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K Balachandran Mar 2015
She is a succulent bunch,let me be helpful,
if you don't get the complex chemical scent,
I call her ,"a girl of unpredictable
meeting places"inotropic, is her effect,
She sends heartbeats way up.
Delectable too, she was, every time
I tasted certain parts of her.
Her avatars are numerous, like Hindu Gods
With specific  intention for each incarnation
Onee will be pushed in to neurosis,
if doesn't completely relish her infinite variety.
She is a cryptic mystic,
for a while  from signals
I discerned and firmly believed
Or is she just a  creature mysterious
Doubt raises it's head, like a lotus
From slushy pond
My eyes met her at the level of  her eyes first,
the rest in a haze to me was invisible,
Then my heart sends a message
"Right now, I missed a beat here"
Heart then recites a poem,
tells me, it is all her making
"Don't fall in love" heart's advice,
"Go, dissolve in her completely"
Even my own heart has crossed sides,
or is it truly an advice for my sake?
Love is a hallucinogen, get it?
she whistles like wind at bamboo groves
from within sings like a thrush,
she is a magpie, or is she a koel?
Nocturnal animal, in need of mating,
making calls, frantic SMS, incessant.
She is wind and water, elements
that make one burn and drown
She spreads her yoga mat on the floor,
asks me to sit cross legged Indian style,
I am already for that in my mind,
So I spread eagle in corpse pose, indicating, "All through my life", mother earth gives me warmth.
          Shanti,   Shanti,   shanti
Taboo topics
One fears to write
It doesn't seem
To be alright
The muses may
Get annoyed
Decent topics
Many write
Love, heartache
Memories, tragedies
Nature, sky
Fairies, ghosts
It's easy to write
Taboo topics often
Make you cringe
You find it
Difficult to hinge
For a fearless poet
Or writer
Nothing is taboo
If it's in the interest
Of youth and society
Obscene and indecent
Expressed with decency
Highlighting exigencies
***, religion
Politics and war
Many refrain to write
What others would
Think of them
This thought stops them
To pickup pen
They would be filled
With guilt
If their poetry
Or writings
On taboo topics are built
To free man
From their clutches
A fearless poet
Or writer
Always writes
For him
Nothing is taboo
Nothing is taboo!
Ken Pepiton Jul 22
We all get rich, it fixes every thing, c'mon

Initial Public Offering.
Made inclusively to
all the children of all the wombed men,
but one,
by now, none else, for eons, unmarked
save in ashes under ancient tells,
none of these people, these *** of the gods,
and the one,
daughter of man who signed off on this story.

-live forever-

Thinking attracting needs,
deeds done that send funds, to wipe debt from mind.
Bring the wizard,
strip him bare, grind him  to gore and gristle,
bone blood and all the biles, shake it up,
jiggle in the sack of skin, watchit
burst and puddle
in the flame,

is this pyrex? See

Bunsen burning in my brain, a mixture now,
oh wow
Schmachten-burger, cheese, *** of enlightened
hippie jews, shapers shaped in common fashion,
after the sixties finished, there arose guides to the goy
who knew nothing of the mystery,
save that Alice Toklas was not gay, in the Nineties way

Oy-vey, cultural appropriation, Jah, Jah is ours, as you
well know, we have esoterica galore, here buy
a mezuzah, ya, gutglück - all ah, ala phylacteries
and these use that same parchment, goat skin,
very kosher halal and all, done
under strictest supervision, seeing super see, is
something the literate,
Phoenicians, Shem shah-mans, and their accountants,
discovered the territory within the skull of man,
was open to other minds,
in matters of wit
inventions'nshit, set a will to a way, watch,

come the future, we are famous…
who invented the wheel?

watch, watch, it winds around, a motion, anchored
to a plain truth in the left cerebral sorting station,
reflecting back,
******-rectumly linearly right co- oh, I see

cor-rect or co-recht, co-right, if nobody's wrong.

But there is no hateful god who made hell for those
honed as honed may be, in punctual efforting
sharp, even on thorny issues,
floating in the occular consomme,
slightly briney aqueous humor,


to make a point in time to pierce anything
in my way

see clear,  plumb the depths truth's base idea,
some things wish vehemently to be known,
must-er-ion, quest, ionic tipping
point whence the ring of eight
slips a point, and specs call
ion ion whither went thee?
ion, zion sion, see the gleam,
golden oil,
yes indeed, I did, I did pray
for this,
or something sorta like it,

peace on earth, good will toward man,
reconciliation complete perceived as done.

Can you hear me?
Did I lose loose links to long lies, left tied
to the stakeholders souls?

