The incontinent silence of the day, fallen heroes and heroines. The week is in its mandibles, chewing on fodder, and laying to waste or plenty harvest. I have an uncommon agenda, the fluid notion of what essence a life commands.
Little jots of ink, convey meaning, haphazard and aligned to the vigorous contests of the to day. I am actualizing, I will win.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Fungus
There is an unfamiliar agent,
A family of the pungent,
Arousing thoughts so urgent,
Introducing this subject,
Encouraging that notion of design,
And a particular nature,
Treated with adventure,
Readily agitating my beliefs,
Sorting depth with the brief,
Scents of intuition,
Sense of intention,
Pronouncements of maturity,
Under scrutiny,
Revealing some poetry,
That colorful agent,
Requiring little reverence,
A lively reference,
From a kindly eminence,
Walking on this platter,
Working what matters,
Within this level of dwelling,
With inked mental swelling,
A thesis and anti-thesis,
Like a market place,
Individuals roam here,
Does Rome hear?
The bargain for value,
The process of virtue,
The conscience will catch you,
The content will clutch you,
For those few among you,
With no mental curfews!
A family of the pungent,
Arousing thoughts so urgent,
Introducing this subject,
Encouraging that notion of design,
And a particular nature,
Treated with adventure,
Readily agitating my beliefs,
Sorting depth with the brief,
Scents of intuition,
Sense of intention,
Pronouncements of maturity,
Under scrutiny,
Revealing some poetry,
That colorful agent,
Requiring little reverence,
A lively reference,
From a kindly eminence,
Walking on this platter,
Working what matters,
Within this level of dwelling,
With inked mental swelling,
A thesis and anti-thesis,
Like a market place,
Individuals roam here,
Does Rome hear?
The bargain for value,
The process of virtue,
The conscience will catch you,
The content will clutch you,
For those few among you,
With no mental curfews!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
School of thought…
These words are numbing,
But they still keep coming,
Steel in my blood still rusting,
It is stained with mind,
With optimum lines,
Being transformed,
Into a school of thought.
Where people levitate,
When their minds meditate,
On these predicates,
Lines on a poem,
Activating some reality,
In a maternity,
Pregnant with thought,
Words, whose worth can’t be bought,
We are ink – credible,
We write legible,
Not Da Vinci code,
Deciphering parables,
But we are the parables,
Minds so inconceivable,
realize the impossible,
view from a conical,
point to the logical,
life of the prodigal,
son of the literal,
rhyme of the liberal,
mind of this critical,
kind of the eternal,
rise from the internal,
souls on a journal,
poem with a verbal,
sign of reversal,
thoughts in conversion,
drawing from a passion,
off a school of thought.
Bless this herb,
That has made this lab,
In my mind of experiments,
Can collect my intelligence.
Compose in this residence,
Space with some sentiments,
a Poem with the evidence,
of life beyond the evident,
grasp of the present tense,
until when its provident,
to remind what is prominent,
truth and some common sense.
Are the light of a school of thought.
So I bring in this capacity,
Life without apology,
Thought in an algorithm,
Velocity with rhythm,
Tenacity in prism,
Diffract this reason,
Then you might season,
Like a leaf on a tall tree,
Imagine being free,
From fear of anything,
From tear by menacing,
Obstacles in the system we,
Are bread and born to be,
Puppets and marionettes,
Classified by the net,
Profit margin of the rest,
Cream on a crest,
Of a man’s daily bread,
Until instead,
We have nothing read,
To us from the dead,
To learn from them,
Undo our mistakes,
Rise the stakes,
Make this a better place,
And show a little face,
When we surface,
Our own schools of thought.
But they still keep coming,
Steel in my blood still rusting,
It is stained with mind,
With optimum lines,
Being transformed,
Into a school of thought.
Where people levitate,
When their minds meditate,
On these predicates,
Lines on a poem,
Activating some reality,
In a maternity,
Pregnant with thought,
Words, whose worth can’t be bought,
We are ink – credible,
We write legible,
Not Da Vinci code,
Deciphering parables,
But we are the parables,
Minds so inconceivable,
realize the impossible,
view from a conical,
point to the logical,
life of the prodigal,
son of the literal,
rhyme of the liberal,
mind of this critical,
kind of the eternal,
rise from the internal,
souls on a journal,
poem with a verbal,
sign of reversal,
thoughts in conversion,
drawing from a passion,
off a school of thought.
Bless this herb,
That has made this lab,
In my mind of experiments,
Can collect my intelligence.
Compose in this residence,
Space with some sentiments,
a Poem with the evidence,
of life beyond the evident,
grasp of the present tense,
until when its provident,
to remind what is prominent,
truth and some common sense.
Are the light of a school of thought.
