Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #8

Daddy Monster
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Your green bleak skin, blotched and chewed?
I serve our kin, our Kings, to name a few,
who, with Their big, black arms, have ruled and rule the rules.
I kiss Their boots, lick Their hooves and pledge to do
anything a fanatic, a fool, a tool would do;
Ah-woo, Ah-woo.
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Your eyes blare, poppies paired, glaring their hue?
My eyes thrust into Their eye-catching snare,
through which, I can see the world, twisted and stirred,
the monsters, once chanting and marching with their hearts bare,
are now hiding in their lairs, trembling scared;
A satisfied smirk, I titter and wear.
With mocking laughter, I curse, dare and swear,
 “Come out damn creatures; I’ll send you to hell!”
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Your mouth titanic, gaping pit, dribbling toxic spit?
As a desperate preta, I forcefully enter the monsters’ houses and dig
into their hidden crypts, where the earthly delights glitter and hiss,
which off Our land, Our men they unrightfully ripped.
Pissed, like a ravenous pig, I swallow them all in bliss
Sweats and tears, blood and fear; there’s nothing I miss.
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Your ruthless red hands with guns, black rotten like soot?
Out of the skulls of heroic mules, the goo of brains, I shoot.
From their half-dead carcasses, dismembered, bruised and mute,
their rights and alive organs, I bite off and loot
to sate my sadist ache for crude blood and food.
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Mighty and high, your bloody brute shoes?
I stomp on the wings, the dreams, of youths, of you
with brute limbs, no flinch, I kick you and squish you
until the soul ooze out of every piece of you.
Beneath my shoes, your bodies spew
Blood and mush, like a squashed red fruit.
Daddy, daddy, how could you do?
Aren’t I your daughter, your beloved baby boo?

Daddy did love you, my little baby boo
But you can’t give what I want like my masters do.
I can always make another naive fool like you.
So if They asked me to destroy you for an infinite times or two,
you know exactly what I would do. Don’t you, baby boo?

Overthrowing Fists
               Part 2 : JungleContemplate

Big mound of lion dung,
beneath the big-leaf tree
grown around malicious den
               of a pride of lions,
monkeys in jungle surprised
not for various bananas
are what they’re after,
though odor in the air oddly stung

Fast food swallow by the hoot-hoot
               & was forgotten;
then it begotten a little mofo
               called MaOLay
who never knows how to hoot
yet has great dexterity
               in how to loot
for he has his team named
               “FOMO of mofo”
consisted of loads of locos.

Out was one scouring the mud path
his barefeet stamping in a crinkled piece
               of litter from processed food,
Stride not to the pond nearby
for ashore lake drink in group
having croc in muse : food?

Big cats just ran off snoozed
               stooped only to themselves
yet starved-short-fuse in haywire mood,
deprived desolated feelings oozed. . .
pounce a lion to playful monkeys
grabbing bananas yet pee from atop is all it gets,
               sad humongous pussy cat

Its lair nearby the color of rust,
trust he in him still though no hair in butt,
               he went hut. . . hut. .
While scores of monkeys munching bananas
taunting hungry humongous pussycat,
the others in the pride stride,
               hide & waiting to dive in
on those bananas-munchers
               yet huge pussyfoot
ain’t puss in boot, so no loot.

How a old colonial robber
forget those ways to squeeze its juice
out of the hill dwellers,
the gray leaves of the teak forest
rustled like a ghost was passing through,
               a tremendous feeling of hunger,
even a pride of lions tread on carefully
               a bit dreaded, embedded
in the saddest part of forest
are numerous beheaded serpents
with all the bodies shredded,
looming up the atmosphere,
               the scent of death;
all the lions, for a while,
forget how to take proper breaths. . .

Their tails wriggle still
               in the ponderous mud puddle,
Like some wicked ladles in hairs,
paired not bodies and minds,
to each other gave fierce animals’ glare. . .
Following the swoop of the eyes,
almost like the Nike swoosh,
children with their hands amputated
               float on in an air image, was it,
a distant memory while factories
               of garments still
               can fetch a viss of gold. 

Holding on to power without soul,
a ghost tell anotherGhost aJoke :
when you’reDead, don’tExpectTheDeadertoTellTheDeadestTale ‘BoutYouOrYourDaDaforNoPhantomOfHorror
NeedsPatheticHonor from aFuckingJoker.

Don’t cling to death as the solution of pain,
               thought he who could not die again, 
A call out from a monkey
like the death rattle of a human being.
Shifting with the wind the spindly legs of centipedes
               crawled across the dirt mounds,
tracks where paw prints from a pride of lions,
their scent like the sweetness of gasoline,
stamped all over the countryside,
               and on the minds of the people;
a fundamental lie of governance,
               their colonial symbolism like a brand of terror.

Famished pride of lions roam around
               not so far from the lake,
bake they ideas of team play on some prey
               they can take;
monkeys slippery off the branch
               can they wait?
Or lions’ meal they’re gon make,
               yet they almost break.
Hear the snapping of the teak,
Grass thick in deep mud
camouflage ought not be caught
coz nothing but buzzing flies
               and bugs fuzzing
along a mudpuppy feeding
               on dead lion’s meat
               that’s left;
too bad for the big cat
who tread on strange water,
thought it’s a bar tap;
brought it a far slap
               in a jar of death
smothered breathless
till finally the king of jungle
               kicked the bucket.

Overthrown like a helmet,
               is this the flag one bears;
does one choose to die for symbols
               masking true intentions,
Bearin’ with swellin’ agony in head
for the stench of the lifeless catches
all big jungle cats in the wrapped bundle
               of stress in search of prey,
annoyed-empty-stomach-frayed. .
a wave from overseas, the fabric drifts,
               is you a mast me dear, avast,
Put a vest on, lad: said a cat to another cat. .

Bay thoughts of pain, day hot rot game,
               play sought not gain,
lions in jungle oddly lame, rained
bought gods shamed on mighty predators, say :
fought caught rain be same lot tamed
gay sort of huge cats and their honcho?
Monkeys nibble soft fruits from above
playfully shouts : Too stinky you bozos,
               get a fuckin’ poncho!

Burning Home 

I ran alone out my burning black home
of my own hammered heart and battered bones,
of scattered slashed skins
and daggered dead dreams— 

I ran alone out my burning black home
grown out of my dismembered childhood sown,
butchered by cannibal scars
that smothered my cranial stars— 

I ran alone out my burning black home,
a pome that thrived on the bloody meat loam
nourished by my screams
and the sadist’s whims— 
A grin on my skin, felt, as I spin
my neck to look back at my ruined home.

“As a reporter in places of upheaval all over the world [writes John Pilger], I have learned to compare the evidence I have witnessed with the words and actions of those with power. In this way, it is possible to get a sense of how our world is controlled and divided and manipulated, how language and debate are distorted to produce the propaganda of false consciousness. When we speak about dictatorships, we call this brainwashing: the conquest of minds. It is a truth we rarely apply to our own societies, regardless of the trail of blood that leads back to us and which never dries.” [John Pilger, Julian Assange Must Be Freed, Not Betrayed]

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