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Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

From America I have gone home to Africa
I jumped the Atlantic Ocean in one single African hop and skip
Then I landed to Senegal at a point of no return
Where the slaves could not return home once stepped there
Me I have stepped there from a long journey traversing the
World in search of dystopia that mirror man and his folly
Wondrous dystopia that mirror woman and her vices
I passed the point of no return into Senegal, Nocturnes
Which we call in English parlance crepuscular voyages
I met Leopold Sedar Senghor singing nocturnes
He warned me from temerarious reading of Marxism
I said thank you to him for his concern
I asked him of where I could get Marriama Ba
And her pipe ******* Brother Sembene Ousmane
He declined to answer me; he said he is not a brother’s keeper
I got flummoxed so much as in my heart
I terribly wanted to meet Marriama Ba
For she had promised to chant a scarlet song for me
A song which I would cherish its attack
On the cacotopia of an African women in Islam,
And also Sembene Ousmane
I wanted also to smoke his pipe; as I yearn for nicotinic utopia
As we could heartily talk the extreme happiness
Of unionized railway workers in bits of wood
That makes the torso of gods in Xala, Cedo
As the African hunter from the Babukusu Clan of bawambwa
In the land of Senegal could struggle to **** a mangy dog for us.

Any way; gods forgive the poet Sedar Senghor
I crossed in to Nigeria to the city of Lagos
I saw a tall man with white hair and white beards,
I was told Alfred Nobel Gave him an award
For keeping his beards and hairs white,
I was told he was a Nigerian god of Yoruba poetry
He kept on singing from street to street that;
A good name is better tyranny of snobbish taste
The man died, season of anomie, you must be forth by dawn !
I feared to talk to him for he violently looked,
But instead I confined myself to my thespic girlfriend
From Anambra state in northwestern Nigeria
She was a graduate student of University of Nsukka
Her name is Oge Ogoye, she is beautiful and ****
Charming and warm; beauteous individuality
Her beauty campaigns successfully to the palace of men
Without an orator in the bandwagon; O! Sweet Ogoye!
She took me to Port Harcourt the capital city of Biafra
When it was a country; a communist state,
I met Christopher Ogkibo and Chinua Achebe
Both carrying the machines guns
Fighting a secessionist war of Biafra
That wanted to give the socialist tribe of Igbos
A full independent state alongside federal republic of Nigeria
Christopher Ogkibo gave me the gun
That I help him to fight the tribal war
I told him no, I am a poet first then an African
And my tribe comes last
I can not take the gun
To fight a tribal war; tribal cleansing? No way!
Achebe got annoyed with me
In a feat of jealousy ire
He pulled out two books of poetry from his hat;
Be aware soul brother and Girls at a war
He recited to us the poems from each book
The poems that echoed Igbo messages of dystopia
I and Oge Ogoye in an askance
We looked and mused.

I kissed Ogoye and told her bye bye!
I began running to Kenya for the evening had fallen
And from the hills of Biafra I could see my mother’s kitchen
My mother coming in and going out of it
The smoke coming out through the ruffian thatches
Sign of my mother cooking the seasoned hoof of a cow
And sorghum ugali cured by cassava,
I ran faster and faster passing by Uganda
Lest my elder brother may finish Ugali for me
I suddenly pumped in to two men
Running opposite my direction
They were also running to their homes in Uganda
Taban Lo Liyong and Okot p’Bitek
Taban wielding his book of poetry;
Another ****** Dead
While Okot was running with Song of Lawino
In his left hand
They were running away from the University
The University of Nairobi; Chris Wanjala was chasing them
He was wielding a Maasai truncheon in his hand
With an aim of hitting Taban Reneket Lo Liyong
Because him Taban and Okot p’ Bitek
Had refused to stand on the points of literature
But instead they were eating a lot of Ugali
At university of Nairobi, denying Wanjala
An opportunity to get satisfied, he was starving
Wanjala was swearing to himself as he chased them
That he must chase them up to Uganda
In the land where they were born
So that he can get intellectual leeway
To breed his poetic utopia as he nurses tribal cacotopia
To achieve east African thespic utopia
In the literary desert.

Thank you for your audience!
An African Queen
Senegal what do I know of that country
But I have sailed past her coast, alas, she
Is married to Dakar nothing I can do.
She spoke French the tall lady and sounded
***, my language seems like a bulldozer
Flattening a Palestinian home so I smiled and
Said little dismayed over my lack of speech
When it imperative to make injustice heard.

Tall she was walked like a gazelle she worked
At a place where she didn't had to be up
At seven in the morning and anyway she was
Not from Senegal, it was Senegal I loved
My ship doesn't sail her way, but I whisper her
Name Senegal, Senegal into the African breeze
An African Queen
Senegal what do I know of that country
But I have sailed past her coast, alas, she
Is married to Dakar nothing I can do.
She spoke French the tall lady and sounded
****, my language seems like a bulldozer
Flattening a Palestinian home so I smiled and
Said little dismayed over my lack of speech
When it imperative to make injustice heard.

Tall she was walked like a gazelle she worked
At a place where she didn't had to be up
At seven in the morning and anyway she was
Not from Senegal, it was Senegal I loved
My ship doesn't sail her way, but I whisper her
Name Senegal, Senegal into the African breeze
AAron Roz May 2018
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THE RAT AND THE PREGNANT WOMAN


A story poem

BY

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)



Dedicated to;
My mother Neddy Nabisino Mayende Kuloba Makhakara
And her mother Maritini Nabengele Nasenya Mulemia Namugugu Ilungu wa Wenwa.
The story telling power of these two ladies is the primary source of my passion and love for humorous and peace bettling stories. I owe them all the recognitions.







OPENING SONG
How do I start telling this story that I got from my
Grandmothers when sited around the fire yard in the evening?
I don’t know how to start surely,
For to day I am very shy; all of your eyes
Are on me, looking at me like ocean of looking organs
But let me embolden my self with the belt
Of a story teller that my grand father gave me
And commanded me to preach peace
Through story telling in every place I go
So my spiritual service to humanity is telling stories
Is to soothe and heal wounds of humanity
By softly telling peaceful stories
Let me then cough to clear my voice and start;

Long time ago, but not very long time
Some where between the centuries of twelve hundred
And seventeen hundred after the death of the other Jewish
Story teller who died without a wife, who died on the cross
But others say he died on the stake, his name was Jesus,
There existed only two kingdoms in land which is known today
As Bukusu land found in the present east Africa or Indian Ocean coastal Africa,
The first occupants of this vast land is the sons and daughters of Babukusu
Or the ones who like selling ironsmith products
And hence the name the people of Bukusu; the people who sell,
The two kingdoms were the Kingdom of muntu and the kingdom of manani
The citizens in the kingdom of muntu were short men and short women
Handsome and beautiful, slender and not assertive in their physical disposition
But the citizens of the kingdom of manani were all cyclopic,
In their everything; the manner of walking, talking farting, micturating
Farming, breathing, snoring, smiling, singing, whispering
Their whisper was a noisy as the tropical thunderclap
They were tall men and tall women, very tall
Their young person was as short as the tallest
Person in the kingdom of muntu,
When one of the citizen of manani snores
All the citizens of Muntu along together with,
Their king Walumoli wa Muntu had no option
But remain awake throughout the night,
Because the cacophony of a snore from
The sleeping courts of Manani was not bearable,

On many occasions Walumoli wa Muntu
The conscientious king of the muntu kingdom
Had arranged to talk to Silinki wa Namunguba
The ostensible king of the Manani Kingdom
About the cacophonous sleep robbing
Snores of daughters and sons in neighbour kingdom of Manani
Only to cow and chicken away in a feat of prudence
Lest Silinki wa Namunguba will suspect him for being
A night runner or a thief of *** perhaps
Who roams his compound during the wee of the night
In hunt of any of Namunguba’s wife maybe
Perchance having gone out for a mid-night *******,
This is how legendary snores of the sons and daughters
Of Silinki wa Namunguba the king of Manani
Has remained unchecked for ever till today,

One time an ugly passer by happened to be seen
Traversing the kingdom of muntu
In the early afternoon some two
Hours after Walumoli the king
Had just cleared the last plate
Of the mid day meal from
His last wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
He always eats her food last in the afternoon
Because it comes on the table steaming youthfulness
He loves his Khatembete wife, the wife of his old age
The wife he married by use and show of the royal regalia
The powers and dignity of the king of muntu
He married her when he his a king, the scepter in his hand,

Going back to the ugly passer by
It was never known where he came from
Not from the east where the Indian Ocean is
Not from the west where the vastness of the land
Of black people of Baganda and Bacongo
Baigbo and Bayoruba or Bafulana of Nigeria
Or the sons of Madiokor Ngoni Diop in the Senegal,
Not from the south from shaka the Zulu and Mandella the wise one
Not from north in the land of Dinka and Nuer, Ethiopian Jewish and the Egyptians,
The passerby was ugly and from no where, in a dress and
A very ***** dress that fumed out a malodorously stenching reek
He was a man in attires of a woman; this was a taboo in the land of muntu
He was left handed and a heavy weight stammerer, with an appalling
Protuberation of   a hunched back, an enormous hunchback
Enmassing entired of his masculine shoulders,
When the wind blew his loose dress followed it
Leaving the man’s thighs and then bossom naked,
Leading bystanders to a strange discovery; he was not circumcised
He was old like any other father, he had beards
But not yet circumcised, his ***** ends in corkscrew of a sheath,
This was a taboo in the land of muntu, in the kingdom of muntu
Which Walumoli wa Muntu the son of Mukitang’a Mutukuika ruled
For the spirits, gods and ancestors as well as foremen of the kingdom
Behooved that all male offsprings of the kingdom of muntu
Whether born in marriage or out of the wedlock
Born the blood or born as a ******* must and must be
Circumcised in the early teen hood
They must be circumcised before they grow the hairs
On the face, on the chest, in the scapula and on the areas
Surrounding the testicles, the **** and the endings of the backbone,
The man again had six fingers on the legs and on the hands
He walks slowly like a porcupine, his dress was in tartars
He was violent to every one he met
Insulting old people and old women with words
Of bad manners not used in the kingdom of muntu,
He terrified and beat young children, including the royal children
And grand children of Walumoli the king of muntu
He again had to beat and chase nine young virgins
Who had come from the palace of Walumoli the king of Muntu
Away from the forest when they picking fire wood
As well as playing a game of hide and seek with other palace lads,
The ugly passer by then chased to get hold of the
Nalukosi the first born daughter of
Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
The beloved last wife of the king of Muntu
All other virgins ran home, but Nalukosi remained behind
In the inextricable grip of the ugly passer by
She screamed with hysteria of a hypochondriac
She screamed and kicked with her wholesome mighty
The stubborn passer by never left her alone
She gnawed the ugly passer by with
Her girlish claws of her fingernails
But is like the passer by was mentally disordered
He was a ******* of some time
He derived some pleasure and instead
Enjoyed the girlish scratches of his captive,
Before the eight running virgins reached the palace
Together with their companions, the playmate lads
The shrilling scream of the captive Nalukosi
Was sharply heard at the palace, first by King Walumoli
Who called his wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
To come out of the hut, the kitchen and help to listen,
Immediately Mukisu wa Mujonji the palace keeper surfaced
His face displayed genuine askance of an adept military man
Whose martial arts have rusted for a week without usage
He confirmed to the king that the cry from the forest
Is of the one from this royal home of your majesty the king
And none other than the ****** princes Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The pride of her father, the eye of the palace,
Without hesitation the king permitted the wallabying Mukisu ,
Permission to run in a military dint and find out whatever that
Was eating Nalukosi Mukoyonjo the familial heart of the king,
Mukisu wa Mujonji who was clearly known in the kingdom of muntu,
For his swift running like a desert kite, he already twice chased
And gotten single handedly two male gazelles,
Without aid of a dog nor aid of fellow hunters
And delivered them to the king as a present to the palace
Which he achieved because of the speed of his legs,
On this royal permission he unsheathed his matchette
And went away like any arrow from the bow
His shirt trailing behind him like mare’s tail
Or like the flag on the post on a windy day,
Not a lot of time passed.
Mukisu wa Mujonji is at the spot of struggle,
Between Nalukosi and the Ugly passerby
There was no question or talking,
The first thing was Mukisu to sink the Matchette
With all of his mighty into the tummy of the ugly stranger
The bowels of the ugly stranger opened puffwiiii!
He breathed and gasped twice then succumbed to death.
His grip still strong on the leg of Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The ugly passer by reached the rigor Mortis
When Nalukosi was still strongly gripped in his
Beastly hand, Mukisu wa Mujonji with all the skills
Used a Sharp matchette again; chopped of the hand
Of the ugly dead passer by off, from its torso
At the point of the muscular elbow,
Now Nalukosi was extricated, but not fully
From the grip of the dead ugly stranger,
The chopped off hand is still knotted at her leg
Around her leg, the dead hand also grips.
Nalukosi jumped here and there to throw away
The leg and the dead hand, but it was not easy to throw
The hand still stubbornly gripped around her angle,
*** time passed, each and every one of the kingdom came
Including the king Walumoli wa Muntu himself
And his nine wives, Khatembete Khobwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
Came last, as she was energyless due to rudely shocking tidings
Which the escaping virgins and lads had given her
That the ugly passer by had turned into the ogre
And had swallowed her daughter Nalukosi
That he had swallowed her piecemeal without chewing,
People of muntu came and found the ugly passerby dead
The left had chopped off its torso
But still hanging loosely on the leg of Nalukosi
Nalukosi jumping, kicking, screaming
Screaming away the dead hand from the grip of leg
But nothing had forthcame her way,
Walumoli wa Muntu could not afford to see
The hand on the leg of her beloved daughter
What could he tell his wife, is your all know
Dear reader and audience to this song;
Even the mighty and the wise ones
Generously bend when under the pressure of love,
Out of this dint, even before Mukisu wa Mujonji
Could display his next military card
Walumoli wa Muntu grapped the dead hand
That stuck of the leg of her daughter
And pulled it with another force that
No man born of woman has
Never used since the creation of the earth
By the gods and spirits of Muntu,
The hand come off, he throw it
On the cadaver of the ugly stranger,
He clicked and clicked and hissed
With anger like a wild turkey
In the African thorny forest,
He ordered the dead one to be buried
Their without haste, nor ceremony
Mukisu wa Mujonji buried the body
Quickly in a brief moment with precision
As if he was taking notes
From the lines of the poem
OF Pablo Neruda on how
To bury a dog behind the house
This time burying an ugly stranger
Behind the forts of the kingdom,
After all these women, children and men
Of muntu plus their king Walumoli
Went back to their houses hilariously
Broken into a song and a wild *** dance;
Makoe eehe! Makoe !
Nifwe Talangi Makoe !
Talangi!
Khwaula embogo sitella
Nifwe Talangi!
They sang up to midnight before
They all retired to their beds
Respective beds with panting thoraces
From heavy singing and dancing.

