SLAM

I didn't quite come to win
I came to bare witness  to the re-booting of beginnings
To compost all of the leaves worn by Adams and Eves while eating all the apples on all of the trees 
knowing this fuel opens more channels  in human tissue than citrus
I came to share the dancefloor with angels and cameo a saxophone among baritones 
and I wouldn't be complaining if I said that my only issue is the characteristic of campaigning because that's therapeutic
( reminds my of when we were six. Games weren't electronic and we'd play on a roundabout . Taking turns to grab this lollistick and the essence of joy was being able to shout Got it, then dropping it  and shouting Dropped it )
Ok you had to be there or HAVE to be there as it's never not there as in here, like hair that's in here but not out there
I came because the first time I ever performed I felt as though I came, so ascertain that I'm a 
 celeb bearing my soul in this rock'n roll ritual

And through the translucent bulbs the rays of raa are glistening
and I can see by the angle of your shoulders , you're listening
You relate . You too probably shout to landscapes
 and wait a few disembowelled seconds for  feedback
and watch orchestres crescendo in sunsets
I pirouette when it's wet
I see stories
I have epic three way battles with me and myself
while being elusive
trawling my footprint for good measure
because a sand pit is a far more alluring place to bury my head than a routine update
And, yes; I know. I too find more rewarding conversation with a sheet of lined A5 
or thanks to technology I can manifest the 'my god'
by confiding in an ipod
I can wander through light with my fingers crossed and every now and then I catch it turning selected raindrops into mirrors 
then watching them all recall into one big unbiased family then rearranging them all again for the sheer fun of it
I know what's supposed to be real but when I grow up 
I want to be me
And the horizon's as disappointing  as the godless landscape of Greenwich 
but in the ever present breezes of the great spirit
eagles soar when lions roar
and I'd rather not tap into the channels of barely cerebral animamals
with superficial eye contact  
too three dimensional to be interactive
whose voices drown in the ultra-sound of wailing witches whils Christ their redeemer is appointed to just stand there and oversee crack epidemics in Rio
Their egos will never materialise into  matter but they will matter because they harness energy so I'm as close to tearing myself free as the rings of Saturn have of coming up with a key
while admittedly wondering 
to be frank
if my existence is worth a wank
since the species running haywire in a hyper intelligent eco system 
pre judges by silhouettes
though it's a given that it's safest in to be hidden in the padded prison of your head in the dome of the living dead
and I will dwell in a well of parallels to planets that float without soil though I would meet in the middle if they'd rendezvous at the stream where words begin
We could mark the spot,  Equinox
Beyond the radioactive waves of the enslaved  
where I would neither swim nor wade with the former whose freedom borders on following orders
like hooded executioners
whose one eyed leaders need only the blood sweat and tears
of all of your years   
whose 'two cents' worth' deprives me of nothing but serenity till I well like a broken penis gushing with remedial blood
in alliance with unbowed defiance  
you might presume a black thing
....but that's that wing
 once deemed punk by fashionisters
or a chip by western historians

What it is, is that , bearing in mind ten thousand recorded religions,
nothing feels better than this creed of Mecca
this telepathic communion sewn with the virus of single mindedness 
in our overground underground 
 'don't fit in', outfit of genetic Israelites
whose thinking is so autonomous it's 
synonymous with each one of us once wondering what's wrong with us
save for this seminar of renegade microbes  plugged in by our frontal lobes like free sparring gladiators 
and even if I'm wrong this shit is cathartic
every discernibly visceral
preturbed yet merged and still distinguishable intrinsically simplistic  syllable , orally secreted inner secret hidden in the middle of a curveball of riddles as true as spider silk
submitted by poets in bowls of DNA as  oblivion beckons like a mother's hug 
and you applaud accordingly
as purely as
the ultimate gift of her kiss and I get to transmit vibrations with my surrogate siblings of higher6th ? consciousness 
and times I thinks
y'all could be my shrinks
I could trust you with things I only ever shout to the sky 
Nothing being punished that isnt malicious
and I concede
I'd let you see me bleed
and not regret it
cause this is an anaesthetic

I can spout my instinctive observations 
Of my heritage of socialist rage against privilege as a heritage 
Of the nazi elite petro-pharmaceutical industrial complex's investment in making kids precocious 
of big brother weaving  inefficiency
into social anthropology
Of the insanity of the new world order
making us cry when all we want is to be warm 
beyond icy divisions of equated class systems 
beyond bogus categorisations 
ripping so much time from underneath us that the crude oil of poetry bleeds  through the surviving gene jostling for oxygen like rose petals

Of all the imperfect paths to peace this  called me as though I'm worthy of 
rebirth to a movement of shamanic torch bearers in the fog of conscience 
to dissolve in the holy grip of its harmonies

I came to wade in words in real language lending life to reality
from swag bags of processed sonnets and home made ebonics , 
bouncing off of stratospheric horizons like inter stella bumper cars but with  stars
so when they raid lost arks of ancient arts this'll be a landmark
of vibe-ing prophets non-subscribing
transforming logic
from the laziest perspective to the most acutely microscopic 
even endorsing blinking during bouts of rigid thinking 
or varnishing tomorrow's roots with yesterday's fragrance
instead of hanging on to fate like a wilted leaf on a dark autumn evening

You could write off spoken word as a herd of unheard nerds 
but you don't need words to be heard
It's a crime not to have passion 
You know there was fuck all wrong with Van Gogh

The shortest substantial poem was Adam 'ad 'em surpassed like matured wine by Muhammad Ali 
encapsulating the helter skelter of the politic and his messianic elevation 
The poignantly condensed  
Me We
I come on a Tuesday night respite to swan dive into an embrace in the dark of space illuminated by the glow of light reflecting off your face and I'm surfing the system skimming the horns of Taurus 
to vault the assault course of procrastinations and multi-layered war
with self and its radius
I came to graze my soul in the roam of a clear landscape 
doing my part in an encounter with counterparts by offering this encrypted prayer
Amen