Somewhere out in the west
My mother is singing her favorite song
The dinner fire burns bright and strong
And whatever meager meal she was able to put together
Has warmed their weary souls

Out of rubble and of ashes
Can come a time of hope,
New imagined ways,
A better ways to cope.

In a world without borders,
without propaganda and fear,
Society without discrimination,
How we all would cheer.

Nothing that's ever worth it,
Came without a fight.
If we're pushing out darkness,
We need to turn on the light.

where amble lances
hurled with the might
of off fish hull seductress dances
setting figurative stage to take a bite
from canoodling beastie boy best eaten alive
or just after freshly being killed.

oblivious to the ramifications
courtesy the deafening ear splitting sound,
nor mindful of the devastating emotional fallout
lurking within outer limits of dark shadows
ineluctably drawn into penile pacification,
yours truly surrendered
to the atavistic call of the wild.

The click clack
of the trams
moving
back
and forward.

Car engines
humming
gently
along the street.

A plane
flying
high in the sky.

The voices
of people
on bicycles
riding by.

My
busy
busy
neighbourhood
bustles along.

The sweet sounds
of the morning
in my neighbourhood.

Yesterday's a verse,
You can't reverse to.
Today's a poem,
A delightful hymn.
Tomorrow's a song,
To those who belong.

So live each, live them all.

We have fleas.
I have no clue
from where (?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!).

My house is so clean.

But is life not a series of injustice?.

I'm so in love it's hard to focus on the fleas.

I'm more concerned about my outfit

The world sits on its thought, naked,
And tomorrow is a festival show of shame,
I smell salt dancing on my nostrils as
Flesh and bones dangle from the tender of my strength.
The people here are not jovial,
They dance slowly, beating away hands from their heads.
Drums and cymbals are silent as there's no rain to clap their buttocks,
The universe is mad, and there's no bride to live his happiness.
There's an exit staring through the walkway, crawling for salvation,

Scrambling for space with humans
The weaverbirds strive to wrestle space
Having been dislodged from their homes
(in the Forest)
They swam in the market places
On basins and baskets
Snatching grains of rice and wheats,
fearlessly....

With bamboos and brooms
Men hurry and harry
Hauling stone and curses at the plumes
While the feathers dance to and fro
ceaselessly...
On basins and baskets
For their LAST meals
Before the requiem tolls for ALL

In the rhythm
the gentle pace
that is meant to be
the presence
the here and now.

Not even thinking
just feeling
and using your emotions.
Slowly
Gently
Calmly
And still reaching your destination.

Moving
Floating
in a dreamlike state
but still aware.

No particular purpose
just the being.
Very serene
and status quo.
Not even asking questions.
Not even alert.
Just there.

In the rhythm
the gentle pace
that is meant to be
the presence
the here and now.

Not even thinking
just feeling
and using your emotions.
Slowly
Gently
Calmly
And still reaching your destination.

Moving
Floating
in a dreamlike state
but still aware.

No particular purpose
just the being.
Very serene
and status quo.
Not even asking questions.
Not even alert.
Just there.