Sunday, November 11, 2007

Writing on...

Well this silly season will soon be upon us and "here we are princes of the universe, here we are fighting for survival(9to5:pon the slave) in a war with the darkest powers(Babylon & Rome: The system)"... So all you happy troopers who will be looking forward to X-mas bonus and Pardna draws, all who ketch the red ball inna Cashpot... don't forget the friendly neighborhood Rasta Man...

Haven't you noticed as of late... the ants are still out... when it should be cold season, butterflies are less, flies are in while the fruit seasons are out, hmmmm nature may have gone haywire, maybe this the global disaster our last warnings. Global warming is upon us!!! Yup, the meek shall inherit the Earth... gee I feel so heartened to know its this big toxic dump that we are inheriting meekly from our predecessors. Oil junkies... Aye check it seen. My granny was born in 1921 seen and she had only seen two hurricanes from then till 2000, those were Charley and Gilbert... after that Emily, Dennis, Ivan, Dean and a string of close encounters. Hmmmm something seems odd wouldn't you say. Ding ding ding... you guessed it right Global Warming... and you can see it live here in the Caribbean twenty four seven... just watch the world.

Aye shudder to think... does the government have plans to address
the drastic changes to life that Global warming will bring. We see the sudden rapid and expansive road deterioration... extended rain seasons and hurricane seasons, can our economy manage this... dom dom duuuuuuum (u know that mystery show scary puzzling question sound)... Anyway enough of my anecdotes lez just see wah mi write seh this month... aye a buildback mi gwaan build back the blog vibes and energy suh whapp'm unnu support mi nuh... leff a comment or post nuh... Chu!

“What!” he said. “Do you not realize that there are souls

in endless torment? They are
craving for dreams and
action, the purest passions, the wildest pleasures, and
thus they cast into all kinds of fantasies, and foolishness.”
Then she looked at him just as you gaze upon a

traveler come from a far-away land…
“Look at us, for instance,” he said, “why did we
meet? By what decree of Fate? It must be because,
across the void, like two rivers irresistibly converging, our unique inclinations are pushing us towards one another.” And now he took her hand; she didn’t take it back again. --Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

I shut my eyes so I can see. --artist Paul Gauguin

Happiness is not a destination. It is a method of life. --
Burton Hills


First I'd like to kick off this poetry cue that I have here with a poem a young Miss Shannon Smith did in response to a poem of mine published in the Bookends Segment of the Sunday Observer... called The Whore... its poste
d in the post before this one I think so check it out an get up to speed after you read hers below eh... the others are all mine so feast and dine...

Tonight I Whore

by Shannon Smith

Tonight i strip of
ribbons and lace
of lipgloss and makeup
my second face

for tonight
for him once more
tonight i am his dream
his whore

Tonight i lose all gentile demeanor no remnants of the Lady the daywalker For tonight i am for him not his lady but creature of the night tonight the apple is in reach for him, my Tantalus which was once only in sight Tonight he finds a warm embrace not in my arms but where my labia part ways So tonig
ht no giggles no girlish guise just the raunch of a woman with fire between her thighs For his feindish desires I am the cure and so tonight once more for him tonight I whore.


I had dream where Jesus turned in his grave,
Christmas consumes the souls he came to save,
Money and mammon are masters and many are slave,
Picking up their crosses and forgetting his cross and all he gave,
signs on the road to future we pave,
Commerce and WWJD is all the rave.

The cock crows thrice on Christ's mas Eve,
Many celebrate not knowing what they believe,
Content with meager salaries and bonus the receive,
Merchants peddle and use fat red saints to deceive,
Tell strange and compelling stories about how a virgin did conceive,
Always forgetting the truth of how the King does grieve.

One Night In December

The sky is in her deepest blue,
While stars glow bold in the cool of night,
Ackee trees rock as the breeze comes through,
All is peace even the mongrels cease to fight.

Children frolic through the street with sparkles in hand,
And old reggae rhythms softly and wistfully scampers across the air,
The spirit... no ghost of nativity captures the land,
The weary soul can rest without fear.

Yannick Nesta Pessoa

She's Gone

She left me,
For the beast, for mammon and his money,
I laugh myself to sleep at night,
But really... it isn't funny.

She left me,
Headed to Virginia and Cleveland,
While I'll try to nobly toil,
In my hectic homeland.

She left me,
Not to follow a dream,
But for the coveted green dollar,
And a white collar H2Worker scheme.


So, so, so...
I've be lulled by the way you loll,
By big bottoms and dimpled thighs,
Imperfect skin like mine and coy smile,
Unrevealing eyes.

Here I am in my secret place,
Cursed in the strangest of ways,
By you my Delores Haze,
Captivated, I simply look and gaze,
...And view,

Young fresh and not so green,
Black velveteen,
And me the Natty libertine.

Bubbler bubbling in...
Her Rapunzel room,
Her Board House Bordeaux,
Secret smiles,
With secrets in eyes,

Do you realize,
You are my Lolita.

