CASHEW NUTS EATEN, BY AN OPEN FIRE
It's air in motion, the sound too soft to the ears and appealing to the senses.
The air so crisp, dust-filled and ice cold
The moon-lit skies, looking like the red night goblin was about to shower bars of chocolate and descend with his wrapped toys.
Some sweet jazz christmas music was playing in the background, Nat King Cole for sure.
From the old turntable came the music. Well mixed with the breeze thus presenting a never-before heard rendition of the song playing.
Once again the breeze blew heavily.
Trying to have its way with the open fire, burning some metres away from the large hut.
Earlier in the week, the cold North East wind had brought along some wild fire.
One happy family was sitting around the fire.
A man in turban and his wife with their handsome boy and cute little girl.
All dressed in warm woolly glittering sweaters and thick trousers.
They were all engrossed in what the father of the house was saying. And almost forgetting the wild fire had made them homeless. They had to settle for the large abandoned hut.
In between, they seemed to be chewing something.
Of course roasted nuts from cashew in a flat plate. All they had left to eat.
Father downing some fairly warm wine as he spoke.
He was telling them tales/legends of christmas and santa from all over the world.
Even the chewing horse relaxing next to the family, was enjoying the story-telling session.
Father closed his story book.
Together the whole family made and sang a remix of 'the christmas song' replacing the first line with 'Cashew nuts, eaten by an open fire'
Half way through the song.
They heard a loud bang close to their hut, something had landed in front of their  hut.
It was a large box filled with swiss chocolate, other yummies, gifts for the whole family and most of all,  a map telling them about a place of hope along the West.
On the right-hand side of the box was a large label with the words 'From Santa with love'.
The family, now relieved from the sudden heart-pounding sound and excited by the arrival of the gifts, cheerfully and gratefully started their song all over. This time it sounded like a 'reprise/outro' to an epic album.
This was the night before christmas and Harmattan just got serious.
Happy Christmas!

A melancholy ***** we came to adore
in mournful tone, finish the tale abruptly
and sob, uncontrollably;
"Memories of my melancholy ******"
including "Love in the times of cholera"
are now part of our folklore, this land
of cashew groves and banana plantations
in  Indian landscape, far far away from Latin American shores.

Her lascivious days are over
death visits the house of love, blood splattered
and a haunt of dark happenings, that begets children with tails,
shame, honor and secrets creep out of manuscripts.
Gabo is no more, no more"Living to tell the tale"
the Part Two, promised before.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, after three false starts
goes to his final abode for rest, now.

A coded manuscript, written in
in classical Sanskrit,
(the language of all divine texts
of Indian sages of yore)
scripted by the mysterious gypsy,Melquiades
predicts the wipe out of Buendia clan
of five generations

Torrential rain and deluge engulf Macondo,
ends "One hundred years of solitude".
Gabo you point towards east
what is the answer to the conundrum of Buendias?

In Mexico city
they were preparing to take  Gabo to his last ride
to the origin of all magical realism he'd return

In a land far away,
yet exactly the same landscape as Latin Americas
we grieve his death as that of one of our own
Gabo, in past thirty years, you mysteriously taught us
to discern the magical realism of cosmos

if you can find c. g. jung writing an answer to the biblical Hiob, i can be found writing this... or as the Lad Bible states: be your superficial you... so when she's not her superficial self... you can just play the awkward monotone speaking caveman that you weren't before she played you that superficial card of hers to tone down your interests.

