To keep a smile real

To feel your sadness and admit it, today in the era of imposed positivity?
To sit head down, to free your frown to let a tear be shed.
To hold a grimace unafraid, just long enough to feel okay again.
For to hold a smile below a troubled mind or above a broken heart, is to betray your true feelings and verily divide yourself in half.
Pretending to be happy is awkward and can take a while, to be upset is to express regrets, so once again you can smile.
If you feel alittle down, finding it hard to hold a grin, Take your time to be in the state you´re in, when you´ve lost, not just when you win.
Ignore despair but be aware it comes at quite a cost, the eternal optimist´s thin soul rocks between thick icey walls of frost.
Avoid anger, avoid frustration and how it makes you feel.
But only true emotion can keep a smile real.
Or just keep on pretending, shouting "happy" till you lose your voice. Life´s a state of mind, not a shop, where you make a choice.
You´ll eat the bad with the good, your moods will cook the meal.
You need to be authentic to keep a smile real.

Kandahar

A transit van filled with homemade bombs heads for the market.
Sweaty brow, wide eyes show the way to a dogma driven mind.
Dust falls across the hazy city.
As the preacher´s hand steers this fearful man toward a crowded built up area.
The koran and a block of c4.
Sweat drops from his twitching eye as he puts his foot to the floor.
One second before his heavenly collision he screams god is great, as his pious imam sits in the mosque and meditates.
The transit van breaks open jagged glass and panels sent to every direction that the blast blows them. Half a dozen people feel the flying debris cut through them and steal their lives to the symphony of the explosion.
Another twenty lie in shock, trembling in slow motion.
Another martyr vaporized in the name of some holy fight. Some scripture, some doctrine, some half truths awry. Some religion, some make believe addiction.

The poets cliche

Reading the crap. it´s just useless words anyway...
Was easy to write, i´m no ernest hemingway.
Simple rhyme it just seems to lack.
I´m no great Jack kerouac.
I ponder, I feel, i pine.
Deem my crude rhymes a waste of time and...
Today is the age of NO imagination.
Cliche crap is a world wide fascination.
Look how lame my game is playing with words that get me nought but to the bottom of the page.
I write of reason, passion and decay. I write in bliss and I write in rage.
None of my colourful descriptions will take you somewhere real.
My ridiculous poems about love, when you think sensitivity should be cut out of me like a disease.
Not even the masses could cut it out me, though it´s there when i swear, when i sweat and bleed. 
Curse conventions deep hate of curiosity.
Smashing the strange with commercial ferocity.
Sing along to some typical feelgood ad for family cars.
Industry pouring out of lady gagas arse.

Infernal Cat

Crow, come and warn the pidgeons.
Quick and black come down from the antenna.
Warn the pidgeons of the stealthy roof climbing terror.
Even if the curses hold your wings down.
Hurtful desires shut your beak.
Warn the pidgeons of the stealthy roof climbing terror.
Warn them quick, sqauwk at your peak.
Go before dark, before supernatural shapes get in your path.
Enter your vision and put you in a trance.
Go crow, fly fast to the attics. Where midnight will stir and steal new feathered birds.
If you don´t alarm them of the clawed fiend that lurks. Dawn will be divided by nests where blood spurts.
Fangs in the darkness, don´t let their throats be penetrated. Even red spectres hide where it creeps.
Foul phantoms vanish with it´s hiss and it´s scowl.
It owns the night intimidating the predatory bat, even the psychic sinister owl.
So fly crow now to the pidgeons fat. For the threat comes from the evil whiskered feline cat.

Burned out.

Burned out.
The strings that hold me together have been pulled too tight.
Voice is going hoarse, i´ve used up all my might.
Don´t be afraid of disappointing me, cause my expectations are as round as a zero at rock bottom, round as a sore back and a headache thanks for asking.
Sleepless nights only yielding to nightmares, my awakening gasp and gaze where the empty ghost stares.
Thanks for listening.
Grab your work stuff and head off to do your best, cause it´s all you got, lifes a blast, lifes a test.
Use your energies untill they´re all gone to heck, and then a couple of arrogant unfortunates try to mess.
Try to please them all when they laugh behind your back.
Get ready for the next day a fresh day for new attacks, your voice is gone and your neck is death thanks for caring.
Don´t be afraid of disappointing me, no wizard, this heart empty, this mind not free. I don´t see a light but a terrible shadow, I see a sea of stumps and a burning meadow.
What´s in my tired head? Do i read between your lines? What´s in my jaded, exhausted remainder of a mind.
Spines in pain, my joy just fades, efficiently pretend you don´t understand me.
What goes through my head are watered down versions of colourful inspired thought.

Diesel crabs

Diesel crabs, whizzing and bubbling on the diesel covered shore.
Rainbow contamination, shiny shell, a crustaceans hell... They slide across the slick layered rocks.
The seaweed curls sickened, even the quickest fish are stricken.
Thin agile legs carry the crabs across the rocky surface, the black tides approach makes the poisoned sidesteppers even more nervous.
Purple toxic puddles wait to drown, scores of desperate crab crowds.
They were red and ripe for dinner, now they´re black, sickly oilswimmers.
Dieselcrabs the stench unmentionable.
Hightides death and leaves it´s dark sinister mark where the sand meets the grass.
Where the stiff rock meets the cliffs and where the blackened dry kelp peels, where you hear the worried cry of a colony of seals. Scattered are the diesel crabs bedding down for death, scuttering their last inch, scavenging their last pinch. Hardshells shattered left to suffer in human errors breadth.