So I bring in this capacity,
Life without apology,
Thought in an algorithm,
Velocity with rhythm,
Tenacity in prism,
Diffract this reason,
Then you might season,
Like a leaf on a tall tree,
Imagine being free,
From fear of anything,
From tear by menacing,
Obstacles in the system we,
Are bread and born to be,
Puppets and marionettes,
Classified by the net,
Profit margin of the rest,
Cream on a crest,
Of a man’s daily bread,
Until instead,
We have nothing read,
To us from the dead,
To learn from them,
Undo our mistakes,
Rise the stakes,
Make this a better place,
And show a little face,
When we surface,
Our own schools of thought.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Infest
In as many things as we are wont to admit; I suppose I bear some of my own confessions that would readily lead admissions. Recently, I have become engaged in an arduous task to decipher my surroundings. I read into human behavior like a philosopher in thick framed glasses, and I even manage an unsatisfactory groan when I do not receive as much response as I might have considered electable.
Yet, even in the mundane and overly done, I suppose something’s are nowadays quite uncommon. In a way, there are things that won’t escape me or my scrutiny. For in thought, I pay due all interest and unceremoniously move on to other things. I have become callous with words; every time I want to label something, tag it and call it mine as soon as I discover it.
This must be how the colonizers might have felt, treading in sacred and inhabited grounds just to give and appendage names and titles on their robes and whips. Somewhat I assume is such the fashion of my mental upheaval. I want to colonize the next and coming of things, people and the ideal. Reality may prove to copy the pattern into the habit of the surrounding, that I may see myself in the sequence of common and rapid reflection.
Am all over the place for now... I might manage to clear up the rendition a little later. Right now, it might as well unwind and tangle anyone!
Yet, even in the mundane and overly done, I suppose something’s are nowadays quite uncommon. In a way, there are things that won’t escape me or my scrutiny. For in thought, I pay due all interest and unceremoniously move on to other things. I have become callous with words; every time I want to label something, tag it and call it mine as soon as I discover it.
This must be how the colonizers might have felt, treading in sacred and inhabited grounds just to give and appendage names and titles on their robes and whips. Somewhat I assume is such the fashion of my mental upheaval. I want to colonize the next and coming of things, people and the ideal. Reality may prove to copy the pattern into the habit of the surrounding, that I may see myself in the sequence of common and rapid reflection.
Am all over the place for now... I might manage to clear up the rendition a little later. Right now, it might as well unwind and tangle anyone!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
U.V. Light…
Postings from my journal,
drawing from a monologue,
A soul in monotone…
just feeling,
defeated by culture,
under whelmed by structures,
of a generational nature,
still trying to nurture,
a moral texture,
an incompatible creature,
from incorruptible scriptures,
a poetic play of pictures,
events an’ potent fixtures,
of potential,
with literary credentials,
A. B. C. initials…
Autonomous…
Beautiful…
Conscience…
A nerve conference,
A word with context,
An’ no complex,
Intentions behind this text,
Except,
shed some light,
On this black lightness,
Book,
Chapter and verse,
On a referendum fuss,
By a political class,
REFER’D – EN –DUM
with clauses an’ gum,
chewing ‘yes’ an’ ‘nah’
an’ I watch them go,
mess our table manners
with taboo banners,
by KABOOM!! planners,
on a freedom park,
lost in the dark,
losing life,
to a white darkness…
a light madness…
under U.V. Light.
Are we lacking chlorophyll?
labeled with green coloring,
To be bombarded so,
Are we vegetables?
to be bloodied with war,
on a dry soil bed,
with fragments of led.
how many must go dead?
Shall we count to ten?
What then,
If all men,
Turn against each other,
for a political clamor,
for the fame an’ glamor,
an’ forget all honor,
lose all savor,
for humanity.
of sanity.
an' what's reality?
we have faculties of elimination,
as well of appropriation.
These lines we divide with,
Between people,
Onto self,
Onto wealth…
So only a few can get,
for only a few can let,
class,
rank,
in society…
lose its grip on life’s propriety,
so there’s a continuity,
to rig that mind of piety,
to rip that heart of poetry,
to deface fluency,
create new dependency,
on all good things,
that were once free…
like me...
under U.V. Light!
drawing from a monologue,
A soul in monotone…
just feeling,
defeated by culture,
under whelmed by structures,
of a generational nature,
still trying to nurture,
a moral texture,
an incompatible creature,
from incorruptible scriptures,
a poetic play of pictures,
events an’ potent fixtures,
of potential,
with literary credentials,
A. B. C. initials…
Autonomous…
Beautiful…
Conscience…
A nerve conference,
A word with context,
An’ no complex,
Intentions behind this text,
Except,
shed some light,
On this black lightness,
Book,
Chapter and verse,
On a referendum fuss,
By a political class,
REFER’D – EN –DUM
with clauses an’ gum,
chewing ‘yes’ an’ ‘nah’
an’ I watch them go,
mess our table manners
with taboo banners,
by KABOOM!! planners,
on a freedom park,
lost in the dark,
losing life,
to a white darkness…
a light madness…
under U.V. Light.
Are we lacking chlorophyll?
labeled with green coloring,
To be bombarded so,
Are we vegetables?
to be bloodied with war,
on a dry soil bed,
with fragments of led.
how many must go dead?
Shall we count to ten?