you know why i'm fascinated with schizophrenics?
primarily because they are concerned with
an inorganic medical condition,
there are, absolutely, no reasons to suggests they
are organically prone to premature degeneracy,
they are what the Alzheimer old man calls an angel,
and what the "angel" experiences from time to time...
to cite a non-typical schizoid experience -
a splinter in the mind?
when i wrote my previous poem, i was listening
to the song *the parting glass throughout,
on and on and on... the rhythm took over...
and when the "poem" was finished i retracted myself
into my room and first played auld lang syne
(with lyrics and English translation)...
                           and then... the pure instrumental
of knee-deep-bagpie... bagpipes, sure, horrid,
screeching drowning-lungs of magpie
cackling cut short into a carbonated highland water...
     oh don't worry, what this comes down to
is personal experience, such negations of ease
are not like the black plague, or a.i.d.s.,
they don't come into contact with purely-riddle
human incompetence... it takes more than that...
certain conditions are not viral...
you can't interpreted them as political malevolence
akin to a political movement... primarily because
the numbers don't add up...
                    the complexity of thought is
the complexity of regarding the mind as an abstract
of the brain, given the brain has no accuracies
concerning abstraction when stated against being automated
to a pair of kidneys... i too wish for a La La Land sometimes...
but that's not the reason people allow ***** donations...
     but you know, it really gripped me,
i wrote that poem, listening to the parting glass,
and felt nothing, nothing... because i was so
formulated to write what i wrote...
  i wrote the last bit, walked into my room,
and played the second version of auld lang syne...
the royal scots dragoon guards pure instrumental...
   and you get to weep these cold tears
after an insomniac cold shivers getting warmer with whiskey...
              and whimper and bite your bottom lips...
because you're hardly a woman fainting
and the drama isn't in you...
               and it's actual tears...
people laugh and cry saharan tears, meaning: it never
rains over it...   i see Sahara as the ancient version
of the Himalayan mountain range, suddenly reduced
because god is fickle and well, aren't we all?
           if any of us are alive to read or speak such
encodings... there will be a desert made from
the Himalayas that will be called the Himalaya -
but that's really being optimistic.
       there used to be mountains, mountains in
north Africa, Gandalf! but they crumbled in deserts!
where once a mountain range, subsequently a desert...
where now a desert, once a mountain range.
can i please get a taxi to leave this current
history and Darwinistic revisionism of it as telling
us ape Adam had more psychology about him than
Charles XIV? i want to hear the geological version
of Darwinism! but am i hearing any of it? n'ah ah.
       so yes, upon hearing the scotch dragoon guards
pipe a full whiskey sodden breath into the
         bagpi - i heard the word counter to my scrambled
narrative... king... king?!
                   which is what's bewildering about
a medical term deemed premature dementia...
   it's an organic impossibility...
but given society is an inorganic organism
and all our socio-political mechanisms aren't exactly
organic, there might be some sense in this piquant
dabble in an auditory hallucinogenic experience -
which, evidently, people find frightening,
since they occupy defining their thinking with
hearing so much, and when seeing a homeless man
think so little...
                     logic? a particular arrangement of words
that does not provide kind rubrics for the testimony of
the many...
                    i can hallucinate this auditory "addition"
and competently go on my daily business,
or my nightly business finishing a bottle of scottish amber...
some people cannot...
                 what i see it western society predicating
their poor knowledge of Alzheimer's as if searching
for some genius to explain what happens to the abstract
functions of what the brain represents
                 in terms of how the brain and abstraction
can't be cleanly separated, i.e. to treat the degeneracy
of the brain as succumbed to, but not succumbing to
the elaborated foundations of the "brain"
within the trans-physical functions of the "brain"
within a framework of memory, vocabulary, memory.
people first attribute the brain with too much
           concern for abstraction when in fast the driving
force for abstraction is the now-vogue zeitgeist
"psyche does not exist" -
                            and when the brain degenerates like
a heart or a kidney can... people start to freak
out propping out a Frankenstein revival that brain
cannot in-act upon...
                                 they told us the brain is fat...
          then they tell us only 0%, or fat-free yoghurts are
good... isn't the case for the epidemic of dementia
due to the fact that we're censoring fat?
what feeds the brain? fat! what are we censoring from
our diets? fat! fat free ******* yoghurt!
                             where does the modern epidemic
stem from? censoring fat! you anorexic ******* morons!
  you know why i put extra fat in the way i cook
meals, you know what orthodox cooks tend to
like a sizzle of a lump of lard? brain food...
     and yes, some call it eating a lot of nuts...
well then... fry me a ribs-eye steak on a handful of
cashew nuts you crazy *******!
            this is what drives me crazy concerning
auditory hallucinogenic experiences...
there are no drugs that you could ever sell that people
would buy to experience an auditory hallucination...
primarily because people made thought
   an auditory experience...
                  that's the norm, i'm not talking Walt Disney
here... and people enjoy music because it feeds the heart
in a way averse to images that feed the libido
or dreaming...
    the point being, my "hallucinatory" experience lasted
for less than a second... some ***** on l.s.d. trips
