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Naveen Malhotra Aug 2020
Wanderers in ochre robes
Wander across hills and mountains bare foot
In their quest for truth
Thorns prickling their feet
Heat and frost burning their skin
They are often ridiculed
What makes them so crazy
That they find beauty of life out of sync
May be they have seen life rife with so much strife
That they have nothing to whine
Or may be it is their spiritual might
Which is difficult to attain otherwise
Or may be they tillage the essence of life by pillaging self pride
Or may be they polish the unpolished side of life and make bright the dark inside
Who verily knows
What is right
Let them live their lives
Let us live our lives
Henry Mar 2020
Shall I compare thee to a broken watch
A piece of garbage all but twice a day
Existing to be broken on the rocks
Remember the father and where he lay
But gone is the age of the stoics babe
Now rust and rot control the fall of glass
Not one was witness to the violet grave
Except the people in the razor grass
But nothing's nice under an ochre sky
Although your sickened tick is worse than most
And you betray the father with your lie
As if his sacrifice was but a joke
A life in the waves could pay all your dues
Best get comfy in your new concrete shoes
1/17/20
The Yellow Sky #1
I always pictured
angels as a sort
of apperceptive helicopter,
Kryptonian psychiatrist
or interdimensional fallguy.
But mute angel of mercy
suppressing suspiration,
who withheld their number
& was on the line for
seconds at 7
a.m. this morning was you,
I knew
it, checking I was alive
after my BPD jive.

Like a thumbsup from
Lottohanded giddy aunt God, profound
as Enceladean heavenplumes
organic compounds
bead. But I'd rather
discover there was still life in our
remaining *-X'd
petnamers & injokers,
exchanging angel orca,
our kremlinology of ultrasound Eros.
Awaking next to you
- phew!
After a febrile siesta,
like a jammy sailor

shipwrecked upon the shore
of home of all places.
Snug as alien orcas under
Europa's ocherous linea, chaos
terrain, in Jovian lunar caverns
measureless to mantas down
to a sunless sea, our
mooner's pod duets
in cryptolect,
tho' my mooner's
pods
recede,
wellhung as Orko
at proto-razbliuto,

fond-to-neutral farewell in your
plaint. You have no
right to resist my other
worlds, clam up on our orca argot.
I am your Stalker God,
you my orca pod
centrefold,
who checked I was alive
after my BPD jive.
I love you so much I'll leave you on hold.
Eruptable,
undumpable,
how can you resist
an interpersonal terrorist?
Paul Jones Dec 2015
Burnt ochre, brittle     and blackened since bloom.
In death's repose, the     roses are refined.
26/12/15

— The End —