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Sep 2013 · 1.1k
On a temporary dusk,
The sun may bleed but not die.
On a fight between angels & demons,
None of the spirits sigh.
A cucumber moon melts on a dawn,
And become a bodiless beauty.
It will fall in the arms of the river bed,
Re-unite with earth on its divine duty.
A brighter sun re-appears one gay morning,
It’s timeless journey to death cave.
Another world turns around,
Life & death altogether spun on a magical wave.
Aug 2013 · 647
Romen: The Omen of Romance
My lovely volley ball
Shattered your panes
Like an action hero
That kills spoilage

Dawn downs from death
To open the file of life
As if it was an owl
Blinded by the light of darkness

A slash from your lashes
Build me this real Lear
A hero is killed forever
You hit a very bad dab.
Those  lips did smoke from within
Very hot air to **** any kind of love
Like prosperous balloons they rip apart
One in crime without being hurt.

I call them Jamaican waves of love
That made the lovers in their jovial frolly
After all one bears the heat above
Slipping all throughout in jolly.

Let me die in your lips when we war
So far so they can pull my heart
In my conquest of your polite lips
I give it a **** if they are ****.
Apr 2013 · 372
They were climbing up the hill
Pearl beads were made from their sweats
Rolling down like a clean stream;
One which works hard all throughout
And their realm so intent of their beads
They were inseparable from their film.

More and more my vision focused
I could identify them and their needs.
All were different but me travelling times;
When times met as dense as clouds
Before they melt all into one and join the stream
Once again to pick up the beads that had fallen.

The moments came to capture the beads
So that the nerves wretched to the extreme
Along with a sudden **** the dream evaporated;
Leaving behind a few of them to form pixels
That made an image of the present time
Ah it was all timeless in my last night sleep!
Apr 2013 · 675
Another Poem from Page-3...
Like Henry I swayed my sword upon
White pages but dark without wisdom
Attacking the palace of Palestine
And contravening the head of the bishop
I crowned myself the unborn emperor.

I rode the chariot of the sun
The moon being my abstract driver
Drawing out stars into constellation of demons
So that I can chalk them out one new moon night
And become the marshal of Constantine laws.

Here on my pages I made god’s descend
Make love to live forms like never before
I have solved the mysteries before and after birth
But nothing is reinvented and remained as they were
Not buried this time but surfacing like clouds that will rain.
Aug 2012 · 1.6k
Rain Drops
There is a sense of profound grief and joy
blended in the much awaited rain drops,
the moment they escape from the cloud-hills.
As if they have waited for years of freedom
and those years have been slow and fast,
eluding glory from the tiny soldiers marching
towards death in the pit of the thirsty hell.

In the kingdom of Cloud-hills they were gods
of divine evolution waiting for a supreme order,
to re-unite with the earth’s crust into matter-
tiny beads of light, happiness, love.

So they kiss the grass, fix the butterflies,
Wets the soil to become fertile like the mother’s womb-
And then die gradually for another birth.
Nov 2011 · 1.1k
When an army of congruent efforts
Hide away the blurs of truth for smile
And paints mischief like never before
A community of applause is born.

Same jargon of satires where I left last time
They stand like shameless souls weaker enough
And lose their naked counterparts which became bold
Enough to paint their skins and garden their hairs.

The beginning of the body as geometric machines
To demonstrate humankind rather than mankind
And *** equally splits into male, female, gay, lesbian
Spoiling the colors of your beautiful rainbow into one.

Where opinions vary and similes carry
But **** facts are sincerely presented
To carry a soul into our very build world
Welcome to the world of fashion & fashionistas.
Nov 2011 · 988
They mean it with lingerie
or almost **** hanging *****
almost strolling out from within
as if they deny the prison there
that beholds and preserves conspiracy.

Chiffon bits glued to buttered butts
that dwindles either ways without
any declaration of war from each side
and only sensitive enough to react upon
high pencil edged sharp heels point touched.

They mean deep well navels crowned with
meaningless metal caps in place of ear rings
and their shameless faces dressed with colors
so much difficult to understand the brands
they represent each such pastel that robs them.

To further de-glamourise their stupid animosity
sudden malfunctioning of their bra-straps
or accidental slippage of intended tight gowns
making foolish gays popular and millionaires-
these models evidenced their killers via sharp nails.
Feb 2011 · 1.7k
Poseidon's Love Song
Living in your dreams,
Come true-
I only say,
I love you!

