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Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
The hallowed turf is a six-seasonal
always one step ahead on Earth.
So exceptional a land is out of the box
acutely drawn down the Moon
and sublimely unique is written in stone!

A patch of land every star loves to touch
so much so the Mintaka know they can mirror
the pyramid on the surface of the earth
but not the tucked away zenana here
the planetary gem, the earth's gold dust:
Matches the lead Prophet's birthplace!

Open and globular star clusters
up above the mundane Himalayas peak look
diagonally into Sylhet down the Meghalaya stardust
eying on for a shortcut to Earth's gold dust
that only gushes out elixirs Abe Hayat.

Lovely sought after by the water nymphs
that won't tarry scurrying to the waterfront of paradise
in Ma, the space between, while the waxing moon
takes a waning pause only to roll down and croon
in deep tranquil, thaws the midnight moonlit blue pond
amidst silhouetted bamboos, the sun after a night pause,
there it blooms new again bathing in the morn!

Boarding in such a serendipitous moment, they dream,
carried out just these hidden elixirs in their pitchers
before Queen Fathima The Queen of Heaven.
Perfectly spherical she zeroes in the cosmic loop
and spills in the open sea one more colourless scoop
without a pinch of salt there the sunrise and set troupe
pause and lay in once again the most colourful swoop.

Up above heaven's Saal Saabila River
on the empyrean Moon, she hops on one foot
and down the evergreen Earth's spring dips a toe
without a shadow without a footprint, tone on tone
ties both worlds forever in bloom!

Blow the wrap off, score a preserved geometry
somewhere in Sylhet, even the Hebrew King David here
would offer his thousand and one melodic symposium
and King Solomon princely his whole affluent shebang.
'Cause the prevailing sun from heaven this time
could roll down on a palm simply like a handful of earth!

Oh, what will it land in Sylhet, the pearl of the earthy depth?
Art in light, the spark from the Earth's foundation stone?
Eyes gaze on so firm like the solid sky yet surge like kite
in the air looking here over a truly pristine drop of water
with the ocean is inside until it shows up down the blue sky
though rainbows oft pop out tantalising every looking eye!

The fairy that ascends then is a stealer no hand can touch
seven colours shine on a patch of blue unspoiled untouched
took on a meaning for Sylhet in a handful of earth
matching the soil of Makkah the centre of the Earth
the birthplace of the lead prophet Muhammad (PBUH)!
One who is in the know hops on the foundation stone
and rose to heaven in the Night of Ascension.

How a regular soil mirrors the very pivotal one?
The labyrinth is out of this world, relates to Queen Maab
let alone a native maestro that no genie can describe!
Every atom loves to discover the meaning of that
it knows the constant vibrations of the never-ending dance
keeping it on its toe the choreography comes from outside.
The feet are most polished and motions are butterfly dance,
still the canvas is blank, light one more candlelight!

Light a candle in Sylhet I wonder here the moonlight
spills through even into an atom's black canvas and the sun
lovely drops down on a handful of earth on the flipside!
Meet here the open future shows up at the Earth's hub
the moon's anew rallying to the untouching-sea
the Indian subcontinent's corner to the ancient wind!

Go with the southern breeze on play with the sun
here it colours the wind, gives it its Midas touch
and strikes a deal to part a silhouetted cloud.  
That a beauty spot raises the eyebrows of the day on a high,
on the shining face of the golden Bangla in broad daylight!

Hark the morning birds, follow singing deep in the midst
mellifluous-shrills fill the air unveiling the dream scenes!
Ah, the deep footed earth how mystique,
every morning the sun off the heaven's hill
lays in a new diaphanous gold-light-rug beneath it,
only to loose its colours in a colourless magic
let alone painting its footprint!

Every time is new numerates the bounties of our land
craving to sip in a dew-potion on our blossoming rose
cirrus clouds dancing over the seas here they drop
banish the midday blues singing the deep sea's song!

Nestled amidst the Rivers Surma, Kushiara and Monu
perched on the shades of the trees, each one is a canvas.
Returning melodic birds crescendo by the downstream  
hail from the autumnal breeze on the upstream.
Six seasons rebound alike leap and swing on the trees
unpacking their intricate and mesmeric fluid designs
often make a meal of the obvious and work of art alike!

Stunned angels on their way heaven taking one more sunset
potted in the starry bowl look back here at the wee hours.
They can hear pianissimo on this preserved perennial land
it never falls asleep is awake with a perfectly round
360-degree circle of spiritually impowered dynamos
dead but live on a different level Dervishes
keeping an ear on the hallowed Sylhet's ground.    
A deep-seated truth, rock-solid Shilahatta in Sanskrit
clothed in an enduring vesture minted Sylhet loops in
with the Hebrew Bible's Shalet, a ruler, a shield!  

A little drop makes the mighty ocean
likewise with one single word on the lips,
the maestros' great epics begin to be told.
Just with a mundane handful of earth
pristine Sylhet's masterpiece begins to unfold.

With the whole ball of wax keeping us onboard
lo, before the face of the Earth, it unveils the mirror!
With the whole nine yards on her least hold
believe it or not, Sylhet is cherry-picked chosen by God!
The subject matter is about a land possessing a deeply seeded truth. The prime significance of which is it's scattered afar and matches the pivotal soil of the centre of the earth!
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2020
(0)
Fly perfectly straight and high, and show the fly
out of the fly-bottle on your way.
Rise to victory, far above the blue sky,
and reap the reward: the opening of paradise!

The road ahead is clear and open this way,
with things small and big growing and disappearing up this way.
You will see sunrises and sunsets waxing and waning,
with mention of the moon and stars in the dark.
Be mindful as you sway, it's got to be laser-sharp.
There is no hard shoulder on this highway,
miss it by an inch and risk losing everything forever!

There is hope, there is light up high
pick up your paintbrush, just like the sun does
goodness knows how it sneaks in, right in the black
canvas of the night, painting the first light
lo, it shows up in heaven, the candle of the daylight.

As long as there is a man and a woman,
never give up, our canary bird can fly
rosy or not, the nest in every morn nets a sunrise!

(1)
A woman indeed plucks up the courage
she never had to look up to the stars
be it for the guide or the light in the night.
Fathima herself was the full Moon every night
is thanks to her Godsent innate light.

With it, she can bask in the full spread of the pi
on top of its short decimals mounting high
constantly as if countless stars in the sky.

The time and space under the sun
and that under Fathima's light
are far apart from each other
yet they coexist side by side.

