The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!

**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy.  As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures.  Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being.  Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the *****.  If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself.  **** your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses.  Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge.  **** sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man.  Nevertheless let this not ****-faced you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion.  Touch yourself.  To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches.  Neither be cheeky about ******; ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist.  Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness.  Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity.  But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings.  Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness.  Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself.  You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end.  And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should.  Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** *******.  With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory.  Stand pert.  Die in the attempt to be boozed up.

The falling stars in this ironic night
make majesties
out of those cubicle-ridden New Yorkers'
routine Tuesday night daydreams,
where they make macabre escape routes
out of every perfectly-placed window
piercing the concrete sentences
that escalate from Ground Zero.

Your law offices,
corporate ******* headquarters,
are all bursting at the seams
with these drones,
the falling stars of the human race,
all composed of 14 different shades
of grayscale;

could've been
should've been
could've been shootin' stars
that year they were promised
lives of upper middle class incomes
and Lexus dealerships
bought to dent their status
on the neighborhood,
but that sparkle's been emaciated
by the truth,
the underwhelming spectacle of realization
accentuated by the clicking
and the clacking of company keyboards,
each little click
gnawing more at their patience
than the next;
the faceless brush strokes
gawk through that window,
their plans less hypothetical
over the calendar years.

"I can hear it calling me
from miles away,"
says Copy #90045280,
"see, they
SPEAK
to me, man,
tell me to transcend
the hurdle of the windowsill
and make my rendezvous
with an asphalt avenue,
to join the other casualties
of this rut-infested nation
in a life with the real stars,
falling and shooting
and jettisoning alike,
throbbing lights through dark sky silk
and into the hearts of even the most
robotic of this catalog culture,
and I frightfully,
excitedly,
must listen."

How do you swindle the light?
This would be the greatest grift.
An ongoing experimental conn
where we all remember,
who the mark(s) is,
pretending, just in case,
behind the curtain,
sleight of hand,
behind the back,
if there is no wizard in the back seat,
just in case...you'll tell the kids:
'it was all for them.' So they could sleep.

Childhoods are just safe houses for hope.
In play roles come easy,
in assortments, and unpackages, separate;
but everyone knows the rules,
their part, they remember
that fairness is sacred to play.
Some games get played
and some gamers’ play is accidental.
The game like the carnival is vacuous,
inhaling all into its eye,
exhaling into its calm, swindles like a carney,
jettisoning all into the extinction of gratification.

The mystery lies in the conspiracy.
System can beat game, house, odds,
conn the conn and you can go home a winner.
The Universe is a big casino, you see.
And all you have to do is get up from the table,
cash in your chips, and figure out where your car is.
The house always wins, you’ll say.
But therein lies the reason we play.
Which you're sure to figure out in the lot,
cramped delineations garner thought,
you'll realize that therein lies nowhere.



The conspiracy lies in the abyss,

A place where villagers lose their cattle,
Costumed & uniformed, singing gray prayers.
Crop circles are diasporic clusters of hope.
Where science fiction invented the cold war,
Between ghosts created by radio waves.
A mass hallucination produced by trauma?
Dellusion v. Illusion
Nurturist v. Naturist v. Projection,
As long as it’s a weapon!
Destination unknown-
But just in case, let’s create something that can destroy us all.

I

A Genesis! The Exodus, the Exodus!
A departure from all terrestiality
Always immoral and depraved, bathed in filth, in self-loathing
Abattoir of our souls, it entrenches us

Also, we too must be of the same make
And bear with our corpses the same proceedings, the same caliber
Allowed to their subversive candor,
All that broke the Carthaginians upon their own passage
Across the peninsular pathways

S'il in our conquest we find, however, that the pachyderms have run aground,
Vous must aggregate our conscious thought
Plaitcate the ravenousness within the heart of victory.

II

Bring victory, the winged harbinger of the conquest,
Beg for tyrannical proclamations: the end of man, the end of men,
By now, the greater of the concepts is lost to its own devices, devices,
Belching out smoke, that bend the corpses upon their backs.
By wrenching from their life a sense of purpose,
Byproductively, they feed heroic romanticisms of combat.

