Wordieword’s Weblog

Kadaffi will soon be changing locales. The deserts of Lybia are tight, but http://www.sasheto.com is better.

there ain’t nobody left for me
what can be said can be replaced
what about those younger than
we barely make it anyway
I worry for the next decade
they have less time to understand
please oh lord help me find
and I rarely think of them
to say that society is what made them be that way
that in their loneliness they forget their ways
they did their thing in the park
they were the type of motherfucker that were misled
Id be no better than a stupid kid
oh so many here have passed
but assuming that I did
understand and you will see
do what is completely right
I hope one day I will be replaced
in the minds of those with haste
and save my people from this blight
and then then there will be justice paced
and time itself is powerless to tell
I hate no one but those out here
that make a profit out the suffereing
of children that they once helped bring
the tower is the medium
for what is outside the bell
by laws higher than those of space
the body is where all begun
and how else but rhyme should I tonight.
my own way so that I might
passed have they and they have laughed
but sound and light will bring the word to sight
into the world we all must love
If you can tell, please do share
but spend so little time thinking of
out so loud that in my mind
no time to play these games
all I see are men so blind
those weeping willow songs they had begun
trees so sweeping, sweetly sung
and I don’t know when i will return
and made even the kittens bark
that we need not remember those boys and girls
are we such a little world
they take my heart unto a high mountain
never back, never frightened
so let it be the way it was
before these times of powdered stuff
that kills you with the lust you sought
that rots you in your very thoughts
so please children understand
the words of this not so simple man
that time has passed but nothing has changed
my people here slaves remain.

Ahh, the smell of gunpowder in the morning. New years, new enemies, maybe a new wife or two, shit is real. Of course, due to health issues, I can no longer be involved with the struggle in the physical form. I drop bombs with my pen.

Damn kids and _their_ bombs, wasting precious explosives for celebrations when they could be killing the enemy with divine justice… Tisk, tisk.

I, “sweet heat” Kadaffi, have no doubt that the kids should be put to sleep. With the sweet song of ideology, that is. Peep.

-
Listen to my soft words dripping like water drops drip on mushrooms in your dusty basement i try to avoid the hesitation for it kills like madmen’s ills spread over the air in sonic bursts, deadlier than sars, this mental thirst for total domination over the hearts and minds of listeners of radio stations, huddled around grandma’s new IBM, collecting information, the enemy is close but you cannot hear him, though your eyes, ears, nose and skin strain and fear him, taking puppy steps and breathing tiger’s breaths narrow are the clefts that tear your consciousness, each of my words is poisonous, but I have the remedy, listen to my melody, the trance is induced with pied piper’s plans, I rip through walls with what the forces demand, and the forces that be, they occupy me, voices that reach beyond the pale horizon of the sea control the actions of my body like strings on a doll, like silly putty I become the morpheous one, groovy as the sun, bitches run, bitches cum, all in the name of the holy one, twisted thought patterns, dreams of blood splatters, strange whispers in the silent halls of alma maters, the clock tower rings eleven and I am asleep, wake up at two, and work for a week, the cravings are deep, the drugs seem weak, let there be light, and Kadaffi will seek salvation in feet halfway in the grave, because one thing is certain, so children behave, elicit responses from those who you detest, elicit them with the due righteousness, for there is time enough for time to last, but once it is has past, only memories gasp, while you witness with terror the ways of your error and hope for the day when you will owe less than today, making your payments day after day, minimum wage leads thoughts astray, thinking it pays to be the simple man, breaking it down so all understand, feeling the lender’s breath on your neck, hot enough to have you burnt to a crisp, the stress is having you lisp, reach for the bottle, pour it all out, back to the table, work it all out, more work to do, hours to go through, the struggle continues for me and for you.
-

Kadaffi’s religion forbids the consumption of alcohol but his upbringing predisposes him towards it. The long abstinence from spewing our special brand of funk from this funky corner of the planet can be explained by neither the rigors of Islamist terrorist teaching nor the Bulgarian homegrown love for the distilled yeastly nectar. What can be said, however is that the coincidence of the dry period in terms of alcohol and the dry period in terms of writing is not accidental. I write these words sober.

