Ill-est you've never Read

#Philosophistication 

Pinpoint pointless lessons while 

expressing through a broken sentence,

imprison me in your heads; unreasonable

sentence, maybe all is senseless, I sense

less and feel immense waves when the

world panics after a pandemic depraves

most of breath, break hands after penning

plot twists; my wrist bleeds, no suicidal

deeds, commit homicide when I decide

to use insecticides to write my lines,

bunch of cocks roaching about what

and who sounds better when they write,

it's an infanticide when most fantasize to

write like I, advise the next expressive 

bloodlines; I've been more bloody with

my lines; harvesting ink from arteries

of dead scribes, demanding syntax from

the sight of watching rejects injecting

heroin in capillaries, its anarchy; true art

is fallacy, I'm the mockery of old clowns who

twisted philosophies with syllables and

closed clauses, poke the napping Wordsworth,

watch words gaining worth, losing patience,

selling my pages to be burnt and inhaled

like incense, its nonsense, my wokeness

don't awaken your snoring consciousness,

so take a recess and understand your own

mindset, mine is set on decrypting cosmic

secrets while yours wonders about advertisements

on television sets; so tell me a vision you

have learnt to detect, tell me of a mission

you've chosen to take while you neglect 

your own sanity on the way, mayday doomsday,

its again another day when you breathe in,

and all still is; so believe me; you've 

forgotten your own destiny, so rest in me,

I'll teach ye' sorcery through inked alchemy

while I'm welcoming a thousand voices

from those who speak through me, so 

hold on and sea, I'm in the Nile on mount

Sinai; finding you the gist of what you are,

so reach for my arm, reach for my mind divine,

I need offerings of an attentive mind and 

sacrificed time, dine with I, this is high-time

I highlight who the Sun bathes when enlightenment

is scarce, so let me lick your scars and 

spit the blood in a bowl and let me

rewrite your story untold.

Cosi!

It's by default that I've learnt to fold 

sacred texts and understand what's next,

its a dark veld, they've burnt the sacred 

orchards; scared of living life while 

wondering if black was Mozart, dodge the

secular darts, the last of us, we sea 

where the ovum dangles on that tree of life,

tackle the fiends and crack their skulls

with forks and knives, fork their minds,

that's manure from where your roots bloom,

now when they speak they assume you're

loony toons, while you're merely composing

for them loony tunes, now depart from the druids,

you're awakened, find your substance and 

turn it into survival finance, then continue

with your carnage, now you've found destiny

and merely dumbfounded, but it's better

you've been lost and found, and in true 

context you're no longer bound, the hell-hound

is domestic now, walking the path of the

haunted while falling in bottomless pits 

and some drowning from the backs of 

pulpits; bring here your confused head,

you're mistakening the hellhole for the 

black-hole and the elevation rode for 

a strip pole, you're losing your old identity

like Peugeot, brain-dead, don't be part of

the pigeons, follow the Legions, we're

an army of three hundred slaves, scathing

mindsets with scythes that wipe away

deceptions; erasing the false inceptions,

and formulating emancipation while we

loosen the tension amongst our broken

kindred, our kin facing dread, while others

are dead with scars of oppressive bullets

scattered from ideological hornets, now

expect a sonnet from your speechless

Muppets, I'm kinetic like I've been rolling

on carpets... Oops I mean Static and I'm less

of a statistic when I learn to state what's

right that which your states fail to grasp. 

Camagu!

I chew on metaphors, I'm a spore when

I devour what enhances me, I'm metamorphic

when I think I matter within, I breathe dust;

for from dust to dust we cum, we're all scum

searching for a little purpose and be loved,

hate my long form and call it prose, call it

cow dung and still I'm constantly free from

your laws and my lore sounds more thought-of

than that which you write for a hundred hearts,

I'm unheard of, I write in braille, I'm unseen 

and that makes me me, that bakes me, I'm

no half-baked pie, I'm the star in your sky,

I'm the disruption, stye on your eye, 

I'm unheard of, the world is deaf to my kind,

we shall blow up in the next decade or

a couple of some, we rewrite your ancient 

rhymes, decrease your mental jail time,

we grow frail and these poems never die,

we're here to dine before the last supper 

starts, our reign has begun, we die with 

our puns unintended, holding guns to our 

own temples, then boom and we start

trending when we're missed, our lives

are blissful to the reader even though we

puke our craziness, we're enacting that 

which has no script to own, we're scorned

beings left at the shrine, bent spines,

we're living delights.

Vumani!

By Eugene 'Philosophisticater'

Artwork by manzelbowman

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

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