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vircapio gale Aug 2012
on moonstone slab Manmata flames again
from out of ashes rises, gloating unfinality of Shiva's dance
reincarnate offering of endless Self
in Lakshmi's avatar
a fateful prince's heart to lance

and lanced his heart her visage did,
                                                     though with vaster pinions fully pierced was she, in depths
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 without rivalry~

his lust was sharp to invite solitude,
but easy to conceal,
he imagined cupping her against him,
scoured memory of upward glimpse,
inch  by  inch
with added imagery, invention moulding her
beneath his grasp
from forehead curls along
glowing skin and eyes
to curving, palatially appareled ******* . . .
her open lips . . .  her hips
--but after, merely to dismiss
and even sleep a bit
and quip inside at irony
to be at mercy
of a girl in flowers
when he with arrows demons lay to rest
(though she would, within the selfsame hours lose her wits ;)

in cityscape descried the triad:
gold dome gifts for sky
in shining generosity
Mithila's people overflow with joy
exuding free abundance carelessly--
jewelry loosed on playful street
from overkeen embrace, is left to lie;
loss in ever-present wealth nigh obsolete

musth of elephant, froth of steed,
floral garlands tangle, line and mix
for clouds of honey-bees to lick their feast.
a bustling of virile acrobatic populace--
symphonic mux of chaos tressed,
metropolis of idylls coalesced;
drums, races, grinning faces flinging courtship,
smirking merchants under wigs
bathers splash exotic fish to flit and weave
while ballads sift for higher pitch of love

from elevated terrace ladies prance
and watching from an inner spire
the princess spies her prince--
emerald shoulders, lotus-petal eyes
Vaikunta hidden from their mortal sight
but straining recognition there,
a union ageless as the stars
inspired suddenly another first:
Rama's transfixed stare she feels and meets,
strangers locked entwining glances
--fated simultaneous-- electric heat   like
from a planet sparking for the taste of outer space --
the lightning burns its mark ensouled
in blooms beyond her ripe, anthophilous form,
verdant visions planted in the rays of light
between two instant loves
to slip inside the eyelid entrance
and evermore impregnate with a glory ill,
as separation wills,
to colonize throughout with other Being there
phantasmal yearnings of entrancing elegance
--from dawn of time instilled, akashic script
of binding hurt with joy in love's embrace
condemn desire to a writhing term
when not imbibing such togetherness
a worldless crypt preferred

and so as swift as gymnast flip to fall
the heart is gushing toxic lack,
epic ventricles the viscose tug
in fluid inspiration wrote of Sita's
sudden addict gnashing inner plight
while slips the sight interred within the crowd,
as if a sorcerer the cosmic sea to play her destiny:
the waves inside enraged to overwhelm
the sudden coral crust beneath the swell
an unmarked seaside's lavish drown unto the land
and reeling send this fragile ******
into wilting, her floral haze to drooping fell...
        in revelatory crash of passion's oceanic weight...
attendants pamper uselessly
--from swoon to mood irate
to wait until the next appearance of her mortal god
the only one to sate the shameless need
entwining up within a clenching wrack of milky fits
from bed to sweaty bed they take the burning maiden~
the outer sea inflow in calming dusk meant nothing to the agony of new romance
                       sequestered in hymenic fire, dawning brilliant
                                                       ­                                omni chakral pierce in rays,
                                                                ­                                                              tot­ality relentlessness
and therein descry a wholeness
  yet unregained
a hopeless birdsong careless as the wind
in caring strokes of pollen redolence
for forest ears an endless vibrate mate
of elemental ease the simmer float
upon the dukkha broil paths embroidery of karmic
cookery the godly recipe invoked,
gibed her without cease,
****** flare eternal guna coals to stoke
and spite her with their peace,
for her attainment only next to he
the moon communes the message blinding clear
amid the ghee her girls would light in care
to soften her despair -- but only aggravate her state --
and so by dim refracted moondrops set,
in only gemlight, Sita basks in pain
her gaze entrained by night obsessively
while overhead the crescent hook beams
freely in to fertilize her all-too-chastely girdle there,
petals wilting under body pressed to slab of stone
as mounting groan on groan intones her writhing questioning
of whomever he could be to cast her moaning so
a deity in maidenhead unwitting of such otherlife
left by endless, anthrocosmos' whim to ache, and alone
in wonder scream abandonment from aether poise
confusion reigning noisome nescient choice


















.
Manmata: the god of love, who Shiva is said to have burned to ashes with the purity of his contemplation
Lakshmi: Hindu goddess of wealth, prosperity (both material and spiritual), fortune, and the embodiment of beauty. She is the consort of the god Vishnu. She takes her mortal form as Sita in the Ramayana, destined for Rama (who is Vishnu's avatar).
Guna: an element, 'thread', 'string' or principle of nature; the three gunas are (sattva), (rajas), and (tamas)
Dukkha: suffering
Anthro-: as in 'human'

"The impact of the Ramayana on a poet, however, goes beyond mere personal edification; it inspires him to compose the epic again in his own language, with the stamp of his own personality on it.  The Ramayana has thus been the largest source of inspiration for the poets of India throughout the centuries . . . Thus we have centuries-old Ramayana in Hindi, Bengali, Assamese, Oriya, Tamil, Kannada, Kashmiri, Telugu, Malayalam, to mention a few."   -R.K. Narayan (whose prose version of Kamban's 11th c.e.Tamil --originally written on palm leaves-- i'm reading at the moment, and whose advice i've found myself compelled to follow. in no way am i an authority, but an amateur--literally--'in love')

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/ramas-inauguration-facing-the-murderous-gluttony-of-thataka/

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/soorpanaka-the-demon-as-kamavalli-lusts-for-rama-1/
shamamama Sep 2019
how to make ghee
how to to clarify,
place the salt free butter in pan
turn the heat on very low,
then just listen............
first,
silence--
then sounds of drizzling rain for a while grow
to a creek starting to flow
then hear the steady rain pelting on leaves
(if it starts to sound like popcorn,
maybe turn the heat down),
then let the rain keep
trodding, until
it gets quieter
and quieter
and quiet
then
turn
off
flame,
the
ghee
is
ready
strain,
and
bottle
haven't done so in awhile, love making ghee
Joe Bradley Jul 2014
I
a flicker of warm light
and your face is all that I see.
Thunderclouds are silenced,
burned away and
my chest is left open to
our place under the opal sky.
The light is our soft romance
and our candlelit meal for two...

II
'Spiritui Sancto'
A Benedictine Monk
alone in
cold stone chambers sees
an ascending soul,
holy company,
a solitary light in all the
emptiness.
'Sed libera nos a malo'

III
Scorch-marks
drip
love - bites
drip
but please don't stop...
drip
In his lust,
Mould moments of my skin
and keep them
forever.

V
'Waxy fingertips!'
'Put that down,
PUT THAT DOWN!'
Mum told us
If you play with fire
you're going to get burned.

V
30 miles
they say
is the mathematical distance
you can see a flame in the dark

VI
This is the symbol of our nation.
'Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit'
This nine branched lamp symbolizes that our Israel.
has courage, those may be their Qassam rockets,
but those are our sirens.
and that humming you hear is our drones
over their heads.

VII
buuuuzzzzzzzzzz
What enchanting light...
zzzzzzzzz
what God are you? Oh
zzzzzzzzzzzz
wondrous beauty
zzzzz
what magic do you hold, what glory...
zzzzzzzzzz
come closer str.....

VIII
What died so I could read?
The tallow is a pig
the squealing embers
fat pig.

IX
here comes the candle to light you to bed,
And I curled, vulnerable to the shapes in the window
with my feet creeping further under the duvet.
The shadows were melted, cut, distorted on
my bedroom walls.
A primal evil will danced by the light of the flame
until I shut my eyes so tight,
that I slept it away.
here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

X
'No Jennifer, I just feel candlelight just adds a certain

ambiancé

to a room

No?'

XI
'Quickly, before it turns septic.'
'This wont hurt boy'
'The fire, pass the fire'
'Quarterise it quick or he won't last long'
'bite down hard my lad, bite down hard'
'AHHHHHRRRGGGGHHHH'


XII
Children hurtle down,
a Bombay slum to hear that.
'King Rama has returned,
light his path!'