As she points out,
"A circle is masculine
while pi is feminine."

Pi forms the circle with fine prints,
decimal dots continue to spring,
sprawling trillions of new digits,
the bandwagon is still increasing.
Connecting the dots is an untouched dream.

The full moon pi picture is veiled,
unseen at large, yet in short, 3.145 it can live!

(2)
Fathima flies her lock of hair
in the lurking air of the transcended pi
the primitive feminine does that,
no wonder she is God's secret feminine opus!
An immeasurable black hole lies in between
the short and transcended pi, running like a river,
dancing anew on every riverbank
in the many curls of Fathima's jet black hair.

She lent out a hair to the planet earth
and crossed over like a silhouette
without spilling out the colour
of the transcended end of the pi.
The earth takes it in the core in her heart
as if it would keepsake it forever.

Weaving the pi in Fathima embeds two hairs ties one
perfect circle at the back and one at the front of the universe.
Inside each hair the earth is finest fluid in the core
none is as deep as high as proportionate a perfect flow.
No time is as revealing no music is as sweet in this orb
no force is as mighty nor as prevailing a true giant
causing gravity and the heat at the earth's core.
Matter and spirit mix free in the play both wax lyrical
thanks to the pure resonance of 'Qun Be' the word of God!

(3)
The way to the earth's core is exposed to none other
save the Angel of Death the lucky one.

See both sides of the one lofty sky swathed in countless stars  
but the day and night render through still remains an unseen one  
Terra is shalet zeroed in Fathima is heaven on earth!  
Up in the sky-high bank turning the starry bowl upside down
Fathima took no star nor a pearl diving deep down the Arab water,
the brightest luminary came after Muhammad (PBUH),
in veil from the Night of Measures and into the flipside in the night
she's gone without lifting the veil but left her penetrating mark.

Few could find the shortcut contemplating on a blank canvas
the Moon looks down into the abyss down the sea eyes on far
for a mirror in the bottom on the as above so below matter
since Godsent Fathima touched on the all-inclusive primitive water.
The sun gets caught up in the very water dew she raised in the sky
the ancient fold of time still unfurls with the sun-kissed flowers
for the new hands yet the fingerprint on the sun remains only her!

Azrael heads to Fathima around the year 632 after death
touches down in Medina on his usual thin earth he steps.  
But this time a little mundane dust couldn't be thicker
he keeps descending deep down to the earth's centre
following from Medina but the angel locates her
inside the perfect circle a closed geometric figure.

(4)
Fathima is the female headline her secret is not all known
when she used to visit the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)
he would stand up for her hold her hand and kiss it
and seat her on his seat, she would do the same to the prophet
when he would visit her like they did know each other
in and outside the spheres of heaven and earth!

She is the embodiment of the infinite feminine variations
the first spiritual woman created following God's word Qun.
Her is the mother tongue of the ever diversified feminine lingua
no one woman on her own can rhyme with her alone
she has no peer her rhetoric is unique like none other.
The galactic run from planet to planet up on the starry ladder
climbing high up the mountain heaven yet streams out like oval
off their rock bottom stone until that unleashes the final run
in perfect circle delving into the rhythm of the loop at the centre
made of Fathima's hair charged by 'Qun' God's uncreated word.  

Prophet David can sing on the bank of the river
and can see the fish are jumping to him out of the water.
The masculine is open form, eye on everywhere,
but not her the woman is in juxtaposition her
all-inclusive schema supplanting the details rest only on her.
She is the unseen world within the world at best imagine her!
Guess, through this inwardly open door who might disappear?
It's nature before the scientist on ultimate discovery of the matter!  

Aligning with her down the rainbow up high the land absorbs
the grooming sky looking on the running rivers within her.
Her words spread through like the smart cloud that flies far
over the lands and valleys but not even the wind none other
gets a sniff of the potion and melody it caries until that rain down
without a hurdle without a visual she moves on at the target
such a soul needs no after death lift from the angel of death.

Before Azrael Fathima loses an arc of the circle then and there
so not the earth but giant Azrael can take the pressure!
Marked by a fluid discharge since then she is cooling this fire
In Shaa Allah God willing when she ajars it, it will be elixir!  

(5)
Draw a straight line, but it won't be perfect
it keeps bending, fly straight touching the sky
the flight path won't look like a straight line
it would be like the crest of a crescent moon
like curve touched the sky, like climbing up
atop the pyramid is not going high straight on
it goes up from the widespread seked slopes.

Moves in golden ration 1.618 not the full two
and gets the designing formula flawlessly full
micro to macro all levels all the way to the true north!    

Fathima being the original feminine eyeing at her
she can tap in the knowhow of naturally feminine nature.
And discovers the immanent pattern - the world
is pre-designed and measured is never a coincidence.
The creatures' creativity, scientist's science
is to follow, discover working formulas like phi and pi.

Play along it works until an unknown hour strikes
comes with accurate knowledge dead on time
numerically correct never miss taking a life away
as if it was calculated beforehand before the birth.
A newborn is born for a limited time
already set but no one knows when it goes up  
is a deadlock clock but it isn't so shrouded
in the blueprint of the creatures' grand design
there the clock ticks safe and sounds it never dies!  

(6)
Fathima hailing from the other side of the pool
eyes on the ever live pre-design side of the creation!
Then its corporeal face was only a water drop,
the primitive one looks see-through it has dead zero
knowledge of its lively other side of the pool.
She comes closer and perfectly mirrors both sides
that shines through on her reflected face on the water.
An absolute new image that livens up the dead part
Bang - Big Bang! The corporeal world gets the spark
explodes out from the very first drop of the water!

Fathima's appearance was miraculously instrumental
God reveals nature the finite and infinite, 0 and 1,
future in the present and the death and life in play!
Nature follows suit it just saw the perfect role model
banged out but only to its corporeal set
it aspires to be with its infinite reality yet!

Fathima leaves the door open constructing a perfect circle,
hardly straight, took the mixed bag of countless variations
she zooms into the abyss irrational portion of the first matter,
the primitive water drop and aces the circle with her hair
that nothing can equate throughout the corporeal world.
Done the math discovering the zero starting point at the bottom.
The ocean of digit numbers, the DNA of all things material
banged out of it, still, the zero is numberless irrational!

(7)
All things, within oneself and in a set constantly vibrate,
strive to align with the enduring reality of itself.
The atom vibrates to reach out to its immortal portion
that doesn't die and is in the know of its lower base.
The planets are in a defined circular orbit, accurately measured
just the apex on top of their dynamic pyramid the pyramidon
is tucked away; they too have an irrational portion in the circle.

