"smokescreen" poems
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution
Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen,
That tall old man with white hair all over his head
Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind
Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart
But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece
Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade
His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself,
Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss
Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift;
A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary
Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine
But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent
Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution
For you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution
That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect
The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour
He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety
He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda
He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi
All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness,
It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade
His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt
To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts,
His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece
And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution
Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk ****
Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness
They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty,
Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism,
Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs,
Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy,
They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets
Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
in the backyard
lighting up a smokescreen
high on all the thoughts
of what once was and could have been
filled to the brim with these emotions
but i don't feel a thing
how tiring it is to always think so much
and still remain the same
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 12:24 AM UTC
It's All About Perception
No one can understand you, because you're not your typical run of the mill
it's all due to your philosophy, a mind that thinks but a tongue that sits still
years quickly pass you by, finding yourself alone and in a world of your own
as you learn the value of pen and paper, finding refuge in a place unknown
Like being trapped in a bubble, peering out upon the world as a screen
watching everyone going about their business, while you remain unseen
transfixed on your reality you close your eyes, wishing it were but a dream
unable to fathom the depths of emotions, waiting to take you to the extreme
The reality of who you are can no longer be ignored, facing each day from anew
accepting the fact that you have no control, from others, forced to take your cue
this world is all about rising above, as it starts at the very moment of conception
it follows us throughout life, as we learn the rules, mastering the art of deception
The external images you portray, a needed smokescreen, to maintain the perception
your moves are well planned, the primary focus of your attention, without exception
failing to have considered the matter, you realize you haven't made the connection
your insecurities have misdirected your behavior, demanding the world's affection
There's no denying this fact; life is nothing more than a continuous act of deception
while the true level of your mastery of it, your ability to advance without aggression
at the end of the journey, despite what we went through, it might come as a surprise
realizing that happiness was always there, only hidden from us by our own disguise
Why continue living the life of lies, playing the games people play, there is yet hope
break the bonds of self-deception, because this vanity has really become your dope
be who you really are, a genuine beauty to behold, and in you will someone admire
your hidden love now freed, surrendered to someone true, to build that endless fire
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
City of stars
Are you shining just for me?
City of stars
There's so much that I can't see
Who knows?
I felt it from the first embrace I shared with you
That now our dreams
They've finally come true
City of stars
Just one thing everybody wants
There in the bars
And through the smokescreen of the crowded restaurants
It's love
Yes, all we're looking for is love from someone else
A rush
A glance
A touch
A dance
A look in somebody's eyes
To light up the skies
To open the world and send it reeling
A voice that says, I'll be here
And you'll be alright
I don't care if I know
Just where I will go
'Cause all that I need is this crazy feeling
A rat-tat-tat on my heart
Think I want it to stay
City of stars
Are you shining just for me?
City of stars
You never shined so brightly
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
Passing judgment is subjective,
it’s in the eyes of the beholder.
You know it, don’t do it.
It goes something like you point a finger at someone
& they're four pointing back at you.
Like who makes anyone a judge & jury?
That’s right, arrogance.
It’s usually themselves,
spilling volumes about how righteous they are.
They’re what some label a smokescreen character,
a ******* flimflam artist,
holier than thou, you know the type.
They wouldn’t last ten seconds in a firefight.
Bottom line: trust no one, not even yourself.
I saw family members
give up their relatives
to make a buck.
That’s right, greenbacks.
A regular family-affair.
Imagine selling out blood for paper.
We called it a war on terror.
They called it Jihad.
It didn’t matter what anybody called it.
There was no God involved.
Just human nature & people pointing fingers.
The same old show,
the same old ****
dogs & ponies
one upping each other.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
This journey:
this path I’m on seems ever circular, bringing me back around to the same old lessons that for some strange reason I am just too dense to understand.
There is something I feel I should be learning – or something I need to let go of – or is it grasp? Maybe it’s both…. I don’t know.
I feel like I’m on a roller coaster –
one minute I’m strong –
I really believe I can do this…
the next, I am hiding again…
allowing myself to be lost in shame and self-hate.
