The american nightmare

It began in an upperclass neighbourhood called vila bluefig.

Rich and elegant housewives watered their great gardens
whilst the lowlypaid streetcleaners brushed the gutters down neatly outside
the high well polished grades.
Some of the streetcleaners had dreams of becoming Donald trumps or
lucky millionaires infact apart from sitcoms and sports results that´s all they would think about.
That fine morning freedom reeked like the deadcat one of the streetcleaners pulled out of a drain nearby. His toothless mouth attempted to screech the horror theme from the movie psycho. He was a real man most of his wages went on guns ammunition and the maintenance included.
The middleclasses of the country began to feel like interlopers in the streets they´d lived their entire lives. Rumours of leftwing groups meeting in middleclass neighbourhoods and taverns started flaring up in conservative speeches. The real meetings were taking place at countryclubs and in the offices of oil and gun company ceo´s.
Thus the terrible inquisition began. Organized and well rewarded young aspiring sons of the rich began to form armies of disgruntled security guards and lowly paid labourers. Their shampoo´d hair and lordish mode infuriated the simple folk, but with checks and weapons in their hands they would carry out what was to become a horrendous revolution.
Door to door those same street cleaners went passing idly by the rich neighbourshoods only to invade the huge suburbs of the middleclasses to evict them from their houses.
Sending the flabergasted families out into the street, while the hackers employed by the new class of overlords acquired their bank accounts and assets, while the army of labourers fought over the belongings. Indeed the army of labourers the donald trump dreamers picked at what was left by a middle class in exodus.
Children cried bitterly and mothers protested, though the campaign propaganda kept the oppressors on task, even childrens lego was confiscated.
Gunfire and laughter rang out freedom was here at last. Freedom of well groomed millionaires and billionaires who had not only realized the american dream but surpassed it to show the world freedom.
The shocked and outraged middleclass families were sent to island camps, they were inturned as conspirators targeting the american dream, and those that protested were imprisoned as communists.
Parades were given in Donald trumps name and all the petrol companies trademark flags were raised. Solar power was banned and all other alternative energy.
President Obama was dragged out by the neck and shot for breaching the constitution that all americans should have access to arms.
A new grand wall across the mexican border was constructed by the inturned middleclass now labourers under the fight for freedom act.
The new regime proud and unapologetic banned the use of safety matches and trips to countries that were deemed communist by the brave rich freedom fighters.

Today´s peace

Today´s peace

The wind is as still as death

Twenty five degrees and no breeze

There is noone in this part of the park.

Alone with my panting dog and the brustly

bristly grass.

I look at the surrounding tree´s dead still,

a bird makes a cackle sound another a peep

and yet another a cooing sound.

There is no movement the bush is on pause

The odd falling leaf and some brave distant twittering,

from here you can watch the grass grow.

The cupcake

Have you ever considered

 the insignificant cup cake?

It´s only reward a smile widening

 as much as the open mouth would let.

And consumed for all it´s worth

 in sugar and ferment,

The corrugated paper disgarded

 like a hopeless cheerleader.

Wow the icing goes down

 making those crumbs taste good.

The Dragonfly(eternity for tadpoles cont.)

Dragon flight.
(A continuation of eternity for tadpoles)
The fine pool teems with life.
Just a few metres away it seems a grand mirror,
though as you approach you can see thousands of tiny ripples.

The ripples multiply into each other
transforming into vibrations,
dragonflies passover blue eyed helidrones
stopping and starting in mid-air.

Butterflies bungle their way to the waterside
landing nearby as if by accident.
Clumsy bees cross the tiny bay appearing lame in their flight
compared with the precision airborn dragonfly.

Lost child (rewritten)

Lost child(part one)
Lost the little fella off a train.
Advice from the passer´s by couldn´t help me.
As we got off the train his steps were a fast as his voice was soft.
He wouldn´t hear my last words as he got off and went ahead,
I looked twice but the little fella had disappeared.
So on the corner of the train station crammed with sunny shops
my jaw dropped with a box of oranges.
I´d jolly well lost him, couldn´t find him.

 

Lost child(part two)
I entered the shops near the station accompanied by an old man.
This old man didn´t know me but I knew him
he was beyond pain this man.
All seemed tranquil in the shop
and out on the street but where had my child gone?
Probably on the train again to nowhere- god knows the cost,
The old man transformed into a chap I knew
as I shook him like orange juice for the answers.
He looked at me standing calmly in line now to buy chips and stew,
he turned completely round now facing me, "Your young one lost is he?"
I replied "Yes he is gone and the time´s ticking old man!"
He went out of the shop and I followed him though we weren´t walking it was more like time-travelling not into the past but the future.
I followed him into a great valley.
Where grassy mounds surrounded and joy of free people rallied.
I looked at him again this old man now he gestured with his wrists and fingers toward the sky revealing himself as my young lost child.
The young child told me with the voice of the old man "As easy as summer when she´s good natured and mild." I speechlessly let my panic subside and in that very moment the breeze took all that darkness away.
"let´s get back on the train" I asked trying to appear humble.
His smile just widened and shamed me seven swords across my conscience,
he had never left me.

Not my job

It

Has become your own
familiar like your home.

The money´s moderate
what do you want,
current work daunts
Strap yourself to a routine wage.

Maximum doesn´t get a say
Bedroom walls
predictable complaints.
An employee saint... Oh!!!!

Receptionists laugh
boss scowls
Our rivals unwilling to overthrow us
they throw in the towel.

What could be better than this subtle life in a cage.
Corridors your colleagues appease
Kiss butt the knees feel the granite.

The camel possessed

The camel possesed

Refusing to move or eat,
the beast just spat.
The beast bit and it wasn´t pretty.
the priests and healers came one by one.
But for the humped corrupted mammal
it was just a bit of fun.

Nostrils of my curse.

Vampire´s have tried.
I can taste you with my teeth but it´s back here where my tongue is that begs a whisper,
There´s a hole in me I will call it my stomach.
And to swallow your soul has majestic appeal.
To do well past the blood and flesh of you and to engulf the very essence of you pumps the addrenaline to my temple like a mad goose.
It seems there´d be no other pleasure more illicit than to
leave my own body in search of yours in your far off land,
seperate you!
Cut you off from your life feel and to smell your soul with the
nostrils of my curse.
With the true grunt of the bush demon running a hundred kilometers an hour through thick brush toward your surprised facial shock.
My tastebuds turn into an army all hungry to pierce each one of your goose bumps.

Edible pendulum

 Edible pendulum

Most of me swings.
The rest of me sways.

Ah the mind.

Some of me plays,
cuckoo time.

Ah the brain and all it´s functions.
A buffet of synapses and nuggets.
Cool off between the ears with this luncheon.
In the skull I dance something really rugged.
The rest of me sways.

Ah the mind so abstract.

Lights out so we can play we the blind kangaroos.
Ah, the brain, just a fork and some cream then i´m eating.
Chill out under the hair refresh the frontal lobes heating.
My cranium boogies,
the rest of me is seated.

The cookie

The cookie

oh the offering,
bite marks are essential.

Oh the chocolate chip,
no mouth too gentle.

"A cookie" the four year old
screamed from his baby chair.
Right before cassarole
how could he dare!

Children´s vice is why.

Baked dough and chocolate throughout.
Into the hard to reach jar.
Far up the shelf,
small hands feel for it,
little antennas.

Something sweet that will ruin their dinners.

A friend´s lonely house.

A friend´s lonely house.

I found myself in a friends house.
My old friend.
He and his family were going on holiday.
He proposed i look after his house.
Big windows of the bugalow let the afternoon sun in.
Noone told a joke yet grins were everywhere.
Almost laughing they all departed except me,
the afternoon sun and my guardian angel.
We talked for hours forcing words out of
well established smiles, the empty sofas
did not interrupt.
Hope flirted with us and joined the conversation,
comfort collaborated.
Heat eavesdropped from outside the window,
  I had no objections.
My friends and his family had gone.

