Walking with a ToddlerSlow he may be, plodding gentle histiny legs. Each stick is a newexploration three steps toanother. “come on” you shout as he trots overgravel laughing delighted at the crunch-crunchbeneath his feetand thereand back again. A dog bounds by, so much energy thatit sparks fear in the little trekker ashe clings to your leg, begging to be lifted.Arms wrapped around his world,he points at the sky, tells you its blue.
The Execution of Judy MonroeIn glamour, in glitter-infested Hollywoodthe movie star Judy Monroe’s almond eyes; coaled melodramatic,tilt towards the camera.She weeps.The executioner motions forward; a tall man, no guardian angel.She watches his movement; spiteful, hated as he proudly glidesto prep for the grand finale.She prays.A prayer to God with no love, each lens focused on her.Black and white replaced by orange overalls.She was found,She was judged,And Judy Monroe will be judgedUntil opulence is extinguished and her dimpled cheeks sallowand her pretty head drops. She dies.When the tall man grazes her last touch,leather grasps her wrists tight.the poison plunges and she falls before them all:behold her final bow.intense silence, release and exhale. applause.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Our alarm doesn't ring, it singsPharell beating our mornings'til we remove from our snooze. Weforgot the tink-tinker orbleep-fuck-bleeperand emerge the same.The same commute to work:Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk bythumb movements. Our ears dumblocked into a Will-I-Am trance. Nota glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry.The same office echoes withtip-tip-tip-tappingof emails blaming others and smack-talking.instead of actual talking. We fall forthe hype of Skype and only Siri’svoice drones narrow answerswe accept as truth. The same playground, huddled corners;Children pick a blackberry instead of picking blackberries, for their late-nightFacebook fights. Words will always hurt see:no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unlessthere’s an app for it.What do we do when stop?Orwell you're too latetook thirty years to demonstrate yourdoublethink and we all cling to the
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bagsshuffle down the high street between clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase. They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers, leftward stepping the rushed businessmen-- a pinballmachine shopping centre.A green-robed man, tall with wand and hoodmust be a wizard. He’s happilyprocuring sushi and sparkling waterwhilst his companion; short with her piercings and jeans treats himas if he wore the same.Down the high street, two track-suited parentszoom past on their children’s scooters—half-smoked fags between fingers yellhow fucking amazing this is.and aspotted teen raps his love for Jesus on a muffledmicrophone. He raps for the Father,He raps for the Son and Holy Spirit. He raps for peace, for hope, for you.In a corner, Brown eyes, hefty tears,a snot-ridden face--four years old. A train runs through the mall toot-tootingas grumpy shoppers move out of the way.A
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heavenand throw the keyinto the lions land?A beautiful girl enjoyingyouths ignorance;a new fantasy to live. She'd stopped believing, butfaith stays in a heart longerthan a head. "She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because myhair was brown bobbed and she dated DavidBeckham; I wanted to marry him. Ihad no internet and recorded songson the radio to tape, daring topause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sangto S Club and thought I was the coolestin my smiley faced top and my yingyangfriendship necklaces. You had to know theMacarena not just for weddings butschool discos too and then every steps routineto fit in. Slow dances with boys made mewish again that they were David Beckhamand not greasy teens with bad curtains forhair. They pressed themselves against you beforetravelling to the next girl in leopardprint skirt. Viva forever was merelya fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole ofthe nineties, hoping my teenage self couldfind her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letteroutwitting at last the greatest.A photograph, filched;a King’s humiliation.In your eyes sheholds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted faceand streaks of black across his chest; he standswild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by theechoes of fallen enemies. He slewtwo hundred men and just scars mark their defence.There’s a warrior with a painted facewho prays to gods mightier than he; he kneelsarms open to implore. He calls upon his armyto pray with him; equals once more. He watchesembers burn before retiring to his tent.There’s a warrior with a painted faceand inside his heart rests a son and daughtersleeping. There is a reason he isa warrior.
restroom graffititruths have a tendency to appearin the company of filthwhere pressure forces poisonout, we are desperate to purifyand forget souls-they are mere blemishes,stains on an otherwiseimmaculate mind-but every now and againwe stoop to feel the weightof our subconscious screams take a moment to relieve pressureand flush our shit down the pipes.
Right Here Right NowThe river is deepand after the fifth vodkathe everlasting sleepcalls louder than ever - -Just one reason to stay!
BoredomMy life is a choreThere's no joyOr happinessOnly boredomAnd frustrationI'm just livingFor the sake of itWith no objectiveWith no purposeOnly killing timeUntil the day I die
i broke the sky to make youand every time i dust your hipswith my aspirations,i hear her weepinstead.
misnomeri.shrill curseof glamoured locksand lax approachlove saddles upto dry barsand backs strokedwith bent talonsand asterisk hopesnever content to make oldthe new ropesthe knotsaren't worth the fraythe tying coaxesii.limp spinein detox angleand crass poselove crawls outthe last holeslept inand backstrokesin rapid floatno new mentions makeold bones distrust mostthe marrow's chatterfloods blank emotionsiii.chalk linenears lost formand passeslove eaten upby lying cars'backseatsand vast fauxleather limbtollsnever anew, these dusksdefile and bustthey are notsynchronous signsthey're omens
VeilfacedVeilfaced25-1-15Let’s follow spectrelight and veilfacedIn the wake of sosmallbox.Let’s dress antighostAnd go veilfacedTowards sosmallboxFor oneLastLookOne man carries sosmallbox pastPrayerseats and down the sadaisleTowards the darkdoor.Out in brightlight and moodskiesOne sosmallboxPlaced perfectly inOnesmallholeWhere onesmallboyWillRestForever
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.
We can’t forget the sunglasses. If we do, we’ll be conspicuous.
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