A few months ago, I felt like I took this huge leap forward...
self-care, healing, opening emotional pockets…
knowing full well that I needed to keep reminding myself about the lurking shadows...
the ones who provoke me and make me feel bad even in the midst of making strides forward.
So here I am, feeling those same old feelings of guilt and shame and hatred.
I suppose I know what the shadow is that lurks, but I just don’t know what to do with the shadow. How do I bring it into the light to stay?
My husband tries to use my “achievements” to bolster my confidence, help me shed this bone crushing feeling of self-defeat, but those achievements are a smokescreen – an elaborate, disguise, the stronger I seem, the less likely anyone is to guess what a coward I truly am.
I can fool others- but not myself.
The first time, I lost, it was to him
this time, it comes at my own hands….
And that seems to be so much worse...
I can feel myself backsliding …. So much up and down!
When does it does it stop?
Does it stop?
The term “survivor” implies a certain level of triumph or victory. The term ‘victim’ carries connotation of guiltless submission. I am neither a survivor nor a victim. I am a fraud, a shell of a person hidden inside a carefully constructed facade. I have not triumphed over my past, and the damage it continues to cause is due to my own personal failure to set it aside. I have managed to surrender my whole identity because I lack the courage to claim my truth.
Healing is a lot like daylight savings time...
fall back, spring forward, over and over and over again.
It makes me dizzy, sick to my stomach and depressed...
all of this back and forth.
Now I feel the path has once again ended
and I am left standing alone.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
Clouds engulf the L.A. basin
Layered mold in the
tubberware
lunchbox
I left home.
Except the spores
are tufts of a woman's white hair
Clumped together in the shower drain
blocking the grates.
You cannot shoot up enough
silicon to fill
the wrinkles of a body
hollowed
You'd have to start pulling marrow
from the bone.
These craters of the basin--
****** dry to burn.
hollowed curves a body barren,
tapped out, laid fallow.
Shrouded...
White noise
White film
White foam.
She, with her fingers
in every swimming pool
She, lounging behind the smokescreen
She, big curvaceous mound
smoldering rock of an old woman
She, who can **** it in and hold it in
the atmosphere
She, lasso-ing lady with wild tendril hair
She can't always keep from billowing out
hot air.
Soon enough she'll catch a sore throat.
Soon enough she'll taste the concrete waterways.
Soon enough, she, ittle too long.
The tale of Hydra is a tale of women deflated.
This lick of fire did not blanket the city but set it ablaze.
She swallowed the heat ****** back the fire
bled and wept Armageddon-red sunsets.
White Noise
White Film
White Foam
She, a flat, airless
mortar without bricks
tooth-picked clean.
only marrow left of bone.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 3:45 AM UTC
black infection
encrusted society
shifty figurehead
sightless humanity
labelled multitudes
open forgery
smokescreen to the social order
decomposing culture
dead camaraderie
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
You can't just dine; It's not time.
Sleep, lines the bottoms of her eyes.
The circles form overnight, deprivation, falsification.
So if her common sense neglected?
It's 'cause something bigger's detected.
She doesn't mind being left behind.
She would rather go slowly to watch the sunset, anyways.
No reason to look behind the smokescreen (there are some things that no one needs to find.)
Look on as she survives another attempt, kinetic in her learning. Pleading guilty in a non guilty crime.
Avoiding awkward by jumping the fence to turn and step.
Can't help the second nature, her reflexes from past experience stay quick-just to hate her.
They taught her well, as she sought to dip-set
(back to her speculum of normalcy.)
Walking down the street, curbing the beat.
Lights flicker in and out; shadow-boxing down the alleyways of her life.
Her eyes may have welled, only to dry; in the heat of the moment, regrettably she could only, sigh.
The one thing her mother taught her is to never believe in surprise. Collectively she will be waiting for the day and time when she gets hit from behind the lines, life flies by and she is not afraid to die.
"And she will bite her bottom lip all she wants."
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 8:59 PM UTC
You've been walking
in the same space
at the same pace
for days it seems,
or is it years now?