What then,
If all men,
Turn against each other,
for a political clamor,
for the fame an’ glamor,
an’ forget all honor,
lose all savor,
for humanity.
of sanity.
an' what's reality?
we have faculties of elimination,
as well of appropriation.
These lines we divide with,
Between people,
Onto self,
Onto wealth…
So only a few can get,
for only a few can let,
class,
rank,
in society…
lose its grip on life’s propriety,
so there’s a continuity,
to rig that mind of piety,
to rip that heart of poetry,
to deface fluency,
create new dependency,
on all good things,
that were once free…
like me...
under U.V. Light!
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Single’s Ballad…
Single’s Ballad…
Apple pieces soaked in cocktails,
and a short suspense after,
torn papers, crumpled up….
as I summarize –
to have the solutions seen,
in a personal tale.
Yet,
looking for what to write…
what to draw…
Pencil chewings from a sharpener,
a lady traced on paper,
recalling beauty,
a chocolate silhouette,
in shades of residue,
with a fainting light,
now in black an’ white
from my mind,
as I reminisce,
that colorful spiral of life,
flickering candle,
daring the dark,
a talent to improve on humanity,
for even starring acts,
leave the stage,
hence ooze a remarkable hue,
like a bright yellow sun,
in nude!
To avoid blushing,
Overcome the triumph of lust,
On life,
Unveiling an’ revealing,
the true identity,
a life symbol,
from the tangle of dress
an appearances….
To be introduced to,
that intensely schemed,
mark of intelligence,
that necessary symptom,
to create beautiful things.
It is like dust,
Cake dust found on the mouth,
Flakes from a cloud,
It is a snow fall,
A slow fall,
Lettings those eyes that look,
Keep that bold proof,
an’ sparkle!
So I can sing of the stars I see…
learn guitar,
stain the strings with red,
a musical D.N.A…
a single’s ballad.
Apple pieces soaked in cocktails,
and a short suspense after,
torn papers, crumpled up….
as I summarize –
to have the solutions seen,
in a personal tale.
Yet,
looking for what to write…
what to draw…
Pencil chewings from a sharpener,
a lady traced on paper,
recalling beauty,
a chocolate silhouette,
in shades of residue,
with a fainting light,
now in black an’ white
from my mind,
as I reminisce,
that colorful spiral of life,
flickering candle,
daring the dark,
a talent to improve on humanity,
for even starring acts,
leave the stage,
hence ooze a remarkable hue,
like a bright yellow sun,
in nude!
To avoid blushing,
Overcome the triumph of lust,
On life,
Unveiling an’ revealing,
the true identity,
a life symbol,
from the tangle of dress
an appearances….
To be introduced to,
that intensely schemed,
mark of intelligence,
that necessary symptom,
to create beautiful things.
It is like dust,
Cake dust found on the mouth,
Flakes from a cloud,
It is a snow fall,
A slow fall,
Lettings those eyes that look,
Keep that bold proof,
an’ sparkle!
So I can sing of the stars I see…
learn guitar,
stain the strings with red,
a musical D.N.A…
a single’s ballad.
Friday, May 7, 2010
I Am a Little Planet...
It is like losing my vocabulary,
Losing an integral part of me,
Which I know glows ever more dim.
It is silently thinning away,
Letting reality blunt and un-marvel it,
So I pick up an eager routine behind closed doors,
A disinterest to decipher people and their ways,
Stooping as low as stereo typing,
Color marking and cramming.
The death of color runs in my eyes,
As life undo’s and un-intends…
itself on my conscience.
Is this where they clip my wings?
Pluck every liberal follicle on my head,
Tame the span of my flight,
Riddle me with volcanic ash?
My mind’s a maze
for the wanton and care free…
following a channeling voice over speaker phone,
might as well be dead and gone.
But an occasional butterfly,
Disrupts this enslavement,
Ever so delicate and imposing,
My presence here is likewise felt,
For I am a little Planet!
The tyres caress with the gravel,
the old men play guitars,
our girls dance with the rain drops,
the boys are going to war!
they are gone to conquer our world,
Having dreams for dreams,
with little details coming amiss,
in their translation to this world.
but press on they must do,
write their letters an' close with glue,
to leave their ladies with some clue,
that the heart still feels so blue,
from the teasing scurry of heels,
lips...tips...and imaginings,
the readiness an' mask of skin,
praise their ripe and vigorous form,
with cliche an' modern norms,
from a little lonely planet!
Little ant lines can impress,
for nature holds more order than chess,
even poet lines hold no less,
free thinking so compressed,
to enable mental plug-in,
freeing minds from collapsing,
under vague and impish thoughts...
Poetry is like a home,
with strange an' visible influence,
like space, time an' matter...
it reveals what works in this world,
we are made of proud influences,
n' time has never walked by,
some have made conversation,
aging with words so gracefully.
like you, poetry has a pulse...
and now it will have to wane,
emptying into an ocean,
space;
that room for invention,
sums up my narration,
from me an' my nation,
I am a little Planet...
