Let me tell you of who I killed
Just to maintain the order inside this tower

A petty and dark person once lurked
At the deepest and darkest corner of my core
Uhm, I mean the tower's core

That petty and dark person,
shall we call her as depression
Tried to climb at the top of the tower
and attempted to break the order

She bounded my heart.. I mean the core with chains
Wants to climb on top, embed my brains
with thought of self infliction and suicide
She really wants to see someone die
and oh yes she did
because yes she died

I killed her
Coz no one can mess with the tower's order

And the story goes like this
I have then ordered for the order of nights to **** her
once she gets on top and touches the border
her life would soon be over

But she was a fighter, I admit
Several knights have fallen to a defeat
Cast down to an eternal pit
of negativity that she submits

Confidence, Self-worth, Joy
are few of the heroes that have first fallen
Followed by logic, intelligence, pride and sense
Until little by little she was winning

The top of the tower she was conquering

then the tower was slowly changing
cue in isolation and self condemnation

But oh boy
when she thought she had finally won
when she thought the war was finally over
Awakens my last remaining fighter
that was once in a slumber
the last remaining member of the knights order
and she is up to bring back the tower's lost order!

Shall I call this knight HOPE
small and fragile as she seems,
but boy she was so dope

Everytime depression knocks her down
HOPE would break and scatter all around
But dont get me wrong, hope was not losing
coz this is her type of fighting
and by this she was actually winning

Her scatted pieces that trailed every corner
Shone brightly even at the pits of negativity
The light became a guide
A path that let out her comrades from the pit

Now everything in the tower was shining
Even the petty and dark depression was submitting

For darkness can never win over light
Thus mark depression's era as over
I killed her
or I may have not

maybe she will be back
but let me tell her this
Let me tell you this
I have a great fighter
and once she is still alive
It will never be over
I will keep fighting whoever want to take over my tower
Coz if the light of hope is still there
my life, I will never let it be over

The fridge droned between the sound
of her impaired footsteps across
the 600 grit linoleum floor. She ran
my palms against the cave-like walls.
Eroded paint bubbling like balloons
before bursting, flattening beneath
her touch. She felt the key rack
with more keys than a piano store,
cork board with porcupine thumbtacks,
and the thin edge of the Disney calendar
beside the light switch. Patting the blood
off on her pant leg, she flipped the switch.
With her sleeve, she brushed crushed Oreos
from the table and sat. Scatted about
the stained mahogany was a few National
ENQUIRER subscription cards, used napkins,
and an overdue bank notice. Sliding the chair
back, she sulked to the switch and flipped it
back.

The weekend was great the time away was brill, I hired me a cowboy builder to make me something durable.

I turned on the lights to see such a mess with only half made structures and an old feather bed.

I looked up and up and saw I was down a roof. So I orded one a new. A big clear dome to be set up on top.

Stepping around dodging dirt, earth and such. What a lovely site to see it just scatted as such. The rains had been bad, hitting long, hard and fast but lucky for me as my pond was now topped.

I looked around and thought ''hey this place would look good if I set up a ball'' , so out came my disco set, lights. Whistles and bells galore.

As I looked ever closer I spotted thier was nests, bugs, creepy crawly things  all manner of other beings living in, out and around my house.

But now my place looked good all it needed was friends, so out went the call for fun times for all. So it started with one, then two and before we knew it was brimming with tons

I woke up in bed all bruised and sore. Thinking ''what a night that was'' then I  sat up and swore as I imagined the bill.

What if I told you
That when the going gets tough
You don't have to give up?
No **** Sherlock!

What if I told you
That you can hold onto something you care about?
Something that makes you crack a smile.
Cracked like dried skin

But all you do is brush it off
Because that is what makes you all sealed up.
Your x's give you a reason to lock up your house.
You shut the blinds to your beautiful mind and write poetry.

Well you keep writing poetry
Because that is way hot
Hotter than my skin temperature when I asked you on a date.

