I enter the small town coffee shop
desperate for caffiene
                           and a moment's respite

and I find it is to another era
I have come, hot and flustered

I look at the menu,
scratched in chalk on dusty board.
No artistic rendering  here
just a list of good honest food,
humble, but a smidgen dear

I order coffee, latte,
with cold milk on the side,
to which the large lady server
looks at me her head cocked to askew
and states, in a flat australian drawl,
that brings billabongs and jumbucks to mind...

Darl, I can make it tepid if ya wants,
or I cans put ya cold milk on the side
but I gotta charge ya extra..
for ya mouthful of chilled moo juice
smiling, lips thin and wide

I replied I'll still take the milk on the side
and one of those little peach cakes
if you don't mind.

She gave me a price and I complied,
thinking unto myself,
the moojuice, must originate
up on heaven's side and
cure all ills, ward off chills
and give only ....
joyous thoughts whilst one imbibes.

I sat at some old farm wifes table
worn down and grooved.
Come to town to shine in this caffiene shrine
rubbing my finger agin the edge
awaiting the latte and cold milk...
on the side....

Watching me from the prized corner table
three old dears.....
With stacked mahjong tiles, and swivelling ears

and on the floor crawling with gay abandon
two small children, in tandem,
they wandered amid the tables
on uneven floors the colour of slate,
deep dark wood, tongue  and groove...
that had seen to much walking, to much talking,
the tongues have slipped and the groove all but broken

As I await the cow to moo, the beans to grow
my heart slows a beat..I let go..
and see the joy, of a fella and a good cuppa,
two old friends caught up in a natter.
and the mahjong queens, realease the tiles
old friend and foes, in an a company of smiles

The cake comes, presented with due grace.
Two  pink half moons of light sponge
in a thin jelly and coconut case,
caught in a lover's kiss of delectable cream

and I understand now,
the cow is an angel,
a veritable dream,
to be loved and cosseted,
the moojuice... of moojuices
the mother of creams...

And now for caffiene...
well go figure...they know their beans

Refreshed and renewed I arise and I leave
but not before buying more moojuice
                                                      an­d moocream...

we have an echidna
dining on ants
in our garden

the little devon rex cat
tuxedo boy is perplexed

it is the first echidna he has seen
and tux is not sure if it is
a toy, food or a future nemisis
so is watching it from the deck,
neck stretched out so far
he has lost his wrinkles.
eyes big and nose twitching
his ears swivelling  like radar dishes

the echidna,
is placidly eating
little nose snuffling,
and spines shaking as he moves
he is done now
and makes his way
to the hole in the fence

the cat, now bold,
goes to investigate
nose to ground, but not for long.
the acridic smell of dying ants
give him cause to sneeze and sneeze
before hustling back to the safety of the deck

another lesson learnt
echindna's are no cat's toy...

time and time again
i feel the fury seeping in
this blind hot rage
swivelling throughout the page
                                                          burning me

                                   night after night
                                   I pretend it's alright
                                   submerging myself in falsitute
                                   but the edges still protrude
                                                                                           decaying


                                                                      always the same old ******* habit
                                                                      of reaching     and flailing     but failing                to grab it
                                                                      surrender


everywhere new, I see potential
yet I do not notice the sentinel
until much later when everything is old
and everything is cold
and each familiar face
is drowning in folds

                                   at first, their art is inspirational and true
                                   enticing me to create, anew
                                   but it always ******* frays     and fades         and melts away
                                   leading my admiration astray
                                                                      
                                                                      their judgements, their fears, lay before me,         bare
                                                                      yet I have not ever, not even once, dared
                                                                      to uncover their eyes, to pull them through
                                                                      for what if that's how they see me, too?

that thought alone I cannot stand
to be at their mercy, to kiss their hand
begging they take back their words
already lost in flight: carnivorous birds
intent on devouring the rotting corpse
that once was a haven for my creative hopes
perched in the treetops, peering through the night
awaiting any movement, ever so slight
waiting
to attack.




                                   but these vultures will be disappointed
                                   by the cadavre they were appointed
                                   there will be no meat left to hide,
                                   it will be rotting from the inside

                                                                      to their surprise as much as mine,
                                                                      from the ashes will rise a pine
                                                                      whose cones will fall, those bristly gems
                                                                      and it will start all over again

the anticipation.
the inspiration.
exposure.
and deceit.
lying crumpled at my feet.
                                                                      but i have the power to walk away
                                                                      to climb the mountain my own way


farewell you folks of forlorn fantasy
i'm off to paint my own soul's tapestry

I hear bullets piercing through the dry wind and then I remember my mission: to free those hopeless spirits who have sinned.

