"cobras" poems
After dark, energies flow in manners that pleases them most
braided together in lust, two king cobras were seen spiraling up
when darkness like a camouflage sets in thickly around,you're
the marijuana of my mind, seeking far horizons of pleasure.
I willingly seek oblivion, when pink pointed goosebumps
like tarantula's love bites, results of mating time cruelty
infest all over my body's landscape, signatures of ecstasy.
I feel your lips become, moist, soft, honey from each drips
never enough,for me, is it possible to get inebriated more?
Your sighs and moans speak the vocabulary of a forgotten
ancient language love hurriedly resurrected for us from past,
brevity is the crux of that lingo of erupting jets of desire,
it teaches you to moan in fifty different tones in all;even more?
Your sharpened nails etch cave murals on my itching back
that has the searing taste of blood, in hot hot chilly red.
my taste buds of lust, begs for more and more of it.
You are the marijuana fueling my narcotic flights that land
in your misty land, enveloping my senses as a whole.
"The night is still young, hear what the darkness whispers"
I hear you speak like an oracle, on things about to happen.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
The universe embraces
As the world spits you out
The earth it braces
As society knits you out
“Please bleed for me,”
We know you have a disease”
Shouts the eyes of twelve cobras
Leaning in their courtroom seats
Volcanic
Androgynous
Raunchy
Delicate
Torment
Ecstasy
Free
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
Go ahead and paint a picture of perfect
time slips between our fingers
like my tongue slipped between my lips
to say something stupid
politicians are sleeping soundly atop the knife
metal to the floor
pick up speed
pick up bad habits
linoleum is easy enough to clean
but khakis stain like a *****
but if you want to sell me your deepest darkest dream
I’ll haggle with you all night long
we give birth to Cobras and give them to the hungry mongoose
put me on the blacklist
my white flag is stained with blood and grey matter
but everybody in their right mind wants to get a chance
to walk through wrong altered perceptions
I stole your dream catcher
and I’m writing novels about your hopes
and faults and I track your arteries
along the fault lines of imaginary continents
is this insanity?
it’s easier said than done
play chicken with my train of thought
spine is steel is cowardice is machismo
put me under your microscope
tell me what’s wrong
I’ll give you a doodle on the back of a napkin
and a shoddily put together love poem
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
steel
oil
engineering
labor
converge
round a
Rocket 88
dead man’s
curve
prescient
precocious
capitalists
concoct
Edsels
Vegas
Chevelles
leaping
Impalas
leak
oil
staining
every
American
driveway
Pintos
chase
Gremlins
across
The Great Plains
gassing up
at
Rt 66
fillin
stations
scramblin
Midnight
Ramblers
detour to
take refuge
with Goats in
Big Sky
Indian
garages
440
Mustangs
nip
327
Stingrays
and
Mach IV
Cobras
get
snake bit
by Dart
wielding
Mopar
muscle
cars
long fins
chrome bumpers
and round fenders
still get bent in
Havana
but
Motor City is broke
nations outta gas
whole **** country
needs an overhaul
Ike Turner/Jackie Brenston: Rocket 88
Nelson Riddle: Route 66
7/19/13
Oakland
jbm
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
At his little hippie college
he shows me a *** that looks like a wall
in a Rwandan museum, all skulls, he
learned clay in the Rift Valley
boarding school, on a kick wheel,
still his favorite
My brother is a potter
multicolor plaid shorts
little goatee
Banjo
Japan dreams
girl from Mozambique.
When we were little in Loiyangalani
we made tiny huts out of obsidian
while our Rhodesian Ridgebacks
sniffed the ground for cobras
sand vipers
scorpions
while twenty camels
walked by in a row
followed by tiny replicas
My brother is a potter, says to me
'When I am doing this I am
doing what I was created to do'
He makes a green and blue
candleholder for me which he calls
'The Islands,' light escapes through many holes
which look like sea turtles
pockets of air and
an atomic bomb just gone off
we turn off the lights
in my room in the hood,
snorkel in candlelight
My brother gives me
Rumi, incense, peace flags
We walk the silent night
smoke a clove
look at stars
like we used to do in the African riverbeds
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
House party no contact
No glasses no lenses
Isolation got no facts
Rich in hope like them benz's
Old as **** like a bold fax
Reminiscin past tenses
Action done by the fences
Have I come I to my senses?
Need to know, ask for a census
Need my own vote call for elections
Lowkey mind-broke, I need a pension
Need to think about all this affection
****
World cold stone cold
Was told It would be like this
Aint listened to them so I fold
Now I see myself down this own road.
