The lion had just lost his dear wife,
Madam lioness a couple of years ago,
She was in the prime of her life,
When she succumbed to deathly udder cancer,
Mr. Lion grieved with all energy of the bereaved beast
To make it worse, he was also terminally ill
Of the vicious lung cancer, boring his windpipes,
That when he respired sweet music came out,
Like classical xylophones of eyeless Mehrun Yurin,

His sons were away commanding respective territories
Each son a territory in the order of traditional monarchy,
No one was to cook for the sick lion, don’t mention washing,
Hence the sons hired the squirrel alias madam Caroline,
She cooked as she did all other chores in the palace,
She was good in a concocting a matchless soup
From white mushrooms and cured goat’s meet,

As Caroline cooked she also sampled by tasting for her perfection
This little by little tasting made her to increase the strength,
Her skin became smooth, her buttocks swell
Her tail became shorter and steady, but very clean,
Her skin very oily and comely, exuding no evil smell,
Her walking style purged to majestic fashion
Even the type of songs she sang
Were not peasant spirituals,
Mr. Hyena wondered and wondered;
Is the squirrel pregnant?

Only to discover she was not,
But she has a new job;
Of cooking for the sick king lion,
Hyena also heard from the public domain
That she often cooks, goat meat and mushrooms,
But the ram tail twice in week; Tuesday and Sunday,
Jealousy and bigotry, malice and prejudice ganged up at once
And gripped the hyena simultaneously,
And swore to himself that come anything;
Spells of sunshine or blizzards of snow,
He must and must; root out the squirrel
From the palace kitchen,

That bright morning he went to the palace,
Singing a Christian song in praise of Lazarus,
Who resurrected from the dead,
He entered the palace still singing,
He commanded every to stand, put off the laurels,
For he wants to pray for the sick,
He made long and noisy circumlocutions of a prayer,
With regular stamping of feet and amen,
Commanding the devil of cancer to leave,
The lungs of the king, the mighty lion.


He said final amen and all sat down
Two sons of the king, the young lions,
Were all in somber moods, their father was sick,

From the kitchen, the squirrel surfaced,
With goats meat on a metallic platter,
He served the sick lion first,
Then each of them present,
On the first taste of food,
Hyena lost control of nerves
His tail jumped out of the white trouser
That he was wearing that day,
He ate voraciously with a crazy appetite,
No such delicious food had ever crossed his way.

He cleared his food first as expected,
Then he kept mum like a stooge,
Only wagging his long tail
His long tongue hanging out
Flagging in avarice like leaves of banana,
When all others stopped eating,
Hyena began in form of a question,
To which the lion’s family listened
Indeed with kingly caution;
Am asking you the king,
Why is Madam Caroline the squirrel,
Eating your food everyday,
And you are dying of a treatable disease,
To which she has the medicine,
Why is she betraying you?
To such a simple death?

All the lions plus the sick one
Jumped to the squirrel with all horror,
For the squirrel to bring the cure
Or the be killed first be the lion dies,
She pleaded for a minute to bring the drug,
Hyena in full gear of happiness
As his friend chews misfortune,

She blamed her small body size to be the  barrier
To bringing the medicine for king lion,
But nonetheless medicine was available,
Lions roared tell us! Where is the medicine?
In a soft voice the squirrel said;
The only cure for this disease of the king,
Is a fresh liver of a male hyena!

The hyena was frozen with surprise,
Like any other foolish bigot,
He begged to leave as his time was over,
No answer came to his request,
Other than abysmal darkness
Of violent death gulfing his body,
King lion drunk Hyena’s blood
In addition to the liver
On the squirrel’s instructions,
The lion became well
And began walking strong,
Out of this joy
King lion  promoted the squirrel
To be a minister of health
In the kings palace.