I invite all muses to join me in the traditional freestylin’

-2244

lying in my bed, thoughts come out my head, they stop at my throat and reverse to the muscles on my fingertips, typin quick, evading the rope that has me feeling broke, if I grasp reality I choke, and to expel the stress I smoke, one disease blurred by another, I’m not your  fucking brother, I will steal your opportunity, I don’t beg for forgiveness, I’m weak in the game, too many lost years in the flames, boiling is my temper, have no time for sentimental thoughts or pampers gentle, your ass is like mine, raw, but for a different reason, you get the treatment, while I work all seasons, like the mailman, only i’m not afraid of dogs, I walk the streets hungy, while some fools fear hogs, wink wink, I got no reason to blink, can’t go to sleep, wishing on my wishing well, hope I don’t fall too deep, lest I forget from where I fell, know it all, but have nothing to show, love to love, but have no control, dear lord please save my soul. I stick out my thumb and ask for a favor, the crazy ones they don’t hesitate and expect nothing but a fable which I readily provide from my brain so interlaced with stories, fictional and real, that I always give them the better deal, an offer they can’t refuse because it’s more than they bargained for, I keep it positive, while some cat’s argue for it. Can you explain to me the rules of the game, because for me in this so called game only chaos reigns. Who can you trust except the stupid? They lie, cheat and murder, but lack in  devilishness, the ones that hurt you most, are the ones you caress, but for all the ailments in the world there must be cures, so call me Hippocrates, for I am too earthly to call myself Socrates, ideas as actualities exist as figments of the imagination, I love images, and maybe that is why I love creation, my art is still pathetic but deserves my own fascination, self-absorbed, pshst, I BOW to your creations. I feel the love from all around, I feel it even in the underground, that is damp, wet and sticky, with creepy crawlers that make you tremble and shiver, and these were supposed to be friends. Keep your eye on your aims, and when you aim to shoot for your goals don’t be afraid to land nine millimeters of heat on your foes. Why they standing in front of you? Do they expect you to stop simply because they found a good resting spot, nah, let em move or get dropped. There are a few people that deserve respect, and those are the ones you have repeatedly checked. I know my people, and they are better than me, I love them to death, but show it terribly. I will improve or have someone take everything from me, because what you posses is merely a tool, and if your projects don’t guide you right, why hold on to the tools? But what if, you ask me, what if some other more dangerous fool grabs them from you? Then destroy them, and destroy him too. I feel weak as I say this because though it sounds like the truth, my stomach is aching and I still look for proof. Why aren’t things the way that I read? Why is it that when I try nothing goes like it was said? Is this the death of innocence, the awakening of reason, growing up, or none of the above? Why should the question be settled in the first place, blood? My blood is red and yours is purple, I wear worn out pants and yours are scented with myrtle, is it because you played your cards right, or knew that nothing is certain? May those with the answers please come to the forum, so I can interrogate them with no decorum. I need solace and I will find it, if not with you, then with the shovel, six feet I will dig to my final hovel.

-2305

A long time ago here, at Kadaffi Enterprises we took a silent oath to not censor anything in the spirit of democracy and everything native to the Lybian state of mind. Well, as should be expected, we broke those oaths as soon as the forbidden fruit entered our system. The forbidden fruit of shame, and common sense. After all, we should cover ourselves up from time to time. Well, if the oath is to be worth anything, no. So after a cocktail and very little thinking, I present to you the aborted lines. (nothing special really, just my unpublished section [mostly thoughts I never bothered finishing] , now published)

–
Heavens unfold to the willing, allure the reticent and close to the defiant.
–
they sit in their chairs reminiscing
of painful affairs as the clock ticks away
at their whole frame’s dissatisfaction,
always on a call for friction,
calling up rebels from the rival faction,
asking–are you ready for some action?
–
My ponderings stack up to quantities more than sufficient for your local library’s philosophy section.
My sayings remain minimal due to the fact that all my pondering has led to no conclusion.
–
Our peculiar age is reaching for its end and grasping for something– getting thin air.
People continue thriving up to the carrying capacity’s limited capability for expansion, and I keep thinking that its time to end this shit. So how is the planet feeling? God only knows, I suspect and my suspicions are tainted with hatred and jealousy. Nothing special, really. Where are my bourgeois superstitions? I can never escape them, not that I’m trying at this point. The guilt guild is out of business, check their blog, what is this? Probably something we deserve, is it not always so?

