St. Margaret's bells,
Quiring their innocent, old-world canticles,
Sing in the storied air,
All rosy-and-golden, as with memories
Of woods at evensong, and sands and seas
Disconsolate for that the night is nigh.
O, the low, lingering lights!  The large last gleam
(Hark! how those brazen choristers cry and call!)
Touching these solemn ancientries, and there,
The silent River ranging tide-mark high
And the callow, grey-faced Hospital,
With the strange glimmer and glamour of a dream!
The Sabbath peace is in the slumbrous trees,
And from the wistful, the fast-widowing sky
(Hark! how those plangent comforters call and cry!)
Falls as in August plots late roseleaves fall.
The sober Sabbath stir--
Leisurely voices, desultory feet!--
Comes from the dry, dust-coloured street,
Where in their summer frocks the girls go by,
And sweethearts lean and loiter and confer,
Just as they did an hundred years ago,
Just as an hundred years to come they will:--
When you and I, Dear Love, lie lost and low,
And sweet-throats none our welkin shall fulfil,
Nor any sunset fade serene and slow;
But, being dead, we shall not grieve to die.

it's so middle-class it almost deceives the idea
of a functioning economic model,
if this woman gets to write this for
rent and grocery money, i'd rather stick
it out on bread-and-butter puddings in india
mid the squalor, as honest as there is
or there isn't a god -
she's basically trapped with a hamster ontology
of the treadmill -
she's discussing "emoji" (ditto regarding
correct pronunciation), i.e.
emo- -gee                              or
                        the emotional Jinn -
or the emotive genie - Aladdin somewhere -
i mean emoji and jive? **** don't pair up!
the journalist is clever in dismembering feminism,
girls get *****, X to patriarchy,
but we need to sort out...
this emo jive **** is worse than caveman material...
i'll take an oath on it: i can't run 100 metres in
under 10 seconds...
my bone density is lighter than what the general
practitioner prescribed the africans
at the paraolympic games -
**** swam like the partially limbless -
the medal ceremony was taking place
but still the ivory and sclera at midnight visible
swam, and swam...
throw a ******* rhino or a horse in there
and it'll beat the cheetah... moor boor! moor boor!
b'oh! if this is the prime concern of
feminism i'd be abhorred by the excuse of
expression per se... come on! emotional jive
instead emotional gee? what's this, an Oliver Twist
sub-plot revision?
i'm surprised women are buying into
feminism at this stage,
she's a womb and she's a house,
he's a vector and he's the return -
take her from nesting and he does not care
for being nested, he's out in the open,
when all these girls turn to what Darwinism taught them,
after all Darwinism is feminism's only compatriot,
take the spider nursery on the back of the mother,
the polar bear single mother abandoned by
the male raising her dues,
the politicised Islamic harem of monkeys
serving as argument for both origin and no origins
(you can't be as noble as the swans
overnight caring for the practice of
widowing, unless it be as quick
as black widow's or mantis' -
after all Darwinism taught us to not thieve
but to borrow, and look where borrowing left us) -
feminism only emerged because of Darwinism
being popularised, it was perfect because of its
overt use of images and a lack of salon literature of
aristocratic ladies listening eagerly while
Balzac farted into a page and the supper was made
and served by the house-staff -
never mind the sheikhs and their Lamborghini collections;
i'm careful of the spine and the half-horse-power
of my legs than the shiny wheelchairs.

grateful to the grave
       I plank right out
my bed a cross pounded
foundation of maul emotion
fast out kipping
not in keeping
a widowing and not a kingdom
              milling out gawping
a fish mug
              tourists chugging at the gallows
dread heaves ugging repulsions
          my sleep is a gagging panic

livers of the hours
   the minutes are a live toil
     difficult digestions
       the sour beat n' breath
a particle flecked arena

   this slumber is harmful charge
(a battery matter)
capable of a faulty
              reversal of surge
depleting sleep
          not a springtime emergence
   ejected from the unconscious

         : a drained agent
reduced and submissive for duty

The piercing thrum
Of life begun
A song that doesn’t cease
Irregular strums
Of hearts undone
Heavy cries released
The battering drums
Of those unsung
Will never be appeased
I sang for some
Their bleak souls wrung
By what my voice would tease
A hopeful hum
Bright as the sun
A chant that promised peace
I cried for none
For I was one
Whose song was one that ceased
Now hums and strums
And thrums are done
All sound is now deceased
Mother to violence
Widowing silence
And no one left to speak

Mother only had a father figure until '75
Only up to a few days before her first candle was he alive
A singular heart attack to cause multiple heartbreaks
Widowing a woman with four kids...they need to strive
Despite being born in '98, I only had a father since '12
Fourteen years of searching for a father figure; i'd delve
Chapters worth of excuses for disappearing, the nth book to shelve

Get in the bed like you get in the coffin
Supposed to have the last breath, but he's still coughing
Breath in, exhale. An accordion
Sign the accord, have the wealth be accorded too
But according to accusations, his health has been recorded too
Can't run, born acaudal. Bit tipsy off the caudle
Birthed with ton weights to the ankles
Non-progressive like he's earthed
Moral state, oral debate, heart rate
More slate, foresee hate, i'll wait

I looked in the mirror more than 10 times today
Fortunately i was still more or less the same.
I took a breath
"You are not ugly. You are not disfigured."
The voices have soon since been silenced by my persistence and repeated statement
"You look pretty just believe it."

Taking you back
Back to a time when time was not time
but merely seconds and hours
And lets not forget minutes
When the only reason i tracked it
Was so i could estimate how long it took
The blade to slide across my skin
The skin to open like flesh off of a peach
The blood to seep up to the surface and drip
The dripping to stop and that crimson substance to dry

Bringing you back to the present
When i track time so i know how long i can lie to myself for
Lie to myself before the real me shows up
Before the ugly rears its sightly face

In my head there's a masquerade ball
The masks are not fancy and embroidered
The masks are simply smiling faces
Laughing faces
Any and every face that to me
Is beautiful
However underneath them is the same
'Hunchback of Notre dame' situation facially and otherwise

Remember that time when you thought you were ugly
If ever you did
But someone made you beautiful
Forever that is

I still wait for that moment like a widowing wife waiting
Waiting to hear that her lover isn't gone forever.

This knot cradled us with good intention
Protected us from rainbows
Confused by silver sphere in moody portions
It dissolves, black-hearted
Leaves oil, knowingly perfumed
Golden pink
Meshed with scarlet spills
Winowing 

Widowing
Drawing the petalled net
Void entered
So we sit
With disappointed, endless sky
To be touched by one star is enough
To be really born
To be crushed is a hug of
Sweet welcome