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POEMBOOK

etfiction.com

By John Reyer Afamasaga

SUMMARY

Love, Trust, Honesty & RespectShe mustveApplied her make updonned a towelOne on her headAnd one to cover her chest and legsloaded an SLR cameraand then hoped for the best

Love she did, her eyes were aliveTrust her lips, kissing I am missingHonesty her mouth a little open, I wishRespect for herself, she never did die

I held a mirror in front of youTo help you see the beautiful truth

Our love was deep, our love was pureFor the first time in our lives we felt so sure

John Reyer Afamasaga

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Of this! Forsaken book

The safest place to be is here with meI believe I hear heras I make myself healthy

with two of these fagsand the same pot of that tarBut theres fearI have done what I can do to put herTruly and undoubtedly out of my limited reachRestrained within a vocabularymild and weak as it is cheapMy actionsLeaving her head in despair, desolatedAnd desperate from her bountiful bodyInside it a bruised heartShe can see in her eyesRed tired, dried, friedall of the time as she pretends to prepareFor today in a mirrorDrip fed with dreadHerThe thing which brings mehow she must feelIn an orange sun that setssoftly behind the rolls of hillsHer beaming in the hallowed moonas it brings, blurs and fades her

Across these blue black skiesway beyond, yonder, deeper than darkMy hands cut as they carveInto the bodyOf this!Forsaken book


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Moon, man Part 1

I would like to be as direct as permissible when I writeBut if it were not for the unique way our minds twist

As it sorts the mess which it is dealt each dayIn a world that spins around a sun it orbitsI would probably be more likely to just draw a lineIn the sandAnd stand on one side when I am highAnd on the other sideWhen I am downHopefully this will be in tuneWith the tidesAnd in timeWith the differing reflectionsOff the moon


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The nights in a London dungeon

To Janine,This is a bookWith few entries

It smells of youLike you hold itIs so dark I can see your eyesAnd I am so hungry I taste saltLike that of our tears.Tidings that will never be as fair as youJohn PS,Write at daybreak therefore read at sundown


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A day under the sun in the Americas

She saysAnd he must wearHis name will be Lazoo

A John no doubtBut he will give everyoneSoup and flour doughUnleavened and sourThe broth of brewSoiled fruit cleaned in oilsLike you in spiritMuch the sameIn what fair youShe makes out inMy words though they still beThe promisingThe easy way she skipsThrough the treesAnd awayLeaves me thinkingLeaves me hereIm starting to thinkTalking like thisIt must be workingGone, puff,And upIm also

Away


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Long in limbo

Long in limboSpilling thrillingIn distillable speaking

When if, and if whenConsequentiallyHypotheticallyIndescribablyStillAs againI tryIn the sunAnd in the rainIf there were some snowWould most likely, Be in there alsoIn windMakingMayBeIs Will!Curly, Wurly, BitsBitten and chewed uponCursive and creativelySeemingly simplisticA Tantric episodeAll on his ownWith nothing to bare

And then Once all has beenShared, shearedAnd thereforeShavedWith nothingToSave


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Cowboys and girls with hay in their hair

Cowboys and girls with hay in their hairHawaiian guitars and their lullabiesThe barman serves him up the same

In heart of the AmericasAs he does on the pavements of ParisThe floral dress dry she swaysIn the only spotlight in the barnHer face has its place to rest its gazeMy mind has known no other placeThese boots are dirt tiredI bring her chin upWith my hand on this heartAnd now she takes the stepI better follow the wayThe way she is betterThan me


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Crickets, cicaders, insects

Hey, do you remember the cicaders?Crickets, cicaders, insectsWings breaking wind banging on their weird and wirily wired bodies

The one around your straw hat, you slap at, as the one around your neck I laugh atTheres a nation of them in these parts, this we know from their loud whispering soundIn the opening up ahead no place for them to be scared, we know the noise will dieBut in the evening under the stars, there they are again in the air, and so in our ears.


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She came half way around the worldAnd I liedshe triedBut I still liedShe went and I stayed

they ordered an executionIm meant to be tiredTorn in two, in jail or a-sailBut I am alivewell, in theory and in spiritIf I find her, this poemWill be read throughout HistoryInstead


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I wipe my noseI wipe my eyesI hear in earsHave heard somewhere beforeThe whistling

Not like in the willowWeeping Like the wind sweepingSweetThenSourSharpTart talk in the darkWillful windIn between branchesLeaving leaves gatheredOrange and yellowIn autumn coming


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Around OClock

Around OfaceAround OgraceAround Osheaths

Awn of gallantryAwn of hilarityAwn of solitaryGingerly timelyGingerly princelyGingerly similiOf torn behestOf torn inquestOf torn unrestPeacefully kissPeacefully jestPeacefully getAround OClock


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Could be different in an instant

EyeLashSeen

DarkensSearing tear then dampenedA fledgling smile shimmerStunning fears hear seethingNow believingIn a wink and a two finger clapA think in time it takes to hastenRush as pressinglyOne urges one onwardCould be different in an instant


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RAVISH

RavishdThenThis

In betweenDoingThisIn yoSkinRavishIn - ThroingAnd some toingSweetSwellingAnd smelling - ZingDeepHip - and thenPillowing - buffedAnd in thereAgainRepeat


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What captures your eye?And captivates your mind?And catapults your heart, above its flat line, beyond the possibilities you have felt?