Ordinary thoughts from a nondescript motherfucker.
–
When I rant its like drunk dialing except no phone is required.

Sitting in the darkness, I see the dust coming off the vacuumed floors. I see it in the light coming off my screen. You can never get too clean. Obsessive but not compulsive, I clean all things except my liver, which needs an oil change, or maybe just a change of oils. Dripping wet with this summer sweat, I won’t list the things I regret. Some dance to remember, some dance to forget, I look things in the eye and drink to numb up the nerves. I’m a pixel, a nice twitching pixel, turn yourself on to the millions of colors of significance which I present. Fuck representing, I present. More colors than Baskin has flavors. My feet are sinking deeper into the ground. This sweat is wetting up the barren land. The mud swings to the beat, a swing junkie like myself, sinking deeper. Nice and cool, away from the heat. The mud is the latest of friends which are not real, the latest swine in the pork barrel, the scheme of the oligarchs, forever stuck in this dirt, this rubbish, this rotting shit, clean as I get.
–
I take my time to quantify, but can’t you see that this sort of thing has little or no end, thinking as a friend, tell me when should I extend the offering to those I defend? I think it might just be about time right about now but seeing as how things have no space in which to fit, when do you think my offering I should remit? Little notions pass through my cerebellum, splitting up my precious melon into rival factions, never reaching precious satisfaction.
–
The riotous flavours of spice in my mouth remind me of the strange oriental cocktail that I just consumed. My brain is numb, nothing new, just the particulars at hand. Sitting in the basement, feeling faceless, god lead us to the senseless, what need have I of chairs and tables, when nature is my tapestry and my mistress, that bitch always wishing things were better, don’t pass her the letter that I wrote detailing my struggle, it ain’t worth it, she’d probably use it to use me in yet another way. Nature, what a poet’s chore, what can we really say against her, our mother and our whore, the one we all adore.
–
The training now completed, the body feels depleted, hearts were torn to shreds, we all saw things in red, let us get to the getting lest we get to forgetting. Hair cut military style, preparing for a mission that might take quite a while, taking time off to recollect, things scattered on the floor in a haphazard fashion, chaos comes on slowly, my mind it starts to bore me, why these things get me down, I am not a clown, please let me sit down, friends want to do the town, I want to slip out and go around to the corner shop for a bottle, this ain’t fate, its premeditated, going full throttle. Judge gave me orders to leave and now I’m forgotten, picking this rotten cotton, in the land of sheep and wolves I turned out to be a piece of dirt, and you know I’m hurt.
–

Fountains of grief pour and recycle the tears of ages, these pumps let us think we are sages, with pain comes the sensation that one’s wisdom is ageless, thinking this will only leave us in cages, things so inappropriately expressed and so insufficiently defended, need not be attended to nor fended for. I wish that with experience came understanding, but the hypotheses are often contradictory, and when the solution is actually reached, the answer is so abstract as to be next to useless for the man of practice. Why bother with these solutions, when their logical rigor makes them impracticable? Maybe so that you can say that you know something and hold it like a trophy on your mantle, an intangible piece of non-sense.