No sunburn(sorry)

Language of the sun.
Come high sunburn colour me.

I absorb you for I am the cancer,

the crab of the red shell,

the nip.

Touch my flesh in daylight,

I won´t avoid your shine or bite.

I badly adored you as a baby.

I understood your language before I could talk.

So deliver your rays like you have for eons.

Dry my pride you sweltering season.

Make me feel as a child again.

On the surface of me I feel no real sting.

Street shamans

Where did they go?

No sign of the poor today.
Their sidewalk dwellings were abandoned.
Stained concrete and scattered wood.
The broken boxes and rotten remains of fruit.
The wind and the sun must have chased them out of their
half broken shelters!
They pursue a living off beer cans and cardboard,
noone touches them.
Yet their innocence for all things simple
makes them street shamans.
And where can a poorman´s advice get you but the gutter you say?
Although they´ve seen more evil than most,
their faces show no signs of being betrayed.

Welcome fire, drought, I

Prefer to see it for yourself.
Open my chest, you see paper.
Walk down my street,
You on a vine like grapes.

Open my courage,
the flame catches, i´m alight.
You attempt to send the message.
Damnation is under my foot suffocating.

Break a piece of me off, it joins back on.
The end of all trials, slam that hammer down.
I´m as willful as the dusk mosquito.
Choking evil for now.

Tear me apart,
yet i´m the wolf.
Read between my literary dining.
The thick skin on me, the hint of me
like wine.

Far away from where your fantasy land burns.
 You put the matches in my hand.
The rare cure was thrown into the blaze.
The remedy some would sell their souls for.

Reckless is the manner I maintain the flames.
Dry wood and tyres, not a drop of sweat.

look at me like a puppy,
Yet i´m the wolf.
Put down the axe
when you could have finished the dream job.

Settle again your vision on some sweet fest.
The mind clouds with notions of well tucked in nests.
It all lights up like tinder.
Welcome fire, welcome me, thunder.
I the summer drought spark yearner.

Stretch me out like a scarecrow.
I touch your emotions like cheese in a hot ovens glow.
Drying up your muddy pond heart, beg for irrigation.
Throw meat to the hungry eels now wrything for salvation,
wallowing in the slops where you tried to drown me.
The wet clay dries and cracks now simmering, zero humidity

Suppose you forget,
pretend i´m some far off airport ablaze.
Suppose the game without burning
will it force you onto flame, oh my incendiary ways
These dancing sparks in them is a sizzling grace

Ostentation won´t quench your thirst
or feed your crops as they wilt for the worst.
throw your penny into the well
each brick whispering for you to let it go.
A flock of thirsty birds, ragged wings overhead
in the summer sky they form an adorable omen,
their droppings ruin your new dress.
Made flammable and familiar strangely blessed.
No longer a foreigner for fire´s sacred quest

Disloyal heart

Disloyal heart
She thought I was disloyal,
My heart needed oiling.

Some player out to pitch his next stake.
No some say I´m taken, like my life is in stone.
Yet I´ve made no wife of her despite sharing a home.

Should my heart be like clockwork?
Do my man glands own me?
No the free aorta has no perks,
Or ears to hear my pleas!

Where blood flows to get back the oxygen,
Joy or sorrow explode into different emotion,
Sentiment´s widths are measured fat and thin.
Fooling yourself, new age guilt free autodeception.

Disloyal heart every beat´s a lie.
Heals at snail pace despite every tear you cry.

Don´t blame

Don´t blame!

You almost blame god.
But you stop yourself,
knowing even the capacity to feel is a priviledge.
Sweet chances are breakable sometimes fragile.
You never blame god even when it´s futile.

Lost I´ve been few would recognise,
tangible world,
Though I wander the poet´s eye.
Grand mornings beckon, I nurse my chin.
I start preparing in my pen and paper kitchen.
How much has god done for me?
Everything.

Green forever

Pine (green forever)
Look up, robust arms.
Green needles to heaven.
Immune to the subzero north-northern hemisphere weather.

Aroma take us, bless us, it´s christmas.
Aroma calm us, guard us fill our house.
Grand pine be our ornament if nothing else.
Grand pine guard our presents and
reach to the ceiling.

Illuminate the corner with your deep green presense,
your radiance would make the big day pleasant.

Be god´s thumb until the new year, absorb our hopes.
until we get there, checking off the gift list.
Majestic radiata punching the sky with columns forming fists.

We look up to your robust branches as arms.
Green needles kissing heaven.
Stately and by the season blessed, eternal charm.

Cobra dell

Cobra dell

The sleeping hill is a host of trees.
Fine shade furnished through, the tropical cobra sees.
The knotches on the palms are like the marks across it´s belly.

In a dead frond it hides the sunshy snake.
Puddles of water surround from last nights deluge,
seeping into the valleys lowland lakes.
Now it slithers out between the puddles it goes.
Dreaming of a fat rat in it´s mouth amidst death throes.

Eternity for tadpoles.

Eternity for tadpoles

It´s this pond,
look the borders are grassy,
it´s water´s half murky!

Yet it sustains a habitat like the earth.
it´s rounded shallow edges would dizzy tadpoles
giving them a false sense of eternity.

As for the depths where predatory fish dwell,
the food chain rings like a dinner bell.

The poet knows.

The poet knows.

When the season´s change
how life will rearrange itself,
how living will renew.

When your attempts will prove fruitless
Where to pursue when you´re clueless.
To stay golden when you´re blue.

Oh the poet knows
How to dribble the world
how to count god´s pearls
like each dancing day´s twirl.

It is so.
the poet knows
often not how to react,
the words all disperse
while he remains gobsmacked.

The poet lifts his pen and writes on...
scribling and wanting the natural princess to arouse the senses
  like the spice of safron.

The man who dared

Judge me
It was a man who judged me,
oh woman they don´t pretend such perfection.
They can see,
even men don´t bear.
Did you think I couldn´t hear?
Pretend your perfection.
Judge me for not coming close!
Let your own desires roast.
For you play perfect like some easy game.
What kind of son of a bitch did you find?
One day i´ll be so noble(I think not)
but for now i´ll be as treacherous as my mind.
Envious that not much knocks around up in yours.
Such a son of a bitch,
No she was a queen and i´d take the needle of this life´s stitch.
Throw this blame like gasoline on me,
as if you were flowering to find a culprit.
No you are as mundane as the factory that owns you pal.
Have the courage to insult me to my face for I shall.

(The very women who should judge me reserved the right, it was a man)

Christmas

Christmas poem(for aunt Linda)
Is christmas about giving and recieving.
Is it about christ?
Shopping lists, time off work in the birth of travelling/leaving?
Decorations and lights?

Each person must choose their christmas tree,
and some will look past the forest and dare to dream.
Each father will decide when to tell their child
santa is a sales theme.

Is christmas happy?
I pray you make it that way.
For the fresh smell of pine still follows the map
to the land of decay.

So choose the day for whatever culture abides you.
If only a jolly red and white dressed bearded man
could offer us half the truth.
That Jesus can.

Farewells

Farewells
These hugs and kisses will not cover the lonely hours
that crawl and never fly.
There is little freedom in the dull idioms
drawn on the walls of goodbye!

Well wishing is as sweet as jelly,
it sets and we eat it before our presense is turned off
like a tele.

Sometimes we want to say a little more,
the bitter sweet i´ll miss you sore- holds onto the tongue unruly,
like an infant to their mother´s hand on the first day of school.

Oh last hour why are you so content on seeing me glum
begging a sigh.
Make this silly heart numb,
before i say goodbye.

Youth?

Youth is a question mark.
?where would you like to go young man.?
Can we twist the meaning of things and tempt you to?

Come impressionable, come soon as "had it" boxes become soggy
and cynical.