There is connection and disconexion between
The living and the dead, the living fear the dead
And dead loves the living,
The dead want the company of the living
For the living to accompany in the land of the dead,
When the ugly stranger was killed
And buried uncircumcised with the hunch
Not plucked out of his back
The gods and the livings dead
In the realm of the ancestors
Of the kingdom of Muntu were not happy,
They never wanted uncircumcised old man
With a hunch back to join them
And worse enough with the six fingers,
The gods and ancestors really god annoyed
That Walumoli wa Muntu has done them bad
He is only caring for the living, the pre-mortals
Especially his last wife and the daughter
But he has neglected the ancestors,
Why trash to ancestors a stark humanity,
They communed among themselves
And resolved to sent Namaroro
The god of dreams, dreams as messages
From the ancestors and dreams from the gods
Namaroro visited Namunyu Lubunda the palace
Prophet in the Kingdom of Muntu to pass
The message vesseling unhappiness of the ancestors
And gods in a blend of gloomy read to execute
A vendetta;
This is when in the wee of the night that Namunyu Lubunda
Dreamed and had a vision of a old man from
The east is warning of the coming long spell of starvation
That will befall the kingdom of Muntu for ten years
                                      That Namaroro told Namunyu Lubunda
As for ten seasons of foodlessness
Behold a begging kingdom
Behold a starving throne,
The scepter of Muntu is a disgrace
To the holder
Then Namunyu Lubunda set forth by dawn
To the Palace to meet Walumoli wa Muntu
In his, palace before any other royal chores come up,
Both good and bad luck combined
Only to have Namunyu Lubunda to get the king at the palace
He got him fresh and relaxed chewing the cup of fortune
In his full ego, all his wives had submitted to the morning dishes
To his dining hall in the palace, he moved his hands from
One plate of food to the other.
Namunyu Lubunda entered with a submissive salutation
To the royal, He bowed and declared the glory of the king
In typical standards of the ethnic composition of the house of Muntu
Walumoli wa Muntu Mukitang’a Mutukuika
Majave Kutusi Mbirira Omwene esimbo ya
Kumukasa,
Walumoli responded with a feat of dignity to Namunyu Lubunda
The palace prophet, as he roared to him; come in
Come in son of Lubunda son of our people,
He did mention the name of Namunyu Lubunda father
As he fears his words may escape with the power
Of his kingdom the scepter of Muntu
To other insignificant families in the kingdom,
Let me announce what brings me here; intoned Namunyu
Go ahead and announce my holiness
s the prophet of this kingdom; responded Walumoli,
Misfortune is awaiting the kingdom
It will eat this kingdom away
Like a ravenous hyena on the ewe’s tail
The ancestors and the spirits of this land
This kingdom of yours the son of Muntu
Are immensely offended with your recent behaviour
In which you commandeered all villages
In your kingdom; from east and west
The **** the innocent passer by
With your owner hands that handle the scepter
You killed and lay to rest the foreigner
A pure omurende to the kingdom of muntu
You buried him uncircumcised without contrite
In the cemeteries of our foremen who asleep and circumcised
Why did you lower the dignity of our forefathers
Who never share a roof with uncircumcised person
To share the ancestral realm; our emagombe
With hunchback foreigner not circumcised?
This kingdom is condemned to all spell of curse of death
Ceaseless hunger famines and starvation
Women dwindle in their reproductive capacity
Rarely will you come across a pregnant woman
Food will be difficulty to put on the table
Even the sweat of your brow will go to naught,
You will not be buried with insignia
Like a pauper you killed will you be buried
The house of your wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya is a house of no consequences
For even your daughter Nalukosi stands cursed
She will not mature to be wedded into a marriage
She will hover the earth under heavy agonies of hunger,
My assignment is done and over
With or without your permission let me go.









THE FIRST SONG
Our song continues dear brethren
Come join me in arms we sing
Joyous singing of these songs of peace
Telling the world peaceful stories
As we enjoy sitting together around my grandmothers fire yard
Warming our selves to her lovely fire inherent in her good stories,
These songs will sing the glory and success of the king of Manani
It is an irregular Ode to Silinki wa Namunguba the son of Mwangani,
The son of Tunduli, the son of Wajala Njovu, the son of Welikhe, the son
Of manyorori, the son of Chumbe, the son of Kajo, the Son of Mabati, the son of welotia,
The son of sikele sia mulia, the son of Toywa,the son of siruju, the son of Mango, the son of Mulwoni sinyanya Bakhasi, the son of Mbakara , the son of Makhakara wa Nambuya, the son of Mukoye mulala kukhalikha w0nga, the son of Zumba the son of God.
Silinki
There Is Slavery in Mauritania
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

There are black slaves in Mauritania
Indentured Patel Slaves in India
Black Slaves in Mali
Black Slaves in Nigeria
Black Slaves in Niger
White Slaves in Russia
Muslim slaves in Senegal
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

Today, December 2013
There are black slaves in Mauritania
serving the white Berbers
Toiling from morning to late evening
working under desert sun like soulless beasts
with no single pay, with no human dignity
there are black slaves in Mauritania.

Let us all go slowly and slowly to fight
In the Islamic city of Nouakchott
To demolish evil monuments of slavery
With our entire human mighty let us fight
With our blood, sweat and soul
Fight slavery the human vice in Mauritania
Free them all black slaves to freedom
Black moor, black Africans, Afro-Mauritanians
From the shackles of slavery to white Berbers,
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

There are women in slavery in Nouakchott
Herding camels and goats, donkeys and mules
Black women ***** in the field alongside animals
Enslaved women ***** in the field as children look
Black women ***** in the field as goats and sheep watch
Black women of Mauritania are in deep tribulation
All their pregnancies a protégé of white ****
No child of love, wedlock or out of romance
There are black slaves in Mauritania

There are a million black slaves in Mauritania
Some know of their fate some know not
Their doom of chattel slavery
Where man is sold away like a wooden spoon
Away to a willing buyer a slave is sold
Away to a fellow slave master man is donated
As a wedding gift or a birthday token
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

When a white Berber king dies
The journey before him is long and arduous
The journey to heaven is long indeed
He can’t go alone he needs a hand
Two live slaves are buried along with him
The slave master the white Berber
To provide hand and service to the master off to heaven
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

In the city of Nouakchott Muslim enslave Moslem
Against the holy law of Mohammed,
As long as they are black Africans and moors
Islam is neither fortress nor succor for them
Against the racist urge for enslavement
White Berbers the rich of Nouakchott
Enslave Black Muslim and half Black Muslim
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

It is true god of Christians and Allah of Moslem
Owe apology to enslaved black humanity
God and Allah should apologize to Africanity
God said, Jews can **** a non Jewish slaves is no sin
Albeit, killing a Jewish slave is sin
Jews only to be slaves for seven years
That, slaves venerate your masters
That, non-Jewish slaves are in life slavery
Their sire slaves of the master
Jewish slaves give birth to children
Non-Jewish slaves give birth to slaves
Allah said, Muslim can enslave all non Muslims
O! Africa! There are black slaves in Mauritania.

Liberated slaves of Mauritania go back
In the sand dunes and dents of slavery
Teach your folks both master and slaves
The fruit of freedom from religious utopia
Tell the slaves to ignore the Quran and the Bible
For these are none other than handmaids of slavery
Stupid bliss, blind faith, O! Archaic pusillanimity
there is black slaves in Mauritania.

Let the slaves read and teach others to read
Fanon Omar the son of Algeria
Walter Rodney son of Guyana
Aime Cesaire son of the north
Ousmane of Senegal the wood of Islam
Amilcar Cabral the verdant cape
Malcolm X and Paul Freire, pedagogy of slavery
Marcus Garvey and The black souls of W Dubois
There are black slaves in Mauritania

For me and my house I stand for freedom
For me and my house I stand for human dignity
For me and my house I stand for diversity in humanity
For me and my house I will never enslave a fellow human being
For me and my house I better serve Marxism down to my infinity
Other than flirting with christo-islamic glorification of slavery
Slaves in Mauritania have tyranny of numbers over the Berbers
Stand up and fight the few slave drivers in Mauritania
There are black slaves in Mauritania.
Max Neumann Dec 2019
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry
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Why? Because people from all over the world have found something here: a place of belongingness.

Please note that I am just a poet on hellopoetry who loves this website sincerely. I am not affiliated or personally related to the founders of hellopoetry.

I rarely ask to get my poems reposted, but I would encourage everyone to spread the message, possibly even outside of hellopoetry, for new active users and possible contributors.

It would break a lot of hearts if hellopoetry wouldn't exist anymore.
ryyan May 2011
Once upon a time.
In a land far far away.
Their existed a rhyme,
About the greatest game ever played.
This is the said rhyme 
preserved from the acclaim the game has gained.
Passed on to generations about the game at it’s prime. 

A game that should be reclaimed from the fame its gained at the present time.
This game came from the brain of a person
who aimed to have the time of his life. 

Town ball was for all. In any season: spring, summer, winter, or fall.
Town ball was a ball for all: no despair, grief,  or strife, could spawn.
The rules were simple
Hit ball: bases touch all. 

Teams were never full. 
And the field could sprawl.
Everything was in play just like everyone could play.
No obstacle was in the way, no direction out of play.
Yet, according to the natural law of capitalistic America,
An evolution began to make money.
**** you Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet!!
You may have nothing to do with baseball, 

But you spawned the evilest idea of them all. 

That evolution is caused by natural law, 

and the evolution of baseball is the downfall of all that is America.
Baseball was at one time a game of fun; 

good times shared with one another under the sun. 

Eventually they agreed to decree the official rules, 

And it was not Abner Doubleday who would have the last say in history,
for that story is a myth that we should flee from like fools.
Instead it was Alexander Cartwright who penned the knickerbocker rules.
These rules spread to the rest of the clubs,
and eventually it was coined the New York game. 

No longer could anyone play but only the ones who could slug.
If you wanted to win, it would be a sin,
to put in the has been who brought the game shame.
This game spread during the civil war. 

In down time to escape they played for fun instead of being bored.
The game spread like never before,
and soon the game covered the entire eastern shore.
The N.A.A.B.B.P was formed and by 1867 four hundred teams were born,
and in 1870 the Chicago Cubs actually won!
They actually were good before 1908,
heck some people might even say they were great. 

I don’t mean to taint their slate or bait your hate.
I just wish to point out that its been some time since that date,
and you Cub fans still must await.
Meanwhile these gentleman clubs would compete in the heat,
for they wanted to prove they were the ones to beat. 

Yet promoters wanted money so they charged the food you eat.
Then they fenced in the meet.
No longer could you watch the teams compete from the street.
If you wanted to know who would defeat you must enter with a receipt
to show that you payed for your seat.
There you would meet, eat, and greet,
and keep track of the game on your score sheet
Eventually the wood frames turned to concrete

in order to hold more people inside their games.
And the players started to earn fame.
And eventually everyone knew their name.
No longer was the game a game for games sake,
instead it was meant to entertain the fame-craved.
All that matter was the money made at the gate,
and since then the game has never been the same.
Before players would score more and their would be less of a bore.
Fielders caught with their fingers the stingers thrown,
but for catchers that was absurd.

Before, fans would abhor to the idea of a fielder with a glove adorned,
but eventually the planted seed, grew steadily, and the fielders glove was born.
At first their was no web extended between the finger and thumb.
Because that would make it so easy to catch it would be just dumb. 

Yet, somehow the web spread and eventually it won. 

Now any *** could catch between finger and thumb
and the hand would not become numb.
This lead the dead ball era dread at the start of nineteen hundred.
And ego went to Owen Wilson’s head as he lead the league with triples.
Thirty six triples the record was set
and will never be broken it has been said.
But instead its embed into the unread
record book for others to go ahead and try to break with dread.
There were several reasons that lead to the dead ball.
First of all, the same ball was used until it started to unravel.
Second, was that you would draw a strike for every foul ball,
And lastly was the spit ball which would dance to any squall.
All these reasons made the pitchers un-hittable. 

And batters seeing their batting average fall
would take a bar crawl and bawl.
But then a savior came to us all. 

This man hit the ball so far that it would fall somewhere past Senegal.
The claims were esteemed that this man was best of them all. 

Yet, he was traded for money to fund a curtain call. 

This man’s name was George “the Babe” Herman Ruth. 

A pitcher turned outfielder because he was a great hitter is the truth.
The great bambino or Sultan of Swat,
nothing could stop him when he was hot. 

And he hit the dead ball era out of the park and it was forever lost. 

He had more home run’s as an individual, than any team,

Except for the Phillies who were good it seems.

Babe was the hit man

Pitcher he was no longer

The same change came

With this emphasis:
Babe Ruth symbolized what was

the rest of the game. 


They said pitch no more.
Sluggers are what fans adore
outfields became small. 


Power was the talk

Every team must have a guy
who hits with power. 


George “babe” Herman Ruth
and Lou Gehrig, the Yankee’s
became the very best.

Then the depression came and rained on the parade of the baseball game.
Yet, families with radio’s would listen to the games as a sort of hope. 

To escape from the world that they known. 

To escape to a game that reminded them of better days.
Then WWII came and stole away the players. 

Baseball’s talent level was now in multiple layers. 

and because of lack of talent Ted Williams batted over .400 percent
and Joe Dimaggio hit the ball again and again. 

for 56 consecutive games he hit the ball back to where it was sent.
Yet, eventually the players would return and baseball would mend. 

But not before the ladies got their own league. 

and men it did intrigue.
Is this for real?
Or a joke?
They would laugh.

Then they would choke. 

