Wettest Eye

Wettest eye watering skinned brother on the inside, arachnid crawling out, side eyed, hunger bites the heart of fear, and the killer, mother knows best, knows not the fright that drives him to stomp small creatures and their secrets, like vaporous confessions that rise up with death.

Smoke city. A body burns, like nations, like bodies burning nations. Iraq hid in flames of refutation.

Web swinger, entrapped in the ganda, hung to dry on the rope that pulled him up to the measure of Spider men, climbed into company love of misery and a tail wagged for the milk of magnesia and human kindness, as mythical as the love that murders with good intentions to broadcast.

Charity. Just spare me the charity of words like the vain in life who speak of the ignoble dead, fishing in blood rivers. Dead as purpose of Pompey. Restless in peace.

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Patriots

Patriots are foreigners too. Like poets. Dead ones seem to outlive the living. Their words are the ideas that dreamers cling on to for a fictive future.

The living are dreamers at dawn. Walking on corn toes. Curved. Running the zig zag. They are pragmatic with crayons. And they laugh loud and unclear like the noise they speak.

Home is where the heart is heavy. If you cut through the chatter and chit it’s all bullsweat. Now if you knew where to bury the living, I’d hand you a shovel. No words. No songs. No honour to purchase.

They’ve got that one day exclusive on offer. Get your love at half the pain. All foreign currencies accepted. Faces are guilty but eyes are blameless.

Not Yet

Black bodies. Gold plated hope behind second skin. Black holes for weeping bullets, scream behind screens, unheard trauma scares dreams into a silence so loud that it hurts to hear. No fears to trace, to find the trail of tears that triggers the trigger of cowards and all that we choose not to see. All the cows we milk as they moo. Not yet found like Mother’s love. Away from home. Cold meat on a warm climate. Touch it. Pull. Tear it apart. A human lives behind it. Gold for skin, not cuddled, so dark as to be unseen. So much of night lives in you. Lights up your days. A paradox of mourning. You have known all your life how bright invisibility is. So shiny you didn’t need virtue to polish the skin that hides your identity. When is a human a being? In the womb of contemplation is a seed travelling the possibilities of being alive in a world not yet born.

 

Hiroshima

Atom bombs don’t need to play tit for tat and title, like men in suits. It’s the long game. And the short of it. The certainty of it is that nobody wins. But we already know how this plays out. What’s clear is not new. Hiroshima had a baby that had a baby that had a heart beat that had a memory that did not forget.

 

 

 

Begging To Differ

“The paradox of education is precisely this – that as one begins to become conscious, one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated.”

– James Baldwin

Get the picture? Which one? The image projected? A thousand words have tried where pictures stayed silent. Lips have been sealed for the greater ‘good’. Sir Truth and his unaltered ego is a serial killer. A knight of the relm, for sure. If agendas were as conservative as esoteric knowledge, would you be as equiliberal as Apathy desires? Or impure as tradition on its hands and knees? Cleaning your rented body with the dirt of the soiled soul. Begging to differ (I beg you not to defer). And would I be walking words in riddles? Wondering how loud must a picture speak to gain the attention of our indoctrinated subconscious? A fast learner. And how violently must silence scream to escape our hash tags imprisoned in the moment, like puppies to be hushed, sucked up suckers, straw men drawn up to be quatered when the revolution falls off its white Horse? Hung long as the tree that holds up the neck by the rope. Long as the distance between the horizon and haughty eyes yet to awaken and wink. Long as black death and wide as blue Ocean before its tides turn the honey Moon. Death has a name too, but we don’t know it yet. Long as yesterday when the shorts fit. Almost as long as today, and the toil between the moods of the Sun. Love labours in the vein of what you think you know and how little you have learnt in your textbooks on contexture. Thats not a word, and yet it is the home of every word abandoned in the ramble of questions. Homeless. Stateless patriots for the cult of I. Confounded. Who finds it.

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Unlearn

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.

Hmm….
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.