Sabado de sol (saturday´s the sun) tribute in english(mamonas assasinas)

Sa-tur-days... a lol...
Plane-crash rock-n-roll.
My friends tr-u-cks... a real stunner.
Full of marijuana.
No ne-e-ed... to fear invain.
We´ll say the company´s to blame.
Or we´ll bla-a-ame that country singer...
Who´s always drinking pinga.
And ro-o-oll another cigaretta...
Mary-jane, have you met her.
Sa-tur-days a steam...
me and my friends eat magic beans.
But no ne-e-ed to go insane,
cause this batch is pretty lame.
Sa-tur-days the sun...
A better day than mon.
Like me-e-eth is to the tweeker.
It´s the best day of the week.
I co-o-opied the mamonas.
Who were def-in-it-ely stoners.

Banker raped

These biased laws, these legal cartels, sitting on fortunes and taxing us even harder.
The lord and his maid, the peasant and his slave, are just as real today.
Well dressed directors expecting to recieve, demanding another payment, another cheque another fee.
Delivering famine and excuses between their fine dining and luxury boat sailing, really only caring about the suspicious paper trail.
Aristocrats stretch their legs, make a call and infect the money media till even your share falls.
The western job creators(socalled) chasing overtime slaves and chinese labour workers. Fire a dozen drones just to keep their perks.
Dinosaurs keep us gripping onto the industrial age. Their need for want, their want for need, educating us on how to crave.
Behind big desks and big names congratulating each other almost self proclaimed.
Holding all the funds, they live on the creme of our moneys interest rates.
While porky conservative politicians distract us with irrelevant bullshit.

Light and Harsh

In them is the music.

Round their sweet heads the song.
Peace sent in time, well timed, well.
Sometimes we live possesed by angels.
Blessed nights, painless days, fine mist cooling hot heads.
Pleas for some kind of relief machine.
Sometimes we´re forgiven, like our dirty clothes we are washed.
Seldom the heavenly breeze comes and aliviates our nervous flesh.
Our conscience can crush us with it´s noise, stealing our emotions.
You can fill our heads with what is right, but you´ll never lead by example.
Re-ignite faith in life with some inspired speech, your empty box with a thousand of labels.
Sometimes forgetting it all started with "what?".

Sudanese slaves

Bite the edge of the machete. Or taste the barrel of the AK.
Dry hot desert landing ground for demons, a park for them to play.
Over the sand and into a straw hut goes the head of an RPG.
Leaving little trace of three big friendly families.
Leaving whole villages to fry in a pan.
Of janjaweed oil, genocide in Sudan.
Into the victims skulls the arabs tore,
Merciless annihilation for the negros of Darfur.
Taste the dripping blood from the machete.
Red stains across the plains temporarily wet.
AU soldiers observe, losing their sanity in dainty killing pens.
Important, special people talk in theory at the UN.
Another ten thousand chew bullets and blades, hot black breakfasts.
Demons for a party, a magazine empties into a childs head.
No tears for him but some extremists cackle.
killing squads arrive with a distinct diabolical rattle.
The important well dressed, noble, UN officials with certificates all wonder.
If they could just avoid acting, like their great job in Rwanda.
Raped and disembowled, young women howl.
How civilised we all are, soon we´ll forget.
Their lives erased, from our precious minds and t.v sets.
(UN did nothing while suadanese africans were wiped out by their north african/arabic counterparts, the UN´s failure to act in certain cases brings us to doubt it´s very purpose. I will never forget what happened to those people and the people of rwanda and how disgusting it was to leave them to die, i´m sorry if this poem offends you.)

Library october

Tell me how I am to read these long words. Words words.
Can you really see beauty or is it some sophisticatedly precision constructed form of sarcasm from the start.
Words, that´s not much to ask. And this paper you´d sooner see in the rubbish.
I saw you at the lit up ambush point. Promise me something.
While picking a dish you fell out of there as the place was robbed by patriots.
The place was robbed by your favourite gunwelding abandoned nobodies.
And you wonder why as you continue as if nothing happened.
Yes, seven flavours of "life goes on." But do you?
Some colourful house of pranks wont wake you.
Colour me with the north they snapped my wit.
Roaring back with a swedish kiss, ice walls are built from her departure.
Frozen mirrors don´t show your reflection.
Better touch the equator, if you want my affection,
Of your sorcerer... Acting really crazy teasing innocent creativity, quit unless evil envy´s necessary.
Cold was the 3rd garden. Cold is the corner I´ll deliver. It´s ghost more pale than the colour of your killer instinct.
The seven flavours of "life goes on", paint me with colours unknown to me, paint me falsely.
My silence wakes the dead, echos where your footsteps would never tread.
A lost spell, you´ll find me in october´s library, where words shatter reality.