Self

Left-lean debate-machine. Capitalism's unruly tenant,
fuck rent. Ironyball in your society's side pocket,
poetic prophet, watching philosophy's sun set.
When will it rise again? Unknown.
Mind's blown, Christ's clone, a Social hard-sell
and morality's motherfucking death knell.

Tatiana #2

russian blues, stylish shoes, poetic verve in social grooves.

girl, unfurl.

regrettable... unforgettable.

Tatiana

I sat on a frozen bench. The winters
were colder in Moscow. The sun
could not warm the dead land;
the snow as brittle as desert sand,
the clouds crept over to lend a hand,
and all heliocentric affairs were banned.

She sits on a frozen bench. The winter
becomes warm in Moscow. Her eyes
radiate heat through luminosity, her
hair flows in winds of change, her
touch spreads further than her range,
the fragrance she wears is springtime
flowers drenched in soft mountain rain,
and I fear that I will never be the same again.

Fluctuating

I

Trains, the symbol of modernity, are stationed in and surrounded by urban degradation and quasi-wilderness. There is something to this.

Sacred Israel Holy Mountain Zion Flattened Islam

II

The clouds were white,
The sky was blue,
and she's a great friend, it's true.

The sky was blue,
The trees were green,
and the two of us were quite a scene.

The trees were green
Her hair was red,
and I remember all the words she said.

III

Emma, Emma, you pose quite
a dilemma,
For you're in the 'gow and I'm
up in Aber.
But I'm quite sure that we will
work it out,
Because that's what being friends
is all about!

Oh dear me, that's a bit cliche,
I do apologise, it's not my way.
But I hope you felt the sentiment,
I mean it's really quite self-evident.
But you know
I go with the flow,
tell it as it is; so
Emma's quite ace
don'tcha know!

Hafsa

If I could speak for a minute
or two; I couldn't cover half
the beauty. An hour seems
longer, true, but it too is
insufficient for me.
No, I would need a thousand
days and nights: weekday,
weekend, consumed on sight.
Writing in darkness by
candlelight, never stopping
for pain, serious or slight,
so that one day I might
tell all of the world "Yes,
this poem is about a girl!"

Her lips curl with a knowing
smirk, hair flows gold
and brown over caramel
skin softer than silk -
there are simply none of
her ilk. Her eyes gleam
depthless
promise
eternal
hope
and milk chocolate.
That delightful Lima-strut
is so elegant, so intelligent.

Refined, refine, she is
Meta-Divine.

Words could fail me,
I could stutter, but
there's not a syllable
I need to utter.
Just take one look
and you will mutter
"what a smile, and lips,
such big brown eyes!"
Yes, you my friends will
too realise, that she is
simply beauty personified.