Quhat doe yow call a king that's first and sixt?
Yow call him Gods appointed King; King James;
The King of Ireland, Scotland, and England, mixt;
The King of riuers Shannon, Tay, and Thames.
God blesse the King, the faithfull King who claimes
For Christ the King the Ingliche written word,
And lifts the name aboue all other names
VVho is the Lord of euery other lord.
The King of kings, the word that's als a sword
Diuiding soule from sprite as flesh from bone,
Hath made Him selfe with James of one accord,
And plac'd the monarch James upon his throne.
The Booke of James by God is avthoriz'd,
And hath no neede to euer be reviz'd.

i feel like sylvia plath,
or james dean when he said
“live fast, die young, and
leave behind a beautiful corpse.”
except he didn’t say that.
but sylvia plath was volatile
to her mind
and a tortured soul.
the carbon monoxide
filled her soul,
just as the misery fills mine.
the burning desire to exit,
to end it.
the desire to burn the
fires inside my mind.
the poetic way of james dean,
and sylvia plath
lives in my veins
and feels like a raging fire
that cannot be tamed.

Voidward, Sindark, starknell, Seraphim
Wow! Weird words woven in each other
Neither librarian nor dictionary can help
To figure them out, you have to ask him
All against Imagist instructions
- Where is common language? –
Poem needs to alter its definitions!
Will intellect select help?
Can we get out of the vague cage?
Look! One of the words shaken
Burden of ambiguity, taken
Scorpions shout: send me an angel!
Calm down singer! I said
Look the last word, it’s indeed an angel!
Coming down from heaven with a mantel red
No one can’t help watching, even dead
This is Seraphim! Don’t hesitate to ask him!
Said player of Being wearing ****** red
But I extremely fear of him
It may be a devil in disguise
Like a child I take refuge in ***** of my mom, kim
Although it’s against what done by all other guys

These Hoes be fake

These Hoes be dead

Brightness, darkness, falling both
softly from the spring-time air
teasing dormant life to growth
turning green the golden hair
of grasses dried and brittle now
to the Pleiades they bow
in thanks for rain, which brings new life
to pools and ditches, dark and rife
with strange concoctions, shadowed roots,
tendrils fine exploring through
the muddy depths to find a new
embankment where they push up shoots.
Brightness falls, the rains of spring
Closing now the season's ring.

I just read the first page
of James Joyce’s ‘novel’
Finnegan’s Wake;
Joyce makes up new words
and uses so many new words
that I could not comprehend
what Joyce had written.

Should authors make effort
to use words
which their audience
can understand?