Left Over Wine

I must have been forgot,

In his Majesty's schemes and plot,
For I am king too...
Am I not?

It seems in the grand design,
I was left behind,
For after lesser mortals do dine,
It is I who must suffer sipping the left over wine.

She Greaves

Some how...
I failed to expect such vulgar and hostile silence,
An uncommonly profound and intangible sort of violence.

She left and still leaves,
She grieves,
Because I deceive,
She couldn't believe,
In the web of lives and lies this dreamer weaves.

Was my presence so bitter and so vile...
Such a nuisance all the while,
That now...
Not even a smile.

And has my doubtful path,
My unwavering course of majestic disasters,
My penchant for being the dirtiest of pretty things...

Caused this harsh and parched and caustic... exile,
To the periphery of your embattled existence,
Have I compounded the blighted years,
Add green bottles of tears.

I don't know...

But I do understand...
That though she ...
I'll never See Moan or mourn,
I now know she Greaves.

Rahab: Into An Harlot's House

She has eyes like fire,
That dance and flitter with desire,
She had harlequin lips,
Soft subtle hips,
Coy postures and quirky quips,
She shimmers with the danger and legacy of hollow tips,

Black and comely,
She is a lovely... thing,
And oh how the crescent is alive with whispering,
Rumouring... that you might be inviting,
The neo libertine... The Herlequin King... in,
And oh isn't he tempted to prolong this legacy of sin.

Seekers of Dreams

Across the blank, white landscapes,
We battle the vapid and mundane,
Lexical mancing and lexical graphing,
To paint images to bland minds,
To link soul to art,
We make works of heart,
Searching the caverns of the brain,
Ever yearning for the pinnacle of the mind,
We battle on a deep, silent plain of white,
Spilling ink with ever slash,
We tie yesterday with memories,
Bound to honour beauty,
Love and art are our duty,
We are the seekers of dreams.

Yannick Nesta Pessoa


How I would like to be in you.

How it is that I would like to cover you.

The star that radiates from the mind of such a wunderkind.

Your reappearance after many moons.

How I undo your soul.

How you cast your gaze when mine becomes intent.


How I try to recast this love.

Yannick Nesta Pessoa


She looks out the window,
She is monochrome true.
Her speech is song,
Her soul glows blue.

Her hair frizzles and it frazzles,
She knows and I don't know.

As the sun burns the morning cold,
I must come and I must go.

Zygote of a pregnant miracle
Was, is, she will always be.

Yannick Nesta Pessoa

Turquoise Sea

…And I see it clear,
It’s fluid,
somewhere in here,
whispering of something,
I should know out there.

It’s the world I want,
it’s mellow,
With the girl I want,
supple and spirited,

I need to reach yet I can’t.

My eyes burn with clarity,
As I am immersed in briny waters,
Sky blue and teal,
Colour the world I can feel...

Yannick Nesta Pessoa

Silence On All Frequencies

I won't speak,
For to speak is to lie,
I won't listen,
For to listen is to be deceived,
I won't think,
For to think is to make belief,
I won't be touched,
For to be touched is to hurt,
I won't smell and taste,
For to smell and taste is to remember.

AM, FM, I'm dead on all frequencies,
I'll take it on mono,
I'll take radio silence,
Fly solo,
Its hard to determine,
Did I dream a belief,
Or was it that I believed a dream.

Yannick Nesta Pessoa

Middle of Nowhere Restaurant

I sit amongst devils and a whore,
Exactly where I’m not sure,
The Middle of Nowhere Restaurant most certainly.
The children of the damned scamper here at dawn,
The wretched of the earth stumble in,

Here is home and haven to sin,
The elderly are imps of darkness,
Bent and crooked and thin.

I’ve heard it said,
That the rapture must come,
The good ones must go,
While the rest will reap,
Hell in the evils we used to sow.

The light shines here,
But it’s still dark,
It mourns of a yesterday with a hope and spark,
But its all gone now,
The Beast has left its mark.

Yannick Nesta Pessoa

The Wandering Jew

I wash the dried saliva from my face,
I hope the scent of sin will wash away too,
I look out the window and see the world by night,
Pastel designed in mellow moods and tragedies,
While stars, watchers, sing melodies of memories and maladies,
I search the sky for David's star on my way to my very own beloved Bethlehem,
And I wonder...
Are the stories true...
Is there really a long lost wandering Jew.

Ode to Idle Thinkers

For all those who stare out the window,
Beyond the mountain and beyond the tree,
This poem connects all those who think like me.

Holding on to all those... though,
Shackled by people's alleged reality,
Still manage to look pass the ocean and deep into the see.


The sunsets and the evening sky is period red,
Simon Garfunkel's Cecelia is playing in my head,
I unhear all the things she said,
I only wish the succubus were dead,
She said she liked me cause I was unleaded.

Mr. Marley wid the toolie...(Above)

Yannick Nesta Pessoa

(Writer / Graphic Designer / Cartoonist / Entrepeneur)

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