Death, I am Ready

Death, I Am Ready

I am ready

I am ready to write up the world

To stuff up the canals

To climb up the trees

Huge sycamores of unordinary thinking

I am ready

I am ready to grasp the wind

To render it into bits and pieces

To see all its shades

To decipher its codes in colors

I am ready

To split up the knowledge

To shake the building blocks

Of my own reality

Bring them down on my feet

Make them cry for my ruling hand

Yes from the primitivism of my

Creative childhood days

To the realism that slowly

Cropped up—I want to see form

Both Abstract and Surreal

I am ready

I am ready to lie

Lie to the world

Lie to the people

And still make this lie a truth

A reflection of the world I live

Death, I am ready

I am ready to know your world

To kiss and make love

In your streets

To dance and dine in your tables

I am ready to breathe you

But only when I am in this world

For I want these people to know

You.

To know who you really are

To love you. To care for you, just as they do with life.

And never to fear—‘cause that’s what they

Always do to you

I don’t want them to love you

In their old age

An untrue love of uncertainties

I don’t  want them to like

The sound of you only when they ail

Neither do I want them to

Suffer in accidents and falls

I want them to see you every day

And love you all the more

I am ready

To walk with you

As I have always done

Only this time

Things are gonna head

To intimacy—

And all the world will be watching

Just how fast your race is

How sweet and captivating it is

Small wonder every wise man likes you

Death, I am ready

To sketch you up and frame you

As a beautiful bright woman

Mona Lisa, perhaps with eyebrows

You always drive me to a culmination

A climax, a peak of billow

Incense with choking smoke

Partly pleasure partly piercing

You live, and that makes me do

The things I have always wanted to do

But I can make my own choices

If you declare your love for me

But right now it’s a big no

Let me love you

Then, when time is ripe,

You will love me back

Death, I am ready

©Simon21

Must You Read Me? Must You See my Paint?

Must You Read Me?

Must You See My Paint?

No you must not

I’ll tell you what

It’s all dirt

Made of other dusts

Cheap by all means

Creepy in its statuses

No you must not

Those words, I didn’t even think about them

They just appeared—shapened themselves up on the white

The little dots you call full stops

They are only there because you exist

And I am in the business of babysitting you

Constantly checking your reading behavior—

You are in a rehab!

Why should you read?

When it’s all big lies

When it’s all bitchy and witchy

Tell me, why should you read

Some squeaky little pranks

That only exist in their death

I don’t see why you should

Read a work you will never get a new vocabulary

It’s all bullshit

Like the old-fashioned Hoi-polloi

Well, that is a new word

But it’s old-fashioned!

You must not see my paint

You don’t want to scratch your loose

Hairs and scalp—you don’t want

It float on the hairs

You don’t want to stand

You don’t want an orgasm of sensual pleasure

Why should you see my paint

When the only thing I felt

Was the ASMR

That bitchy sensation on the back of my head

Actually (whispers) it was anomalously just above my ears—

That should make you see my paint?

I insist you must not

See my paint—it is all black

Some paint accidentally splashed

And made the unmistakable down-streams

I call them flows—tears maybe

Sometimes I am short of paints that’s why

The minimalist I hail an acclaimed title

While all around me is a bizarre existence

n  Wait, I don’t even know if you are seeing

My paintings—or even reading my words

How can you do such a horrible thing?

Baby, it’s gonna harm you, just don’t do it.

On The Sentimental Journey- 22/1/2015

I love you…

With the love…

I begun the journey

A skeptical journey

What is love?

So I loved her

With the love…

I had read of love

The love so spoken of in that book

A love I was taught in Sunday school

And then I had dreams

With that new chic

Who had just joined my class

Class five, not teenage hood

But in the dream

She turned out a boy!

Well, at least on the inside

So this love, I wrote

It was now in teenage hood

Balls up and hairs all grown

I loved her…

And she loved me back,

Can you imagine?

Only one sad story

“I love you,” she said, “With the love of God.”

God…God…God!??

This sentimental journey

Is a journey of guts

Instincts, guts—go-getter!

Buddies said I was… shy

Ladies said I was… timid

I still liked them

Then with a text

The sexting started on

I wasn’t living sentimentally!

I wasn’t whole!

I thought I would be

One night away

Seven unpicked calls

Kissing and booby-booing

Tongue-racing and…

I couldn’t feel a thing

The top lip felt amazing

The curvature was overwhelming

I turned a nerd

Lunatic, my blind stick was out

Oh God, I don’t know how

To love!

She wanted to talk

Sweet little gentlemanly talk

The manly vibrations of my sweet

Apple- she had never touched one before

Instead I insisted on bear

Fucking!

The condom—I couldn’t buy it

I only played with it as a lad

She couldn’t do it

Or I wasn’t good at my preparation

Game

Then I buried it to family lovers

I was typing—in the cyber

I lodged, you should know these things

I was only eighteen

It made sense

In truth I was loving—writing

I was not loving her

Childhood memories persist

My no erotic small stick inside the small hole—on the ground or

Of a niece

We are ever beastly in every part

Of our growth

But if sticks and holes

Are ever to rule us

We are ever lower than the beasts

That stick—I cut it off

Through a text an eye for an eye

She must have felt bad

The dumping…

Now I don’t know if

I am capable of loving anyone

I had loved with sticks

Perhaps I should try with hearts

But it never works

It’s like the echoes write a big

“Fuck You!”

I shouldn’t adhere to that

This journey still broadens up and grows

Extremities I can never reach

I love quality

I should find one

One admitted her liking an artist—a handsome one

That made me wet my pants

Out of the blue, there could come

Such a star?

Then I was the wolf

And she was with the vampire

It’s all in the sentimental journey

I want a black American I said

My buddy said my bed was gonna need repair

I persisted the hug of a Spanish

I watched that of the Western

It’s all the same

A Kung-fu should race me up

A Zulu should break me up

And I still wonder why these guys

Marry neighbors

I mean in Western

Those asses make you stand!

And the Nyanza buddies teach you the game

I hear the story is the same

In West Africa—Kubuitsile must have it

Then these websites tell me

To write this and that

Vibrators and women

Vibrators for women and

Women for men—replace ‘women’ with ‘girls’

The sentimental journey is no longer sentimental—

It is mean and delinquent

I told her I loved her

She said she never expected that from me

Now what? They think I

Can’t truly love them? Anyone?

I closed her page down

And we are friends who sleep

In the same bed

With lots of saliva not to share

But to selfishly gulp and swallow

She takes lots of water

My lips are dry she thinks

That’s why he can’t kiss me

Truth is, I can’t because I can’t

My dick is hard eroticized

I can’t fuck because I can’t

But I really like her

Perhaps a little kiss can do no harm?

And its morning—10 o’clock

Sounds a weird idea especially

After the whole selfish night

There is always a next time

Then these freaky adventurous

Souls—add ‘beautiful’ souls

Benevolent and a tad tactical

 Athletic—energetic—intelligent

Everything I would want from a girl

A woman of many women

I should break her league

The sentimental journey

And I hear writers—most of them

Take this journey differently

Some taking secrets to the deathbed

Others being ‘Gay in public’

All want to ‘think freely’ alongside infidelities

I am thinking freely now

Women think I want to learn something

When I read a gay writer

This homophobia!

They are suspicious of me

When they notice a lonely love life

But I love everyday

It’s just that the time to

Fuck has never come for me

Everyone nurses their own little addictions you know

They still make up the Sentimental Journey

©Simon21