on moonstone slab Manmata flames again
from out of ashes rises, gloating unfinality of Shiva's dance
reincarnate offering of endless Self
in Lakshmi's avatar
a fateful prince's heart to lance

and lanced his heart her visage did,
                                                     though with vaster pinions fully pierced was she, in depths
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 without rivalry~

his lust was sharp to invite solitude,
but easy to conceal,
he imagined cupping her against him,
scoured memory of upward glimpse,
inch  by  inch
with added imagery, invention moulding her
beneath his grasp
from forehead curls along
glowing skin and eyes
to curving, palatially appareled ******* . . .
her open lips . . .  her hips
--but after, merely to dismiss
and even sleep a bit
and quip inside at irony
to be at mercy
of a girl in flowers
when he with arrows demons lay to rest
(though she would, within the selfsame hours lose her wits ;)

in cityscape descried the triad:
gold dome gifts for sky
in shining generosity
Mithila's people overflow with joy
exuding free abundance carelessly--
jewelry loosed on playful street
from overkeen embrace, is left to lie;
loss in ever-present wealth nigh obsolete

musth of elephant, froth of steed,
floral garlands tangle, line and mix
for clouds of honey-bees to lick their feast.
a bustling of virile acrobatic populace--
symphonic mux of chaos tressed,
metropolis of idylls coalesced;
drums, races, grinning faces flinging courtship,
smirking merchants under wigs
bathers splash exotic fish to flit and weave
while ballads sift for higher pitch of love

from elevated terrace ladies prance
and watching from an inner spire
the princess spies her prince--
emerald shoulders, lotus-petal eyes
Vaikunta hidden from their mortal sight
but straining recognition there,
a union ageless as the stars
inspired suddenly another first:
Rama's transfixed stare she feels and meets,
strangers locked entwining glances
--fated simultaneous-- electric heat   like
from a planet sparking for the taste of outer space --
the lightning burns its mark ensouled
in blooms beyond her ripe, anthophilous form,
verdant visions planted in the rays of light
between two instant loves
to slip inside the eyelid entrance
and evermore impregnate with a glory ill,
as separation wills,
to colonize throughout with other Being there
phantasmal yearnings of entrancing elegance
--from dawn of time instilled, akashic script
of binding hurt with joy in love's embrace
condemn desire to a writhing term
when not imbibing such togetherness
a worldless crypt preferred

and so as swift as gymnast flip to fall
the heart is gushing toxic lack,
epic ventricles the viscose tug
in fluid inspiration wrote of Sita's
sudden addict gnashing inner plight
while slips the sight interred within the crowd,
as if a sorcerer the cosmic sea to play her destiny:
the waves inside enraged to overwhelm
the sudden coral crust beneath the swell
an unmarked seaside's lavish drown unto the land
and reeling send this fragile ******
into wilting, her floral haze to drooping fell...
        in revelatory crash of passion's oceanic weight...
attendants pamper uselessly
--from swoon to mood irate
to wait until the next appearance of her mortal god
the only one to sate the shameless need
entwining up within a clenching wrack of milky fits
from bed to sweaty bed they take the burning maiden~
the outer sea inflow in calming dusk meant nothing to the agony of new romance
                       sequestered in hymenic fire, dawning brilliant
                                                       ­                                omni chakral pierce in rays,
                                                                ­                                                              tot­ality relentlessness
and therein descry a wholeness
  yet unregained
a hopeless birdsong careless as the wind
in caring strokes of pollen redolence
for forest ears an endless vibrate mate
of elemental ease the simmer float
upon the dukkha broil paths embroidery of karmic
cookery the godly recipe invoked,
gibed her without cease,
****** flare eternal guna coals to stoke
and spite her with their peace,
for her attainment only next to he
the moon communes the message blinding clear
amid the ghee her girls would light in care
to soften her despair -- but only aggravate her state --
and so by dim refracted moondrops set,
in only gemlight, Sita basks in pain
her gaze entrained by night obsessively
while overhead the crescent hook beams
freely in to fertilize her all-too-chastely girdle there,
petals wilting under body pressed to slab of stone
as mounting groan on groan intones her writhing questioning
of whomever he could be to cast her moaning so
a deity in maidenhead unwitting of such otherlife
left by endless, anthrocosmos' whim to ache, and alone
in wonder scream abandonment from aether poise
confusion reigning noisome nescient choice


















.

how to make ghee
how to to clarify,
place the salt free butter in pan
turn the heat on very low,
then just listen............
first,
silence--
then sounds of drizzling rain for a while grow
to a creek starting to flow
then hear the steady rain pelting on leaves
(if it starts to sound like popcorn,
maybe turn the heat down),
then let the rain keep
trodding, until
it gets quieter
and quieter
and quiet
then
turn
off
flame,
the
ghee
is
ready
strain,
and
bottle

I
a flicker of warm light
and your face is all that I see.
Thunderclouds are silenced,
burned away and
my chest is left open to
our place under the opal sky.
The light is our soft romance
and our candlelit meal for two...

