Inside many of us
is a small old man
who wants to get out.
No bigger than a two-year-old
whom you'd call lamb chop
yet this one is old and malformed.
His head is okay
but the rest of him wasn't Sanforized?
He is a monster of despair.
He is all decay.
He speaks up as tiny as an earphone
with Truman's asexual voice:
I am your dwarf.
I am the enemy within.
I am the boss of your dreams.
No. I am not the law in your mind,
the grandfather of watchfulness.
I am the law of your members,
the kindred of blackness and impulse.
See. Your hand shakes.
It is not palsy or *****.
It is your Doppelganger
trying to get out.
Beware . . . Beware . . .

There once was a miller
with a daughter as lovely as a grape.
He told the king that she could
spin gold out of common straw.
The king summoned the girl
and locked her in a room full of straw
and told her to spin it into gold
or she would die like a criminal.
Poor grape with no one to pick.
Luscious and round and sleek.
Poor thing.
To die and never see Brooklyn.

She wept,
of course, huge aquamarine tears.
The door opened and in popped a dwarf.
He was as ugly as a wart.
Little thing, what are you? she cried.
With his tiny no-*** voice he replied:
I am a dwarf.
I have been exhibited on Bond Street
and no child will ever call me Papa.
I have no private life.
If I'm in my cups the whole town knows by breakfast
and no child will ever call me Papa
I am eighteen inches high.
I am no bigger than a partridge.
I am your evil eye
and no child will ever call me Papa.
Stop this Papa foolishness,
she cried. Can you perhaps
spin straw into gold?
Yes indeed, he said,
that I can do.
He spun the straw into gold
and she gave him her necklace
as a small reward.
When the king saw what she had done
he put her in a bigger room of straw
and threatened death once more.
Again she cried.
Again the dwarf came.
Again he spun the straw into gold.
She gave him her ring
as a small reward.
The king put her in an even bigger room
but this time he promised
to marry her if she succeeded.
Again she cried.
Again the dwarf came.
But she had nothing to give him.
Without a reward the dwarf would not spin.
He was on the scent of something bigger.
He was a regular bird dog.
Give me your first-born
and I will spin.
She thought: Piffle!
He is a silly little man.
And so she agreed.
So he did the trick.
Gold as good as Fort Knox.

The king married her
and within a year
a son was born.
He was like most new babies,
as ugly as an artichoke
but the queen thought him in pearl.
She gave him her dumb lactation,
delicate, trembling, hidden,
warm, etc.
And then the dwarf appeared
to claim his prize.
Indeed! I have become a papa!
cried the little man.
She offered him all the kingdom
but he wanted only this -
a living thing
to call his own.
And being mortal
who can blame him?

The queen cried two pails of sea water.
She was as persistent
as a Jehovah's Witness.
And the dwarf took pity.
He said: I will give you
three days to guess my name
and if you cannot do it
I will collect your child.
The queen sent messengers
throughout the land to find names
of the most unusual sort.
When he appeared the next day
she asked: Melchior?
Balthazar?
But each time the dwarf replied:
No! No! That's not my name.
The next day she asked:
Spindleshanks? Spiderlegs?
But it was still no-no.
On the third day the messenger
came back with a strange story.
He told her:
As I came around the corner of the wood
where the fox says good night to the hare
I saw a little house with a fire
burning in front of it.
Around that fire a ridiculous little man
was leaping on one leg and singing:
Today I bake.
Tomorrow I brew my beer.
The next day the queen's only child will be mine.
Not even the census taker knows
that Rumpelstiltskin is my name . . .
The queen was delighted.
She had the name!
Her breath blew bubbles.

When the dwarf returned
she called out:
Is your name by any chance Rumpelstiltskin?
He cried: The devil told you that!
He stamped his right foot into the ground
and sank in up to his waist.
Then he tore himself in two.
Somewhat like a split broiler.
He laid his two sides down on the floor,
one part soft as a woman,
one part a barbed hook,
one part papa,
one part Doppelganger.

English with 26 letters, is generally thought to be the simplest language on earth. A language built up on 26 letters is amazing.

But within just handful of letters, how many words can be misspelled..

My childish attempt to rhyme and write...

ei or ie, we are confused when we write,
it's then the words jump to end their lives.

Homonyms, homophones, homographs
It's fun to know the very facts.

Bear tried to **** Jack with its bare hands,
Jack had to bear the brunt of the bear.

Speed is what we thrive to do
If we forget to Brake, will break a head or two.

100 cents makes a dollar
Jack sent his wife to buy a stroller
She smelled the scent of a broiler
And forget all about the stroller.

The people who lives in Desert
do they have dates as their Dessert?

The dinner was perfect
The wine complemented the feast
The hosts were perfect
And were complimented for their treat.

The King who reigned Prussia
Rode high holding his horse's reins,
But his horse started to panic
As it started to Rain.

