I heard the world's loudest **** today
It echoed round the town enough to say
"I am a **** of great renown and fame,
I am a **** who's worthy of the name
Of  KING of FARTS!"  Unthinkingly I sniffed
And, let me tell you, I have never whiffed
Aught so potent, dank and dread and foul
Blasted out from heaving human bowel
As that king of farts I smelled today
And which took my ******* breath away.

Who was the pumper of that putrid beauty?
How many curries in the line of duty
Had he consumed?  It must have been a man -
No pong so strong ere blew from female can.
Can no one answer yet my urgent question:
And say who suffereth such dire indigestion?
O heavens! his torment must be something chronic.
Can no one subsidise a high colonic
Irrigation to prevent another
Noisier and more noisome than its younger brother?

He saw himself in her eyes suspended in two shining drops of bright water, everything was there as if her eyes were two miraculous bit of violet amber that might capture and hold him in tact.
Her face, fragile milk crystal with a soft constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity, but the strangely comfortable and gently flattering light of a candle.

For how many people did you know who refracted you own light to you? People were often blazing away until they whiffed out.
How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your innermost trembling thought?

An artistically woven
turquoise woolen
pullover made
out of the finest
moher fabric
made my day.

Made for you,
to be caressed
and cherished
as a perfect
garment.

It looked so good
on you, my darling!

Rainbow colors always
bring me happiness and
I gently touch you,
feeling already safe
as a deer in a flowering
forest; within narcotically
scented alluring hug, we
embrace again, tightly,
you and me, entwined.

Whiffed winds melody
played through tall pine
tree tops as a flute song
swaying branches. It seemed
as they are affirming our walk
along the shore, where the river
meets an ocean, hand in hand,
peacefully.

And, yet, every time the
strong cool breeze exposes
your magnificent masculine
figure in that woolen top,
my coolness faints into the
void and dissolves itself.

Our urge emerges!
I feel your fingertips touch
as a passionate flame dance
over my face, you turn my
head up toward your loving
gaze, wanting it so much,
slightly pulling me up
then burning my lips.

Our hurried steps are heard,
echoing as a rushed tempo
on the salty path, fresh air
lingers around us, leading
us to our charming summer
suite, to undress. And love.

on this page i write pain, and the html censor revises it with flower... need for a positive vocabulary feedback of life in general?! what is this hippy ****, what's the point of writing the raw when you're revised as well done, missing the Tartar alt.?!

variations on E.C.T. as catalogued by
Sylvia Plath in the Bell Jar -
Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest -
mute Indian the winner in that one -
Hubert Selby Jr's Requiem for a Dream -
or perhaps from?
never mind - the mild electric chair
for therapeutic purposes, gamer crew and
the virtual reality mask - so many profess
to needing one - IQ enhancing stereotypes -
but there's me with a bottle of whiskey
and some spare time -
the professionals speak of an undoubted
pain threshold -
so instead of outright killing each other
we masked it behind outright necessity of
turning **** sapiens into guinea pigs -
clap... clap... clap... clap... and that clap
already resounds prior to this marking and forth
toward another century of the desert of
Darwinism - ever hear that joke?
a chemist, and physicist and a Darwinist
enter a bar - a chemist orders Hapsburg 98% proof
absinthe, a physicist order a shandy,
while the theoretical biologist (Darwinist)
orders a gene atlas and pseudo **** safety pins to mark
his route should he be drunk, and should be,
but isn't, he's on a rampage of walkie-talkie steroids
befitting only the tongue - raps and raps
without rhymes - 'buddy, drink something!'
'i'll drink a smoothie of aborted fetuses,
in that Christian calendar: the feast day of a would
be Mozart', oh hell, a would-be ****** too...
you have to much capacity and the claustrophobic
area of expression, believe me, they won't let
you fill your full potential -
take to rank, take to surgical instructions -
the man in charge at Oxford says:
please don't use frightening words electroshock therapeutics -
but i swear that's what it was?
treating momentary lapses in apathy - angry,
jealous, psychopathy - i.e. people uncomfortable
with the idea of Σ (totality, given neurology and
the brain myth, found elsewhere, or in / as total) / soul -
leave them be, we need psychopaths to give us
consumer gratification for the and in with the existence
of corporate sister nationhood -
well, unless you want a start-up in the sense of
a French Revolution - that one's booked:
only in America - elsewhere we're just Palestinians,
throwing rocks and paper-drones at metal -
testing out Newton and not the Einstein's parabola -
algebraic notation *x (time) hyphenation y (space) -
which means given algebra there's a third missing,
from Kantian standpoint of 0 - a z... god?
or, wait, refrain from Darwinism's anti-social collective
of a personal will - oh i don't know, improvise!
but what critique came to Communism (post-theoretical
socialism) came to the project of a multiculturalism -
this time round it wasn't the Pope that undermined it -
still, people confuse an attack on Communism
with an attack on Martial Law - the actual critique
came against Martial Law years December 13, 1981 to July 22, 1983,
we feared the Soviet invasion - why do you think
my communist party member grandfather lives
without complaint? of course the first to complain
are the farmers - before them the nobles drank,
got bored, cured boredom with borderline paedophilia -
the bemoaning - the king ****** me last at Versailles -
i lost my virginity and i subsequently lost my
ideal, i defined reality with a symptom.
so once we warred and killed each other -
but since we're a bit more pacified these days -
we decided to internalise warring with each other,
and instead of killing each other we decided to
experiment on each other - the reinterpretation of
E.S.T. into E.C.T.; prices start at £89.00 for the basic
kit to imitate death row simulation... you the funny
thing is... once you've experienced a brain haemorrhage
you became a slight sadist - you want the pain to come
to finish you off - some say the soul is bound to bones -
animation, pure and simple - that the non-existence of
soul is proved by the remain of bones - but that's
whiffed away with the Hindu practice of cremation -
and that's dark comedy given the Nazis -
it's almost like the Nazis wanted to end the debate,
the already Gothic practise of burial and bone-keeping -
as if invoking the geometry the soul would pick up first,
the abstracts of mechanisation, the canvas readied for
ether muscles and juice - ****** ended up
Hinduism on amphetamines; ****, i think i lost a bracket (
somewhere... oh well, i guess i must end with ).