With the finest spin, they zoom in the spacious universe,
in part and like the sun outside the constellations round they go
never miss a target line yet to re-discover Fathima's perfect circle
the origin of their digital essences' breakthrough
the door to their transcended destination de jour.
Lo the matter turns the last stone pulsing across the cosmos
the mortal horizontal spread, the spirit returns home.

The earth has a line in its swansong it has a place in paradise
it's not here to stay for good neither to perish forever!

Matters form and break without losing the rope,
it's not to paint the shades of the eternal blue
but to ace an irrational portion in the circle
at the heart of the earth, as above, so below.  
The deep the high the perfect circle
up and down the centre of gravitation for all!

At even and at odd the vibration within the matter is fluid
somewhere is parched there the arch matter must make a splash.
Far away on that dark beach, the full-fledged sea of the matters
outpours its billowy potion with the Moon on the frontline
from deep within the physical world's most glowed up firefly!

(8)
The seven seas swell up smoothly into the moonlight-dip
oh, the waterless Moon at the core is still fasting.
Led by time the sweet swan punting along the waves
streams down the watery inner circle of the planets.
Until stuck in the Moon no water in the last waterfront
but paradise is on the other side of the pool!  

The sun dips away into the night
while the eve baths in the shades of pink and gold,
the dazzling hues soon turn to taupe.
Drawing down painting the picture in full colour
only to find the time is up on the halfway,
yet to print a colour copy of the night!
The other unseen half is passed down to the Moon
tiptoeing in slow motion in the depths of the night
barely keeping the head afloat in a fathomless ocean
of shades of black hails from where knows no one.  

The sun enkindles the moon half-lit keeping itself away
amid shadows as if comparing the shades now it knows
a Mehrem a veiled female is ahead not to look on or
compared to that the sun has no light or true are both.

Wrapped in the eternal night beneath its black mole
once the moon on the front approaching most close
directly down to the centre of the earth eyes on
over that inlaid string hairy black perfect circle
never did it turn back the same gaze is still on
orbiting around the earth in synchronous rotation.

(9)
The never-ending night is becoming a night indeed
it's coming to an end so soon in our time.
In Shaa Allah I will see it with my eyes before I die
in the Night of Measures in an odd night in Ramadan
Fathima from the transcendental end of irrational heart
will turn on top of the curve opening for the first time
a 9-degree angle in the circle at the centre of the earth.

Instantly the leading force, time will get the first sniff
of the other world, so peaceful heart-melting serene.
Rapturous time feeling an ounce of the enduring peace
for the first time cutting all the corners with ease
will be propelled into its yet uncharted golden mean.
Scurrying to the peaceful abode time will be on its wings
across the globe, people will be stunned seeing
how first the times pass from then on incredibly quick!

Fathima, the first spiritual woman on duty, will start
pulling her hair back off the circle at the centre
Juxtaposed in between the worlds of here and hereafter.
She will take back every inch of it, the heavenly bodies
will feel the pinch of her every little subtle pull
that too is a boon helping them perfect their circle.

(10)
Soon she opens it just 9-degree wide at first
the Moon will see a glimpse of the first drop of water.
Without it, it's living perched without the water of life
that's destined to rain down soon and the Moon
back into its original pond shall revive!
Mapping the pi's whole infinitesimals playground
finally, Fathima will turn the circle upside down
on the dot the stunned sun shall rise in the western sky!

By now under Fathima's hair's shaded closed circle
it must have sailed far over the blue sky in the other world.
Billowing with the breeze over the sea of uncharted water
and stacking to the brim with all that it could discover
humbly stood like a cloud in that corner of the sky.

The time is finally ticking fast to rain down with love
paradise's welcoming schema rendering in waterpaint drops
on the Moon over the sea of matters, that's most glowed up firefly
ah, finally can break the fast sipping in a drop of elixir!
It's their heavenly adopted, Miʿrāj performed, primitive water.
The Moon with the seven seas will leave off the corporeal shell
gliding gracefully with this stately water nymph as if it never dies
and will make a splash plopping into the pond of paradise!  

For the matter ultimately is water and its extent is sound
Fathima will fetch it the water of life and take it to the next life!
Oh, the matter shall do both die and revive with Israfil's sound
the cloud will fly out of the dead water on the ground,
like the earth with chorus songs of the rain revives.
When that a melodious nymph in the water makes waves
see paradise is here the Moon over the sea can't take off its eyes.

(11)
Hang on though they all set ready on their horizontal span  
to pull in such a fluid yet colourful descending like a rainbow swan.
First chaste Fathima will evaporate her hair's perfume away
that's yet lingering in the water warming it up to its premium
no crowd then can see where this heady, fragrant cloud will fly!
There are the momentum and delights where that will alight.

Israfil might then blow his trumpet swooning the world away
the secret will remain a secret exception is said in the Qur'an.
A strange sound will silence the chorus of the innate digits
collapsing the floating cosmos bubbling on their music.  
The corporeal circle will collapse as if there is no base no pi
the melody of the first word Qun means Be will still be loud
supercalifragilisticexpialidocious so how can we all expire?

Israfil too will play his reviving trumpet pure mellifluous
and In Shaa Allah numerically perfect Fathima will rise
amidst the resonant Qun as like she did in the beginning
when except prophet Muhammad (PBUH) there was nothing!
Now the earth once zeroed in beneath her hair will follow her
the stunned terra will discover Fathima took her hair away
only to shift the constellation up onto the upper world!

The old songs of the planets the chorus of the digits will revive
from the zero bases in the core the digital panache that dance
planet upon the planet as if they are always at the perfect hertz.