The open sewers adorned in Ghee lamps
find such intense beauty as each quivering flame,
although so fragile, breathes the story
of the power of human spirit
unshakable against overwhelming odds.
*'The King of Ayodhya
Has Returned
Show his path for the Festival of Light!'
Sharina Saad May 2013
2 cups of atta flour
mix it with a cup of lukewarm water
add a pinch of salt
Ready to knead the dough
Knead it soft, knead it hard
Throw it on the air
Roll it on the table
Rest it for sometime
While you check on your curry
Perfect TENGGIRI fish curry
Put it in microwave, Nuke it
the aroma fills the air...
Smells good... salive drops oppss...
Heat the pan now dear
8 chapati all together fresh in a bowl
one by one roll it well
make it really round
a little bit of ghee, hmm... smells like heaven
my daughter waits with a plate in her hand
one chapati ready,
two chapati ready,
three chapati ready,
Mummy I leave the plate on the table now
I want to switch on the tv
My daughter comes back
all three chapati are stolen...
She screams out loud
WHO STOLE MY CHAPATI?????
And the chapati war begins.....
Have dinner everyone....
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th
ConnectHook Apr 2017
Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense.  Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant...)

Note the third eye in the figure's forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a ******-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)

Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.

Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.

Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods' image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic... but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I'll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).

Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it's just a big lie...
bow before a multi-armed freak?  Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan's world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.
NaPoWriMo #15

TS Eliot
wrote highbrow literary
poetry (so-called)
Her wails rent the air

O God how unfair you are
to have snatched him from me
the only man that truly cared
never treated me badly.

Without him is a life to grieve
empty meaningless
take me too O God relieve
this pain of no redress!


Shouldn't we bring a costly cot
of mahogany or such wood
asked the men what was her thought
about carrying her man so good.

Shouldn't the pyre be of sandalwood
the fuel a pure ghee
your husband ma'am was a man too good
to be burned ordinarily.

She paused a while frowning dark
a shadow passed her face
a hint of wince made its mark
a pall of uneasiness.

He's gone to never return
the onus is now on me
to run the days with meager earn
and not spend wastefully.

ordinary wood would burn as good
kerosene would do well
prudence demands not one should
be lavish in funeral.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
the number of ghosts engaged with *** toys...
you almost forget to wonder about the whole
debacle (clearly it's not a debate) - queen Sheba
was right when she said to king Solomon:
the world will be governed by a yellow race:
(coppery, garnished with choc, alter rusty)
no exceptions to the Japanese having the physiognomy
of something resembling all things Germanic...
   porcelain white, excuses for the blonde -
             then the unearthed and then earthed brown
that's represented by all Asiatic hues;
they dropped the atom bomb and we're worried
someone else will drop another? what about those people
who do military deals selling pistols and bullets
and machine-guns; aren't they on the priority list
of concerns? atom bombs don't sell much warfare,
they don't, you drop a nuke you forget there
was a war in the first place, it's called the simplified
variety of the end...
           if it weren't for the ethos of
the kamikaze, there wouldn't have been
a hiroshima & a nagasaki...
         there would just have been a hiroshima...
proud ******* told the whole lot of nagasaki
citizens: our fate is your fate, listen to the credo!
                  first time lucky... boom! x-ray flash!
i've got the opposite of bone on that brickwall...
              i have noon shadow: perfectly captured
like a replica of a Fabergé egg to represent
a chicken! but Dylan could have sung -
    preference to the x-ray and the sedimentation of
bone into the archeological... nope... a-ray stood out,
    apparently detailing shadows was the way forward.
      but i don't blame them...
there's no reason to blame someone that
manages to fill your childhood slack
on imagining things that aren't really there
with Godzilla vs. Ghidorah (ghee: dorris, slash: door'ah)...
still, the western civi faces fresh allegations
of feministic chuckles and the ghosts of
*** toys... cos any **** would be an adequate
fleshy piston for the gyroid stanza of
  being agreeably equivalent to milking a cow...
that really bites the biscuit,
a Greek might have all the theological answers
but he's still sidelined because he hasn't figured out
an parabolic entry into a ****** using
        a straightened Floppy: for that necessary
arousal being satiated... come to think of
it: god would be better pleased with an argument
than a woman pleased with an orgsam
that might lead to the lost argument for god...
it's not enough that a tornado doesn't make it easier,
they apparently "do" too;
most of the jokes come as no surprise:
   mine's still alive.
                              it's still ghosts in *** toys...
           you got to look at ******* as a quasi-
Attenborough moment of curiosity,
      does it get me wired for a marriage? not really...
does it bewilder me thoroughly? of course it does...
          ghosts in *** toys...
                          could this turn into something
quintessentially dictatorial? probably...
          there's no point thinking you're right
if you don't allow the other person to speak out...
  and on that note... dialectics is interested in only
two people having a debate...
              not necessarily an argument...
debates only exist between two opposites of a required
conceit to be levelled and a plateau to be trodden...
   dialectics is never an en masse concern for vitality,
dialectics is not theatre,
       but as it stands, dialectics is misunderstood as
a theatrical attempt to achieve a congenial
narrative where everywhere is informed (consensus
omni
)...
              clearly Socrates is Socrates (misanthropic)
and Shakespeare is Shakespeare (artsy fartsy):
the former needs a stranger and a park bench...
the latter needs a stage and a theatre and commotion;
thinking the two will unite is already a prerequisite
of dictatorial rule...
                                   additionally?
you can't learn dialectics from the direct source that
discloses the existence of such a medium...
not Plato... and i'm not saying that i know it:
but i'm saying that no slogan chanted in a march
   will create a less embittered narrative than
my own mind might already provide.
ghosts in *** toys, boney *****,
       **** tricksy risque (or if it would be worthwhile
to be born with the pleasurable **** experience gene);
              which amounts to one billion Chinese
doing it right...
       i wish i was born into a family of seven siblings...
then at least i might have, what is known as:
        a western acquisition of a satiable sense of humour;
the "hey man!" sort of attitude that states that all
operatic endeavours have to be relegated to a tone
above the castrato: namely chipmunk.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
what's this st-st-st-stuttering? i know you revealed an acute consonant combination, but you didn't have to ensure it doesn't exist - i am familiar with the way humanity doesn't need theological crutches, and wants to go at it alone, but sometimes an individual example of a human begs the question of God - look at than Blue Indian language, it has plenty of hatches that are nothing but dead-end corridors (h t'chess) - ghee - for example, the h is inserted for aesthetic reasons, not phonetic reasons - alpha bravo, alpha bravo, come in alpha bravo! romeo, over! and the theory of stuttering goes along the way: consonants primarily, definite sounds, like the articles - they hide him in the most obvious places, for aesthetic purposes he's there, but when spoke of, completely silenced.

*******...

one - why say tsar and not say gnome?
in England you don't say 'sar like you might
say 'nome - or 'nosis (gnosis) - nose-dive on this -
γνῶσις - again, why would the Greeks add
diacritical marks and the English haven't?
too busy up a monkey's *** crack for all i know -
doggy dodging the debate -
leave dialectics like a derelict house and
soon enough everyone becomes so
opinionated that it's hard to discuss any
opinion, given the defences of the person
ideally suited for politics -
Channel Four daytime t.v.? scarier than
any horror movie - *come dine with me
;
but still, while st-st-stutter with the other
form of grapheme ts and not with the grapheme
gn? it's perfectly suited given the
original graphemes æ and œ -
you say agnostic perfectly, but when it comes
to gnosis people cut the g off and never bother
with the rule they apply to ts when a wet drum kit
snare if hit for hot when uttering the word
tsar.

two - the incident of a 91-year old woman in
Berlin, in a gallery, oldie had the chuckles
doing this one -
did graffiti on a £67,000 work of art with a biro,
reading-work-piece,
a 1977 work by Arthur Köpcke of the Fluxus
movement - prompted by the "artist's" instructions:
insert words - granny did goo goo good -
that's how i see Hebrew -
a perfect twin image - Hebrew, apart from the
two Adams (aleph and ayin) is a bit like a crossword,
vowels are only inserted for a Bar Mitzvah of
practising Kabbalah - perfect'oh comparison -
and you begin to wonder, why didn't the Hebrew
have a pronounced E if they had an A?
after all the sacred name has Adam and Eve to
imprison - which is why it'd explain
Islamic niqab - hidden from sight.

apologies for a telegram style of writing -
i have to make dinner, take pictures of flowers,
water the garden, trim my beard, wash myself
and then ******* to see a ballet of Don Quixote -
you get the picture.
sheeba balan kpp Dec 2014
It is good to get lost at Edapally junction
in that sea of people in the bus bay in front of emmanaul silks
to be exact, I could get lost in any part of kerala
it is the same to me ,kozhikode, thrissur or cochin
I am a foreigner
And i have adapted.
why ?
Why ,you may ask
why this indifference to one's own mother
simply because you cannot abandon your mother though you grew up in an orphanage
So goes for these places
I did not choose my mother
nor did I choose my native land
and I cannot orphan them
can I ?
I am familiar with some places now
As new memories are made
I remember places now
I remember fort kochi for the lanes sloshed in whisky and dreams
i remember vypin for small truths
I remember vytilla for heartbreak and pain
I remember wellington for incessant talk and friends
I remember calicut for numerous crossroads and junctions and restrooms
I remember thrissur for art and molestation
i do remember places now for each memory made
it was not like this for the place I grew
I know the temple and the paddy field
and the people in each house
like the woman on Google maps announcing each turn and curve
I would say this where I smashed the neatly piled red bricks with my lady bird bicycle
or take a turn in that alley and say this where I buy coloured glass bangles
Or take a left here ,this is where I light lamps filled with ghee fasting and in obeisance to devi
It is all vivid ,perfect with no doubts
and everything is doubtful in my own land
And then ,I decided to get lost at Edapally
sorry if I am geographically wrong

I stopped my car at the highway
Amongst the water logged fields
Overgrown with white lilies
my driver looked displeased
how could one waste travel and money
until then I had counted minutes and seconds
Of anticipated moments of security boarding and baggage
and now I stopped here at angamali  a nowhere
and watched my flight overhead
What now he looked anxiously
let's take a detour
I said
and yelled at the plane
"I don't care "
I want to get lost
And switched off all accountability

He dropped me at Edapally junction
And i stood still in that movement
a flood of people
fear engulfed me
the airconditioned air filled my mind
a fake cherry tree with cotton and red  glitter paper stood staring
People moved in with money and came out with loads
sweat, dreams, monotony, laughter expectations ,new hopes and hopes  dangling in the bus bay
some comfort now ,I stood hugging my Adidas coat
I did not know where to look and was whirling around in small circles
when I felt being pulled
Your lanky arm
I was here trying to get lost
And here you were pulling me back
I walked with big steps trying to dodge you and hoping to disapper
And then it started to pour
I did not know which was louder
the rain or your anger
your knuckles white
is this why they call white with fury
even the rain seemed white
the cotton hung wet and the cherry Tree seemed drained
but language seemed fine
you drove
I walked
and it rained
it was perfect to get lost
Gaye Nov 2015
I jump with glee
And break my knee
Eat homemade ghee
And **** with Lee.
Just fun.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
why is it that the over-******* of drum & base, or whatever stem of 20th century's alternatives of music (the footnotes) makes listening to classical music equivalent of choosing to be a conductor? as if it were black classical (i.e. jazz) we'd be reciting poetry - instead a quasi St. Vitus dance of the dyrygent's swan wing flapping - what an Auschwitz's tow weight to assert - Cracow snow during the famous English smog, the new, Hindu, horizon - with Adolf's mustard gas junkies on the front in the trenches - karma oh sure - karma - St. as in street or saint? only Calcutta's knees are bent to tell the difference - well, can we at least call the future appreciators of classical music the futurism of lepers, i.e. those prone to gangrene and amputation? apparently their hands gesticulated prior to the ears vibrating for the heart invoking the eyes to tear... and can we call western society the society that gives people all the freedoms it can imagine (Disney and Hollywood), but not the freedoms of ultimate vocabulary? given the democratic signature of X on the polling card? ultimate vocabulary comes after we censor images, byproduct of iconoclasm and the Islamic fetish over words and Niqab, we're using penultimate vocabulary - when Christianity translates images into words, and Islam translates words into images, from the latter it will mean a woman and 72 male virgins... prostitution in heaven... d'uh!*

that i equate Siberia with Prokofiev's - Lieutenant Kijé,
does that mean Red October?
i don't know anymore, the democratic choice
of vocabulary became more important
than the choice of parliamentary representatives -
which is a shame; there was more concern in how
people spoke than what people spoke about.
Putin was like: let the dog run, bark bark bark...
he'll come back grovelling - mother Russian
was the one time we could have kept
beauties in Poland - now they're Arabian
hum-z-ghee lovers on Friday -
little **** big argument? may-be... who knows
what excesses are being thrown!
but that's beside the point: how do i summarise
my pain? via arithmetic and some algebra:
i summarised it... the way experience pain is
like a metaphor, via arithmetic akin to:
1 + √90 - 10 x 5 ÷ 0.1 - 1 + 25 x 3/4 ÷ 3(299 - 81)...
this is my expression of pain, an expression
via arithmetic - i'm not saying you can't
calculate the answer, i'm talking about the soft-sponge
sensation you get from attempting it, that sponge-blank
absorption of the problem but not the solution -
i rationalised the pain i experience -
using mathematics - which made me relax when
utilising language.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.
T A Ramesh Dec 2011
Clouds floating under Moon light of cold night
Just as snow layers accumulating all over land
Make sky and plains pure white as buttermilk!

Milk becomes buttermilk and butter to ghee and
Cheese and yogurt byproducts of milk to enjoy
As children to mother we nourish in life long...!

Milk and honey flow as river if world is prosperous
By honest and true lovers of work for perfection
In all fields not calculating only money and profit!

Churning milky ocean elixir was produced for angels
As buttermilk is churned to produce butter for all
To enjoy and live longer in the world to do better!

As churning in base one another better one is made
Painful pleasure is love to live life in enjoyment ever!
Gaye Sep 2015
I sit and stink,
After cups of tea, conversations and melancholy
The sweat is salty, an armpit attached to sentences-
Ondaatje and the cat, Abramovic and tears,
The hollow room and my single window that ached
The smell and the grey torn shirt never got *****.

I sit and stink,
Desperate to walk, talk and get out of newspapers
Scratch rich names out of the walls and retreat
To untie the curly locks and let them breathe.
A phone thrown at one corner and emails unread
The world- a closed book with no pages.

I sit and stink,
Jeans pulled down to a wet floor
European closet and the yellow sparky lights,
Imagination erupted, there was no room to escape.
I pencilled graphs, penned letters and painted snakes
Self-portrait, Van gogh and a black and white me.

I sit and stink,
A friend, the jack and the brick house
Dosa with ghee served for the jarred tilapias,
They are all memories. Unremembered-
Like running races and the temple music system.
I wrote them down neatly, in a rectangle, they leaked.

I sit and stink,
An unfamiliar face in a place with no power
Glenfarclas, smoke and Ra Ra Rasputin
She danced. He watched. Her collarbones broke.
He dug his nail, dirt at its corner, an unshaven facade
It was grave, full of pain, his face and his eyes.

I sit and stink,
A ****** body inside the same grey shirt
Scratching names next to the European closet
With the old song from the temple music system.
The unfamiliar face evoked all human senses
The body is yet to take a wash.
Gaye Sep 2015
I’ve been waiting for so long,
On the road that never ends
Migrating between seasons to my
Pastoral lands north and south
Searching for your unfamiliar face
In forest foothills, swarming buses
And basins next to the Ganges.
I can wait till the moon hits the sea
The time- till you come, till you come.

Flashing lights, chiming bells,
Inscent sticks and a peculiar charm-
You carried, they said.
But you’re flesh and blood for me
Truth and reality knotted between
My garland of jasmine flowers.
I can wait with full heart and glistening eyes
Till you come, till you come.

There is no haste, I’m anticipating an upcoming
There is no starry blanket or mount chariot
But there are fireflies and a summer sun
Playing peekaboo with my shadow
Behind the mangrove forest
Envisaging your ticket to this world.
A crew of lasses claims and expects you
But you’re beyond love they could conceive.
Let the world scream, cry and yell
I still can wait till you come, till you come.

You’re a friend, philosopher and guide
I adore, worship and awaits your arrival.
Merchant ladies who walked my hut
Asked me all day to keep a ghee lamp
I lit a thousand lamps and still you dint-
Walk my shed. This life is not long enough
To witness thy face, eternal and mysterious
I can wait till you come, till you come.