She told me once
I smelled like Heaven.
But honestly,
I think I stink like Hell.
What was she thinking
or did she whiff something
I missed
her kisses.

There is never new and there is nothing see old
The sky Of Tunisia,  easily I can fold and unfold
In a notch of  eye sight like  magnificent light
Yes, Sometimes a day and many times in night

leaves are waved and stars a glowing in dark
They has given me absolute and divenly spark
Everything looks delighted  as an eternal ray
Tunisia, my faith is stronger then previous day

What a dream, a poet  can see you almost free
Can see the Monastir, a capital of world poetry
I do feel pleasure in a beach at wonder sunset
You are my Mediterranean sea is really great

Smell of silence  are spreaded from the south
Sahara ! travellers way, dessert of thirsty mouth
No water, Dust is whiffed  that freedom of ridge
Tunisia ! A soft sister of Egyptian Sandy breeze

Douz, a town at Sahara's edge for camel ride
Which is kept Romans gallery, nothing to hide
Serene cloud on top witnessed of Arab Spring
Men of Tunis proved by revolution none is king

Oh my sister ! I salute you for full of orbed glory
An amazing love of solitary, a successful lorry
At the time of grim sand storm whirled a while
In obscure can move with poem mile after mile

The wet smell of the earth
was **** enough
I woke up to the moon glow
feasting his eyes
on my silky skin

The sultry feel of the night
covered me like silk sheets
caressing every goosebump on my skin

I tasted you in yesternight's alcohol binge
there were bits and pieces that surprised my tongue
along with my memory

The cigarette stench in my hair
whiffed instances that slapped
the drunk off my face

The crumpled money
harvested ash from the drive
in every crease

The burn marks on my hand
brought back the inhibitions
I felt that night or lack there of

what happened I have yet to decipher
yet, I still remember the blurred lights
that lit my eyes with seduction
one that I shared
with you
on
that
one
night!

I shook you gently, wake up, I was hungry again.
I said I was eating for two, you obliged and got
up from your side of the bed.
We had slept early that night, the neighborhood
was still up when we woke. We walked, the air
whiffed of the usual street fare over hot coals.

I asked, if it was alright to eat at this time of the night.
Thinking you’d object, I pointed out,
I was eating for two and you smiled a bit.

I was eating for a child you said we couldn’t keep.

Why does the world conspire against the eccentric?
Unique is wrong, creativity ostracized.
Numb, blind, masses choose to remain.
Being true to oneself, criminalized.
Like candles whiffed one by one, extraordinary is now a scarcity.
Aristocracy calls for the illiterate, not the enlightened.
We’re surrounded by advancements that dull our minds.
When will we realize, herded we are?
When will we realize, we are assumed usufruct by the elite?
Common folk desensitize incessantly at death’s door.
Robbed of creative thought and ingenuity.
Tolerate, embrace, assimilate, so it seems.
Breaking status-quo is just vagrancy.

To this old, defeated apple
Skin blazoned in rosy tunic
Slippery as fate discarded, fate in a bubble
How you've crossed my sight like a cynic

You rest cold and unamused
In my warm, subversive hands
It's as if your insides have set themselves loose
Unarmed in their pure dwindling strands

Fat worms whiffed spotless fields of honey-gold
Floundering shallow water fishes in unconscious fathoms
Seared the sweet flesh with spawns in manifold
You stand still in spite of downtrodden autumns

I took you in my mouth, your rot conspicuous
As if you whimper upon my numb tongue
That you won't last an age longer in this limping malice
Where your seed grows only to get wrung

Autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavements in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding sidewalk, letting the motion of the wind and leaves carry her forward.
Her shoes stirred the circling leaves.
Her face slender and milk-white, and in it was a kind of gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless curiosity.
Pale surprise with dark eyes that were so fixed to the world that no move could escape. Her dress was white and it whispered.He almost thought he heard the motion of her hands. Eyes so dark and shiny and alive that he felt as if he had said something wonderful.
They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and there was the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air. her face as bright as snow in the moonlight.
"I like to smell things and look at things, and sometimes stay up all night, walking, and watching the sunrise."
He saw himself in her eyes suspended in two shining drops of bright water, everything was there as if her eyes were two miraculous bit of violet amber that might capture and hold him in tact. Her face, fragile milk crystal with a soft constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity, but the strangely comfortable and gently flattering light of a candle.
For how many people did you know who refracted you own light to you? People were often blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your innermost trembling thought?

