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Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret ,Kenya ;

On 13th January 2014 Dr. Wafula Chesoli of Mt Kenya University, at Lodwar campus in the north western part of Kenya published a scathing attack against homosexuality in the Neighbourhood, a daily circulating paper of the River Delta state in Nigeria.Dr Chesoli justified his contumelious position against human homosexuality by basing his stand on the scriptural citations of the Bible. The Bible which  Dr. Chesoli has operationally defined as the word of God in  this article that he entitled Strong holds of Homosexuality ;Biblical Persapectives.Chesoli’s argument has a depth of Biblical groundings, however I beg to differ with him in principle, given the  scientific scintillations on humanity of homosexuality from the recent researches of health education and psychology.
Firstly, I humbly remember that about three years ago I also published an article in the East African standard which harshly condemned social and behavioral position of gay and lesbian marriages. This was when the Anglican archbishop Dr. Eliud Wabukala of Kenya had in a similar tone lambasted the archbishop of Canterbury for suggesting that there was need for the office of the gay Bishop in the Anglican Church. I strongly supported Wabukala in that I even called gay and lesbian behavior as cultic and satanic hence to be condemned with all forms of capital nemesis. Some of the contents of my article in which I condemned homosexuality are here;
Let us support Wabukala stand on gays and morality
(January 13th 2011 at 00:00 GMT; By Alexander Opicho, Eldoret)
Practice of psychology and Christianity operates on a universal principle of unconditional positive regard for all. However, there has been a twist in this convention when media in Kenya at the start of this week carried a story that depicted moral fortitude of Bishop Eliud Wabukala; who has out-rightly dismissed the idea of establishing the office of a gay bishop in the leadership of the Anglican Church. Wabukala has come out boldly on this against the strong currents in support of gay marriages from his superiors in the Church. The efforts by Wabukala befit all manner of felicitation from all of us who believe in morality as a basis of humanity. The basis of gay relationships is legalistic and political. African culture conscientiously discourages a cult of gayism. And in Kenya living as a gay is living in contradiction to the Constitution. These collectively fall in an agreement with basic teachings of Christianity. Gayism, lesbianism, celibacy and trans-species ****** behaviour are admonished by Biblical teachings. Gayism is social deviance that originates from degradation in ****** behavior; it is a state of ****** depravement. Read more at;;_title=-Let-us-support-Wabukala-stand-on-gays-and-morality.­
Little did I know that as I was publishing this article two percent of my friends and my family members are victims of ****** behavioural disability, which we are calling homosexuality in the above juncture. As university teacher in the departments of social sciences where student populations is usually high, I again came to discover sometimes later that ten percent of my students always have disordered ****** or gender conditions. I found these to be substantial revelations that provoked me to carry out both desk research and investigative *** socialization researches into this bamboozling human phenomenon of homosexuality and other related disordered ****** behaviours.
The order of explanation would first require a position which posits that; religions both Christianity and Islam don’t have any intellectual nor social machinery to carry out a socially ameliorative process in relation to disordered gender and ****** behavior in any society. Their approach have been and would still be parochial in the sense that the only outcome to be achieved is prejudice, bigotry and discrimination with full harassment against Christians or Moslems with ****** or gender disability. Thus religion should pave way for other competent social players over this matter.
Dr Chesoli’s Position that the Bible is the word of God and the Quran is the word of Allah and hence those with physiological conditions in contrast to the word of God and Word of Allah are satanic, only to face wrath of God on the judgment day is simply devoid of modern logic. I want to sensitize Dr Chesoli on the fact that not every thing in the Bible is the word of God neither   every thing in the Quran is the word of God otherwise called Allah. To support my position before I just explain scientific position of homosexuality, I want Dr. Chesoli to learn that; 159 psalms in the Bible are poetries of Kind David, Kind David whose leadership was full of Machiavellian tricks just like the current leadership of Yoweri Museven of Uganda. The book of Job is theatrical and poetical literary creation of Moses. But not the word of God. This is so because the land of Uz in which Job lived is pure fiction. All papyrological surveys have never established geographical evidence of this land. The last part of the Bible is made up of 21 epistles or letters of Paul the benjaminite. Paul’s writings display eminence of intellect as a lawyer and a person schooled in the Greek classics of Homer’s Iliad and Odysseus as well as Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex.The idea that the words which Paul wrote was the word of God is not founded ,perhaps the last stage of Jewish casuistry.
Homosexuality has to be understood as lameness or disability like any other animal or human disability. I am aware that Dr. Chesoli belongs to the old school which only appreciated the fact that lameness is limited to physical, mental, eye and hearing impairment.However, this position is now scientifically obsolete. Humanity is now understood to be sometimes a victim of ****** lameness, intellectual lameness, emotional lameness, racial relational lameness and other plethorae of lameness to be uncovered, courtesy of science and research.
Like the condition of ****** disability can be heterosexual disability or homosexual disability. Heterosexual disability can be indicated by misfortunate human ****** conditions like; early *******, erectile disfucntion,oversize *****,undersize *****,frigidity,phobia of opposite ***, oral ***, **** ***,****** appetite for your own child, ****** appetite for your sisters, brothers, uncles or aunts, frigidity, small ******, abnormally big ******,insatiable libido or insatiable appetite for ***.
But on the other  hand  homosexual disability are often indicated in the perverted ****** behavioural positions like male to male *** also known as gay and female to female *** also known as lesbian, or female to male to female to male *** also known as bisexuality. We also have other ****** phenomena like celibacy, voyeurism, *** with non human creatures, *** with inanimate objects, *** with ghosts and *** with spiritual creatures like the one accounted in the Bible between Mary the mother of Jesus and an Angel Known as Gabriel. There is also *** with dead family members. Dear reader just accepts that the list in this line is long.
Now labeling above positions as satanic or ungodly can be misleading in the modern sense. The motivation for all the above behaviours is sensual satisfaction. But the physiological cause of the behaviour is few and far between. Some of these conditions are caused by genetic misprogramming or mutation; some are due to body malformation. Like having female reproductive system in a male human casing or male female reproductive system in a female human casing. But the sorriest part of this human experience is that victims of these conditions always feel that they are right human creatures in the wrong body from which they struggle to jump out but they have never succeed.
This is why the Journal of Pan African Voices known as Pambuzuka news has a platform for anti – homophobic journalism, which actually purport to promote social and intellectual awareness among the Africa societies about matters relating to ****** and gender disabilities. This journal strives to minimize homophobic positions like the one taken by Dr. Chesoli in a smokescreen of Christianity or Islam which will ultimately only end up as heinous violations of human rights.
An empirical position has facts that gender and ****** disability conditions is rampart in urban areas than rural areas and more rampart in industrialized or developed countries than peasant rural based countries. Thus logic will tell you that we have most gays and lesbians in America and United Kingdom than in Kenya or Malawi. This is why President Barrack Obama in an imperial stretch conditioned the govermenent of Uganda to make a legislation that favour gays and lesbians. This was also reflected three years ago in the United kingdom when David Cameroon warned the government of Ghana that if they don’t make a legislation that appreciate homosexuals then United Kingdom would not give economic aid to Ghana.Contextually,both Cameroon and Obama were wrong. We don’t use vents of desperate imperialism to manage a misfortunate social condition. We first of all begin by educating our people, then socializing the idea among our people then we finalize by positioning the idea among our people. Thanks for your audience.
Alexander K Opicho, is a social researcher with sanctuary research agencies in Eldoret, Kenya.He is also a lecturer for Research Methods in Governance and Leadership.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
the construction industry is filled with Englishmen... well, let's just say the management and bricklayers, and from i hear it's a ****** management, they think it's cheaper to loan a crane than to install one... as i heard, a typical construction site of has about 30 Englishmen tops, a construction site population of about 400... i might be exaggerating, but i heard it first hand, and i've seen it, well 10 years ago it was a bit different, but the cracks were already showing - how one Brit undermined another Brit, dehumanised one ethnicity using another's desperation / exaggeration of rewards: by lowering wages of the former's.

