Insurrection - A drop-out's dismay

o, blistering, flaming memories of education that my mind rejected
how i do miss your beckoning.
your flavour bellowing like baroqueian bugles in holy basillicas of reckoning
thou hast my ankles aflame and my cerebrum rebelling.

you have made a martyr of me, dying under linen bedsheets
and Shatri incense
with your urges to surrender pushing me against reason’s fence.
o, blistering, flaming, arseholes of intent
i have no idea where the fuck my intelligence went.

What could've been

How interesting it is to think of how I could've been the one who swam against the stream

the one you chased in your sleep

who challenged resistance from the deep

your little distraction, the strand of hair you twist when you think

But you caught me - with very little effort.

Even more interesting is how you could've been the one who got away

the one I could never catch

a topoic over whisky between friends on rainy Saturdays

a mirage, an apparition I see in the water basin

But I caught you - alone and unprepared.

It makes me laugh when I think of how we could've been strangers

trying not to stare at eachother on a bus,

bumping into each other at the mall,

sharing an umbrella at the rainy bus stop,

passing each other on payday at the bank

But still waters ran to deep for us so we met...

...how interesting.

Harmony

The majestic sound of jazz chords filled no better place than this floating head of mine

as they're composed of

many different notes:

A sharp, D flat, F sharp.

Every thought progresses to another

Prodigal words return to their father

like scales in a key that opens a door to the next:

I am D flat, Alicia Keys was A Minor, Stevie Wonder was The Key Of Life

Dead Poets serve their causes better than when alive, as

the music of antiquity sounds more lively when the composer is dead

in

the same way that Biko lives through fashion and printed t-shirts.

Harmony then returns when death brings life brings

joy brings pain brings

black brings white brings

yang and feminine brings

past and future

to love in the present

The poet in me must die before my thought can become deed.