NOTICE
Kadaffi’s AK’s, Grenades and Baklava will be out of business starting Monday, June the 23rd through July 7th, 2008. You won’t be able to find Yamir in his native town of Tripoli, since he’s headed on a special mission for some special training with some special comrades in the struggle. It is all very nondescript and ordinary so don’t worry about a thing, oh eyes and talons of the bald eagle… The Wordieword publishing house, the literary arm  (the tongue or mouthpiece if you will)of Kadaffi Enterprises, currently located in a lonely server somewhere in Oklahoma (though spiritually it is firmly lodged in the prophet’s hind-parts), will not be publishing anything for the time being, and so for those prized few used to this special brand of funk, your man will will continue to fight for freedom at a later date when internet access is once again regained. See, we get medieval with our shit. Killing you softly, my outro.

Even on this stormy night,
sky too lit up to be dark,
I stay calm but in a frenzied state,
my third eye- the center of the storm
irate but bright–it swallows up the light
like so many flies thirsty for the fire-
found their end- sizzling in the fryer.

What has me going isn’t the anticipation of the fiery union
or the infinitesimal of the satisfaction with which it brings the eternal end.

What has me going is the temptation of the action, the temptation to burst out
laughing, gasping, hoping to catch my breath, the temptation to run out and
grab you, the temptation to enter into the center of the circle, sidestepping the
perimeter.

The knife cuts vegetables skillfully down the tabletop, they fall into place like
they knew where they were meant to be as I admire, witnessing the prowess
which laid inside me wake to the sound of the choir singing above the clouded
mind.

The temptation is the signal of desire. See fire unites the elements, and water
therefore prevents this union. My alchemy may be weak, but who is so
unskilled as to be unable to boil water? Boil it until the falling drops of
condensation signal the phase change of evaporation, that precious moment
for which we are all waiting.

You know what I’m cooking, even if I don’t. It’s made with care, this midnight affair.

I. The Cotton Dogs
123 something in here is rotten
124 something about the cotton
125 sometimes I see them pick it
126 some times the pickin’s little
127 little did I know that I would lose control
128 what did I say? little did I care anyway
129 those little hands so course -
130 they’ve seen so many
131 and if they had eyes
132 they’d be red and teary
133 now the work is simply tearing
134 through their surface
135 layer epidermis
136 why is life such a
137 humorless circus
138 running round like a
139 dog and pony show
140 chasing carrots,
141 running laps in
142 circuits
143 While the addicted gambler
144 drinks and prays to his numbers
145 leading himself excited
146 into eternal slumber!

II. The not so regular man
147 Have a heart and listen.
148 I arrive in the wagon of contrition.
149 The same that picked me up
150 from the canyon of perdition
151 What was my fault?
152 How did I earn this admonition?
153 Is it the case that what i wanted
154 was simply an impossible mission?
155 As said the old scholar
156 there are meaningless questions.
157 Have a seat and listen to the lesson.
158 I was wondering what caused rain droplets to store up light
159 the light it captures like enslaved Israelites
160 forming pictures for the observant to catch
161 it makes me listless to think about a crash
162 that is to be upon us even as nature is here to calm us
163 with her sights sounds and similarly smells
164 the misty dew and twilight bells
165 that eagerly await us in uninhabitable places
166 the type that challenge the assumptions of the nations
167 gathered round here today to discuss this total disarray
168 my heavenly body is shining to guide us to the gallows
169 for he who acts freely is freely acted upon
170 let him not become another actor
171 and dwindle like pebbles under tractors
172 lest he discover the lack of his master
173 the dog without the leash, barking at your moon,
174 hoping for the time for choices to come soon
175 so he can raise up on two feet and eat with a spoon
176 just like it was meant to happen, an evolutionary chapter
177 written by an anonymous ghost writer, his
178 horny hand of labor, reaching into your pockets
179 making sure that there ain’t no sprockets
180 hidden there, or similarly widgets
181 stealing supplies to finance the future
182 cannibalism in a city setting
183 the writer is a realist and he knows what he’s gettin’
184 and it ain’t a workaround, nothing like it altogether
185 its good to make sense, but it’s better to make cheddar
186 justice is upon us, delivered by the crooked hand
187 beating down with enough force to level japan
188 on any fool who even attempts to demand
189 the rights of the not so regular man