Don't sing in Singapore..Of freedom or you'll get it raw.' Basic humanity is not
A thing, you can't sing..Or it could mean
( sing sing') if you brimg.? Notice of hate
Crimes going on in action; or maybe in song.? There's no 'giver-ment' in there
Current regime, they live in a 1940s capure in latency.' If you get what i mean
No honour of the blood then spilled they
Are sold out..I see they just dish the swill
Given by a money lending land where
Usery is the god, and violence rules, a
Place where bio-warfare played, subjecting their own populace, no remorse have they, they stuck them like
Rats in a experiment, how long before
These people vent.? Unspeakabe things
Where put in thir bodies' i find it all
appalling, and much more than shoddy.'
Their epstein type rulers, take everyone
For fools, they cook up false
emergencys ignore human dignity, no decency there now
Rules.'
I'm a killer,
at least a liar,
or just misunderstood,
But the world can't just be cruel,
taking all my friends,
stretching at this distance,
subjecting me to a meire object,
for someone only god would know,
I'm sweet hearted,
sure I'm nice,
I'm gentle,
then why is the world reaping from my accomplishments,
my pride shattering,
my birthed ego killed me,
everything was stolen from me,
the only thing being a shell,
a shell of who I was and am,
the [Erson I am no longer.
-Kitsuko Dragonstar
The gamut of space is unmeasured
as future projectory durations are futile
for the present
time is a provocative presence
with their backs to the wall
subjecting humankind
a balance with the course of its nature
having the incessant tock that ticks many off the wall
that faces trade with theirs
and that soulless thing of their objection
where lies a litany of unfinished deadlines
leaving these higher-ups against the wall
sharing their objections
whining that the clock had run out of its time
—preposterous
the vacuum of time is indefinite
there is no beginning
there is no ending
mayhaps the time of the day had expired
and if it be so
then there will always be a tomorrow
—time permitting
But yes, I tell my muse, we will be together until the end
She is relieved, having spent so much time fixing me
Correcting me, inspecting me, subjecting me to her will.
I am seventy-three as of yesterday, so I know she was worried.
Wondering if I was done; I am not seasoned, I am old.
I refuse to admit this, dying my hair burgundy, wearing go-go boots.
Poetry is my fourth hobby, but it is a part of my soul now.
My self-inflicted goal is ten poems a day.
I have been able to meet this goal for five years now.
But yes, I say to my muse. No worries.
You will be with me until my hands and head no longer move
And my brain figures out where we go after this earth life.
(Apropos Of Self-Reparation)
It has been said that we must love others
As we love ourselves, loving each other
As does the Author of love in loving us all:-
(Thus, be food for thought if hungry)
Dwelling in the court of the inner sanctum
Of contemplation,
Sage mind of jurisprudence charged my poor soul
With abject neglect;
Not of cherished others, but of myself: collectively,
I and I:-
(Thus be the entanglement of love of mind and heart)
Am I forced to take the fifth, lest I incriminate myself?
Subjecting the heart to become a pawn to the mind’s jury:-
For so long—innocently—I’ve been guilty of backward-love;
Self-love collecting filthy invisible dust on the shelves of my heart:-
(In self-trial: The mind, the jury; Awareness, the loving judge)
It has been said that we must love others
As we love ourselves; loving each other
As does the Author of love in loving us all:-
(Thus be food for thought if hungry)
Dwelling in the court of the inner sanctum
Of contemplation,
Sage mind of jurisprudence charged my poor soul
With abject neglect;
Not of cherished others, but of myself: collectively,
Me and I:-
(Thus be the entanglement of love of mind and heart)
Am I forced to take the fifth, lest I self incriminate myself;
Subjecting the heart to become a pawn to the mind’s jury?
For so long—innocently—I’ve been guilty of backward love;
Self-love collecting filthy invisible dust on shelves of my heart:-
(In self-trial: The mind, the jury; Awareness, the loving judge)
"Friends Attend Contend #1"
What are we doing here
in the middle of nowhere,
we're following that guy there
he's the one who brought us here,
He doesn't look Jewish, not even close-up!
Go tell him to prove it, just have him unzip her.
All this rigamarole,
gathers the foolish
in the twenty-first century,
all this bruhaha
like a kerfuffle
not like a thingamajig
that's more like an object
I don't know why I'm subjecting
myself in his delusion
looney, that's the ticket
I was looking for.
For those who lack conviction
Aspirations stay but a mirage
And for those crafting mountains from mole hills
Detriment a deadly barrage
Believers of strange eyes upon them
Flaunt shame as a wristed corsage
And without the courage to soften their hackles
Lie confined in their mind's dank garage
Jongleurs of fabled failures
Treat their worry to massage
Subjecting the rest of their dreadful days
To vexation's entourage
Clever inventors of futuristic fear
Paste pictures to a specious collage
And blame the world around them
Imaginary Sabotage
Rest from world-wild gentrification,
city by citation,
never honking hurt inhabitants.
Armoured by cultural displacement,
no fraught with controversy,
peace and ceasing.
Landlords raising,
no ethnic minorities,
landlording themselves.
Potholes might get filled,
but the heart line might not appear.
Nothing happens along racial lines,
glorifying the guests is mandatory.
Graciously, without feeling offense,
No subjecting to extensive questioning:
"What is your religion?"
Wishing always, is all we can do
For all the time,time frustrates us,
Jumping is becoming a thing of interest,
Probably because, time kept on skipping us.
But it wasn't our fault,
Neither was it our choice.
Buy fate found fault in us,
Thus subjecting us to time's hands.
So instead of worrying to death,
I did just sit on my roof,
Look towards the farthest point,
Then take my cup of mashed bitterleaf juice,
Gulping it down through my throat all at once.
Where We Feel Loved
Where we feel loved, the softest “Hi…” is poetry!
Love’s content warms, more hands discovered touching ours.
Our thirst’s best sated by a smile that’s felt not seen.
Your “Hi…” feels lonely though, or am I wrong? I see
a soul whose tank for love’s not topped. The happy hours
(I’d love to spend with you my dear) might raise the screen
surrounding you, restricting those who’d feel your grace.
Subjecting ‘Love’ (that’s limitless) to limits hides
the love that’s standing just outside truth’s selfless door.
Your truth’s not Truth if it’s a lie meant to save face
or guard your heart. We all will sin, but Death’s our pride’s
need to be ‘safe’ or ‘right!’ Trust Grace! Just fools want more.
Time’s arrow has but one direction. All are judged
though Grace still flows from God to you (where you’ve found land).
To flow with Grace, helps it find legs in your life’s rhyme.
True warmth is bidirectional and rarely fudged,
the coldest hearts, in fact, share warmth. No reprimand
has weight that counts with God of Love. Embrace your time!
Brian Johnston
24th of March in 2022
For Kayla Mai, a special 'BFF' indeed.
Laying in bed and you think things
your mind racing in the darkness just creeps in surrounding your heart
every word you read is it like a stabbing pain and it just keeps getting worse
because you keep subjecting yourself to it and it doesn't stop
then your mind races more and more and more
instead of pulling out that tiny thin little blade you write
but what you write really makes you believe that death is the only answer
that it is the only relief from the pain that you feel every day
from the sorrow the loneliness when the thought of death can calm you
that is when you know.....
The soul has to courageously experience all things,
taking steps in new direction by adjusting the wings.
Genuine sincerity regardless of fancy and pleasure,
destinations journey to accumulate embrasure.
Silence serves as lock of the excitable,
shielding the wisdom as veil before versed delightable.
The trades of life adjust in time to advance,
mastering oneself to vices enhanced.
Passing through and rise to conquer,
progress loving virtues anchor.
Believing fuel and inspired light,
struggling self as consuming flame of right.
Compassion the smoking glow of faith,
flames that illuminates the path of right.
The journey of freedom leads to captivity,
mountain pass of discipline towards liberty.
Translation become reincarnation,
the fine line of interpretation.
Subjecting the ideal as true realization,
the soul as part of love becomes glorification.
Killing me with your sexy
Yall killing me.
Contrived lust, mirrors with dust.
Love covered with smoke.
Flame of innocence choked.
Smothered in the womb,
Never to be born.
Deliberately sexy; too much.
Too messy.! The mother of harlots.
Vagaries leading nowhere, wandering
Into cesspools and ruts
Pure love invokes everlasting hope.
Wombs should yield...lovers with scope.
Stop hanging me with your jaded rope.
Stop killing me with your sexy,
Goddesses with blessed wombs
Fill my empty life with an embryo.
I have the seed of plenty.
Stop subjecting me to your lust...
And trust me to handle your true love.
Trust me to love your innocence.
Release love from your womb and bear my fruit.
The green walls
Dulled with age.
Food, paint, and dirt
Completely ingrained
It’s been so long.
These rooms and the hall
Why go upstairs?
I’ve seen it all.
Go out the front door.
The air fresh and clean
Nothing here though
Is a sight unseen.
2 decades of this
20 years passed
A wall-less prison
The worst kind of trapped
Impossible wishes
What to do? Where to go?
I’m less likely to leave
Than a river without flow.
And with that I sit.
On this grassy knoll.
Subjecting myself
To 20 more still.
7/25/2020
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