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The forward button

What's the use of feeling enraged?
Your blood grasping hot iron
fumes thrust through igniting the char
it twists and turns
and knots a million cinders
burning its way through your heart
and puckering through your brains
gnawing a deep hole
that lets you estranged.

As you scrabble through 
cursing wildly under your breath
sweating your way into dark, uncharted poles
Flick your eyeballs,
as you cast them on to every syllable
that has ever been inked, dissolved in the contagion 
or even to be uttered
scattered intrigue, a few coins up their sleeves,
a back sword, a bludgeon, a pistol
appears from the magician's hat
there lay a crimsoned stiff or more, 
rather many wailing upon their loss
be it their petite stock of the green 
or their soul bread that 
wouldn't lead to another suicide,
or the penny that fell off their spilling pockets.

As the bulging belt
spits out another button,
he frolics with a glass of liquor
and spews around orders to obey
and plots more devilry under dim light,
you snoop around
scribbling meticulously into your notepad
every word or rather noise
that he drawls into the mic to the cheering crowd
or whispers into the ears of the untold
and as the dawn trickles in
your words, or rather his, 
trickle into the minds of your readers. 
They go berserk, a million others like you
they enunciate, punctuate, debate
over the affair for a few minutes
and then, as they press the 'plus' button
the a capella swings in
their frowns blur
they tap their fingers noiselessly
on their coffee tables
and they rush for a swig of beer
forget every hue and cry
and party like the end of the world.

You furrow,
insist, assume,
apparently endeavor
break knuckles
errand and elicit truth
your 'new's thinned by a thousand drawls
as they just hit the forward button.



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I'm too shallow to write a verse

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I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word.
I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel. See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode.
I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and wine.





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Some facts are hard to digest but true. To all those pretty people with sour cream 'fairness' masks sploshed on their dusty dusky faces once in every week, the fad dieting extremists whose diet routine involves surviving a whole year through the energy generated by a single pea (Are you the dragon warrior? Tai Lung is on the look out), to all those having a face lift, botox and brouhaha for looking the GLAM-WHAM aunty-next-door (scratch that!). This is a PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:
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