Pot Hole Funeral

I stayed up all night working out this speech, trying to find the right words to say,

But you know what?

To hell with it, I’ll just speak from the heart.

It really does make my heart warm to see us all gathered here to pay our respects to grandpa

Indeed I’m sure that not one of you here have no fond memories of him.

Looking out at all of you it is difficult not to see that

Grandpa has left quite a legacy, a legacy that we are now the caretakers off.

For those of us who knew him well, grandpa was one of depth: Depth of soul, depth of heart, and of spirit.

He was also quite the storyteller and I know some of you remember his tales quite well.

Coming from very humble beginnings, Grandpa was always quick to let us know how hard life was back then, for a young pothole. From being nothing more than a mere crack in a time when Government used to build ‘good road’, ‘serious road’ and not ‘dem fly by night ting dey patching now’ as he would often say.

Grandpa was a fighter. Nourished by the elements and the occasional grass roots and bad drivers grandpa grew from a tiny crack in the bend to the legend he is now. Although humble by nature we all knew he took pride in his size, occupying two thirds of the road, no mean feat that, and definitely something that WE can be proud of as well and aspire to.

Grandpa by no means had an easy life, his was a life etched with hardship, however, Grandpa was one of enduring spirit and great faith; A survivor. Many times he was filled in, with rocks, soil, gravel and even cement! But he always believed in a higher power and no matter how long it took grandpa came back like a champ. No greater example of this than the Great War of Election 1994, when the then Government in a bid to win votes sent out their Public Works soldiers to completely rebuild the roads. Soldiers whom we’ve had a long, bittersweet relationship with since you could never tell if they’re coming to dig up the road and help increase our population or persecute us with asphalt and rocks. It was a dark time for our kind and we lost a lot of good pot holes yet even through this Grandpa fought and survived.

Although Grandpa often came across as the stern silent type, he was also quite the trickster with a wicked sense of humour. In his younger days he would often use the angle of sunlight to trick drivers into thinking he moved, laughing as they swerved precariously. He kept a tally of how many axels and rims he broke in his heyday and how many tires he ripped. He always joked that he was an unappreciated necessity to the economy and that he kept the mechanics and car dealers in business. I remember one of his favourite jokes, it was one he played every time there was a heavy shower, he’d play as if he was shallower than he really was, luring the unwary into his depths. There was once not too long ago he caught the whole front end of a rental, it was a tourist, ‘you have to give dem di Antiguan welcome man’ he would tell us jokingly.

However you saw him, an activist, a joker, a family pot hole, grandpa will forever live on, he has blazed the trail and we must do him the honour of doing no less than he. So as Public Works buries him beneath concrete, asphalt and the steam roller, we know that Grandpa shall live on. The Grandest of us all.

Rest In Peace Gramps.

Glen Toussaint 2016©

Because I love words 9: tion

Syllables sprouting wings fly
Thoughts and concepts evaporating transmogrification into clouds, dreams
I'm high
Taste my name on your lips
Everytime we kiss
Fire on your fingertips
Tattoo upon my skin your fingerprints
Unique
Sit upon the lotus, in the lotus and blend science and logic with faith and metaphysics.
Silent
Silence
Gold and diamonds the value of the darkness
The end of the first act
Gave birth to old chaotic souls
Cyphers held in fluent abstract
Ripples across the surface of cosmic liquids in ethereal bowls

Sound spread wings and fly
I was told I would find the lie of universal truth in the lines that define the leaf
Holy leaf, Sess
Yes?
Tell me
If God Damn
Will Satan bless?
I could care less
Or clear more room for sewing seeds of thought to grow, bear fruit plucked and suckled
Thicken the plot
Stare raptly at the black spot on the white board
Tell me what you see
Anarchy?