When they saw that this wasn’t just an act.
The girls continued,
“Everyone used to be able to play the good old town ball game!
“This is no longer town ball,” the men said, “the present game is not the same,
Instead its now played for money and fame.”

Oh how the good old days always change.

“Give us money” the women exclaimed,
“We’ll take your fortune we’ll take your fame!”

Some men said, “you complain! Its not the same,
you have to be good to play this game,
you can have your separate league if you need,
But this game of fame is only for white men of age!”

Oh how problems never change
Instead they always stay the same.
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
Before the trumpet would sing its song. 

That segregation would possibly end. 

Not for women but for African Americans. 

Segregation had always gone on. 

***** leagues rose up, but finally segregation’s time was gone 

due to a man named Jackie Robinson. 

And in 1947 he broke through with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Because his team was convinced they’d make more money by Lou Durocher
Yet it came with its troubles because Not everyone on the team was happy 
And some fans were just down right ******.
Some teams such as our beloved St.Louis Cardinals even threatened to strike. 

They were not going to play if Jackie played because they had that much dislike. 

But Jackie and the Dodgers pushed through all the hate that spewed. 

Other players, managers, and fans  were rude, crude and would start feuds. 
Then they would brood every time Jackie’s name the roster would include.
But after awhile people would conclude that he was actually very good.
And after review others would start to include rather than seclude,

But this integration was long over due.
30 years till segregation could be totally subdued.
The lessons we learn are hard ones that is true. 

And it takes awhile for an entire nations perspective to take a different mood.
Now with baseball integrated the game be televised. 

This allows the money in the game to rise. 

The league now expands west; 

New markets they must test.
But hey! the players want some of this. 

They want to start a free agency. 

But this is the last thing the owners need! 

But the players want to be able to move between teams.

The players want money. Oh how things never change.
But the players got what want. 

They now can negotiate and the owners this does haunt. 

The game now is wrapped inside this twisted shame of money. 

Thats all any body wants so they find ways to scheme. 

Thus steroids came to the scene. 

Players now could be payed more if they played well. 

This meant that to hit the ball far, big muscles they would have to build.
In order to get that edge over everyone else. 

These players used steroids to get their help. 

Yet that was not cool with the public 
Because steroids put you at risk. 

They are dangerous at best,
and the league didn’t want to run the risk. 

Plus what about records that have stood the time test?
Are they going be broken now and no longer exist?

All because someone drugs themselves to have a bigger biceps and chest?
Someone please lay this all to rest! 

Baseball today is such a shame. 

Its boring with all of the commercial and pitcher change breaks. 

Something needs to change. 

Because its been turned into a sideshow. 

Thats the only reason why kids even go. 

To see the park, get hot dogs,
and baseballs that when put in the dark they glow. 

Then when you get home. 

you ask them what they remember about the game 

and they say, “I don’t know”. 

This game used to be interesting. 

But now I find my channels flipping. 

Even Golf is more fun to watch. 

at least they hit that ball a lot!
Baseball should but I doubt ever will, 

Get rid of all the pitchers it has to refill. 

No more pitching changes; That would increase the thrill!

Maybe players could hit the ball if wasn’t coming 100 mph every throw. 

and instead of pure talent pitchers had to use strategy,
of when to and not to throw 

That 100mph hour fastball.
Get rid of the sideshow. 

Then maybe kids would go. 

Maybe then we’d go back to being enthralled. 

Back when Baseball was actually Baseball. 

But I doubt it will because money is what matters now.
Sideshows make money so its always going to be allowed.
But I’d like to disavow
I’d like to dropout. 

I never really watched it much in the first place. 

but now I know of a better game.
Oh and one final thing to say. 

We should just go back to town ball. 

That game sounds so much cooler than baseball. 

You could really make some unique obstacles

Put in a fountain or maybe even a wall.
It just sounds like a lot of fun. 

I plan to play it this summer some. 

Everyone will be welcome. 

And we’ll have fun under the sun. 

And it won’t really matter who will win. 

Because its about having fun, building character,
and growing relationships
The end.
zebra Sep 2021
The countries with the largest ***** ***** length are:
Ecuador - 17.61 cm (6.93 inches)
Cameroon - 16.67 cm (6.56 inches)
Bolivia - 16.51 cm (6.5 inches)
Sudan - 16.47 cm (6.48 inches)
Haiti - 16.01 cm (6.3 inches)
Senegal - 15.89 cm (6.26 inches)
Gambia - 15.88 cm (6.25 inches)
Netherlands - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Cuba - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Zambia - 15.78 cm (6.21 inches)

The countries with the smallest ***** ***** length are:
Cambodia - 10.04 cm (3.95 inches)
Burma - 10.70 cm (4.21 inches)
Taiwan - 10.78 cm (4.24 inches)
Philippines - 10.85 cm (4.27 inches)
Sri Lanka - 10.89 cm (4.29 inches)
Hong Kong - 11.19 cm (4.41 inches)
Bangladesh - 11.20 cm (4.41 inches)
Thailand - 11.45 cm (4.51 inches)
Vietnam - 11.47 cm (4.52 inches)
Malaysia - 11.49 cm (4.52 inches)
~
Scientists claim that the size of the ***** does not matter, as long as the job gets done. But those scientists are probably Cambodian. If you liked my last list of the top 10 countries with the biggest *****’s, then you’ll love the list of the top 10 countries with the smallest *****’s. SO bring out the magnifying glass and tweezers, and let’s have ourselves a closer look.
~
Top 10 Countries With The Smallest penîses In The World or unhung hero's 

10. Japan
Researchers found out that the birthrate in Japan is so low, that adult diapers are sold more than baby diapers. The Japanese are packing a whopping 4.30 inches of sausage, I guess, if you can’t reach, you can’t reach, Sashimi anyone?

9. Sri Lankan men very well represent the size of their tiny little country., and their tiny little rooster. With an average size of 4.30 inches.

8. China
We have reason to believe that the Chinese were gifted with a clever mind, and cursed with a small *****, with an average ***** size of 4.29 inches, now we know why Bruce Lee was always so mad.

7. Philippines
Manny Pacquiao has been under the suspicion of using steroids over the years, and if that’s true, then his **** could very well be inverted by now. Cause the Philippines has an average size of 4.21 inches, now that’s a pretty small **** Pac man.

6. Taiwan
Taiwan’s home of lady boys and Alexander ****. But they need some more pay weight gee (Peh-oe-ji) in their pants with a ridiculous average ***** size of 4.20 inches. Women of Taiwan, I feel for you, but it’s okay, just book a ticket to congo.

5. Myanmar
As beautiful as it is, Myanmar, formerly known as Burma, is famous for their two kind of nuts. Betel nuts, and their little hanging nuts, with an average size of 4.19 inches.

4. India
The country who proudly shared its Yoga spirituality **** to the world, never shared the fact that Indian Men have a teensy weensy dickie, with an average size of 4.03 inches. Well we now know the truth. Namaste!

3. Thailand
home to the world’s largest gold Buddha, the largest crocodile farm, the largest restaurant, the longest suspension bridge, and the tallest hotel, I guess they’re trying to compensate for their national average of 4 inches in the ***** department.

2. Cambodia
50 % of the Cambodian population is under the age of 15. No wonder the average ***** size of Cambodian Men is just 3.95 inches. I’m surprised that Neverland ranch wasn’t built there. #RIP the King of *****

1. South Korea
You may have heard their fantastic K-pop, and you may be impressed with their Economical, financial and Military Growth, but I guarantee that you will never see South Korea the Same way ever again, as they hold the record for the nation with the smallest *****, with an average size of 3.8 inches of pure imagination, and you know North Korea can’t be much better, maybe that’s why they’re so secretive.
~

Hi Doctor.
I was wondering about the depth of the ******. I've read statistics that say that the average ****** is only 3 to 4 inches deep. This seems way too small to me, since the average ***** is considerably longer than that. Wouldn't that mean that most penises would crash into the ****** repeatedly during *******? Since this obviously doesn't happen, my question is this: does the ****** actually elongate during ******* to accommodate the entire length of the average *****?

Dear Ashley
DONT WORRY!!
Your ***** can be amazingly elastic and accommodating,
and if you're brave enough no matter how big, anything can be a *****.
Christine O’Bam Slam, MD
Documentary Poetics
RAJ NANDY Mar 2016
Dear Poet Friends, and all true lovers of Jazz!  Being a lover of Classical and Smooth Jazz, I had composed first two parts in Verse on the History and Evolution of Jazz Music. Seeing the poor response of the Readers to my Part One here, I was hesitant to post my Second Part. I would request the Readers to kindly read Part One of this True Story also for complete information. Please do read the Foot Notes. With best wishes, - from Raj Nandy of New Delhi.


THE STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC : PART-II
               BY RAJ NANDY

        NEW ORLEANS : THE CRADLE OF JAZZ
BACKGROUND :
Straddling the mighty bend of the River Mississippi,
Which nicknames it as the ‘Crescent City’;
(Founded in 1718 as a part of French Louisiana
Colony),  -
Stands the city of New Orleans.
New Orleans* gets its name from Phillippe II,
Duc d’ Orleans , the Regent of France ;
A city well known for its music, and fondness
for dance.
The city remained as a French Colony until 1763,
When it got transferred to Spain as a Spanish
Colony.
But in the year 1800, the Spanish through a
secret pact, -
To France had once again ceded the Colony back!
Finally in 1803 the historic ‘Louisiana Purchase’
took place ,
When Napoleon the First sold New Orleans and  
the entire Louisiana State, -
To President Thomas Jefferson of the United
States!     * (See notes below)

THE CONGO SQUARE :
The French New Orleans was a rather liberal
place,
Where slaves were permitted to congregate,
For worship and trading in a market place,
But only on Sabbath Days, - their day of rest!
They had chosen a grassy place at the edge of
the old city,
Where they danced and sang to tom-tom beats,
Located north of the French Quarters across the
Rampart Street,
Which came to be known as the Congo Square,
Where one could hear clapping of hands and
stomping of feet!
There through folk songs, music, and varying
dance forms,
The slaves maintained their native African musical
traditions all along!
African music which remained suppressed in the
Protestant Colonies of the British,
Had found a freedom of expression in the Congo
Square by the natives; -
Through their Bamboula , Calanda, and Congo dance!
The Wolof and Bambara people from Senegal River
area of West Africa,
With their melodious singing and stringed instruments,
Became the forerunners of ‘Blues’ and the Banjo.
And during the Spanish Era, slaves from the Central
African Forest Culture of Congo,
Who with their hand-drummed polyrhythmic beats ,
Made people from Havana to Harlem  to rise and
dance on their feet!      
(see notes below)

CULTURAL MIX :
After the Louisiana Purchase , English-speaking
Anglo and African-Americans flooded that State.
Due to cultural friction with the Creoles, the new-
comers settled ‘uptown’,
Creating an American Sector, separate from older
Creole ‘down-town’ !
This black American influx in the uptown had
ushered in,
The elements of the Blues, Spirituals, and rural
dances into New Orleans’ musical scene.
Now these African cultural expressions gradually
diversified, -
Into Mardi Indian traditions, and the Second Line.^^
And eventually into New Orleans’ Jazz and Blues;
As New Orleans became a cauldron of a rich
cultural milieu!

THE CREOLES :
The Creoles were not immigrants but were home-
bred;
They were the bi-racial children of their French
Masters and their African women slaves!
Creole subculture was centred in New Orleans.
But after the Louisiana Purchase of 1803,  -
The Creoles rose to the highest rung of Society! @
They lived on the east of Canal Street in the
French Sector of the city.
Many Creole musicians were formally trained in
Paris,
Had played in Opera Houses there, and later led
Brass Bands in New Orleans.
Jelly Roll Morton, Kid Oliver, and Sidney Bechet
were all famous Creoles;
About whom I now write as this true Jazz Story
gradually unfolds.
In sharp contrast on the west of Canal Street lived
the ***** musicians,
Who lacked the economic advantages the Creoles
possessed and had!
The Negroes were schooled in the Blues, Work Songs ,
and Gospel Music;
And played by the ear with improvisation as their
unique characteristic !
But in 1894 when Jim Crow’s racial segregation
laws came into force,     # (see notes below)
The Creoles were forced to move West of Canal
Street to live with the Negroes.
This mingling lighted a ‘musical spark’ creating
a lightening musical flash;
Igniting the flames of a ‘new music’ which was
later called ‘Jazz’ !

INFLUENCE OF THE EARLY BRASS BANDS:
Those Brass Bands of the Civil War which played the
‘marching tunes’ ,
Became the precursors of New Orleans’ Brass Bands,
which later played at funeral marches, dance halls,
and saloons !
After the end of the Civil War those string and wind
instruments and drums, -
Were available in the second-hand stores and pawn
shops within reach of the poor, for a small tidy sum!
Many small bands mushroomed, and each town had
its own band stand and gazebos;
Entertained the town folks putting up a grand show!
Early roots of Jazz can be traced to these Bands and
their leaders like Buddy Bolden, King Oliver, Bunk
Johnson, and Kid Orley;
Not forgetting Jack 'Pappa' Laine’s Brass Band
leading the way of our Jazz Story !
The Original Dixieland Band of the cornet player
'Nick' La Rocca,
Was the first ever Jazz Band to entertain US Service
Men in World War-I and also to play in European
theatre, came later.     (In 1916)
I plan to mention the Harlem Renaissance in my
Part Three,
Till then dear Readers kindly bear with me!