Come soon for waiting is a sin at such an age, act for bitterness
is abismal.

Give your life to the early morning and late night those are your
real mother and father.

Understand the contrast between feasting and starving.

Come here and witness the feud of self.
The diamond contradictions that press down like vultures on a carcass.
The secret to all the suffering, is to learn.

George collett (animal poet)

Animal poets first.
I don´t know what´s better his humour slinked first.
Or the fact he´s not aware of his rhymes awesome burst.

This man has written sly codes for big bellows.
Like gracious humilty his tone is full mellow.
George Collett welcome to the poetseye.

Never underate your fine verse that some can only strive.
It is the best slice of jest from the apple pie.

So keep the zoo vibrant as we moo and moo and we cluck.
Your animal poems are the best, bet your bottom buck.

The hot chain

The Hot chain
The hot chain has closed on itself,
Summer is rumbling toward it´s incredible climax.
Storms now form and burst everyday,
dominating the nights.
Piercing the calm with beating rain
and shaky barking thunder.

The hot chain has closed on itself,
summer was born like a prediction.
I welcome it with open arms.
yeah come and shake my city
kick us on the way to the equator.
Here´s the crux.
Shake shallow thoughts.

Darkness subsides for thursday's care

The day started after a foul night, instead of sleep there was concern and confusion.
The humid dawn displayed relief through broken clouds, so many things in life are assumed to be
deserved, few are earnt and almost non are ours by right.
I told myself to aim at perfection and whatever I hit would be good enough to
carry me through.
The dawn reminded me of possibility again. the bright warm thursday after such
a stormy wednesday week.
The foul night pulled me out of bed and threw me to the other side of my backyard.
 Now here´s the keen new thursday to put me back together and probably by the end of the day
I´ll be sound again if i lose the funny expectations.
Yes thursday would be my nurse for lack of sleep injures me. I can already feel the fine lotion
and my layer of skin rebuilding itself.
I can feel the tide of the plesiosaur coming in with that lurking animal that is I.
My bruises brush past the kelp, it eases me and replenishes the energy lost in all my muscles.

By nightfall I will be whole again regrown and reformed.
Today I step outside myself to see the real negative and positive parts of me.
They fight like rabid dogs and the wounds appear on either side of me.
The madness smacks me hard in the face but the second blow misses as I duck.
over and over I face the conflict.

Ah but today´s dawn caresses me like it was natural as if I was lovable enough.
I´ll continue to carry the idea until well past dusk.
Reflecting too much can turn you into a mirror and even with thursday such a qualified therapist
I see glass form on the outer layer of my skin each time I reflect.

Sometimes not even the rays of sun can warm the middle of me.
So the forced smile curves brilliantly upward and the day goes on.
It feels like I´m wearing a ten kilo hat of doubt.
I can´t seem to take it off yet when I fraternize with thursday
she offers to do it for me.
Her dawn shoulders calm me at just looking at them.
Her morning forearms cuddle me.
And she will offer the back of her hand for the kissing gesture before
she is no more.

Feeling attacked that foul night, the common misinterpretation is when mere jest or suggestion enact.
I´ve found myself realizing how silly I´ve been and began to start the laughter early like
a defective motor.
Intrigue will no doubt pull me in but only when i invoke her.
It´s through playing dumb that violators spring and make bank although i´ll never be like that.

Putting yourself out there in the sun, it smacks the brazen cheek like butchers tenderizing meat.
And who will save you if it´s not thursday.
Fifty prayers may not save you, perhaps only the unique turn of events on such a day would solve and soothe your worried head.

Patience how I´d like to get in contact with that.
I think patience has so much to tell me and where patience could explain the strange seperation between me and my ill notions of time.
Thursday would massage me. Patience would exercise my will and polish the trophy until it was shiny and obvious.
Patience who could never be confused with complacency, although the two have been mistaken for each other at parties and through long standing crushes.
Complacency what a sneaky enemy when life is so very short.
I would give patience a sword and witness it slaying complacency or I myself
would slaughter complacency in patience´s name.

Is love a seed that you must germinate and wait to grow? Is patience the gardener?
Or can it be an already healthy young tree where a hole and fine soil await it´s planting?
And can be quickly established within the local climate/soil?
Patience would still have it´s hands in matters no doubt. Care would step in like a tutor
and see to the watering and monthly pruning.
Can a tree ever be a suitable metaphor for love?
Can a seed?
It´s thursday and she´ll babysit my doubts today.
Some meals are supposed to be eaten cold and heating it up
 would only ruin the delicate uncertain texture of the meal.

Through darkness

It seems the dark is alive and it´s surrounding me and is strengthening.
But I have overcome I have faced it, the great darkness again and again.
Maybe now it will fill my dinner plate and I wll consume it,
only for it be spewed forth like words on my page.

Alone I had wondered if dogs do infact feel human anguish.
At two oclock in the morning my dog went beserk.
I hold him still as my lapse of disillusion spills into the night.

Deep down must existance be this lonely?
Will my teacher´s smile always be a grand façade?
And as the night wind taunts me I attempt to sit back straight
with a calm face as I write.

It can perturb me, irritate me and keep me from slumber but it will never
stop me writing these words on this page.
The coldness in daily life the bright pretend so frigid.
Disappointment is the thing that everyone must face and with staunch resolve.

Anger and bitterness are not part of me and feel so foreign and ugly
 when they attempt to tag along. However I will fight on until they subside.
If it was ordained for each of us to be given a quantity of suffering confusion
and uncertainty, then we must get through it as soon as possible.
With my soul intact I will go on the offensive.

Peace is rarely felt these days, the possible existance of destiny drives me to ignore peace.
Yet the tranquility and stability of life is so comforting in thought.
I remember the vertigo I got, in trying to improve myself, the comedy of
thinking I would change reality itself, I only guaranteed a hasty reprimand
 from the uninterested world, oblivious of my efforts.

Yes it seems much of the writing i´ve done has borne little fruit.
In the pitch black at two am in the morning the darkness speaks to me of this,
it says I´m just kidding myself. Nevertheless my mind tells me i´ll continue
and I know in my heart I´ll continue writing like a blindman down an uneven cobblestown
street.

We all beg for mercy at one point or another voicing it into the night or screaming it in our minds.
It´s just that often there is no reprieve from the frustration. In the face of errors you will spend
great amounts of time. The obligation of perfection always expected, despite
neverless being impossible to attain.

Vulnerability is not only a laughing matter but probably the most pathetic and obvious
thing in the eyes of those that i myself would want to impress.
Yes don´t go chasing mercy it´s illusive.
Life is a game and life is a joke each joke being told by a band of loudmouths
who have yet to have their weaknesses exposed. Hearing them mock behind backs or to your face by subtle innuendos makes me feel like taking them down a peg.

Praying gives you the short term luxury of temporary relief.
The word future comes back to you and seems so distant and so unrealistic
it falls back onto people with steel spirits to go on.
It´s not faith infact that quite often sustains us, the ugly thing infact is
we quite often continue to give all when there´s is next to no hope leftover.

Is it a fight we have with ourselves?
If it were that simple I would avoid writing on the subject.
There is always outside stimuli that causes ideas to grow and nestle in the mind
becoming slowly part of who you are. Recognising everything´s not going to be okay
and that nobody outside you family cares, even some of your friends would swear they care with
wooden faces happy demagogues! Alas even friendship can be false even to such tough opposition
 from social types, the very people who know deep down how expendable friendship really is.

Coming to the conclusion that the true ideal outlook is that life is often sewn together
 as a net, full of holes and the details including where and when we fall will be the plot
or story.
Put here to be observed, to see how easy or difficult it will be for us to fall through.
It is not a sure thing that we fall though.
 In fact you may withstand the turmoil and still come out on top, the equivalent of making yourself
worthy of living well.

