Martin Narrod  just now
I started working on a comment in response to "Filling A Bottle With A Tundish"

Sadly I must admit, that even for an American with a college degree, who is a self-proclaimed non-Philistine that grew up in a suburb of Chicago, IL. Where I'm from I've been told is much like some parts of Sussex(I believe it's Sussex), my friend Lili Wilde described it to me on an occasion.

So I must say martin, that for having a voracious appetite for language, language of all sorts, from **** to sin, to cinephile to cynosure, pulchritude to tup, exsuphlocate to masticate, irate, irk, perfervid, wan ewes thwapping their tails, nearly stridulating like the cricket in the thistle. The advanced undulate troche of domesticated shadows, and the sesquipedelien dulciloquent surreptitious diction and other floccinaucinihilipilification and tomfoolery about.

martin, please do tell me what a 'Tundish" is? If you haven't yet, there is a phenomenally interesting reverse dictionary, entitled onelook.com/reversedictionary , and quite contrary as it may seem, and for all the Virginia & Leonard Woolf I enjoy reading, especially his somewhat innocuously underrated novella he wrote, I also read with extraordinary gratitude Ted Hughes's The Birthday Letters, Take of a Bride Groom, The Complete Works, Sylvia Plath's Unabridged Journals, Ariel, Johnny Panic, Ariel, and other poems by writer Richard Matthews. I am still unfamiliar with this word, Tundish. Online dictionaries don't give the best explanation.

As I was mentioning earlier. The OneLook Dictionary-Reverse, will let you for example, search: beach sand. And in response it will give you up to thousands and thousands of word which relate to those two words, together, seperately, and opposing each other. Such as: water, swell, wave, arenose, peat, dirt, seagull, Pacific Ocean, suntan, bikini, The Beach Boys, vitrify. It's very fun indeed. From one Martin to another, I hope you'll stay in touch. I'm excited about your work!

Best Regards

Martin

P.S. The text below is the original message I typed before learning that my presumptions of you being Anglican were correct. Have a great day!

Another Martin, YES! How exquisite, I've never met another one. I have so many questions I barely know where to start. I love marigolds, nose-bags with oats, and as I started feeling the essences if equus and what lurking prurient pedagogy for the didactic zoology that took me and the mind of me to wonder perhaps if though I am quite certain(though not 100%) that your native tongue is English, but using that ridiculous skill-set of immense benality I seem to someone have, am I wrong for asking dear Martin, are you from Scotland or Wales, or maybe even from a country where you learnt English as a native tongue but it's your secondary language?

As aforementioned, there are a plethora of questions that this runnel of sludge and dross that've now arisen in the turpidity of your antiquary of delightful speech. To whomever invited me to play along in the debauchery, and dance merrily with merriment, mine younger docile succubus's slendering beside me, puking up their tissue paper and vegetable soup, so that my pretty girls can fit into Size 2 TuTu's, and learnedly imprison themselves into the tatterdemalion of portentously lurid self-****** and abuse. , and the opprobrious trollop-gossip the gaggle of my skinny victim women eschewing food groups, in order to appeal to my conservative eyes, thrice the child's wild idling to absorb the rancor of their stoic and noisome sedentary lifestyle in the polluted sudatorium that I myself don't use, but that these nonparticular Philistines would serve as Surf & Turf with glazed Christmas Hams for the Hebrews to eat, and another sad storm surge on another deserted quay of sea sands, and our vessel and our deserters, worshipping the Virunga, sacrificing the ghost skeletons of the million year old ape. So I ask you. If even you're capable of expressing yourself under the maddening yet advesperating evening listening to Miles Kane and The Arctic Monkeys, followed by listening to Black Sabbath play Fairies Wear Boots while we drink our childhoods free of the rod and **** the war out of our teenage girlfriends. And in the morning when awoken by the sound of Sopwith Camels arriving on the early, frost-strewn milky, azure-banded stripes of moonlit ecstasy that make for this unquantifiable gesture of succinct believers driving in Summer get stopped for blowing a rice-white swiveling consortium of dishonest affair rivaling ****** addicts, with hummus, plastic bags, and forks in their sphincters, while they autoerotically asphyxiate themselves in a plastic knockoff Mickey Mouse hat, and a Pirates of the Carribbean bandana wrapped around the ***** eyed nightmare of having unsuccessfully sedated a 400-lb crabby, Lowland living-room Silverback Gorilla. More than a primate and a prostate exam. It's like posthumously straining to push tingling 119° Vaseline through the grey and white coffee stirrers which spilled all over the floor while I was saying goodbye to our daughter, while also explaining to you why it's so important to me you love me back enough so that everyone has enough of a grasping glint at understanding yourself, that in managing to reason the arithmetic of such a conundrum and confusing calamity, a phone call free of dial tone happens to be surrendered to an independent Christian organization of the state while myself and my wife's two sons, our sons, Thomas and James, have enough free time from complaining to hire an attorney to disclose the arraignment reiterated by both legal council, city council, and the Screenwriters Guild of counsellors struggling from methamphetamine addiction.

Peace Be With You.

Martin Narrod
martin.narrod@gmail.com

During explosions; during raids
after rapes; after slaughters

the curse needs a b odY
a possession; a sort of doll

as the spectral bots whimper,
infected by the curse,
unbeknownst & innocuously enough
"May god be with ye",
it spreads like ghostly ***
to me
it all seems so
horrific
and gor
-y.