Indeed that is yet to come, the arts of the fine layers
opening from the irrational pi, the finest one is to flower
when Fathima will unloop her circled hair at the centre
piercing the very immanent irrational cut
that no creation can fathom only the loving creator Allah
will turn odd to even in between the here and hereafter
then the ocean stuck in deep salt shall turn to enduring potion!
The As-Sirat shall turn to be the bridge to paradise
the body shall revive with the enduring soul forever
and with ah Fathima couple shall enter paradise In Shaa Allah
with the rhapsody 'all praise is for Allah' Alhamdulillah!
Aayush Vasudeva Oct 2018
Slit and pluck,
Their throats and feathers, as they scream and cluck,
Toss the bag of plastic in the jungle, our greatest fumble,
It’s easy to let it go, when you’re on top of the food chain,
So how about this, let’s play a brain game

This one's called flipside,
Putting ourselves in the place of animals and birds, the difficulties will not even begin to subside
Gills choked up with engine oil, whole colonies stuck in fishing nets,
Be filled with their turmoil, I see you’re finally beginning to fret

Your friends at one point are now completely extinct, and those that remain are conserved away in the cage of humanity,
Shot dead for a tusk, a horn and a hide,
The flipside is not exactly a point of serenity,
Backs breaking, as the brittle bones crack under the weights of tourists, an unforgettable ride

That’s the end of the flipside,
You don’t need to shed a tear, give sympathy or cry
Just let the animals run free, let the birds fly,
Protect the environment, clean the lands and vow to never pollute the skies.
judy smith May 2016
Don’t take them at face value. Several leading actresses in Mollywood have shown themselves to be keen businesswomen too. So, if Poornima Indrajith, a fashionista in her own right and designer-in-chief of fashion store Pranaah, was the lone name in the list till recently, Kavya Madhavan, Lena, Kaniha, Shwetha Menon, Rima Kallingal and the like too have joined the fray to establish their credentials as entrepreneurs.

While Kavya owns Laksyah, an online fashion store, Rima runs Mamangam, a dance school in Kochi. Lena is busy with Aakruti, her weight-loss centre. Kaniha’s focus is on health care, as a franchise partner of Medall Diagnostics in Chennai. Shwetha, meanwhile, has opened a restaurant, Shwe’s Delight, in Dubai. Mallika Sukumaran owns Spice Boat, a restaurant in Doha, Qatar… The actresses talk at length to MetroPlus about why and how they went about it, the lessons they learnt and what lies ahead.

For Kavya it was the realisation of a long-cherished dream; of starting a business venture while she is at the peak of her career. “I zeroed in on a fashion boutique from several other options, such as dance school, beauty parlour, restaurant…,” says Kavya. “It was the safest and best choice because my father had been in the textile business back home in Neeleeswaram for nearly four decades. My brother, Midhun is a graduate in fashion technology and my mother and my sister-in-law too share the same passion. Laksyah is really a family-run enterprise,” she adds. Laksyah, which sells a range of one-off designer saris and daily wear and based out of Kochi, will be celebrating its first anniversary next month.

It was a photoshoot that lead Lena to open Aakruti. She had to lose a few kilos to get in shape for the shoot and her childhood friend, Louisa David, a physiotherapist, helped her achieve that goal. “I was happy with my weight loss and so we decided to launch a physiotherapy-based slimming centre. Louisa has been running her centre at Thrissur for five years and she helped me start Aakruti, in Chevayur, Kozhikode, in September last year,” Lena says.

Kaniha, always a multi-tasker, has a solid reason for taking the health care route too. It was the closest she could get to her childhood ambition to pursue medicine! “After coming back to India from the United States, my husband, Shyam Radhakrishnan and I wanted to start something. Since I couldn’t fulfil my dream of becoming a doctor and had to study engineering instead, I thought I should do something related to healthcare and that’s how Medall happened,” says the actress.

In Shwetha’s case, her restaurant was a venture waiting to happen. “In fact, those who know me for long are not surprised with my decision to open a restaurant. I am an absolute foodie. I am so very careful about what I eat that my cook always travels with me on my shoots. I also love hosting family and friends and often hold pyjama parties at home. That’s why a restaurant was the obvious choice when I thought about starting a venture,” says Shwetha. Shwe’s Delight [“I was called Shwe by my friends in modelling circuit”], which opened its doors last month, is a North Indian fine dining restaurant. “I wanted to give expatriate Malayalis in Dubai a different taste from the usual fare. We dish up a bit of Chinese food too,” she adds.

Being a celebrity helps, most of the time, especially to get publicity, say the leading ladies. For instance, Kaniha says she could bank upon her celebrity status to get corporate tie-ups. They also talk of brand value going up when a known face opens a venture. “There is a certain level of trust with potential customers because you are a known face,” explain Shwetha and Lena. “On the flipside, you are always under scrutiny. At times, I feel acting is much easier,” adds Shwetha. Kavya says it is not easy being the face of Laksyah. “I can’t go wrong with what I wear!” she adds, with a laugh.

Celeb status and a pretty face, though, is no guarantee for a successful business. All the actresses say that they put in a lot of hard work to get their businesses up and running. “The execution part was not easy, be it finding the right location, getting the interiors done, purchasing the machinery, appointing qualified staff, training them and even finalising the colour of the uniform. But I have become more confident now that we are opening a new branch in Kochi,” explains Lena. Kaniha, meanwhile, admits that she has learnt to be “more patient and be diplomatic.” Well played.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses
IsReaL E Summers Dec 2014
I drink and lust,
I smoke and cuss.
But, my heart only finds Joy
In Jesus.
Never said I was perfect. And anyone expecting christians to "be perfect as He is perfect" is just trying to find a reason to be mad at God or not believe in his existence. HE ISREAL. But sadly, allot of times we don't listen... but I would argue that this just makes His Love that much more beautiful. #undeserved grace
Mike Bergeron Jan 2013
"Don't forget,
We're in the business
Of giving debt,
Not forgiveness,
So hurry up
And get to
Paying us back
With interest,
Get fat from
Processed snacks
And a lack
Of fitness,
Get trapped in
Our system of
Inflicted sickness."

Fast food passes
For sustenance
When nutrition's offered
Based on status,
And corporate
Influence
Decides who to
Feed in
Massive batches.
Every time
A fascist
Plan hatches
A new law passes,
The steadfast
Campaign
To make our
Brains cabbage,
Our bodies
Ravaged,
Our spirits
Shattered,
A nation
So savage
And battered
We no longer
Care that
A handful
Of vultures
Are driving
The carriage.

Don't be a fool,
These puppets
Don't care
About guns
Or gay marriage,
It's just a show,
A transparent
Distraction
In the form
Debate between
Imaginary factions.

Money rules the world,
It's not just a saying
That it makes
This **** twirl,
It spins us around
And inspires
The slaying
Of entire towns,
It leads these liars
In the game
They are playing,
Telling us up
Is really down.
Well if down is
The new up
I guess I
Should stop
Laying in dirt,
And get myself
A job
Making other
People hurt,
And make a ton
Of money
And pretend
I have worth.

