O MY ROOT O MY GONG

O MY ROOT O MY GONG.

07/10/2017 3:03am

Once upon my couch evinced i my heart throbs,as annals evoked memoirs of distant hills,over time's quaint giddy goat,subsumed broken dreams,in stead of palmy days ,beneath bulrushes of interred sands of time. Brutely moped i nagging,heypresto,at the mockery of gooseberries.And my gorges goodily rising,at my tarnished boo to a goose,burrowed from a boo to a goose.tis a meagre remniscence,i sighed,grating at my gravestone of bibliomaniasis,a mere ecstasy spurred me on. Bravo,respendently,i Could recall,it was a muse of camaraderie, And behold,they the bibliocrat sinewed with gritty grenade,flung its cannonade upon the groove.My being brisky,entombed in marrow ado,had i not groomed to unwind and sail farthest sea? Antecedence speaks of me,supplanted of my root,my ignition key,for a wobbling sentry,persuade me to abscond,for the infection ogre and infelicitous infantry,whom their masquerade,bent upon lobes of spurious lores,evermore luddites blanketed Yoruboid cosmos.And the sunken gall,with rampaging....

07/10/2017 11:14am

,lushed with rampaging sport,pounding and billowing,trounced me with inferno and a transfixed palpitation that tore apart and barely subvert the subterfuge of the stupendous curio arts,attheunsung harmonious crescendo and scabed gong of my genteel root,my hazy feet pined away.Groans,my weary Souls displeased;o my humble bay,o my genteelgong,banished by inglorious sobriquets.So,they duffered by torpedoof this innuendo,Oh my greymaster earnestly thy pedagogue,my sullen bank seeks,to recoup all the colours of rainbow,sunk in the titanic ofprimrose bank and despond slough,Being that i was a minnow,riding obstinately,with pinionson pilloried horseback,bereft of mutation in a mutation plow, Andso grandiose,they came,gone grey,shrinking and shrinking pointless roses,at my motherland,aptly to groove,edified by insomniac,on a nocturna bed,tis the greymaster epistemologically unleashes its avalanche.Darkness flees,with rising stars,far flung from tutelage,still barely do i hesitate to wonder its esoteric cult of

a masked glory,a sunk apotheosis. Lachrymose yoyoes lachrymose,lachrymal terpsichorean lachrymal,decked with the inglorious tag,with which it was roped and gangraped,still treachery yet unbroken ,crisscroses lakes,lagoon,seas,rivers and across the atlantic,sailing like a journeyman,casting irredeemable nebula and lo,the writ whispered in my ears"tell the story" shall i not tell my story,o my root,o my gong ? Sat he on his heel,subservient on sandy bay perch greedily,my tendon broke he to utter,that he supplants within me,burning my marrow to hear"sure i shall retreat from this vicious vitriols of specious insinuation of the infelicitous calvary,impaled amidst throng of gathering clouds.The thunderstorm,gloriously raves and sails like a meteor,garlanded by contending sky,a hazard that defies soft landing of a gentle breeze,with the gentle leaves,to breathe and take a recess,to fly above gauchy clouds,is to gather stormy twists,in thy hands.why shouldest thy heart sobs quiant quirky?why shouldest thy cheeks

pale in thy misty eyes,to dread at its dusk?strong as thy ears and eyes,shalt thy resolve be.

07/11/2017 9:34am

Scoffers do not scoff,when the sunshine glorous diadems coronate a king on a throne.Blinkest is he that strives and strides in nebula.Time thy fortitude to blaze and scale grandiose heights,Starry morn precipices at thy indigent millstones and freestones,quake dread in a shepherd vale,whereon nightwatchmanship's burning the midnight oil as unflinching shepherd,incense a new dawn;it does not persist without guerilla,malediction of its hostile squadron,neither unsheath your drawn sword and spears nor its sunbeam glitters afray.The night breezes,creep over its dinghy horizon,And heavenly moisture,in virtuous drill,showers its tentacles,hazy mountain quaking volcano,yell over poignant moist of unruly vale and at its zenith,sordid it plow?To tame the hamlet of the plangent cloud,to run the precinct of the wild forest courses,hunt for sloven game,in the wild,beyond st.blues,heavest the gaming table,with a new gong and songs sung over the burning gleam and morose palms.

Mammoth in a lush, lushed and they could sing and wrapped their head in hymnody.And stress,durress and distress,impulses mammoth cheeks,a hilly beans,prowling nature's quaint sordid plough,barndoor hit,beneath my fallen plunge unsung,swims fortitude that skates sullen feet,crusped beneath sunken boats,flung in wild courses and stormy steep,that friction,crystal sands,froth daisy-kick sunken,lunged with the immanent gale,corroding the tides,sequel to a bent and burnt limb. Distilled With the humus of celestial humidity,they cut their teeth with the palmiest days' engraved silverlike sheen,fed impecably on scorching earth,frittered diamonds,squandered timologists and bantered dawn,recoup a groove and its fleece,but in a transient perk of owlish eyes and gracious earth unbundled.

