I lied

An end before the ride

Some take pleasure, in this design,
Whilst others engage, this nature,
Yet, in it’s death for demise,
The End of Art…remains,
The beginning, of criticism

A Destiny, before Destination
- a journey, limitless, for an end -
Like a mother, being made, to grieve,
For her loss…
…a Son, in the wrong grave,

Footprints, nearer, than her shadow
Yet She paid, for a precious smile
Others gain, made dissolve,
Like thin air.  She paid, yes…
She paid, quietly

Hoping, a freedom from noise
Could help, displace a disturbance,
This disturbance…urging an end
Before the ride


A page for Brianna

An ice cream is not exactly a Rose
And a Rose is not something that drips
Unless the human finger traverse
Too much on an untrimmed thorny stem

I took a Rose away from a lover’s hand

And replaced it with an ice cream
For fear that she might leave afterwards
And for fear of not having to dream
About a lost kiss, that I never had

At least, I’ll never have to worry ‘bout,
A blissful passion, triggered by a feel
Of collapsing and clashing lips
For the ice cream got the better of it

And if she does melt away like the cream,
Then I won’t have to dream ‘bout
The twitching soft muscles of a mouth
And a breath made cold and transcendental

Like the Rose, the Ice cream, the Lover…
I never had


The Spectator

I hate Spectators’ I spare no love for them,
None of my patience will ever be spent their way
So implore you, I will, Ladies and gentlemen,
Withdraw your eyes, away from me
And you minds, I wish you restrained…
And allowed to stray, away from my readings
As for my voice, pretend it never existed
And respect not, these works
That I present before your eyes
For they hold nothing sacred
Than others voices

But if you do not do as I have said, then,
I shall sing and dance, here, to embarrass myself,
For within such an act, lies a greater sanity
Than many, waiting to be found
From the lippy lips
Of a man who loved to deny little ones – a gift
And the joys of playing on a stage, at an early life,
For a direct shock is not too bad for the young
To experience in today’s life

A crime, I think not, as you might think
For neither could any spell be too strong
To deny young minds, the possibilities
Of conceiving its own treacherous ways
Early in life
A share of the Virgin’s milk, I never had
And neither was I spared any of the Magi’s gifts
Yet I was fed and made to study
About a kingdom that never was…now!
That, I see as a song - a Utopian lyric

So I’ve decided to sing my own song, this way,
And that way, but whichever way, I may sing,
I shall endeavor not to sing to your delight
As the chair upon which you sit, is outraged
About the weight you have placed upon it
And the space that you have occupied,
Is furiously fuming
At the degree of attention – granted
In other to listen to my readings…

But, somehow,
I do not wish upon you, your death
Neither do I wish upon you and others, their demise
For to do so might have been seen, wicked
The sound of it, mostly cruel and maybe harsh –
To the senses of all,

So, my dearest Collectors
Buy my book of poems as recommended
And you shall see, I promise
How dying a death becomes an occupation
Riding through our lives


Asylum seekers

They faked a story for our ears
To listen to and take to heart
Whereas their decision to do so
Is mainly governed – not by truth
But by a desire to impose
An ambition…theirs, on others
Thus making us parties to their errors
And more errors committed by us
Whilst tending to their favors