what had happened
what we made
may be compared to a fishtail braid

the situation
the mess we made
may be likened to a fishtail braid

just as it takes the braid a few minutes
this "love" we had took a few years
woven slowly, outcome dainty
despite the flinches and the fears

just as beautiful the braid is
our "love" was magnificent
oh! the beauty! with sorrow i'll miss
never desired for it to end

and then it happened; then you stopped
the fragile masterpiece, the work of art
slowly, the plait became undone;
messy. ugly was the result

i, the fog that fades
you, last farewell bade
us, the ruined fishtail braid

In June this year, designer Masaba Gupta and film producer Madhu Mantena had the quietest of civil ceremonies. It was only when she took to Twitter the next day to talk about the court registry that most people heard of it. It was a move most unorthodox, for a leading fashion designer, especially one who counts several Bollywood actors among her close friends.

At the time, she also announced “a Caribbean wedding in November”.

The destination wedding isn’t happening. But that’s not to deprive us of a grand, four-day affair, the sort that has the most coveted guest list, and is followed with the keenest interest. It will start on November 19, with the bridal showers, will continue with the mehendi on November 20, the sangeet on November 21 and a gala reception on Sunday, (November 22). Expect the works, and guest lists that boast of Bollywood A-listers (Shahid and Mira Kapoor, and Sonam Kapoor are close friends, just so you know).

In short, it sounds like any other grand Indian celebrity wedding. Except, this is Masaba Gupta we’re talking about. As we catch up with her, we get the sense that she’s approached the whole thing with the same minimalism and quirkiness with which she approaches fashion. “A lot of people are invited,” she tells us, “But I’m not going around and talking about my wedding designer or my lipstick, so on and so forth.”

Unlike most Indian brides, she’s not even fretting over the big day, or days, as it were. “When I was growing up, I always saw brides around me under tremendous stress. The pressure to dress a certain way, wear a certain amount of jewellery and make-up... I saw how uncomfortable it was. So I decided that, if I do get married, I’ll be someone who puts comfort first, and then looks at her options for cut, colour, embroidery or jewellery,” says Gupta.

So, in case you do find yourself invited (otherwise, there’s always Instagram), don’t be surprised to see the most relaxed bride, dressed so comfortably that she’d be the envy of any married Indian woman. The idea, she says, is that a bride should “dress in a way that she can interact with people and have a good time herself.”

She’s also taken charge of the whole thing, and planned a non-fussy, non-extravagant celebration. “For me, three vacations is more value-for-money than a mandap with diamonds on it.”

True to her word, for her sangeet and reception, Gupta is ditching the norm of heavily designed lehengas and saris. “I didn’t go into that heavy, couture, bridal space. And I’m the kind of designer who wears works of other designers,” she says. So, her trousseau will have outfits by several other leading designers. “There are a few people who are great at doing certain things. Anamika [Khanna] is great at reception outfits. I can do a cool, quirky mehendi outfit. For a sangeet, somebody more in the Manish Arora or Shivan and Narresh kind of space,” she says.

The designer who’s always stood apart also seems keen to set an example. By not conforming to rules, Gupta wants to make a point. “I do want it to be about comfort, but I also want to change things up a bit. I want to set an example and say that you don’t need to wear a certain colour, a certain type of maang tika; your hair doesn’t have to look a particular way,” says the young designer.

Ask her if this is the (unconventional) dream wedding come true, and she laughs. “I never had a dream wedding. I’ve never visualised anything except clothes. Certainly not an elaborate wedding setup. See, I just don’t want to starve at my wedding. So, my dream wedding is one where I get to eat a meal while everyone else enjoys themselves as well.”

Masaba’s five-point guide to a chilled-out wedding

1) Get people to help out. If you try and look at every detail, you’re going to have a hard time. You may have a great input, but get people to do it for you.

2)People think you should shop for jewellery and clothes much in advance, but I think it should be done as close to the wedding as possible. You’ll have the latest stuff, and your taste might change over time. It’s best done around the wedding, so you don’t regret what you’ve bought.

3) Shoes are important. Make sure you’re in comfortable heels or flats, so you can survive the night.