only a casual inference of the vote -
it's one thing pushing away the psychology
of the collective into the recesses of Hades -
even further into Tartarus -
well, you can see Tartarus from here -
the Titans are above us, Luna, and Helios,
Jupiter and Saturn and Mars - we rise
from this place, at least with faithful command
to whatever childish ambition -
psychology can shove collective psychology
of a populace into theory - that calm resolve
of reason, the unconscious and its archetypes -
but to concern oneself with passions,
that's also necessary - side with the "enemy"
to understand them, and then see past the fog...
in a fashion magazine... citation:
if we block free movement, and experienced
Polish or Bulgarian seamstresses cannot come
into the country, it is not obvious how they will
be replaced - "we couldn't have grown the business
without the help and support of these killed people,"
says designer *Christopher Raeburn
, who
wasn't able to find similarly experienced Brits
in London (pedantic note, the dittoing of that quote
should belong to me, i'm assuming direct contact
with the designer and the writer of the article,
ditto quotation starts with third party members,
people like me, not with the person interviewed
and the interviewee - i now understand how
dittoing works in English in terms of quoting
someone - in means as above, but by another person;
but i'm sure the quote was passed as word-of-mouth,
so the person who's first to pass a quote shouldn't
immediately use " " marks, he's not a third-person
encapsulation of a newspaper article, this isn't
a novel - simple math: origin (0, on an axis of
x, y, z), person who first encounters the origin-al
notes it with precision 'the sun will come up
tomorrow' - after that a person who encounters
'the sun will come up tomorrow' will then pass
the message down as: "the sun will come up tomorrow",
and then the dittoing cascade appears - the way
gossip spreads - it's not exact - it's ~truth -
people add to it, change it, overhear it and modulate
it - only the first person from the naked origin
should be allowed to ditto the quote - i.e. use
the " " marks - the second person directly citing
the origin makes a single layered membrane encapsulation -
after that it's a repeat of two layers, with the second
layer ably fluctuating, hence not loss of the origin
but a polymer of interpretations - Odysseus said of me:
'Homer' cited the 'Trojan war', we cite "Homer" and
the "Trojan war" as 'Odysseus' said, myth making in ambiguity
or the gossip factory, but given the sequence
0, 1, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2... nth
a, 'a', "a", "a", "a", "a", "a", "a", "a", "a"... nth we all have a
chance to cite something from the third person,
after all, isn't fiction's limit based on the third person?
the pedant in me had to mule over this to get some
alcohol frenzy from it... and hey! i did).
it wasn't immigration to be honest, the racist smears
were a smokescreen... look at it this way...
the English Civil War... a friend of mine at university
once said: 'no great nation emerges without a civil war',
i could have written something in excess of that
but then i'd be writing as a third person " " inventing it
and almost treating it as my own, which is a no-go
zone - but from scraps you get the idea - go home,
things are about to get ugly between our civil partners...
and it doesn't boil down to wages as such,
Brits love the fact that Swedish students come to
the Norfolk fields for strawberry harvests, or whoever...
you know what i think it is? London urbanity got
to the vein of countryside folk, or Manchester being
overshadowed, actually globalisation ensured that
only capitals are "representative" of each nation
(inverse the dittoing, that's insinuating a passing-on
from an abstract, like Sartre's notation of "ego" meaning:
imitate me in between each "ego" with my narrative) -
they're not, but the golden nugget in my reasoning
is primarily concerned with You-Tube Sensations -
you name them: eat a tablespoon of cinnamon
and then sniff a ***** sneaker - film it, earn a billion -
become a unit of advertisement, sell it, bin it,
record your life, people binge on it, earn a windmill -
Vlog Blog Bog Sven and Fjoorn - remember when
children were employed in Victorian England?
this isn't between a Brit and a Bulgarian - this **** is
about a Brit and a Brit, hindsight: the English Civil war...
one Brit is saying, deep in the countryside:
you know what, there are people in urban environments
that teach their children that milk comes from
supermarkets and not cows, there's a borderline between
milking a cow and ******* on a part of a woman's
body overly sexed up - this has nothing to do with migration,
well, party it does, it want labourers to understand
a master, some ******* Bulgarian who speaks one
sentence of English gives about two nanoseconds trying
to understand authority - it's not demeaning to him,
he's told what to do, and off he goes and does it and
daydreams about his family reaping the benefits back home...
but employ someone proficient in the language,
who understands it, who has leisure time in it,
and you get a different picture dear Oliver - please sir,
can i have some more? no! back to work you filthy
little Beatnik! it's the self-worth pride, the self-sustaining
pride of nations - the people are saying: did we reduce
our youth to write video biography entries that only
tell other young people to buy the stuff they're advertising,
and all of them have become so fragile as to write poetry?!
well... better think again! minus the influx of migrants...
the doctor that relocated the upper-part of my index
was Hungarian... if it weren't for him... i'd probably have
to use a door to pull it back in...
and i understand what they're saying: i'm not racist... but...
my own countrymen have become so ******* lazy
i have to disguise my racism against other ethnic races...
because if i don't... it's back to Cromwell and the
Parliamentarians of the Square Table.
Moji K Dec 2015
black infection
encrusted society

