Categories: , ,
More Details:


Pinpoint pointless lessons while
expressing through a broken sentence,
imprison me in your heads; unreasonable
sentence, maybe all is senseless, I sense
less and feel immense waves when the
world panics after a pandemic depraves
most of breath, break hands after penning
plot twists; my wrist bleeds, no suicidal
deeds, commit homicide when I decide
to use insecticides to write my lines,
bunch of cocks roaching about what
and who sounds better when they write,
it’s an infanticide when most fantasize to
write like I, advise the next expressive
bloodlines; I’ve been more bloody with
my lines; harvesting ink from arteries
of dead scribes, demanding syntax from
the sight of watching rejects injecting
heroin in capillaries, its anarchy; true art
is fallacy, I’m the mockery of old clowns who
twisted philosophies with syllables and
closed clauses, poke the napping Wordsworth,
watch words gaining worth, losing patience,
selling my pages to be burnt and inhaled
like incense, its nonsense, my wokeness
don’t awaken your snoring consciousness,
so take a recess and understand your own
mindset, mine is set on decrypting cosmic
secrets while yours wonders about advertisements
on television sets; so tell me a vision you
have learnt to detect, tell me of a mission
you’ve chosen to take while you neglect
your own sanity on the way, mayday doomsday,
its again another day when you breathe in,
and all still is; so believe me; you’ve
forgotten your own destiny, so rest in me,
I’ll teach ye’ sorcery through inked alchemy
while I’m welcoming a thousand voices
from those who speak through me, so
hold on and sea, I’m in the Nile on mount
Sinai; finding you the gist of what you are,
so reach for my arm, reach for my mind divine,
I need offerings of an attentive mind and
sacrificed time, dine with I, this is high-time
I highlight who the Sun bathes when enlightenment
is scarce, so let me lick your scars and
spit the blood in a bowl and let me
rewrite your story untold.

It’s by default that I’ve learnt to fold
sacred texts and understand what’s next,
its a dark veld, they’ve burnt the sacred
orchards; scared of living life while
wondering if black was Mozart, dodge the
secular darts, the last of us, we sea
where the ovum dangles on that tree of life,
tackle the fiends and crack their skulls
with forks and knives, fork their minds,
that’s manure from where your roots bloom,
now when they speak they assume you’re
loony toons, while you’re merely composing
for them loony tunes, now depart from the druids,
you’re awakened, find your substance and
turn it into survival finance, then continue
with your carnage, now you’ve found destiny
and merely dumbfounded, but it’s better
you’ve been lost and found, and in true
context you’re no longer bound, the hell-hound
is domestic now, walking the path of the
haunted while falling in bottomless pits
and some drowning from the backs of
pulpits; bring here your confused head,
you’re mistakening the hellhole for the
black-hole and the elevation rode for
a strip pole, you’re losing your old identity
like Peugeot, brain-dead, don’t be part of
the pigeons, follow the Legions, we’re
an army of three hundred slaves, scathing
mindsets with scythes that wipe away
deceptions; erasing the false inceptions,
and formulating emancipation while we
loosen the tension amongst our broken
kindred, our kin facing dread, while others
are dead with scars of oppressive bullets
scattered from ideological hornets, now
expect a sonnet from your speechless
Muppets, I’m kinetic like I’ve been rolling
on carpets… Oops I mean Static and I’m less
of a statistic when I learn to state what’s
right that which your states fail to grasp.

I chew on metaphors, I’m a spore when
I devour what enhances me, I’m metamorphic
when I think I matter within, I breathe dust;
for from dust to dust we cum, we’re all scum
searching for a little purpose and be loved,
hate my long form and call it prose, call it
cow dung and still I’m constantly free from
your laws and my lore sounds more thought-of
than that which you write for a hundred hearts,
I’m unheard of, I write in braille, I’m unseen
and that makes me me, that bakes me, I’m
no half-baked pie, I’m the star in your sky,
I’m the disruption, stye on your eye,
I’m unheard of, the world is deaf to my kind,
we shall blow up in the next decade or
a couple of some, we rewrite your ancient
rhymes, decrease your mental jail time,
we grow frail and these poems never die,
we’re here to dine before the last supper
starts, our reign has begun, we die with
our puns unintended, holding guns to our
own temples, then boom and we start
trending when we’re missed, our lives
are blissful to the reader even though we
puke our craziness, we’re enacting that
which has no script to own, we’re scorned
beings left at the shrine, bent spines,
we’re living delights.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by manzelbowman

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

2020 All Rights Reserved ©

Ill-est you’ve never Read

Do I appeal you as a good writer?

0.00 ORPLE


Be the first to donate


Minimum donation accepted1.00 XLM

0 0
Have an question? Enquire