I feel for you pretty hard.
Hard like the diamonds that are scatted in your irises.
They glisten in the sun with your delicate hair
Getting in my mouth?

Baby I don't wanna have my way with you.
I wanna gain your trust
We would start with trust falls
Then move up to whispering in your ear
"There is a hair on your ****"

I wanna know what peeves you off
And where you are ticklish.
I wanna laugh our lives away

I wanna hold your hips
Under the street lights that scattered  downtown and say,
"I kind of like you miss, is it just me or am I ******* crazy."
Our ability to be spontaneous makes us feel alive.

I know how easy it is to give up
But the simple act isn't so fun.
I know you are going to hate this
But I’m not going anywhere
I’m not giving up like all of the ghosts surrounding your heart.

I'm going to be that one guy
That will picket outside your house
So you can open those blinds
And come outside

Now let’s kick back, relax
And let’s find out.
How on earth did you get those diamonds in your eyes?

A knight of honour, thought and brimming with lore. Three lives he lives no life at all.

Flaws he as, no ceiling thou, walls abound to direct or ensnare.

Yet plenty stop, shame they only stare.

Awaiting calls from distant shores to find the peace hes striven for to travel the world to see a fresh to kindle renewal.

Families split torn for apart shorn in twain and scatted far, new lines added all raised in praise to come togeather in song to hearth, heaven and hearth.

She just lays there still with a crooked smile holding a bouquet of roses in her cold hands. The accentuated brightness in her cheeks is all I can notice over anything else. It's three in the afternoon and I can only imagine the sun to be hot on her skin as she lays there motionless. I now in this point of time stand in front of a crowd holding up a piece of paper that was previously compulsively folded to about as small as I could possibly get it. Honestly I never ever wanted to open it again.

Their eyes all fixated on me, drawing for an emotional response. I felt an overwhelming responsibility to say what the others could not but even then I found myself drifting into a daze of absolute apathy. My mind was far too withdrawn, I must confess. I sought refuge behind my own eyes. I felt the distance becoming me. I found myself taking in the scenery, I wanted to remember the day as it was and nothing more. My tendency to romanticize has left my eyes sore.

All I could think was everything seemed so green and it was far too bright given the circumstance at hand. The trees looked young with age and I thought it to be kind of ironic given where I'm at. Honestly I wanted so dreadfully bad for God to cry when I could not. I felt wrong for not shedding a single tear when she passed, but never did I question that I was the one who was shook the most.

So here I am utterly numb examining the stitches on a suit I've worn once prior. This suit once tied with wonderful memories of the sacred bond of my parents marriage, now tainted with a day that shall only be recalled as a day of departure. I asked why but thought it to be all too meaningless, a gesture almost but I thought what was the point of it all? no one could ever possibly tell me what this all could mean, they lacked the proper experience to do so.  Death shook the hearts of so many, what made me so special? My overwhelming feeling of self importance played sweet delusions in my head, suddenly I was alone among many, and lacked the ability to connect with anyone truly. From that point on I was acting.

I felt so very alone and saw it as a product of an unfair Gods doing. Nothing on this earth could have made my hands stop sweating in the heat of it all, almost as if they were crying when my eyes could not. The paper I was holding became smeared with sweat and what I wrote was barely even legible after that. My mouth is so dry and my throat won't stop choking up, I can barely speak.  

I look to the crowd and draw no emotional response, I am so alone, I see this now. The echo of despair bounces against the walls of my mind, it's settling in all at once and I begin to lose my ability to even talk. The priest comes to relieve me of this heavy task of reading underneath such emotional pressure and guides me to my seat. I am shaking and he takes what I wrote to honor her, the least I could have done after all she did for me was finish reading that **** letter!

