spirit
And energized their body and soul
I support their long walk to freedom

And hope they spread like dandelions
Drinking bowful water to quench their thirst
Which shall be hitchfree from slave guards
Please I need water to drink just a drink

I came from a community water is scarce
It is a trading commodity sold with pence
Dirt mud dances as we fetch
Alum so expensive only few can perch

We leech as fly just to get a drop
Ragging with thuds of defiance soul
Carry their cattle to drink the spring as a spoil
****** situation it turns and boil

As blood spreads so we drink
I need a water as a sink
Please come to my community and make a drill so we wouldn't be sick
In long run life it will save and stalk

Give a simple drop so we can cook
For years I feed on fruits that are poison
Cut in diseases of fluke worms
And guinea worms drag for a feed

They chase for spaces as they soul rely
I am a living dead my body reply
Waiting for last drop perhaps it may revamp as it rain
My foreclosure day might be dark

Please a water might sing thousands of song
For if I give my soul away I hope my message will reach many and touch their hearts to give us a drop as gong

by Martin Ijir

Let me place an indent,
Of my intent to the Supreme,
And plead Him to bless,
Latest version of life’s software.

My hardware turned soft,
Due to wear and tear,
And software hardened,
Long after ageing years,
I long to log in an indent,
For I belong to you for long,
Oh my dear kind life maker,
Take me with you along.

My memory space is too short,
To live long and prolong,
Please upgrade my motherboard,
From megabyte into gigabyte,
With a backup chip to guard me,
From bothering risk of data loss,
Oh lord! It is time to revamp,
My life’s biometric system.

Empower me to recall,
The memory of my past life.
Let me learn from the lessons,
Of my past to avoid future strife.
And use my yester skills,
For the rest best of life.
Let there be no sinning and sinners,
Wind up the office of hell as well.

Develop and telecast bio-software,
With multiple options to live or leave,
Sign up, sign in and sign out,
Cut, copy, paste and delete,
Log in, log out and log off,
And more such touch skin tabs to press.

May you install ante virus software?
To bind body and soul at will.
For soul is the sole software of physics
Of thy creation and recreation.

yet another savage tragedy
ravages, emotionally,
the trap queens in bandages
screaming to their bae’s
about the vastness of calamities
blunt tips glow showing smoke blown
extensions flowing growing tired of
liars on the youtube
seeking gifs and snap-chat
besties to wrestle
with the cultural festivities
being given proclivity
to policy lunacy –
smart phone glued
claw hand and shrewdly
planning to revamp the system
with hello kitty ***** twisters
and metrosexual waterfall trips…
it’s truly a pip
these auto-tuned post baby-boomers
no relations to crooners
thinking the sooners are only
Oklahoma….
My youth tirade
is partly a parade
like a brass band on Burbon
playing unafraid –