And so… I just finished watching the MJ biopic.

Look, it was emotionally portrayed. A great musical for lifetime fans and new generation viewers to get a feel for the most and still ultimate Star to shine on this planet. Where so far… no one can match him. Not even close.

But the MJ they showed? That was half his character. The creative genius, yes. The charity-giving, soft-spoken persona, sure. All the safe parts they could sanitize for mass consumption.

That’s not who I was watching in the 90s. Not fully.

See, I was raised on hip hop. So I missed a chunk of MJ’s life. I knew him from the music videos; Bad, Thriller, those fantasy mash-ups inspired by stories and TV. His references were on a whole other level. He wasn’t just making music; he was making worlds. Then he resurfaced with a different look than I could remember. Surgeries, yeah. But through all of that, he still had and kept that soft-spoken voice. That never changed.

You see, I could care less about jokes about Michael Jackson. Even my favourite comedians couldn’t make me laugh at his expense. But saying that, this man loved comedians who loved him. Eddie Murphy. Eddie Griffin. Chris Tucker. Dave Chappelle. Mike could take jokes… light-hearted ones anyway.

But some people went lower than they could prove. Image jokes tend to be the go-to. Easy targets. Low-hanging fruit.

But when it came to the allegations of the children? That’s when I saw through every interview, every trick question. I was like, this is the evil behind the media.

My soul never accepted that he done such.

And I was far from a fan. That’s the thing. I didn’t grow up idolizing him. But when you see a man of his calibre and recognition, something doesn’t add up. Quick pay cheques is what parents expect. Yet their children, and none to this date has said such. Almost coerced from greedy adults. But Mike was used to greed. He’d been fighting it his whole life.

That leads us into his battles with Sony.

That’s when I was all team Mike. Watching him bring that hype, calling out Tommy Mottola by name, calling the industry racist, calling the media a conspiracy. He didn’t whisper. He shouted. He knew what he was up against. A system designed to own, control, and discard Black artists once they’ve squeezed every dollar out of them.

He saw the hydra before most of us even knew it existed. And he named it. Publicly. Repeatedly. At the cost of his career.

That’s not in the biopic. That’s the real Michael, the one Hollywood is too scared to show. The one they’ll never let you see.

Because telling that story? That means exposing the people who fund the movies.

---

---

The Hydra’s Anatomy

So when I was checking in on Mike now and then, nothing stood stronger than his rebellious attitude to buy out demons and vampires.

He was the garlic to their power.

While they thought they had him cornered; contracts, lawsuits, media smears—he outsmarted every single one of them. They saw a soft-spoken, docile man. That’s what they wanted to see. But underneath? A strategist. A chess player. He was playing 4D while they were still figuring out checkers.

He acted docile, yes. But he deceived the men of greed and made sure they paid for their deeds.

Let’s talk about what he actually did:

In 1985, he bought the ATV Music catalogue, which owned The Beatles’ songs for $47.5 million. He beat Paul McCartney to it. Paul taught him about publishing; Michael acted on it. He also purchased Sony’s half of their joint publishing venture in 2016, his estate sold that share for a reported $287.5 million.

That’s not just buying songs. That’s buying leverage. He understood that ownership wasn’t just about money—it was about power. It was about never being at anyone’s mercy.

He also created a charity song called “What More Can I Give.” He originally wanted to do it for 9/11, but the industry blocked him. So he released it in 2003 anyway—through his own platform, on his own terms. The song featured other artists who, at the time, were too scared to be associated with him. He didn’t care. He gave anyway.

And he gave the Pepsi settlement to a burn unit—$1.5 million—and visited other burn victims. He founded the Heal the World Foundation in 1992. He donated millions to children’s hospitals, famine relief, vaccination drives. This wasn’t PR. It was purpose.

But here’s the sad part.

After MJ, the industry learned how to downplay every other artist. And unlike MJ, they never get their true happy-ever-after. The system studied him. They saw what he did. And they made sure no one else would ever do it again.

Now artists are signed to 360 deals, where labels take a cut of everything, tours, merch, endorsements, streaming. They’re owned from day one. They don’t own their masters. They don’t control their image. They’re products, not people.