Catch you on the
Flipside,
From the flipside.
Diljeev Jul 2020
Tell me how does it feel
to be on the flipside of things,
I bet there's joy in every second
So dreamy yet so real.
I've had my share of moments
and I keep reliving them.
The things I pen about,
Look at you actually living them.
Tell me how does it feel
to be on the flipside of things,
I bet there's beauty in every minute,
Every minute as soothing as
when a wind chime rings.
I have my share of beauty
I pen it down every night,
Look at you in this shining armour
posing as her knight.
Tell me how does it feel
to be on the flipside of things,
I bet there's charm in every hour,
Unlike this ordeal.
Often I pen about
how I starve for
these moments and then I
Look at you as the same
moments you devour.
Your breastbone drum keeps me alive.
I’m not sure if I can make it out today
or tomorrow or yesterday.
You see, I try and when I try real hard
it’s like I’ve been cooked too long
and my clay just cracks.
In one full shudder, I shed my
whole body like a skin.

You send a message through the lines
“How are you today?”
My smile and shrug aren’t working for me right
so I try to breathe and say, “not okay”
without breaking you too.

I can’t write checks for the bills
or tug a sock on, or reach around for the blanket.
It’s too hard, I’m sad, I’m terrified.
My stomach hurts
and there are fists clenched up inside my thighs
and my chest that just won’t loosen up.
I can’t see past the seam of the pillowcase
two inches from my face.
I should mend it. It’s coming apart. Unraveling.

You give me a few words again
and I don’t feel lighter or fixed
because you can’t fix people.
We don’t come with system codes
or instructions for when we break
and lose our first-glance worth.

But I feel you like a concrete floor beneath
my palms or the old, pealing linoleum
in my bathroom.
It anchors me down, and I remember
to take a deep breath now and then.
It reminds me that I’m still here
and you’re still here
and that’s enough for now.
Redshift Feb 2013
This pain
I cannot contain.
It broils and seethes
It gnaws and breathes
This pain
I cannot
Contain.

It seeps out my arms
In splotchy red stains
It billows out my veins.
I can feel it stretching
Testing it's claws
Eating at my shortcomings
Tearing at my flaws.

I cannot contain

this

pain.

It rips out of me
Until exhaustion is all you see
It breaks of great chunks
Dropping them with heavy 'thunks'
When it decides
They're useless.
Everyone
Is clueless
They see, but they don't do
I don't think they ever
Wanted to.

If I gave you a piece of my pain,
Could you feel it?
Could you feel the steady strain
The pull, the grasp
The hurt that makes you gasp?

If a smile is a frown
When you turn it around
I think that maybe...

I'm
                                            upside
­
down.
danny Sep 2017
Packed my bags
Flew the next week,
Ignoring the doubts,
I got fulfillment to seek.

Misunderstood accent,
Mispronounced name,
Ashes to ashes,
Foolish, its still the same.

Vague history,
Mistakes erased,
Broke and dream poor,
Resolve unfazed.

A new chapter,
closed door,
Figuring it out,
What I want and more.
I emigrated without giving it too much thought, and it has been very hard and tough but sort of freeing also
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2022
The side the flipside
and the bridge.
The day the night
and the bond
the humbly wane
half-moon!
Homunculus May 2016
These politicians aren't even people,
They're machines fueled by money,
Whose conquests relentlessly propel humanity,
Ever nearer to the brink of its demise,
While a lucky few at the very top
Rake in unfathomable fortunes, and
Consolidate their power at the expense
Of those common men and women,
Who strive only to build themselves
Honest and virtuous lives.

We are always told
That crime doesn't pay, but
On an unbiased inspection of
The world to which these forces
Have given birth, it becomes
More and more apparent
With each passing day,
That not only does crime pay,

But that it is the linchpin,
The essence and Truth; held in
The very highest esteem, and
The foundation, upon which,
Every structure of influence,
Constituting this wretched culture
In whose shadow we all stand,
Is built, and gains stability, but
Which crime pays? For whom?
And for what reasons?

Crash the economy through manipulation and deceit,
Get million dollar bonuses, and taxpayer bailouts.
Because your wealth is of prestige, and
You are the herald of progress,
Not to mention the fact that you
Own the judges and regulators, and
Your bank account is big enough
To bribe anyone you please, but

Resort to theft because,
Your family is hungry,
You go to jail or prison, and
Become a source of cheap labor,
To build products for the same ones
Whose greed crashed the economy,  
In the first place.

Then, when you get out;
You can be sure that the court costs
And legal fees will drive
You even deeper into debt, and
Compel you to offend again, but
It's not systemic; it's your fault
Because the poor are the wretched of the earth,
Who have earned their misfortune,
By means of their own iniquity, and
Thus undeserving of sympathy.

Meanwhile, from birth to death
From womb to tomb, and
From cradle to grave
The narrative is spoon fed, to
Every man, woman and child,
That hard work and
Honest aspiration,
Are the keys to success;
Study hard,
Get good grades,
Follow the rules,
Give it your all, and
Prosperity will become
Your dearest friend.

Yet, John Q. Public
Works for 40 years,
While Congress loots
His social security and pension, and 
Is ultimately  forced to choose between  
Buying this month's medicine, or
Paying this month's rent, once
He finally does retire

Sarah C. Student,
Follows the same path,
Only to live for subsequent decades
In the desert of a new serfdom,
Born of the iron will of finance capital,
Ending with little but a sense of
Betrayal and resentment
To show for all her efforts.

But on the flipside, just across town
Uncle Moneybags is tormented
By his painful choice between
A private jet, or new yacht, and
The prince of Crude Oil-istan,
Frets over which jewels will
Encrust the statue of his likeness,
Neither of them ever having
So much as broken a sweat
In the service of labor,

Now, tell me how it's sane that
We all take this for granted?
Perhaps the specter of democracy
Has led us down a blind alley, of
Illusory choice, counterpoised
Against the despotism of the past, but

Dig a bit deeper and it becomes obvious,
That one tyranny has merely replaced another
In the grander scheme, and so now,
Every 4 years, we march gallantly
To the polls and cast our ballots to vote
On whether we want to die of AIDS,
Or maybe cancer, instead; all while
Pundits stand at their podiums,
Regurgitating the same old worn out,
Platitudes hailing the triumph, of
Our serene and beneficent system, but
  
I wish someone could tell me,
Plainly and honestly:
When the 62 richest own as much
As the 3 billion poorest
Where does it stop?
What is the limit?
How much longer can it continue?
When do we finally decide
That enough is enough?
Venting helps sometimes.