CONTRIBUTION OF STORYVILLE :
In the waning years of the 19th Century,
When Las Vegas was just a farming community,
The actual ‘sin city’ lay 1700 miles East, in the
heart of New Orleans!
By Alderman Story’s Ordinance of 1897,
A 20-block area got legalized and confined,  
To the French Quarters on the North Eastern side
called ‘Storyville’, a name acquired after him!
This 'red light' area resounded with a new
seductive music ‘jassing up’ one and all;
Which played in its Bordello, Saloons, and the
Dance Halls !         (refer  my Part One)
Now the best of Bordellos hired a House Pianist,
who also greeted guests, and was a musical
organizer;
Whom the girls addressed respectfully as -
‘The Professor’!
Jelly Roll Morton, Tony Jackson author of
‘Pretty Baby’, and Frank ‘Dude’ Amacher, -
Were all well-known Storyville’s ‘Professors’.
Early jazz men who played in Storyville’s Orchestra
and Bands are now all musical legends;
Like ‘King’ Oliver, Buddy Bolden, Kid Orley, Bunk
Johnson, and Sydney Bechet.      ++ (see notes below)
Louis Armstrong who was born in New Orleans,
As a boy had supplied coal to the ‘cribs’ of
Storyville !          ^ (see notes below)
Louis had also played in the bar for $1.25 a night;
Surely the contribution of Storyville to Jazz Music
can never be denied!
But when America joined the First World War in
1917,
A Naval Order was issued to close down Storyville;
Since waging war was more important than making
love the Order had said !
And from the port of New Orleans US Warships
had subsequently set sail.
Here I now pause my friends to take a break.
Part Three of this story is yet to be composed,
Will depend on my Reader’s response !
Please do read below the handy Foot Notes.
Thanks from Raj Nandy of New Delhi.

FOOT NOTES:-
New Orleans one of the oldest of cosmopolitan city of Louisiana, also the 18th State of US, & a major port.
Louisiana was sold by France for $15 Million, & was later realized to be a great achievement of Thomas Jefferson!
Many African Strands of Folk Music & Dance forms had merged at the Congo Square.
^^ ’Second Line Music’= Bands playing during funerals & marches, evoked voluntary crowd participation, with songs and dances as appropriate forming a ''Second Line'' from behind.
@ Those liberal French Masters offered the Creoles the best of Education with access to their White Society!
# ’Jim Crow'= Between 1892 & 1895, 'Blacks' gained political prominence in Southern States. In 1896 land-rich whites disenfranchised the Blacks completely! A 25 year's long hatred
& racial segregation began. Tennessee led by passing the ‘Jim Crow’ Law ! In 1896, Supreme Court upheld this Law with -  ‘’Separate But Equal’’ status for the Blacks. Thus segregation became a National Institution! This segregation divided the Black & White Musicians too!
+ Birth of Jazz was a slow and an evolving process, with Blues and Ragtime as its precursor!    “Jazz Is Quintessence of  Afro-American Music born on European Instruments.”
++ Jelly ‘Roll’ Morton (1885-1941) at 17 years played piano in the brothels, – applying swinging syncopation to a variety of music; a great 'transitional figure' between Ragtime & Jazz Piano-style.
++ BUDDY BOLDEN (1877-1931) = his cornet improvised by adding ‘Blues’ to Ragtime in Orleans  during 1900-1907, which later became Jazz! BUNK JOHNSON (1879-1849 ) = was a pioneering jazz trumpeter who inspired Louis Armstrong.  KID OLIVER (1885-1938) =Cornet player and & a Band-leader, mentor & teacher of Louis Armstrong; pioneered use of ‘mute’ in music! ‘Mute’ is a device fitted to instruments to alter the timber or tonal quality, reducing the sound, or both.
KID ORLEY (1886-1973) : a pioneering Trombonist, developed the '‘tailgate style’' playing rhythmic lines underneath the trumpet & cornet, propagating Early Jazz.  SYDNEY BECHET (1897-1959) = pioneered the use of Saxophone; a composer & a soloist, inspired Armstrong. His pioneering style got his name in the ‘Down Beat Jazz Hall of Fame’! LOUIS ARMSTRONG (1890-1971) = Trumpeter, singer, & great improviser. First international soloist, who took New Orleans Jazz Music to the World!  
% = After America joined WW-I in 1917, a Naval Order was issued to shut-down  Storyville, to check the spread of VD amongst sailors!
^^ ”Cribs”= cheap residential buildings where prostitutes rented rooms. Louis Armstrong as a boy supplied coal in those ‘Cribs’.
During the 1940 s  Storyville was raised to the ground to make way for Iberville Federal Housing Project.
ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR : RAJ NANDY **
E-Mail : rajnandy21@yahoo.in
My love for Jazz Music made me to dig-up its past History and share it with few interested Readers of this Site! Thanks, -Raj
RAJ NANDY May 2017
Dear Poet Friends, I had posted Part One of the Story of Jazz Music in Verse few months back on this Site. Today I am posting Part Two of this Story in continuation. Even if you had not read part one of this true story, this one will still be an interesting portion to read especially for all lovers of music, and for knowing about America's rich cultural heritage. I love smooth & cool jazz mainly, not the hard & acid kind! Kindly do read the ‘Foot Notes’ at the end to know how the word ‘Jass’ became ‘Jazz’ way back in History. Hope to bring out a book later with photographs. Thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.


STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC  IN VERSE PART – II

    NEW ORLEANS : THE CRADLE OF JAZZ
BACKGROUND:
Straddling the mighty bend of the River Mississippi,
Which nicknames it as the ‘Crescent City’;
Founded in the year 1718, as a part of French Louisiana
colony.
New Orleans* gets its name from Phillippe II, Duc d’ Orleans,
the Regent of France;
A city well known for its music, and fondness for dance!
The city remained as a French Colony until 1763,
When it got transferred to Spain as a Spanish Colony.
But in 1800, those Spanish through a secret pact,
To France had once again ceded the colony back!
Finally in the year 1803, the historic ‘Louisiana Purchase’
had taken place, -
When Napoleon First of France sold New Orleans and the
entire Louisiana State,
To President Thomas Jefferson of the United States!
(See Notes below)

THE CONGO SQUARE:
The French New Orleans was a rather liberal place,
Where slaves were permitted to congregate,
To worship and for trading in a market place, on
Sabbath Days, their day of rest.
They had chosen a grassy place at the edge of the
old city ,
Where they danced and sang to tom-tom beats,
Located north of the French Quarters across the
Rampart Street;
Which came to be known as the Congo Square,
Where you could hear clapping of hands and
stomping of feet!
There through folk songs, music, and varying dance
forms, -
The slaves maintained their native African musical
traditions all along!
African music which remained suppressed in the
Protestant colonies of the British,
Had found a freedom of expression in the Congo Square
by the natives, -
Through their Bamboula, Calanda, and Congo dance forms
to the drum beats of their native music.
The Wolof and Bambara people from Senegal River of West
Africa, -
With their melodious singing and stringed instruments,
Became the forerunners of ‘Blues’ and the string banjo.
And during the Spanish Era slaves from the Central African
forest culture of Congo, -
Who with their hand-drummed poly-rhythmic beats,  
Made people from Havana to Harlem to rise up and dance
on their feet!   * (see notes below)

CULTURAL MIX:
After the Louisiana Purchase, English-speaking Anglo and
African-Americans flooded that State.
Due to cultural friction with the Creoles, the new-comers
settled ‘Uptown’,
Creating an American sector separate from older Creole
‘Downtown’.
This black American influx ‘Uptown’ brought in the elements
of the blues, spirituals, and rural dances into New Orleans’
musical scene.
These African cultural expressions had gradually diversified,
into Mardi Gras tradition and the ‘Second Line’. ^^ (notes below)
And finally blossomed into New Orleans’ jazz and blues;
As New Orleans became a cauldron of a rich cultural milieu!

THE CREOLES:
The Creoles were not immigrants but were home-bred.
They were the bi-racial children of their French masters
and their African women slaves!
Creole subculture was centred in New Orleans after the
Louisiana Purchase of 1803,
When the Creoles rose to the highest rung of society!
They lived on the east of Canal Street in the French
Sector of the city.   @ (see notes below)
Many Creole musicians were formally trained in Paris.
Played in opera houses there, and later led Brass Bands
in New Orleans.
Jelly Roll Morton, Kid Oliver, and Sidney Bechet were
famous Creoles,
About whom I shall write as this Story unfolds.
In sharp contrast on the west of Canal Street lived the
***** musicians;
But they lacked the economic advantages the Creoles
already had!
They were schooled in the Blues, Work songs, and Gospel
music .
And played by the ear with improvisation as their unique
characteristic,
As most of them were uneducated and could not read.
Now in 1894, when Jim Crow’s racial segregation laws
came into force,       # (see notes below)
The Creoles were forced to move west of Canal Street to
live with the Negroes!
This racial mingling lighted a ‘musical spark’ creating a
lightening flash, -
Igniting the flames of a ‘new music’ which was later came
to be known as JAZZ !

CONTRIBUTION OF STORYVILLE :
In the waning years of the 19th Century, when Las Vegas
was just a farming community,
The actual ‘sin city’ lay 1,700 miles East, in the heart of
New Orleans!
By Alderman Story’s Ordinance of 1897,  a 20-block area
had got legalised and confined, -
To the French Quarters on the North Eastern side called
‘Storyville’,   - a name which was acquired after him.
This red light area resounded with a new seductive music
‘jassing up’ one and all;
Which played in its bordellos, saloons, and dance halls!
The best of bordellos hired a House Pianist who greeted
guests and was also a musical organizer;
Whom the girls addressed respectfully as ‘The Professor’!
Jelly Roll Morton++, Tony Jackson author of  ‘Pretty Baby’,
and Frank ‘Dude’ Amacher, -
Were all well known Storyville’s  ‘Professors’!
Early jazz men who played in Storyville’s Orchestras and Bands
now form a part of Jazz Legend;
Like ‘King’ Oliver, Buddy Bolden, Kid Orley, Bunk Johnson,
and Sydney Bechet.    ++ (see notes below)
Louis Armstrong who was born in New Orleans, as a boy had
supplied coal to the ‘cribs’ of Storyville!   ^ (see notes)
He had also played in the bar for $1.25 a night,
Surely the contribution of Storyville to Jazz cannot be denied!
But when America joined the First World War in 1917,
A Naval Order was issued to close down Storyville!   % (notes)
Since waging war was more important than making love,
this Order had said;
And from the port of New Orleans the US Warships had
set sail!
Here I pause my friends to take a break, will continue
the Story of Jazz in part three, at a later date.
                                               -Raj Nandy, New Delhi
FOOT NOTES :-
NEW ORLEANS one of the oldest cosmopolitan city of Louisiana,
the 18th State of US , & a  major port city.
LOUISIANA was sold by France for $15 million, which was later
realised to be a great achievement of President Jefferson.
*Many African strands of Folk music and dance had merged at the
Congo Square!
^^ ‘SECOND LINE MUSIC’ = Bands playing during Funerals & Marches evoked voluntary crowd participation, with songs & dances as appropriate forming a ‘Second Line’ from behind.
@ =THOSE LIBERAL FRENCH MASTERS OFFERED THE CREOLES THE BEST OF EDUCATION WITH ACCESS TO WHITE SOCIETY!
#’JIM CROW’= between 1892&1895, blacks gained political prominence in Southern States. In 1896 LAND-RICH WHITES DISENFRANCHISED THE BLACK COMPLETELY! A 25 YRS LONG HATRED &RACIAL SEGREGATION BEGAN. TENNESSEE LED BY PASSING ‘JIM CROW LAW’. IN 1896, THE SUPREME COURT UPHELD THIS LAW WITH ITS ‘’SEPARATE BUT EQUAL’’ STATUS FOR THE BLACKS ! THUS SEGREGATION BECAME A NATIONAL INSTITUTION. THIS SEGREGATION DIVIDED THE BLACK & WHITE MUSICIANS ALSO.
+ BIRTH OF JAZZ WAS A SLOW AND EVOLVING PROCESS, WITH BLUES AND RAGTIME AS ITS PRECURSORS . “JAZZ WAS QUINTESSENCE OF AFRO-AMERICAN MUSIC BORN ON EUROPEAN INSTRUMENTS.”  See my ‘Part One’ for definitions.
++ JELLY ‘Roll’ Morton (1885-1941): At 17 yrs played piano in the brothels, applying swinging syncopation to a variety of music; a great Transitional Figure- between Ragtime & Jazz Piano-style.  ++ BUDDY BOLDEN (1877-1931): His cornet improvised by adding ‘Blues’ to Ragtime in Orleans; which between the years 1900 & 1907 transformed into  Jazz! BUNK JOHNSON (1879-1849): pioneering jazz trumpeter, inspired Louis Armstrong; lost all teeth & played with his dentures! KING OLIVER(1885-1938): Cornet player & bandleader, mentor& teacher of Louis Armstrong; pioneered use of ‘mute’ in music. KID ORY(1886-1973): a pioneering Trombonist, he developed the ‘tailgate style’ playing rhythmic lines underneath the trumpet & the cornet, propagating early Jazz !
SYDNEY BECHET (1897-1959): pioneered the use of SAX; a composer & a soloist, he inspired Louis Armstrong. His pioneering style got his name in the Down Beat Jazz Hall of Fame!
Louis Armstrong(1890-1971): was a trumpeter, singer and a great
improviser. Also as the First International Soloist took New Orleans music to the World!
% = After  America joined WW-I in 1917,  a Naval Order was issued to shutdown Storyville in order to check the spread of VD amongst sailors.
^ ’cribs”= cheap residential buildings where prostitutes rented rooms.
# "JASS" = originally an Africa-American slang meaning ‘***’ ! Born in the brothels of Storyville (New Orleans)  & the Jasmine perfumes used by the girls there; one visiting them was  said to be 'jassed-up' . Mischievous boys rubbed out the letter ‘J’ from posters outside announcing  "Live Jass Shows'', making it to read as ‘'Live *** Shows'’! So finally ‘ss’ of ‘jass’ got replaced by 'zz' of JAZZ .
DURING THE 1940s  STORYVILLE  WAS RAISED TO THE GROUND TO MAKE WAY FOR ‘IBERVILLE FEDERAL HOUSING PROJECT’ .
  *
ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR : RAJ NANDY
~
July 2023
HP Poet: N (Neville Pettitt)
Country: UK


Question 1: Welcome to the HP Spotlight, Neville. Please tell us about your background?