The me everybody used to see, erode
The me anybody could be, be sold
Sadness pull up to my corners, be shown
The one who blew y'all away be blown
Everybody leavin faster than I can say hello
People in this world so shaky like a tremolo.
People don't come and go no more.
You just save up and they go forth.
At least that's my reality
Maybe I am insanity
No sleep till 2 am
You see it visually
Can't rest till these thoughts are at ease.
Life fallin faster than dominos
This time aint as good as pizza
Not even close rate negative 10 toes
No feelings like terminator hasta la vista.
Seen a lot like a barista
More people snakes than cheetah's
Venomous like cobras.
Sad **** I got into.
Me, myself and my sorry ***
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
All weapons of
the fates you've sealed
Are no match for
this pen I wield
The power to
articulate
Ticking rhyme bombs
to detonate
The conflicts waged
gambling mankind
My perfect hand
is treaties signed
Hellbent hounds pray
like dogs, I hunt
Frontline this notebook
battlefront
With metaphors
of mindless drones
Like similes
to brainwashed clones
Whose C4 booms
and IED's
Can't build bridges
like ABC's
Or tear them down
with death regimes
By rusting through
the war machines
Flamethrowin’ my
verbal grenade
With ****** noun
scorched-earth tirade
On militant
cold-blood elite
King cobras know
I'm packing heat
Seeking missile
resolution
Winged raptor
devolution
Prehistoric
barbarism
Literacy
cataclysm
Stockpiling
extinction bones
We're cavemen carving
fallout stones
My Hiroshima
prose explodes
With nuclear
bushido codes
Released from my
katana's ward
To free my press
from shogun lord
Oppressing haiku
imagery
And samurai
epigraphy
Expressions of
my ronin soul
Omitted by
the daimyo
Satsuma is my
poetry
My final draft's
Nagasaki
Ink cartridges
strapped 'round my neck
I print no charge
or background check
And ****** every
live round free
Of innocent
blood elegy
And killing sprees
of gunned-down news
Domestic violence
black and blues
A Number 2
pencil dependent
Obsolete
lead-head amendment
Open carry
shoots a blank
Empty shell case
at my think tank
So grip this peace
then **** and pull it
**** my diction
write the bullet
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves:
they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kepy to themselves-
dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,
the sharp parasol that punctures
a recently flattened toad,
beneath silence with a thousand ears
and tiny mouths of water
in the canyons that resist
the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking
in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,
and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,
obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
it's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner,
nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots
and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the ocean liners!
Facades of ***** of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night
that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets
of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!
We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots,
open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,
landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples,
so that uncontrollable light will arrive
to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-
the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-
and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to **** around a moan
or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.
2.3k
Blood, now boils quick, it's intense, he is in fire,
on her every touch, there is a special anesthetic
a poisonous binge, causes tidal waves go berserk
in his stream of blood,tangible effects of arousal results,
body now is a vast field, goosebumps sprout like spotted
magic mushrooms after a night long rain and thunderclaps,
the salacious intent of the scent of woman,wafts,
singing pheromones perfectly rhyme with *** center
of the brain, "Ï am addicted to tarantula's love"
his whisper sounds ominous, tarantula casts her net
Serpentine vines tangle on wild trees,in natural history
museum premises,trees fall down and rise, create leaf beds
dark enclosures where lovers escape the detection of radars,
explore,the unbridled ascent of carnal wishes,as if a permit
is ingrained in the scent of exotic orchids wafting in the wind,
allowing the wild run of instincts, a dam burst, here cobras prowl,
tarantulas, at a quick look are exposed ******* with dark *******
on eight legs the desire stands,waiting for the next ***** lover,
She was watching an insatiable pair of tarantulas in elaborate
mating rituals,they move inside, cracks and burrows,concealed
by the cover of darkness,they come out,to eat the night flowers,
exhaling ****** hunger; their dark, devious fingers, touching, caressing
finding each other's intimate parts has a dark frenzy...
he saw the blue glimmer of a concealed weapon,smeared on by amour,
as they tumble in bed,she flashes her most venomous smile,
like the quick move of the sharp end of a bodkin,
Tarantula's love affair,when it all are over, her lover's end comes near.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
I am a thousand hooded Cobra
The king of all poisonous snakes
I can dance beautifully
And I live in India
from times immemorial
I am totally different from
Other cobras in the world
Though my bite is venomous
People continue to worship me
Because I have got
The religious sanctity
I adorn Lord Shiva’s neck
And I am the couch for Lord Vishnu
Many people try to squeeze
My poison out of my teeth
And some rationalists tried to **** me
But they can not **** my race
I will grow at enormous pace
I will continue to **** the people
But they will continue to worship me
The politicians continue to pamper me
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:56 AM UTC
A harsh wind kisses my fingers into sleeping.
Blurring the movement on the toggles of an anorak,
But my eyes dart quick, oiled and fleeting,
searching for my beloved old salt, looking back.
Funny, how in those footprints,
the piercing night that bites the ears and cries
can feel as soft as sheets
washed in the light of the moon, pulled by the tide.
this darkness which surrounds us.
it makes the world one of thrashing silhouettes
And as the earth breathes in gusts
It gives calmness to a mind, to comfortably forget
this, lulled swoon of nature pulsating hits
the windows, we can't help to be animated.
we cannot be closed to it, cannot obscure it
the call of the waves that past fishermen created.
pausing, that sun-baked, sinuous arm rose
and peering through his cigarette smoke specters.
the steam of my own breathing, softly froze
As the sky illuminated my weary lenses.
the theatre of sky before us fight light polluted filling
My mind left wandering like waking sleep.
These gladiators of light bleed ochre from shining artillery,
Their particles drifting into the night's sea, so deep.
Sparks spat by suns lie suspended above me
held like dew in nets of celestial string.
as the sunlight comes peering through these
the intensity in a pinprick, unearthly passion within.
lancing the sky too are spears of my dreaming
as neon cobras strike and churn to flee.
these heaven-borne beings carving visual song
Cutting luminescent pathways into my memory.
The soundless iron giant is now still as a caryatid.
Holding me before that blacksmith showered light.
an artist plucks flaming dewdrops from the wind
illuminating my foray into this night.
I sensed a small piece of gene pierce his yang
a black taint to his overall brightness.
In my black yin a spark from him i hang
and I'm proud of the infections we posses.
As he narrates this landscape, he narrates himself.
a new side to a shape I felt I knew.
As far into feelings as his masculine paradigm delved
like a square’s seventh face, always hidden from view.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
Making her senses keen to discern it better , she realizes:
"This giant of a tree, is no less than a wonder"
on it age plays a game different, no one is able to gauge,
ancient times nurtured, wind and rains embraced it tight,
scorching sun, in all his tropical fervor, couldn't daunt it,
eventually sun and the tree must have fallen in love with each other,
From morning till night, this banyan listens to many voices,
long days didn't make any difference, every day is new to it,
the roots searching under the earth, the hanging ones above,
create their own world, the ones below earth search for water.
when they come up in certain places, they look like creatures
prowling crocodiles, reptiles, or even imaginary creatures, without names
Hang roots defy all rules, prefer the shapes of snakes it seems
anacondas, vipers, pythons or cobras in search of prey.
This banyan is a catalyst, from bird to humans here,
find a shelter,take rest for varying times. It's Grandma attitude
makes each seeker of solace and rest go back with happy smiles.
Some times here, a pauper speaks to a pundit, roles get reversed,
experience speaks louder than the knowledge in the book,
the many voices heard under the banyan makes,
one awake, from slumber, the orchestra of many voices,
builds a music, euphonious in its composition, pregnant with meanings.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
I huddled into my collars and looked to the sky,
The day was overcast with yesterday’s lies,
The wind ripped through the streets and sang pain in my ears,
The clouds above heavily pregnant with tears,
On such a dark and cold day...
My eyes beheld a sight full of radiating rays.
Striding down the street in a landscape very urban
was a youth dressed in a gentle green turban,
His white salwar and kameez caressed by the air,
His fresh face beaming shining and clear,
And upon his lips and around his chin
curled a beard neatly combed and oiled from top to rim.
He walked with the confidence of a vibrant caliph,
I did for a moment in my mind stop and marvel at his belief,
This young man was such a contrast to the dark day,
He displayed brilliance and integrity and trod upon truth’s way,
He seemed one who was at ease with God and his deeds,
What a wonderful ambassador for all races and creeds.
As we two passed I offered up a greeting,
“Asalaam Alaikum”.
His eyebrows rippled and coiled like twin cobras lacking intelligence,
He replied to me with the surly silence of arrogance,
He ignored my universal humanity,
He ignored my peaceful charity,
He ignored my friendship and camaraderie,
He ignored God’s solemn word so rich and full of love’s clarity...
This young man...Who was he?
What did he think himself to be?
He was a stranger to me
and a stranger to himself. Could he not see?
He was a stranger even unto God Almighty Himself,
This self-assured man condemned his soul and lost touch with life itself.
©Rangzeb Hussain
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 1:57 PM UTC
Lover, I don't mean it
but I mean it when I say
shake god and his higher pursuits from your head
I, as your lover, more than others
know
of its sacred connection
but beloved
Come back to bed
God
he has all the worlds philosophers
most renown
in his temple
at his table
talking as men do
whereas mine
it's left disheveled
with nobody to see to its hearth
dance as cobras do
it's once youthful fame
dies as the last remnants of its flame
go untended
go converted
to god and the higher pursuits from your head
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 6:47 AM UTC
We blew into bars
like we had nothing to lose.
Disco ***** & ***** tonks,
beach clubs or The Ritz,
it didn’t matter,
we were oblivious
to the surrounding action.
A brotherhood of unknowns,
we were usually drunk,
ready to strike
anywhere,
anytime,
we could even
drop in from the sky
on command,
sober.
Like cobras, we
had venom running
through our veins,
our hearts pure,
but mess with us,
heads would definitely roll.
I was good with
concussive-devices too.
Once I threw one
into a pit of vipers,
heard it explode,
saw the aftermath,
so drinking in bars ain’t ****
I love cheap perfume.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Love is
being sick with anticipation;
a stomach full of Egyptian Cobras
vainly strangling and devouring the Mexican Monarchs' reign.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
I had a dream
Of sunshine so dim
That noon was midnight.
You donned your velvet
And paraded your charms
In front of me
With an arrogant smile.
The snakes circled me
And you held out
Your hand to dance with me.
With venom on my tongue,
We spun between the swaying cobras,
Intent on something
You knew all too much about
And I too little.
Hours passed and the dimness
Of the midday sun
Sank into the mountains
And an even darker abyss
Smothered our mysterious game.
Then we stopped and the snakes
Grinned as we embraced,
Your tongue tasting bitter
And your hands insincere.
As you pulled away,
We started to crumble,
Falling into ash
And trembling in transparency.
Yet as our skin flew away,
We could still see each other's eyes...
And I awoke in a sweat
For dreams are much too true.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Anacondas and vipers
are the serious biters.
Cobras and mambas
can create deadly dramas.
Garden snakes and kingsnakes
tooth marks still ache.
Be cautious
or else you'll end up being nauseous.
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 9:59 AM UTC
We hurl coconuts to the ground
circumambulate the Shiva Lingam shrine
at the Yoga Shakti Ma Ashram
my grandsons little Sean and Alex
tug the temple bell after each round
ringing in the New Year
above, the moon full, white candle
glows
in Shiva’s dreadful locks
and cobras looped around
His sapphire neck dare not hiss
Auspicious One!
drink the halahala poison of hatred, anger,
lust, jealousy and pride lodged
like an arrow deep in our hearts
churn the ocean of nectar
and awaken the
sleeping Self
cradled softly in a manger
swaddled, peacefully
within
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
Through the paralyses desert
We walk. Dodging kings and cobras
Rattling snakes and all the foul beasts,
That thrive in this hellish waste.
Ecstasy from the mannerisms of less worthy beings.
Who are they to decide what an individual’s
Strengths and weakness are!
Mind ones tongue when speaking to,
Satan’s hood.
Chilling grasps of a hot dark angel’s face
Hold me to earth at even the highest
Of gravitating peaks.
Eroded rocks once mountains, now pave our
Unseen roads lost in decaying,
Concrete and steal jungles made by the men
They **** Unworthy are any of us
To describe ourselves for never knowing
Who were, only what we could have been.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
Las fuerzas, Peregrino celebrado,
afrentará del tiempo y del olvido
el libro que, por tuyo, ha merecido
ser del uno y del otro respetado.
Con lazos de oro y yedra acompañado,
el laurel con tu frente está corrido
de ver que tus escritos han podido
hacer cortos los premios que te ha dado.
La invidia su verdugo y su tormento
hace del nombre que cantando cobras,
y con tu gloria su martirio crece.
Mas yo disculpo tal atrevimiento,
si con lo que ella muerde de tus obras
la boca, lengua y dientes enriquece.
1k
*Scorch me.
Your skin igneous; armoured with flames of flight.
Contact.
Blue fires; mesmerizing colours of spiritual reactions fill the air.
Dancing shadows light the night.
Put out, light up and put out again
as midnight smoke rises into midnight sky. Honey bees fail to turn away.
Union of the cobras
As Egyptian kings and queens grin.
Southern suns blaze blissfully beside the moon.
Finish line content, racing at a gradual pace.
Together, together, Our Ritual Begins.*
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
Driven into Battle
By the most basic
Emotion
The fear of perishing
Yet...
When he lays his eyes upon
The face of death
He laughs
Not a chuckle
Or giggle
No
A insane, diabolical
Laugh.
The enemy calls him spider,
Widower,
Freak.
Such fear
In those eyes
The eyes of his enemy
Fear that
Once occupied him, the
Single reason that drove him
Mad. Now...
Feeds his lunacy, his insanity, the need
To see fear in the enemy, the fear in their eyes
This reason, this covet
Not his fear but
Theirs.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 10:37 PM UTC
Meus caros, eu vi!
Quem sabe num sonho, ou talvez não fosse exatamente um sonho
Quem sabe as luzes estivessem baixas demais
E a escuridão que promove vultos, houvesse enegrecido minha mente
-Entorpecido por meus próprios pensamentos-
Ali estava, a visão atemporal da existência
Trafegando por aterradores espaços infinitos
A escuridão assombrava o devastado pântano das almas amaldiçoadas
ouvia-se os gritos daqueles que encontravam ali o fatal destino
Os mortos que estavam aprisionados ansiavam por companhia
Uma fumaça fétida pairava sobre as águas apodrecidas
Animais se decompunham retidos pela lama pegajosa
Vermes se proliferavam naquele ambiente hostil enquanto o atormentador zumbido de moscas preenchia o silêncio daquele lugar horrível
As criaturas mais horrendas e bestiais ali faziam sua morada
à espreita das desavisadas presas que por aquele caminho se perderam
Há um homem perdido em seus próprios passos
Ele caminha ao longo da estrada
Entre-a-vida-e-a-morte
Ele está vivo, mas nunca viveu
Como também está morto, sem de fato ter morrido
Anseia por luz, mas se perde na escuridão do pântano
O bater de asas dos abutres lhe contam que tudo é um sonho, mas também uma profecia
Abaixo da árvore da vida sete urubus mortos estão se decompondo
Não há quem possa devorar seus cadáveres apodrecidos
Uma formosa águia sobrevoa o pântano
Sete ratos tentam se esconder
Sete cobras tentam fugir
Mas a águia devora os sete ratos
E também devora as sete cobras
O homem se torna dois, e um terceiro que não é homem
Ambos deverão transitar pelo inferno
Arrastar-se pela terra infértil da morte
Um morrerá para si mesmo
E renascerá como a fênix mitológica
O outro morrerá eternamente
Consumido pela legião de sombras
Sua tristeza será incomensurável
E como se uma ira brotasse em seu âmago
E uma dor gigantesca consumisse todo o seu ser
Sem derramar uma lágrima
Mergulhará sua existência nas águas esquecidas do Lethe
Embora o primeiro igualmente experimentasse dor tamanha
Ele encontrará seu guia dentro de si mesmo
Pois o guia na escuridão é a luz
Na luz nenhuma escuridão prevalece
O terceiro é como se jamais existisse
Permanecendo no limbo do crepúsculo
Sem dormir ou acordar
Apodrecendo como os urubus mortos aos pés da árvore da vida
Sem jamais experimentar seus frutos
Os três se tornam um só novamente
Mas algo havia mudado
Já não poderia mais ser o mesmo
E como num súbito – abri meus olhos
Não poderia ter sido um sonho
Por mais que estivesse sonhando…
Meus caros, eu vi!
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
Demon kid
Lives and breathes quid
Keeps squid in back pocket
For when bicycle skids
Demon kid
Little *****
Why so much malice
On one little finger
You're rough and tumble
But you're no Alice
Is that you in there?
The one born in six months
The one born of great heights
Gorgeous and hollow
Nothin' but leg
Disease is born in flesh
Begins in your mind
Your repulsion
Quite indulgent
Stems from lack of blood-lust for us
Makes our behavior reckless
How's that power feel?
Is that you in there?
Love is losing cause it never was
Thinks the dying man who still has heart
As they all turn their heads like cobras
Hell-bent on ****** by stares and shoulders
Weaponless **** tastes sweeter
Than physical blood ever did
Thinks the demon kid
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:14 PM UTC