Rewards, heaven, nirvana and paradise I expect it will be lifetimes of heartaches hardships
and handicaps before anykind of recompense awaits.
Have I not had days, weeks or even months of time when everything felt like heaven.
Ofcourse this is the kind of available heaven that is possible on earth.
However it is always with the terrible knowledge that things will fall apart again.
And when they do you and only you will be responsible for putting it all back together again.
Unless you want to sink even further into the current problem your own gateway to the inferno.

Can people have their rewards by being honest, the thing is pain will continue whether
you hide the truth behind it or not.
You can take the blame for something by being honest and feel perhaps less guilty
when the other person blames you and screams in your face. But it will only have
slightly reduced the overall pain.

Can an honest man still boast these days?
is laying out the truth naiive and unnecessary?
People know being honest is ridiculous when it doesn´t work in your favour.
When it´s not in your interest why would you tell the truth?
Yet some of us still are honest. We can hardly help ourselves
and sometimes we suffer twice as much for having opened our mouths
or revealing the truth.
Honesty is it really what the modern world wants?

People are afraid of honesty, it can be terrifying for some.
Being afraid is a daily reality for many. Some are afraid of being honest as much
as they are of dying, the fear of dying being so valid for millions of us die each day in all
possible manners.
If you sport the kind of philosophy that it doesn´t matter what you do you are also
being dishonest, you have crossed into the fools realm.
Yes it matters what happens and taking responsibility is one of the few most
meaningful things we will ever do in our insignificant lives.

If you feel like giving up remember noone cares outside those with a moral obligation
 or real love.
Yes you must continue on like a camel in the huge sweltering desert looking for that
far off oasis. You are so aware that you will only spend mere days there basking and
recuperating before your master life will send you back into the great expanse of the desert
where every element and lack of direction will confuse confound and tire you out.

Bon voyage great pretenders judge me later.

Magdalena

JESUS SAVED THE MAGDALENA/MAGDALENA SAVED MANKIND
What epiphanies spring forth through the reflection of the accounts of Jesus and his mastery of spontaneously disarming the accusers and vanquishing guilt and blame?
Why did Jesus save a whore when so many christians would still condemn her today?
Why would man condemn the whore, when her service is in the name of his pleasure? He must be spiritually helpless in heart when it is a question of his own self control. Yet somehow so spiritually sound in heart that he should judge people who were forced to cater to such desires. Shall we separate the man who partakes in prostitution from the man who distances himself from it. I fear the pimp may be as evil as the accuser. And man himself is exempt from all spiritual wrong doing when the business is sex, little has changed in two thousand years even women judge women.
What fickle sense of morality leads us to judge woman when we were given the blessing not to?

Is a woman giving her sensuality up for her livelyhood a very fair trade?
We know that Jesus gave himself to so many through his lively spirit his blessed mind and lastly his body to nails and the cross.
Could he have somehow metaphysically prevented himself from becoming the son of god when his actions were so synonymous with everything that spells life?
When men condemn women whose homes are brothels, don't they perpetrate a wretched and most hypocritical form of hate? It's not just for double standards that their words should go to the gutter, but for the lack of spiritual value that lies in judging people in general.
Is the search for victims and scapegoats as voracious as the search for heroes and heroins?

Maybe man takes his anger at being neglected out on the other gender, for his desires never being met?
His dissatisfactions feed a real demon that dresses itself up as a marshall of ethics, when the very accumulation of his unmet sexual desires and unmet expectations of himself are perhaps the real source of his inquisition.

Yes illusions may fall like curtains only to present great spectacles of impromptu fear based behavior brought on by the disillusion that religious expectations create. Is this what opens the gates of hell within men?
What wakes the eternal accuser?
When Jesus obstructed what would have been a routine stoning of an unfortunate woman. Did he realize that men´s attempts at comprehending justice were erroneous, cowardly and reeking of fear?

Do some men in general feel ill treated for their inadequecies or not having the luxury of a healthy and active sexlife? Pushing them to blame the world?
 Lets pretend just for arguments sake that Jesus was just a normal man as taunted by his hormones and desires as much as we all are! maybe the real miracle is not in supernatural feats.
Maybe the real miracle isn´t in turning wine into water, making fish and loaves appear, or walking on water. Which would be great if they were true. Perhaps his miracles manifested through complete self control of his body emotions and thoughts, which I can confidently say very very few people even demonstrate themselves to be partially capable of today in the age of self help.

 And maybe the real Miracle which is so much more incredible was the compassion he wielded and integrated into perception and action. That pure compassion in an era of "an eye for an eye" which would have been seen as weak, was seen as strong, like an axe against prejudice and selfishness. And thus he launched an offensive on the intolerant passages of the old scripture, using a potent arsenal of compassion and true belief in mankind against the mundane and evil ideas which flourished then as they do now.
( my own ideas)

Tuesday woven

Tuesday woven
Tuesday spins and tuesday spans
I have wrestled so vigourously with
those long clock hands.
How i´ve looked up to the sky this day and prayed
pleaded for all the meaning churned in daydreams.
to give me some indication to not get middle week rotten.
Pleaded to have half of mine come true.

What a begger tuesday left me.
Not a better way to inject my words all through
my most admired.
The clock hands embrace and a tear tells me
to stay clear of whisky´s taste.

All corners of the heart like all corners of the week.
Two days at a time and one extra to gain or lose us.
I pray Tuesday wont abuse us.
Time is blood brothers and sisters.

Writer´s cramp?

Writers cramp(I never get it)
I dig deep for the brainsting of more writing strength.
Writing is my treatment, attempting courageous flow and length.
Poetry is the medicine I took, the elixir to fix me the currency i spend.

Does it keep me vital? Does it reduce the risk of cancer?
Each verse in my mind´s recital, i loosen my grip on the dance.
I dig deep for the thing that repels the stench,
Writing is paper, a pen and a waist high bench.

It´s my remedy when all is pressing and tearing.
It´s my magic potion.

Tiwaz

Tuesday and TIWAZ(lead my life toward the light)
Invoke the ghost of the day,
like brandishing some rusty dienstag cutlass.
the firm hand around this cool day.

Tersing turso exhale,
sing to me in the spinal language
sing to me the song of mars.

Midnight ruckus in the mind like a beehive,
midnight I escaped you to be here alive but torn.
Staring you in the poet´s eye.
One foot still stuck in dawn.

Tuesday will illuminate each of us as poets askew.
The signs will be bathed in by the sunlight thrown.
The clear secure path sound and well trodden
could be continued,
the new journey toward the stars
postponed.

Of each of life´s possible trails we are uncertain
to which god fordade or condoned.

Tuesday spreads

Tuesday spreads
Tuesday spreads itself onto the morning,
well it´s kind marmalade.
I´ve chosen streets and eyes and graffiti
...

my post-mondaydreams on display.

Here it is for you don´t hunger for the name of another day.
Many moments alive are written off as anticipation
waiting and delays.

Concerning days it´s not the most popular one,
it´s the only time we have now!
I want you to substitute the sun,
like the way you´ve always done for me.

Tuesday sneek

Tuesday sneek
So out of bed I got one foot still in the dawn.
premeditating the day pleading to be reborn.

Tuesday was the girl and nodded when I asked.
...

She primed the dawn like bomb,
that with daylight
would blast.

Tuesday´s kitchen was hospitable
meat did hang on walls.
Hounds ran in packs circling the house.
The oldfolks read the paper all of them freshly appalled,
Their little fits of apathy as if there was nothing else.

Yes tuesday was a girl and this her family home.
Across the miles you could see a far city
where weekends likely roamed

Global warming can´t melt this.

Global warming melt this.

There´s fallout on the wind in years to come perhaps the will to
mock will desintegrate.
The voice of a sunless summer, towing the decades
...

behind a carbon stain the size of tokyo.

It gasps and i sing to the last of the earths plantlife.
Strolling to where the rivers dry up, where the discolour
meets the sand.