Brought yet upon these fields, there lies no stranger enemy
But that of the tide
Being self-effacing, masochistic,
Belittling, She breaks herself upon the shore, ravaging the bodies of
Both, Playing as ******* and as subservient

III

Come! Wave upon Wave upon Frothing
Crest, to shores of golden enfrenzied ******
Calmed by the liquid of our ***** *****
Charging forth as we
Charge forth armies upon the field of slaughter
Callously, for you, our gilded monarch
Can you see? They cannot see, and we hope to elucidate your presence, they
Cannot comprehend or fathom what they
Cannot see.

IV

Ceaseless now the charges
Come further upon the front
Crashing 'gainst the openings of each
Clangor and madness
Coalesce to form death

Dripping anew with sanguine libations
Drawn fresh from naked lambs, freshly cut for their country
Dionysian warriors return,
Desire forming their mental undulations

Effortlessly they overtake their feminine fortunes
Effacing their identities, removing from them with their clothing, the
Entirety of their selves.

V

From carnal conquest they rejoice,
Flaunting the destruction they wrought
Flinging husks of women about the room,
Foisting these shells on other patriarchs

Given no choice, they return to fields of battle
Godspeed, gods' will, and god-granted
Gaian soil is retreaded by their sodden flesh.

VI

Hellish, infernal is their presence
Having lost no measure to revelry or rest, neither
Halting nor slowed, the march quickens in time with their lustful bellows
Hastened to madness by infinity
Harkened back to prisons of mental anguish by their creators
How proud they are, the Old Gods,
Hacking away the pounds of flesh to reveal the
Haphazard construction to their instruments of torture.

VII

Into the bloodshed, into the fiery cavernous opening of the crusade
Ignited by righteous scraps of cloth and metal
Ignobly formed into crudely significant, textured shapes
Iconoclasts to their own ideals
Idyllic in their self-mockery.

Jabbering like hellbeasts, the warriors drive into the flesh of the conflict
Jettisoning armaments in the process, their
Joie de vivre having been lessened by mechanical limits.
Jocular slaughter synthesized with demonic cries.

Kapellmeisters to the symphony of death,
Keeping in the rhythm of mutilation, counterpoints of steel clashing against breastplates, giving shape to a
Kleptocracy of life.

VIII

Languishing now in the refuse of the struggle,
Laden with corpses, the warriors remain restrained by fatigue
Lurching through the mud, calling out feebly with voices
Long since bellowed to pulpy masses of throat tissue.

Masses of flesh crawling across the fields of strife,
Macerated ground, weak and shifting, struggles to support the
Multitude of half-corpses now in eternal respite upon the bloodied pasture.

IX

Now broken with regret and shame they collapse
Nestled into the marrow of the fallow earth,
Needing only rest in the cooling tendrils of dirt and blood that trickle across them.
Né de nouveau, their trek leads them towards the grave
Necrosis having taken hold in their limbs,
Nascent corpses, they subside with grave finality into a dead collective.

X

Opaque irises await those who uncover the un-burial mound
Oafish sockets containing them like marbles
Open to the elements, decaying with their corporeal encasement, shaded by
Oaken leaves that remain unfallen, while
Obsequious maggots go about their task of cleansing the remains

Paralyzed in the final moments of their mortal coil, the bodies lay stagnant,
Pacified only by the removal of sentience.
Pagan rituals surround such corpses, and the intrepid discovers
Patiently await the arrival of some necromantic spirit.

Quasi-instinctively, the pioneers of the superterranean mausoleum
Quell their fears and remove the bodies from their conclusive locale,
Quantifying their deaths by the armaments and metal carapaces upon them.

XI

Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies,
Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which
Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity
Repressed by its own intent

Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies
Strung up like scattered marionettes
Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony.

XII

To Hell their souls desperately charge, frothing about the shackles of undeath
Torn from corporeal existence, yet unable to
Transgress the mortal plane
Torturous paradox!
Torment the fallen of Carthage's vestigal might no more
Traducer of the human condition
Tragedy is loosed at thy whim
Try not the patience of demi-gods of wrath and bloodshed.