And when one of them tries to speak up? The hydra eats them alive. Look what happened to Kanye. Look what happened to Britney. Look what happened to R. Kelly and I’m not defending him, but the system built him and then destroyed him when he was no longer useful.

They fear together what one man did by himself. They respect it. But they can never be the head of the deck.

MJ was the Joker. A nickname he had. And he wore it like a crown.

Because the Joker? He’s the one who plays by his own rules. He’s unpredictable. He’s uncontainable. You can’t own him. You can’t control him. You can’t even kill him—because he represents something bigger than himself.

Michael understood something the industry hasn’t figured out yet: true power is not given. It’s taken. And then it’s guarded. And then it’s used to free others.

He bought the demons. He outsmarted the vampires. And he showed what one man, unafraid, uncompromising, and unowned could do.

They haven’t let anyone forget it. And they haven’t let anyone repeat it.

---

---

The Tail-Curl

Many artists are afraid to say what they truly want to say.

But they have allowances. Little corridors. They can still speak certain truths via the airwaves—social conscious issues, sure. But only spoken. No big names called out. No causes funded beyond a token Instagram post. No community give-backs, let alone an MJ-sized world foundation.

They can mention the struggle. They can nod at injustice. But they can’t name the beast. They can’t point fingers at the people who sign their cheques.

That’s the trade-off.

I come from Wu-Tang. Dead Prez. No doubt, Tupac.

Other than Pac, Dead Prez were definitely underplayed. Even their single “Hip Hop,” that hype beat, that perfect delivery for truth wrapped up in one. It should have been an anthem for the ages. But it got buried. Too direct. Too unapologetic. Too real for radio.

Wu-Tang? Rarely known to budge when it comes to lyrics and poverty-stricken social truths. They built an empire on independence, RZA producing, GZA writing, Method Man commanding. They spoke about the crack epidemic, police brutality, systemic neglect and they did it while owning their own publishing, their own brand, their own lane. But even they had to play the game to some degree. You can’t eat off rebellion alone.

Nice to know there are music activists.

But they’re more like “Act to This.” Sing, dance, prance—but do not bite the hand that feeds you. Or they may make a public mockery and downsize your kennel. That’s the fear. That’s the leash. Michael had no leash.

He named Sony. He named Tommy Mottola. He named the media as a conspiracy. He didn’t say “the system” in vague metaphors, he pointed directly and said that man, that company, that agenda. He didn’t care if it cost him airplay. It did. He didn’t care if it cost him respectability. It did. But he also didn’t care because he’d already bought his own freedom.

He owned his masters. He owned his publishing. He owned his image. So when he spoke, he wasn’t risking his livelihood, because his livelihood was his.

Today’s artists? They’re still paying off their advances. Their masters are owned by labels. Their social media is managed by handlers. Their lyrics are vetted by A&R. They’re independent in name only.

And that’s why they can’t speak the way Michael did. Not because they don’t want to. But because they can’t afford to.

And let’s be real, the industry learned from MJ.

They saw what happened when one Black man owned his work, spoke his truth, and refused to bow. They made sure no one else would ever get that far again. So now they dangle the illusion of freedom, a Grammy here, a feature there, a “political” album that says nothing, while keeping the real power locked behind boardroom doors.

The tail-curling you see? It’s survival. But survival is not freedom. And until artists are willing to lose everything to keep their integrity, they’ll always be performing obedience in exchange for access.

Mike showed the blueprint.

The question is… who’s brave enough to follow it?

---

---

The Virgo Thread

Let me break this down clean.

Michael Jackson was born August 29, 1958.

That makes him a Virgo through and through. And if you know Virgos, you know they don’t do anything halfway. They analyse, they perfect, they obsess. Not out of ego, but because they see the gaps everyone else misses.

Virgo Trait 1: Precision.

Mike didn’t just dance. He calculated every angle, every pause, every spin. His moonwalk wasn’t luck, it was hours of rehearsals, mirrors, breakdowns, rebuilds. He’d watch himself back and say “No, that wasn’t sharp enough.” He saw the tiny details. And he refused to let them slide.

That’s Virgo. Precision over performance. Details over dazzle.

Virgo Trait 2: Justice.