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He wooedIt made everyone cooHe smoothedAnd everyone was fooledBut one, she was aloof

It is her that John Lazoo will want


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When they take you awayThey take you awayWhen I have nothing leftI have nothing to giveYou will not need to read

When I read you


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There is only ever one way to the place where you are today!Make what you think!The same time will come again tomorrow!Hurry to be patient!You will be caught!

Everything changes!Do not wait for change, it will take you forever!If there is only one thing that you do, let it be change!


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Participle

The straightened road narrowsDisintegrating feelings are to loom

As a car passesThe toe of my bootIs free and away from the insidesOf the fence

The outside is the wide expanse, I did expectThat is not yet openTo meAnd who am IThat it should show meWhat I know to be hidden

The greyhounds engine grinds downThe driver is blackAnd the door is jammedNow it is ajarAnd then I pry it wide openAll the way, and up ontoThe third stepI rushTo be nearThe first Person


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EXT. BROOKLYN NYC, 1991 A WINTER MORNING

James Elton, someone in his early twenties, stands on the street. He

pushes together on the lapels of the charcoal two piece suit to keep

warm

He looks at his cowboy boots

NARRATIVE:

Both the suit and boots were gifted to him by the lifer he

shared a cell with for the past five years.

Behind him and up a bit is a little girl, from the way she props her-

self up using her arms on the sill of the open window one is either

concerned for her safety or impressed how clever the two year old is.

NARRATIVE:

Thats me Missy Evon. And down there on the street is the father

of Little Lazoo, the one I was sent to Guide. My mission starts in

the year 2031, but I believe it started the moment I first met the

Illiterate Poet.


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Little Lazoo

He grows, and he growsLittle Lazoo has outgrownOrders to behave and to bathe

He now stands up past my navelhis bicycle is littleCompared with his riddleshe asks as he knowstheir endings and meaningsjust so he can get meto tell him hes everythingTo me and my breathingOne day hell be leavingbut not yet Im givinghim the lessons he needs mewhen that day comesI know hell be willingto commit and be givingto some sweet girl who lovesmy little James Elton hesquickly and alreadyDeftly deceivingBe soft,Hold his head firmlyLittle Lazoo is worthyBathe him in wordsthat will prepare him to

be what he wills


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Camel droppings in this desert

Ahoy!Heralds the trackerThe burning boulders still steam

And so he may be somewhereUp ahead on the hump ofA walking mammalThe orange turban weavingIn the hottest sun that will not setThe brown dirty skin on his armsWarm, as the boy sniffs usIn his wake walking him downThats the speed with which they huntThe lone strangerStringing together the ledgerI think tomorrow, well find him thirstySomeone hopeful makes thereAimless task more hopelessAs the others poke fingersIn their ears, eyes and arsesThe boy is really a ManThe man is really a SoldierThe soldier is already an Army


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Reptilia

The crowded market placeIs the best of hiding placesHis orange turban weaves

And when they believe they have himHe is not there, not theirs, he is no whereCrouched, thoughtful the boy looks onAnd he likes the way their legs lookAs they walk that wayAnd then they walk this wayThe lip of the basket parts, and liftsAnd then it drops beside itselfDa da! Proclaims his smileThe cobra and only the cobraCan see him, its flat head fannedAs it has comeTo say helloTo Little LazooThe End


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Story tellers and their tricks

A King says to the court jesterMake me laugh and then the after thought my minions?Make them cry! He scowled, howled and then frowned

Forgetting the taxes, as the hatter not yet completely mad, gathersThe scatter, matter, combining and signing, he leisurely luresRehashed, recants, and vamps volleys of folleysA mother warns her little boyOf the imminent dangerThe little masters monster might, hasAsked and he has received a tupence of utteranceAs the moral materializesIn his mothers wise wordsIf he does not change his ways

A traffic light turns orange just beforeThe red ends the flow

A sign swings,On the other side the shop keeper seesAn open door,His way home

Story tellers and their props

Kneadled dough proovedWithout baking the yeast

Expands, pockets, making particles of airBefore the oven fire all lined upTheir shape apparent and now to cementTheir real value, for food and for life(Income monies, outgoing down the drains)The glazed buns that did not need to be firedGet eaten and then shat outJust like the shit that makes me want toSpit


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The Silverspoon

Lips let goAnd so it appearsA tongue then licks the lips all over, for more

half dozen eyes watch eagerlyas it is driven to diveBack down there, scooping from a galorecarbos, dairy and their daily breadcarefully now, the ice-cream is freeoff the other side we fear seriouslyFor some of that dairyIt may goThe familyhave finishedbut they like to talkWith each othernow theyre beginning to squawkThe Silverspoon sits stillerthan the ice-cream meltingand the coffee that is freezingI wish they would shut upAnd just get up and leavebut they smile at each othera daughter, a father, and her one and only motherThe waiter clears the tablewhile the Silverspoon swimsthe coffee cup is clean

a little sugar at bottom, it clingsThe family holding handsSkipping the little girl goesas they pass me sittingLooking at themFrom inside thisHaunted caf windowThe waiter is so kindHis tips he puts in this handwith this other handI take the spoon as I offer to return

his money he closes insideThe first of my twobadly frost bitten hands


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Float far

Drift way of into some blueSwell well away from where you are todayAnd pray the tides on that side of the divide

Are less torrent and more potent, packedWith people passionately singing in tuneResonating renascence and erasWhen all was thoughtful and artistsHung proud and not around dark cornersThink sour as you talk sweetLet no one in wholl spoil the way you sleepWhile walking and working your way throughAnothers nightmare that you just happen to beInsideAs you have already done