4) Always test the make-up artist. Don’t just do a demo and leave it; test it through the day. See how the make-up behaves over a few hours, then you’ll know what it will actually be like, because it takes a couple of hours for make-up to set.

5) Receptions should start becoming more informal. You shouldn’t have to have the couple on stage smiling through the evening. I’ve heard of brides getting locked jaws. It’s absolute torture.

How to be the unconventional groom

• Fusion looks work well. If you’re wearing a Jodhpuri or a bandhgala, team it up with Jodhpuri pants. For men who are slimmer, suits do wonders.

• If you wish to be quirky and know you can carry it off, team dhoti pants and a shirt with a really formal blazer and a brooch.


• I love the cropped, ankle-length formal pants men are wearing now. It’s great for a reception.

• You don’t need to wear laced up shoes. Wear a nice slip-on in patent leather or a printed pair of shoes that stand out. So, you can make the whole look black and white, and have a nice pop shoe and make that the focus.

• Don’t be afraid of colours at your wedding. Get over navy blue, black or maroon. On a darker man, a haldi yellow kurta will look fantastic when teamed with an off-white or cream churidar. Even a soft pink in raw silk — it has a silver-pink shine — looks lovely.

How to be the ‘in vogue’ bride

• We’re seeing a lot of shapewear backs. Instead of the flared lehenga, women are opting for the fishtail cuts. Girls are also wearing shararas with big flares that almost look like a lehenga.

• Brides are going minimal. Go for less embellishment, and lighter lehengas.

• The dupatta is being ditched. Either that, or it’s attached. Much easier to handle.

• The choli is becoming more modest. People are wearing longer lengths, which are more fitted; the ‘60s style kurtas with shararas are also in. There’s more focus on the body and shape.

• I’m hoping the anarkali has died. It’s the worst of the lot. And it’s not very flattering. If you’re very skinny and tall, it works for you. If you’re short, you look like you’re lost in your outfit.

• Ditch the trail. At the end of the night, it’s a rag. It’s been stepped on and is *****.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/mermaid-trumpet-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses

I remember braiding hair
at the mouth of the river,
golden strings weaving
between my fingers

legs stretched roughly
across long grass, the
itch of it spreading
under our cotton
dresses

I imagine, the waves
washing over my face
as I swim down consuming
the deep black drop
of nothingness,

as I cover my ears
to the roars
of planes,

turn my guts away
from the motion
of a boat

I listen,
to the beat of
your heart as I thread

strand over strand

and pull

She laughs, he smiles.
The black forest taste he could only taste at the peak of light beams
Her laugh seems similar, quite similar.
Her haha's outcasted the glooms and dooms
Just as the black forest melted on his taste buds when sun rays streaked upon his shoulder blades.

She cracked a joke, he laughs and nods
Intellectual is what they might say
A brainy maniac she is, who could co-host a sitcom
His Friday nights would now only be filled with her wits
Replacing all the beers and stouts for a while
His once bumpy and rocky throat is nil compared to the highly raised cheekbones visible during a good laugh

But one day she cried.
The guilt he carries overshadowed his sympathy.
Her big swollen eyes
Her pinkish and warm face which was covered in dribble
Hadn't he known?
All those time he made somersaults, he was drown deep below
He could breakthrough,
but was too mesmerized by the mermaid's blinking fishtail and scaly skin.

And she saved him
From being turned into a merman
Only then he was back to square one
Where her laughters, her jokes and her sobs are actually his sugar crush, his Gatsby gold
As always, she was after all, his soul saver.

fishtail braids
sock and sandals
drawn mustaches
left over food
songs on repeat
semi stinky feat
sweatpants and suits
unicorns and cupcakes
phone charger cords
long summer nights

I avoid Marble Arch like I do the armed police men,
And happily walk an extra two streets
Just to reach a place I don't recognise.
Like the bar we went to,
Now changed as a lot of things do,
Or the underground station
Where we unknowingly said goodbye the last time,
Kissed,
And saw each other,
Not via pictures, writings, or pixels
But through rods and cones,
For the last time for a what will probably be long time.

But I will walk through Paddington,
Past the hostel you stayed in, the pub you took me to,
I still get my bus at that frosty corner,
And wear my floral dress, my hoodie, my fishtail hair braid.
And more importantly
My bold blue dress
That you zipped up,
Drunkenly spilled beer on, my uncle bought you ten,
And I told you that I felt the same.

