'Fist'

Somedays, my anger is like my fist
And believe me it's always clenched.

I'm afraid of opening my hands
'cause I might sprawl a disaster

Most time, I hold my tongue-tied
as best as I can
and believe me I try to stop my speech
and hold my breath
'cause if I didn't
I would have said 
'Fuck you'
a thousand times.

    Adesiyan Oluwapelumi

a passion for life
 
she has this
listless look
in her eyes
 
i once saw fire,
emotion, a passion
for life that burned
like arson
 
the circle is closing
 
death is inevitable
 
only the lucky ever
die happy
 
the rest of us can
only hope to find
something that
isn't too painful
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
pure fucking misery
 
here comes
the rain again
 
a hot august
thunderstorm
creeping along
 
pure fucking
misery
 
one of these days
i'll be lucky enough
to fall asleep in bed
and never wake up
again
 
of course, that kind
of wishful thinking
hasn't got me anywhere
i ever wanted to be
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
hole in the world town
 
i never understood why
anyone would want to
live around a ton of
people
 
whenever i travel south
for one of my mother's
medical appointments
 
i see all the traffic
 
all these overpriced
houses
 
the schools aren't any
better and neither are
the drugs
 
i'll take my little hole
in the world town and
just be fine
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
this is my life now
 
sitting in the car
 
watching it rain
 
insert random
healthcare facility
and any day of the
week and this pretty
much is my life now
 
and i don't want to
come off like i hate
taking care of
my aging mother
 
or that my life would
be oh so much better
if i was the rich one
instead of my sister
 
the way the choices
and consequences
came down were
how it was meant
to be
 
i accept that
 
but i'd be stupid if
i wasn't planning
or at the very least,
dreaming of what
my life will be once
death enters the picture
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
like some math equation
 
not sure how many
times i'm going to
know i'm ready to
die for it to actually
fucking happen
 
even my patience
for that is running
out
 
i wish this was like
some math equation
which would mean
life would be the
answer to this shit
 
sadly, i know that
isn't the case
 
if only...

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Misfit Magazine and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Shooter Two

Today, another school shooting

imagine yesterday, the nineteen

children were being themselves

ready for school, and this close

to the end of the school year.

Imagine their plans for the new

free time. Imagine this morning

as they got ready for the school

day, their last school day. Now

imagine the young man who was

planning to do what he did and

having some goal in mind. What

was it – to kill a group of children,

or to shock us once more, or was

it some sense that there was fame

to be had in a mass shooting, or

was it an elaborate suicide, a very

public suicide, instead of just going

off alone to shoot himself. It isn’t

hard to imagine the aftermath for

this school shooting. We’ve become

used to it all, the news coverage and

all the politics of them – it’s election

time and this plays well in certain

parts of the country. We’re just getting

ready for the next one.

 

               Shooter Three

At first his plan was to “kill everyone”

but that changed as he planned –

“everyone” would take too long and

take too many bullets, so his plan

came down to killing fewer people

but also killing a moment and a mood.

So there he was disguised and well

armed, well-aimed up on that roof

overlooking their parade, a sniper

like the military snipers he had seen

in movies, a sniper with his private 

mission. After seventy shots wildly

shot from his perch, after seven were

fatally shot and thirty others shot, he

in disguise blended in with the fleeing

crowds, as if he were one of them. But

it didn’t take them long, first his picture

and then the scene, the picture of him

being arrested, driving the car they knew

he would be in. Now he joins the ranks

of recent shooters – Buffalo, Uvalde Texas

etc., a growing list of people and places. And

maybe they will kill us all, the “everyone”

he was/they were originally after.

My Apologies to the Lizard

I, reluctantly, sprinkle lethal crystals or pellets as death sentences for the unwanted to later find –

I sprinkle them onto the floor – along the baseboards…

Creatures that crawl, crawl upon the floor – into my apartment – and they cannot smell the poisons awaiting them –


and I very much wish they did – I wish they could smell the poison – so they’d turn away – and live – and not die – and not die because of me

_____



My efforts were ineffective. So, I call in the expert…



The Orkin man visits my home and I welcome him –

He has a canister that rides upon his back – with a long tube that distributes the poisons –

Spray, spray – and they die – spray, spray, and more die following

He smiles – he’s a nice guy and he’s providing a service that makes it possible for his family to eat


“It’s there”, I tell him, while pointing at the small crack in the flooring that leads to the outside wilds beyond my apartment. “That’s where they come in”.

He nods his head intelligently. He is the professor of execution - a promiser of a pest-free existence (and I cannot help but appreciate him and hate what is happening) –

He shakes my hand and I shake his in return, with a manly grip –

No more creatures smaller than I am –

creatures without a visitors pass or my permission to enter –

I am god, judge most high and a disappointing and ineffective savior for bugs and insects – and I very much do not appreciate these roles

_____



Hours later, there is a lizard on my bedroom floor. And he is not moving

Lizard - I wasn’t trying to kill you – I promise – I was trying to kill something else –


Roaches and mice (not the cute ones at the pet store – the diseased ones that run in the walls) and little bugs that crawl on the floor and in the windows by the dozens – gnats? tics? – I don’t know what they are.


Why did you have to enter my apartment?


The Lizard is dead – Lizard, you are dead

You’re on my bedroom floor –


And I’m using a tissue to pick up your limp body – and I am so sorry -

My apologies.

I know it’s not fair – I wasn’t trying to kill you –


Why did you have to enter my apartment on such a lethal day?

________



My apologies to the Lizard

_______________________________________________



Connections:

Jumping Cows and a Moon Made of Green Cheese

 

I ask her what kind of animal she’d be

if she were not human and was an animal

She says, “a chicken” and I ask her “why (?)”

She says, “she likes to travel” and I like her answer

and tell her I’d be a wolf and she asks me “why (?)”

and I tell her, “Because I like to dress up like my grandmother”

And she smiles and says she understands

 

She likes floral patterns for wallpaper

and I like roosters or apples – at least for the kitchen

Roosters or apples, surrounded by flowers

-         and we both shake our heads in agreement

Red apples, red and brown roosters

and flowers neither red, nor brown

Yellows, blues, and purples – all blistering, bright and brilliant

Illustrated color panels stick to the walls, agreeably

and we smile in unison

 

“I’d be the number 7”, she says, and I ask her “why (?)”

“Because it’s prettier sounding than six with twice the syllables”

she tells me

“I like 7”, I observe – then think of the number 42

I say the two-digit number aloud

and she smiles again. “It answers everything (!)”, she exclaims

and I tend to agree – and return her smile

“If the devil is 6 (?)” I say and she replies,

“If man is 5 (?)” and then we both immediately realize

we are a perfect pair

 

I like watermelon – seedless and in July

and I learn she prefers other melons

throughout the year

-         honey dew and, and on occasion, cantaloupe

 

We, then, slowly walk - in opposite directions

both of us glancing backwards at the other – despair settling in

“If he only liked cantaloupe (?)…”, she pondered

“If she only appreciated watermelon – on a hot summer’s day… (?)”, I questioned

So, I huff, and I puff, and she runs like hell

avoiding the traffic – the best she can

 

I, frantic, run into a tiny house

inhabited by a posse of men shorter than I

and a woman unconscious – in a coma (?)

lying on a bed, frighteningly pale

“One of the pigs is over there”, one little person exclaims

“She likes bricks”, he tells me – and I, too, like bricks

 

So, I begin the short walk to her abode

and will ask her if she prefers pie or cake –

and if she says “pie”, I hope she’ll choose cherry –

and, if she says “cake”, I hope she’ll say “lemon”

 

And, if she then adds, “with whipped cream” or “with extra frosting”,

I’ll gladly listen to her oink –

every day and for every night for as long as we both shall live

 

-         and I’ll never eat her

 

I promise

C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S

C-Christ Comes
H-Honor Heightens
R-Reality Reckons
I-Influence Imbibes
S-Substance Supplies
T-Time Tells
M-Masses Moves
A-Accomplishment Accounts
S-Selling Situates

MANUFACTURED

      Everybody is nobody
 Erased
 Brought back
We see in two's
Death of one
 Raise of another
False memories
No history.

Experiments
Scientists porn in the game.               Samples collected
Man refined,
Lies we were told, truth we sought.
Artists, lieutenants, athletes not left out. Family and friends scared to you again
 One for the price of two.
 Dust shall we return.

 2, TITLE: TRUTH TOLD LIES SEEKED.
North Pole to South Pole 
Could there be more a question asked.
Flat or spherical?
A page from the Bible will tell.
We have no choice.
Life outside does not exist Undiscovered world

  Born in the past
  Present in the future
Knowledge is power,
Power is power
Time jumps in some case
Window unknown opened
Cosmic changes
Seismic problems
 Life a game
 Puppet to the master.

3, TITLE: CALL TO MIND
       Slowly but surely my heart breaks 
       into dismay.
       Mama's words deepens the hole in 
       ticker.
       Papa always reminding me of how 
       Pointless I have become.
       
       Scared and hunted with the 
       Stigmatization of blunder
       the world shut the door in my face.
       Cynthia do u remember going to 
       the old man's room to find different
       Flavors of death.
       I perceived the real shudder of
       Death.

       The taste so cool and tranquil
       Bit by bit, molecule by molecule,
       atom by atom.
       It looked like the flag of permanent
       Defeat.
       Zapped with a laser, drawing the 
      Fiend out of me.

4, TITLE: HERITAGE OUR ECHOES
         From our tongue to our mahogany skin.
From the food we eat to souls that made it.
From the songs we sing under a silver lining.
Is our heritage the soles of our foot on which we trot the motherland?

        We ascend in diverse but euphonious sounds of our tongues  "Salam alekum, bawoni,olo-dudu,ndewonu"
When the birds of Eden sang,the souls gone livid,never to be casted aside like blackened burnt rice.

Strong and inspiring like a mighty tree 
The perpetual cadence of the vast sea, the shade it brings ,peace that it leads, I hear the echoes of my heritage.

5, TITLE:
End
Can I schedule when it will end
In a world controlled by an unending confusion
Law and order replaced with mayhem 
The law comes in, hoisting their pendant of their country

The excruciation of seeing your folks drenched in the pool  of their own plasma 
In misery and pain 
End sars !!!

A peaceful assert gone sour 
A placid municipality gone mad.
Their tongues pierces the legs of the law.
Riffraffs turned the city into a place of consternation and complete disorderliness .

The colours of the day; black - the pain we faced, red - the death of our folks.
Our pendant is soaked with the blood of our loved ones.
The law hoisted their flag of defeat 
The betweenities upheaved their fist in unanimity.
Stop the killing.

6, TITLE: LASHED
     LOVE AND DEATH,
Love has no place in Mama's heart 
Men could be flowers
Flower withers
A gentle breeze choke the lungs of mama.
Witnessed Mama's sorry first hand
Chaotic, tied down
The devil's hand caress a body, sweet lullaby, voice of an Angel, touch of a Good.
Hunted by the walls, lashes, marks, tears
Mahogany skin turn lip red
  Today I write the end of Mama's sorrows.

7,TITLE: NEVER HAVE I
Never have I walked the shores of beauty.
Life's a bitch, u are what you are
Looking at every imperfections in the mirror always asking why am I.
  Never have I smelt the flower of true love, thrown from left to right without destination. becoming a tool of fornication.
Oceans of tears on my pillow
Young and naive, they say
Drowning in my self created silence.
    Locked up like an plague, running from my shadow
"Impossible they say"
     Boys often "heroes" in my story
Frail and obsessed they say
Time passed leaving in regret
Hunted by the sound of slow playing music.
      Never have I. 

8, TITLE: SURVEYOR
 CALM DOWN MAN
TRAPPED IN A LAND UNSPOKEN OF
HE SEE HIS HOLLOW END
I SAID TO HIM "TRY TRADING YOUR SOUL INTO DUST"
AT THE END IT'S GIVE AND TAKE.

9, TITLE:TIME
UNSTOPPABLE
TRADITIONALLY SAYING THE SAME PARTICULAR WORDS.
THE WATCHMANS BEST FRIEND
EVERYONE'S ENEMY.

BIOGRAPHY
My name is Hannah Aipoh, I am sixteen years of age, l was born on the 23rd of February 2006 and I hail from Estako east local government area Edo state Nigeria. I am the first of five children and the first daughter of two girls.
 I aspire to be a gynaecologist and a poet laureate.

Doors

Doors stick to the shoes I chew the souls out of quiet residential area 51’s coming apart at the un-planeted sentence – knife in prism – oh, affect! Dual good. God’s fencing Alice dragging on a drag queen’s doubled joint to stroke your Facebook gives me a psychic shucks. Chic, this is the skusb of something rootable, and this time it’s not Deleuze and all. It’s delusional. No fucks.

So, we put our likelihoods up cos I know a tap house from how the foot’s fucked. I don’t need to read it. My robbing hoods scoff at the stares that eeked in and spun out for meters, meteors, meatier if you know to meet us on the borderline of personality and taste to order refinement. It puts minds at tease, into violins, their hidden violence, missing personas of interest rates plummet, sic as the plumbing stolen by a cut throat, moaning dew due to be replace exactly like won’t my gut be. 

I’ll be raising you to the mourning of my own death, uploading it to the houso complex cloud above for Groucho and Marx. As close as we get to the lock of a plot are – ouch – these light globes that halo me into debt, and collections to let said debts RIP – this one is a faery’s tale of WOAH, a steaming stream of consciousness, piled up obnoxiously in the noughties corner. Oh, no! 

Now we owe millions of years. Yesterday, it was billions. So, tiers… your derro predilection of booty is going out with their head space rolled out the red carpet, ace as a sigh. Gap. Me bolt. Later, Leda and I watched and streamed at each other watching Black Swan, live as a wire acting on. “I jut wanted a wife with greater resolution.”

Our notions breeze suss as fuck it, you, that, etc. Dead convolution, conversation. Killing me, matey, just shows I never die. It’s cultured, imperial; perma-fried, chips you can’t bets’re off spreading the wards of AD. You’ve got to fail the grade to pass off the test. Made to disorder truths here can cough. We’ll dismiss them as meaningless. 

Aladdin’s hand me downs

My tongue deviates in fountains. You’ll never escape our prying highs. I just wanted a wife with greater resolution. Non omnis moriar.
I know what you did: lost summer. Precedings were adjourned, down under the shade of the Coolabah box, and burnt. I say that at the risk of repeating my selves. My shelves circle, though, loan sharky, defeating that purpose, as if on purpose, or drug use.

Everybody wants to relax like my jeans don’t, drool the world. Erase by serial numbers. Stop the quotes. We’re a long way from home ownership the nigh away to be from me.

More crystalline stumble shows you on TV over fur, fifty livers later. In those days, the sun flat fell, no setting – up or down. 

Up. I hover about the bitching; phew. Screams and schemas were heard at least three days ago.

Tomorrow’s yesterday with a wig on!!!!!!! The time is out of points. I’m fuelled by your stare.

Later,  I prove lowlife’s what you make it; my atoms cun. My body went awol, but flows and ers were Bloomian beneath my feat. TF1 was the careerist of the queer. 

Rack the sky. Wanna see a status go? Between the lines, verb of preference preceding. 

And just. Stay fed uploading metadata – her dad’s eyes pickling in a jar under the masses’ hysteria was made common sense to transfer me all your money is no good here we only take long walks away from key change’s welcome but mu cusp remains of enemies empty. Best practice.

You know, drop boxing me into the shit fields forever back down load the idea shot by shot surf scratched it till a tunnel vision of you, lost. “Excuse me, sir,” they misgendered me, “I’m making a scene for futurity to dismember and me to live on in the ellipses of Gods.” Their silence left it up right down to Pluto. Plus, I was empty hearted and cashed.

But it just might have been sass addiction, how I went out with a big bang the babe is old enough to know pigs can fly. It began in social media res (It didn’t; ask Medea). I cleaned my glasses, but I think my eyes were wobbly: they kept failing to a lauded gun. I only do other people’s lives. The prying is optional. 

It’s drop it like it cold war shit. Make a strackie. You swore at me till death do part your legs still follow me around fucking Newtown. I’m the closest drug relation of your Hotel Delirium. Pay more intention.

When I do, my imagination gets itchy. Like, I was the only one without a gun to my head case split open that night I saw tear gas in your eyes, sighed off on a MAD tea party. It ended the great depression in verse. It was too brag to veil: trace and bullets = new points of entropy, etorndy. Then, she sentenced me to wash the dishes. I thought it was a homophone. 

So again the poem turned on a crimewave, and the suspense is billing me. You’d think it all aver, says my monologue, taking me under – or over – like a boss. But I was barely dying, so….

But then the hissing of your fractured eyes sink holed me up. Mx 8-ball, and it’s what it’s. So, I sent a WhatsApp message: share the sea to my savage slideshow ons if you’re walk. Now they’ve got a cold, and the air is creaky. Freaky.

I started ceased and deceased but still riding poems, thus…. How’s that for starvation of thought?

Dressed to the 999s, the moon is up to get me, the sun is down to fuck me. “Medusa is on. I added the seasoning from hell. Gotta split, love.”

Doing so makes two question marks, minus some dots.

War and peace. 
 

The vamphorskes

Your Mcmansions started it, this disease with which I yawn. All of.mine were devised with this door of opportunity cost sucked through an early bird catching a wormhole.   It was unpredictable as any opera about soap, the movements of these pixels through the hour glass we figure ate the days of our lies. Did someone say complaint by numbers? 

What about my inhumanable alien rights; aren't they enshrined somewhere?  Look! Owning up to the bush, doof-head, will not make your convention oven good for resale, or anything at all. Yes, I know I said my buddy is a temple - that's because it's me and he is one. We slide our tithe in between, yeah, his teeth. Not so radical. True. Granting what is and isn't funny bones hard, adrift from my fucks, or preferences theyre for. I guess ploy for them make like cats and back into the lamp, right? Make it now and void, so I did. 

So, am I excepted to try rubbing it the wrong way round? A low revs in, but not as response too, and that they're the greatest bid this moment complaints by numbers of living dead is off too, I spose. Bully is the pulped it word of the minute. They girt us anyway, a notional anthem for four eyes. Was there a way out of lined with - line - situations such as this, or a way one needs improve - note without the E. Spare change? Much ado, nothing will convince. It's like an emotion sickness - recalcitrant, shitty. Squawks are shifty until in demand, demented tragic comedy, ala you, allah.

Voldemort was bothered by everything also. What? Despite all my wage, this wetness caging me, concrete following me up stairs taken to circumnavigate the stares, the elevator, rude I will on the not be, Mr Your Honour. The century bangs onwards, remixing the books so the invoice of this degeneration is sex. No more subtleties - ching ching - register cash? You're getting off my Nirvana, standing on my Husqvarna.  Cultural cringe. Gold syringe the masses hysteria made common sense to transfer all your money is piecemeal and bought up, peace's boarded up, water not included. Is that what's called a meal deal breaker? War and peace out, Grinch.  

(Parking lots of you... Best form a disorderly line up, but no expressions that are not expropriate, Ok?) ...Jesus, mythed up the pointillism, too, entirely contravening our lost lesion. Part the art's not at all, historically speaking, to work off the corruption that was its genetics. MDNA. It could have happened tomorrow, today, but we're here, now, and we copyrighting it don't. There's a parody with which to explain something obvious imported in there somewhere. I'm an anarchist, allegedly. I'll raise anything black - powers, say, but I'd hate myself for milking it like a mural. 

Everyone in da house here lives on the edge, had a dream whose living solution was never land, nor discussing how we shared them between us. They leave us closer to witches than riches, the looks they insist on grabbing rattle us, but industry, we snake, bite into the Adam's apple. Eve runs with, rather, this garden of our forking tongue twister games, a pricked pin here and there, code for "glitch this  Genius sparks as I stroke your face gives me an electric chair to pull up anywhere. 

Grate again because freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Our up. We can do it with one Swiftian motion, adjourned till there's woven a politic with more body. This one holds its heads up in its hands, by its waist, going up and down, a value, toxic. Low or high, we're wasted. But only as regards sobriety's spectacle - it's you can see, but you can't like. We're above the influence here, crunching epidemics out of all proportion. Caesar's chicken salad now we're death-marching for our lives back up slowly and keep your hands in the air like you just don't care.  

Sure, I'm stupid, but it's like a fox. Flying over your head, lazy dog, the pupils left; our eyes are all white, hey. Shut that wide open road. Scholars ship these mallets. It's a walkthrough we'll never long, bottoms, be maid or privy to. I'm no Alex Jonestown massacre, but the Crimean war is that never ending storey, a God dammed Ummmmms race. The fall out is boy. Times leaves us fools, ranked rank wank amateurs. Recording everything clicks heals into place. The tape gets trips The corner we're in backs off. Huh? The mirror's a producer of ash. Beeeeep. Beeeeep. Smirk machines make an audience grin. The glint is similar. These cameras get it out their eyes. Fins circle, classically open and wide

That jerk isn't forlorn anymote

Morry pranksters and fateful mcMans guzzling inside out means or prediction. Erudite or or Eros date! A comedy of terrors fellows me off Instagram - insta glam. Mort as any lake, we over and in redcline, wristwatch the Lakers play up down left right up two start select up. Chew chews the alternative - delete control. Traumaturgy be out now illegal discipline. Slap the fetus from Nirvana's wee box, beating still as a symbol don't. Noh udder cymbals fit. We're simple samples served and on ice. Winter came little roo, and too late. I'd like two lattes, earlier, puh-lease, but with a shot of rum to the headspace as well. This jokes too big to be funny for its boots, you foghorn leghorn posse. mead the ows. These might fit