Please forgive my hesitation
at instigation of flirtation.
Did I ensure my elimination?
My romantic assassination?
I'll gladly partake in any placation,
for any chance of indoctrination
to the centralization of your concentration.
An operation of admiration.
A correlation of inflammation.
Your gravitation brings animation,
exclamation and elongation.
My specialization is duration.
Not to hint at a connotation,
but I feel a certain *******
by an obligation to a certain destination
where your presentation gives me restoration.
Petrification?
Total mind evacuation?
Would clarification bring fascination?
Stimulation!
Salivation!
Gratification!
Insinuation of fornication?
A simple salutation to syncopation.
Would a single bright carnation
be enough of a motivation,
for a two way relocation?
Would poetic recitation
be sufficient lubrication
for collaboration?
A consolidation?
Or an exacerbation of isolation?
Please hold no reservation,
I've only got one aspiration.
To achieve a higher elevation;
by means of inhalation,
or a certain recreation
involving a bit of perspiration
along with physical communication.
Does this seem such a bad situation?
Or are you ready for pure elation?

You frown, I frown.
What obligates you?
And to I-why?

Do not we dote;
the elongation
of our tumultuous spirit?

Like a waterfall in pursuit of a sea,
Like weary eyes in need of lubrication,
Like a meowing kitten craving for milk.
Suffice is not.

Ere we beseech serenity
-an equilibrium.

O speak,
From your deepest well
-gay or remorse.

For a mirror, I am not.

that plant in the window
may well resent those roots
firmly potted and positioned
on that westerly sill
held in place as it is
by those wispy tendrils
straining outwards
desperate for growth
ever-reaching for
the drifting light
of that introverted Sun
evasive though it may be
its potential remains
dirt encrusted and anaemic
as the hidden branching is
neither its stem nor leaf
nor its bud or flower
could realise the heights
that it hopes to achieve
without these buried parts
for though this tangle
is filth-covered and
far from what any wish
to be faced with
when in admiration
                   of such flora
without this
the evolving maturation
from ceaseless elongation
and meristematic activity
the terracotta on display
could not be filled with
this greenery so vibrant

I want to see lady to ladette
set in Baltimore
with Omar teaching drug theft
with the finer points of gun cleaning
calibre selection and event planning
as his curricula.

I want Jimmy and Bunk
teaching the dos and don’ts
of alcohol intoxication
the art of shot and stubbie mix
the singing and drinking anthems
to stir the blood
and the strategic gutter chuck
before the final whisky chaser.

I want those girls out on the corners
playing police bingo
speaking drug lingo
and developing their drug-fuelled irony
of WMB, the Icicle and Pandemic.

I want Clay to teach them elocution
and elongation in the word “Shiiiiiiit”

I want Avon Barnsdale to teach them gangster codes
of respect on Sundays for stoop people
and Sunday crowns
on everybody’s grandmother.

I want Kima to discuss sexuality
and the Other
I want them to talk change and reform
with Cutty, Colvin and Prez.
Daniels will show how love and loyalty
can be made to work in reality.

And I just want
I only want
Stringer
for myself.

© M.L.Emmett

To begin: a poem entitled “Lines to Serve as an Introduction to the Show, Written for the Lowest Common Denominator; Hastily Amended to Address our Pale Horse Future”

There are no literary devices in this poem
no simile, no apostrophe-
there's no dissonance, no assonance,
no distancing my consonants,
in constellations of conversation,
an astronomic lack of conjugation-
there's no elevation in
the elongation of thoughts-
With this piece, my synaptocratic,
idiosyncratic oath I recants.
I'm just a guy quick-drawing
inspirado from the sky,
full clouds and dark wishes,
kisses from other's Mrs'
red wine and all that comes after.
The truth's in repetition,
the revolution of the wheel,
all art's born of friction.
Hell, God said
'Creation is lonely work,'
and on the eighth day,
hoping hands will hold flimsy dishes,
he filled us with desperate artist wishes-
Sad, bold lumps of clay rising
like Play-doe,
hell, ask Plato,
we're forms arriving at the real
manifest desk in a city,
where writers write dying,
praying for real forms arising,
just in time for the plying
of fact in layers peeled back,
while cracks in the truth
erode faith from way back-
Stopped dead in their tracks,
feel like thieves who steal moves,
but the ecstatic hack,
the stark raving yet pragmatic
hack will still muse;
muse for the muse
and on the grandest conquest
will invest, digress, come upon
an ingress and disappear into
a land beyond the beyond.
All in search of the mustang *****
who won't ever wear a saddle-

