Slang Or common talk
Yay all knows that peoples talk funny
If yous are from the south.
They cut off the lights and jaw jack alls night long.
If youns need to find something.
We cans find it down the road a piece or maybe over yawner.
So if you think I talk funny or in slang.
You alls need to catch the seconds of taters and grits and pig fat.
You alls come back now you hear.
And yes bring granny and the boys well have a shing dig.

Your face is the sun
and mine the moon.
the twinkle in my eye,
just a reflection of you.

Can't hold back
your smile induces mine,
like a yawner and yawnee,
both victims intertwine.

Almost not fair,
like loving in a prison,
but I'm used to it now,
prison of a pretty person.

I couldn't bear be set free
the love is still mutal right?
but a fools been made of me
lonely freedom tonight.

You always fight like a ****
Taking and receiving blows like robots
Talking like a parrot
You forgot that the dark moon is near




You run from place to place
Like a cheetah
Barking like a dog
Laughing to the back of the tree like a hyena
You forget that the dark moon is near.

You eat as if you are swallowing stones
Chewing the sand of the air
Opening your mouth like a yawner man
Jumping from woman to woman
From man to man
Like monkey
You forgot that the dark is near.

Are you a soldier?
Carrying sticks up and down

Marching from hill to valley like soldier ants
You forgot that the dark moon is near.
You work in the government house
Acquiring the whole into your pocket
Making noise like a walkie talkie
Forget your home like wild animal
Jumping from pole to post
You forget that the dark moon is near.
What is that dark moon?

some people, live the most spectacular lives...
and then...
   end up writing out a yawner...
a book so...
so un-bookish that it would be...
better suited to the comic-strip genre...

   and they live the most spectacular lives...
but... when it comes to writing about it,
you sometimes wish they treated their
mortal completion by...
   reading some books to begin with...

and then the paradox...
         is my life interesting, exciting or...
worth remembering outside of the realm
that's my self?
            ha ha ha!
the immortality of the inorganic tongue...
no!
   my life is the life you live
hoping for an escapism of fiction...
but i have no fictive imagination,
namely:
            i was semi-good at drawing...
but fictive escapism /
swindling?
                i don't think i could sell
you a bunch of bananas at a Cockney
market either...
    
i feed off what happens,
rather what could happen...
poetry is...
        what happens
         when what could happen:
never actually happens...
            it's the allure of the crudeness
of the art that, glows like
a phosphorescent ghost of a god
in minding:
  the counter evolutionary -
knowledge not passed in surd,
in silence... necessarily needing
to be elaborated, nuanced,
subjected to metaphor...

             that being said...
the people who have lived the most
astounding, interesting lives...
why the late interest in literature?
why even bother?
i'm wondering, because...
the other people... the people with
the most ordinary, boorish lives...
they can take to claiming literary
royalty...
  the mind is the world,
     and the world is but the confines
of a body...

people who traversed the world
are not supposed to write books...
sure, enviable lives, interesting lives...
but lives worthy of the content
of a book?
    not really, no...
didn't these enviable people ever
consider discovering the cinema of
memory, a cinema of nostalgia?
their ego taking a cameo route via
the perpetuated thinking
and sink into memory?
    and... like my dementia prone
grandfather... taking a moment
to relax, in a pseudo-fetal state
of consciousness?

     people of the engaging, living,
exploratory household
are not bound to books...
said people would find it better
to have been illiterate to begin with...
i'm pretty sure that edward thatch
was illiterate...
              
it's only when you couple
literacy with the sort of dynamic of
an edward thatch...
and the said people grow old...
and... instead of retiring to reading
books... they get the sudden impulse...
to write one...
notably an autobiography...

notably an autobiography is not
a genre whereby you take a holiday,
known as life, and then write about it,
"on duty"; i.e. auto- implies on-going,
automated, reflexive,
rather than reflective...

   it's impossible to read the works of
people who require to milk
the capitalistic cow, fully...
              "properly"... expanding
into books...
         like the Rocky VII autobiography
adventure of
    katie price...
  bogus or pretentious? who?
me.
                 i get it, a perfected engagement
of the lived experience...
but... please... you can't call this
a perfected engagement
of the thought experience...

the saying goes:
  the people who live, find thinking
claustrophobic,
while the people who think,
find living agoraphobic...            

  the former will end up writing
****** autobiographies,
with no scholastic nuance of language,
or, absolutely no knowledge
of diacritical markers to emphasize
punctuation...

buffer zone: fiction writers -
half and half...

yet some of us live the most mundane
lives...
yet have funfairs and carousels
in our minds;
hence we end up writing: so.

By: Cedric McClester

The President may be a goner
From the dreaded corona
Guess we haven’t turned that corner
Wonder if we’re ever gonna
He didn’t believe in wearing a mask
Whether he does now we’ll have to ask
Does he still find it a task?
Or does he want an oxygen mask

So much for his conspiracy theory
Of which by now we’ve become weary
Now his prognosis is so dreary
That I wouldn’t want him anywhere near me
And as for us turning a corner
If we believe this who do we honor?
When the President himself may be a spawner
Yet this breaking news may be a yawner

At the president’s constant insistence
And because he has such strong resistance
The White House doesn’t practice social distance
Because scientific facts he routinely dismisses
Now we’re playing a game of wait and see
Does he have it? You can search me
If he does as it might well may be
It will remain an ongoing mystery

Perhaps at last he’s learned his lesson
But he’ll probably keep us guessing
Though If he survives it will be a blessing
From on high there’s no contesting
I guess now he’ll take it serious
And if he doesn’t he’s probably delirious
Yet he could also be impervious
Though his behavior has been murderous!






Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2020. All rights reserved.