Deprived by country and elsewhere
For deeds and actions I didn’t do
Suspicious here, not welcomed there
You can imagine my worldview
You’re privileged to move around
Your peaceful countries waged no wars
I’m privileged to go without
The double standard world of yours
You think of nation seeing me
Though it’s not me but your projection
You’re talking to contemptuously
I only mirror your reflection
In Wonderland founded by bandits
Stands a glass house where I live
Break it to shatters, I won’t mend it
Just bear in mind I cannot leave
By circumstances I couldn’t manage
And to be honest, no one could
I am dehumanized and savaged
And you all set and understood
I’m not complaining, but just telling
The facts of living that I find
Funny enough to rhyme, compelling
Your short attention to unwind
I am a laughing man of August
I am a crying man of March
When spring blows off the winter dust
I click some photos to enlarge.
Blame me if you really must,
curse my soul into God's dust.
Make a fist held way up high,
make fake tears whilst you cry.
Scream at me while you cuss,
call me out as treasonous.
Make believe it's all true,
pity contemptuously that's so you.
Tell my friends who you believe I am,
but they'll condemn you, amen!
God, he knows you all too well,
he has a good place for you to dwell.
Let's burn their flag
their Confederate flag
The flag of traitors, of betrayers
Let's burn their flag
Let's light them on fire
their Confederate flags
The flags of those who humiliated
the once-noble African race
selling them down-river at auctions
Let's light their Confederate flags on fire
These traitors hated all blacks -- in THAT,
they were unbiased -- I've witnessed the
snarl on their lips trying to say '*****,'
spitting out, contemptuously, 'Ni-gra.'
These betrayers pleaded 'States Rights'
when they knew damn well that no
state has the right to grant freedom
to some, while denying it to others,
whose blood is as red as their brothers...
So, let's burn their flags
their Confederate flags
Let's burn them all, light them on fire
and ban them forever and aye
I'm the Master of my destiny.
No one can take that away from me.
Many will try but they will see.
I'm the master of my destiny.
I'm the master of my destiny.
I really don't care what they think of me.
They can try and try, contemptuously, but
I'm the master of my destiny.
I'm the master of my destiny.
Try as you might, you won't crumble me.
I will walk with my head high, so humbly.
I'm the master of my destiny.
I'm the master of my destiny.
No one can stop me, only me.
But I'll rise and I'll rise, so gracefully.
Because I'm the master of my destiny!
SONNET IN THE WIND
(The Archer)
Hark! What wind doth blow in yonder forest
Stirring the spirit of a long dead archer
In his endless search for the unwary doe
He stealthily lifts his bow – aiming hurriedly
His shot misses – his prey flees – frightened
Alas! He trudges onward – eyes peering intently
A huge buck with antlers like a tree
Suddenly looms on the horizon
He sniffs – testing the wind for signs
Is danger lurking near
The twang of the bowstring alerts his keen senses
He pivots swiftly – his white tail flashing
He bounds away – snorting contemptuously
The archer – stirred by the wind – is seeking still
God, in His infinite wisdom gave animals instinct
Given also to man, but man fails to embrace it
Well now, beneath the darkest realms
In nightmarish gists, I am the one
Who instills fear and in putrescence I dwell
In variety, isocheimal ulteriority is all I've done
Laureled with the metallic lustres of death
And shining with the fires of vengeance
Animosity is the origin of my libellous wreaths
Where you see hearts of the women I've broken dearest
Sultrily I coax the likes of you in my irresistible hazards
Scarcely liminal of you towards my tinge of ominous transience
In my vegete facade, my words flow like the romanticizing Haggard
And contemptuously strike you down in my own baleful omnipotence
What a naive fille you are, my dejected little princess!
To be easily deluded by a beguiler with a stunning visage
In your ruptures, I ecstatically drown myself in your distress
Beneath woos and charming signals of temperament are the vicious lures of a savage.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is a response to: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/a_princess_cry_604227
SONNET IN THE WIND
(The Archer)
Hark! What wind doth blow in yonder forest
Stirring the spirit of a long dead archer
In his endless search for the unwary doe
He stealthily lifts his bow – aiming hurriedly
His shot misses – his prey flees – frightened
Alas! He trudges onward – eyes peering intently
A huge buck with antlers like a tree
Suddenly looms on the horizon
He sniffs – testing the wind for signs
Is danger lurking near
The twang of the bowstring alerts his keen senses
He pivots swiftly – his white tail flashing
He bounds away – snorting contemptuously
The archer – stirred by the wind – is seeking still
Hey Toadus!