You're changing this cocoon heart
The butterflies are too big for my stomach
so they venture to the ends of my being
I’m growing wingtips for fingertips that flutter when you laugh
And in the moments I make your eyes smile, I fly
All the while, unraveling the most fragile strands of myself
Like string simply because
The only thing holding me is your hands

I am a kite
I ascend to the top of the universe with mirth, unafraid of falling,
And fall, I do
I fall over and over again every time your cheeks blush
And every time you bring me back down to Earth
You bring me in, and you hold me close
And what puts my mind at ease is
Our ribs are starting to fit together like puzzle pieces
Our hearts are fusing like science I can’t comprehend,
But if God was a card dealer, I’d understand, because
God dealt me the very,
Very best hands

Your hands
that shock mine every time I touch them
And when that happens we never fail to search
For the sparks in each other’s eyes
We peer into each other’s souls
Finding atoms that fizz like fireworks
I am finding God in your electricity
We hold still for the Lord
But absolutely nothing about this is static

I am the ocean
There is more life swimming inside of me than anyone’s ever seen
And somehow you are still more astonishing
You are the moon
From dust, God made you to hold me
You push and pull me
Like tides, gently rocking me to sleep
We are standing still
But love is not something we can stop if we squeeze

Like trying to catch rivers in our bare hands
We’re finding it more enchanting to catch each other’s raindrops on our tongues
Because we are water cycles, and some days
We are drenched in this love
Finding it ironic how our torrential downpours only lift us up
So, we hold hands
Run through the rain
And know that no matter how hard we squeeze
It will never stop

I want to go dancing
I want my feet to sing louder than my voice
I want them to sing in tune with the colors your lips make when you sing
Because I’m so close to colorblind that the rest of my senses are heightened
And nothing tastes sweeter than the
Rainbows you whisper on my eardrums

But I want to feel softer than this
I want to touch subtler than two magnets never ever can
But still have the same fervor
I want our ribs to feel less like rickety fences
And more like toy xylophones
Or the color spectrum

So one day we’ll have mapped out each other’s blues
And we can truly say, we’re on the same wavelength
So that one day,
Our hearts will beat lullabies on our skeletons,
Reminding us even the hard things in life can be beautiful
If we let it

I know that fuzzy feels cozy
And change can be crippling
But as I dream stars through the silk sheets
I hold your hand
And pray you won't supernova in the morning

I.

A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****.
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.

II.

A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.

III.

Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.

Squirrel
Xylophones past
Back like a heart monitor
Arch. Flirts with me
Behind a tree.
Wouldn’t it
Be nice
To have that
Footballer grace
Of thoughtless
Thought.

I read a line of scribbled spit nickels
Down the front of your shirt
You pressed a sheet of purple glue
Upon your eyelids
So when you wake up
The sky glows merry
And the trees blow cherry blossom
Daggers in your mouth

The bees **** in your ears
The silence swims in centuries
Your pores are hidden caves
Through which the red sea tide escapes from
Down the river
It flows like spilling
A bucket of butter soaked
Fingers frying on telephone cables

Let’s be so close that we are hideous
I don’t blink enough
to miss the way your eyes looked like half squeezed limes
blond knuckled
teenagers loving their thighs
under the rusty playground slides

I tripped on broken windowpanes
To laugh until my lungs broke through
My temple of loose ***** xylophones
Crickets co-wrote my backyard requiem
My ears were sauce packets
Filled with broken glass microphones
Fast food pottery

Yogurt stains swing dance when I close my eyes
The chalk tastes like baby blankets
Horseradish carpenters bleed bitter pellet gun lubricants
I hung fifteen different shades of mustard yellow
So that I couldn’t hear your sandpaper cackle

Only your cousin’s frigid toaster
Can understand me

We British tend to take no notice,we just put a poultice on the sores.
In this town some back street evangelist, half religion ****** was banging on the jesus beat.
I meet his eyes which blink quite black,frontal back to total war and what's this for?
The beggar man can't understand why God with his almighty hand cant hand to him some slim hope of a reconcile,to reconcile the frown
with the riches of a smile or two but that's what beggars always do,expect what's more than what is there and want to share what they have not, is this the order of the day?
I've not a lot of hope that a poultice of green soap and sugar,however hot will do the trick,
this society is sick and medication is the order of the day.and we the slick play xylophones in the hope of finding keys to homes.
We're British and we tend to do,
what others would not ,
and would not see through
unless they're ready to and what do you the British do? but
pretend that it's not there.