It booms and attempts to curse the oceans,
the sea, the brine spill indeed.
Let not it´s voice kill every pretty plankton
of some hearing disease.

It wraps around cities as it does my hand.
Coiling up still no tone of pity.
Strangling those vertical legacies
tangling into the veins of my voicebox.

I become a part of this scourge my blood
transforms into hard metal
from liquid to solid and vice versa.
I become the voice.
It runs down motorways like thick tar rapidly.

I Consume every path every dead concrete
artery every street.
Howling like a polar wolf, wailing ice
toward the equator.
an ocean freeze my hard hitting arctic tsunami´s
frozen scold is my shout,
my antarctic stomach belches blizzards.

I can cool global warming with this verse
just let me discover what love is first.

God of all critics

God of all critics(tries to touch it)

Stand back as they smash the walls of heaven.
As the turn of phrase of the ultimate critic becomes
as devastating as a mace, yet I present my temple!
...

An impact most crushing,
the pub present punchline.
Wotan witty and loki clever.

Take cover as the critic busts a new hole in the
literary cosmos.
Dreams are scattered like planets as they execute the
big bang.
But...
I´m a billion ragnarocs.

I´m armagaeddon´s ship leaving port.
I find solace in the tempest, so critic
if I send you a hurricane batten down the hatches.
It´ll be with fruitful peril cast from the deepest darkest
hole in the sea.

Boundaries I breach

Forbidden voyage.
We travelled like turning the dial on a radio.
Frequency our highway.

Far off twinkling blue and yellow cities,
...

where snakes and success awaited.
A gun and a smile stop me.

A ruthless secret agent approaches.
Was your cover blown?
Was this stakeout purely to spy on me?

The night climbs down to morning and so do I,
as with my rhyme I breach national security.

Moby dick

Moby dick
You think I´m a disaster.
Maybe it´s so.
Like moby dick overturning ships
that persist in whale´s woes.
...

my salt rain hits you as if from ablow hole.

You think i´m a disaster behold and lo.
Yet not another poet´s lunch have I stolen.
Yes it´s pure my wealth in words,
I expand on my hunch like a swollen serpent.

For there I´d fail you.

For there I´d fail you.

I have a problem you know what it is,
don´t breathe the words "steaming weakness."
Don´t give "why don´t you" suggestions.
...

When you´ve fully fallen face first into regression
Scream down the deep well that i´m on my way to
remission.

This "steaming weakness" hardly deserves to be blessed.
I have a problem and you know what it is,
just another word uttered from lips one day I may kiss.

My faults are obvious,
not wanting to cling to anyone fuss or obsess,
though the very life in me won´t let me love less.
(The rhyme here was not planned)

Castle walls

Castle walls
How I envy the emotionally strong who have paved their castle´s interior with concrete emotions.

The outer walls are resilient granite blocks showing little expression,
absorbing the heavy impact of fireballs and boulders.
...

When your walls are breached and your heart occupied
only forgiveness will put out the fires and fill the moates.

Build you castle walls strong enough to take the impact while
hearts go to battle.

The Journey´s spook

Forbidden voyage.
We travelled like turning the dial on a radio.
Frequency our highway.

Far off twinkling blue and yellow cities,

where snakes and success awaited.
A gun and a smile stop me.

A ruthless secret agent approaches.
Was your cover blown?
Was this stakeout purely to spy on me?

The night climbs down to morning and so do I,
as with my rhyme I breach national security.

Old and blackfooted.

Blackfoot
I tried to leave the carpark,

some chubby girl assured me staying would reveal all.
And that I would hear my answer amongst the hype
from the stadium stands.

Evenso I drove out and exited the excitement,
the same way i came in.
Breaking a chain, a fence and puncturing the tyres.
ten metres from the park I got out of the car
and started toward the pines and sunshine.

Simple country folk embraced me,
I seemed to age immediately to about eighty seven.
I looked down at my feet black and bruised from the journey,
as the locals helped me across the narrow bridge to my death.

The strike

The strike
The old port buildings were off limits,
so i entered illegally.
from there you could bathe in reminiscence.
The light shadows off the rounded walls

the sugarlike dust on the creaky floor.
I could feel something,
it was like hitting gold.

Il comportamento(ill behaviour,no-translation)

Behave.(pontifical incense)

Smack the pope with the head of the priest.
throw me into the dungeon full of cold rigid nuns.
If I survive open the gates of the church.
I´ll be in flames to light all the candles.
Burn the truth connecting the world to a screen of
illusions that match their assumptions.

Beat the bishop with a pregnant nun until he falls and faints.

Then godly sir chain me to the convent gates
where me and the animal inside can watch
virtue rehearse.
The graceful sanctimonious oh how you leap like deer,
Mount your inquisition I can smell your incense fear.
I won´t behave.

 

(Roughly in portuguese)

Bate papa com uma cabeça do padre.

Me jogar no calabouço cheia de freiras frias.

Se eu sobrivivesse abre as portas da igreja.
Vou estar em chamas para ascender todas as suas velas.

E vou queimar a verdade,

ligando o mundo como uma tela.

 

Bate bispo com a freira gravida até que caia e desmaia.

Me accorentar nas portas de convento,

para assistir virtude ensaiar.

Eu estou com fome.

Nunca vou me conformar.

Sara

Sara the introvert.

Behind a wall quietly contented.
pleasantly isolated
always on the verge of expression.

She´s a library girl
through the shelves I watch her read,
sharp knife like eyes.

She pulls silence across her lifeform,
like curtains across windows with patience,
she´s the solitary bookworm
on the verge of imagination.

Days and weeks, thatching her sobriety
like a birds nest.

Swooning at accounts of stoics next
she finds me among the brambles of poets,
perplexed she scrambles toward me,
with every fibre of her sex.

Talk and food

Talk and food.

In this world
you can see an ancestral tickle in a smile.

The joy you´d love to be responsible for.
The laughter you´d love to have caused.
There´s food in conversation,
fibre and protein in exchanging words.

People laugh at the homeless,
strangling themselves in the name of appearances.
Choosing simple connections with predictable friends.

In the world you can see food exchanged like
conversation, listen to the poor.

Don´t over-fertilize your love

Fertilizing the garden of amor.

Often the bloom is appealing

the epitomy of colour and fertility.

It requires potassium.

For a time the leaves are neglected

and how they hunger nitrogen.

Unrequited love burns through

the sensitive like phosphorous.

While your garden is toyed with

by pathogens ha ha ha.

Love is an innuendo, follow me-

pistil feminine and wasp boisterous.

As confounding as nature

and obviously as mysterious.

The tree´s skin(that´s what i am)

I am the bark.

Unsmooth unscrupulous,

The praymantis high on it.

Brown and rugged all the way up

this tree is me.

Folding in and out toward the end of the trunk

to the start of the leaves.

I´m the pattern of bark

ceaselessly searching my own form of freedom.

I´m the lines, the gum that won´t freeze.

I´m the esoteric configurations

of the forest you can read.

Heat speaks to me

Heat speaks

Notice how the sweat slides off and drops from round cheeks and tight necks.
When you´re out of the office and heat speaks.

...How it collects between and underneath.
Under the Brazilian sun sweat relief is brief.

Adapting is achieved with fans and airconditioning.
On the streets it´s a beach umbrella thing.
People avoid midday´s sun oven,
In the lil´ available shade they cling.

Soulmates(Não nascemos xifópagas)

Soul mates are overated.

We weren´t born with our bodies connected.
There´s a great street between us.
Nothing in common.

So different each of our life steps.

Like the ant and the termite.
The flowering azalia bush and the evergreen grass.

No we weren´t born connected at the shoulder.
Maybe we´ll come together one day like pollen and sugar
So many emotions to shock us.

Almas gemeas são superestimados

Nos não nascemos xifópagas.
Entre nos tem uma rua larga.
Não temos nada em comum.