N: "Although I currently post my little scribbles here under the initial N, I once used to sign myself off with my full first name which is Neville and in fact, I may well do so again .. For anyone interested, my full pen name is Neville Pettitt and it is only after much deliberation that have I decided to reveal it here today .. My birth name is different .. The reason for my caution is entirely due to my line of work .. I am employed as a clinical specialist in adult psychiatry, with special interests in substance misuse, personality disorder and clinical risk management .. Consequently, from time to time I may be called upon by the Coroner, local Mental Health Trusts, or very occasionally the police dept, to conduct in depth investigations into serious adverse events for example, murders and or suicides .. I hope the reason for my transparency becomes clearer as you read on (that is, assuming anyone actually does read on) .. I studied at both Middlesex & Hertfordshire universities and have occasionally served as a volunteer in psychiatric facilities overseas .. The longest was a few years ago at Tanka Tanka Hospital in West Africa the Gambia and Senegal to be precise where I managed to last just under six months .. I am as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth, I was born and currently live in a beautiful part of England by the sea in the county of Somerset and in an old converted Banked Barn that dates back to 1547 .. I know I am very lucky .. I have two grown children .. My daughter heads up the hepatology department at a local hospital and my son has his own business .. My wife was previously a partner at a General Practice .. In 1995 I registered as a Kongo Zen Buddhist and am also a black belt student of Shorinji Kempo which I also used to teach .. "


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

N: "I guess I have been writing poetry for the best part of my life to date, certainly from around ten or eleven and I have been posting here at ‘Hello Poetry’ for around three years or thereabouts .. "


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

N: "When asked what inspires me, I often find myself lost for words because there are so many things, I love nature, people generally, travelling, my work occasionally and those I encounter during the course of just being .. There’s probably not a lot that I have not been inspired to write about at some time or other .. Relationships of course do tend to feature a lot, as do both losses and gains of various kinds .. My lovely parents, now both deceased were also a great source of inspiration too .. I would be lieing if I denied getting pleasure from writing .. I get a great deal of pleasure from it .. and I enjoy trying to give others pleasure too .. Sometimes my muse deserts me for a while and I get those dreaded blank page days but always carry a pen and notepad around just in case something tickles my fancy or I get one of those light bulb moments .. "


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

N: "As already mentioned, poetry in many of its various forms has been a major part of my life, if not a friend and comfort for almost as long as I can remember .. I also use it as a means of expressing my self and communicating with others .. However, in the last five or six years, I have been publishing anthologies in order to raise money for each of my chosen charities .. Mental Health of course features, but also for Breast cancer since my wife had this .. More recently however, Brain Tumour research has been included following the death of my sister in law and my little niece developing a similar brain tumour too at age four years .. I currently have eight books/anthologies of poetry in print which are available almost anywhere on the planet from Amazon .. and these are listed in chronological order below a ninth is due out in early 2024 and called A Handful of Ghosts and a Woman in Blue .. a bit of a mouthful I know, but it features an old image of my wife on the cover ..

Turquoise & Other Shades of Blue

Somewhere Behind These Eyes

Victims of Indifference

Beautiful Bruises

The Logic of Fools

Cotton Girls & Paper Chains

Chasing Light

Slaves of Eros"



Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

N: "My favourite poets are Leonard Cohen whom I kind of grew up with and who incidentally once wrote to me twice in fact .. or to be absolutely correct, the first time, he answered one of my letters to him .. I am also a fan of the late great Sylvia Plath, Charles Bukowski and oh’ so many others both classical and more modern .. "


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

N: "Other interests include travelling in particular foreign travel, dining in and eating out, gardening painting and drawing when I have time .. (hardly ever these days) I still practice zazen as per Kongo zen and I enjoy reading and listening to music .. "


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for taking part in this series, my friend! You have truly enlightened us about yourself.”

N: "Finally, I would just like to say what a real and great honour and a privilege it was to be asked to post a little about myself here on this mighty fine poetry site and to express my very sincere thanks to anyone that follows me or reads just one of my works .. Many thanks to one and all .. Peace, Love & All Good Things, Neville"




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed Neville's story. For certain I have. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)

We will post Spotlight #6 in August!
~
N: "Having been asked to list a few of my own favourite poems has proved impossible .. not because there are so many, but because, I truly feel that my next one will be it .. however, I do sincerely hope that others here who are kind enough to visit any of my scribbles will each have their own .."

Carlo C. Gomez: "I highly recommend Neville's book 'Turquoise and Other Shades of Blue.'  It's an anthology of 200 journeys. Open and direct, Neville allows us to be privy to his disquieting thoughts about life, love, loss, ***, curiosities, and travails; whether they be his successes or failures. The poem  ‘War Is Not for Lovers’ is an essential read."

War Is Not For Lovers:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3333072/war-is-not-for-lovers/

Link to book:
https://www.amazon.com/Turquoise-Other-Shades-Neville-Pettitt/dp/1699210268/ref=sr_1_2?crid=3MYUAAWTXINAK&keywords=neville+pettitt&qid=1688237395&sprefix=neville+pettitt%2Caps%2C146&sr=8-2
Skendong Apr 2015
Nobody heard them, the 900,
But still they lay screaming.
We were much further out than they were,
And not waving but drowning.

Poor migrants, lured to a better life –
Now they’re dead.
It must have been too hot for them
In Gambia, Senegal, Syria, they said,

Oh no no no, it was too hot always,
Still, the stranded ones lay screaming.
We were much further out than they were,
And not waving but drowning.
Aidar Omar May 2022
Africa is beautiful and beautiful is usual in Africa
Continental wonderland of love this is Africa

What's in Africa? What's there to see?
I asked myself on the New Year's eve
I thought that I was good in geography
But I didn't know Lagos or Nairobi

I might be ignorant, I have to admit
About Africa I knew just a little bit
The great Sahara - sands of mystery!
The Nile river - so much history!

Africa is magical and magical is usual in Africa
Continental wonderland of joy this is Africa

Namibia, Nigeria, Niger, Angola, Algeria
Burundi, Benin and Libya, Lesotho and Liberia
Burkina-Faso, Botswana, Guinea-Bissau, Ghana
Djibouti, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Uganda, Rwanda, Gambia

I saw a film on Serengeti Park
A one of a kind, a must-see landmark
I watched a documentary on pyramids of Giza
They're much much older than Mona Lisa

I heard that oldest coffee plants
Take their roots in Ethiopia's land
And that samba, rumba, funk and jazz
Take their beats from African drums

Africa is beautiful and beautiful is usual in Africa
Continental wonderland of love this is Africa

Cameroon and Congo, Malawi, Mali, Morocco
Côte d'Ivoire and Kenya, Mauritius, Mauritania
Tunisia, Tanzania, Eswatini, Eritrea
Sudan, Senegal, Somalia, Sierra Leone, South Sudan

You can travel around cities of Africa
Like Cape Town, Cairo or Casablanca
If you're in love or plan to be
Go to Zanzibar, feel that ocean breeze!

Climb up mount Kilimanjaro
Watch the zebras cross the Masai Mara
If you're adventurous, you're a dreamer
Take a wild trip down Zambezi river

Africa is magical and magical is usual in Africa
Continental wonderland of joy this is Africa

Comoros, Chad, Cabo Verde, Democratic Republic of Congo
Ethiopia, Egypt, Guinea, Gabon, Equatorial Guinea and Togo
Madagascar, Mozambique, Central African Republic
Sao Tome and Principe, South Africa and Seychelles

Africa is beautiful and beautiful is usual in Africa
Continental wonderland, I'm on my way to Africa!
r Aug 2016
Death can do strange things,
like time-lapse photography,
undress those quite bored, or
make a patron saint out of a fool,
turning sleek idiots into monks
more mysterious than Rasputin.

What a place to drink, the casino
death runs, nothing fancy or beautiful,
a blind man called Dark Island
taking requests on a piano with keys
worn dull as bone handled knives.

A place the lost can find work, graceless
and not made in America without a living,
all these odd jobs death can do, like art,
factory smoke blown in the eyes of women
in Senegal making overalls for Walmart.
To many people of the world, Africa is often seen
Through a narrow lens, a filtered screen
As a place of poverty, starvation and disease
Of famine, drought, and misery
But this is only one side of the story
Most people say this out of ignorance, I’m sorry
Africa is a land of great diversity
Of vibrant cultures, of ancient traditions
Of beauty, of art, of peace
Yes, we have our challenges, it's true
But we are a people of strength, of resilience, of hope
From Algeria in the north, where ancient ruins abound
To Zimbabwe in the south, where Victoria Falls resound
Senegal is where the vibrant West African culture comes alive
And in Seychelles, the archipelago's beaches and nature are a perfect vibe
Sierra Leone has the beautiful beaches of Freetown
While Egypt has the Pyramids and other awe-inspiring sculptures
Mauritius is a paradise island, with virg*n beaches and luxury resorts
From the rainforests of the
Congo to the beaches of Cape Town
From Bijilo Forest Park in the Gambia
To the Kragga Kamma Game Reserve in South Africa
From Ghana to Nigeria, who regularly argue over which country
Makes the best Jollof, fufu and afrobeat
But the bond is as close as Arnold Schwarzenegger and guns – big guns
Look at Africa with a broader lens
And behold, you find the flawlessly faultless
The continent of countries, of tribes, of peoples
Each with its own history, its own voice, its own dreams
Its own richness of traditions, the diversity of their languages
And the beauty of their cultures
Let us dismiss the delusions
Of a continent that is backward, primitive, and poor
For Africa is a land of great potential
Of food that is spicy, soulful and sweet
Dance that is enthusiastic, energetic, and expressive
Where the earth is rich with resources untold
In doing so, we will break down the barriers
And create a world that is truly inclusive
For Africa is not a place of darkness
But a place of light, of hope, of opportunity
Africa is not a place of pity
But a place of power and pride
We are the children of a proud continent
Where the sun rises and sets with a sizzling splendor
Making it a place where every day is summer
RAJ NANDY Mar 2016
Friends, Part Two will get posted after a break. I have added short notes at the end, for appreciation of all Jazz lovers. To know how the word 'Jass' became 'Jazz', - kindly read the Foot Notes below. Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi.

    THE STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC IN VERSE:
                         PART- ONE

                      INTRODUCTION
Before writing about this true Jazz Story,
I had delved into its long checkered history!
I had plowed through many articles and
books,
Making personal notes to make Jazz better
understood.
My love for this music flows in my veins,
From writing this true story myself I could
hardly restrain !

THE ATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE
The story begins some four hundred years
ago in History,
Drenched in the blood and sweat of the black
slaves which was no mystery,
Painting a sorrowful background to our Jazz
Story !
It was a time when the English , Spanish , French ,
Portuguese and the Dutch became frantic , -
To gain control of the slave trade across the vast
Atlantic !
Slave trade those days was a very profitable
business proposition;
The funds generated had also financed Britain’s
Industrial Revolution!

In 1619  a Dutch sailing ship had carried the first
lot of fifty slaves from West Africa, -
To work in the cotton, tobacco, and sugarcane
plantations of English Colony of Virginia !
Only twenty slaves had survived that hazardous
Atlantic journey;
And here my friends lies the roots of my Jazz
Story !
While it is true that in New Orleans Jazz got
cradled and also nourished;
But it had taken birth in the regions of Western
Africa where slave traders had once flourished!
Later, many more slaves were transported across
to work in the plantations of the Southern States
of America,*  (see notes below)
And in their hearts one could hear the tom–tom
and drum beats of native Africa ! * (notes below)

HOLLERS AND WORK SONGS
Those slaves took no musical instruments with
them,
And worked under the whip lash of their white
Overseers bound in chains !
But they had cherished their ancient music which
fed their hope and the will to survive;
And from the depth of their sorrow and suffering, -
sprung the rhythm and beat of their life !
While at work they were forbidden to talk to each
other,
So they sang in a rich sing-song voice and called
out to one another;
Which was not understood by their whip-wielding
Overseers.
They also called out and communicated to other
working gangs in the distant fields,
Who also replied back in a similar fashion to
make their communication network complete.
The ‘hollers’ and ‘work songs’ also did help,
To lighten the burden of their treacherous fate.
This ‘call and response’ later formed one of Jazz
Music’s basic elements,
As ‘improvised music’ got composed with Jazz
providing a proper vent.
From their tormented soul they sang to wipe away
their blues,
Giving birth to ‘blue notes’ later , for WC Handy
to pay his many handsome tributes !
The slaves longed for freedom and emancipation,
Singing their ‘spirituals’ with faith and devotion !
While singing they often got into a trance,
And felt like the Israelites in ******* in Egypt,
ordained by fate and chance !
The Mississippi was like the River Jordan across
which they hoped to see, -
A band of Angels coming in their chariots to set
them free,  @
From their suffering, drudgery, and captivity !
Thus ‘improvisation’ becomes a vital ingredient of
Jazz Music;  $
For ‘freedom of expression’ is its distinguishing  
feature, which Jazz music forever seeks.