Hmm….
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.

20 Minds Late

Past, pretense and future hindsight dares you to pontificate on your escape, they’ll point if she caters to your fate, and ask whose burying the next round, and when do you return from delusion to find that you are twenty minds late? But you ask as if the answer lies in the knowing, when love lives in the dying, yet still you are young in the grey of years past to believe that your vision and my survival are dependent on each other, like a Teller bound to a story unfolding with the falling and rising of eye lids, opening revelations and shutting down imagination’s excesses, banished to the kingdom of Sleep, unchartered chapters of mystical and mortal men’s premature strides, running like percussion through dark forrest into the cycle of death, birth and bastardisation, where beginners and old masters are disowned and abandoned by the twisted night to be discovered by the creased morning of wall scaling daylight dreams, pressed into purposeful and pleasurable copulation, the greatest sex they ever had felt like dying and being born at the same time, and yet she never touched him, fifteen minds before he fell from her grace into your bed and out of my heart, transfigured into the maroon shadow that haunts our love’s memory.
We were merely the reflection of consequences put into place, tall before our eyes first met, unmatched in the first desire of seductive impression, and ten minds before I drank in the light of her archaic beauty, and with mine eyes seeing the glory, and ceasing the moment, painted her on the fragile canvas of my soul, I stole a solitary glance and whisper of her breath from the air we shared, inhaled deep into hungry lungs that devoured it like a secret to hide from evil relatives, the envious paws of strutting organs that sought her for themselves. What the heart wants, when the liver needs, her beauty and my kidneys tangled, tussled up, cries of triumphant oratory for down strokes that reach further than vocabulary allows, vying for her attention, detained by my intent. Everything is in her, and everything that she exudes raises the stakes and cuts through the drift that my thoughts float on, my impulse finds itself in a maze with courage and it’s stomach locked out with fear of what awaits above the trenches, outside of first and second skin, the surgical dissection of my emotions turn from blood to the colour purple, and my hand reaches out again to be met with indifference and a smile worn back to front, five minds before she stood infront of me without a face, to be written into existence and drawn with experience, who she never was, to be, yet to be, lost loved, a travelling mystery through time on the grand tour of life, her hair long as eternity with strands swept off her head by the wind onto her shoulders, and further up to the ground beneath my clay feet of hope that she would find my unwritten face, and tell my fast, tense and determined future in her sight….

A Refrain

Tomorrow will not be a work in progress before a refrain,
(before) the rain settles, and snow falls,
and they raise a hand to strike my cheek or wipe my
brow. I hold the pearl in my eye (the other hand), and
plant the seed of graceful song, and rub the soil
between soft palms (when we see eye to I), before
lost trains of thought, we wore our best years at a
distant glance, and thought we’d meet on Andalusian
hills, to dine with dreams we didn’t make, to share
stories we haven’t lived, and paint pictures we could
scarcely imagine.
Tomorrow will not be an excuse for today’s unfinished
business, talkin bout how good it feels to get another
chance at life’s poker table, to play your five
stringed instrument, like a child making three special
wishes by a fountain, with your lungs pumped full of
hot air, and the mercy of the wind at the back of your
neck, to dabble again, and maybe with a little lady
luck, razzle, dazzle a fortune born of sweat beads and
high blood pressure, and fly you away on a ready made
bed of thornless roses, with a song in mind for when
you cross over, hoping that the hill won’t roll over,
when tomorrow strikes you and your waterfall
resolutions, slippery, just as quickly, money like
water trickles through fingers, pressed together,
pockets shut tighter than fists, breath held longer
than destiny’s late shifts, but you don’t feel much
younger than first love, now dare you ask older,
wiser, brother, sister, friend in disguise, what the
wind behind your back is saying, when she ain’t
blowing you away. The voice I hear says, “What you
don’t do today will not deliver you tomorrow”, as
surely as one day bears no resemblance with another.
Tomorrow will be decided today.

SmALL dEaTh

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.