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Taymaz Valley


City of Angels


Oh, no he didn’t,
did he?
450 years since that so called playwright was born,
and I’m still having to listen to him.


No, I don’t think thou art clever.
Art has a different signifier.

Yes, yes, I’m sure “art” will be rendered meaningless
by those future metrosexuals and yuppies oh so happy,
and they shall laugh at the good old me,
saying fuck T and his poetry;

but honestly, I really don’t care,
just like I don’t think the Bard cares,
well he’s dead, ain’t he?
So dead I shall be.


Why O’ why do his words haunt me still?

Oh, I don’t know anymore,
if you are reading this while I’m alive,
you don’t need an idol.

If you are reading this after I’m dead,
learn something and don’t look back,
write something better,

and shout:


Fuck Taymaz

This God you speak of,

this petulant sod,

this feckless hood,

this bloodthirsty thug,

this bigoted narcissist,

this smug mug,

this colossal misogynist,

this mindless belligerent,

this unrepentant warmonger,

this bitter, fanatical, murderous,

weak, jealous, arrogant,

aggressive, cheap, rotten,

foul supreme brutish punk,


has a lot to answer for.

This city,this city of fog and dim lights,this city of smoking tops,drops of pollutants on rocks,the disease infested bars,beat contaminated nightclubs,drivers drunk on wine and weed,teenagers high on speed,pretty lap dancers flirting for pittance,smartass remarks from smartass students,police makes you black and blue,they’ll be stopping you soon,buses full of the old and derelict,tricks in the corner call you pig,the Cross watches from the hill,but this city makes you steal,angels don’t show their faces hereour demons have scared them away,the city of skyscrapers and chain stores,cheap ass headquarters and food courts,lost loves and lovers sought,love broken and insanity wards,hearts of the brave shattered,here no love can be found scattered,don’t look at anyone in the eyesbecause you might find yourself in a fight,muting your wails and groans,this glass house is full of stones,I think it’s time to let the birds free,break down these limiting ceilings,start a revolution from your bed,instead of hate, try being kind instead.


I’ve heard there is a place not too far away,where the good people go to stay,maybe we can make our city better,let us begin our journey on this day,tomorrow might never come,but tonight we are all hereand I can hear the birds waking upbringing with them that promised sun.



What do you call that?
Death, dead body,
gone, cadaver,
corpse, carcass?


Why is it not moving?
Why is it not alive?
No longer breathing?
No longer suffering huh?


Who moved it here?
Who made it like this?
Did it feel pain?
Did it scream?


I don’t care if it was he or she,
gay or straight, Tory or a lefty.
Why would I care if it believed in God?
It’s lying here on our front yard.


What’s your plan with the remains?
Bury it? Burn it? Mummify it?
Do you need a casket, or a blanket will do?
Don’t we need a eulogy to be said?


What do you mean by eye for an eye?
What punishment is enough?
Who gave you the right?
I’m not fit for the part.


Let’s start again.
I say no more,
and you say:
killing of any kind.



Taymaz Valley is a writer/artist living and working in UK and Canada. His passion is the Arts in all forms and styles. Several of his poems were published in Concrete and Lamp and Owl, and two short stories were included in Creature Magazine. He has worked with Ether Books, and has some work available with them. he has three books of published poetry published his latest can be found...


For all things Taymaz

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