You fancied your palace,
Of yellow roses-
I plucked them,
For your medley dozes,
And you sank in my,
Boat of love…

Abyss, abyss,
And abyss,
Where darkness,
Nowhere exists,
My faith kindled,
Your heart-
Your breath,
Dwindled me ****…

Living in your dreams,
Come true-
I only say,
I love you!
Yesterday night I had a dream. I dreamed of my love in her fascinating journey to her abyss, an abyss that let her met her own soul to her very love to me. She was sinking like a crazy girl enjoying every bit of her fall because she fulfilled her dreams. I watched her constantly and intensely because I was her soul and when she came closer to me I was blown away by the storm of her breath.
Her twig-
A ferocious goblet of fire,
That once burned my desire,
In the tiny blemishes that bled.

Her tears-
Reacted like nitric acid,
Corroding our fake homes pallid,
That soaked every smoke between souls.

Her ****-
Became the chalice of profuse disease,
That kept me away from natural release,
Like some yellow lady in Connecticut*.

Yellow Lady in Connecticut- A rare wild flower in that region
MMFSTW is a ******* poetic fiction.  The poet exaggerates three characteristic features of a woman as his wife individually because of the hidden complexities behind them the poets of our times long ago explored. The first wife is symbolized as the comfort giving nature of a woman that gathers dry and solid twigs from the jungle to enlighten and provide warmth to her family that ignores her hard work and struggles and frequently disgraces her. Yet she carries on her duty till she bleeds on her efforts. The second quality wife is depicted in the form of tears flowing down the cheeks of a woman. The bitterness of the salt caused from her tears have concentrated acid powers equivalent to nitric acid that can burn or faint a house that evokes the same. But the feminine tear is a precious boon as well with salts of happiness and sacrifice in it. The third and foremost essential feature of a woman qualifies her as a wife as well.  It is her obsessive ****** ***** that betrays adult idealism and mostly confines a man to responsible captivism once indulged in it. The magical pleasure is vigorous and binds eternal against the manhood cherished freedom from moral conduct and marital responsibility.
Oct 2010 · 895
Eligible Bachelors
As I began to climb the campus stairs,
All alone with a numb ache-
A depression blocked those minute vessels,
That carries my vital fluid that frequently thins.
A kind of a genetic disorder that robs me off-
All of my terrible hormones that loses competition,
A competition so heroic called youth,
That settles the score of my ****** life.
A physical length that reduces me to a dwarf,
Almost an intelligent ape that snubs too-
And cannot have biology with another species,
That adores a disqualified creature of its size.

What can make me happy?
What do I want then?
Shall I need those beautiful preachers of opposite genes?
Shall I claim their eminence in my life?
Or leave them for those eligible bachelors?

As I landed my nose in the campus pillars,
And nobody cared but me-
A stimulus recoiled and resurrected those minute vessels,
That carries my vital fluid that became viscous again.
‘Eligible bachelors’ is a complex poem that speaks of the disturbance caused due to the absence of an opposite *** relationship in a teenage boy’s life, in a very different way. The characterization is that of a straight forward youth not very popular among the girls in his college and the related inferiority complex that he suffers from. His agony and disturbance certainly invokes sympathy but his vision is revolutionary as well. The poem describes the emergence of the gay community arising out of psychological issues born in the society unknowingly. A ****** maniac poem which is funny to read and serious to think about!
Oct 2010 · 759
Action Replay
The day we rolled together-
Rolled and rolled down the alley,
Bended the vertical bushes horizontal,
Our laughter echoed up to the sun,
We baked our souls flesh in hot and warmth,
Whistling together and bruising each other,
With our passion filled ignited feelings,
When the stags turned back to our privacy,
Has come to an end-
With the sun setting off the wounded bushes,
Without returning the glory offered by us,
And absorbing our pleasures for its radiance,
That will dissipate the heat next day,
Exposing our bare protrusions uncontrolled,
For another few hours burning,
Like a corpse turning into ashes,
Where a rickety dog wears soot in abundance.
The flow of the poem is interesting and it rises like a wave and in the middle of the poem where the sun sets, the tidal structure settles down and down till death. I will rather mark it as a poem of contrasting moods that creates a pronouncing effect to the mind when imagined side by side. Our current consciousness is irrelevant to the time coming forward which will be an eclipse of the current moment and even though the same moment will return, it will die by then for us and will be the conscious moment for someone else and when someone attempts to re-live those moments by looking at others who are experiencing the same that once they had, their condition becomes pathetic.
Aug 2010 · 818
Red Gingers
I was like the jungle king,
She was like the jungle queen,
She was running ****,
Except wearing those flowers,
And I was wearing the waves,
That kissed me otherwise ****.

