"brod" poems
born of blood
from a thorn
of a beautiful flower
from the love
of the horned
adorned
in power
cowering
in the vicious
maliciousness
of the constituents
in the deliverance
to my ridiculousness
saw
twisted shapes
and contorting faces
heard
blurred words
displaced
in hateful slurs
of aggression
and i cannot count the cases
in my tasteless confessions
in my reluctant concessions
in my brutal perfection
of my obsessions
imposed against my will
you're supposed to feel
what they do
right?
opposed to killing
for the thrill
but it sometimes
just feels right
shanky gone unscrupulous
shivering
his shimmied
blood on the walls
stuttering stanleys
still silly stringing
calling for candy
but missed last call
and fell to the floor
as Bruno butchered the boar
in a deplorable fashion
a crime of passion
we were hungry
rubbing our tummies
for the honey
of bee hives
jive turkeys
turning to bunnys
for good times
but we were alive
while others were not
fraught with darkling majesty
sparkling at the seraded points
disjointed
in Freudian
ointments
self anointed
as god
standing over
some butchered
brod from abroad
wiping the fog
of dislodged
eye sockets
from my grog
how you get
from there to here
isn't really a fair mirror
on my intention
i meant to
suspend her
just enough
to face f--k
and with luck
strangle her
but she prayed to be ripped down
in her own way
my f--king way
stripped her
of dignity
wimpering
in little cute sounds
who am i?
but the guy
who spaced
hit her
too many times in the face
and replaced her
facelessness
with ***** toiletries
disappointingly
underwhelmed
still in search of a fairy
to take the helm
and ferry me
from this film
disparagingly
just spare me
the tragedy and grief
blaring from the TV
as i mock
their expressions
in my lessons
of humanity
before the flock
to shelter
my anxiety or not
gonna be
a real boy one day
and conform
to the
wayward ways
the way
of sheep
sleeping
soundly
in decay
blue fairy
gonna
marry me
one
day
be
real
one
day
one
day
1
d
a
y
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
Handed down through the ages,
Humanity in hearts and reverance for the sages.
This place is more like a heaven on Earth,
Myriad of religions are taken here birth.
Our emperors were too kind to invade any country,
Million of channels telecast it's documentary.
Jai Hind and Satyamev Jayte resides in our heart,
Our sand handles both a motor and a cart.
The holy Ganga flows from the bottom of Himalayas,
So is worshipped for being called a gift like Matthias.
The Himalayan is fit like a crown on our mother's head,
Climatic variations and monsoon rainfall are so evenly spread.
World's economy has an immense eminence of zero,
Invented by Aryabhatta; Ramanujan- the Maths hero.
Bhagat Singh, Laxmi Bai had been an epitome of strength,
Education is vastly spread and immeasurable in length.
Variety of raiment is seen in every state,
Twenty two languages and each with a feel of sedate.
Vendors working daily amidst tumults on roads,
Poetry scribbled by poet as their respectful odes.
Colours of rainbow is reflected here well,
Luscious cuisines grabs heed by the smell.
Geeta, Qur'an, Adi Granth and Bible,
At different hours, they worship their idols.
Vaisakhi, Christmas, Holi and Eid
we stand together as a pillar in every need.
Writings are not only read in books,
But scripted on walls, painting on hooks.
Folk arts, tribal arts, feet beating on rhythm,
Dance forms are many, depicting their vision.
Here, women are treated equal to men,
Delhi and Mumbai got their place in the list of wen.
We treat our guests as the heavenly God,
One can visit here either by plane or brod.
Weddings are held by following every ritual,
Our ways may differ but our hearts are mutual.
With so much of glory do not mistake it as Neverland,
As this Golden bird does not fly but stays on land.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 10:51 AM UTC
'Does anyone still want to go with me into a panorama? '
—Max Brod
The sun floats down river
Resting from a long day.
As Banvard draws love
Birds in the sand.
She tries to explain
How his deformity angers her.
Unable, she leaves him
On the other side of the shore.
Banvard becomes
a traveling salesman,
s campfire fiddler,
s drunk, a painter of shores.
Yearning for her—
He turns her into the Mississippi shore.
Riding the long river, floating
On a brush, he paints her portrait.
Huge bolts of love
The canvas sags from longing
Immense wood contraption
(Gears-pulleys crank machinery)
Three miles of canvas.
An uninterrupted portrait.
The papers publish the spectacle
'The hunchback painter and his panorama! '
He builds a wooden stage
Winds up river then down.
The lines are long, (.50 cents.)
They wait for hours...
He sits in the middle
Of hungry brush stroke
Up river
Down.
Up river
down
Eyes straining—
To find her.
Nominated for a Pushcart Award 2008 Juked.com
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC