Friday, February 28, 2014


my Sire,
my bloody two sided sword-
I have truly killed,
wicked life of lies I have lived,
my Lordship,
at only 23, from the good ways I have fled.

I have coveted my brother's wife,
into my sister's chest I have drawn a knife,
my tongue mocks my peoples' way of life,
at only 23, from the good ways I have fled.

I have fallen into adulterous temptations,
other gods I have adored not to mention,
I stole my father's monies of pension,
and disregarded my mother's words on repudiation,
fathom me a disobedient child,
I say at only 23, from the good ways I have fled.

Barely have I touched a few street hearts with good deeds,
the sabbath is just another day deadlines to beat,
not a noble word from the synagogue could I repeat,
my body, a drugs store receipt,
in this ear, out the other ear-my mother's words of defeat.
its a pity that at only 23, from the good ways I have fled

Ought I kneel to beseech thy throne?
to substitute the heavier yoke I have borne,
same time each morning dawn,
but it has actually turned into a chant,
a song sorrowfully but a staged dirge,
today I shall change its tune,
Lord, fathom me a traitor of thy law,
have mercy,
for only at only 23, from the good ways I have fled

The End...

....All rights reserved....


I want to feel the sway of September,
flashes of cold memories to remember,
they wont follow any particular order number,
but I sigh all the same-smell of extended summer

You were a great writer,
my heart knew only of your words on the bestseller,
until it met the mad painter,
the wickedness of his camel hair brush,
colored your prologue fainter.

I wish I could lie,
that it was because you went away,
and wrote shorter poems each day,

were you not a beautiful free kite,
a swallow that flew so high,
how i loved our motorcycle rides,
Samson; my blind warrior so nigh


....all rights reserved....

Thursday, February 13, 2014


Creature of the old religion,
Preacher with a new mission,
unbalanced equation?
all this I see on television.

You speak of planting monetary seeds,
to sow for my financial current wants and needs,
but I wish to plant for my daily feed,
not future harvests blown away by the wind.

Tell me preacher,
whom and what ought I believe in?
each day my soul grows weary and thin,
I wish you could sing,
a hymn about a battle to win,
save me from a generation sin,
but no,
yee preacher,
you have no calling,
on the garden of sinners you are daily toiling,
your pulpit is like a game of bowling,
one calculated hit brings all down falling!

Yee preacher,
a damned old religion's treacher,
you humor my little faith on your night bed,
soccery is the only answer to my every life bend,
you pin the dead neighbour for my bumps ahead,
and that the monetary seed,
my only creed,
upon the heavens lowly plead

Take me back to the days of the old religion,
tell me about that agape love of the savior,
reprimand my adulterous ways,
pronounce judgement on the gays,
proclaim forgiveness on my monstrous heart,
lead me to the cross preacher,
lead me on the cross

The end.....

....all rights reserved....

Warning: this piece is written to discourage exploitation however not to alter any beliefs on tithing and offerings