Drew looked at his new site
The building looked a perfect sight
When asked for the legal owner
He cited the document which held his right.

I should love you as an eight year old,
asking to be excused from your third grade class
to go throw up in the bathroom.
Leaning over your desk in fevered prayer,
hunched over two tender nubs of breast.
Sitting down with your counselor
and a pack of giggling girls to have “the talk”
while bleeding into a *** of toilet paper.

I should love you as a twelve year old,
blue eyes lined and lipstick smudged.
Crouched behind the bushes, expelling chunks
of non-digested pizza and coke.
Taking two bottles of tylenol and laying down
on your kitchen floor, watching the broiler burn.
Calling your boyfriend, and whispering
so your mom won’t hear
“I love you, I hate you, don’t go, leave me to die”

I should love you as a fourteen year old,
thin as a pencil, hair black and straight
Walking with a humming in your head
to your eighth grade classes, slipping away
to the library and reading books on dying
and so you steal a bottle of ativan
from your grandfather’s medicine cabinet.
You take 10.

I should love you as you are now.
Seventeen, eyes darkened to a jade,
and burnt out on suicide attempts.

But I don’t.

The ticket stall is empty
Sunlight bounces off the pavement
And reflects off the double doors

There are no posters in the frames

In my town
Most places are too cold for pretend

Against the white
In thick black letters
The headlining show
“Theater Closed Broiler Broken”

They called me a temptress
Rolling the dessert cart out always makes people say the oddest thing
You’re a temptress
I always assumed they were talking about the desserts
The ones I’ve repeated so many times I can rattle them off from memory without the cart in front of me
I never thought they’d be talking about me
I am dessert

I am cake
Not chocolate, I’m not dark enough to be called by such an unimaginative and racist name
Cheesecake
White and pale because I’d never dare to tan without bottoms on
Light brown just around the edges because I can’t help if those bottoms happen to be a little cheeky
Cake for the way my *** looks in the leggings I wear nearly everyday
Cake because I know you’re watching when I tip myself into the freezer to scoop ice cream
Cake for the way the girls tap it as they go by
I am cheesecake

I have creme brûlée skin
Light until I lay out in the sun, under the broiler
Browned to perfection
Covered in darker spots where the heat was too intense, freckles dancing across my cheeks
I am a creme brûlée

I have a cobbler mouth
Pink, nearly red lips
A perfect circle right before I kiss
Sweet and supple like a raspberry
Tangy like a cranberry if I bite
(I have yet to find a boy that doesn’t enjoy that)
Words, sticky sweet, spill out like melted ice cream
I am a cobbler

I have key lime eyes
The centers lined with pumpkin
Sometimes they turn blueberry
It changes with the seasons
(The pies are seasonal too)
I have pie eyes

Maybe when they said temptress they were talking about me
Cake that could be called chocolate when it’s wrapped in black dress pants
Creme brûlée skin that’s all covered up but my face and my hands
But see, see my freckles
See how they cover every inch of me
Cobbler mouth asking if there’s anything else you may want
If you want something to drink with that
My voice dripping out two pitches higher, sticky sweet
Blueberry eyes, almost always, the blue of my shirt brings it out
Even if I’ve only seen that flavor served once
Maybe I am dessert

Dessert
The first thing that gets dropped
Always last choice
Those who say they’ll save room still start with a main course
Dessert
Only eaten if your main course didn’t fill you up, wasn’t satisfying enough for you
Only touched if your girlfriend or your last **** or your lonely aren’t satisfying enough for you
Dessert
If you’re full would you like one to go
Keep me in your pocket, save me for another day
I’ll wait, I don’t know how not to
Dessert

They always called me a temptress
I always assumed they were taking about the desserts
I am dessert
Maybe they were talking about me

///
I am the foe, too-
a foolish foe of my muscle's friends
they are well known, the difference between friend and foe

They have sent me in the jail
and after then, for me they have granted a bail
now they are trying to grow my flesh and bone  
they'll eat me day after tomorrow

I am the dark in the heaven
talking too much about the right
that test less, too worthless
as the humanity boring to my friend

Last night they ate a fat cat
who turned to make him as a fat less
he has too many friends,
they have grown as like as my foes, too

They have thought me as a broiler chicken
wish to send me at the right time in the kitchen

I am the dark in the hell
yet I  sing a song of humanity
and ready to make myself to move into the fire, too
I, a foolish foe of my friends, too
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

These are the days she fears the most.
When she wakes in the morning,
there's something askew.
She will try and get out,
out of her warm, soft blankets
before the buzzing of her phone
reminds her that she must work.
These days, though, she'll fail,
and stay cocooned until ten minutes
before she has to make the short journey.
She'll normally crawl out of bed,
pour a hot cup of coffee with one sugar,
drink it slowly while inhaling
her first nicotine fix for the day.
These days, though, she ran out the door,
coffee in hand, and didn't light the first cigarette
until she was already on the main road
to the hell hole she was employed at.
Usually, by now, her mood will have changed.
However, these days it just seemed to get worse.
Stuck between broiler and fryer,
she sat with chalky vinyl gloves
scrubbing the dirt and grease away.
She would think to herself,
"Haven't I done this before, to myself?"
These were the days she hated most.
When her co-workers ask,
"You're not your normal self?"
"How am I to be normal when I am
stuck here with people much better?"
She should know better, by now,
to not think this way,
but everything today was pointing
towards the barrel of a gun.
She finished her shift, eight minutes late,
ran to her car to be saved by the grace,
the grace of her car and a warm voice on the phone.
This day was finally getting better,
but then she walked in the door
where it was do this, do that,
screams here, screams there,
crying here, crying there.
These days, everything just got worse.
She finally mustered up enough anxiety
to tell everyone she needed some space,
so she took her best friend,
on four doppy long legs he stood,
for a short walk around the block.
She was finally clearing her head
of the overdosing thoughts,
when her ****** nosey neighbor,
stepped out onto her walk,
making conversation uncomfortable,
after five minutes she got on her way.
This girl finally decided
that it may be time for another cancer stick,
to wash some of the nerves away.
Once back around, she still was on edge,
pretty typical of these days, at least.
She went to her room,
and made yet another phone call,
to the same one as earlier,
it helped a bit more this time through,
until children came into the picture.
Normally, this would be fine,
even liked, but these days,
No.
No one was allowed inside this girl's head,
for these were the days she feared most.

<>

“I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,
gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the
day and night”

Song of Myself (1892 version) by  WALT WHITMAN

                                                   §§§

Irony great, some say unto delicious, for my writing,
be a fusing of surroundings of silences, admixture of
inconsequential noises, atomic horn and geese honking,
sun rays speaking in tongues, my skin translating, both,
the sounds of the city, those of out of city, merged, both,
accessible, instant recall, stored for tongue tasing upon

these blank pages below, needy for wordy fulfillment,
copy and place these mishmash of cacophonous,
on a single page, simmer, blend and sauce, of course,
salt to taste, mine, author of this recipe being born,
born in the night, prepped by day, the lovely sounds,
kettle or pan, broiler, fryer, slow cooked on full flame

they are the melted butter sweetness crossing the span
between the body of the heartbeat, the ache of the brain,
shot out in rapidity, error’d and stain’d, their state natural,
for this mess of beans, collection of noises, stir my soul
where they contain’d, aromatic, fanatic, exotic, sticky hot,
only a singular harsh invades, the shrill of the voice human

this piece, this poem, a flavoring, a dish-not-to-be-repeated,
once consumed, spoiled milk, molded with Jello mold green,
back to hiding in place of unseen, of bravura masked as cowardice,
when crackle of easy wasted word cowards, daily spewed,
so precious these ingredients, these artful sounds, easy ruined,
chitchats of nothingness, parlous blasé wastrels, seize! cease!

take thy tongue, let it memorize all the oddities that fill your ears,
ecrivez! the cooing, smacking, the alliteration of snap, crackle, and
yes, pop! and if you can love the human voice, of that too, tho not me,
more beloved, the exterior symphony of kettle drum, soft cry of violin,
timpani tingling, guitar plucking, the voice of men, too oft abusing and abused by untruths, emboldened lies, they are the sounds
I love least, love to hate.  a shrill disease, the TV liars...

                                                     §§§§§



May
Manhattan Island

A girl is born
They are happy
Hoping next one will be son
Next one
Also a girl
Parent’s are happy
But not society
Oh almighty !
Why?
God replies ,
‘’ Being boy like you is easy
Life’s good
maybe sometimes cheesy
Free-domed
Can pitch in makin’ decision ‘’
Rogered words
One acknowledged
Other knowledge-less
One tried to aware
Other are a way away
If boy’s wrong
he mistakenly did that
He is fair
In the girl’s facts  
She is falsifier
We boys too face some obstacles in deed
But definitely not suffer from half hour regular bleed
She
Should stay 4 days far a month like broiler hen
Far from parents care
and
suffered in 1 AM at night
suffocated for a glass of water
ordered to not to touch tap or filter
gazed on Banyan’s strips
ragged , whistled and horn beeps
Despite these ,
Bidya Devi Bhandari is President
Srinkhala khatiwada engineer
There are many such Bhandari Khatiwada’s
Showing us by their ability
We are no more living in
Male dominant society !

Stranger than these times
where man is caught up in the hype of
chains and masks and where are your *****?

Marley downs the boughs of holly
he's not so fukin jolly
but he is awfully dead

no swearing comes a voice from the back seats
where the deadbeats smoke their crack pipes
because it's Sunday
a day to be blessed.

Well
you can't dress up a broiler
as a fancy Christmas turkey,
but they tried it on with me.

They tell me
Jesus saves
and
Jesus lives
but
they never tell me
how.