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New dew,
pay your dues to the Jews,
rentals are more; finances, just
few. Old rich lady listening to blues;
nostalgic too, confused by all
that is new.
Broken chair tattooed by
oily hands, spoilt grandchildren with
forgotten names, the dry leaf
falls and grabs the land, the
dog barks and her cough is
filled with dry air, bones are
dead, the spine knows how to
dangle back and forth to
let her stand.
The coffee gets cold, the sugar
dissolves, too sweet for her
diabetic corpse, can’t loud
call; the voice box a mere jukebox
with broken records, sitting in
her sevenfold wrinkly back crotch,
scratching the itchy thigh, remember
the good times when these thighs
once clenched and twirled, half
of the peers are long gone, dead
and buried, food for worms and
thought, parties are long gone,
the new younglings have their time
to dance till they fall, rock and roll,
blues and jazzy knots, house and
electronic bongs; soon they all become
her or leave before they’re wrinkled
up with weak backs. Lack of love
surely will break their hearts, leave aches,
watch them raise stakes, baking
wrong notions, falling into pits
of justifications and weak slogans.


Warm breeze, crowded streets,
finding the means to be free,
young soldier carrying files and
flyers, ready for the quaking of
a world, meddling with burning
thorns, this veld consumes everything,
4am, waiting for destiny to appear,
steer the flames away from the
willing, whistles and taxi hootings,
hijackings and stabbings, the poor
find prosperity in charity, pass
flyers; out of the silent cave,
formality; unironed suit; clothes
smelling of smoke, long walk to
freedom; walk like tortoise,
world is your sandbox, minecrafting
a kingdom only to end up sitting
on broken rocking chairs and
listening to the blues upstairs,
a shadow of the moon willing
to walk on the sun’s rays,
finding the good in the bad,
the bliss in the skim of broken things,
chasing of dreams and solitude,
the rich are just short circuits with
a broken fuse; the poor mere
circuits with no energy to cause a spark,
but in all mere circuits.
Flyers and more flyers, salaries
and wages, 4 ams and lack of sleep,
searching for the means to feel more
alive, the jive of the poor young
busy bees living in wrecked hives,
genuine smiles, innocence and
willing to mop the sty to find
the golden ground.
Thoughts of prosperity haunt
the mind, nowhere to belong.


Moketsi the Reaper; narrator,
you need no sanity to understand
all the calamities, meetings of subjections
and objections; mere deceptions, ideas
falling into mindsets, build up some
form of determination, life filled with
false understandings, follow your dreams;
but all dreams have an awakening,
at the end it was all for nothing though,
the good life is all something false to
truly love, all is there; no sense of
being part of everything around,
the mind is not sound, murmur
out and about, but it has all gone
to dust, depressed shmutz, no feeling
of being needy when what is wanted
is all around, from survival of the
fittest to the fittest bored of sovereignty
and searching for survival, broken
entities attached to materialistic things,
idealisms and purposeful wishful
thinking; plaintiff and defendant of one’s
opinions, courses and headaches, suicides
and heartaches when results go against
the successful stance, existence based on
acts and skits of spiritual stuff, tough
minds and living life for ‘who gets the
last laugh’, floating on artificial clouds,
residual lies, residue for one is treasure
for another scum, then some swallow
cum to own what another barely owns,
cranium filled with hope follicles,
it’s a steep slope down life’s road,
survival is for the skewed; those who
match the sluntness of life’s direction.
Is this emancipation; or do I mere Joke.
I Joke! Life is Sweeter than Salt.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork By Person918

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

2020 All Rights Reserved ©

I Joke

Is Life in itself worth… Is anything about Life worth it?

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