I love him
And he loves me
This is not where the story begins
but where it ends
And it's killig me
It's really killing me
That how even with all the time we bought
forever did not last as long as we thought

All i want to do
is curl around him
get lost in him
breathe him
in and out
feel my taste
on his lips
cling to him
and just stay like that
infinitely
with him, more felt better
a bit more closer
with him, more always felt less
and i could not help
but crave for more and more

8PM :
" I'm sad 'cause she will never love him the way you do "
Yes, she won't. No one will

Does she know
that dawn is your favorite time of day
how it embarks a new beginning
and *how both light and dark
exist together
complementing each other's beauty
just like..you and me

does she know
that you wake up in the middle of night
gasping for air
you had dreamt of a giant hole
swallowing all that you loved
it's a childhood fear
you could never get over
it might not make sense to the reader
but it.. he makes perfect sense to me


Does she know
that you miss your grandad
and how it kills you
that you share your birthdate
with his

Does she know that wherever you went
you never felt belonged
so you escaped and found your peace
in nature..that's how you feel healed

does she know
that she haunts you every night
till i came around and loved him enough
for both of us

Would she care
to write a poem about you
an hour before exam

i know she soes not
i know she would not
And i could have said this and many more
but all my lips muttered was
"She'll love you in ways i never did"
No, she won't. She does not even know you.

Yesterday 2pm
you quoted some author
"I wonder how many of us
don't get the the person we want
but end up with the one we are supposed to be"
i nodded
and ran away crying
'cause deep down
i thought you're the one i was supposed to be with
that you and I were meant to be"

02pm :
he told her how he felt
i don't know how he did not hear my bones crack
and my insides burn out
and the blood in my veins evaporate
or maybe he did not care?
.
.
.
.
.
.
time slowed down
nothing mattered
.
.
.
mobile beeps.
your message
she needs time
.
.
.
.I asked you how much time she needs
(how much moments before i lose you? the guy who always there whenever i pictured myself in future will become nothing but a memory)
you said point?I told her i am not moving on. She has a lifetime to decide. And if afterlife exists then even that.
.
.
.
.
everything blacked out
i could feel my empty heart being forced to beat.
.
.
.
i don't know how to continue this
i just had to write this because i no longer wanted these feelings inside of me
endangering the life they possess.
.
.
(looks back at the beginning)
I love him,
he loved me
but the story ended
on a tragic
note
because
I'm a Hindu
And he's a Muslim

You once told me how you were captivated with photos, how it fills you with satisfaction capturing a picture perfect portrait of a moment, memory, or even a mere mortal. I almost always never understood this addiction of yours on why and how you’re more than determined to collect snips of your life in a paper inked by dozens and dozens of color to paint a single picture. It is somewhat a kind of a waste but you never thought of it like that.

“What is it with you and photographs?” a question I finally got to ask you after harboring enough courage. Yet you merely answered with a shrug and looked away, away from my prying eyes, away from the echoes of what I just asked you. I was on the verge of giving up on you when you suddenly held my hand tighter than usual. “Because…,” you muttered in between huge gulps of breath. I wrapped my arms around you hoping to shield you from your turmoil. For minutes we sat there, still and not making any sound while I let you hold on to me as if I was your lifeline. Anchored back to the present, you told me, “I’m just scared that’s all.” I waited for you to continue, to go on with what you were saying, but you just did not. I turned to look at you only to find you staring at the far distance, looking lost, gone.

I yanked my hand out of your hold but you were still transfixed far, far away from me, far from this reality. Your stare just did not falter at the slightest even as you told me the words which bugged me for the most of my hours, days, or weeks even. Those times following your passing that is. Yes, you left me. You left me hanging and alone without knowing the reason why you ended your life just like that. I’ve always been blinded by the pretense that you were more that okay amidst it all. Probably it comes with the denial of your loss. But if there’s any consolation, I finally know you aren’t okay at all, now when it’s all a little too later that I should have known.

But now as I lay here, I come to think of the last thing you told me. *“If a picture is worth a thousand words, then as to what worth would a million photographs be?”

As I recall you saying it that night, hours before you pulled the trigger over your head, I assumed it was merely rhetorical. I merely thought you were playing Socrates in order to halt me from bombarding you with any more questions. It kept me up all night staring at the ceiling only to receive a phone call at 3:00 A.M. on how you were rushed to the hospital and how the doctors shook their head in the inability to save you.

Until now, I’m still kept awake not of the distraught on your sudden death but because of that question you took me by surprise. I answered nothing then but I am afraid I do know the answer now. You did not capture those sunrises and the blossoming of flowers out of sheer creativity. Instead, it gave you a glimpse of a new beginning that this life failed to give you. You did not capture the candid smiles of random individuals out of a coincidence but because your heart yearns for this kind of happiness to be instilled deep within you. You did not capture the city lights just for the vivid imagination it fueled your satisfaction. It was the colors which brought light to every impending doom you have yet to undergo. You did not capture the landscapes and skyscrapers out of nothing more than an appreciation of abstract art. Rather, it gave you the leeway to live in a fantasy as the surrealism in these photos fuels your unwavering resolve to escape the trap this reality caged you in.

