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 Sep 2012 Auroleus
Olga Valerevna
I crawl in through your weaknesses and take up all their space
I prey 'til what's inside you shows itself upon your face
and when the smirks and grins appear I come out through your eyes
infecting your perception like a swarm of hungry flies
now listen to their buzzing while I tune your ears anew
and you will sing the song I wrote specifically for you
I'll join you in the chorus and I'll help you hit the notes
then tie up all the souls we draw and take them out in boats
we'll throw them in the waters of the raging salty sea
and wait until they foam like you with gangrene jealousy
you'll think you want what they all have and they will fight you back
an orchestrated blood storm that is fueled by what you lack
(the mind I took away from you when I made my attack)
 Sep 2012 Auroleus
PNasarudheen
Freedom At Kannyakumari
“The destiny of India is molded in her class-rooms”
Kothari had no confusion; no vision on the fusion-
of the East and the West, as Swami Vivekananda’s vision,
“The comingling of the East and the West will dawn a new Era”.
As tissue culture, transplantation or cloning
we Indians imbibe the Western Culture;
or  as G.M cotton  or brinjals,or tomato
Indians are produced, transmuted
destroying the very indigenous genus for material growth.
Ayurveda is preserved not in Sanskrit but in English letters, now !
Followers of Lord Maccaulay as obedient servants,
by experiments,bring up Indians only in blood and colour-
in every other respects-Europeans
(using imperialist - capitalist media);
poor sycophants ,for a visa,
the Indians: now , turn to the West for light,
leaving the bright light under the Urn;
cry for a way of progress, safety and food;
and beg:once self reliant nations as cells  of a body
No retrospection or introspection,
only putrefaction, hence , no resurrection.
On August 15th  ,at Kannyakumari beach , beside me,
a bare body of a woman(my sister?) lay asleep;
I witnessed at the starry cold mid-night:
the surging sea spitting frothing snow
upon the black rocky *******
protruded, greasy, mossy. bare but fair ,
ever young at the feet of Bharat-matha.
Wet in the salty breeze , from the foul smell of  death,
I walked and walked searching shelter,
but no room for a single son with meagre wealth.
The tourism net -workers with the thirst of mosquitoes
hummed around me  with highly rented room offer-
source of  tourism exploitation- I bargained,
till, morning red balloon rose up in the Eastern horizon
cleaving the vapours of the sea,
when , thousand tongues chanted Gayathri;
then , the locals thronged around the woman on the shore;
somebody among them, staring blear eyed
as the police jeep and the ambulance arrived , bewailed
“O! Gayathri, my darling, O! Gayathri…”  Unsoothed.
The chanting and the yelling dissolved in the breeze
that passed by the Vivekananda rock, afar, south
I’m sick.
I have a fever and flu-like symptoms.
I am alone, and have been for hours,
lying on my bed
with a lavender candle pulsating
to the sound of classical music,
dancing on the darkness of my
ceiling.

I am not aroused
but, playfully,
I slide my palm
over the underside
of my hairy
behind
and begin
to gently stimulate
each hair
with near-static
force.

I occasionally push
my fingertips
into the crevice—
my crevice—
my end.

How good this feels
to be sick
and allow oneself to
feel
the emptiness too
dark
and bold
and powerful
to be contained within us.

The comforting,
soft touch
we can give ourselves
is like a loved one
holding our hand;
it almost tickles, and this sensation
although distinct
reminds me
of the pretend animals
my grandma would parade
across my back.

Beyond our view
the guillotine,
existence,
slowly begins to descend
as we lie,
holding hands with ourself
on top of the covers,
sweat pants around the ankles,
grabbing our own ***
as the steady rain
trickles from the roof
of tenement housing
and beats
on the aluminum gutter
for hours
until it’s over.

The night has fallen
like a punishment
for finding no one
and it occludes my sight;
I shiver, and cannot *******.

Existence is too dark
to allow dancing candlelight
or baroque masters
to tickle its space.


