Irrationality of Death
For Christopher Hitchens (R.I.P)
Our third ball is full of felonious douche bags;
Self-righteous throngs circling as reason's snags.
They'd called you wicked.
They'd dreaded you in their old thicket.
Of course they've never seen him.
They still glorify that adulterous sin.
You showed the dignity of reason;
The existential requirement every season.
The felonious douche bags live long.
They praise their adulterous old man to belong;
To belong when their minds aren't strong.
You wrote the indigestible to the pious,
It's the truth they deny but of their desires.
The end for you will never be in vain,
The universal fate wasn't so much a pain,
It's the elegance you carried to the grave,
It's your bohemian pen that made you brave,
A great mind whose enough cannot be said.
In your friend's word, you stood against all tyranny;
Even god,
Is it not?
Rest my friend, you blessed the world with many!
Death, a friend who knows not any friend.
Knowing the value of your pen,
Too soon it has asked for your name!
What an irrational jerk?
For Christopher Hitchens (R.I.P)
Our third ball is full of felonious douche bags;
Self-righteous throngs circling as reason's snags.
They'd called you wicked.
They'd dreaded you in their old thicket.
Of course they've never seen him.
They still glorify that adulterous sin.
You showed the dignity of reason;
The existential requirement every season.
The felonious douche bags live long.
They praise their adulterous old man to belong;
To belong when their minds aren't strong.
You wrote the indigestible to the pious,
It's the truth they deny but of their desires.
The end for you will never be in vain,
The universal fate wasn't so much a pain,
It's the elegance you carried to the grave,
It's your bohemian pen that made you brave,
A great mind whose enough cannot be said.
In your friend's word, you stood against all tyranny;
Even god,
Is it not?
Rest my friend, you blessed the world with many!
Death, a friend who knows not any friend.
Knowing the value of your pen,
Too soon it has asked for your name!
What an irrational jerk?
South Sudan Independence
The kitchen is no longer smoky
So I can see my friends,
The fog has cleared,
So I can drive to the other
Town and be silly,The other chief has left,
So I’m no longer confused,
The cabbie on the street smiles at me,
As he congratulates me,
The other lady frowns at me,
Because she has no idea,
I have no any other heart to hate
Because freedom is here!
Why I read
This stack of books excites me
You wonder what whiff I see.
It might be an iota cognoscible.
But fear no advent of a pied piper.
I think...and pen...
Your affect in front, your zeal sees.
They count the expectation to be.
Huey Newton came recognizable.
Dilettantes feared the true cipher.
I listen...and craft...
What about blackness!!!
She mocked eventualities and eternal nonexistence;
Everyday she waited for absenteeism of emergence...
Emergence of self-righteous men; the chosen.
They were lords of the east who adorned the ozone;
Her perspicuous nobleness smells personalities.
The magenta top spoke of grits to indignities...
We've always assumed her base niche with ease
As her fingers itched with chilliness of winter tease.
The bulbous chalky sand dunes by the road
Had the hairy pallid lad smile despite being wrought.
I've always smiled with light-heartedness to blend in;
Poor us! She'd written books of the born-chosen din.
Wondered all the dorks of all geographies!
The chosen weren't coming back, never: philosophies!
Pure philosophies had her tower; her eyes hidden;
Hidden by the dark complexion: we stare, ridden!
But she questioned the exceptionalism of the heavens;
The nobleness of the chosen and their ever-smiling servants.
The mockers smiled with preponderance of schmuckness...
Lord she smiled and amply said: What about blackness!!
Love (I)
For all the ones in love
Mrs. and Mr. Love, the anonymous!
You've always whistled passed by and
I laughed, happy at the songs you both
sang at Christmas as you put up
neon lights and the Xmas tree.
I've always shelved curious concerns.
You've always dressed in that velvet
top barely reaching your belly, tight jeans
that I guess demanded your time and
calories. Mr. Love always loved that.
You've always watched her bare belly
button, infatuated by that pink ribbon
that always governed her wild hair.
Her boss at the McDonalds always
wondered about the feel of her hair.
What a schmuck!
Your neighbors have always cautioned
me against the song that eased
the tough out of my summer schools.
I guess they were right...only for that
stupid pink ribbon...and...and that
velvet top.
The concerns I shelved behind the songs
have gone bad as the cabinet onto which
I'd condenmed them to stinks with the
mockery of your neighbors.
Young Sarah laughed at me last night
as I unconsciously sang one of your
wedding songs. She was sitting on her
grandpa's house threshold. She always loved
the green, old ford track I drive to the farm.
But now young Sarah smiles but shakes her head.
Mrs. Jones, with her white coffee cup, orange
gum and brown teeth told me young Sarah
now sees Santa belief written all over me.
I still believe in Santa I guess.
She's ten, you know...
Mrs. love, I guess, Shaggy was right.
You must be god, the care, your quiddity (love)
kept me going. But are you real? Do you exist?
Perhaps anti-your existence are right?
Stupid me believes in Santa! Should I
even doubt your existence?
Mr. love, I guess, Carlin was right.
No women gods can create a universe
as unprincipled as this tired and miserable
one. You must be a man to create
such a darn universe.
So, now, Mrs. and Mr. love, even
if I still believe in Santa, I've drank
that colorless enlightenment liquid
called scepticism. Now I say:
Love the apparition come;
the invisible, touchless force.
Sister, your best you is you
Don't look at that crimson dress,
'cause you'll always change it,
Don't frown at the mirror,
He's just being the only honest friend.
How many friends tell you you for you?
sister, the best you is you!
Take that pen and write your name,
Don't tell me you don't know how!
Climb those stairs every day,
I hear talks of those miserable pounds.
The Hindland brother delights in
bumps and curves...out of caves,
sister, the best you they want is you!
Read that book and laugh silly and loud,
Because the world loves you...
He lies when he says no...he dreams
sweetly when he earns your glance,
Again, read that book and say...
I'm not a queen but I'm the Hindland
face and mind: dark-faced, smooth-bodied...
what...silly them, 'cause
your best you is you.
Don't dream for gleams and glances,
For all you lack is a platform,
Don't drink too much, 'cause they
need the word of the Hindland tongue,
Don't run after every drum, 'cause
they'll always miss your mysterious input,
Damn them...silly them will always think:
The queen...no...the Hindland face
will come, because, her best her is
she!
Don't display your you, sister,
'cause your you comes every never...
You'd breathed peace and calm when
the rest knew your socratic 'unmatchness',
why did they go prostrate before you...
Because the Hindland face had a platform.
Don't hate them, sister, they knew not
their hearts...I mean the hearts with mammoth
envy...
Again, don't display your you, display your
soft white/grey matter inside your white hard matter,
don't be seen sister, be a word in our every
mouth, 'cause your best you is you!
No, needn't I forget...Who'll read to me
if you hate books, who'll explain the lies
in the book if you hate books, who'll advise
your female seeds to keep their chins up?
Sister, I miss... I see Hindland face
but not the Hindland mind!