Tão diferentes, cada passo dos nossos caminhos.
Voce é uma azálea florida e eu o verdejante capim.

Não nos não nascemos Xifópagas.
Talvez vamos aproximar um dia como
pólen e açucar.
Tantas emoções por chocar-nos.
(the funny thing is few people ever come close to understanding the true meaning of what you want to say.)

The introvert

Behind a wall quietly contented.
pleasantly isolated
 always on the verge of expression.

She´s a library girl
 through the shelves I watch her read,
sharp knife like eyes.

She pulls silence across her lifeform,
like curtains across windows with patience,
she´s the solitary bookworm
on the verge of imagination.

Days and weeks, thatching her sobriety
like a birds nest.

Swooning at accounts of stoics next
she finds me among the brambles of poets,
perplexed she scrambles toward me,
with every fibre of her being.

The cream flavoured airport

The cream flavoured Airport.

Through the metal detector we go, a delightful shock.
Can you taste the strawberry?
"Can you put your belongings into the box?"
 
Two spoonfulls of desert without the main.
"Can you take off your belt sir and walk through again?"

Sweetness comes to the front of the tongue.
"Have you emptied your pockets madame?"
The redlight blinked and detector rang

The light suave flavour reaches every tastebud.
"Please have a nice day and enjoy your flight,
boarding has started gate cream right?"

I am Bec

With scalding wit you can try and hit me.
Your power-shell words an arsenal fitting.
Incendiary jibes your loose tongue lit.
 
Bomb phrase factory brain
the pedistall you sit.
Tongue fallout plays in acid rain
you simply wont
admit.
My prose grows on you I´m bec rhyme magic.
Militant rhyming let´s you know it´s drastic.
(That´s poetic for holy sh!t.)

Taking off.

The plane had no where to go
but the highway.
The hillside curving artery
climbing and turning with
just enough room for the plane.
It took off! It´s wheels missing the
steel barrier rails, toward the sky it went.
Over the dry flood plains and rugged cities.
Toward the forested hills and cool hospitable
villages.
Maybe there´s room in one of those for me.

Sensitivities triggered.

Sore you sit up in bed at night.
You saw something in the dream that frightened you.
Your pores trickle sweat the night through.
 
Paws your dog would put on your pillow
to impede pain lingering.
He could feel your sensitivites triggered
the night sweats and alptraums delivered.

Thunder run

Thunder Run

Thick rolls of noise draw clouds in like heavy cheering crowds,
Moving toward vulnerable rooves.
Bursting closer and closer extending the clapping and the cracking.
Forks of light fall toward the ground.

Each one exceeding the intensity of the last.
Over the thunder runs like shaking sheets of metal.
Reverberating walls and windows like they were
trembling adolescents on first dates.
Clouds part and the thunder has now run it´s course.
Disappearing from the pressure storm that passed like a huge grey hurse.
the sky still so full of power.
Admiration intact.

Porcupine on the grill

The porcupine´s on the grill.

Round it went screaming it´s flesh from dark red
to enticing pink then to grey like the weather.

From it´s sharp spines dropped coily fat
onto the grill splishing and giving taste
buds the craving.

So round it went screaming and fizzling
still half alive.

A little boy tapped his gutsure father on the shoulder
and said "Shouldn´t that be a cow?"

Cherry flavoured pill

The cherry flavoured pill.
(the sex pill of the future)

Every oriface exposed, every sexual fantasy
compacted refined cherry flavoured to be taken in pill form.
Colours of the skin flicker off wrything bodies AWKWARD AND
BENDED IN MOTION.

Erotic supply
an unruly mind
of desire and a tolerance for steel
cast smiles.

Heavy breathing actors worshipping the beast inside.
paired like delinquents
you must be satisfied.

Caught stealing from the furnace
where banal and empty dialogue leads to body torque and thrill.
Groans and moans and lubricants
instead cherry flavoured pills!

Meditation prayer(clarity)

Sitting my back to the tree.
Cure my imbalance.
Tranquilize my fear.
 
Permit my mind to dance in clarity.
Until my cloudy thoughts are clear.
 
My back to the tree summoning december
to be my month of plenty.
From seed to canopy.
 
Trance-like silent prayer for all to be restored.
My vigour, my vision and my certainty-
I´m sure.

Lotus

Contemplating the lotus.

Pale blue petals poke out like swords.
To both attract and hinder the bee
reaching the tiny forest of yellow pollen
in the middle.
The unopened buds are fingers toward the skies.
The round platform leaves bring darkness under the water
which they flourish over.
Around the outskirts of the watery broadleaf jungle
tadpoles commute.
As if the tangled mass was a city,
the lotus flowers were great pale blue satelite
dishes toward the sky.
Each neon jewel calling the eye.
Their grace the muse of
meditation/enlightenment.

A percentage of a soul

There are more of you,
you are not one soul connected body.
 
Yes there´s a few other bodies out there
 dividing the same soul between them.
Pity you all have to share it.
That you all get the same ideas together
so nothing new comes from you.
 
Yes you finger originality like some strange insect.
It´s so foreign to you, it stings as dull envy.
 
Your semblence to the mainstream profile
It´s the overall suspect.
You are not one but plural in form.
A collective personality that goss and pop
keep warm.
 
People you can buy my trust
but I´ll need your soul.

The Eager egret

The Eager Egret.
As eager as the eagret.
it´s stilt legs and white downy feathered
body.
It´s carrot like beak pointed to the water

as if willing the fish to come toward the water´s edge
the fisherman´s friend extending and contracting
it´s S shaped neck.
The local flock of pidgeons kept to a distance.
Only the daring oyster catcher dares approach.
So patient it rolls up it´s neck and stands dead still
for a few minutes.
As the motion of the water hypnotizes it.

The toy unplayed with

To be the toy unplayed with,
To be the scene ignored.
To be the wicked worder,
They pretend to have adored.
 
Now they play your feelings,
like a new
Illusive game,
 
Caring to light the candle,
  and now they
Ignore this flame.
 
Holding the water,
they let the fire engulf
 and burn out by itself.
 
To be the toy unplayed with
the untouched book
on a dusty shelf.

In the bar of the bakery.

The bar of the bakery,
 
Full of grease.
Stain the clothes of who stays.
Too relaxed with a shoulder
full of grease.
Go home! Go take a bath!
or wash your clothes.
 
So don´t lean baby.
Because suddenly the pasty grease
made up of burnt oil will stain you.
Those without thinking minds take home and wear like Badges.

Lucid dreamlife.

Behind the spiral,
I´ve payed for a flood in the mind.
Sound asleep recuperating the vital.
Half way to find.
The truth in my dreams.
 
The signs and movement collide
and press emotions into your night breathing.
So many twilight paths, little realms
where you can cash in fantasy themes.
 
Have your own mind aligned and cleaned.
The sandman and I made a deal on
the clear dreamlifestyle.
 
Make it lucid and as far from the rocks
as possible, with a smile
he turned up the music and colours.
 
Before I could dance morning hit like a 
Vile fire alarm.

The damned hotel series.

The hotel gave it´s first present, the box caused perfect intrigue.
It opened out like a rubix cube unfolding.
Then demonstrated just how easy and blissful a life for two could be!
  d*mn it was just missing the instructions.

Born into a campfire,
singing dancing chanting painted adolescents.
Cicadas hollering orchestras on their backs.
The boys and girls raving and mad from the sweet humidity
and mosquito bites.
When the fire dies down all of them are alert,
into the midnight they go with a gulp and a burp.

Checking out(of the hotel damned)

With the key the money I owed and the owners
authoritative voice I was now leaving.
One surprise altogether chilling, knocked the air out of me.
In the foyer a woman was rummaging in the lost property
cupboard, when a monstrous voice cacophoned out like
falling shoes and ringing sirens.
The noise of a ghost so poisonous it´s prolonged presence
would madden you.
The woman clerk jumped like high hell and gave a short
explanation before continuing her small insignificant errands
in the foyer.
They all made little effort to give any reason to the ghostly abruption.
It was like a madmans music.