He carries on in my place, his intentions I like to believe were pure while assisting me onto this next branch of my life, he could have never known the branch was bound to break, he could have never known how his actions would traumatize me. With that seemingly kind gesture of finishing my speech in my place, he started the beginning of all my irrational fears, he instilled my phobia of accomplishment. Echoing louder than all the other nonsense fears and delusions that found themselves bottled up in the new found battleground that was my head. He was a scapegoat to direct all the blame and give me a reason, if I couldn't read one measly letter and give that speech I wrote to honor her departure, how could I ever accomplish anything ever? The one thing I needed to do I couldn't even finish, I was weak and I knew it. Absolutely and completely unprepared for the conditioning that was to take place in the near coming future. I was nothing without her and I knew that, deeper now than ever before.

I can only describe the feeling as when you're having a nightmare and you become so afraid you wake up in shock, shaking in fear, but I couldn't wake up no matter what I did. I pinched myself to add to the cruel concrete of reality, to assure myself all of this was real and with doing so I felt a grave dread sinking in me when I didn't wake in a fright that I so desperately craved, I was stuck here in this no good reality. My life had become an on going paralysis from that point on.

The funeral progression came and went and the woman I once saw as my mother was just a memory and a fading one at that. I didn't know what I felt, there was an indistinct numbness and I couldn't really understand any of my emotions. It was my first time experiencing true apathy. I kissed her still cheek warmed by the harsh sun, threw soil on the coffin and watched as the people left to go on with their lives, maybe I should have followed in their steps but as she sank into the ground apart of me did as well.

I wen't through the motions that were to come. I made appearances and I shook so many hands, shared countless embraces, so many forms of condolences offered my way but I could feel nothing. I was a hand to hold and a mask to bury all your guilts. I must have been a skilled actor or everyone is as self absorbed as I was. They lacked the empathy to understand how anyone besides their selves felt. No one knew how truly empty I was becoming.

I wore a mask, first of many I must say, see you needed to be able to act just to avoid people using you. They didn't ask how I was holding up because of general concern, they only asked to put their own guilt at rest, go through the motions and pretend to be sad, so they don't feel like the horrible people they actually really are. Maybe I picked up on all that guilt and transcended the mold of my own emotional limits but it was hopeless.

They related everything to themselves and how they felt about it, they seemingly had the mental capacity of apes and were all trapped in their heads just as much as I was. Thinking back nothing existed during that time to fix how I felt, or mend all the pain I had been feeling.

Many condolences were offered and the fridge filled more and more with food that my increasingly lacking appetite and the settling sickness I felt in my gut telling me this was all wrong. "How could food possibly make the loss of a life better?" I thought resentfully.
I looked for a place to direct all the blame I could but was left with finger pointing back at me, I was alone, grieving and all I could feel was overwhelming guilt. A guilt so astounding, so large of a package, I could compare it to holding the sun on your shoulders, with immense weight and searing hot pain coursing through my veins. A weight so crushing it felt like I was going to be obliterated into dust scatted across the far corners of the cosmos in a single second. I kept feeling like I was going to break any second but held a calm composure as if it were my job. Now the obvious answer was to find an escape, to redirect this madness, to give relief to the anguish I had felt. I didn't want to ever feel pain of that caliber ever again, and I was going to do everything to assure that but how I ask.. How could one ever have a clear conscience, when they felt guilty for things they had not even done?

****** off and get a coffee, leave me in my chair
alone to watch the waves and bones
and the fractured wind-washed water stones
a canvas canute,  imperious I command the tide,
go back I say, come forth no more,
I speak therefore you must abide
and stand astride as the rushing waters flee my hand
retreating from the scatted margin land  
they fear my wrath, and plot amongst themselves in bubbled froth
regrouped replenished forces gather forth to rush and overtake my seat
wet and bloodied but unbowed I hold my ground and kick my soaking feet
neither of us is willing to admit defeat

Beneath infertile fields,
              where the breath seeping
beyond view would suffocate
the life of mans impoverished
                                           wondering.