Friday, March 5, 2010
ink-festation
Black ink blotting on paper,
the sages are brewing vapor...
onto paper for the educator,
A post script for the narrator,
To spell the doings of investigators,
those who pride through ruins...
collapsing castles in this fluid...
of black residue,
forming points into an avenue,
Questioning clouds while the sky is blue...
We need it to be clear,
Our thoughts and what we hold dear,
We need to be here,
To learn our minds and be near...
to everything that has become clear.
It is an ink-festation,
signing letters and shining leather,
giving birth to thoughtful process,
The flow of wordily progress,
The joys of the gushing torrent,
as the pulsing vein,
like ink, paints and scribbles,
brings life in ripples,
like soft dimples on people...
contesting authority,
over the grain and grass,
of a growing conscience...
an educated guess,
a clumsy feeling is suggest,
by the wave and wind of bold,
letters coming into fold,
joining man and his world,
blood with the sap,
ash with the dust,
breathing and touching life..
yes its tangible,
like a laugh it ripples through...
An ink-festation,
a disease spread consciously..
an addiction to the poetry,
A position savored quietly,
A picture captured directly,
speak truth fluently,
like spreading an epidemic!
the equipments of the academic,
a solitary verse,
to an eloquent mass,
the birth of a generation,
with wills of penetration,
to wink and guise,
The height of their amplitude,
a steady chase of a heart beat,
waking, wanting and asking,
who spread this epidemic?
Am up with an ink-festation!
Monday, October 12, 2009
Naked angel...
I knew peace when I killed,
when I heard that terrible rhythme of her heart beat,
like the interview with a vampire,
I knew she missed me again,
in the silence,
she missed the blood in my veins.
A naked angel on your back,
how cruel could you be to yourself?
now,
there are black wings on your back,
you had your white fangs on my neck.
Yet you spared me..
that naked angel on my lap.
Dried lips and a dead tongue,
I speak ancient language,
like a mummy from the pryamids,
we are made in the stars,
made to go far...
wonder further,
called from abscurity,
called by name,
I would like to think if this is an evil,
then it is properly documented for assessment.
so I can make an arrangement,
contest in an engagement,
a fight to the death,
an end to the myth.
of my naked angel...
So I shall persist in this rudeness,
grow some spine,
speak what is mine,
invest in some wine,
taste these grapes from the vine,
spitting out the dying,
and sipping in all the life...
before my naked angel..
comes to rid the world of me...
reduce man's misery,
for a beautiful write...
killed angels from the sky,
with how to make words fly..
Only one knows how I die.
A naked angel on the back,
an inscription made in felt...
pen with black ink.
How cruel can I be to myself?
in my dying moments on her lap...
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Cut and broken...
Cut and broken...
went through a glass once again,
little pieces of what once was,
still embedded within,
tearing at me,
making me bleed.
My eyes are all open,
but I cant see, cause am swollen...
is this how it feels to be hated?
is this how it feels to be forgotten?
I grew an undefeated heart,
I have powers to turn my loneliness,
from my emptiness...
learned how to share my pain.
pulling the glass off,
making myself bleed once more..
putting the pieces together,
making me whole.
I gathered and collected at the floor,
like little gems,
claiming back my worth.
Priceless!
Cut and broken from my ore,
to fit into silver bands...
shine in everyone's finger,
rare as a stranger,
by the side walk...
I talk,
like a cut and broken tongue...
I have lost one wing,
so am busy being human,
fell off the ranks of angels.
for I have cut and broken wings.
who is my tailor?
where is my carpenter?
how is my doctor?
whose seen my wing,
for am cut and broken...
went through a glass once again,
little pieces of what once was,
still embedded within,
tearing at me,
making me bleed.
My eyes are all open,
but I cant see, cause am swollen...
is this how it feels to be hated?
is this how it feels to be forgotten?
I grew an undefeated heart,
I have powers to turn my loneliness,
from my emptiness...
learned how to share my pain.
pulling the glass off,
making myself bleed once more..
putting the pieces together,
making me whole.
I gathered and collected at the floor,
like little gems,
claiming back my worth.
Priceless!
Cut and broken from my ore,
to fit into silver bands...
shine in everyone's finger,
rare as a stranger,
by the side walk...
I talk,
like a cut and broken tongue...
I have lost one wing,
so am busy being human,
fell off the ranks of angels.
for I have cut and broken wings.
who is my tailor?
where is my carpenter?
how is my doctor?
whose seen my wing,
for am cut and broken...
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thugs get lonely too...
Took out a pen,
sprayed ink on my skin,
made tattoos on me,
a rail way track you see,
in these rusty brown bins,
eating roasted brown peas...
Thug life sticking needles,
getting high on fear,
those who fear,
How I really look inside...
that thugs get lonely too.
I lost one,
one of my street queens,
to the cold on the streets...
eaten live by the decay,
fading by the day.
from staying away,
slowly dying away.
The thug still stay,
found a street to run,
found a color to burn,
more tattoos on his skin,
express his pain,
that thugs get lonely too.