Now I'm not that shade of blue,
But colour me naive,
After all the times I asked you to not say what you don't mean
I did just that -
I don't think it was the same
Because it should have cut deeper than it did.

And after seeing how sorry I feel
For the new her and you
Because one or both of you have to realise something soon,
I feel I should be there for you.
But I won't hold your hand at the bank
Get your favourite band to sign your birthday card,
I won't take your beer off you when you can't stop,
Get on another plane,
Or stop writing poetry because I know you will see it.

I won't walk through Marble Arch for you.

tangled together
like fishtail braids
as if they had never parted
and never again would

Nothing suggests a protest more,
than the smashing down of one more door
and the picking up off one more floor of another fallen crown.
Smash things down
let them be rebuilt
(one more tilt at a windmill)
still
it's nice to dream.

I seem to dream an awful lot these days
cast my life away into a gaze,another one thousand yard stare
but no soldiers there just prison guards that walk around with us in our prison yard
and don't we take it hard ,when the door is smashed and we realise that what we see is just the same as it will always be,
the dumping ground
make no sound or you'll be targeted and found another place and in your place someone else will step into your prison cell.

It's nice to dream?
like hell,excuse me I don't feel so feckin well
we've all been *******,used and abused by selfish men
who promise freedom but only when and if they ever decide to decide and in the meantime hide away on south sea islands
where they play the altruist,
well it ****** me off no end and no end to this I see
no confiture for you and me
we'll have to eat the crusts of bread,dipped slowly in the bowls of gruel and how could fools like us be taken in
and fools we are for learning krap in krappy schools where education is dumbed down and more fool than that
we then went cap in hand to ask employment of the man
who lapped it up
slapped us down and paid us half a crown to make believe that we were Gods, able to buy those odds and sods and settle in for one more Winter night beside a fire that barely lit, and an outside privy where we would sit and shiver.

The only joy I ever had was poaching on Lord Sefton's private river
and who gave that fat swine the right to steal a river as if a river might be ever owned.

I moan a lot and groan a lot but never seem to have a lot
the cooking *** lays empty on the range
not strange
just the poor of days we're in.

One more grin
wipe behind my ears
pretend that I have shed no tears and go out to the tally man, to tally up and he can tell me what is due
I am the few
the many of many who haven't any
won't get much
a touch upon my shoulder,
'Excuse me sir, there seems to be a fishtail poking from your bag,come with me to jail,become one more old lag'
more than enough of them and more to come
start smashing doors let's have some fun
God knows we don't get enough.

I don't like ponds
I can't stand the distrust in koi,
Or the bitter mess of plants on the surface-
Sometimes leaves sink past its edge into the faded water.
Their resemblance of shakily build reasons
For people pursuing careers they don't like
laps like waves with every change in environment.

All the same

I don't like people.
I can never shake your sadness
and the delicate mess of hair daintily reaching past your shoulders - a fallen-apart fishtail braid.
why did you become a bus-driver when the world is full of waves
and every change in environment comes a new person entirely.

I've stopped wearing seat belts
And looking both ways before I cross
Because when I hear the screech of tires
And feel my car slip and fishtail
It makes me feel something
When all I feel now is nothing.

she's an island;

pale as the ocean mist
veiling the rugged shoreline.
with chubby freckled cheeks
framed by coppery red curls,
lashed up in fishtail braids,
or left loose in the salty breeze,
falling down to her shoulders,
broad and wind-weathered.

her laughter is the crash
of waves on the dock.
or the roar of the eastern winds,
that scour the northern seas.

Daybreak on the River

Daybreak rippled sounds
And silver morning flow,
Cool the ire of the beaten night.
Such beautiful disturbance,
A surface shimmer gleam.
The river greets the end of the greylight
And passes by colour streaked,
Endless and resurgent,
Under the firmament aglow.

An eventual sun
That breaks the horizon,
With teasing rays.
The best of times,
The dawn of days.
And let the water breath
Kiss the sallow mists.
A final caress.
Vanquished to daylight.