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Sudden death

The very bright ballIn the new night is for allBut mostly for making of silver light

My hands are tightWithholding holes of them poresAnd then I suck deep gulpsOf all her sores, aches, pains and shameI am in between the quickening, skippingBig and bold beats of her heartThe skin is so hot it retortsIn bleeding beads of sweet sweatA hound howls at the heat in the airAnd the piped puff of fluffed airPasses over and on top of the nightHer eyes are still lightAs I exchange hot poundsFor her muskAnd then she is saidTo be all redAs I think my heartIs ahead of my mouthJust a bit before ourSudden death


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The Mighty Moon

He had not realized that the moon never really got the chance to settle into a good day'srest, as the sun always stole the show as it rose, victoriously, just as it set in a majesticfashion each day, both in reality and in the minds of its many fans and worshippers

around the watching planet.(From etfiction eBook: John Lazoo)

The silver crust, would crushThe melted molten molarsIf their hind heat threatened to melt the moonMan felt moored upon the moonBounced about a bitBut he did not float off into spaceOr burn a cornea looking at its faceTry planting a logo on the face of the sunThe 50 or more stars would burnBefore the pole, on which they paradeCould be hurled like a stakeFrom a million trillion light years awayOf which the mighty moonOffers the counter spaceWhich the stinking sun relies uponFor it to make, what we callTime

The grass dried soon and his clothes were dry. The character came through the doorquietly yet confidently, but still slowly. The last bits were drying at the speed at which the

clouds passed over his head, some spots more rewarding than others, once wet, thenwarm, then dry, and suddenly hot. Lazoo said aloud, That homeless man over thereunder that tree, he hasn't eaten for three whole days(From etfiction eBook: John Lazoo)


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Time

It trimmed its width, as it wandered down itsSometimes horrendous and horrid pathIt planned its breadth as it foretold itself

In Homer, honing its longing-nessTunneling isms, while funneling fuming fortifying fickle fierceAnd then floundering fortunesFrom found-less folly, fountaining vicious vile vocationsVindicated in vein volumes of vanityCyclic and sickly on souls who so said they sawAs when they crawled, and then sat crossed leggedBefore their spine, stiffened and straightened so their eye lineSeeing horizons when they stood, and not the heels of those they followedOr the shore on which they did stand and therefore wishThat this thing would come to an end


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Sun spots

Have marred and now maimedA mirror complexion of a riverThat roved and wound down to this fork

Feting fun have shown shadows in deep creasesWorry and its pushers queue down and around that cornerTo apply their treatment, while jolly jokersAdd life while they wipe, swipe and take awayAll grief, but still on a cloudless dayThe orange fiery ball that blazes the skies aloneSeeks places to dry, wither and weatherLeaving the moon to moisten minutes for theThe sun to soak in pain


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Mindless Matter

The mirage motivates the last dropFrom the only cell, open and dehydratedInside the heap that drags itself across the sands

Of a Sahara in a land deserted by rainBreathing forests, corroding gorging forges of waterSoaked in iodineWith an evaporating memoryAnd now and thenThe corrupted dream banks collapseAs pain tastes like sugarWhile the only saltIs from the bile, both repeating and invitingVomiting and replenishment, the sameI can manage a thinkThat kicks meAnd then it stings meThat says, to meWe mightStill beSane


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Dry

The sun dried the dead skinMaking it possible to peelAnd finally the owner of the broken skin

Said it has healedThe sun dried the cementEnabling the only passerby to commute along theMost direct path from A to BAnd on their way home - the reverseThis is B to AAnother one of the waysThe sun and its dispositionsResponds to this barrageOf propaganda, slanderingThe sunnier side of lifeIn a murmuring, humming, humeOf clothThat dothOn its ownDoes not everHopefullyDry


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Broken record

The sick songSounded soaked in weak and wet wallowingThe buckling black plastic makes a wave

The stylus jumps and reworksThe words he winds back unto hisLone self, just like, just like, just likeFinger fucked, his arm is stuckThe needle to the recordCannot truly get beyond this wreckIf I kick the phonographIll forever never everForgive fucked thoughtsThat makes more moneyThan the bucks thatGet sucked throughThe VacuumThat impulse providesFor the snatchers to grabWith both handsThat wanksYou, me, usAndItself


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Hurry

On its arrivalIt findsWarped records

And planes plagued by driven drynessA mad apathy that does not knowWhich one is apathetic?The one, least prophetic?The one whose apologies we stuff back down its throatCausing blockage, better than the baggageThat it carries from the savageryLeft craving the thingThat burned its carcassCool then, it blows gentlyOn the spot, that still smokesBeneath it, fused skin, red flesh, yellowing fatAn open wound starts to stinksHey Moon!Hurry!Before itsReturn


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Just like a Sunday morning baby

Today its fluffy entourageHang around so it may hide its faceThe record plays peaceful and says

Just like a Sunday morning babyWhile dew drops cling a little longerTo leaves that stay green in a magnificentHo hum hue of an overcast dayThis mornings paper reads like a puzzleThe editor mustve read some script and then did tryTo step out of its skin in to these tight ways, that we feintIn the afternoon the sky applies its blue faceThe clouds sit in one cornerAs the sun signs, but it is far too far awayFor its rays to hurtle hurtful harm this wayThe record does 33 revolutions per minute and reaches its endThen the arm then lifts the stylusAnd back to beginning the Diamond Head is takenThe sun shines like its forgivenI lift the paper to me foreheadAs the needle finds its positionAnd the clock on the wall saysGood evening