All those strange creatures on the beach,
They all ignored us for burning together,
Burning for sin,
Craving for sin,
Like the reptiles being swallowed by their dens,
The **** of a man,
Kissing the pit of a woman,
The evolution of thirst,
The ******* of burst,
Everything protected by the transparent curtains of water.

She was like the jungle queen,
I was like the jungle king,
I was ******* her crude,
Except my censored spermatozoon blushing out,
And she was nowhere to consume,
My sapid feelings in her faked frame.
Red Gingers is the wildest of my compositions. The picture of a lover lost in the dreams of his consumed heroine is hard enough to be expressed without true feelings. The composition required hallucinated images of the lover rather than rich metaphors. Another interesting feature of the poem is like the background nature explained parallel in the backdrop which even though looks vivid, yet vague in the eyes of the blind lovers. I think I have tried to impart complete justice as related to the script.
I have never seen a mermaid-
With her fins so slender and gentle;
Or when you swim so weightless in water-
Any of them could have done with their bristle.

Cindrella could not have looked so ugly beautiful,
When you ran down to me leaving those landscapes behind;
And in the course you have broken the straps of your silver shoes,
Glow and shadow on your face were contemporaries and dutiful.

I have never imagined an angel ****-
With their ******* hanging for becoming stiff with magic,
Comparing your ****** to a sorcerers cave without any logic-
And you release fireballs from your canon eyes crushing me so rude.
Dear Readers,

Mystique is back!
This time, with more intent metaphors and the intention is the same. Expressing passion, breaking the bridles of self-control, the most wildest of the things one can imagine and offer to his beloved. The charm evolves from the strangest of the compliments sang by the lover. What seems to be an assault to the beloved’s personal parts, are actually soothing to her considering the sincerity of the lover-boy.

So chant this magic of romantic charm!
Jul 2010 · 1.3k
a date with Angelina Jolie
Chasing the dreams to touch the sky, shaking the roots of feminism;

Happy to shoot for the Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Gia's plagiarism-

All for her superstar Angel, she lived the attitude of lesbianism;

From Philadelphia to New York she sold, her fraternity and parental prism-

The ambitious gal, the ambition gal felt addicted to ******* and heroinism.

Climbing the hills in Beverly was not tough enough, shredding chastity for mean;

Hallowing for her Tomb Raider, she swallowed her city of sin-

All in her attempts she brewed her habits, she tattooed destiny for her queen;

From abortion to scandals;   she breathed to see her prolific akin-

The injured gal, the pitted gal still nearly was not doomed to grin.

Succumbing like the serpentine in salt, still longing to meet her dream star;

One fine morning she was found half-dead down the alley, waging her life-war-

All the fever she had, yet not looking to get out of the foxfire;

From one hospital to another, she was taken and was declared a patient of cancer;

The lucky gal, the ******* gal was lame enough to meet her jester.

The tumor had eaten her bones, like the steroids that made her a body-

Donating a million dollars in charity, made a brief appearance by Angelina Jollie;

All in her graceful charm, she penetrated hope to fight the disease folly-

From a life directionless to the motive of her strife, she kissed her cheeks and regretted being silly-

The ambitious gal, the ambition gal had just a single day to cherish her so called glory.
Angelina Jolie the heart-throb hollywood actress might have millions of fans, but she has her own story. There are always two sides of a coin, the hidden tales of struggle behind the so seemed success, and an autobiography of every human being sometimes not to be shared, and not to be repeated. Science describes the study of DNA's as individualistic and that no such DNA to be copied. And when such an attempt has been made in grafting, you might have some disorder. Similar is the pathetic story of Angel, the central character, that ultimately fights her life with her copy-con disorderly syndrome, being a fan of the superstar. However, she manages to win a date appointed by her fate with her dream kiss to her goddess's cheek and achieves some sort of heroinism to call herself an ambition girl.
I think your blue eyes conspire-                                                                
Waves of your hypnotic ****** prowess,
Renders an un-imaginable scepter-
That rules the world beside you oh princess!

I just wanna have you,
I just wanna grab you,
Like plucking out the stars from the sky-
Like ruthlessly waging a war for cosmic defy!

No single thread between you and me-
As if the centrifugal force holding the planets,
That preserves the stellar discipline in the quantum packets-
Close your eyes and wish me to the comets falling free!

Mystique is a candy-floss heart stealer that sails high with the thinkable imaginations from the lover poet singing in praise of the beloved. The metaphors are malicious and very simple and might have been thought before somewhere else. The interesting thing is the platter in its way attempting to serve in a very romantic way and the love-straw flying high in the picturesque space.
Jun 2010 · 846
I was standing straight-
My hands benighted down,
Little bend towards the lord,
And they called my guilty posture.
When I closed my eyes slightly wet-
They dressed me in the butcher’s gown,
Aimlessly swaying my sword,
Goat masks swinging like pendulum’s structure.

Behind me were tall men in cloaks-
They were trying to move a big glass cube,
There were victims floating in water,
As if they were dead and numbed in pain.
I turned to them as the frog croaks-
A cloak-man gave me the reins of their capillary tube,
And a bottle of venom to feed the catheter,
They crowned me the hood to fit over my brain.

I chuckled and shuddered-
My hands benighted down,
Little bend towards the lord,
And they stripped me off in a sudden spate.
When my body was falling down murdered-
They turned the soil into red from brown,
A few survivors were running in hoard,
Slain frog legs smashed in stampede outside the heaven’s gate.
About Note…

The script naively exposes the ill-belief section of the society that baselessly assumes religious malpractices like suicide preaching, mass killing in the name of cleaning the earth and similar philosophies. However, it does not point or criticizes any particular corner of the world with any motive; as such practitioners can be found throughout the world. The imagination runs parallel to the concept of a hell and is satirical to the evil-doers of the subject. The prejudices explained over the paragraphs have been touted as heinous and the victim witnessing and narrating the event successfully brings out the reader of such a bitter climate.
Your white bosoms releasing that white serum.
That curvaceous mound feeds humanity,
That makes the biggest humanity via motherhood wisdom.

Your pink ******* arousing that tempest blood.
That soft hill becoming hard,
That hardens which heightens the adulthood.

Your black ***** taming sin.
That concealed shape popping out to provoke,
That provokes to **** feminism in mean.
The short poetic piece defines the portion of the feminine torso in three different ways. The language and understanding is simple yet astounding. The three different interpretations of the female ***** are not intended to evoke any kind of vulgarity but appraise the different roles played by the woman *****. The script is an attempt to entice topical readership in a different and dignified way.
May 2010 · 733
Bitch Brigade!!!
Chasing you through the bushes,
When I thought I was playing hide & seek with you-
Running hard and churning blood,
In my naked feet kissing heat in your pursue.
My sun-glasses were black that could not penetrate,
Exaggerated, reflected only my desperation-
Your hot wax actually burned them with pain,
I am still proud enough to save my love that suffered abrasion.
That night you held that lantern to porch illusion-
The dancing flames never betrayed,
And gave indication of your sincerity,
Only that you were more than posh when you forayed.

The shocking news-
Still I am alive!
I managed the antidote of your poison,
In fact you blessed my life.

Are you curious?
I pity on you,
I will tell you, if you can hear,
No need to fume or don’t get furious.
A very intriguing poem between a protagonist and the antagonist and the irony is when both are same. The enemy is different that betrayed and misused the object of love that was disillusioned completely in faith and loyalty. However, the antagonist is defending the enemy and in fact thanksgiving the enemy for teaching the blunt lesson of truth that has opened its eyes for a renaissance of awakening towards the latest breed of human culture that is ****** as well as erosive.

A complex poem with all the ingredients of passion, anxiety, sooth, calmness and craftsmanship that will keep my readers glued and anticipating till the end. Indeed a precious piece from my pen.
Mar 2010 · 1.5k
An Afternoon In Brazil...
Blocos, Bandas, or Escolas!

Not only shows the world to play soccer-

The country that sweats to let the world drive, alas!

One who breeds sweet sweats-

Ethanol perpetuates,

There strives our Harry Potter.

The solitary candy girl sings in the field,

You can hear her in the afternoon-

A black song of motivation that barely covers her guild.

All this and many more,

That gives human skin the bitterness of colour-

They can be ignored driving downn Sao Polo inside a Maybach Saloon.

The same sun, but not the same burn-

Sometimes sipping Caipirinha in the beach resort,

And then while harvesting with a difficult breath, a farmer gives up a life well fought!
This is not an international poem but a world poem. It echoes the painful seperation of the world on the basis of racism and colour, the disheartening and the shameful act of the human society. This is where the whole world unites to divide and disgust, filter and seperate, the rich from the poor, the poverished and the phantom from the malnutrition and menace. The backdrop is Brazil because this is where the sect of black in dominance itself is opressed and its service to mankind in the modern energy deficient world is looked down as pathetic slavery. In fact, we have not realised that if they stop working in the sugarcane fields, with many farmers ending up their lives while tough and hazardous harvesting, the so called rich cannot drive through Sao Polo comfortably inside its Maybach or sipping cocktail and exploiting their beach resorts. This is for the black community of Brazil who showed the world how to play soccer and the world showed them instead how to play with their lives.
Feb 2010 · 1.9k
Love You...Rihanna!!!
I remember the Tropicana Beau from Syndale,

She delivered my order at the welcome pub Dazzle-

It was the smile she was affording that day,

And now she is the jealous infection from the social bay…

I looked at her same contours hesitantly,

And they have been exposed much sharper delightedly-

She appealed me her demystified glory,

Two weeks later she left her job for the clearance money…

I remember her tears washing the ***** streets in the market,

She was refused by every seller for credit-

Those scanty clothes she was affording that day,

And now she prices her perfection in that way…

I looked at her eyes and she believed in me,

And ma editor startled me, “Sir, who is she?”

She gave me her perfect look and the rest did my camera…

We worked hard to frame her saying, “Love You…Rihanna!”
About: “Love You…Rihanna”
Rihanna is a strong character despite an art of fiction. The countryside girl from the Syndale Valley somewhere near London has made her weakness her biggest armour and becomes the successful cover page girl for the sake of money. But then her world changes suddenly and the world that wanted something else from her is now satisfied and proud of her stardom and pays her the value of her skin. Her efforts to sweat herself and her family had once been rejected but now she looks upon the world with a different vision. Now the world pays her for her looks, her looks that were never so confident before the world camera. She becomes one of the **** cover-page girls but she actually undresses the desire of the cheap world that calls itself fashion. Indeed she is paid for the fashion of her survival. The last line, “We worked hard…” is ironical and leaves us to think with a pause.
Thirty feet tall Madonna, is one of the things-

My ultra-stylish city that grew up,

Rave, raunchy catwalks beneath those chandeliers-

The Toyota drives by the Manhattan Beach, amidst bikini wardrobe.

When I read those Taxi-dance barbettes-

I wish I could lost in their growling gowns,

All my wishes fulfilled one day and flew me down there-

My boasting finance job and some pals were African browns!

It was that ultimate visa down the Fashion Avenue-

Most of their lipstick glosses were supported by Chelsea revenue.

I could not breathe the invisible virus against my immunity,

The enigmatic pleasures that lived inside the skyscraper community-

I had no qualms while cherishing the barbeque restaurants poisoning,

My fascinations without imaginations had no logical reasoning-

Many of us at Saint Clair’s ward#3, NYC, were at once there fugitive-

Now moaning like chickens to be butchered, we are all *** positive!

Did you know that…

Pop diva Madonna is a gay icon and the gay community has embraced her as a pop culture icon. She was introduced to the gay community while still a teenager. It was her ballet teacher, Christopher Flynn, a gay man, who first told Madonna that she was beautiful. He introduced her to the local gay community of Detroit, Michigan, often taking her to the local gay bars. Flynn encouraged Madonna to walk away from her full scholarship to the University of Michigan and to move to Manhattan.

The disease of AIDS…
Was first uncovered in homosexual men
From Manhattan


What happens when your dreams turn into reality? It’s a paradigm that you celebrate, live life to the fullest. There is however, life that exists beyond this celebration, sometimes good and sometimes not so good like you expected. And when it becomes not so good like you expected, you spat with bitterness and associate the term bad. Anything against your wish and will is then bad and one day you might fall into live with this bad. All I can say is that they are individual retrospection.

This is what Manhattan Dreams exactly captures. The first half can successfully open the door of fascinations that a college teenager in search of a lucrative career and living might jump into- “Style, fashion, exuberance, beaches, skyscrapers, stardom and what not!” Everything is colorful about Manhattan, even the way it is spelt and pronounced. A financial job inside a long cherished skyscraper, international friends, restaurants, pubs, smoking, the kind of gay evenings are not only meant for Hollywood films but can happen to someone like you. And then one day, the world economy complains your presence there as a fugitive, you are fired from your job and your world crashes to a clinic or a hospital confirming you *** positive. What will you do then?

That is what you are getting from the second half of the poem. As if the drama has reached a ****** like after the interval in a film. There seems a sudden pause in life from where there leads the road to uncertainty, disappointment and delusion. This is where the poem ends, because this is where the human mind stops thinking often. A never before kind of bitterness cataracts the dreamy visions and the object of your dream becomes an excuse of your current defeat.

Manhattan Dreams is not a criticism of the gay culture. Neither it attempts to de-criminalize the society nor does it pollute the appeal of Manhattan at all. It is the victim’s individual retrospection in the other side of his celebrated life which is no more a celebration now. The stylish Manhattan is both a dream and a reality. It has nothing to do with your personal glory or agony. Depending upon the situation in your life it might serve as your forefront or background.

— The End —