Hear it read: https://soundcloud.com/iliveinyourhead/a-long-winded-and-cathartic-rant
Mysterious Aries May 2016
The flipside of the day

Brings a lot of melodies

Of painful journals

At most the moon and stars are dead

For those eyes that lament for the beloved

The breezy sound of the wind

Doesn't bring a beautiful song of serenity

Instead a tune of sinister

Darker than the night

Because the lullabies of every nocturnal

An echoing elegies

For those who were left behind

Sightseeing imaginary images

Whispering song for them

Every night

Still dying inside



5-25-2016

Mysterious_aries
MC Hammered Nov 2016
Line Dancing with Lucifer

The breeze breathes like the Earth shares
the same pulse.
I trip down the rabbit hole,
but never fall.
The tingles tickle my toes.
I listen with my eyes.
Lucy isn’t in the sky with diamonds.
She’s passed out at the hotel bar.
I trip down the rabbit hole,
But always fall.
I am line dancing with Lucifer.
Erret. The record
scratches. If he likes the way
my hips sway, then
we don’t have to make a
deal. Adios,
amigo. I’m out of this hell hole.
(Literal hole leading from Hell)
The grass smells greener and
tastes taller on the
flipside. I walk on my hands everywhere
I go. Suga ****, you on your hands again?
You’ll marry a rich man
one day, they said.  He will
walk on two feet.
Barely bipedal.
EVOLUTION IS A LIE.
Que habla me nada.
The paintings started speaking soliloquies.
To be or not to be?
I don’t remember answering
the question.
I fall down the rabbit hole but
I never trip.
Jordon Rivir Nov 2019
Back broken, knees weak,
Catatonic and traumatized,
Cannot speak.
Life’s misfortunes keeping you down,
Stand on your head,
Turn that frown around.
Smile why don’t you, if not for you, than smile for me. I love the phrase turn that frown upside down. It’s so silly and cliche, but it’s one of those cheesy phrases that will never go away. Just imagine a person is told to turn that frown upside down, and instead they just do a headstand/handstand. I’ll get what I can take
mars Apr 2014
I want to be your today.
I want to be your tomorrow.
I want to be your everyday, every which way.
I want to be your twenty-fifth birthday, spent alone with a bottle of bourbon.
I want to be the breath between your words.
The long flight back home.
The first holiday spent abroad.
I want to be the steaming cloud of breath, on a cold January, three years from the next.
I want to be the sheets at night; the flipside of your pillow.
The favorite restaurant.
The hole in your pocket.
The knot in your shoelace.
The freckle on your nose.
I want to know the story of your first broken bone
(If there was one).
I want to know the religious awakening.
I want to know the cherished childhood memory.
The playground bullies.
The third grade science project gone terribly wrong.
Tell me about how he broke your heart.
Tell me about how she broke your heart.
Tell me how to make it better.
Give me the insoluble remedy; give me the chance.
I want to be your unanswered question.
I want to be the first thing when you wake.
I want to be the last thing when you rest.
I want to know your deepest secret.
Tell me about how it molded who you are today.
Give me the light- give me you.

You exist between the books on my shelves.
You exist in each stroke of my pen.
You exist where my punctuation doesnt
(See, you were right there).
You exist in the unsung melody.
The bruise on my hip.
That trigonometry homework left unfinished.
Those lyrics not remembered.
I think of you in the morning.
In the morning with disheveled hair, and bleary eyes.
I think of you with the click of a pen, the turning of the page.
With the brakes of the city bus.
With the bell after fifth period.
With those fading scars on my side.
You are my first encounter with the salty waves of the coast.
You are my first encounter of a well-rehearsed routine.
You are the roots of my hair.
You are the cherished memory.
You are the only one.
You are beautiful.
You are genuine.
You are brave.
You are you.
And, you make me me.

(a.m) 04/21/14
Written with a very remarkable girl in mind.


06/17/14 you will always have a home in my heart. you are always welcome home.
06/27/14 things have been bad, lately. Will you ever come home?
Lora Lee Apr 2016
Garden to my left,
colors so bright
the snapdragons and sweet peas
nod their watercolored heads
in the morning's silken light
chutney-colored wall
leading to my door
shoes neatly stacked
with toys in baskets
upon the concrete-patterned floor
plants align the window sill,
marking the flipside to my kitchen
reminding me of wafting tastes
in the form of stir-fry
or juicy chicken
to the right
a pumpkin-spiced ball of fur
my Ginger nestled tight
body rising and falling
in deep slumber's purr
his springtime pillow
puffed just right
The laughter I hear
fills my ears and heart
as children, (mine, too)….play
and I sit with my legs upon the
Tupperware chair
and contemplate the day
Between my palms Turkish coffee
entices with its delicious steam
and here come the thought police
to interrupt my desert dream

Back off *******,
I'm not going to jail.
My first writing prompt poem!
NaPro WriMo 2016: to closely describe a place and end it with an abstact line that seemingly has nothing to do with the poem:
or does it? ;) ;)
vinny Jan 2016
i have to cut you off for now
we can't complete our mission
seems I've overindulged in you
and now can't pay tuition

I've been ******* up in school anyway
it may be too late to fix
I failed calc 2 and heat transfer
and avoiding thermodynamics

The trip to Kauai we booked for spring break
it would have been 5 grand
I had to cancel that as well
hope you understand

maybe on the flipside
i'll take you on again
for now i'm laying belly up
allowing my brain to mend
I actually passed calculus 2 with a B
and eventually obtained my degree
Dorothy A Aug 2012
Looking upon Lake St. Clair
I saw it lying there today
In its watery grave
A large and lovely monarch butterfly
Its gossamer wings outstetched
As if it had gallently fought its death

And was determined to fly
Ascend to the air
To its temporary abode
Inbetween earth and sky
As far as its wings would take it
But it sadly did not succeed

On the one side, it was facing the lake
On the flipside, the open sky
I almost couldn't recognize it
As if it was a piece of junk floating along
But I eventually saw it cleary
This exquisite creature of noble name

And now I say that
Even this winged, airborne creature
Is bound to this earth
Like the rest of us
Who have not the gift of wings

And death is not just for suckers
The unfortunate who cannot hack it
For gravity must triumph in the end
And there is never a day
In which there ceases to be any death
Upon this mortal world

Many of us want to ward off its coming
As we bide our time
And try to outrun the inevitable
Hoping to outsmart the clock
Yet we are all creatures of this earth
Just as was this beautiful butterfly
Born to inhabitant this world
But never designed to stay

This isn't poetic license
In order to construct a clever poem
It truly happened to me
Making me stop and think
Out from a day in the ordinary
To ponder upon the brevity of life
With the instant reminder that

All magnificent things must die
No sleep leaves
Him sleep deprived,
He hides beneath
His drooping eyes,
And comes home to dwell
Within the silence of the night.