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O'Justin Theredore

The hangover from the night beforeMopes, for a second there it did floatBut the fucking Monday is there

Outside the window, the whole world is cordoned offThe tape says no go zoneO'Justin Theredore is weakAnd requires weeks, maybe many millenniums to call in back upFor the Evil Ultra Violent Rays the Sun has just this second sentI sneak around on the palms of my hands and the caps of my kneesCracks in the house allow in razor sharp sheets whichDart around and start to melt the floorThe TV has a picture of the rising sea levelsSandbags are but a depressing visualRepresents doom, a conceptThat links this plightTo fights, past, present and in timeAs the water will winThe sun will continueAnd the ones who threaten and tortureMr O'Justin TheredoreMust be brought In


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Metallic infirmaries

The orange sun is roundThe freckle on my arm is brownThe cool lotion is white

And as I rub it inIt becomes a lighter shadeOf some sort of ah, um?The radio is rowdy and congestedThe announcer has suggestedThat the burn timeIs less than the time it will takeTo crack open a beerDrink it, bellow a loud burbAnd piss in the bushThe people barbequingAnd burning animalAre also burningWhile the cars, factoriesAnd metallic infirmariesAll over the worldAre very fucking busyMessing withOJustin Theredore


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Pure

As the driven snowNow the moon protectsWith its icy eyeing reliable sight

The rooftops glow in the search lightThat fights every step of its pathIn the steeped darkness of tonightIt ploughs through it allTo see where the hellHe has goneIn hours, it will beA magnificent sightWhen the sun arrivesIn morning shineThe footsteps trodden deepWill be clues for all to seeWhere the mammoth mouthHas walked, while its lips wankIts ever wagging tongueThat continues toSpeakBut for now, it only whispersThrough the trees as it has no needTo be loud, for everyone isFast asleep


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The stark lark way

Move gracefully through the darkGive thought unto the stark lark wayWe find feet amidst the speeding ground

That comes at us as speckles and now spikesOur eye now realizes the spying sooted FaceMy fist finds and pounds one more timeAs it blurts out loud what it should have thoughtWhat the fuck, are you chaps doing up in this place?It apologizes but one butt too late asI circum-navigate its perturbed and totally pliable to my thinkingIrrefutably numb and naive way it wants the opportunity to thinkBut I have stolen its time, in my back pocketBeneath posterior I sit on its faceIts clock face


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Stealth

Synonymous with airIs how I would describe her airWith which she pretends to prepare

For today in a theatre of damned dareSure and stead in her errsShe steadies fears and smearsThat may perhaps questionThe validity of her tearsBut them ducts are now drainedAt the news that her manIs truly on his well waysTo herFor herTo have herIn their own Lustful Ways


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The Prize

VicariouslyI eye her vulvaI endeavour

Weaving this willI vowShe is to meVoluptuousPlenteousOf thoughtAround bending bindsMy mind windsHer handIs whatI wantIn mine


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Lick lips and toast God

Her head lays to one sideHer back is flatas I oil hands lick lips and toast god

Her skin and my hands meetAnd together they deal with each other sendingMe messages, her trembling and us upwardHer face is there seeing meeven when I am cryingI look deep and breathe with herAs she kisses my mouth with soundShe says come and I follow herTo a place that is publicShe opens and I enterTogether we finally succumbShe is coming, as he brings herAnd leaves her - here beside meSo I can say to her I will always Love youAnd yesI do


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to syrup feeling surpluses

in eyesa sorrowed huetheir depth

the width then breadth of the world wide moonthey close and I sense youand at once I grow an alluring urge to toucha lonely and forgotten heartmelt with it to syrup feeling surplusesalas it hardensstill I wish blissstill I will will toForget, forego and free meis that cool with you?


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on plagues and with ghosts

I ate herMind, body and hearttill she was in all of my parts

hardening when I dreamt of herand shortening when I thought she were gonebut in those moments, little less than a hairI still heard her and her fearI am here I hold herin both earsin both arms wrapped aroundup and down her figuredFine and moulded limbs and bunsshe knows me and holds mewhen up and when I amdown a winding pathto some door I shouldnt beThere begging and pleadingon plagues and with ghoststo riddle me to the bonewith lots of lustthat I mustnot trust


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Smash this machine so I could kiss your lips

Good and beautifulOf you and your unselfishnessI now know you let me go

To see, the way in which I would goI went ways some of them must have hurtI did things that must have caused you griefI now understand and accept our fateEven prayer can only be a voiceOf the words that have all been saidIn dialogue, monologue and jovial pursuit of your heartBut how do I get to you from here?I would have dug ditches to buy you your ringI would have breathed fumes to make you your dressI still could smash this machine so I could kiss your lipsAgain


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I think

This is why I love you, LotteI imagineAnd only us is the

Bemusing thoughtThat encompassesAll massesOf thinkingAnd relativePointsPoignantAll the timeReflectingBouncing lightFrom your eyesRight to my heartSomewhatAll at onceFeeding, plus beingCounter productiveTo a business manTrying to beAn assassin, killingWhile distillingIll beliefsThat one manFor love

Can smashGraduatesThat dareState pass marksCertificatesAbove passionI possessTo bring meThe one thingI obsess


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Sunlight

My heartIs darkSolemn

And notAphoticOf aquaticTreachery?Of tides wooedBy the not so oftenFull moonMy mind isBrightBy lightThat my eyeFindsThis morningThere isSunlight


