Fumbling treasures, we are wreckless, wild, word to the wicked. But if a child is a father of the man, there is hope of mouth to heart resuscitation. Cross words, quized and crossed out of bridges built and belted out of the mouth of babies.

Love on the hope lines drawn on calloused hands. And no Island is a man. Womb for rent. Love for sale. For free? Hate off the scale. Weighed. Expensive cake. We’ll eat it too.

Dingling. Dangle. When you choose to. When you unlearn to love. When you see how you kill your child everytime you kill me. Unborn. Unknown. When you see. And no man is an Island but he is seed to be planted. Where will your hate plant me so that I might flourish and grow down and strong enough to eat your children’s children? Dead or alive. Unlearn to love you. So deeply. That I might find you. Embrace you. Twist you. Turn you. Stir your eyes to acknowledge my death as I stare at the prize. Blood cries out. Abel holds the cain now. The dead are hungry too.


Mother tongue is cool, and you can be the conscience of my indiscretion, or the remedy that triggers a poet’s latent talent out of the comfort zone and complacency of a reclining chair. Dormant, but not dead. Though he used to die a small death everyday, he thinks it would be best to live a lot, stop the rot from dot to dot like her heart forgot to die again today. And now we come to you and I, and now we wonder how and why? Wondering how high…is the drop? How long…till it stops? Its not the pain that troubles you, cause death serves a purpose of its own agenda, though I’d sooner be a warning sign for danger than the fool that got in the way of a stranger called Providence. And if it bites like last winter, and sister warm blood tastes better, then you should know that the fraud will be the block buster ’till further notice, but notice how your past reminds you of how far away your future cast you, drawing doodles with your minds eye, can’t see too well with your past life, and dearly beloved is a dwelling place for the restless, rowdy like premature ambition, a mission statement wears your age with contempt, crowded with sentiment on insecurity highway, down below, the parched valley raises up another question mark to consider in cubic shapes of monochrome colour, yeah underneath that red Sun, rising to fall, waking to sleep through fog, the distance, the drift, and your wondering how high is the summit of your desire, to climb back up from your small death, on the string of the loose change that barren land loaned you, the countless grains of Sahara’s sand timer tickles the unfancied soles of your feet into motion, defeats stagnation, anticipates the storm, marches on like the aftermath of the Somme, but will not carry the dead on depressed shoulders, and empty stomach.

Bread & Water

“There’s nothing worse than wasted suffering.” – Benedict J. Groeschel
Beware the perverse pleasure of watching people eat the things your belly desires. The eyes that spy never tire. The hunger is rarely quenched. The hate must feed on sugar and the love must be doused in salt and pepper. Fickle flavours of spices and herbs of dissonance will be added to the food you digest and hate is fat and strong as it was last fear. It must continue to feed. Blood will be drunk as eagerly as it is shed. Consider the thirst in their eyes. Your eyes. Flaming red brown. Or cool water blue. Both inescapably black lashed and shocked like white lightening, gleefully, jubilant, resoundingly swell, when you chew your hate and swallow your love, runny or hard boiled, blatant, merciless, it will happen to you, him, her, us, its ours. Its not. You don’t own it, and yet its seductive fragrance overwhelms you, forcefully undresses you, to be pimped out for the blow out, like sodomized babies holed up in Gomorrah. How you gonna tread the thin line when your waist is expanding? Fence sitter, something wicked this way comes. Its happening all over again. You will happen again.
We are all things, man and woman, bread and water, extravagantly gifted for the work of devious minds like Star gazing super villains with pack lunches inside our cape, disguised in the charade of misery with uncertain career prospects and the promise of a bonus who goes by the name of Luck. A guilty nose smells discontent. Grown and groan. Refreshed. Youtubed. Facebooked. Frontrowed. Cornrowed. Plantations. Migrations. Suicidal plane wreck. Suburban death wish. Murders you like Cain. But you kill with thoughts, words, secrets, lies and that gift-wrapped betrayal they call indifference. Your dexterous trigger fingers dipped in the stew pot, stirs up the gossiping chain gang to a jig of heart break dancing. Bodies tumble, stomach rumbles for a taste, if not indigestion and a receding fad Diet Coke hope. And great ideas fall asleep on a full stomach of emptiness. Have you died again today? Been reborn again today? Will you live to hate again today? Will you watch as they watch you eat their love again today? Please don’t kill us with your silence because our screams have yet to manifest outside concrete slab dreams. We are prisoners that feel the texture of our nightmares. Please don’t kill us with your present in exchange for our future, for all you hate and love is today, and all we are and dare is today. Sleep on it, and maybe tempt priceless death to sleep on us, a little while older. till we learn to make bread without malice, and exorcise spirits that trouble the water.