#Philosophistication

 

Forklifting thoughts to the junkyard,

reminiscing about my sanity, this is art,

broken organs, limping with falling parts,

walking within a barrel of a gun, looking

back at my past being slingshot at my

present time, feet leaving slime behind,

my sole is melting off, grow a soul, little

fishbone, that’s what they say after reading

my blinding verbs, I’m doing my words,

penetration, retribution of the masculine,

break down the walls, my path is off the

footprints where your feet were kissing,

my childhood memories are missing,

my insanity lacks reasoning, my poems

need a rational seasoning, I’ve been meaning

to mean nothing from the beginning, I’ve been

waiting for the Sabbath day to awaken the

clown, falling down heaven’s stairs for

Simon’s sake after joking with Peters

from the gate of the ghetto, Simon

says I sinned and fabled, riddled him

with the three times denial, I’ve been

serially serious; hiding behind serial codes on

a chocolate bar; mere KitKat, I mean

I’m the meerkat looking from afar,

up to par with the eagle’s eye stuck in

the sky, call Horus I’ve been placing

genjutsu lenses on his third iris, deploy

the Isis or the Pan-Africanist with no

no knowledge of the ruling oestrogen in

an African empirical residence, change

your stances, I’m still limping on your

choreographed consciousness, you’re too

weak to jest when your head is filled with ash,

I’m still the detainee in an ancient prison,

revolutionary revolting for no specific

reason, I’m committing treason from

above the mattress, in instances I’m

spitting garbage, I’m the one with a

badge and no gun, I mean the one with

the gun and no badge, I threw myself

from a ledge in my past life, I reincarnated

into a sickening egoistic black crybaby,

naysayers still read the readings of my

brain during a seizure, told myself at

thirteen to grown a liver, the audacity

to be such a miniature schnauzer, I’m

a barking young lad, trying to lead

the whole civilization astray.

 

Mayday, Mayday, the poet has awakened

the orcherstrater of Doomsday, wait the

apocalypse can’t arrive while your

synapses are still blasphemous,

cynical believers searching for the

saviour in Roman Catholic artworks,

you need a napkin to wash your

delusions from your eyes’ lenses, this

poem has grown too tense and too

intense, jump out this squattercamp

before the slaughter begins, jump

out of the fence before I strike

you out of your senses, shave off your

glances from my gigantic penis, oops

sorry for the vivid details, still

wiggling my tail; maybe my third leg,

what am I saying with these words,

I’m lost in this jungle filled with

derogatory words, you knew that

this time would come and haunt your

heads, this time I’ve grown a beard, I’m

a manly man willing to crack your

shells, peel off your scales, your

fins won’t let you express yourself

on this level of insane, I’m done being

the guy you’ll be relying on for

some Zen humbling words, maybe I’ll

teach you how to hold your stiff pen,

first get naked and get slain by

a very guilty conscious self, then

weep in your single bed, look at

yourself develop stigmata instead,

you will never become what I became,

I was slain, tamed and then fed to

vegetarian snakes, perks of being

black with a hated historical powerful

ancestral race, I’ve changed the path

for you to pace on, I’m now part of the

non-existant pantheon, for eons I’ve

been watching myself being injected

with ions into my brains, ionization then

took place, before your 5G had trended

as of yet, I’m the first victim of a

technological advancement from a

angry businessman.

 

I’ve lost the sane man in my dome,

let’s form another one, maybe a clone,

I need to own the throne of reason

before I completely lose it, maybe

I’m behind the pulpit of a prophesying man,

or maybe I’m from a clan of confused

young men, call for me my grand grand

Grand enslaved old man, maybe I’m

related to that ancient menace, what’s his

name again; Genghis Khan, I meant him,

call my plaintiff before my deep

African centered expressors shoot me dead,

I’m not Asian I’m African, maybe

I’m losing my identity construct,

I deduc…I deduct nothing instead,

this is an attempt to destroy your

norms in this writing dance filled with

stiff headed chicken heads, cluck cluck

and clucking everywhere, click click

clicking even at a funeral service, get

some morality my friend, I mean foe

before you start kissing my neck,

change my stance, I’m the King

in a psycho ward with a superstitious

granny nurse, I’m already oily and all,

anointing oil, I’m drowning and she

keeps spraying more and more,

I’m losing it in this dome, I’m

dropping on the floor, holding the door

and I’m slipping off, I’m stuck

in this place with someone crazier than

I am, slipping off, down on the floor

and I just hit my head, ouch ouch,

I’m unconscious, what just happened,

I’m now awake…written words on

the floor about the wiggling or the

third leg; who wrote this…?

 

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

 

Artwork by Anthony Browne

 

Philosophistication Poetry © All Rights Reserved ©