XIII

Undulating by the beckoning of the wind,
Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins
Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets
Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak
Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms

Visceral is the movement of the procession,
Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill
Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is
Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.

Warlike, the battle up the ***** claims the lives of those already claimed
Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict,
Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.

XIV

Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these
Xoana, false representations of humanity.
Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves
Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery.

Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins
Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the
Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight.

XV

Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls,
Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand,

Yet slowly it turns its back upon them,
Xenophanes mocks from his post,
Wailing, they fall
Velocity increasing infinitely,
Until they see no more the lustrous light
Trapped eternally in dark
Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls
Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish
Questioning existence.
Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is
Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise
Now to them denied for eternity.
Mephisto remains, their only companion,
Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once
Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now
Jabbed and pummeled to death.
In this state of perpetual umbra
Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment,
Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once
Forgotten but now reattained, and
En masse, the group instantly
Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again
Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return
Before the open sun, to bear themselves
Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:

Into the bloodshed, into the fiery cavernous opening of the crusade
Ignited by righteous scraps of cloth and metal
Ignobly formed into crudely significant, textured shapes
Iconoclasts to their own ideals
Idyllic in their self-mockery.

Jabbering like hellbeasts, the warriors drive into the flesh of the conflict
Jettisoning armaments in the process, their
Joie de vivre having been lessened by mechanical limits.
Jocular slaughter synthesized with demonic cries.

Kapellmeisters to the symphony of death,
Keeping in the rhythm of mutilation, counterpoints of steel clashing against breastplates, giving shape to a
Kleptocracy of life.

I am not a number
I am not a cypher.
I am a real live person
Not a hypothetical one.
I am part of a portion
Of the total population
Not an ignorable thing
Only fit for eliminating
If it suits a demographic,
Budgeted body politic;
Something looked upon
As something better gone.
By some venal banker,
Number crunching ******.

I matter.
Please remember I’m real
And the turning of the wheel
Might make you a rich man
But your carefully worded plan
Might crush me underneath.
Is this what you bequeath
To the society that bore you?
Is it the proper thing to do?

I am not a figure, a jot.
A squiggle on a page, not
Some negotiable loss
Decided upon by a boss
Who wants a higher bonus
Jettisoning an onus
Foisted on him by liberals.
My problems are not literal,
They are real and due
To be looked through
For a way to be humane
In matters mundane,
And not as profitable.
Don’t be despicable.

I matter.
Please remember I’m real
And the turning of the wheel
Might make you a rich man
But your carefully worded plan
Might crush me underneath.
Is this what you bequeath
To the society that bore you?
Is it the proper thing to do?

Talk to your accountants
And see what the amount is
To do things for fiscal gain
Without causing people pain.
There has to be a way
We can all have our day;
Our place in the sun
Things good for one
That are also good for all
And don’t cause a fall
In the economy and health
For those without wealth.
If the rich lose big gains
They will still eat again,
But the poor just may not
With what little they’ve got.

I matter.
Please remember I’m real
And the turning of the wheel
Might make you a rich man
But your carefully worded plan
Might crush me underneath.
Is this what you bequeath
To the society that bore you?
Is it the proper thing to do?

It's mine.
Observe
The way it careens light --
Taking, then
Jettisoning it --
Slickfastwhirrs stammer about its orbit.

And I
Try to capture it; it being, of course,
The thing illuminating
The space between eyes flitting,
Flipping through entire books of you
with one look --

And with a flick of the wrist
I produce
A pixel of muscle
over might

If I may.

It's silly, really
I know.
But it's mine, all mine.

Sitting in the sun
preparing the relic, for
future visitation.

The geranium bleeds
for the god particle, which
always eludes
the man.

A tiger would sleep
in my bed, jettisoning
the fish of your eyes.

The glass eye breaks,
enters the tomb of the orb
sheltering the darkness.

There was no clear answer―
from the mask, as if why
the tryst with stars failed.

