It’s not something that can just be explained, 

or verminously understood,

No cheap conjuring trick can anticipate

The raw-sauced no-balls 

approach to handling things,

That has of late, shown no signs of wavering

Or yielding it’s unrelenting fury and vengeance.

I have seen bitterness and hatred

Turn hands to eisbeins , and dry-age a 

Once vibrant semi-youthful cockerel, transforming

That which was once glutinous into 

That which can no longer be reasoned with

Or, at the best of times,


A blue eyed hen had once asked the exact same question,

(were i a superstitious water bender, i’d think it abit too 



                                     told her the same thing.

a quick notice :)

hey all, this is no poem, just wanted to thank you all for your positive feedback and support during the brief time that this blog has been going (two weeks). i will be taking a break, not a big one, just a small one, and only for a week as i want to focus all my energy and effort on my first book of poetry, which should be finished in a weeks time. the book will contain 70 poems of which i have 30, so only 40 to go, yay! lol but fear not, i still guarantee you all at least one solid piece a day just won’t be churning out 5-10 like i used to, well again just until i finish this book.

Love to all,

Kindest regards,


In The Corner Poetry.

a servant of the people

magnanimous reparations paved the way,

guilty placards protruded between plant, flower, and bush

we hooded, robed figures like medieval monks lined

and queued chanting, casting aspersions, shadows

where they shouldn’t be. wailing widows

black in skin

black in mourning,

trailed behind throwing ash

while the older wolves and the younger lions

went ahead before us

that the townsfolk may know,

they will be avenged.

i’m not one for vengeance, but neither am i

a wolf or a lion

but a monk, a poet,

a servant of the people, my job,

not to decide

but to

orate, to write, to tell their story

as they so wish it.

sacrifice; suffering.

over worked blood-letting , these pages college graph

photos filled her collage but never quite seemed

satisfactory, but then again what is satisfying

about polishing your sanctum

and cleaning the blood-ridden tabernacle?

time and prices paid tallied according

to craftsmanship,

to pain.

if jesus were the highest conceptual idea

personal to you in that way alone,

in that one could

strive for,

to attempt

to attain,

“in order to follow me, you must leave your families,

your comforts, and you must suffer for your art,

suffering until

suffering itself is the art.”


the transposition of morality into our physical being

simultaneously in a series of harmonious

interactions, comings and goings

between good and evil

right and wrong

likes and dislikes

wants and needs

it’s wheel, it’s place within the greater collection of gears

preordained unto mechanical humming and grinding

long overdue chords of regression carried

beyond those bleeding finger tips

whose artistry is unknown, and will die


a new beginning

redundant infantile tantrums steadily wore gaping holes

in her demeanor, in her vineer

crushed beneath the weight of lofty promises

too easily made

too easily given up,

i remember once, when your beauty

and your word

meant something. i agonize the loss of who once was

against the setting scene of who has become,

i wish i could show you, as a child with their

pasta necklace art piece,

tell you, but no one wants know they are ill,

you’ve become lost internalizing

your state,

derelict and in total disrepair, we watched as those

before us had, hoping, praying

for demolition; a new beginning.

if i can’t know then no one can!

fragmented memories coalesced causing, spontaneous seperations

of mind, matter

and of flesh and of bone, great crevasses formed

artificial boundaries and bookbinderies

where objective truth was considered

no more attainable, or discoverable

but simply by the simpletons put,

as a tool for control.

apparently epistemology means nothing,

i mean,

obviously, who has the time for reading?

a yarn a mile; who needs reality?

scripted fire, penned lines not progressive enough

smoking leper rolled cigarettes

degenerate duck-tail wearers and

overly aggressive crowd management

dispersed the undesirables, binding

moon and stars, to eyes and hearts,

carefully woven yarns, spun tales of

mysteries placed perfectly

in plain sight that they with eyes

may see

and they with hands

may feel

and they with tongue

may taste

and speak of it’s miracles, of it’s wonders.

den of thieves

frozen mountains paled before the crescent moon

awash with glory and lapping at the feet,

at the laps,

of those abstract and obscure marketplaces

two for a quid

good deal i said

cretinous conversations erupt

“you have turned my father’s house

into a den of thieves!”

not that they minded, always ready

always willing,

to commit

murder, robbery, rape.

wherein lies my peace amongst you

belligerent bandits? blood-thirsty

to the touch, your skin

makes me crawl

face down before the burnt offerings

none of which have ever appeased anyone,

yet i sacrifice and set ablaze the secrets

so delicately concealed,

inside the temple of my people.

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