Opening buttons,
gifts unwrapping...
feels like somebody's birthday,
a lady with table manners...
and the weight lifts over,
feels like on top of the world,
blood getting warmer,
a thug ready to stay longer,
shoot his gun in the air,
act like he don't care,
but what he's really scared,
is knowing thugs get lonely too.
walking a lady to the stop,
watch her leave in a bus,
thugs make no fuss,
pretend the heart doesn't feel...
keep losing their way,
and finding their way,
to that mean look,
THAT "I don't feel look"
straight from the thugs book.
but Thugs get lonely too.
Ain't this how we look,
thugs who still groove,
thugs who still move,
thugs who still prove,
thugs get lonely too.
sprayed ink on my skin,
made tattoos on me,
a rail way track you see,
in these rusty brown bins,
eating roasted brown peas...
Thug life sticking needles,
getting high on fear,
those who fear,
How I really look inside...
that thugs get lonely too.
I lost one,
one of my street queens,
to the cold on the streets...
eaten live by the decay,
fading by the day.
from staying away,
slowly dying away.
The thug still stay,
found a street to run,
found a color to burn,
more tattoos on his skin,
express his pain,
that thugs get lonely too.
Opening buttons,
gifts unwrapping...
feels like somebody's birthday,
a lady with table manners...
and the weight lifts over,
feels like on top of the world,
blood getting warmer,
a thug ready to stay longer,
shoot his gun in the air,
act like he don't care,
but what he's really scared,
is knowing thugs get lonely too.
walking a lady to the stop,
watch her leave in a bus,
thugs make no fuss,
pretend the heart doesn't feel...
keep losing their way,
and finding their way,
to that mean look,
THAT "I don't feel look"
straight from the thugs book.
but Thugs get lonely too.
Ain't this how we look,
thugs who still groove,
thugs who still move,
thugs who still prove,
thugs get lonely too.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
** GOO GOO DOLLS - Iris **
Verse 1
And I'd give up forever to touch you
Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now
Verse 2
And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight
Chorus
And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Verse 3
And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything seems like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know your alive
Chorus
And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Chorus
I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
Monday, September 14, 2009
Question...? Answer....!
I have long wanted to voice the dissatisfaction
I have within myself
for not having
the courage to voice what truly lies within.
Even when those things may mean great harm and pain to me.
Maybe it is the pain am afraid of,
or maybe it is just the fear that's holding me back
I don't know!
I am lost for now,
I don't know what shall become of me
in the next millennium.
Will I be a fossil of this generation of degenerates
who fuse their minds to music,
and foreign influences
just because the world imposes this trends on us.
I am not sure what sort of influence I have on my world,
except perhaps that I am carrying on,
a sane note.
Is this the kind of frustration that other youth
in far worse situations than am in,
feel.
How despair eats at them,
for lack of assurance that what "we do now"
will matter when chaos comes trotting into our lives.
Will I be able to hold my own,
as my default father keeps on insisting.
I did not choose what role that I was going to play,
maybe all this is planned destiny after all.
How else shall we start to explain
why things insist on this gradient
and curve of events.
As if unraveling any faster or any slower
is a violation to a rule,
which keeps me here,
bound to this time and space which eats at me,
of every effort I attempt
to transcend the whims of mortality.
A want to survive.
A crippling need to be loved or wanted...
who is this man who speaks
in such venomous voice in me.
Why does he not come out,
and show himself in mine eyes.
Am I not fit to see the bearings of my path,
the end off all my action.
Should I find it in vain end,
which is my retreat from the physical world,
cast along the desolate spirits who walk the earth,
still searching answers to the true meaning of life,
to what purpose I have lived so long only to dissipate,
disappear as if I were not,
a significant part of this worldly adventure set on me,
from my birth.
Indeed,
why should I ask this questions if,
my creator would drop these answers to these questions in a manner,
like manna...
or like drops of rain,
a relief to the desert sands of knowledge I claim,
and still hold much pride for.
In noon time,
I will acknowledge that am aging,
always a day older than before,
making with what I have,
however short or brief.
If pretty ladies sit next to me,
and I stray a thought of passion,
catch myself before I can utter any nonsense.
Keep my cool and realize there is no need to act like a fool.
Or is it the case of need to know basis.
Am I on a need to know basis?
There is a great deal of mystery to me,
that am yet to be discovered.
Even so, why do I despair so?
Isn't it in my occupation that I should seek an understanding
into who I am,
what I will become.
Invest in that the duty and strain of my brow
into realizing this.
Maybe I should keep my tongue in cheek,
cherish what little query I still have of death and the the coming...
For it is clear what has a beginning has an end.
Regardless,
I will carry on with this charm,
play my harp and guitar like a pro.
Guess there is some sanity and bliss in optimism,
make hay while the sun shines sort of way.
I have within myself
for not having
the courage to voice what truly lies within.
Even when those things may mean great harm and pain to me.
Maybe it is the pain am afraid of,
or maybe it is just the fear that's holding me back
I don't know!
I am lost for now,
I don't know what shall become of me
in the next millennium.
Will I be a fossil of this generation of degenerates
who fuse their minds to music,
and foreign influences
just because the world imposes this trends on us.