CONCLUDING  MY PART ONE
‘Jazz’ had come to America in chains, buried
deep inside the black man’s soul.
With a longing for freedom from torture and pain,
Which was then beyond their control!
The tom-tom beats, work songs, Spirituals and the
Blues, -
Were all precursor to Jazz, and here I pause to
pay my homage and heart-felt dues,
To those valiant predecessors who had come in
chains ,
Giving a painful birth to ‘jass’, - from which Jazz
gets its name ! # (notes below)

FOOT NOTES:-
Slaves were sold at 15 dollars per head. Early 1700s saw 75,000 slaves auctioned! By1800s there were one million slaves in US alone! Slaves came from Senegal, Ashantis, Gold Coast, Niger Delta, Dahomey, & the Congo; with a variety of beats and music buried in their minds and hearts !
** The Drums were an essential form of communication in Africa. They believed their Gods communicated through their beats . Those drums provided the basic beats of Jazz Music.
+ 'Blue Music' = became a part of cultural landscape of Southern US by early 1900s, but had remained unnoticed till W.C.Handy published his song –‘Memphis Blues’ in1914.
@ I refer here to the famous ***** Spiritual song -‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ ! I use to sing this song in my Missionary School in Calcutta in the 50s !  Slaves had sung them in plantation ‘Praise Houses’ during their weekly prayer meetings.
# "JASS" = originally an Africa-American slang meaning ‘***’! Born in the brothels of Storyville (New Orleans)  & the Jasmine perfumes used by the girls there; one visiting them was  said to be 'jassed-up' ! Mischievous boys rubbed out the letter ‘J’ from posters outside announcing -"Live Jass Shows'', making it to read as ‘'Live *** Shows'’! So finally ‘ss’ of ‘jass’ got replaced by 'zz' of JAZZ !
$ “Improvisation” = is the process of spontaneously creation of fresh melodies over the continuously repeating cycle of chord changes of a tune, which distinguishes Jazz from all other musical forms - raising it to its own great Individualistic Heights !
….ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY OF NEW DELHI---
E-Mail : rajnandy21@yahoo.in
Being a lover of Classical & Smooth Jazz, I had composed the True Story of Jazz Music in Two Parts. Will be posting Part Two after a break for appreciation of true Jazz Lovers on this Site! - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
victor tripp Jul 2013
Memory takes me back to long ago, I can see the deck of the slave ship  I came on smell the salt air and hot vinegar used to clean away the escaping stench below decks hear the sound as male  slaves exercise as crew members play fiddler music while chains thud hard from dancing amusement my home was near the River Senegal on  the coast  the slave traders  ships brought brightly colored cloth beads *** cowrie shells to trade for our black flesh father raised cattle  rice maize this ebony man traded for muskets gunpowder needles colored thread for what he grew on the day of our capture we marched  during the long day tied to each other  given only thin meal and warm water tiredness bore down on our limbs each step canoes came on sea waves toward us fear moved down the chained line men women children were separated our clothes were taken  standing naked mouths were opened skin and muscles felt we had to jump up  and down while moving  arms  chosen ones were branded with hot irons marking each one cold wet cloths applied to the brand on the seared skin  I scream loudly until my voice refuses sound the time for hearing is gone rapid  waters fill with blood as some are tossed into sea for circling sharks to dine on the ship offers only sixteen inches to hold me  others have two and a half inches if tightly packed bodies are in the hold secured down my chain is nailed dimness cries of agony beat on my ears like drums I try not to breath in the rancid smells of those who have soiled themselves air is limited I wait  for my body to die like my mind and soul we sail  for slave ships must leave immediately before sickness breaks out if that happens slaves will mutiny uprising usually takes place within the shoreline when neared at sea chances are less to leave slaves who simply refuse to eat are force feed with the speculum oris  which is placed in the slave's mouth opening the jaws then food is pushed in usually rice or millet crew members wash away stench of blood  from floggings feces ***** from between decks the stink of vinegar drying in sun is as bad living is sometimes harder than dying
I am here a poet
And like I do,
Someone messaged me
Like a friend ,I replied
She gave me her mail
That she had an important story to share
Like a man,I gave her mine
She was thankful
But soon she turned a refugee
Under refuge in Senegal
And desperate for help
She asked my occupation
She asked my account details
She asked for my support to transact
$55000
I refused all of them
Now she needs money
To come and meet me on Kenya.
I went ahead
To check her account in here
And she had a one COPY PASTED POEM,
And she was got,
If you are the one,
Kindly try when I am drank
I will pour out all my secrets
I will transfer half of my money to you,
The only problem is
I love Christ
And I don't go near a pub
Leave alone getting drunk.
I will disclose your details!
If you are this one,Kindly Cut your story short!
stephanibaby  7 days ago

Hello,
I am Miss stephani, I have go through your profile, Well according to your profile,on this site I think I've taken an interest in it. We can get to know each other better through this way, my email is (stephanicuma@hotmail.com)
WRITE DIRECT TO MY EMAIL ID I have something important to tell you.i hope to hear from you. Thanks yours ,
stephani

Kirui frank junior  7 days ago
I have just written to your email.
victor tripp Aug 2013
Memory takes me back to long ago. I can see the deck of the slave ship I came on, smell the salt air and the hot vinegar used to clean away the escaping stench below the deck, hear the sound as male slaves exercise, as crew members play fiddle music while chains thud hard from the dancing amusement of the slaves. My home was near the River Senegal on the coast. The slave traders ships brought colered cloth, beads, ***, and cowrie shells to trade for our black flesh. Father raised cattle, rice and maize.  This ebony man traded muskets, gunpowder, needles and colored thread, for what he grew.  On the day of our capture, we marched during the long day tied to each other, given only thin meal and warm water. Tiredness bore down on our limbs each step. Canoes came on waves toward us.  Fear moved down the chained line of men. Women and children were separated. Our clothes were taken.  Standing naked, mouths were opened, and muscles felt. We had to jump up and down while moving our arms. Chosen ones were branded on the skin.  I screamed loudly until my voice refuse sound.  The time for hearing is gone.  Rapid waters filled with blood, as some are tossed into the sea, for circling sharks to dine on. The ship offers only sixteen inches to hold me, others have two and half inches if tightly packed. Bodies are in the hold, secured down by chains that are nailed. Faint cries of agony beat on my ears like drums.  I try not to breath in the rancid smells of those who have soiled themselves.  Air is limited.   Mutiny usually takes place within the shoreline. Because when at sea chances are less to escape.  Slaves who simply refuse to eat are force fed with the speculum oris which is placed in the slave's mouth, opening the jaws then food is pushed in usually rice or millet.  Crew members tried wash away stench of blood from floggings, feces, ***** from between decks until this day the stench still remains. Living as a slave while your soul is dead is a living horror.
Charlie May 2015
I know this isnt a poem but I feel its my duty as a moral person to report that there is fraudster messaging this websites members and asking them to email "Her" at which point she will send you false information about wanting to transfer money from senegal.
I urge you, if you get a message from a member called nicystephani ignore them, they're only trying to defraud you. Their email is stepahnicuma@hotmail.com.

Please spread this message so that they can no longer try and trick people.

Remember, don't fall victim to foreign scams
I apologise for the tags not relevant, this just needs to be spread.
Connor Feb 2016
The annual rose garden blushes beneath a soft dress
in May. My crooked puppet's shadow has subsided in the theater it came to make way for fairweather, protest, wet teal ink
flowering the walls as sunlight shines thru and the mechanical
blinking of shadowy eyes now spurred AWAKE.
An Appalachian mind gaze and spiderweb neon
smoke attaching it's warmth to every freckled cheek,
a mint kiss like the opening of a fir tree smelted into the
foggy earth.

Ceramics embroider the shop sills
and ceiling fans wave hello n farewell to every guest
each day longer than the last!
WANDERER slept
sound in the Nagakin Capsule Tower, few nights ago now,
had an idea, lost it, feather flowed it's way across Pacific
to my bedroom and I wrote about her here, and saw a Japanese tea ceremony flash by
her eyes/my eyes
a collective consciousness
sometimes years apart.

She, who's witnessed the debris of catastrophe,
standing over what was a golden vase
filled with Tulips
now ash, forgotten except for in a memorial vague outline
in the bewitched brain(s)
Visionary! Arms twitched to the rapture occurring in plain view of us all
VIOLIN rebounding intangible yet unmistakable sound
on a train in Tokyo city. Cement is damp with Spring's sweet rain,
her feet sore from all this walking!

I appreciate her travels, as they are at once my own,
a second-hand enchantment
the taste of green tea, cherries!
EXPLOSIVE FORMLESS ANIMAL WHITE
feather grazed my skin, startled.

This feeling??
something set free, a violent hue erratic
markings on the cave walls, the one from Plato's allegory,
watching fire light the shape of our bodies and some spectacular image displays itself invisible
but felt, undeniable!
Settled, fire transferred to our lungs.
We call this “ART”
we have left the cave, to Paris, to Senegal, to Jaipur,
to her and I and you.

Animal oh animal caged no longer,
howling paintings and smells to our eyes,
bitten our hands sharp with poetry,
this ghast who's empathy for strangers has made a rare few dizzy. Possession! Willingly accepted nocturnal entity and I write this because I can't help myself.

THIS IS WHAT CREATED THE MANDALA,
COLORS OF AN ANCIENT PEACOCK
LURKING WITHIN US TENDING THE FLORA
which takes inspiration from museums, from brief embers shot up in a chasm fireplace illustrating what we'll call Forever,
vocal alchemist who resides in descending faint harp and opera
a fountain in a mysterious lobby only visited by one person, once every few months,
birds shimmer in planted palms and a crystal ceiling expounds the details of travels to come,
an orb above like an observatory for our OWN universe.

APOLLO IN LAUREL
PIANO, ASIAN INFLUENCE,
Damien Hirst's “Beautiful darkness spreading to every corner of your mind painting"
framed holy upon the walls
Jean Cocteau's “The Blood of a Poet” projected also, side by side.
A painted face, a parrot imitating Sudhana

“This is the abode of those of unobstructed intellect and broad mind,
Enjoying the realm of space, free from dependence,
Penetrating all times, free from obstruction,
Clearly perceiving all being and becoming”
- Avatamsaka Sutra

I'm speechless!
She's speechless! Her Tokyo, admittedly imaginary. It's her private
Nagakin Capsule Tower. It's my private Temple, my private Cocteau,
shelves stocked with the poems I'll one day write.
Words which shall knock on my dented skull in sleep mostly, but other times I can't recall as of this moment (Get back to me in July)
retired to literary France
and caught in the quicksand of aging, perhaps medicine will be far along enough that I shall die at 173?
a stretch, but considering that sciences are pushing for immortality by 2045 (pfft)
we shall see.
(??)
Bearded and divine with love
and experience from Airplanes
free jazz, dramatics,
heart to heart, dense libraries,
evening walks to Montmartre
a hand to hold
a kiss to experience.
Meditations,
Rodriguez “Sugar Man” fades out
“Silver magic ships... you carry...”
Sung once by the European barista in British Columbia who kept me caffeinated with a double shot of espresso for guessing the song right which was playing..This just happened, but I realize it'll become such a faint memory by then.
Out and out and out and out there
Far beyond the reaches of consciousness that previously mentioned feather will gather with the other ideas and become the WHITE peacock, infinite.
Carrying us there as wintry atoms
snowdrops on it's back.
One life to another.
the sight
of a blonde Austrian 5-year-old girl
happily hugging a Senegal mammy in Vienna
joys me beyond belief
Kìùra Kabiri Dec 2016
CONSCRIPTS: CHILDREN OF WAR

Conscripts, Innocent children robbed for war
From Congo, Chad, Central Africa Republic, Mali….
From Uganda to Sudan and South Sudan, Burkina Faso, Senegal…..
They are the forefronts young fatal fighters
From Boko Haram, Al Shabaab, Lord Resistance Army…..
They are these merciless Militias mouths-youths
From Biafra-Nigeria, Bujumbura, Asmara to Abidjan Civil Wars
They are their battalions’ fertile feeding grounds
They are Kony, Riek Machar and Ruthless Rebels’ mercenaries
They are Ouattara, Nkurunziza, Salva Kiir…..youthful foot soldiers  
They are Resistance Armies and Liberation army’s guerillas  

They raided a village
They foraged the villages
For innocent, forced conscripts
At dawn-at dusk, daytime-nighttime  
At noontime-at eventide-every time

And she begged
These satans that came
At the mask of dark nights
Slithering silent as serpents
For her last left and living!

She mourned and bemoaned
Helpless and hopeless
Her, grief-stricken hapless
But under those ****** shot eyes
Those coals-hot red coloured irises
That pity or its empathy knows not
It was all in vain-to no avail!

Determined, resolute, uncaring, ruthlessly  
Him tucked on her compassionate chest
Him still tagged on her hopeless breast
Its cheeks struggling to suckle any fluid
From these sagged sacks of balloons
Him they riotously robbed

And those that can’t they ripped
To those that can’t they opened
Those that can’t they roped
To those that can’t odd happened
Those that can’t they *****
To those that can’t they dampened

Those able fingerings wrapped
On frontiers as fighters they lined
With no war experience
With no ammunitions intelligence
No boots-barefoot, no shirts-bare chests
As shields shivering, roughly ripped
By advanced military and militias

Never to know home again
Never to know its warmth again
Never to know fears again
Never to know pains again
Never to know happiness ever again
Never to know the sweet tastes again
Of what Mama’s milk-nourishing colostrums contain

Somewhere in tough terrains
Somewhere in jagged plains
Somewhere in rugged mountains
Somewhere in thicketed montanes
Somewhere in brutal bushes
Somewhere in shriveling shrubs
Shallow graves of their immature bones
Their carrions lay leaked white by scavengers or time

Lucky him that deaths avoids
Lucky him that deaths mercy observes
Lucky him that deaths shyly eludes
Fortunate him it sympathetically spares
Lives in agony of pain and guilt
Lives in fears of loyalty and liberty
Lonely eyes, hollow sorrow, mourning souls,
Empty heart, mad tampered mind, tempered looks….
Him, innocent Conscripts, Children of War!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Sorrowful.
Connor Sep 2015
I follow poppy flowers down avenues gray and pestilent.
I pass the radiant windows of Avalon while crows perch the ticket stands.
Sidewalk lifeless as frowning clowns droop on their way to another wake.
Fluorescent signs hang from concord wires.
I tire of the tired,
I drain from the drained.
I am the modern death.

School children are made from the same cosmic juice blend as me.
They are the modern death.
Politicians wear my infamous black garb.
The modern death is them, just as well.
Senegal actresses patter on their patchwork paste texture makeup and rose circles, hiding tears illuminated with the truth of tragedy.
There is no doubt they are the modern death.
Faerie potpourri in desolate East Hastings and clairvoyant row enticed by false visions of hallucinated men crouched beneath rotten cement canopies while locusts click and clatter midst their sorrow.
They are buzzing incantations of the modern death.
Tibet is falling hold to corruption while the boyish monks calm in their meditations, are interrupted by agony wept Bhikkus bent in ****** transgressions, even Buddha is the modern death!
China is a communist factory housing too many chimneys clogged with silent sufferings.
Communities hiding in thin dust masks bearing the insignia of the modern death, only seen underneath ultraviolet light.
My role has been diminished in recent generations, I'm growing old and flogged with decay,
same as you, modern death.

We're here for a final round of drinks
cool on our chasm lungs breathing big bang radiation for many years
while the batteries in our clocks begin to fail us and the Hospital calls occur in succession once we get too sick to see the harsh planet we'll all have the privilege of dying in.
I'm the modern death watching pale static reruns of the nature channel in a finely decorated room in some death camp retirement home
waiting on the last day, inevitable.
There's no place here for the modern death,
not anymore.