Jettisoning off all
Wilting away all
Like an autumn memory
Like an instant tragedy

Crumbling away
Moldings of affection
In a nuclear winter
Without armageddon
I died
A soft shell annihilation
No dreams but nightmares
I died
A lovely execution
Nothing but emptiness

Eradicating away all
Except you, nothing at all
Like an autumn memory
Like everlasting banality

Submerged
in slumbering marshes of youth
soot riddled, benign mole
mermaids and Jupiter bathed in the
water of her soul
shape shifting contradictions
crumbs of a whole

Strewn
in the irony of thorned garlands
on eggshell whims, jettisoning off cliffs
She plunged headfirst
seeking his gnawed bristle lips
lattice tresses curving
along his finger tips

Scrambling
she held a chisel in one hand
the other groping a Jade shard
fledging yearnings
to make hay in the barnyard
As surly incense sticks turned to ashes
on a wedding card


Serendipity
experienced by intertwining fibers
of a coarse, unruly yarn
parables murmured to her torso
he laid  sprawled in the barn
plucking leaves off petioles
in her threadbare farm

follow the river,
to reach the sea.
flow like a river
jettisoning every worry!


പിന്തുടരുക

കടലിലെത്തിച്ചേരാന്‍
നദിയുടെ പാത പിന്തുടരൂ.
എല്ലാ വിഷമവും ഒഴുക്കിക്കളഞ്ഞു
നദിപോല്‍ ഒഴുകൂ.

(Malayalam translation by the author)

பின்செல்லவும்


கடலை அடைவதற்கு.
ஆற்றைபின்பற்று.
கவலைகளை மூழ்கடித்து
ஆற்றைப்போல் ஓடு.
(Tamil translation by the author)

-


fine grains of desert air
stir into the tightening
manifestation of a

warrior slain in a charge
with such quickness—

he ran several paces before
jettisoning his weakened
vessel in order to continue

the assault...


s jones
2021




.

Awesome,
Breaking,
Crashing,
Deafening,
Engulfing,
Flood,
Gallopi­ng Horses,
Insanely Jettisoning,
Killer Landslide,
Maniacally Nebulous Outpourings,
Perceptively Quizzical Rhetoric,
Slumbering Truth Under Veils,
Willfully Xenomorphic Yokeless Zen

softness flows over
rocks and rivulets, jettisoning
the clouding embraces of treetops,
holding the modulating fog on brushed canvases:
away, floating away, currents of love.

inxs of cold playing air
froze natural pond, where over head Canadian geese did blare
honking the latest goose sip loud and clear
when from behind a bush (color of smashed pumpkin) did peek a deer
alert to any danger by parking upright either one or both ear
lest predator doth lurk and induce fear
while Harris Family and friends oblivious attired in wintry gear
which protection from cold caused difficulty to hear

necessitating cupped gloved hands to punctuate every muffled word
to be but barely heard
akin to talking with mouth full of custard
above the quiet riotous mirth from this then gawky child nerd
precariously maintaining balance on his skates and glide like a bird
such attempts made this boy appear quite absurd

ah, if only this mind of mine did two step quick think
but woe misfortune awaited across the bumpy natural rink
blithely jettisoning myself hither and yon
   like a rolling stone going plink
unaware while in camouflage pose
   disguised as one sneaky slippery fink
that snuck up in a blink

that found me squarely face down shattering left front tooth
immediately discovered via tongue as private sleuth
finding me in extreme agitated state forsooth
as if on fire from red hot chili peppers wrought from jagged booth

winning sympathy from parents
   who did level best to tend distraught son
who ushered playback of events with less disastrous rerun
praying for an angel to grant reverse outcome brought none
gut wrenching grief immediately terminated former fun
damage irreversible and perfect white smile forever broke con!

his woebegone **** dental daze today May 5th, 2021

No particular rhyme nor reason
garden variety indentured flunky (me)
revisits his salmagundi salad days,
when oral blight smote
left front adult tooth,
which hellacious quandary commenced
when yours truly experienced
broken said central incisor.

