These spray-can scrawls on public walls
Express my psychic rage with rude intent.
My tags provoke a thoughtful pause
In much the same way Banksy does,
With cold irony and unrepentant guile.
My way of bombing bubble style
Might even tease a tourist’s smile.
But my darker themes paint silent screams:
Is it public?
Is it street?
Is it urban?
Is it commercial?
And then let’s consider my masterwork mural,
A brutally honest and life-like self-portrait,
A glimpse of me in all my squalid bohemian splendor,
Nothing but pavement crack and tenement dysfunction.
Too hard-edge for primetime, you say?
Well, I didn’t get a face like this
By staying out of trouble.
So there!
Screw this place the god damn dissapoint
not in the first place but last we all are here
i hate every bit of this country that judges my name and where i come from over my beautiful songs. There is no room for dreams here just propaganda walls and toilet scrawls i hate it here, i truly do, i have lost my nerves, my back, my knees, and even my mind and for what, for who, there is nobody here worth impressing but racist people and capitalist pigs who profit before beauty hate over poetry i hope that one day i will be able to make up all my lost time here and replace it by box on the beach and happy life
There is nothing but hate here people and i always knew from day one when i was brought here against my will, i am going to hell.
Decay gnaws at a country church.
It's homeless; it's lost its congregation.
Molting stones crumble, eroding away.
Mice nibble at the altar.
Winds twine through cracks.
Rain and dew drip through.
Roof slates slip down.
Each year it's more decrepit.
As nature slowly moves in.
Edges made to endure,
fracture, collapsing into rubble.
Plinths and buttresses
forsake their faith.
Agnostic shadows creep in.
As nature resumes,
its inscrutable ways.
Bells corrode into silence.
Tongues stilled in the throat of dome.
Hymns survive only as echoes in
whistling drafts through splintered rafters.
The pews sag like tired suspenders,
long unbent in prayer.
Rain scrawls psalms on walls,
scripted in mildew and moss.
Stained glass panels drop down
into the rubbish and weeds.
Crossbeams become bird-nest perches,
for swallows and doves, now the choir.
This homeless house of God laments
in the nettles, thorns and briers.
Seeking nature’s absolution
for its forsaken ruin.
A scar upon the land.
A desolate homeless being.
A blot on the earth.
As you move, I see the falseness in each stride,
A puppet of deceit, with nothing left to hide.
Every gesture, once genuine, now feels forced,
A facade crumbling, revealing your true course.
Your words drip with venom, leaving a bitter taste,
A sharp sting that lingers, hard to erase.
Your voice, once soothing, now grates like nails,
Each syllable a dagger, a story that fails.
I watch your smile, now twisted and sly,
The deceit in your eyes is impossible to deny.
Your touch, once warm, now feels like ice,
A chill that spreads, devoid of any vice.
Your laughter, hollow and false,
Promising kindness, hiding the malice it scrawls.
The warmth you once radiated now feels cold,
A presence that darkens, making me fold.
~~~
Ten long years in jail for petty theft at a bus stop,
While leaders steal in billions with a wrist-slap.
A man wore the hangman’s noose for armed robbery,
Yet a governor earned honours for a pen robbery.
Citizens bled by taxes to please Bretton Woods,
Loans secured not for growth but to fatten pockets.
When the people protest, police scatter them with contempt,
And soldiers fire bullets to silence their voices.
Black ink scrawls draconian laws on tyrant’s tables,
Threats and punishments stitched to entrench their power.
But such laws befriend only ephemerality,
Before the masses seize the reins of their rulers’ reign.
Mass anger drove Rajapaksa out of Sri Lanka,
Gen Z rose in Nepal against a media ban.
Burkina Faso’s streets toppled Compaoré,
And Egypt’s squares forced Mubarak to resign.
The people’s voice will always drown draconian laws;
Chains that glitter at first soon corrode into rust.
The rulers may feast while the nation starves in silence,
But shackles will break—the storm leaves none untouched.
I turn the leaves of my old diaries.
Wherein my passions and anxieties
Together with your dried rose petals, sleep.
They savor your scent and bitterly weep.
Our glances, touches, cuddles, and kisses
Fun-filled, playfully hopping-mad hisses
Our desires, dreams, hopes, and aspirations
Did all these, like sheds, have no foundations?
Creeds and credos weren't causes for our split.
What's the root of our emotional rift?
You left me as though I were a stranger.
Did I not guard you from every danger?
I wandered as though a mad man for long.
You refused to hear this nightingale's song.
I went on mending my shattered spirit.
What could I esteem as my true merit?
I had, indeed, moments of happiness.
My diaries have scrawls of soft stillness.
Yet, a pain, like a sword, pierces my heart.
I feel as though my soul is torn apart.
In flood the creek is still a walk over.
A listless washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
or delta of anything at all.
The opaque water meanders
through sunken banks
then after a few miles, seeps into a
wallow of bottomland.
It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
built beside its muddy channel
has named it ‘Silver Water Creek’.
What’s left of Silver Water Creek
scrawls an epilogue in the mud.
