Waived Fee:

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Centuries on, and we still have

Starved artists, living; worlds apart

de Quincey, Poe, even Keats whose

Eloquent poetics embroil girls’

Fancy, pulsing hearts – savoured

Reversed financial schematics


Poetry still, as yet, has fair way

To go; life’s social media

Fortress retains ignorance, no care

Toward commerce, nor linguistic flow

There’s – without doubt – business, to behold

Word of mouth; balanced astuteness

Warrants liquid gold, empowered air

We surely must breathe, when; nostrils flare

Inhalation increases speed

To wit, tidy metaphors are sold

Composed, verbose lyric entertainment

Quickens conversation, lewd speech

Of a kind bards teach, and scholars invent



… she cleverly came to me in a dream, last night; even though I had promised to be extra-vigilant.  Maybe anxiety got the best in-house cream, with slight shifts through sorrow and illicit contraband.  I had sought through many surrendered bouts of broken meditation, failing to produce an ounce of truth.  In my dream with plundered shouts of spoken inspiration, I startled – as a youth – without a ream to pay for my deliberation.  Then she was gone – without a bye, or coming from.  I was left looking for Poesy and again, she was gone.  And I’m left, abandoned in delirious frenzy.

Sizing The Oriental:

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Said theorized Otherness

Conceptualized foe within

Always other social excess

Kristeva’s adversarial skin

Sleepless nights tossing delirium

Betroth jihadists in marriage

It’s a schizophrenic medium

Integration pulls empty carriage


Peacemakers wont like how this sounds

Classic conditions nurtured with spin

Neighbours quarrel, suspicion abounds

Witness seasoned, cultured in-fighting

There’s obviously tension in the air

Confuses opposed polarities

Bred on politics designed to scare

By seeding insularities


Racism has not been tabled

Rampant mind-games devise absurd

Optional scenarios, labelled

Stereotypes disrupting concord

Quite literally from nowhere

Caught conscientious objectors asleep

By surprise, little time to prepare

Unexpected – to say the least


Vast swathes, dressed ominously in black

Appear to be mourning results

Field workers took residual flack

Traded obstreperous insults

Onus spotlights renegade children

Given free rein, parents disapprove

Pockets of consternation show, when

Fresh faced teens are allowed to choose


Between certain particular brands

‘Others’ directly obtain implants

Slyly administered, contraband

Should be subject to licensed warrants

Secret agenda, in songs they sung

Means ethnic minorities soul search

In this wretched age of forked tongue

Snakes are welcomed in any church


**** Forked Tongue: synonymous with post-truth .. …. emotional content.

No One Likes Losing:

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… democracy means, swallowing that avariciously tempting lump in your throat, whilst refraining from harking-up and spitting it out, not contemptuously acting the obdurate, insensitive goat.  Nothing is actually what it may seem, virtuality sometimes represents The Real.  When he says no, it quite often means yes and vice versa, saying yes most often produces a no show.  Life is now so intricately unreal, pealing that orange, conversely, exposes emotion which wont succumb and experience how to feel.  Pain exists, of course, but empathy is a question reduced to the common denominator, ‘why?’  They threw away the mould when they made that one. In the seditious kingdom of morality’s zeal, telling uncomplicated easy to fathom lies, is a currency which opens doors and gets you by ….


They’re Coming:

Satanic winds blow Hell’s perfect storm

Ignorant, deceitful, unlearned

Mercantile sell-outs trade abused flesh

Columbus sleeps, a; tortured soul screams

Europe’s golden age – gun and metals

Change has indeed manifested

Itself, hoisted aloft Rome’s cross

Disease sprouts, locust-winged pandemic

Swiftly obliterates native stock

Cursed all America’s lands; Carib

Arawak extinct, Indians; drop

Short of History’s collateral


They found Liamuiga, well placed

Eastern seaboard lips Carib sea mouth

Twinned Oualie, oozing hot geyser springs

Bonded beauty’s spiced special reserve

Trouble hangs around vainglorious

Necks, mimicking medallion

Men strutting victorious sailor

Sufferers scale atop tired mountains

Fevered sick, festering broken malaise

Worn tracks fritter under charlatan’s

Swollen, gnarled, wincing black feet

Bruised tender, sore; blisters weep.


Fertile red soil seeds plants in days

Food is plentiful – grows on trees

Black skin – melanin – feeds on Sun’s rays

Coconut milk, and honey from bees


*** Liamuiga  … most fertile soil (St. Christopher/ Kitts island … Leeward islands/ Lesser Antilles, Eastern Caribbean.)

*** Oualie … land of beautiful waters  (Nevis island …. Leeward islands/ lesser Antilles, Eastern Caribbean.)



vitriolic Gall:

… that dirty despicable devil always does what comes naturally: seething obnoxious evil, pleading and bawling to gain my strength, then traitorously turning it against me.  It spoke in, such: soft, sleek, slightly suspended tones, butter would hardly melt.  Now they chill me, to the very bone; explicitly endangering health.  There’s no sign of conscience, not even pretend remorse, its slimy, brooding ambivalent double standards are, contentiously, par for unholy discourse, that; surreptitiously stuttering, sly, lisping snake – for sure – Is someone I’m steadily becoming accustomed to unerringly hate, more and more.  I’d better hurry up and close the door ….



We Lived Near Blackman Lane:

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Poor mom: trundled all over town

Determined to find paid employment

Some families couldn’t survive, they; drowned

Suffocated by disenchantment

She squeezed slots at Hay and Humphrey’s

Reputable drink merchants

Quickly banished hungry bellies

Made sure – giving us fighting chance


I remember particular times

So intricately remote now

Sends crippling chills down my spine

Our generation should take a bow

Flower-powered sixties children, when

Situations were extreme, well hard

Solace few and far between, often

Dire poverty marked your card


Look how far we’ve actually come

Hand-lighted, green gas lamps – cobbled streets

Distant stars edging Her Queendom

Bread and dripping suppers, buttered

potatoes without meat; plastic

Sunny sand sandals – no socks on feet


Her second job iced our cake

Yes!  We had toys, and weekend bakes.



Private, Personal Conversation:


Again, I thought: ‘am I losing my mind?’

Ruefully determined indifference being cruel

Being cruel – to my mad self – obviously unkind

Self-denial doesn’t help, no recommendation

At all, it’s a result of superannuate decomposition

Heading for an untimely fall.  This is all about

Me – remembering Brazilians burn effigies – leaving

No stone un-turned as yet, instilling corporate

Imposition on myself, and yester-me alone

Because this fool never forget.  I very rarely

Sleep, ending up counting foolish mistakes

– enough to make sympathetic adherents weep –

Relive those deplorable out-takes, until

Daylight starts to decisively creep, into; uneasy

Eyelids, like sweet-tasting butter-roasted

Fresh hake, when insanely hungry, its teasing

Scent seeps, soon as bread has finally baked.

I don’t think I’m actually mad, just

Frivolously crazy, it’s; something I’ve always had

Tenet of dysfunctional personality.

My mom used to, say: ‘prone lazy – just a tad,’

And remembering, she whispered,’ absolutely

Plum crazy and, a trifle mad.’






Guy Fawkes’ Ghost:

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Rocket boosted, electric rainbow flares

Pepper night sky, flecks illuminate

Pitched across green, green grass pillows

Spaced between clodded, clumped dried mud

Reflections light eager young faces

Stained red candy, toffee apple cheeks

Miniature hands wave bright sparklers

Oblivious to random shudders

Those wretched bangers disturb black air

Torrid explosions randomly burst

Fire hosts community meals

Roasts potatoes: plain, sweet, spice-stuffed

Surrounded by seats – cushioned sofas

Smog silently infiltrates, poisons

Stricken lungs while flames lick tongues up high

Soon home-time, especially, kids

Sing tearful remember – remembers ….


Will o’ The Wisp:

It spoke in rasped tones, very frightening to hear, though sweet when lowered, whispering, coupled with piercing stare.

“Racism has evolved my ignorant friend,” it said, “taken on a more accommodating demeanor because it has to compliment and confide, with whom it considers inferior.” I tried hard, to understand this Will o’ the wisp silent intuition, knowing it would continue these chilling revelations, if I showed enough acknowledgement and personal contrition. “Seeds of selfish ambition are already sown,” it continued, ” the deeds of evilous, greedy men are fruitfully grown; media witchcraft contemptuously plumb new depths, frivolous criteria concerns the demons who are left to decide the fate of poor and defenseless blacks, whose customary position will always be behind, and at the back.  I struggled hard to understand, puzzled by its contingent intimations, as; a black man, what was I to make of such dire contradiction?  I was reared and trained to accept the status quo, feared to rebel and strain against everything I know, yet; was always to expect second best, proffering the more to always receive less.  The victor would always contribute half as much, my decorum had to be preserved with the least inkling of fuss.  Will was actually right: repetitive placings, based on race and colour, was setting a continuous precedent which would customarily be followed.  A psychological inconvenience becoming matter-of-fact, all you blacks must content to always be at the back.  Within no time, at all, Will had actually gone.  My mind attempted to stall while I did my best to fathom, where it had originally come from.  At that point, I reminded myself: psychotic madness presides in the mind, better; use this article to seek help and try hard to break this schizophrenic bind.



John’s Pale Horse:

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‘But there be others, happier few,

The vagabondish sons of God,

Who know the bye-ways and the flowers,

And care not how the world may plod.


They idle down the traffic lands

And loiter through the woods with spring

To whom the glory of the earth

Is to hear a bluebird sing.’



.Religion treads bye-words for anger

Brittle and broiled, brooding slowly

As an excuse to commit murder

In situations most unholy

Vilified hate, so elaborate

Encase bodies riddled with fright

Children are viable targets

Shot in despicable piques of spite

Nonchalant statistics possess

Countless innocents never found

Bottled guile tempers flagrant death

Oceans provide silent dumping ground

Someone’s bound to find fate’s remedy

To ease sickness gripping our world

So full of rampant iniquity

Wickedness incessantly unfurls


Shackleton’s Demons:

Hell’s crabs – with poisoned claws – relentlessly climbed to the top of an unbalanced barrel; favored and spiced with West Yorkshire’s finest financial coagulants, they filter ghetto as devils of Civil Right’s destruction, designed to foster and spread like the wretched cancer, predicted to claim us all.  Every time JAH-JAH children plant their precious seeds, Shackleton’s demons filter into our congregation; wolves in undetectable sheep’s clothing, devouring countless green shoots, nurtured for poverty’s salvation.  Keeping the unblemished perpetually on point of hunger, enabling the easiest of manipulation.  They still believe in Satan’s promises; saying prayers to financial insularity, unperturbed when not sleeping at nights, comparing themselves with innocents whom they engage in surreptitious competition.  Fed on the fat of underlying community insurrection, they plunge those poisoned claws into susceptible pastures of hallowed activism, spoiling inaccessible futures with designs formed in the belly, of collusion’s beast.  Of course we will survive: Father-Creator – who we call Judah – has his hand in their pulsing necks, and their hearts encased in prophecy’s treacherous bile.  These revealing ends now signify, those days the RastafarI have spoken of for so long.

When Boys Meet Girls:

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This certain girl, in particular

Has made distinctive impressions

Her name is pronounced, Ursula

Makes my body stand to attention

She’s not slow in coming forward

Asked – unabashed – my mobile number

Must have thought me a spineless coward

After I completely ignored her


Almost like a test of survival

Cool exterior gone without trace

Girlfriends – no more than casual

Have rarely ventured past first base

I’m such a bundle of tetchy nerves

Especially when placed on the spot

Or, faced with voluptuous curves

Anxiety ties my stomach knots


I kept seeing her from a distance

And then, regularly passing by

On my way to the shops, for instance

Googly eyes made her seem high

Would say, “hullo,” on occasion

More frequently nodded her head

Must have wondered at my reaction

Probably thought I was afraid


To indulge in conversation

Might have appeared timid and shy

Really, I craved inspiration

She sympathized with a knowing sigh

I didn’t have problems with girls

Relationships had never occurred

Close proximity makes my head whirl

Lose composure and vision is blurred


Tonight’s sure to be interesting

Community bonfires always

Promote emotional gatherings

Pent-up frustration roundly betrays

Teary eyes, with flustered complexion

Openly showing covert lovers

Fight to conceal secret affection

With sneak peeks and disguised once-overs



Slavedriver’s Chattel:

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Really messed-up, without prayer

Or hope of redeeming lost ground

On verge of obtaining my share

Fool to risk good English pounds


Island life is isolated

Communities are locked in bubbles

Visitors so appreciated

As ammunition toward struggles


Everyone know each other’s business

Must make it your goal to find out

Sometimes you have to take great risk

Since news travels through word, and mouth


I am a child of the sixties

England built schools – allowed us to read

Grandmother worked in the cane fields

My mum used to trade the workers feed


Yes!  I am a child of slavery

Was born on Molyneux project

Still proud of my ancestry

Survived, and will never forget


Country Blaggart:

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Never misses a shift – always there

He sits, forlorn, at pound-shop door

Winter takes toll and worse for wear

Same time, same place in the future

Gatecrashed my simple pass-you-by

Casually intruded one day

His white Staff, a beast – tell no lie

Nothing like weather-worn stray

Enormous head – muscled in layers

Has rarely missed a good day’s feed

Now-a-day’s thing, proper players

Smokes weed pulling leather, studded lead

Sat crossed-legged on thick, thick blanket

Enough to make beggars rejoice

Armed with flask and cigarette packet

Dog resembles ‘His Master’s Voice.’

Greeted, that tentative way you say

‘ … since long time, noticed you glance ….’

Some country-bwoy urban away-day

Forward, to a point, and took his chance

“Bwoy! Why you no’ go back a’ country?”

Not done thing come city and beg

Solicit unwarranted pity

Shame ‘pon you family, to wrath-ed




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