for half a day because he finds modern movies boring
and finally gets to appreciate cubist contortion
mechanisations... i can do more damage with a second's
worth of "auditory" hallucination than that little
hippy can do away with 12 hours, and only end up
writing a haiku thinking he can suddenly conjure up
spirits of Shinto like some Gilgamesh *** Bruce Springsteen;
then he shaves his hair and travels to Mongolia
to learn the index against the lips motorboating
harmonica... and i end up saying: thank you;
cos it wouldn't be twangy without that kind of a tranquiliser
to stabilise excitement beyond encoding sounds.
          i can tell you how ******-up my internal
narrative has become, so i'm defeatist,
here's how it looks like when i get agitated...
               writing on a white flag...
      oh look: wavy! wavy! i'm waving it...
going boats full of nuts and bananas!
             you ever hear the story of a psychiatrist
jumping on a table and barking when a conscription
  cadet tried to fake being mad?
      she did what i just wrote and asked H. Clinton
to reiterate on the campaign trail.
                    inauguration 2017:
   i solemnly swear, that H. Clinton barked like a ruffian
poodle on the campaign trail.
  beside the point though, schizophrenia is an inorganic
manifestation of an actual organic degeneracy -
it's a negation-of-ease for dangerous people...
     people who probably have a music taste outside
the top 40 best selling albums (let alone singles)...
                   and they're quick to pick up on this grey area
concerning premature depression...
                it's trendy these days... people who are melancholic
are people who are like Homer, wrote the Odyssey
went blind from making too much heroism from
      the cannibalism at the gates of Troy and couldn't
handle telling a single lie after having written such an epic...
   or as Virgil convened: Paris didn't escape,
Aeneid did... no one knows what happened to Paris,
       probably choked on a raisin or something:
it's ancient history, if you're not going to talk about it
in a callous manner, then be prepared for careless mannerisms:
pout, **** *** cheek, shelfie!
               what i am seeing is this quote:
a butterfly on the Galapagos Islands... a Tornado in
Colorado... the poetics of quantum physics,
or misplaced potentials of counter-quantifiable
simultaneous counter-interpretations...
    the butterfly effect? under the umbrella corporate
otherwise known, from ancient times: a metaphor.
hey, we started reading into hydrocarbons,
there's no way to talk easy for us...
                           for all my love for one inspiration,
i lost my love for him when he said that not tying your
shoelaces (i.e. spelling) was because he thought it was
indoctrination... you know who i mean: Mr. Chow Chewski...
   spelling? that's like tying your shoelaces!
         question is... who would ingest a hallucinogenic
drug that didn't utilise the multi-coloured world to
an excessive amount to be prescribed, say, an U.V.
phosphorescent spectrum of seeing... when, given all
that... sound occupies this realm of b & w?
               who could create an auditory hallucinogenic?
can you imagine it?
                             most people with a weakened cognitive
membrane would go nuts... as the case has been proven
many a times...
        but given the fact that no such hallucinogenic exists,
or that "auditory" / cognitive hallucinations are
disregarded even though Descartes stressed this
   notion of a substance / thought, and an extension /
       sensual disparities with regards to cohesive uniformity,
i.e. regarding over-stressing a particular sense
      and never reaching a former cohesion...
           can only mean a circumstance later described
by Kant within the framework of the noumenon -
    i.e. perhaps you've seen too much, but heard too little...
perhaps you've tasted too much, but had barely a sniff of
                  more...
        the original thought when exposed to a cohesion
of uniformed senses, experiencing a discohesion of
             a presupposed sensual "uniformity",
returns back into a form of thought, i.e. an extension...
                only because the thing in question is a
presupposition, not a supposition that can be countered
with a proposition, i.e. since we all made mistakes
presupposing, we have become prone to propositions to
suppose otherwise... in terse terms: invent politics.
so what i termed "auditory" and "hallucination"
and conflated them in a prefix of cognitive-, in consolidation
i meant to say that: once all presuppositions (thoughts)
disappear by the miraculous ape that man either is
or wishes himself to still be... and we deem to say:
   reality...                 we only have suppositions (extensions)
               that appear...
                         by the miraculous ape that man never
was and wishes himself to nonetheless be:
  in that consolidatory ref. to the last trinity of Cartesian
thought: substance - in the former the formation
of will... in the latter the complete lack of it -
                              to the simpler scenarios,
we already have knowledge of prisons and asylums...
            because internalising such possible scenarios
never leaves the many to be grafting such possibilities
with enough calm as to persevere for the sole purpose
of understanding, as what point can a noumenon-unit
enter the argument if not from a reflex
                       as this continued narration explains...
none of this was reflected upon...
reflection in such circumstances usually means weaving
a machete at your neighbour...
                                  the noumenon-unit
the ping-pong factor in all of this is a reflex action...
         not a reflective action...
               i am no king no more than i am a pauper...
   now imagine if i tripped for 12 hours on l.s.d.,
having extracted so much, from an "auditory" "hallucination",
that, in the realm of the mind, is neither a minute,
nor a second, nor a nanosecond...
               it's unitary equivalent is simply that of: a word.

Mary plants stems of roses
Happy is her sensuous senses.
Rosy roses reddish ,yellow
Dribbling dews on petals glow.
Sandy was her piece of land ,still
Mixing humus made she fertile.
Grow up mango, cashew trees now
Hellish heat around falls low.
All the birdies, human beings with
Rolling breeze’s blessing grew forth.
Nurture Nature for our future
Save our culture agriculture.
Greenery is her granary giving
Honey, money, feeling pleasing.
Waves on beaches softly recede
Crawling ripples crippling proceed.
Do you know? lives here sustain
Only through eternal restrain.
Gain for all lies where interactions
Divine hold our honest actions
=============================

A cashew-nut
she pressed between my lips

slumberous awestruck
I chewed it

groping for her hands in the dark
if she really was there
or I was dream living

why should a woman
in the middle of night
press a cashew-nut
moist and warm
between my lips

was she hungry herself
hypoglycemic
picking them in despair
popping one betwixt my lips

or is it the one
I popped through hers
last evening
misdirected
without my knowing it
found the vertical lip
betwixt her swells
till she felt the *****
when loosened her robes
and it stirred in her
a long forgotten spark
so she came back
in the middle of night
for me to chew
the re-popped cashew-nut

slumberous awestruck!

He's singing
Bergdorf Blonde
Conde Nast Traveller
Rude or ****
Explode Bombshells.
He's singing I'm getting
married
Such a Pushover puppet?

Slave over the silken magnet
Oh so swift and swell let
the show begins

Those ritual love sin's
Miss Polly String smile say cheese
He's the Maneater enticing grins
His Trump Tower bell?
Oh! Hello Poetry
People like twin packing
Playgirl smooching
her lips pillow talk

The puppet stalk
their suitcases, but surprisingly
she falls down and trips
Play up your string's
Love act of rings
Her killer lace went into his face.
They all had a puppet inside.

A daredevil ride
Nowhere to hide
Las Vegas Nevada,
Like no other place.
She was in her prime
Diva,
Donna so Dollie, he had
a craving bank her they all
had to thank him
The foursome the Follie's
Do him
Torn to be so trendy
Such a spendy

Walmart of walnuts
Two amazing dollies
She's the magazine of
Italian Fendi.
Pulling her hair more flair
The whole shebang cashew's
Pushed by his split so
picky pecans.
How it went to her
Big little liar nephew's.
Like puppet curfews
  Hello, Poetry New.
The white wedding blue's
Magnifying big lip's.
He needed a Holly-doll
The next clue?
Silk strings taped up
That puppet took a mighty
long trip...

Did I say plastic puppet is real porcelain skin faces?

Playgirl's cries needed
a dominating diet
Hefner smoking jacket suit

What a demonstration,
pulling on hemming mini
skirt trims chances
dangerously slim
So condemning
caused a riot.
The other crowd what
Oscar Meyer Wiener.
Going to the Vet doggie collar he
was tied to be fit silk suit
Las Vegas show trainers.
Who got caught with the puppet
Honey tricked peanut butter playgirl
Puppet show went all hobbit
over "Twitter" mixed whirl
        
What a nut sometimes you feel
like a nut
sometimes you won't and she
knows you don't

The rest going to H---.
Must I B dreaming?

He's singing I'm your puppet man,
Elephant nose cleaned out the planter's
Such a big spender and tipper.
Brooklyn his name Lucas @ the circus!

Like a physic knows your inner thoughts,
hanging on a string.
Everything that comes out of his mouth is two!

I have a puppet surfing the internet
wrapped her around
Felt an undercurrent_ it was
like pieces of glass
soundproof,
his crafty fingers.

Is he doing the best he can?

He's pulling her madly
Puppet computer search
Penny the dreadful
He expects us to jump when
he's oversexed active
looking for his puppet chair,
in the back.
A ****-day puppet!
He's the pig face twilight zone
muppet's
Well doing the can-can two
Playgirl's
hit the fan
The puppets became
the Gentleman

  Playgirl's shuffling "Rose" deck
   Hollywood screen bedding
    Puppets skillful  making

        The Poem Day.
         Puppets pray
         String cheese display

Obsessed stories Puppets.

Playgirl's color gypsy Rose Leah  
Miss Natalie from the woods preach
Silken Marionette.  
So wrapped like someone's gift
But used thrifty bed
He's in his red-hot Corvette.
Instead of roses, his thing french brie
Stock market up and away tie
I rather have my pasta bow-ties
Swiss, the air she's the playgirl
  Swiss Alp's skiing
he ripped his pant's Swiss Alps hole.
Marilyn Monroe playgirl presidential
dancing on the Christmas pole
Love tropic Pineapple dole
  The bed red hot Corvette. console

Instead of roses, his thing was cheese.
"So Swiss" with holes of lace my face
I hate to burst your cheese,
He dragged his shirt open

Twice the fun playgirl she eloped
I became his string cheese pet!!
I'm not your string cheese.
Hello Godzilla, puppet collection
Bella bella Genie mozzarella

"Puppet overpriced sales
All your friends are a puppet male.
Make a wish blowfish

In all the year how I tracked men's nuts,
she had to string together nut job's,
eat a string cheese.
Polly didn't want animal crackers,
Groucho became like a ******.

The puppet master showing
his game piece
and pull on someone else's

A kilo of fish brinjal pumpkin
Cauliflower raisin and bean
Washing soap and eggs one crate
Need to buy bring from market!

Mustard oil some milk and rice
Cashew nut and a horde of spice
Gourd and potato spinach cabbage
The list is long fills a page!

Feel confused from where to start
How to pile and stack on a cart
Shoeshine cream to adhesive glue
All calculations and maths to do!

Ticked what’s got unticked what’s not
Cash dwindles with much unbought
Trudge back home in sweated daze
She checks items and fumes in rage!

A satisfied appetite is a simply joy

Overlooked and simplified

Like a growing urge, a salivating need

That is entrancing and glorified.



Everlasting for moments we call meals

Forgotten in time, lingering above

But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside

Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again



The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight

And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips

Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center

Halved and topped with mascarpone crème



The man with a skin of caramel glaze

Caressing and savoring

With a fragrance and scent

Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin



In the pursuit of a brief love affair

What oral sensation did my taste buds want?

My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await

Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff



Generous portions and humble pies

Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die


Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté

Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce

A robust aroma and savory appeal

Basil leaves with garlic strips

Olive oil to top the surreal


Hubristic meatball aborigine  

Elysian cuisine or many dreams


Teasing the senses, warming the pit

Of flowing pleasures

And tingling fingertips

Without moral measures

And succulent wines

Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone

Seasoned with Sicilian herbs

And paired with broiled asparagus

Drizzled with lemon juice


And a glass of Merlot

Spices I hardly know



Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows

With love there is pain, passion endured through the names

Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums

Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass


Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami

Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami


Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor

Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin

red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread

devilish rounds of crumbling ***-swirl bread

Smells and wonders, tastes so ...

oh god

Divine and sublime.

Hey, I already told you that you were a little bit crazy.
What did you think—that I was completely nuts?
Come on, Cashew, and shake that walnut-sized brain of
yours, and then we’ll try to put together a decent menu.
Still, I ought to kick you in those itty-bitty sunflower seeds,
those ones that you claim to be your source of protein.
Hey, Macadamia Breath, accidentally lose the ******* hula
dancer and then fire the impending search-and-rescue party!
Your tropical trail mix was no good for each other.
You need a vacation from this deserted island, Captain Crunch.
Go down south and get yourself the businessman’s special.
You know—some old-fashioned brazil nuts.
Yeah, that’s the two-tickets-to-paradise, for sure.
Fool, you really do need to buff up the old almond.
Do I need to open up the **** aluminum lid for you?
You’ve been stuck inside this assorted, mixed can that you
try to refer to as an extra bedroom for nearly nine months.
Get out and take in a little hike and bike
right after you do the wake and bake.
Maybe you should go slow roast yourself at the beach a little.
Why don’t you go to the mountains and try to become one of those
pine nuts that end up in all of those overpriced health cereals?
Hey, Snickers, those dank trees really are beautiful, you know.
Would you quit acting like a frikkin’ flax seed already?
Just admit that it’s almost payday, for criminy sakes!
You pathetic Mister Peanut, you.
Please, Saint Chestnut, give this completely lost consumer strength
from high above store aisle number nine.
Number nine.
Number nine.
Number nine.
Listen to me, Nutt Sack, will you shake those tiny little beer
nuts that no one can seem to stomach anyway?
First of all, they are becoming way too stale just sitting around here,
so if you continue to wait any longer, they will petrify—and then we
will eventually be forced to call you teeth-breaking Corn Nuts!

let's talk about his
peanut butter thighs
and his cashew eyes
his cloaked voice that
floods me when he
speaks, and his
big hands and thin
fingers. Let's talk about
all of his parts that make
him whole and makes
my eggplant legs go
bump bump
in the night.

Did you know? Cashew nuts grow on flowers,
   and they grow one at a time.

Think of the distance between railway tracks:
    this traces back to ancient Rome.

To know the true energy of the sun: imagine it
   covered all over with postage stamps,
      each square inch a bomb,
       each exploding with power only comparable
        to explosions in Hiroshima. Energy like that.

Think of this: how time once was unknowable
   for being different to everyone, until trains began
    and the post began arriving on time.

Did you know? Facts are enough to make a poem.
Where do poems grow? Do they come one at a time?
When did poems first set down their tracks?
What is the power of a poem? Does it explode?
Are poems different to everyone? Will we ever know?

I reach out to hold beard of this old man,
On balcony edge he makes me stand.
"It's scary Grandpa, don't leave my hand."
"Worry not my child, won't let you fall on this land."

Sparrows chirping as we feed them sprout,
Flying here and there, I laugh out loud.
Pointing to the sky, "Look at that white cloud."
I learned so quick, he felt so proud.

Bought me different chocolates every night,
I'd sit eating happily, enjoying every bite.
Pretty dress, like a fairy, wings he made me wear,
"Look at me now, I can fly, I swear!"

"This is our stable," I point to the grass
Grandpa carried me on his back at last.
Like a horse, he'd ride smoothly on the floor
Five year old rider, shouting "Off to the door!"

Toys on the table, every day a few,
Puppies and bears all red, yellow and blue,
Tricycle and tents, small pillow fights,
Without his kiss, I wouldn't sleep at night.

We stole cashew nuts, while grandma prayed,
Ate them quick, before her eyebrows raised.
Small trips around the city in our car,
So many stories and learnings he'd shower.

Clapped at my dance moves to every song,
Scolded me for everything I'd do wrong.
Fell on my ankle, losing his balance once,
Couldn't walk that day, but I loved him, I'd pounce

We get a call, a call late at night,
My parents pack bags, rush to the airport flight.
Silence hurt every now and then,
Mom and dad didn't know where to begin.