Darling, you weren’t just collecting photographs out of a hobby, out of a custom. And now, I know why you told me you were scared that time I asked you about this obsession of yours. *You were scared to find out that your life is a meaningless pit, like a hollow chasm with nothing but a void. In search of yourself, you found fragments of ‘you’ in these ink-stained scraps of print. It was how you defined your existence: in shots of images of the existence of others. Some might not understand, but you are brave and brilliant to this all. Brave for facing all your demons alone, no matter how I would have wanted to save you from your distress, and brilliant for discovering that our lives are merely a collection of lives complementing each other.

So, darling, maybe this is the end of the line for you, the brink of your voyage to obtain a million photographs. And to answer your question, if a picture is worth a thousand words, then a million photographs would be worth a life. These million photographs are all you. These photographs are what make you whole, flawlessly complete. You will realize you always were as opposed to what the world let you believe in. And then maybe, just maybe, as you finally lay to rest, far-off from the tragedy this realm of this cruel dimension, you can be finally be at peace and eventually manage to realize that you lived not just a portfolio of photographs but a masterpiece.


*(k.p.)

A Tale of ****** Excitement by Herr Barty Maulwurf

Often **** tales of my past I am writing and sometimes they are a little rude and porny but now I will try to be only slightly profane at request of new friends I am making everywhere. This tale very sensual story is, told by master storyteller (which is me). Filthy bits included. *Danke sehr.

Although I so much hate repetitive to be, Barty Mole must as always apologise for his occasionally slight errors in English-writing as he writes the English language not so very top-class (but he ***** English girls' tongues lots and likes them his tonsils to wipe so good). I (me, Barty) am German person but special type of that because as I are half-and-half black/white (not striped or even top half white, bottom half black, but mixed-up goldene-brun colouring), by this I must explain mein Papa was black US soldier in Germany who did enormous number of bouncy-bouncies with various ladies including meine Mutti (note to monoglots: this means my Mummy) - who was part-time Lili Marlen type tarty number, great **** and much-used **** - for tinned milk, coffee, ciggies, silk stockings and comfy underwear with soft non-scratchy gussets for once instead of unlined which tickle *****-*****, also she was a major sort of a ****** in her day so combined business with pleasure, and why not, we got these bits under our ******* so use them or they dry up (so thinks der Barty.). Also please you will remember black market utterly rampant in post-war period because the kind ****** Allies smashed my beautiful homeland (Germany) to little bits and then guess what even worse Russkies came and stole anything leftovers and did mass rapings of anyone with two legs (or less, in fact easier as poor tarts can't run away), but my Mutti ran and avoided Ivans, she not any kind of idiot, not going to give it away for free, and not liking cheap rotgut ***** anyway. Also Russkies never wash bottoms-hole so not much fun in the sack with smelly-bummed Ivans.

Nowadays Barty (that's me) am not so young, indeed now out of work living in Hamburg (home of inventor of hamburgers, Herr Wendi McDonald-Burgerkoenig) but I remember some super **** going-ons from mine mis-spended youth and middle age, my God I was a right goer, make no mistake about that, I had more lady friends than most people have hot luncheons mainly because I inheritated huge lovepole (23 centimetres, well over 9 inches in UK/US measurement style) from my dear Poppa, God rest his swindling soul. And ladies like the big bronzed stick as ramrod lovepole, you bet your fat wobbly ***, dear reader, 100% sure.

As often I say to my multitudinous readers, I never accept that it is only top-class ***-event to make love-humpings between male person who is in all one piece (full complementing legs, arms, naughty pieces etc etc) and lady who in similar state of repair (2 legs, 2 arms, 2 boobos, back and front naughty areas also) so I shall now recall romantic interlude with one-legged groupie I am meeting at rocking Konzert in Berlin with famous German group DIE TOTEN HOSEN (this means "The Dead Trousers" look them up on Google you think I am joking? no, German musicians have great sense of humour and also almost for free get to **** a lot of birds).

This story are total true, swear it on Mummy's honour (big joke, what honour I hear you said out of side of mouth, but watch your manners please or I smash you one in your effing gob) this not so explicit as usual so much apologies to filthy pervies wanting cheap smuttings, you come in wrong place (*******).

So now here we go with telling of how I got on good and ***** with one-legged lady I meet in bar of Grosse Konzerthalle in Berlin after we go from Konzert by Toten Hosen - noise so fickende loud we not able to hear each other talk as we total deafened for at least 1 hour, so just wink over bar to each other and Robert is dein Onkel.