Virgos are truth-seekers. They can’t stand lies, unfairness, or hypocrisy. That’s why Michael didn’t just sing about love, he sang about injustice. “They Don’t Care About Us,” “Earth Song,” “Scream”— those aren’t pop songs. They’re indictments. He saw the world as it was, not as it pretended to be. And he couldn’t let it go.

That’s Virgo. We see the flaw. And we have to name it.

Virgo Trait 3: Quiet, But Deadly.

Virgos don’t shout. They observe. They wait. They move in silence. Michael’s public persona was soft whisper-voiced, shy, polite. But underneath? A steel trap. He owned his masters. He bought his freedom. He named Sony. He named the media. He didn’t scream it, he stated it. And that made it more powerful.

That’s Virgo. Loud in action, quiet in presentation. Let them underestimate you. Then strike.

Virgo Trait 4: The Shadow.

Perfectionism has a price. Virgos carry weight, overthinking, loneliness, the burden of seeing too much. Michael had that in spades. The isolation, the insomnia, the constant pressure to be more. He didn’t sleep. He worked. He rewrote songs hundreds of times. He demanded takes until his voice cracked. He couldn’t stop, because he could always see a better version.

That’s the Virgo shadow. The gift and the curse.

Virgo Trait 5: Service.

At their core, Virgos want to help. Not performatively, actually. Michael gave millions. He visited hospitals. He funded burn units. He wrote songs for the world. He didn’t just talk about healing, he built it. Heal the World wasn’t a slogan. It was a mission.

That’s Virgo. We see the wound. We have to treat it.

So here’s the truth:

Michael’s star sign isn’t a footnote, it’s the key to who he was.

The precision. The justice. The quiet strategy. The burden. The service. All of it. Virgo energy running through every move he made, every word he spoke, every fight he picked.

He didn’t just happen to be born on that day. He was that day. August 29. Virgo. Rebel. Healer. Truth-teller. That’s the Michael they won’t show you.

---

---

What Could Be

What could be if anyone had the bravery of Archangel Michael?

Think about that name for a second. Michael. The warrior for God. The one who cast out the serpent. The one who led the charge against the fallen. And here’s Michael Jackson, bearing that same name, wielding his sword of knowledge and experience, skating through the corporate hydra heads like he was born for it.

He was.

I don’t see many artists in this modern paradigm looking to put their swords to the throats of those who don’t sing, don’t rap, don’t perform. They use you as puppets. Pulling on one string but controlling multiple artists at once. Divide and conquer. Keep them competing, keep them hungry, keep them owned.

If MJ were here? He would chop those ties. He’d turn around your worth and show you the true side. He’d say: “You don’t need them. You never did.”

I need not mention names. So many, if not all, have succumbed to their inevitable fate. The system chews them up, spits them out, and finds a new one to replace them. The machine never sleeps. And the artists? They sleep in it.

Prince would describe it and wrote it in his face.

Prince and MJ may have been positioned against each other, two kings, two thrones, two legacies competing for the same crown. But both were one in spirit. Both were brothers against the regime that wasn’t clean. Prince fought in his own way, changing his name to a symbol, writing “Slave” on his cheek, suing his label, breaking free and owning his work. He didn’t shout like Michael did. He sang it, played it, lived it.

They were two sides of the same sword. Different styles. Same war.

What could be if today’s artists united like that?

Imagine Beyoncé, Kendrick, Rihanna, Tyler, The Weekend, all of them, pooling resources. Owning platforms. Funding communities. Speaking with one voice. Not as competitors. As allies. They have the numbers. They have the influence. They have the money. But they don’t have the will. Because the system has taught them that unity is weakness. That collaboration is compromise. That standing alone is safer than standing together.

But MJ showed the opposite. He stood alone and still shook the table. Imagine what he could do with an army. If MJ were here, he’d say: “You are not puppets. You are not products. You are not pawns. You are artists. You are warriors. You are the ones who move the world. Act like it.” He’d remind them that the hydra only wins when we fight each other. And he’d ask: “What are you willing to lose to keep what’s yours?”

---

---

The Bite

They clipped his wings but he still flew. They took his voice but he still spoke. They wrote his ending, but he wrote his own damn story. So what’s your excuse? Michael Jackson. The King of Entertainment.

Yeah, his songs were pop. But later he burst that bubble and made sure he could still make things clear. Clear enough to always be loving to the underprivileged. Clear enough to name the systems that tried to break him. Clear enough that even now, his voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

He was the force that faced many forces.

