Ernest Clinton - The Philosophy of a 21st century teenager

1. Paradox of a sight
2. Israel..is Africa
3. Human, No Humanity
4. In Derision of Death 1
5. In Derision of Death 2
6. Borderland
7. Waste
8. Child
9. Theory
10. The prize's price
11. Ode to the centurion
12. Parting day
13. Lad's Lunch
14. Season's
15. Grey Solomon
16. Fingers
17. Rags
18. ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
19. COLLECT

Also big appreciation to the CEO of magik studios, my brother (Serene Clinton) for painstakingly typing and publishing this book, with so many sleepless nights, that's what family is all about, looking out for each other, thanks so much. Also to my friends, for their collective contributions to the making of these books, they are amazing, thanks a lot. To the editors, graphics designers, thank you so much, I really do appreciate y'all. Collect The Philosophy of a 21st century teenager is an expression of deep prudent philosophical poetry which literally and relatively draws the reader into a world of uncharted possibilities and cause a refreshing to take place. Learning is never seasonal. Do allow the shimmering light of this book to light up your fertile young minds.

PARADOX OF A SIGHT At scalding noontide On a fated day In Alkebulan: diamond-studded Eve, black and comely, black and unabashed, stopped down, ministering sedulously to the temples assorted in size and form, all ataxic and tenonless of spousal incorporeal somnambulists, her love choiceless; still virgin, bangled, bead-besieged, scantily-clad in skins, with faith uncommon, undwindling as ever today too in a thing much more than an unconsummated polyandry. Formidably sentient yet engrossed in devotion, inflexibly rendering the effectual equivalents or rather what she's convinced they are of an inscrutable mime of desires, none simpatico yet, she discerns a foreign stench lazily nearing from yards away, stringent, refusing to diffuse. it is self-explanatory: perspiration smoothie of a non-sunworshipper, mangy mementos, bleeding fleshdoggedness trudging towards her velvety back. She curious rises, turns and lo! dishevelled Adam, eyes soil-fixated, unaware, in so dirtied tuxedo; bowler hat and loafers despairing of life for the savage proportions of their lord's pointless prospecting here, encumbered with a ginormous rucksack nature-caparisoned, sluggish as a snail. The intriguing sound of approaching feet bare further pulverizing the hot sharp sand, expertly, steadily he curious too raises his head, taking off the hat The beholding is goodand evil. The antagonistic fruit of the fall isn't done yet with the twain: her body fits his head; his head fits her body.

But "what communion has light with darkness?" Eve recedes,, shamed; Adam halts, dazed, lost in contemplation. "You could invent coats of skins and tuxedos; you could never invent the wholing half!" ISRAEL Is Africa Was it not still Isreal who broke Pithom and Raamses also free though encumbered with Egypt's Cruel yoke fast-paced, fettered from reality by their owner's cowardice and sloth belied by vigorous villainy? It's but he who has the glory of both. Abounding in every tear droplet he in his great affliction shed was goodness; neither was waste his sweat, nor consequence-void that he bled on vile soil from stings of the whip's blades: how his day-olds even became the dread of his tyrants who have all known decades! Proper fruits of Israel's body that Egypt, fright-fogged, away threw! But basket alone and Destiny could just sail one and have him eschew such Hebrew woe in the river hate was sated, to go tell who slew that, "Israel has too a royal fate!" Israel's son lifted far above himself, into his villains' throne! but his foes soon forgot that his love for him, when let one chance alone at its expression to that lone seed would turn their prince into one grown in such zeal which'd undo their depraved deed. What sheer worthiness of Egypt's love did that child's guitless weep evince! wouldn't oppressed father's then hit dove of a son so hard to convince him that Israel was yet fulfilled in shackles; had always been since there hadn't been one for that cause so strong-willed? So then that one graced in princely style did his slave father choose to splice together with the regal line while him'd e'en a vassal's place suffice: his father's e'ermore the throne he'd bring him to would be; he'd be Fate's device which' d shun who piped, "Israel can't be king!" How that great gulf was ripped asunder, 'twixt Israel and the royal world! 'twas surreal how he was led farther than reach of stones the wicked hurled; with one sure news he needs then must on run each stride a great future unfurled nonstop: "Isreal, thy rise hath begun!" HUMAN, NO HUMANITY Once the world said you were unsuited to a land, for rule unfit; too decrepit to bear power's true weapona savage bulk so bland. But then, men turned mothersrebirth! You got that life your lord's had too; zeal fathered you, full humans now, brother's, made so through great strife. Boundless latitude they gave who delivered you they had one belief: you had got relief; that you could do all save undo their good deed.

But what is it which wakes now yesteryear's instinct in you today? Turns you a prey in your domain? Makes sovereignty indistinct? You have now put out the fire of liberty's torch blazing with winsomeness without just cause; you break your laws: requiring the lives of friends in your frenzied watch. The thing which legions of days made you in just a few taint! Black are your acts and not their facts! those who of dark complected ways were convinced just by your paint. Because you have not sown faith as a grain of mustard seed in the labours of your saviours, soon, it will be only a wraith left of their selfless deed. Even now you don't try saving dying humane you. It would be then your great fall when after humane you die, just savage beasts remain. IN DERISION OF DEATH 1 Is this the death that we dread? Whose sting pathetically endures less than a mere twinge? An otiose comic relief for the concatenation of tragedies which only copiously fills the craving for the eternal next? Is this the death that we dread? That is dead longer than alive? That is only animate in the transition moments briefer than the blink of an eye? And in apostrophes? aren't poets gods? Aren't they merciful? Is this the death that we dread? That repeatedly suffers from the plague of capricious resurrections by fate? Is this the death that we dread? Is this it? That can only live and die that it soon would fain wish it were just all the time dead? Or even better, never was? Are we sure it's this death we dread? IN DERISION OF DEATH 2 Though man's first and wildest Frankenstein, never forget you are his, not thine or did you forget Eden so fast, swine? Let not your yet interrupted spree gift you with Lucifer's vain glory: for as all which mortal flesh has made, you too will away into nothingness fade.