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Shadows

WowLook at itSoon it will be long

But now it isShort stout and sweetThe dial is sweepingAnd when it has reachedAn erect peace unto itself12 oclockLook!I am without oneTo followAnd cloakThe darkPaths thatWeWalk


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Cloaking

Soaking the seedsThen let them, germinateIn lesson, and with age

Rather than hastenThe processLest it recessAnd stall, to blunderA thunder, which just wasA little stutter of a flutterOf pervious repeating permeationThat lays foul, to us onOur one eyedReflection?The detection of bullshitWe have downTo some sortOf Perfection


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Change,

Isometric,On angles,Not so right

If the equatorIs in the middle of the worldThen why are the poles, cooler?Ah?Force windsTrade windsRain on tails and the wings of galesHit meIn the faceAs I pretend to prepareFor todayIn a mirrorNow clear as I have seen herOn the internetYeah manI have seen herOn the internetBeautiful as hellAnd sexy as sweet sweatShe beliesMy conditionHopefulNot as hapless

Still inDamnedDamnedDamnedAnd therefore in this LoveForever

Wheres the change?

In my beatitude

Im higher - A better man

The best man,I have ever been

Yeah!


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The Butterfly Part 1

Lame, lame, lame as the flame in a hurricaneI really cross my fingersThat they dont say

That about my gameSame, same, same old crapI think someone should ask themselvesThe love, the moon, the butterflyCan they really wipe away the blues?Joke, joke, jokingly I goFor on the morrowSometime in the mornIll write some poemThat will haveThe moon whispering hopeAnd make reference toThe way a butterflyFlutters its wingsAs it blows windThat none of usCan smell


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The Butterfly Part II

The Butterfly, the Love, the MoonFresh from a cocoon the butterfly flewNow upon a green leaf it is beautiful as it plays

Then it sees newer life up aheadWaving its wings its symbol is peacefully meantThe butterfly flutters by and onSilent, yet very distinctShe touches his handAnd he does this time with affection respondShe sees his shoulder and her headShe wants to rest it thereShe does as she intendsBut just then, when he was readyA butterfly flew right in betweenHer head and the blade of his backAt night they play with each otherBefore they take to one anotherAnd she wonders as she lies on her back under the moonWhatever happened to the butterfly?The one he joked about today


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A book Part 1

From shoreWind and his oarsRoll waves

Away and then awayfrom hereA bottle bobs, struthI am a message, a line in some songI sing it, it bringsSails a mast, hi from planksFlat, wide on a sturdy deckWashed with sea, rain, and wineA port to my leftAnd singing from thereOverseasAt Wartime, in someones uniformI bound up, and board herTo ride herShe is smellyMoney in gussetBouncing in a cleavageI take herFrom behindAnd she pays meFor itA book heavily boundFeels like hide

Of an old cowOn heatI put it awayAs it begins to speak


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A book Part 2

ThenThere, horizonBelow and between

Heaven, seaI can make and seeA face, that criesA bird flies in and aroundAll of them cloudsIt flees as war beginsWithout weapons, bloodBut for minutes of mindsTo capture one bleeding heartAnd so rip rhythmsTo remember its meaningsBy burning them hereIn my one working eyeNowIt is the in evening of the longest dayThru meThere!To that edgeWhere?Where the moon told me she waits this, push me onAlbeit, she has moved onAnd now to look at where I had come fromthe distance far farther than the circumference

of any love written or has beenForgotten, or dead from rotNot by us but by themOnFrom hereSee if I care bout how I farethe only heart that matters I tore


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Uncut, Unproofed, Untaken to by a knife in the hands if an editor

Marks!Out of one tonneNot even one!

Scratched scarred and then scathed atTwisted fisted hissed at, then missedThe point of it allCannot be got at for some ShiteThat of who is? Whom might be?Some kind of gagged godThe originator, the only one to go gander,Ambiguity is again deniedThrough the pagesZip trace from fattening, or scent lining endpapers from trimmingOnly ink from elkUncutUnproofedUntaken to by a knife in the hands if an editor


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A Pacifican in wartime

The crunchingBeneath these bootsThe miles in them

The dust bitesBottled in mudMarked printsAn earth long, A sky wide, A star highTrudging - Sings, hugging notesTips of waves - Not even their peakMountainous moments and dungeons of regretsSteeped in heaven, ends in hellAs an eye may cast, a mind will spreadWalk them allRun them inAnd having stretched them thinRozelle is in a thieving frame of mind, taking words as she willsFlower as Janines thinking, the nave natives of the AmericasA Pacifican in wartime just sharing a uniform and some of his thingsAt seaOn landfloating out loud


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The winds words and a flower Part 1

The windHad words alsoas well as its oars at sea

On land he hasWords to wooWords for making a smileWords that wowand words that ask why?It blows themso far they pollinate flowersand populate mindsand take over actionsthat make nations angryA girl blossomedas her mother now fadeson her bed Flower flowsall heart, her hairacross the cold bodythe woman taken by nowThe travellers rattling the beamsthat hold together this dreadful wooden cottageTheres a willow outside her windowit weeps as Flower sleepsthe trees sorrows just like her ownand when the wind is weak from all the blowingIt comes to this tree to sleep and snore sweet

It brings wordslight and less than grief, and aghasttheyre gifts and secretsnever lessons justsweets


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Illicit Blade of Grass

Sun seekerFine featuresPromiscuous dirt

Illustrious dustHow is it you know?Where to growSo you can beThe ground beneathThe one to beThat I adoreSeedling inklingBlinking thinkingPushed be thereGerminating makingOmens them crumblingPushed up thereFall free from handThen evenings and morningsHas reached up thereIllicit blade of grassPromiscuous dirtIllustrious dustHow is it you know?


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Rozelle Zofen:

Smile - The sun relies on youCry - The rain waits for youDrown - Your moon is full of thought

Laugh - As your stars begin to fallThank you, I close my eyesAsleep


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She now has three kids

The synthesized startThe bass, the bass, the bassThe floor, a sea of heads

The eighties, I lived in the darkMy finger print vinylistic and groovedI smile as I take the mic,I wait till the girl with the pink lips turnsHer eyes wild with rhythm, as I contemplateThe next platter, another way to make her smileTest, 1, test 2, testing againShe now faces me as she dancesShe now has three kidsAnd maybe she has a husbandShops in a superette or a convenience storeWears a g-string to work on Fridays


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lifetimes

Many lines are writtenMany hours are ladenwith her and her name

shiver when I considerthat another lifetime will beall about her againlike this one and probablythe one before this oneI die


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The truth is always

You, meAnd forever, usThe world that sees

Seaweeds and tumbleweedsLove that supersedesPointless equations of scienceFormulas of mathematicsRobotics and logic?Stoic in a gothic blackAwkward against pastel's pinkEven contrasting mother earths autumn huesIs like enamel in the dark of our full moon


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INT. HOUSE A NORMAL DAY

A newspaper already read lays at odds on this end of the table. At the

other end is someone, their shadow is in motion, their actions, diffi-

cult to describe.

The sound of the needle being made to touch the record disturbs the

shadow and so it stops - cast over the head lines on the newspaperwhich read

HEADLINE

Stock Markets fluctuate to sound of barrels

rolling off the refinery

A look at the phonogram shows the arm and its stylus, still as if mo-

tionless, the black vinyl moves, its many grooves the midmorning light

through the sheer curtains highlight.

Another shadow moves towards where the carpet ends and the tiles begin.

The leg of the table and the newspaper hanging over edge of the table

has a quirky tag line.

TAGLINE

Man gives Woman the Moon

On top of the table is food, a wholesome and hot looking breakfast of

eggs on rye bread, garnished in red fruit and exotic green vegetables.

The newspaper is handled and folded in two; the last glimpse of the pa-

per shows another whacky piece

WHACKY PIECEHarry Houdini escapes from a book

FADE TO BLACK.


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A thought

Thinks the mindful manBlurts the squandering oafBurdens the mourning mother

Forgets the fearful fatherEscapes the flightful ladRemembers the beautiful bountiful lassElaborates uponThe meaningfulBut selfish chap


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EXT. NEW ORLEANS MARDI GRAS, NEW YEARS EVE 1997 FULL MOON

MUSIC. CAJUN - LOUD

The streets are packed, yet there is room, but only for her as she

skips ahead, Genisis is herself again. John lets her go the stage to

his left belts out the unbelievable music; the sheer volume makes the

hairs on the back of his neck stand. Genisis turns and waits, her ringshines, her eyes glisten and he checks himself to see if he is in the

land of the living. The blue souls and ghosts of the gone must be

watching, looking down with envy on the luckiest man at Mardi gras

tonight.

GENISIS

(SHOUTS)

Come on, slow coach

Somehow the music is drowned by the sound of his cowboy boots that hit

the ground in unison with the way his heart and her heart beat. The

profile of the illiterate poet passes, and his wide back, we can only

imagine to be the plate on which the worlds problems lay. We would

follow him, but the object that walks towards, we see Genisis.

JOHN

(MUMBLES)

Slow motion, for all the moments I spent searing

the thoughts of you and other men

Her smile dampens, and then her understanding bestows forgiveness of

his jealousy, which soon their love will conquer.

GENISIS

Look Hun, its three minutes to midnight

Her vocal chords are stretched, and his ear is there, as she is all of

sudden nervous from feeling his pain.

Genisis

(YELLS)

We can turn in for the night Hun

His head, that is hung, is miraculously but slowly brought up by his

neck in the open white shirt, as his frail smile, strengthens into one

bright sight.

JOHN

Turn in?

Genisiss defenses are brought down by the way his shoulders relax,

right before her beautiful bountiful body is totally convinced, by his

all encompassing arms

DISSOLVE.


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The Rhetoric

INT. OLD BAR CHINA TOWN NYC DARK

MUSIC. FUNK, RTHYM & BLUES - LOUD

Arley Evon is in her thirties, but you would believe her to be much

younger. Her jeans inside of her leather boots, accentuate the lengthof her limbs, her hair is how the hairdresser wanted it, and it bounces

as she widens her stride.

GEORGE CLINTON

Yeah this is the story of a famous dog

On stage, behind his turntables Le Mac listens in his cans to the next

song, we can here a familiar lyric

NEXT SONG

Said its up to me to come up with a strategy, to

make you mine

Afamasaga taps a period, by the way he hits the key and then his hand

is flung in the air as if it were rebounding off, of a trampoline. He

smiles and Metofeaz frowns, as the boss of LMLA-ink slides the ThinkPad

to in front of him, hoping he is tired from arguing his point.

METOFEAZ

Will I be vilified?

AFAMASAGA

Theyll think you have an ego, all of your own

Le Mac surprises everyone, their slumped bodies and bent postures

straightened by the sound of Marvin Gaye

MARVIN GAYE

I want you, the right way I want you, to want

me too

Le Mac now lets go the vinyl under his right hand

JAMES BROWN

Fellas, Im ready to get up and do my thing! I

want to get into it man Can I count it of?

The door opens; Afamasaga leans back, and places his arms on the top of

the booth. Arley is now on the dance floor, she is righteously reeling

in the disco lights, whose origins are of the funk, rhythm and then the

blues which they drowned themselves in, on discovering they could sing

their miseries onto oblivion.

Lazoo is mindful as he steps, down and on to where the microphone

stands waiting on the small stage

CUT.


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Uniforms

I have one for racing a school busAnother for being baptised and going to churchTheres even one for failed street sweepers

And lolly and knicker pinchers and boys who like to look at playboyWhen I grow up I want one forPrison, the army, navy, and parliamentI will get one for making money alsoAnd also one for being on TVAnd one the planet, moon, and stars knowSo when want to jump over the sunTheyll help me get over the moon


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TRUFUNKSOLDIER

TRUThe truth about LOVE, TRUST, HONESTY & RESPECTFUNKTo give off... e.g. smoke, smell, sound, stuff, etcSOLDIERone of a type of worker ants distinguished by an exceptionally large head and jawsISAn individual who works hard in a collective to find and give freely the truth


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Tap, tap the word wandAnd out comes a lineoutside the windowThe sun is seenOn the horizon

deft touch keepsmy mood in tact,Dont want to get too highbefore the sun is in its sky

One thingbeams in my mindone thing


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a paradigm

of 20 pointsbeginning with u, mean id, that we share

an idea is born in 2 Uswe love, we fight, we marry and makebabies a familywe communicate with otherswe form a communitymany communitiesmake a worldliving on the outsideof a ballgoing around and aroundall of us and heronly just hanging onglobally


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25words from here, plus ones you heardo not, I stress so severely do not!Believe them for they cost meeach one of them cut me

Alone or abound - 4 letters and lessHurt badly, while in paragraphsParallactically, yet symphonicallythey prance then trounceSpeak graphically in askingFor my head to be hungdown around wheremy feet lay swelling soreAnd the micers trudgespare, thick, unquickenedAnd therefore they areSeen stuck!In the mud


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Be a humble bumble bee

Be a humble bumble bee, manNot like the fleeing farting butterflyNor like the lame flame in the hurricane

Or, like the wasp who stingsThe strung out babesOn their boobs and bumsBuzz about without much fussRush not here nor thereTake the time toSmell the flowers you visitTatse the honey you make


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Im hungry

Faded and famishedDelirious and nauseasThe food I want repulses me

Repeats on parts of meWhile the rest of me cravesThe already bitten bitesThe creamy carnal knowledgeThat beams behind the bending glassShinning from having been foggedAnd WIPEd clear, thinning the layers of melted sandI taste grains and lambs brainsAnd see thighs and hind quartersIn the end parts of the compound nounsThat frown when I bring, them outOf the pageI want eatAnd thereforeDevour


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Style

The stylus sits comfortably in its grooveAs it rounds the plastic platter, yet againThe marking instrument, making its way

To the end of this page, hopefullyAbundant in its bouquetFlavoursome and awesomeApparel for a fine feathered tongueSpeaking languaged lovedNow and then and every so often, laughed atMocked and bemoanedOnly if its value were weighed in volumesThen its might maybe as strong asThe mass of all words wovenNever forgotten, etched on the back of the handThat tries to WIPE, thisTaking a SwipeAt ourStyle


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a billboard

digitAlly pixelAtedcyber - incapableimpRoper un inperSon;

blog blog blog, blog, blog,A chAtsome Handleinsane, the same; blog blog blog, blog, blog,proclaim - acclaimsthe bAss in veinhi-fi & sky-hipolLutesHoot!intRudeShoot! blog blog blog, blog, blog


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The Cortex?

Nodes spottedAnd modems, their cabling knottedEven the wireless ones have attachments

For power from the wallIf indeed we are not aloneHopefully we are the brainsThrough the Milky WayAnd way out into outer spaceBut me thinks notAs we can not even look afterThe breadless that line the queuesFor soupA soup lineTo a kitchen cooking free foodIs not metaphysicalBut a realistic plightThat we pretend to be blindAbout, at and for thatWe must work hard ifWe are to be the brainOf this wonderfulUniverse


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Vortex

The emotive windFlew right into my eyesThe dry dead heat of the equator

Came at me like the tropical cancerLinear precipitating perceptionLike Lazoo on fireSpit flinging fire breathingSome might believe he is heathenOr pagan, praying that the heavensAre leaving this dimensionAnd never forgivingThe many childrenInnocently achievingAdolescence, withoutHinder from the evilThat he encounteredAnd therefore heAdministersIndiscriminatelyTo pacifiersWho held downAnd choked innocenceBefore they ever didDo anythingThat wasWrong


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The Nervous System

RetaliatesSometimes undulyAnd in course hurt is felt

So unrulyTragedy then bleeds on sakesThe killings and suicidesIn parenthesisAre the sameFor all of themWho now grieveBecause ofWar zonesSomebodies amusement park rideBut they will die downWhen the fireworksSpark meltdown and vomitingFrom the killingAnd when the rides do ageSo, tinder box lightOn a drought dammed plainThe earth we live onIs sometimesBut a twitchFrom catchingAblaze


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The devices capture the rapture,Digital formats are becoming warm,Not too far off in the futureColdness colder than this front that has hit usWill have to be manufactured

On video cameras, phone camerasAnd the eye of the illiterate generations that gyrate and irritateA placid but vengeful planet, an irate sun and their cameraThe moonMan


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Prtokollon

Now geeks roll up their sleevesThey look sideways at the animationsUp there in the air

The creatorThrough their fingersAnd under the dirty nailsNow prevailsSaliently their thinking isAs they map the way we thinkPhilosiphising the end statement of what it is we seekAnd in the end we submitThe stars in their strataspheresOf which they were only lightsOnly now our technology can affordThe depth with which the gazers, thenLooked far beyond


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5:55am

Night, light hours and dim daysThrough the calm and intoThe inside of confusion

Those outside looking thru some pin hole - a portUsing a slithering line that syntaxes a tiller threadSee focus full of fury with a touch of funkLocust like movement onto another pageHeld breath as the imminent sigh endsA thought with the poignant of the puniest of viewsIts killing length of pronouncementOne to one hundred million wordsOver a period its name I dreadIts worth I fear its many usesThe guile, I want to wash and the shrewdness of it allI want to pack into a box and sell up on the internetSomewhere at some address, for someone toClick and put away into an e-commerce cartSo I can go home get laidAnd also get paidThats it,in a nut shellInside,a four sided Idea


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Ah?

The immigrants are in your faceThe unemployedAre all over the place

As you make your wayTo and from your humble abodeThe Television spewsSpeculative and scaring infoAll of which is the cornerstone of what you knowThe knowledge of this age, the findingsThe archeologist may brush dust fromOr if it is mishandleIt may crumbleYour discard for gracesAllows you to stare down the peopleStanding around youIn front of youAnd then pushing you in the backBut what really happens?When your cat purrsOr your baby burpsFrom you rubbing them in their backAh?


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emotional techno freaky, fiction, forever

This is the houseThat John James LazooBuilt

John Page seesEngines of a SilverSpoon SpaceshipHandsome Homo SapiensA kind of Hybrid Human ConduitHand picked in a really freaky dreamDuring the early parts this MillenniumSpaced out on love for one LotteThe former bit playerFounded LMLA-inkTo tell everyone what to thinkEgo-megalo-maniac lives like hoboWrites 3 books and thinksThat hes the starFrom the dreamThe one who got givenEverything


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Chances

In one million millenniumsOne chance is as unobtainableAs the beginning of time itself

The rolling wind blows one byAs the draft, is a raft for anotherThe opportunity is a momentWhen isolated hypothesesCornered by their own impossible theoremsThen brain, blown to oneIs the ore in the sporeThat is being breathed by someoneSomewhere, right this very minuteTomorrow, sometimeAfterNow


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Book Review from etfiction John Lazoo

An Illiterate recites his dayHe recalls his mothers wordsThe only guide he has ever required

While clowning around beneath the treesHe stumbles on his verse, as she takes from him his breatheHis work today is dourIt must be her, in his thumping chestIt must be her, through his non coherent textIt must be her, weighing him downHis attempt to inflect is rather nonchalantAnd on reflection, his reviewIs hereAn illiterate meets a beautiful and well educated woman in Central Park


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An asshole

Twiddle the riddle that sidles inside your sodden and forgotten ah?WhateverShovel the hovel you call a home for your thoughts

Into ah?Sweep the weeping dead and maligned thinkingYou refer to as feelings, into ah?A Gutter!Step! Metofeaz, come on!Smile, the sun says soNeedle to the grooveThe platter is no sadderThan the dumb fucking calculatorSo I must see you alligators laterMuch, much, fucking laterYou puss sucking masturbatorsSole! ShhhHere she comesYeah!Wowmmm


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Context

Contexts and their pretextsConcepts and their universal and now incestuousGroupings, their droppings and the cellular offings of their

Decomposition - attrition and nourishmentThe end of and the feeding ofMortal coiling and industrious and pretentious blood cells,Respectively and irreverentlyTheir formation, imbalanced and of a leaningThe scientist is left handedThe financier is right handedThe critics are ambidextrousThe people areSpeechless


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Remembers

EmbersGlowing, stillMy heart and its many cinders

Go to nigh hinderFreer than feverFresh, just passed onTo a lifer with noneWhatsoever, moreoverAnd wheneverThere is need forSome kind of immunityIs but a punitiveFutile and elusive musingIt must have beenMustered, when oneMustve surely utteredTemperance and AttentivenessAll that I will haveWhen I sitNext toAnd then I willKiss herSweet smilingAnd tender


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I Listened

Till I learnedThat Love is the most powerful weaponAnd hate is but an elaborate and incomplete illusion

That is easy to createAnd is now so normal for most humans to haveBecause they are lazy, lousy and longing for the thing that isTheirs, if only they would listenTo themselves


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She comes to him

When the sun is set, downAnd so underground it is coolAnd now the moon is round

Up in the sky

When the stars climb up above this stratosphereAnd love is dancing everywhereShe comes to him

On any given nightAnd under them starsOn a tender noteHe makes her float

They-do-not-know, their TruthThey-cannot-feel, their Pain

It use to be painBut now its doneShes as numbAs he is dumbToo blind to see

The moon and its starsHave being and goneThe sun that withered their love

Leaves them high and dry

An irascible trepidationLeaves him committed to an endThat does not come

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