And like his Earth Song video; standing in that mud, arms wide, staring down destruction, he could not be knocked down. Not allowed to be blown from this planet. Earth said: “You are a giant plaster to the hearts that needed healing.”

Many grew with you. Many wanted to see you. And those who did? Lucky and grateful they definitely feel. You are a pioneer to an industry who will never be able to make another you. No copycat thus far has touched your stardom. You are played at every occasion, there’s not one song that never goes out of rotation at a celebration. And even in your transcendence, you are still healing a nation.

You came from a time where artists of your calibre had rebellion: Bob Marley. Bob Dylan. John Lennon. Nina Simone. Aretha Franklin. Stevie Wonder. Joni Mitchell. Fela Kuti and Prince.

They didn’t just entertain, they testified. They spoke truth to power, even when it cost them. And you stood right there with them, shoulder to shoulder, voice to voice, fighting the same war.

I guess to sum up:

You will be an icon solidified for eons to come. People will want to move like you, sing like you, even inspire someone with high wealth to be as generous as you.

And so, I am not writing this as a super fan. Just an observer of a man who was played continuously through my childhood into my adulthood. Wishing I could buss some moves, knowing I’m off groove, but Mike would probably catch jokes off those efforts and give pointers anyway. That was him. Light. Love. Laughter. Even when the world was heavy.

So thank you. Thank you to your creators and their creators for your creations. Thank you for the music. For the rebellion. For the blueprint. For showing us what one man, unowned, unbroken, unforgotten, could do.

You left the map.

Now it’s on us to follow it.

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Not such a bad thing. I mean, one guy from London's other side recognised this poetic guy, enough to stop and remind me of the impact I left that day. And yet I still acted shy.

The truth is:

I have 4 books, 2 mixtapes, and all links in my bio. I've got infinite flow and will continue to go.

I'm historically relevant, up to date, and my works still impact new readers' presence.

I am forever a poet, and people let me know it. A breath of fresh air from my mundane, but not writing adds more reading to the game.

As I said, my posts up to this one will always be new to someone.

Like Batman…

I'm the poet the people deserve, but not the one they need right now.

As I write now, I am grateful for the small crowd, the ones that observed the most, appreciated my muse and poetic notes.

And I love those who connected to my notes. Your words kept me going when I thought time was froze.

So this is my out for now, not forever. To my poetic muse, I will stay tethered. Keep writing like an old writer with a feather.

Until then, let my previous poems project prophetic pictures, and see you loving your scriptures.

I'll be back when the leaves turn — or after the clocks fall back. Same voice. Same pen. Just a little more lived-in. Until then, the archives are open. And so am I… just in a different way.

Our honest nature is never enough and so shall never conform to your lies. Arrogance, not by choice, I tend not to let my ego get on top, rather my heart be the number one spot, never mind… sorry brain, my sign is love, they say there’s no love better, but neither a breakup, Lions find it hard to make up, but when they do, you want more of their touch. O.K. I can see why they say we’re self-centred, I sound full of myself, but do you also know what I am full of… no… not that… LOVE… full on love, I got so much, I ask you dear reader, do you want a cup?

Sorry I am getting carried away, I’ll be honest about my personal traits, I am a Lion of fun, I tend to care for everyone, I like physical activities and for hours on end, can bask in the glory of the sun, I do not fear to learn, I am passionate when I express, not afraid to impress, I may show zealousness, it’s because I LOVE what I can do, I am thankful for the grey days as well as the ones that are blue.

As I write this book, I am full of optimism, and yes, I am open for criticism, but how I can’t take it to heart, as It’s on my book sleeve, it’s hard as a person to share my heart, but it’s the Leo in me that says, “Share your art.” So, I do to you, do not read it from your minds point, but your hearts point of view, as much as you cheer me on, I want to see you win, smile on a daily, I know it’s hard because of what’s in the news daily, though I take long periods off, to see Love through this race. I refuse to be lazy. 