Careless Letters sprout wings and fly
So I will letcha
I tend to get sentimental
Whenever I contemplate the space occupied by a purely elemental intellectual
spiritual with mental anguish languished over the instrumental of being on the cusp of something divinely, superbly inspirational
Bow
Namaste
Genuflection
Still the rippling
Contemplate the reflection made a billion times more than just what is
Refraction
Conceptualization of the infraction
Thus the deception
A Broken Inception
There's your sign
Mind rapidly expanding far beyond the confines
A celestial  YOU RANG
in response to the spontaneous big BAAAANNGG

Thoughts spread wings and fly
If it makes sense
Then should apologies follow hence
The realisation of your actuality
The spot on the wall unlocked the fact
That time and space is a joke
That you are a singularity
Singularly unique in your ability
To bend reality
So you break it
And why not
Abstract always made more sense than logic

She is Ohm

If I had to stoop so low as to use mere words to describe her I would say
She is wisdom personified
The epitome of regality
She is the sound of the stars
The song of the earth
The breath of all matter
She is a mango tree laden with fruit
Her roots embedded deep, deep in the core of eternity
Her eyes are pools of infinity
Her voice pregnant with antiquity
She is the manifestation of worthiness
She is grace
She is depth
She is the correspondence of beings too high to see
She is a message
She is a sign
But
I cannot stoop so low as to use mere words to describe her
So I'll say she's
Oooooohhhhhhhhhmmmmmmm

Homeless

It's almost like magic, but it's not. It's just them playing on the fact that we rather not see them. Like the dogs with the patchy fur and prominent ribs with their pleading eyes and defeated tails. They shamble into line of sight, dare our personal space and by doing so, become Houdini. Poof. We don't want no part of them, Pan Handlers, Pariah, we skirt around them, step over them, push them past our peripherals as we go on with our lives tuning out their pleas, their hunger, their stench, their shit. We know all too well how easy it is to become them. That no matter how far we run, how high we climb, they're just around the corner if you slip. The gulf is not as vast. We hate being reminded. So we 'poof'  them from our sight. Head straight, walk fast, give them the damn $2 to ease our conscience little bit. They disappear... Like magic.

I watch them. I watch them watching us. I watch them watching us not watching them. They know us. They know us by name, they know us by profession, they know us by sins. I watch them. I study them, observing them like I was making a documentary for an animal channel. I was intrigued by them. I admired their skill. It was mesmerising this facade.

They way they became one with the garbage and the refuse, it was almost symbolic. Delving into the rancid bins, tracking through stinking gutters, tattered clothing caked in grime and bedazzled with bits of string and bubblegum. They shamble along the streets assailing our senses trailing vermin, mongrels and decay. Bottom feeding from sunrise to sunset.

I observed them and was rewarded.

I was observed observing them observing us not observing them. He looked like thousand year old wrinkled paper and smelled like piss just as old. He turned and shambled away, stopping only once to made sure I followed. We made our way around St. John's, along familiar streets, around familiar buildings in unfamiliar ways unseen in plain sight. Traversing this city until we came to a place of water and trees and blocks, a place unseen in plain sight, we entered.

'Welcome to H.O.M.E.L.E.S.S ' he said with a surprisingly smooth, deep voice. Like an opera singer. He told me everything then. They are the recorders, the keepers of Wadadli. They recorded everything that happens on this island, the history of the nation, the history of the people in intimate detail. He reveals the network existing among the caribbean countries, the grand scheme. He went on and on while my mind reeled with the revelation of this vast underground catacomb of knowledge tunneling God only knows how far beneath our feet masked by decay and stink and garbage.
'why you showing me this?'
'Isn't obvious son?' it was obvious, as plain as the conviction on his face and hope in his eyes 'you have the eyes, you can see through this world. Will you join us?

I was being Houdini, shambling through the peripherals when I noticed her noticing me noticing them not noticing us. I turned and started off, stopping only once to notice if she was following.

Secrets

Secrets

And the church says

Such a blessed man

Such forcefulness

Filled with the spirit

Fearless

Saintly

Mannersable and charming

Passionate

Aflame with the word

An inspiration

Discerning …

Father I have sinned

I have shepherded your flock through the pastures

Guided them with your instructions

Chastised in your name

Led by example

Your will is my will lord

You knew me from small

You know my heart

My life you know it all

I live to serve my lord

You know this

But lord how keenly I feel the pull of the abyss

Save me lord from the blaze of damnation

I have cavorted with darkness lord

A slave to fornication

I am on my knees lord to you I pray

My flesh was too weak

Upon the flock I prey

No different from ye old dragon or the wolf

my tongue I gave no rein as it honeyed out untruth

I am ashamed my lord

The devils laugh within my head

Mocking me persistently as I lay wrapped up in her bed

And the church says

If you ain’t have nothing good to say

Then don’t say anyting a’tall

She look good doh

Tek you eye off she and keep it on the lord

Well the good lord did come for the sinners not for the saved

What a way to make a living

Hmm hhhhmmm

What you say?

Nothing dear

Father I have sinned

I try to be good father

But I am not

I am lost

And in trying to find self

I’ve sold everything I had including myself

And I’m good at it

Too good

Now I sell people

Two minutes

Half an hour

An hour at a time at your leisure

I provide pleasure

I am a flesh peddler

My wares are always fresh

I am shunned by day

Yet pursued by night

Taken with coin

Or ….

Taken by fight

I am not good

But I am good at what I do

Father please save me

For within me grows the life of your shepherd’s baby

Compassion made him aware of my plight

He sought to guide me to redemption

But it seems our shadows were too much alike

We gave in to temptation

Now I am dying father

This poison eating me

Is this the sum of my iniquity?

…

Well then father, if it is your will

I’ll bear every stripe

I shall drink every drop from the bitter cup

I’ll bear this cross to the grave with a smile

But dear father in whose name I pray

Please lord

Spare my child.

And the church says

Boy that Pastor is a good man

He take that child and raise him like his own

God bless him

Such an upright man

That child should be grateful

Is a good looking child

Very soft spoken

Just like pastor, eh

His mother was such a ting

What she die from, AIDS?

No Cancer

God rest her soul

Indeed

So her den of sin close down

No under new management

Another Madamme?

No a Monsieur

A soft spoken Monsieur who dresses all in white with a big cross around his neck and a hat

(sign of the cross) hmph

Pastor need to look into that

God bless him

Glen Toussaint©2015

My Ninja Girlfriend

My ninja girlfriend stands outside in the cold

Cigarette between lips as red as the chipped paint on her nails

Red like the blood on her boots staining the snow

My ninja girlfriend recites Haiku

While painting erotic pieces beneath the Sakura trees

My ninja girlfriend

Drinks saki and eats sushi

Whilst smiling at my attempts to combat her philosophy

My ninja girlfriend

Is the great granddaughter of a Shogun

Who was the son of the Jade Emperor

Mothered by a sun goddess

My ninja girlfriend

She was raised by Tengu

Was trained by the Buddha

And fought Sun Wukong

My ninja girlfriend

Is a battler

A battle rhymer

A living manga

A force of nature

My ninja girlfriend stands outside in the streets

Listening to dead artists lyricize over melodious beats

Dreaming .

Glen Toussaint 2015©

Dark Talk Continued: This Lover’s Words

This lover’s words were broken words

Of heartless love

Of Sightless desire

Lipless kisses

And voiceless syllables

This lover burned to ashes in flames of passion

The object of objectification

Spent and used and left to lie in this bed of lies

I love you

Or rather

I love the swing of your hips

I love your curves

I love your full laden breasts

I love your bountiful, bubbling butt

I love your thighs

I love your pussy

In all its moist fragrant glory

This lover’s words

Played Bach, Vivaldi, Mozart

Beautifully, visciously, Monstrously

Upon the keys of emotions

Laid bare

To be laid waste to

Meticulously

Obsessively

Compulsively

I Hate You

Or rather

I hate your intelligence

I hate your confidence

I hate your conviction

I hate your wisdom

I hate your truth

I hate your strength

I hate your personification of all my inferiorities

This lover’s words is full of emptiness

This lover’s words are sighs in the wind

This lover’s words are chaff and sand

This lover’s words are loud in its silence

This lover’s words are tainted for you

This lover’s words will ensnare you

This lover’s words are broken

This lover’s words…

Glen Toussaint 2015©