 The hotel damned(part whatever)

The hotel gave another present before the departure hour struck.
The present was a one eyed underwater duck in a glass tank.
Through it´s only eye every possible lake surface blue shined.

The essential colours of water.
It wouldn´t quack or even wobble.
It would live an injured life underwater,
I the overdue guest accepted.
For what would be it´s fate if not?

 Down the corridors the group of youths skipped as tight friends.
They pointed me out as if a landmark in a city perhaps the
resident monkey puzzle tree.


Alas concerning purchase and desire not a minute was I given.
The youths arm´s laden with new clothes firmly gripping to
some current version of pop destiny.

Thousand crimson(Mathilde paints me)

Bliss in fiction my friend hinder and his wander of non direction.
His name´s ponder, hanging on off the offchance asunder.
Off the vibration of thunder.
...

Solve my thousand crimson life

Like a viking living for plunder.
Puddles of me well up in the streets as the storm hits.

vermillion off me(not lifting me)

Bliss in fiction, my friend hinder died,
I still grieved like wet sleeves,
I gave up the wander alas it stuck,

Like a blood clot sticks

but I wonder if the cup I drink from will drive me
like riverbound lumber toward the rocky shores
of solitude.
From whence myriad red will claim me
when all is conluded.

Lost poet

Lost poet(simon Bernard Elliott)

Roughed up by rusty black iced mornings.

The morbid rhyme comes a howling as a lake horse provoked.
The dusty eyes are licked by the cautious kelpie and it revives
my shine and vigour.
...
The loch a mirror of hard embedded tears now sold and formed frozen
like the will of the six.

The dreams of the seventh poet revolving and expanding.

One red balloon

I´m a sunken balloon.
The sunrise illuminates my lack of roundness.
My cadence and my inevitable reunion with the hard earth.
perhaps it is with the ground below that I should make love
 and not the sky princess,
 but red balloons should float!

Perhaps it is with history I should find my fuel for love
 and not the future?
Oh exhaustion holds me firmly in a thousand tones of dark red.
Each one thick and suffocating.

If only a new colour would appear on the horizon
 to help cure my lovesick arrythmia.

Define me(dead poet)

Con-verse, re-verse I´ve a lot to rehearse.
Each ventricle of my heart a plain,
Avalon, nirvana, valhalla and hades brewing verse.
The many god´s stand on the thresh-hold of my mind
sprinkling the ashes of dead poets on my dreams.
Wheels toward my true nature are turned with each
Word I scribe, each verse I stream.
Read my rhymes if you want to get to know me.

Veda ruby

(Inspired by kandangath Balakrishnan, written and created by me!)
The immaculate shine,
the sunlit forest edge.
The blissful chew
of unsuspecting cattle.
The jewel raised
for mortal view.
The flower heart
of an lilac round hedge.

The soul abundant studded.
The flow from
trickle to flood.
The tickle of sweet seasons
Brahman crest reflects blinding
Veda Ruby
the true jewel raised
like a young queen.
(The blissful chew=lifes short pleasures)
(The true jewel raised= the object of our desire)
(It is essential to recognise kandangaths work for it is esoteric and spiritual and holds subtle truth, which means real truths)

Olives off the pizza

Take the olives off
 ( semi-simi-Sonnet ABABAB CC)
Between the time it takes to get the olives off the pizza.
Among the mozzarela, provolone and sundried tomatoes.
The seconds accumulate before you´re liberated to eat up.
Oh the clock ticks and time inevitably goes.

The oversalty olives make you reach for another cup.
How the guarana soda, the juice and water flow.

So please god give me back those precious seconds.
That I´ve spent extracting green pips as the great feast beckons.

Heartfelt ging

I´d like to yell it out for Ging Alburo.
I reckon her prose is rosey and puro.
keeping the dream heartfelt 
The emotive language that would have us melt.
Love to sing praises for ging this verse throughout.

None left

 

From the other side of the earth I used to murmur.
Guess it´s nothing to her.
Fail to find the stardust that would it light up
an ordinary night enough
to cure our hearts, transform lust.
There´s none of that good stuff,
we´re apart.
And shores are oilspills
even the warmest hearts would be chilled.
The pollution of nerves and heresay
would get in the way.
That little ray of hope would die like winter´s child,
like "You give me the world and I´ll let your
oggling eyes look".
Nothing left for me as she eases red in the face.
Stardust is used yet no addiction was abused.
Popularity contests were won,
hearts on sleeves were refused.

Contours and shade of a skull

Often we are taken from the frypan
barely cooked our flesh falls onto
the plate of worms and serpents.
Our skeleton clean and empty
our skull a hard curved bowl both the shell
of a soul gone.
Light shadows flicker
dancing on the hard gaunt dark eyesockets.
The jaw bone an oppressive drawbridge
The nose a new void an undiscovered canyon cave
grey to black.
The sinister curvurture of the cheeks
assigning the face bone, sinister roads and highways
to nowhere.

The bus to heaven-part 2

The passage was dark, the deperate hooligan stuck there was my soul.
I fought myself tooth and tumble.
Falling on radioactive skulls lining the road outside the caverns entrance.

That terminal was full of girls, not one of them could touch my heart.
One by one they desembarked leaving me to walk back into the darkness to wrestle with my soul some more.

Sometimes the devil you know is the most destructive.
The angel that I sought pounded alluring drums
that deafened my ears to any other sound.

Why! God! It was just a celestial recording.
She´d taken leave and already ascended
leaving me far below and out.

The bus to heaven- part 1

The grey day of departure came, few words were exchanged.
On the grey day of empty goodbyes the sky´s hue was pure glare,
we´d almost arrived!
 
As I turned to say hello stunned merely by the curls and the flair.
Was this the bus to heaven?
  Out they went across the carpark to where the terminal awaited.
If there was something I could do or say it was now long too late. 
 
The sky seemed so dull and the motor on the bus "Brrrumed" futile. Grease and oil, lust and love, the bus driver told me it was pergurtory for the meanwhile. 

Leaving the party.

Eyes came alive and hope had muscle.
Heresay passed by superb lips.
Half the guests as pissed as polecats.
Exits wouldn´t jump in my way,
The foolish mouth makes noise,
none of the truth the mind so
efficiently propagated comes out.
Radiating boredom Time pretends to be your friend
arriving in your hand and demanding you leave with it.
Farewells didn´t climb a metre.
Down went a few more litres and out went I.
The animal inside as ferocious and disappointed
As a beast returning to the den less fresh prey.
Howling and finally finding laughter a few furlongs
from the lair.
Unreasonable, hilarious what strange beasts we all are.

Libra breathes

Cross the short thin threads of limited telepathy.
Romanticism sparks hope in the female psyche.
 
Though I´ve been coloured by the night
and your girlfriend´s opinions.
 You ponder on your pillow if i´m that
one in a million.
 
And the many faces in noone I confide,
the ideals, secrets and subtle power
I decide to hide from you.
 
Through them all you see me by,
Your mind calls me like the gull of creation´s cry.
Fall muse to me, watch this platform that
a mystic like me fell from.
 
Watch me climb back on.
Twins have pointed.
Fish and crabs have annointed.
Fall muse to me, be the salt the sea things sprinkled.
 
With a bull charge hear Libra breathing.
As if for the very first time innocence were leaving.
Scorpions clap and have my back, as I spin words into
the cosmos´ fine weave.