Curiosity was a misconception
             what was submerged was
not as above. For eggs lay dormant
feeding on the impoverished fumes.
Like lullabies grazing upon it
                                              slumbering.

But local folk were wiser upon the
land, greeting the field from afar.
      For what was legend was fact instead.
When the earth did breath with rumbling
discontent they knew the land was ready
to birth new life from fields of purgatory.

Majestic wings flew from afar,
                 and villagers gazed at
this beauty of imagining, as bones
scatted like seed over a field of infertile
                                           hallucinations.
But where some dreams die, one awakens.

As the earth heaves like a womb being
awoken by birth, so seeps the blood of
the earth, alight in a concussion of vivid
hues of fire and life,
                                 graced by eyes afar.

Flame danced around this new birth,
          as it inhaled the flame, expelling
                a fountain of new born breath.
And the villagers cheered, the new born
looked, but the mother knew that there was
          nothing to fear for this place was safe.

A tradition of old, letting those who dare
wonder, treasure hunters, armies had tried
to collect the bounty of this land,  for with
birth comes riches from deep in the earth.
          But the villagers had the wealth of
seeing this every few hundred years.

But the dragon always paid its debt,
       as wings of frail flight learned the
                    dynamics of wind and wings.
A hand gestured to the well, and falling
a bountiful harvest of gem stones.
like a rainbow finding its place of birth,
so many filled the sky with there descent.

And then as before and times long ago.
       with eyes adjusted to not gaze on the
field, a mother does neatly once again
hide her worth beneath the earth.
          So long from now a new child will
see the happiness of a mother on infertile earth.

A litter of potpourri petals scatted along my 10:00am floor. They lost their vibrancy and sense of worth almost as fast as i did.
Yet every now and then a new bud will bloom, crisp and curled edges followed by a  
bright and deeply coloured centre. This beauty surrounded by a dark dirt wouldn't be
complete without a tiny bug or two, and those minuscule pests are somehow my
favourite feature.
Or was it her?
Blonde with a bad haircut she can't quite grow out, yet she is  
still always progressing. I only wish to shower her in nosegay and tell her all will be okay.
Though she will never believe me, not until she allows a certain someone a seat at the table and
confronts them for what they are. She will glare with glowing eyes and ask every
question that deserves to be answered.
She can't yet say goodbye. But one day she will.

scatted, broken
fixed, open
erase, write over,
speak out, unspoken,
sing, im heard,
write, read
Language

i used to make since
i used to have a plan
until the world blew up
and scatted dreams across the land

After struggling to accept my insomina, I realised that there was no point in forcing my sleep and so I just laid there in dark staring at the ceiling awaiting, my sleep.
As the seconds go by I submerge deeper and deeper into my thoughts 
Kinda like meditation, with scatted emtions and memories
Like seeds on an open field.
This rapid thinking eventually lead to a feeling of reminiscence
Envying the feeling of having a clear mind, wanting to have some sort of control over sufficating thoughts and emotions which contribute to my ever rising anxiety. Missing the uncontrolable yet comfortbale feeling of drowsiness that indicates that my sleep is near 
After going through a sea of emotions, I tire myself out and hear muffled sounds of birds chirping and dogs barking, signs of a new day arriving.
And that's when I start to lose control, slowly but surely. My mind is now at ease and I am at peace with my demons, my movements became timid my heavy eyes were shut. And "finally"
I whispered. I fell asleep.

INT - JULIAS' HOUSE - THE BLANK ROOM - AUTUMN EVENING

Pick teeth in maw
shuttering ;
I imagine you
Minotaur

You mail me voices
you unmend each night
I clothe the window
but you are brighter
you fill

I replenished your alter
re-burdened the sill
new meats from the Butcher
it's quite an arrangement
for a carnival such as yourself

A fortunes soil of gutting
it's the best I'm willing to offer
a meal
a wealth
so here it is
a tilt to your health
I back out of the room
I close the light
blackout
                                                  ­         CUT TO :

ANOTHER DAY - WORLD AT PLIGHT

I dress up my morning
and enter the room
a tiding,
a horror,
a vacuum !

