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.

Native

Dangerous nonchalance, tame the tongue as one would tame the Shrew.
Nigger owes you when it owns you,
tie the rope around the neck, choke the spirit behind the word till it sounds like Reggin.
Old words in new clothes begin aggin with new clothes on old pain.
Healers like dealers, double up on bad luck for crowned faces cried out in biro blue.
Thorny headed healers for troubled heart, trembling lips sip from the pimp cup, your child drinks your tears through breast milk, breathe easy baby.

 

 

 

Only Fools And Horses

Where is your gravestone? They ask. Double chin up, but you ran out of time slowly. Dragged your bones forwards for your bastards to pick at the choices. Sounds right. She loved you dearly. Nearly. Had you. Hindsight. Beloved burden, clearly marked for some kind of purpose if not a living born outside of life.
Light hearted but the older the lie, the harder the trust bites the lack of. Dearly beheaded, buttered up the heart with sayings and cholesterol calamitous promises. Words stray further that the eyes can see. I can see further than the stray. But I can’t feel that way west or some south eastern mystery that dies with us in a fry up. Did we learn well? How long the tarry, and how merry the folly. Only fools and Horses, and the company of the dead who bury their own.

 

Creases

Ruffled and relaxed mind surfing on stress, caught a wave before his shirt was pressed, pumped iron the night before last, caught eyes before we digressed into nostalgia, a storied face found burried in her chest, smiles couldn’t hide it, the calm before the raging storm, he didn’t have to force it, the rough behind the painted veil.

 

Has It Come To This?

“History without myth is surely a wasteland; but myths
are compelling only when they are at odds with
history. When they replace the need to make history,
they are a dead end, and merely smug.”


                            – Greil Marcus

What did you see?

Ghostly guitar, keeping determined, uncertain time
with the drum, like a scorned staccato lover,
preceeded by a mournful horn crying for yesterday and
tomorrow, crying for real, crying, crying for
something real, trying not to die, twinkling,
twinkling our little star, piano tip-toe as soft as
snow, delicate as life, jazzy organ stirs to rise our
love, twirls her hair, reminds us of moments and
kisses, memories and music lingers and why we only die
twice at most, but then love outlives us all, even in
our worst dressed season, before the slang turns to
something new or loses interest with you, and what
does it profit a man to gain the whole world and you
know the rest, and the sound of spirit and soul
struggling to exist, to articulate, to comprehend with
a sure hand, and naked expression can be messy, and
misunderstood, like emotions can behave in ways we
have yet to learn, like change we have yet to embrace,
with strange faces, freaky fingers, frank and fearless
but dare not touch the sacred things, wash your hands,
right or left, it seems too hard to go deep without a
guide, and do instructions always make right if the
root is wrong, and pains the brain beyond the
realisation that it has come to this…or has it? Was
he dreaming? Or was it a reality of dreamy
imprecision, sensually welcomed into the epic fantasy
art of living a love that never existed in the
material world, but who would deny him the twisted
pleasure of romantic pain; the brutal beauty of a
floating mirage, like a cloud hovering just above his
head (a grey halo), walking wounded awakens dormant
desire from the shackles of dangerously repressed
passion, fool-hardy though he may be, but hardly a
fool on a hill he never climbed, and guilt is a
mountain we have all climbed, but the glory of love is
the peak turned upside down, inside out and all the
way round.

See what you did?