The journey is beautiful, endless and offhand,
Walking through lanes strangely acknowledged
But there’s a feeling familiar still so odd.
The walk is not to say good bye but it’s a quest,
A prayer to reach your mountain nest.
There is the world- cirrus and starry nights
I can escape for the time forever from tides-
That counts the time- to the unknown!
I can’t wait, till you come, till you come.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
no other - a windowsill and an open window -
sitting on a folded leg and slouched
like a crow - i would be begging for it to rain -
no other music can capture rain -
safety net of all that sporadic improv. -
                      other other music - except jazz...
whether it be rain nibbling on the countryside
or the full-on cosmopolitan havoc of grey,
dust, grease, cement and rats and glass...
                 never mind: because i never thought
i'd say this...
                of the moderns... closely ruling out
wojciech kilar - for no particular reason other than
he's probably more known -
christopher young - since his hellraiser stint...
what's new - the revamped pet cemetary?
well... if christopher young was primo...
      soon to follow him... graham... plowman...
work on h. p. lovecraft adaptations...
                     horror as a genre...
                                the music wins me over...
however spectacular the visuals are...
                               if the music isn't bone grinding -
unsettling the nerves -
well... that's like pop music when it's raining...
i guess: oh i guess jazz can capture more feelz
when it comes: when it's raining...
when it's lazily sun-dazzling with the impression
of an "underneath" sizzling sensation -
or melting butter - or for that matter melting chocolate...
or adding splashes of cornflour made in water
to a sauce and watching it thicken...
this recipe i will remember by heart...
i will have to at someone point...
but this dhal was quite sublime...

   scrap book recipe...
          a man in a kitchen...
               and in hell... the devil's mastery...
almost like a chemistry experiment...

       half and half: masoor and mung dal... lentils...
kabuli chana (chickpeas)...
    a bay leaf...
              3 cloves...
  a tsp of cumin coriander turmeric
                     chilly powder and another of kashmiri
   chilly powder
                chopped tomatoes
  coconut milk...
            onion ginger garlic
                spinach
      gochugaru flakes coriander for garnish...
veg and chicken stock...
                          ghee...
butternut squash...
                    cayenne pepper (1 tsp)...
    i was looking for a pinch of asafoetida...
i knew it was in the kitchen...
    alas... also know as a substitute for those
vegan cults that don't include eating onions
and garlic... or perhaps just onions...
    cinnamon stick? no...
but three decent pinches of a homemade
garam masala...
  and yes...

   https://ministryofcurry.com/moms-garam-masala/
is the only spice blend...
   the russians can have their nukes...
the americans can have their nukes...
i have an arsenal of the following spices and...
i'm feeling... like i just had a manicure done...
the only garam masala:
asafetida, bay leaves, black peppercorns,
black cardamom, cardamom, cumin seeds,
(sorry, no black cumin seeds),
      cinnamon, cloves, cordiander seeds,
dried chillies, fennel seeds, fenugreek seeds,
(mace? no mace)...
         nutmeg, poppy seeds, star anise...
turmeric...
          again: no stone flower...
well... that's almost covered it...
                it's not the recipe asks for black
mustard seeds... those i do have...

                   cult recipe and it says: who needs...
meat?! even i'm convinced...
god i do love a good steak tartar...
    anything ****** and oozing wriggly bits
of life - as tender and gelatin grizzly as a...
even the names: bleu... ooh... saignant...
  haha... medium: demi-anglais... what else?

the butchers rolling in their graves
when someone orders a steak: fini-bien...
                          or some other frankenstein of the kitchen...

coleman hawkins - the high and mighty hawk...
some guys were putting up a fence
for me and my neighbour - it only took 15 years
but who's counting - they were told to
cut out all the bushes and foliage in my garden...
so that they could get a straight line
and so the fence would be put up...
unlucky for my rosemary bush...

r.i.p. my rosemary bush...
        today i started to salvage the poor thing...
the newer shoots i placed in water for
a drink and hopefully 2 weeks from today
i might think about planting them back in
the ground... for the rest of the bush?
i had to freeze the rosemary...
all afternoon my fingers were scented with rosemary...
which is fine... when you're working
with a raw piece of lamb...
but i'm no walking and breathing and aching
lamb of god about to be hanging
on the cross...
                even through the soap...
an afternoon of my hands being heavily scented
with rosemary...

vivaldi can have spring and the other three
faces of "god"...
holst can have his mars and the other circle of hell...
but thank the high-flying-****
that jazz can capture a rainy day better
than that song: i'm only happy when it rains
by garbage...
            
  guess i'm not letting go...
         an active rebellion against classical music...
one jazz record after another and i can gravitate
to...ward... the entire e.p. being played...
none of that new wave harakiri diat l.p. scene -
much appreciated... but i always need to move
beyond the half-an-hour mark...

         then again: i can't see how jazz could
compensate for snow - snow on the exit format -
jazz doesn't - then again...
no, categorically...
                           if there's only a sly insert of drum...
no horns - the piano and some guitar -
  
   otherwise you can't go wrong with
joshua redman - back east...
         a modern classic - notably with zarafah...

speed-conversations - none clinging
to a cameo of a date...
                 fickle minded - always changing
the course of events that... nonetheless remain
intact on binding themselves to a blind will -
        
music and all these interpretations are my own -
too bad to see and have to work with
a cipher - what's behind this image -
what's behind that image -
at least music stands stark and shivering naked...
less chances to abide by some propaganda...

unless of course mathematics is to be given
the crown - i hardly think: one shouldn't really
think about music -
                one can never really fathom
the constraints and the escapees from these
constraints... these constant revisionary scribbling
over and skimming the orthodox:
brick-on-brick intricacies of: immoveable objects
being: nonetheless moved...

- i too am waiting for my libido to die off -
anytime soon... like right now...
no harem therefore "jazz hands" and the algebra
of "magic fingers"...
idle man and all that *** that could have been...
until that magnetism is steered off a cliff
of: not another tomorrow -
                    at least no ***** or *** doll upon
the horizon -
            no point getting intimate or personal...
only a few days back i found a weakness in
this exoskeleton -
standing in a shower... pouring running water
onto the back of my head...
i almost knelt and said my prayers from
the exhaustion of succumbing to this multiple-******
of nuance...
       right on the spot where
a higher evolution of a more, protruding occipital
bone: as i've heard it once before: being noted...
i'm waiting for my libido to **** itself off...
in the meantime no harem...
imagine my luck when it comes to
the wisdom served up by men like king solomon...
even by then:
this most exhausted man had
to settle for a swan's dignity in monogamy
with the queen of Sheba...

                 but it's hard to translate wisdom
when you have all the basic forebodings
already at your disposal... the harem will discover
***-toys and you will be...
the limp **** in the whole affair...

                 such hard-on feats of fear when it comes
to... two cakes too many
when all you've been asking for is, merely a slice...
jazz... i can't find
a clint eastwood in alcatraz...
or steve mcqueen in sagan...
               or witold pilecki in auschwitz...      
but i can find myself in jazz...
hummingbird or some, other, champagne flute
and that bothersome fly...
nothing against flies: everything against
mosquitos... i would **** those buggers with
the same joy of donning wool having
just sheered a sheep or two...

jazz and: the wriggling fish...
jazz and all the fish out of water...
i'd call them constipated ***** and lobsters
but... jazz and the wriggling fish...
jazz and smoking a cigarette to appreciate
the deaf centre point of night's culminations...
living close by to central london...
"walking in" and not feeling like
anybody important: or a tourist...

       if i wasn't a billy joel: i would most certainly
not want to be a bob dylan -
hard to be living the obscure with a cross
made up of iconography...

the applauded and the: billy joels' piano man meets
neil young's old man...
they shake hands and subsequently depart
where the crossroads begin, and end...

believe me when: i'm the last to be believed...
usher in a dozen penguins attired
to be... fizzy kosher dosh...
in all their napkins and bowtie-neck strangle 'em
into a hush of a bamboozle...

such the life the music the mathematics
of living in shackles - wriggly ol' ****** with
those improv. would-be-turns and...

how many words will it take for it to be clear...
i have nothing but rejoice at clinging
to my obscurity... primo amigo:
alea iacta est: too bad for me...
or too bad for my shadow...
                       faking being a gemini
in the horoscopes of fate and superstition...
shadow: mime out of the confines...

      these is my second chance at retaining
the crown of obscurity? is it?! is it?!

   to have to burden oneself with love...
akin to... well... if i were about to spoon her...
but no... i wanted to catch the 8 hour kipper....
but every time i would fall
to sleep... i'd fall asleep with a tarantula bite...
numb all over to one side...
because i was oh too willing to fall asleep
when clinging to her...
like a bracket fungus to trunk and core...
one side of me complete in numb...
which had a rubric of recitations
should all else not be true...

but *****! that slap in the face...
                             come to think of it...
i'd like something to eat...
less **** with... that could pinch me...
i'm starting to think that
being ganged up by a group of hyennas
is not such a bad way to go...
perhaps being mistaken for a tuna
when a shark attack is being
noted...
            hard to imagine
sharks or bears or lions as having
sadistic undercurrents to their day-in-day-out
beats...
  even sharks nibble but never gorge
and feast on... this cranium solid first and only
hope when it comes to god
not making mistakes when gambling...
the ******* roulette or a black jacks' "choice"
of cards...

i can't exactly "think" this out to appease
a gravitating en masse...
                       pour me another shot and
debackle! all in the faith and hope
of un-thinking thinking...
trying out this suction tenticle of the void...
replacing descartes' res cogitans with
res vanus... what is due: is due...

no more wisdom from me aged 34
as me aged 73... there's only rain and jazz...
i'm buying time...
concerning whether it would be even
remotely likely to appreciate jazz
when it's snowing... unlikely...
very much hell-bent unlikely...