A leaf beached on a pebble
mimics a lilliputian wreck,
and that is where
imagination tragically drowns.
nicknames for three kids
Perky Pink, Road Runner and
Sailor Girl. in blink
of eye, gone and forgotten
will they even remember
how first i saw them
in hawaiian paradise
personalities
between Pearl Harbor sailing
and home life with pen in hand
a real pen not much
time to let ink imagine
with work and salutes
pretty and cute and active
might kids care to find
the scrawls of my heart
and penmanship less shaky
would the nuns be proud
in true days of motherhood
hug poems for my trio
Not the wisping grasp against the parchment
That licking click of writer as he tpyes
The cold inanimates touch of skin on screen
Memories only shorter I eye aye the Scottish yes
Scrapes and scrawls on cave dwelt walls
Truncated truck trimmed in intricate trestles
Who was the first message in a bottle for
Bobbles of sheerest ink like Scottish lochs
as.morning mists turn solid for a movement
I enjoy being wrong
Keeping pictures of the dead to the soon to be
Words the unleashed an atom
Words that end wars
illlusions putting fuses to the con
My muse has left
So I better be …….gon
Not the wisping grasp against the parchment
That licking click of writer as he tpyes
The cold inanimates touch of skin on screen
Memories only shorter I eye aye the Scottish yes
Scrapes and scrawls on cave dwelt walls
Truncated truck trimmed in intricate trestles
Who was the first message in a bottle for
Bobbles of sheerest ink like Scottish lochs
as.morning mists turn solid for a movement
I enjoy being wrong
Keeping pictures of the dead to the soon to be
Words the unleashed an atom
Words that end wars
illlusions putting fuses to the con
My muse has left
So I better be …….gon
What a cameo in the hot harmattan eve !
Sweet soursop scents marinated with the haze
And all the other ones impasse in my qui vive .
Words became satisfying minting juice ,
Black with currents ,mingled bittersweet after
Soft like lush ripe and delicious in undying truth .
But In this colorful world of pines and apples ,
With the sour and the dapples between the toil
We will weather the rains and dry foggy nights .
In all laughter and of youthful lovers delight ,
Not of science of apples falling for clues
Nor of religion with the doom preceding the bite .
But with all hope hope from a trampled rose ,
Earnestly rooting for the hazelnuts
Swinging between the canes of sugars and beats.
As it touches the ground like a whispered prayer,
With heaven's own sacramental wine
Wholesome and pristine “
Five centimeters beneath the dangling papayas ,
under a starry night gaze with splendor
Can you see how vividly the moonlight scrawls the pomegranate.
Beneath moist soils with seeded holes !
Hold your grounds your sprouting melon
So here’s to your juice you amazing Tangelo
Hold your grounds with bunches of love .
Eyes of a pup glistened so bright
Before the day turned into night
A tedious day I had to fight
Cause I’m fearful of some sharp bite
There I was walking in the street
Booking a seat for meet and greet
With a good friend I’d long to meet
In a bar so full and complete
Yet, she did not reciprocate!
I understand it’s no blind date
Nor was she even purely straight.
Yet, her wall was not worth the wait.
What don’t I get about the wall?
Why on earth did it need to scrawl?
White foam crashes with memories of conversations here, an awful date there;
welcoming steam floats around work deadlines, lecture notes and scrawls.
Cupped hands warm around porcelain gossips with friends,
secrets crumbling like biscuits dipped, as thoughts are awash
with scents from a city café then and a train station dash back when.
That brown bitter liquor lazing - regal, rustic,
the foreign familiar that can cleanse chaotic hours had.
“I’m sorry I complained. I just like it made a certain way.”
- breath by breath and sip by sip, clink by clink and stir by stir -
but what I really meant was, well...
“I come here for the company of strangers.
The whirring of machines and the babble and the bustle
of a place, less empty than home.”
Autumn draws closer day by day
From far is heard
The screeching of a lone bird
Voicing its dismay aloud
Over the impending fall
Here the moss scrawls
Ugly pictures on the bark of trees
Where black spiders weave their gossamer
Moving, sig sag across the trees’ leprous trunks
I see the yellowing leaves
Torn down from their sturdy limbs
Sliding down noiselessly one by one
And landing on the ground
With a mournful sound
Acorns from the pine trees drop
And swell the ground and fall to sleep
Life too takes a downward spiral
I feel the autumn seeping into me
And my heart feels a languid grief
The days of my youth
Seem to fly away in a flurry
Like autumn leaves whirling in the gale
Reminding us, that we are not here to stay
The withered leaves
Which shriek and screech under my feet,
Recall to me the cry of martyred youth
With all tenacity overthrown.
Like them, we will fall and be dead to the world
Wrapped in frozen silence, forgotten by all
And sucked back into primal void!
I remember the words I wrote;
most of them,
some of them.
Angry scrawls spewing out;
a pen scratching
spitting ink.
Blood from my eyes
attacking the note.
Bourbon spilling
on a pounded table;
the scent of livid indignation
saturating the paper.
Crumpled, tossed,
retrieved, flattened,
torn apart.
Abruptly
stuck together
with yellowed sellotape;
captured fingerprints
and pubic hairs.
The envelope sealed
with a finger
moistened
by bitter tears.
Dropped into a postbox
with smug satisfaction.
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