shifty figurehead
sightless humanity

labelled multitudes
open forgery

smokescreen to the social order

decomposing culture
dead camaraderie
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;

All black virtues and white vices to day
Point to the reality around the British Empire
Or the famous Great Britain
Or the British Commonwealth
If not the English commonwealth
That its next monarch must be an African
Truly an African without streaks of cosmetic Africanity
Deeply black in colour, ***** in race and African in blood,

The monarchy of England should not be confined
To the parochial and Provencal English blood
Falsely named the royal blood
What a misnomer? For science and religion
Has nothing in history like the royal blood
But only brutal probability of genetics
Ever and ever will befall humanity,

The royalty of blood is only a smokescreen for racism
Or inter European apartheid or apartheid in universality,
The empire of British Commonwealth, Gambia included
Is not about the royal blood of charlese, Elizabeth nor Victoria
It is all about world class cultural inclusivity
Of all the pillars of the English culture,

English commonwealth is of culture, language, attitude and geography
This has to be known devoid of racial biase
And this is the great English empire;
It is a billion African English speakers
Its five hundred million American English speakers
It is a million Australian English speakers
It is a hundred million Indian English speakers
These are the bricks that mould the English commonwealth
Not queen Elizabeth and her son the cuckold of Egyptian mangy dog,
It is the nation of Uganda which is hundred percent African,
No Caucasoids nor Asians but its mother tongue is the British English,
Uganda is crazy; its peasants speak English like Cambridge scholars,
It’s the Nigerian Afro -cinema that promotes spoken English
With the muscle only inherent in the stampede of cultural imperialism,

The royal family is not royal at all in the informed understanding
Or else which family is not royal, show one me please
And I will show you folly of the day
Who wants not to be royal, why not all of us,
Crudeness of culture is the pedestal of reserved royalty
Inclusivity is the contrasting mother of cultural strength
Thus, all English speakers are the royal family
Of the British Commonwealth,
They don’t need royal blood
They already have full amour of the royal culture
Of the English linguistic or mental civilisation,
Please Queen Elizabeth listen to me carefully
Listen with your wholesome body and soul to this song
The song of freedom echoing cultural modernity;
Give to us, we your children of the commonwealth our rights
Include us in our hard earned monarchy,
I also want to be the king of England
I want to fill that royal palace with my dark skin
I want to speak and write English poetry inside the palace
The royal palace of England whose
Whose Golden floor and pavement are  s
Reeking the blood of colonialism
The wood and gold in the palace
Was taken from Africa without any pay
During colonial robbery with violence,
Give me my historical rights to be the king of England
Then my four African wifes; Lumbasi Opicho, Namwaya Opicho, Nangila Opicho and Chelangat Opicho, the most beautiful of all from the heroic Kipsigis
Will be the four queens of England, queens of the English commonwealth
Lumbasi for Scotland, Namwaya for England, Nangila for Wales and Chelangat
For the begotten Ireland,
I have all the virtues in my blood to be the English king
If it’s military, shaka the Zulu is my uncle
If it is wisdom, Nelson mandella is my uncle
If it is intellect Kwame Nkrumah is my father
If it is culture Taban Lo Liyong and Okot p’Bitek are my brothers
Whereas Leopold Sedar Senghor is a son of my father from another mother,
If it is beauty Cleopatra the Egyptian whose beauty killed the Roman king is my mother
If it is science my witchcraft is superior in technology to silicon computing
If it is ***, ask your daughter in law princes Diana
Now what am I missing to become the next English monarch?
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/               listening to lionel nation:

    a lawyer...

     and i... seriously can't tell
the difference

between what a lawyer
calls a play-on-word,

             and what a poet is...

who the hell needs to ingest
   when you can listen
to a (probably) retired lawyer?

i appreciate that people
like stand-up comedians,

        or what's called cabaret
humour in eastern europe -

nope, no stand-up
       beckettesque: monologue
humour in some parts
of the world...

cabaret comedy?
                  a... dialogue...

but it's not like i'm
a scholar and will write a book
about this minor observation...

lawyer within the ratio comparison
of a poet?
    can't tell them apart...

the EU hinges on monetary

fidgety with an algorithm,
  greek act of putting coins on
           the eyes of the dead...

apart from charon (karon,
no, chitty chitty bang bang)

       i guess that's what
nietzsche called the alchemical
principle, the book he never wrote,
but anticipated:

about the transvaluation of
all values -
                 id est: the second tier
of the gold standard,
the concept of money
   id est: translates a value of
into a value ascriptive
purpose of another...
  then comes the description...

britain was always
in an informal agreement
with the EU,
given that it kept its currency...

it was never a formal bond,
inscribed with the sharing
of a collective currency,
    there was no vote to begin with,
the import of eastern european
labour coincided with the fact
that british children experienced
the cold sweats of:
   having to fall into a victorianesque
bbq of manual labour...
instead staging madness...
   england always retained
its currency... so what the ****
is blalxit?
         on an island,
   with its own currency...
   a bwehxit would have truly
happened, had britain adopted
the euro...
   the rest? a smokescreen.

- but there is no actual noun
to "decipher":
greek act of putting coins
        on the eyes of the dead
put into the griding machine
of words that is an algorithm...

a rite, but no name for the rite?!

there's is no name for it...
hence this poem, as a counter
   a zeno paradox
coinciding with the example
of achilles and the tortoise.

i appreciate the ancient greek
  or rather, "ancient":
in that... it was a... age of curiosity.

came the satanic dark ages,
came lucifer's enlightenment period...
where the **** are we at?
did we skip a part, a page,
a "something" from
inscribing humanity's autobiography?

no... but we are alive,
          and we are outside heidegger's
sense of dasein...
         having moved into the domain
of                   jetztsein...

considering the fact that,
german, as a "language" with regard
to how to define space...
    in translation in english (of course)...

    zeit... sure, time...
but space?
        raum?          oh right... roam?
nein nein nein!              oh... room?
                       das ist alle?

hence the second composite of time,
outside the casual expression
'there was a time... when...'
           akin to the: once upon...

no here, no there... jetzt!


   well yeah... carpe diem in "reverse":
or as i like to call to -
immaculate immediacy -
a trance stace of waiting and waiting,
but never actually awaiting
anything, to be particular.
Kurt Philip Behm Sep 2018
“Commercially Successful”
   —the metaphysical oxymoron

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
nico papayiannis Jun 2016
Is there any justice in being straight and white
No movements to release , no marches for a civil right
They are branded as the protagonists
But have their own bands of activists

As many of one colour have been historically dispossessed , abused, enslaved and slaughtered
So too have those of another creed, another history of violence, segregation and a line that has been inherently altered

As the smokescreen shimmers to a shadowy haze the enemy, the old familiar ways, are slowly appearing and brandishing their  flags , the banners they wave are now tattered and torn with time
All colours all races all ruled in the same ways, from different angles and with different measures employed and beaten into their citizens, they all are seeking the elusive means to control and command

We have no panic button for the system has no sense of responsibility, to obscure the truths behind many  a fabrication of circumstances is to coalesce and manipulate the masses,

Our fears our insecurities, our worthless thoughts, the pinnacle of a creation belonging to an unimaginative yet dominant force, a twisted band of scientists working on the fringes of reality and feeding the rich- hungry, the vein of evil that runs through the human race

We are fed the anger to feel the fear
As far as I can see this world has got worse every year
I dont know about you but I don't need any politician to give life to me
I expect  like you I just want to feel free
Joshua Adam Jul 2015
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
This is a short poem about the life we live and the games we play, or don't play.
Sean Yessayan Apr 2012
A loved one lost leaves us with less in life,
not a loss to death and his scythe, rather, love’s untimely death.
At first a soul severed does not suffer, numbness reigns over .
For hope, that foolish feeling, whose feigned friendship forges a trust,
woos without warning, whereby a weak body—in disbelief,
hears Hope’s healing message with haste and hardly heeds her coy hint:
“Toil with Time;” therefore, Hope, through truthful trials with Time, teaches.

Time’s quite an omnipotent entity—an ever-morphing force.
The stages of Love’s relations—from first sight to last—change
the flow of Time. When Love starts it trickles from the mountain’s source;
slow and steady, but gains speed as each shared interest adds on.
These streams form a river, Time passes by—Love keeps you busy.
Eons seem to pass in the blink of an eye, noticed only
when that love departs. Time’s effect returns, languishing the void;
that drop of water trickles over your soul making time lull.
The mind replays the broken record of Love’s last visit till
Time’s drop drips from its place onto the rose’s petal, splashing
that prison of longing open, for Love’s return sets you free.
If that drop lands on the posy, for your rose was picked by one
whose hand is unknown, Time causes unfamiliar drought as
that posy shrivels under the sun. Time, now vapor, ascends—
with others joining we form a cloud of soles—growing denser still.
Up here we watch the world revolve, Time’s presence perceived no more.
This Union of Soles float in a blur, each learns from a neighbor.
Knowledge gained heals the sole, but is useless if employed alone.
We pray, forlorn—hearts still torn, till we fall to an earthly shore;
so keep Faith close, along with Hope, for Time will take course once more.

At this point I must disclose that I still need to elevate,
by descending from the misty fog of Time’s timeless smokescreen;
however, my time spent is not in vain. The lessons I learn
shape my view on life’s inner workings—cognition reigns over.
Over and over, I’ve seen the world revolve, patterns appear.
I see sole souls enter this realm alone, then leave as quickly,
for few remain stuck here, jailed in the prison of the timeless.
Most move on— graduated, learned, and having passed Time’s tests.
Alas, I am a mule in a stable—stubborn and restless.
This aside is ending as a descent’s beginning takes flight.

Love is only truly lost when one cannot overcome change.
A switch, which demotes loves to a plane of platonic tenor.
With faithfulness, a likeness to those before the Fall furthers
the Sole’s doles—now brighter—they exonerate Love’s loss of love.
When the soul, driven, has forgiven, then friendship’s re-obtained.
The only way it could be explained-- I apologize for its crudeness.
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
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.
sanch kay May 2015
here's to when
everything in life had a
solid beginning, middle and end;
or so it seemed.
here's to when
I love you meant the same
whether to parent, lover or friend;
or so it seemed.
here's to when
honesty, bravery and loyalty were
a part of of everyone
or so it seemed
here's to when
life made me belive in making
every passing dream come true;
**or so it seemed.
NitaAnn Oct 2013
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.
Jay Aug 2015
I'm no judge
honest to a fault
but for what you're worth
You don't have to try so hard
If you were to ask me
I'd tell the world
that your walls are not
nearly as beautiful as what they hold
that your heart is lovelier
than the censored words you told
I would recommend
in lieu of putting on airs
we've all been there
just take off the mask
and ask
I'll only tell
the truth-
I already like you.
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.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
and i'm watching this spectacle... and i agree:
  female tennis is probably more
enjoyable than
  male tennis... there's so much
dialogue involved...
   and oh god, i am but a simple man,
i like my klinik, and my wumpscut
and my other fringe altars
of culture...
but i really like watching the 7 rectangles...
isn't a tennis court a case of 7 rectangles?
no? i thought it was...
  1 at the beginning, 2 are the side,
2 either side, and 2 for the served into "square"
across the net, service, 1st serve, net-first-service...
15 - love...
                then i watch a video by
black pigeon speaks and i'm fired up...
not that i have anything planned
in a year to come,
i'm too wrapped up in the bewilderment of
being able to **** out a bottle of wine,
but seem to never be able to **** out a bottle
of whiskey...
  dunno: it just happens...
i spent the past few hours cleaning the slates
of the bathroom from feline diarrhoea...
    so you know: i'd love to reach the summits
of gucci perfumes, if you'd care to
         allow me...
i really should wait for my ego to turn into
a phallus of slumbering pride,
but given the current situation in Sweden
    and me reading history of the deluge of Poland
by the Swedes, i'm sort of: hands in the air
with four thumbs signifying: i don't care.
   i like watching tennis,
it's the one sport where watching women is more
entertaining than watching men,
and it's not that you're even forced into it...
             women make more rallies in a match...
women tend to play with a double-handed forehand...
      but it really is a game based about 7 rectangles...
i'd love to see it as: Dali, dictates the rhombus
  at the Australian Open!
             i'd love to see it,
and i'd also love to see Oslo...
             but i'm not that bothered,
for all the media frenzy concerning western Europe,
i see Poland as a buffer zone smokescreen...
      the happenings at Ełk proved a point...
the dream of community translated into western
europe came so pronounced...
   people actually botehred to create a lynch mob...
the good "samaritan" had to die...
  and yes, the moroccan yielding the knife
was taken to a prison cell...
   but i guess knowing the polish language
i should feel more nationalistic pride in sweden being
gang-*****... it's an actual shame that i know
english and can't ingest the full potency of seeing
Sweden as it is... as i already said:
the deluge... by henry sienkiewicz...
    and later the recount by an incompetent king
in the works of kraszewski...
             but my: the tennis! it's spell-binding...
and the wine i made? it's digesting my brain to a proper
dehydration... and i love it!
              7 rectangles... and if the 7 rectangles
     were a circle, i'd be yearning for sumo!
           but no no, no... i'm, looking at these rabbits
represent a π radius squared movement,
given the matchsticks...
      i love tennis... it makes more sense watching
a female tennis match than it does a male one:
where it's always all about a fast serve and
           a quicker return... 7 rectangles, and these
fleshy vectors moving about the parameters...
           if i din't know a germanic language
i'd be gleeful, actually applauding the demise of
Sweden, having learned of the devestation
done to Poland by the Swedes in the deluge and
partition of the country, due to the House of Vasa...
it's a joke and i know it's a joke:
say i moved back to Poland and stirred up
    the national ghost?
                                     ha... ha ha... that would be
          i'm a disciple of wine these days,
and i like watching tennis...
                         human history always meant
too much a case of: getting out of bed...
and hence my addiction: sleep...
as odd as it might sound, i'm actually addicted to it...
i'm a lion that pets two bonsai tigers...
    i have enough mane to laugh out a bellowing
word: lion! ha ha...
              but i sometimes like to retreat into
origins, and given i am highly volatile in my use of
english as an acquired tongue, i sometimes love to
re-acquire my ethnicity, and read a little bit of it...
how the Swedes desecrated Poland once upon a time...
how the Germans malnurished her with world war ii
and i... and i sort of love how Islam (for me), is
nothing but a chisel, a hammer... a useful idiot
that speaks more testicles and western female uninhibition
than anything... of boy... do i come across of grossly
nationalistic? i might have... oh gee!
   what a terrible plight!
                         but there's a secret theatre being staged
in Europe, most Americans don't know of it,
unless they managed to ask Joyce to **** his way
around a good translation of Finnegans Wake and
a whiskey bar in Krakow...  or ów... however you speak it...
     depends how you hide or don't hide
or expose the consonants...
                    and that's funny, most people find
the works of Kraszewski boring... to me they're the one
source of sanity having spent 3 weeks in Poland
over the holidays...
and why i invested my person in being bilingual...
   odd scare tactic: the usual typo of ****...
                        if you find the culture you're assimilating
into folding (in a poker sense), remain true to
the culture of your birth, keep the language...
you never know, you might have to move back
to the country of your birth... but only when you
see the host culture as *****-whipped... as England
is... or wait... antagonise the situation,
wait until they give up their capital,
and on the preiphery turn ultra-nationalistic in vox...
   i kept my native tongue, now i'm playing truant...
i have no symphany for the Swedes,
  and sympathy for England? well... if even events
in 1997 didn't happen... i might have more than
                   a Pole looks at the influx of Muslims to
Germany... and quiet frankly laughs...
                       it's not even a debate...
like the muslims talking about post-colonial
                                     no wonder Russia has
come from the shadows to be the pawn-broker
of at least remaining true to the hunger
of media outlets... it just has to be there...
        so yeah, if you read kraszewski
and sienkiewicz, you might know a thing or two
about the Swedish deluge, that hit Poland
when John Casimir, of the house of Vasa
     "ruled" Poland at the time of the Cossack
uprising, magnified by the leadership of
      Khmelnytsky -
                but then again, all you hear in England
is the fate of the harem of the house of Tudor...
and how Charlie got shaved from owning a head,
and how Charlie Seconds had that
bad-*** poet in his pocket... john wilmot...
who i vaguely remember having cited
made epigram more noteworthy than an epitaph:
     we have a pretty witty king,
     and whose word no man relies on,
     he never said a foolish thing,
     and never did a wise one...

    great words demand the most despicable people
to invoke them... fortunately i live in a time
when great words can't be said,
because there are no great people to be surrounded with
in order that they might be despised...
   well, that is said in where i find solace,
exietential philosophy, for i do say: "fortunately",
as if i am borrowing something...
how can you write a poem, about a monarch,
when the monarch, as has happened with the english
crown, bid more toward philanthropy
than lechery? give me something i might want to esteem
in seeking out the basis for the basic human
depravity! you give me a monarch worth a penny's
toss into a hand of a pauper, you give me
a philanthropic king, and not a lecherous king...
you have sealed your existency,
by gauging out my eyes and giving them to worms,
and cut off my tongue, and lodged it, in the mosque
of a donkey's gob!
Sean May 2012
Clouds engulf the L.A. basin
Layered mold in the
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
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.

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.
Elziabeth May 2010
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."
"And she will bite her bottom lip all she wants." is a lyric in a song called "The woman with the tattooed hands," by the band "Atmosphere."
Greg Berlin Jan 2013
you've been walking
in the same space
at the same pace
for days it seems
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
doesn't feel like real life
so far from home
from the tangibles that
once played strict boundaries
on your existence
and every step you take
the dream becomes the truth
and your old life
fades from reality towards
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
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
you're asking
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
Jane A Luxfield Oct 2011
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
Mark McIntosh May 2015
only a ***
calls a cigarette that
without blushing
puffing away by the bay
waters lap like cancer
consuming the beast
clouds of now & then
as fog is prone to
morning hours
which never see
me like this
sanch kay Jul 2015
what if we're just
disembodied hands
clawing at a smokescreen
*the illusion never shatters.
allie May 2017
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
la la land's city of stars
Mikaila Jul 2013
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.
Sven Stears Sep 2013
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.
*******. 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.
“I had a plan for you, my dear;” her whisper ruthlessly pounded at Matvei's overwhelmed senses. His entire environment shifted and trailed off; his vision useless, a muddy smokescreen of shapes and colors bleeding into and breathing out of one another.

“A glorious plan, indeed,” she continued, her whisper becoming the hiss of a rattle snake, then slowly shifting pitch, going through every mode, until it was in perfect tune with the deep resounding purr of a well pleased kitten. Which, as fate would have it, was exactly the creature that had taken a seat in front of Matvei's double. The double, still suspended in mid-air, continued wrestling with his chains and screaming madly at the swirling pool of blood at his feet; the vision of the dogs violence still dominating his feeble mind.

Being so occupied, Matvei's double took no notice of the small black kitten as it lapped at the blood between its long and bassy purrs.

“You're without that precious body of yours these days, Sweet Matvei!” The woman explained.

“Or, maybe you've yet to notice that as well? You thick headed pig!”

Stolovsky's vision returned; he was back inside his body. He was the double.

“How's that, dear? Better?” the blood stained kitten at the edge of the swirling pool purred sweetly.

Stolovsky didn't respond and turned his gaze upward. He saw her for the first time; she was beautiful, ungodly so.

“Clean your head up, you animal! How dare you think of me that way!” she laughed.

Her voice returned to what one would expect from such a beautiful creature; the sweet vibrations of a woman, flirtatious and soothing to the ear of any man.

“I'm flattered, really, but we hardly know each other. At least, you hardly know me. Though, sometimes it is best that way, I admit!” she mused, finishing the thought.

“But, on to business then, shall we?”

“I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?” the words escaped Stolovsky's lips as though they were not set free by choice, but of necessity, by reflex alone.

“No. By the looks of it, you really don't, do you?” the spirit retorted.

“Who are you!?” Stolovsky screamed, unsure if he wanted an answer.

“I wouldn't raise my voice to her if I were you, dearie.” purred the kitten, as if it were attempting to instigate some sort of violent reaction from the spirit.

Those kittens, one must always be wary of a blood stained kitten! It is a thing to avoid, afterlife or otherwise. Be that as it may, the kitten's attempt at being the provocateur seemed to have quite the opposite effect.

“My name is not important.” she sang, her voice continuing to astound Matvei's senses, the sweetest evil you'd ever want to hear.

“You can call me Jehovah if you'd like!” she laughed as she spoke.

“Right now, you are my child, my sovereign property. I can do with you whatever I wish!” she paused for a moment, to allow Stolovsky the opportunity to recognize the gravity of the situation.

He did not.

She continued on, her voice shifting again,

“And let me tell you, boy, you've been a great disappointment! Did you know that?”

The rumbling of her tone, the changes in her pitch, were beginning to drive Matvei mad; he'd never heard anything like it! It was absolutely nauseating.

He attempted to gather himself; this was all so confusing. After all, wasn't he dead? Should he fear this, this, whatever it was? He controlled his anxiety enough to ask,

“What are you?”

“She's your new master, Matvei! And a wonderful master, indeed. You are very fortunate!” chirped the blood stained kitten.

“I believe he was asking me, X. Away with you, you ***** kitten!” Immediately, X vanished into thin air. Stolovsky stared downward, mesmerized, as his double was, by the pool of blood swirling beneath him.

“Am I dead?” he asked the goddess.

“You don't even know what that means, you idiot! Besides, you'll be worse off than whatever you think you are now if you keep asking silly questions. Now shut up and listen to me!” she replied.

“There is someone I'd like you to meet.”

As she said this, it appeared to Stolovsky as though the layer of existence that he had, until this very moment, believed himself to be in full occupation of, swelled outward at an amazing speed. It was as if he'd become as tiny as a quark and yet, he continued to become tinier still. He could see nothing recognizable; the sheer brilliance of giant photons zapping through space was enough to blind him. Even as he noticed this, they became infinitely larger, like suns themselves.

Stolovsky felt as though he were falling through it all, becoming smaller and smaller; or, was everything else growing larger and larger? He struggled to reposition his body. The intense pressure of the experience was becoming unbearable.

He could feel his rib cage sinking, his heart struggling, his lungs collapsing as he desperately clung to whatever consciousness this was that he was currently experiencing. X, the blood stained kitten, appeared to him just as she had been moments before.

“It feels strange doesn't it?” she asked.

“What is happening to me?” Stolovsky replied, struggling with the words.

“You're dying the Second Death. Don't worry, it'll only take a minute.”

Before the kitten could finish the sentence, Stolovsky's eyeballs popped, hurling frozen droplets of organic material in all directions.

The frozen droplets would continue to fly on for many years, some straight through into eternity. A few would be so fortunate as to crash into other, much larger, groups of particles and give rise to some very interesting lifeforms. Who, as fate would have it, would go on to destroy one another, along with one-third of their known universe, trillions of smaller universes, and something that may amount to a shoelace being vaporized in my level of existence, in a great war a few hundred billion years later. But alas, a story for another time.

“Oh, wow. That was much quicker than expected, Old Boy!” purred the kitten, pleased at this unforeseen turn of events. "Dr. Orville will be so pleased to learn of our improvement! I must tell the Master straight away!"

And once again, that silly blood stained kitten disappeared. Things were about to get very interesting for Mr. Stolovsky. The Third Life awaits.
The first part is buried in my poems somwhere...
Third Eye Candy Feb 2016
our tongues will regret yet, the very things we really mean.
before breakfast. rough tongues of the young, too thick to stick a pin
in sorrows with subtext, are not our tongues. we are not, not gone.
we are less than really here; right now. you live out of clouds
around the bend. if you intend to sleep as deep as that, then keep
the keys to the chariot, but lose this address.
i know butterflies that hate you.
these are butterflies
you have never met...
and yet
a fret of miles gain an inch in hell. our tongues tell best, of very ordinary means
by which we end, less. we drone. our own pun; a neat trick we keep.
with love, borrowed. a mock debt; a storm-front of rain-checks
feather our deranged nest. akin to soft sins;
if not wrong, not quite right yet. small crimes.
we will do no time well spent,
any favours.
our clocks are dark.
why mark day one ? and do tell, how so ?
as you know, our sunset
is infinite.
i know stars that hate the night. these stars are deep, so by 'night', meant, 'the night
of our eyes' that by design, no star has ever been -
that did not flee for fear of it.
our night is unkind.
love tortured it. love built stars, painted black. never lit.
decoys, hell-bent in heaven's grip to ******* a flock
of lost angels, locked
in free-fall. our night the basement floor
of all descent.
what stars call ' the bottom of the bottomless'.
we call 'a great place to paint stars black'

since when, do we not live, and not live to regret ?
our sharp minds are unkempt, but the truth did this.
our lies were tailored, so **** fit. smokescreen jacket, 100% smoke.
double stitched.
that camouflage camisole  ? pure silk.
somewhere, a web of deceit
is telling a fly
about a hot librarian
with black wings.

with your face.

good with scissors.

she wove a façade with her heart in her left hand, behind her back. this heart wept.
these lies found god. when their faith increased their number...
god was family.

i knew    that would make you laugh.

i didn't know laughter could ask for asylum.

this will be dealt with. our games are serious spirals.

our vendettas our enigmas.
our humor; inscrutable.
our telepathy
is disarmed

but never harmless.

when people like us shoot from the lip ? it's a massacre. hollow points, custom made -
black powder ? an unnatural understanding of love. and dry wit, unhinged...
our bullets ?  Bullies Of the Highest Caliber and fluent in 5 languages; doubtless,
The Envy of Contempt !

when people like us shoot from the lip ? with our tongues, armed to the teeth ?
our teeth; a full set of white knives. with our vanity...
bleaching carnivorous
stalactites by day.
stalagmites by night ?

do worlds burn ?
does Sigmund Freud ?
I do not know.

I am certain only, of the following -

" when two persimmons make a pair... lethal persimmons."
" when two pears make one false move... persimmons are like '**** pears !'"
" when persimmons are paramours... and we too, make a pair...?"

Rosemary's, baby persimmons ?

i can tell you there is no such thing as 'collateral damage' at our level of expertise
and nothing bleeds without a permit.
to attain said permit, a wound, from the future -
must send a genuine moment of weakness to the past. after analysis...we verify.
from here, our methods diverge.
but our dis-ordinance
is acquired.

when our gauntlets demand satisfaction, our custom is to trade barbs.
at this, we excel. we trade without deficit.
our accounts are immune to frenzy.
our balance:  pathology.... then

it's 'tongues at twenty paces'
and someone
gets hurt.

by rote we joust... by now, your flank is.... exposed.
so, my dread rose... my blanch thorn... know -

Twenty paces will always be nineteen paces from a kiss.
but it will never be
'only nineteen'.

if you laugh - this has always been true.
if you don't - this has never been a lie**.
Brie Sarita Aug 2014
My name’s _,
And I’m an addict…

And like so many others,
I’ve watched
The smoky hot
Of death,
Pass me by,
Smelled the end
Just miss me,
For no reason,
Gave grave glares
Into my eyes
And tried,
To turn them hollow
I felt the whiplash crack
Of fate
Slash my back,
So deep,
I had to sleep,
On my stomach,
I’ve been lucky

See I was once worlds away
From these buckled knees
You see on stage,
In my own head
Behind iron bars of rage
The roller coaster of my life,
Had no track,
My pool,
Was all tidal waves and deep end,
I couldn’t depend
On myself
To feed myself,
Needed a shot to jumpstart my heart
And just be myself,
A circle I could never break,
And matter of fact
That roller coaster did have a track,
But it was all flat,
And just went round and round
Like that…

I’ve watched so many souls
Fall victim to the grips of addiction
Fantasizing empty aspirations
Climbing a never-ending ladder to nowhere,
Thinking other people
Were building their castles
On your low self-esteem,
When no one can hurt you
Unless you’re hurting yourself,
Letting them penetrate your skin,
Fill voids with enough poison
To go round,
The foundation of the devil’s playground,
Jungle gym of junk I hid in,
To smoke my **** in instead of play on,
And when for some “game on”,
Meant football,
Or tag,
For me it meant another bag
To smokescreen emotion with,
A virtual loaded clip
Barrel to shaky lips,
Medicating pain,
Selling my self-esteem like old shirts in thrift shops,
I was scared…

So this is for those still fighting,
Those deciding
They are sick of being sick,
Living fix to fix
On obsolete clouds of bliss,
There is hope,
There is hope and there is help,
But the desire to truly want it,
That voice so low,
Crying dreadfully deep in the pit of your gut
For change
Must be a raging
You must be desperate to get this,
I’m not fully there yet,
And may never be,
But I know my destiny
Is telling me,
That there's a way out,
And I’ve screamed at the top of my lungs for this
Without being heard,
Cried oceans,
Hit rubber walls till it hurt,
Shaken fists
And climbed from the slippery pits
Of my own digging,
Cause I was dying,
And sometimes,
I’m tired,
And sometimes,
I’m scared,
And sometimes,
Everything is wrong,
Nothing feels good,
The light at the end of a clogged tunnel,
Is a "No Exit" sign,
There's no redemption for my efforts,
And skies are falling
And eyes are bawling,
And I get on my knees to pray but
I don’t know how
And I find myself crawling,
And sometimes,
It’s hard,
I had to reopen scars I swore I’d never touch,
That were buried under mountains of hardened ****
But the **** needed to pour,
Because revealing,
Is healing,
And I’m sick…

So sick of being crushed,
So sick of
Wandering deserts with a broken compass
I’ve done this
Far too long,
And I’m sick of the,
Sick of being told,
I cannot be
Sick of hurting everyone
Who showed me
A wink of affection,
Word of direction,
Or mirror reflection
Of myself…

I’m sick,
And I want change…
There's nothing more that can be said that now has been....
Vernon Waring May 2016
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.
Michael Marchese Apr 2018
Could go a whole year
Then a million more still
Change ineffable days
What remains are the ways
I decipher the code
That your smokescreen
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
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.
Austin Heath Aug 2014
Homeless. Crazy.
Everything is smooth.
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.
neon smokescreen,
lime green cigarettes,
and I'll leave you to carry
that sentiment on your
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
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."
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,
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
Third Eye Candy Oct 2018
start with a doubt and a guilt and simmer. reflect at the angle that bisects oblivion…
but never come to terms with it. drink all the suns and mutter in the patter of  late nights grinding away
at the center of your lost boy.
keep yourself to your mosquitoes while you smokescreen your terrors with beautiful things
that pour out of you like all day things with glitter for mumps! you unhappy thing.
now you must stare at the wheel of an unbearable Sun. but you have no donuts
until you wake and make them suffer holes that you decorate with glaze
while glancing at the emptiness wrapped in empty calories
you’ll never dance-off.

somehow continue.

or not.
In shadows we speak lies all too soon forgotten.
Tragic flaws of a twisted gear the lost ending, old friend why do you appear so strange?

In the shadows I understand what the light could never allow us to view.
The ever self indulged ****** the broker down Wall Street.
Are they not but the same addicts of a different fix.

The street understands what the common man can never voice, the abstract ending is but a smokescreen of distraction I have little time for ******* but I have all the time for you.

I see from ship to shore the ever-changing tide.
I can't give you advice for I can't even help myself, hold the answers so better yet you may understand the questions my friends.

In the shadows we hide speaking our riddles scribbling down lines.
Only to be left unheard cast aside in dark corners I know this company well.

Old friend why must you be so strange?
Once the poet now the mute your words still hold very much weight in empty lines and past thoughts the memories linger still.

In the shadows they did exist were still I remain.
Ellie Elliott Jan 2016
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,
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.
ellie elliott
Felix Sladal Jul 2014
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

— The End —