This is what the poets were talking about!
all the bodies are already skeletons.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
some crazy sudoku time:

       mp  w   d   l   gf   ga   gd    pts
j       2     1    1   0    4     3     1       4
s      2     1    1   0    4     3     1       4
c      2     1    0   1    4     2     2       3
p     2     0    0   2     1    5     -4      0

so...

             senegal would have to draw
with colombia, proposition (a)...
       proposition (b) poland would have
to win against japan...

       oh... and then it would have...
  j. gd taking them
        to -1                 or 0...

                     meaning c. and s.
                    would have to draw even...

like i said: it just might be a miracle
for senegal and colombia...

                 and poland's last resort...
fighting the remaining axis power of
the 20th century...

                 but that's football,
   future, past,
               gambling...
                       and chance...
and above all else, something more than luck.

           go senegal!
                   go colombia!
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
in terms of ontology: all is permitted,
given that so much is left,
dangling upon a damoclean
                         thread of a single
horse hair...
                            of the unexplored:
ontology is a waiting game,
with what, already is,
   a fixation on the constraints
of: ex simiae:
                       hence my approximation:
**** similis...  
    it's still a desire to preserve
a base, an origin story transfixed by
the use of fungus...
      accidently swallowed a mosquito:
suddenly grew a ******* pinocchio...
and somehow, slyly:
fixating on keep the libido
                                     momentum...
that's crucial, that the momentum is kept...
yet i wonder...
     racism:
                       poland vs. senegal was
the first game when the rams bothered
to clash horns...
       oh i can be crytical when i see it
through a lense of: crypto-nationalism...
unlike the romance of the noble prize
being given to Milosz...
            economic migration background:
i'm not allowed to romance about it...
there's no "grand" furore to mind,
no expectation,
           and certainly no: bending the knee
of the hosts...
  ****! from calling them natives
i'm starting to think in american terms
of hosts...
                  given i'm an alien "body":
                 more or less a thought, prior;
but that was the first instance of
deviating from playing out the sport,
poland vs. senegal...
            ******* europe versus a people
who know of europeans...
                            belgians and the congo...
slim afro beauty that she was...
no wonder...
               could almost say the *******
came when i felt my frontal pelvis
bones was sore after she
                rammed her coccyx onto me...
but outside the realm of serving
seductive cocktails while playing
          cedric 'IM' brooks'
                                     satta masa ganna...
no, i'm just curious about
the dynamic, behind a word such as
racism...
   and language in general...
           who are the people who use
a first tier definition of a word?
          i'm sure language is as loose as
well oiled spaghetti in imitation of
a pit of snakes...
           and yes, the linguistic atomists
(akin to myself) who care to mind
                          diacritical exceptionalism
in uttering a micro-seance
      prior to a syllable... notably via
ü (the classical umlaut)
               and what could become an
applicability of orthography in english:
with, oh so many examples in need of
being addressed:
             namely: from pout,
               came pút,
                                pool
                           ­             (pül),
                and the disguised vowels
of english: putter versus a patter...
  the subtle elongation of the A
  in a: pāt on the shoulder...
i already know that my suggestion is
too impractical to be ascribed
a subsequence with a towed effect
being ascribed...
           but at least there's the observation,
in the open.

  with this one particular word,
what is it: from zenith to nadir,
  or from a nadir to a zenith?
    definition 1.
             first, or           definition 3. first?
vocab. inheritance tax...
or just mindless fronting concerning
the affair?
    
is it a priori:
   1. a belief or doctrine that inherent
  differences among the various human
racial groups determine cultural
or individual achievement,
  usually involving the idea that one's
own race is superior and has the right
to dominate others or that a particular
     racial group is inferior to the others

or 3. hatred or intolerance of
               another race or other races                 ?

seems rather contradictory that
there could be such a priori complexity
to begin with, to be inherent...

zenith / nadir
                   a priori / a posteriori
dictum would suggest
  that: definition no. 3 is a priori...

while definition no. 1 is a posteriori...

    which also allows a psychological
dimension and
    the Freudian-Jung dynamism to
"explain" the proton, neutron, electron,
egg shell egg white, yoke,
               sclera, iris and the pupil
dynamic invoked by the psyche-dissection
into compartment
of a consciousness,
                    a sub- and an unconscious...

definition no. 1 can't be a priori:
it's too worded to make sense of
what an a priori statement looks like,
i.e.: 1 + 1 = 2.

an a posteriori statement?
               given that 1 + 1 = 2 is an a priori
statement?
                                    √-1...
   ­  lo and behold!
             you get a letter! as substitute to
the meddling in numbers...
     and then from i, to iota,
                       and the concept of a pronoun
in english (gender neutral) you go...
                              wunderbar!
                ­       ja...
because you can begin with an:
a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i...
                  clearly there's a priori
favour, to subsequently allow
a loss of explanation with a 1 + 1 = 2...
inheret bother:
      because when wasn't
         arithmetic ever akin to spelling?
the frequency of the letter-usage
compared to numbers?
      
              do you call the mann unable
to count or spell:
at the same time blind
            and deaf, synonymous?
what definitions behind a word
do you use?

what tier of a word are you making
                           allowances for?

using tier no. 1?
        or using tier no. 3?
   how can you even allow
an "ambiguity" of secondary tiers
of red...
               given there's no celtic ginger...
and shouldn't tht belong among
painters who can actually
see past the writer's daltonism,
  or x-ray in teutonic schwarz und weiß...

   a sch't'ern tongue:
          among, platzieren ziegel von die rot
                von Marienburg
...

what is the dictionary "ambiguity"
of red?
            
            one subsequent definition is:
BLAH!

               so we've established word
that acribe to tickling a thesaurus
ambiguity...
    but sure as **** there are some,
rigid, orthodox, words:
that can be used, un-acriptive
of a challenging authority
wishing upon it a counter-usage...

  i was born a pollack,
i acquired english:
            god forbid i don't die german!
hence all this crypto-nationalism
*******...
      i am a crypto-nationalist,
given that a nation is a cryptic,
quasi-noun suffragette...

             ich, werden sterben ˈjərmən!
point being: i'm hardly welcome...
        but death is hardly
a grieving mother,
               rather, a welcoming *****.

i've "said" enough,
  question is...
                                 have i drunk enough?
Qualyxian Quest Aug 2020
Man from Senegal in the parking lot.
                 African literature
                           Islam


                  Aleikum Salaam
Stanley Wilkin Dec 2017
Gloria was a grump,
delightful Felicity a frump,
Sara a bit of a chore
Liz liked gore,
Azi cried alot
Jill cared not a jot
for anyone, I learned
Cecila's stomach churned,
Roberto enjoyed her food
In public, Edie was rude,
Faizi liked to laugh
Katie liked to ****,
Esmeralda loved to ski
until she broke her knee,
Toni drempt of fame
but ended on the game,
Jen constantly made love
worn out, she resides above,
Queenie liked her drink
spent her days throwing up in a sink,
Julie adored her kids,
both are on the skids,
Siham adored money
was always miserable, never funny,
Frankie cared for wealth
spent a fortune on her health,
Jasmine was dour
more nettle than flower,
Ruby liked to cook,
Cynthia preferred a book,
Fill wanted to marry,
she eventually met Barry,
Aysha had great beauty
and was shrewdly dotty,
Anna was a shrew
which everyone but me knew,
Kath used excessive perfume-
smoking me out of my bedroom,
Pauline constantly showered
while Jackie always glowered
at strangers in the street-
where Carol and I met
on New Years Eve 2011
and for a month I was in heaven,
until my short affair
with nimble Clair,
Toni ate sparingly
lean meat and leaner celery,
Jo ate five times a day,
No one got in her way
of food, while Chris ate
tons of icecream, getting stuck in a gate
one day when off to work,
I took the opportunity, like a ****,
to leave waving goodbye
from my car. Why?
Essie was beside me
and again I needed to be free,
which a month later so did she!
Mitch bought me another
borrowing it off her brother,
who much bigger than me,
once more I was impelled to flee.
Suzanne in France
lead me a dance,
having other men every day
when I was away,
while Adalene
worked on my brain
and Genevieve broke my heart,
briefly, when apart
holidaying in the Alps with Jean
until her curiosity done
she came back and apologised,
and thereafter we thrived,
and would still be together
had not Heather
seduced me one day
when Genevieve was looking the other way
and did not see
Heather kissing me
by the pool
in Dakar, Senegal,
or making love
in rainy Vaduz,
holding hands in Bern
near a milk churn
having a bit of a lover's palava
in Bratislava.
When she found me with Ruth in Moscow
Genevieve told me sharpely to go,
I went. Ruth went off with Jean
and I took the first plane home,
meeting Jess in Heathrow
we took a taxi to Wivenhoe,
living there a year,
where fattened up with calorific beer
dressed now in grandad fashion
I started making a sullen impression
on even those who loved me,
but still, good reader, I needed to be free
so here I am now with Daphne
the final woman for me.

I met Adele in my son's first school
so, reader, I guess I'm just an unstructured fool,
for along came Celeste, Diane and Frick
making me still a colossal p......k.
vanessa Nov 2019
in the moments before dawn you’ll hear whispers: haunted breaths 
that scrape your neck like glass fingernails, razorblades in the liminality of time; 
the music in your ears will ring like church bells and 
crack like porcelain spoons in ceramic hands. the clouds will call your name, 
dip it in the sea and stain it grey, and you’ll wish you could get it back
but you’ll find yourself muted, your vocal chords tangled, 
knotted, and slit by stiffened swords in the arms of the enslaved. Cape Horn beckons
and we pretend not to hear. Senegal polishes her silver knife & I pretend that I am not unfaithful to Alexandro’s memory. if there’s no way 
to unlock my wrists then don’t bother looking for land, just turn 
my vessel around and let my eyes search for the gaze of the mountain. if there’s no way 
to silence my mind then don’t bother whispering in my ears, 
don’t be naive, 
don’t play games with me unless you can dock the ship. when the clock turns three, 
go tell Bartholomew he can take my body, it’s not mine and 
I don’t want it anymore, the blood on my neck may be my blood but 
it belongs to the blade, so tell him,
turn my bones into skeleton keys and Aranda will show you the way. 
I’ll follow your leader if you follow me, I promise, 
I promise, I promise unbroken dreams in Delano’s unbroken hands. although
my wrists are bound by plastic chains, I’ll still tell you 
to watch your step because the planks beneath your feet 
are echoing with the phantoms of lost crowns whether or not you can 
feel the spirits in the air. you can’t see but your jeweled massacres 
have bled into the suds twined around your neck,
My Dear Amasa, 
I wonder what you’d say if you knew that
there will be no sunrise.
inspired by melville's benito cereno
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
the zenith and crux had to come one day,
perhaps with a: being awake outside
the domain of the healthy concern for
night as associated with sleep,
   and day - with at least the bare minimum
of cooking a **** tasty dinner -
         namely wanting to improvise on
chapati bread...
                                since came upon me a pain,
left me sliding off my bed,
  and repenting, laying myself on a hard
wooden floor, repenting since outside
   the window: June finally woke to ascribe
to itself both the seekers of shade,
as the ones seeking
                           skin gilded in copper,
inverting the niqab with a pair of sunglasses...
my virtual diet of youtube videos
started to become: claustrophobic,
      even the algorithm spoke back to me
based upon my choice of videos:
                  nothing new was seen since
    the beginning of June, the latest:
            ending on the 20th...
                          thus i remembered that
   i own john frusciante's:
              when shadows collide with people...
can't exactly express what happened
lying on that hard wooden floor...
                        sweating and toiling by
            keeping count of falling dominos...
swelled in john's oeuvre and felt like
i regained my momentary loss of sanity...
notably from being click-baited...
           and youtube was never supposed
to be a free-listening station
    in a ****** megastore, like the ones
on oxford street?
                      don't worry... i'll buy it...
i much care about ownership...
               but even in a ****** megastore
you could test-listen a compact
before buying it...
                        as long as there is:
                     no translation of mobility
from a static thing, to the well hidden,
            compact of a pocket, taking a stroll...
i honestly can't remember the last
time i talked through a mobile phone
that was my possession...
         upon landing at Stanstead this past
May i authentically asked for
   a pay-phone... the employee looked
dazzled and confused...
                so i had to resort to borrowing
a stranger's phone for a speed-dial
   and an exchange of familiar voices with:
i'm here...
                      the bread making
exercise?
                     just a chapati bread...
      infused with a pinch of salt,
         a double pinch of sugar, black pepper,
a dry chilli crumbled... cumin seeds...
            turmeric powder...
                       and mighty hot flat gypsy
frying pan...
                     the sort that requires you
to grip the handle with a cloth...
                      evidently even this famous
canadian dr. can become exhausting...
  why?
              why i am among an audience...
listening to him:
              when i ****** well know that
     i'm probably going to be the only person
who has already read some of the books
he's inviting the remaining members of
the audience to read? but who evidently will
not, because they'll just regurgitate
the lecture: in video.
       only some time ago i discovered this
rotten youtube commentary people...
        last time i checked...
             all i ever used it for was to sample
         music, before i would buy a hard copy...
what a rotten diet!
               i almost lost my pleasure from reading...
not that i might disagree with
      the canadian herr doktor herr professor...
yet: to perpetuate being a student...
           thank god i was taught some higher
technicality in chemistry...
       because, listening to these lectures...
              no wonder pubescence is extended
well beyond the biological reality...
                        plus the company of sophists
and not drunk poets...
        ah... you know... you're always looking
for a stiff one, a sharpshooter to numb
the pain of being crammed with intellectual custard...
i too have read some BIG books...
       but talking about them is like:
an inability to think with them.
          hence the art of necromancy -
it's not "supposed":
       when you're sitting in a room,
   with a library that might as well be regarded
as a graveyard...
        oh this ******'s dead,
   so's this one, and this one...
                    ****! i'm the only one around
here doing the graveyard shift!
and let me tell you:
      it's a gemini schematic -
            one hand feeds the other as
does the other caress the hand that's feeding it...
you can't escape a desire to write,
without keeping an equilibrium
with a desire to read...
                you can't wish to write more
than you read...
                 or feel inclined to do so...
   doesn't exactly require grand books,
                civilisation pillars and door-stops...
i just had to read one book review,
then run back to reading my current
lecture of Heidegger's ponderings VII - XI...
perhaps that's how it goes...
      but i must have been insane for
about a week devouring herr doktor's lectures,
strapped to an outer-looking
                      america and canada...
              the **** does that even matter
from where i'm sitting?
               you want a "clever" little fact?
   you know why the Polacks played such a ******
world cup, in russian?
                 shh...
                the Russians actually played,
the ENTIRE POLISH ANTHEM! (almost)
             no, seriously,
                          even i was brought to tears!
but being in company of another person,
i did a sly whimpering and didn't want
to show the aqua pearls...
            Poland vs. Colombia -
  the Russian organisers allowed for the entire
hymn to be sung... not just the first
stanza like at the olympics or in other
countries...
      mazurek dąbrowskiego to the Russian,
which is more than it is to
the Zakopane fued and throng:
a second stanza!
    przejdziem Wisłę, przejdziem Wartę,
    będziem Polakami.
    dał nam przykład Bonaparte,
    jak zwyciężać mamy.

