In the end,
After the cars and girls,
and the bling-a-bling bling,
You gangsters always die alone,
Knifed or shot, souls draining into gutters,
Kingpin of nothing,
An empire of blood and bones,
A wasted life and dead dreams,
Knives and guns, sharps words too,
The tools of cheap cowards,
No honour, no dignity,
You worship a false crown,
The reality is you are a slave,
A slave of death,
In the end,
Death will tear apart your kingdom,
Make your choice before the hour grows cold.
Talk to the children before the fall of night,
Inspire them to put away the blades,
Teach them the way of the ink,
Let them play with the paint of life,
These are your jewels,
Do not let them be consumed by darkness.
sounds rather current
except this guy got caught
before the damage
i have just been advised/
he had hoped to be interred at
he was not sure if it existed yet
it was decided to cut him up to kill him
put his head on a spike
up his neck/
that was bombed too
bombs are nasty things/
critical. some things are not for sale.
not about money
critical. heard things
you disliked. they
saved your life
critical and difficult
on all sides. it is not
a competition, we shall
not paint it white. the
bless thee and paste the words.
oxblood does not offend me, unlike
your rantings, protestations.; words continue.
bless thee, pray your maggots
while we pick out the remains.
days continue with blessings
while the thoughts that this is not personal
so i will continue to raise tickets on your befalf
blessings on your house,
those who kill your sisters.
it is not as you would think, sir. it is
blessings on your house, those that
ignore the fact.
i use you.
blind you, hash tag
you had a clean shirt
ready for after the bomb fell.
dug within for strength, without for vegetables.
tidy allotments for food. primroses came by post; my father.
war was declared before me.
they said that some hid in outside toilets to avoid the bombs. there were hits in bournemouth.
some dads dug deep for shelter in the garden. anderson, half buried. flower beds planted with veg.
peace times, families stored their potatoes , rather than waste. rationing continued.
i remember the implications, was told the facts later.
the war house & after.
we dig within for solidity, solidarity, power to continue. food is plenty.
in wales find they grew potatoes here. i have a photograph.
I still hide under tables.
i dream i dream of porcupines.
white feathers dipped in blood.
bloody mess wars,
bodies rotting there. there
are thoughts while stitching that
this could save the world.
a quiet thing. no injuries, the blood
comes small in useful drops.
drops down, meditative sound.
white feathers fall.
i did not know when you started.
about the socks, how
they are not made to last.
about those you were wearing
for five years. i did not wish
to see your leg sir.
about the chamois leathers, how
we used to have more variety.
which brought him to talk
about hand car wash. by
foreigners. his words not
insisted that they deliberately
scratch the cars, then turn their guns,
these foreigners. his words not mine.
i left, i am not paid to listen to your racist
i am paid to weave and serve another day.
he left without buying.
look at the actor,acting that the arms hurts
to help with self diagnosis.
it will be ok if we have paper to write
wait for news of those that are dying, have died
we may still have paper.
to draw on.
read the news and watch the radio, we can keep
up to date through the publications
if they have paper to print on.
For the Refugees who have lost their all,
For the Homeless who are abandoned,
For the Forsaken who have no one,
For the Voiceless who go unheard,
For the Loveless who grieve for trust,
For the Dead who perished in poverty’s fire,
For the Orphans who dream no more,
For the Betrayed who died far from home,
For Humanity in a time of mass poison.
grow naturally here. it is a wild garden
not as big as yours. surrounds me.
i like the colour amongst the green, while
having no photo again.i say cut me quick
stab me clean.
there are no razors , only scissors.
i come to you each month to leave a prayer to be said. i have no faith yet live in hope.
look at mosaics, oh absalom, my son, my son.
wonder where the justice is. i come to think on things. each time i am challenged as to my reasons, & do i have a ticket?
it is enough to put some off from visiting at all. only the brave. thank you.
pray for them, all is in disorder.
archaic or dialect question, in appropriate. a lowly start
with slight misgivings, i come arrived from the country, an immigrant
if the task came to me unlikely, i should sew profusely. a safe bet in that
something grows decently.
do you know how to stitch a lie, when all about grow honesty? mine was
white last year,
now nothing germinates.
the question is irreverent, no disrespect meant. forgive me, this is the second
time. this time,
i shall stay.
despite my nationality.