I am not sure what sort of influence I have on my world,
except perhaps that I am carrying on,
a sane note.
Is this the kind of frustration that other youth
in far worse situations than am in,
feel.
How despair eats at them,
for lack of assurance that what "we do now"
will matter when chaos comes trotting into our lives.
Will I be able to hold my own,
as my default father keeps on insisting.
I did not choose what role that I was going to play,
maybe all this is planned destiny after all.
How else shall we start to explain
why things insist on this gradient
and curve of events.
As if unraveling any faster or any slower
is a violation to a rule,
which keeps me here,
bound to this time and space which eats at me,
of every effort I attempt
to transcend the whims of mortality.
A want to survive.
A crippling need to be loved or wanted...
who is this man who speaks
in such venomous voice in me.
Why does he not come out,
and show himself in mine eyes.
Am I not fit to see the bearings of my path,
the end off all my action.
Should I find it in vain end,
which is my retreat from the physical world,
cast along the desolate spirits who walk the earth,
still searching answers to the true meaning of life,
to what purpose I have lived so long only to dissipate,
disappear as if I were not,
a significant part of this worldly adventure set on me,
from my birth.
Indeed,
why should I ask this questions if,
my creator would drop these answers to these questions in a manner,
like manna...
or like drops of rain,
a relief to the desert sands of knowledge I claim,
and still hold much pride for.
In noon time,
I will acknowledge that am aging,
always a day older than before,
making with what I have,
however short or brief.
If pretty ladies sit next to me,
and I stray a thought of passion,
catch myself before I can utter any nonsense.
Keep my cool and realize there is no need to act like a fool.
Or is it the case of need to know basis.
Am I on a need to know basis?
There is a great deal of mystery to me,
that am yet to be discovered.
Even so, why do I despair so?
Isn't it in my occupation that I should seek an understanding
into who I am,
what I will become.
Invest in that the duty and strain of my brow
into realizing this.
Maybe I should keep my tongue in cheek,
cherish what little query I still have of death and the the coming...
For it is clear what has a beginning has an end.
Regardless,
I will carry on with this charm,
play my harp and guitar like a pro.
Guess there is some sanity and bliss in optimism,
make hay while the sun shines sort of way.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Black Nail Polish...
I haven't lost it yet,
I bet...
Long time before that happens,
Because am still a garden,
who sows their seed.
so I'll keep it coming,
perennial as the grass,
that some smoke or chew on.
Last on every breath,
even as I bleed to death.
I know this nails which tear my flesh
which sever my feet,
get me on my knees,
leave a bloody trail,
make me write mail,
that's made my scent known,
so I can be hunt down,
by sniffing dogs.
But the black nail polish,
knows to scratch my back,
get my attention running,
with those cat like eyes,
which steal my soul,
bury it whole,
into her own.
The punching of keys,
to eddy words into meaning,
conjure mine with feeling,
until I drop into little trickles,
of color,
like a magic trick,
Perform my illusion,
drown in my pen ink,
splatter the finger prints
of my art,
make this my personal matter,
concern you with wonder,
how is it life sounds so sweet?
Or is it because,
Am a poet,
or that I love art,
as if it were given birth,
by its mother,
her name is Beauty.
Or do I go round into a circle,
empty my foolishness,
and fill all splendor within,
attempt to last this smile,
who's been stimulated,
by the one am looking at.
The one tearing my flesh,
with black nail polish.
I bet...
Long time before that happens,
Because am still a garden,
who sows their seed.
so I'll keep it coming,
perennial as the grass,
that some smoke or chew on.
Last on every breath,
even as I bleed to death.
I know this nails which tear my flesh
which sever my feet,
get me on my knees,
leave a bloody trail,
make me write mail,
that's made my scent known,
so I can be hunt down,
by sniffing dogs.
But the black nail polish,
knows to scratch my back,
get my attention running,
with those cat like eyes,
which steal my soul,
bury it whole,
into her own.
The punching of keys,
to eddy words into meaning,
conjure mine with feeling,
until I drop into little trickles,
of color,
like a magic trick,
Perform my illusion,
drown in my pen ink,
splatter the finger prints
of my art,
make this my personal matter,
concern you with wonder,
how is it life sounds so sweet?
Or is it because,
Am a poet,
or that I love art,
as if it were given birth,
by its mother,
her name is Beauty.
Or do I go round into a circle,
empty my foolishness,
and fill all splendor within,
attempt to last this smile,
who's been stimulated,
by the one am looking at.
The one tearing my flesh,
with black nail polish.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Love me, love me….say that you love me.
Sinking in this soft song,
Sitting in my bath tub,
Immersed in this blab,
Gift of the gab,
Lab tech in this quality,
Place of serenity,
In my youth…
Lost without truth,
Making calls in the booth,
Kept a hostage in my boot.
That bleeding ass toot
You call boyfriend.
Rocking stars in your bed.
Puppet in your toy land,
Babies with red bands.
Know nothing about love,
Puppies with the perve_
Dick with a nerve,
Just learning to swerve,
Under the wheel of love
For you…
Love me, love me….say that you love me.