By Nabs

XII. December
    A woman was humming a winter hymn.
She wore a thick Russian cloak, and her fingers were tapping the stained glass. Snowflakes framed her eye lashes. Vicious wind were hitting her old bones, weariness settled deep in her chest.

She had been away far too long.

Looking at a window, she saw her reflection.
Her eyes were sharp cold blue, but it was sunken and there were frozen tear tracks on her cheek.

Her fingers were gnarled, and wrinkles marred her face. Her used to be golden hair, was as white as snow.
She barely remember the days now.

A baby wail could be heard coming from a house, lit with thousand warm candles.

Looking up, she realized that she's a grandmother now.

XI. November
  The man pulled out his cigarettes, his riffle by his side. Sitting in front of his porch, with a glass of scotch, remembering the horrid symphony of gun shots. His shoulder was aching.
He had been a soldier, he had been at war, and now he was in his house.

But he was still lost in the desert.

He gripped his glass tighter as the deaths that he had caused flashes before his eyes.
He felt cold at the knowledge that settled in the pit of his heart.

He was not a war hero, he was a murderer.

The glass shattered.

X. October
  The wind blew her bright hair. It was similar to the color of autumn leaves and burning fire. She was wearing a scarf the color of lion, Lilies crowning her head.

She was holding up a shield.

A feeling of warmth, like one would get after drinking warm chocolate, washed over her. Her bright green eyes was filled with fondness at the sight of her stag cooing over her baby.

Ravens were cawing over her head, an omen.
Her face was grim, she knows they're not going to last any longer.

Death was arriving.

IX. September
    A bright yellow dot could be seen moving in the forest. It was a boy who was wearing a rain coat.

He was running around, playing by him self.
Diving into a pile of leaves, jumping over tangled roots, climbing trees, and picking apples.

He didn't tell his mother where he had gone.

The sound of trickling water lulled the freckled covered boy away. He stood in front of an old abandoned house. The smell of ginger bread was wafting through the air.

He ignored the hanging body on the tree, and put on the fallen hat.

For the first time, he felt he was home.

VIII. August
    He was named after the emperor. The one history called a legend. His parent had hoped that he could escape the chain of slavery that had shackled their family for generations.
He wondered sometimes if he skinned his skin, would he stop being a slave?

After all he would be pink instead of brown.

They branded him like a cattle. Passing him down from one master to another. Calling him pretty for his species. The marks always burns when he felt like his dignity was stomped on as if it didn't matter.

He knows it didn't matter to them.

The day he broke the chain, the grass turned red instead of withering

VII. July & VI. June
    They were born from the same chrysalis. Spun from silk and privilege. Yet one got tossed away and the other were put in a gilded cage.
Separated.

The boy with corn silk hair and gleaming pearly wings was staring out of his room. He was locked with gold in his little cupboard. Only to be let out when they needed to show him off.

He stared down waiting for his shadows.

The girl with iridescent eyes and tattered black wings had lived in the ruins all her life. Her small frame was littered with cuts and the harshness of life.
But she stood strong, her back unbending.

She stared up at her light, and asked for his hand.

Fate decrees that neither could fly, with out the other.

V. May
    The market was bustling with people. A middle aged woman stood in her stall, selling vegetables and fruits. Her nephew was bringing her baskets full of wild berries for jam. He was 6 years old with a gap toothed grin and untamable hair.

His eyes were electric yellow.