      - who would have thought that peering
into an aquarium would have to,
become more entertaining that zombie-clad
watching a t.v....
what ever happened to the watching
a klepsydra... or the tick-toe-tightening
of seconds into minutes into hours...
dying from the skeleton diet of time
whenever catching-up: unaware with
the clock in the confines of:
old people not really...
no, not really, listening to coleman hawkins'
much of anything...

                     because this doesn't tease
the affections of the young...
like a trainspotting revamp might....
because there's, clearly no new dracula...
and there's no new: new....
                     i wait patiently like a salamander....
no easy picking no low hanging fruit...
no fatty boy'oh to matter...
         no leeching off the three-quarters
of                               the better part of the engineering
cohort that were behind
the manhattan bridge... or Malbork Castle...
and hands on hands: do touch...
the event horizon of a dead star...
                    in that: pulling fabric...
basic genesis... talking fire "misanthrope": "god"...
bushes outgrowing fungus when
it came to 1970s ***** flicks:
notably in fwench and italian...
                   prune the perm hair...
                             keep that afro on a leash!

these days ***** is half of the cure's nostalgia
and more...
onomatopoeia and...
    refining the contorts with painting...
and keeping the act on a hush...
               the lazy hands speaking
dozen **** cracks being discovered but
none being experienced...
bone the hand...
it's called a ****** just because
of oysters... it's called a ******
because of the clams and of the irises...
and because the tongue:
god... ever time i wanted it to exfoliate...
it's forever that timid tulip!

         what came of a ****** became a hand
and the cusp... and what would never
become a San Francisco needle hinge epidemic...

was anyone praying that
one direction would become the next rolling stones...
cougar: meow...
that **** jagger was going to be
the "reincarnated" harry styles?

           knock-knock... who's there?
a premonition... i.e. touch-wood...
base: i will require the wood to be touched
by bone - notably a crunch of the knuckle in how
the fist is formed / fathomed...

        otherwise known as the lap-lapping-dance-off
with a tongue wriggling in imitation
closure of a worm...
or a fighter for a boxing champ. contender...
belt-up... knot and noose down....
the new news is no: good skit...
i **** myself to fickle my shadow
whenever i see a hoopla or a trance inducing
recoil of the swinging dancing spare
of a: rope that's not leftover for
the dangling first come first served...

daydreaming zeppelins...
the day the elevated english man will fall...
and bring down the bowler hat with him...
touch the philosopher's stone and turn
that attache of good taste into an umbrella...
the same day i stop daydreaming
about zepplins...
will see me think of the anglo-saxon
as whittle brother... the younger Swabian...
and all part of the infuriated minor
Germany that found inkling to behave
like the nomad Yids...
and move... and move... and...
never the sort of people to conceive of a ship...
without also being receptive of carrying
an anchor!

then again...
                   monkey man albino and...
forever the one to follow the white rabbit back home.
Mohd Arshad May 2016
How can I forget
Those crumbs
Ghee tricking
From between
Your untired fingers
I remember
You would cuddle me
When at sunbeams birth
I would scurry
To recite English Alphabets
And when at my comeback
Rhymes sailing in the mind
And on lips leaping
Yes at the door at dusk
You would shout at my play
Oh I had got my leg sprained
But that was the best cure
How careful wrapping in the quilt
Whenever the chill fanned
And she put me against
Her thumping chest
Where are those days
Where is she
Where am I
They are at home
She is in the kitchen
I am on the rollicking chair
I would I had dropped in your days
My son my dear my heart
Ryan O'Leary Oct 2018
Peter Schiff has sounded
the alarm bells, the crash
is eminent and dollars are
going to make no sense.

Invest in Irish Butter, it is
the best and safest way to
spread your wealth, even
on toast, no meltdown.

Cheddar No Shredder, is
the motto in Tralee, where
the Paddy's are a smiling with
their Guinness and their Ghee.


For Isabella Guinness.
i wish i could take the credit
but its the combination of ghee and honey
that brings me to ecstasy
with schisandra you will be elevated
but use her mindfully
because she’ll easily blow your mind
this lonely existence burns like a fire
i offer you these words
a speckle of hope or a thread of rope
as artifacts from an earlier time
that connects us to our home
i know its difficult to cope with all this tragedy
so lets resurrect an an anthology of goodness
what are we choosing to remember
only the cold embers of yesterday’s funeral pyre
or the flames that leapt through the air
while you shouted higher and higher
its ok to be proud of nothing
forever warming our backs by the fire
so many ancestors stood proud behind you
never once do they judge you
so why must we collect
impertinent insults from our neighbors
when they prefer to sit around and savor
the mesmerizing nonsense
that captivates their souls called television
i am beyond understanding
sandwiched between anger
and demanding justice
first we must conclude that the world is broken
so we can decide on the proper attitude
or adjustment
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
.within these words is the simple question... i'm a misogynist? i'm a misogynist? i'm such curious as to how i could get away with all of this if i, truly were a woman, but as being a man, i am prescribed the sentient double-knocker of: a ******* mea culpa!