Though astrology is an interest of mine, I dare not say, a zodiac sign does not determine an individual’s love, I’ve met every month of the year and can say, found Love in set individuals, love calls who love calls, if it is dominant in one and the many hear, it does not matter about the month or the year, as long as we love together, grow older year by year… we grow with love and overcome this current state of fear.     

what makes the more synchronised, on this 1st day of Leo season, someone literally on my side of west London’s said “you performed years back, I remember you” he reminded me it was about this one when input 2 and 2 together” I felt famous for a moment. 😆 but it didn’t get to my ego. I smiled and thought about why did I stop performing.

There are those who will say sweet things, yet end up bitter. They cheer you on, and stop cheering the moment you become a winner.

They say they always wanted to see great things for you, but in their eyes, there was envy… from everything they never did, only what was said in their head;

It drives them crazy that they're lazy, and justify their dreams from their head. They repeat and repeat until their actions become weak, not only for me, but everyone can see.

What you claimed you'd be, claimed you would do… but all you did was give yourself a personal debt, one you can't pay, because your dream you won't collect.

So either your ambition forever stays in the red, taxed on your procrastination, with your gift handing in its resignation, all because you wanted to repeat the words:

"I'm waiting."

Waiting for what? Oh, you still don't know. I guess saying "I'm waiting" is another excuse not to go.

As well as stolen artefacts that need to return to their rightful homes. I personally never cared to watch football for many reasons.

Like all sports, it distracts from the true issues happening in the world. When England is winning, African countries are starving.

When Argentina wins, black purging becomes more evident. One forgets the history of a champion nation, their trophies are a facade of denial.

No follower will ever question the shepherd of their organisation. FIFA leads the blind followers to a script; pre-written, pre-bet, with referees as producers to the director's edits.

What We Cheer For?

We cheer for kit colours, not for people. We sing anthems written by men who owned other men. We raise colonial flags, now flown by descendants of the colonised, still singing the same tunes.

We call it unity. But unity separates by the time you reach the stadium gates. We celebrate the goal, but forget the striker's grandmother, who was told she couldn't sit in the same stands.

We praise the manager, but ignore the system that kept his father from owning a house on the same street as the stadium.

For black British claiming proudness to a country who treated you like a monkey, telling you to go back on a banana boat whilst imitating chimp noises; you can't play blind and act deaf.

You must find your pride and stop supporting the wrong side, turn to the corner where your ancestors came from.

This isn't history, this is now. The same media that sells you the dream also sells you the narrative that players should feel lucky to be where they are, as if their parents didn't come from afar.

The same pundits who cry over a missed penalty wouldn't cry over a missing child bombed by a government that also funds the same enterprises and corporations, leaving corpses of other nations.

Football is not the problem. But it is the perfect illusion… you call players magic for scoring a planned hat-trick, and yet you still refuse to see the rabbits.

What I See

Football has proven time and time again it's not for the intelligent, but the ignorant; who refuse to accept the changes made in front of them, yet beat their wife because their team didn't score tonight.

A game played by "men" who act like divas when fouled lightly. FIFA has chosen their princess, and Messi made a mess, as well as the referee’s who don’t want to take his crown and address.

I… I don't know what to say. I've been watching football since '94, back then the breed was different, but there was still corruption in set times, drug abuse, waiting for the favourite teams to lose against the one the chairman bet to fuel his jet.

Closing Thought

So no, I won't chant "It's coming home." Because for many, it never left. And for others, home is still a place they're fighting to be allowed to have.

Football, if it wants to come home, need to appreciate all their players who come from outside the Anglo or Euro Zone.

Football is not coming home. It's just reminding us who was never allowed to live there in the first place.

I almost didn't post this.

But if this month taught me anything, it's that the stuff we hold back is usually the stuff someone else needs to hear.

This is my last day offering… an unfinished poem. Because that's the point, isn't it?

Our struggles as men don't wrap up neatly in 31 days. They don't end when the calendar flips. They're ongoing, unpolished, still being written, line by line, breath by breath.

This poem doesn't have a resolution. Neither do I. Neither do most of us.

And that's not failure… that's honesty. No filter. No tidy bow. Just truth, mid-sentence. If you're watching this and feeling seen, that's enough. That's the whole point.

Comment "unfinished" or leave a 💚 if you felt that and I’ll finalise it through the months. As many of my fellow brothers go through this every other days.

“Don’t forget to Hug your:

Son, Father, Uncle, Brother, Nephew and Grandfather. 💚🫂

Time flies. Time does not lie. We are forever one. Our children are the extension, and we are a family of five.

I had no family connection until you entered my dimension. Now we have a collection — a collection of photos, a collection of memories,

a collection of love, and a collection of infinite energies. Perfect? No. But people will differ and say so.

Let us claim what is seen — every photo taken creates a set scene. You are named Amber. One day, you will be Green. Until such time, you will always be my queen. You, I did dream. And our reality at this moment; a diamond that gleams.

Perfection is not the aim. True love is the game; It's not over until you get your play — and play we will. From Zelda to Tetris, to Mario Kart or your Sims. As long as we play together, we will always win.

Lost without you? Sometimes I can be. My ego says, "You need no one." But if that were the case, I'd be married to the rum — and now that would not be fun.

Fun is a thing in our relationship, though I can be a trip. But together, we complement each other's individual gifts.

And now I'm two hours in, a little drunk, but still standing… just like our love, never sunk.

You still look at me like I'm not a mess, and honestly? That's the greatest gift, I confess.

You catch me when I'm falling, even when I don't deserve the catch. You forgive when I'm not worth it — and that's the kind of love that has no match.

A midwife by trade, but you birth hope in me daily. A great mother to our three — patient, steady, and holy.

You make sure I win even when I feel like I lose, and that's the quiet power only you choose.

So here's to you, Amber, and here's to us, twenty-two years, and I'm still catching the bus to wherever you're going, 'cause that's where I belong, even when I'm slurring the words to this song.

It's been a pleasure to measure time with a woman such as you — showing me holidays and allowing me to see beautiful views.

A great woman you are, and fate allows us to keep going forward through the rhythm of your dance and my poetic blues.

Happy 40th birthday and I forever Love you.

I am on a search to find out
who I am...

But where do I start?

In the hills of Scotland...
the beaches of Jamaica...
or the deserts of Bahrain...

Wherever I go,
will I even fit in?

I only know my culture from
an outside perspective,
will they even let me in...

Can my spoiled city life adapt?

Some rarely throw their
old culture away,
so they will never catch
on to new ways.

In London, life is full,
But I still feel empty;

In London, there's a lot to gain,
but it's so easy to get lost.

People run for this country,
but never run from this country;

Why don't they wanna fly to
their home lands...

I don’t wanna be another statistic
content with one culture,
for the comforts of a giving society
takes more from you than you know.

I know I am a body of earth,
but my skin reflects
a certain light;

It is important to find out my
whole identity, as most of my life
I have been called Half-cast.

I would like to know where I get
some of my personality traits from,
if only I could swim in my gene pool...

I need to know my roots because
I am part of a big family tree,
all I need to do is climb downwards
and find out from the seed.

"Know yourself, 
so you can truly 
be yourself…
be yourself…
and you can truly
know yourself"

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I am the poet above the city,
and below the clouds,
I am quiet behind my pen,
but as a person can be loud,

Spoken Word
I perform for any crowd,
I don't keep anything in,
everything be coming out.

Thoughts transcend,
Words I love to bend,
freestyle does not know
the next corner,
either way Ima reach the end;

I haven yet begun....

I do what I do to help,
I do what I do to teach,
Like B.T it's good to talk,
God Talk, don't mistake it for a preach.

I speak from my good book,
some scriptures
came out of bad experience,
I saw good and thought...
why not add that to my deliverance;

I'm not what I appear to be,
I am adaptive so I tend to
change my appearance,
close without knowing it,
my dream is within distance,
what I thought impossible,
with effort I can
wield into existence.  

It's been a long time Buzzing, 
and a change gone come, 
it's been to hard living,
that's why as I'm alive
Ima be about the giving,
I will never keep a secret from you,
I believe knowledge shouldn't be hidden;

But never think you know it all,
the more you know, the more
you realise you're a fool,
and fall, you should never carry
big thoughts if your actions are small...

rise up to your words,
when I write, I make sure
they're heard by the heavens birds,
speak like I'm moving herds;

Shepard to the lambs,
walk them away from
the road of sacrifice,
show them the greener side
of life and will never misguide...

Lord... you know I try... 

All I understood was to be me, 
it's hard to be someone else,
lost in another's image,
I found being myself not
only fun, but it was easy;

It's cool the majority find
me complicated,
I find the exaggerated,
ideas... out dated,
more like copy and paste...
STICK...