You have scatted and cast
and made gore of my gift ;
made rent and wipings of the curtains
made leavings off of an ill stomach

What can I give you ?
how much more ?
how may I appease you
my Minotaur ?

Thelonius Reborn as the Dee Oh Double Gee

If we rhyme metaphorically , reach back historically, spit out new styles  just like Miles, compose tunes that Trane, John Coltrane, would be proud to compile, or like the Bird, Charlie Parker, bravely brake rules, take take take, the music apart, do you  honor Darwinian progress? Do you demand excellent art? Then you might might be from Hip- Hop,  yeah, that's where many geniuses start. The way each style, with its own honed sharpened edge, achieved unique prominence,  it’s just Chi Town Commonsense.
It's simple, it's like nature, there is no fakers, take Kanye West or Chet Baker. Satchmo begets Biggy, Tupac was influenced by Dizzy. Our Discerning ears are blessed each time new evolutions arise, that redesign and define, unleashing musical highs with no conpromise. Parallels and similarities to cool people like you should be no suprise. Stretching art just for art's sake, eyes eyes eyes, on no other prize.
They got Words and Chords fired with a furious frenzy and a ferocious fluidity. Lines and rhymes scatted so scathingly slow they create this surreal serenity. It Might have you boppin to Hampton, Sir Duke , or Miss Ella? Or tip you to trippin on Twista,  Tribe Quest, Rockafella.
Monk and Snoop, Thelonius and the  D. O. Double G ,they both got game.. Basie the Count, The Clan of Wu Tang, the same. Dedicating days, weeks, even years carefully, lovingly crafting perfection. Giants, and I do mean Giants,  of Hip- Hop and Jazz,share that improvisational connection.
But alas, amidst greatness we are graced, and humbly  each day,I say, Let's embrace the soulful caress that each genre conveys. That Cool Cat may take hip- hop, that Pretty Lady may take jazz, or you can twist the order around. Cause each delivers a pleasure that is non- stop, and that, my amazing people,  is How Music should Sound!!
Bobby O




◦

Thelonious  Reborn as the Dee Oh Double Gee

If we rhyme metaphorically , reach back historically, spit out new styles  just like Miles, compose tunes that Trane, John Coltrane, would b proud to compile, or like the Bird, Charlie Parker, bravely brake rules, take take take, the music apart, do you  honor Darwinian progress? Do you demand excellent art? Then you might might b from Hip- Hop,  yeah, that's where many geniuses start.
It's simple, it's like nature, there is no fakers, take Kanye West or Chet Baker. Satchmo begets Biggy, Tupac was influenced by Dizzy. Discerning ears are blessed each time new evolutions arise, that redesign and define, unleashing musical highs with no conpromise. Parallels and similarities to cool people like you shud b no suprise. Stretching art just for art's sake, eyes eyes eyes, on no other prize.
Words and Chords fired with a furious frenzy and a ferocious fluidity. Lines and rhymes scatted so scathingly slow they create this surreal serenity. Might have you boppin to Hampton, Sir Duke , or Miss Ella? Or tip you to trippin on Twista,  Tribe Quest, Rockafella.
Monk and Snoop, Thelonius and the  D. O. Double G ,they both got game.. Basie the Count, Clan of Wu Tang, the same. Dedicating days, weeks, even years carefully, lovingly crafting perfection. Giants, and I do mean Giants,  of Hip- Hop and Jazz,share that improvisational connection.
But alas, amidst greatness we are graced, and humbly  each day,I say, Let's embrace the soulful caress that each genre conveys. That Cool Cat may take hip- hop, that Pretty Lady may take jazz, or you can twist the order around. Cause each delivers a pleasure that is non- stop, and that, my amazing people,  is How Music should Sound!!
Bobby O




◦