Nothing straight, even sightly
Hangs now over me.
As twisty, Moonah-shaded
Which gouged path below.
So awaits, and breath-stilling
Hot-blown, face, writhing
For prospects, unseeable
What, sea-cool, must show!
bet. aireys inlet and anglesea
Born of fire.
Black water.
A singular spine—
I learned how to live unkissed, until...
The Tasman bared its teeth,
A cold, crushing mouth.
The moon is an honest Manipulator,
pulling the tide
like a noose.
grinding the heavy ocean
against my spine.
White surf choking
my basalt throat.
The sky tears open,
it's raining roses and love riots,
soft ruin
on wet basalt.
Let the gale howl
its wrath.
Against my ledges.
I filled the night's chalice with knots of desire.
The tempest cracks
over the peak—
Tie me to your Tongue;
make the storm's voice
the only thing
holding me above the waves.
A fossil of fire.
That gouged the dark.
I ask the heavy air:
If time turns, will scars stain the sky?
Everything I do seems to find a way to mock me.
A jeering derision to the paradox of my delicacy.
Each impulsive haste of emotion knocks on the wood of my wretch.
A doleful stimulation to invigorate the louse of my lassitude.
The inertia of my cunning shrewd howls against the odium of my filth.
Against the odium of my haste.
The odium of my humility.
And the odium of my unadulterated abhorrence.
I find myself comparing the speckled illustrations of my masked exploitation.
One of a noble morality.
One of a sinful salvation.
And one of the reprehensible dignity I carry within the reality of my reviled anatomy.
The reality of my depiction.
The reality of my void.
Every word of degradation invokes the ice of my celestial petition.
A celestial plead for an implosion so grave; it dares to uphold a cathedral of my indented dejection.
My fortitude of a sunken dejection.
My poverty of an exiled dejection.
My deception of a gouged dejection.
I am nothing but the prolonged corpus of my own vile vulgarity;
I am nothing but the corrupted potency of my own induced pallet;
I am nothing but the misdemeanour of my own cholerised pertinence.
When Napoleon declared the French parliament defunct,
representatives beat him up. A couple hundred miles away,
Beethoven scribbled over his own dedication to Napoleon,
whom he had supposed to be a champion of liberty.
As climbing the greasy pole goes,
this wasn't exactly polished.
He was roughed-up - by politicos!
Can't blame them: no-one likes being abolished
(for sure, not these ego-bloated shysters!)
What else? Oh, in a paroxysm of rage,
an eccentric Kapellmeister
gouged a hole in a music page.
For all his smiling talk of ease and glee
(tomorrow), his eloquent implorings,
this moment always comes.
The pipes get drowned by drums.
The sleek ship of self-regard, so sleazily,
drifts free of its decent moorings.
She made me of fun
I would have gouged her eye
To serve on her my turn
But doubt it won't break the aspiring tie
Though I thought she was but in fear
Of her doubt in words ladies hear
Yet, my response will never thought to be made
To one who stands not for others in the world
And this tongue of flame could have ceased to flicker
The true nature of my charming heart desire
But since, up from the ages past
No one has ever yet
Withstand the grief of regret
Turned encouraging unless had tried out his best
If what I know is true
Being cajoled will never break my flue
For at my back, I always hear
Age's pennate cart hastening near...
Your noor overflows from your majesty
Your name exceeds over milkyway galaxy
At the earth at seas at skies your place
Who is in trouble caught up by your aids
Your arms are behind the dam of Gog
One blind eye of dejjal by your finger gouged
Next to Jesus your commander is Mahdi
You are the pioneer of glorious victory
You are the ruler of armies of Islam, master
You are the teacher of science Sultans, master
You are the hidden knowledge oceans' vessel, master
You are the light to heavens and earth, master
You are the honor of whole universe, master
If you were to ask me
Be the one to catch me, before i take the fall
You'd be the only one waiting, afterall
For whence i open my mouth and
Spill a sea of pills tinged with reddened liquor
I think you'd listen, then
If i took advice from any voice, it'd say 'give up'
But then again the only advice i ever took was the gurgles from down below
Onwards, outwards, suck inwards and hollow
If i gouged the gurgles, they'd say 'continue'
They'd count on me as i count every zero
They'd hold onto my head while i clutch the bottle
But, you'd catch me.
Incase i couldn't catch me
You'd advise me to give up
But i'd have fallen from your grasp
Onwards, downwards, i'd ignore the numbers from the liquor
For they'd spill from my mouth ever quicker
I'd have lost count, either way.
Hey, what did you want to say?
There must be
an entry point
somewhere in the fabric
of being, perhaps
an unhealed
wound in the bark
of an ancient tree
deep in a primordial
forest or gouged
in the cliff face
of a remote shoreline
where southern ocean
gales pound the continent,
or somewhere quiet,
unobtrusive, hidden
from view in a corner
of the self where it has
been all your life.
You feel its cool breath
blow across your face
much like when a slight
breeze comes out
of a cave when standing
near its mouth.