It is filled with falling heads
and clutching grasps.
MMXII
An Amish elder named Mullet,
And some of his ****** clan,
bore hatred deep in their gullets
for their Amish fellow man.
****** seemed out of the question,
It’s rare among Amish, folks say,
(It may be that a horse and a carriage
doesn’t make for a quick getaway.)
So Mullet and some of his minions
Invented a new sort of crime:
Shaving their bearded opponents
one Amish man at a time.
Losing one’s beard among Amish-
A disgrace before God, it’s been said.
Mullet spared no woman either
choping the hair from their heads.
His victims are speechless with anger,
denuded of both beards and hair.
Leave it to someone named “Mullet”
To offend using a Barber’s chair.
Mullet’s in Federal custody;
charged with a crime, not a sin.
He refuses to answer the charges
By the hair of his chinny chin chin.
A true hair raising tale- you can't make this up.
I’m sorry your football team lost, state.
Maybe you should invest
more time and
focus
on the things within your borders
that make any difference at all.
Like the thoughts of a young man
sitting at his table
watching ******* all day
                                            waiting
for a woman
who knows what it feels like;
He worries so much
                                                    For
a country
that spends more energy getting
drunk
and eating bleacher food
than wondering
if there’s any reason to be
Anything
Anything
Anything
                                   ANYTHING
at all.

--You are like that man
                                   wearing red,
shouting at your tv
and cursing;              only
you are without an
idea.

And you'll be that way on Monday
and Tuesday.
You'll have a thought
of where to eat on Wednesday
or decide to have a baby on Thursday
and forget on Friday
while you're dancing.

But you won't ever ask why;
not even on Sunday, when you're
sitting in church
and thinking about Kansas City
Chiefs' scores
or whatever worthless *******
you people think about.

I'm *******.
A quick little write on a Saturday
Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.
 Sep 2012 Auroleus
Carl Sandburg
WHAT does the hangman think about
When he goes home at night from work?
When he sits down with his wife and
Children for a cup of coffee and a
Plate of ham and eggs, do they ask
Him if it was a good day's work
And everything went well or do they
Stay off some topics and talk about
The weather, base ball, politics
And the comic strips in the papers
And the movies? Do they look at his
Hands when he reaches for the coffee
Or the ham and eggs? If the little
Ones say, Daddy, play horse, here's
A rope-does he answer like a joke:
I seen enough rope for today?
Or does his face light up like a
Bonfire of joy and does he say:
It's a good and dandy world we live
In. And if a white face moon looks
In through a window where a baby girl
Sleeps and the moon gleams mix with
Baby ears and baby hair-the hangman-
How does he act then? It must be easy
For him. Anything is easy for a hangman,
I guess.
 Sep 2012 Auroleus
RyanMJenkins
We are free like a tree in the valley with nothing to see but pesticide dreams.

If you were free, what you speak wouldn't end with prosecution.
If you were free, you wouldn't be dumbing down your senses with alcohol pollution
When nature provides more than enough to lift you as a clear solution.
If you were free, the green pieces of paper would be "My notes",
and not "Federal Reserve Notes" that we owe interest back to.
If you were free, then the walls of the matrix we could crack through.
If you were free, you would be able to choose who could lead your country,
Instead of falsely participating in which dictator puppet reigns supreme in the best interests of the Rich and powerful gaining land resources and money.
If you were free, you wouldn't be on your knees bobbleheading at all the media tells you.
If you were free, you would not accept any leader who actively kills the innocent, and does not say Why, or even show proof.
If you were free, you would stand up, for what's morally right.
If you were free you would look at those in your peripheral
and join them rather than work against in spite.
If you were free, we could actually pride ourselves for being a country all about freedom.
If you were free, you would say NO to RFID chips, already being used on middle and high school kids in Texas, numb, to what is free.
I can't free you, you must free yourself and wake up to the mirage and bombardment of lies Raining down our existence.
If you were free, you would be a threat, everything they don't want.
It's everything we need, with persistence.
Let go of the fear of fear.
When that time comes, just as a flower becomes unfurled,
There will be a triumph for all that's good in the world.
Open your mind, *stop the chatter
, and wake up. *Free Yourself
 Sep 2012 Auroleus
Carl Sandburg
My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
     universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of
     destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off."

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
     in the universe.
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