It makes no difference–
too afraid to pinch
and perhaps wake up,
or even worse
realize there's nothing to
wake up from.
It does not feel like real life
so far from home, far
from the tangibles that
once played strict boundaries
on your existence.
Every step you take
the dream becomes the truth
and your old life
fades from reality toward
memory–
still hoping to wake
and be home again,
back in an old city,
an old time,
with old friends–
maybe a beach in Fiji
with Kristine Kochanski
laid out beside you.
Seems like thats
how things should be.
Seems like thats the
reality
you had in store,
not tucked away
under smokescreen skies,
alienated and alone.
New friends and
New places
that are beginning to lose
that New car smell.
Pinch me please.
Pinch me,
you are asking
harder, harder,
again, again–
"Once more,"
you're begging.
This can't be it
*********
it can't be all
there is,
you'll wake up
you have to
one of these days.
Or is it years
now?
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
A silken drop nectar refined,
Delicious, smooth, it’s taste sublime,
Worshipped and revered in times of old,
Bacchus it’s God, his hand-maidens bold.
The Romans swilled, the Greeks imbibed,
The British drank, the French prescribed.
The Church just called it Christ’s own blood,
Believers flowed as if by flood.
This luscious liquid as fine as honey,
The fountain not of youth but merely money,
Small price to pay for so much fun,
When it can turn a dowdy day to sun.
Clinking glasses moments shared,
The more imbibed the more is bared,
Food important or so they claim,
When as a smokescreen its main aim.
All that said let me be clear
There’s a reason we choose wine not beer,
Wine is healthy, helps the heart,
Beer is fattening and so ****
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 11:31 AM UTC
what if we're just
disembodied hands
clawing at a smokescreen
the illusion never shatters.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
Scars heal?
No, they don't
Pain is not forgotten
I can hear the thunder of the wagon train
Isn't my mouth still full of dirt?
Was it dust or ash, my mind cannot hold the details
It only remembers the pain
Curses on the daisy
Who told the wildflower it could come so far?
Why should it live if I die
Snarling barking
Smokescreen of control
Scars heel they never heal
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
“Commercially Successful”
—the metaphysical oxymoron
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
With Witnessess as our God's,
Our love was meant to be forever.
But we spent to long, straining,
heart shrapnel, from lukewarm coffee.
Celestial fire due to write super novellas
in the spaces we shared,
instead blinded us,
with bright lights,and stardust.
I'm still burning the fire that started when we met.
I feed that fire, like I fought the depression, when you left.
But I tell you now, as much as it scared me.
God **** It was warming.
I never meant for us to be the spark
that died before the flint.
Two damp squibs
choking as the air left the room.
Leaving projectors to play monochrome fantasies
in the smokescreen of your absence,
as the acrid plastic nasal tumours,
grew inside of our silent movie.
The coughing had lost it's soul.
Revealing a struggle for air.
All the dance routines had died
life saving became life,
I am so sorry, I spent my time,
kissing gifthorses on the mouth,
while looking for Trojans
instead of just enjoying your presence.
They say if you love something, set it free,
but bluebirds sing in cages
better than any canary
when fed on tidbits and tall stories.
So forgive me my dramas
Let me soap up in my failures
my ritual clean begins at the home
we built from borrowed time
I hope heaven loves you as hard as have.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
I have these little moments of boldness, sometimes.
Hidden behind the smokescreen
Of smiles and self-effacing humor.
I have these seconds when I consider
What might happen
If I slid my fingers along your jaw
And showed you something serious
That flickers behind my laughter.
These little jolts of courage and curiosity.
And in those moments,
I do things that I look back on and my heart races.
As a rule I am not bold,
I do not take what I want,
I wait.
But every so often
I say
To hell with it
In my head
And show you a moment of depth.
I'm not accustomed to it,
That kind of honesty.
Not with you.
But someday soon I know I will pull you close
And forget that I am afraid you won't kiss me back.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
It's been light years since my heart strings
were touched, gently plucked
in artfully arranged cacophonies of
'I love you' and
'Come closer' and, whispering,
'baby'
sweetly, in his waning symphony.