Stick to the conformist way,
stick to the directed,
you a puppet in the play
strings on the smallest violin
is what you hear as you 
bitch about your day, 
talking "They treat me like a dog"
but it's you who chooses to stay.

I offer you half my wisdom, 
Half my vision, 
a full heart is what you see, 
and it beats a unique rhythm, 
you can't here it if your mind 
is in tune with a mentality, 
which represents prison, 
the only ones who can 
dance to my hearts strings 
are the children of the prism.

I am your poet above the city, 
not below in the 
muck and the mire
just high enough to escape it's misery, 
except this writer has not go a psychotic fan, 
just a pen, 
black book and sometimes 
a bottle of Hennessy.  

although I am below the clouds, 
soon to fly with the light beings
as they will pick me out of the dark crowds....  

"My Love is my expression, 
I hate to waste life, 
I write for life... 
so I can teach both
you and me a lesson"

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Today is sunday,
instead of a church,
I go to the circ...
us, me and the family,
to show them
spiderman and spider-women
bringing it to reality.

Nothing but acrobats,
what beautiful movements
brought by each acts,
the funny interlude man,
Charlie Chaplin movements,
dancing, jumping rolling,
throwing and catching his hat.

Always wanted to go to a circus,
but only imagined Dumbo making
animals do death defying acts so they
can put on a show...

No No No...

No lion tamers,
clowns obviously scare children,
it was nothing but a ballet recital
with joy and jokes,
laughter, so they brought the healing.

I sit there and admire:

Admire the dancers,
adult humour mixed with
messages for future children,
through dialog and flexible answers.

Showing the potential of the body,
although specially trained,
letting you know,
if you work for it,
it will work for you...
just believe and practice
and you'll be sure to succeed.

C.C
Classical Circus
Music was classical,
gramophone put me in the zone,
as I watch the woman in red swing
in an endless spiralling up
and down the rope;

She got me in a trance,
mesmerised was my glance,
such lightness when she dance,
take away any heavy thoughts,
especially the I cants.

Swan Lake, with humour,
the nut cracker of the future,
many of the males
got cracked on their nuts
most of the act with the
expressions of ohhh... ahhh...
bringing constant laughter.

Tetris Team work,
as they stack and catch
each other on their shoulders,
clearly these people are light
as bricks or the bottom guy is
strong as 3 boulders;

All I know,
most acts were light as bubbles,
floating mid air rain dancing
to moving music,
which create internal puddles.

Getting on spring boards, 
working off trust,  2 would jump,
whilst 1 had to be the perfect judge,
the jury clapped for every catch
and individual act who performed
a unique acrobat.

7 wishes, for 7 acts
on the 7th day, 7 foot leaps
to summersaults
all over the stage.

They are life inspiration,
it's got my daughter jumping
up and down,
instead of flicking
up and down
looking for a T.V station;

This is physical action,
not stagnant imagination.

Jumping Spider as I write,
he feels the energy I brought
back from the outside,
listening to Russian Waltzes
as I type, as I reminisce the daily events,
which will make me dream tonight;

Loose-id dreaming about the women
who kept it tight on the rope,
they were dope, high without getting high,
she inhaled and exhaled,
leaving the audience to choke,
after her act the interlude man left us
with the giggles adding more jokes.

Moscow state, thank you for the experience,
all truly talented and my children's children
will watch your children and watch their brilliance.

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This is what I call relaxing,
letting all your dreams burn
into actuality,
actually I wanted to always
have a individual reality,
people duel so have dual personalities.

I just started another poem,
where is it going,
I get asked but today I wanna
express my heart...
"What's the diagnosis"
HAPPY HEART seems to be the result.

Phew...
I know the heart can
be broken in two,
that bad relationship,
or that information on the news,
give your heart a cure,
by showing it waterfall,
mountains or beautiful natures views.

The brain is pain, the heart is smart,
trade your thinking, for life's beat,
express your art, why limit yourself with thought,
feel through life, because as they say, "life is short"

Long life, heart enjoys food that help it fly,
Avocado for the cardio,
nuts are shortcuts,
all I am saying is eat food
that will get your blood to produce 
and it will protect
you and put you in a better mood.

