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Kwaw

of

Coventry, England, UK

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kwaw93@aol.com (Kwaw)


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Twenty Five Thousand Dollar Portraits

by

Kwaw

My hustler is a plastic whore
Waits on the couch for night to fall,
Anticipates the morning flesh
The need, the rush, the sticky mess.

My cowboy lives on campbells soup
And for a treat an oxo cube,
His p-stained silks I sell as prints;
They sell real well the more they stink.

My camera films him while he sleeps;
His portrait fills the wall filled screens.
I watch the people watching watch
His eyelids dance to unseen dreams.

My killer wants her fifteen minutes,
She doesn't like to be unnamed.
A voice from fames high altar says,
"Each moment shall be infinite."

My body, bloodied, bullet tore,
Waits on the floor for death to call;
Antipates the flesh in mourning
for touch, for taste, for sound, for stench.

My sight, the light undimmed caressed;
My star unset maintained its rise.
My life reborn the heavens blessed;
The moon, the sun, became my eyes.

My wigs, my scars, my pallid hues,
My small editions, mass produced;
Judge with grace my worldly views and
Wave by buying my snakeskin shoes.


Fetters of the Alefbeit

by

Kwaw

Shush now and be quiet
listen

Finger tips paper rustles
the purrrr of pages
flicking

setters point me to the word
hunting down the passing heard
migrating
now in
fetters

long chained by poets and abjured
debtors' mutely interred
in brick
by brick
of letters

Finger slick a paper cut
the slurrr of sages
slitting

Listen
be quiet now and shush

Oxcart Creaks

by

Kwaw

Cart, yoke and axle
creak with burdens strained
but strong with purpose;
tied with guts of song
sung proud of leather.
Wandering pilgrim
oxen on the trail,
each bound in exile
and the bonds of hope
and lamentation,
bridge rivers, cross fields
pace by pace; now paved,
now dirt, now asphalt.
Well armed for the strife,
for the march, for life,
fallen, he rises,
through anguish persists
along the road from
then to now each step
once laid, well trodden
man by man, now ox,
now lion, now eagle.

Fetters of the Alefbeit

by

Kwaw

Shush now and be quiet
listen

Finger tips paper rustles
the purrrr of pages
flicking

setters point me to the word
hunting down the passing heard
migrating
now in
fetters

long chained by poets and abjured
debtors' mutely interred
in brick
by brick
of letters

Finger slick a paper cut
the slurrr of sages
slitting

Listen
be quiet now and shush

Oxcart Creaks

by

Kwaw

Cart, yoke and axle
creak with burdens strained
but strong with purpose;
tied with guts of song
sung proud of leather.
Wandering pilgrim
oxen on the trail,
each bound in exile
and the bonds of hope
and lamentation,
bridge rivers, cross fields
pace by pace; now paved,
now dirt, now asphalt.
Well armed for the strife,
for the march, for life,
fallen, he rises,
through anguish persists
along the road from
then to now each step
once laid, well trodden
man by man, now ox,
now lion, now eagle.