Herbless Pursuit


Nearly beat him at
speed chess on 42nd Street

How did you get out of that mess? Sensed defeat
Defenceless king

on the worn chequered floor

He said cats hanging out on 9th Avenue
Say Jay sent you and y’all be cool.


Along the dilapidation on this Avenue
hustler eye balled while doing his thing

XXX shop on the fringe

stare ‘Jay’
clicked – all is well

a nod reassures with ease –


Hands on a stuffed out genial bag – $25 swell

demand to smell –
make sweat

out the pen –
back against the wall:

eyes gleam red
on rage


Exchange goes through


Munching nuts in the Times Square cinema
Sizzling off the reels is Jungle Fever

out the pocket

whiffing & this aroma
resembles a pungent parsley.

Bag dashed under the seat &

brooding down the aisle.


In a…

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it’s lunchtime.

they sit at a small round table waiting for the quenelles de brochets served with sauce mousseline. the restaurant is quiet. the waiter strolls over pleasantly placing meager plates before them.

how beautiful it looks she said. you’re right said her friend as he shoved the android into her chest. now this will look brill on my Instagram he said, take it.

tearing his mouth open wide, porcelain veneers gleaming, she pressed the screen and that fake shutter sound captured the food going cold. the waiter had already walked off.

grass is always greener in the summertime


like a burqua, women
wrapped around his
demeanor, rebels. he
gave the middle finger
saying, grass is always
greener in the summer
time. the sun spurned
this long black Friday.

rabid speculation
death for bethel’s children.
hands, mouth, feet, iron-
bounded. parents
blamed it on one horrid
baby boy. he groomed,
bewitched, excelled, beguiled,
erectly sprouting forth.

mother took for granted
forever will i am: we
miss your energy running
the streets like damned,
fool? false. for they said
you lost your mind,
possessed by beelzeboul.
a jerk, a tortured soul.

he was not fake,
never phoney,
“sham you!” they screamed:
later paying homage.
quiet remains, but
i confess יהּ
when beloved left
they penned his fairy tale

fits of covert passion
tempered as women, wait
outside the synagogue –
he debated with the
rabbi so every thing changed.
יהּ‎ voice betwixt his lips,
for ever sealed & raised

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Hey Mr so-called Poet Man!

The Art of Poetry.


This is a wordy piece of prose
Jumping in and out of rhythms.
I hate to be negative of any expression
But this is of no use to anyone.

I am not advocating return to form
But it might help
If you know how it works.
The simple vocabulary

Does not stretch the reader
And the Mystery of Darkness,
Is philosophical rambling
Defunct of elegance.

A consciousness exists
Beyond our understanding,
Seek this, close your eyes
And enter the darkness…

Poetry is more than just
Writing down your thoughts.
Some material needs formality
Of poetic armoury.

And your images? Where are they?
There are all the trappings
Of abstract thought –
But I can’t see no bloody horse.

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