07/12/2017 4:27am

O Fate o fate,all men call thee a fatalist.if thou art so,what dost thou do with it that is impugned,for a mutation plow?Be fatalist o fate,for then thou wilt chide effortlessly,to bear the spears and venom of recalcitrant men into shape and norms,that thou lookest pale,in sight of mortals,thy eyesight sees beyond the dark of nature's ill diving verdict,things that to utter them to be heard,things that to hear them to be heard,things that to do them to be ado,makest an unstained vision and impecable journey,wither not in tattered robes,overwhelmed with overwhelming brows,meagre were the taints,plaited upon sharp misery,had torn apart broken bones,And in this despondency sate,a damocle's sword hung, A thurible thy arts thwacked,and other crucibles,Of infecund ferns of tightknit frangible ricochets;and about he,the swashbuckler's shelves for shelfing this irreverend patches and moles,A mendicant rendition of green earthenware pots,flung in remorse and mustards in a mutation plow,Nothing in this numb,to myself i

refute not,And If a man did need a earthenward potion,much worse than this sate,let him die alone whose stale,is abscond of the broken dreams,with the direst clouds,into thin air.Here the wretched of the wretcheds,at dunghill scavenging daisy kick unmourned, And this same achilles heels,man must tend if not mend as a hawk,in a lifetime buoy,Art so bare,so sterile and wretched,that thou fearest to famine thy fatalist cheeks,with sinecure and starveth impending blossom of golden fleece,whereon contempt art climbeth thy tallest trees of pride,to hang thee,beneath stale? O thy root thy gong maketh thee a numb when thou affords it,no stress on thy distress,a lacuna for lifelong stale.O how sweet roses,a visioneer brings to its gaming table,with those flowers,bridal bed ,i strew o fate,if thou not being deluded,thy canopy is hell and brimstones upon decrepit girth,thy root,wanting zealotry,distilled with appetite for yonder hills,assuage thy spine,for a yonder junketing,armed thy brow with bibliocracy then lunge..

refute,And If a man did need a earthenward potion,much worse than this sate,let him die alone whose stale,is abscond of the broken dreams,with the direst clouds,into thin air.Here the wretched of the wretcheds,at dunghill scavenging daisy kick unmourned, And this same achilles heels,man must tend if not mend as a hawk,in a lifetime buoy,Art so bare,so sterile and wretched,that thou fearest to famine thy fatalist cheeks,with sinecure and starveth impending blossom of golden fleece,whereon contempt art climbeth thy tallest trees of pride,to hang thee,beneath stale? O thy root thy gong maketh thee a numb when thou affords it,no stress on thy distress,a lacuna for lifelong stale.O how sweet roses,a visioneer brings to its gaming table,with those flowers,bridal bed ,i strew o fate,if thou not being deluded,thy canopy is hell and brimstones upon decrepit girth,thy root,wanting zealotry,distilled with appetite for yonder hills,assuage thy spine,for a yonder junketing,armed thy brow with bibliocracy then lunge......

MAYA ANGELOU'S MISSING RIBS.

My heart pants for her days,to be reinvigorated ,even beyond eyes posthumously,And spasmodic vamoose the fugacious winds,like the eagle'n'flight,And heypresto,with the janglings of the nocturnal lurk,she was gone to the heavens shores unmoored,Oh,the homeostasis of the caged birds,drowned beneath,A nestling bird,rose forth and dawn,from the rickety winkle of a tunnel vision,whimsical of a soiled root,with the broken gourd and wrinkled gong,tardily soft budding,softwinging and softpounding,hurling gravelly brimstones,at the heart of white supremacists'encroached Americana,gratuitous they impugn their freedom,and out in a thump,upon a hackneyed soil,taint their robes with punitive invectives, Oh,sail she a conscience farthest sea and the caged bird broke its tangled knot,and flies away empty into vacuous space, singing imponderables, At a furlong taming the wind's flight impetuously,and gales and bales fly forth with the plunge,from the frenetic vales to the hilltops,the soul of the caged birds rises,a lacuna

lampoons absenteeism of a tribune,and a vaudeville of the distant hills and esoter

800 × 445

ic galaxy left uncharted,dinning with the spineless,who were once her bucaneers,flying her cosmos into the infinitude ofno return.Were she not fractious,with fragile self exhumed,wouldwe have been immersed withbiographies and bickering poetryof the soul?Splittedas if like a foundling with no gazebo,unmasked durress splintered across a globetrotting imbrication,swooned by spleenetic tide of motherhood,racialism and her voice of the nightingale.Was Guy a betrothed-like son,a missing rib or a penchant bardesquely bent as the trenchant pen,that she absconded literally and metaphorically,from the vicarious engross of minstrelsy,at every of golden fleece chase? Was he still a missing rib postmartem,that she would cringe,her moth eaten plangent bone,at her graveyard? Was he a surrogate to reenact her winning streak?Was Time a thunderous varlet like an unmissable vagabond that should swindle irreplaceable precious stones adinfinitum?

O how sweet chilling and painstaking,does an enchantment of excruciating motherhood thrills? So,she Was sung,at the Porgy and Bess scuttled European tours, And so,she dipped her broken pen,imperial hands and swollen feet in gall,for the unsung Americanah,and Heypresto,belching Her cartharsis,hephtacentric autobiographies,were slung like at the rudderless banks of her sullen roots.And the plummet skyrocketed,with the enchanted witchery of 'I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings'.Does the caged bird,not sung to defray the windbound windsheet of the ochlocractic bucaneers?