Long Miscreants Poems
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Is there really a beautiful heaven?
Is there a red and black hell for sinners?
Basking on this, I told myself that the beautiful heaven is this we see now, argue with the sky and cloud on this.
Father Francis told us that there is no heaven,
Pope Thomas told us that paradise is within our hearts,
and those who fall and fall on the altar of deliverance are miscreants.
We believed him on a platter of Sunday school morning.
He gave us lies and lies of truth about the World Series of lies.
In this pantful world where children wear disgrace,
In this world' voodoo, where sorrow back treasures of preachers,
In this train of earth where girls wear tears,
In this shattered world where our pride are whores,
Nothing is precious under the sun and nothing that the sun has not seen.
Man is home to himself and have choices about himself.
The clergy men that had their skulls littered in the evil graveyard of my village can tell of this.
To this voidness,
To this coldness,
To this yonder of shattered images,
Xylem of mannered eloquence of the devil,
To the world demon's demonstrators,
To the Halloween and the Dejavu,
To the magical cloth verses of the Indian,
To the cries of unholy pages of those holy book tabled before we were born,
I have a way that seems so right to me; and those are the choices I have made.
To the shrine of Illinois of the Illuminati,
To the pyramid of underworld,
To the coldness of death,
We will escape from this drum of world,
This is darkness!
This is darkness!!
This is darkness!!!
Darkness of the black spirits.
Voidness lies in the bag of red colours.
This gory miseries of the world keep us in the fold of grey.
We don't know death but death knows us,
We don't know life but life speaks of us,
We don't know abstract painting of demons,
We don't know the abstract imageries of sins;
The beauty of sin lies in the consequences that lies aftermath.
We are train of shadows,
We are feathers of spiritualities,
We are blood of feelings, emotions. anger. Carcass. Faded colours. Sadness.
Pains. Revenge. Vengeance. Evil.
Emptiness. Vacant. Void.
We are the opposite of day, synonym of good.
Is there really a beautiful heaven?
Is there a black and red hell for sinners?
Search your soul and answer to its voidness.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
Concluding Part of
Oh’ Kashmir - Last Part 2
One grave mistake was
Shown by the decision makers
Of Kashmir,
To convert the green valley,
Into a valley of concrete.
Dams, buildings and houses,
Were built on places,
Which were the nourishing orchards of Nature. ..08
Changed by the greedy lovers of money,
The builders,
Who built tall buildings and dams,
At the cost of destroying
Brooks and streams,
Lakes and forests, the serene hills
And the meadows,
Which always reminds us,
As the playground of shepherds,
Without caring for
Trees, plants, animals and seasons,
Which always remains the back bone
Of every civilization. 09
Another grave mistake was
That when some people were trying
To drive out,
Several thousands of those innocents,
Who were the inhabitants of Kashmir,
'The Kashmiri Pandits'.
Those who were living there,
In Jammu and Kashmir,
Since thousands of years,
Couldn’t get any solid support,
From their friends and neighbors,
When they were forced to leave Kashmir,
And their friends and neighbors,
Who could have stopped the miscreants. 10
But the others remained only
A silent spectator,
While watching the destruction,
Of their friends and neighbors,
By those, who wanted to make,
Their own separate heaven,
Without the presence,
Of the blooming smiles,
Of these innocents,
Who were their friends, their intimates,
And their childhood companions. 11
Since a long time,
These people in exile
Are living in roofless homes,
With tents on their heads,
They were ignored and were thrown out,
As if, they were not humans,
And not the oldest inhabitants of the valley. 12
Even after the flood of fifth September
When the army men were trying,
To put a healing balm,
Even at the cost of their lives,
On the suffering masses,
Trapped in the disastrous flood,
During the floods havoc prime time,
Some people were throwing stones,
On choppers and on these men in service,
So that the suffering masses,
May not get,
The life giving water, foods and medicines. 13
Perhaps the Nature has not liked,
Some of these actions,
And has shown its anger,
As never before in the history of this land,
To make us realize,
The serious follies and mistakes. 14
Ravindra K Kapoor
Kanpur India 17th Sept. 2014
(for chikbok girls four years after elegies of lost)
And we opened the book of remembrance again
Tickling all ears that are designed to be deadly.
We filled the cups & buckets with tears of blood,
Bloody tears as the cloud rises from dark night
& the horizon of our lives radio out our prayers
in pleasure & pleas recording poetry into broken
Rhythms of the kings bird' songs singing elegies untold. We recoiled this pages of cries into folded arms. Lost is our liberty ephemeral into chaos.
This light of darkness are now printed in our
palms of history tormenting our own feelings.
they left home through the corruption of their father's land. You know, their lies ferried them
into Sambisa to go & tell a tale of their crimes.
the chromosomes of their pigments lacked the bravery within the wrinkled nose of their cheeks.
Lives are buttered fireflies &worms of mediocre...
We may not know how pains taste until untitled chapters of sorrow unfold in our lives to seek revengeful voyage of our sins towards our home.
We televised their lies on the national televisions,
tilted the head of our cocked brain into gadgets
in a ballroom of miscreants clothing our beliefs.
I opened this book of remembrance again,
For my lazy sisters that struggles effortlessly amidst leaves and shrubs of looting leaders.
for their tears composed a musical notes,
for their fight created astraying street steer
I held upto these fallin' memories in a graveyard
into the abstract demon of my noble moralities,
into black races, into an abstract journeys.
brittle of the papers written in absence of our
ourselves, in the pictures of our lost self issues.
we will gather these soothsayers to the cloud
to sooth out those prilgrim girls in the moon.
till then, let this dance be of survival &revival,
of those deaf & dumb girls kept in the bosom of emptiness. they made them voiceless like the pages of a blank books but we know all their magic tricks in the closet of their ignorance.
No chikbok, no Dapchi girls but looting politics,
Politics that has strange mouth & shadows.
Until this madness is cleansed from our souls
Point towards your chambers & crack your mind
We are mocked movies trying to be seen by all,
a documented fairy tale in the heart of all.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_frustration
The last trailing tendril filaments
of moon beams nocturnally trace
fashion an illusory gilded chariot Ark,
whence upon celestial runners,
the approach of dawn's early light
illuminated terrestrial space
which nebulous solar city flanges
revisited since time millennial
hubbub of human race
nsync with Zodiacal constellations,
which appear to shift
as planet Earth axis place
alternated in accordance with
inexplicable universal teenage
mutant Ninja turtles joint pact
with power rangers assumption
sans quotidian playstation remotely
controlled by aliens upon
oblate spheroid figurative stage
set whence commencement nudged
village people foment quiet riot rage
and rant against
uncontrollable catastrophic frenzy,
when cosmic creator
rehearses another page
from playbook, which
color coded cobbled Bible
emanates with radiant hues
of yellow and osage
nonetheless, no mortal adept to predict
(only within plus and/or minus
some marginal variance of error).
oft times punishing atmospheric phenomena
incarcerated, pistol whipped
(if anther incorrect),
whiplash unleashed, oppressed, imposed
challenging condition testing ground
flora and fauna could thrive,
whereat most hardy
plants and animals didst abound
linkedin upon terra firmae
murmur of orchestrated
organisms devising fitting
evolutionary survival traits
plentiful glory vis a vis L'Chaim;
gnome hatter outlook required
sprinting thru uber vanguard,
where zero sum game pitted
disadvantaged Feng shui
living things poorly sparred mismatched
against itching attired egghead,
kickstarting netzero beastie boys
indeed emulating hotmail prodigies
holding greensward ground.
scrimmage fostered, elicited,
dictated, commandeered nature
going full throttle with pings
across biological labyrinth
positioning glommed, peeved,
mis tweeted seeds of life, and white lily,
within soil lent green grubby business
whereby herb and woody stemmed
recalcitrant proto flings
wrote toe rooter bakers
gave Gaia a run for her money
to buy Buffalo wings
chasing miscreants nimbly
outwitting, out-rigging
outsmarting nettlesome stings,
and sage protuberant fungi,
released messengers where rise home
spore ports left nada mushroom,
though symbiosis wood
bark a roll a cord.
I don't know why a story should start with a boy hanging himself cause he was giving freedom to see life & have a kiss with his lips!
Then, the pages moved on and on until their shadows recreated another smothering duplicates of them trying to survive in this forest called life.
I don't know why every morning wakes up to see boys scattered like grains of sand on ground.
I don't know why every chapter of a story would have boys trying to suffocate themselves in the thickest quest to be a man when they can just remain children.
I don't know why each page of the same book will show boys with guns on their left hands & holy books on their rights, killing the dreams of others.
They are portraits in a graveyard called jungle &survival.
Portraits under the palms of the cruel sun
loving miscreants.
They found this soft solace of wildfire splitting between their lives,
Finding a street that will make them scream out loud like a cockerel.
They created themselves in themselves trying to imitate nature in its entirety of manslaughter.
I don't know the genesis of creation, if I could regenerate the genesis of my boys, our boys; I could have ask nature why boys like me suffered in the womb before they were born.
They leant to drive the birds to confusion before
Concluding the squeezeness of pressure
They squeezed dreams into nightmares
Cherish every nostril that flapped wings of lured lost into the cathedral of abyss.
Some boys learn to fall into the shape of their mothers
Some have the fragments of their fathers shadows & images as sharp as the streams of their thoughts.
We opened the jungle gate for them...
Missile becomes toy in the hand
Anger an issue with a patterned crystal lines,
A never ending story of circling class of time.
Employment lost in their favour then politicians came in play converting them to beast of thugs.
They became undertakers of aborted foetus.
Undertakers of dreams among children.
Each story started with their amonition & anger
Firing and slaughtering in the darkness.
These pages made them so cause the story started with their albums of sorrow and agony trying to survive in a particular senero of jungles for boys.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
Underneath our sins/ they call us sinners
Underneath our pride???underneath our happiness? Buried within society? We heard them shout?
We heard them shout at the top of their lungs. We heard them shout where we were going and when we were going there. We heard them call us “Devils.
“Devils”??How could we be devils?? We were only just alive. We didn't choose to be this way, it just happened like this. We went to the venues for confession but they only shamed us more. They shamed us for coming clean, they humiliated us, kicked us out and closed the door.
-So what now. Where will we go? It's ok, forget about it, pack your bag and put on a smile. We're leaving but we'll come back after a while. Underneath my strong assertive exterior there is a person scared that they have to go. A person that regrets ever letting the world know. A person that took advice from someone living on the same planet yet a different world .
We heard them shout at the top of their lungs. We heard them shout that sooner or later we would have to stop this sin. We heard them call us miscreants. MIscreants?? As in criminals?? What have we done to be classified as such?? As if me expressing my love through a touch is enough to make me into an animal. One deserving of being put into a kennel. Are those who love normal recipients?? Are they the ones worthy?? Does their normal make them better? Does their “holy” mean they’re greater? They shout loudly at the breaker. And their loud shouts grow prouder.
-Underneath that voice shouting lies a girl not so much girl buried within society. Slowly dying to make a break, slowly crawling to catch a breath. Underneath her happiness lies the lies that she hides from the world as she tries to be the best girl in it. Underneath her pride lies a girl that strives to reach and meet the terms of their holy but dries out and dies.
-Underneath their “HOLY”.
They call us villains.
We hear them shouting.
We bear with the pain and the shame… we pack our bags and turn our backs….desperate for the day they will understand our pain and welcome us back
I express my pain loudly yet not trying to provoke thee
They ignore my yells proudly while singing the songs of their holy
WE . . . NOT FRUSTRATED
Those whose mouth speak and ooze
Only fire of a voluble vibrating vocabulary
Those whose sin is just speaking for others
In order for their other orders not to be ordered
Those whose lives were almost snuffed
Away by the ordered ultra-fascists gangsters
Those whose words sparkles only fire
To fire the unfired spirits into burn- fires
Those whose political jargons-renditions
Send thousands frenzy for action
Those whose offence is probing beyond
The nostril above their faces
Those who are ostracized for louding the truth
Above the speaker of the U and I garden
These
Are those my bird flock together with
During the day in search of the night
I among those given heavy knock on
The head for these inequities known only to them
I among those who are painted in stinker Toga
Of Miscreants, Disgruntled elements,…
I among those placed on a four season wheel-chair
With a gun powder explosion underneath
But
For them their son that strike the cheek of a Porter
More thunderous a slap to be queried nor be punished
For them their sons and daughters whose oblongata
Remains blank but full of giraffe and chips in the exams
For them their stooges that converse with guns and goons
For them that smile with axes, guns, daggers . . .
To strike, shoot and maim others
For them their anchors that knows nothing but something
For out of their nothing lies violence and blood
For they speaketh nor write
For them their boys they present a golden plate of honour
Found worthy in learning and character
Doomed to become menace to the society
For we . . . remain resolute
For we . . . not frustrated
For we . . . not cowed
For we . . . unperturbed
For we shall uphold the pillar of truth
Until our struggle shall beam light en route the tunnel
Alayande Stephen .T
12th February,2006
11.28am
Conceptualised after my four semester rustication
Verdict by Prof.Bamiro UI VC led SDC in
University of Ibadan on the 31st of January,2006.
A Promise to myself to refire the struggle not to retire.
Form:
We (the missus and I) kvell for Katz TOASTER PASTRIES!
I prefer to craft a poem
for no rhyme nor reason
expressing heartfelt pleasure
to our highly refined palate
versus presenting tasty, yummy
and zesty nutritious snacks
exuberant feedback courtesy Tik Tok.
Aside from harkening from Semitic stock
me and the missus
relish those (Katz) gluten free pastries
they give us the oomph to rock
and similar to powder milk biscuits
give us strength to do what needs to be done.
Though no intention to mock
popular Pop-Tarts
(stylized as pop•tarts),
an American brand of toaster pastries
produced and distributed by Kellanova
(formerly Kellogg's) since 1964,
which consist of a sweet filling
sealed inside two layers of thin,
rectangular pastry crust.
In 2006, Mrs Katz decided
to transform the world
of gluten free snacking
for her celiac children.
Eighteen years later,
she retains firm stronghold
courtesy word of mouth watering
salivating (videlicet) Pavlovian
salutary, masterly, hardy,
deliciously crafted wholesome food
clinching dominant market share
analogous to stronghold ala deadbolt lock,
a recipe distributors attempt
to steal by hook or crook,
yet unable to break down fortified doors
after they loudly knock
on one occasion
holding the bakers on their break hostage
pointing culinary harmless
imitation edible Glock,
nevertheless drawing attention
of media camera crews that flock
for breaking shipping news
that harbor standoff
with quasi narco traffickers,
intent to rebrand and sell
Katz TOASTER PASTRIES
as mucked up poor quality dogs treats,
where special op forces
heavily guard the dock
maintaining vigilance around the clock,
to prevent goods held as contrabands
and subject pastry chefs to intense torture
forcing unsung heros
to stay awake 24/7 blindfolded,
so as not to see miscreants,
where ingredients of goodies
sniffed, sifted, and scrutinized
by sophisticated chemical analysis,
and thus I now conclude
contrived fictitious poetic scenario
to share such helpful feedback
in a little ditty composed ad hoc
can boost sales for your company.
by: matthew scott harris
A girl was raped in a bus that night
By six men, all drunk, who had lost their minds
Ambrosia was the elixir of gods, it is said
But godlike men in this age aren’t born or made
Alcohol wrecks judgment, makes beasts out of men
Deeds under its influence have put us men to shame
Shops abound in our nation where alcohol is sold
The government till overflows when the weather turns cold
A corrupt force is tasked to uphold the country’s law
Incidents occurring on a daily basis expose this basic flaw
Fear of law is no deterrent for miscreants and crooks
The police prefer to look away; with them, they are in cahoots
But a girl still battles death today aided by a ventilator
Skewered with an iron rod that night, unending was her horror
Demonstrations against this shame were met with brutal force
Citizens showing solidarity were bludgeoned without remorse
The hand that wields the baton to protect civil society
Is now the hand that throttles free voice and liberty
Bad governance, we know is the bane of any nation
Bad policing and lawlessness is responsible for any country’s degeneration
Instead of upholding law and maintaining order
Law enforcers are subdued by their political masters
Whose lack of will to rein in the force given selfish political aspirations
Stems from a sense of indebtedness for furthering their ambitions
Burning state fuel at night they stalk and chase prey
Fleecing shady truckers and wheeler-dealers who operate in markets grey
This extortion by night on city road and state highway
Robs the state of much needed revenue and is an add-on to their pay
Similar incidents happen each day of the year and night
In night’s anonymous darkness or blatantly by daylight
With the force preoccupied in matters so vital
Who will protect our girls and control the crime spiral
The government of the day is callous to people’s concerns
Callous to a daughter’s fate on whom men on a bus took turns
I believe that writing is like spilling blood out of the carotid
Onto a canvas of sponge
This sponge can never be satiated
It takes generations and trillions of miles of neurons
Just to make a stain
My marrow is strained in such a glorious fashion
In attempt to produce even more lovely RBC's
So that I may contribute but just a mere speck
On this ethereal construct
Today I saw a man with hollow eyes buying homes with the skulls of rats
These homes onced belonged to living souls
The money machine came rolling in with the disinterest of a cow chewing cud
Masticating the precious juice from the canvas that once served
As a font of energy, an expulsion of electrons, something sacrosanct
To those who felt alive in a world consumed by dead, ridiculous intentions
Now
All of the canvas-blood-sponges have dried out in these places, and
As a result
The universe seems to recoil back in on itself as if in fear of
The disasterous implications
The dust seems to layer the meninges ever so slightly
Until I realize the fact that by doing so, I allow the miscreants running
This synthetic freak show of media pogrom and unheralded greed,
To stand in Pyrrhic victory
Somehow this is all
Compounded with an unaccountable need to accumulate as much
Material nonsense as possible because it helps fill
The inexplicable void
I just want to keep pumping blood out onto this convoluted stage, and
Scream in the ignorant face of the man arrogantly cutting others off
During rush hour as though where he needed to get to was so much more
Important than everyone else's destination
The disconnect is here
Look into the countenances of those around you
Thankfully there are those rare souls you see periodically
With some light left behind those orbs
They haven't been made grotesque by the modern world
They have been spending time with their canvas