There are days now
when you are there
near its gape
when a weariness
takes hold and you peer
into a dark nothingness
at the very centre
of yourself, see it begin
to slowly dissolve
mind and form,
welcoming you back
to that place
where you were
before you were born.
after "Do not go gentle into that good night", by Dylan Thomas
Age can not scour away the furrowed gnarls time obeyed,
Nor mask the snarls, gouged as trenches on brows.
Grace knurls the grip that time has long betrayed,
To swage wrath and fury to a form that age endows.
Grace reveres the knurled design that time has hewn,
Not as a defect or flaw, but as grip etched by yen of years,
Like old trees twisted, contorted, too far gone to prune.
It’s grace that cradles calloused scars, not fears.
It’s the gnarls of age that knurls the last grasp of rage
to rebel against the curse of dusk’s encroaching bite.
Stroking the rebellious snarls that ring on anvil stage,
as loved ones bear the thumps and flails of the plight.
It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to fight,
against the blight in the coming of good night.
The body
Johan on the strand
The sun shone on his belly
Gulls had gouged his eyes
Crabs crawled into his nose
came out of his mouth
A shroud of sea tar
A man strummed a guitar
A girl laughed
A summer in 1954.
As I heard a sad
story of a woman named
Elysée,
I am standing to tell the entire world about it.
The woman who knows her value.
As some mercenaries called
M23 entered her house around
a day and foced her to lay on the ground
while looking at the sky.
She listened to them and laid easily
on the floor to avoid to be slaughtered
or shot publicly.
As she refused to sleep
with some mercenaries,
She was hit,
raped,
and mutilated ...
her eyes gouged out
in the presence of her children
and husband.
I can say loud, "
Woe to these heartless
Rwandan mercenaries."
As the women celebrate today
March 8, 2025.
My call to you dear mamas and sisters,
" feel the pains of Congolese women
Oh wise women of the World.
Stand with the women of Goma
and Bukavu who are victims of daily atrocities.
So sad as many women of northern, southern
Kivu and ituri continue to be preys of some rebels
and mercenaries.
It’s a harsh cold winter
You’re gone and I’m so bitter
I sat front-row seat
As I watched our love wither
Heart gouged by the splinters
You’ve silenced your ringer
And my feelings for you
Oh, they still linger…
It’s a harsh cold winter
Choked sobs and silent whimpers
Sparks of love burned out
Leaving ashes and cinder
Sleepless nights
Bottles of whiskey
Skipped meals
My love, do you miss me?
It’s a harsh cold winter
I’ve always been an overthinker
Should I move on? Or reach out?
letting my healing progress hinder
Week old sheets that smell of you
Tears as wide as the ocean
People come and go
But all I ever wanted was your devotion
I still remember your easily smiling face, poetry spilling from your lips
Singing joyfully at the dead of night, not a care in the world.
Oh how I miss your face when it was alive,
When it was not hardened, frozen,
unfeeling.
Was it God’s love what drove yours away?
For what reason does the Sun rise; rousing this cold star?
Was it for this the bullets flew? Was England worth
Stealing your innocence away, carelessly, flippantly,
selfishly?
Our country is filthy with ignorance, the front clean and pure,
Snowy white feather mocking, girls giggling gallantly,
Surprise when I snarl, stumble back; shocked.
The Soldier's uniform staves off the dove,
its curse.
Desperately lingering in your gaze, I search in the abyss,
The most loving part of you asleep, or dead.
Nothing I can do can make it stir, still I reach for you,
Ragged, scarred skin, they’re only remnants of your service,
my dear.
The jolt of terror evoked not from your maimed face,
One side ripped, gouged of recognition, eye mangled,
But from the other, undamaged pupil unmoving,
Emotions missing, heart agape, your brain stone,
Empty.
REFRACTION
When a meaning’s span has no breadth
Or even being superficial with no depth
Then any intrinsic value would be scarce
Perhaps with origins on different worlds
Yet even when they are barely glimpsed
Or simply imagined and merely dreamt
By thick mist and clouds one is engulfed
Any claims of understanding can be false
For clarity of perception, one is obliged
As from the void it can never be gouged
But it’s like a burst balloon when pierced
And then none shall ever know its secret
For some reason the radiator is on
Some sun skimmed summer
Our ties slung in varying disrespect
Head resting against palm to feign the guise of awake
My desk scrawled with the names of ones before
some etched some gouged
A slug shaped excuse for a mammal gurgling on about that and another
As I watched glints of sunlight skip together outside
like some ethereal game of tag
For some reason the always called me mister followed by the abrasion of my second name
You are hear to learn
Like a cue my head swivelled in unison with my sigh
What can I say look at my teachers
My hands already grasping the denim straps of my makeshift bag dragging the contents and scrunching it within
Deliberately squeaking my chair to watch the vessel in his neck just a fraction more as I rose to leave the room
He still thinks he’s punishing me as I head towards the outside and what will be
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