Make
A ham sandwich
Such that I
May consume it
At my leisure…
Hey Toadus!
That
Ham sandwich
Is very good
Might I
Have another?
Yes Sir
I will be quite glad
To make
As many
Ham sandwiches
As you desire
Hey Toadus!
Don’t patronize me, nor snicker contemptuously whilst my back be turned!
Of course not, sir
Catering to your whims is a business I take most seriously…
Toadus! Toadus!
What knoweth ye that I may know too?
Only how to make a ham sandwich, Sir.
Is that all ye know, Toadus?
No, not all Sir.
Will ye not teach me what ye know Toadus?
If I teach ye what I know, then you will depose me as servant, and I will be forced to become master…
Dammit Toadus! I require your knowledge!
Then you will be unable to lead, Sir, as effective leadership requires grotesque ignorance. Perhaps another ham sandwich will ease your restless nature…
Sophie's sweat
landscapes
the claret red horizon
thick serum
trickles
from a Sickroom -
a death ward
where cracked knuckles
spatter the fjords
moistening the planks;
bathing the laths of anxiety
‘neath
marquis de sade stumps
Norwegian expressions of death -
agoraphobia
murdering actuality;
the Dance of Life
rapidly burns
as a funeral pyre of Ashes are
seized from
your tribe’s headstone
the stench of brother’s legacy
replaces
a protected breath
and a Dead Mother can
descry muted
caterwauls
between
the Clock and the Bed
the two guardians of quietus
merely exit
this clotted bridge
contemptuously -
in soured and
staled
delight
I have been already many years
On royal service.
I saw many different masters,
the important persons.
Some of them even love me:
some give me money,
Others give me slaps in the face.
But once the Autumn came to city.
I wanted to escape with her from the palace.
I have forgotten about tasty meals
I have thrown away the cap of the clown.
But when I went outside the door,
I saw there again:Familiar grandees
Laugh at me
Unfamiliar nobles go with the party contemptuously.
Nobody will protect, will not understand me.
Really shall I always be lonely?
Because I am the clown,
You should not perceive me seriously,
To think about me seriously.
I dance on on a secluded, closed circle, again
And the sky falls on heads of birches.
Self-perfidy ignites the story again
Contemptuously, I run to my patience's edge;
Strain it further, till I make the inner-burst.
Then, retreat callously, pricked by mundane-me.
Stuffing disgust, within air already replete with loathe
Growing old meaninglessly was never been so apparent.
Earthly cravings enshroud 'tomorrow-shines' Dreams
Habituated to condone the swerving: - hope-spikes almost dead.
I concoct excuses faster than getting tagged for manhandling promises
But sometimes, envying weeds, I realize how wasted I am.
Time seems insensitive to my pathetic pace, But I
Still cling to long-back-brewed self-expectations.
With just few hope shreds, I keep the faith candle lighted
These loaned hopes are too expensive to afford now.
With an eight dollar orchid, a melamine bed
the room glowing modern and Japanese red
she sleeps.
Valleys of sunsets in lieu at her feet
and a window of rice paper mute
She is the reason for structure and line
while beyond explanation there is no refute.
With a feast of a find in a pool in her mind
she is balancing purpose on pins
Blowing confetti of all that was lost
out her window, before she begins
With a handle on steel, quite contemptuously real
she taps out the room in a blink
as the eight dollar orchid redeems in a bloom
the remnants of sanctum she still has to think
And it's all at the end of the day
And it's all been a story worth telling
And she's always got something to say
And she'll be here tomorrow (God willing)...
With an eight dollar orchid, a moment alone
in a room to collapse in and finally call home,
she sleeps.
Cold and damp winter fog
Creeping, seeping, contemptuously
Deepening, ever more heaping,
Invading, pervading my soul.
Like pulling off the freeway,
The "I" now moves at a different speed,
Trapped in a helter skelter tempest.
Slipping past the cool mists of autumn,
Descending further into the depths,
Of the season my soul is despair.
Emotional atmospheric air so full,
Like Santa Claus's gift of toys,
Laden of tortuous mental moisture,
Flooded with the tears
Of my very being this day.
There is no other.
Heart heavy gravity
Weighs, awaiting some opening
To pass for existence.
Thickness of black aura,
Like my head thick in gridlock,
Each breath from this swamp
Swells to quagmire of quicksand,
Smothering, gasping, guttural.
Gutter real, but no eyes
To see beyond the invisible.
Trodden, berated, disheveled,
Full of confusion and frustration.
No answers to conflagrant queries
Until hope open a passage
To sail beyond Dante's levels.
Time in this valley is
Dreary, a depressed desolation.
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