Hold me, hold me….why won’t you hug me?
Touch me, touch me….baby come an’ kiss me.
Draw me, draw me….said that you need me,
Now,
That I paint love.
Writing in red ink,
Ink from my slit wrist.
From the veins of life…
My arteries,
My art is…
Utterly!
Life altering…
Am no underling…
Wondering,
Where else do I go…
But I don’t know,
When I begin to matter,
When life starts to flatter.
The efforts of my letter,
Better,
Make life better.
So I begin to enter,
Roles without a mentor.
Become a victor,
Evictor of oppression,
Impression in the minds…
Mine of dimes,
A collector,
An inventor of ether,
A toxic thriller,
Miller,
Of fine grain,
Grains of pain,
Pain with no gain.
Again,
Without you.
Knocked me down.
Love locked down.
Love me, Love me….say that you love me.
@ Copyrights 2009. B. Merlin Mwaura.
Sitting in my bath tub,
Immersed in this blab,
Gift of the gab,
Lab tech in this quality,
Place of serenity,
In my youth…
Lost without truth,
Making calls in the booth,
Kept a hostage in my boot.
That bleeding ass toot
You call boyfriend.
Rocking stars in your bed.
Puppet in your toy land,
Babies with red bands.
Know nothing about love,
Puppies with the perve_
Dick with a nerve,
Just learning to swerve,
Under the wheel of love
For you…
Love me, love me….say that you love me.
Hold me, hold me….why won’t you hug me?
Touch me, touch me….baby come an’ kiss me.
Draw me, draw me….said that you need me,
Now,
That I paint love.
Writing in red ink,
Ink from my slit wrist.
From the veins of life…
My arteries,
My art is…
Utterly!
Life altering…
Am no underling…
Wondering,
Where else do I go…
But I don’t know,
When I begin to matter,
When life starts to flatter.
The efforts of my letter,
Better,
Make life better.
So I begin to enter,
Roles without a mentor.
Become a victor,
Evictor of oppression,
Impression in the minds…
Mine of dimes,
A collector,
An inventor of ether,
A toxic thriller,
Miller,
Of fine grain,
Grains of pain,
Pain with no gain.
Again,
Without you.
Knocked me down.
Love locked down.
Love me, Love me….say that you love me.
@ Copyrights 2009. B. Merlin Mwaura.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Breaking the Habit….
That eager addiction I have of,
Trying to rid myself of,
Teach thy self not…
Walk down that hasty road,
Doing doodles on a class board,
An art role,
To paint picture with a large soul.
Making a sex scene,
A top cover magazine.
Playing in the background with the maestros,
Chanting acapellas with our woes…
Make the revelers pause,
While they dance on the floor,
Holding hands and opening doors,
To each other.
Trying to break a habit,
Stop a heart beat,
Extinguish all color, be colorless…
A sneaky reason to be manner less.
Be invisible to the eager eye,
Being invincible…
Yet these lips turn red…
Poison ivy comes sent,
To kill we softly,
Quench all that bitter longing,
Trying to stop sinking,
Into obscurity….
Who cares about a rat?
What hole it comes out of…
Depressing scribbly things,
So we stopped making assumptions about me,
Remain charming and daunting,
Don’t we all hate something we can’t control?
Eating things shoved down our throats.
Starting to break the habit,
Spinning into a wild fit,
And still manage to say nothing,
Only an irritated mumbling.
Because its all digesting…
Garbage in and garbage out.
Acting like a maniac,
Involved in a chain react,
Pursuit of our happiness,
The beauty and all ugliness…
The quality of mentality,
The crude prodding by reality,
And finally,
We are breaking the habit,
That eager addiction we have of,
Trying to rid thy self of,
A Feeling like …
You’ve got nothing to lose when,
All your soul is dead and gone.
Trying to rid myself of,
Teach thy self not…
Walk down that hasty road,
Doing doodles on a class board,
An art role,
To paint picture with a large soul.
Making a sex scene,
A top cover magazine.
Playing in the background with the maestros,
Chanting acapellas with our woes…
Make the revelers pause,
While they dance on the floor,
Holding hands and opening doors,
To each other.
Trying to break a habit,
Stop a heart beat,
Extinguish all color, be colorless…
A sneaky reason to be manner less.
Be invisible to the eager eye,
Being invincible…
Yet these lips turn red…
Poison ivy comes sent,
To kill we softly,
Quench all that bitter longing,
Trying to stop sinking,
Into obscurity….
Who cares about a rat?
What hole it comes out of…
Depressing scribbly things,
So we stopped making assumptions about me,
Remain charming and daunting,
Don’t we all hate something we can’t control?
Eating things shoved down our throats.
Starting to break the habit,
Spinning into a wild fit,
And still manage to say nothing,
Only an irritated mumbling.
Because its all digesting…
Garbage in and garbage out.
