Siren for the serenade

​                         Nothing is all as it seems when you come to my mind;

I am no longer writing to you about my feelings because I have mentioned them all;

I stroke my beard as I write this part, it seems I am writing for you, what a hullabaloo;

Boo boo, the moon is a full as my beard and as I look out the window, it is pitch black out there;

It is the 20th of May, thus it rained cats and dogs said all but the weather reports;

I am on a path to enter the galaxy of my thoughts, I yearn to search for that which was lost;

Then I found it, but now it is unreachable due to its unavailability, so some nights I just want to stare at the lights;

No, not about the stars but the night time, the rain really did many a number on the night air, like a countdown,

To an explosion of beauty, what a conditioning, now there are unearthly visuals when I think of you;

Then I wish fireflies could spread as forest fires to communicate the rumours, I am missing you;

You are which I lost and since you don’t write back to me anymore, next time I will go to your window,

To see your reaction, in your elegant defiance, just to sense any character flaw;

If you try to stay hidden, a loudspeaker I’m coming with, to tell you are dangerously attractive, strangers beware;

I will tell it on the mountain, everywhere, under the hills too, so you will know what you do to me.

Spirits of the dead

​Not one, of all the crowd, can you look on, thus you glare at all the invisible faces around you and,

Only when it’s your hour of secrecy will the air grow colder,the head bigger and,

Be silent in that solitude, which is like showing compassion for them,

The spirits of the dead which once stood there, before you are standing there again,

The death around you and their will, shall overshadow you, be still.

The black night, though clear, shall frown, and the stars shall not look down and,

Their red orbs, without beam, like eyes to your weariness shall they seem and

As a burning like a fever which would cling to you for ever.

Scenes of now are thoughts thou shalt not banish, now are visions never to vanish

From thy spirit shall they pass through you no more, as dew-drop from the grass

The breeze, the breath of God, is still, and the mist upon the hill

Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken, is its symbol and as its token and, 

How it walks on the floor and hangs on the trees, mysteries upon mysteries

For John

Spirits of the dead #inspiration

Self Search

John was beautiful, John was kind. John had a heart for the simplest things and in that heart, you would never find malice. John loved every soul as if they were his own. But John didn’t love his own soul.

John didn’t think he was beautiful, John didn’t think he was kind. John saw his heart as complicated and had malice with himself alone. John didn’t understand what it felt like to be special, John didn’t know what love could do to a person’s heart. John was alone, and indeed, in himself, no solace found. John didn’t like to push people, he just wanted them to be happy. John felt even though he wasn’t happy, he should at least try to make everyone else happy.

Everyone loved John, but no one understood him. They all saw John as perfect and beautiful and somewhat reserved. They were all so consumed by…

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Mr. Lover too

I’m going to write a song for you, close your eyes;

Don’t sneak a peek, don’t move a muscle I advise,

I don’t want to make a blemish painting my demise;

If I were superman, I’ll be painting a high definition kryptonite,

When you listen to your song think on me, I’m your guise;

Don’t get offended if I take too long, I sensationalise,

Stop my vulgar passions on divine matters, I ask the lord but he denies; 

If you’ve something to say, holding back till I start is unwise,

I’m going to sit right here and every good that comes to mind, I’ll advertise;

You give me a feeling that I’ve never felt before but I don’t think I deserve it, I apologise,

It’s becoming something that’s impossible to ignore, everyone’s starting to see the butterflies;

I can’t take it, I was wondering maybe, if I make you my baby,  can we do the unthinkable, can we bankulize ?

Will that make us look crazy? If I ask you, are you ready to synchronise the mesmerise ?
Norahs? 

Oh, I guess that’s a no then.

Love from the Other side

All men are mortals, they can’t handle divine, they need a higher hand to show them the light.

What do mean? Could you be implying that men will never be worthy of women, of you? Putting aside the fact that men can’t do without women, the same way women can’t do without men.

“She should be in her late thirties but I could see no ring on the appropriate finger, she sometimes has this look.. Seems the thought of future exes exiles her present love”

“That’s not what was meant to be implied, it is their attitude towards the subject. If I make it easy, they will call me a slut; If I make it hard, they call me a stuck up hoe; Some will go as far as saying, it’s okay to be a lesbian, that that in itself is exciting; Then again if I decide to be in the middle, they’ll say I’m confused and call me bipolar. It all ends with a tag you see, then the whole world would like to be overwise in counting all our tears and sighs. They’re such simpletons but then again, what’s a god to an unbeliever.”

 

Getting back to the subject: Feminism. You talk as if, women should be the head, paving way for men, whereas in the Holy Bible, women are seen sorely as helping hands in the ascension of man.

My ground remains solid, we are seen sorely as the helping hand of man towards his ascension and I agree.

You agree to the fact that men are the figurehead while you are sorely an assister?

Yes, it may be but note this, one cannot help another ascend if he is below him, he has to be at a higher position to raise another to ascension.

You do realize you’re looking at the situation figuratively as one can also be pushed from below. Can I ask a question?

Of course. Fact, it is harder to help one to ascension from a lower position than from a higher position. So you’re also implying that I am forever supposed to be under man, suffering to push him forward, neglecting my own self. Well, I for one did not come to this world to suffer for nobody, it is an individual race.

Would you ever get married to one? A man? It is an individual race but one cannot fulfill Gods rule to multiply, individually.

Yes, I would obviously, everyone wants to reproduce offsprings, but I would find a divine man, who agrees to my terms and conditions and will at the same time be dominant in his own special way still. Nevertheless, nuns are existent and are not lawless, or would you say they are condemned for disobeying the rule of God?

“Seems like this one’s waiting on love from the other side.”

Of course not, it all falls down to individuality, one important characteristic that makes us human.

That could’ve been a more suitable subject Mr. Osiri. It certainly has been mentally amusing talking to you, Farewell.

Oh, well distinguished psychologist, counsellor and doctor, Mrs. Treasure Oyinkarebi, nice talking to you too, it has certainly been… appealing, and fare well too.
And after noting the vacancy of a wedding ring on my finger, with a smile that iscariot judas in hell might be proud of, she added:

Happy married life.

“Oh, like when the saints are marching in. Oh my, what an individual, a feminist.”

Shekpe


Temi Tope, child of scorn, chugged lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born, and he had reasons.

Temi loved the days of old, when swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold would set him dancing.

Temi sighed for what he was not, and dreamed as he rested from his labours;
He dreamed of Thebes, Camelot and Priams neighbours.

Temi loved and acted like the Medici although he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly could he have been one.

Temi cursed the commonplace and eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the medieval grace of iron clothing.

Temi scorned the money he sought, but sore annoyed though was he without it;
Temi thought, and thought, and thought, and thought about it.

Temi Tope, born too late, scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Temi then coughed, called it fate, and kept on drinking.

Jabberwocky

My demons are too mad hatter for me to cap, at times like this I remember, the poem-

 

“The Title:”

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe.

‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!’

He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree, and stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, and burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through, the vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head, he went galumphing back.

‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’ He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe.

 

But still, Godamnit.

 

In the belly of the beibs

The sins of the antichrist are meant to go unpunished. At times like this I’ll take you as you are, I’ve not been the cleanest of men. Throw dirt on my sins and it’ll grow a wild flower, but it wasn’t always like this. Before 30 pieces of silver it was bliss, till he broke that end, the significant half thereof, therefore:

 

This is the end; The sky’s falling and all it’s beasts are dead;
The river is blood; Grasshoppers, gnats they fill the air;
He told me he’s used to when pharaohs rule with fear;
Then I watched my valleys become mountains as mountains fell;
I said Radamnit, right now, even pharaohs are filled with dread;
Then blood splashed across his face as the end times period was shed.

For this is the end; There’s always a full clip the in devils Russian roulette;
I ran, alone to find sthelter but the trees were covering their heads;
I couldn’t even find a hole because all the snakes and foxes were there;
I was going to find refuge on sea, since everyone’s becoming fishers of men;
But that was before I changed, when I got swallowed in the belly of the trap that was already dead;
With my blood and my flesh, I wrote a letter to Eileen, a beloved;
I’d procrastinated for too long, for the lights dark in the ends.

LA FLAME

I listened to BIRDS IN THE TRAP SING MCKNIGHT all THROUGH THE LATE NIGHT, just so I could COORDINATE the BEIBS IN THE TRAP to give her SWEET SWEET GOOSEBUMPS OUTSIDE on the FIRST TAKE, right after a SDP INTERLUDE. It was WONDERFUL, however that was WAY BACK. I guess I’m in love right now and I’m losing my mind because she doesn’t PICK UP THE PHONE, I need GUIDANCE with us, I don’t want to see THE ENDS.

Close to you

Boy:

Girl, they say you’re the sky to my star, backwards stay far, I don’t need another son in my life, sun in my life rather. They sent me to claim what’s mine, all your love, your life force is rightfully mine. I can feel your heartbeat close by, I can feel it because it’s mine. I don’t understand their star talk, who believes in zodiac signs anyway. Someone get my ray gun, it’s due time to start this, I only shoot for the stars. To be honest there’s no sun in my life, to be honest, I’ve been saying it a lot lately, but to be honest I’m not devastated. Still, I run my hands through what’s left, I run my hands through you, and I’m ashamed as I feel life still. To be honest, death is life but love is life, so till death do us part. Why am I preaching? Saying things I can’t take back, to this sister, this celibatist? I’m an atheist. Somehow versions of the good truth belong to you Girl, and they want to harvest the good in truths, they want the truth to be a lie and to be able to conjure lies into truths. That’s why after a while, they kept me close to you, my feelings, but just like me, they became blinded too. Mission failed and I became missing in action, close to..

 

I am your new flame, when did this occur? This can’t be real, I must be dreaming on a sunroof again.

These're the tales of Osiri, before thirty pieces of silver, when we were rosy,