3 Am… or so…

​Career?

Careening cars crashing…
Codes crushed… combustion.
Catharsis…
That is often why I write.
It is compulsion.
The words come and I must go.
Especially when things are stressful.
This is my healing.
This is my dealing.
That’s why I share with such feeling.
Because it’s the real him.
Hubris speaks in numerous persons.
Egos leak vitriolic versions of truth
at pain’s urging…
You never know fully what they are going through.
So don’t hurt them.
It’s hard sometimes.
Some scars confine…
and with odds combine to convince
the crying to commit ultimate crime
against self…
Giving up.
Or lashing out…
Becoming less than the divine in them dictates…
Circling cycling… stoking fires of hate.
Love is the answer ask Martin or King…
Can’t ask martyrs a thing.
They are paraded as subtle subconscious deterrent… at times.
Salute Assata…
Don’t mind them.
We can win.
We can reign.
We are not here to entertain… failure.
We are not here to become lame… Saviors.
Each one carries capacity…
Each one teach one.
Love lavishly…
Neither tomorrow nor next breath is promised…
Comfort can breed fools.
Yet… A love that does not elude out of fear of being vulnerable proves powerful when not abused by the dour and sour folks who have become jaded… or cheapened by cheating…
Or lustily leaping through rings and taking whippings and administering the same to end up defeating the purpose of first meeting…
Oh my…
Love nuh.
Stop the bullshit.

Daiikiru Akasha Maximillion

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Just

Just as I am… A shift… A lift…
Just as I am… A gift… A risk…
Just as I am… Nothing is missed…
Doubts are dismissed.
It is what it is.
Reclaimant resists relapse
into imposed illusory reality’s throes.
I set me free.
I set my spirit afire…
No effigy… Just return of the effin’ G.
Every step is a sacrifice of stillness.
Some stillness comes with the onset of illness.
Some realness requires sacrifice of likelihood of being liked by those who bear witness…
Especially the false.
Oh boy… The pretense… The pittance…
The preaching… The defense…
The lost in the sauce…
The cognitive dissonance…
I almost became defined…
I almost became refined…
Fuck that… I decline…
The only thing that shall be said is, “He was himself.”
Rightly so… You only live one life at a time.
Breathe one breath… It doesn’t have be a sigh.
Win. You’re the best… It doesn’t have to be a tie.
Champion shit that’s destined to make you rise.
The above is a verb…
Actions and worth…
Factions and birth…
Fractions of dirt…
The war within and without…
The divisions and demarcations of doubt…
That keep us from the potential power of us all in concert and unison…
Don’t you see the imaginary lines? The ties that bind.
The lies that find their way to prominence
amongst the misguided and spiritually incompetent.
Colonialism shut you down for the count
but not the collecting of all your missing pieces strewn across the globe.
This whole earth is home.
We would see that if we were allowed to freely roam.
But the nationality bug has bit.
And war has been the norm ever since…
I don’t have the answers but just a bit of sense.
Enough to see the ports as the gates of our pens.
I’ve been on a journey since two thousand and ten.
Peaks and valleys… Now wings and solar winds…
I won’t apologize if any take offense.
I’m going to live my way so fuck what you think.
Emphatic and wild…
You may miss me if you blink.
Oh well… Life goes on.

Daiikiru (Dai-Ikiru)

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Errol G Edblad

Errol G Edblad Thank you Errol!

 

Errol Percival Jr.
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Re: Victory.

Ten toes down.
Five foes frown.
Four allies crowned…
Victors.
Courting of baskets…
Worship of masses..
Those in the stands…
Those in the meddle passage…
Tinkering and tampering with psyches
Spell casting…
Media mesmerized…
Molehills and mountains…
For sooth…
Who really does the counting?
Forced moves the nudging of buttons…
Harpoons…
Wailing and gnashing of teeth…
Thought pools and puddles…
Watch actions repeat
Cycles of distraction
Molded minds… Massa’s win win.
Overtime…snap into a Slim Jim
Stolen vehicles and hijacked vessels…
Martyred miracles… Martial matters cancelled…
Our warriors are under the jail…
In fields, locker rooms, collosseums…
Impaled.
Nailed to the unreal.
Confined by a deal…
Gargantuan crumbs from their masters’ tables.
Oh well… At least some can pay bills…
What if all that invested will was toward shifting from domination
to stewardship of all life and to the building of a balanced society
where both tranquility and thrills still amount to nill
insofar as veering from set upon path…

Victory for real.

Hunting

Hunting…
Finding time elusive.
The illusory evasion…
The lunacy coercion
to concur in their conquering of your timelessness.
That essential recognition that eternity is in this breath…
that the whole journey is in this step.
Take it surely.
Balance on the cusp of full potentiality.
Accept not the limits of the program.
You craft code.
You are captain and vessel.
You are fulcrum and level scale,
when you choose.
Power is in the choice
and thusly on the raised voice.
Raised as in cultivated- cured of the ails of stifling society…
pure as if unappraised, unjudged…
Unruled hence uncorrupted by prevailing paradigms
that refuse to budge, but must when the waters come.
Be they rains, rivers, or seas that seize back for nature
what we have pulled out of balance.
Oh what webs we weave when our very selves we contrive to deceive.
They would label clouds lazy like they do cats.
Yet the confined ones are the only ones I’ve seen fat.

Black-Cat

Daiikiru Akasha Maximillion

Days of old and new.

Days of old and new…
The gaze scans, ignoring truth.
The day’s plan abhors the loose.
The petal’s opening…
The settled, no swimming in dregs.
We tread where others dread.
In stead we stand for dead silenced
that no longer speak for themselves.
Yet many trout mouthed exploit experience.
They bid the looking up and out
and the neglect of in and down.
Everyone has the answer…
“Ain’t I good enough ‘massa’?”
“Whip me into shape and likeness of you.”
“Pay me more of less than my due.”
What madness?
How tragic?
The bowing and scraping for scraps age…
Inundated and over-stimulated; vast vantage…
Mass advantage of the programmers…
The advent of the machines…
Siri’s sarong and veil…
Robotic heads simulacrum face…
Mockeries made receive jaded praise.
We’ve seen too much.
We’re numb to the “sir” prizes they spring upon us.
Soon they’ll see us nighted, craning our necks… like Ichabod,
For the spectacle they’ve prepared us for.
1984 Animal Farm Raw.
©2016 Errol Percival Jr. (Daiikiru Maximillion™)
Black Sage Entertainment™ Bluespyryt™