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Arke Feb 2019
your whole body becomes a map made for me
to explore the uncharted territories
conquer the lands where I see fit to leave my mark
to seek and record with eyes and hands what is tangible
but I wish, more than anything, that I could uncover
your mind, your soul, your core, your being
to find my way under your skin as you have mine
the topography of your brain is a beautiful landscape
I want to study your phenomenology
to become a cartographer of your sulci and gyri
come to know the lines and ridges of your consciousness
create new methodology to observe and transcribe
your brain is a fingerprint unique, and yours
all the more beautiful for it's belonging
Àŧùl Dec 2016
We count cells by manual methods,
Using the counting chamber,
Plating & colony forming unit count.

We let them be counted automatedly,
Using electrical resistance,
Flow cytometry & image analysis.

Then there is this indirect method too,
Using spectrophotometry we count,
Or even by the impedance microbiology.
Cell counting methods used in Animal Cell Culture include the above three main categories and then seven sub-categories are divided among the three chief categories.

There are two manual counting methods:
a. using the counting chamber for counting each one individually, and
b. plating and CFU (Colony Forming Unit) count.

Three automated counting methods are there:
a. using electrical resistance,
b. flow cytometry, and c. image analysis.

Two indirect counting methods are there too:
a. using a spectrophotometer, or
b. count by impedance microbiology

HP Poem #1334
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Dec 2016
I put all the effort I could,
I scanned all methods over,
But I could not get rid of them,
Your memories in my head,
And the waltzing images.
Images of you hugging me,
Your face cupped in my hands,
Our eyes lost in each others'.
HP Poem #1290
©Atul Kaushal
I keep company and sit

with the empty shells

and yet the clam pit's full,




perhaps there was a cull on clams.




I claim my free prize,




I see potatoes with

the eyes that don't see me

oh goodie, goodie,

chips for tea.




We're either in it for the money or the fame and altruism's just a name  that rolls off eager tongues

so

I play dominoes with those who play with blank dull faces in spots I'd rather be than having tired old chips for tea and still the eyes cannot see me




it comes again to what we know and what we grow and who plants where and when

a company indeed of men, primitive, Methodist, I've gotten ****** with most of them

in the fields and down the pub by half past ten for half a pint of brutish beer, we are only what there is out here and what we give is not too much or not a touch on what we should.




This rambling day,

ivy I would rather be than that

with eyes but who sees me?

a rose, a rose, she grows

but not so quick as can't be cut.




In Yorkshire they aspire

In Lancashire, perspire,

In Wales they have a choir

I prefer to sweat.




As you might plainly see or

as it seems to me to be

poetry's a conjuring,

something

to clear the system out

akin to Ex-Lax

I have no doubt.
It's Monday and the madness falls quite dimly in this half lit hall.

— The End —