WELL AWARE, NOBLE FRIENDS

Desolate desperado Adams,

A socio-academic psychopath, and

His dunderhead yokel, Burni-phace,

A psychotic puerile, both pucker

Playing the zodiac to detonate and despoil.

But, never through dirt-cheap blackmail!

The wit of a genius

Grows on the bedlam of blackmail.

The stupidity of blackmailers

Like the pop of Champaign

Reveals widely the energy,

Refinement cocked in a genius.

Birds fly in the sky

Fishes swim in the sea

Blackmailers brood brainlessly

While geniuses wrought.

And are they not right?

Well aware, noble friends

The stone wall you smite

On the path of forward forging friends.

This is nothing but a spray

Nice spray upon your remains

Never upon our beauty,

For upon the remains

Our roots seek nourishment.

Let not your wicked smile

Wrinkle your face. The beauty of

My frown feeds upon it.

Let not the ink of my rusted pen

Scare you off your trade.

Though mean it , holds firm

The vocation as a loyal stone carver.

Owls hoot at night

Bats see better then

Rogues roll roulette

While geniuses wrought.

And are they not right?

Half mad with joy

Knowing I am the subject,

Facing a crime uncommitted,

Holding in my own hands,

Reading my blackmailers art,

Asking my little dull brain:

“Has thou this far gone?”

And an unchanged pulse pounded slowly

And an unruffled brain searched calmly

And an unbordered memory spoke gently.

“No thoughts. No traces. No.  Not one

The confidence of the grand masters

Weighs more than blank sheets;

Faces of block headed statesmen”

Fare well in your trade

God’s mercies to your doors creep.

 HOPE –FOOLS

I saw them!

You saw them!

They saw them!

The men who want -

Namby-pamby hidebound fools

Stretching claws wanting

Hideous faces, visionless,

Hungry looking clowns

Toothlessly smiling in a nadir

Others with teeth as unprepared corpse

The life of some rest on the last

Yes, last blank hair

P B clad in the usual deception

Bleating like a mutilated she-goat

Cruel smile waiting for nemesis

J F hangs of a string of vision

For change, with eager eyes,

Pretending to mull the muddle

A mugger mugging the muddle and mumbling

N N in the plainness of a confused moron

Remained the doctor for fraud. Moving

Like an unbandaged mummy. Hooting

Like a desert cricket at midday. Looking

Like a frozen four months foetus.

He and others, we saw them

Little ants sprawling the field

Higgledy-piggledy about and around

Waiting for sugar from opponents table

Hope-fools in a moribund

Hoping for the morgue to rest.

A SOUL MATE:- Miranda

On a November noon nicely fare,

As blew the tedious cold air

I welcomed her into my cell

Knowing all’ll be fully well,

The care in her voice could tell.

I enjoyed her voice in our talk

Probably a gift of the mother stalk

When homeward, after all I walked,

Her voice in my soul continued to talk

“Soul mate, we are of the same stalk.”

It is uncommon baby

Finding a not an unmannered lady;

In garment free and undowdy

In speech and courtesy floody

Her smile lights a world that’s cloudy.

This unboastful maiden

Laid in my mind a laden

This I consider no burden

It comes from a lovely maiden

Postured in a celestial garden.

In the dreams of my rest,

We hold hands in a forest

And sing like angels blest

And sleep on earth’s cold breast

And hold for each other, life’s best.

LORD TO WHOM

Then he asked…

Then they replied…

Lord to whom shall we go…

Sitting by his reading table, yet,

Standing at the crossroad of history;

Standing in the sinuous cycle of time.

A decade and more on the stand

Of history, turning shades

In the inconsistency of democracy.

Imaging…

Opponents that are oppugning

Strangulating their strategy

Jug mouthed Judas jutting the self.

Idle idiocrats influx

A race of wisdom and destroy.

Lord to whom…

Paul has forfeited his pneuma

Throttling the throats of throngs

To be, two tens more…

Lord to whom…

The coalition has coalescence,

Coarsened brains that can’t coax

Each to coagulate with each…

Lord to whom…

The grand seigneur of the soul

The virulent viper of the Vatican

For papist reasons resign His Will…

Lord to whom…

Alobwede bleats from abroad the fence

Like the sick foetus of a sheep,

After having been fenced and flogged…

He turned to the table

Saw the junk of knowledge

Towering high in the cycle of time,

An idle pen and pencil smiled

He picked and wrote:

“To the muse I go. To the muse we go”

And in his art wearied.