I fought for survival, hiding in the grass like a deceiving snake;
Slithering, swivelling, searching;
Searching for someone to lead me to my treacherous fate.

I am imploding with hurt, sorrow, suffering-
That I have contained for too long. Then a bullet fires



straight into my heart.

I loved you all those years
You raised me, shaped me, taught me how to be a soldier.
You were my guide, mother, forced me to overcome my fears.

I feel that fire burning inside of me now.
That fire that united me and you-
Only to be put out by the cruel water of my mission.

You were a patriot;
Gave up your body, life for your motherland. That anguish, ordeal
Still endures in my heart.

And it will be trapped there forever
Until I rest in a bath of worms and mud.

Betrayed by those who feared your beauty. They may known you as a ***** criminal...
But I knew you as a patriot,



Who saved the world.

A sound,
caught up in the silence
a mistake by natural cause;
The winds whispering
through the grasses
trying to find an ear to tell
Their secrets
The movement of a domestic cat's ear,
swivelling to catch an unheard vibration;
a voice
Your mind trying to tell you that it was nothing,
yet succumbed to the lie itself
it's tendrils unfurling fully,
controlling more than you'd like
A sound,
caught up in my ear,
Begging
to be heard.

feets, are the foundation
of our uprightedness,
knees, are for the leanings
in advance of our fall.
hips, are for the twisting-
and swivelling of it all.
necks, keep our head up
in back stroke, or the crawl.


Obi.

CHAPTER 1 - Part 2

He stopped, the knife still in his hand, but now pointing to the floor. He panted, his breath now dry and stale again; the wound in his thigh now severely bleeding.

[I'm sorry]

The air was still around him, all sound ceased to exist - no wind, no shimmer of any trees, no birds singing. Only his dragging breath and beating heart.

[I'm so sorry]

"Aaaaaaaagh... aaaaaaaaghhh."

His head snapped up, jaw squared, his whole body locking down and freezing.

A few yards ahead of him, shambling along in the diminishing sunlight, was a living corpse. Its breath was also wheezy, but rattled too as the loose fluids inside its rotting body sloshed around. It glared at him with one rheumy eye, the other just a black socket - the skin torn right down to its chin. It wore absolutely no clothes whatsoever - its reproductive organs now gnarled and black. One yellowing femur bone protruded from its right leg, sticking out and bending queerly with every slow step.

"Aaaaaaaagh... aaaaaaaaaghhh."

Jay stood up, and made his way slowly towards it, yet again flicking the carving knife up and down. Blood poured down his leg; the corpse smelt it and starting to lollop towards him, attracted to his bleeding flesh like a ravenous dog.

"Like the smell, eh?" Jay roared, his voice rusty and hoarse. He started to run to it, his steel tipped boots clicking on the tarmac road as he went, the metallic sound reverberating in his ears and echoing around -

-and around-

- in his head, high-pitched and tinny, drilling into his mind in excruciating and relentless pain.

"I said - DO YOU LIKE THE SMELL, YOU SACK OF ****?!" He screamed at it, his head pounding, his own voice repeating over and over to itself. Dribble ran down his mouth - which was now pulled into a rictus-like grin, showing his teeth and bleeding gums. "Come here - have a piece of me!"

"Aaaaaaaaagh!" The corpse gnashed its mawed jaws together, the single eye wide in greedy excitement. It stumbled ever-closer to him, its calloused fingers reaching out to grasp his white shirt - to pull him closer.

And that's when he struck, bringing down the blade onto both its wrists; cutting them clean in two with a crunch. Blood sprayed everywhere; over his chest, his shoes, in his grinning face. He swept back his hair, revealing one lucid green eye - dancing with eclectic hysteria, the other eye circled by a scar, its pupil wide and pooled in blood.

Using his whole body weight, he shoved it, where it fell over backwards like a sack of stones, never putting out its hands to break the fall, merely just letting its skull smash right onto the road. It didn't stop though, carried on wriggling, holding up its severed stumps at him. He kicked them away, and dug the heel of his boots into its empty eye socket, pinning its head to the ground.

