LONG LIVE CHRISTMAS Uncle John and the marshmallows Yeey... It was winter Ding! Dong! Ding! Hooray! Here is Santa Christ is born Candy, gifts and toys Bunnies and outfits At least for today more Macon on my plate And rum too, just not for me, though.. Long live Christmas The wimp villain can now live again As Sunday is here soon too
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GRANDMA'S PANCAKES. Johnny … how could I describe him? He was a young white boy born in some old Celtic town. Some typical white you know, a gruesome pointed nose, blue eyes, restless hands and a burning tongue with a pale skin and blue eyes, the likes of Scotland, wales or Ireland. He loved spending time with his main, "old bruh"..its grandpa actually, who stooped from the resistance of time to let him grow younger forever. One could actually literary count the wrinkles on his smooth forehead. The old mans under lit den looked like a magicians corner or a witches hut by the forest edge. It was stacked with all garbage, old books, magazines, gramophones, records that he loved playing when granny was cooking pancakes and other stuff that cockroaches knew better than I . I guess he did this to remind the old lady of the days she used to sway her hips down the walk way and in her long pointed leather boots stepped magically
PAIN Ooh pain Who are you What is your name? Where do you come from? Are you to be understood beyond just an emotion? Say death, a malady, blood on skin You are a wound, a wound to the soul If I gave you the world would you stop hurting? If I gave you life would you be happy? Do my tears and wrinkled heart give you the joy? The pleasure? This spark of happiness inside, why does it irritate you? #NB #writer's_thought We curse pain, even God because of it. But do we really understand it? I tend to think it is to make us weak and then stronger than ever again. If their s happiness sadness is not an exception.
CHANGE YOURSELF AND THE WORLD WILL CHANGE. I wanted to change the world at 9 but maybe I hadn’t known what it was yet . Yes, time flies where it got wings from no bird is lucky to have known as arithmetic confirmed I was 19 when I wanted to write this. Still all those years after teenage euphoria I didn't, but now I am lucky am doing it. I hadn’t known that this was the age the whole world was looking at you. Yes it was. I thought I sat on the world but ..heck ..who even has ever done that? The world sat on me. This floating soggy ball in space was on my head with its big hinds. The age of freedom had ‘dawned’. Illusions and beliefs all had got me into this cells. Practically living other peoples lives. Who am I? Self identity searches crippled in and reality too sent its chilly whispers down the spne. Like a drunkard sobering up from a heavy stupor by the dirty roadside from the burning sun, I started to pick up myself. To unlearn the learnt and to remove this
KILIMANJARO If I could write, I could do it for Buddha The godly essence, as if I were reading from the ancient lost codes or the undiscovered underground scripts... Peaceful as nature without humanity The doth glance from heaven Shakespeare still wouldn’t contemplate A seer blest because ego is awake And the soul in ink in this owl feather, fresh Dark as dark Not faded. The white suit and tie lie, I was too poor to buy But if time gave me wings, I could fly WITH MY POOR RICHES Maybe not on a plane But to unseen islands of the gods Where there's no nickel to feel its ugly weight on my thighs neither its absence to anguish the blithesomeness nor religion, power politics to blind the eye. Where I hear lost souls roam the universe freely Ravening High over the snow caps of Kilimanjaro Macklemore, glorious.... This spark under the puffball skull The eternal fire, the burning spirit The fragmented realities,.. welcome to the optic
WINDMILL DREAMS Old wind house up the snaky charming river, My mills to the breeze of change they rotate Slow or faster Just as the moody wind of a sombre day Lazy, calm, ambitious and furious For reasons still questions These cogs, electricity to generate Electricity for the keyboard, the keyboard for the artiste, the artiste from the mind The wind for the mills, the mills for the yearn, the yearn for the tailor Jeez! What a designers veneration!! This wind… what a fuel Not like these carbon fuels These blades... Turn Might blades turn The village lamp needs to glow… brighter
Tomorrow I must dream Hard floors Rickety doors Downgraded chores Pockets with pores Tomorrow I must dream A dream bigger than the world Trillion dollar dream If I vividly I had to contrast In the dark forests On slippery branches I’ll swing Slowly on the quicksand Under the furious suicidal high ocean wave, High above the uncompetable Everest I’ll fly Less a grain of worry Polished and sparkling with hope, My wings, fins and grip stronger shall grow I TRUST Night bird, these owl eyes must witness This conspicuous dream
Contagious illusions Contagious illusions Discarded solutions Unravelled confusions Arm twisted ambitions Blind seers keen deaf listeners Derailed dreams hearts joyfully and quickly pumping to dead lies what a murky sphere? What rickety vessels On a million mile sail All this pounds on a twig so frail Such a poor vision for such a long foggy stormy journey This knees that hit each other when they walk This ears that hear nothing and no thing And nostrils that smell no scent But scent of every cent ever engraved Go’damn !corroded logic Eroded humanity What a delusion!!! To a tongue that can’t speak for itself
The plumbers Pipe dreams I, my bottle of oak-matured Irish whisky and the old mahogany pipe A party not joined by my thoughts nae my owl eyes I can feel the elegance emanating from the reefer hazily rising To the calm peaceful warm airs. In the back of the retina the null void spaces I can see the wisdom of the aged pipe For wisdom and experience are of blood Glitzy tomorrow on a dark today Sunshine after the storm Love and the world not into the head Bed of thorns Soggy floors and surfaces Stand or seat? I hibernate in queer spaces And rest in strange places like a bird of night Reminiscing In the clean sanitised UNDEFILED airs Where no breathing creature’s ever been Constructing these castles Painting the sketches of conscious dream like a desperate artiste With mad hope of selling his soul on leather to the blind
Summer flowers Summer flowers, I wanted to jot a poem about you The way you bloom like poppy in the summer heat An addict would call you Osama Boom!.... To A revolutionist obama Yes we can! You fell on ma path the last rains to the tropical heat And colored ma pathway I pick your scent like satelite radar in the gentle breeze For am just but a wolf on the hunt Miss lavender… Those jacaranda purple lips How you caught my attention On a young virgin night Down the old post road Under the shaky creaky dim streetlight Near the thick healthy hedge Your creamy smooth voice and deep smile Vexed my conscience in a quack Lusitania became my name and Woodrow the embattled flesh sojourned I couldn’t contemplate for a thorn that could tear through the calf tender heart In the mid day heat under this leafless