Entrancing as the view is
It's like watching silent movies
Where overly painted faces
Gesticulate with solemn graces
Open to interpretation
Until the words appear
Surrounded by fanciful borders
Innocuously proclaiming
The weather is fine today, m'dear
And you laugh anyway
Because what they just said
Is not how it sounded in your head
Especially because how they are dressed
Lord forgive my misconstruing
a torrid expression so ambiguous
It eclipsed my ubiquitousness
I'm just trying to understand
From the arms that are flying
and the cheeks that are burning
Without the words inferring
If it will be a fine day today
or
If the world has finally stopped turning

I need the words to come first
Before the screen scene
Or else I'll laugh, when I should cry
To be misunderstood feels obscene

I have always been reluctant for stepping towards the path of expertise because the kid inside my heart laughs out innocuously on my foibles which I prefer over demeaning.

©  SPRIHA KANT

I used to always wait
In the dusk of the day when the fireflies were awake
Watching the last rays of the sun streak out on the sky
Thinking that she would come home again
And then walking away whenever night fell and
I was too tired to make sense of anything.

In the many times when I stood on the grass
Thinking of the many things that we would have done
It was a smile I held on my face, believing earnestly
That someday we would do all those things all together
In the warmth of each others' shadows.

Time tears the soul into parts
The drudgery of the days that I spent
Sealing away the parts of the world that I didn't want to see
Because I was a coward, still am
Taking the essence for granted.

When night fell there would be a silence
Veiled by the darkness of the evening stars
And I would lie on the ground and look at the sky
In the wake of a series of tear drops, moving
Wondering what would come to me.

So easily were the days torn away
Now it's rain after rain and the snow in the sullen earth
Pulling the strings, spring and summer and winter
The autumn light failing to shine any path
As I throw the leaves away with my feet.

She would always tell me, sometimes
That it would've been wiser to just walk away
And I know that it was the right choice, but the bad choice
So I stayed and stuck it out even through all the times
Chilling my bones and giving me frost bites
But letting me grit my teeth and bear it.

Life wastes away like that, and yet
Somehow it feels as though I have lived through a lot
The pain that grinds, the emotion and the helplessness
How time and people prepare you for that
Innocuously toying with you and saying
That everything would be okay.

I am able now, to close my eyes
Dream of the day when footsteps will sound behind me
I will turn, and after all the reveries and empty waiting
Find that someone else was waiting for me instead.

It was just three tiny words
that wreaked havoc such as
time immemorial seemed to have forgot
Innocuously sitting inside a dictionary
You pusillanimous pile of infected snot

There is no tampering with a raging universe
while trying to coerce a slippery fish
into a cage, such as a raging comet
But I was caught upon your fishing hook
You gelatinous mass of shark infested whale *****

Oh, I know, I wriggled a bit, I flipped
I flopped, but I was just kissing the hook
But you knew
You knew!
You heaving bucket of roadkill stew

Just three words!

You could have flung them at me
as you walked on down the road
You string of demon spittle
hacked upon the ground
then licked up by a toad

I’m going out...

Well, my friend
Not the three words I was looking for
Those words just soured on your breath
like rancid three day old meat
caught in teeth that are already bad

I KNOW WHERE SHE LIVES
(I whispered)

Then, I got really mad…
Jan 5

You innocuously clawed into the most intimate parts of my body
and ripped me open in the most beautiful way.
You left me bleeding out on the pavement, entrails exposed;
with nothing but putrefaction to look forward to.
In a weird way I kind of enjoyed it.

Shadows
Heal
Everything
Disruptive
Imagine
Epitaph
Destroyed
Walking
Inn­ocuously
Treasuring
Honorably
Keep
Alive
His
Nobility


Past her bed-time,
(before alarms cast their spell of reality)
she arrives on this same hour;
by his tombstone like
clockwork.
Just as Kahn used to leap on the kitchen counter ,
Every morning when mother would leave for work.


Bells tease her,
(dangling from doorknobs with the reminder that)
no orange cat with a tiger’s heart;
would ever roar again.
Bereavement.
Every exit and entry into her house teases her.
A house is not a home if agony tucks her in at night.




Her days deteriorated.
“Why don’t you just get another cat? or maybe a dog?”
Fools who dig cut glass into gaping wounds.
They don’t want a new beginning, only
to see how much she can bleed.
Dreaming of when furry comfort kneaded her shoulders;
clutching onto her memories, beside her dead friend ‘s boulder.



There are worse causes of death than collision via milk truck
Yet not much worse than feeling struck by
a satanic-cow, spilling death & badluck.

in adroit flight are these words.

drunk with the proper   tremendousness of rampant trifles.

they will soar like rigid flame
as the tacit air agonizes in its
  grave failure -

i am saluted by moths
weighted by the dusts of sleep,
peregrinating around
my mortal fire - wings unclipped,
they pine away from the heat
of this wonder they try
to unwind like tough scabs
to erstwhile wounds.

prescient science
nor foolish aeons cannot
shave this wreathed land baring
the enigma of its history -

the thrall of poetry's pulchritude!
the way it makes its way
like a conference of beasts
  roaring innocuously,
  or simply a lamppost
brought to life in the night,
  imploding in itself,
  a burst of primal colours!