"Grandma, say something!" But she doesn't
He was here and then he wasn't?
So much more to play, and so little time?
I shed tear every time I remember his rhymes

i am an apricot,
dried and vacuum-packed amongst chunks of cashew nuts and *******.

i am a cigarette,
wrinkled and cracked with ashes so rank and how the wind whispers my bones away.

i am a stick of magnesium
extingushed halfway -

and i will never burn again
for you have swallowed my spark.

trees, trees and plants
we see them with trunks round
Love them, laugh with them
cos you may not see them
all years, always  a -round

Trees, trees
they have no fingers
Oh, but they’ve got many rings;
and they still get on the internet
by logging in

Tulips grow on your face
and if you plant kisses
you get another two lips;
the cucumber goes mad
cos it’s in a pickle;
the mushroom is always invited to parties
cos he’s a fungi

and the dog loves the tree
cos they both have bark;
while the frog’s favorite flower
is the croak-us;
the elephant, on the other hand,
I mean on the other trunk,
loves squash;
and while the fruit
comes from a fruit tree
the chicken comes
from a poul-tree

trees, trees and plants
we see them with trunks round
Love them, laugh with them
cos you may not see them
all years, always  a-round

the nut sneezes: *"Cashew!"
And the lemon is sick
and the kind neighbors
give it lemon-aid;
the tomato turns red
cos it sees the salad dressing;
and baby corn says to mama corn:
"Where’s pop?"

and you humans
if you reach out with your hands
you can fit a palm tree in;
and knock! knock!
who’s there?
"Leaf – yeah, just leaf me alone;
enough of your silly jokes"

Trees, trees and plants
we see them with trunks round
Love them, laugh with them
Cos you may not see them
All years, always  a -round

Made of peanuts I feared the hand that searched for me so adamantly.
Watching the strange horror across agonized faces.
The bitter crunch of teeth.
The dissipation of silent screams.
Why not the cashew beside me.
All he does is laugh,
I blame the commercial for all of this, at least he got to keep his shell.
This totally wasn't what I had in mind when I said I'd meet you halfway.
Paralyzed in fear I sat.
Watching this hand pat all around me.
A total invasion of privacy.
Rattling what sanity I had left.
Sometimes it feels like I'm losing my mind.
Trapped in an empty container with nowhere to go.
Of all days why couldn't you rinse your mouth with something else.
Finally finding that annoying cashew,
If I could close my eyes and pretend it was all a bad dream.
Sweating inside of these tin walls.
If only I would have known that the world was going to end today.
I'd probably cover myself in chocolate and pretend I was someone else.
I would have hatched the perfect escape plan.
Here's to hoping I get caught in your throat so you'd have no other choice but spit me out.
Stupid Planters peanut guy

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Many birds; some small, some blonde
Few birds come as the seasons demand.
Come and visit Thor with Sanket to remand
All the known and unknown birds beyond.

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Let it be cashew or nut or almond,
Bring any thing for birds with monde
And see many types of birds beyond
The island, colours that birds donned.

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Few birds are black, and few blonde;
Canteen ready with food on demand,
Garden with plants having leaves frond,
Pond with birds different on demand.

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Security guards allow us, on demand,
To take cameras to view and shoot monde
Of varied birds here and beyond.
So, visit Thor with Pari Style in a pond.

While i was learning to savour the new taste of cashew and walnut in the autumn of that year
you were learning to eat the bones of your neighbours' dog as you fled from an earth gone moist
the leaves of war were torn from the jungle as a cavalry of shrapnel burnt away the air
you were learning to hold your breath while i was doing the same in a suburban swimming pool

when the dust of your family filled the lids of your eyes
being left to see for yourself held quite a different meaning
while your skin seared from the heat of warfire
i was feeling the warmth of a shopping centre in winter

when you went without feet, a landmine exploding your underneath world underneath
i sprained an ankle at basketball
the words of an american god spat forth from an automatic weapon
and you saw the tongues of the lamb inviting you to feast in a foreign language

and while i drew in crayon on the kindergarten wall
you were drawn in the crosshairs just before the smell of cordite

He spent hours bending himself
Shape shifting through the night
Before finding the image
Stooping all over his hands, lost over his spectacles
Neck pains. The musty apartment is lit
By a kerosene lamp that's
Fixed upon the book shelf in the corner.
It has no lampshade
Its high brown orange casts headaches
And proves rotting plaster.

He is saved by dawn blue
Dawn blue for ****** eyes
Rags hang around in groups.
A cashew waits before the trash bin
Books lay around, spines exposed
Sleep would muster new strength, no loss.
Good grains, a few oats, high oats.
He feels his oats,
Bent over his work
Why sleep now?

He'll eat a can of corn
If he can get away

But  who has time for lighting a gas stove when there's work
The work is his gas stove

I cannot eat Asian food
or pork. Or rice.
I don't know why.

The other night I went to a hibachi grill with my friend and his mother and I thought that although I probably wouldn't eat anything I would be fine.
See.I thought I had gotten past the past.

I used to hold my breath when my mom picked up cashew and sweet and sour chicken. I barely breathed the whole way home. I covered up my straw so that the smell wouldn't infuse my soda pop. I state outside until I was positive that all of it was gone.