Heart only attacks,
when bombarded by fats,
fries and oils mix with beers from hats,
arresting your arteries keeping them trapped,
free your heart, man.. run some laps.

Heart increases focus,
once the idea is in the mind,
so they do work in sync together,
practice it, because it takes time.

Heart keeps me in 
tune with the beat,
let's me express freestyle
by the way I feel
and  tunes it in with 
the way that I speak.

I know when people look at
me they see no muscle,
steroid heart sucker,
I work on the muscle under...
the chest, who needs the pecs,
if you got a weak heart will not
be able to lift the weight,
Anubis may reject.

Heart failure,
failed to live with heart,
so in the after shock,
it will be broken apart,
"apologies if that sounded a bit dark"

Lighten up,
heart should always be light,
only way to let your dreams fly,
Heavy burden leads to stress,
weigh down by life and you start
to hate and your heart will never
deliver its best.

worst case: 

You live long, but your heart is in 
constant grief, or
live short because 
you don't know how to eat. 

Heart is green in aura
in the system of the Chakra,
promoting love and well being,
and uses it as healing.

Heart I will take care of you,
Heart, I will let you cry,
Heart I will insure you live,
Heart is why I have a dance with life.

"The Heart has 
one mission...
to beat, so you can skip
in this waking intermission"

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Please stay humble. I don't want a rumble. I like when you speak soft. Your hard talk makes my spirit crumble.

Please stay good, because it's bad for me if you don't. Reflecting my unconscious truths; the ones I deny to maintain some form of happy home.

Please stop trying to self-improve. When you do, I don't, and it affects my groove. Let's just watch sitcoms on repeat. Maybe I don't want to move.

Please just let me justify my laziness. Your Tasmanian persona of doing a lot is causing me dizziness.

Please don't defend yourself. It feels like you're attacking me, though it was I who gave you hell. I thought you were an emotional pushover. I prefer you don't stick up for yourself.

Please don't shine too bright, it reminds me of my own extinguished light. I dimmed it on purpose, made a home in the dark, and your glow feels like an accusation, not a spark.

Please just need me the way I need you broken, stuck, pretending we're new. But your healing hands are making me see the one I've been hiding from… is my personal view.

Please just please me, or someone else will feel that need. No longer wanting you, because your truth exposed me, and so…

I had to set you free.

Square most people are,
people drive in a square car,
have square conversations
on a square phone
with a square tone,

People shop in a square box,
classical Conditioning like skinner,
rewards from working in a cubical
seems to make these squares
feel like a winner.

We work in square offices
a.k.a the four walls of gossip,
then we go back to our home
and 
watch a squared vision with
squared package microwave meals,
then go to our square bed under our

square quilts.

I may go in squares on this poem,
I can only really cover four corners,
corner 1 is my corner of fun,
corner 2 is a nice view,
corner 3 is a desk for my creativity,
corner 4 is is where I keep my draws.

If I extend from my home corner;
in street corner 1 is what most would
be seen as a bum, I may give money if
I have some;

In street corner 2 is the non working crew,
by the time I do my circle run to work, remain
in the same corner, but louder due to daytime booze.
in street corner 3 is the police with an early raid waking
up the whole of my city;

In street corner 4 there's a Starbucks;
In street corner 5 there's a Starbucks...
In street corner 6 there's a Starbucks...
corner 7 8 9 10 11 12... how many Starbucks are 
on each corner of this earth?


Any way squares are cool,
squares done the best in school,
I was always sent to the squared hall,
a room mixed with class clowns and fools.
wish I use that round ball in my skull.


Square C.D in a Square cabinet,
now it's transfer from a square computer,
to a mini square flash drive stick; 

Square dance to squared beats,
movement use to be free,
now it's a boxed venue with a
squared screen, pre settings,
no longer taking circle vinyls out the box,
nostalgia, them 80's dance sessions.

Square eyes I have from
squared characters from
a squared shaped machine,
video game pixels were dotted colours
connected to a big back known as 
C.R.T before this glamourous H.D,
which delivered via a thin rectangle,
it's evolved cousin known as L.C.D.

Square is the most dominant shape
Of society next to circle,
so part two you will see me around,
until then get out of the box
and pick another life angle.

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