The woman stared at the boy sadly. Remembering that day on the moor when wolves slaughtered her sister's family.
She thanked him and ruffled his hair. The boy gave her an abashed smile.
She noticed a man with a nasty smile, shooting her nephew a predatory look. The man approached her stall, asking to buy apples while looking at her nephew ravenously as if he was hungry for him.

She understood what she have to do.

She put on her sweetest charm and gave him an apple for free. The man nodded, appreciating the offer. Said his thanks and went back to the shadows.

The man didn't notice that the apple he had just bitten were kissed by Belladonna.

VI. April
  A mute girl was sitting in the palace garden. She braided flowers into her hair, adding pale green ribbon with a flourish. She wore a white dress with lace on it's border. She looked like a sacrificial lamb.

A knife was lying on the floor, she had just cut her hair short.

As she keep braiding, she dreamt of home.
Of the deep blue water, gentle waves lapping at her body, sea shells that she liked to collect, pearls braided in her hair, about exploring the oceans with her sisters.

She could barely move her legs, now.

She realized, belatedly, that maybe the price was too heavy.

III. March
    The marching band passed the town that day. Trumpet, drums, cymbals, and xylophones were shouting in harmonies. A marvelous fusion of sound, creating joy behind them.

A teenager, with curly hair and sun kissed skin, was staring at them in awe.

A violin was clutched on his hand, the last gift from his father. It was his first time seeing a marching band. He wonders if the delicate moan of his violin would complement them.

He knows that it won't, but it wouldn't stop him from wondering.

He was not his father.

II. February
  A family of three was preparing their dinner in the kitchen. It was the birthday of the son.

The mother was busy preparing the roast, cutting up vegetables and spicing the meat. The father was helping the mother preparing the roast, he was making the mashed potatoes. They were dancing around each other, as they navigate the kitchen.

Their son, who have a cherubic face, watched them with adoration.

One threw an onion at the other, the other caught it. Exchanging tools and spices with an easy glide. Kisses were traded, intricate steps were taken.
They both move with trust on their heel, and souls entwined.

Love was still in the air, even after all the storms.

Their son understood that no one can take the matching arrows embedded at his parents back.

After all, they stabbed it them self.

I. January
    A mother was lying on a hospital bed. Green buds were peeking out from the snow.
She had just given birth. Her breathing was labored as she struggles to breath. A frown appeared on her face when the nurse gave her a bundle to hold.

It was her baby girl.

The baby opened her eyes and let out a gurgling giggle. It was the most beautiful sound the mother had heard.
Big doe eyes, that resembled her mother's, watched as wet tears were falling from her mother's eyes.

The mother clutched her daughter tight against her chest.

Realization struck her like ligtning,
She knows that she couldn't give her baby away.

Rubber ***** fired,
like grapeshot from cannons,
through a hall of xylophones and
trampolines.
Lemming pianos,
evacuated en masse down
a spiral staircase, piling,
a heap of discordant corpses,
at the foot of the last stair.
The screaming of a star
smeared across space and pasted,
like paint, onto
the smirking invisible face
behind a singularity.

Kawasaki revving on a long 5 *******
screaming pipe, watching from behind
a beautiful carousel of red and blue
flashing between my eyes

All along these tired roads
between the wandering streams cutting daily into the sediment
eroding the trust of those ancient riverbanks
exposing the bodies laid to dust

Those great crackling xylophones
marimba of memory and curdled blood
Screaming now, cracking between the gunshots
like bones
Souls forever past it

No forgiveness, no chance
No indictment on a ruddy road

I fall off my bike, skid a mile or two
feel the deep earth grind my skin,
tempting me with heat and a sweet goodbye
a challenge I'll never win

I skid past the officer in a ditch,
hole in his head and a clipboard ripped in two
Poor man, back with the sediment
wrapped in a carpet of beige and mud
all we've ever done

I'm not sure what I'd have said
As I slid past on my way to death
where the Appalachia slammed into Africa
saying we were all in this together
once before
as dinosaurs

So how are we any different then?