I've met the muse
She was the queen in the land of the blind
and what she lacked in depth perception
she exploded in all the truths of all the world
because to her all truth appeared equidistant
So I met her for a simile, but missing an I
all she could offer was a smile
but it was she who taught me
the demography of cool
“artists create from nothingness”
she told me
“and so when they begin it is with nothing,
so they live among Ginsberg's ***** streets
where the rents cheap and they chip away
at the void until where once nothing
now is something”.
“Remember,” she said, “creation is lonely work
but once created celebration demands a crowd;
so those with nothing are surrounded by those
who need something; something to fill the
emptiness they cannot fill themselves.
But the crowd ***** the creator dry
and like weeds temples to the boring
emerge on those once ***** streets
and the artists still have nothing and
now need something to stay – but with
nothing they are forced to move:
move on, move out, move away,
leaving behind those who only know
how to follow to lead”.

**** slick, you're sly, you heard my simile-
in a piece that promised no imagery,
and that wasn't the only one...
Do I contradict myself? Abso-simile-lutely
This realm is rife with ******* platitudes and
be sure, this poem here contains a multitude
We have many names on the list,
some you've forgotten, some you've missed:

I'm sorry Lawrence Ferlinghetti
we here ain't getting
any closer to a rebirth of wonder

I'm sorry Jack Kerouac
there ain't no going back
on the road when your directions
start with you are here
and here is a windowless room

I'm sorry Billy Burroughs
the algebra of need is thorough
but ours increases not geometric
but exponentially

We have many names on the list.
some you've forgotten, some  you've missed

Beat.

I float on by
I float on by
up up away in spaces
beyond the planes
of existence
& when I cry
I wish this time
would speed up
we just
don’t know
where I’ve been
or how far I’ll go
because
I float on by
I float on by
Confined by my thoughts
as I want to stop
this elongation
patiently racing
forcing destinations
into place when
people’s faces
are shadowed
shallow traces
of waters carving
the canyons within myself
drowning
I float on by
I float on by

Kicking with the same sentence
The reek but not the contents
Each kick of the hour with
The note that holds
But does not hold with truth
I am stuck on every part of you
Sticking like paper would to glue
If skies were to part with rain n' snow
I would shiver n' whine with every blow
But a whisper in the night tells myself
To keep on fighting
To get to know
Just as the clause is to us
And the wheels are to the bus
Lost in the sane relentless
Of men with sense and tents
Money hoarding fire rockets
Shouting for peace like cares
With out sprockets
A miss lined beehive
Where the women dance with their
Incredible behinds
To see such mayhem where others only see
A cause of peace
Makes me believe that my sneeze
Is coming from someone else's
Knees
Not here for where we are born
We are sworn
Labeled like the cattle
Like the product
Like the fish destine
For our dish
Meant for continuation
Meant for elongation
And I tell myself HOPE
Is a four letter word
A strong word
A HOPEFUL WORD
I tell myself many things
And I swear to believe them
But I lie to myself as often
Watch my fingers bleed
As I pick up
The chipped pieces

The viens in your hands,
artistically inching towards the pattern inside your human body,
the elongation of each tip,
adjoining the vast bed of perfectly shaped standing rectangles.
Your fingers speak of you,
the art that you create,
the story that you sketch.
Each vein walks in five different directions,
all beginning from the start,
where they collide,
irrespective of their aim.
The sculpted valleys in between each length,
portraying just how much life your hands hold.
Aesthetically beautiful hands you have,
don't let just anybody hold them,
for they hold the emotions that you hide,
each vein striding towards humans,
ready to connect,
explore,
discover.

                  ~kc
                   23.12.16
                   6:15 PM.

Ashes of life permeate
       through shallow tides,
weakening as shores of
                   white undercurrents
collect stagnantly on white shingles.

Corroded within each grain
          that swallows all hope of
                                          elongation.
Life is a moment crumbling to an
inevitable ending, buried beneath times silt.

√1 x √ 1 = 1
Root one, never felt like a full piece, never one,
Root one, met another number so alike in style,
Their common interest multiplied and became one,
And that was when they both let out their first smile.

When other numbers counted the bees and the birds,
Root one and root one counted fractions and surds,
In hopes that no one ever knew or ever heard,
They spoke of words like how absurd was the word surd.

Root one who never felt more whole than anyone,
Finally found another soul to make him a whole one.
No need for imaginary numbers of root negative ones,
Because Root One found a positive match, Root One.

So as night approaches,
Root one and Root one now a real number
Surrounded by the petal of roses,
Fell into one another arms to slumber.

Night and day comes to an inevitable close,
Root one and Root one became a complete whole,
This simply goes to shows,
That you don't have to be without flaws to find another soul.

--------
√1 = 1
In another universe, root one was happy being root one,
Because root one found the one within himself, root one.
They say one is a lonely number, so a root one,
Must be the loneliest number with no need for anyone else to be one,
Living a sordid life of loneliness, no other numbers left to join,
And at the flip or toss of a coin,
He will remain a never used piece of conversation,
But this poem must come to a close, no point in elongation,
Root one is a lonely number with no one to root,
But his own self, what a lonely shoot....

In its immensurate clarity,* In its elongation of whatever time is left to my uprightness; that thrice divided second before you make the first incision Balloons and collapses upon my space, in my air.

Concussed, winded: I  should dig in to counter the character dissection,
to appeal with all ire against this clinical dismissal and if necessary I will make myself aged and rage grey, a ghost of one last furious effort.

Two weakening supply lines open up from my heart and twist like lovers
throttling one another for the right to carry the thickest blood and tonic
to my left-right-left brain. I see both outcomes as unreal orbs in each palm:

Fought, but foundered, I could go in lunar were-peace towards the rough hewn exit I saw you cut through the nearest physical plane for me.
It has splintered, like young wood does, in a bunch of feather and spike.

But if I just sit down here instead, let you flay me from a distance
and have trial and have done? Then pack my deserved wounds with dirt and paint me justly black. My reeking cowardice, to match your triumph.

It is an unnatural horror to fight you, to choose between prompt defeats or the slow-burn aggregate loss of small and token victories. With less life to live and more to chip away at, I begin to just eke.

There is no shortcut, no revelation in user experience that floors the bad design leaving me wanting. There is no way to win at you.
You are Dependable terror. I just *eke.

Let my death not be brought about by the pain,

of elongation, of sickness and disease,

nor the bitterness and cruelty of Nature.

Let my death come of time,

when all else seems of no effect,

in the midst of yells and screams,

Fire and Smoke,

crack and Shot,

in the hot temperament of Sacrifice and Glory,

Let my death unfold like a letter being read,

and my death will be watched,

by people who will stand in awe.

Let My death be not of no use,

Let it serve a true purpose,

let it be with intent,

Let it be of a lesser good,

rather than a greater evil.

I will not die in the solemnity of a hospital room,

Nor in the silence of a cold household room,

I will not die in bitter cold,

For deep down inside,

I know I will die with the warmth of my love for,

my family, my home,

my people, my nation,

My Faith, My Freedom,

My Brothers, My Sisters,

My God, My God.

to get my hands ***** with miracle,
to be fed with unknown, quietness, outburst of laughter
to carry me like a bridge into nonexistence
to make me a violin amidst misunderstanding
an imperfect piano in Chopin’s musings

to confuse me with another
spewing me on a distant shore
to bear my craziness of walking naked
among suspicious warriors
to teach me a prayer for each & every
breathing day
to take me to the other side
inside

I want elongation & annihilation
the practice of martial arts
in the truth of uncertainty
to invent distant words for the violent joy
of being alive

I want the little things
filling the imperfection of the day
like the warmth of your socks
my hand finding your stubborn lips
the forgetting of your tired shoulders
the softness of my whispers sometimes
my shoes next to yours wandering there
where something always happens
hic sunt leones
the shape of your thoughts in the bedclothes

I want to fall from grace
to love the weight  burying
me in this round-about,
the hymn of my blood

“He also saw the cook’s cat which could do somersaults.”  

At least that’s what the cook said,
a claim the cat, shapeless sack
of snide, deigned neither to confirm

nor deny, content to ****
long afternoons in desultory

elongation, stationed
on the window sill above
the blackened eight burner Garland.

Once, when the cook stepped outside
to smoke, the cat, mood sour,

expansive, airily confided
the corpulent cook could climb
stairs on his hands while whistling

“Parlez-Moi d’Amour”
then spat in the soup, dispelling

any lingering incredulity,
his stomach duly nailing
a flawless double backflip.

Adam’s urination was obnoxious in duration
Misidentification of the peeing location
Caused initial complication, then a long deliberation
Yet upon his infiltration of the urinary station
We waited in frustration, with a growing perturbation
But soon anticipation, fell to demoralisation
Why this elongation of his bladder evacuation?
Is his stream without cessation in this lengthy expellation!?
We waited in vexation through lavatorial vacation…
Was it *** misapplication, needing re-sanitisation?
Or perhaps an altercation with the flush mechanisation?
Or maybe ******* for some cheap gratification?
Excuse the scandalisation of his prolonged defecation
This versification of constipation has a solid allegation
Tis not a fabrication, that a massive **** was taken!