from an
early bud,
tasty consciousness.
Displayed in
hieroglyphic drink
to cuneiform on papyrus,
to now.
These mediums
of visionary pictures
to convey
the necessity
of how the heart will someday be open and free.
and has been
from the beginning
of its maturity.
From a pregnant gourd,
a flask, a chalice and more
its uses flourish.
And, is still not old from
a time spent chemistry
of the pleasure it brings.
Training the
young spark secretly in meetings with
ambition,
to be a "bigger brand on someone's lost desire."
As a galaxy
continually speaks
of the greatness
of many,
of the one truth
carried on
in their pathfinder ember.
And, the gentleness
of a moon's cameo
reflection
in the constant darkness
a night's eternal playground.
To bring in the rush
the turn-on,
the constant rejuvenation
of our much in
common fire ball words
of our solar days.
Pencil pushing
doodling nights
passion doesn't'
follow a Seiko's hand,
in this art form
of getting to the
next up and down horizon
and enjoying it!
My cousin looked up towards me,
Squinting to filter out the sun.
I smiled, from the balcony,
as if to say 'It meant nothing,
it was all in fun'
The deed had followed the thought
that Followed the urge of a hit and run.
Fluent in abuse, as most children are,
He barked horrors like a rabid hound.
With intermittent shouts
Enough to split the ground.
He then walked off in a huff,
Disappearing slowly from view.
His shiny hair, made slicker,
By heaven's offending rue.
Since then…
Ample years have had the time
To perfume with dread and dress in slime.
He trembles now if I reach out to greet him.
A stout hunch rides his back.
His thick fingers slide beads of prayer on pious thread,
In tides of straight and slack.
There is no longer menace in his eyes
As they bear the wrath of sleeplessness.
His ears brim with a sound
Emerging from the dark of night:
The lottery numbers' rattle
In missiles of fright.
I hugged him, whispering apologies
For various shades of betrayal
And all the hopes that failed
When the tongue cried out for mercy
As the air pulled back in a curtsey
To the oncoming, lacerating, spittle of the world.
The trackers' eyes traced her wake,
Those hideous eyes, pining for sights of murder.
They whistled to the hunters,
Marking a path in the darkness with sound.
The gibbous moon parted the veiling clouds
To offer generous beams of light
That eased the hunter's movements.
Who in turn sped on, clutching their spears.
The wooden shafts soaked with sweat,
The deadly tips gleaming in the moonlight.
She sensed them nearing,
Her eyes darted a glance towards the sky
With its sprinkling of stars.
'O mighty god, my fair and merciful father,
Let me read your twinkling signs correctly,
Let them guide me through this terrible night
That cloaks those shameless sons of clay,
Hell-bent on treachery as they are.'.
Her feet were sore now as she ran,
That luckless goddess of the two rivers.
She had cradled civilisation in her arms.
The endless cries of infant man,
She bore with ceaseless grace,
Suckling him until the muscles of his legs
Were tightened by the sinews of childhood.
The boy was a handful, forever dealing in empires
and conquests.
And though much of his youth was lost in merriment,
The promise of glory never left his side.
But when the opportunity for wealth came bubbling from
the ground,
Taking the form of that heady black liquid,
A sickening madness overtook the soul of man,
Moving fast like a cancer -
that black vessel with its cargo of agonising death
-
It turned his brain to pulp.
The bounty was sapped and traded for armour
And man lost to the lure of bloody war.
How foolish and green is the son of clay ?
How easily susceptible to the tricks of the devil
?
And so he chased after the goddess of the two rivers,
Through forests of hollow reeds,
Craving the ultimate murder.
We line up the men, our potted-men
Then water them with bullets.
Our lips curl a whistle
As we dig their ditch.
Shrouded, they fall
Swollen mummies -
All Bulged and rigid.
The scene is sad
Seedy
And intensely comic.
The prayer of the exiled old guard:
Our father
Who aren't in heaven.
(yet)
We love you so dearly
That on sending you there
Our dreams are
Set.
The anger of exiled youth:
Our people once had pride and panache
Now fear the omnipresent moustache
Of a fratricidal leader.
Their way of life corrupted.
Their very souls
Tarnished with blood and oil.
Their eyes in their sockets toil
Blind to the sight of worthwhile goals.
The gaiety of farmers
To westerners, we are grateful
They taught us civility
And the art of being world - fit.
Through forcing us to contemplate
Innovative uses for our shit.
The land is more fertile than ever before
As they merrily or wearily settle their score.
Nothing like napalm can turn the soil,
Pluck weed, slay caterpillars or boil
The blood in the veins of a vermin.
This morning we saw a seed picking bird
Drop from the sky in the aftermath.
With a swoosh and a thump
Like a charcoal lump,
It crossed the path
Of a TV crew.
A poet's observation:
Pegasus
Soiled and unsaddled drinks from the ditch
Where a poisoned reflection
houses his
Nemesis.
a dream that wastes fuel
to you is a dream that creates vision
a dream that is meaningful
to you is a dream that has no definition
and therefore you ride through life,
unknowing that the curtains you’ve put up
are blinding you to oblivion
to the man whose hearing is blocked by loud stubbornness
and whose jokes are offensive
to Arabian Princes' and mothers across the world
to the man that isolates my freedom
and defines it as bratty, as if i were
throwing block sacross the kindergarten floor when all im doing is speaking
my mind
there's a thin wall of shallowness that separates
you from me
thatsgives me a bouquet of criticism
and a tongue that wishes to lash your words
and melt them into the nothing that they serve
i wallow in a sauce of words
that boil in a pot of my fury
i break a bond that was never supposed to be
i make
or take
or fake my way
to show that i know how to control myself
but inside i feel like screaming REBEL REBEL!!!
i am not subservient
to the man that swallows deep thoughts
and regergitates them in a choking death
of beautiful, limitless creativity
and hangs truth up to dry in a tornado of injustice
i will not tolerate an ego that is not my own
i do not seek to destroy you
although you seek to degrade me
and declare my behavior intolerable
to you, who has made my character
a conquest of your venomous ignorant insanity:
i do not see within myself
the person you've phrased to be me
i see a person with a lot to learn from
and someone who deserves
more than your petty approval
i decide which direction to fly in
and if i choose north
and you are south
i shall be on my way to my dream
And the green grass grows all around, all around
and the green grass grows all around
You don’t know what you’re saying...
You haven’t looked into my eyes, my heart,
my soul...you don’t know me.
You can’t deal with my sadness,
So you try to fix it with your words...
Oh they sound good and helpful...
But they’re not.
Accept me in my grief and don’t try to
fix it, change it or silence it.
Don’t turn your head because my pain…
may someday be yours.
Don’t judge, ridicule
or throw your hands up in frustration.
Go away.
I have been doing things for myself.
Trying to heal, feeling my feelings…even
increasing my sadness at times.
I own this time..
To heal on my own terms…not yours.
Did you think I was made of stone?
Leave me alone.