Whispering willows talk,
Shadow borne on dappled waters,
Bank bowed swaying dance.
Weep willow, weep now,
For the day has begun.
Joy sapped, seeping
From trunk and branch.
Where the breeze wakes
To stir the nest dwellers.

Safe haven for birdsong
That is carried
Upon each gentling ripple.
A new day! they sing
And the river ripples its applause
In the first swish of fishtail
And dragonfly sorties.
Oh glorious dawn,
The day begins!

It’s fifteen below
And a fat buck lurches,
Spindle legged, four pointed,
And cardinal -
Fishtail and brake.

I don’t trust this road.
I don’t trust these tires.
I don’t trust these ditches,
Smoothed and driven with snow.

I’m a six-layered pig at the wheel -
Unsleek unchic -
But I’m warm, **** I’m warm,
And the road slides like pinstripe
On white gabardine.

And the waning moon,
The waning moon,
Low in the rise,
Gibbous and garish,
Scabbing a cloud,
Spills the whole thing blue.

I don’t trust the red eyes of mailboxes,
Always willing to dive the grill.
I don’t trust the farmer
That lives on the hill,
Behind the blue spruce line,
Behind the blue flickered window,
Counting on futures,
Clumsy as mittens,
Still as the finger drift
Thudding the glide
Like dull scissors
Snagged in gridded giftwrap guides.

I still taste the coffee
Down under the tar.

I trust my smokes.
Yes, I trust my smokes.
I trust my hat. I trust my boots.
I trust I’ll never find my roots.
I trust the jumpers, there in the trunk.
I trust every single roadkill thunk.
I trust every knuckled ill-advised ride
To tell me yes, oh yes, I'm alive, I’m alive.

satisfaction when falling
into the bottomless
two minutes slip by

all my lifetime of trying to recognize
spiritual masters, instead -
potential parents
flood the tunnels with the bad manners and
dressed in dark grey and green

such repugnance -
decadent as **** malevich
i crawl into his smoky rib cage
forget that the language
is dead.
he pauses, rushes and pants
paints his face skeleton
eyelids blank like i pictured - but
no seattle sound. math rock and machines going off they rocker
no rolling stone
**** her string along that neck
come back reborn. shut the door
collapse in the bathroom, throwing up
into the telephone -
sa ding **** made up words
or looped cuban songs -
back in the day is gone
not anymore not anymore

what do ripped jeans mean to you?
or 16th century persian poets?
when your mind is set afire
swarthed
you like women in klimt’s canvas
light beams through your slits
so you won’t drown in
ruthless thoughts stream
when your deafened ear catches
the ovations
pervading, dying blue note
still not the ending

madame blavatsky unfolding the envelope:
i’m the circle on palm leaf manuscripts
with a dot in the middle -
you’re the reason. the clarity and the void
the eye in between
the missing capstone, i am the folklore
strange beings with fishtail and
i might be the lizard
king, violet violent dressed in crimson
you squeezing them lemons
tequila so creamy
when spiky black leather rips through
the wires, sound effects are your favorite
print shops, in them zines. your dialect
you savor - licking your lips,
saturated and smeared, paranoid
black sabbatical
moon-kissed.

i know you all umbilical visceral
bite your teeth into and cut
catalonia - two halves, dry mouth
and scorching sun
you know i’m subtler than the red
a lotus flower growing in the west
silk sheets in ultraviolet, as soon as
you come to rest
i can smell the war in your curl
jet black and charcoal -
no matte.

no hole in your chest - yet
microchips, they flicker
under your skin as the muscles twitch
in the rem sleep;
black madonna’s humble soft gaze
through the painted veil. marble or onyx
did you feel defeated? when you’ve fallen?
into the bottomless - unknowing
fungus-like growing
upsidedown along with the
torus

cycles and waves, when it’s not subatomic
i wish we’d perceived past the
electromagnetic; distant planets and stars
tease my potential. if only
i wasn’t eclectic, if only
i was in zazen

i accept; sit back sense the vibrations
mind-vacuumed perception not split into parts;
a black whole: if you, color, still there
up high; this deceiving metronome
sound time-travelling in circles
splashes across; carmen in carmine
a girl walks home alone
feline; l'via, cygnus,
jimi,
come on
why don’t you set me free

Pluck from the front,
Pluck from the back
Give in to your addiction
That glues your head to a hat
You want to wear your hair down in curly waves?
Or fishtail braid it,
Or twist it to the side someday?
You can't even part it down the middle,
Without revealing a bald spot
That is the size of your face
You feel the stress, so you pluck it all away
Black out; keep plucking and
Forget about the time
See the hairs on the floor and mourn over what once was mine

Oh, you want to know what happened?
I'll tell you

3:16
It came through the air I guess
It went through trees, clouds, people
The whole ******* universe, I think,
And by some freak coincidence,
It went through my eyes and
into my brain
Where it bombed around for a while
Then it turned into some hot injection
that got pushed like syrup into
my veins...

3:19
My car is shuddering and clattering
As I fly over missing pieces of asphalt
and warped dirt road
With my boss in my ear
As I explain why I'll be a little late in the language of hysterics
3:20
Maniacal skill I didn't know I had
Gets me to where I need to go
As three more fishtail behind
To congregate on the driveway cement

3:21
The house is deathly
But my heart is lively
When I run around back
to find the doorwall left unlocked
Like a cordial invitation
to an old family reunion
3:21:05
Michael is the name I'm yelling
But I swear to God it's
his spattered brains I'm smelling
As I sleepwalk under a heat lamp
down a hallway that keeps
      shrinking and growing

Tell me, God,
What do I know about healing?
tell me...
what do I know about trying to sew two fragile pieces of
white skin together that spurt
red in tune with a heartbeat?

Tell me God,
What do I know about walking I wonder
When I'm finally there
And it's all very riveting
As some ******* grabs my
ringing phone away
And thrusts me forward
into the final resting place
of a young frail boy
where I will surely find him the
color of cod
Dangling from his soft, mushy neck
or with a cylindrical
chunk of his head missing
Carved out by a bullet

3:21:35
Tell me, soul,
What do I know about loneliness?
Tell me...
What do I know about
                 trying to
balance the two fragile pieces
of mind and body that
slowly rip apart in tune with
the drag of a joint?

Tell me soul
What do I know about Michael
I wonder
As I find him nestled in
the nook between toilet and
wall
curled like the fragile fetus that
     he is
so I surround his body with
mine as I sob
finding his arms only
      scratched
but his mind all bloodied with
      drugs, I guess,
Except he recoils from my
      touch
Like a cold worm being tugged at
    from his ***** hole
3:22
Footsteps crash
Voices shatter
I hurdle away
As the paternal problem
prods and pokes
How odd it was
to see the change from
      Frantically to cop-ly.
3:24
There's ambulances coming
While Michael walks off down
     the street because he's fine
And there's crying and sniffling
Oh woe is me
Oh woe is Michael
And it all ends very quickly
As I'm sent away to
     make sandwiches
And weak boys are questioned
     and prescribed to in a hospital bed

Except it all doesn't end very
    quickly
Because for the next three
days my throat swells for
no reason so that I don't
dare to speak
And because for the next
three ******* months
Michael is my everyother thought
and how nothing was gained.

In enough said
Keep the poem
Ponytail rides
Winning water
Time to time
All for
What manner suppose
Grim bib enchilada
Darker beans
Fishtail
Knows
My way out of
Cramped neck
Bee cross
Locked in candidate
Smock now
Look at that

Sometimes,
when I step outside the dream and
look behind the scenes
there's a technical crew with cameras and,
do you think it's right,that the features that run through
my sleep late at night, should be captured and framed at
24 per ?

I stand there (behind the scenes)
where dreams are as real as the dreamers that dream them and the men that watch them with squinted eyes through a fishtail lens
bend into the ambient light,
it could be that what I see is not a dream at all,
it could be real,
the deal being that when I'm awake
I'm awake in a dream and each scene is but a picture I see within another dream and who,
I ask,is dreaming of me?

Sometimes,
awake or asleep,day or night if I'm right or when the mood hits the light that bounces off the window panes
I play games
I write books
give girls longing looks,
and I'm never sure if I am
dreaming or not.