"There we are, just stay there -" He leant over, whispered right into its gnashing face, holding his knife outstretched behind him. His other free hand twitched.

"I must admit, you done me a favour coming here today." He spoke into its glazed eye, the browning eyeball swivelling round madly in its socket, as if the close proximity of Jay was giving it some sort of sick ******.

This didn't phase him, only made him chuckle darkly.

"Sometimes my mind... wanders... just like you do, come to think of it." He flicked the knife , shoving his boot harder into the corpse's socket as it tried to lunge up at his face. "I had a wife once, she didn't like it when I wandered... she didn't really like me... just my money."

A large gob of snot exploded from the zombie's nose, dribbling into its snarling mouth.

He looked at it and smiled, bringing his knife to its face and tracing a long invisible line down its forehead.

"I don't think she'd like you either... can't see why." He continued with his knife, now tracing up from the corners of the zombies mouth to the undersides of its ears. "She would always look at me when I'd returned wandering, looking at my face and frowning - that's the whole reason I would go off for night-time walks, to get away from her; to get away from the smothering ***** with all her pregnancy problems and financial qualms."

He traced a line up from the opposite corner, now completely enthralled in what he was doing, his face creeping closer and closer to the zombie's.

"She would look at my face, and then laugh, with her prissy hands on her hips and her slutty lips pursed, and she would say 'Why Jay, are you carrying the world again?' and I would frown and say 'No' and then she'd laugh and tell me to turn my frown upside down." He cracked his head back, roaring with sudden and hysterical laughter that brought a slaver of bile running out of his mouth.

He laughed and laughed, cackling hysterically, his bloodshot eyes weeping, his mouth pulled right back into a full blown rictus - the trapped zombie beneath him still smacking its jaws together, trying to bite.

He whipped right back again, staring straight into its face - his green eye now cold and calculating. The knife once again traced the corners of the zombies mouth.

"Why," he grinned, "lets turn your frown upside down!"

AJ

too many options and the head keeps swivelling
and choosing the way to go can be boggling
in the end despite yourself you find your deepest self has carried you forward and
its your deepest self living the present moment

That's just the way it is.
The way of the heart
is really baffling.
It keeps changing, turning,
swivelling, grappling,
peeping, checking,
reviewing,calculating,
evading, listening to what
you are not saying,
scheming and can't
keep quiet for a second.
Beautiful things happens
in the heart of a beautiful
soul that makes life brighter,
better and more beautiful.
Some committed crimes
of passion and become
prisoners of love,
how can we get to the
other side of the soul
where the heart cries
out to be loved.
Isolation and loneliness
invades the heart of the one
who never care to risk relating.
We are the extension of each other.
We can't get enough of ourselves,
we are smart, sharp and
intelligent and beautiful inside.
Love is the best for the moment.
A soul that never loved is lost
and it is definitely the one that
lives in hell.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

Me in jeans plus four others,
the nearest a guitarist,
black bag shape slung
over a seat, his sleeve
rolled high enough
to see a clamour of ink
in his skin, a ladder of colours.
He listens to music, white worms
lodged into ears.
Another, female, older,
glasses two-thirds down the nose,
much wrinkled Times between
her wrinkled fingers, glint of a ring,
the only one it seems, fatigue
rolling over her face.
The third, sweating, texting,
doesn’t look up, unaware to
anyone but the swirl of letters
on the screen beneath his eyes
where only he knows what exists.
The final guest is asleep,
or is pretending, head drooped
to a shoulder like a dog’s.
The train rattles on,
Monday night,
metal vessel of mysteries.
The musician glances up,
notices he is among a clutch
of others, sees me
and for maybe five, six seconds
does not look away,
his muddy-coloured irises
pouring into mine,
his boots scuffed with muck.
I cannot help but acknowledge
this unexpected attention,
but, flustered, I rustle for a book,
even though my exodus
is minutes away.
I flip to page sixty-two, he looks away,
and then back, swivelling, as if unsure
which way to stick, and there is
a fleeting stab of fear,
of what if in a shred of a second
he lunges across, a tattooed panther,
pins my wrists to the cold window,
spews his breath to my face
and grunts in that appallingly masculine way,
a way that suggests he’s in control,
ha ha *****, what you gonna do now?
when he wouldn’t be, I’d know.
I’d have a clear shot at the crotch
and even if the texter, sleeper, reader
didn’t spring to life, I could put a stop
to it, shove him from me like
yanking a piece of furniture across the room,
crank my voice into a bellow.
I can imagine the stupid mask
of shock on his stubbly face.
He could hurt me, of course he could,
anyone can hurt anyone
how they please, and I’m just as capable,
but I wouldn’t, shouldn’t
launch an attack of fists and kicks,
inject my words with venom.
This thought shrieks in my brain
and dies, squashed bug-like,
its pulse destroyed.
Always assuming the worst.
I’ll learn.
I don’t look at him again.
I don’t know if he looks at me
but he probably does,
thinking of a song he’ll write
or leftovers to eat,
or a missed opportunity.
The book slips to the floor,
for a moment, I forget,
I am being transported.
Everybody leaves, I am no exception,
standing, moving to the doors
that will open with a quiet whirr,
it slows and then a bit more,
bit more,
his memory of me
my ***, perfect in these jeans.
Typical. At least, I think,
it looks good.