*"Are you happy?"

The cat nip that whiffed into our noses
That snipped our senses
Making us
Meaningless dead roses

The thing we regretted to do
Came to soon
A feeling we can't have no longer
That feeling of feelin' blue

For there was no longer a place
To feel thata' way
There was no longer a space
To live to quickly re-lace

Regret
Remorse
Dissatisfaction of a soul you thought you'd had
But now seein'
It was never really all that bad

Shifty misfortunes that were something at a time
But now
Just like the flick of that shimmery dime
Is not a thing in times eye

How fragile we are
When we sit at the bar
Sipping on the music
That we believe to feel inside

An embarrassing hook-up from our picturesque forefathers
A saying, an embrace, a smile and hand shake
That came with
The morning
Of that mid eclipse moon shallow sky

Writhing sits the sun
No longer of any importance
Because we seem
To be already
Done and undone

Yes
We seem
To be all ready
To sing
Another song

the flame shivers
dims and suffocates
as it burns the oxygen
in the silence of prison

and then came the words

*laced with your madness and joys
your voice a stray wind  
with a perfume i could not name
whiffed by the fire, my fire
stroked with a new born desire
from the first house of delight

Tempted by a hint,
just a little hint,
of unbridled thought
and an output
that can border on radical

to take a breather
and attempt negotiating

negotiating more words
To Listen,
To Talk,
To act.

whiffed.....
waiting.....

We called him Mr.Chins cuz he had four of ‘em.
We called him The Chizzler and he hated it:
Always chugged a brew before playing the rube,
And taking the *** for himself.

He whiffed a’ porkrinds and blackjack,
And his lip ticked for the snow.
He ****** down the Jaeg like a hunter,
Too loose and obtuse with a bow:

Missed his mark -
Like he missed his mom -
And his dad was good for the whoopin’s.

He was straight-shot in the flatters,
But took a cab home alone.
He said he gambled for the ladies,
The ones he’s never known.

He had a keen eye for the rail run,
Cued low for the buck and the lie,
He was a stacked-quarter hustle,
A con that went glibly awry.

Husky whispers
of her voice
resounding with
the echoes
of the cave.
She sounded so
close but yet
so faraway.
The whisk of
her scent
i caught.
Moving down
the lane quickly
to find her.
The breeze
blowing to bring
her scent to
my senses.
She smells
of jasmine and
of lilac.
Whiffed like a
hunting dog
i hurried faster
to get her.
Confident of
my steps on
the narrow path,
i steadied my
self on the
willow tree.
Bracing myself,
i ran down
the ***** towards
the west end
of the valley
where she lay
down as if sleeping,
i picked her up
not minding the
wet velvet red
gown on her.
She may be royal
because of the
golden bracelet and
the signet gold ring
on her finger.
A sigh of
relief she muttered
as she held
so tightly
onto my shoulders.
And up
i went towards
the hills to
get her home.
As the trickling
rain shower woke
the sleeping beauty.
Quietly she opened
a beautiful yet
veiled face and
peeped at me
for the first time
through the dark wet
hair that stuck
on her face.
With a subtle smile
on her face,
she gazed up
at me and
her lips moved,
she whispered softly,
as she says,
thank you.
And that is enough.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

I smelled something
curious as I entered
my home today,
a musty yet
familiar fragrant
I hadn't whiffed
in years trailing
from my dining
room table.

There nestled between
the flowers and the mail  
thoughtfully brought in
was your love letter,
that reeked of the future.

This whole ******
house reeks of it now,
and I have to shoot these
clothes into the wash,
or set them ablaze.

You've spilled our past
into this cursed letter too,  
compliments stuffed
in the margins like
a Thanksgiving ham,
absolutes written in sand.

You've tried to hide
space with your ink,
your cover ups,
smoke and mirrors
are heavy here,
the same patterns,
bright as day,
expected as the
migrating duck,
I must navigate
out of.

It sings of how
time can strangle
your dreams,
and weigh on
your shoulders
with hybrid
sentiment.

And right there in
the middle of this,
stuck in the heavy
gossamer of your word,
is me.

My future shouldn't
reek of this flavor,
I prefer the stale
moment of my
presence to
engulf me,
and to sit in grey,
I enjoy my grey.

To be both
guest and host
in my world,  
and to continously
arrive back to myself.

I am the prodigal one,
always leaving
always returning,
back and forth
back and forth
i am the wave
and you are just
the traveler,
i am afraid.