Bunch of stardust
and Sediment
Acting like winners
and consumed by lust
for dust and rocks
a part of us
Leading back our dark descent

Kawasaki flips and implodes in a ball of combustibles
behind me the sky explodes into red
and fire of passion deep in our star
of hearts, I know we'll all be the same then
empty of body, devoid of toys
stripped of lies, those knowledgeable clothes
and return to perfect Eden
where dirt and earth are us,
and dust we discriminate
obliterate into the neverend

I want to be your sentient being,
Wrap me up in cold air,
Breathe a breath and blow out your hot air,
You melodramatic superstar,
Whisper me into song,
There, you lie alone in your gray hair,
Old enough to know better but young enough to not care

Drown me in whatever you call all of that,
It’s hard to see through and it’s warm to the touch,
Bruised up and blue black,
Filthy dripping, tongues wrapped,
I want to suffocate, ******* kisses that make my lungs black,
Cigarettes at the dinner table,
Fork and knife both like cheek bones,
One of us is going to lose here

Tell me those nothings that make me feel better,
Keep me tethered,
Keep me floating around you like a feather,
Slick as leather,
Less is more and more is better

Keep me feeling like a ******* monster,
Let me into your guts and I’ll let you into mine,
I get this strange feeling every night where it feels like nothing’s ever going to get better

I want so badly to be vulnerable,
Untouchable yet envious of touch,
I have learned how badly it hurts to become,
And after I *** I will leave you immediately,
I know so much of everything and I get so sick to beat of the drums,
I want to rip our chests open and use our ribs like xylophones to the tune of rock n roll suicide,
I have become all or nothing,
Do or die

I have learned the Death Dance,
I call it Human,
I have never learned to love,
I’ve never known Cupid,
Yeah, I love the taste of blood,
Especially when it’s humid,
Always beating myself up,
I always ******* do this

Now it’s 1am, I’m drunk again, listening to Andrew Jackson Jihad, blacking out on my floor again, again, again, and again,
There are stars above my head

To the heavens, we are going home,
To the hells, we are burning everything that hurt us and after that we will burn ourselves too

We will grow to become so beautiful

I used to picture you
with a voice oscillating like ocean water, casting words
as nets on a surface shimmering effervescent green.
And even the handful of stars outside dawdled just
a while longer to see the fish rise up and wink
out in the morning sun, scales slipping together
the way clay lips slot against coral white heart-cages
and curved, ivory xylophones patterned like shadows
and gold strips of sun. Everything quivers; we are only a
cosmic moment singing aubades, horsehair and rosin falling
like shooting stars against mahogany and warm steel, origami
folded bed, redefined by sharp angles and all the ways I am not afraid.
When we rise to sleep, pressed sable will drip down
and the air will be rimmed with the sea salt tang of dried coffee.

when
stars
shed their light
we
hear
xylophones
chimes
and
kalimbas
the
clear sound of stars
when
stars
shed their light

(for my daughter)

i hope the grey clouds come today
to blanket the sky, misty slate and grey
block out the angry rays and keep us cool
so the salamander can lick his eyes by the pool

the cardinal's come back, the bluejay too
all manner of sounds
raucious caw and ribbony twirl of xylophones and whistles
lovely these creatures we hear alike
as creatures of habit and simple delights

cb

Our dead states and best conditions become null in the face of each other's prettiest nightmares.
Numbed fingers and downcast eyes are all that echo throughout the noise we make.
But we love. And we synthesize noises to feel something.
Screeching and howling all we hide to get past  a dead state to find better conditions.
Patterns ****** on xylophones but we can't look back.
But I know I'm worse off without you.
Frame me for anything. I'll give it all up for you.
Trapped but as free as I could ever feel or remember.