so i spent the afternoon making
two curries...
   by now... cultural appropriatio:
whatever the hell that means
having an arsenal of indian
spices that would scare both
the russians and the h'americans
with their nukes...
but like i said:
i concede:
                 the blue indian cuisine,
i.e. from the Bengal
or the Punjab?
superior to my bland salt &
paper...
although...
when it came to the chicken chettinad?
i'm not here competing
for the white-boy-eat-a-lot-of-chillies
olympics...
one standard red chilli,
four kashimiri dry chillies,
and yes... some standard chilly
powder...
       if i want to burn my tongue:
i'll drink near-to-boiling
water... thanks...
don't know... i sometimes make
so much curry in one afternoon
i'm happy to forget doing
the stereotypical male thing of...
watching the 6 nations rugby,
or the skii jumping competition
from Letho (Finland)...
   it's like... i'm transported back
to Edinburgh,
  doing 12 hours of lab. training
once more...
              hell... no lab. work for me:
but i guess... blue indian cuisine
is the closest thing to a chemistry
experiment, notably an organic
chemistry experiment...
mind you:
   have you ever wondered why
you tend to eat a little bit more
of the sauce...
   if you don't dice the chicken,
move away from dicing chicken
*******, and instead fry (which will
come later)
       whole chicken thighs?
or... marinate them prior to...
          curating them via
                   the method of poaching
them in the sauce?
diced chicken: so bland...
         esp. from the breast....
but the meat... cooked whole...
esp. as a thigh (the best bit of
the chicken, and with the bone
intact? oh god!)...
my few favorite curry though?
the one i made later...
    a... sali murgi...
   (yes, the H is always a surd...
   moor-ghee...
    butter of the moors)...
      with those beautiful sali
crispets...
          on top...
   also... who would have thought:
dried, apricots... in a curry?
oh i don't mind this...
   "cultural appropriation"...
me cooking curry is...
so much more than someone
donning dreads...
and... by the looks of it...
          i might even, slyly,
cook better than some natives...
well i already know that
i can speak a more orthodox english
than some of the natives,
i knew that back in high-school...
  started in class 2B...
moved a year later to class 1B...
(class... tier, same thing)...
a year later i was in class 1A...
and it went like so:
    1A, 1B, 2A, 2B,
              1C... 3A, 3B,
                      1D, 2C...
and no... there was no 4A or 4B...
(it skipped every two numbers
and every two letters)...
so... me worried that i might
not cook better than some
Indian's grandmother?
   not in the least...
              a, woman, cooking?
please... give me a break...
             what's that story:
if she overuses salt...
she's thinking about something...
if she underuses salt
she's fostering ill-will...
she over-cooks the pasta
she wants a divorce...
she under-cooks it...
she wants you to start recreationally
running because you have
a "beer-belly-flab"...
yeah... i'll say it...
WOMEN DO NOT BELONG
IN THE KITCHEN...
        mind you...
i was helped by a standard-bearer
to the antithesis of saying so...
mother dear...
   mother ed gein mother dear
(this better freak some people out)...
ah...
but you know what?
frying the potato sali...
last time i used a *** and a standard
cheese grater for the potato...
ingenius...
however many chemistry
experiments i ever did...
no cliche american high-school
"faux pas"...
          but then...
like men are supposedly unable
to tell the difference
between
burgundy and cordovan...
         the **** is a...
               julienne peeler?
yes... mother dear...
or... grandma dear...
                 any other woman in
"my life"...
   no really... but i always like
to keep the ed gein joker card
in play...
   for breathing space...
             all the other women in my
life were...
    for two worthy exceptions...
the nurse in the hospital
where i was born...
                     birth-mark scared...
thought it was better to
shove suckle of a feeding bottle
into my mouth so hard
that i would suffocate,
and almost die from
a premature heart-attack...
ended up with an.. "enlarged" heart...
last girlfriend...
  now... i don't even want to begin
with that story...
in full agatha christey
alias poirot paranoid-mode...
****** her for 7 hours one night
prior to leaving St. Petersburg...
****** her in the batch while she was
on her period and it was
the first time she told me to put
on a ******,
after she first told me to take it off...
so yeah... the curry was great...
we lated sat together
like jesus mary & st. joseph
watching the t.v.
   ah... China's one child-policy...
back in Europe
i'm a dormant serial killer
and my mother is actually my sister...
and my father is a *******
Anglican priest...
or myth, or ghost,
  counter... "god"...
of me turning to the public stage...
BUMPER STICKER
RETRACTION FROM H'AMERICA...
if he died for "our", "sins"...
why is the mantra still:
  the mea culpa of...
"allowing" him to die on the cross?
so we watched a movie...
book club...
staring...
   jane fonda...
  that guy from miami vice...
that woman from ms. congeniality,
that woman from back to the future
vol. 3,
          that woman from
        father of the bride...
                       and DREYFUS!
fifty shade of grey...
   cameo by e. l. james, walking
the dog?
                         yep...
        anyway... watched that...
prior to, dressed up real fine...
was asked where i was going...
to buy some beer...
   walked to the local for some cider...
had to endure a interlude
with a drunk west ham supporter
talking to the colt cashier about
working in outer east london
but being an arsenal supporter...
the movie though...
book clup...
          so it ends on a:
and they lived happily ever after,
didn't it?
            yeah... it did...
but as i was walking about...
the demographic...
   my "neighbour"...
a single mother who still has her
son living with her -
who should look like he's ageing
but... to me he's still
a stunted cabbage-patch
                       of a 13 year old...
a daughter who sometimes
crashes...
      walking home with
a... "catch"...
                           a man...
                 who i would seriously
make ******* antagonisms of...
elsewhere? in the... vicinity?
similar stories...
                      around here
i'm the jesus, the messiah's
mother and my father,
                 the ghost of st. joseph...
last time i wanted to play roulette...
my mother was visiting
     her parents,
both of them slept at my uncle's
house,
i hosted a birthday party...
                and...
  ended up ******* a black girl
in my room on a chocolate couch...
how's that?
      don't even ask me how
i managed to persuade a thai
    bisexual with cheap polish beer
and jazz...
        done brutally / i.e. realistically
in the garden...
with a my own persistent zenith
of surprise...
the thai surprise...
           of reaching into her *****...
really... sport's bra...
and you just picked her up
   from a park bench lamenting
into the phone drinking beer
at the same time, + the short hair?
really? no... moment of "suspence"
           of... the thai surprise?
there were always the odds:
3:1 - she's a woman...
        or 4:2 - she's... he's she's
                               she's he's a man...
oi! shem?! what's up?
which is it?
(3? mouth, the floral pattern,
and the ***...
                1? choice...
  well... if you've already started
courting?
              there isn't one...
4? how many points of entry
between two men? 4...
   but how many choices?
the... teasing *******
literature and wanting to experiment
or...
   the "homophobe"...
which only applies to...
   ****** taqiyya...
                        or the thai surprise...
oh i'm pretty sure i've met
a few homosexuals in my life,
but all of them had
the courtesy to... dismiss homophobia...
what was "homophobia"
and became "trans-phobia"
was forever some borrowed
from Islam... ****** taqiyya)...                
    
                 oh but reality is brutal
on this level...
                         no... not rosey ****
friends, best buddy psychotic
                  lingering ex-girlfriends...

so i drank one cider,
watched match of the day
for all the premiership highlights...
drank two more ciders...
in between taking
a king's salute of one's
most worthy subject:
    a 10cm length of fudge-like
****...
forgot to *******...
and found myself thinking...
'what if the opening
for david bowie's song
from the man who sold the world,
the width of a circle...
could ever become something
-esque shape of things to come
by audioslave...
that subtle rhythm section...
what if all rhythm sections
of songs could have more
a more subtle air about them,
so that the rhythm section
doesn't have to compete with
the vocals...
   harmony...
                very much unlike
the rhythm guitar of Metallica...
what then?

i'll speak my mea culpa...
but i'll also imagine myself
nailing him to the cross...
and then dry *******
the erected crucifix
                         with him on it...
yes...
    and he might have died,
but i somehow managed to live,
in order to understand,
rather than forget the omni-****
banality for...
    the spec-attache-of-the-wrongly-
reattached-to-the-omni-****
as-stand­ard-the...
                            particular man.

inclined to be on a, "jonestown massacre"
style... motiff?
         please...
                  i'd need to dumb
my language down to a level of
understanding that
could no longer be riddled
with idiosyncracies,
          and, subsequently
become: peppered with rhetoric...

who doesn't,
made of flesh,
borrow a segment from
     idolatory,
of these, of all of all
of the possible days...
                oh.... subtle translation
of the german reality
at the peak of the 19th century...
what was the twilight,
or rather... who were the idols
of that frame of history?
wherever i look now...
i cannot see what twilight
there's is to speak of,
other than via my own
post-mortem...
    and by then...
             i only seem to want to convey:
but i am only making
a snippet of what an status
would perform
otherwise:
full swing wholly engrossed
in idolatry do...

        nibbling...
to better explain metaphysics...
id est:
       as simply as possible...
with a...
                 underlying principle
of metaphor...
   and subsequently:
   a literalism that only dabbles
with ridicule of,
what centers around...
self-worth,
    and self-worth-attainment,
best mitigated by
   a self-deprecating comedy...
         that... is provoked
as a modus operandi...
                by an undermining,
tragico-comic...
         of a... noumenon,
self-excluded:
              deprecating comedy per se.

thus:
   the self, returns to the "self",
returns to "the box"...
               which ends up being...
something almost bearable
to have to endure,
esp. when stacking shelves
in a supermarket.
Sara Kendrick May 2017
Easy form, just one, two, three done
Doesn't have to rhyme, can be free
Three lines simple, I've mess up-ghee
This is a new form of poetry to me..I guess one could continue in an interlocking rhymning poem by either rhyme the first line of the second and proceeding stanzas with the first line  or either the last line then keep with the rhymning scheme of A, b, b..
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
żar nal girsz-ghee-oh-baksyl; dar gisz kubteel,
wła di koph teal?! ki goor kar yam... ba ga knee!

he who instils fear in others...
instils the same fear in himself,
as the shaky knees test
to see whether instilling fear works,
and loving in return becomes
a shadow of a pebble when
the shadow of the mountain illuminates
further than the footsteps dare print
onto it into the helium sphere of expression
sounding depressed: pipsqueak & chipmunks
don't make you laugh? but they'll
make you buy an output of civilisation
of the no. 1 single sung in that ultra-soprano:
i almost wished to have written ultra-castrato...
but then i realised,
the popes loved eating scrambled eggs
for breakfast... so there was nothing left to *squeeze
.
Zane Safrit Mar 2019
I wanna live
With the asana girl
We could be happy
Drinking our ghee
With my asana girl

She speaks in their slogans
I nod and say yes
We roll on our mats and
Breathe through our noses
My asana girl

Twelve yogis humming
A sitar for show
The raja relaxes
And waits between chants
For his asana girl

I don’t need no money
I’m happy as hell somehow
Karma’s a ***** y’know
You see it’s all a big show
Om... om... om


Copyright © 2019 by Zane Safrit. All rights reserved.
This is a new-age take on Neil Young's 'Cinnamon Girl.' https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3lZ6bBeJ488
The old man is dead
His two shadows and the apparition
Looking on anxious,horrified and relieved.
Finally the son is of any use
Lighting the pyre emboldened by the fire
Raging in his throat and belly

Lived so alone with the two shadows
And the apparition. But, a jolly crowd
To bathe his sins and embalm his skin
With ghee. Tea and *** passing hands,
***** and tobacco smoke unlocking
The mind. Nephew in epiphany, discovers
The soul did not escape through the mouth
But through the *******!
Defective death, needs prayashchit.

13 days! Too long to atone for a
Life time of neglect! The kulin  hands
The old man chose for his only son
Finally stirs, a feast for the departed soul
Offered at twilight under a banyan tree
By the holy bank.
Ahhh! Moksha!
I wonder, for whom.
The apparition struggles to raise a hand,
A cry, while the shadows melt away.
Notes (This poem was written as a sequel to Pyre I.)
Ghee: Clarified butter made mainly from cow milk.
*****:Cannabis
Prayaschit: Expiation
Kulin: High born
Surya Teja Jun 2018
Smell of the first cup of coffee
Text from a best friend
The voice of my family
And the cool morning rain

The milky chai and biscuits
The steaming hot pakode in the rain
Hot daal chawal with ghee
And curd rice with pickle

The melody of my favorite song
And the moves on the dance floor
Singing while taking a shower
And dancing with random moves

Discovering a new song
And playing it till my ears bleed
Singing the song till I find
Someone crazy about it like me

Travelling with my best-friend
And doing crazy pranks on each other
Meeting a new person
And finding we share the same interests

Finishing up of an artwork
Completing writing a poem
Reading a novel entirely
And binge watching TV series

The sound of the ocean
The feeling of sand beneath my feet
The way the waves touch my feet
And beautiful sand castles

These are some of many things
That makes me smile every day
I had many smiles today
Sharing one with you too!
(no braggadocio! modest rodomontade scored triumphantly!)

Unbeknownst to me, a generic human ape,
an unpleasant surprise
     swished down like an ominous cape
awaited and near smothered me drape

ping that October morning, where no escape
presaged via frisky black cats
     chasing shadows on fire escape
crossed my path after walking under a ladder
     where ice **** ravens didst jape!
**********
Wheels of injustice applied via de
fender, sans Johnny Cochran forced ee
year splitting amidst general public fee
ver rush to absorb disbelief shell shock hee
ret tickle non guilty conviction from key

ping popular culture spell bountious lee
really exhausted viz three ring me
dee ya circus (June 1994 – October 1995) pre
vail ling obvious evidence irrelevant, thus re
deeming O.J. Simpson to strut guilt free

from emotionally charged trial. I awoke
as usual and performed customary bespoke
oblations vis a vis half-hour plus choke
hold asphyxiation meditation, okey doke
shuteye discipline followed daily to evoke

calm, cool, and collected trance zen dental
bliss before motoring on with gist of gentle
lee presented vignette, though me mental
state did not shift gears into a rental

modus operandi, but only partially new
trawl eyed , cuz the then fiancé (one mew
zing chic chick i.e. Abby Robin Zison), Jew
dish us lee spent the night
     at our transitional grew

some domicile) immediately nsync to report do
tuff lee (at the Goddard School)
     raced like a Chew
Bach ha's Dickensian protagonist back up Badoo
two flights of stairs. Like eponymous Aloo

men hum mushing spry feline woman out bitta bing
bitta bang (clanging like hells bells) ding  
donging, she immediately flew back fling
all four feet eleven of her harried style jing

ling in an agitated state she set foot to go bob  
bing out the door intent
   (as iterated) driving to her job,
and in combination pantomime
   and words crisis did lob

asper like a bot to me,
     she attempted to communicate rob
bing her unsuspecting fount of thespianism
   tub air gritty modicum
   of rationale from putrid slob

name of Leslie (the lunatic landlady)
     thine paramour conveyed clarity mouth ajar
after surmising urgent news
     required automatic action to un bar
driveway, where I parked car,

the previous night surreptitiously venal far
from rational rapscallion most definitely har
bored an axe to grind, and locked Ford Escort par
**** shinned within chain linked fence - war

fore suggestion got made
     (from future bride)
to confront landlady,
     and sternly insist and mildly chide
corrective action taken,

     yet this storyteller defied
said suggestion, and brainstormed
    with betrothed asthma guide
averting compromising neither of our pride

and prejudice respective, sans stevedore
managers would not let us slide
gnome hatter, how we could not
     escape deprecation
     no matter how much we tried.

Prior to heading off to bed
     the prior night, I deigned
to express likelihood to landlord/owner
     thyself and pseudo spouse needed to find

another place to live. The major reasons
for vacating premises? Her grind
ding cigarette no ifs, ands
     or buts smoking mind
less ness ranked (on par
     with chimney didst wind

     burning wood smoke
at full blast) as primary source
     of revulsion did provoke,
and aye came across with homespun folksy
sensitive mien, as a simple country bloke
I expressed honest sentiment at being
extremely averse (where hacking awoke

     the future wife)
     from second hand carcinogen(s)  
     extant within cancer sticks. Asphyxiation deafen
knit lee found me choking half to death even
putting towel under the door, or

     additionally keeping
     bedroom window wide open,
the malodorous nicotine wisps ambled - pen
     knit trait ting, wending, curly cued,
     and filtered thru fabric with mischievous yen.

No matter, the twisting tendrils of tobacco found
their way into ole factory nasal cavity ground
zero, sans health conscious holistic being hound
did, what constituted one deranged dame
     the SPCA ought to impound.

Another factor fueling foul accommodations yin
     wanna know offset fine tuned win
Dixie yang,
     which odoriferous torture constituted

     nauseating odor of cat *****
and litter boxes smelt worse than sin,
cuz, they never got cleaned of feline ***** matter
     near visible as a unsightly dangerous shark fin.

Upon summoning effort
     and energy to communicate
bona fide concerns, she responded
     and didst denigrate

with contempt fiery madness irate
psychotic malicious venomous vile
     as dead body snatcher mate
and then insidious wheels

     of malice with tongue flames
crackling, popping, and snapping
     from out her reptilian pate
     began to turn more sharply

     amidst ghoulish clatter and path
     of destruction on her tabula rosa slate
with more danger than
     along axis of evil tete a tete.

She madly paced back and forth
     across maligned envisioned aisle
a small patch of uncluttered space in main foyer
     witnessed seething rage wherein

     carpeted floor boards,
     an imperfect circle shod feet didst dial
no doubt internally
     plotting vengeful strategic guile.

Castigations, fulminations, and insinuations ague
gulled out her mouth
     noxious fumes left exit pronto flew
ludicrous lacerations
     from fiery dragon lady did spew

while yours truly soundly slept
     and without incident dreamt edenic view
she unwittingly trappings to annihilate  Xandu
some personal vendetta. After I washed, dressed as a zoo

keeper headed downstairs,
     the malicious scheme she did hatch
out back became a living reality,
     an empty house doors hooked with latch

(Samir, the other occupant) left hours earlier no match
to tangle with wicked witch absented premises natch
eerily echoed every footstep trod one patch,
after another
     patent leather slippers paused to scratch

an niche 'pon second landing
     (to confirm a strong hunch)
that nary a soul heard nor seen,
     probably out to lunch,

no raving ranting banshee
     demented drunk as punch
No zombie like entity appeared from the “DO
NOT DISTURB” sign affixed
     outside sleeping area, aye did scrunch

brow to compress insight,
     where mangy catatonic felines
     shared coterie holograms suddenly jumped out
     from virtual reality cat n' app cradle
     swishing tails shorn like cat o' nines

mewing obscenities (within/ out
     computer screen, ominous signs,
sans phantasmagoric phantom) lurking
     like a lunatic swing from vines.

Nonetheless, I continued to tread
     down dimly lit said
lower level with glimmer
     of optimism to bolster lead

din heavy mood crossing fingers
     spare set of skeleton keys
     (with cross bones and skull head)
nearly always left tantalizingly
     dangling in unused door latch, twas cred

double wish, thus spirit within me soared
and just as quickly sank to abyss of psyche moored
     sensation felt like poured molten lava oh Lord
Guess what? No such luck. Oh,
     she definitely would not a ford

carelessness, and took precautions okay
hiding temptation to make a getaway
Well…I stepped outside
     to assess situation. Blimey cray
zee myopic eyes forced to glean deadbolt
     found gate shut tight, thence a feeble bray

escaped parched lips, when lo...vix
teased and cross myopic eyes,
     no doubt played tricks
holy glory. Ah, a handsaw
     carelessly got left and altered mix
matched tool chest in plain view, a sudden fix

but prior to acting on the plan, quite do able
I made a few telephone calls
     first telephonically cable
hub rate, and firstly contacted employer

     told tale more unbelievable than a fable
thence to local police
     in order to file complaint against
     goon bonkers malicious monstrous label

quick as the brown fox
     jumps over the lazy dog
escape attempted perilous hell grog
ghee nightmare commenced after placing

     phone back on cradle, whence nog
     'gin set fingers to twitch busily
     sawing into one steel link,
    (an effort aye did slog)

thru to break at one linkedin steel segment
barricading trusty Ford Escort
     so this fellow could hightail with pent
up adrenaline out of nefarious
     steely web and test a mint...,

     whence surge of adrenaline
coursed from head to toe,
     my heart pounded not so gent
lee ready to burst from chest,
     and palms perspired profusely
with unexpected accursed of evil incarnate
     vis a vis hell bent agent

provocateur ready to pounce
     and deliver violent
retribution, which blows
     from blunt heavy object,
   would invariably render me unconscious
   courtesy of cerebral rent.

For better than worse, a kind face
of destiny smiled from countenance grace
sing unseen karma
     smiled smooth as sateen or lace
upon my essence as shaking hands

     furiosly moved saw handle
     back and forth dozens of times until…
THE CHAIN BROKE AND SET ME FREE
     now fickle finger of fate
     got me ought ta this place!
Gargi Apr 2018
back
Wind hisses. Water runs. Leaves rustle. Bees buzz. Roosters cuckoo.

forth
Bird takes flight. Napkin falls from the string. Cat jumps from a 7-foot door. Man splashes water on face.

back
Almost-ripe mangoes. Jackfruit cut open. Garlic tadka in ghee. Just-washed hair.

forth
Cool wooden swing. Fly hovers over my skin. Strand of hair against my face. Hot tea almost burns tongue.
From the one place which has always been home.
we are the rainbow’s devotion
in archaic motion
a potion of nectar
fulfilling wishes
a *** of ghee, honey and yogurt
poised precariously above
and what a delicious tragedy it would be
if that slippery *** of honey spilled upon us
and covered all our clothing in its fragile offering
once upon a time we walked naked upon the earth
now we wear clothes and i’m still wondering
if we have anything good to show for it
Fairs are
Layers of surprises
The cacophony of noises
The beauty of the various
Human creations
On display
Awaiting their
Customers
O Cashmere silks
Flowing like cream
The twelve yard long
Sari occupying
The seat of glory
Among all its mates
Glowing with its zardozi
And glimmering
Bridal wear
Handsome kurtas
And glorious turbans
Waiting to adorn
Men no less
Than their show
Shawls and scarfs
Beautiful raiments
Not only
Serve the human insecurity
But go well beyond
They glorify one's
Personality indeed
Maybe soon
Gender neutral garments
Would adorn these shelves
The world is moving
Pay heed
But now
This fair is making me romantic
Thoughts of daydreaming
Seeing so much
Wanting to get all of them
O I grow more infant
But I also see
In secret delight
Young lovers
Exchanging glances
This fair unites them
At least from
The bottom of their hearts!
I have to move on
O I see
Mighty rides
Brimming with people
The Titanic ride
Shouldn't meet
Another golden tragedy
Happy faces
And cheerful hearts
Do greet me
O my stomach is rumbling
Food is something
Without which
Our life gets
Tumbling
O jalebis
Roundels of joy
Dripping with ghee
And heavenly
Sugar syrup
These colorful goodies
I can't resist or stop
O boy
Pakodas being strained out
From hot simmering oil
Looks delicious
O what joy
Candyfloss
And sweets varied
Rich with magenta
Green and hues
Rapid
Greet me like
Those air hostesses
I crushed on
As a child
They do take me
On a flight of imagination
On gulping all of
Them down
One by one
My sweet tooth
Can't resist
O not
I see handsome hunks
Engaged in eager fight
Showing their power
And masculine might
Do they really have
Any hatred
Oh no
They are just friends
And they enjoy
Thus merry sport
O the dreaming young boy
Not bold but coy
Watches in wonder
He could not get those
Wondrous sweets
O wait
The fair had something for him
He could get
Those do paisa candies
At least!
He is enjoying with his pals
The fair
Is the blossoming ground
Of his long lasting
Friendship
But I am reminded
As I see dancing maidens
In sheer joy
That men but do come and go
But this saga of fairs has been going on
Since time immemorial
Only uniting the hearts
Of those
Who come here
To deal and feel
Some moments of joy
In this world
So mundane and real
'Mundane' at times!
Gone to a fair
Share your experience
For sure!
Slowly ghee is burning.
In peace and quiet
placing diyas.
Togetherness of family.
Watching moving flames
bring light into the dark.



Shell✨🐚
Happy Diwali.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
raïsa patel (cbc journalist),
lindsay shepherd and
some self-deprecating humour,
   from some random ******,
as requested...

there's only one
to go place to counter...
grzegorz brzęczyszykiewicz

https://tinyurl.com/jop9ofr (youtube
video, from the film:
   how i started the second world war,
cult classic)...

so here you have...
a clash of orthographies...
we'll leave english
out of it, since...
    it doesn't have an orthography...
you can't exactly call
       i over ι
                    or j over ȷ
         orthography...

it's good to know that i've come
across this video...
  lindsay, as always: looking
in full bloom...

   an article... over...        ï ?
       r'ah-e-s'ah?
  i can give you the phonetic
    transcript if you want...
zuname?
     patel...
       oh... from the geographic
region where H is a surd,
but is included in the spelling?
e.g.?
     ghee: clarified butter...
oh don't worry,
we'll get to the tongue-twisting
phonetic revision...

  it's not "that hard" after all,
some of the syllables exist in english
already...

grzegorz brzęczyszykiewicz

(cracks his fingers)
right:
    g'je-
  ****... the english sometimes
treat G like a surd...
    to get a (g)nome for
one's garden...
  or in cocker's two-bit:
   'arden... namely to ha-harden.

lucky me, being the dumb ******
in these parts...
i've moved beyond
being "offended" by
someone not pronounciating
something correctly...
  i just don't expect it...
      i just giggle...
   and think about what else
i can find, as being, unusual
in this, particular of all
the tongues in history.

   rz is a grapheme -
very much akin to the french:
   je suis!

     i'm not even going to bother
with
                          ę

nope, not going to bother...

cz is akin to the english grapheme
  ch-...
  where there's a Z
   you'd short-circuit and think
of H (except in the case of rz)...

   the same goes for
   sz, which is akin to sh-...

which brings us to the second
tier of orthography concerning
the grapheme     rz...
       ż...
                it's synonymous:
phonetically... but not in meaning...

rzecz: je-eh-ch: thing...
                 (th- is a grapheme,
  off: -eta, one of the greek eF so'unds)

see... we're having such
a fun time in english...
no clear orthography given
no diacritical markers...
a simple playground to
prance around...

    żubr: european bison...
the animal only exists in poland...
and, yeah...
poland is also famous
for the fact that...
the storks (bocian)
   chose poland for the summer...
god knows where
they migrate for the winter...

i could have written
out the full anatomy of the mouth...
notably the question of
   y: which is not why
where i'm from...
                                technically...
you would learn
the sound         ý...
i wrote acute, but it's more:
hollowed out...

   hell... if we're going to be pedantic
about just three graphemes,
i.e.
     raïsa...
     so... r'ah-e-s'ah
      and not:      rye-s'ah?
oh god, so much fun...
        with only a few diacritical
markers...
   i can play phonetic games
with... whenever starts
to be pedantic, over so little
that's in their possession.
Denise Writes Jul 2018
तुझसे नाराज़ नहीं ज़िन्दगी, my heart beat
for it is as smooth as ghee, a resonating beat

व्यक्तित्व क्या, but a comforting malaise made
from products of hay and of stardust,a cosmic beat

जब कोई बात बिगड़ जाये, i don't give a ****
for feelings are like a giant, wits for complete beat

कुछ भी तो नहीं, the sound of one hand clapping
A dialetic pin,philosophy leaves me beat

मेरा दिमाग दर्द होता है, no more discourse
answers missing in the गीता, flat line heartbeat
Swami Krishna's eyes flashed
lightning bolts illumining his round, brahmin
raincloud colored face.

Igniting logs in the huge fire pit
for our ancestral puja
he chanted ancient vedic hymns,
it was a beautiful offering on
this venerable Sunday morning.

Rites for remembering ancestors
is a tradition in many cultures,
not so much in the west.

Swami Krishna elaborated on its
importance:
We thank them for the good,
for laying the groundwork and support of
our lineage.

We remember them with
love and gratitude,
he stated, wrapping the yellow and red
priestly shawl closer to his body.

Strong, musky, acrid, odor of wood burning
stung our nostrils
one by one, ritualistically we added
ghee, incense sticks, flowers, herbs
and rice to the auspicious serpentine
flames

I could sense my mother near
spicy whiff of curry and channel no. 5
mixing with clouds of smoke

A secret door slowly opened in the heavens
as a procession of ghostly relatives
took their place around the blazing havan

It was almost high noon
and Surya, the Sun God
halted His brilliant chariot
driven by 7 rainbow hued horses

Hovering mid-air over our holy gathering
He raised His Golden Hands in Blessing

— The End —