The fade-out drags at my feet,
while I move through moments now, slowed down,
talking loud,
as though words are my only means to stretch moments out.
These are the 4am secrets I cling to most,
sunlit smokescreen memories of a spaceman still haunting me, you see
no matter how loudly I speak
smaller volumes are still volumes
and his whispers were still words
like 'baby', hurtling through moment after moment
and I wonder why it still hurts.
An asteroid of his voice ricochets through endless stretches of space
and solar flares only spit flashes of his face until even supermassive black holes seem comforting,
perhaps they would transport me to a different dimension of blanket fort dreams
where I am held again, amongst whispers wistfully meant
and this time I don't forget to contain all the stars in my eyes,
cocooned in second chances on Solaris,
the planet where lost loves come to life,
where droves of the lovesick go to die.
I couldn't escape past the moon forever
but **** I could still crash land whenever
These unearthly dreams created space for me
and in that space, I found my sanctuary
realising that with all the space that I need
the spaceman no longer had a hold on my dreams.
See, love was soaring music, elevation, no metre,
just levitation, almost timeless, but it teetered
on the finish line
to be stopped too soon by a volume dial and a frown,
I bottled up from bottle to cup and kept my voice down
but time has a way of showing you
that shutting people out isn’t profound,
but the absence of sound.
Endings quietened my universe, but
I stopped believing in the relief of silence
and since,
I have become a crushing crescendo,
I think even the cosmos could hear me screaming.
The volume turns up and I burn and I glow
feasting on feelings, wasted on whispers
I'll break waves against wistfulness,
Fling fists against fitfulness,
the spaceman can fight me for all he's worth,
I will not fade out.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
It was my first time meeting a writer
Brand new book, published and everything
He stood, quivering, sheltered, in his wrinkled black 501s—
Costumed tailored shirt, the initials read EC
Blazer, black suede. Let’s not forget his outdated soul patch
Bald with long hair in the back, a pity of a mullet
He spoke to me, what do you wanna know?
About? Everything. You have to write. So, write.
We get interrupted; he has to make a speech
The crowd is four glasses in. A man whispers to me smokescreen
Typical, no respect.
He shakes, his mouth scared to even move, fumbling every word
I need a glass.
I pour it; he downs it and begins to read
Slur
The audience mingles, forgets why they are here. What should we eat?
A pause, an applause.
And no one gave two ***** about what he had to say
Or what he wrote.
All, but me.
It was great meeting you, pop a bottle of pinot
and we’ll talk more about what not to do in writing.
Or, we can just drink.
He taught me everything.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
It blows, and suddenly the pavements are filled
With men and women going everywhere,
But none are going anywhere.
Women in pretty dresses are not going to dances.
Yesterday was long ago,
When tomorrow set shimmery curls in their hair
And summer slipped a diamond on their fingers.
Men in soiled denims are not going on safaris.
Yesterday was long ago,
When adventure held the scent of salt-air
And their names were on the roll-call of ambition.
The whistle is a smokescreen,
And somewhere, on the other side,
Lies the "Open Sesame" of youth.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
Homeless. Crazy.
Everything is smooth.
No,
no one really knows enough.
No one cares enough, or gets it.
Close to charity,
all is oppressive.
Keys on treble, wishing
everything was ******* brilliant.
My planning is a bet that
it all comes part unevenly.
Yeah,
neon smokescreen,
lime green cigarettes,
and I'll leave you to carry
that sentiment on your
shoulders.
I hope you feel empathy like
a child that's ****** the bed;
warm and embarrassed,
take as a symbol of
habitual weakness.
Take it like a pill with tap water
that sticks in the throat like a brick.
Next door to inhumanity.
Every day is slightly
darker
than the last.
**** forgot the punchline…
something about how daylight fades
and darkness falls.
If we could all be so clumsy and respected.
A "feared klutz."
Anyways.
All the geniuses are dead,
and I hate most writers;
Snarky, uppity, *********
They're all dirt now.
I passed a man who spoke gibberish,
but ended his mush mouth with some
statement about getting food.