Drinking black tea early in the morning
Watching vistas of the fishtail mountains and the rising run
shaking my Styrofoam cup on my table
and reading the newspapers outside in a sunbath

Isn't that beautiful ?
It's my wish for after retirement.
I wish for a life of goodness and peace
But it's just a wish, a simple wish of mine.

Life takes us so far and so high
So down and so daringly deep
I wish to enjoy every bit of the journey
but It's just a wish, a simple wish of mine.

When I become old after many ages,
won't it be cool to spend time gardening ?
Hearing the bees singing
and watching bird dancing?
Bit it's just my wish, a simple wish of mine.

Whether it's fulfilling or unfulfilling
I will keep wishing, I keep dreaming  
Cause that's how I can keep my hope alive
But it's just a wish, a simple wish of mine

as if sleep is surrender, beckoning to me, as some sort of a menacing creature from a cartoon series,w ith a fishtail and a gibbering little smile, beckoning, and I am defenseless yet also powerful, sitting on my carpet, contemplating, fathoming both at the same time, some sort of monster of expressionless decodiing, opposites etracting, the big electron molecule, formulating, loving, inspiring, some sort of microscopic revelation fuming at the nostrils, tainting your insights, understnadinging your favorite disvoering, letting it be what it is, letting it go away peacefully, the biggest challenges in life, making their way to the center of your nut, and your whipping for breath, bearing the best and manliest ******* bandana, and you are wearing a mustache, in deep trying to let go of hostilities, but your are swept with madness, your eyes hurt and your mind flickers with the pride of others, interested in telepathy, the kunds of shops where they take your money for their intuitions, spirituality as a mystery that is uplifting, some sort of malice that has wreaked havoc and yet brought on the curious which brings on the mystery which brings on the fun, you’re at it

Methinks hmm, perhaps
I admittedly self plagiarize and quite aware
aforementioned amalgamated, conglomerated,
fabricated, jerry rigged, and organized
eye gripping titled
poem already aired a year plus ago,
though revisiting said theme
downplayed now as thoughts blare,

though similarly filched content
(pertaining to other literary endeavors)
invariably glommed electronically
(digitally remastered and remixed),
nevertheless gobbledygook enigmatically
jerkily, and quirkily communicated,
sans trademark Pi Seine (seen) fishtail career
as applies to uber secreted questions.

This chap challenges himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm and weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally anonymous reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely

a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear.

Most instances when I initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
NASA hiss (Onassis) revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly, grow
tusk long haired woolly creature
out malm mouth drool dripping
trademark characteristic viz
pencil neck geek
madly scratching itchy hairs

dotting chinny chin chin of
garden variety generic hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby frank and ernest poet;
home body (nowhere man);
beetle browed fool on the hill;
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy common Joe,
just biden his time,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
comes home to stir the roost.

(Hard boiled eggheads merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst
of tangential threads populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),

trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate

coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. ***

Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining Motorhead
(ace of spades) tour de force,
whereat fingers of the left hand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expanded Leaves (of Grass)
finds me Waltzing Whitman nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.

This penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
hoard (word) ** seeking
mine own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile material undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,

and webbed woven semicolon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma bell heavable own home spun faux
Cambridge Analytica
Jimmy Crack corn and I don't care
gimcrackery defaced facebook best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest.

Methinks hmm, perhaps
aforementioned conglomerated eye gripping titled,
poem already aired
though revisiting said theme
downplayed as thoughts blare
though similar content
invariably communicated,
sans trademark Pi Seine fishtail career
as applies to other questions.

This chap asks himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm and weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely

a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear.

Most instances when I initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
NASA hiss revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly,
and madly scratching itchy hairs
dotting chinny chin chin of this hobo

hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby a generic home
er run (hitting) mill
(on the floss sing false teeth)
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy common Joe,
just biden his time,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea

(Hard boiled eggheads merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst
of tangential thread populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),
trucked since time immemorial

inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate

coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. **
Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile

self determining Motorhead tour de force,
whereat fingers of the left hand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expanded leaves (of grass)
finds me Waltzing whitman nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.

This penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
hoard ** seeking
mine own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile material undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,

and webbed woven semicolon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma own home spun faux
Cambridge Analytica
Jimmy Crack corn and I don't care
gimcrackery defaced facebook best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest.