Panogestically Awkward

A being of awkwardness,
Slides his phone out,
Opens the camera,
Holds it high in the air,
Records from right to left,
Stops at where I sit,
Right hand pinches outward,
Zooms into me I guess,
A being of awkwardness with a
Good panogestically ramic video,
But lacks nature,
No stars or constellations,
Neither streams or trees,
Ah the struggle of nature
In the presence of awkward men.


Memoirs of Bones

I lay flat on a mossy graveyard,
A majestic hall once upon a time,
And I await my resurrection to
Introduce a new age for the pirates,
Alas, the white rounded piece of
My elbow has itched for eternity,
The hollow area in my skull brought
Me chills over my body – dead body,
And sometimes it whistles loudly
To attract a creature’s attention,
Yet, only lizards and weird insects
Creep nearby, alas, no humans!
If I was fortunate to meet a mage:
Like a famous person in the old age
That was able to track the hidden
Golden charm under my ilium,
But that is a big enraging IF that
Effed me with delusional hopes
For a couple of mossy centuries,
And it’s itchy! – just go away –
Ah, look at the clock, it’s tea time!

A Selfie with Aliens

Look beyond a constellation’s wink,
And fiddle with your telescope’s lens,
Now take a sip from your cold drink,
As you will find the rarest of gems,
Do not stop there and take a breath,
Deep enough to silence your giggles,
Floppy beings that escape their death,
Always in their pods that wiggles,
Manoeuvring around huge asteroids,
Following them with your telescope,
It appears they also have androids,
Repairing but barely able to cope,
Blueish fingers now pointing at you,
Aliens approaching this ancient land,
No one will believe even if it’s true,
The camera! Next to your left hand,
You grab it for a picture as a proof
That aliens are real and not a spoof.

Dishwashing With Hand Soap

Reminiscing into places I buried long ago,
Indeed, it is about a girl and a road trip,
Seven years have passed without a word,
Yet, still friends – except it is thinning out,
But let me share some exciting moments,
Particularly with the adrenaline-filled rides,
And the refreshing water theme park,
Ending with a long walk by the warm beach,
Well, there is that embarrassing moment,
It does seem so inevitable, does it not?
In the apartment preparing for a barbeque,
And so, I volunteered to clean the dishes,
Surely putting dishes in the dishwasher
Is as easy of a task as looking at the stars?
It sure is if I had used the correct soap!
In my defence, the manual did not state
That I could not use hand soap, except,
I think it was left as common sense,
Alas, bubble-filled kitchen made its mark,
And between the screams and laughs,
I fixed it, cleaned it, watered it, dried it,
Well, not really! She did all of that –
But it was done! No more dishwashing!
Then there was the story of the groceries,
So maybe I should message her now?!

The Theory of Goats

So now that the winter is gone,
And Rose’s rose is missing,
While the galloping horse
Kissed me goodbye on my nose,
I discovered an intricate theory,
Full of erudition and a sensational
Exploration into the minds of goats,
It is about a whimsical captivation
Of our intellectual reality that has
Clearly separated us from our dreams,
Slightly, a bit, somewhat like a juxtaposition,
A theory full of oxymoronic hypotheses,
Take this for example: spirituality is
A specific term to deflect an incoming
Dream towards an infinite horizon,
Which is really really cruel,
But in a kind way, very graceful,
And when you mix it with numerous
Ologies of science you beget either
An organised chaos or a spontaneous order
Where goats are at the podium.

It’s Tempting

Captain came up with a plan,
We shall raid the royal ship,
Hide behind an archipelago,
And beam towards the Sun,
Forward! Right! Cannons!
Holes in their burning flag,
Battle won, their ship sunk,
And we sing on their gold,
We light a smouldering fire,
We roast a delicious lamb,
A feast ha! A feast for us all,
And while they sing, while
They dance, and while they
Eat, while they sleep, hehe,
I shall go below the ground,
All the treasure lies around,
At the centre is a huge box,
Its key is on its golden lock,
So I open it and within it lies
A dark purple slimy octopus,
So I run up towards the deck,
Back to my mates we sing,
And we dance, we eat, and
Then we shall all fall asleep.

No Editing

If I’m not allowed to edit a piece
Then I would never be able to speak
Logical symbols with infinite formation
Dissociating within a line and then
Picked up like a flower one by one
To create a deleted memory
And if not for editing and a bit of
Pause my assembled thoughts would
Devour the sanity of many minds
And produce something like this.

Saturday, 13thof June 2015