Inxs of cold playing air
froze natural pond, where over head
Canadian geese (imitating
black counting crows) did blare
honking the latest goose sip loud and clear
when from behind a (Georgian) bush
(color of smashing pumpkins) did peek a deer

alert to any danger by parking
upright either one or both ear
lest predator doth lurk and induce fear,
while Harris Family and friends
oblivious among themselves
attired in wintry gear
which protection from cold
caused difficulty to hear

necessitating cupped gloved hands
to punctuate every muffled word
to be but barely heard
akin to talking with mouth full of custard
above the quiet riotous mirth
from this then gawky child nerd
precariously maintaining balance
on his skates heed glide like a bird
such attempts made
this boy didst appear quite absurd

ah, if only this mind of mine
did two step quick think
but woe misfortune awaited
across the bumpy natural rink
blithely jettisoning myself hither
and yon like a rolling stone going plink
unaware while in camouflage pose
disguised as one sneaky slippery fink
that snuck up in a blink

that found me squarely
face down shattering left front tooth
immediately discovered via
tongue as private sleuth
finding me in extreme agitated state forsooth
as if on fire from red hot chili peppers
wrought from jagged booth

winning sympathy from parents,
who did level best to tend distraught son
who ushered playback of events
with less disastrous rerun
praying for an angel
to grant reverse outcome brought none
gut wrenching grief
immediately terminated former fun
damage irreversible and
perfect white smile forever broke.

So much of my precious existence since
found me rooted with mouth ajar
as sigh asper the dentin-cementum
so mud dear reader (with dem perfect
enameled pearly whites), aye har bar
envy for those with a complete set

of eight incisors, four cuspids (i.e. canines),
eight bicuspids, and twelve molars
(including four wisdom teeth) tabulating
many hours in the car (engendering
saddle sore bony tuckus)
plus regarding chunk whereat,

pernicious cementum funk
viz distraught psyche,
when muss self as a lil monk
key decades after being examined
by family dentist Doctor Marcus (NOT WELBY),
excellent practitioner (button irate pulp pill

people, especially children) hater –
the grinchy, grouchy, and grumpy,
whose private practice located
in Levittown, Pennsylvania,
and when prepubescent self underwent

pertinent more explicit focused
intense noninvasive procedures
asper subsequent cause of speech impediment
determined why air didst jump

thru nostrils, (speech therapist
at Henry Kline Boyer),
neither thin nor plump informed parents
of Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic –
fifty plus miles one direction),

where chief prosthodontist (the curt
Doctor Mohammad N. Mazaheri, DDS, an Iranian
whose expert reputation,
sans strict manner didst trump
his aura, karma evincing clipped commands
forceful as a vocal whump

before launching into meat and potatoes
of crux comprising real aim
constituting modus operandi
(and cresting away from details indirectly tide
into main intent, nobody aye blame)
for thine dental debacle quandary

(managed by gumpshun,
whereby eons hyperbolically
toted beyond google),
and despite optimistic stance
wool worth anesthetized numb skull claim
nascent malocclusion faintly affecting,

hinting, pointing toward Periodontitis
(despite diligence attending
to oral hygiene frame)
the manifestation
of major looming crisis compromising,
forgoing, instigating, et cetera loss of teeth,

this (after agony in league with separate occasions
twice wearing braces, concomitant extractions
of wisdom and removal of crowdsourcing –
close up toward the front of mouth teeth - game
some microbial bacterial
agent provocateurs didst maim

self-acceptance, and (found thyself
as a boyish twenty something
weathering onset of gum recession,
maxillofacial surgery, impressions,
x rays galore, scaling)

necessitated (score years later) urgent intervention
i.e. treatment plan under auspices
re storied name
University of Pennsylvania
Dental School to mitigate malady

entailed every last tooth plucked with ease
since no other recourse could tame
accompanying jaw bone loss,
which destabilized rootless choppers,
and despite the state of the mind turning to pulp
(this haint no “fiction, nor FAKE)

thus I acknowledge sincere gratitude
vis a vis thru poetic aire
for the entire fleet of dental students,
and staff that didst care,
who assuaged distress,
exceeding the best expertise flair
which eventually warranted

being fitted for dentures here
bringing an exemplary end result
encompassing yours truly writing in his lair
after about a dozen years encompassing
so many wing (bitten) angels far and near
across webbed wide world to help repair

chronic distress minimized now, cuz there
prevailed the most blessed delight
when Medicare picked up the tab
now smile more willingly
with artificial dental wear
donning blitz end until
mine last mortal year.

I am a piece
Of everflowing
Never waning
Infinite
Trash

Jettisoning
Toward an overflowing
Ocean

Brimming
With scraps of trash
No better
No worse
No more
No less

Than me

I see the rips
They are
The same

I see the tears
The broken bits
The stains
The wrinkles
The disregard
The indifference
The misuse
The neglect

There is no difference

We're all headed
To the same
Dirt mound

Some marked
Others not

Some visited
Others not

In life
We are,
Whether we like it or not,

In this
Trash heap
Together

It is merely the ego
That has convinced you
That you are
Special
Different
More

You
I
We

Are

Not

Indoctrinated since birth
The do ' s and the don't's
Building character the aim
Ownership they can claim

Value systems in place
Personality grows in its own space
Meeting point between the two
Guilt starts taking a point of view

Ones own belief system
Builds itself unique and bloosom
In sync with god's kingdom
Another dichotomy added at random

Intrinsic nature the foundation
Inculcated persuasion added to the equation
Faith and Belief adding themselves as a function
The world functions on its own dictum


Layers of existence
Brought forward cognisance
Complicated as inheritance
Fuel to fire is the occurrence

Points waiting to be connected
Scale for that yet to be invented
Investigation the formula acquired
To realise that this journey is required

Unlearning the learning
Jettisoning the scrap
Lightening the mind
Fulfilling the heart

Seeking the essence
Seeking the journey
Seeking no destination
Points now connected

Lays like a tiger
Head titled upwards
Pure survival
dreams of the stars
no apologies thereafter
Eyes jettisoning
through the layers
of impartiality

May today bring unbridled bliss
delivered courtesy sunshine kissed
giving Midas a run for his money.

When the last trace of night
evaporates analogous to milky hue,
whereat a dreamy state
pervades thy being from tropical delight
as  approach of Dawn
highlights morning landscape Gaia drew
ah, a paradise
in pristine majestic light
arced, bathed, chiseled displayed
described, elongated, fingered gilt
heraldic imagery joyfully

kindling luminosity
markedly novel picture
quintessentially resplendent
sedating this ubiquitous voyager
waking xing vision
yawning zealot acquiesces
bounteous chimerical dalliance
betwixt Goddess delivering break of day
against defeated quotidian
celestial vault, where Mithras dethroned

the capriciously finicky
inky beleaguered darkly crest
etched fading faux French Gendarmes
into humongous jagged lances
endowing sinosoidal amplitude
modulations nudging raiment
donned by trumpeting requiem,
quiescent pronouncement
obliging new morning laminating,
kneading, and jettisoning

remnant shreds twilight
understood voicing willingness
Xerxes yeomen paid tribute
as did preceding and subsequent
captivating Earthlinked
fighting globe trotters held hostage
upon thee third rock from the sun
straddling an invisible saddle
which oblate spheroid
forfeited, manacled, and pitched
tarry sky (vis a vis feathery touch)

as one more ordinary day
wrested, tussled, and quickened
nocturnal nod toward solar spears
betook the reluctant
wrap of blackest night soundlessly forcing
transient ******* (overruling
the cerulean skies) until
dark shadows prefacing the edge of night
once again admirably, willingly,
and unequivocally surrendered  

a fair pact to take solace
whence the morrow allowed, enabled
and provided a ray of shining hope
(every now and again eclipsed)
via the Lunar trajectory
coinciding with axis
when spatial relations
commandeered thru cosmic consciousness
dictating gambit heft
forging atypical sliver of night

before cosmological laissez faire
retreated into the back round,
a universal choreographer
envisioning, insinuating,
maintaining quirkiness  
until recapitulation
sans astronomers predicted future
trio of heavenly bodies
would be aligned bedazzling Primates
access to espy Corona of the sun.