this, the delicious nature of jungle, judgement

the freshest of hand-crafted eyechedelica.

•§•

Battle-song of the Poet

We are warriors few, and proud
but no swords do we carry
instead in hand a pencil
sharpened at the point

We march under streetlights
and in the back alleys
conducting orchestras in every breath

We march through the bars, the cafes, the libraries –
everywhere, yet unseen by any who care to look

We are warriors few, and proud
on our tonques the scent of dawn
caressed on palate pink
and spit on concrete

Fear our fury!
The poet is the bloodied saint –
martyr and killer of martyrs
in one thought
a wing on every facet and
every grain – blades of grass
and
flecks of dust
lightning bolts
smoky air
wreathed ‘round halos that we wear.

One step closer and I’ll shoot
a bullet to the brain is
enough to act as proof
and step in front of one of us
you’ll likely taste some graphite dust –
or perhaps a little ink in flows so slow

We are warriors few, and proud
raised on muddy water,
wisps of clouds –
souls charged up to release a blast
a volcano, lightning
and
the chill of paper on the skin.

•§•

Right-o. I'm going to go ahead and say it: I am a shā 'ir. "One Who Knows" - the title our arabic friends give to the poets of their land. Long seen as being almost one with the supernatural, the poet was one to hold in awe and in fear. Almost considered magicians in pre-Islamic arabia, poets were thought to be able to cast their words upon others to good or bad effect.

Oh, yeah - we're pretty good at that.

So, I come to you this year as one of the shā 'ir - and the closest to you, too. (Consider yourself lucky.)

(*light, light, light AND
ALREADY spoken and turning
rejoice in rain and night air!
rejoice!)