I write as I walk!
I am a walking pen
I write as I perambulate, running errands;
All the same, for a living cleaning the isles of a supermarket.
I write as I walk,
Not by design or intent
Disregarding delving events,
As one would be required,
But conjectural coincidences
As I come across they happened
That has caught the public’s attention.
But I admit I make silly mistakes.
I am driven in haste
Time is of the essence
If people are not be compelled
To ingest and engross,
Spurious elements,
inadvertently assumed in faith,
As if they were indelible truth.
I have no exceptional talents,
Nor am I a Bard Parnassian,
dithyrambic enthusiast.
Nonetheless, I fratch to be intimidated,
shunted aside
But stand up stolid
For calling a spade a spade.
Throughout childhood,
I regret I was a fool
Taken for a ride
It took life time to realise
Putting morphotic progeny placemen
As trailblazers guild but to our demise.
A plot construed devised as a tool
To disintegrate and dismantle
A nation of people
out of envy and malice aforethought
Who did nothing wrong
Except minding their fettle.
That said, going back
In my resolve to fight back
I traverse in the hypogeal dark
Enduring the pains,
Cri de coeur shudders down the spine
That I made crass mistakes.
In retrospect,
Let me reiterate
If I had hesitated
Whilst I walked and write
Way back in the past;
The quaere I now posit:
Who is a Tigyian;
One with thick blood traits
That smells and tastes
Agame, Enderta, Welkait….,
Or one who stands up with
Those on whom injustices are inflicted,
Uncalled for Relegated
And oppressed;
A jannock lagom boss
Atemporal with unwavering boldness
Regardless ethnicity or race,
No more no less?
If we were to claim the former
We fall into the same trap frame
Oppressors set to capture a wild game
Compromised and shamed.
Likewise, I am not a usageaster,
Finicky disciplinarian of sumpsimus structure, de rigueur.
As a workhorse I am aware
Often than not that I am blinkered
But all I care
Is deploying a language as a dray
To convey a message betrayed.
As I am outraged in anger
Truth is buried beneath the rouble
Entourage of writers and film makers
Are engaged in hiding facts in return of a douceur.
Historical narrations are written
By chroniclers of Victors.
If you share the way I feel,
Please bring me a deep scuttle
With flamed charcoals
I would gash the books and films
And trash them reduced to dust of ashes.
Dig if you must deep sepulchres
Abseil the bootlickers alive
So as to experience the fear
Of death they practise on others
In excitement as they gloat over.
I know I use rough words
Dried ink that rejects any amends
And commit bromide errors
Looking back, the mistakes
I wrote as I walk
It pains my spine as if pelted with a rock.
But as I said, tempus-fugit
I had to run fast,
There was nothing better I could.
If you persevere the anomalies
You would gork the messages
That are timely and of essence
To challenge the voices
Of doomsday cavalries
In pursuit of grabbing territories
Based on fictitious make believe stories.
If anything I am
A living proof of foible and fragile demeanour
Not a language master
Seeking publicity altar.
Yared Huluf