I told him, "I got nothing on me."
I lied. Of course I ******* lied,
I had almost $270 dollars in my wallet,
cash.
I don't even know
what I'm supposed to do with the money.
Just **** it away, I guess.
Start looking for another handout myself.
I can see the lines-
washed out, skillfully ignorant or oblivious
&
whoever said I was a loser first,
won the grand prize.
Some truth in the
universe.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
The inverse of lamba squared is ten thousand to the power of the heist
Your Presence has premiere rhythm; Substitute halving my health
Estuary bearing burden standing true grit
Loaded dice humanity Undertaken uneath
forsaken aether Fluoridated month
Perfect posse palpitating puncture buck shot Higher than an ambush ambassador
Ceasing the sky fills wounded knee high to smokescreen rising Picking golden stunning silence
Mesmerizing Ocean wind wild card crying colour
All I want is form, yew grows always happy
Death defying lateral trial Destiny Timings
Legendary League of Ten thousand feet Emissary Ameliorate Stark inebriety
phantoms fathom cat and mouse Sanctuary in Sensory
Hustle bustle Gravity’s Blasting Muscle Pulses Corpuscles To Alleviate
Spiraling Carcass harness the sieve erase the harvest remove the artist’s grin
Smirk at Graves and hunt their Twisted Fates
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC
Drinking hollow words from a hollow cup
You call me a cynic though I’m not arguing whether the glass is half full
Just pointing out not all the contents happen to be water
Giving the sword hilt first to my shadow only triumphs in gutting myself
Feeling a tad bit like Tantalus constantly grasping at straws
Always coming up short but never able to go under
Venture that fruit tingles the tongue bitter-sweet
Going in blind’s my stumbling block speak first think last
Clumsily running into walls because what’s two inches behind my heels
Is far more important than five feet from my face
Crafting kingdoms out of rock slides just to watch them crumble
Trying to head away with the fairies but too painfully observant
To drift away with the clouds but too easily swept afoot
Blisteringly blunt my mouth knows nothing but forward stutter
Spitting venom’s second nature but it burns just as bad when swallowed
Agonizingly apologetic knowing what I mean can’t cut the haze
The pesky smokescreen that conceals the landmines scattered
Always two steps ahead one step back
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
Moonlight shines through the cracks of my heart,
Casting a smokescreen onto you, Pluto.
A mirage of being broken has transformed into my freedom...
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
I deviate from the mistakes i make
and take a deep breath,
no secrets kept,
but she bends and breaks,
as i regress from the changes I make,
windswept,
lost in the storm,
progression sessions,
last chance to reform,
She’s torn between two minds,
mine and hers colliding with the world
at the same time.
She's my world so i best change my climate.
Trying,
back to my prime mate.
Lying,
back to a primate.
masquerade like she can’t see through my invisible cape.
mask on my face,
she mastered her escape,
overnight stay,
left to my escapades.
Empty without her to serenade at the end of the day.
The end of days,
she understands me,
but i’ve been underhanded,
and underneath it all,
she can’t stand me.
She’s my plan A,
and plan B,
my baby,
my plan C.
Candid,
she understands my language.
Easily to procrastinate,
but we’ve passed that place,
and soon we can procreate
and make a mini me…
But I haven’t mastered Nate,
in a drastic place,
hanging like a basket case,
leaving a bitter taste,
in the whole vicinity.
Clinically, cynically outspoken,
like a potion was given to me,
a smokescreen,
to hide my identity.
No hope,
searching for an antidote,
or remedy,
to usurp the soul hidden deep inside me.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 6:26 AM UTC
What I said:
"Hi."
What I meant:
I've missed you.
What I said:
"How was your day?"
What I meant:
I wish it had been with me.
What I said:
"Want a smoke?"
What I meant
Want to lower the smokescreen a little, love?
What I said:
"I'm hungry. Do you have food?"
What I meant:
I trust you despite my immense security about my body.
What I said:
"Meet me?"
What I meant:
I cannot sleep when I'm not in your arms.
What I said:
"Hi."
What I meant:
I really, really lo-like you.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC