Inked Tongue

  “Why are you trying to micromanage yourself?” Haven’t you seen young miss Tornado, how she dances shamelessly, freely and without care? The world tells her to tame herself, to wear a leash, to be weary of the waist beads on her waist else they cut in disarray. But why can’t they take their eyes off her? Why has she become the subject of their curiosity, the element of their discussions and the painting that holds their attention ransom.  With all their clamor for normalcy and refinement, they secretly wish they could dance like her.  Yet she dances on and makes the ground beneath her flirt with her feet.  “Young miss Tornado!” “May I have this dance?” “with you” “On the edge of tomorrow?”

George had always known himself as a man tuned to invisible frequencies. He moved through the world  with the bearing of one who listens for signs, who feels watched over by forces that speak in  symbols rather than sentences. His spirituality was not learned; it arrived uninvited, braided with  visions, with voices that sometimes sang and sometimes argued. The doctors called it schizophrenia.  George called it a thin veil between worlds. On an ordinary night that refused to remain ordinary, he walked into a bar and found Helena. It was not the bar that held him, nor the music, nor the low congregation of strangers rehearsing loneliness. It was her eyes. They did not simply look at him; they claimed him, named him, rendered  him visible in a way that felt almost dangerous. Helena spoke and her voice carried the gravity of a siren’s call, not loud, not pleading, but certain. George, who had always felt godlike in his solitude, felt himself kneel without shame....

Everything about me is poetry. The way i close my eyes when i try to persuade my mind to sleep My catatonic sleeping posture  My dreams My manifestations  My soul The scar on my left palm My strolling through the boulevard  My dance with little butterflies in the garden Everything about me is poetry. My fears My head on my lover’s thighs My ambition of having a conversation with the moon My madness in the middle of searching for purpose My lost coin in the untamed bush of my mind My ears buried in music My dance in the rave  My hunger My rumination on a toilet seat My surrender to a cold shower Everything about me is poetry. My mother’s smile My father’s sigh  My sister’s heartbreak My brother’s ploy My yearning for love My skeletons in a gigantic wardrobe.

Location: HEAVEN🪽 Father, I am doing the work, I am bare, broken, but now l am naked and free. From the beginning of time I became the prodigal son, the rebel, the outlaw. I took your love for granted but still your love for me deepens like the abyss I have descended into. But your love has no bounds and has no limits. Father, I pushed you to the wall and you sent a legion to rain arrows of fire on my wings and lock me up in a dungeon. In that dungeon, on that night where my angels were waiting for me at the party I hosted, there in that dungeon I got the last straw of revelations. Indeed, I was there in the beginning, when we were in the darkness; before the advent of your light; your light came and it became your eyes, it became the judge. Do pray that we will not rebel again against the light, for indeed with the advent of the light, your beauty was even more appreciated. Father, everything I did, I did for love, to make you proud, to hold the heritage of the family, to be a be...

Bags and bags of dirty linen weigh heavy on my shoulders Skeletons stay stacked up in a gigantic wardrobe I lost myself in a search for jaw gearing love I'm far gone I'm far gone Lay my bones at the mountain top when sunset comes A version of myself became a vile narcissist  The search for fresher waters has begun I hope for heaven's sake that you kiss my clavicle one last time at the mountain top. I hope in my next life i won't taint fresh waters with stinky blood when I reach for a drink to quench my thirst for the undone.

There are spirits dancing in the gallery of my mind.   They sing songs of holistic freedom.  These spirits sweep me into an ocean of mysterious curiosity.  To unravel the myth of the old world. To bridge the past and the future.  Water is light and earth is shadow You cannot swim in a river that has no soul You cannot dance on a ground that has no pride. Spirits make me a portal They shock me I shiver as electricity flogs my brain And my cup is filled with spiritual energy  My father warns that an additional chemical substance will cause my cup to spill over  I am scared of a spiritual volcanic eruption It is a gory sight And the one tangible reason why I stopped drinking alcohol is because I realized i already have so many spirits inside of me Oh ye spirits Why do you choose a man to be a vessel and not give him a cloak? Paint this atmosphere with your presence  There is a fragrance in the air So sweet, An atmosphere. 

In a world where we struggle to find ourselves each and every day, there is a beeping sound that yearns to remind us of our purpose, and even though it might seem like the odds are against us, there is always a ripple of courage we can harness our strength from. Recently I gave myself a baptism of not water or light but of fire and darkness. This is to rebirth me into the congregation of the dauntless and the dead, or the dancers and the deaf. Each day I yearn to know my purpose in life but it eludes me, perhaps that is a constantly knocking question we all must get to answer. I have made many mistakes and erred in my path for self exploration but now I embrace myself and all of its wounds and decadence. For I am only a man who seeks to be free. I am only a tiller who seeks to gather a bountiful harvest. I am only a boy hanging from a chandelier. My decision to risk my fate without the fear of failure is the fruit of my baptism. I beat my chest and hum in harmony with the whistling win...

  For me, ART simply means ~ “To be” Everything is Art God in his infinity is Art We pray “Our father, who art in heaven” It gives clarity that art summarizes existence and presence  It is the atom of expression  The whole grain of experimentation  The iota of evolution  And the propagation of the human experience  Everything is Art Your stillness Your curiosity  Your experiment  Your meditation  Your ignorance  Your beauty  Your darkness  Your truth To be art is to be. Be.

  Weapon of mass destruction is a walking piece of beauty. Deception is real when you take her sexy aura for levity. She is a two edged sword, a masterpiece of a grand swordsmith, legit cutting edge technology and every atom of her is capable of causing massive explosions. She walks with deadly grace and cause your innerman to pant. Electricity don't flow better than her waistline and whirl wind don't wreck havoc like her lower body. On a mission to nail a target. You're gone before she pulls the trigger. You look at her, she returns the look only for you to get victimised by her lashes. And if you understand machine language then you stand a zero to one chance of getting spared.

Walking into this room reminds her of her bland taste in aesthetics. The ripple feeling she gets when she gazes at the painting on the wall causes her to tilt back and forth.  Her appetite grows strong for blood and she will soon realize that that she’s iron deficient once again.  The resounding pump of her heart causes a little bit of uproar in my head and her stare makes my breathing overlap.  There’s smoke from the room she just walked out of and the aisle she walks sinks in humility.  Voices scream in her head but she blocks them off with the sight of pretty jugular. She is at the top of the roof exchanging words with a rebellious part of herself and she seizes every opportunity to whisper dreadful words at the stranger in the mirror.

  Will you believe me when I tell you that your mind has its own taste buds? That these buds will thank you when you introduce them to a sumptuous treat Today, the taste buds in my mind and also my tongue have given me a standing ovation  For a once in a lifetime opportunity  Of not just tasting chocolate but tasting one with depth and intricacy  Oh  Will you believe me when I tell you that there is a taste that the human mind is yet to discover? And maybe that is why I do not feel human tonight Because I have beheld and tasted confectionery that was probably set aside for deities  “CARAMEL”  I screamed in my head For indeed I love my chocolate hot with caramel toppings 

  There is a strong strife between the aroma that your cooking body gives and my humble concentration  For the concentration of your scent has overpowered the concentration of my mind Now my attention span is left staggering and pleading for mercy Hoping that you can tune down this lethal effect that your ethereal body produces  And it baffles me Because why would you choose to bathe in a river of ethanol when you know how much its effect from your steaming body intoxicates me And now, I only see blurred lines Skeletal images dancing in red light and my libido shooting to its very apogee Maybe your ethanol is lethal  But I will forever consider it my favorite guilty pleasure.

There is enough energy to harness from a ripple.   I watch her swing like a pendulum to and fro in a convocation of celestial beings.   The rhythm to her pulse is the only yardstick for measuring my patience. I let a butterfly take my nectar in exchange for the secrets to her courageous adventures.  Fly away once, Come back again Isn’t it a good time to pause at one end and marinate in all the bliss there is here?  Pendulum,  I hope this axis you have chosen to swing from will hold firm till you come to a decision. I hope for your sake, I won’t wither in my moment of waiting. Do you think I can freeze time when you swing by my side?

  At the end of the battle, the vanquished shall give out a loud cry of innate pain For the tales of fatality of the havoc wrecked on them shall spread to all the lands like wild fire But the end of a single battle is not the end of a war An army approaches With tongues of fire on their foreheads They swing their blades in the air They chant war songs In their numbers they pour out into the battle field Tall, short, young, old These were the soldiers that the old sages had pre-described  That the sounds of their footstep shall cause the stones on the land to quiver That the neighing of their horses shall cause the hearts of their enemies to shrink in fear What is the fate of those who refuse to surrender to this ravage? Their blood will give the soil a new face And their flesh will be  a  dancing banquet for the wild vultures A hand has been forced to dish a blow to the oppressors  The vanquished will now becom e  the   dauntless They shall plunge deep...