When did we realize the difference?
It must have taken years, and now, we see, match
the noses,
the eyes, or deeper even, look into the whites
of their mother's eggs…

see and know, or trust me, I know,
one wombed man's children, one,
the officially loneliest number. One
wom'man, woe,
not Genesis, or Enuma Elish,
or the story from Braiding Sweetgrass,

but, old, old stories, told, once, at least,
by a witness,
-- it was as if the bone and all it was,
was altered, by a bit, a Y got a leg, or lost one,
I do not know, but bone of my bone,
was that one little bit,
more in one way, at the stem, and as branching
began, the one had daughters, who bhor daughters,
while from that generation forward,
the many others,
bore no children of any breathing form,
for this was not so long ago, mitomom, you know,
she had sisters and cousins and aunts
and a mother who had a mother
and a father who had a mother.
of the eggs in those wombs, ever lived to now,
but the eggs of the one wombed man we must
accept, she who shaped all after ever began
that instant when,
only one line remained, and there was no war.
No reason, at the time, but soon
in geo time,
we grew apart, branching on rivers
when we found them on our journeys from the east

- I think she
was likely deep dark brown, she links me to you,
stem cell level
and below,
logos in touch,
the code of silence. A cone, yes, the cone
of silence,
rolled from fool'scap, common in the great leaps
through the ages, as sons and daughters were born,
something occurred,
a virus, or a leaven, or fish, perhaps,
rancid oil while the child waited for its form
to form in the wombed man, now known
as mom. She,
Mitochondrial source of the code that keeps us alive.
The same basic way batteries in blood
have been made since knowing

Universes, realms of human reasons, piled in
lattice work bits and pieces,
joints and joiners,
that fit in particular places to form certain shapes
of things to come,
it is all very miniaturized, nano nano scale…

yes, did you know him, Mork?
I never did.

_ he does that so you don't think him arrogant,
ashamed to admit the use of the mind of christ
in a secular win the game way.

But what the hell, knowing ain't cheating, if you know
what's right,

wanna place a wager on the Robinhood IPO?
I gotta plan, see…
we go into such and such a city, we buy, we sell,
but this is the secret,
we sell debt,
you owe me, right, it works, it always works,
give and it is given unto you,
pressed down,
running over -- goods and services, nothing taxable
or tithe-able,
riches with no sorrow, added.

You interested? One time buy in. Two bits.
I heard the news and thought, what difference might a mote in my eye make?
Elliott G Jun 13
The Ukulele string snaps
a small stream of blood from your ring finger,
but it's not gloom or sorrow
but contorted contentment...
When you fill your cup
up to the brim with cream
and it doesn't go over
the edge.
When you peek around
the corner and see your
favorite store open,
with that one book inside
you've been waiting to grab
for years now, but you never did.
When you walk through the woods
when the scenery secludes you
from civilization;
the temptation to give into
the nightingale's melody which
slices the silence with its melancholy tune.
You breathe in the air
on top of the dune; sandcastles, sandhills
childish screams as you yell 'seek!'
giggles and yelps of excitement.
A newborn baby cradled closely,
the warmth spreads through your body
like when you finish a book, not a series;
a novel of great adventure;
the sigh of great relief.
On a cold autumn night,
when you wrap the blanket around you,
trinkets on your nightstand,
the pleasure of closeness' embrace,
the comfort of a lovers touch,
intertwined between each seam of your covers.
As the rain paints your windows crystal
your watercolors touch the canvas,
your jewel, Cupid's arrow through your heart
but it's not love, as defined in dictionaries, legends, or myths.
The breeze moves the window drapes
paint drips on your jeans and you laugh;
why not paint the walls crimson or azure!
Why not travel the world in a broke-down Van,
stopping every thirty miles for another can
of gas or root beer or what have you?
Why not get seven cats and name each one
after your favorite deserts?
What if you paint the sky orange?
What if you grew fins and sprung into the blue ocean?
What if trees were purple not green?
What if the Library of Alexandria was still here?
Swinging round and round;
the melody from the record player
grabs your arms and makes you fly
to the moon and back,
your laughs heard around the world...
Terra Levez Feb 24
"There is nothing more peaceful
than not being interested in anyone"
Carl D'Souza Feb 9
I notice you,
You are conspicuous to me
as I think you are wonderful
like a rainbow in a clear blue summer sky.
evelina Jan 20
it ***** when you're constantly admired but never loved
it happens every time
people lose interest in me
it doesn't matter how hard i try
they get tired
and suddenly
they are a distant memory
dailythoughts Nov 2020
my worth has been measured to your interest too many times and now I am a nobody
maybe marc Sep 2020
is it?
the way in which
we give to each
i've been feeling unsure.

infusing everything on the path,
i've been the rot
you've been the honey.
but when i look for clarity
in silence,
you divulge your interest
(barely louder)
-with a question.

and when you decay towards me
when you use me for your pleasure
and i see the devil in you,
you make me
solely a body.

i mean, what is a future for us?
living alongside,
maybe we'll develop an ******;
but you'll have to want longer,
i to disengage from disavowment.

proximity to omnipresence
only if i stop burying myself,
i want to look into your eyes
and find reciprocity.
been reading and it's been keeping with me,
i'm missing stimulating conversation,
i miss working in a bookstore.

i'm putting words to these doubts,
not because i want them to be real,
but to confront them,
Naveen Malhotra Aug 2020
Situation is uncanny uncanny
They yearn for penny penny
They have interest in their estate
They pray they be dead
Once dead they couldn't be fed
Three cheers!
For they could then take their (dead's) share of wine red
No more yearning for penny penny
Situation is then canny canny!
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