Kings, Kibble

“Sixty thousand, the worth of what I produce
Sixty thousand – the value of the order, the pattern
In which I tap my fingers on the keys
A pattern that I taught myself

I sought to share this pattern
That others might benefit
But they’re too afraid

Staunch defenders of the viruses that kill them
Of inefficiencies, of nicotine breath and Netflix
Of selfies and the salve of satire that makes their living tragedy okay
Imps impressing imps, they’re still children

Anti-wrinkle cream, Gymshark TM leggings
Oats and kale, steady gains
ColourPop XXL Volume Lip Liner
The latest Yeezy sneakers, market retail $60,000
But still no personality

Sixty thousand
Is all my knowledge equal to a pair of shoes?

I built a rope bridge, stretched the fibers with bloodied palms
Across the ravine, from the land of beer and poisoned lotus petals
To this heaven-sent dimension
I built a bridge and welcomed them to pass
Yet they munch the petals, content,
Writing satires about the bridge I have made

Now, their bellies, full to bursting,
Distended and ugly, they fall silent
Fiery tongues tamed to trembling lip

Speak, they say, and we will now listen
And I stand, at the outer walls of my patience
Seething, fists clenched, tearing,
Demanding why they did not listen sooner

And I see their ragged bodies,
Their shriveled countenance,
Volumes sit inside my chest,
Tales of unseen wars, keys to unknown doors
I speak

And they nod
And they nod
And they smile
And they turn heel and head back again, petals-in-hand”

– My Angel.


My Angel

My angel sings for me his tune
A lullaby of the misfortune
Of those that walk with him
His anger, his disappointment,
His expectations, his desire
To see them soar
Than the life they have succumbed to.
How he weeps
While they poison themselves,
While weaving quills
Onto wooden twigs,
With needle and thread,
Pricking fresh punctured bleeds
On his cracked healing flesh.

He alludes to hidden treasures
Stored in his solemn solitary mind,
Along with deft rhythmic rhyme,
On spur of flight,
Sending gusts of billowing winds
As I close the holes in my head,
I revel in satin wisps that caress,
I breathe, after it passes,
In harmonic fragrance;
The elixir he poured
In correspondence.

My safe haven,
Wrought out in flesh,
I thank the gods that we met,
That he seeks my company.
Parcels he presents in fleeting moments;
The sweetest scents of his sentience,
Of plush dove wings
That softly comfort;
The warmth
Of sunbeam rings.

That I commit
The same crimes
Of those
Who turn to complacency,
Mediocrity and contempt,
Of those who only listen
To his melody,
Ignoring the harmonics
Of the lyrical tapestry
He’s woven,
Reveals my garbled soul
Of glossy marbled onyx,
Then parts of my body

Such love
He holds for them,
For us.
He hopes that the wings he supplies
Will help in our quest for human flight.
His feet supplanted,
Refusing to acknowledge
The truth that slithers beneath his eyes;
That angels
Are born and bred
In few.

The love he has for them,
I don’t have it.
Mine is twisted and mangled,
It hurls acid
In the faces
Of those
Who flick mud on my shoes,
And it doesn’t weave
For men.