II
'Spiritui Sancto'
A Benedictine Monk
alone in
cold stone chambers sees
an ascending soul,
holy company,
a solitary light in all the
emptiness.
'Sed libera nos a malo'

III
Scorch-marks
drip
love - bites
drip
but please don't stop...
drip
In his lust,
Mould moments of my skin
and keep them
forever.

V
'Waxy fingertips!'
'Put that down,
PUT THAT DOWN!'
Mum told us
If you play with fire
you're going to get burned.

V
30 miles
they say
is the mathematical distance
you can see a flame in the dark

VI
This is the symbol of our nation.
'Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit'
This nine branched lamp symbolizes that our Israel.
has courage, those may be their Qassam rockets,
but those are our sirens.
and that humming you hear is our drones
over their heads.

VII
buuuuzzzzzzzzzz
What enchanting light...
zzzzzzzzz
what God are you? Oh
zzzzzzzzzzzz
wondrous beauty
zzzzz
what magic do you hold, what glory...
zzzzzzzzzz
come closer str.....

VIII
What died so I could read?
The tallow is a pig
the squealing embers
fat pig.

IX
here comes the candle to light you to bed,
And I curled, vulnerable to the shapes in the window
with my feet creeping further under the duvet.
The shadows were melted, cut, distorted on
my bedroom walls.
A primal evil will danced by the light of the flame
until I shut my eyes so tight,
that I slept it away.
here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

X
'No Jennifer, I just feel candlelight just adds a certain

ambiancé

to a room

No?'

XI
'Quickly, before it turns septic.'
'This wont hurt boy'
'The fire, pass the fire'
'Quarterise it quick or he won't last long'
'bite down hard my lad, bite down hard'
'AHHHHHRRRGGGGHHHH'

XII
Children hurtle down,
a Bombay slum to hear that.
'King Rama has returned,
light his path!'
The open sewers adorned in Ghee lamps
find such intense beauty as each quivering flame,
although so fragile, breathes the story
of the power of human spirit
unshakable against overwhelming odds.
*'The King of Ayodhya
Has Returned
Show his path for the Festival of Light!'

2 cups of atta flour
mix it with a cup of lukewarm water
add a pinch of salt
Ready to knead the dough
Knead it soft, knead it hard
Throw it on the air
Roll it on the table
Rest it for sometime
While you check on your curry
Perfect TENGGIRI fish curry
Put it in microwave, Nuke it
the aroma fills the air...
Smells good... salive drops oppss...
Heat the pan now dear
8 chapati all together fresh in a bowl
one by one roll it well
make it really round
a little bit of ghee, hmm... smells like heaven
my daughter waits with a plate in her hand
one chapati ready,
two chapati ready,
three chapati ready,
Mummy I leave the plate on the table now
I want to switch on the tv
My daughter comes back
all three chapati are stolen...
She screams out loud
WHO STOLE MY CHAPATI?????
And the chapati war begins.....

i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense.  Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant...)

Note the third eye in the figure's forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a ******-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)

Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.

Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.

Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods' image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic... but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I'll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).

Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it's just a big lie...
bow before a multi-armed freak?  Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan's world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.

Her wails rent the air

O God how unfair you are
to have snatched him from me
the only man that truly cared
never treated me badly.

Without him is a life to grieve
empty meaningless
take me too O God relieve
this pain of no redress!

Shouldn't we bring a costly cot
of mahogany or such wood
asked the men what was her thought
about carrying her man so good.

Shouldn't the pyre be of sandalwood
the fuel a pure ghee
your husband ma'am was a man too good
to be burned ordinarily.

She paused a while frowning dark
a shadow passed her face
a hint of wince made its mark
a pall of uneasiness.