At the hibachi grill I got pasta. No rice. I had veggies.
They started out giving us salad. I could barely eat it but I was fine. I was fine.
Then they started cooking.

And in my head I heard it.
You won't leave this table until its gone. Stir fry.
My second family once made me feel so insuperior that I don't know how much worse it could get. I sat there.

He put the food on my playe and I cursed and I implored myself.
I ate one noodle.
But those voices. The flashbacks.
I am not good enough.
I cut my noodles onto more pieces than there are people in Japan.

I almost leaped from my seat. They were screaming. Why can't I just eat the ******* food.
Bathroom
Panic attack
Compose myself
Return
I'm fine but they know its a lie.

And so I am so sorry Karen.and I am so sorry everyone because I realized something that night.
I may not have your eating disorder. I don't feel fat and I don't throw up.
But that night I had an eating disorder. And I could barely stand the voices the pressure the memories the hate.
You are amazing. Every day feeling souch pain with food. You are my hero.

I forced myself to swallow one noodle but you make a choice daily to do so much more.
I think I have a price of the puzzle. I don't pretend to understand. But now I know.
Every tiny bite you take. Every time you say no to the toilet you are my hero. And when you fall. You are still my hero.

Never mind watching your P's and ****** Q's.
There are far more obscenities that anyone can use.
Worse letters than Q or P not meaning to confuse.
Many different meanings something you'll have to choose.
So choose your letters wisely there's some you can reuse
And some that are used for insults or a form of abuse
But it doesn't really bother me so I ain't making an excuse
Just use the ones that come to mind and you cannot ******* lose

So you can **** my big fat 'B's' and I can **** yours too
Fingers up my ******* 'A' something we can both do
I will lick your lovley 'C' and mine is like bamboo
Or maybe its a 'D' in my pocket or is it a canoe
If you squeeze on my two 'N's' similar to cashew
Then i will **** your Salty 'S' or the other avenue
And eat all of that juicy 'J' like a **** barbeque
Making all your 'H's' wet so both can get a *****
Allowing me to enter and 'F' you through and through
Slipping in my big hot 'R' deep inside a fishy stew
******* on your succulent 'T's' but none of them are Blue
Not talking of our feathered friends because that's a different crew
And neither is it other birds not parrots or cuckoos
Its a mound of fleshy 'M's' glands that I would chew
So stick your effing Protocols just stuff them down loo
Use the letters that you wish its your own point of view
Once the eggshells are broken its nothing to undo
And **** all that ******-ness don't watch your 'P's' and 'Q's'

Certified vegan;
Non-GMO Project Verified;
Free of dairy, lactose, soy, and gluten.
The consistency of vanilla
creamy and luxurious,
without a speck of iciness,
yet not overly heavy.

The flavor rich
with notable burst of sweet vanilla.

Said comestible insanely versatile
and will surely be a go to dairy-free ice cream.

Sold at LIDL, and other sites
ourselves former first time taste testers
erred on the side of caution
and bought in quantity
courtesy the missus foresight,
who now deems said food product
more precious than fine spun gold.

Pint size container only ample enough
to buzzfeed temporary craving,
yet invariably whets appetite
(to the power of googleplex)
for insatiable consumption,
thus one must thwart willpower
and surrender tastebuds to devour
one after another 473 milliliters
or more familiarly 16 ounces.

No matter yours truly could consume
aforementioned dessert
for breakfast, lunch, and supper,
the novelty to savor said special treat
would remain as intact
and robust as if one tasted
SO DELICIOUS product for first time.

I never tire scooping out
one after another spoonful
and slowly lick globule
(even when marginally hungry)
relishing each tongueful lickety split
steeling myself against
aggressive depredations of wife
before she ferociously lunges
toward me in a futile attempt
to wrest delectable mouthwatering
(just a hairbreadth of being decadent)
foodstuff guaranteeing happy shiny tummy.

Go ahead indulge sweet tooth
or even if toothless
the culinary quasi oral pleasure
can still be experienced.

/she was my favorite flavored ice cream
full of cashew nuts, marshmallows, chocolate chips, creamy vanilla drizzled with chocolate syrup
and I wanted a spoonful of her goodness/

and if you ever come across me
remember this crooked song

"wild strawberries in the woods
not the only fear at the neighborhood
bad apples, cookie monsters, and crows
cashew farts, peepholes, and human toes
we shall fear not, as of today, as of now
we stop, stand, run, jump, and bow
whatever we need to want to can
whatever we need to want to can"

I feel you slip in beside me
We sleep as two curled
Cashew halves
Sitting inside each other
Naked flesh close, embedded
In a permanence of love.

Love Mary ***

My grandfather loaded his pockets and the squirrels had a feast
He died before I was born so this is family lore
The family of five squirrels who live in a park near me
They are sweet and precious and bother nobody
Rocky is the family acrobat
Three are not named yet
Nutella sat on the side branch like a suspended in motion cartoon character
My bi-weekly leaving of nuts and seeds paid off today
Walking away , she came down to retrieve a cashew and disappeared
Seconds later she appeared and helped herself to a pecan
On a cold morning walk before zoom meetings
She made my day

C@rainbowchaser2021

a)

i


they nigh on carted me away
in some distant palmed bay
cashew fenny* and too much beauty..

(you know the way..)
it would have been a short fray
they left no exit free..

i was zonked and skinny
they were three
and tidy..

i eyed the nurse wearily
exotic the flora and tree
the birds- free..!

the people so politely
inclined
sands so dazzling
..

b)


so,i said
must be off
late for tiffin..

which
was
funny..

anyway she
laughed
and i made

like a blade
of grass-
blowing

on spring days
past the guys
and did not glance back..

ii

they had me cornered
i thought well,now,
i´m ******..!

i was naked
lsd..?!
lol..

but we british
we have a saying
never darkest then

before the dawn
and we introduced
tiffin..

how did we rule this
world
the biggest empire

this world ever
knew..
quick thinking


..

c)


in india this woman
this woman lay naked
awaiting my passage..

i near on tripped over
her brown skin one time
she was so pretty..


d)

i was twenty


e)

fenny is like poteen
or raki..i liked it
made from either coconuts
or nuts..a memory of my youth
..

Even though I have next-to-no interest
in borderline celebrities quickstepping
for applause, this is how your/our Saturday
nights trickle by. For others it may be
a back massage, a meal out with jazz music
slinking its way across to our table, but no,
for you/us, television, flatscreen. It’s easier, you say,
to order in, and though it’s not every Saturday
this time I made the call and I tipped
the guy ten percent, said thanks very much,
and that’s how now I’m sitting next
to you on our second-hand IKEA sofa
eating egg fried rice, chewy Kung Po prawns
in a slippery orange sauce, cashew nuts
and chicken from the steaming foil tub,
mouth a muddle of flavours as you
judge a dancer’s dress and give a score
out of ten as even I, surprisingly so,
become entranced by proceedings,
a smile appearing on your face.

spinning where the halt of your lurching heart is a musical
surging in the mundane litany of our personas
suffering the same madness that soothes the savage disconnection
of perpetual mortality…. sleeping at the center of wakeful
bedazzled by the prominence of cashew moons and the promise
of absolute doom…. but not without a word in edgewise.
in the margins of an unpublished book.

glowworms on holiday mock the cave on your back
and all the blind crickets
can see right
through you.

for all i know, i know that the guy who wrote wonderful life (black), will hardly be the one flipping burgers, or the one: dreaming of a dream day-time job; who cursed the makers of fatigue mustard, and the mortgaged "convenience" of requiring souls.*

sometimes a moon-rise is less intrusive than
a sun giving a yawn,
the sky hardly changes colours,
but the orb does -

from blood orange, then through the zenith
of pale clown like paint -
the sky doesn't change colour though,
it's only the orb that does,
and it's so piquant - pleasing to
have an idea on what to concentrate,
and how sometimes the contorts of the moon
levitate on the blurry side of things,
what, with the sun being
the only source of eyeing the "invisible"
spectrum of ultraviolet,
that pulverising source of "invisible" light,
agitating beyond comparative lit.;
how strange how the moon rises
so quickly,
      how the moon can reflect the most
bountiful sunrise, with face alone,
acne via meteor ridden face -
and still, the starry constellations left
intact, while the autumnal clouds
are left intact, within vanilla moulds
of softly spoken milken;
  if only i might die,
leaving behind an eye-sore of
a cashew + pistachio hue of soft pouch,
a glacier of sugar worth a weekend of
venice;

i'd die the happier man,
                              than a don juan;
stating:
   i might have died the dearest
quack of loneliness,
but i died: leaving at least:
one woman intact:
and her guardian's worth,
                         of a guarded self:
namely leaving by
post-scriptum will, to her expertease
             of calculated defence:
as impetus primos,
             includi mea: bellum instigo.

Deeply unsettling hickory
and street horn ablaze

I
play
with
words.

Pine needles seem to whisper things to one another.

A cherished moment

The dying winter

Light and the inochi, souls that go to tempered heavens

A spirit realm connected

A beautiful aura

A brightness of light emanating from
the chosen one

A blast of ethereality
In essence, a token of goodwill

When did the plants reawaken?

An awkwardly hung ear of buttercorn,
looking like a cashew fruit

Tough skin reveals a slender figure.

What was meant to be shared

Here we are, an oak field in the setting sun.

The great path

Leave behind those techniques which will
gently be overcome and redesigned.

You are essentially becoming an experience,
a catalyst for another soul's growth,
though you have not yet finished yours.

But why do we need to come here as babies
instead of just start out as adults?

In order to be placed into the earth plane,
you must enter a seed which inevitably must grow.

It is only from this early stage that one may enter.

Is it because a grown body's consciousness
would be too hard to penetrate?
I mean, why can't we just keep full grown avatars that never die?

An expendable future

So many breaths, caught up in the mystery.