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Book, Floaters, Fervour

BEFORE YOU READ | The poems you are to read are composed by Jim Khan, a renowned poet from the United Kingdom. His published book entitled ‘Cyclothymia and Chardonney’ can be purchased by clicking here.

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Pass the Book

Sister, sister pass the book,
I need to take another look,
they crossed the Iโ€™s, replaced with โ€˜weโ€™s,
they said theyโ€™ll take just what they please.

It said in bold-face โ€˜must obeyโ€™
but no one did it anyway
and so in time they passed the bill
that robbed us of our conscious will.

The lessons that the tutors taught
were black-and-white and nothing short
of instrumental mind-control-
I want it back, that part they stole!

Brother, brother help me find
the freedoms that they undermined,
by changing scripts to fit the glove
they sell us out for what they love.

Recovery might take an age,
restoring ethics page by page
but never falter, take my arm,
accept my words as soothing balm.

The generations yet to bear
won’t see the values made unclear,
morality, so smudged and blurred
must have a voice and now be heard.

ALSO READ | Pompeii

Floaters

I wake ‘n bake my breakfast dope,
and through the smoke my horoscope
extends to me a sense of hope
by tossing me a hangmanโ€™s rope,
I take the hint, I cannot cope,
got weed for toothpaste, beer for soap,
combined to form the isotope
to grease my downward slope.

On top of me lifeโ€™s comedy- those jokers
in the deck that wreck our focus,
off my centre, miss the locus,
thatโ€™s the way they think they broke us,
Parliamentary hocus-pocus,
propaganda from the POTUS,
all the things they think that ‘woke us
donโ€™t mean shit to laid-back smokers.

ALSO READ | Coping Mechanisms

Further Fervour

the lesions from embittered fists
grow hard like calloused welts,
the lines tattooed across the wrists
explain why courage melts,

the child inside still begging mercy
shields his beaten crown,
in this there is no controversy
nor no backing down,

excuses never wear that thin
when matters swept away
are stored inside, that hidden sin
of which we dare not say,

it takes but one misplaced emotion;
fires the engine’s spark
then cataclysmic locomotion
steams into the dark,

a red reminder eases pain,
and carves another scar,
a weeping badge beside the vein
to say I got this far.

DO READ | Impressions and Fire