Before spreading across the bed,
He places his patched jacket
Above the ground, on a hook,
To hang, suspended for the flipside.
A glance at the clock tells him it’s three,
Plus a quarter turn to the right.

It’s always before dreams, it seems,
That he feels the need to pull
Out pen and paper, to write.
Very soon, he knows,
It will be bright.
And lights will shine in,
To wake him up, again.

Sometimes, though,
He likes to pretend,
That there isn’t an end,
To this nocturne world.

So while he…
His, mind dances along the moon,
With a little more wandering,
His thoughts seem in tune,

To a jazzy
Twilight atmosphere,
And he hears -
The quiet orchestra
Of his thoughts,
Amidst the dark.

For a short time,
He’s moaning with Mingus, absorbing Etta.
At last, his sleep has come along,
As he dips into the Milky Way
Until his thoughts are gone.
Khoisan Aug 2020
I wish I could call
Everyone beautiful
there is dignity
in a simple thing like names
SOME PEOPLE DON'T DESERVE THEM?
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
Every coin has two sides
What do I want I can’t decide?
I’ll catch it on the flipside
Or maybe I’ll just take some time

What do I desire?
What is it that I fear?

Let the rain wash my mind
So it’ll be easy to find
The answers that lay inside
Yeah I think it’ll take some time

What do I desire?
What is it that I fear?
What do I aspire
Solutions drawing near

Fear to take a chance
The fear to be happy
I’ll let the coin land
And then I will see

What do I desire?
What is it that I fear?
What do I aspire
Solutions drawing near

Lasting in a second, I lost in your eyes;
At ease, I admit on your lovable ways;
Kissing lips twist, making us for a sweet intake;
No longer, I am able to wait, until you are awake;
Lying flipside, I appeal without even a word;
As if hidden parts could somehow be heard.
Rising high on a top to greet your gaze,
I converse to another part in an amaze !
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
williamsji@yahoo.com
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsmaveli­.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
Rights Reserved: Williamsji © Maveli
From MICROTHEMES, a collection of short poems, written by WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
ghost Jan 2011
These days, not much comes into this weary mind.
I am finally beat down, I think.
I think I gave in to life, cruel mistress as she is.
I have my passion curbed and my hunger bottled,
and hopefully I will not shed blood for some time.
Although, I feel it's been too long since I've ripped you open
and laid inside your wounds.
I am picking at my scabs in idle wonder,
asking the kinds of questions they teach good girls not to think.
The how's and why's and causes of all that is bad,
and good.
I cannot understand the concepts I once cherished.
I cannot feel the fires that once burned.
I am becoming numb, and angry,
and violent as ever.
I am hellbent on destroying something-
probably myself.
But it all means nothing, if you believe that we live and we live
and we live
just to die.
On the flipside, of course, everything matters so much more.
I crave experience and adventure and new skin.

I cannot deny my need for blood and violence forever,
but hopefully the wounded will understand.
Anais Vionet Feb 2023
There are opportunities, from time to time, to see and meet influential people here at Yale - leaders in their fields. I write a little, so I started going to see the writers when they did readings and interviews. The writers I’ve seen so far are Ada Limón, Vijay Seshadri, Terrance Hayes, Alison Bechdel, Roxanne Gaye, Sheila Heady, Natasha Trethewey, Dasha Nekrasova and more.

Before I kick this rat's nest let me say that I’m not an English Literature major. I haven’t done “close readings” of these authors' works or performed any literary analysis. What follows are just my opinions or what I’ve overheard (and much of that I disagree with).

After the readings and greetings, I hang back in the crowd to hear reactions. Many of the Yale students attending these events want to seem intellectual and subversive - at the same time, they don’t want to be polarizing or say things that their peers will disagree with. I’m appalled at how little credit is given to writers for their earlier, groundbreaking work.

Some crowd reactions included: Roxanne Gaye “is so 2016,” Ada Limón’s presentation seemed “sanitized and censored.” Jia Tolentino, “no longer staking out controversial spaces.” Much of the criticism was that these authors were freer, as nobodies in their basements, to rage against the system but they’ve since been corrupted, tamed and rendered vapid, as it were, by the financial ties of fame.

At a reading by Terrance Hayes, he discussed the criticism that the “classics” represent the “white cannon” and don’t include alternative perspectives. Terrance Hayes argued that the “classics” are such because they present universal truths and that, like science, you don’t have to erase things to include new things.

I’ll cut to the chase - here are the three authors whose events impressed me the most:

Sheila Heady
Sheila Heady did a talk on her creative process. Which normally I’m pretty skeptical of because I’ve seen some vague, wishy-washy answers - but Sheila shared it all. She had spreadsheets detailing the time she spent writing, graphs on time spent researching, and even pictures of her desktop arrangement (which says a lot about someone). She was so open and vulnerable - almost indifferent to judgment - it was refreshing, honest and endearing.

Some days she would write for 2 minutes and on others for 10 hours. I think it showed that the creative process can be messy and we’re not failures if we don’t set out writing time every day.

Natasha Trethewey
I have a complicated response when listening to people read aloud about terrible things that happened to them - I question their motives, purposes and intentions. Natasha Trethewey however, used it as background for a discussion of her relationship to poetry and writing. It was beautiful to be in that room, it was inspiring rather than being provocative.

Dasha Nekrasova
On the flipside I absolutely loved Dasha Nekrasova who’s all about being a provocateur. Her event was chaotic and crazy. It was a Yale Political Union (YPU) event, and I don’t know what those people are on, but there was yelling, objections, people getting up, she was skipping around the stage. At first, I didn’t realize it was a debate because it had a freeform look and I came in a minute late, from chemistry class - but I liked her a lot in the debate format. I plan to attend more YPU events in the future.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Vapid: dull or boring.
Stacy Mills Jun 2016
I changed my clothes brush my hair
Put on my make up to change my face
Play the part, play the role, it s not like they'll ever know

Pretend to be what they want you to be.
Please don’t look to close you might see the real me.
Is it really that hard. To like this face..