I digressed - when I saw really pretty girl at bar with **** three-inch bolt through her lips and I think, WOW, if she got so much metal in her face, what the Fick she got in her *******!!!!  I notice she leaning against wall, I think she a bit drunk but I find out she only got one leg and it's because she has only one leg she would go falling over if not lean on walls. Never mind, I think to myself, I'll try this out for size, in for a pfenning (penny), in for a pfund (pound), except now it's in for a cent, in for a euro which sounds naffs. So we have several dozen beers and a couple of schnapplis and she is good fun, laugh at all Barty's filthy jokes and innuendos and then, out of blue, she says with naughty giggling, "The night is young but we're not so effing young and when you have any more beers you don't stand up, fall flat on handsome face, and not able to get great big ****** up me to shove it", WOW I thought, this is some forward one-legged piece of work. So no more further ado and we jump in taxi (pay 50:50 as Barty is gent and refuse to allow her pay whole fare) and go to her place.

Hildegard is her name and she was pretty good looking bird, great booboes, narrow very **** waistlines, very cute botty sticking out like great big pair of rubber footballs, but let's be frank, liebe Freunde, her main claim to eternal fame in Barty's immense ***-memory bank was the leg-stump, only one of them she had. She tells me missing limb result of accident with vicious bacon-slicing machineries at LIDL and I not like to probe too deeply, because I leave the probing up to my 23cm (9 inch) lovepole instead.

Thus we had many love-makes that night and I got to find her stumpy-thing quite **** in weird kind of way, very smooth skin on it and odd colour (purplish) too. Only problem of was hard to do it Alsatian-style as she topple off bed and me with her, especially since we have many more beers down hatches by that time. Never mind, make up for this with very high class (FIVE STAR!) "neunundsechzig" (German for 69 just in case you not understand)! WOW she utter hot stuff in oral department store. Her tongue like starving St Bernard guzzling the bowl of nice fresh spring water on hottest summer day in century! Swallow everything, stray hairs and all.

Also Hildegard very noisy lady when she does the comings, which Barty likes very much indeed. Like demented demon being bashed around her head with three-metre long metal crowbar every single time she gets one off, she screamed. "Ooooooh, ich komme, ich komme, ach, ja, ja, ja, ja," she shrieks GOOD & LOUD like fat Wagnerian heroine with immensely red hot poker up backside-hole (which not far off the truth when Barty gets stuck into his fabbo ***-rhythm, like whirring up and down piston on Mitsubishi motor tricycle). Even allowing for drunken prematured senilities lapse, I happy to recall seven times for me that night and maybe twenty for her, WOW, what a filthy one-leg hornbag!

We meet a few more time for repeat bonky session but never so good as first time round, but that's because Barty sober next times, nothing new in the history of love there which is very philophical pensée. Also Barty's interest in the leggy-stump waned a bit after a couple of weeks.  But Barty has good live-action photos to keep his memories warm, WOW, they are some totally hot ones! I know Hildegard must have the equal happy memories of old Barty, bet she never saw such a big ***** as his ever again (NB: 23 cm lovepole)!

Mit freundlichen Gruessen
von Ihre
Bartholomew Mole (=Maulwurf)
(23 cm brown lovepole)

She sat by the window, with the rain pelting the foggy glass, breathing hot air into the cold. She took her finger and slowly ran it across the pane, pushing away the gathered dew and then running her fingers up, down, up, down. G O N E sprawled in messy cursive. Her thoughts were as dreary as everything surrounding her. It was as if the rain was complementing her. After all, if it was sunny, depressing thoughts would be banished to the back of her head.

They had all left her, her past lovers. Their words echoed across the wooden floor, false promises stealing pieces of her heart until the outer shell was the only thing that remained. It was beautiful really. Her shell was so delicate, like a bottle tossed into the ocean, broken and grinded against the sand and rocks, until it finally rested on a beach somewhere, all edges smoothed. She was seaglass, a reminder of the past, but beautiful.

the first told her that she was an angel, just one without wings. “But that’s ok” , he said, “sometimes there is no need to fly”. He found a  single mom on concord avenue two weeks later. She got child support. He bought her a ring soon after.

The third she met in the winter, where for months, white was the only variation of color. He liked to push her on her sled, but he laughed with more joy when he pushed her down the stairs. Red was the second color discovered that winter.

The fourth was the last. His love aged like a plum, darker and sweeter each week she was with him. He stroked her knee with his fingers when they sat upright at the doctor’s office, and he stroked her neck with his lips as she cried, laying horizontally on his bed. “Where did you get the scars on your back?”  he would murmur into her skin.

“I fell down the stairs once”,  she would whisper in the direction of his voice, her words floating in the darkness of the bedroom. The tip of his thumb would run down the pale pink scars, but she wouldn’t feel him there, that part of her had become numb long before. He left her two years later, his side of the room empty except for the spare key resting on the mahogany side table. His smell still lingered carelessly on her pillow.

Whenever it rained, she sat at the window, shadows gathering at her feet.

Turn the kitchen sink on. Wait 36 seconds. Turn the sink off. Count the sides of the kitchen doorway. One, two, three. Put socks on, walk to the bathroom. Take socks off. Turn the bathroom sink on. Wait 36 seconds. Turn the sink off. Count the sides of the bathroom doorway. One, two, three. Put socks on. The whole procedure had been finely polished into a smooth six minutes. Exactly. Justin’s day can now begin. He finishes his normal routine and leaves the house. He checks the gutter. He’s not checking for anything specific, but it’s sixth in his morning ritual and must be done.

Today he found something. There’s a girl, passed out. She is wearing an excessively short turquoise sequined dress, with matching stilettos. Justin was at a loss. The gutter was not empty. Should he call the police? He took her shoe. He ran. Six blocks later, he stopped. He was In front of his favourite coffee shop. It was an intimidating place, with a tattoo and piercing service offered, while you wait for your coffee. He liked it because the address was 666. He was worried the police he hadn't phoned would be searching for the stiletto he had stolen. Who would have known he would turn to a life of crime? Just earlier, while the bathroom sink was on, he had been thinking of complementing the local parking officer (the one with the limp) on his ability to write tickets. Now here he was, holding the glittering fruit of his crime. Maybe he could return it to the young lady. She seemed nice enough, from what little he knew of her. But what if she questioned him? Best have an excuse prepared. He could say he saw a spider climbing into it. His chivalry had saved her from a nasty bug bite. No, he couldn't pull that off. He would pretend to be a poet, that’s what he’d do. Poets are known for being strange. So he set about writing her a poem.

Turquoise like the rain,
off you go, down the drain.

With a dress, short like our fleeting existence,
that could really do with some more distance.

I took your heel to 666,
left you a poem in the mix.

Justin was in fact quite proud of his apparent literary side. He rejected -yet again- a discount on tattoos, and left the coffee shop. He walked back to his gutter, Finding once again the girl, passed out. Slipping the stiletto back into place on her foot, he looked around guiltily, double checking the police hadn't followed him. He went inside. He went to bed. The next morning, he forgot to turn the kitchen sink on. He didn’t wait 36 seconds. Didn’t turn the sink off. Didn’t count the sides of the kitchen doorway. One, two, three. Didn’t put socks on. Didn’t walk to the bathroom. Didn’t take socks off. Didn’t turn the bathroom sink on. Didn’t wait 36 seconds. Didn’t turn the sink off. Didn’t count the sides of the bathroom doorway. One, two, three. Didn’t put socks on.

Prelude
"Let's go" his soft whisper
the mantra, in his voice she hears

the esoteric voyage through
the cryptic high seas of self,
fathomless, unmapped,
uncharted and reachable
only by the most fearless
ready to unbind and make
the self free for it's adventure,
begins thus for the peaceful pair
complementing the absolute
for a life time, til they reach there
and find themselves one with
                      pure consciousness.

"Let's let's, but only together"
she chants in unison,with him.

1.
Bidding good bye to ego, clad in red and black
a beast, not easy to bring to it's  knees, submit,
the high horse proud,raring to go,having  sharp horns
sticking out, fierce, that goes berserk,on seeing white.
Altogether a curious construct, that dictates terms-
they set about, invoking the blessing of the flame of light.
2
They stood together,  eyes widely shut, bringing
both palms together,in front of their  chests
creating a lotus bud, symbolizing hearts,bowing
each other in "Namaste",-bows the divinity in thyself-
chanting the mantras of peace, thrice, each time, repeatedly.
3
"Lets go back to the begining of every begining.."
the primordial hum, transcending quagmires of time
in the path of our ancestors,who did see the" unseeable",
without eyes, knew the "unknowable",diving in to the
ocean depth of self,going inwards chanting"Neti, Neti"
Not this, Not this, inquiring each till the essence did reveal.
4
They did this, focusing the eye of the mind, on the eye
beyond all, that watches every small thing in universe.
Mind, sharpened like the blade of a sword,efficient to cut
the Gordian knots,of paradox, duality and illusion,
encountering the silence that thickens at last, speaks
the words of wisdom,patient they are, to know the ultimate,
right there at the source of light that is the true essence of all,
5
Celebrate the pure consciousness, that pervades in every thing,
the thought that begets all thoughts,that  moves on to be karma,
that becomes purer, through the cycles of lives, one after another.
"Let's be humble, utmost, sans the ornamental clothes of pride.
May the thought reigning cosmos, the spirit of peace,chanted aloud,
take us to it's sanctum sanctorum and melt us in to it's divine embrace.
Only one there is, all are it's integrals,the divine cosmic hum 'Aum'
that enliven the universe within each cell, remember , is eternal"
                                                #@@#

He over looks me,
His emerald orbs focusing on
The girl next to me.

To him, I am only a shadow;
A filler of space.
My only purpose is to exist,
And for my feelings,
Exactly the opposite.

His ***** blonde hair
Matches mine exactly,
Complementing it like it should.

Still, whatever I do,
He looks the other way.
He looks at her, and only her,
Even though she doesn’t feel that way
About him.
He’s wasting his time on her,
When I’m right in front of his face.

Sometimes I think about waving,
Or saying hi,
But I know that it will give me away.
And maybe this is just a silly infatuation,
But it feels solely and completely real.

I don’t want him to be the boy with the green eyes.
I want him to be my boy with the green eyes.

The sky resembles the robin's eggshells
                                                      scattered across the ground,

a blue so seemingly infinite                     yet fragile,
cracks running between understanding and madness

       complementing each other

as divine truths in their own right
to conquer my mind,
to unhinge the doors,
making it unnecessary to pick rusted locks

      letting thoughts fly free,
                                       releasing love out into the horizon.

If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations,
      it will surely die,
                 but even so,
  I was willing to strangle it by holding on too tightly.

    
    Until I saw the sky and eggshells today


      Peppered clouds reflected on the water,
                                            paralleling speckles on the eggshells,
                                    remind me of the freckles on your face.

  We need to be wide-open-free,
                                                we need to fly,
         without focusing too ******* shells of yesterdays.

We need to unclench our fists,
unclench our tongues,
explore the vast blue peppered sky
                                                
                                                      on wings of letting go....

so that we can once again feel with purity,      
so that we can hold each other ever closer.







05.24.12

A perfectly linear shape painted in gold
Is what you see
Through Instagram pictures Facebook posts Snapchat videos
The tacit life
I lead in the virtual stairway
I am living the life!
So you say
You painted my life in the most shimmering color
Turn on every light in the room to make it brighter
Gazing with admiration
Sometimes
Most of the time
With jealousy
Seduced by the lure of the blue light dependency
Turning this perfect lie into some meditation
And make it my definition
An image I’ve built to cover the within
A perfect fragmented me I post on social media
A habit I borrow for social gatherings
A behavior forced into me
For the sake of society!
An illusion so fragile made out of eggshell
A shell covering the true essence of ME
Uncovering myself for the world to see
The egg wall and make believes shattering
To life unpredictable burdens
That perfect golden shell cannot bare life’s hurdles
Holding something beautiful that doesn’t curdle
I am more of what you see
More of what I let you believe
More of society’s standards
More of you
More of me
I contained beauty and imperfections
I contained colors and bricks
Strengths and weaknesses
Enough to **** in all life’s miseries
And to also reflect confidence and vulnerabilities
I am not just one color
I am every shades
Every undertones
Every hues that follow the changes
I am the intense
The neon
The eclectic
The iridescent
From the lightest to the darkest
The contrasting
The complementing
The chromatic
I am in nature in art in paintings
Everywhere
I am every northern lights dancing to my own ballet
Don’t just paint me with your own palettes
Crack me open
And see what’s inside
For there you will see
My true colors

Quiet and demure night
one finds out by chance
is sleeping peacefully
on the same bed,
covered by a grey blanket
the sultry day too seeks after,
the tribulations a day long.
One would think that
smug and complementing light
for her is an anathema, is it?
But now it comes to light,
he is more like her paramour,
this face she keeps hidden
so audaciously, the unabashed
adulteress has no sense of shame
"When you imagine things,
take responsibility to it,
don't try to blame others"
You'd hear her murmur,
the long clandestine affair of
darkness to light, takes me
to where it all began..
will there be diversity
that enriches life without contrast?
The Himalayas should
sincerely thank ocean trenches..

Three Nails (...)
Not so many as to denounce
A job done to make me well.
Three rudimentary spikes to nail
A man's own flesh to wood.
Three nails cannot
Seem so much to proffer;
Human efforts complementing
God's sacrificial offer.

A self-inflicted crucifixion?
Yes, I would do my part;
Would do me good, I think,
To offer up an offering to God.

So let this painful work,
Human endeavoring,
Perfection capturing,
Begin.

A simple thing, I think,
To hoist and hammer
Nails into myself,
A manly job to undertake
Impaling self
To spare my God
A little work.

The first, perhaps
Most painful...
To stop the feet
Their wandering ways,
To give me pause for just a bit
To meditate in pain
And to reflect or to project
Myself in better ways.

                  .

Then on to nail number two,
One hand to hold the nail
And one the hammer.
The pain intense
Impacts my good intent.

                       .

And yet, I've nailed number two,
And finding where the problem lies,
I have no way to nail thrice.

My living flesh begins to writhe
Its will-ward way,
E'en though in sky-ward
Agony my soul now wails.

Then I remember
Someone said,
"Your crucifixion stands
Upon a different hill,
Hangs on a different tree."

                   . . .
Though I can never end my flesh,
He paid my debt for me.

He sat there
on the edge of my bed,
playing with the strings
on his guitar,
stringing me along.

Pulling me closer
with his voice,
beautifully bruised,
carrying me in.

The moonlight complementing
his every note,
every inch of him.

Buried diep.
Lost within a fantasy.
Lost in this room
with a melody,
and a voice
so addictive.

He sat there,
smoke and moonlight,
playing his guitar.

She will astound.
She will amaze.
Her thought process is more often than not unique and profound.
We have been in near-constant contact for hundreds of days.

One email; complementing an author for writing a truly wonderful work of fiction.
Has become so much more. I certainly didn’t foresee. I doubt anyone could have, well not without assistance, perhaps a psychic prediction.

I find it immensely difficult to verbalize, even now.  
And I feel that I must...Just….Hmmm…How?

We have talked for hours on end, about any and all things.
Who knew?
But what I write is true.
An unbreakable bond we have. With the clicking of a Send button, that is how I say it begins.

Her voice at times, is the only thing that allows me to regain or maintain my focus.
No amount of medication, therapy or any other kumbaya related hokus pokus.

She is always reminding me that I have, and can find inner strength and powers.
Countless times, she has been the reason for me not to yield.
She has saved me in my darkest of hours.
She is my shield.

The sun was young and bright,
Nestling elegantly on my face.
Filling me with new hopes,
Melting all the cold within.

The aroma of coffee,
Wafting pleasantly in the air,
Complementing beautifully to the croissant,
Filling up my lonely stomach.

The day is auspicious and inspirational,
Leaving all the sorrow behind,
Walking with a new hope,
Forward and further

Since its inception, Aarong has been determined to bring about effective changes in the lives of artisans and underprivileged rural women, by facilitating and advertising their handicraft. Today, it has become the foundation of independent cooperative groups and family-based artisans. Now, it is known as a contemporary life outlet, among people not only in Bangladesh, but all over the world.

This wedding season, you can adorn yourself with one of Aarong’s festive looks. On November 17, Aarong launched their latest product line – the Wedding Collection.

Aarong has introduced a series of looks and styles to try out this wedding season for brides, the bridal entourage and the wedding attendees. What’s more, they are promoting Jamdani, Muslin and Katan sarees as the choice of outfits to wear for the bride and her close ones.

The line is introducing bridal wear in some uncommon hues, moving away from the routine “red” to peach, pink, purple, blue, green and beige. These unconventional colours can also look grand on the big day, and this is the idea that the creators of Aarong are attempting to establish.

Jamdani saris will be incorporated with remarkable embroidered and printed blouses, helping ladies look regal on their special day. The wedding entourage also has a lot to look forward to. This special compilation includes Katan and Jamdani sarees, paired with embroidered blouses, ideal for any reception soiree. Katan sarees can be worn in bright or bold colours and contrasted with multi-layered pearl jewellery and complementing blouses. Furthermore, the collection also includes Jamdani saris in light shades such as light pink, peach and white, and these can be paired with frilled petticoats or dupattas.

Along with gold, the creators encourage the brides to try out silver jewellery with complementing stones, layered pearl neckpieces and hair ornaments. Hence, the looks are a mix of modern and traditional, and are not only advised for the bride, but also for the close relatives or wedding attendees.

This collection also comprises of saris, appropriate for the bridesmaids, the cousins, the sisters, and even the parents of the to-be-weds. Aarong has prepared similar ‘matching’ attires for the bride and the groom, that are perfect for particular occasions like Holud, Mehendi, Aiburo Bhaat, and so on. For the bridegroom, as well as his family and friends, there is also an exclusive range, that includes Sherwanis and Panjabis. Aarong also provides a variety of gift options such as ceramic dinner set, cushion and bed covers, as well as women’s accessories, such as bags and purses.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.

In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.

It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.

You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.

In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.

The flavors, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.

Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.

In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back.

Sunrise nearing its death,
the end of today
complementing the beauty of a pen stroke,
harsh scratching alleviating indelible ideas
showing selves in hues painting our last moments
allowing me to trace timelines
in the contoured caresses
of this silent instrument played
to blend melody with beginnings,
each progression scaling further along
the passing hours left settling
to minutes from now,
purpose elaborated in contrasting
blues and oranges and purples
composing the elegance of utility,
colors not enough to excise the excesses
of depicting days in dimensions,
of simplifying it to degrees of time.
Laying alongside this current
to shape clouds
and animate constellations,
my faux-corpse stares again into
the memory held in galaxies
only glimpsed at twilight.
Sharp cuts of consonants
and vowels' smoothed corners
try to rid me of
stream of conscious thinking loosed,
the inner struggle hoping for reprieve
from that constant combative nature
of inward disagreement
and dialectic digression
deflecting the question of
what if we'd only spoke
instead of being lost
to foreign type-faces designed by
some soul never to see
the dying day my way.
If only we'd spoke,
I would have had the chance
to stumble on a goodbye.
Rather we are left
to flourishes of unfamiliar weapons
sitting askew on these pages,
the balance shifted due to
us degrading to another's personality,
and writing out those lines
we couldn't come to say.

Since I identified myself as more than a number
I have been remembered by Orbs, Walk-Ins, channelers and elementals
  with all the work that has been carried out by Light-workers and care-givers, the Justice League if you will
  much attention has been drawn by the Pleiadians
  So at this time one wonders why things aren't coming alright instantly
   Besides wars and organized crime and famine
the touble has been food and birth control
      

The messages that come from the Dream School reveal that the Pleiadians as well as Carians, (the Parents of Reptillians) once helped mankind with planning pregnancy and avoiding dysfunctional births to breed a creed of children who didn't live according to a political plan, occult plan or a religious sacrifice
   They came to help man so balance can be restored because the problems that were found here were not found on other planets at the time
    there was a prophecy from time-travellers that scientists would one day awaken hormones of humans before they had spiritual identity and knowledge about the Universe and Creation
  --- with this generation upon generation it would be hereditary for children to birth children so then there would be no parents, hence no direction


but you see to get to pregnancy one has to understand ****** ******* or fusion first
  once a soul comes into awakening and knowing that it exists in a realm beyond the physical,
parents in Atlantis and Lemuria would then teach them about astronomy, astrology, history, sacred geometry, the arts, philosophy and generally galactic anthropology
with this evolution man was able to do what we'd call prayer and meditation today
   this connection with the Divine was man experiencing the Universe with the Father of this Universe, God, Enjilou, first, before journeying spiritually with anyone else
  Upon full growth, integration, upgrade and completion, only then would man, male or female seek a partner replicating his or her vibration, complementing his or her resonant frequency
  at this time both partners were evolved spiritually, etherically, mentally, physically and emotionally. From this bandwidth comes the coalescent enregy we call love
    with this energy both partners could explore the Universe, connect with the Divine and travel astrally or physically, mentally or psychically; finding ways to be together because they were sharing love

it was from these stellar travels that the couple would find a place to house their love, growing in understanding of each other
  -- they then made love, this was before marriage was created, for they were both married or bonded with God first and had understood and identified their place in the Universe
   from frequent love-making, clusters would be created from the third-energy that comes from the fusion of the two souls
the more this happened the couple would want to find a soul that represents them both best through the eyes of Divinity
then they would search for a star or a star system that complements both their energies (one that would allow them to fuse) then they can create a new star, what we can call a baby
    being birthed like a bang or a clash landing by an astronaut; which is why new-borns are clothed in space-suits to this day
     following the guidelines of the Law of One which govern creation: the lives of new-borns of babies are not compromised


Secondly the problem was that of food,
avatars have been sent to Earth throughout the ages to teach humans about harnessing the energy of Sun Food through manufacturing and farming
there has been a teacher in the Hindu religion, a prophet in the Islam religion, doctors from the Celtic Faith... All abjudicating the importance of harnessing the energy we receive, including rain, to produce food that is healthy for our bodies
   it is needless to say that there was no junk food then or many meals in a day, a bowl of leaves could last a child for weeks
   this information would be distorted and destroyed as many trees have been destroyed and mines have been opened to further eradicate the evidence
   it shouldn't be farfetched that man has a sacred and real connection to divinity, man is able to engage in ******* with angels, angels who will then cleanse his or her chakras, all this through a diet of mind, body, heart and soul
   cleaning out negative energies and inviting in healing positive energy
but how? Well if the body is a temple then your house that you live in should be a megastructure, how you take care, maintain that megastructure will have an impact on your body which is a temple
likewise how you take care of your body which is a temple will make you aware of the dysfunction and disturbance going on in your megastructure
  so you plant a tree and learn if you are responsible enough to sustain it
  then you will know that you can be responsible for yourself and become a watchdog being careful of how you eat, then you jog and swim. Pray.

Today: A Paperclip
Continuously and seamlessly complementing and complying with myself
Bending solely to hold something foreign as whole
With a surety of security
And right angled refine

Unless the load is too much or too smooth or not right
And in leaning the lines some part
Or some whole
Sideways makes escape
From skewed hold
Shiny soundness
Will surely soften
And the Paperclip appeal will reveal
To be as paper thick as any
Continuous and seamless
Paperclip in a Paperclip ***

Maybe tomorrow warrants
The hopeful and overly capable Staple.

Have not pity for the puppy
in the box by the street;
his purpose yet to be determined.
I took him home as chosen last among others,
but first in my heart,
and my stomach.

I took the poor puppy
into the kitchen
where I lopped off his head
drank his blood
and cooked him for dinner.

So dear children
do not pity the poor puppy
whose flesh still fills my belly.
Allow us to applaud him
for complementing good jelly.

Blue
reminds me of you
Old soul in a body that's new.

Missing piece of a jigsaw
Complementing every flaw.

Misty morning, mysterious night
escaping this world in plain sight.

A pair of broken wings
Urging hinged things
to fly, fly, fly away.

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Teary eyes, crocked lips
Broken faith complementing crooked hips
Factory of life they tell,
wounded souls, whispers to hell
Losing faith, into voids
Body aches yet to avoid
How this makes me stronger I ask
making it bitter for every task
my soul cries and pleads
body is something it needs
for if there is no strength in body to support
what is the meaning of these milestones that I report
I fear I’ll lose my existence
no one will remember this soul in any co-incidence
for again I plead for strength in this body
Will power doesn’t seem enough for a crippled body.

So thoughtful in the choice of his words not to hurt anyone feelings,
Why can't you stop beating around the bush.
So humble with everyone and thing always understanding things could be worst.
Why not see situation for what they are . ive come to realize that your the type of guy I can't stand your so one sided not letting my point of view in.
I just want to kick you . Telling you  how I feel is giving me a rush,
Better yet being with you is like having a rash one that you scratch until the skin cracks.
And your ******* cuddling drives stevie wonder to see,
to  be or not to be was the question whenever we were togather.
Your behavior was unbearable always complementing and asking of my welfare. Even if I told you I didn't care you would just try and fix it another one of your conversations about work it out .
So **** quite you could hear the **** birds cherp when asked any personal questions .

All motions are fluid as she descends down the stairway

So delicate

As if she never even touches the steps

She remains in the nightgown from the previous evening

Her long, dark hair complementing its dark complexion

A cup of tea that's a little too hot

The morning routine

She quietly moves to a window

Softly blowing steam off the top of her cup, fogging up the glass in front of her

The outcome of contrasting temperatures does not cause her to move

She remains still

Silent

Elegant

She turns to face me, and my eyes open

Where she used to lay, where I used to meet that euphoric smile

Is now clairvoyant

We meet
in Spring,
but began in
the Fall.

Looking out
the window
of your car
I imagined running
my fingers over
cornfields like pages
of a book.

Watching the sunset
in the rearview mirror
as we moved forward
together, needing
two of my hands to
touch just one of yours.

Followed by 120 days
of realizing we both love
saltine crackers and both drool
when we sleep really well.

You loved listening
to my heartbeat and telling
me how it sounded and
when I couldn’t sleep  
you’d pull my head to
your chest and tell me
to listen to yours.

120 days of you guessing
my favorite flower,
complementing my favorite cardigan,
picking my favorite book off the shelf
and reading to me, and attempting to tie
my hair in a ponytail or a bun.

And you touched like
my skin was ice and
your hands skates,
but that turned into you
grasping at me like
the room is flames
and my body oxygen
On the 120th night
you crawled into my bed,
I could taste the alcohol
on your mouth when you
told me you loved me
and I became addicted
to the taste.

After a week
I was Rory and you Dean
and with that began
our 39-day happy hour.

Until the 159th night
when you took back
that you loved me and
I knew I never could again.
My skin regressed
back to ice and the next
45 days was our last call,
numb to it all.

On the 204th day
you were Summer and
I was Tom eating pancakes
in a diner.
All I did was stare
at the buttons on
your shirt and think
about the time we
saw the moon and you
asked for me to write a
poem but little did you
know I have been this
whole time:

       Iris Moon
       Marble Moon
       Missed Moon
       Monday Blues
       Button Moon
       Spring Cleaning.

And never moonstruck.

We lasted 12 more days
and when we ended my first
thought was that I can now:
cut my hair
       count again
       and write again.

It's night.
and nimbly
she - well not quite dances.
But entrances me.
My mind fumbles.
It's spinning.
There is
music there.
it emanates from her body in
Neon notes.
They free float.
It's a smoothe picture to swallow.
But they are stuck in my throat.
(like my wordless hope
that she'll lean in,
halt her dance,
just long enough to press her lips
to mine)
she resonates with every note and
she dances like the silkiest spoken
word.

Limbs
sway
she makes
day
break
Stealing the color
of neon skies
Fluid in her every stroke
the same electric blues,reflecting in her eyes,
Her gaze set fire to my haze,
Struck a chord inside my chest,
the note somehow complementing
the delicate sway of her hips.
her lips, where the tip of my tongue could only dare to caress

Our eyes entwined together,
Whilst my fingers appreciate her curves.
With each touch runs a ripple,
Down her spine and beyond.
Her fingers swirl around in my hair,
Complementing them,
For the maze they are.
My existence buried in hers,
Striving to keep its identity,
Craving the honey dripping down her ***.
Her existence drowning in mine,
Like its hit by a thousand tsunamis,
All at once.
She tries her best to keep it all down,
Hide the obvious tell-tales of glee,
Her burning cheeks and scarlet smile,
Her twinkling eyes and dry lips,
But her sporadic breaths are telling the tales.
Revealing the secrets of the ecstatic sin.

You don't know how much it hurt me,
I suppose you were misled.
I've been waiting all day to tell you,
Only to hear what you misinterpret what I said.

Pathetic, you think you knew what I meant,
You thought you saw through my smile,
What did you think of me?
Some irresponsible Middle school child?

Sorry for bothering you,
I only wasted your time,
I'm not capable of complementing
People who aren't like mine.