I am

The cardinal of the air

Ruler of the Seventh House

Lover of the finer things

Lord of the element of freedom

I am

The lustful draught of breath sucked from a lover’s lungs

The filled spaces of an empty room

I am the sigil of balance

Scales tipping every now and then

Exotically sensual

Anecdotally factual

A sensorium of cleansing

I am

The blackest white

The clearest night

A knight not

Just a savvy parlay-man

I am

Nought but man

And yet in me

God gives.

Image courtesy google images

© Sena Frost ’17


What are you doing here?

Our purpose is to be at the top of of the food chain,
Few natural enemies,
An excuse to live vain.
Our purpose is to think far and deep,
Pondering over circumstances we were never meant to create,
Tossing and turning over due to lack of sleep.
Our purpose is to create,
Whether order and life,
Or chaos and destruction.
In this mêlée we create gods,
Fodder for our imagination,
Fanciful stories and tales barely believable.
We proclaim stones as magical,
And call bones supernatural.
We deny the gifts of our bodies,
For habits which put us in harm’s way.
We will die.
End of story.
What is our purpose?
Don’t tell me a realm no one alive has ever seen,
For hearsay is not admissible.
Why do we live,
Build our bodies,
Live long,
So in the end our names end up being all that’s left.
Why do we worry about a green earth,
When it wipes itself clean every now and then?
Why are we obsessed with immortality
But ignore the finite happiness each day brings.
Make love
Not war.
And as far as I am concerned no rule is iron clad.
My life is in my hands,
It’s what I will make of it.
At the same time its supposedly not mine own.
What is our purpose?
I suppose we will find out when the torture ends.
Why try so hard to be relevant
When what you must do is live?
There are no heroes or villains,
Who determines right or wrong,
When what matters is survival.
What is the Word,
Because nirvana exists
In the spheres of our minds.
So our purpose,
Our reason for living,
Is to die.

© Sena Frost 2015

This Beautiful Boy

This beautiful boy,
Is six foot three.
So handsome he is described as having beautiful features; a pretty face.
He is so young and carefree.
Hence his thoughts ask,
“What can be pure but not good?”
He thinks of a lot of shit.
Y’all would say deep.

This beautiful boy writes,
“I loved watching you sleeping naked in the dead of the night,
The streetlight filtering through your window,
Touching your supine form,
Caressing your wild mango breasts,
Highlighting the tendrils of hair on your pubis and the beauty spot on your areola,
Pitching up and down your waist and legs,
A continuous side winded beam of light,
Your body bent it,
And your glory shone.
Goodness how fuckable you are.
Arousing my mind and penis,
I slithered round and spooned,

This beautiful boy writes,
“I couldn’t imagine being with anyone but you,
I don’t know,
You are just perfect.
You understand me and know how I feel.
They told me,
Right before they shattered my heart into a thousand pieces,
Please lift your shoe up,
A shard of my heart dropped right there.”

This beautiful boy writes,
“She makes my heart skip a beat,
She knows how to make me feel,
She is,
Because she makes me feel like a boy again.
Does she even know she has my soul hidden in her runaway hair?
With traces of Huey.

This beautiful boy writes,
“You write beautifully,
Because your nipples peek through the front of your dress,
Alert and craving attention.
But you won’t fuck with me,
Even though you told me you have no panties on.

This beautiful boy writes,
“When I die,
Would everyone say my genes have gone to waste?
I’m half tempted to put my semen in a bank,
So in my will,
They show you where my juices are bottled.
At least I won’t die a virgin.
Life’s fucked me too hard in the butt for that.”

This beautiful boy writes,
“Your words are kinda big.
Could you tone them down for your audience sake?
Pick up your fucking dictionary and upgrade your shitty selves.
Do you think you see how beautiful a tiger is in the zoo?
When it chokes the life out of you,
Then you realize it’s black with orange stripes.”

This beautiful boy writes,
“You write of systems and corruptions,
Hiding behind the skirts of Africa.
Grow up and leave it alone,
It is a place.
What has it got to do with you not being able to live?
Nigger is a beautiful word.
See? It means black.
If you think its rude then you ain’t ma nigger.”

This beautiful boy writes,
“You love the high I give you from the words I type,
The orgasm from the paint I daub.
I am your type,
You say.
Well heads up,
I don’t do art to thank God for His gifts,
It’s to pay the bills.
If you aren’t going to give me your money,
Then get the fuck outta my face!”

This beautiful boy writes,
“I like to be alone,
With my thoughts,
I can travel the world and into space and back.
Just so I don’t hear your bullshit,
I’ll plug in my earpieces,
Turn up the volume,
And listen to whatever music I like.”

This beautiful boy writes,
“Some of you think these are just pretty words from a pretty boy,
May be they are true,
But whatever you think,
Fuck you!
I wrote this in church,
And I don’t give a shit if your tongues wag.
Only God can tell if I’m pure in my thoughts or Nah.
I’m outta here.”

© Sena Frost 2015

Knowing Not

Repeated actions,
Force fulcrum and load,
Habits ingrained into my psyche,
Faded smiles on a piece of paper,

“Do you love me?” he asked,
“Obviously not anymore. You’re no longer man enough for me.”
She blew wisps of smoke in his face.
He winced,
There was a slash,
Shrill scream.
Spurts of blood.
He held his bloodied hands up to her.
“Here, you need this more than I do.”
Lying in them,
Thick veined and limp,
His identity,
His life force and virility,
His manhood.

The leaves danced in the wind,
Her skirt was lifted suddenly,
Revealing hints of chocolate and lace,
What a lovely derriere.
The heirlooms ordinarily tucked out of sight.
Oh the rude wind.
Greedy eyes drank in,
Straw and all.
She blushed,
As any bashful girl would,
Her hands full,
She was fighting a losing battle.
It’s an open secret after all.
Ask the owners of the greedy eyes.
Our eyes met from across the street,
Screeches and honks,
Burning rubber and crude language.
One word,

Little damsel,
Cursed with pulchritude.
Tis a crime to fall in love with you,
I love my sanity,
And frankly I love myself too.
Verisimilitude is stained with blood.
Ask the glass heroes,
Nothing good ever came out of loving a goddess.

“So when am I seeing your family?”
Her eyes glowed faintly,
Awash with anticipation.
“You ask too many awkward questions.”
He turned over,
Refusing to look into those eyes,
Even as they began to water ever so slightly.

I fear death so much,
May be,
Because I am young.
I wonder how it would feel like to wake up every day,
Waiting for death,
At my front porch.

I am sad.
“You don’t know me.”
They wear it,
A badge of honour,
Their chests they hit.
What good ever came from keeping secrets from those who matter?
Stockpiling pain,
Stoking furnaces,
To cremate flesh,
Memories stay fresh,
Bleeding anarchy into us.

It makes no sense to me,
I don’t like you,
But I won’t stand for you being abused.
So called generals and magicians.
The only thing good about them are their names.
The lot of them.
Back to you.
You’re just exercise,
A reminder,
Of how good I am.

The alpha dog is.

Moods and emotions,
The cadence of a clairvoyant.
Heart lines and open palms,
Are but half the story.
I call it,

What are you looking at?
Who are you looking for?
He’s right in front of you.
You don’t know him.
Do you even care?

© Sena Frost 2015


I am,
Speaking on a thorny issue (briar-rose),
Young and misguided,
Misunderstood and misconstrued,
The boy made a man yet at heart a woman.
Alloy of transmutable elements,
Base metal and gold (alchemy),
No transgender crap but yeah,
Feeble minds rule the day.
Equality for all is asymmetric balance,
Tall, short, obese, anorexic.
Here’s what I think of your bullshit honesty,
You’re a liar.
Ask me why.
You refuse to accept what you cannot change so you change what you cannot accept.
Hiding behind the premise of a truth you have only just started to fathom,
Perfect swimmer in the pool,
Out of depth in a flood.
Raincheck? (cheque)
Poncho or umbrella,
Tired arms and howling wind.
Runny ink and rheumy eyes.
By all means carry on!
Science suggests spirituality thickens the brain cortex,
No depression more happiness right?
Cup in hand,
Going from door to door,
Scrapping with dogs for bacon rinds,
To share with you, yourself and yours.
Rancid truths,
Leaving a sour taste on my tongue (lemonade).
Spirituality does not reside in a building.
Prophetic declarations are seemingly self centered.
The irony,
Because the path to knowing oneself is to give ones life for others.
If you doubt me read your bible.
Is it a book of fairytales or a manual to life?
Talk of philosophies and ruthless leaders,
You have one chance till you no longer have it.
I’m no longer at ease,
My heart is no longer your home,
For as far as the crow flies I see an alarming trend.
The only way to make peace is by killing.
Brings to mind what someone said about women, countries and immutable silence.
I will not go easy into the silent night.
Witness me!
For I will cross the bridges while they burn,
Balance myself on the tables as they turn (hip hop).
Its easy to be a tiger (rug)
But its not easy to be a rat,
Chewing steel pipes and gnawing soap,
Bathing in sewers and drinking radiation.
Tell me,
What would you rather be?
A dying breed or a revolutionary (Ché)

© Sena Frost 2015