Philosophistication Poetry (Logo)
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 ©
Brown Part of a Banana
A poem about mental-illness, how it feels like to be inside the mind of a man haunted by his own mind. Travel back and forth in his mind and find your own sanity in the process if there’s ever been anything like that.
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