Landmine onomatopeia

Getting chased by the local militia.
"Panting" pushing through the fields of
pig grass "swoosh swoosh".
Tropical gale up the village´s outer trees "wheesh".
Sprinting "tit tat titting".
Suddenly stopping not in time.
The underbrush consumed the barbwire
and "Danger" skull and crossbone sign.
Two steps and "clink"!!!
Deadstill now the body motionless as if struck blind
or by a stroke.
The "clink" was the dull click of an old landmine
now primed.
Screaming now "Ahhhhhhh",
for life was so sweet god gave back so many lovely chances.
Now it´ll all be in vain as fate steadily advances.
"Ouch" a paper wasp descended from the nearby mango tree
well infested with foul and nefarious nests.
"ZZZZZEmmm" "Zist" as it settled on the neck of the corpse soon to be.
Stinging flesh soon to fester.
Two or three sharp burns from it´s primed stinger.
Up ahead "rustling" in the pig grass a majestic Taipan!
"Rustle" "Sssst sssst st" gliding like a tyrant through
the stems of a monocot forest toward the paralysed man.
It does approach like the midday sun.
In the distance he can hear his name being called like
some strange game.
Alas his voice was spent screaming when he gave the militia the slip
when he tragically triggered the tricky tip of his own death trip.

A bit of tick tack toe

Sometimes it just takes alittle tick tack toe
To get out the long awaited poem.
 
A little noughts and crosses,
to jiggy up up the horses.
 
A bit of board game mundane
to pass the rhymes through the day.
 
Yes give it spot of hoity toity waistcoat grey.
Inject it with some of that spikey donkey bray!
 
Just a tad blue fungus on that sweet potatoe.
brush it off with your tongue visions grow.
 
Lifes just videogames and tick tack toe!

Wannabe rockstar

Counting down his favourite tunes.
Hair grows long as do finger callauses.
The guitar crops and prunes,
some old classic cover every band plays.

Attitude is 90% authenticity is ten.
His balding sporty mogul wannabe manager says.
Get out there and sell the image, imagine.
Studios can make a turd sound good and just may...

Make you the next Bon jo vi blossom legend.
Your fortune five million agent wants what´s best.
His spiels and speeches are only half pretend.
And that´s good apples since rock regressed.

Yes wannabe rockstar posing with your pick in mouth!
The first hundred hairs on your upper chest bare.
You see yourself as a young skynard in the south.
As you attempt to free the bird shaped like pear.

Mexican midnight

Like a stray dog I´m left on the streets.
They have never abandoned me.
Friends are found down the calle centrale.
Streetlights make the night fried chicken yellow
and were off to eat fish with humble brothers.
Banana palms cushion the hard straight contours of the
roads.
We hear chopping and smell cooking smiles are shared like
good tequila.
Running in and out with that mexican tag question "ey"!
We arrived at the restaurant and instead of eating
we started our shift joking and staring.
Oye hombre el gringo llego!!! Y ahora?

The hippy poet(fanatic)

Want to see a fanatic?
A man who sees only black and white.
Whose resolve is thick to get up and fight.
 
Want to see a damned fanatic?
One that shouts and waves a clenched fist
like a lunatic half p*ss*d.
 
I know a young man like that,
that mobilizes hate faster than religion can.
That would have the freedom of faith
completely banned!
 
I know a man like that!
Who is faster to accuse than the inquisition.
Who loves to abuse in the name of his ambition.
A man who doubts the existance of god is sick,
this man is no hippy, he´s a fanatic!

Frightening muse

She turns her head.
I´ve seen the light
that her aura shed.
She makes me feel like I´ve a bomb
in my chest.
How can i fight?
Near her I feel blessed.
She spreads a smile across her face,
a reason to love right.
A thousand dreams chase,
the definition of pining after her.

She turns her head,
such grace feminine and fine.
The rest of her haunts me and
leaves an imaginary sweet taste.
She intrigues and mystifies,
near her my admiration is fear laced.
Afterall noone adores the idea of being
denied a second time.

Make me whole(middle east)

Between deserts I die.
I´ve been a corpse floating on the Nile
the water rolling my body.
The leeches behind my eyes make me seem lively.
The eels under my clothes make you think I´m moving.
Yet I´m splitting at the limbs and I´m bound for Egypt.
I´ll be in pieces by the time I hit the mediterranean.
I´ll call on the middle east to sew me together
like so many ripped apart countries.
I´ll call the brother hood to drop the agenda.
Iran to procure threads of tolerance.
Syria the fabric of peace.
Israel a drop of compassion.
I´ll look back into my lifeless body and find a soul
to make me whole again.

Love your nightmares(laugh at the attempt)

Love your nightmares,
they´ll break the chains on your mind.
They´ll drywash the darker areas
of your grey matter.
Yeah love it, for life is a matter
of minutes or hours away.
The nausea of morning awaits
the pressure and lack.
That build you up to knock you down
thumping infatuation for someone else.
Yeah stay in the bad dream knowing it fiction
like a movie.
And laugh at the subconscious´ attempts to
dismay us more than being awake.
(No rhyme here just prose so if you don´t like it
there´s cheap cucumber sandwiches down at the dirt
and switch station get thrilled and filled like fish on it.)

The game was rough(Jogo sujo inglês)

The game was sticks and stones.
Friends were hard to come by.
Between the abandoned city and the football field
treachery and failure worked like well payed lawyers.

The game was hit ´em hard
my only friend couldn´t help me stuck on his
mothers lap.
Players from the other team threatened me with death.

They were all like hyrogliphic birds beating
their heads together like drums.
Summoning their inner devils for an atrocity.

Yellow fever(english version)

Dense forest looks like there´s no way out.
I´m tired of hunting the gorgeous panther.
My hunger and my thirst are like thunder crashing.
Dragging my heavy ideas to the edge of the swamp.
Where I will drink the murky water
and fish for scarcity.
There humidity and mosquitos worship me,
kissing my shoulders and turning me into a gold statue
without a cure.
I´m dizzy now, afflicted with so much flattery
and inflammed bites.
 

Definition of solitude

When you connect with others
you can feel yourself pretending.
The smile as lacking in meaning as the conversation.

Slowly you end up
inevitably offending.
Awkward silence conquers each situation.

So I write with not much more
than fingers and dictionaries.
Tragically absorbing myself
like a starving stomach, like a sick canary.

Face glued to the screen trying to string words 
together with alittle meaning.
Outcomes my bias, the pidgeon hole and my
political leaning.

Back into myself I go
hours by myself,
I know between me and the world there´s a feud.
No friends and now not even a muse.
I conclude this mediocre rhyme
with a definition of solitude. 

Simple life no appeal

Here we go again writing something
that might get me published.
 Alas my dreams of being a fully fledged
writer look like rubbish.

Simple life and no appeal,
best friends with my casually dressed
routine how do I feel?

I´ll keep writing and when I´m
dead I´ll be read.
I´ll never know how people saw me
or if they cared!

This simple life has no appeal whatsoever
I should forget the mundane and become clever. 

Wannabe rockstar

Counting down his favourite tunes.
Hair grows long as do finger callauses.
The guitar crops and prunes,
some old classic cover every band plays.

Attitude is 90% authenticity is ten.
His balding sporty mogul wannabe manager says.
Get out there and sell the image, imagine.
Studios can make a turd sound good and just may...

Make you the next Bon jo vi blossom legend.
Your fortune five million agent wants what´s best.
His spiels and speeches are only half pretend.
And that´s good apples since rock regressed.

Yes wannabe rockstar posing with your pick in mouth!
The first hundred hairs on your upper chest bare.
You see yourself as a young skynard in the south.
As you attempt to free the bird shaped like pear.

Jogando sujo

O jogo foi duro,
amigos forram dificeis de achar.
Entre a cidade abandonada e o campo de futebol,
traição e fracasso trabalhavam como nunca.

O jogo foi brutal,
meu melhor amigo não podia me ajudar
preso no colo da sua mae feito um bebe.
Jogadores de outro time me ameaçava com a morte.

Eles eram como passaros predatórios
batendo suas cabeças que nem tambores.