Acting like a maniac,
Involved in a chain react,
Pursuit of our happiness,
The beauty and all ugliness…
The quality of mentality,
The crude prodding by reality,
And finally,
We are breaking the habit,
That eager addiction we have of,
Trying to rid thy self of,
A Feeling like …
You’ve got nothing to lose when,
All your soul is dead and gone.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Smooth desire….
Found a flame to scourge the soul,
Tear off its timidity,
Bore deep searching holes,
Find those jewels and gold,
My Midas touch on things….
The reason to craving rings,
King on my conscious paradise,
Where all folly and games begun,
Here where senses plan,
A feather to raise the faintest quiver,
Land on lips with the gentlest humor,
Looking into the eyes of those, who swim in pools.
Who violate the innocence of water,
With their beauty.
Who fall in love with fools,
But still enjoy in laughter.
A pretty chatter.
They that burn like furnaces,
Take forever to calm down and cool
down their pleasure.
Those still with adventure in their blood,
Few have learned to tame them.
Few have had the real game.
Pitying hunters!
Cage them for exhibition.
So rare to be considered a delicacy,
They that have eyes and do not see.
Pass blindly the bearers of beauty.
Qualities passed down from generations.
Pass down liberation,
To be comforted by artificial things.
What of this which comes on its own?
Of what it brings,
The seasoned have trained disguise,
To hide well behind a smile,
To place a price,
On priceless things like these.
A smooth desire to want yours,
To have yours admired.
Inspired to have the ear of desire,
Warn it where not to,
Or who not to go to.
Placed it where it can be seen,
Make wonder how I came to it,
That it is possible,
To breathe in all the air, and fill your lungs with it.
Tear off its timidity,
Bore deep searching holes,
Find those jewels and gold,
My Midas touch on things….
The reason to craving rings,
King on my conscious paradise,
Where all folly and games begun,
Here where senses plan,
A feather to raise the faintest quiver,
Land on lips with the gentlest humor,
Looking into the eyes of those, who swim in pools.
Who violate the innocence of water,
With their beauty.
Who fall in love with fools,
But still enjoy in laughter.
A pretty chatter.
They that burn like furnaces,
Take forever to calm down and cool
down their pleasure.
Those still with adventure in their blood,
Few have learned to tame them.
Few have had the real game.
Pitying hunters!
Cage them for exhibition.
So rare to be considered a delicacy,
They that have eyes and do not see.
Pass blindly the bearers of beauty.
Qualities passed down from generations.
Pass down liberation,
To be comforted by artificial things.
What of this which comes on its own?
Of what it brings,
The seasoned have trained disguise,
To hide well behind a smile,
To place a price,
On priceless things like these.
A smooth desire to want yours,
To have yours admired.
Inspired to have the ear of desire,
Warn it where not to,
Or who not to go to.
Placed it where it can be seen,
Make wonder how I came to it,
That it is possible,
To breathe in all the air, and fill your lungs with it.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Perfect Storm…
The elements are churning in the wind,
Convincing evey little whim to stay in,
To stay hiddden till everything wins,
The struggle with a ferocious wind.
The minds are yearning,
Begging impression from the glares of genius,
Petting depression from the eyes of venus,
To set in beauty from her journey,
Prepare her for a party,
To attend to bull and belching,
Before everyone starts clinging by the ear,
To hear,
The story that is the peril of man,
How they struggle to paint her,
How they croak their voices to sing,
How even some, write to charm her…
They are the perfect storm,
Who change taste and feeling so easily,
They are tormented by their want of me,
Am only beauty,
But the poet still insists on words,
Gangsters still insist on guns,
Want to buy me things,
Expensive little nothings,
Yet they forget their hearts,
Cold crevices within them,
Leaking that what makes me,
Am beauty in them…
Am beauty within.
A perfect storm stirring,
Winding like the clock,
Rising early like a cock,
To make the first impression.
The perfect storm in their eyes,
What stories they have had to tell,
Just to get me in their spell,
Play show and tell.
Am only beauty,
But this man,
This girl,
Show me fury…
Don’t they see what’s begun
Is a perfect storm within.
Convincing evey little whim to stay in,
To stay hiddden till everything wins,
The struggle with a ferocious wind.
The minds are yearning,
Begging impression from the glares of genius,
Petting depression from the eyes of venus,
To set in beauty from her journey,
Prepare her for a party,
To attend to bull and belching,
Before everyone starts clinging by the ear,
To hear,
The story that is the peril of man,
How they struggle to paint her,
How they croak their voices to sing,
How even some, write to charm her…
They are the perfect storm,
Who change taste and feeling so easily,
They are tormented by their want of me,
Am only beauty,
But the poet still insists on words,
Gangsters still insist on guns,
Want to buy me things,
Expensive little nothings,
Yet they forget their hearts,
Cold crevices within them,
Leaking that what makes me,
Am beauty in them…
Am beauty within.
A perfect storm stirring,
Winding like the clock,
Rising early like a cock,
To make the first impression.
The perfect storm in their eyes,
What stories they have had to tell,
Just to get me in their spell,
Play show and tell.
Am only beauty,
But this man,
This girl,
Show me fury…
Don’t they see what’s begun
Is a perfect storm within.
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