I still can’t find the words
Because, perhaps, a part of me feels
That you’ll look at me like I have ten heads
If I say how I cannot heal.

Perhaps I don’t want to heal at all,
Now I am a vulnerable, scorned thing.
The looks of realisation passing over their faces
As I tell my sorry story, my frightening fabula.

The tale of poppies and lilies and
The coldest winter I have ever known.
I was skin and bone with a ******* coat
And I didn’t like who it was that I was.

The tale of glassy eyes and cold ones
And throwing yourself at me
The tale of black and white pudding
Of Brett Ashley and Daisy Buchanan
Of ostentatiousness unrivalled.

I still can’t find the words
I’m angry, sad, tearful in public alone
Confused and bewildered.
Is that how you love someone?
Or claim that you do?

Is that the ‘nice thing’ you’re holding back?
Is that the swivelling chair or the casting couch?
Is that why I cannot seem to get over it?
Not over you, it.

And you say you weren’t well at the time.
I supposed we were both stuck clinging to each other
To broken to move away, to scared to be alone.
But no, this isn’t an excuse.

I still can’t put it into words
How profoundly odd I feel these days
You didn’t hurt me but you hurt me
And all I can see if your smirking face.
‘Calm down, you’re gorgeous.’

Oh, I could hate a hurt like that.
My sorry story, fantastic fabulam
Is it too posh if I speak outside English?
Why do you care? You knew who I was.
You know who I am.
You know.

And I’ll bet you also can’t find the words
So you hide behind cheap drinks and albums
And everything scummy because you despise who it is that you are.
Hoi polloi, the common man.
Whatever ‘common people do.’

I still can’t put it into words
And I don’t want to.
It’s too complex and I don’t have the energy to tell a story
To tell the world of the war I won
The hollow victory, the end of our empire.
Red lips, red boots, silver shoes.
Go to sleep, it’s over now.

Illusion betrays with its edifice:
Forms always change and grow, they shift
In front of the mind’s swivelling, gimlet eye.
Reality is always playing
I guess to illustrate what I’m saying:
You’ll never twice see the same sky

So then, if we agree, it's good
That perception pranks us as it should
And nothing can be sure
We no longer have to live in suspense
Or dwell in ambivalence
Any more

surrounded by dribbling vapours,
crumbling suns

the music rumbles bones,
living it up

inhaling smog,
fragile lungs

swivelling wheels,
screams on tar

we're on our way, we’re the bizarre

two figures appear in the midnight blue air
in the slick metallic silence of the nightworld
where breezes materialize into sound
but nothing to fear
still only two figures
sorry for jumping like a cottontail
i thought i heard somebody

it was nineteen eighty eight
a black and white world of possibility
is centered sweetly on the vast rosewood
a red gown drips down the ivory
while the second figure
distracts himself from the massacre
i thought i heard somebody singing in the other room
but it was just my voice in my head
burning yet another red

sweet transparency of the small walled studio
we would live on the eighty eighth story
i can see the hudson from here
better yet i can see the ghost of everyone
there’s a certain silence
only present in cold clean white sheets
when you’re lonely too
i thought i heard somebody screaming in the other room
but it was just my bones
getting used to the growing forgetfulness

the bleak and black
two figures huddle under a silk umbrella
there is a smell of wet dirt
and out of the ground comes a little worm looking thing
upon a close and careful look i saw it’s small swivelling ghost
i thought i heard somebody crying in the other room
but it was just the wind
creeping through every crevice at the worst time