          i'm even suspicious of the fact
that there might have even been
a third stanza!
                   HENCE THE EMOTIONAL
RESPONSE!
        if you're supposed to "keep"
a memory of only one stanza from
the anthem? why bother...
    unlike the English: bog-standard...
let's get on with it!
                if... i heard, the anthem
in its entire... form?
                           i'd break down crying
listening to it...
          like now...
       listening to john frusciante's
                                 unreachable
                  from the album the empyrean...
thank you very much, Russian,
can you please excuse "my" national team
from not going further than
  the group stages of your grand tournament...
we have more pressing matters
back home -
                       i would like to write
a personal note to Mr. Putin for allowing me
this rare insight...
           thank you for the second stanza
(and third, if i'm not mistaken)
                              of my anthem to be sang
in the presence of other nations;
                     thank you...
                                        for plucking this
from my heart.
                      double down on:
               yes... they plaid **** because they
were emotionally disorientated...
                            as any ****** would be...
having to sing an extra bit...
                          of what's otherwise
           a shorter-script of the anthem recognised
by the olympic community...
                  i know why they failed like
a **** in a bog of mud...
                                     if i almost cried
hearing the extended anthem...
                    how the hell do you think
                          a footballer would feel...
                      kamil grosicki....
                  crying...
                       ­ that's not ******* gazza...
getting booked in the semi-finals
                            in Turin... knowing he would
miss playing in the final!
        this is group stages football!
                 now i can show you a part of
Russian collective psychological "manipulation":
i call it that,
              because i've gained more from
it, than if the Polish team,
   did even something as ridiculous as
                                      play in the semi-final...
it's football...
             after all...
                     the team consisted of mainly
nearing-retirement players
   who were plagued by injury...
                     namely jakub błaszczykowski...
ah! those Russians...
                 they know how to turn a man's
heart back on into a natural rhythm...
                         so...                   no biggie;
if things settle...
                      we'll allow Senegal
                                   and Colombia through.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
it's not that i'm gagging for them, but then again i'm suspicious as to why i don't receive them... where are all the malicious comments, the insidious emails, where are they? i'd love to receive a pigs head thrown at my front door, i'd love becoming an adrenaline junk comment feed filled by load of ******* dressed comments... i mean, my email account is quieter than a graveyard, i keep probing the hornets' nest, and all of them seem stoner lazy... i keep probing and probing and probing... and all i get is an ox's **** back.

maybe i'm just a loveable alcoholic,
that has enough time on his hands
to describe what time is,
given that space has been occupied
by a parabola of einstein,
the the several other impossibilities
of the generalised inquest
as to what is, possible, and as to what is,
impossible.
      i'd be the richest men alive had
i seen the rings of saturn, eye to eye,
but i won't: hence the maggoty stench
of reality overshadowing me...
or that cat's meow loosened inside
my head -
        off the rails -
i tell ye,
    don't buy a *maine ****
cat,
they're just like bloodhounds -
easily depressed, and often too clingy -
you'll end up like me,
   with a feline pavarotti in your head,
i've never hear so many distinctions
of meow in a thousand lifetimes -
quarus, the bane of my life,
if you can call it life with him included;
easier listening to a hundred dogs bark than
his meow distinctions,
     a million mice and one piece of
buttered cheese: can we please, please,
please make this guillotine work?!
    i don't want mice without broken
necks... this cat's ******* annoying!
it's like a baby, cries for nine months
suddenly stops, and starts to suckle at the teet...
it's a bloodhound incarnate as feline...
i don't have the heart to tell the ******
to stop his moaning meows...
but the ginger isn't exactly
a charlie's angel worth of revelation!
ugh... grrr...
       next thing you know i'm pampering
kenyan toddlers on the sly...
had this one night stand though,
with this african bubbly...
what did i end up with,
a child male ******* his thumb,
coming to sleep on my hairy chest...
stroking his afro while trying to
imagine tight-knit spaghetti....
and it really felt like: are you hers,
or are you mine?
                   did i mentioned she preferred
to fake a ****** with her thighs?
oh, sure are ****,
the senegal boys were buddying up busy
with the games console,
i was a surrogate white boy with
a ****** reclining on my chest
falling asleep...
                kissing him goodnight,
and, words aside - i like the racial slur
glue, apologies, i'm not a ****** in
this respect, i just love to avoid
choco, and i much respect
the dr. dre - ******, please,
its either dr. dre or it's
you try **** a kenyan lass,
and she throws a baby boy at you?!
******, just say it:
i'm an usher fan...
you ever had a one-night-stand
when you get to lullaby a black baby
on your hairy white chest?
thought so.
**** as a six pack of **** nuggets...

and i really was up for a steak &
kidney pie...
  i didn't sign up for this sort of love,
but given there was the question
of love on the roulette -
"homie" had a white father for a night...
i guess that was me
measuring ****...
    and the access of promiscuity -
like **** did that work...
sooner me it, and the elephant
in the room,
    than the bling readied easy ride of ****.

i still can't forget that little ******,
his oily twirly curls of sub-sahara -
the buttery feel of his skin against mine -
how easily he fell asleep in my hands -
how he didn't discriminate me not being
his daddy...
   his mama who faked her thighs don't
being ****, who i said to: no...
you just pulled your children from the bed
onto the floor...
and there the poor ****** stood,
at 2.am., ******* at his ******-dummy -
naked, me naked, her queenship naked
next to me, her naked daughter on
the floor by the bed like a respecting dog...
hey! reality!
  so i took the scruff into my arms...
laid him on my chest...
    and he took off into the cloth of night...

no, ******, no no no!
i'll say these words like you rap them,
you don't own a nuance in a thousand miles
of the "proper" usage -
    i have the abiding jest to say them,
what this one-night stand experience,
plus, the pakis in england demanded i be
deemed: vermin...
  i'm pretty sure they're behind that
vocab selection...
      sure thing ****...
i'll be king vermin...
                   wanna see my chew?
grit nibbling, teeth that scold beyond
the bone -
  teeth that chatter and gnash,
treating a piece of bone like a corncob -
until they start suckling on the marrow:
the moment when
rats turn into leeches,
is the moment when rat teeth gnash
past the bone and reach the marrow:
suckle that ****'s worth
                 of freckled blood-clots:
vermin does, what vermin is said to be.

as i always state:
learn how to read, or at least to: reread...
   hard to spot the tuxedo language,
when everyone on the most inglorious stretch
of pavement is wearing hardly a tux,
but a straitjacket.
       oh sure, the sharks were always asking
for the gentle touch,
    the lions were always asking for the gentle
touch...
     for some reason, man was always
asking for a touch of sanity.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2021
to "buy" the trill of an R...
roll a stone...
to hide a sparrow song...
to verge upon a molten crack
of stead... and a heave of stone...
to purr unlike the comforts
of a cat, wheeling a chair...
this: "summons"...
purr this sparrow this
gladly come advent spring:
swallow by uno servitude
a quench an april...

       purr the riddle of
a suppose we...
via geisha... ****... around
and juggle...
it was never a "b.l.m."
Senegal 4ever... *******
afro wand... sort of...
i'll sooner **** a mongolian
squint
than some afro-*******-webel
queen esque
plateau suffice...

          harvest...
me dying...
       i have no *******
replacements to bother
history with!

- - - - - a moses...
a don juan...
                 a ben

to fall in love with a woman
is to somehow:
but not "somehow"
completely disappear...

it's to change your ego
for a foetus -
or: a "mouth" for an "****"...
then the trajectory
of dilution come
the "greater" numbers:
or the purpose of digit
and numbing...

that's a "now" and by "now"
there's only a posit for
cipher...
to love a woman
and not to love love...
how i once was too...
lodged in some a priori
juicing up...
some Cinderella...
              
               never again:
write and drink...
after all...
what is 500ml of jack daniels?
apparently it's, circa:
1000+kcal...
that's like what?
a milkshake of
half a cow or a dozen
lamb shanks?

so sober me, marathon / +a half of
it and the whole
worth of a day...
and that's sober moi...

"my" ego and all this bundle
of foetal-esque metaphorical
coagulation...
verbiage is gloat is goo is glue...
isn't...
a parody of a sunday's
schematic of hours...

         i'll just hope for enough
of off of anything
to find purpose and
some linear trajectory / alias
vector...

but never to hope as i once
hoped: drinking will spurn me on
and i'll wriggle in and out
some spaghetti masterpiece...
sober's only
and at best sober safely does
the sorrow's least...

then i'll walk and take grudges
against the rubric of toes
and a pair of knees that
somehow refuse to kneel...

that there ought to be thought:
to base a genesis with / for...
the 1980s of what's supposing a this
and a supposing a that...

             that there's as much
of a frankentein's monster
that might (without a who)
rebelling not against a birth: de facto
v. per se,

but a death:
since there's a rebellion against
birth
and not death...

so insufferable this life
without enough time to spare
yourself over
the full growth of a sequoia
or a century's width of oak...

i'll throw a stone or suppose
that i cling to cringing at
climbing a mountain:
or... the moon the scythe...
what isn't...
               the brick & scythe
is not... hammer, orb...
live-along live the least & most...

bravado and some variant
of Croat... Silesian is like new
Swiss jargon & cheese...
my brick for a hammer,
my scythe for a sickle...
my vierte ***** swab:
               dull void V of a i.r. "us"

those anglo-swabians...
who, what or rather,
when are dough?

there is meaning behind:
variation(s)
though and though(t)...
              a cat making a summary
of its **** with a slick
lick pop and tying it altogether
sort of a custard & ****...

i have a leash on, studded,
just for pretend purposes...
there's the latex, the cherry...
the fuse... and the gimp clad
sacred and divine da vinci
chicken scribble of

there's the suppose me orc,
suppose there's africa,
and there's suppose sahara isn't...
but there's the mongol
and the siberian tundra...
1000+kcal of bourbon that's
like, what?

count the highest stake in...
knee-caps?
my ego my foetus my **** whole
w'ah w'ah peddling fascistic
fictions...

Sven der SŁASTIKTIK:
   vs. herr Šven:
                 itches of "anti" cool...

how: isch and ich...
         and how there was always
an implosion of sounds...
how juggernaut:
these letters had nothing:
first concerning vowels,
second concerning consonants...
then somehow the *****
of syllables...

  herr hirsch... mr mr...
l'inglese... non franca...
best version of jar and salem /
Sue of                                 "
the jiggling squat lot of
the humming of
the anglo-
prefix spectrum of...
the "ditto-of-things"...

secular anglo,
ßĀß...
              save me, i'm drowning:
throw me a blister!
throw me razor!
lead me to catch onto the edge!
the concern for...
the mythological blonde...
i.e. yes, woman...
a female yellow hair
thrice removed ****...
come together, house party...

yes... my most "evil" deed...
putting my index
into a mouth of a cat, yawning...
to pretend: the least...
of catching some variation
of rye... no... "unawares"...

the anglo-saxon blonde...
a myth in the hands of tired
history...
my mouth is my *******
is also the gate of jerusalem
is... if the african are such
pristine jew-esque hoarding
news...
then... i'm  in *******
limbo... i.e PDND...

lost the plot / scenario of that
acronym: shelved in
the chasm of what became:
telescope... 20th century...
the 1960s gwand... cultural...
"event"... thingy...
that word that's...
international off jew...
the yew the state...

no more anti-semitism...
we're not killing jews now...
there's the... iraqi... the iranian...
the syrian and the israeli...
who the **** requires...
prefix contention for...
jew?
                    killing pale miscreants...
no?
      barber highest tash...
who is going to call this
heave of rock holiest...
this parting of the Baltic
this source of the Dnieper
some alternative Kiev...

who?!
my god of stone-dodging
impotent mountain heaves...
these supposedly lifeless
letters... these only hebrew solves
the quest sort of primo
antics?!
western, anglo-saxon...
liberal "sensibilities":

if only they came as
anglo-swabians...
there was no mythological
sexed-up blonde to rot with...
beside the geisha bride...
the mongolian horde leftover...
because...
do i have to?
**** a picasso's head and triumph sort
of gaze as an insomniac version
of a hard-on...
do i need to be ****-friendly
with the smear of
cinnamon towing copper tinged
with: the discovery
of coco makes no sense
without the discovery of sugar...

coco is coffee...
pointless... gold is...
Caribbean sugar... no less...
the supposed english
as the best tourists...
****'s sake all this
toe nibbling **** licking
parody of:
the racist and skimming a depth...
arriving at a parody
of essentials...
the athletic jews
counter the intellectual
africans of the coliseum stage...
the mythological blonde...
or some germanic alias, root...

      - something "non-essential":
that non-posit of the realm
of a variation anglo-sax:
contra bass                          (E):
mythological brown-gesture
& beater and clown -

wasaby swabian...
    brown-nosing
  fudge for glitter goo...
              i'll be dead & more deader
than a harrowing Sue...
because...
  loiter at best of a quest...

throw a cut-off branch...
at a forest...
there's this...
    "mythology of ethos"...
there's this dream without
a diatribe of piquancy...
                there's this polka-dot
alignment pastiche,
brown-nosing
the otherwise "riddle"....
there's this grey this fudge...
this skull filled with
amber and filled with herring...
there's a mythological Baltic..
there isn't a Volga...
which is... a river...

i quench to fathom: the summons...
best this mythological blonde...
this posit of excavation:
i will not be either "here" or "there"...
there's the genesis
africa but not the siberian
tundra...
           because the sound
do "verb" do hinterland... do...
*******: walloping...
                  
                come fudgefudgefudge...
custardpiecustardpie...
ottoman ****** cuts... ich vs. isch
fervour of ******* "last".

— The End —