Now now don’t talk like that stay in your place
Do what is asked so nicely of you
Don’t say no, or they might not like you

GOD knows my struggle my pain is real
Oh come on how bad can it be, just deal
You don’t know my pain; is mine, not yours

Its not as easy or plain as you think
But when you are constantly told ..
Nevermind, just go on just blink, just breathe

The sun will come out tomorrow
Hold on pain ends
No one knows…no no now wait yes they do

Random words not much meaning
Unless you know how much it helps cleaning
When you can only make it go away when you
Wash, clean, wipe, scrub, wash, clean, wipe scrub, wash clean wipe scrub

Some may know not all do tho.
It’s a battle we fight on a daily.
Its not much to some but to us is crazy.

Now the flipside. No its not that
I like your face, but it looks nice with something
A touch of makeup …don’t cry about it geeze
It aint like im asking you to lose weight

Is it really that big a deal to do what is small in their mind
Even tho it’s a mountain in mine..
Try to help them see, make them understand

Yeah good luck there. You wont see them try ..
Wait wait hold on there  you know **** well
Its trying for them too. So why you go all off
I don’t know cause it makes me feel crazy inside
When my outside isnt good enough…
And I don’t wanna make it be attractable to anyone
For your reason or whatever I don’t want people to look at me
I don’t want them to see me I want to be and stay just invisible….
Just outta sight invisible. So no one might
Take a look at the damage and the scars
They are deep, they are not gone. They stay always

Don’t dwell move on don’t think, don’t breathe.
Just be still do the devils will
Bend fold break do what they drill in to you
Just blink, just breathe nothing else.
They might just see what all hiding behind your walls…

When JESUS COMES TO call those who suffer for HIS name
You will wish you were one of us by and by.
Thank you LORD
For your grace
Your love
Your mercy
Your help
Your strength
You are my all with out YOU I am nothing.
I did not write this my best friend did!
b e mccomb Aug 2016
lipstick stains on
paper coffee cup lids
my brother always
told me i would have
to sit back and watch people
younger and more
inexperienced than i
succeed while i suffered.

oh but i
think he
was wrong
three conversations
and one free cup
of coffee later
things are starting
to look up for me

and i'm thinking that
i am the younger
one succeeding while
elders suffer.

(on the flipside i
don't want to be
making sandwiches
for the rest of my life)


and i wonder sometimes
if i'm just naturally
gifted or if i just naturally
try too hard to be liked

(or there's an offchance
a slim blueish sliver of
possibility that the stars
have all been lined up for me)


anyway that assumption
however incorrect it may
be is better than
last week when i
was thinking that no longer
was i good enough

*(but scratch that
nothing i ever accomplish
or that the skies
have pre-established
will make me believe
i'm good enough.)
Copyright 8/10/16 by B. E. McComb
Anne Mar 2018
i see
i see Your face in the clouds
i see You're every shade of blue
in the sky
i see You
in every season
that passes me by


i hear
i hear a wise man  
i hear the wise man say
"you go your way
i'll go your way too"
i heard him say that
i knew he was talkin bout me n You

i feel
i feel You
i feel You just as the spring breeze came
but just like a robin
You got on up
and flew away

i miss You
i miss You like a butterfly misses
her favorite flower when it has died

but with the breeze she will glide
up to the lucid blue sky
to join her true love once again
on the flipside
Mike Adam Jul 2016
Particular light
waving a billion
miles from billion
year ball of gas to
tickle my iris.

And I am shy to show
the ancient traveller
the flipside of men,
blast crater uprooting
the sacred tree of life.

What happened to the
marbled head,
so noble and *****,
the burst of creativity
from cave to modernity?

What happened to sun,
einsteined to power,
the sunny side up
scrambled to gross
confusion and the limitless
cruelty to birthing eve?
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.
TTagain May 2021
You don't ever have to
Be stronger than you really are
When you're lying in my arms, baby
You don't ever have to
Go faster than your fastest pace
Or faster than my fastest cars

I shouldn't have done it but I read it in your letter
You said to a friend that you wish you were doin' better
I wanted to reach out, but I never said a thing
I shouldn't have done it but I read it in your letter
You said to a friend that you wish you were doin' better
I wanted to call you, but I didn't say a thing

You don't ever have to
Be stronger than you really are
When you're lyin' in my arms, and, honey
You don't ever have to
Act cooler than you think you should
You're brighter than the brightest stars

I'll pick you up
If you come back to America
Just hit me up
'Cause this is crazy love
I'll catch you on the flipside
If you come back to California
You should just hit me up

We'll do whatever you want, travel wherever how far
We'll hit up all the old places
We'll have a party
We'll dance 'til dawn
I'll pick up all of your folks and all of your Rolling Stones
Your favorite liquor off the top-shelf
I'll throw a party
All night long

-------Lana Del Rey
This is one of my favorite songs. Since I'm going through certain emotions and time where I can relate to this song, I thought maybe I can share it with you guys.

The lyrics are bit altered here
ALamar Apr 2016
Consciousness rising
The world on fire
War and revolt
Religion v idealism  
The mind can't sleep
REM is neither dream or reality
We exist in pretense and superficiality
Inhibition tradition is on the flipside of society
The itch for morality exacerbates desperation
Capitulation settles in the air
Living in todays era there's no such thing as fair
Walker Garrett Dec 2015
The clock strikes one and I am feeling down
By the window and i'm feeling all the pain
But what the hell is wrong with this old town?
It brings me grief and causes such disdain
Through its lonely channels do I walk
Come back each night and take a little time
To contemplate the big ways that I talk
And learn to fall the flipside of a dime
Alterations come and go too fast
Coffee shops and liquor stops they be
In number very few and never last
Short in time they fall to lock and key
The window glistens with my endless sorrow
Have to hope some good will come tomorrow
There's no use in you complaining
that this Party's not entertaining,
that my writing
is what they wrap
the night in
to bury on a moor.

No mate, or
I'm going to burn up on re-entry
because that crap craft that they lent me
is full of wild dreams we deleted and girls
who'll never meet me in real life.

If on the flipside
there's a riptide
where the tide is racing in
you'd better learn to swim
or vote for me.
edwill makamu Jan 2016
I found a lover,
I call her my future......,
I call her my stock
She is beautiful and worthy

Yes, she is beautiful and worthy
I call her my wife,
yes, I call her my lover
Her physique, so stunning, lovely and portable
She's unique, pretty and much valuable
Yeah! she's my only flipside

It's true, I forgiven the maltreatment
Yes, I'm afraid to be solitude
I might become stultified
Yes, I might become stultified

That's why I am careful,
that's why I am careful, careful.

— The End —