Ore occlusion occident.
Zephyrus blue pshent.
Ichor wicker nicker sent.
Bent to leave a dent.
Chaotic code core commode.
Resonant red road.
Cackling crest cockerel crowed.
Roundabout reload.
Serendipity sprite see.
Toll trill tympani.
Yucca yawndrift yellow ye.
Xiphoid xylem xi.
Ravine ricochet relay.
Dread dead dawning day.
Alabaster planchette play.
Houses holy hay.
Fricasee flock frailty fold.
Broken bow old gold.
Baneful bell blossoming bold.
Cross child city cold.
Heliosphere haunt gaunt jaunt.
Grimace gore gauntlet.
Warlock whippoorwill weird want.
Blackening blind bet.
Psychology psychopomp.
Cheer career severe.
Dervish whirling stump sump stomp.
Pump it out of here.
Watch white wailing widow.
Frequency freak mystique.
Nuclear fine fission glow.
Tan the table teak.
Africa my Africa; of resources rich.
Aggressively wooed because her potentials enrich.
Africa the bride, historically bid for.
The continent dark with opulent fields to explore.
Your labour past prospered farmers of the Occident.
Your hidden value takes the gaze of the Orient.
Not even the world's giants can your 'dwarfness' ignore,
as they compete for potentials concealed therein.
You seek for succour but your abundance lies herein.
Your pleasant shores will no more the brain drain witness.
Your lush green will spring forth from your feigned wilderness.
Africa my home will her charming beauty unveil.
No more will your poverty stricken let out a wail.
Bloated belly, swollen cheeks,
and a sunken stiff neck on robust torso.
Yet well fitted in flowing apparels;
falling and being raised frequently
from side to side.
Obscene opulence is your delight,
your prestige and your pride;
amassed unlawfully by the pen,
ever wet for your deception
and thievery.
The flight of your spoils of office
enlarge the shopping Malls and treasure houses
of the Occident,
leaving your covetous people
deprived of earning power.
To arms they take at boredom's peak,
whilst your virgins and maidens go a-whoring.
Still, you in your sinister acts of re-election,
widen their capacity for Evil, just to have
your sit-tight bid guaranteed you.
In dark rock-cleft with guano splats,
There dangle many thousand bats.
A lowly worm evolves therein
And in bat flesh begins thriving.
Now man arrives for bats to eat,
For hungry poor, some tasty meat.
And so our worm transfers to man,
Thus species barrier now it span.
For little worm this is good news,
As further afield then it moves.
Now clever worm it gets a ride
When in long-haul man it does hide
To depart from the Orient
And widely spread in Occident,
Then many folk start feeling ill,
As lowly worm begins to kill.
Perhaps a lesson man now learn.
Don’t underestimate that worm,
For sometimes it will disappear
To change its guise and reappear.
She took a photo of flowers
She did not see the demon hiding there.
He read the letters in the spaces between the words,
Said it "Cald," or "Child?"
He sees the spaces between the objects
The art written in the negative spaces of reality.
Why were souls easier to recognize than faces?
How did such realities mask themselves,
Obscure to most
Occident, twilight
Formless wraiths in reality's horizon?
What phantom cockatrice feline
Slinks through the flowers?
And why did they call him friend?
Once I was scourged by the task masters' horse whips;
consigning me for two centuries to servitude.
I had my roots forever erased by forced trips
to worlds unknown, where contemptuous attitude
to my skin colour sure relegated me
to the background of an odious racial caste
system in the occident governed by hate.
The cold snow covered climes of the west I see,
with cotton fields revived, whilst blacks tormented strive
for freedom from slavery's merciless back breaking yoke.
With red scars on weary backs, they fight to survive
the chains and fetters the abolitionists broke,
having their sweat and blood water the cotton fields
which bring bumper harvests to their task masters' guilds.
re-jargon re-emancipation re-align re-alteration, by design despair intended, no fear with the
truth deflected, relagate remove re-tie, retrained in rejection to observe a "new" (religion)
the temporal (love) that grows again from former things, and a past inglorious decidley mean
rewind rewind ligature will bind, search (religeon) you will find, the death of beasts and blue eyed men,
from torah priests and sun gods shamen, who killed the flaxen haired and strong, and
claimed gods blessing to chant and song, yet the dark skinned jesus came! to end the sadness
and pointless pain, he came to answer the sacrifical call, and yet his one aim to end it all,
and when you see upon the cross, the blond haired christ or son of god, wonder not why it is so,
also to the occident did his compassion go, to end religion and its shame,the old was gone
when the truest LOVE called end of game.
Darest V.C. –
Did not we notice their appearance?
Did not we hear the elders speak?
Darest V.C. –
We saw their assorted trumpets
With assorted chameleon voices they came;
Some: mere relics of the ancient tree;
Some: mere effigies of the orient tree;
Some: mere voices of the occident tree;
From far off the vendors spoke
– Performing rustic rites in city shrines! –
Darest V.C. –
Then spoke the vendors to the heavy ears of the gods:
“Let the birds to the communal nest again.”
The little song-bird is still
Fluttering by the calm hill
Of a wide countryside;
To death the bees have buzzed.
The lingering clouds are yet to yield;
Still protesting in the wild airy field;
Yon young beads of rain left to mourn:
To the grey occident your entreaty moan;
So far the countryside is a proud fen:
She happily woos a bunch of selfish men
Now the majestic sea bewails their calm hill:
That tomb that still spells to men: “Kill!”
1
No, not there! fly! fly away like the swift-winged bird;
When the hungry-eyed passion calls; follow her not!
Into those wild casements of her raped love;
Or to her irritant, militant temples of murder;
Go not by her purple-eyed lust;
No, be not in her fanatics lost;
Go away from her indolent bed of weird dream;
Roll not in those occident waves,
Either by the thick wood
Or the rushing tide;
Beware of the furtive eyes
Of lean young passion.
2
Nor there! no, go not by the dreamy paths of suicide;
You shall in some solitary forlorn cells be! o follow not!
Into these wild caves of young paroxysm’s rove;
Old revulsion, or excess-eyed prowess; be tender!
Let not your soul in thought be so rapt,
That even mild secrets be wrung by craft;
Go by the streets with modest and bonny dreams:
Roll not in hemlock-winged swift winds,
Dwell far from weird mimosa-land,
And from the livid mood;
Be wary of the juggled words
Of cunning old passion.
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