He's gone to never return
the onus is now on me
to run the days with meager earn
and not spend wastefully.

ordinary wood would burn as good
kerosene would do well
prudence demands not one should
be lavish in funeral.

the number of ghosts engaged with *** toys...
you almost forget to wonder about the whole
debacle (clearly it's not a debate) - queen Sheba
was right when she said to king Solomon:
the world will be governed by a yellow race:
(coppery, garnished with choc, alter rusty)
no exceptions to the Japanese having the physiognomy
of something resembling all things Germanic...
   porcelain white, excuses for the blonde -
             then the unearthed and then earthed brown
that's represented by all Asiatic hues;
they dropped the atom bomb and we're worried
someone else will drop another? what about those people
who do military deals selling pistols and bullets
and machine-guns; aren't they on the priority list
of concerns? atom bombs don't sell much warfare,
they don't, you drop a nuke you forget there
was a war in the first place, it's called the simplified
variety of the end...
           if it weren't for the ethos of
the kamikaze, there wouldn't have been
a hiroshima & a nagasaki...
         there would just have been a hiroshima...
proud ******* told the whole lot of nagasaki
citizens: our fate is your fate, listen to the credo!
                  first time lucky... boom! x-ray flash!
i've got the opposite of bone on that brickwall...
              i have noon shadow: perfectly captured
like a replica of a Fabergé egg to represent
a chicken! but Dylan could have sung -
    preference to the x-ray and the sedimentation of
bone into the archeological... nope... a-ray stood out,
    apparently detailing shadows was the way forward.
      but i don't blame them...
there's no reason to blame someone that
manages to fill your childhood slack
on imagining things that aren't really there
with Godzilla vs. Ghidorah (ghee: dorris, slash: door'ah)...
still, the western civi faces fresh allegations
of feministic chuckles and the ghosts of
*** toys... cos any **** would be an adequate
fleshy piston for the gyroid stanza of
  being agreeably equivalent to milking a cow...
that really bites the biscuit,
a Greek might have all the theological answers
but he's still sidelined because he hasn't figured out
an parabolic entry into a ****** using
        a straightened Floppy: for that necessary
arousal being satiated... come to think of
it: god would be better pleased with an argument
than a woman pleased with an orgsam
that might lead to the lost argument for god...
it's not enough that a tornado doesn't make it easier,
they apparently "do" too;
most of the jokes come as no surprise:
   mine's still alive.
                              it's still ghosts in *** toys...
           you got to look at ******* as a quasi-
Attenborough moment of curiosity,
      does it get me wired for a marriage? not really...
does it bewilder me thoroughly? of course it does...
          ghosts in *** toys...
                          could this turn into something
quintessentially dictatorial? probably...
          there's no point thinking you're right
if you don't allow the other person to speak out...
  and on that note... dialectics is interested in only
two people having a debate...
              not necessarily an argument...
debates only exist between two opposites of a required
conceit to be levelled and a plateau to be trodden...
   dialectics is never an en masse concern for vitality,
dialectics is not theatre,
       but as it stands, dialectics is misunderstood as
a theatrical attempt to achieve a congenial
narrative where everywhere is informed (consensus
omni)...
              clearly Socrates is Socrates (misanthropic)
and Shakespeare is Shakespeare (artsy fartsy):
the former needs a stranger and a park bench...
the latter needs a stage and a theatre and commotion;
thinking the two will unite is already a prerequisite
of dictatorial rule...
                                   additionally?
you can't learn dialectics from the direct source that
discloses the existence of such a medium...
not Plato... and i'm not saying that i know it:
but i'm saying that no slogan chanted in a march
   will create a less embittered narrative than
my own mind might already provide.
ghosts in *** toys, boney *****,
       **** tricksy risque (or if it would be worthwhile
to be born with the pleasurable **** experience gene);
              which amounts to one billion Chinese
doing it right...
       i wish i was born into a family of seven siblings...
then at least i might have, what is known as:
        a western acquisition of a satiable sense of humour;
the "hey man!" sort of attitude that states that all
operatic endeavours have to be relegated to a tone
above the castrato: namely chipmunk.

what's this st-st-st-stuttering? i know you revealed an acute consonant combination, but you didn't have to ensure it doesn't exist - i am familiar with the way humanity doesn't need theological crutches, and wants to go at it alone, but sometimes an individual example of a human begs the question of God - look at than Blue Indian language, it has plenty of hatches that are nothing but dead-end corridors (h t'chess) - ghee - for example, the h is inserted for aesthetic reasons, not phonetic reasons - alpha bravo, alpha bravo, come in alpha bravo! romeo, over! and the theory of stuttering goes along the way: consonants primarily, definite sounds, like the articles - they hide him in the most obvious places, for aesthetic purposes he's there, but when spoke of, completely silenced.

*******...

one - why say tsar and not say gnome?
in England you don't say 'sar like you might
say 'nome - or 'nosis (gnosis) - nose-dive on this -
γνῶσις - again, why would the Greeks add
diacritical marks and the English haven't?
too busy up a monkey's *** crack for all i know -
doggy dodging the debate -
leave dialectics like a derelict house and
soon enough everyone becomes so
opinionated that it's hard to discuss any
opinion, given the defences of the person
ideally suited for politics -
Channel Four daytime t.v.? scarier than
any horror movie - *come dine with me;
but still, while st-st-stutter with the other
form of grapheme ts and not with the grapheme
gn? it's perfectly suited given the
original graphemes æ and œ -
you say agnostic perfectly, but when it comes
to gnosis people cut the g off and never bother
with the rule they apply to ts when a wet drum kit
snare if hit for hot when uttering the word
tsar.

two - the incident of a 91-year old woman in
Berlin, in a gallery, oldie had the chuckles
doing this one -
did graffiti on a £67,000 work of art with a biro,
reading-work-piece,
a 1977 work by Arthur Köpcke of the Fluxus
movement - prompted by the "artist's" instructions:
insert words - granny did goo goo good -
that's how i see Hebrew -
a perfect twin image - Hebrew, apart from the
two Adams (aleph and ayin) is a bit like a crossword,
vowels are only inserted for a Bar Mitzvah of
practising Kabbalah - perfect'oh comparison -
and you begin to wonder, why didn't the Hebrew
have a pronounced E if they had an A?
after all the sacred name has Adam and Eve to
imprison - which is why it'd explain
Islamic niqab - hidden from sight.

apologies for a telegram style of writing -
i have to make dinner, take pictures of flowers,
water the garden, trim my beard, wash myself
and then ******* to see a ballet of Don Quixote -
you get the picture.

It is good to get lost at Edapally junction
in that sea of people in the bus bay in front of emmanaul silks
to be exact, I could get lost in any part of kerala
it is the same to me ,kozhikode, thrissur or cochin
I am a foreigner
And i have adapted.
why ?
Why ,you may ask
why this indifference to one's own mother
simply because you cannot abandon your mother though you grew up in an orphanage
So goes for these places
I did not choose my mother
nor did I choose my native land
and I cannot orphan them
can I ?
I am familiar with some places now
As new memories are made
I remember places now
I remember fort kochi for the lanes sloshed in whisky and dreams
i remember vypin for small truths
I remember vytilla for heartbreak and pain
I remember wellington for incessant talk and friends
I remember calicut for numerous crossroads and junctions and restrooms
I remember thrissur for art and molestation
i do remember places now for each memory made
it was not like this for the place I grew
I know the temple and the paddy field
and the people in each house
like the woman on Google maps announcing each turn and curve
I would say this where I smashed the neatly piled red bricks with my lady bird bicycle
or take a turn in that alley and say this where I buy coloured glass bangles
Or take a left here ,this is where I light lamps filled with ghee fasting and in obeisance to devi
It is all vivid ,perfect with no doubts
and everything is doubtful in my own land
And then ,I decided to get lost at Edapally
sorry if I am geographically wrong

I stopped my car at the highway
Amongst the water logged fields
Overgrown with white lilies
my driver looked displeased
how could one waste travel and money
until then I had counted minutes and seconds
Of anticipated moments of security boarding and baggage
and now I stopped here at angamali  a nowhere
and watched my flight overhead
What now he looked anxiously
let's take a detour
I said
and yelled at the plane
"I don't care "
I want to get lost
And switched off all accountability

He dropped me at Edapally junction
And i stood still in that movement
a flood of people
fear engulfed me
the airconditioned air filled my mind
a fake cherry tree with cotton and red  glitter paper stood staring
People moved in with money and came out with loads
sweat, dreams, monotony, laughter expectations ,new hopes and hopes  dangling in the bus bay
some comfort now ,I stood hugging my Adidas coat
I did not know where to look and was whirling around in small circles
when I felt being pulled
Your lanky arm
I was here trying to get lost
And here you were pulling me back
I walked with big steps trying to dodge you and hoping to disapper
And then it started to pour
I did not know which was louder
the rain or your anger
your knuckles white
is this why they call white with fury
even the rain seemed white
the cotton hung wet and the cherry Tree seemed drained
but language seemed fine
you drove
I walked
and it rained
it was perfect to get lost

I jump with glee
And break my knee
Eat homemade ghee
And **** with Lee.

sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.